New York dispatch. [volume], July 15, 1877, Page 2, Image 2

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the mystery,” and find out aP. about this beau
tiful shabby creature who had made so singu
lar an entree into her house. She decided with
in herself that the stranger was no •‘fancy,” as
she termed it of her eccentric lodger’s. She
was far too poorly clad and woe-begoue-looking
to be a flaunting sinner, and there was nothing
In Preston Wynne’s look at her, or manner in
speaking of her, to lead any one to suppose he
was in love with her.
An hour later saw Muriel in a comfortable
bed with Mrs. Potter in attendance, and a doc
tor whom Preston Wynne bad sent for examin
ing into the case.
“ Brain fever,” he feared it was, be said, he
would be better able to tell the next day, mean
time be would recommend the most perfect
quiet, and would strongly advise that the la
dy’s h£ir he cut off.
“How long would it take to grow again?”
was Preston Wynne’s inquiry, when the doctor’s
advice was communicated to him.
“It would never grow quite to its present
length,” was the answer, “ but in a few years it
would recover its beauty entirely.”
“ A tew years; when a man has become, pos
sessed of anything pretty, he does not want to
wait years to look at it. 1 won’t have her beau
ty spoiled in any wav, mind. Do all you can
for her—l thall grudge nothing it costs to
make her well—but don’t disfigure her.”
“ I will do my best,” the doctor replied, “ but
the hair will fall oft in patches, lam afraid. I
have seen cases where fever has spared it, but
they are rare.”
A nurse was fetched from a distant hospital,
to attend the sick woman—Mrs. Potter’s niece
—and between them the two women brushed and
plaited and coiled up the shining hair around
the lever-tossed bead, and kept it moist and
cool as best they might.
And so, while Muriel was being searched for
and presently mourned as dead, sho lay, gab
bling in delirium, in a handsomely-furnished
room, tended as carefully as though she had
bean a queen. Mrs. Potter’s researches
told her nothing; there was no mark upon any
article of clothing belonging to her—nothing
in her pocket, not a scrap of evidence to tell
who sho was or where she came fnom.
“She’s no wadding-ring on, but she’s worn
one very lately,” she told Compton, over a con
fidential glass of wine, in her own private snug
“ How do you know ?” he asked.
“The skin of her wedding-finger’s tightened
at the bottom,” she replied; “the qpnstant
wearing ot the ring always does man
might not notice it, maybe. By-the-way, her
hat and her shawl? I’ve never seen them since
she came. I ought to put them with the rest
of her things.”
“Mr. Wynne gave me his orders about
them,” Compton replied, quietly.
“Oh, and you've put them away, then? No
wonder 1 couldn’t see them anywhere.”
“Just so—l have put them away, as you
say.”
Not another word would the valet say upon
the subject, and Mrs. Potter never knew what
had become cf the missing articles. Compton
had his orders, and the way he obeyed them
was to sally forth after dark, on a pouring wet
night, with a parcel in his hand, and from the
middle of Vauxhall Bridge drop hat and shawl
into the river. Nobody saw him, ho was the
only passenger crossing the bridge, and the
current rapidly carried the things away—not
very far. It pleased the receding tide to loave
the hat ashore on the mud at Millbank, and the
shawl hanging on the ropes of a barge moored
further down, whence they were picked up and
taken to Philip Conyngham, as sad evidence of
the fate which had befallen his wife.
Preston Wynne’s next behest \wis that every
thing else that Muriel had worn when she en
tered the house should be burned. Mrs. Pot
ter interfered. She knew a poor soul who would
be very glad of them, she said, and there were
no marks on any of them; beside, it would make
the house smell of burning so. Her lodger’s re
ply to her expostulations was to burn the things
himself in his own rooms, at the risk of setting
the chimney on fire, and to the great detriment
of tho polished steel grate and delicate chim
ney board and ornaments.
“When I say a thing, I mean it,” he said,
shortly, as Mrs. Potter ruefully contemplated
the odorous heap of tinder in her handsome
fender. “You will recollect that another time,
if you please. Have this mess cleared away, and
be good enoftgh to see about the outfit for Mrs.
Beauchamp at once.”
“It* that the lady’s name, sir?”
“That is tho lady’s name. lam happy to say
the doctor assures me she will recover. Every
thing must be of the finest quality, mind—no
bills sent in, remember.”
CHAPTER XXII.
IBS. BEA.UCIIAMP.
“ What’s in a name ?
That wbic'i we call a rose by any other name
Wou.d smell as sweet.”— Shakespeare.
“Maud Beauchamp—is that what lam to
write?”
The speaker was a young woman, pale and
faded of aspect, out with lithe and supple-look
ing hands, scrupulously kept; she was an
adept in the use of her pen, and earned a good
deal of money by marking linen for those who
had no faith in the stamping and stencilling
which takes the place of straightforward pen
and ink marking in these go-a-head days.
Preston Wynne had issued the most minute
orders concerning an outfit for the lady who
had so suddenly appeared in his household ;
everything was to be in abundance, and of the
finest quality, and moreover, was to be marked
legibly and neatly. This part of the order gave
Mis. Potter a great deal of trouble. The pro
prietor cf the outfitting warehouse undertook
to have it done ; she constantly supplied outfits
to ladies, ail marked. If Mrs. Potter would sup
ply tho name and anything else that was want
ed, it should be attended to; but tho worthy
landlady could not do this, and tho people of
the shop in dudgeon refused to tell her of any
one to do it, and she was at her wit’s end.
She surveyed the piles of dainty garments
when they came home with a despairing eye,
for she was a very indifferent penwoman, and
Air. Wynne’s orders were strict that the mark
ing should be well done. The fates sent her
help in the person of the young woman whose
address tho shopkeeper refused, but who had
heard of the matter in a roundabout way, and
came eagerly to beg for tho work. Tne two
were closeted in the ante-room of the chamber
where the invalid lay, all ready to begin.
“Yes, Maud Beauchamp, and the number—
that is all.”
“No date?”
“No.”
“ Well, that saves trouble, anyway. Some
ladies will have the date upon everything. 1
cannot say I hke it myself. Will you have print
ing letters or writing ones, madam? I’ve had
to practice both.”
“I think writing looks bfest. I wish she may
live to wear them out, poor thing, I’m sure.”
“Is she so very ill, then?”
“She has been; she hasn’t opened her eyes or
spoken sensiblv yet; but the doctor said last
night was the turn, and that she’d wake in her
senses.”
“The sight of all these lovely things ought to
cure her,” said the woman, with a sigh, as she
turned down a fold and wrote the name over.
“I suppose sho gave the order for them before
she was taken ill ?”
“Yes; just so.”
Mrs. Potter was rather short in her answer,
and the woman said no more on the subject,
only remarking, as she.laid a costly blue dress
ing-gown aside, “Miss Beauchamp is fair, I
suppose ?”
“ Mrs. Beauchamp; but what makes youthink
so?”
“Only the color of that; I often amuse mv
self fancying what people are like—l fancy her
fair and pretty.”
“ She is both; but her face is very thin now.
You write beautifully, I am sure she will be
pleased with it.”
This conversation—and she heard it nearly
every word—was the first thing that came
with any sense or meaning to Muriel’s ears
after the sleep which had been the turning
point of her fever. She had been very near
the brink of the grave, and had raved in her
delirium of “Philip” and “Harry,”and fought
with imaginary fiends who were holding her
back from them. They had vainly tried to
soothe the fiery tempest, but it lasted till the
strength that yet remained to her was gone,
and she lay in a stupor which was like death.
“Who is she talking about?” the kind nurse
asked of Mrs. Potter—“her husband?”
“Ah, poor dearl she’s had her troubles,”
was the ambiguous reply. “Don’t you say
anything to her when she comes to about it.”
“1 never speak of what my patients say,”
the woman replied shortly. ’“lf nurses did
that, there’d be a pretty lot of mischief made.”
But she remembered the names for all that,
and thought of them in after times when she
crossed her patients’ path again. She was in the
room when Muriel awoke, but the slowly awaken
ing senses were all concentrated in hearing tor
the first few moments, and the recumbent figure
did not stir. Muriel was vainly endeavoring to
remember where she was, and what had hap
pened to her, and to gather the sense of the
words that were being spoken in the next room.
Who was Maud Beauchamp ? Some one for
whom clothing was being prepared, and who
was ill. Ill! Could it be herself ? What was
her name? She had not the faintest idea, but
she did not think it was that. Was she ill? She
tried to lift her head, but it seemed glued to the
pillow ; her bands—they were as helpless as
lumps of wood, and she uttered a slight sound
which brought the nurse to her side.
“Mrs. Beauchamp,” said the woman, speak
ing very gently, for she knew the danger of
startling her, “ are you better?”
“Beauchamp,” said Muriel, in a feeble whis
per—“is that my name? Am I Mrs. Beau
champ ?”
“ Of course you are,” the woman replied, in
the same low, soothing tone, “but don’t try to
remember anything now. Take a little of this,
and don’t try to talk yet.”
She lifted her patient’s hand and gave her a
few spoonfuls of wine-jelly, and Muriel swallow
ed it, and strength began to come back.
“She don’t remember her name a bit,” the
nurse said to Mrs. Potter, when her patient had
once more fallen into a doze. “I hope her mem
ory will come back, poor thing; I’ve known no
worse a fever leave a person quite weak in the
jnind.”
“ Oh, she’ll remember by and by,” said the
landlady, inwardly hoping that no awkward rev
elations might drop from Muriel’s lips. Noth
ing so untoward came to pass, she herself was
in the room when the patient awoke next, with
faculties clearer and more strength.
“Who are you?” she asked; “I did not see
fqu before.”.
I “ No; it was the nurse you saw, Mrs. Beau-
• champ; you have been very ill.”
Muriel looked at her hands and the costly lace
on the night-aress she wore, and then at a
handkerchief lying on the bed. It was neatly
marked “Maud Beauchamp.”
“Is it mine?” she asked, knitting her pale
. fore bead.
• “ Yes; it is yours. Mr. Wynne’s orders were
that everything should be ready for you by the
time yon got better, and I hope, I’m sure, that
you’ll be pleased with what I’ve done. It was
all left to mo, you being so ill.”
“Mr. Wynne.”
Again the pucker of perplexity came on to
Muriel’s forehead, and she looked at Mrs. Pot
ter in wonder.
“Yes; Mr. Preston Wynne—he lodges here
with me; you came here the day you were taken
ill, and—
“l know, I know,” broke in Muriel. “Ire
member now I I came here, as you say, to—to
—and Heaven did not strike me dead as I hoped,
but let me live on 1 There’s no mercy as the
parsons preach—none 1”
“Oh, hush, my dear, you musn’t talk like
that or you’ll be ill again, and Mr. Wynne will
be so angry. He has been so anxious, you don’t
know.”
“No, I shan’t be ill again,” said Muriel, slow
ly. “ Heaven won’t grant me such merciful ob
livion. I have taken the price, and I must per
form my part of the compact. Oh, that 1 had
the courage to die I”
She burst into hysterical tears, and Mrs. Pot
ter, in terror, summoned the nurse. She was
immensely relieved when that authority de
clared that the tears would do no harm.
“They’ll cheer her up a bit, see if they don’t,”
she said. “ Her head’ll ache a bit, may be, but
her heart won’t feel so like lead. You said she’d
had^troubles —I think they must have been bit
ter ones.”
The nurse was right, Muriel was none the
worse for her little outburst of feeling. If she
wished to die, death would have nothing to do
with her, and her naturally good constitution
made her recovery vety rapid. From the first
hour of her convalescence Preston Wynne had
been most assidious in his inquiries, the choicest
fruit and the most delicate flowers were brought
to the door by Compton, with respectful entreat
ies from his master that Mrs. Beauchamp would
see him as soon as she was able.
“ Don’t you hurry to get up for him,” Mrs.
Potter advised. “Better let him wait than
overtask your strength.”
“ Mr. Wynne has a right to order, and he shal 1
be obeyed,” Muriel replied. “If I am able to
get out of bed at all I will see him to-morrow
morning.”
Mrs. Potter and the nurse both protested, but
Muriel insisted; they could dress her and lay her
on the sofa, and then admit Mr. Wynne, and she
puzzled them not a little by the intense eager
ness she displayed to look her best. She sat up
to have her hair brushed and braided, and coil
ed, though she nearly fainted during the opera
tion, and was partioulary anxious about the set
of the elegant wrapper she donned for the oc
casion. She looaed beautiful, even in her wan
whiteness, when, at length, her toilet was fin
ished, and they had laid her on the sofa.
Mrs. Potter made her take some wine, and
would have had her wait and gather a little
strength before she saw any one, but Muriel was
impatient now and feverishly eager to get the
interview over.
“No, no!” she said, vehemently. “Fetch
him now; let him see the wreck of what he is
imagining. Don’t keep him in suspense about
the bargain ho has made.”
She laughed a short bitter laugh, as she
spoke, and Mrs. Potter said no more, but sent
Compton to fetch his master. Muriel made no
sign as the man, at whose bidding she had aban
doned all a woman holds most dear, entered the
room. She lay back, white and still upon her
cushions, looking more hke a beautiful corpse
than a living woman, and he uttered a half-sup
pressed cry of consternation as he looked at her.
She was such a spectre of her former self, but
there was consolation to him in the perfect taste
which was displayed in her dress and surround
ings. His fastidious eye took m every fold of
her dress, every fall of the lace that was flung
with such apparent carelessness round her neck
and shoulders.
“Let her only get well and she’ll be a woman
to be proud of,” he muttered. “All Europe
shall envy the ‘ crooked little ape —as I heard
myself called the other day—-his possession
of the most lovely woman in the three king
doms !”
He went gently up to Muriel’s side and laid a
dainty bunch of flowers on her wasted hands—
not a great, stiff hand-bouquet, with its blos
soms mounted on wire and its outside encased
with paper and ribbon till it might as well ba all
artificial together for aught ot nature there is
about it—but a carelessly arranged handful of
the most beautiful and fragrant flowers, cut
with long stems, and nestling together without
any intervention of moss or other leaves than
their own.
Muriel started as though an asp had stung
her, and the offering would have fallen to the
ground bad not Preston Wynne caught it.
“They are too powerful for you,” he said.
“No, it is not that—l beg your pardon—l
m weak, I suppose, and—”
“ And you are hardly able to sfee any one yet,”'
he said, gently. “But we will soon have you
batter now, my dear Mrs. Beauchamp; I won’t
intrude on you again till you are quite able to
see me; but I was naturally anxious to—”
“To see that your bargain had not slipped
through your fingers altogether,” she said in a
tone sharpened by pain. “You have made a
most unprofitable compact, Air. Wynne. You
bargained for a pretty woman—you have a
faded ghost.”
“Lovely in its faint colors though,” he re
plied, with a smile, “ and a month will restore
your brightness. I hope everything hero is
what you like, and that the women behave well
to you ?”
“Mine is a gilded cage indeed, Mr. Wynne;,
never was captive so royally treated.”
“Captive I”
“What else am I?”
“My guest, friend, companion—call it what
you will.”
“ The world would give me a harsher name,
I am afraid.”
“The world may go to—to where it is going
at lightning speed without any aid ot mine,”
was all the answer Mr. Wynne vouchsafed.
CHAPTER XXIII.
WAKING TO A NEW LIFE.
“Is’t a dream ? Is’t a phantasy ? It is
Too horrible for reality I for augnt else, too palpa
ble.”—Sheridan Knowles.
Mrs. Potter and Compton were each of them
considerably exercised in their minds as to the
position of “Mrs. Beauchamp.” “My’guest,”
or “my friend,” were the terms employed by
Preston Wynne in speaking of her, and the
most profound respect was exacted from them
in their conduct toward her.
There was certainly nothing lover-like in. his
manner, either in speaking of or addressing
her; and the landlady and the valet, who had
both of them been cognizant of other fancies
which had flitted thrbugh the life of Preston
Wynne, could not make matters out at all.
There was nothing of the careless levity in
this new intercourse which had marked others
that they knew of. “Mrs. Beauchamp” was
approached by him with politeness and. re
spectful admiration, and received all his atten
tions with a curious and painful apathy..
As she grew better, the outfit that Mrs. Pot
ter had superintended was supplemented by
the attendance of jewelers and dressmakers,
till the landlady held up her hands in astonish
ment, and declared that Mr. Wynne must be a
second Monte Christo, to be able to provide so
lavishly in the way of feminine vanities.. That
the recipient of all these gauds should care
nothing for them was something she could not
make out; but all that ever she could be
brought to say. was that she was perfectly sat
isfied—if Mr. Wynne was pleased, there was
nothing else to be considered.
“Yes, there is,” Mrg. Potter replied, when
the relative attractions of two lustrous silks
were under discussion; “there’s your own taste,
my dear—your own fancy.”
“ 1 have none.”
“But you must have some when lovely things
like these are sent for you to see.”
“No, I have not.” she replied, with a faint
smile at the landlady’s perplexity; “I left every
thing behind me when I entered this house.
Whatever Mr. Wynne chooses I will wear.*’
“1 wouldn’t give in to him quite so much
as that, if I were you.” Mrs. Potter said, hold
ing the silks up so that the light shone on
their lustrous beauty. “It don’t do gentlemen
any good to give way to them in everything.
Maybe a little thwarting wouldn’t hurt him,
though I must say he's very good.”
“Mr. Wynne is very liberal, but I shall never
twart him, Airs. Potter; I am here to obey his
slightest commands in everything.”
“Law, my dear! suppose he was to take a
fancy to order you dresses that weren’t be
coming, you wouldn’t wear them, would you?”
“If he ordered me to go about in sack-cloth,
with a rope tied around my wast,” said Mrs.
Beauchamp, bitterly, “I should do it. Don’t
talk about it any more, Airs. Potter. I have
given him the right to order my actions, and he
shall do it as he likes.”
There was a wild hunted look in her eyes as
she spoke, that touched the landlady. She
could not think her a sinful woman, and yet she
had come of her own free will, as it seemed, to
the house of a man of evil reputation when
women were concerned, and was accepting at
his hands the costly fripperies for which women,
God help them! have sold themselves since the
world began. Airs. Beauchamp’s look and man
ner were more those of a creature caught and
caged by a strong hand than of anything lured
by a glittering bait; and the good woman
longed, with all her inquisitive soul, to find out
the mystery. Maud Beauchamp’s next words
startled her not a little. She had been looking
dreamily out of the window, with a curious
light in her eyes.
“I would obey him so utterly,” she said,
“that it be bade me go to the house-top, and
dash myself to pieces upon the cruel stones in
the street, I would do it, and thank Heaven for
the deliverance it brought; not that Heaven
would listen to any thanks from me,” she added,
with a bitter laugh.
“Lord o’ marcy!” ejaculated Mrs. Potter,
“you must either be mad or love him very
much, to talk like that I”
“I don’t think I’m mad,” was the dreamy re
sponse; “not yet. Providence sent oblivion
for a little while, but the mercy would not last.
As for love, is there such a thing, I wonder?
Have I ever felt it, or is the past all some wild
dream of things too blest for this world ?”
Airs. Potter said no more, but at the risk of
eeriousiy offending her despotic little lodger
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JULY 15, 1877.
she sought audience of him, and confided to
him that she thought Airs. Beauchamp, poor
thing, was a little wrong in her head.
“I hope not,” Air. Wynne said, quietly.
“What particular phase of madness had devel
oped itself since I saw her this morning.”
His cool, sarcastic tone, discomposed Mrs.
Potter, as it always did, and she answered in a
somewhat confused fashion.
“She don’t care a bit for the beautiful things
you have sent in, sir ; she wouldn’t look at the
lovely silks, and ”
“ Ah, she must be vary mad, indeed,” was the
quiet reply. “I can quite understand your
thinking such a state of things quite cause
enough for a commission of lunacy; still I have
met with women in full possession of their
senses, to whom the color of a gown or the glit
ter of a diamond was a matter of the supremest
indifference. Mrs. Beauchamp, it seems, is one
of these. Anything else ?”
“Only her talk, sir ; “it’s that wild it makes
my flesh creep to listen to it. It does, indeed !”
“lam very sorry; it must bo very uncom
fortable,” said Preston Wynne, with a look that
made Mrs. Potter wish herself at tho uttermost
corner of the earth rather than standing before
the cynical little hunchback. “What treason
has she uttered?”
“Nothing sir ; only wild talk about you?”
“ About me ?”
“His interest was aroused now. and the sar
castic expression left his lips and eyes.
“What about me?” he added.
“It’s more tho way she talks than anything
else. Why. she said to me to-day that she was
bounl to obey you in everything.”
“So she is. She takes matters a little liter
ally, perhaps, but she has stated the fact cor
rectly.”
“ And that if you bade her jump off the top
of the house and kill herself, she would do it.”
“Ah! 1 shan’t exact such obedience as that
at present, Mrs. Potter—don’t disturb yourself.
Airs. Beauchamp is still weak from illness, and
wants nursing; ,she must have change and
amusement. Take my compliments to her and
say that I will see her this evening—will you?”
Airs. Potter retired crestfallen ; she fancied
she had done no good, and that her lodger bad
only been laughing at her, but she was mistaken,
her words had aroused Preston Wynne to the
doubt whether the strain on tho mind ot his
victim might not be too great, and the necessity
for trying some means to divert her thoughts
from her position.
“I don’t want to be a madwoman’s keeper,”
ho said to himself. “1 must take her about
and show her the gayeties of the Continent.
We’ll try what money versus memory will do.”
When he was ushered into “ Airs. Beau
champ’s” room that evening he found her fault
lessly dressed in a costume he himself had
pointed out as one likely to become her, and
with her shining hair falling in wavy masses
over her shoulders. Tho fever nad thinned ft
very little, and all the appliances of the hair
dresser’s art had been called into requisition
since she had been able to sit up, to restore its
beauty.
“ You grow lovelier ©very day,” he said, in
delighted admiration, raising her hand to his
lips with the grave politeness he always showed
her.
“lam glad you think so.”
“ I am come to ask you what we shall do now
you are well enough to move. You must emerge
from your retirement and show yourself to the
world. Yours is not beauty to be wasted un
seen in a London lodging-house.”
She looked at him for a moment as if only
half understanding him, and then a look of ter
ror came into her eyes.
“Showmyself!” she said; “go out into the
world, here in London I Run the risk of meet
ing him with your gifts upon me—the price of
his grief and my shame flaunting to the air I I
cannot do it. I should die of the horror of it.”
“Pm afraid Airs. Potter was right,” he
though# to himself, startled at the wild glitter
of her eyes. “My dear Maud, who said any
thing about shame ?” he asked. “ Who among
all the thousands that cross each other’s path
in London here, would know who you were ?
But shall we go abroad—take a scamper over
the Continent? You have never-crossed the
channel, I think.”
“No, never.”
“Then we will go, and tho bright skies of It
aly shall drive all unpleasant thoughts out of
your head. Do you feel able to go ?”
“I am able for anything that will take me
away from here. 1 would put thousands of
miles between mo and all I have lost. If I could
ever be grateful for anything again I should be
grateful to you for this.”
“There is no gratitude in the matter; I wish
to please you. The arrangements shall be made
at once.”
It is not to be supposed that the mysterious
advent of an unknown woman at No. 53 Dart
moor street remained the profound secret that
Mr. Wynne wished it to be. Miss Curtis told
her cousin, the countess, of tho woman she had
encountered on tho stairs, and Mrs. Potter’s
servants, though good enough in their way,
were not immaculate. The countess very rare
ly went to her brother’s apartments. She had
bean what she chose to call “outraged” on one
or two occasions, when she had gone tnere
brimming over with good advice and expostula
tion, and she kept away, electing to believe
that Airs. Potter’s luxuriously furnished house
was- a den of iniquity, of which her brother and
Compton, the valet, were tho high priests.
But the news of this new enormity aroused
her to such a pitch of virtuous indignation that
she resolved to visit him and give nim what she
called. “ a piece of her mind.”
“I think you’d better let him alone,” Miss
Curtis advised; “he won’t brook any interfer
ence from vou or any one.”
‘*But it’s my duty to interfere and stop such
a horrid state of things, if possible.”
“I don’t see it.”
“For the sake of my innocent girls.”
“ Your innocent girls don’t go to Dartmoor
street,, so I don’t see how their uncle’s sms can
affect them,” Miss Curtis said, shortly. “Be
side, what are you going about? What are
you going to-say to Mr. Wynne when you get
there?”
“ Say! Jane Curtis are you quite a fool ?”
“I hope not.”
“Is there not enough to say? A woman—a
creature under his very root! It’s disgusting!
He ought to be put in a lunatic asylum!”
“Of course,, and his great wealth paid over
to hie beloved sister and her innocent girls.
You’ll make a fool of yourself, Diana, and come
off second best, as you always do when you in
terfere with Preston. I only met the woman on
the stairs, and you have no proof that she is
there now, or living there, or has anything to
do with, him.”
Alias Curtis knew perfectly well that the count
ess’ suspicions were correct, but she knew also
that she was sure to get the worst of any argu
ment with her brother, and might offend him
past reconciliation, which would make a serious
difference in tho prospects of the twins. Her
ladyship would listen to ho reason, however, and
betook herself to Dartmoor street, where she was
received with much effusion by Airs. Potter, and
ushered at once into her brother’s presence. He
greeted, her with much cordiality, and inquired
her business, which she did not find it very easy
to tell him.
“ Somebody has been hoaxing you,” he said,
gravely, when he had heard her to the end ;
“ there is no lady in this house, that I am aware
of—certainly not in my portion of it.”
“ I did not say a lady— l don’t suppose the
person I have heard of was one.”
“Well, a woman, then; there is nothing fe
male here, except the landlady and the Cinder
ellas in the kitchen.”
“You have sent her away for a blind ; I know
there was some one here. Are you quite shame
less, Preston?—do you care nothing for the
usages of society ?”
“Nothing in the least, as you ought to know
by this time. You have made yourself very hot,
Diana.; let me ring for some claret-cup for you.
You are welcome to search the house if you like
—you will find no woman here.”
The countess was discomfited, as she always
was, and she was still more chagrined when she
was told, three days later, that her brother had
gone abroad. He had been seen coming off the
packet at Calais, with his servant in attendance,
and the loveliest woman her informant had ever
seen,, beautifully dressed, evidently forming one
of the party.
CHAPTER XXIV.
SLANDER.
“ Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow—thou
shalt not escape calumny.” Shakespeare.
The time that elapsed between the events of
the last chapter, and the night of the ball at
Clifford Alagna, when George Erfont recognized
bis friend’s missing wife in the much-talked-of
Airs. Beauchamp, had changed the pale invalid
into a proud, stately, self-possessed woman.
She had gone over tho Continent with Preston
Wynne, always by his side in public and private,,
showing herself wherever he chose to.take her,
and sharing bis solitude, when, as not unire
quently happened, bodily illness and irritable
nerves kept him in seclusion. At such times,
she was a devoted nurse, and Compton, who
knew only too well that the post was no sine
cure, was loud in her praises. She saved him
many a weary hour of attendance in his mas»*
ter’s room, at times when those who had even
seen Preston Wynnn in bis dark, hours were
wont to declare that the devil had taken posses
sion of him entirely. Racked for hours with
neuralgic pains, which at intervals were apt to
seize his distorted limbs, or lying in utter ex
haustion which supervened when such attacks
were over, he would curse with bitter oaths the
day he was born, curse those who saw him for
not having smo»thered him before he had had
time to discover his deformity, blaspheme even
the all-wise Creator who had allowed him to
live.
Then he would torture those about him to
the extreme limits of human endurance, as only
a thoroughly selfish invalid can, and it was only
by dint of the most liberal payment that Comp
tom had been induced to put up with the tor
ment of nursing him through his fits of illness.
When they were abroad the duty always fell on
him, for no nurse could be found to stay with
the wayward little creature for more than a day.
At home it was different—the same woman, a
big, healthy-looking creature, who seemed to
set fatigue at naught, and to be able to live
without sleep, always came to nurse him, and
in her presence he was as gentle as a lamb.
She bad been summoned after two of her sister
hood had gone away in temper or tears, declar
ing they would rather nurse a wild beast than
such a little tyrant, and Mrs. Potter had been
in despair, for she dared not go near him.
The third nurse had more strength of nerve
and will than her predecessors, and took the
peasuro of her patient pretty
quietly told him that she would get a straight
waisccoat for him, if he would not ob y the
doctor’s orders, that however he might scream
and kick, it would make no impressio on her ;
and finally on his striking spitefully at her when
she came near him with a glass, she had taken
him by the shoulders and shaken him till his
teeth rattled.
From that hour Preston Wynne was as a meek
lamb in her hands ; he acknowledged the only
thing that bad any power over him—physical
strength ; and finding that she thoroughly un
derstood her business, and that be speedily got
better by being obedient, he let her do what she
would.
Aland Beancbamp had taken her place now,
and though not so strong, was equally untiring.
Sho looked ’very pale- and wan after a week’s
attendance upon the invalid’s whims, but what
ever she had to boar in the sick room was borne
in siience and with closed doors. Not a whis
per ever camo to those outside of any harsh lan
guage or bitter words addressed to her, yet
Compton could have sworn that he had soon
tears upon her face more than once when be
had entered the room suddenly, and had no
ticed the bitter look upon his master’s coun
tenance that it was apt to wear when he had
been saying some particularly bitter or unkind
thing.
What were the relations existing between these
two, so strangely mated together, no one could
tell; that Aland Beauchamp was dependent on
the man she traveled with for everything, was
evident enough ; that she had no claim of rela
tionship upon him, every one that knew him
was sure. The Wynne family were rich, and all
its ramifications were set down in the peerage
and easy to be accounted for. This mysterious
woman belonged to none of them. To the men
who questioned him, Preston Wynne only
shrugged his shoulders and told them? to think
what they liked and say what they pleased, ho
should tell them nothing, but that any slight
offered to the lady, or any word spoken of her
in aught but the purest respect, he should take
as to himself. To the ladies who questioned
him, and they were not a few, for he was popu
lar ■with the sex, being so rich, he vouchsafed
no more information.
Ho had nothing to tell about Mrs. Beauchamp,
he said. She was traveling with him, as they
saw, and would continue to travel with him till
he returned to England, and would then reside
with him wherever he determined to live. He
did not wish to force her society upon any one,
nor did she, but he should visit no one who did
not receive her. So, on the whole, continental
society thought it best to shut its eyes, and keep
its opinions to itself, and Mrs. Beauchamp was
received whenever Preston Wynne could per
suade her to go. The extreme respect with
which tho servants treated her had a good deal
to do with her reception, together with her own
reticence and frigid manners. The servants
knew better than to say a word, whatever they
thought. A few words uttered by the woman
he had engaged as Aland’s maid came to his
ears one morning in Florence, and in less than
an hour the woman was out of the house with a
month’s wages, and the money for her journey
back to'England in her hand.
“Character!” he said, when tho woman
whimpered about being ruined. ••Tell the
next person that you apply to that Preston
Wynne, tho hunchback, turned you out of his
house for telling lies and slandering your mis
tress.”
“I don’t know that it was lies,” tho woman
said, sullenly. “It’s what everybody says, any
way.”
“ I think you are about the only one that has
dared to say it openly,” he eaid, gravely. “ Go!
You have paid for the privilege of using your
tonguo, and you shall pay moro dearly still if
you use it again.”
No lady’s-maid dared to say anything again ;
Airs. Beauchamp might have been a princess, *so
kindly did the servants treat her. They liked
her; she gave herself no airs, and was open
handed and liberal, as well as kind and thought
ful. Sho was never merry, and in solitude
always wore a sad, hopeless look that was very
touching. She had accepted her life, and was
making the best of it, poor soul! She knew that
the husband she had left had recovered his
health, and was living in retirement in the belief
that sho was dead. Preston Wynne had told
her this, and, to do him justice, he never at
tempted to deceive her.
Tho sharpest pang she had known since the
day of .her flight, and the time sho had steeled
her bojirt into stony calmness, was when she
had looked up in tho little moonlit grotto, and
had seen George Erfont’s faco looking in upon
her in all her bravery from tho world without.
It was as if all her past life, all the joy she had
lost, all the happiness she had flung away, were
rising up to confront her. Could Lord Darlin
court have seen what was passing in her mind
he would not have wondered at her fainting. ,
Then sending for her busband’s old friend, and
meeting him afterward, was an outburst of feel
ing sho could not have repressed to save her
life—a wild impulse, born of the longing to hear
of all she had loved and lost, and she cared not
what came of it.
Nothing, as it happened ; but it was not the
fault of her ladyship the countess that Mrs.
Beauchamp’s morning promenade passed off
without any evil consequences to her- Before
her ladyship had thought of leaving her bed, rhe
twins burst into her room, brimful of news.
“Oh, mamma! what do you think?” they
exclaimed.
“Really, I don’t know,” said the countess,
crassly. “ I wish youshad let mo alone, girls ;.I
don’t seem to have had.any sleep at all.”
“ Weil, it’s nearly one o’clock, and you camo to
bed at five,” said Lady Gwendoline. “We’ve
bjen up ever so long, and Uncle Preston said we
looked as fresh as lilies. We made breakfast for
him—didn’t we, Nesta?”
“ Yes, and he called us charming girls. I do
think he likes us, mamma.”
“ 1 hope he does, I’m sure,” said their mother,
yawning. “ You know how anxious I amthat
you should always please him. But was that all
you woko mo up to say ?”
“ No, mamma,”'Lady Nesta said,.demurely.
“But wo—we’ve heard something.”
“Yes, about that woman—about Mrs. Beau
champ, I moan,” chimed in her sister, suddenly
mindful that they were to speak respectfully of
the lady. “Such a strange*thing.”
Tho countess was wide awake now, and sat up
in bed, with wide-open eyes, looking at her
daughters. Airs. Beauchamp’s name acted upon
her as scarlet is said to act upon a bull.
“What about her?” she asked.
“Oh, such a dreadful thing, mamma,” said
both the girls in a breath. “She went out this,
morning, quite early, to meet a mand!”
“She! Airs. Beauchamp!”
“Yes, mamma ; a strange man. No one that
was here last night.”
“ Who told you ? Are you sure ?” asked their
mother, throwing off the bed-clothes. “I’il.get
up, gii’ls; if this is true, it may help to-cure
your uncle of his infatuation. I verily believe
he’s bewitched. Tell me ail you know about it
before you ring for Martha. I’m afraid.it’& too
good to be true. She’s too wide awake to- com
mit herself in that way.”
Tho informant bad been the young ,la dies’own
maid, and her story was that after sho bad: un
dressed her young ladies she had gone to bed,
but was unable to sleep, from a violent sick head
ache. That Knowing she would not.be wanted,
she had dressed herself and gone out, hoping
that tho chill morning air would do her good.
That she had strolledia good way into the park,
and there had been an unseen witness of the
meeting between Airs..Beauchamp,and the gen
tleman. She was quite sure it was Airs. Beau
champ ; she had had a good look at her tho
night before, and was certain she was not mis
taken. Sho had not told any one else..
“ Send her here this minute,” Lady Pentar
ling ton said. “ She,shall dress me, and tell me
all about it. I hope she hasn’t gone: talking all
over the house with, this pretty story.”
“I don’t think she has, mamma,” said Lady
Nesta. “ She really looked very ill, and Gwen
doline told her she might lie down.”
“ She must get up and attend to mo,” the
countess said*. “I must question her about this
business.. 111, indeed ! What business have serv
ants to be ill? I suppose she has over-eateu
herself. Your uncle’s housekeeper is ruinously
extravagant.”
The girl’s story was simple enough. She re
peated to the countess what she had already told
her daughters—she had spoken.to. no one else,
she said, and:would not do so> if her ladyship
wished, her to he silent.
“Of course: I do,” the lady replied. “Mr.
Wynne would be very angry if he thought any
i servants on the place went watching and spying
about after his guests.”
“ I washt watching, my lady,” the girl replied,
indignantly;. but the countess badoher hold her
tongue, and said nothing further to her about
the matter. She went down, to, breakfast full of
and luckily found her brother and
Miss Curtis alone.
“ Goodmorning, Diana!” said Preston Wynne,
surveying her cri tioally. “ What important news
are you swelling with now ?”
“ Brother!”
“ Oh, 1 can see it—l guessed it the moment I
caught sight of your f.nce.. Something out of the
common has brought, you down now. I didn’t
expect to see’your ladyship until four o’clock at
least.”
“You are right, brother; something of im
portance has brought me down. I have somer
thing to say to you in private.”
“ Sny on.”
“Shall I speak before Miss Curtis ?*’
“ Well, Jane isn’t a miss in her teens ; I don’t
suppose that anything you could say would
shock her maiden modesty much, unless, it is
something concerning her you have to. com
municate. In that case perhaps she had better
retire.”
“ No; it has nothing to do with Jane—it’s
about—that—that person you insisted on intro
ducing to your friends last night.”
“ Aleaning Mrs. Beauchamp.”
“ If that ip really her name, meaning her.”
“ What of her ?”
“Only that she is making your protection
and shelter a cover for her own intrigues, that
is all.”
“ Diana!”
“ Oh, don’t look so furious—it is true. You
wanted to make me believe that this shameless
creature was an honest woman—l ought to have
known better; she hasn’t even the common de
cency to be faithful to the man who has bought
her with the glitter of diamonds and the tempta
tion of fine clothes—who has hung upon her
shameless neck the gems his dead mother wore.
I tell you your dainty plaything is false to you,
and I can prove it I”
Preston Wynne pressed his lips together, and
there was an ominous glitter in his eyes.
“ What do you think you have discovered ?”
he asked, quietly.
Tho countess told her story somewhat reluct
aotta Ws Iqok frighteued her.
“Ido not bolievo one single word of it,” he
said. “I will ask Mrs. Beauchamp.”
“And will you believe her !*
“I will; she is troth itself, and will not lend
herself to a lie,” was his answer; and the
; countess could have boxed his ears with spite
and rage.
(To b<* 'Continue l->
HiEiruwi death.
The Story of a Mother’s Love.
The fire burns cheerily on the hearth, the
great logs crackle and flare up the wide chim
ney, up which it is my wont to say you could
drive a coach and four. I draw my chair nearer
to it with a shiver.
“ What a night 1” I say.
“Is it still snowing?” asks my wife, who sits
opposite to me, her books and work on the ta
ble before her.
“Fast. You can scarcely see a yard before
you.”
“ Heaven help any poor creature on the moor
to-night!” says she.
“Who would veirture out? It began snowing
before dark, and all the people about know the
danger of being benighted on the moor in a
snow-storm.”
“Yes. But I have known people frozen to
death hereabout before now.”
Mv wife is Scotch, and this pleasant house in
the Highlands is hers. We are trying a Winter
in it for the first time, and I find it excessively
cold and somewhat dull. Mentally 1 decide that
m future wo will only grace it with our presence
during the shooting season. Presently Igo to
tbo window and look out ; it has ceased snow
ing, and through a rift in the clouds I see a
star.
“It is beginning to clear,” I tell my wife, and
also inform her that it is past eleven. As she
lights her candle at a side-table I hoar a whin
ing and scratching at the front door.
“There is Laddie loose again,” says she.
“Would you let nim in, dear?”
I did not like facing the cold wind, but could
not refuse to let in the poor animal. Strangely
enough, when I opened the door and called
him, he wouldn’t come. He runs up to the
door and looks into my face with dumb entreaty ;
then he runs back a few steps, leoking round to
see if I am following ; and finally, he takes my
coat in his mouth and tries to draw me out.
Laddie won’t come in,” I call out to my wife.
“On the contrary, he seems to want me to go
out and have a game of snow-ball with him.”
She throws a shawl round her and oomes to
the door. The collie was hers before wa were
married, and she is almost as fond of him, 1
tell her, as she is of Jack, our eldest boy.
“Laddie, Laddie!” she calls; “come in, sir.”
He comes obediently at her call, but refuses
to enter the house, and pursues the same dumb
pantomime ho has'already tried on me.
“I shall shut him out, Jessie,” I say; “a
night in the snow won’t hurt him,” and I pre
pare to close the door.
“You will do nothing of the kind,” she re
plies, with an anxious look; “but you will
rouse the servants at once and follow him.
Some one is lost in the snow, and Laddie
knows it.”
I laugh.
“ lieally, Jessie, you are absurd. Laddie is a
sagacious animal, no doubt, but I cannot be
lieve he is as clever as that. How can he pos
sibly know whether any one is lost in the snow
or not ?”
“Because ho has found them, and come back
to us for help. Look at him now.”
I cannot but own that the dog seems restless
and uneasy, and is evidently endeavoring to
coax us to follow him; he looks at us with
pathetic entreaty in his eloquent eyes. “Wny
won’t you oelieve me ?” he seems to ask.
“Come,” she continues; “you know you
could not rest while there was a possibility of
a 'fellow creature wanting your assistance. And
I am certain Laddie is not deceiving us.”
What is a poor hen-pecked man to do ? I
grumble and resist and yield; as I have often
grumbled and resisted and yielded before, and
as I doubtless often shall again.
“ Laddie once found a man in the snow be
fore, but be was dead,” Jessie says, as she
hurries off to fill a flask with brandy, and get
ready somo blankets for us to take with us.
In the meantime I rouse the servants. They
are all English, with the exception of Donald
the gardener, and I can see that they are
scoffingly skeptical of Laddie’s sagacity, and in
wardly disgusted at having to turn out of their
warm beds and face the bitter Winter’s night.
“Dinna trouble yersels/ I hoar old Donald
say. “The mistress is right enough. Auld
Laddie is cleverer than mony a Christian, and
'will find something in the snaw this night.”
“Don’t sit up, Jessie,” I say, as we start; “we
may be out half the night on this wild-goose
chase.”
“Follow Laddio closely,” is the only answer
she makes.
The dog springs forward with a joyous bark,
constantly looking back to see if we are follow
ing. As we pass through the avenue gates and
emerge on to the moor, the moon struggles for
a moment through the driving clouds, and
lights up with a sickly gleam the snow-clad
country before us.
“ It’s like looking for a needle in a bundle of
hay, sir,” says John, the coachman, confiden
tially, “to think as we should find anybody on
such a night as this. Why, in some places the
snow is more than a couple o’ feet thick, and it
goes again’ reason to think that a dumb animal
would have the sense to come home and fetch
help.”
“Bide a wee, bide a wee,” says old Donald.
“ I dinna ken what your English dugs can do;
but a collie, though it hasua been pleasing to
Providence to give the creator the gift o’
speech, can do mony mair things than thorn
that would deride it.”
“I ain’t a deridin’ of ’em,” says John. “I
only say as how if they be ever so clever, I've
never seen it. ”
“ Ye wull, though, ye wull,” says old Donald,
as he hurries forward after Laddie, who has
now settled down into a swinging trot, and is
taking his way straight across the loneliest part
of the bleak moor.
The cold wind almost cuts us in two, and
whirls the snow into our faces, nearly blinding
us. My finger-tips are becoming numbed,
icicles hang from my mustache and beard, and
my feet and legs are soaking wet, even through
my shooting-boots and stout leather loggings.
The moon has gone in again, and th flight
from the lantern we carry is barely sufficient
toshow us the inequalities in the bight of the
snow,, by which we are guessing at our path.
I begin to wish I had staid at home, and I be
gin to> consider whether 1 may venture to give
up the- search (which I have undertaken pme
ly to satisfy my wife, for I am like John, and
won’t believe in Laddie), when suddenly I hear
a shout in front of me, and see Don a id, who
has all the time been keeping ciose to Laddie,
drop on his knees and begin digging wildly in
the snow with his hands. We all rush forward.
Laddie has stopped at what appears to be the
foot of a stunted tree, and after scratching
and whining for a moment, sits down and
watches, leaving the rest to us. What is it
that appears when we have shoveled away the
snow ?’ A dark object. Is it a bundle of rags ?
I 3 it—or alas! was it a human being ? We raise
it carefully and tenderly, and wrap it in one of
the warm blankets with which my wife’s fore
thought has provided us.
“Bring the lantern,”! say, huskily, and John
bolds it over the prostrate form of, not as we
might have expected, some stalwart shepherd
of the hills, but over that of a poor, shriveled,
wrinkled, ragged old woman. I try to pour
a little brandy down tbe poor old throat,
but the teeth are so firmly clenched that I can
not.
“Best get her home as quickly as maybe,
sir; the mistress will know better what to do
for her nor we do, if so bo the poor creature
is not past help,” says John, turning instinct
ively, as we all do in sickness or trouble, to wo
man’s aid.
So we improvise a sort of hammock of the
blankets, and' gently and tenderly the men pre
pare to carry their poor, helpless burden over the
snow.
“I am afraid your mistress will be in bed,” I
say, as we begin to retrace our steps.
“Never fear, sir,” says Donald, with a tri
umphant glance at John ; “ the mistress will be
up and waitin’ for us. She kens Laddie didna
bring us out in the snaw for naething.”
“ I’ll never say nought about believing a dawg
again,” says John, gracefully striking his colors.
“You were right and I was wrong,,and that’s all
aboutit; but to think there shouldibe such sense
in an animal passes me/”
As we reach the avenne gate, Ldispatoh one of
the men for the doctor, who fortunately lives
within a stone’s-throw of us, and-burry on myself
to prepare my wife for what is eoming. She runs
out into the hall to meet me.
“Well?” sho asks, eagerly..
“We have found a poor old woman,” I say ;
“but I do not know whether she is alive or
dead.”
My wife throws her arms round me and gives
me a great hug..
“You will find dry things, and a jug of hot
toddy m your dressing-room, dear,” she says;
and this is all the revenge sho takes on me for
my skepticism, The poor old woman is carried
up stairs and placed in a warm bath under my
wife’s direction ; and before the doctor arrives
she has shown some faint symptoms of life ; so
my wife sends me word. Dr. Bruce shakes his
head when he sees her.
“Poor old soul,” he says; “how came she
out on the moor on such a fearful night ? I
doubt she has received a shock, which at her
age she will not easily get over.”
They manage, however, to force a few spoon
fuls of hot brandy-and-water down her throat;
and presently a faint color flickers on her cheek,
and the poor old eyelids begin to tremble. My
wife raises her head and makes her swallow
some cordial which Dr. Bruce has brought with
him, and then lays her back among the soft
warm pillows.
“I think she will rally now,” says Dr. Bruce,
as her breathing becomes more audible and
regular. “Nourishment and warmth will do
the rest; but she has received a shock from
which, I fear, she will never recoverand so
saying, he takes his leave.
By-and-by I go up to the room and find my
wife watching alone* by the aged sufferer. She
looks up at me with tears in her eyes.
Poor old soul,” she says; “ I am afraid she
will not rally from the coid and exposure.”
1 go round to the other side of the bed and
look down upon her. The aged face looks wan
and pinched, and the scanty gray locks which
lie on the pillow are still wet from the snow.
She is a very little woman, as far as I can judge
1 pf hOr iu hex reemabent noflitioiu and X should
think must have reached her allotted three
score years and ten.
“Who can she be?” I repeat wonderinglv.
“She does not belong to any of the villages
hereabouts, or we should know her face; and I
cannot imagine what could bring a stranger to
the moor on such a night.”
As I speak a change passes over her face; the
eyes uncloso, and she looks inquiringly about
her. She tries to speak, but is evidently too
weak. My wife raises her and gives her a
spoonful of nourishment, while she says sooth
ingly:
“Don’t try to speak, You are among
friends; and when you are better you shall tell
us all about yourself. Lie stiff now and try to
sleep.”
The gray head drops back wearily on the pil
low; and soon we have the satisfaction of hear
ing by the regular respiration that our patient
is asleep.
“ You must come to bed now, Jessie,” I say.
“I shall ring for Mary, and she can sit up for
the remainder of the night.”
Bub mv wife, who is a tender-hearted soul
and a born njirse, will not desort her post; so I
leave her watching, and retire to my solitary
chamber.
Wnen we’meet in the morning I find that the
little old woman has spoken a few words, and
seems stronger.
“ Come in with me now,” says my wife, “ and
let us try»to find out who she is.”
We find her propped into a reclining pos
ture with pillows, and Mary beside her feeding
her.
“How are you now?” asks Jessie, bending
over her.
“Better, much better, thank you, good la
dy,” she says in a voice which trembles from
age as well as weakness. “And very gratoiul
to you for your goodness.”
I hear at once- by the accent that she is En
glish.
“ Are you strong enough to tell me how you
got lost on the moor, and where you came
from, and where you were going?” continues
my
“Ah! I was going to my lad, my poor lad,
and now 1 doubt I shall never see him more,”
says the poor soul,, with a long sigh of weari
ness.
“Where is- your lad. and how far have you
come?”
“My lad is a soldier at Fort George; and I
have come all the way from Liverpool to see
him, and give him his old mother’s blessing be
fore he goes to the indies.”
And then, brokenly, with long pauses of wea
riness and weakness, the little old woman tells
us her pitiful story.
Her lad, she tells us, is her only remaining
child. She had six, anti this, the youngest, is
the only one who did not die of want during the
Lancashire cotton famine.. He grew up a fine
lively boy, the comfort and pride of his moth
er's heart, and the stay of her declining years.
But a stride threw him out of work,
and unable to endure the privation and
misery, in a fit of desperation he “listed.”
His regiment was qua: tered at Fort George,
and he wrote regularly to his mother, his
letters getting more cheerful and hopetui every
day, until suddenly he wrote to say that his
regiment was ordered to India, and begging her
to send him her blessing, as he had not enough
money to carry him to Liverpool to see her.
The aged mother, widowed and childless, save
for this one remaining boy, felt that she must
look on his face on.ee more before she died. She
begged from a few whose kindness had
kept her from the workhouse, sufficient money
to carry her by tram to Glasgow; and from
theuce she had made her way, now on foot, now
bogging a lift in a passing cart or wagon, to
within a few miles of Fort George, when she
was caught in the snow-storm, and wandering
from the road, would have perished in the snow
—but for Laddie.
My wife is in tears, and Mary is sobbing aud
ibly as the little old woman concludes her sim
ple story; and I walk to tbe window and look out
for a moment before I am able to ask her what
her son’s name is. As I tell her we are but a
few miles from Fort George, and that 1 will
send over for him, a smile of extreme content
illumines the withered face.
“His name is John Salter,” she says; “he is
a tall, handsome lad, they will know him by
that.”
I hasten down stairs, and write a short note
to Colonel Freeman, whom I know intimately,
informing him of the circumstances, and beg
ging that he will allow John Salter to come over
at once, and I dispatch my groom in the dogcart
that he may bring him back without loss of
time. As I return to the house, after seeing
him start, I meet Dr. Bruce leaving the house.
“Poor old soul,” he says; “her troubles are
nearly over; she is sinking fast. I almost doubt
whether she will live till her son comes.”
“How sho could have accomplished such a
journey, at her age, I cannot understand,” I
observe.
“Nothing is impossible to a mother,” answers
Dr. Bruce; “ but it has killed her.”
I go in; but 1 find I cannot settle to my usual
occupations. My thoughts are with tbe agtd
heroine who is dying up stairs, and presently I
yield to the fascination which draws me back to
her presence.
As Dr. Bruce says, she is sinking fast. She
lies back on the pillows, her cheeks as ashy gray
as her hair. She clasps my wife’s hand in hers,
but her eyes are wide open, and have an eager,
expectant look in them.
“At what time may we expect them ?” whis
pers my wife to me.
“ Not before four,” I answer, in the same
tone.
“ He will be too late, I fear,” she says; “she is
gottiug rapidly weaker.”
But love is stronger than death,, and she win
not go until her son comes. All through the
Winter’s day she lies dying, obediently taking
what nourishment is given to her, but never
speaking, except to say:
“My lad, my lad! God is good;. Ho will not
let me die until he comes.”
And at last I hear the dogcart. I lay my fin
ger on my lip and tell Mary to go and bring
John Salter up very quietly. But my caution is
needless; tbo mother has hoard the sound, and
with a last effort of her remaining strength she
raises herself and stretches out her arms.
“My lad! my lad!” sho gasps, as with a great
sob he springs forward, and mother and son are
clasped in each other’s arms once more.
For a moment they remain so. Then the lit
tle old woman sinks back on my wife’s shoulder,
and her spirit is looking down from heaven on
the lad she loved so dearly on earth.
She lies in our little churchyard under a
spreading yew-tree, and on the stone which
marks her resting-place are inscribed the words,
“ Faithful unto Death.”
Our Laddie has gained far-spread renown for
his good works; and as I sit finishing this short
record of a tale of which he is tbe hero, he lies
at my feet, our ever watchful, faithful compan
ion and friend.
A TOUGH STORY.
A Water Monster that Devoured a Deer,
a Bifle, and a Bark Canoe.
[From the Gadsden, (Gai.) Times.]
I have noticed, that in your paper has been
published imperfect descriptions of strange
water animals, of huge size, being seen in
tbe Coosa. That monsters of which we can
find no name in animal history were in that
river many years ago, there can be no doubt,
if the tradition of one which was killed at the
head of the Ten Islands, in St. Clair county, be
true.
It is said that in 1816 and 1817, when North
Alabama was first being settled by the whites,
there came to that county, from Carolina, Jacob
Green, tbo father of Mr, Abe Green, his son-in
law, Mr. Wood, and perhaps Mr. Dill and Jere
miah Collins, father of Bev. Jesse Collins, now of
St. Clair, all of whom afterward settled in that
county. When they first came on their tour of
inspection iu search of a new home, they were
attracted to Fort Strother, on the Coosa, in
consequence of its being the spot where Gen.
Jackson, in.the Creek war, had nine militiamen
and one captain shot for mutiny in his army
on its march into the Creek Nation, on the op
posite side of the river. That place is but a
lew miles below the head of the Ten Islands,
and is opposite to some of them. They, as all
other persons coming into the country at that
time, brought with them firearms for thair pro
tection.
During their visit in search of homes, they
were.induced to go on the islands to ascertain
if they or any of them were of sufficient size to
make- a settlement. In order to reach them,
they-procured Indian canoes, made of the bark
of trees, in which to cross over the water on to
the. islands. These bark canoes were.very small
crafts, only of sufficient size to carry one, or
not more than two persons. Having prepared
themselves for the inspection of the islands,
they set out, and on approaching one, they saw
a strange animal, of immense size and length,
about the color of a catfish, but more in the
shape of a snake, which seemed to have drifted
up on the edge of a small island,,and was partly
out of the water, making movements and con
tortions, like it was in the agonies of death.
They approached it.
It was partly covered by ths. water and partly
on dry land, but was of such enormous size and,
strange shape as to baffle all their ideas of such
animals or their names in tbe whole animal
kingdom ; but that was certainly a water ani
mal of the snake genus. After watching its
movements and holding a short consultation,
they determined to kill it if bullets would do. so.
They then approached more closely to it and
fired several rounds, until they discovered that
it was dead. Then they went to it for a close
examination, to ascertain what it really was,
and discovered, from the sharp protuberances
and unevenness of its. body on one side, and the
evenness of the other, that there must be some
thing in it. When they discovered that they
had never seen or heard or road of such an ani
mal, they proceeded with their tomahawks and
butcher-knives to open it, and in doing so, to
their utter amazement and surprise, they found
in it a bark canoe, the horns and saeleton of a
large deer, the skeleton of an Indian, also an
old rifle gun such as the Indians of that day
used, and a bow and arrows. From finding the
above-named articles in it, and their appear
ance, they concluded that some weeks previ
ously an Indian had killed a deer, but it into his
canoe, and, while crossing the river, tbe mon
ster had swallowed the canoe, with the Indian,
deer, and other articles in it. The flesh of tbe
Indian and deer had been digested, put the ea
noe, the gun, the bow and arrows, and bones
were so indigestible as to sicken the monster,
and so enfeeble it that it had floated to where
they found it, and could not escape from them.
When ethers cam? V> the country, and this
adventure was told them, they wore incredu
lous, and pronouncedqhe whole story to be a
he. Those who had destroyed tbe 'monster
became more sensitive, and declined speaking
oi it any more, although they know it to bo
true.
THE
A MAN, A WOMAN, AND A BOY.
bktah’s great wealth.
A young man of twenty-five, looking as ro
bust as a government bitebing-post, and seem
ing to be a stranger to soap and water,, camo
along and tol-.l Bij ah a sorrowful tale. He said
he had had his pocket picked of four hundred
dallars, was a stranger in tbe city, and was at
that moment so hungry that he could eat shoe
blacking.
“You poor man! bow my heart bleeds for
you!” exclaimed the old janitor, as he began
taking out his wallet.
/There wasn’t anything in it but prated in*
vitations to base ball matches and river excur
sions, and as he put it back he anxiously in
quired :
“Can you change a thousand dollar bill?”
The young man couldn’t.
“I’m awful sorry,” continued Bijab. “If you
had only brought nine hundred and ninety-nine
dollars and ninety-five cents change around
here,. I could contribute something for your re
lief. As it is, you will have to suffer on.”
“I don’t believe you’ve got a thousand cents,”
growled the man as he turned to go.
“Boy, don’t talk like that to me? I don’t
wear,a tie-back, nor powder my face, nor own a
fighting dog,, nor play croquet, but that’s no
sign I hain’t wealthy. I don’t care to have it
known that Hug big bills around with me, but
when thereto an auction sale, who’s the head
man in the crowd? Who yells the loudest?
Wasn’t I able to pay seven dollars for an old
bureau last week when no one else dared bid
over three?”
The man went away mad, and Bijah wont into
the corridor and said to a prisoner that the
time would yet corns wnen the rich and the
great could wear ared woolen shirt around and
still preserve the respect of tbe general public.
A LIVING WAR MAP.
When Chase Martin walked out, there was; a
general stare. He had a black eye, a bitten ear,
a soro nose,.blood-on.his chin, and more scratch
es on his face than there are spokes in a buggy
wheel.
“Been down on the Danube?” asked his Honor,,
as the prisoner hung to-the railing.
“I don’t know where* it was,” was the an*
swer.
“Well, what happened?”
“Oh, nothing muchi”
“Did you rumagainst a wind-mill or a cage of
wild-cats ?”
“No, sir; Lthink-I had a little fuss with a
bartender.”
“You drank a glass : of ginger ale and then
wouldn’t pay for it, eh ?*’
“That was it,.sir ; and he flew mad about
it.”
“How long did it take him to curry-comb you
off in this style ?”
“I don’t believe he was over five minutes,
your Honor.”
“ And what is your defense ?”
“I was thirsty.”
“Well the supply of ginger ale at the House
of Correction gaveeut last night, but they’ve
got heaps of water up there. You’ll get along
very well for sixty days,.unless you insist on
marble wash basins and silver drinking cups.
Next.”
A VERY PROPER .PRISONER.
Her name will go down to posterity as Mrs.
Margaret Jones, of Croghan.&treet, and a hun
dred years hence it may be related that she
made a very profound bow to the court and im
pressively remark-ed :
“Sir, I am a very proper person, as I shall
prove, and I must be treated .as a lady.”
“Certainly, madam ; we are always willing to
extend the utmost courtesy to the female sex.
Let me observe that you were discovered hang
ing to a fence last evening—not by the neck,
but by your hands. You were calling for Henry,
in a very thick and husky voice, but there was
no Henry.”
“Did you ever hear of vertigo, sir?” sho
asked, as she stepped back a little.
“I have, madam, but it.doesn’t make th©
breath smell of gm.”
“ Sir, I was attacked with vertigo. lam sub
ject to it.”
“ Are you subject to calling for Henry, and to
biting and kicking policemen?’*
“No, sir, lam not; but under the impulse of
the moment even the Empress Eugenie might
cry out and struggle. Why didn’t this officer
ask me if 1 wanted to go home ? Why didn’t ho
escort me home ? Why didn’t he procure a lan*
deau and assist me to my residence?”
“There are several reasons why, Mrs. Jones.
In the first place, you were drunk. In the sec
ond place, landeaus don’t go: driving around
town at two o’clock in the morning. I know all
about your residence —I had the whole crowd
here one morning, including your coachman,
butler, footman, dairymaids, hostlers, and so
on. They are not out yet, and it will be a sort
of grand reunion when you walk in.”
“ Sir, I do now a-peal this case.”
“ And Ido now a-peal you for thirty days, un
less you hand over five dollars.”
“ I will send for lawyers, sir J*
“ Please don’t. Please go in and sit down.”
“ I nover, never will.”
But Bijah influenced her, and when he cams
out he scratched off the following ode and laid
it on the desk :
Her higll-born jaws on gum are working
Bight along;
In her bright eyes no tears are lurking—
She chaws it strong.
A grieving soul—a heart that*a breaking—
Lips that are dumb,.
Can easily bo set
By one cud o 1 ’ gum.
SMALL BOY.
“ Young man, will you ever again encourage
another dog fight?” demanded the court of lit
tle Joe Dayton.
“They encouraged theirselves, sir,” he sob
bed.
“Didn’t you help?”
“I h-helped the littlest.dog, sir.”
“Well, you let dogs take, care of themselves,
young man. Little dogs, must let big dogs
alone if they don’t want to -get hurt. You ought
to have been home sawing wood.”
“ We—hain’t—got—any.”’
“Well, working in the garden, then.”
“We hve up stairs over a store, sir.”
“Can’t you find anything to do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thon why don’t you?”
“ ’Cause I’m in here.”
“ Well, I’m-going to let you out, and if I hear
of any more dog fights, or boy fights, or cat
fights, up yoiur way I shall send lor you.”
“ And I’LL come right d-down, gasped Joe, as.
he clapped .on. his brimless hat and made for
tne door.
HE WAS ASTONISHED.
HB WANTED IT TO BUN DOWN
Hia BACK.
(From the OH City Derrick.)
“Cut my.hair,” said a customer, as he seated
himself iu a barber’s chair, “ and be sure you
let it run down the back of my neck,” referring-,
of course,.to the particular style of the cut.
The barber, was a-Western artist, having late,
ly arrived.in.Oil.Oity from.St Louis.
After clipping, away tor some time he con
cluded that perhaps the hair wasn’t running
down his .customer’s, neck as fast as that indi
vidual might desire it —although for the life of
him he couldn’t see why he should want it to
run down at all—and when a quantity had ac
cumulated inside his shirt collar, theaccommo
dating barber shoved it down and out of sight
with the handle- of the brush.
This performance repeated two or three
times, and the customer began to realize what
was going on. Henceforward he took a lively
interest in.the proceedings. He said:
“What in the name of the bird with the
broad.and sweeping wing are you,doing ?”
“It didn’t seem to run down,” said the bar-,
ber, apologetically, “ and so I crammed it down
with tne brush.”
The customer acted like a man, who had just
made the discovery that a rat had built her
nest between his shoulder-blades and had kit
tens.there; so he yelled:
“Cram your crammed head to crammation 1”
and then turning a double sommersault out of
his.chair ho kicked at the reflection of the bar
ber in the looking-glass, and tell to knocking
it forty ways for Sunday. While he was knock
ing, the daylights out of the barber in the aev
enty-dollar looking-glass the barber in. tha
flesh escap ed.
“MY" JOHN.”
A GOVEBNOB THAT WOULD HAVE
HIS HANDS FULL.
(From the Nets, Orleans Picayune.)
Governor Nicholls’’apartments were crowded
yesterday with many visitors who had called
upon matters of business—and some without
business—when suddenly the Governor’s atten
tion was attracted by the door flying violently
open, whereupon, in stalked a female of no very
small dimensions. The Governor; with his usu
al urbanity, rose and asked tho female to' bo
seated; but this, with scornful mien, she per
emptorily declined, at the same time asking:
‘•Are you the Governor ?”
“I am, madam,” was the reply.
“Well, sir, if you are the Governor, I would
like to know whero my John is.”
The Governor became confused, and inquired;
“Whois John?”
“Whois John, indeed?” 1 reiterated the ex
cited individual—“who is. John? Why, sir,you,
as Governor, should know that John is my law
ful wedded busband.”
“lassure you, madam, that I know nothing
of your John, as 1 have never seen him, and
this is the first time I have ever had the pleas
ure of meeting you.”
Whereupon the infuriated female hisses forth:
“ You’re a pretty Governor, to bo sure I Gov
ernor of the State of Louisiana and not to know
where my John is I Why, sir, the duty of a
Governor is to know where every decent, re
spectable woman’s husband is 1”
Whereupon slje made a break for the door,
and came near upsetting the porter, who, al
luck would have it, made a desperate luuge td
ope pide aad saved lumaelf.