Muse Is Music Jazz Poetry From The Harlem

Renaissance To Spoken Word

Find it at alibris.com
( 4.6/5.0 ★ | 202 downloads )
-- Click the link to download --

https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.26
539780252079269&type=15&murl=https%3A%2F%2F2.zoppoz.workers.dev%3A443%2Fhttp%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2
Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780252079269
Muse Is Music Jazz Poetry From The
Harlem Renaissance To Spoken Word

ISBN: 9780252079269
Category: Media > Books
File Fomat: PDF, EPUB, DOC...
File Details: 5.3 MB
Language: English
Website: alibris.com
Short description: Fine. Trade paperback (US). Glued binding. 304 p.
New Black Studies. Audience: General/trade. Like new.

DOWNLOAD: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&
offerid=1494105.26539780252079269&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2F
www.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780252079269
 Muse Is Music Jazz Poetry
From The Harlem
Renaissance To Spoken
Word

• Click the link: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.2653978025207926

9&type=15&murl=https%3A%2F%2F2.zoppoz.workers.dev%3A443%2Fhttp%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780252079269 to do
latest version of Muse Is Music Jazz Poetry From The Harlem Renaissance To Spoken Word in multiple
formats such as PDF, EPUB, and more.
• Don’t miss the chance to explore our extensive collection of high-quality resources, books, and guides on
our website. Visit us regularly to stay updated with new titles and gain access to even more valuable
materials.
.
 The Project Gutenberg eBook of Miss Fairfax
of Virginia: A Romance of Love and Adventure
Under the Palmettos
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Miss Fairfax of Virginia: A Romance of Love and Adventure

Under the Palmettos

Author: St. George Rathborne

Release date: July 18, 2016 [eBook #52599]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Daniel Lowe, Melissa McDaniel and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS FAIRFAX OF

VIRGINIA: A ROMANCE OF LOVE AND ADVENTURE UNDER THE
PALMETTOS ***
 Miss Fairfax of Virginia
A ROMANCE OF LOVE AND ADVENTURE UNDER THE
PALMETTOS
BY ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE
AUTHOR OF
"Doctor Jack," "A Fair Revolutionist," "A Sailor's Sweetheart," "A
Chase for a Bride," etc.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street
 Copyright. 1899,
By Street & Smith.
 Table of Contents
CHAPTER I. PERHAPS LOVERS ONCE, STRANGERS NOW.
CHAPTER II. ALAS! FOR THE GAME THAT FAILED TO WORK.
CHAPTER III. AT DAGGERS' POINTS.
CHAPTER IV. MILLIONS MAY NOT PURCHASE LOVE.
CHAPTER V. RODERIC'S REPENTANCE.
CHAPTER VI. ON THE BORDERS OF PARADISE.
THE SWORD DUEL IN THE EAST INDIAN
CHAPTER VII.
BUNGALOW.
CHAPTER VIII. "ADIOS, BELOVED!"
CHAPTER IX. DOWN THE IRISH COAST.
CHAPTER X. FOR ONE NIGHT AT THE AZORES.
CHAPTER XI. THE LADY ON THE QUARTER DECK.
CHAPTER XII. THE MAN WHO MADE SIGNS.
CHAPTER XIII. ADONIS ON A NEW TACK.
CHAPTER XIV. A CHASE TO THE YACHT.
CHAPTER XV. CAPTAIN BOB GUESSES NOT.
CHAPTER XVI. THE INVASION OF SAN JUAN.
CHAPTER XVII. THE BOLERO DANCER WITH THE GYPSY BLOOD.
CHAPTER
JULIO DECLARES FOR WAR.
XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX. BY WAY OF THE BALCONY.
CHAPTER XX. A RENDEZVOUS AT THE TOBACCONIST'S.
CHAPTER XXI. THE MONSTER COMES AGAIN.
CHAPTER XXII. TO THE OLD FORTRESS.
CHAPTER
HOW THEY WENT IN.
XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE STRANGE MEETING IN THE DUNGEON.
CHAPTER XXV. WHEN THE OFFICER OF THE GUARD CAME.
CHAPTER XXVI. A RACE TO THE BOAT.
CHAPTER WHEN THE SPANISH FLAG LEFT PORTO RICO
XXVII. FOREVER.
Miss Fairfax of Virginia
 CHAPTER I.
PERHAPS LOVERS ONCE, STRANGERS NOW.

The genial summer sun had long since dropped behind the Irish
hills, and the glowing lights of old Dublin were set like rare jewels
upon the dark bosom of mother earth when Roderic Owen, with a
fragrant cigar between his teeth, walked to and fro under the
shadow of Nelson's column in historic Sackville street, now better
known among loyal citizens under the name of O'Connell.
Owen only arrived from Liverpool on the Holyhead steamer that very
day and had passed some hours upon various tramcars, surveying
those portions of the famous city they traversed.
It may have given him a thrill of satisfaction to realize that he once
more stood on his native heath, which land the exile had not seen
since, a child of tender years, he left it in company with his heart
broken parents; but two decades in the atmosphere of free America
had made a full-fledged Yankee out of him, and his heart was wholly
pledged to the interests of America.
Business had more to do with his flying visit across the Irish sea
than a desire to look upon the scenes of childhood—these tender
recollections might be all very good in their way, but when his
country was at war with one of the old world powers, young Owen's
heart and soul were wrapped up in the interests he represented, and
the state mission that had taken him over the Atlantic.
The public will never learn more than a small portion of the
unwritten history of the Hispano-American war, since these memoirs
are snugly reposing in the archives at Washington, where they will
rest until dusty with age.
Secret agents were employed in many European capitals in the
endeavor to discover the true sentiments of the powers most
interested, so that in case unhappy Spain seemed in a way to secure
an ally, prompt measures might be taken to head off the threatened
blow by a sudden coup d'etat, in which our good friend Great Britain
stood ready to do her part.
Roderic Owen, being peculiarly gifted by nature with rare abilities in
the line of diplomacy, had been remarkably useful in Berlin, Paris
and Vienna, and was now suddenly transferred to another famous
capital because it appeared as though Dublin might be the theatre of
a little gathering where matters of intense moment were to be
discussed.
It was evident from his manner that he had made the Nelson column
a rendezvous. His eyes followed each tramcar that passed, and
never a jaunting-car jogged by that he did not survey with growing
interest. A hot blooded Spanish lover awaiting the coming of the
black-eyed senorita with whom he had made a tryst could hardly
have appeared more anxious.
He had just tossed away the remnant of his weed and was feeling
for his cigar case to draw out another when the expected happened.
"At last!" he muttered, with a sigh of relief.
Still he made no abrupt forward movement—caution had been one
of the fruits of long diplomatic service. "Everything comes to him
who waits—and works," is the leading maxim of their craft.
A woman dismounted from a Rathmines car that had just arrived at
the terminus of its journey. She was garbed in the sombre black
habiliments of a religious recluse belonging to one of the many
orders in Dublin. These nuns, serving often in the capacity of Sisters
of Charity, come and go with the utmost freedom, respected by the
humble classes to whom they are often angelic messengers in times
of distress or sickness.
Just as he expected the sombre robed passenger came slowly
toward him as though endeavoring to make sure of his identity ere
accosting him.
Owen could feel a pair of eager eyes fastened upon his face, for
there is such a sensation, and it surprised him to experience it.
Then came a low voice breathing his name, and somehow it had
never before sounded just the same to him, nor had he known there
was music in its bare utterance.
"I have waited about half an hour for you," remarked the American,
complacently.
"Ah! senor, I am sorry. It was not my fault I assure you," she
exclaimed, eagerly.
"I am certain of that, lady. Besides, I have no right to complain
when one whom I do not even know goes to this great trouble in
order to do me a service."
She moved uneasily at his words, and as if fearful lest his ardent
gaze might penetrate beneath the veil she wore, one little white
hand crept out from the folds of her sable robe to rearrange the
crepe.
Owen smiled, for this act of caution had revealed much to him—
upon those plump fingers shone rings set with flashing gems, such
as no member of a holy order would dare wear.
Thus, without asking a question, he knew his vis-à-vis to be in
disguise.
More than this, the unconscious desire to make sure that her face
was concealed gave him the impression that they must have met
before. As yet her voice had only sounded in low, whispered
cadence, but it was rich and musical, and somehow seemed to
arouse dim, uncertain memories which in good time after much
groping, he would doubtless be able to place.
She looked around with some concern, for the locality being central
was never quiet, upon which he said:
"Let us walk toward O'Connell bridge, and you can explain more fully
the meaning of your note, as you promised. I assure you the interest
taken in my welfare is appreciated, and if I can return the favor you
have only to speak."
"You mistake, senor—I do not seek a reward. Chancing to know that
you were the object of a base plot, I thought it only my duty to warn
you."
"Because your vows constrained you?"
She appeared somewhat annoyed.
"Because heaven inspires every honest heart to desire the confusion
of evil schemes."
"Pardon—I was foolish for an instant to believe my personality could
have anything to do with it. Undoubtedly your love of fair play must
have impelled you to do the same for any poor devil."
"Senor, you have no right to question my motives."
"I am a brute—you are an angel come to my assistance. Let us then
proceed to business. From whence does this threatening danger
come—in which quarter am I to guard against secret foes?"
"You do not seem to be alarmed?"
"Does that surprise you, lady? Surely then you are not well
acquainted with Anglo-Saxon blood. We who sup with danger, learn
to despise it. I say this deliberately and without boasting."
"Ah! yes, I had forgotten your mission abroad. Your government
would never have sent any but a brave cavalier to take such
desperate chances. Hola! it is a pleasure to meet a man who does
not shrink from a hazard."
"Pardon the curiosity—but are you not Spanish?" he asked, steadily
—it was of considerable importance that he should know this fact,
for the most able diplomat may well look to his laurels when pitted
against a female Richelieu.
She answered frankly, almost eagerly.
"My people are of Spanish blood, but I have only once seen Spain. I
am hija de Puerto Rico."
How proudly she declared it.
"A daughter of Porto Rico—I am pleased to know it, for that lovely
island will soon rest beneath the starry banner. A grand future awaits
her under the new dispensation. I have been in San Juan myself,
and shall never cease to remember that quaint city."
Perhaps the evening breeze brought with it a breath of chilly fog
from off old Dublin bay—at any rate the wearer of the sombre nun's
garb shivered a little and seemed to shrink back from the American.
"Now," continued Owen, cheerily, as though his quick eye had not
noted with considerable surprise this peculiar action on her part, "we
have reached the bridge. Tell me whence comes this danger?"
"There is one whom you have believed a friend, Senor Owen. Trust
him not, for he has sworn to work your downfall."
"Which is very interesting, to say the least. Am I to be arrested as a
Fenian suspect, come over the big pond to duplicate the Burke and
Cavendish tragedy of Phœnix park? Or is this sly schemer a Spanish
sympathizer in the pay of Sagasta?"
"You have said it, senor—the last is the truth. But there is more—
another reason why he hates you."
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind mentioning it?"
"His name first—it is Jerome Wellington."
Owen seemed startled.
"Confusion—I never suspected that he was in Sagasta's pay. Luckily
I have made it a rule to be as close mouthed as an oyster with
regard to all state secrets. So friend Jerome has a private grudge
against me. When have I trod upon his toes? Kindly enlighten me,
good angel?"
"It is on her account—the dashing Senorita Cleo," came the muffled
answer, and again Owen knew the eyes back of the veil were
fastened intently upon him as though to read his secret.
Thereupon he pursed up his mustached lip and emitted a low,
incredulous whistle.
"Cleo Fairfax, my independent cousin, the daughter of ten millions,
what has she to do with the case? Is Jerome jealous—does he seek
her hand—well, let him sail in and win. I shall not stand in the way,
for it has never occurred to me to fall in love with my cousin."
"Ah! senor, that is very well, but this man who is as handsome as an
Adonis hates you because he knows the American senorita loves
you."
"What! Cleo loves me—incredible—impossible."
"More, she adores you."
"Senorita, you surely jest or dream."
"I speak what I know, and the fact is patent to everyone that you
have but to declare a word to bring this lovely girl and her millions to
your arms."
"God forbid that I should ever speak that word, unless I truly loved
her as a man should the girl he means to make his wife. It is, I say
again, impossible that such a thing can be."
"Few things are impossible, senor."
"But—there are impediments in the way."
"Perhaps none that might not be swept aside."
"Above all, I do not love her—it is ridiculous, and never entered into
my mind. And so Jerome has conjured up a delightful hatred for me
because, by Jove, he chooses to imagine—you see I lay especial
emphasis on that word, for I can't believe it possible—that this
favored daughter of fortune gives me more than cousinly regard.
Well, if it pleases Jerome to indulge in such capers, I'm not the one
to cry quits. My duty as well as my privilege is to meet him half way.
I imagine you may be in a position to tell me how he means to
strike. It is awful kind of you to take such trouble."
The thought had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she might
have come from Cleo, and he winced at the verbatim report of his
declaration she must necessarily take back; but it was the truth, and
Roderic Owen had always made a point to stick to his guns in action.
She was growing uneasy, as though fearful lest he might allow his
curiosity respecting her identity get the better of his gentlemanly
instincts. So when she spoke again it was hurriedly, her manner
betraying a desire to end the interview.
"I have gone so far that it only remains for me to tell you the nature
of the plot whereby this jealous fortune seeker hopes not only to
ruin you in the eyes of the Senorita Cleo, but before your
government as well.
"You are staying at the Shelbourne hotel. Your room overlooks the
cascade in St. Stevens green. You have arranged to meet one at the
park gate at twelve to-night, expecting to receive information
respecting the clique of Spanish sympathizers at present sojourning
in Dublin as a city least suspected of harboring America's foes. They
have come here in the hope of arousing the slumbering Fenian spirit
should Great Britain join the states against France or Germany.
"Your expected informant is in their pay—he intends to suddenly
pounce upon you and, aided by allies in hiding carry you off. It will
be made to appear that you have abandoned your patriotic mission,
and fled with a well known adventuress to the gaming tables of
Monte Carlo."
"The duse! This is a nice kettle of fish. And only for you I might have
fallen a victim of the plot. But forewarned is forearmed. Some one
shall take my place, since it would be a pity they should have their
labor for nothing. It shall be diamond cut diamond from this hour.
And now, believe me, I am duly sensible of the great service you
had done me, lady. God knows it would give me pleasure to
reciprocate should the occasion ever arise."
"I believe it—I know it, Senor Owen," she said, with some confusion.
"I do not ask your name—that you wish it to remain a secret is
enough for me. But at least you will shake hands before we part. It
is a part of an American's code, you know—add one more obligation
to those you have heaped upon me. Do not refuse, I beg."
She had shrunk back as though alarmed at the prospect, but his
debonair manner, together with the absurdity of the fear that almost
overwhelmed her seemed to force her to meet his friendly advances,
and a little hand crept shyly out from among the dusky robes,
advancing half way.
Roderic Owen clasped it in his own, and was conscious of a most
remarkable sensation that seemed to flash along his arm until it
finally brought up in the region of his heart.
It may have been electricity, or some kindred element, but all the
same he considered it exceeding queer.
Perhaps in his warmth he pressed her hand so that the setting of her
rings inflicted pain. At any rate she gave a little exclamation.
"Forgive me; I forgot your rings, idiot that I am," and with a
gallantry he must have inherited from ancestors who once ruled in
this ever green isle he hastily raised the bruised digits to his lips.
This caused her to snatch away her hand and with a hasty "buenos
noches" hurry to meet a tramcar coming from the monument.
Before Owen could fully recover from his surprise she had entered
the double decked vehicle of transportation, and was lost to his
sight.
He stood there, leaning against the stone railing of O'Connell bridge
and looking after the car, a very much puzzled man.
"Ah!" he ejaculated, as snatching out his handkerchief he waved it
vigorously in response to the one that fluttered from the open
window of the humble tramcar.
Then the man from over the sea mechanically drew out his cigar
case, selected a weed, struck a match on the stone coping of the
bridge, and began to puff away as though he might in this manner
free his brain of the mental cobwebs that seemed to clog his clear
reasoning.
At the same time he started in the direction of Trinity College,
swinging a stout cane, and musing upon the singular events that
had on this night opened a new chapter in his experience.
And somehow it seemed to the adventurous Owen that they bore a
definite connection with his past—again he heard that voice
sounding as with the music of sweet birds—its dim echo, so familiar
and yet eluding his grasp like a fluttering will-o'-the-wisp, how
exasperating it was. Where had he met this seeming nun in the
sable robe, and who was she?
Then suddenly he saw a great light—the confused memories drifted
into one clear vision. Again he stood on the brilliantly lighted Grand
Plaza of the Porto Rican capital with surging crowds of officers and
civilians around him, while a really excellent military band played the
beautiful, voluptuous airs of sunny Spain—again he heard a voice,
sweet as that of a lark, floating upon the night air from an open
window, and singing a serenade—Roderic was carried back two
years in his life to scenes that had been marked by stormy passion,
and the realization gave him a tremendous shock.
He had reached the vicinity of Trinity's bold Campanile when this bolt
went home, and the effect was so great as to actually bring him to a
full stop, with held breath.
"By Jove! to think I never suspected the amazing truth when talking
with her. Now I know it, I can swear to it—the same voice, which I
have never heard equaled. And she has done this thing for me,
Roderic Owen, whom possibly she has reason to hate. Heavens!
there is some fatality back of it all, and we are but puppets on life's
great stage, playing our little parts automatically. God alone sees the
end. Yes, that was Georgia de Brabant, the charming maid of San
Juan, over whom half the Spanish officers raved, about whom more
than a few duels were fought, and with whose fate my own life
thread became entangled in a way that has forever prevented my
loving cousin Cleo or any other woman. The past then is not dead—
again she enters my life—she comes like an angel of light to save
me from being made the victim of a foul plot. That would indicate
anything but hate. What lies before me mortal cannot guess, but my
duty is clear, and come weal come woe, I am bound to serve my
country first, last and always, no matter what the sacrifice. And ye
gods, I kissed the hand whereon perhaps dazzled his rings."
 CHAPTER II.
ALAS! FOR THE GAME THAT FAILED TO WORK.

Evidently Roderic Owen was disturbed by this meeting more than he

would have cared to confess. When ghosts that are supposed to
have been laid for all time come back to haunt us, memory plays
havoc with the strongest resolutions. Owen lived again in the past—
his ears seemed to drink in the music and merriment of the gay
Spanish-American capital—he saw once more a face that had been
enshrined in his heart as queen of the realm, and somehow the
memory was not so unpleasant. Instead of groaning over the
disasters of the past he found himself unconsciously building new
chateaux d'Espagne. Hope ever abides in the human breast—though
daily overthrown it rises again and again, Phœnix like from the
ashes, and builds anew.
From the shadow of Trinity College and the Bank of Ireland, formerly
the Irish House of Parliament, it was but a short distance to his
hotel, the luxurious Shelbourne.
Having once entered the caravansary he cast his eyes around as
though seeking some one. A number of gentlemen lounged near the
booking offices, while on the first landing of the wide stairs among
palms and flowers ladies could be seen.
It was a bright picture, entirely foreign to the usual run of
transatlantic hotels to which Owen was accustomed.
A pair of bright eyes detected his arrival and a fair hand beckoned
him upward.