New York dispatch. [volume], December 02, 1877, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
“Because I found it out unknown to you; it
was not for mo to speak; but now you know
what 1 know, let mo help you if £ can. Ftn onls
a rough, stupid fellow I know, but maybe I car
bo of some use. There's a story of a mouse
that helped a lion out of a net somewhere—
maybe 1 can do what the mouse did; I can
keep the secret, anyhow.”
“And help Mrs. Barrell to keep it,” Benzil
said, with a smile. “ Keep this foolish little
woman from calling me ‘ sir,’ if you can."
Polly was rather a grand personage in the
eyes of Jabez Black in spite of her dumpling
figure and anything but commanding manners
—was she not a sergeant’s wife and a being to
bo approached with awe and reverence in vir
tue or her husband’s rank? which Jabez still
held in the utmost respect. Ho bad, in a great
measure, lost his fear of the officers immedi
ately above him; he no longer trembled and
turned cold when the voice of the sergeant of
bis troops sounded in the passage, or shook in
his shoes if the color sergeant happened to look
at him.
He had come to knowthat contact with those
above him did not always mean punishment
and sharp words; and to think it possible that
some day he might attain to the same exalted
position, but still they were great people in his
eyes, and their wives ladies of position.
“I don’t know what Robert will say to that,"
Mrs. Farrell said, smiling on the awkward and
timid Jabez. “But I am afraid I shall want
keeping in order. It comes natural to say it.”
“But you musn't say it. I’m private David
Foster, No. 432, and nothing else—remember
that.”
“You’re not to bo private any more," said
Jabez, chuckling. “It’s inorders, and it’s to
be read out to-night—Full sergeant, and a lot
more about be’aving, and all that. Sergeant
Mace told me about it when he came from office
thia morning. He spoke to me quite friendly
like.”
“And why wouldn't he, I should like to
know ?”
“I don’t know, only he used to be so down on
me. “ It’a all your doing, David.”
“ Not a bit of it; it’s all yonr own. Mace isn’t
half a bad fellow, but ho likes men to speak up
to him, and not look as if they were going to be
kicked ; and you had a provoking way of flinch
ing when you were looked at, that made people
long to see bow you would stand a knock-down
slap."
“I don’t believe you ever wanted to give me
one.”
“ Perhaps not—because I knew the reason of
it all; no one wants to do it now, lam sure,’’
“I don’t think they do,” and Jabez straight
ened his broad back and stretched out Ilia sinewy
arm.
“There aren’t many of them that could," said
Denzil, smiling. “But about this sergeant
business, Jabez; I was in hopes it had all
blown over, and they were going to let me
alone.”
“ Don’t you want it ?— aren’t you glad of it ?”
Jabez asked, in amazement. “ It’s auoh an
honor.”
“Is it? I don’t deserve it. There isn’t a fel
low in the regiment that would not have done
all I did and more. As to being glad of it, I
don’t believe I’m half as glad of it for myself as
you are for me.”
“ I don’t think you are, and I hope they’ll let
me be your ‘man,’ Jabez, said. “There shan’t
be a better looked-after sergeant in all the regi
ment, if you’ll only have mo for yonr servant.”
The orders were read out, and the congratu
lations and fuss passed over, and David Foster
found his position much improved. With the
lighter labor, and the contact with men who, if
no better than their fellows originally, had
raised themselves by dint of brighter qualities
or good service, ho was much more comfort
able. His two friends kept bis secret bravely,
for ho had impressed upon them that he could
only wait in silence for some chance, though
open-hearted Polly was somewhat oppressed
end weighed down with her share of the bur
den.
If she only might have told “Bob,” she
would have been content, but her lips were
sealed, and she risked bis anger rather than
speak.”
Mr. Farrell was rather of a jealous tempera
ment, and quickly divined that his wife was
keeping something from him. He watched her
with the eyes of a lynx, but con'd discover noth
ing—there was no sign of any intimacy between
her and Bergeant Foster, who seemed a singu
larly reserved man, and Polly had hardly spoken
to any one else. Mrs. Farrell was beginning to
look worried and thin, when a stir arose in the
stagnation ot the regimental life. Some grand
English folks were coming to visit the colonel,
and all sorts of things were to be done in their
honor.
Hard work for the men, but fun for the officers
and their ladies—any way a bit of unwonted
bustle and stir.
“I’ve just heard their names,” Jabez an
nounced to his friend, after drill one evening.
“ Who are they ?” asked Denzil, with a secret
sinking of the heart.
“ Lord and Lady Lisle. Do you know
them ?”
“ When I was alive I knew a Lord Lisle, but I
am dead and lying in a nameless grave—l must
trust to that fact, and hope I may not encoun
ter his lordship. I haven’t an idea who Lady
lisle can ba—he wasn’t married.”
“He is now, and this is bis honeymoon
trip."
“I can only hope I have never seen his wife,
then. I wish the earth would swallow me up
while they are hero I” Sergeant Foster remarked,
fervently.
CHAPTER XXXI.
SERGEANT FOSTEB IS HONORED.
“ Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all tne honor lies.”
d'ope.
The ground did not open and swallow Ser
geant Foster up, and Lord and Lady Lisle ar
rived in duo course. It so happened that for
two or three days the sergeant only saw the
colonel’s visitors at a distance, but near enough
to recognize the fair, boyish face and shin
figure of the young Englishman, and to feel a
sickening pain at his heart, as he remembered
how many times their hands had met in friend
ship, and their voices joined in merriment in
London seasons gone by.
He had never thoroughly realized till now the
' gulf that had come between him and all con
nected with the past till be thus found himself
so near a man whom he had known and hked so
a short time ago. Now the faultlessly attired
figure, on the prancing horse, seemed as far
removed as the blue sky above him from the
humble sergeant at the head of his company,
as the troops filed past the colonel and bis vis
itors to the tune of a stirring Engl sb march.
The sergeant had not recognized Lady Lisle; if
she was any one he knew,he was not conscious of
it—all ho saw was a stylishly dressed lady, sit
ting in a carriage with the colonel’s wife, and
he thought no more about her, except to wish
her and her busband safe back in England
again. He was full of fears that Lord Lisle
would recognize him, but he might have set his
heart at rest on that point; such a wild idea
would never have entered his lordship’s not over
wise head. Denzil Fabrice was dead and buried,
therefore be could not be alive and soldiering
in Montreal.
Ho was delighted with his reception by Col.
. Dacro, who was an old friend ot bis father’s,
and thoroughly interested in all matters per
taining to the regiment, never having entered
the service himself.
He dined at the mess on the second day of
his stay, and was voted a jolly good fellow fay
all the officers of tbe 110th, who liked his ge
. nial bonhomie, and the frank, pleasant manner
which sat so well upon him.
“By the way, colonel,” he said, as they sat tell
ing and listening to various military stories
over their wine, “ I haven’t seen your great hero
yet. Is he in the regiment still ?”
“ Which one ?” tbe colonel asked, with a mer
ry twinkle of his eye. “We are all heroes in
ours, Lisle.”
“Ibeg ‘ours’pardon,” Lord Lisle replied,
laughing; “I mean tbe hero of the lire. Of
course all the regiment would have done the
same, but the mau who got the lucky chance
and saved the lady’s life. Didn’t he bring down
a child in each arm and the mother in his
mouth, or some wonderful feat of that sort?
The English papers got hold of the story, and
raved about it as penny-a-linors are given to
do.”
There was a general laugh at bls lordship’s
speech, and tbe colonel paused a minute before
he answered.
“If there is any man in my regiment who
would not have done tbe time,” he said, “lam
proud to believe that it would only have been
from physical incapacity. Foster is a practiced
gymnast, a man with an eye of a hawk, and
nerves of iron. What he actually did was to
make his wav to a window which seemed almost
certain death to approach, and rescued a lady
and two children. The first be threw out of the
window, trusting to thebeds and mattresses be
low to save it, and has thereby earned the ur
chin’s everlasting dislike and horror. Master
Willie Burgoyne regards him as‘the man who
threw him down,’ and will have none of him.
The lady——”
The colonel paused and took a sip from the
glass by bis elbow.
“Don’t think me a milksop, Lisle,” he said,
smiling; “I haven’Vost my pluck. 1 could face
fire still in the field, but my heart’s always in
my mouth when I think of that night. Bur
goyne is a friend of mine, and he was away, and
bis helpless wife was well tugh burned to death
before that man reached her ”
“But he did reach her; we knew that long
Ago in England,” Lord Lisle said. “Tbe story
did not lack telling, 1 assure you. My wife
ravea«about it to this day.”
“Yes, he reached her and brought her down
—tbe woman in his arms, and tbe little baby
hanging like a kitten from between his teeth.
Help reached him just in time—a fireman, as
brave as himself, crept up after him, and all got
down safe; hut your word was the true one,
Lisle—it was the act of a hero."
“ And ho paid for it with his lite, nearly, did
ho not?"
“No ; he got his hurts afterward in helping
one of the brigade out ot a fix that would have
been bis death if help hadn’t oome it did.
Foster got there just in time to c»*. the man out
ot his entanglement, and Uffan the roof fell in
snd he was badly hurt biflnself.”
i “ I should like t<* see bim-I should like to
{Snake hands Uivb him,” said Lord Lisle, with
jidmost boyish enthusiasm. “And so would
'Lady Lisle ; she has made an ideal hero of him
for months past.”
I. »“ shall see him,” said the colonel, touch
jdff,a bell as he spoke, “ though I warn you that
pe is as likely as not to run away and hide him
tskd if hf he uto be trotted out. He is
it a strange, reticent fellow, is Foster ; we had
w hard work to make him accept'anything, even
ly as a present, from Mrs. Burgoyne. He seemed
n to me to refuse like a man in her own position
;o might have done, with the ieeling a gentleman
- might have had.”
n “Perhaps he is one; there are many m the
army.”
il “ Thank you on the army’s behalf. I don’t
o know anything about him ; he is pretty well
liked, and is a thorough orderly, steady soldier,
o Find Sergeant Foster and desire him to step
g hero, I wish to speak to him,” tbe colonel add
•s ed, shortly, to the waiter who appeared in an
o swer to the summons.
“We have -made him full sergeant, and so
11 taken him out of the ranks,” ho went on. “It
,t was all he would let us do, and all the favor ho
- asked was that he might have his former ‘chum’
d to bo his ‘man.’ 'When a fellow attains the
if rank of sergeant, you know, he is entitled to be
ti waited on and have someone to do his work for
k him, in consideration ot the responsible post he
holds himself. A sergeant is a very important
e person in Her Majesty’s service, I can assure
t you.”
t "My ignorance is deplorable about the ser
-1 vice altogether,” said Lord Lisle. “This man’s
s ‘chum,’ means his friend, I suppose.”
“ It moans almost more than friendship,” the
" colonel replied. " ‘ Chums’ among our men are
1 almost doubles—they fraternize in every way—
t fight each other’s battles, bear the brunt of each
” other’s misdeeds, spend each other’s money,
1 and eat each other’s meals in the most amica
r ble fashion. I have heard that the friendship
in this instance is rather an odd one.”
1 “ How ?”
> “ Simply that Foster is rather a superior sort
t of fellow, while his friend is, or rather was, one
t of the roughest specimens of humanity that na
i tore ever tried her • prentice hand ’ on. He was
f so idiotic that it seemed impossible to keep him
m the service at one time ; but all of a sudden
> ho brightened up, and now he is ono of the
finest fellows wo have ; not the handsomest —
i Black would surely win the prize in a competi
tion of ugly men—but strong, stalwart, and
t well set-up, such a man as the queen wants for
i her soldiers, and an officer is proud to com-
> mand. He says ho owes it all to Sergeant Fos
. tor, and is as faithful in bis attendance on him
i as a Newfoundland dog. That’s all the .story of
i Foster, Lisle—and here’s tbe man himself.
Come m, sergeant, I want you.”
I Sergeant Foster entered the mess-room with
a sudden terror at his heart; he had caught
’ sight of Lord Lisle’s face at the colonel’s right
hand, and was half inolmod to disobey orders
. and run away. Was the recognition coming,
- and had the colonel sent for him because he
knew ? There was nothing in any of the faces
I that turned toward him from the table to war
; rant such a fancy, and ho entered the room with
a step as proud and firm as belonged to any
, there. Somehow he looked and moved the
equal of any man at the table in spite of the
’ pipeclayed belts and the stripes on his sleeve,
and there was dignity in the way he brought
his hand to the salnte and then stood to “ at-
. tention,” waiting tor the orders of his superior
, officer.
Lord Lisle looked at him curiously, and saw a
sun-burnt mau with wavy-brown hair cut very
close, down-cast eyes, shaven cheeks, and tbe
maras of some terrible bygone injury about his
mouth and chin, and he saw no more.
“ 1 want you to execute a little commission
for mo, Foster.” the colonel said, rapidly scrib
bling a note, as be spoke, with his pocket pen
cil. “I sent for you now because Lord Lisle,
my friend here, was anxious to make your ac
quaintance. He has beard of you.”
He spoke as courteously as though David
Foster were hie equal; thero was none of the
curt insolence of superiority about his manner
that so often exists in the speech of military of
ficers to those under them.
“Yes, I have heard of you, Sergeant Foster,”
said Lord Lisle—“all England has hoard of
you. I did want to see you ; I should like to
shake hands with you. Will you do me that
honor ?”
He held out his band in an impetuous, boy
ish fashion there was no resisting, and Ser
geant Foster took it.
“You are very good, my lord,” he said, in a
voice so husky and hoarse that no one present
would have recognized it; “I am proud ot the
honor you do me—but thero has been far too
much Baid about a very simple business already.
I hope every Englishman would have done the
same as I did.”
“That’s just what Colonel Dacre says. I hope
so, too; but, you see, vou did do it, and I am
proud to have seen you.”
A troubled look came into his bright, young
taco as ho spoke, and he stared at tho sergeant
in blank amazement. For the first time Ser
geant Foster had lifted his eyes and looked
straight at bun, and he was haunted by a
strange resemblance.
“A glass of wine, sergeant?" the colonel
said. “We all drank your health when you
were lying unconscious ot it m tbe hospital;
we’ll drink success to your stripes now, and
hope they may be tbe beginning of a prosper
ous upward career. Here’s a specimen of what
a sergeant may grow into,” he added, laying
bis hand on tho shoulder of the major—a bluff
old veteran, who had began his military life as
a drummer boy, and had won bis way out of the
ranks in tho hideous melee of Inkerman. Ho
had risen step after step since, liked and re
spected everywhere, and was as good a model as
any beginner could take to follow.
Tho whole table responded with a will to the
colonel’s proposal, and bumpers were poured
and the sergeant’s health drank in a fashion
cordial enough to have turned the head of a
wiser man than the recipient of the honor ; but
Sergeant Foster did not blush, nor simper, nor
look any way awkward at the unwonted grace
shown him ; ho simply inclined his head and
thanked tbe colonel as one gentleman might
thank another for such a thing, received his
commission (a note to a gentleman in the city)
and went his way.
“Who is he? Where did he come from?”
asked Lord Lisle, hurriedly when the sergeant
had disappeared.
“ I don’t think much is known about his ante
cedents,” Colonel Dacre said. “He came into
the service in tbe usual fashion of enlistment
—beyond that I know nothing. Do you know
him ?”
“ No—at least I think .not; but .he is awfully
like "
“ Like whom ? Any one I know ? ’
“ No, I expect not—it is a fellow that is dead.
I didn’t see it till he looked at me—the likeness
is in tbe eyes,” stammered Lord Lisle, afraid to
mention the name of Denzil Fabrics, lest some
friend of that dead unfortunate might be pres
ent.
CHAPTER XXXIL
A RECOGNITION.
'• I could not bear again
To fall from such a boavon."
—Lord Lytton,
David Foster went out of the officers’ mess
room with his head in a whirl. Conscious of
the honor that had been done him, and thankful
that Lord Lisle had not recognized him, there
was yet a bitter pang in his breast as bethought
of tbe looks and words of his superiors in that
sparkling, brightly-lighted room.
How many a time had he been the honored
guest at such a banquet, where wtne and jest,
story and song, had gone round as they were
going to-night, where he had stood to attention
while his officer spoke to him, and took the glass
from his hand as a favor.
“I must get away from it all,” he said, bitter
ly, to himself, as he walked out of the barrack
gate and down toward the broad shore of tbe
St. Lawrence with tbe note the colonel bad
given him. “ They are all good to me, too good,
but I cannot stand it. Every day that passes I
seem in more danger of betraying myself, and
speaking to my officers as though I were what
I am. the equal ot every one of them, from the
colonel downward, and my secret is known, too
—known to two loving, faithful hearts, who in
their very zeal to keep it are always io danger
of betraying it. I must show Her Majesty’s
service tba ‘lull front of my back,” as Shaun
the Post says, and run the risk of being caught
and shot for desertion. Oh, Gladys! my dar
ling, do you know how I have suffered for you,
I wonder ? Not unless you are dead and know all
that is going on here; if you are living yon fan
cy mo dead, and have, may be, forgotten me—•
my darling, my darling 1 Was ever love hke
ours so crushed and so bitterly ended ?”
His note delivered, ho made his way back to
barracks, entering by a different gate, one
which led through the married quarters, which
it was a hobby of the colonel’s to have kept very
pretty and picturesque; a source ot everlasting
torment to sundry slatternly wives and mothers
resident therein, who would far rather tbe trim
little garden should have been happy hunting
grounds for vagrant fowls and who hated the
quartermaster and bis sergeant with their con
stant visits and reprimands.
Hate as they would, they were obliged to con
form to rules, and keep the place tidy, and tho
consequence was that the quarters were a sort
of show place that every lady went to see.
A lady was looking at it now in tho clear
moonlight, as Sergeant Foster came past it—a
tall, slight lady, standing at the ornamental
gate which separated it from the rest of bar
racks.
She had a white dress on, and a broad hat
which hid her taco; he did not know her in the
least. Sbo movod a little as he came close to
her and spoke to him.
“Will you tell me which of these openings I
must take to get to Colonel Daoro’s quarters ?”
she said, with a slight laugh. “ I came out
through the window to see this pretty place
nearer, and I don’t seem able to distinguish One
1 block from another.”
“The second block, madam—l will show you;
barrack buildings all look very much alike in the
dusk.”
His voice was so strange and harsh that he
1 hardly knew it for his own., and she thanked him
1 and went on with a frankness and ease that
> seemed to sit quit© naturally upon her.
“ I don’t knew what Mrs. Dacre will think
I of me, but these cottages looked so pretty, and
I am so curious about every thing in barracks.
! Oh, thank you! I am all right now. May I
i know who it is that has been so kind as to di
. root me? lam Lady Lisle. Will you tell me
t your name ?”
i “M’y name is Foster, your ladyship—Ser
geant David Foster.”
i He bowed, and was turning away, when she
i stopped him by laying her hand upon his arm.
1 ‘‘This David Foster!” she exclaimed; “1 am
s so glad to have seen you. About the first thing
I said to Lord Lisle after wo landed was that I
- hoped I should see you. I have known you by
t name a long time. I should like to shake hands
- with you.”
a . Almost her husband’s words scarce an hour
NEW TORICJMSPATCH, DECEMBER 2, 1877.
1 before, and again David Foster had to put out
i his band to touch one offered in congratulation.
I The slight action drew him all unconsciously
i into the full light of a lamp, and their eyes
i met.
“Great Heaven!” sho exclaimed, “Denzil
1 Fabricel”
She knew him; her woman’s penetration and
; sharp eyes bad gone through the thin film of
I disguise in a moment, and he stood confessed
. before her.
> He knew her too; the first tone of her voice,
• as he drew near her at the gate, had sent him
flashing back in fancy to a brilliant London
ball-room, with its flowers, and scents, and
i bright lights shining down upon “fair women
; and brave men,” when he himself, the bravest
thero in outward seeming, had whirled round to
the strains of soft waltz music with Marcia Mon-
> tressor on his arm.
It was the last time he had seen her before
the catastrophe which had ended his career,
and he recollected every detail of her dress and
appearance perfectly. Sho had worn a white
dross with many skirts, all white, cloudy and
filmy, with here and there great clusters of
drooping red fusohias, “ like blood drops,” she
told him somebody had said, when she talked
to him in her free and easy way about hor at
tire.
And she’had rallied him about his lonely life,
and keeping Hunstonleigh ebut up, and many
other things about which a girl of the period
will let her tongue run riot, and he had thought
hor impertinently inquisitive, and anything but
the earthly angel she seemed to him now. His
one pervading feeling at seeing her was joy—.
joy bo great that it scemod to him as though he
would not care if she betrayed him and gave
him up, so she spoke to him of Gladys.
“Yes,” he said, quietly, “Denzil Fabrioe.”
“ And alive ?”
“It looks like it, does it not, Lady Lisle. Ab,
stay a moment before you turn from me,” for
she moved slightly, and he misinterpreted the
action. “ Betray me if you will, but spea k to
me ot her first; you know who I mean—Lady
Roehampton—Gladys 1 my Gladys to all eter
nity, though they did take her from mo so cru
elly!”
His words and tone were wild, and Lady
Lisle was half frightened and inclined to think
that she was dreaming, or under some dread
ful delusion. But it was Denzil Fabrice wbo
stood before her looking at her with the well
remembered eyes and speaking in the tones sbo
knew so well, though his face was so terribly
changed.
“Betray you!” she said, laying her hand
again upon his arm. “What do you mean ? I
am too rejoiced to knowthat that dreadful story
was false, and that you are alive to refute the
cruel charge that wrought such terrible mis
chief. Come in with me; Mrs. Dacre will ex
cuse mo for a minute.”
“ I must not,” ho replied, shaking his head.
“Your ladyship forgets my position here; I am
only Sergeant Foster, and ■”
“Ah, I forgot! Weil, 1 fancy my position
will entitle me to do pretty much as I please,”
said Lady Lisle, with a touch of Marcia Mon
tressor’s old pertness. “Were you seeking
mo ?” she said, suddenly to her maid, who ap
peared at the door, and stared open-mouthed
at tho spectacle of her mistress talking to a
“ common soldier.” Every one under the rank
of an officer belonged to that category with her.
“Yes, my lady; Mrs. Dacre has been called
out suddenly. Some poor woman is dying and
she has gone to see her. I was to maze her
excuses to you, and to say sho did not expect
to be detained long. I was quite alarmed when
I could not find you anywhere in the house.”
“Spare your nerves, Davies; “I was quite
sate,” Lady Lisle said, carelessly. “Go and ask
tho colonel’s servant—l see him in the hah
yonder—if I can bring this—this soldier,” she
added, suppressing the “gentleman” that rose
to her lips, “into my sitting room for a few
minutes. He is so terribly conscious of his po
sition, and I want to say half-a-dozcn words to
him before Lord Lisle comes in.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Tho girl entered the house and made her mis
tress’s wishes known.
“ It’s that Sergeant Foster,” she said, “ that
there’s such a fuss about. I wonder what she
can want to say to him, or why she couldn’t
have brought him in without such a fuss?”
“Wo are obliged to be careful of discipline,
here, miss,” tho man said, as ho wont to tbe
door. “Sergeant Foster would not enter the
colonel’s house without permission. Will your
ladyship .please to walk in here?” he added,
pushing open the door of a smell morning room.
“ You are not likely to be disturbed here. If
his lordship should oomo in ”
“Send him to me instantly.”
“For heaven’s sake, no, my lady,” Baid Ser
geant Foster, in a tone so low that the servant
could not catch the words ; “do not betray me
yet. Lord Lisle may not think as you do in
this matter."
They were in the little room now, with tho
gas turned up and tbe door shut upon them.
“Lord Lisis always thinks as I do,” she said,
with her own saucy smile—and indeed she spoko
truly, he very nearly always did. Marcia Lady
Lisle was a very happy woman, “ the very hap
piest in all the world.” she was wont to declare,
as far as her matrimonial matters went; she had
married the man she had loved and who loved
her, and she had wealth enough at her com
mand to mako her thoroughly independent.
Lord_,Lisle was a kind, indulgent husband, and
very proud of his handsome, intelligent wife.
“I will not tell him to-night, it you do not
wish it,” Marcia said. “But you will do well te
trust Hugh, Mr. Fabrice; he is ‘ true to the
core,’ as they say in novels and on the stage.”
“But he may have his notions of duty, nev
ertheless. I am a branded roan, you know—
there is a price upon my head, or would be if it
were known I was alive.”
“ Price or no price, you are innocent. I don’t
believe there ore ten people in London who
think you guilty now all is known. Vfhon the
reason of your silence waa found out, of coarse
no ono believed you to have bad any hand in
that murder, and ”
Denzil Fa brice caught her by tho arm, every
nerve quivering at her words.
“You are talking riddles,” he said. “For
Heaven’s sake, speak plainly. What is known ?
Is the man found who did that dreadful deed ?”
“No; but it is pretty well known that you did
not. Poor Gladys kept your whereabouts at
the tame no secret; Cataract spoke out, too.
But it all seemed no use, except to clear your
memory.”
“Gladys! tell me of her,” ho said, eagerly,
regardless of tbe rest of her speech, and only
hearing the one loved name. “Is she well—is
she happy? Ah, for Heaven’s mercy, speak!
She is not dead ?"
Lady Lisle shook her head with a pained
look.
“ No, no—l hope not, I believe not; but Ido
not know where she is. She has disappeared.”
“Disappeared!”
“ Yes, but she will be found ; she must, she
shall. Ah, do not look like that; indeed that is
all wo know, no more ; we do not knowthat any
thing has happened to her. All will yet bo
right. Your name will be cleared, and Gladys
found, and -”
“Marcia I”
The voice was Lord Lisle’s, and the tone one
of unmitigated amazement. There waa no trace
of anger in it, he did not believe himself capable
of such a feeling where Marcia was concerned ;
but for a peer of the realm to coma suddenly
upon tho wife of his bosom in close conversa
tion with a sergeant in a foot regiment, hor
hands clasping his, and hor eyas lull of tears,
gazing up into his face, was a startling circum
stance, to say the least of it.
CHAPTER XXXHI.
BACK TO BABTU AGAIN.
“Morn,
Waked by tbe circling hours, with rosy hand
Unbarred tbe gates ot light.”— Milton,
“ Marcia, my dear—Lady Lisle, what are you
doing ?”
Lord Lisle seemed scarcely to know how to
address his wife; it was only in his very gravest
moods that he called her “Lady Lisle,” and
she began to think he was seriously disturbed
by what he had seen.
“I am talking to Sergeant Foster, Hugh,”
she replied, with a smile; “I have had my
wish at last, and I have seen my hero.”
He could not understand her tone in the
least, and looked not one whit lees disturbed.
“Let me go, for Heaven’s sake, and keep
my secret,” said Denzil Fabrice in a low tone.
“He does not know me, and lam still safe.”
In spite of her words the old fear was still
haunting him; when a man has once felt the
clasp of cold steel upon his wrists, he feels a
very coward when the remembrance of it comes
upon him.
“I will not keep you. Sergeant Foster,” Lady
Lisle said, gravely. “Thank you for the ser
vice you rendered mo and the opportunity it
has given me of seeing a man I have heard so
much about. Good evening.”
“ Good evening, madam.”
“Sergeant Foster found me wandering and
belated,” Lady Lisle said to her husband, “and
was kind enough to show me tho way home.”
“And you invited him into Cotone! Dacre’s
house, and were as near kissing him as over I
saw when I came in,” growled his lordship,
when the sergeant had saluted and disappeared.
“You really must restrain your impetuosity,
Marcia. It won’t do for you to be caught em
bracing the army in this manner. I wondur
what the man thought of it himself.”
“ I don’t think he was very much astonished,
Hugh, dear. I don’t fancy he would have been
much scared if I had kissed him. Sargeant
Foster perfectly understood mo.”
“ Oh, did he ? I hope he won’t presume on
your notice and become a bore. Heroes of
his position are very apt to be a nuisance,
though I must say I thought him a singularly
refined person in his manner, considering his
position.”
"Yon have seen him then ?”
“Vos ”
“ Where ?”
“At the mess, this evening the colonel got
on the topic of the fire, and sent for him. I
felt quito glad to be introduced to him after all
I heard and I was struck by his selt-possessed
manner when the fellows drank his health and
wished him success; there was a curious sense
of equality about it—not like an inferior receiv
ing a favor—but of one man thanking another
for an every-day courtesy.”
“Does be remind you of any one?”
“Why? does his face call any one to your
mind ?”
“Let me hear what you think first,” Lady
Lisle said, with a laugh that sounded just a
little hysterical; “ women are fanciful you know;
you men are clear-headed and wise.”
, “Don’t be satirical, my lady. Sergeant Fos
ter did remind me of somebody—tho uoner
it part of his face is singularly like poor Fabrice.
i. ! I did not see bis eyes till I shook hands with
ly him, and then somehow I seemed to be looking
is I into Donzil’s face. It carried me back in a mo
ment to tbe last time I saw him. We were
il leaning over the park rails together, watching
the people. Lady Roehampton went by, poor
d thing, and such a strange look earns into his
if eye. I saw one hke it in that sergeant's face
d to-night.”
“Men have not the penetration of women,
i, after all,” Lady Lisle said graveiy, yet with a
u sparkle in her eyes. You fancied you saw a
u likeness. I knew him in a moment.”
1 “Knew him!”
i “Yes; where were your eyes, Hugh, that you
t could not see him? where were your ears that
o you could not hear his voice? It is himself—
- no chance likeness; how saved we shall know
by and by, but alive and in the flesh, in spite of
a all that has befallen him.”
, And having delivered herself of her secret,
1 Lady Lisle began to cry, and laughed and wept
3 alternately in a hysterical fashion that was edi
-1 fying to see.
t “ Can you wonder that I was clasping bis
i hands and looking into his face? Would you
have been very angry if I had kissed him ?
- Think of what he has suffered, my lord, and
how his life has been flung away for the Bako
of a helpless woman.”
- “And all for nothing,” said Lord Lisle. “If
I ever I felt tempted to curse a dead man, it is
■, when I think of that iniquitous will. I could
; not have believed Roehampton could have done
such a wicked thing. He could not have loved
. her.”
> “He seemed very fond of her.”
i ** Oh, it must have been ail seeming-; no man
who ever loved a woman would make all her life
bitter—by words from his tomb. Affection
would have spoken, spite kept silent.?
‘•Perhaps the past may be amended now he
is found. I don’t believe that Gladys is dead.”
i “Nor do 1; but about him, Marcia I What
shall I do?—go after him now?”
“Hem I I think not; bo seems to wish to be
• quiet. I don’t fancy it will do to attract much
• attention to him or his doings ; and we are such
very big people here, Hugh, that we can’t lift
our fingers without all the barracks knowing
which finger it is, and all about it. Let him be
to-night, and mane an opportunity.”
She laughed as she spoke; being “very big
Sle” was excessively pleasant to her; she
being feted and made much of, and to feel
■ that any man in those great stretches of build
ing would bo at her beck and call, and only too
; proud to do hor any service she wanted.
The opportunity she spoke of came all un
sought. Lord Lisle went out, cigar in mouth,
for a saunter in the moonlight, the colonel call
ing after him that he would join him in a min
ute, as soon as he had finished attending to a
letter that an orderly had just brought in. It
was after eleven o’clock—watchsetcing and its
attendant bustle was long gone by; the very
last bugle, sounding “Lights Out,” had sounded
an hour since, and the greater part of the bar
racks was wrapped in darkness and silence.
Tbe sergeants’ mess was still lit up, and quiet
sounds of enjoyment were proceeding there
from. Lord Lisle stood for a moment looking
at the curtained windows, and thinking what a
cosy place it appeared to bo, when a man stepped
out over the threshold.
Sergeat Poster, without a doubt, for he could
seo the seam across the lower part of his face,
before he got quite out into the bright moon
-1 ght, and then he looked at him and wondered
wiiere his eyes could have been that he had not
recognized him before..
“Only one does not expect dead people to
start out of their graves,” ho said to himself, by
way of excuse.
He allowed the upright, soldierly figure to
walk away several paces till there was no chance
of the sound of their voices reaching the open
door of tho mess, and then he followed quietly
and laid his hand on the sergeant’s shoulder.
He could feci how the firm frame thrilled and
shook under his touch, and he could see the
blanching of the sun-burned cheek. Denzil’s*
first thought was that he bad been betrayed,
and that tho grip of the law was upon him
again.
“Benzil! Fabrice, old friend, don’t you
know it is I?”
Their bands met once more in confidence this
time, and clasped each other with the hearty
English grasp that tells more than whole vol
umes of speech.
“You won’t betray me?” wore Denzil’s first
words. “I am dead, you know—let mo remain
so.”
“Betray you! You must come back, and take
your proper place in tho world. Ab 1 Marcia’s
eyes were quicker than mine. How could I be
so blind ? I cannot think bow it was I did not
recognize you.”
“I wondor her ladyship did ; I am very much
changed.”
“But you are Denzil Fabric© still—a falsely
accused man. Dawkinsis busy trying to clear
your memory from the stain of that fear
ful accusation. Everybody knows that you
were at Hunstonleigh when the murder took
place.”
“Lady Lislo said something of the sort, but I
hardly dared bolievo her,” Denzil said—“l
hardly dare think of it now.”
“You may, for it is true. Dawkins means to
make a name, and claim a big reward,” Lord
Lisle said, “over this case of yours.” You must
come back, and help him with all the evidence
you can give ; both the time and the reason for
reticence are past now.”
“1 must sleep on it,” as the old women say,”
Denzil remarked—“l cannot see my way yet.
Only two days ago I was wishing that the earth
would swallow me rather than 1 should meet you
face to face. I had no idea who Lady Lisle could
be. It seems all hke a wild dream.”
“You will find it a very pleasant reality, old
friend,” Lord Lisle said. “Come back to Eng
land again, and show the world that Denzil
Fabrice can take his place in it without fear.”
“Hu?h!” said Denzil, hastily. “No names.
What Ido must be done quietly; I will not be
known by my old name till I can show it un
stained to all who knew me. I must be Sergeant
Foster till lam clear of tbe service. I must not
leave the taint of a bad name with the regiment
I have chosen, and there are voany here to whom
the suspicion of a thing is the same as tbe thing
itself.”
“Plenty everywhere; but your comrades could
never think you guilty of murder.”
“I don’t know; soldiers are not a reasoning
race. My comrades like me well enough; but
if they knew that my wrists had ever felt the
policeman’s bi acelots on such a charge as that,
I should be shunned like a leper.”
“ I think you are over-sensitive on tho mat
ter ; you have brooded over it alone too long.”
“Brooded? aye, till my brain has whirled and
my heart sank, and I have wondered whether
there was any Providence at all when such
monstrous wrong was permitted on earth. I
have wearied Heaven with the wildest prayers
that ever were uttered that some light might be
thrown on tbe dark mystery of that night, but
it seemed as though the justice of Heaven were
deaf, blind, and dumb, for I was left to linger on
in my hopelessness—a branded, disgraced, lonely
man.”
“To be branded and disgraced no longer, I
hope,” said a voice beside them, and, turning n t
the sound, the two who bad been talking so
earnestly saw that Colonel Dacre had joined
them unseen.
“ Dacre !” exclaimed Lord Lisle, in amaze
ment. “You have heard ”
“ More than you meant me to, I have no
doubt, but nothing that I did not suspect be
fore.”
“you knew that this was Denzil Fabrice?”
“ Guessed it.”
“ How ?”
“ From many little things. I bad heard the
story—as who had not ?—and I have a knack of
putting things together. I knew there was a
mystery about this sergeant of mine, and I saw
his shrinking frqm anything like publicity. An
old brother officer ot mine of the 40th remarked
upon his likeness to an old gentleman named
Fabrice, who died some time since, and the idea
grew into my head somehow. Your secret is
safe with me, Mr. Fabrice, as long as you wish
it kept.”
“ Sergeant Foster, so long as 1 remain here, if
you please, colonel,” said Denzil, with a smile
and a sigh.
“ As you like, sergeant.”
“I will not wear my own name till I can wear
it stainless, and free from reproach. Lord Lisle
—God bless him for the words—has told me
there is a chance of it.”
“It is more than a chance ; it seems almost a
certainty. I have had a letter from England in
quiring after you.”
“After me?'*
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“ A man named Dawkins.”
“The detective—the mau who- arrested me!
What does he want?”
“To find you, it you are alive. I should say
he was a clever fellow. It seems he has had a
theory of his own about you all the time, and
has never really believed you dead. Noto ho
has some clew to the murderer of that poor
lady, and has hunted up all the information he
could about you. From, some clew he picked
up in France, he says he had reason to believe
you hid enlisted in my regiment, and asks me
to help him. He says he cannot spare the mo
ney or the time to come so fax on his own busi
ness, or he would have taken a passage over and
hunted you up himself. It is an odd coinci
dence that the letter should have come now; it
only arrived yesterday.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction,” is a trite
and true saying, and Denzil Fabrice paced his
little “bunk” all night long in a whirl of feeling
like a wild dream. He had been tracked, in
spite of the apparent certainty of his death, rec
ognized, notwithstanding the alteration of bis
face, and he waa told that he could clear his
name and take his old place in the world if he
would only return.
Verily, the gates of Paradise seemed opening
to him again, but it would be a barren Eden to
him without the Eve whose love had blighted
his life. Gladys must be found, and then—but
morning broke and destroyed his castles in the
air, and for the present he was still Sergeant
Foster, of Her Majesty’s 110th Regiment of
Foot!
(To be GontimiedJ
A Professor in Difficulties. — A
singular family feud is now exciting Richmond,
lud. A few nights ago H. J. Bargis, a prominent
. merchant, cowhided Proi. Waither, a musician, for
publishing Mrs. Bargis as a slanderer. He was ar
r rested, pleaded guilty, and paid a fine. On leaving
tho Mayor’s court he cowhidel the professor worse
1 than before, and the latter had him put under
> bonds to keep the peace to vard him. Mrs. Bargis
then took the matter up, and, as her husband
- couldn’t thrash the musician again, she forced her
r two brothers to take turns in lavina him nutu'.
U MIAM OF HISTORY.
<r i
o I
© I Concini, the Marquis D’Ancre.
__
I*
a All were sleeping in the Louvre. One room
3 only, the high windows of which looked out
upon the river, was lighted; it was that of the
young Louis XIII., son of Henry the Great,
£ who by turns governed his kingdom and played
, with some talkative birds which his favorite,
Albert de Luynes, had tamed tor him io amuse
his leisure hours or beguile bis weariness. The
! young king, notwithstanding the attention he
£ bestowed upon the birds which were flying over
_ his table, still seemed preoccupied and restless.
T Presently he rose, went to the partly opened
f window, and inclined his ear as if to catch the
sound of distant footsteps.
At length a slight clanging of arms and spurs
; was heard, and soon the rich curtain of gold
. brocade which separated the guard-room from
the king’s apartment was cautiously drawn
i aside, and two men entered, whose magnificent
garments were concealed by long black cloaks.
> “Ab, is it you, Albert?” said the young king,
making a sign of pleasure. “I believed you
j had forgotten your promise.”
“One does not thus forget the commands of
• your majesty,” replied Albert de Luynes, bow
: ing before Louis. “I waited until Monsieur
[ Vitry had completed all his arrangements; that,
sire, was the only reason for my delay.”
“Ah, well, Vitryl” exclaimed the king, sud
denly turning to the captain of the guard;
“have you chosen the persons that you will
need?”
“ Yes, sire,” answered Vitry; “twelve men of
tried courage, under the command of two in
trepid gentlemen, Hallier and Penay, will be
i to-morrow, at the break of day, beneath the
porch of St. Thomas of the Louvre. Following
the advice I shall give them, they will enter the
palace by different doors, and hold themselves
, ready upon the drawbridge to execute my will.”
“ Luynes should have explained my intentions
to you, Vitry,” replied the king. “ 1 wish to ar
rest Concini, Marshal d’Ancre ; and if he dares
to make any resistance, utter a cry ”
j “He must be put to death on the spot,”
added Luynes.
Louis made a sign of assent.
“Sire,” replied Vitry, “I will not conceal
from your Majesty that I run the risk of losing
my head in this affair. If, notwithstanding all
. my precaution and prudence, Concini should
escape from my hands, he will make the faith
ful subjects of your Majesty pay dear for not
having succeeded.”
“Am I not the master, Vitry?”
“Yes, without doubt, sire,” replied Vitry;
“ but your mother, the queen, grants unlimited
favors to Leonore Galigai, the worthy wife of
Concini; the tears of this woman will touch
your august mother, and the queen perhaps
will demand, from your respect and affection
for her, the death-sentence of those who have
rushed to serve you.”
“I know that my mother is bewitched by
these two miserable persons,” answered Louis,
in a voice tremulous with anger; “ but I shall
contrive in some manner to break the charm.
However, Vitry, the truncheon of the marshal
of France is a bait grand enough for one to risk
anything to obtain it.”
“ How, sire ?” said Vitry.
“The arrest or death of Concini is a victory
for the crown, and he who gains this victory is
worthy of obtaining the highest dignity in the
army. Yes, Vitry, the marshal’s truncheon
which shall fall from the hands of Concini
shall be yours ; you can pick it up. Besides, I
intend that the letters patent, which will con
fer upon you this title, shall be registered in
parliament, and the action by which you have
merited this recompense shall be related with
details.”
“ Marshal of France! Ah‘ sire, one braves a
thousand deaths to attain that distinguished
honor! Sire, in a few hours there will be one
• marshal the more •”
“I depend upon it, Vitry. As for thee, Luy
nes, thou knowest what I have promised thee.”
“Sire,” replied Luynes, “you know that my
devotion for you Iras no need of transmission.”
“I well know it, Albert; but thou also shalt
give a blow to the Colossus which weighs upon
my throne. Oh, my friends, if you but knew
how odious this Concini is to me! lam nob ig
norant that be steeped his hands in the murder
of my father, and that Ravaillac was only the
obscure agent of a plot of the Concinis.”
“I dare not affirm that your majesty cannot
be mistaken,” replied Albert, with hypocritical
moderation; “meanwhile, it is to be remarked
that since the assassination of the greatest and
bsst oi kings, the fatal couple have seen honors
and dignities rain upon them. Madamo Galigai
has become superintendent of the queen’s house
hold, and Concini has seen himself nearly at the
same time invested with the offiee of first gen
tlemad of the chamber. To-day be is Governor
of Normandy, First Minister, Marquis of Ancre,
and Marshal of France. He is so elevated that
he cannot reach a higher rank.”
“Heis so elevated that he must fall!” inter
rupted Louis, striking his hand against the
pommel of his sword. “He must be brought
down. The insolent being—not satisfied with
raising an army for his defense, stronger than
that of the king, my father,.when he was obliged
to conquer his kingdom—he dares to defy me
openly in my own palace. Yesterday, while play
ing at billiards with me, he said: ‘Sire, your
majesty will allow me to put on my hat,* and
without waiting my reply, put his bat upon his
head. Ab, how joyfully would I have given naif
of the treasure that my father has stored up in
the Bastile, to have seen his audacity punished
on the spot I”
“Sire,” said Albert, drawing from the pocket
of his doublet a little note mysterioualy folded,
“I forgot to deliver to your majesty a dispatch
that Nicolas de Verdun, First President of the
Parliament of Paris, forwarded to me.”
“Ah, give it to me, Albert. I have more need
than ever of the support and advice ot my Paris
Parliament.”
He took the letter, and read the following in
a loud voice:
“ Siiie : After the information which has come
to me from different quarters, I believe I ought
to inform you that M. Concini, Marshal d’Ancre,
has fortified the city of Quiilebceuf, under his
government of Normandy. The Parliament has
also just been attacked by the said Concini, re
questing the purchase of the earldom of Mont
beliard. The Parliament, sire, will repulse as
much as possible, for the interests of the crown,
the exorbitant claims of M. Concini; but bo
may finally make use of violence to oblige us to
register these acts, which will compromise the
integrity of the throne, and I believe that it is
my duty to point out to you the danger of it.
Deign, sire, to accept the unlimited devotion of
your faithful subject and servant,
“ Nioolas de Verdun,
“First President of the Parliament of Paris.”
“Well, you have heard it,” said the king.
“Concini no longer giveshimself the trouble to
conceal his plans; he walks openly to the
throne. Albert, Albertl” continued Louis, con
vulsively pressing the hand of his favorite,
“ this hatetui man must perish.”
“You have just pronounced hie death-sen
tence ; in a few hours your majesty shall be for
ever delivered from the miserable man who
dares lay a hand on your sceptre.”
“ Albert,” continued the king, “to-morrow,
at the break of day, let mv regiment of guards,
the only one upon which I can depend, bo
, drawn up in battle arrray in the court of the
, Louvre; make a hunting party the pretext for
this, so >s not to awaken the suspicions of the
queen; also secretly direct Nicolas de Verdun,
the first President, to assemble the parliament;
and finally, to take all measures necessary for
, the success of the scheme. Think, gentle
? men,” added Louis, with a dignity which was
not natural to nim, “ that the independence of
the throne and the glory of the nation are at
stake.”
The monarch made a sign of adieu, and the
two conspirators retired, both hoping, to gain
’ the offices of the State by the murder of Mar
shal d’Ancre.
We might now inform the reader that Con
cim-Concino was the son of a poor notary of
- Flanders. A gambler, spendthrift, and a liber
tine, spurned by his family, of whom he was
the opprobium, young Concini, at the time of
the marriage of Marie de Medicis with Henry
IV., enlisted among the footmen of this prin
cess, whom she brought in her tram into
France, as Catherine, wife of Henry H., form
erly brought all the swindlers and cut-throats
from Italy. Concini had the shrewdness to be
come attached to Leonore Galigai, foster sis
ter of Marie; he married her,, and this alliance
became a source of boundless favor and wealth,
which thus far had no equal. Marie loaded
them with presents, with donations and pen
sions. not only out of her own private purse,
but even from the State farms and the public
treasure.
The pride of the Concinis could no longer be
curbed. Leonore, whose haughty disposition,
and singular character increased with the favors
bestowed upon her, made it ber study to hu
miliate by her luxury and superciliousness the
most noble ladies of the court. Concini ruled
despotically in the Louvre; he dictated the de
cisions of the cabinet council, of which he was
president, affected the deepest scorn for- the
remonstrances of the parliament, and treated
the noblest lords of the kingdom with an. inso
lence that neither his knowlege nor his talents
could justify. Thus the indignation against
those detestable foreigners became generah
The hour of vengeance at length came. On
the morning of the 24th of April, Marshal d*An- ;
ere, with a crowd of noblemen, guards* and foot
men, proceeded toward the drawbridge, where
the conspirators were scattered. Vitry, in
grand uniform, as captain of the guard, stood
beneath the portico ready for action. The
guards were ranged in battle array in the
‘ court. '
The marsh al,, superbly dressed, was already in
the middle oi the draw-bridge with his royal
cortege l when Vitry went directly up to him,
and, laying his hand on his right arm, said :
; “ The king has commanded me to seize your
’ person.”
D’Ancre quickly turned to those who followed
p him, and called out in Italian;
“Me gentlemen ?” ,
These words were the signal for his death.
Vitry, Hallier, and Penay fired upon him. The
marshall fell, and immediately the regiment of
l guards cleared the drawbridge. Vitry then
, drew his sword and shouted, “ Vive le‘ Roi!”
t which was repeated by the conspirators, the
c soldiers, and the people. At this moment, the
" window of the royal apartment opened, and
’ Louis XIIL appeared, surrounded by his noble
r men.
s “ Thanks, my friends, thanks I” he cried, to
1 4 the conspirators.
r Thus expired the man who was, said Voltaire,
First Miniator without knowing tjxe laws of the
kingdom, and Marshal of France, without ever
0 having drawn a sword. Concini was m every
respect unworthy the wealth a Queen’s friend
ship had lavished on him; he did not know how
!, to adorm his greatness by brilliant qualities, or
by even apparent devotion to the country that
adopted him.
? After the cruel justice of the king, came that
5 of the people. Toward midnight, some Swiss
3 guards placed the corpse of the marshal in a
’ vault of St. Germain I’Auxerois. The next day,
1 the people of Paris hurried to the church, ex
» burned the body, and suspended it to a gibbet
' he himself had ordered to be erected on the
1 Pont Nouf, for those who should speak ill ot
J him. At the end ot a few hours the vindictive
• populace took the body from the gallows, dis
: membered it, and sold the horrible fragments
for their weight in gold! Lot us say, not to
1 justify, but to explain these cruelties, that Con
cini was thought by the people of Paris to have
[ been one of the assassins of Henry IV.
THEIxhSIELESSON.
A DOMESTIC’EPISODE.
“Have you told me the whole truth, now, Lil
lian, about the gentleman I saw you talking
with upon the bridge ?—the whole truth, re
member.”
“ Yes, indeed, indeed, Reginald,” sho ex
claimed, looking at him piteously, with her for
get-me-not eyes swimming in tears, and her lit
tle childish hands clasped in supplication.
“I wish I could believe you, but I don’t!”
groaned Reginald Trevor, starting un and be
ginning to pace the floor angrily, whilo his fra
gile little wife sobbed aloud in her excitement
and terror. “If you did not meet that man by
appointment, what made you pretend to have a
headache, to get rid of coming down to tea;
and what made you, when we were all seated at
table, go stealing out the back way instead of
the front, and walk straight there and nowhere
olse? And what made you look so frightened
when you saw me ? Tell me that, will you ?”
“ I—l thought the air would do me good,
and 1 didn’t want to disturb you. Indeed, in
deed, it is true, Regia, dear.” ’
“ And what made your polite acquaintance
turn and go off as though he had been shot out
of a gun, the moment he saw me coming ? No,
no, Lily, it won’t do. Your very terror now
contradicts your story. Will you tell me the
truth, or shall I wring it out of that man ?”
Lily rose to her feat trembling, her tender
face waxen white, but strangely calm.
“If you will let me, I will go back to my
aunt, Reginald. That is the best place for me
now.”
Reginald Trevor’s stern, handsome face grew
a shade paler, and his hand clenched and un
clenched nervously. If he could only believe
her!—his little snowdrop, that he had sheltered
in his bosom, and whose purity and truth he
would have sworn to.
“Will you tell-me that man’s name, Lily?” he
asked, more gently.
“No, Reginald,” was the firm reply. “You
have doubted me. I will not put it in your pow
er to question another concerning me.”
“I will find him, nevertheless. I should
know his sneaking, handsome face among a
thousand,” cried Reginald passionately, as Lily,
pale, but siatfely as a little queen, swept past
him to the door.
She was back again vorv shortly, dressed for
going out, and looking like a snowy water lily,
in her soft, white furs, with her dove eyes and
colorless face. She paused beside the door.
“Have you any objection to my going to my
aunt’s?” she asked.
Reginald strode across the room, with his
back to the door. He did not answer. She
crossed the apartment and just touched his
arm with her gloved hand.
“ Have you any objection to my going to my
aunt’s ?” she asked.
“Will you tell me that man’s name ?”
A faint tremor crept round Lily’s lips, but
she looked him steadily in the face, and an
swered :
“No.”
“The sooner you go to your aunt’s, then, and
the longer you stay, the better I shall be pleased,”
he said, with cold bitterness.
With a deep, inward sigh, the wife turned
swiftly away, nor paused till she knocked at
the door of a handsome residence a few streets
off.
A sprightly little lady, whoso resemblance to
Lily Trevor marked her at once for that aunt
who had almost since her babyhood supplied
a mother’s place to the orphan, rose eagerly
from under tne glow of the chandelier at sight
of her.
“Why,Lily!” was her dismayed ejaculation.
“Dear auntie, don’t question mo, please. I’ve
quarreled with Reginald, that is all,” Lily said,
hysterically ►
. “But, Lily ”
“Aunt Myra, it can’t be helped now, and I
dare say I was just as much to blame as he was.
Let it settle itself, won’t you?”
Aunt Myra looked as though she doubted
the chances of such an event; but she said
nomore. She know something of Lily’s firm
ness.
The matter, indeed, did not seem inclined to
settle itself in a hurry. Lily waited in vain for
some sign, from her husband. She sent for her
trunk in the course of the next day, and it
came without a word.
A week passed, and though Lily grow paler
day by day, and Reginald more desolate, neither
gave ono sign to the other. As Reginald was
returning from his club one evening, he found
himself behind two men, who were talking in
low but sufficiently distinct tones. It was some
moments before he took enough note of their
conversation to discover that they were talking
of him.
“Disgraceful?” said ono. “I should think
so; and I haven’t a single doubt, myself, that
Trevor is the one to blame. He was always a
haughty, jealous, tyrannical fellow. Lily Ram--
say was a great deal too good for him.”
“I don’t know about that. Trevor has his
good qualities—a trifle too proud, perhaps, and
inclined to bo jealous, we used to think; but a
good fellow.”
“I wouldn’t swear by the goodness of any
fellow that could quarrel this way with a girl
like Lily Ramsay wichia six months after he’d
married her. When a man takes a woman to
love, cherish, and protect, he don’t do it, to my
notion, by making his house so hot that she is
very glad to stay out of it”
Reginald Trevor quickened his pace and
passed the two gentlemen unrecognized. He
had heard enough to irritate him excessively.
There might not be one particle of justification
for these men speaking as they did of him;
but as he paced' angrily homeward, the words
kept recurring to him. “Haughty, jealous,
tyrannical 1” Was that Lily’s opinion of him, he
wondered?
He walked round by Mrs. Ramsay’s house,
keeping upon the opposite side of the way, and
regarding the mansion stealthily as he passed,
though it was too dark for any one to see him.
At the corner he even hesitated as a slender
shadow crossed the blind, which might be Lily’s.
Then murmuring. “ No ; I told her the longer
she stayed the better 1 should bo pleased, and
so 1 shall, till she comes to her senses,” he hur
ried gloomily home.
But his fate was not in his own hands. That
night his house was entered by burglars ; and
though he succeeded in routing them, he was
severely injured by a blow upon his head from
some heavy instrument in the hands of one,
that for days his hfe was considered exceedingly
doubtful.
The news came upon Lily without warning..
She was bending over some work, but not sew
ing the stitched, for tears. She put down her
work almost with a smile.
“Aunty,” she said, “that means me. God is
better to Regie and me than we deserve. He
won’t die, trust me for that.”
Reginald Trevor did not die ; and good Doc
tor Mortimer, who surmised something of the
state, of things, told him very plainly that he
owed his life to bis wile more than to his doc
tor.
“Was I haughty, jealous, and tyrannical?”
was Reginald’s first question of Lily, as he fee
bly drew her little hands to his lips.
Those very words had haunted his delirium.
Lily smiled tnrough her tears.
“Not more than 1 was foolish and wilful,”
she said, gently. “The man .you saw me talk
ing with was the husband ct my sister, who*
lives in Jersey, as you know. He is a bad fel
low, you also know. I spoke to him reluctant
ly, and I did not want you. to meet him. I had
no idea of seeing him when I went out; and if
you had not lost your temper so soon, 1 should
nave told you all there was to tell, though I
didn’t like’ to talk about it. Bhali we begin
again. Regie?”
“My darling, yes.”
THE
ONE OF THE STRANGE PLANTS
OF QUEENSLAND.
Though tho tropical soruba ot Queensland
are very luxuriant and beautiful, they are not
without their dangorous drawbacks,, for there is
one plant growing tn them that is realty deadly
in its eSects—that is to say, deadly in the same
way that one would apply the term to Are, as,
if a certain proportion of any one’s body is
burnt by the stinging tree, deatlawill be the re
sult. It would be as safe to pass- through fire
as to fall into one of these trees. They are
found growing from two to three inches high to
ten and fifteen feet; in the old ones the stem is
> whitish, and red berries usually grow on the
top. It emits a peculiar and disagreeable
I smell, but is best known by its leaf, which is
i nearly round, and, having a point at tho top, is
i jagged all round the edge, like the nettle. All
the leaves are large-some larger than a san-.
i cer.
l “Sometimes,” says a traveler, “ while shoot
, ing turkeys in the scrubs, I have entirely for
gotten the stinging tree, till warned of its close
• proximity by its smell, and have then found
myself in a little forest of them. I was only
i once stung, and that very slightly. Its effects
are curious; it leaves no mark, but tho pain is
maddening, and for months afterward the part,
. when touched, is tender, in rainy weather, or
i when it gets wet in washing, &c. I have seen a
! man, who treats ordinary pain lightly, roll on
i the ground in agony, after being stung, and I
’ have known a horse so completely mad, after
s getting into a grove of tho trees, that he rushed
s open-mouthed at every one who approached
1 him, and had to be shot in the scrub. Dogs,
- when stung, will rush about, whining piteously,
biting pieces from the affected part. The small.
> stinging trees, a few inches high, arenas dan
gerous as any, being so hard to see, and seri-
>, ously imperiling one’s ankles. This shrub ia
a usually found gfowing among palm.
HE WANTED SHORTCAKE.
BY THE DETIIOIT I'BEE PBESS ITEND.
Yesterday forenoon people passing out of ths
north doors of the City Hall observed a man
about fifty years of age, clad as a farmer, seat
ed on the stone steps and chewing away at such
a monstrous quid of gum that his hair flew up
every time his jaws camo together. He wai
enjoying himself as well as anybody can in a
country full of ague, politicians and lightning
rod men, when a young man about twenty years
old, and a woman of fifty, evidently bis mother,
got out of a one-horse wagon on the west side,
made the faded old animal fast to a post, and
staited into the Hall to see the Chief of Police.
Fate led them around the flat-iron corner to ths
north door, and as they ascended tho steps they
walked directly upon the gum-chewer. All of
them gave a start of surprise, and it was half a
minute before the little old woman called out:
‘‘Look at him, Tumus—see how ’shamed anti
sneaking he looks I”
“Who’s ashamed?” demanded the old man,
as ho stopped chewing and missed a motion.
“You be, and you know it I” she snarled,
“You went to bod mad, got up in the night
and sneaked out, and you must have looked
purty digging into town through the mud by
moonlight!”
“Don’t I own myself?” ho grimly asked be
tween his chews.
“ See here, dad,” said the son, whose mouth
seemed to water for part of the gun, “ you know
you made a fool of yourself, and you might as
well own it up, and come along homo. If this
thing gets out the neighbors will bore you to
death.”
“ I’m right on the death 1” sorrowfully an
swered the father, reaching into his mouth with
his fingers to turn the quid over. “If I can’t
be respected in my own house I might as well
drink boss medicine and die.”
“What nonsense!” urged the wife. “You
know you got mad first.”
“Hadn’t I a right to?” he solemnly asked.
“When the man of the house, who has broken
his back to make eighty-seven acres of howling
wilderness pan out produce till you can’t rest—
when ho says he’ll have shortcake for supper,
hasn’t ho a right to expect that the shortcake
will be t/iar when he sits down to the table ?’’
“But I understood you to say pancakes, and
I made pancakes,” she protested.
“Yes, I saw’em thar,” ho softly said, as he
spit way off down the steps.
“It’s putty small, dad, putty small,” observed
the son as he felt in his pockets for something
to chew on. “There’s the boss and wagon out
there, and you want to come along home.. Tbs
fust thing you know everybody will be calling
you ‘Shortcake Jones,’ anil I’ll be run down,
and ma’ll bo run down, and we can’t sell the
farm for ten dollars.”
“ Yes, come along, William,” pleaded the old
lady.
“ I’d kinder like to go back to the old place
and see if things look natural,” he mused, “ but
I dunno. As long as I don’t amoun t. to nothin’
nor nobody around thar, I might as well stay in
the city. Here they all take me for a big gun,
and over forty ladies have smiled at me thia
morning.”
“The jades I” gasped his wife.
“Dad, that’s a whopper, and you know it I”
said the son, whose jaw had instinctively been
keeping time with those of his father, “ .vou are
either going home or I’ll have the police put
you whore you won't see short-cake once in ten
years!”
“ See thar—didn’t I say so—didn’t I say I was
nutbin’ more’n a scrub in my own house!” ex
claimed tho old man.
“Come along—you shall have lots of short
eako,” whispered the wife, pulling at hie arm.
, “ No—can’t do it—not without guarantees,"
he replied.
“What do you want,William?’’
“Well, 'sposo I want shortcake for supper?”
“You can have it.”
“’Sposoiwant to Bit with my feet on tha
lounge ?”
“You may, William.”
“’Sposel want to lay abed Sunday morning
till ten o’clock?”
“You may, and I’ll bring your breakfast to
you.”
Ho was tempted.
A ROMANTIC MARRIAGE.
THE WAY THE THING IS HURRIED
UP OUTJVESI.
(From a Chicago Correspondent.)
A marrirge of rather a romantic nature took
place here a short time ago» A Western man
was in town for the purpose of disposing of a
lot of mining property which he owns in the
Black Hills. While here he took it into his
head to get a wife. He bad been married once
before, in Denver. He had seen a pretty girl
running a sewing-machine in a shop, had
marched in and asked her if she would have
him. She consented; they were wedded, and in
six months she got a Utah, divorce.
But he was not discouraged by this, and went
to a clairvoyant and asked.her to tell him where
to find the woman whom Providence had select
ed as his wife. If she put him on the right
track he would give her ten thousand dollars,.
So she advised him to go> to a certain large
shirt manufactory, and among tho girls em
ployed there he would find his fate. He went
there, and asked the proprietors to let him look
through their establishment. They consented,
and he went into the sewing-room, where a
dozen or more girls were employed. Presently
one of them struck his eye; he went up to hec
and said:
“ I did not come here to look at the place; I
came to find you. I want you to be my wife. I
can give you good references; I have been mar
ried once, but have been divorced, and have &-
copy of the decree, so that is all right.”
She looked at him, saw that he was not badly
dressed, and was reasonably good-looking, and
said:
“ Yes, I will marry you.”
They were wedded, and are now living in,
great happiness at one of our hotels. The
clairvoyant, seeing the notice of the marriage,
rushed off to ber eustomer and dunned him foi
that SIO,OOO. He admitted, his obligation, bul
said that she would have to wait until he sold
nis stock in the mines, and' then he would pay
up. In the meantime she would have to be
satisfied with $5 on account. She toon it, and
is still waiting for the remaining $9,995.
THE BELFRY OF TOURNAY..
A RELIC OF THE OLDEN TIMES,
At Tournay, in Belgium, there is a famous
old belfry. It dates from the twelfth century,
and is said to be built on a Roman base. It.
now possesses forty bells. It commands tho
town and the country round, and from its sum
mit is obtained a clear view of the largest and
finest cathedal in Belgium, with its nve mag*
nifleent towers. Four brothers guard the sum
mit of the belfry at Tournay, and relieve each
other each dav and night, at intervals of ten
hours. All through the night a light is seen
burning in the topmost gallery, and when. a.
fir© breaks out the tocsin, or big bell, is tolled,
up aloft by the watchman. He is never allowed
to sleep—indeed, as be informed the writer,,
showing us his scanty accommodation, it would
be difficult to sleep up there.
On stormy nights a whirlwind seems to select
that watchman and his tower for its most vio
lent attacks; the darkness is so great that
nothing of the town below can bo seen. The
tower rocks to and fro, and startled birds dash
themselves upon the shaking light, like sea
birds upon a light-house lantern.
Suoh seasons are not without real danger—
more than once the lightning has melted, and
twisted the iron hasps about the tower,, and
within the memory of man the masonry itself
has been struck. During the long peals of thun
der that come rolling with the black clouds.over
the level plains of Belgium, the belfry begins to.
vibrate like a huge musical instrument, as it is;--
the bells peal out,, and seem to claim,affinitj
with the deep bass.of the thunder, whilo th<
shrill wind shrieks a demoniac treble to the
wild and stormy music.
All through the still Summer night the belfry
lamp burns like a star, It is the only point oi
yellow light that can be seen up so high,, and
"when the moon.is bright, it looks almost red in
the silvery atmosphere. Then it is that tho
music of the bells floats farthest over the plains,
and the postilion bears the sound us he hurries
along tho highroad from Brussels or Lille, and,
smacking bis whip loudly, he shouts to hir
weary steed as he sees the light ot the old towei
of Tournay come in sight.
A LOVE STORY.
A charming love story, with a college profos-.
sor—possibly Thomas C. Upham, of Bowdoin—
for the hero', is told by the Bangor Commercial,
Among the White Hiils many years ago, a young
student met a lovely girl and lost his heart, but
dared not tell ber, so timid and retiring was he.
She seemed to be aware of his attachment, and
looked, upon him with kind eyes, but nothing
came of the acquaintance. They separated,
and subsequently each married another. He
became a college professor, evinced talent of
high, order, and won reputation at home and
abroad. At last the weight of years compelled
bjmito give up tho duties of his professorship.
She who had shared the honors of his career
had passed away, and. the white-haired profes
sor was left alone. Ho made a journey to those
granite hills where be had sighed and dreamt
in boyhood, and there ho found a silver-haired
widow—his old-time sweetheart. After a long
talk he rose to take his leave, and the dignity,,
reserve, and basbfulness which had been the
instincts of his life, seemed to forsake him..
Taking the venerable lady by the hand, for she
first and last time in bis life, looking her ten
derly in the face and calling her by her Chris
tian name, he said:
“ I have a favor to ask of you. Will you grant
me a kiss?”
Their lips met with all the fervency, if not tha
passion of youth, while tears streamed down
their aged cheeks,
. ■. -) —*
A Matrimontal Bureau. —At a matri- ’
monial bureau lately opened in Vienna, the ladles
pay a fee, and are required to attend for two houra
daily. Men call and are introduced. Women who
possess accomplishments are requested toplay the
piano, and are examined with regard to their senti
. ments and acquisitions. One visit sometimes set
tles a case, but more are often paid. The ladies
have the privilege of rejecting candidates withou y
being subjected to addition fees during the poriw
< tor wilicU they have oalJ.