The Hartford herald. [volume], January 13, 1875, Image 1

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' COME, THE HERALD OF A NOISY WORLD, THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS LUMBERING AT MY RACK."
VOL. 1.
HARTFORD, OHIO COUNTY, KY,, JANUARY 13, 1875.
NO. 2.
ADVERTISING RA.TES.
THE
HARTFORD
RALB
UOUXT TABOR.
ET JOBS BAT.
On Tabor's height a rjlory came,
And, shrined in clouds of lambent flame,
The awe-track, hushed disciples taw
Christ and the prophets of the law;
Moses, whose grand and awful face
Of Sinai's thunder bore the trace,
And wise EHas, in his eyes
The shade of Israel's prophecies,
Stood in that vast mysterious light
Than Syrian noons more purely bright,
One on each hand and high between
Shone forth the godlike Naxarene.
They bowed their heads in holy fright
No mortal eyes could bear the sight.
And when they looked again, behold!
The fiery clouds had backward rolled,
And borne aloft, in grandeur lonely.
Nothing was left, "save Jesus only."
Resplendent type of things to bel
We read Us mystery to-day
With clearer eyes than even they.
The fisher saints of Galilee.
We see the Christ stand out between
The ancient law and faith serene,
Spirit and letter but aboTe
Spirit and letter both was Lore.
. . i i e t v
Through wrlstes of eld a path was trod
By which the sarage world could move I
TTnwarit tfirnnirh law anil falti La luiB." I
And there in Tabor's harmless flame
The crowning revelation came.
The old world knelt in homage due,
The prophets near in homage drew.
Law ceased its mission to fulfill
And Love was lord on Tabor's hill.
So now, while creeds'perplex the mind
And wrangling! load the weary wind,
When all the air is filled with words
And texts that ring like clashing swords,
Still, as for refuge, we may turn
Where Tabor's shining glories burn
The soul of antique Israel gone
And nothing left but Christ alone.
MARIA SAX0NBURY.
BY MRS. HKNKY WOOD.
AUTHOR. OF "IAST LTXSI," "VESXEE'S rniDE,'
"THE MrSIET," 'T3B ZABla HEIRS,"
"THE CHASXISG3, "A LIFE'S
SECELT," Ac, ic.
CHAPTER IIL
MARIA. 8AXONBCRT.
The golden light of the setting sun was
falling on a golden room. It is scarcely
wrong to call it such, for the color pre
vailing in it was that of 'gold. Gold-colored
satin curtains and cushioned chairs,
gilt cornices, mirrors, in gilded frames,
gilded consoles whose slabs of the richest
lapis lazuli choas vrit'i costly toys, paint
ings in rich enclosures, and golden orna
ments. Altogether the room looked r. Mass
ol gold. The large window opened upon
a wide terrace, on which rose an ornamen
tal fountain, ils glittering spray dancing
n tue suiiHcliu and beyond that terrace
was a fair domain, stretched out far and
wide-; the domain of Sir Arthur Saxon
bury. Swinging her prctiy foot to and fro, and
leaning back in one of the gay chairs, wax
a lovely girl budding into womanhood,
with bright features and a laughing eye,
the youngest, the most indulged, and the
vainest daughter of Sir Arthur. She was
in a white lace evening dress, and wore a
pearl necklace and pearl bracelets on her
lair neck and arms. They had 'recently
come home after a short London season,
which had been half over when they re
turned from the continent, and were as
yet free from visitors. Lady Saxoubury
was in ill health, and Mrs. Ashton, the
eldest mnrried daughter, was staying with
them while her husband was abroad.
In a chair a little behind Miss Saxon
bury, as if conscious of the ilirlcrcnce be
tween them for there trai a distance nal
Raby Haby. It was said the houce was
frre 1 roni visitors, but he was scarcely re
garded as such. Sir Arthur, in the plen
itude of his heart, had invited him to come
tind stay a couple of months at Saxonbury;
tue couutry air would renovate him: he
could have the run of the picture-gallery,
and copy toine of its eheft f autre. And
Kaby came. Sir Arthur's early secret was
safe with himself, and he could only ex
plain that his interest in Raby Raby was
but that which he would take in any ri
sing artist So the familr, even the ser
vants, looked on him with a patronizing
(ye, as one who had "come to pain t" Rabv
Lad accepted Sir.Artbur's invitation with
a glow of gratification the far-famed
Saxonbury gallery was anticipation
enough for him. Be forgot to think where
the funds were to come from to make a
suitable appearance as Sir Arthur Saxon
bury' s guest; but these the painter Coram
delicately furnished. "It is but a loan,"
said he: "you can repay me with the first
proceeds that your pencil shall receive."
Thus Raby went to Saxonbury. And
there had he been now for half his allot
ted time, drinking in the wondrous beau
ties of the place and scenery and other
wondrous beauties which it had been at
well that he had not drunk in. The ele
gance that surrounded him,and to which
lie had been latterly a stranger the
charms of the society he was thrown
amongst once again, as an equal for the
time being the Gratification of the eve
and mind, and the pomp and pride of
couruy me; an tuis was uut too congenial
to the exalted taste of Raby Raby, and he
was in danger of forgetting the stern real
ities of life, to become lost in a false Elys
ium. He was thrown much with Maria Sax
onbury far more than he need have been.
The fault was entirely hers. A great admi
rer of beauty, like her father, and possess
ing a high reverence for genius, the ex
quisite face of Raby Raby attracted her
admiration as it had never yet been at
tracted; whilst his eager aspirations, and
love for the fine arts, were perfectly con
sonant to her own mind. His companion
ship soon grew excessively pleasing, and
ehe gave her days up to it without re
straint, absorbed in the pleasure of the
moment Nothing more: of all the people
in the world, Maria Saxonbury was the
last to think seriously of one beneath her.
So, leaving consequences to take care of
themselves, or be remedied by time, she
dwelt only on the present. She would
flit about when he was at work in the Die-
ture-gallery, she would linger by his side
in the gardens, one or the other of the lit
tle Aehtons generally bcinc thoir coin nan-
ion: in short, it seemed that the object of
"KTaio'a l!r :..o . . 1 .1.
" jliol uutv, nao iv ue wjiu inc
artist-visitor. Even this night, when her
jamer ana eister had gone out to dinner,
the had excused herself: bIip wnnM rIhv
at home with her mother, she said: but
i.aay oaxonbury was in her chamber, and
ilaria remained in the drawing-room with
JUT. xtaby. It is probable that Lady Sax
onbury, if eke thought of him at all, be
licved him to be painting then. Was it
in remembrance of some one else that Sir
Arthur had named his Youngest child
"ilaria?" But thev sometimea called her
by her other name, Elizabeth.
"Do jon admire this purse?" she sud
denly inquired, holding out one of grass
green silk, with gold beads, tassels, and
elides; a marvel of prettinesa.
Raby rose and took it from her, and
turned it about in his white and slender
hands. Those remarkable hands! feeble
to look at, elegant in structure, always
restless; so etrongly characteristic of ge
nius, as well as of delicacy of constitution.
"It is quite a gem," he said, in answer.
"You may have it in place of your ugly
one," continued Misa Saxonbury: "that
frightful port-monnaie, of grim leather, I
saw you with the other day. I made this
for somebody else, who does not seem in
a hurry to come lor it; so I will give it to
you."
A rush of suspicious emotion flew to his
face, and her eyes fell beneath the eloquent
gaze of hie. "How shall I thank you?"
was all he said. "It shall be to me an
everlasting remembrance."
"That s in return lor tne pietty SKetcn
vou save me vesterday," she went on?
"One tou took at Rome, and filled in from
memory."
"You mistake, Miss Saxonbury. I said
I drew it from description. I have never
been to Rome. That is a pleasure to
come."
"As it is for me," observed Maria. "1
was there once, when a little girl, hut I
remember nothing of it. A cross woman,
half governess, half maid, who was hired
to talk Italian to us, is all my recollection
of the place. Last year and the year be
fore, when ve were wasting our time in
Paris and at the baths of Germany, doing
mamma more harm than good, I urged
them to go on to Rome, but nobody list
ened to me. I have an idea that I shall
be disappointed whenever I do go: we al
ways are, when we expect so much."
"Always, always," murmured Raby.
"I long to see some of those features lam
familiar with lrom paintings," added Mies
Saxonbury. "The remains of the Cajsar's
palaces the real grand St. Peter's the
beautiful Alban Hills and all Rome's
other glories. I grow impatient sometimes
and tell papa there will be nothing left for
me to see: that Sallust's garden will be a
heap of stinging nettles I dare say it it
nothing else; and Cecilia Metella's tomb
destroyed."
And thus they conversed till it grew
dark, and the servants came in to light the
chandeliers. Miss Saxonbury remember
ed her mother then, and rose to go to her,
to see why she had not come down.
When Maria returned, the room was
empty, and she fetood in the bow of the
window and iookcu out. it was tue cus-,
torn at Saxonbury House to leave the cur
tains of this window open on a favorable
night; for the moonlight Iandscape.outside,
was indeed lair to iook upon. 31r. iiaby
was then walking on the terrace: his step
was firm and seif-poffcessed, his head was
raised: it was only in the presence of his
fellow-creatures that Raby Raby was a
ehy and awkward man. He saw her, and
approached the window.
I have been studying the Folly all this
time," he said; fancying it must look like
those ruined Roman temples we have been
speaking of; as they must look in the light
and shade of the moonlight"
"Does itf she added, laughing. "1 will
go and look, too."
ilisa saxonbury stepped on to the ter
race, and he gave her his arm. Did she feel
the violent beating of his heart, as her
bracelet lay against it? They walked, in
the shade cast by the house, to the rail
ings at the end of the terrace, and there
catne in view of the fanciful building in
question. Lady baxonbury s tolly It
rose, high and white, on the opposite lulls,
amidst a grove of dark trees.
I do not line tue building ty day, lie
observed; "but as it looks now, 1 cannot
fancy anything more classically beautiful
in the Eternal City, even when it was in
its zenith."
"It does look beautiful,' she mused.
"And the landscape, as it lies around, is
equally so: look at its different points show
ing out l ou have not seen many scenes
more gratifying to the imaginative eye
than this, Mr. Raby."
"I shall never see a second Saxonbury,"
was the impulsive answer. "Take it for
all in all, I shall never see but look at
this side," he abruptly broke off, turning
in the opposite direction.
"Oh, I don't care to look there. It is
all dark. I only like the bright side of
things."
"Has it never struck you that these two
aspects, the light and the dark of a moon
light, night, are a type of human fortunes?
While some favored spirits bask in bright
ness, others must be cast and remain, in
the depths of shade."
"No. I never thought about it My
life has been all brightness."
"May it ever remain so!" he whispered
with a deep eigh: but Miss Saxonbury
turned to the pleasant side again.
"What a fine painting this view would
makel" she exclaimed. "I wonder papa
has never had it done. One of your favor
ite scenes, Mr. Raby, all poetry and moon
light, interspersed with a dash of melan
choly Some of you artists are too fond
of depicting melancholy scenes."
"We depict scenes as we find them.
You know the eye sees with its own hue.
There may be a gangrene over the glad
dest sunshine."
"Artists ought to be always glad: living
as they do, amidst ideal beauties: nay, crea
ting them."
"Ideal! That was a fitting word. Miss
Saxonbury. We live iu the toil and drud
gery of the work; others, who only see the
picture when it is completed, in the ideal.
When you stand and admire some favor
ite painting, do you ever cast a thought
to the weary hours of labor which created
it?"
"No doubt the pursuit of art has its
inconveniences, but you great painters
must bear within you your own recom
pense." "In a degree, yes," answered Raby.
the expression "you great painters" echo
ing joyfully on his car. "1 he conscious
ness of iKissessingthat rare gift, genius, is
ample recompense save in moments of
despondency.
"And yet you talk of melancholy and
gangrene, Mr. Raby, and such like un
pleasant topics!
wardly great, men of genius, of imagina
tive inienecu ajook at some oi our dead
pools snd what is said of them."
"the lives ol great men are frequently
marked by unhappiness," observed Raby.
"In Faying 'great men,' I mean men in
"I think their fault lay in looking at
the dark side of things, instead of the
bright," laughed Maria. "Like yourself
at present. You will keep turning to
that gloomy point, where the scenery is
all obscure, nothing bright but the great
moon itself; and that shinc.4 right in your
face."
"They could not look otherwise than
thy did," he argued, his own tone Found
ing melancholy enough.
"Well, well, I supposo it is the fate of
genius," returned Maria. "I was read
ing lately, in a French work, some account
of the lile of Leonardo da Vinci. He was
not a happy man."
"He was called Da Vinci.the Uuhappy.
How many of his brethren might have
been called so?"
"Were 1 you I should not make up my
mind to be one of them; I should be just
the contrary," said Maria gayly. "Fancy
goes a great way in this life. And so,"
she added, after a pause, "you think some
of the queer old temples in Italy must
look like that?" pointing to the Folly.
"How I wish I could see thcnil"
"How I wish we could see them!" he
murmured "that we could see them tn-
-fgetheri"
Perhaps he wondered whether he had
said too much. She did not check bim
only turned, and moved back towards the
drawing-room, her arm within his.
"We may see them together," she said,
at length. "You will, of necessity, visit
Italy; I, of inclination, and we may meet
there. I hope we shall know you in af
ter life, Mr. Raby; but of that there will
be little doubt " Everybody will know
you, for you will be one of England's fa
mous painters.''
They reached the window, and he took
her hand in his, though there was no
necessity, to assist her over the low step;
he kept it longer than he need have done.
Not for the first time, by several, had he
thus clasped it in the little courtesies of
life. Oh, Raby Raby! can you not see
that It had been much better for you to
clap some poisonous old serpent? He
did not enter, but turned away.
Lady Saxonbury was in the room then,
in her easy chair which had its back to
the window. The tea was on the tabic,
and Miss Saxonbury began to pour it
out
"My dear," cried Lady Saxonbury, a
simple-hearted, kind woman, "where's
that poor painter? I daresay ho would
like some tea."
"He was on the terrace just now," re
plied Maria.
"He must feel very dull," resumed
Lady saxonbury. "1 fear, child, we.neg
lect him. Send one of the servants to ask
him to come in."
"The "poor painter," lost in the antici
pations of the time when he should be a
rich one, was leaning against the railings,
whence he had stood and gazed abroad
with Miss Saxonbury, the purse she
had given him lying in his bosom. Iu
the labt few weeks his whole existence
had changed, for he had' learnt to love
Maria Saxonbury with a wild passion
ate love. To be near her was bliss, even
to agitation; to hear her speak, set his
frame trembling; to touch her hand, sent
his heart's blood thrilling-tlmrajrh Itirr
veins. It is only these imaginative, un
earthly natures, too sensitive and refined
for the uses of common life, that can tell
of this intense, pure, ctberealizcd passion,
which certainly partakes more ol heaven
than of earth. He stood there, indulging
a vision of hope a deceitful, glowing vis
ion. He saw not himself as he was, but
as he should be the glorious painter, to
whose genius the whole word would bow.
Surely there was no such impassable bar
rier between that worshipped painter and
the daughter of Sir Arthur Saxonbury.
Alas for the improbable dream he was
suffering himself to nourish! alas for its
fatal ending! Three or four weeks more
of its sweet delusion, and then it was
rudely broken. Mr. Yorke, a relative of
Sir Arthur's, and the heir presumptive of
his estate, arrived at Saxonbury. He
had been named Arthur Mair, after Sir
Arthur. Raby Verner recognized him,
for they had been at Christ Church to
gether, but he had not recalled him to
memory since, and had never known him
as the relative of Sir Arthur Saxonbury.
He was a tall, strong, handsome young
fellow; but ere he had been two days at
Saxonbury, a rumor, or suspicion, (in the
agitation of Rahy's feelings he hardly
knew which,) reached the artist that his
visit was to Maria, chat she was intended
for her cousin's wife. The 6ame evening,
calm and lovely as the one when they had
looked forth together at the Folly, the
truth became clear to Raby.
They were seated in the drawing-room,
all the family, when Maria stepped on to
the terrace, and the artist followed her.
Presently Arthur Yorke saw them pacing
it together, Raby having given her his
arm. Mr. Yorke drew down the corners
of his lips, and stalked out.
"Thank you," he said to Raby, with
freezing politeness, as he authoritively
drew away Maria's arm and placed it
within his own; "I will take charge of
Miss Saxonbury if she wishes to walk."
lie strode away with her, and Raby,
with a drooping head and sinking heart,
descended the middle steps of the terrace.
He stole along under cover of its high
wall anywhere-to hide himself and hia
outraged feclings That action, those
words of Mr. Yorke' s, had but too surely
betrayed his interest in Maria. He came
to the end of the terrace, and found
they had halted there, right above him.
He was to hear worse words now, aud he
could not help himself.
"Then you had no business to do it
you had uo right to do it," Maria was
saying, in a petulent tone. "He was not
going to eat me, if I did walk with him."
"Excuse me, Maria, I am the best
judge. Raby wns in the position of a
gentleman once, but things have changed
with him."
"Rubbish!" retorled Miss Saxonbury.
"He is papa's guest; and he is as good as
you. A gentleman once, a gentleman al
ways." "I am not savins he is not a ccntleman.
Buthe is no longer in the position of
"He was born'and reared one; he will
always be one; quite as much as you are,"
persisted Maria, in her tantalizing spirit.
"Well, I don't care then, to nut mv ob
jection on that score. But it is not agree
able to me to see you walking and tailing
so familiarly with him."
"Just say you are jealous at once, Ar
thur. If you think to control me, I can
tell you"
"Halloo, Arthur! Step here a moment"
The voice was Sir Arthur Saxonbury's.
Maria paused in her speech, and M
Yorke unwillincly retired towards th
drawin-groora. Raby, in the frenzy of
tue moment, darted up the end steps,
startling her by his sudden appearance.
"Miss Saxonbury! will you answer me?
rorgive me, he panted, as he laid his
hand upon her arm, in his painful eager
ness "forgive me that I must nsk the
question! Has Arthur Yorke a rigte to
take you from me as he did but now?"
"Of course he has not, Mr. Raby. How
can he have?"
"I mean pray excute.me the right
of more than cousinship?'
She was half terrified at his parted
lips, his labored breathing, his ghastly
face, from which suspense took every ves
tige of color, and she saw that she might
not dare to tamper with him: that the
kinder course, now, was to set his am
bitious dream at rest.
"Well, then," she whispered, "though
of course he had not the right to interfere,
and it was very bad tnctc. and I will not
submit to his whims, $Or, yei the time
may come when he will be to me more
tlMt iv-eottera
Hia hand unloosed its clasp of her arm.
and Maria Saxonbury hastened towards
the drawing-room. He watched her in,
and then, when no human eye or ear was
near, his head sunk upon the cold railings,
and a low wail of anguish went forth on
the quiet evening air. Too surely, though
Maria Saxonbury might never know it,
had tne iron entered into his soul.
CHAPTER IV.
TnE BLOW TKLLIXO HOME.
In December, business took Sir Arthur
Saxonbury to London. He paid a visit to
the artist Coram, but he did not see Ra
by. His easel and chair were there, but
the former had no work in its frame, and
the chair was empty.
"Has he ebjured the art, or found an
other studio?" inquired Sir Arthur.
The great painter shook his head. "He
has notabjured it A different art or pow
er is claiming him now; one to which we
must all succumb Death."
"Death!" echoad Sir Arthur.
"He has gone off very rapidly; in a de
cline, or something of that sort I saw
him two days ago, and I did not think,
then, he would last until now. I wonder
I have not heard of his death."
."What can be the cause of its coming
on so suddenly? He was remarkably well
when at Saxonbury. I saw no symptom
of decline or any other illness about him
then."
"Do you remember my telling you. Sir
Arthur, that a blow to the feelings would
kill him?"
Sir Arthur considered. "I think I do."
"He has had it, unless I am mistaken.
He got it at Saxonbury. '
"What do you mean?" inquired the bar
onet. "I do not understand it, and indeed it
is no business of mine, but when he came
up from Saxonbury, he had certaiuly re
ceived his death-blow. A suspicion has
crossed me whether your lovely daughter
had mil thin- trnln wilp it Vnjpr' rrf
Sir Arthur, we are old friends it is a I
thought only mentioned to you.'
"I should like to 6ee him"," said Sir Ar
thur. "Will you go with me?"
They went Raby was ctill alive, but
it was getting towards hia last day of life
He lay panting on his huhible bed, nlone.
A hectic flush, even then, lighted up his
wasted cheek at sight of her father. Sir
Arthur, inexpressibly shocked, sat down
by him, and took his poor damp hand.
"What can v-ou kavcbecnjdoingt your
self," he asked, "to get into this state?"
"1 think it was. inherent, murmured
Raby. "My mother died in a decline."
"You have had the best advice, I hope?"
Raby made a movement of dissent. "A
medical student, whom I know, comes in
sometimes. I could not call in good ad
vice, for I had not the means to pay for
it"
"Oh, my boy!" cried Sir Arthur, in a
tone of anguish, as he leaned over him,
"why did you not let me know of this?
Half my puree should have been yours,
for your mother's sake."
"All the skill in England would not have
availed me," he earnestly said. "Sir Ar
thur, it is best as it is, for I am going to
her. She has been waiting for me all these
years, She told me my lot would not be
a happy one. But it will soon be over
now," he added, his voice growing fainter;
"earthly tiain of all kinds has nearly pass
ed away.
Curious thonghts were perplexing Sir
Arthur Saxonbury as he quitted the scene.
If a rude blow to his feelings had indeed
caused Raby to sink into bodily illness,
and thence to death, and that blow had
been dealt by Maria Saxonbury, how very
like it was to retribution for the blow Ma
rin Raby had dealt out to him! He was
a strong man, and had weathered it, hut
it had left more permanent traces on his
heart than he had suffered the world to
know. Sir Arthur lost himself in these
thoughts, and then shook them off as a
dif agreeable and unsatisfactory theme."
On Christmas-eve he returned to Saxon
bury. After dinner, hia two daughters
only being at table, he told them of the ex
pected death of the artist Raby. Mrs.
Ashton expressed sorrow and surprise,
Maria baid nothing, but her face drooped,
and a burning color overspread it Sir
Arthur looked sternly at ber. Her head
only drooped the lower.
"It has been hinted to tae that you tam
pered with his feelings," he said, in a se
verely reproachful tone. "Let me tell you,
Maria, that the vain hab't of encouraging
admiration whence it cannot legally be re
ceived, always tends to ill. No right
minded girl would condescend to it."
"I thought Maria talked a great deal
with young Raby," remtrked Mrs. Ash
ton. "Hail ho been of our own order, I
should have interfered; !ut I knew she
could not be serious. He was only a
painter."
"She killed him," was the significant
answer of Sir Arthur. And Maria Saxon
bury burst into tears.
' Sir Arthur paid no more. He may have
thought it was the provitce of women to
inflict such wounds, ami of men to bear
them. He knew not how far Raby'sown
impressionable nature miht have been in
fault, or whether Maria, in the exercise of
coquetry, or vanity, hau unwarrantably
drawn him on. It booted not to inquire
now; the past could not be undone; neith
er could Raby be brought back to life.
One thing was indisputable; that beautiful
as Maria Raby had been in tiie old days,
beautiful was Maria Saxonbury now. It
is impossible for some men to be near
such beauty and not sutler from it once
in their lives.
Maria, vexed and angry with herself for
the outburst of feeling, had dried away
her tears as hastily as they came, and was
going on with her dinner with what appe
tite she might Sir Arthur went on with
his, glancing at her now and then between
his eyelashes.
"When did Mr. Raby die?" asked Mrs.
Ashton.
"I do not know yet that he is dead," re
plied Sir Arthur. "He was alive when
I quitted London, a week ago; but it was
certain he could not last long."
"Did you see him, papa?" continued
Mrs. Ashton.
"1 saw him several times. 1"
"You seemed to be very much interest
ed in that young man, papa," was Mrs.
Ashton's interruption.
"I was so," quietly replied Sir Arthur.
"I looked up to him as to one of a supe
rior order."
"Supcriorl" EOmewhat slightingly re
marked Mrs. Ashton.
JlYes;jmmy opinion. I bow to genius;
I re3pecf "nortuTreTmtT3bTrLlJa l"ere ?be "opped. seated by Sir
in both. Had he lived, I should have
done something for him: as it is,.all I
could do was to render hia deathbed a lit
tle more comfortable than it might other
wise have been."
"Does he suffer much?"
"I hope not. The doubt was, that he
might towards the last. I invited Mr.
Janson to come down for a day or two
when all was over, and bring the account
of his last hours."
"Who is Mr. Janson, papa?"
"A friend of Mr. Raby's. A young sur
geon, who has been much with him in his
illness; very kind and attentive to him.
A gay. gentlemanly, pleasant young fel
low ns ever I came across," somewhat
warmly added Sir Arthur.
"Papa, I ' think you evince a great lik
ing for young menl"
"Poasibly 1 do, Louisa. The having no
sons of my own may have induced it It
is not often, though, one meets with so
charming "a young man as Mr. Janson."
"Is he a gentleman?"
"By birtb, do you mean? I never ask
ed him the question. He is one in mind
and manners, and that i3 enough for me.
You were always over-fastidious, Louisa."
Maria, meanwhile, said not a word.
After the rebuff administered by her fath
er, she could but show some sense of it:
though, indeed, her thoughts were too
busy to admit of her joining lightly in
the conversation. Heartily sorry was she
to hear of the death of Kaby Raby; and
certain qualms of conscience were re
proaching her. In the midst of all her
vanity and her flirting, her laying her
charms out for admiration, aud her lin
gering iatcrviews with Mr. Raby, she
had not lost her henrt to him. In point
of fact, that vulnerable portion of the
human frame was yet intact in Maria
Saxonbury. Bat she bad liked him much.
She had admired hia beauty of face; she
had reverenced hia great gift, genius; she
had sat most complacently to listen to his
softly breathed words, and their scarccly
ttliulied incme, tOVC." It had been very
reprehensible. Maria had conveniently
ignored that fact at the time; butshe was
feeling it deeply now. Putting aside her
vanity, her consciousness of beauty, her
love of admiration, she was a noble
hearted girl; and she was wishing just
that she could recall Raby Raby to life,
almost at the sacrifice of her own. That
she had wrecked hia happiness, she had
had some cause to believe; but to have
wrecked his life Maria turned all over
in a hot glow, and wondered whether she
might yet dare to ask God to forgive her.
"Why should some people's nature be
eo sensitive?" she somewhat peevishly
asked herself. "They are not fit to be in
the world."
No, they are not And many a one
has had cause to know that truth besides
Maria Saxonbury.
She sat in her dainty dress of white,
the jewels shining on her fair neck and
arms sat ,in her old favorite attitude,
after she went into the drawing-room
leaning back in a fauteuil, her black satin
slipper tapping petulantly the carpet.
Not so much in petulance, possibly aa in
sorrow, was that pretty foot moving. Life
seemed to her particularly gloomy that
evening; aa if it were to have no future.
For one thing, she had been vexed by
the non-arrival of Arthur Yorke. He was
to have spent Christmas at Saxonbury, to
have been with them that day, hut a let
ter, telling of the serious illness of his
mother, had come instead. Maria liked
Arthur Yorke very well; quite sufficiently
well to be grieved at hia non-arrival, and
to feel it a disappointment And yet she
did not love him. She did not love Ar
thur Yorke any more than she had loved
Mr. Raby. It ia a capricioua passion,
one that will not come for the bidding;
and, perhaps; the very fact of Maria s
having gathered hints that she waa des
tined to be Mr. Yorke's wife, had kept the
love away.
Sir Arthur Saxonbury had never said
Maria, "All going well, I wish you to be
the wife of Arthur Yorke." Lady Sax
onbury had never said it. More than all,
Mr. Yorke himself had never eaid it.
And yet, that Maria knew that such was
her- projected destiny, was certain. Sir
Arthur Saxonbury wished it; there was
not the slightest doubt that Mr. Yorke
wished it; but neither of them had spoken
directly to Maria. She was very young,
and Sir Arthur, who would not for the
world have pushed on such a project
against her inclination, bad desired of
Mr. Yorke that he should not speak at
present "Givo her time to get a liking
lor you first," he said And the advice was
good. But the project had in some way,
oozed out; and Maria knew it as well as
they did. In fact, there was a tacit un
derstanding that she did, between herself
and Mr. Yorke. At present she was
pleased to show off her caprices and her
coquetries to him, as she did to others,
secure in her own power.
Lady Saxonbury, a confirmed invalid,
suffering under an inward complaint, re
clined in a fauteuil opposite Maria. Mrs.
Ashton, who had always some work in
hand for one or the other of her children,
sat at the table between them, doing some
thing to the lace of a little cap, and grum
bling at her uneonscioua nursemaids for
having allowed ittogct torn. "Ilaveyou
heard the news about Mr. Raby, mam
ma?" she suddenly asked.
"Your papa told me," replied Lady
Saxonbury. "What a 6ad thing that
consumption is! But it must have at-
tacked Mr. Raby suddenly. He was not
ill when he was here."j
"Very suddenly," returned Mrs. Ash
ton, in a marked tone, made tart for the
benefit of Maria.
"He never looked strong," resumed
Lady Saxonbury. "He hail a remark
ably fragile appearance. 1 used tosav so
to Maria. Who can that be?"
The "Who can that be?" referred to
the signs or an arrival. Wheels had
sounded on the gravel, and the hall bell
was now ringing. But no one appeared,
and the occurrence passed oil" from their
minds.
The time went on to tea time, and the
tea waited on the table for Sir Arthur.
Never given to take n.ucli wine. Lady
Saxonbury openly wondered what could
be keeping him in the dining-room.
"It is possible that, tired with hw jour
ney, he may have dropped asleep," she
suddenly said. "Go anil see Maria."
Maria rosa listlessly, and proceeded to
the diuing-room speaking as ehe entered
it:
"Papa, you don't come to. tea. We have
been wondering"
CTtTuemanr nrstramrrrr-tr
Aiaria. tie rose as she spoke, and stood
facing her, a beaming smile on hia coun
tenance. A gentlemanly-looking man,
young, with a remarkably winning ex
pression of face, and frank manners. Sir
Arthur rose also.
"My daughter, Mr. Janson, Miss Sax
onbury.'' Maria remembered the name Janson
in connection with Raby Raby; and not
possessing a perfectly easy conscience on
that score altogether, left the room again
aa quickly as she could. Sir Arthur fol
lowed her, bringing his guest to the drawing-room.
Raby had died the day following the
departure of Sir Arthur Saxonbury from
London. He, Sir Arthur, had paid a visit
of nearly a week on the road. Mr. Jan
son waited to bury his friend, and then
availed himself of the invitation to Sax
onbury. "Did he die hard in much pain?" in
quired Lady Saxonbury, when they
had been speaking of him some little
time.
"Quite easy in all ways," replied Mr.
Janson. "He appeared to think he was
going to hiirest,"
Continued next week.
LOVE-MAKING IN CUBA.
A Very Pretty l'ictnre or the Pro
cess Koiuauce ofthe Ozotea.
Havana Letter to Chicago Tribune.
Last summer two sisters, who lived im
mediately opposite there in that low
house used to come to the terrace nearly
every evening at sunset 'They were
about 18 and 15 years of age, and both
very pretty. The eldest, Lola, was a
black-eyed, raven-haired beauty, with
the well-grown, well-developed form so
common among Cuban women and so
rare among Cuban men. The youngest,
Pancbita, wa3 more delicate in make,
with flowing e!tetttut-hftr aud blue ejes
the blue ofthe pervenche and a com
plexion of the purest white.
There is something peculiarly lovely in
a fair skinned Habanesa; the perfect oval
of her face; her long almond-shaped eye;
the total absence of rose-color in her
check, make her a type of blonde beauty
unknown to Northern climes. The orig
inal, I believe, is to found in Andalusia,
whence came, also, the fairy-like feet
which distinguish Cubans generally.
The pretty sisters used to pace the azo
tea with a nonchalent grace which it was
enchanting to watch; Lola, with a cigar
in her mouth, puffing vigorously; both
nodding and making signs with fingers
and hands to the young people, also
smoking, on the roofs around. Sometimes
Pancbita would indulge in a paper ci
garito, and it waa very pretty to see the
dainty fingers hold it a moment to the
coral lipsand then the light smoke curl
up round the delicate little nosel
A week or two passed thus in a few simple
salutations and a pretense of taking exer
cise, when I discovered that a young gen
tleman, who frequented the roof ot that
three-storied house on the right,
REMAINED SUSrlCIOl SLY STATIONARY
in a corner of his azotea during the whole
time the sisters remained on theirs. Soon
I was certain that Pancbita smoked her
cigarito with an embarrassed air, very
different from her former natural, thought
less grace; then it waa evident that she
lingered a moment behind her sister when
they prepared to descend, and never failed
to casta parting look in the direction of
the stationary young man. At last I
surprised signals with fan and fingers,
and then blown kisses from the admirer,
and soou all the evidences of passion that
a tall individual on a house-top, withhis
silhouette distinctly drawn against the
sky, can dare to give. And then, when
Pancbita was fairly out of sight, Pepe
descended also, and, half an hour later,
w.ould be found in the street posted out
side her parlor window, waiting patiently
for a stray smile or word from hia lady
love 'within.
You see how convenient the windows
are constructed in this country for love
making, reaching down to the ground,
without glass, and only the perpendicular
iron bars, six inches apart, to defend
them, there is absolutely nothing to pre
vent the tenderest conversation between
the gallant on the side wall: and the belle
inside the grating, or rcja, aa it ia called.
It is, then, outside this reja. that the
Cuban lover begins hia courtship, aud
SIGHS ni3 PRETTY XOTUIXGS
"Alma de mi viva" (soul of my life).
"Cucullo de mi corazon" (firefly ot my
heart), etc. to the willing, cochantcd
eara within. After a period of out-door
love-making, longer or shorter according
to the ardor and sincerity ol the wooer,
he requeata to see papa or mamma, and
begs their permission to be allowed to
continue his courtship in-doora. If ho is
considered a suitable match, he ia asked
how long a time he intends to pay his ad
dresses before he determines or ia able to
marry. If hia term be too lon, he wi,i
probably not be permitted to visit at the
bouse; but, if all in right ami smooth,
gracious leave ia given to come every
evening. From 'that hour the young
lady's society belongs exclusively to him;
he and she sit side by side iu the parlor,
whispering and gurgling together inter
esting objects to those who dove them;
great borea to those who do not
Such was the course of rejKr's and Pnn
chita's loves; at the end of three -months
TIIE VZUVViO TOOK TLACE.
although they were in truth but children,
he not 19 she just 15. One evening at
o'clock, I saw from iny ozotea the pretty
bride, attended by her ister and a bevy
of fair young girls, accompanied by papa
and mamma and-a crowd of lrienda, set
off for the church She returned with
the bridegroom, the happiest, loveliest
creature 1 ever gazed on; and there was
music, and dancing and feasting, aud
laughter, all night long in the brilliant
house. Alas! a year later, all waa dark
neo and teara within tbat same house!
A babe had been born who had died of
lockjaw when six dajs old one-half of
the newly born children of Cuba fall vic
tims to this terrible malady and tbe
young mother lived bnt a week after its
burial, carried off by a galloping con
sumption, a complaint extremely common
in the island I may say frightfully so.
But see, while I have been telling yoa
this episode ofthe azotea with its melan
choly termination, the sun haa sunk be
low the horizon. How soft and tender is
this twilightT There linger still some
golden streaks of the verge on th e horizon ,
.where the sun went down they are the
lost splendors of the dying day. As I
gaze, the hues change and fade:
The last still loveliest, till 'tis gone and
all ia gray.
For the Hartford Herald.
A PICTURE FROM LIFE.
A young man just entering upon life.
"The only son of his mother, and she was
a widow. He had sisters, fair and gen
tle girla, who labored hard with the needle
to earn a comfortable support for their old
mother and themselves.
And this young man did he not labor,
also, for the same laudable purpose? Waa
it not hia ambition to lessen the load of
his sister3, and "by the sweat of hia brow"
make hia mother's journey down the hill
of life pleasant and peaceful?
Alas! no. He thought it waa degrading
to work. He did not scruple to wear clo
thing earned for him by the industrious
hands of his slaters. He saw the graver
of care tracing wrinkle upon. wrinkle, day
after day, on the once smooth brow of bis
mother. He knew that he was filling her
loving heart to overflowing with sorrow.
He saw that hia sisters were growing pale
and sad-eyed from the shame he brought
upon them.
Rut tbia young man did have an ambi
tion. He loved to boast of his drunken fol
lies and scrapes. And, oh! how he delight
ed to go home under the influence of liq
uor and curse and bully the poor defence
less women, whose greatest misfortune
was that they were hia mother and sisters.
He was a model young man: one of the
kind of which the great men of earth are
made!
The years rolled on, and our model
young man grew older, but no better.
All of the hours of the day, and many
of those of the night, were spent loafing
about the barrooms and groceries. His
comjmnmna wore only thxr drunken, and
idle, and vicious of the neighborhood.
Want pinched sorely those poor women
at home, and fiom them he wrung their
hard earnings, which he squandered in
debauchery on those no better than him
self. One night, in a den of drunkenness, kept
by God forgive him! one who professed
to enjoy tbe religion of our Lord Jesus
Christ, murder was done. Our model
young man and one of his fellow-loafers,
while drunk, became involved in an al
tercation, and the worthless son of a wor
thy widow stabbed and killed his adver
sary.
He was arrested, tried, and convicted;
and to-day is serving out a lengthy term
in the State-prison. The disgrace brought
upon the honorable name borne by her
dead husband, the father of this felon,
killed the mother. The shame and dis
grace brought upon than by their brother,
drove the sisters from the neighborhood;
and it is the neighborhood gos.ip and be
lief that they are leading abandoned lives
in the city of Evanaville.
Reader, this ia no fancy sketch. These
things really occurred, and in a communi
ty not more than a hundred miles from
II art ford. Let ua be thankful that our
own community contains no such model
young men. And. ohl men of Hartford:
good, christian, civilized men of Hartford:
continue in the name and for the sake of
yoilr mothers, wives, sisters and daughters.
continue to refuse wicked and money
loving men the privilege of opening in our
town dens of evil that will make drunk
ards, devils, and murderers of our fathers,
husbands, brothers, and sons!
Hartford, Ky., January 1, 1874.
A Kitchen Fire Started with $1,
IOO in (Jreenbitclts.
Milwaukee News, Dee. 25 th.
H. Grote keeps a saloon and boarding
house at 193 Second street, and, to all ap
pearances, ia doing a good and prosperous
business. He ia a thrilty individual, and
ia given to operating somewhat in stock
horses. He doesn't keep, as a canal
thing, a vast amount of money about the
hou?e. Day before yesterday, having a
note against him that was rapidly ap
proaching matnrity, he obtained some
thingover $1,100 With which to satisfy it
Wrapping up this comfortable sum in an
old uewspaper, he stowed the bundle
away in a bureau drawer, and where he
intended to let it remain until it was want
ed to liquidate the claim against him. In
hia family ia a girl, a sister of hia wife,
named 'Jleli.t Mtrclinck, a bright little
la??, about nine eara ofage. A part of
'Melia t duties ia the kindling ofthe ma
tutinal lire, and yesterday morning, as
usual, she waa the first one stirring in the
house. Not having enough inllamable
material handy, she remembere'l the roll
of paper in the drawer, and getting it out
put it in tbe rtove. where she soon had a
neanlitul lire in full blast When the
roaster of the establishment arose ho
missed the money, and a little inquiry
demonstrated the" fact that that $1,100
had gone "where." In the elegant Jan
cuage of the late lamented James Fiak,
Jr.. "tbe woodbine twineth." The state
ofthe atmosphere in that boanling-houso
can be better imagined than described
the fire was immedialely extiaguWied,
but as it had been under good headway
J.. it lauf irvst Itrtura llin Rtnri aft1
empty of money aa a reporter': peckct-book.