New York dispatch. [volume], January 07, 1877, Page 2, Image 2

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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To my great surprise she took my hand and
kissed it—l blusbe’d like a school girl as she
did so—and then she raised her sad, dark eyes
to mine. , ,
“Mrs. Neville,” she said, “do not make me
care for you—do not teach me to like you.
“ Why not, Miss Vane ?”
“I will not,” she cried, “I And then
her face grew suddenly pale, and her eyes dim,
but not with tears—not until long afterward
did I see tears in bor eyes; it was rather a mist,
as though pride would not let the tears flow.
“You sro forgetting how weak and ill you
are. I will promise anything you like. I will
not seek to make you care ifor me, but I will
take care of you.”
I did my best during the long, weary hours
of convalescence to ise and interest her, but
it was weary work, - sent for a large box of
new books and tried to read to her. She would
listen fbr some little time, and then she would
turn to me suddenly, and ask—
“ What is that story?”
“A love story,” I would reply.
“Ah—then close it. I would rather again
undergo ail my past suffering than listen to a
love story.”
From tho pallor that came over her face,
and the shudder that made her tremble, I knew
tho words were not affected, but real. She was
pleased when I played and sang to her, but not
when I attempted a love song. She would beg
of me to cease.
One day I took heart of grace, and when she
cried out' to me I left the piano, and, going up
to her, knelt down by her side.
“My dear Miss Vane,” I said, “you will not
hear a love story, you will not hear a love song;
do you know that if you shut yourself out from
love, you deliberately darken your lite ?”
She made no answer. I felt more courageous.
“Love is the law of nature,” X said. “All
things brighten and are beautified through it.
What should we do without the great infinite
love that wraps us round like a mantle, that
takes us from earth to heaven, or even mere
earthly human love ?”
X shall never forget the expression of intense
scorn and contempt that came over her beauti
ful face; her lips curled in proud disdain, her
eyes flashed.
“That is a pretty, sentimental way of look
ing at a foolish weakness,” she said. “ Give to
everything its proper name, Mrs. Neville. What
you call that most foolish of all follies X call
treachery. There is no love. Men and women
deceive each other. Men sell their souls for
money, or pawn their credit for fame. Women
sell what they call their hearts for any bauble
that come first. Love I Every sin and folly on
earth seems to hide itself under that word I”
I was startled by her violence, by her fiery
pride ; but in a righteous cause I was neither
to be put down nor to be defeated.
“ You are prejudiced and unjust, Miss Vane.”
“Harm always comes of love. I detest the
word. To me it is but the synomyn for hatred,
treachery, fraud, deceit, an.d grossest wrong.
If we are to be good friends, or even friends, at
all, never mention the word * love ’ to me
again.”
And I never dared. '
CHAPTER VX.
“ THE DBEABIEST FABCE UNDEB HEAVEN.”
Miss Vane recovered slowly, but surely; the
pallor on her face gave place to the daintiest
bloom. The time came when I saw that I could
leave her in safety, and that she was on a fair
way to recovery. X told her so one day when
we were sitting alone. She looked at me with
wistful eyes.
“ You have been very kind to me, Mrs.
Neville. You are really a good Samaritan. I
am a perfect stranger to you, yet you have
treated me as though I were your own sister.”
“ I will crown my goodness by keeping my
promise and passing out of your life, Miss
Vane.”
She seemed slightly confused, and then
glanced up into my face with the frankest smile
that I had yet seen on her own.
“Mrs. Neville,” she said, “I should like to
ask a favor of you.”
Z “I am quite sure that I shall grant it,” I re
sponded.
“Will you be my friend?” said Miss Vane.
“ I do not| feel that X can part from you.”
I smiled to myself, thinking of the soul that
was strong enough to live without love, and
that called all love treachery.
“ I should like you to be my friend, if you will
—to come and see me sometimes,” Miss Vane
went on. “You can perceive that in my short
life I have had a great sorrow—so great as to cut
me oil' from my kind, to make me hate the sight
and sound of almost every living creature, to
turn with loathing from all that is fairest and
brightest on earth. 1 cannot tell you what that
sorrow was. You are kind enough not to seek
to know it. Will you be my friend, yet respect
my secret, which 1 choose to withhold?”
“ I will; it is yourself, not your secret, that I
care for.”
“You will promise to let me live my old life,
not to try to draw me from it, never to bring
any one to see me, never to ask me to your
house,' but at times.to come and visit me, con
tent to know.no more of me than you do now ?”
“X promise to keep the terms of our compact,
' Miss Vane,' as long as I live.”
She held out her hand to me, and, as I clasped
it in mine, I said to her :
“ What beautiful hands you have, Miss Vane 1
I have seen none so perfect in shape and
color.”
There was not th faintest gleam of pleasure
on her face, such as most girls show when they
are complimented and praised.
“Do you think them beautiful?” she asked,
indifferently.
“ X do, indeed. I wish I could see them more
busily engaged. What will put more life and
busy motion into those lovely hands ?”
“’Nothing,” she replied. “There are little
life and little motion in my heart—what can you
expect at my hands.”
So we made our strange compact. I was al
ways to be her friend—to visit her—to care for
her; but I was never to know more of her than
I did now.
I went back to Neville’s Cross, and was
pleased to find that none of my friends or
neighbors knew that I had been staying at the
River House ; they were all content with the
explanation I gave that I had been visiting a
friend.
And then the second phase of my curious
acquaiutancesiii;’ began. I went regularly two
or three times each week to visit Miss Vane.
I took her tho rarest flowers, the most ex
quisite fruits, all the new books that I could
procure. Perhaps on my next visit I found the
books untouched; but X never remonstrated
with her.
“How does Miss Vano spend her time?” I
asked of Jane Lewis, one day.
“In her usual way,” Mrs. Neville, when you
are not with her. She passes whole days in
dreaming and thinking—sometimes indoors,
sometimes out iu. the air. She seems to be al
ways watching the river—always listening to it;
and she has done the same for more than three
years now.”
“ Does she never road, sew, sing, play .the
piano, draw, paint, or write ?”
“ Never,” replied the maid, briefly.
“Does she take no delight in flowers or in
birds? Has shi not one occupation ?”
“ No,” was the reply. “ I wish she had.”
It seemed to me incredible that a life should
slip from one’s grasp in this fashion.
“But does shu not talk—talk to you—to any
one?” I pursued.
“No, it is the rarest thing for my mistress to
open her lips. I have known her pass whole
days without speaking. She seems, indeed, to
' have a rooted dislike to the sound of a human
voice; that is the cause of the strange silence
in the house, The only time when she seems
-to be interested is when you are with her, Mrs.
Neville—she talks to you and listens to you.”
What coulu have happened to blight her
young life ? The girl’s whole soul seemed
dead.
That same day. when we were talking, some
thing was said about age, and I asked Miss
Vane abruptly how old she was. She was too
much surprised for any hesitation, and answered
at once:
“ I am twenty-two, Mrs. Neville.”
“ Twenty-two 1” X repeated. “ Then, when
you came here, you were not much more than
eighteen ?”
“ No—eighteen years and a few months.”
“Have the years seemed long, my dear?” I
asked, gently.
“ Long 1” she repeated. “ Each one has been
an age 1”
“ And you may live for another fifty years,
Miss Vane.”
“I may—blit I hope that I shall not,” she re
joined.
“If you do, would you be content to spend
them as you have spent the past ones ?”
“ There would be no other resource,” she re
plied, shuddering.
“ I am almost afraid to say what I think, lest
I displease you, Muss Vane. If I have that mis
fortune, I ask you beforehand to forgive me.
Eighteen is not generally considered a very
wise age, is it ?”
“ It is as wise as any other age, I should ima
gine, Mrs. Neville.”
“Nay, my dear, you are wrong. Only age
and experience give wisdom. lam older than
you by some years—time has taught lift many
lessons that you have yet to learn.”
“I do not intend to learn more,” she said; “I
have learned quite enough.”
“At eighteen,” I continued, “we feel pleas
ure and pain acutely. We are either at the
hight of happiness or in the depths ot despair ;
we are too busy in opening our hearts, minds
and souls to new impressions to give much
time to thought. At forty we realize, reason,
analyze, and endure. Has it ever occurred to
you that every human life is a precious gift, re
ceived for some wise purpose ? What .answer
will those make who have to face the Great
Giver with their life all wasted ?”
“My life has been blighted, not wasted,”
she replied, looking at me steadily. “The two
things are different.”
“But, my dear Miss' Vane,” I said—“pray
fiardon me—do you not think that eighteen is
oo early an age at which deliberately to set
aside all that is best and brightest in life—to
yield one’s self to a, dull, consuming sorrow ?”
“No,” she replied. “If the time and the
.Borrow were to come again, I should act just as
I have done.”
After that there was no more to be said. I
,did my beet in one way, and that was to direct
.her attention to every good deed, every earnest
life that came under mv notice.
I thought then, and I think now, that my
young friend's character was the most remark
able 1 had ever met with. What force of will
Ijiuat Lava bad. • ; eighteen to give up the
world, to turn her face against everything bright
and attractive, to yield herself up to a lite of
sorrow—nothing but sorrowl I often wondered
what bitter trial had cut hor adrift from her
kind, and made all human beings distasteful to
her.
One morning I persuaded her to share with
me my favorite ramble through the woods. The
day was so fine that wo wont farther than I had
intended, until in the distance we saw the gray
spire of Daintree church.
We stopped to look at it, for it made a strik
ing picture, the tall gray steeple standing out
in bold relief against the sky. and while wa so
stood, suddenly there pealed out the merry
chime of wedding-bells. I smiled—the sun
shine, the clear air, the blue sky, the bells, all
seemed so pleasant to me.
“ Hark!” I cried. “ Those are wedding-bells;
some one is being made very happy to-day.”
She turned her pale face to me,
“Happy I” she repeated. “ Why, the drear
iest farce under heaven is a wedding 1”
“My dear Miss Vane,” I ciied, startled by her
vehemence, “ what a strange idea I”
She laughed, and a dreary sound it was that
came from the young lips.
“It is the dreariest face under the sun,” she
insisted—“a mockery in most cases, a cruelty
in others, a happiness never.”
“It is well that every one is not of your opin
ion, Miss Vane,”'l said.
“If they were, there would be fewer sorrow
ful hearts in the world,” she rejoined. “Oh,
Mrs. Neville,” she cried, shuddering, “come
away—come away from the sound of those ter
rible bells I”
They seemed to make tho old church rock
with their merriment; they filled the air with a
joyous clang. But I saw that tho sound made
my companion ill. She placed her hands over
her ears, as though she would fain shut it out,
while her lips grew white as death. Back we
hastened through the woods until we were be
yond the sound of the bolls; and presently Miss
Vane rested against the little gate that led to
the coppice—rested in silence, which neither of
us cared to break.
There was, to me, somethinghrnutterably sad
in the idea of flying from the sweet music of
chiming bells as my companion had done.
What a torture memory must have been to her 1
And then I remembered the ghastly room at
the Biver House, with the faded wedding gar
ments.
“You have tired yourself,” I said.
She looked at mo, all passion and feeling re
pressed, as it were, with an iron hand; the dark,
proud beauty appeared more indifferent than
ever.
“Mrs. Neville,” she said, “I will go out with
you whenever you wish; but never take me again
within hearing of those bells.”
I promised to remember, and she went home
without alluding to the subject again.
As time passed, the dark beauty of her face
seemed to acquire a new expression. X saw
lines of flrm endurance, of patien t gravity, deep
ening thereon; while the power of self-control
and self-restraint, the dull, ceaseless brooding _
over wrong, the fierce rebellion that never found'
a voice, the sorrow that sought no relief, the
despair that in its silenco askod only for death,
increased day by day.
CHAPTER VII.
“the tebbible accident.”
I have forgotten to mention that I had suf
fered some little annoyance in the interval of
time the events of which I have been recording.
One great charm that Neville’s Cross had for
me was its freedom from all the evils and nui
sances of a manufacturing neighborhood. No
tall chimneys reared their smoky heads near
us; there was no railroad marring the pictur
esque loveliness of the scone; the Damtroe line
did not cross the boundaries of my estate. But,
about two years after Miss Vane had come to
the River House, a railway company was formed
which promised some extraordinary public ben
efits; and, after a long resistance, I was com
pelled to sell one of my best fields, through
which the line was to pass; and then, to my
great horror, a bridge was built over the widest
part of the river, just above the River House,
for by that route the trams were to enter Dain
tree.
I was verv grieved and vexed—now the shrill
railway whistle would drown the sweet song of
the nightingale and minglerwith the rapidrush of
the river. I did not like the bridge either; it was
plain and ugly, with nothing pleasing or pic
turesque about it.
When I knew what had been decided upon, I
went to tell Miss Vane. She appeared perfectly
indifferent, merely raising her beautiful eye
brows m wonder at my excited tone of voice. I
had found her sitting under her favorite cedar
tree, watching the river, with tho usual proud,
repressed expression on her face.
“At least you might pretend to sympathise
with me, Miss Vane,” I said.
There was a strange far-off look in her eyes.
“It will not matter,” sbe replied; “1 shall
not mind the railway whistle—l shall not even
hear it—and you will be far enough away.”
“But it will completely spoil Neville’s Cross,”
I observed.
“Nover mind,” she said—“lt is not worth
troubling about.”
“I wish I could attain your hight of oalm
philosophy,” I rejoined.
But that railway bridge was destined to bo
the scene ot strange occurrences.
A frost unusually long and severe set in. I
mention it because I read afterwards that iu all
probability this frost was the primary cause of
the accident. It was followed by a rapid thaw,
during which the river Leir flooded the whole
country side. After a time tho flood abated.
What was the cause of the terrible accident no
one quite knew. Whether the unusual rush and
weight of the water had caused the foundations
of the bridge to give way, or whether it had
been insecurely built from the first, no one
seemed quite sure.
One day—it was towards the end of May—the
weather was brilliantly fine, and 1 went to tho
River House, hoping to induce Miss Vane to
come out with me on the river. She consented;
and the Leir never seemed more beautiful. The
sky was blue, the air fragrant with the breath
of odorous flowers. As we passed swiftly along
we saw the golden gleam of the laburnums, the
purple of the lilacs; the white acacias dropped
their leaves on the grass, the banks were stud
ded with starry primroses, and from over the
meadows came the scent of the hawthorn.
We stopped just opposite Biver House to ad
mire the beauty of the day.
“Now do own,” I said to my companion,
“that it is a privilege to live on such a day.”
Looking at her, I was more than ever struck
with her beauty. She had dipped one white
hand into the water, and it gleamed there like
a lily. • The fresh, bracing wind had brought
the bloom to her face—had brightened hereyes,
and seemed to have driven the sadness from her
beauty. It was a face of peerless loveliness.
Tho brow was white and rounded, with dark,
straight eyebrows; the eyes were large and
dark, with long silken lashes—they were eyes
that haunted one with their mystic beauty—
proud, passionate, pleading, with gleams of
tenderness that brought a golden light into
their depths. All the features were perfect, but
the mouth was most beautiful, with sweet, sen
sitive lips; I thought as 1 looked at Miss Vane
how much I. should; like to see the calmness of
her perfect face broken. Little did I dream of
the near fulfillment of my wish.
We rested on the sunshiny river in the fra
grant Spring calm. Glancing shadows fell over
the waters and over the grass. Wo could see
the bridge in tho distance. After all, it did not
look so very ugly. I was just saying so to Miss
Vane, when I saw far away the steam of the ex
press.
‘“Look,” I said—“ could you not fancy that
it was some great, black serpent with fiery eyes ?
Yet after all there is something grand about it.”
“I shall never believe that quick, heavy trains
will be safe on that bridge,” remarked Huldah
Vane.
We saw the steam curling among the trees,
and then, as the train came nearer to the bridge
it slackened speed. We were both watching it
intently. How shall I describe the horror that
ensued ? <
The train was running slowly when the en
gine reached the middle of the bridge, and then
the stone-work seemed to quiver, to totter, to
give way. Suddenly it parted, and the great
engine, followed by three or four carriages, fell
into the river, while four more carriages re
mained on the bridge.
It all happened before we had time to speak
—at one moment the train was steaming slowly
along, the next there was a crash, a broken
bridge, a confused mass of fallen carriages, a
terrific uproar, and cries of alarm that seemed
to rise and cleave the very heavens.
For a few moments I shaded my face with one
hand, not daring to look, while Huldah Vane
cried out in horror. There in the sunlight was
the terrible reality. Almost immediately I re
covered myself, and, seizing the sculls, rowed
rapidly to the scene of the accident. It had
been seen by the men at work in the fields; and
in the next few minutes willing hands came to
to render assistance. In less than half an hour
the news had reached Daintree, and there was
no lack of help,
Strong men soon set to work. Some of the
unhappy passengers were drowned, and their
bodies were not recovered for days; but those
who remained in the carriages were-rescued as
quickly as possibly. Two or throe men were
taken out quite dead, and were laid in ghastly
order on the green bank. The wounded were
not a few. I grew faint as I looked at the forms
of the sufferers. Soon there were doctors in at
tendance—there was brandy, wine, everything
that was required.
I stood looking on, with Huldah Vane by my
side. We had done what we could. I had been
attending to a little child whom we had found
clinging round a dead mother’s neck. I thought
it would live, but it died in my arms, and was
added to the ghastly row on the green bank.
Presently there was a cry from one of the car
riages that seemed to hang between the bridge
and the water—some one signaled for help.
It was a work of almost superhuman diffi
culty to rescue those inside; more than once we
who looked on in breathless suspense thought
that the rescuers would lose their own fives in
the effort. At length the tall figure of a man
was brought out, and then a lady—and it proved*
that they two were in the carriage alone.
“Are both dead?” I asked one of the doc
tors.
“No,” he replied. “The gentleman seems
severely hurt; the lady is stunned, I fancy. If
we could but get them removed some where,
their lives might be saved.”
“You would like to take them to the nearest
house?” I said, quickly. “That is the River
House; lot them be driven there at once. Miss
Vane will bo quite willing.”
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JANUARY 7, 1877-
| And then, remembering hor peculiarity, I
thought it advisable to consult her.
“It is against your rule, against your wish, I
know; but the doctor assures mo tho gentle
man’s lite depends on tho expedition with which
he can be treated.”
“Throw tho whole house open,” she replied,
“lam quite willing. Ii I can help, let me.”
A few minutes afterward one of the Daintree
carriages was driving slowly with tho two res
cued passengers to tho River House.
CHAPTER VIII.
“ IS IT A CURSE OR A BLESSING,?”
Doctor Fletcher had gone with the two pa
tients to River House. I remained some little
time longer with Miss Vane. We saw the
wounded taken away to the different hotels and
the hospital; we saw the dead carried in mourn
ful procession, and we saw the few passengers
who were uninjured, pale, trembling, hardly
daring to believe that they were saved. We
could do no more. Slowly and sadly I rowed
down the stream to the’River House. Miss
Vane looked very pale.
“ I shall never like tho river again,” she said
tome in a frightened voice, “I used to de
light in it; it was all music and poetry to me. I
shall never like it again, for it has been trans
formed irbto a grave.”
She trembled so violently and looked ao ill
that when we reached the River House I made
her drink some wine and retire to her room to
rest.
“ I ought to do something for these poor peo
ple,” she said.
I could have blessed the words; they were the
first evincing the least interest in others that I
had heard from her lips. I was so pleased that
I forgot myself and kissed her. Her face
flushed and her lip quivered, but she did not
draw back proudly as she would once have
done.
“ You must rest—the horror of that terrible
accident has been too much for you ; I will at
tend to your guests.”
Drawing down the blind so as to shut out the
glow of the sun, I left her. There was no con
fusion in the house, no noise—hardly a sound;
the servants had been too well trained to forget
their usual habits.
1 went first to the north room, where the lady
was lying. There was not much the matter
with her; she had been stunned, terribly
frightened, the maid who was watching by her
said, but the doctor bad given her a composing
draught, and she was fast asleep. That was
good news. I went gently to her bedside and
looked at her..
Most people would have called her a beautiful
woman. She was very fair with a profusion ot
light hair; but her face did not please me—l
was repelled rather than attracted by it. It was
neither true nor noble, although I could well
imagine it to be brilliant. 1 bent over her; she
was sleeping soundly. One hand lay outside the
quilt; it was white and well-shaped, and shin
ing with jewels, and on the third finger of the
left hand I saw a wedding-ring.
“She is a married lady,” 1 said to the maid.
Is that her husband in the other room?”
“ I think so,” was the reply; “ they were trav
eling together when the accident occurred.”
“Do you know the lady's name?” I asked.
“No. ma’am; I heard tho doctor mention it,
but I do net remember it.”
It was not of much importance, I thought.
How little did I guess of what importance it
was 1 And then I went to the Blue Room, where
the gentleman had been carried. Here the scone
was far more solemn. The doctor, with a grave,
troubled face, bent over tho bed, was engaged
in counting the beats of bis patient’s pulse;
Mrs. Lewis stood on the other side—even the
old butler had been pressed into the service,
and was engaged in the room. I went up to the
bed. Ona of the handsomest men I had over
seen in my life was lying on it, pale, exhausted,
with closed eyes and parted lips.
“Is there danger?” I asked of the doctor.
“Yes,” was his brief reply.
Danger: Was tho shadow of death every
where ? I stood in silence, never remembering
to have seen anything like the face and head
before me. It was beauty ot the purest mascu
line type—a noble head, with clusters of dark
brown hair—clusters that waved in a careless,
graceful fashion—a broad, noble brow, a face
oval-shaped and perfect in contour. . Looking at
him, I felt an ardent wish that ho might not die
arise in my heart.
“What is the injury?” I asked.
“Brain-concussion!” replied Doctor Fletcher,
briefly. •
“ Will you have further advice ?” I inquired.
“Yes; if no change takes place in a short
time.”
No change did take place; the patient did not
open his eyes. He seemed perfectly uncon
scious; and the doctor’s face grew more and
more anxious. I-watched him as intently as he
watched the sufferer. .
“Do you think it will end fatally, Doctor
Fletcher?” I asked.
“I am afraid sz>, Mrs. Neville. While there is
fife, though, we will hope.”
“ Had you not not bettor try to find out who
he is ? If anything serious is likely to happen,
his friends ought to be sent for.”
• “ The lady is his wife,” said Doctor Fletcher.
“She is sleeping doundly. Perhaps you are
right, Mrs. Neville: it would be as well to know
wno he is.” .
The clothes that had been taken from him
were placed on a chair, and the doctor exam
ined the contents of the pockets. There were
a gold watch and chain, a purse well filled with
gold, a pocket-book containing letters.imd bank
notes, a card-case, and another packet of let
ters. The-doctor looked carefully at them, and
then he came to me.
“Our patient is a gentleman of high stand
ing, Mrs. Neville. He is Lord Clive Wynton.
Tho Wyntons are one of .the best families in
England.”
“Lord Clive Wynton!” I repeated, “tfhen
the lady is Lady Wynton?”
“Yes; here is tho address in full—‘Lord
Wynton, Lyndmere Park.’ Here also is a ticket
for Paris; he must have been traveling thither
when he met with this unfortunate mishap.”
“ Then it must have been his valet who was
killed. Do you remember hearing some one
say that Lord Wynton’s valet had been found in
a second-class carriage, crushed to death ?”
“I remember,” said the Doctor. “ Mrs. Ne
ville, I should like to send Cor another doctor.”
“I am quite sure that you may consider your
self master of the house for the time, Doctor
Fletcher; send as you will—do as you will. Mary
the under housemaid seems quick and active ;
let her take your message.”
Presently I went back to Miss Vane. Sbe had
left her room and was m the drawing-room,
where a cup of tea awaited me.
“Icould not rest,” sbe said. “The fright
really made me ill, as you saw; but I could not
sleep-1 could not keep my eyes closed. How
are our patients ?”
“The lady seems to have had a wonderful es
cape—the gentleman is, I fear, in some danger.”
“I hope they have everything needful. You
will tell Lewis to attend to that, Mrs. Neville.”
“Yes,” I returned. “I do not think the lady
will be long an invalid.”
“But there is fear for her husband. You
said they were husband and wife, did you not,
Mrs. Neville?” • •*.
“Yes. The servant—the valet—was killed,
but I did not hear anything of a lady’s-maid.”
She sac quite silent for a few minutes, the
cup of fragrant tea standing before her, her
beautiful restless face turned from me.
“It seems a terrible thing to meet with a
cruel and sudden death on a fair bright day like
this,” she said, presently. “ Oh, Mrs. Neville, I
wish that I could forget tho scene I Who are
the people that wo were fortunate enough to
help?”
“We have been trying to find out; the doc
tor examined the gentleman’s letters and pa
pers. He is Lord Olive Wynton, and the lady
is his wife.”
Never while I live shall I forget the awful,
ghastly change that came over her face, light
ing up its pallor only to deaden it again. Tho
white lips sprang apart, tho dark eyes had a
wild, despairing look, Twice I saw her try to
speak, but all sound died away in a gasping
sigh; and then she came over to me, and her
fingers clutched my arm as though it were held
in an iron grasp.
“Say that again !” she hissed.
“ Lord Clive Wynton,” I repeated, wonder
ingly and halt alarmed.
She raised her white face, and I heard her
groan:
“Merciful Heaven!”
She turned from me to the window, and a
laugh, as strange and unnatural as ever came
from human bps, burst from her.
“I have gone mad!” she cried, in a hoarse
voice. “Lewis said I should brood over my
sorrows until they drove me mad. lam mad!”
She trembled so violently that it was a won
der to me that she could stand.
I tried to soothe her.
“My dear Miss Vane, do not give way to such
terrible fancies. It is not madness; you are
only shocked and startled.”
The beautiful face and restless eyes turned to
the window again.
“Am I dreaming, or what ? Lord Wynton
here—brought here to die! I cannot believe
it,” she gasped. “There are strange turns in
life, I know—fortune plays us wild tricks—fate
has unexpected things in store; but this cannot
be—that Lord Wynton is brought to my home
to die!”
“Itis true—it is neither dream nor fancy,
but truth.”
“Can you tell me,” she asked—“is it a curse
or a blessing ? That man is my mortal foe
my greatest enemy. There is no curse that I
have not heaped on his head; for his sake I hate
my kind, the whole human race. Is he brought
here that I may see my curse fulfilled, or that I
may do what angels do—pity and forgive ?”
She buried her face in her hands, and for the
first time I heard her weeping like a child.
Jhe tears would benefit her, I thought. I
made no effort to check them. Great sobs
shook her frame. I waited until it seemed to
me that she was exhausted, and then I bent
over and kissed her.
I shall never forget the face she raised to
mine.
“ Mrs. Neville,” she whispered, “will he die?”
“ I fear so; the doctor does not give much
hope,” I replied. z '
She looked at me with pleading eyes.
“ Suppose that any one injured you—mortal
ly injured you, blighted your life, killed the
heart within you, although your body lived on—
and you cursed them; if danger or deadly peril
came to them, should you think it was your
curse fulfilled ?”
“Hardly,” I replied. “Heaven is very mer
ciful.”
“A great sorrow came to me.” aUe said.
dreamily—“greater than falls to the lot of most
people. I knew when it came that there were
two ways of meeting it. One was to bow my
’ Load in lowly submission, to pity, to pardon;
tho other was to curse the hand tnat had shap
ed m twain the very chord of my life, to harden
my heart against my kind, to revenge myself
for the wrong done to me. I chose the last.”
“It was the wrong one,” I said, gently; “ but
it is never too late to repair an error.”
“My mortal foe,” she continued, speaking
rather to herself than to me, “ brought hero
under my roof! Is it a curse or a blessing ?”
I whispered to her some sacred words—sweet,
gracious words of pity, pardon, and infinite
compassion. When she raised her face again
it was so changed I hardly knew it, being soft
ened into inexpressible loveliness.
“ I should like to forgive him,” sbe said. “ It
was very cruel, very selfish, very wicked ; but,
if he is going to die, I should like to forgive
him, and then, when he is dead, I can think of
him as I used to think—forget his sin and my
suffering. I wish I could forgive him!”
“Do; make the effort. Come and see him ;
no presentment, however just, can live in his
presence now.”
She shrank back from me.
“I cannot see him. He must not see me—ho
must not know. Ah, I forgot! You do not un
derstand.”
She drew back with a sharp inflection of pain
in her voice, so sharp, so ; keen, so bitter, that I
realised for one half minute what she must be
enduring. She stood for a few moments re
pressing the emotion that almost overpowered
her, and then she said—
“l must see him. Mrs. Neville, think for me,
will you? I must see him, but he must not see
me. There is that which makes it impossible
for him to see me. I have sworn—listen. Mrs.
Neville—that I would never look upon his face
again. But, if he is going to die, it would not
be wrong of me to break that vow. I must see
him without his knowing me,” she said, dream
ily, “I could not bear it otherwise.”
“But he is sure to know if he learns that he
owes and kindness to Miss Vane,” I
said.
The saddest smile that ever played on a hu
man face came over hers.
“He will not know the name,” she explained ;
“ I was not Miss Vane when he knew me.”
That was the first intimation I received that
my mysterious tenant had assumed a false
name.
Just then Lewis came in, her face grave and
anxious.
“Mrs. Neville,” she said, “Doctor Fletcher
would like to see you.”
Promising to join him at once, I turned to
Miss Vane, and whispered to her—
“xin idea has just occurred to me. You
would like to see Lord Wynton without being
recognized? Well, dress yourself in your
maid’s attire. She wears a front of false curls 1 ;
borrow it, and that will disguise you; put on
her glasses too, and her neckerchief—no one
will know you then.”
“That is the very thing,”she said, gratefully.
“I will do it at once, for I must see him.”
And then I went up stairs with Lewis, who
was almost as confused and embarrassed as her
mistress.
“Ot all the wonderful things to happen!”
sbe said, wringing her hands. “It is stranger
than a romance, Mrs. Neville. If you only
knew I”
“Lewis,”l said, “Miss Vano wishes to see
our patient.”
Her face grew pale, and her eyes opened
wide.
“Miss Vane wishes to see Lord Wynton?” she
repeated. “It is impossible!”
“It is true ; she desires to see him, but she
does not wish him to recognize her. I have
suggested that she should dress herself in some
ot your clothes. Will you help her ?”
“ Ah, poor lady, that I will! My poor mis
tress ! This will kill her—my poor lady I”
So, moaning and lamenting, the faithful old
servant hurried to her lady’s dressing-room,
and I went to the Doctor.
“There is better news, Mrs. Neville,” said
the Doctor. “I can see an improvement. I
want you to attend to these iced cloths, and see
that'they are applied, regularly. I must go
home—l want several things which no one but
myself can find.”
“I will remain until you return, Doctor
Fletcher,” I promised, thinking that his ab
sence would give Miss Vane a fair chance of
seeing the invalid,
He went. Some twenty minutes afterward I
heard a sound outside ; the door. I opened it
hastily ; and there stood Miss Vane, so skillfully
disguised that at first sight I hardly recognized
her. Her lips were white and trembling, and
hor eyes appealed piteously to me.
“You must be brave,” I said; “if you break
down the consequences may be serious.
“I never break down,” was the haughty re
ply ; and then she stepped into the room.
She had well disguised the loveliness of her
face, but fihe qould not disguise the imperial
beauty of her stately figure. As she went up
to Lord Wynton’s bedside she seemed to grope
with her hands as one suddenly blinded, and
then she sank on her knees by his side and
buried her lace in her hands.
After she had knelt there some time, she
raised her head slowly as she looked at tho
white face and closed eyes, a great, gasping sob
coming from her lips. The sound must nave
reached him, for he moved uneasily.
“ You will be very careful'?” 1 whispered.
“Yes,” she replied ; and then sbe forgot my
presence—she was alone with Heaven and with
him.
Oh, the gentleness of her touch as she drew
back the clusters of hair from his head, her
eyes riveted on him, tears raining down her
face! It seemed to me that he must have
known something of what was passing, he grew
so calm and quiet under her gentle, caressing
touch. So she knelt for nearly an hour. One
thing struck me. Though she was bending
over him, her face close to his, her bps quiver
ing, she never offered to kiss him. He did not
open his eyes. Tome it seemed that, soothed
by her gentleness, he slept. Presently she
spoke in a low murmur, yet every word fell dis
tinctly on my ears.
“ I forgive you, Clive—all the fierce hate and
hot anger, the pride and sullen despair, have
died out of my heart. Before Heaven I forgive
you. I pray that every curse I have heaped on
you may turn into a blessing. I forgive you as
I hope to be forgiven.”
And then she kissed his hand ; and I thought
in my own mind she was bidding him farewell.
“I never thought to have seen you again,”
she continued, In the same low, passionate
voice*; “there are lines on your face and round
your lips that tell me you have suffered. You
will never know in this world that I have knelt
by your side and looked into your face—that I
nave whispered words of pardon to you; but
you will know it in Heaven. Clive, you will
know that I took back my cruel curse, and in
Heaven’s name forgave you.”
Her head sank on his breast, and as she lay
there a bright golden sunbeam came in at the
window and played round them, touching his
white face and making an aureole of glory round
her. -* _
The warm sunbeam seemed to rouse her.
She raised her head and gazed about her with a
dazed, dreamy air. She had evidently for the
timo forgotten all present things. She rose and
turned to leave him. When she reached the
door she looked back, gave a low, moaning cry,
and fell with her face on the ground.
“I knew,” said Jane Lewis, when she answered
my hasty summons, “ that she was not strong
enough for it; but she would do it. As though
she had not suffered enough 1”
It was not for many minutes that merciful ob
livion lasted. I was compelled to entrust her
to Lewis, and remain with Lord Wynton.
On the Doctor’s return he pronounced him
much better. Again he asked if wo would have
another professional man; but, remembering
our peculiar circumstances, I said:
“ No, we will do without one.”
“Lord Wynton will recover,” said Doctor
Fletcher; “I have no fear now. But he will
require great care and attention for some
days.”
• Not long afterward I had the satisfaction of
seeing patient unclose his eyes, and of
hearing him speak in a low voice. His first
conscious action was to raise his hand to Lis
head.
“ Am I much injured ?” he asked me.
“Not much,” I replied, cheerfully; “a little
patience, a little rest, and you will be all
right.”
“ I remember all about the accideet,” he said.
“Tho train fell over the bridge into the river.”
He shuddered as though the memory of the
dreadful scene were still with him.
“Try to forget it,” I said; “ try to sleep.”
But he did not seem inclined to obey me.
“Will you tell me where I am?” he asked,
after a short time.
“Yes ; you were brought to the River House,”
near Daintree,” I replied. “The mistress of the
house saw the accident, and ordered you to be
brought here.”
“Are you the mistress?” ho asked.
“No. Miss Vane lives here. It is to her you
are indebted, not to me.”
“Miss Vane,” he repeated, indifferently; tho
name was evidently not familiar to him. “ And
you ?” he interrogated.
“I am Mrs. Neville, Miss Vane’s friend, and
your nurse for the time being ; in virtue of my
office I insist upon your going to sleep, and re
fuse absolutely to answer another question.”
Afterward it struck me as strange that he had
not even seemed to remember the fact of his
wife’s existence.
(To be Continued.)
Mitigating Circumstances.
Several Beasons Why Sam Johnson Was
Not Lined—Voting Often.
(From the San Antonio Herald.)
“ I reckon, Johnson, I’ll have to flue you a lit
tle. 'The Eastern question is dying out, the
Presidential excitement has boiled down, now
we all know that the infamous designs of P.
Cooper have been foiled in the bud, and I
must do something to keep the people of the
United States in a stirred-up condition. I be
lieve I’ll fine you seven dollars and a half. If
you know of any mitigating circumstances,
come out with them.”
Sam Johnson pushed out an under lip that
looked like an inkstand and said, sulkily, that
he wasn’t no “ banjo niggah;” he didn’t know
nuffin about “military circus dances.”
“ Cap Dobbin, do you know any military cir
cus dances that will justify me in commuting
this man's sentence to imprisonment ou the
gallows for Ufo ?”
.1 “Yes,” replied the city Mayor, “ I know one
military circus dance in the case.”
“ What’s that ?”
“Nothing; only the city election comes off in
January and this man is a registered voter.
That’s all, but it is only one vote Tilden is suf
fering for,” and the city marshal closed one eye
and looked steadily at the Recorder.
“ Mr. Johnson, you are a registered voter, are
you not?”
“ I is dat, and voted for you last time.”
“You cast your ballot for me at the last elec
tion, Cap Johnson?”
“I did, sah, once at de court-house, and two
times ober in Ward No. 4, and I was gwine to
vote once moah for you, but I slipped up on it
dat last time; for you see dere was some mis
take in de number, and when I handed in de
ticket dey looked in de legistration book and
one feller asked me how my name came to be
Herman yon Schulze, and if I was a Gorman.
I tole him dat didn’t make no difference, be
cause dey had passed me m as an Irishman at
the court-house, and in de oder Ward dey mis
took me for a Mexican.”
Various attempts were made by His Honor to
interrupt the speaker, but he kept on until ho
got through, when His Honor fined the city
marshal $lO tor not keeping order in court, and
ordered Johnson to leave the room, threatening
to make it a personal matter with him if he ever
showed his face there again.
THE DEHlbff SOLOMON.
THE JUDGE IS LENIENT IN THE
HOLIDAYS.
BIJAH'S CROSS-EYED YOUNG WIDOW.
But Santa Claus did not forget Bijah after all.
Some of the lost children., taken home by him
forwarded little tokens of gratitude; a black
smith sent him a new hat, a letter carrier gave
him a necktie, and altogether the day was made
memorable. Perhaps the best thing of all was
the gift of a lady residing on National avenue.
She is a widow, and those who have seen her at
tho opera with Bijah, and noticed how sweetly
she puckered her mouth every time he sneezed,
have thrown out hints of a bridal trip to Niag
ara Falls early in the Spring.
She sent in a gift of a night-cap, a bottle of
hair-restorer, a bar of soap and a rug for him
to wipe his feet on, accompanied by the follow
ing ode:
“ I saw thee—l loved thoe—
Bald-headed old coon—
Come down Sunday night
And we’ll walk by the moon.
*‘l’m a cross-eyed young widow.
But you have big feet—
Each is worthier ot t’other—
Oh, let’s hasten to meet I”
The old janitor sticks to it that his Honor had
a hand in it, and as he pranced around the room
yesterday morning he cast dark glances over
the desk. His Honor is innocent, ot course. He
never would have sent a rug four feet long and
two feet wide and expected Bijah to wipe off
more than one foot at a time on it.
THE MEXICAN KILLEB.
He danced out looking wildly around. His
hair was long, his mustache had a’fierce look,
and some of the boys thought they could scent
prairie breezes in the air. Ho had been picked
up shouting drunk, and he claimed to the offi
cers that his Sunday name was “ Bloody Tom ”
of the Bio Grande.
“What is your business?” softly inquired the
court.
“Killing Mexicans,” was the prompt reply.
“ Where have you been killing them ?”
“Down m Texas.”
“ Wnere did you bury them ?”
“Left ’em on top the sile.”
“ How many Mexicans have you killed ?” con
tinued the court.
The man felt in his pockets, as if to find a
memorandum of tne number, but he failed to
find it, and continued—
“ Well, I guess about 800.”
“ And you are a perfect stranger in the city I”
“Perfect stranger, squire.”
His Honor leaned back with a weary sigh,
chewed up half the blotting pad, and finally
said—
“ It’s only human nature, after all. You keep
a junk-shop on Antoine street, and I have twice
sent you to the House of Correction. If you
want to claim to be ‘ Bloody Tom,’ the Mexican
killer, it’s all right, though I can’t see your ob
ject in lying to me.”
“I—a—junk—dealer!” gasped the prisoner,
“Great buzz-saws, Squire, but may Heaven for
give you!”
“I’m entirely reckless as to forgiveness,”
quietly answered the court. “ It’s sixty days
tor you this time. I want to give the poor Mex
ican nation a ciiance to recruit up.
The man didn’t speak again until he had
Bijah alone m the’ corridor, and then he
hissed :
“ Beware of me 1 for I’m a raging hyena 1”
BEADY FOB NEW YEAB’S.
“Do you own up?” asked the court of a long
bodied, pale-faced young man of twenty-two,
who answered to the name of Prentiss Happy.
“I was in an inebriated condition,” was the
answer. “That is, I was iu a preliminary con
dition.
“ What is that ?” was tho astonished query.
“ Preliminary to New Year’s, your Honor. I
always begin three or four days in advance.”
“Begin what?”
“To get boozy. Then on New Year’s I am
what you might call whisky-proof, and 1 can fill
my list of calls.”
“ Well, well,” mused the court. “ Young man
I don’t believe in tuis preliminary business auy
more than I do in New Year’s calls.”
“Custom—custom,” was the soft answer.
Bijah and the clerk were consulted, but as
neither knew anything wrong of the young man
ho was allowed to go.
MBS. M’aBUDEB.
“ It’s been two weeks since I saw you,” re
marked the court as the old lady appeared.
“Ah! sir, ’twas a slip of me feet that did it,”
she answered.
“ I guess I’ll slip you into the House of Cor
rection.”
“ Wait till Chewsday, judge, for I’m going to
keep open house on New Year’s, aud I wouldn’t
miss tho day for a million dollars.”
" You keep open house 1 ”
“The same, your honor. I’ll have the win
dows open, the doors open, some bologuas and
crackers on the tabie, aud nobody in this world
will treat the gentry better nor me.”
“I don't believe iu such things,” growled tho
court.
“But lots of us do, your honor. I never
missed a Naw Year’s yet, aud it was a blessed
sight to sea my poor husband, who died two
years ago, come home about uoou from his
calls, with his hind-legs hanging out of the
sleigh, and his happy voice hurrahing for James
Liuco.n and Abraham Buchanan. Ah 1 now, be
kind to a poor old lady who wants to keep open
house 1” •
He thought it over and let her go, and Bijah,
after hoping that everybody would swear oil,
adjourned court.
A SPORTING PUP.
It Was an Extraordinary Animal, and was
Owned by an Editor.
(From the La Crosse Sun.)
We had never been as proud of anything in
the dog line as we were of that Peruvian re
triever pup. Timo .passed on and the pup be
gan to grow. He did not grow tall, but spread
out lengthwise and sidewise, and his feet got
big. Tnere never was so long a dog of Lis age
as that one was. And talk about tail; a kaniie
roo’s tail would be nowhere. One wigj-le of his
tail would sweep eleven old-fashioned flower
pots off the verandah, and you might kick him
as much as you pleased and he was the same
long dog. lou couldn’t telescope him together
an inch. Ho was the most cowardly dog that
ever was. If a cow came along and scratched
against a tree he would crawl under the house
and howl ail the afternoon. Once a little girl
came in the gate after swill, and when he looked
at her she dropped the swill-pail and ran. He
beard her cry and ran the other way, and it was
two days before we got him home, knd then we
had to carry him in a basket. He was a retriev
er.* His best “holt” was hens. He got ac
quainted with Mr. Manchester’s chickens early
in the season, and he retrieved them regardless
of expense. He would occasionally come back
from Manchester’s without a lien, but it was
not the dog’s fault.
If Manchester had not thrown wood at him
he never would have come back that wav. That
is where we have always blamed Manchester.
But when Manchester went to the Centennial
tne dog gob even. The dog and a skunk that
lived under the barn broke up the hen business
there. We might meet him on the sidewalk,
and he never seemed to know us. If we spoke
to him he would wag a foot or eighteen inches
of the lower end of his tail, look away beyond,
and seem to be trying to think if ho hadn’t met
us in another world ages ago. The other day
became home howling, walking on two legs.
Some one had put a charge of shot in him, and
we knew Manchester had got back, though
there was nothing about It in the papers. He
sepmed to be as lull ot shot as—well, he was
reasonably full, and every time he went to sit
down he howled wofully. He was a dog of se
dentary habits, and when his utensil for sitting
down was not as well as could, be expected his
capacity tor enjoyment was limited, and he
would stand and lean against a barrel aud dis
course in a foreign tongue until nobody could
sleep in tne entire neighborhood. In his help
less condition the hens used to show fight, and
we saw it was humiliating to him, so wo pre
pared to lead him like a lamb to the slaughter.
We took him to the police office to get the dol
lar we paid for his licence and have him shot.
. mlUs story. .
A Specimen of Big Deer Hunting.
The Milwaukee Sentinel has a correspondent
wno writes: “ Waiting for a train at the North
westeru depot, the other day, the Sentinel re
porter, having, with his usual modesty, shrunk
into a corner, heard Cant. Bones, a well-known
hunter, telling his story to a small but inter
ested audience, composed chiefly of Tom St.
George: ‘Did you ever hear how Bill Shepard !
shot seven deer out of one drove? It was a
still, cloudy day, and there were two feet or
more of snow on the ground. There was just
an even dozen in the herd, aud Bill had got be
hind a big log within ten rods of them. He had
tojpakp» twie saow va log
get Right. Ho got all ready, picked out tho big
i gest one, and blazed away. It was a'’big buck,
| and dropped to Uio shot. Well,’ you know if a
doer can’t seo or scent you he won’t run, and
you can keep on shooting as long as you like.
So when Bill dropped the first one, the rest
just scattered and camo right back together
again. Ho shoved in another cartridge, picked
out the biggest one again, and he tumbled, too.
Bill put a third cartridge down, picked out the
biggest one again, and he dropped to the shot.
By this time Bill was pretty well excited. He
had only four cartridges left, but he kept as cool
as possible, picked out the biggest every time
and fetched him. When ho had fired his last
shot, he sat and watched ’em a long time, but
finally he bad to show himself and the balance
of the deer left. It was just about this time the
rest of us came up, and inquired what all the
shooting was about. Bill was feeling awfully
because ho hadn’t any more cartridges, but ho
swore he’d got seven deer any way. We went
over to see. The snow was mightily tramped
down, sure enough, but there was only one deer
—a big buck. There wasn’t the least trace of
tho other six, every one of which Bill saw drop
to the shot. Then we went up and looked at
the one he got, and as sure as you’re born be
had seven bullets in him. Bill had shot the
same one every shot. Ho would fall and then
jump up again, and, being the biggest one, Bill
picked him out every time.”
MERRY TRIFLES.
(.From the Burlington Bawlc-Eye.)
Mr. Stephen Kirksey, a sturdy black
smith of Mayfield, Kentucky, put a package of
powder ou a hot anvil last Thursday night, and
ho saw the meteor before anybody else, and
kept on seeing it longer.
Enterprising church committees are
packing away great avalanches of snow in its
natural state. The idea is to preserve it, and
springle sugar on it next Summer and sell it for
ice cream at twenty-five cents a dish.
An exchange sagely advises that “warm
baths should be taken before going to bed.”
Quite likely. If the custom of taking baths im
mediately after going to bed should become
general, we don’t believe this Presidential ques
tion ever would be settled.
lowa people who pinned their faith to
the goose bone and sold their overcoats, and
didn’t lay in their cord wood when the nights
were dark, are now reduced to the necessity of
staying in bed to keep warm, and are anxiously
awaiting the return of the shady groundhog.
The other day some of the boys in
duced a young man from Flint creek to take
hold of tho handles of a galvanic battery. As
it puckered him up he roared, “Jiminy Criminy,
letup! Who ever heard of a thing that could
make you taste green persimmons with your
hands, before?” .
There are moments when even the ten
der language of sympathy is mockery to the
sorrow-stricken heart. "What consolation is it
to a man who has slipped on the icy sidewalk
and broken through a cellar grating, to be told
by Christian men ou the other side or the street,
to “flare up, and hit it harder the next time.”
Just hold on a little Mrs. Man, before
you coax your husband to join a cremation
club. There’s something better than that com
ing out. A Burlington chemist has discovered
a process by which he can reduce the human
body to a delightful perfume, and you can carry
Mr. Man around on your handkerchief during
all the days of your mourning widowhood.
George Eliot says that girls are delicate
vessels, in which is borne onward through the
ages the treasure of human affection. George,
George, you don’t know anything about it. Did
you ever take a week’s salary into a ladies’ res
taurant, and try to fill one of these “ delicate
vessels ’’with ice cream, layer cake and choco
late caramels. Girly, it can’t be did.
A brakemen on the Toledo, Peoria and
Warsaw railway was asked by a lady passenger
why (they didn’t make tho tender with fboth
ends alike, the same as a passenger car.
“Wouldn’t never do, ma’am,” he replied, “be
too ambiguous; can’t have no double-end ten
ders in railroading.” If that isn’t tho way to
pronounce it, that is the way it looks, all the
same.
Mr. Joseph Moreland,-of Louisa coun
ty, while passing behind a colt the other day,
slapped it on the rump, when the colt reached
up and slapped Mr. Moreland on the jaw. Mr.
Moreland’s face was terribly mangled and bruis
ed, but he is getting over it, and the next time
he wants to slap a colt he will improve his reach
with a fishing pole.
A newspaper man out in Kansas died
very suddenly last Tuesday, and to the surprise
of everybody it was discovered that he was very
wealthy. His only son inherits the business,
Washington press, coffee-sack full of type, and
nine cut-throat mortgages and an execution on
everything in the shop, and the three daughters
get six dollars apiece. It is feared that the de
ceased was at one time a pirate, or advance
agent for a circus,
Careless, thoughtless man, you could do
ever so much good in this sorrow-stricken old
world if you only would. You can bring a flush
of pleasure to the homeliest woman that ever
wore pimples on her nose, by saying to your
friend, in a stage undertone, “ What lovely'eyes
that girl has.” She might know you to be a
liar, but she would always gratefully remember
you as a Christian gentleman.
A young man from New Haven came
out West to lecture last week. Ho made his de
but at Cairo, Illinois, and his first effort pleased
the people so well that when he dropped out of
tho back window of the hall they ran around
the block and followed him to his hotel, and
went up to his room to look for him, and kept
him sitting on the roof holding the scuttle
down until one o’clock in the morning. He has
telegraphed to New Haven for money to come
home on.
Mr. Livingstone, of New York, drives
a fourteen-in-hand in Florence, and his mob of
horses just swarm around his carriage, and walk
on their hands, and bite the footman’s legs, and
fight and call names, and paw up the gravel, and
straddle the traces, and jump through their col
lars, until tho police disentangle them and lead
Mr. Livingstone and hfs horses back to the sta
bles. And the aspiring Mr. Livingstone takes
the same team and repeats the same programme
every day. “ How like a mountain devil m the
heart rules the unchained ambition I”
Last evening the minister dropped in
very suddenly at Deacon Ophiltree’s and found
that excellent man sitting at a table with that
wicked Jim Laverick, trying to hide a handful
of cards in bis pocket. Near the deacon’s el
bow there were four straight chalk marks on the
table, and near Mr. Laverick there were six.
“Ah I good evening, elder. Good evening,” said
the deacon, with groat cordiality. “Sit down.
We was just looking at the new shades in rod
and black; odd sample cards these print houses
send out, ain’t they?” But the elder sighed
and said he didn’t know much about print
houses.
A \\ est Hill man got up in a vague
state of mind tho other morning, and feeling
around in the dark for bis socks, got hold of
his wife’s striped stockings. When he pulled
them on and stretched them up, he felt so com
pletely dressed that .he didn’t think of putting
on anything else, but went mooning around un
til he found a lamp, and fell to the floor in a lit
of terror at the sight of his legs. When they
restored him to consciousness they couldn’t
make him believe that tho house hadn’t been
burglarized by a circus clown or an escaped
convict, because, lie said, “ 1 saw him the min
ute I struck the match, just as plainly as 1 see
you now. Nobody’s safe in those awful times.”
Sometimes what a dreamy, far-away
picture of the beautiful JJiid Been "it calls up in
your memory, when yon have loved a fair young
girl with all the fervor and passionate ardor ot
a manly nature, when your very soul has caught
tho inspiration of her presence, and her face
has been for you the realization of al! that was
tender and fair and pure, and when the loss of
this prize has swept over your heart like a si
rocco of agony, and left it dry an J bitter and
hard, ten years after, io look over an alley fence
when hunting for your runaway boy, and see
her in the back yayl of a corner grocery, with a
draggled calico dross pinned up over a red flan
nel petticoat, a man’s bat perched on her head, I
and stretching a flapping shirt over aline, while i
she holds two clothes-pins between her teeth.
A couple of tramps waylaid a wealthy
farmer in Louisa County last Wednesday, and
springing out upon .him demanded his money
or his life. He showed them a clean pair of
heels and they went at it. They chased him
half a mile down the roughest lane they ever
stumbled over, then the whole crowd dashed
through a briar hedge and went panting and
sweating across an old corn-field, then the chase
struck for the woods and went wheezing up a
steep hill while the tramps pressed hard after
him with bloodshot eyes and shortened breath ;
then the retreating farmer dashed across a
frozen creek, and the tramps, following, broke
through but got out and chased the fugitive
through a blackberry patch, across a forty-acre
stubble field, over another hill, down a ravine,
across a stump field, and finally they overhauled
him in the road, searched him and found that
he didn’t have a nirskle—not a solitary red cent.
And if they weren’t the maddest tramps.
NEW YEAR’S DAY.
The Preparations which Were Made in
Burlington.
(From the Burlington Hawk-Eye.)
Great preparations are being made in Burling
ton for New Year’s calls, and it is probable that
next Monday the gentleman’s toilets will surpass
in quiet splendor and tasteful magnificence any
thing that has ever been seen in this city. Mr,
P. McKerrell, of Happy Hollow, is having a i
lovely seal brown patch put on the postern pate ,
of his corduroy trousers, and his i t °w blue flan
nel shirt has more white it than a
man can count with the multiplication table in 1
a week.
Young Mr. Bostwick has ordered a set of new
suspenders, ashes of roses ground, with bright
green stripes and mckel-plated buckles.
Mr. Grogs by will make his calls, as usual, in
the “Spring Greek Dairy wagon, and will se.l
16 quart tickets for a dollar.
► JJloggs will call with his express wagon.
at any part of the city. Leave orders on the
slate at the depot corner.
Fetchemlong, the constable, will make a
i limited number of calls during the day. No re
freshments.
Mr. James Flaxoter has had his arctic over
shoes half soled and tied with white strings,
and he has pledged himself to take them off be
fore tracking into the parlors.
The letter carriers will call regardless of an
nouncements, and will leave cards indiscrimin
ately.
Young gentlemen who have had their last
Winter’s coats cleaned up with benzine will
please stay out on tho front porch while making
their calls.
It is not necessary for a caller to sit down
and call for a knife and fork and make a square
meal every time refreshments are tendered
him.
When you take wine do. not turn the glass
upside down on your nose, while you rub your
stomach with your other hand to indicate vour
appreciation or the exhilarating beverage.
It is not necessary for the caller, prior to
tasting his wine, to bob the glass toward the
ladies and exclaim, •‘Well, here’s at you.”
If you have any fears that refreshments will
v very plentiful, it is the cheese to chuck
a flat bottle under the carriage cushion before
you start.
If the indications are that refreshments will
be unusually numerous and generous, it is well
enough to chuck a flat bottle under the carriage
cushions any how, for fear you might get
snowed in between stations.
Because the ladies of the house say, “ Oh,
don’t go so soon,” you have no right to turn
back and stay a week.
A BENEVOLENT ~MAN.
He Was Thought an Angel by the
Oyster Man.
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEXD.
Ona of those toil-hardened, true-hearted
chaps, often road of in romance, made his ap
pearance on tho Campus Martins yesterday,
and his sympathies were at once aroused by
the sight of three or four old men standing
around with thoir buck-saws and waiting tor
work.
“ I’ll be hanged if it isn’t tough,” ho replied,
when they told him that they hadn’t had any
work for a month. “ How would you like some
. oysters ?”
They smacked their lips byway of reply, and
he gathered up a crowd of eight, marched them
to a restaurant, and ordered oyster stews tor
each one. ’
“■ It just does my soul good to see them eat,”
he said to the owner of the place as the eight
got to work.
“Yes, it’s a beautiful sight,” was the reply.
“It makes me fool good in here,” continued
the stranger, laying his hand on his heart.
“A good deed brings its own reward,” was
the sort answer ot the restauranter, as he cal
culated his profits.
“ I can’t rest here—l must do further good,”
said the big-hearted stranger, and ho rushed
out and Drought in three nogroes, a chimney
sweep, two boys, and an old woman, and or
dered more oysters.
Tho fifteen people went for oyster soup in a
manner to amaze, and their guardian nudged
tho restauranter in the ribs and said:
“See the gentle lambs! Oh, that 1 could feed
the poor of all America!”
“ You are a good man, and Heaven will re
ward you I” repliod the proprietor, as ha filled
the dishes up again.
The stranger said ho wanted to bring in just
five more, so as to say that he had fed an even
score, and he rushed out after them, while
the restauranter sent after more oysters and
crackers.
The stranger didn’t return. He was last seen
climbing into a farmer’s sleigh on State street
and guiding his team to the west. The fifteen
in the restaurant licked thoir plates clean and
departed in joyful procession, and the last one
had passed out before the man who furnished
the soup had got through waiting for the re
turn of the big-hearted stranger.
There wore oaths and slan" phrases and
watchwords and expressions, delivered in the
purest of English, but what mattered it to the
fifteen soup-devourers, who drew up in line op
posite and
“.Resolved, That thorn oysters just touched
the spot.”
COUNTED OUT.
THE VICTORY OE A HARDWARE
CLERK.
A sprightly-looking man with sandy whiskers
and buff-colored satchel recently entered a hard
ware store, where he encountered the bead
clerk, whose humor frequently takes a practical
turn :
“Good morning, sir,” said the sprightly-look
ing man, as he began to open his satchel. “ Bad
day out.”
“ Don’t want any cutlery,” responded the
clerk.
“ But I assure you, sir ”
“ Don’t want any chisels, nor hammers, nor
carpet-tacks.”
“ But, my dear sir ”
“ Don’t want any hand-saws, stoves, cradle
blades, axes, nor anything else. Don’t want
even a tin horn.”
By this time the sprightly-looking man had
unbuckled the straps of his valise, dipped down
it, and brought to light a small, curiously
shaped machine, which he held up to view with
a proud smile.
“This, sir,” said he, “is a model of Slimp
son’s celebrated cooking-stove and wash-pot
combined. You will perceive that the move
ment is rendered reciprocal by this simple *'
“ My friend,” interrupted the head clerk, “do
you know that you are liable to bo counted out
at any moment'? The returning board is in ses
sion right here.”
“But just do me the kindness to examine
this beau timepiece of mechanism. It ”
“See here, s: ranger,” responded the clerk,
“ did you ever know a crippled man to become
President ?” ■
“No, sir, I believe not.”
“ Well, it you’ve got any ambition ’that way
you better leave this store, because in a general
scuffle between you and me you might get your
log broken over some of these ovens and
things.”
The sprightly man took the hint, repacked
his model and left in a hurry, while the head
clerk went to the drawer, selected tho cleanest
looking $lO bill, and put it in his pocket as a
token of victory.
WAGON-COVER GRAB.
OLD SI AND HIS WIFE’S TROUBLE.
[From the Atlanta^Ga.) Herald.}
“Ef you’d bin down tor my house las night
you’d seen er pannyramerl” said old Si.
“ How’s that ?”
“My ole ’oinan, she bought a secon’-han’ onq
' ob dose byar newly-’nvented steel-spring femail?
tenders, an’ ”
“Bought what, you say ?”
“ One ob deso hyar patint fish-traps data
’oman straps on an’ totes ’round.”
“A bustle?”
“Dar. now, dat’s de very name! Well, she
tried for ter put hit on, an’ ez she hez only got
nine yard of kaliker in her dress, yer kin ’ma
gino de struggil dat she had !”
“ Weil, did she get it on ?”
“Ob, yas, she got hit on jess ez eezy ez
tin’ de harniss on asireet-kyar mule. Do aggy
i shun anz when she cum to put on her dress
ober de darn contrapshiril”
“Howdid that work?”
“Blessid marster, dat’s what I’so tryin’ ter
tell yer—hit didn’t work at all, sah. She jess
gymn as ted’round dar tell dar wuzn’t room in
do house fur nuthin’ else but her an’ dat shuck
j baskit affa’r! I had ter he’p her on wid tho
j gyarmint, honey I”
' ’ Why, how did you manage it, sir?”
“She’ I Use waggin’d too many days not ter
git de better ob a case like dat! I jess stood
;de ole ’orL. ii on do table an’ cotch hold ob de
dress wid de waggin-kiver grab, an’ 1 had dat
; gyarmint on loro yercood say Jack Robbersou ! ”
; Well, how did she get out of it ?”
“ Oh! oh 1 don’t ax me dat! I went visitin’
soon ez I got hit on her an’ I stayed tell bod-
I time, yer kin bo bound ?”
freFlove.
A Peculiar Marriage in Boston.
Mary F. Hull, daughter of the advanced rad
ical who edits the Crucible, was united withone
Horace A. Johnson, in Boston, on Saturday,
a.ter this fashion: “Wo, whose names are here
u .to affixed, do on this twenty-sixth day of De
cember, in the year one thousand eight hun
dren and seventy-six of the Christian era, enter
into a business and conjugal coniract; the firm
to be known as Hull & Johnson. Wo regard
ourselves as, in every sense of the word, equal
partners, promising to strive to treat each
other, under all circumstances, as becomes
such. We promise that we will not try in any
other way than by advice or persuasion to con
trol tho actions of each other. Believing that
neither church nor State has any business with
our affairs, we propose to live our own lives
without reference to either, further than, ii
necessary, to give security to the commonwealth
of Massachusetts that our children, should we
be blessed with offspring, shall be, at least, as
well cared for as are a majority of those born
in legal wedlock. We further contract that
when mutual love shall no longer justify our
conjugal union, we shall part, giving the State
as .little trouble at our parting as we have in
coming together.”
The reading finished, Mary and Horace asked
; any one in the company who knew any just
I cause or impediment—or words to that effect
! to speak out then and there, or forever the e
; after hold his Deace. If the paper wasn’t right,
j or it they were not right, they wanted to know
i it. No one offering any objection, they stepped
to tho table and signed the contract.
i A Novel Experiment.—A novel ex-
I periinent, according to the Lockport papers, is soon
to be attempted in that city. This experiment is to
• heat the whole city with steam, alter the same man-
I ner as it is lighted with gas. It is not thought ieas
, iblo to have one boiler uo tho job, but the citv is to
be divided into districts, and each district is to
hive its separate boiler. Mains from each Loder
i are to run to tho different houses, and all the o- u-
I pant has (o do is to turn on a faucet and obtain all
[ the heat he wants.