New York Dispatch

FRENCH LILACS.
BY EMMA I. OPPENHEIM.

It was a fearfully hot day in August: the scorching midday sun beamed steadily down on the pretty flower-stands dotting Broadway like so many fresh green oases in a desert, so deliciously beautiful they were among all that brick and mortar.

One stand in particular attracted the attention of the passers-by, who looked twice at the beautiful seller, so strange it seemed for so delicately a refined face and figure to belong to the common class of flower-venders.

Tall, indolent Jessup Jaynes, coming out of the reading-room of the St. James, paused also, to look at the child, for Jessup was a connoisseur of female beauty, beside being an artist of no small repute.

So, with an artist's heart beating rapturously with this new model before him, he stood some fifteen or twenty minutes watching her, as with deft fingers she bound together French lilacs, fresh and sparkling, with tiny drops of water on their soft petals, shining like crystal beads.

She was not more than eight, possibly nine years, with a slender, willowy figure, and a sweet, soul-inspiring face.

Her complexion was of the daintiest sweet-pea order, blending artistically with the yellowish-brown hair tinged with light streaks throughout.

The pretty ringlets hung in wild profusion carelessly about her shoulders, which were blistered from the scorching sun; while her eyes—large, bright ones, with a vivid flash of violet in them, the color of lilacs she twined together—had a frightened, pleading look in them, which troubled the artist's heart.

"What a face! what eyes!" murmured Jessup, to himself, drawing a deep breath. "I shall never forget them. Oh! if I could but have her for one sitting—what a picture I would make."

"Lilacs—French lilacs," she sang in a bird-like voice, through which ran a tremor of fear. "Who'll buy my lilacs? only five cents a bunch."

"This child is no common flower seller," murmured Jessup, as, striding up to the green wire frame where dozens of bunches of vivid purple bordered green leaves were standing, he took a bunch.

"Oh! sir," she said, as Jessup spoke kindly to her, "if I could only find my ma."

"What!" he ejaculated, in surprise, "did not your—"

But at that moment a short, thick-set, burly man, with lowering forehead and beetle-brows, came up to the child, who seemed to shrink into a mere nothing at his appearance.

"What are you talking for?" he asked, setting his tigerish teeth together. "If you don't stop talking to these fine people, and behave yourself, Ina, I'll beat you—beat you worse than last night."

"My papa never beat me," she sobbed, "and you shan't."

With a fierce oath and a startled look around him the beetle-browed man brought down his heavy hand with a sounding blow upon the bare shoulders.

A dead, wailing moan was all the child gave vent to as she fell to the sidewalk; and the tears started to Jessup Jaynes' eyes as she lay like a broken flower among all the sweet-scented lilacs.

"Ruffian!" he said, striding up and grasping the man by the throat, "scoundrel, how dare you touch that child."

"Keep your hands off, mister," he said, with an oath, "or I'll break every bone in her body. She is mine, and I'll kill her if I wish, and not even a fine-dressed gentleman like you dare interfere."

"O, I ain't his child," the little girl wailed. "he is the bad man who stole me from mamma way over in Venice. O please, sir, don't let him have me," she cried, clinging to Jessup's hand, "for he'll kill me to-night for saying he is not my father."

"Confess, ruffian," said Jessup turning to grasp him by the throat, but the beetle-browed man had disappeared, flowers and all, leaving the sobbing violet-eyed child with her yellow hair to Jessup's kind mercy.

"Is he gone?" she whispered, clutching Mr. Jaynes' hand.

"O! sir, please tell me if he has gone."

"Yes, my child," he answered, "and I guess we won't see him again. Come with me, little girl. I will take you to my home and try and find your parents."

Taking hold of the child's hand, aristocratic Jessup Jaynes, walked with the ragged little flower-girl into his sister's stately brownstone mansion on Fourteenth street.

Mrs. Jerome Jaynes opened her great eyes in astonishment as her tall indolent brother-in-law entered her boudoir with the yellow-haired child by the hand.

"For mercy's sake Jessup, what new freak is this?" she queried, holding up her dimpled hands in mock horror.

"No freak whatever, Helen," he said quietly but simply, "I have saved this child from a brutal man."

And he forthwith told her the tale of his morning's adventure.

"And you will keep her here for me, Helen, keep and care for her kindly until I can find her relatives?"

"Of course Jessup," she answered, kindly parting the tangled light hair of the now smiling child. "Poor little girl, don't you know what your name is, or where mamma lives?"

"Yes," she answered brightly, "my name is Ina, and mamma's name is Orville. We were away over in Venice when that bad man took me away and made me sell flowers. He said that I was a good bait, and would bring him plenty of money, but I didn't," she cried, "for he beat me awful hard and made me so sick I couldn't sell flowers every day."

"Horrible!" ejaculated Mrs. Jaynes. "Why Jessup what a mercy you rescued her. How did he come to steal you Ina? don't your mamma know that he stole you?"

"I don't know," she cried; "my mamma was going to a party, so she sent me with Nurse Susette in a gondola to get the air, and I can't remember anything except that nurse cried and begged Pablo to spare the pretty signorina. But Pablo swore and said he would kill Susette if she ever breathed a word to my mamma, and then—and then I cried and called mamma, till Pablo put something sweet to my nose, and I got dizzy and sick, and can't remember nothing more."

"Who would believe that such barbarity existed in our civilized country?" Mrs. Jaynes remarked to Jessup, who was thoughtfully pulling his mustache.

"I shall advertise immediately," he said, "for her parents must be half mad, not knowing her whereabouts."

And after advertising in all the papers, Jessup Jaynes looked daily for some relative or friend to claim little Ina, who had grown inexpressibly dear to their hearts, and whom they felt reluctant to give up, hoping within themselves that no one would claim her, so that they could adopt and bring her up as their own.

And day after day passing, and still no one appearing or offering claim to the winsome child, they began to look upon her as theirs.

Two weeks passed, and a sprightly little lady with starry eyes and hair like Ina's, called upon Jessup Jaynes in regard to the advertisement.

"I am Mrs. St. Vere, and have been traveling," she volubly explained, "and only just now saw your kind announcement concerning my sister's child, who was stolen nearly a year ago from her mother in Venice. Oh, sir!" she said, her eyes full of sparkling tears, "I will not try to thank you, for I should utterly fail."

"There is no necessity of thanks, madam," he said; "I only did my duty."

"My poor sister will be so happy!" she cried, "for she thinks her darling dead, for Susette told her she fell from the gondola and was drowned."

"I will send for Ina," Jessup said; "for no doubt you are anxious to see her."

The door opened softly at that moment, and Ina appeared upon its threshold.

She paused, however, seeing a lady in company with Mr. Jaynes, and would have retired had not Jessup said:

"Come here, Ina—a lady wishes to see you."

Mrs. St. Vere turned her bright, sparkling face suddenly toward the child, who sprang forward, crying:

"Aunt Mercy, oh! Aunt Mercy, have you come to take me to mamma?"

"It is Ina!" cried Mrs. St. Vere, kissing her passionately—"it is Ina, my sister's stolen child. I shall take her to Venice right away."

After kisses and tears Jessup lifted Ina to her aunt's carriage.

"I am so sorry to part with you, little one," he said, hoarsely, kissing her. "Keep this, Ina," he said, as he slipped an unique coral necklace, with a coral heart attached, around her neck, "keep this, and sometime think of Jessup Jaynes, who had grown to love you, and whose heart—"

He was here interrupted by Ina, who exclaimed, passionately:

"Oh, Jessup Jaynes! I would live with you always, for I love you, oh! so much, and will never forget you."

Seizing her again, Jessup signaled the coachman to drive on, and two hours later Ina, with her aunt, was on her way to Venice.

"Have you seen 'French Lilacs,' Miss Orville?"

"French lilacs?" said the lady addressed as Miss Orville, shuddering,

"French lilacs—I do not like them, Mr. Desmond: they remind me too much of the past."

She was a fair, pretty girl, this Miss Orville, with her blonde hair peculiarly streaked and tinted with brown, and her soft violet eyes, just eighteen, a beauty and a belle. Ina Orville, although a new arrival in New York, had already captivated half the eligibles of the great metropolis.

"I don't mean the flowers, Miss Orville, but the painting which the artist has seen fit to call 'French Lilacs.' Shall I have the honor of showing you 'French Lilacs'?" he asked eagerly, fearing she was already engaged. "It has created quite a furor in the art world, and almost everybody has seen this beautiful painting."

"Yes," she answered. "Mamma and I will accept with pleasure your kind offer, Mr. Desmond, for I have heard a great deal about a new painting lately exhibited, and it must be 'French Lilacs.'"

"Have you ever seen anything so perfect, so life-like?" passed from mouth to mouth, as the motley gathering promenading through art gallery paused in groups before the all-absorbing painting of the day.

"There is 'French Lilacs,' Miss Orville," spoke Oscar Desmond, pointing to an oil painting representing a child of about ten years with yellow hair streaming down her back, and soft, vivid, violet eyes, standing before a square pine board strewn with buds and leaves, and at her side a bright green flower screen dotted with tiny bouquets, while she held in her hand a bunch of French lilacs which she was binding together.

The painting was perfect, from the soft pink flush on the little girl's cheeks to the dainty buds which seemed to waft perfume around.

Jessup Jaynes was right when he said he could never forget Ina's face; for when he painted her he was thinking of the trembling child selling flowers and fashioning bouquets near the steps of the St. James Hotel, where he first saw her.

At the sight of 'French Lilacs,' Miss Orville flushed crimson, and then, paling, shrank back, trembling as she whispered:

"Mamma, it is I—'French Lilacs' is meant for me; that morning Jessup Jaynes saved me from Pablo. O, mamma! if I had forgotten him, this would bring Jessup Jaynes again to my mind."

Mrs. Orville was anxious to purchase "French Lilacs," but was informed that the artist wished to retain it for himself. She offered a fabulous price, and Jessup Jaynes, hearing her conversation, said, when introduced:

"Madame; I would not sell that painting if you were to offer me a world of riches, for it is the picture of a little girl I love."

"Call at my house," urged Mrs. Orville, with a merry twinkle in her eye, "and, perhaps, my daughter may induce you to part with 'French Lilacs.'"

"I will call with pleasure, Mrs. Orville," he said, courteously.

Calling at Mrs. Orville's mansion on Fifth avenue, Mr. Jaynes met sprightly little Mrs. St. Vere.

"Madame," he said, bowing low over her plump hand,

"can you tell me how my little Ina is?"

"When I last saw her, Mr. Jaynes," she answered, her starry eyes sparkling merrily,

"she was quite well. They are in New York now. I presume you know that Ina and my sister are in this city."

"Here!" he echoed, in surprise: "Ina here—"

"Let me have their address, please, Mrs. St. Vere. I must call immediately."

"Ah! here comes Miss Orville," she said, as a door opened at the further end of the room and a graceful figure in rustling silks swept forward. "Miss Orville," she laughed, "will you give this gentleman Ina's address?" and then Mrs. St. Vere disappeared.

And Jessup Jaynes, hurrying forward to greet the belle, looked into little Ina's violet eyes.

"Ina! Ina!" he said, kissing her rapturously, "my darling, do I see you again?"

Blushing and smiling, she sobbed:

"Oh, Jessup Jaynes, will you give me French Lilacs?"

"If you will give me yourself, darling," he said, kissing her again. "The picture shall be yours if 'French Lilacs' will give me herself; for, although years have passed and we have both grown older, I love you, and can never more fondly if we were to know each other years longer. Will you, Ina, darling, be mine?"

"Yes, Jessup," she murmured, slipping her hand into his.

And, a few weeks later, 'French Lilacs' hung in Ina Jaynes' parlor, for Jessup was her husband.