New York dispatch. [volume], March 31, 1878, Page 2, Image 2

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2
He shrank as though the hand raised in warn
ing-had struck him.
“What have you done?’’continued the voice
go pitilessly sweet. “You have bad but one
object, and that has been to make the most you
could out of thorn to swell your own income, no
matter at what cost to them. You have never
studied their interests. Neither their bodies
nor their souls have had any care from you. Is
that right?”
“That is all nonsense,” he replied, more
startled than he would have cared to own. “ You
are looking at the matter from a preacher’s
point of view.
“ No—l look at it as any sensible person would
look at it. A great landowner is a great power.
He holds a great trust in his hands—life and
death are almost in his gift. You have been ex
travagant, without a thought save of self-indul
gence, knowing naught but your own pleasure.
Shall I tell you what you ought to be ?”
He was silenced by her passion and eloquence
—he had no anger, no impatience left.
“ You can tell me what you like,” he replied.
“ I will tell you. Even as a great king is the
father of his people, so should a great landlord
be. You ought to make the interests of the
people your own. When the two clash, you
should give way. Their cares and sorrows
should in some measure be yours. You should
have wise compassion, prudent forbearance, un
limited self-control. You should knowhow to
reward the good, to punish the bad. Every child
born on your estate has an immortal soul—you
sheuld provide churches, schools, and libraries.
You should know where to give in charity, where
to withhold your hand. You should know
that the health and in some measure the morals
of the people you govern are in your hands,
flourishing or otherwise, according to the
houses you give them to live in. I do not say
altogether, but in great measure you are re
sponsible to Heaven for your dependents, your
laborers, your servants, the poor at your
gates.”
He stood perfectly still, listening intently.
“Haveyou finished, Hildred?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “All that 1 say is in
vain; therefore I will say no more.”
She did not wait to hear what reply he would
make—it would have been better had she done
so—but swept from the room.
It was a humiliation for her when Mary Wood
ruff came again, to tell her that she had failed
in her mission —that, even at her solicitation,
the earl bad refused the little boon she asked.
She would have given much if she could have
shown even to this poor widow some proof of
bis desire to please her—but she could not.
She was one of those people who never defer
a disagreeable duty. She sent that same day
for the poor creature, who came trembling for
the fate of herself and her children. Lady Cara
ven received hoi very kindly, but entered at
once into the matter.
“I am sorry to tell yon.” she said, “that I
have failed. Lord Oaraven does not feel in
clined to forego the rent.”
“It is not my lord,” cried the woman. “I
know it is not. it is Mr. Bian tyre’s fault; he
said I should and must pay. But I cannot, my
lady; I have not the means.”
“1 have thought it all over,” said Lady Cara*
von. “ 1 cannot get the cottage rent-free tor
you, but I can pay the rent. I will give it to
you every month, but it must be on the condition
that you tell no one. Lord Caraven might bo
displeased if he heard it.”
It was humiliating at first to give charities
unknown to her husband, and then to beg that
they might be kept secret. The gratitude of
the poor woman in some measure compensated
her, and maoo hex feel less miserable.
But, though Lord Caraven bad laughed and
sneered and spoken angrily, he had not forgot
ten his wife’s words. Not for the world would he
have owned it, or that they had made the least
impression on him—on the contrary, he was, if
possible, more brusque and abrupt, quoted
Blantyre more frequen tiy, and talked more than
ever of jwbat *he would do with poor, tenants
—yet her words haunted him, They seemed to
be w-rittea in letters of fire, let him turn his
eyes whither he would.
As to Hildred, her humiliation had been
great. She was fast losing heart and patience;
her hope bad died a lingering death—there was
no gleam of comfort left her, turn which way
sho might. Sir Raoul was ill and seldom able
to leave his room. Owing to the number of
guests in the house, she could not spend so
much time with him as formerly. She was dis
pirited and depressed. Above all, she disliked
some of the visitors whom Lord Caraven had
invited. There was one who was young, effemi
nate, weak in character, not much stronger in
mind—a Lieutenant Hilstone.who had just suc
ceeded to a large fortune, and who seemed at a
loss bow to get rid of it most quickly. Lady
Caraven had a shrewd suspicion that some of
the visitors did not scruple as to how much
they won from him. More than once she
had overboard heavy wagers made with him
which she knew he must lose. She was scorn
fully impatient. Was not this conduct of her
husband’s disgraceful— to allow gambling and
b.etting under his roof— to allow a weak young
soldier like the lieutenant to ba what she con
sidered robbed?
One of the earl’s most intimate friends—one
indeed who knew all his affairs—was Sir Arthur
Oldys; and Hildred overheard him, quite by
chance, one day laying a heavy wager with the
young lieutenant. She looked at him calmly.
“Sir Arthur,” she said, “I do not consider
that is quite fair; Lieutenant Hi) stone has no
chance. You know more than he does when
you lay such a wager—you know that you will
win it.”
She never forgot tho sneer with which he
turned to her.
“Lady Caraven,” he said, “permit me to of
fer my congratulations. You understand money
matters almost as well as your talented father.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
*‘oua LIVES ABE VEBY MUCH WHAT WE OUU
SELVES MAKE THEM.”
Without replying to Sir Arthur Oldys’ insult,
without word or comment, Lady Caraven in
stantly quitted the room, her heart burning
with hoc indignation. How well her husband’s
friends must know that he did not love her!
Taey would never dare to speak to her as they
did but for that knowledge. How well they
must know it, when they dared to try to insult
her through her father!
Yet f.ho was powerless to resent it. If she
complained to the earl, he would at once
take part agains-t her—beside, her own pnde
would not permit her to do so. They might
insult her as they would; it was not from him
that she would seek protection. They must
have seen that after all she was but the nom
inal mistress of the house—that she was but a
kind of head housekeeper. Countess of Caraven
in name, but in reality a neglected unloved
despise! wife. She understood bow and why
these gentlemen failed in respect; her husband
bad sot them the example.
Lady Caraven fed something like despair.
Was -such a lice after all worth having? Was
her title worth undergoing so much for? Sne
was living without hope, without love, without
happiness, subject to much impertinence.
Surely life was not usually like this, or why did
people talk of its brightness, its beauty? There
was nothing to winch she clung m the life she
was leading. She would have sepirated herself
from Bavenumere and ad that it contained—ex
cept Sir Raoul—without a sigh; it was even
worse than that—she disliked ail belonging to
it.
Why should she submit any longer? She
would rather be a governess rudely treated by
an uputart woman t ian a countess neglected
and desoised by bur own husbmd and insulted
by his tr ends. She would rather forego every
luxury and work tor her daily bread than bear
this lite any longer. Why should she? Tne
earl had married her for her money; now he
had it—nothing could take it from him. Her
father bad sold her for a title; he could
call himself tho father of Lady Carav n—noth
ing could undo that. But she was indisposed
buy longer to be the victim of both. She
would-seek her freedom, and would find it.
She walked with head erect, with flushed face
and angry eyes, through the splendid rooms.
They were all more or less occupied. In the li
brary tome genth mou were writing letters— the
billiard-room was always engaged—tho ladies of
the party occupied different apartments. It
seemed to her that nowhere would she find
peace. Her whole soul was in a fever of unrest,
a tumult of sadness and weariness. Her heart
ached, her bead throbbed. She longod with
desperate longing tor a iew minutes’ repose—it
seemed to nor that bur life was hurrying on like
a swilt river into au unknown sea. She wanted
to stop and see whi-ner it was going. Every
where there was tne same noise—the deep voices
and deep laughter o', men. the light tones and
gay laugnter oi worn o. There was not a spot
in the whole place lor rest. She pressed her
hand against the tu nples that throbbed so vio
lently. Slie around her half irresolutely.
Whither ebould sh. go? Then she bethought
herself of tne plea • ■ —the only spot where
«he could even in. i.u.ie herself alone.
The pleasaunct-tniisr, been constructed
by some one who knew how human nature
longed for rest. I’ew ot the Ravensmere peo
ple knew of its exist wee—the visitors did not.
Some of tho servants were in perfect ignorance
as to its whereabouts. It was constructed for
the sole and exclusive use of the Ladies Cara
won. Rumor tuhl strange stories ot one of the
daughters of th j house who had been born with
a deformi.y in the face so terrible thai she was
unfit for human eyes to gaze on. The earl, her
lather, never permitted her to leave the bouse,
and this little garden had been constructed en
tirely for her use. It. was inciosed between four
high wails, and tiiOoc w tils weie covered with a
luxuriant growth of ivy. No windows, no tow
ers overlooked the garden. The paths were
broad and si light, the wuole place was a wil
derness of dowers.
The young w •_ a V thought herself of this
retreat. Shu 1 ■ . . key of the dark green
door that led :o : >■: oui had another. She
would go ta«in ;r sai 1 to herself, and look
her life in the . < .. . I men decide what to do
with it. 1c was .. ■? awning across her that
ehe would not be ■> bear her trials much
longer; that su < ada not and would not en
dure them; tua. . as a brighter life some
where, which sue was termined to find out;
that she couhl n • . ince her whole fife to a
shadow ot duiy; tha . fact, she would go forth
free.
f Free! The ver;, word made her heart beat
quickly, Free I SLe ould no longer be tied to
the man whose inc. c ~whose self-indulgence,
whose cold indifference and neglect, whose utter
want of interest m ins dutias, irritated and an
noyedher every hum of tne day, to the handsome,
indolent man who allowed fever and disease to
run riot In the cottages belonging to him, while
wrung from the tenants ail that he caul* 5
i- get, who abandoned every duty and was satis
fied to leave the most solemn of his engage
e ments to a man like John Blantyre.
e She was tired of it. She would be free—
u free to go whither she would. Why should
o she remain? Her father had deceived her—ho
ir had told her that she could live without love,
s that nothing was of anv worth except rank,
s wealth, and position. She had found it to be
untrue. Looking back now, she regretted bit
e teriy that she had not decided otherwise, and
u had not refused to live without love.
s She went to the pleasaunce. If she were
interrupted there, it could bo only by her hus
cl band or Sir Raoul; there was no fear of other
•. intruders. A sonsu of relief camo to her when
d she found herself between the four high walls.
> Tne blue sky smiled down upon her, tho lan-
- guid air stirred faintly, the scent of roses came
>. to her on the wind; Lt was like a reprieve to
enter that quiet retreat, and feel alone.
o She walked down one of tho broad straight
paths to whore crimson carnations grew side
by side with white lilies, and there she seated
a herself to rest—alone. And it was so sweet
] to be alone. There was no sound of mon’s
o voices or of light laughter; no sneer could
i reach her whore she was; there was nothing
a but the blue sky above, and the breath of the
1 sweet western wind. She was shut out from
- all sounds—alone, with tho thread of her life
> in her hands.
i It was a dreary tangle, a miserable disappoint
i meat. She was tired and weary. Looking
. back, she thought she must have been mad to
3 sacrifice herself as she had done; married for
7 her money, sold for a title, bor own will, her
j own womanhood had never asserted itself. Her
t handsome indolent husband did nothing but
j treat her with indifference and contempt. She
r could do nothing for him. Ho was on the way
. to ruin. How could she arrest him? His
• whole life was a round of senseless pleasure
• from which she could never divert him. He
had all that he wanted—her money. Now sure
ly she could go free—free, to lead a more con
genial life, wnere she would not live in the
i midst of annoyances and vexations.
Sho would go and live in France or Italy—
I anywhere away from England. Her father
> might be angry. She would not heed it. He
had shown but little love for her; she would
. not consider him. The only regret she felt—
[ and it was a deep one—was for Sir Raoul. Sir
Raoul, the only human being who cared for
her—what would he say when he knew that
J she was going ? Ho would miss her so terri
f bly; but, even for his sake, dear as he was to
her, she could not stay. lie would miss her, he
• who loved her with a true loyal love; but she
r would tell him how wretched she was, how ut-
• teriy miserable, and then he would see that
. sho must go.
i Suddenly—she could not tell why—the self
command of long years broke down. Her pride,
[ her courage, her high spirit, the proud sense
• of resentment that had sustained her, broke
down, and she wept as she had seldom wept in
[ her life before. The passionate tears seemed
i te relieve her. It was a luxury to weep there
alone -for once to give herself up to a full sense
of her misery, of her disappointment, of her
• blighted life—for once co dare to look tho truth
■ full in the face, and own to herself that she
• was one of the most miserable, moat wretched
i girls in the whole wide world.
• She sobbed out the words. It was a relief
to say them—a relief to say even to herself
i that sue was miserable; she had been so proud
; ly reticent, so seif-restraincd.
Suddenly a hand was laid upon her shoulder,
I and, looking up, she saw Sir Raoul standing by
her side. In his pale face, worn with pain and
I suffering, sho saw infinite pity, infinite love;
compassion and tenderness shone in his eyes.
» He bad never looked so true and so noble as he
did just than. He bent over her.
“ Hildred, poor child, is it so bad as this ?” he
asked.
“It is so bad,” she said, “ that it could not be
i worse, Raoul—nothing could be worse. I am
i tired of it. lam going away.’’
“ Going away,” he repeated slowly. “ That is
what I feared. Has your patience, your forbear
i ance, come to an end at lust, Hildred ?”
“ Yes,” she replied, truthfully, “ it has at
last.”
He was silent for a few minutes, and then, as
she looked up at him, a great awe stole over her.
: His eyes were raised to the clear skies, his lips
moved. Surely in a picture sho had seen a tig-
• ure something like his, with a serene light on
. the brow. Her anger, her impatience, her bit-
> ter contempt and dislike seemed to fall away
from her, even from that one look at his face.
Sho rose suddenly into something nobler than a
• weeping, vengeful, unhappy woman.
J “You are going away, Hildred—you can bear
it no longer ? Poor child! This reminds me of
an hour I spent once witn a soldier who was de
termined to desert his post and fly,”
“ I am not a soldier,” she said, with a more
1 pitiful smile.
“We will talk it over,” ho replied; and he
seated himself by the crimson carnations at her
side. “I wid tell you all I think,” he said,
' “and we will talk it over; then you shall de
cide.”
She was trying to harden her heart against
J him, to say to herself that, no matter what be
thought, urged or said, it should make no dif
r ference—she would go away. He was sensitive
• and proud, he was tender of heart, but how
could be understand her case? That which tor-
r tufed her was nothing to him.
J He looked at her with the sams sweet, noble
} compassion that seemed to her almost more
1 than human.
“ Hildred,” he said, in a low voice, “ will you
’ trust mowholly? Will you tell me the true
story of your marriage ?”
“Do you not know it, Raoul? It seems to me
\ so shameful I have no wish to repeat it.”
“I know something ot it,” he replied, “but not
the whole truth. I know that you will tell it to
me. I ask you as a physician asks. 1 must
know the whole truth before I can advise. Tell
mo one thing—did you love your husband at all
before your marriage?”
“No,” she replied, “not in the least.”
, “Will you tell mo again why you, a woman
- naturally noble, naturally tender and true of
; heart, married without love?”
i Sne glanced at him, her beautiful face full of
1 perplexity; she had gathered a crimson car
r nation, and was holding it between her slender
’ fingers.
; “ I will toil yon, Raoul. I asked my father
if love were necessary for happiness ; and he
) said ‘ No.’ I believed him; hence my mis
) take.”
) “ Your father deceived you.*”
t “ He did deceive me,” she replied.
i lie looked at the downcast face.
“ Hildred,” he said, gently, “Ido not romem-
• ber that I have ever met with a more thorough
i woman than you. You have all a woman’s ten
i derness of heart, quickness of inst net, fertility
of imagination, grace of mind—vour ideas and
thoughts are xrtl vzomanly and true. How
I could you be sb falsa to your whole nature as
to believe that, even when your father told it
. to you ?”
“ I cannot toll. As you say, my own innate
s perceptions ought to have told me it was false,
t but they did not. Ono reason is that I had
thought so little of the matter. I loved study
and books ; romance seldom, if ever, camo into
i my thoughts. I had no girl-friends to converse
) with. .It ever I thought of love at.all, it was as
f of some bright fairy-land that all the world
- sought, but few ever reached. I asked my
i father if one could live happily without love.
He told me ‘Yes’—even more happily—that
love was a fever which burned and fretted. He
J said that the calmest, the most peaceful of lives
’ were those in which love had no share.”
i •• And yon believed him ?’’
“Yes, I told him what poets and novelists
' said—how a great poet had said it was better
‘to have loved and lost than never to have
• loved at all.’ He declared it was all nonsense,
’ ‘the poet’s trade, the writer’s art,’ until—be
' li-jve me, Raoul—l half thought it a noble thing
I to live without love. Then—let me be quite
fiank—tho notion of being a countess pleased
me. Let me even be more frank. 1 saw Lord
; Caraven, and I liked him. Ho looked handsome
and fascinating—he seemed to differ from the
s Gorman professors or the City men with Whom
1 was familiar. I liked him, and I made a great
■ mistake.”
> “Will you tell mo what the mistake was, Hil
i’ drod?”
“ Yes. I knew nothing of money-matters—
I I did not even know that I was a great heirosg—
, and I was foolish enough to think that ho must
have seen me somewhere and have liked mo—
l that he must have admired me, or he would not
; have wished to marry me.”
> “ Poor child I” he said, with a grave, pitying
I face.
“1 could not understand it,” she continued ;
i “no one was ever so puzzled. I could not help
1 noticing his indifference and bis reserve, but 1
; thought that would all die away. Every day I
r was expecting to hear that he had bad some
- reason tor his coldness—some reason that had
. passed away. Every day I expected to hear the
t secret of his indifference. I hoped against hope
i —you see how frankly lam speaking, Sir Raoul
—and then I awoke to the sure and certain con-
1 viction that ho not only did not love mo, but that
) he absolutely disliked me.”
“Poor child I” said the grave voice again.
“Yos, I was daeply to be pitied. I was sorry
) even for myself. What made it worse was that
r at that time I was beginning to care very much
-for my busband. If he bad been kind to me, *
a should have loved him naw”—and, stopping sud
i donly, she wrung her hands m terrible despair,
s “Now,” she continued, “I dislike him—lalmosc
r hate him.”
, The beautiful face flushed hotly—the dark
- eyes were full of a strange lignt.
r “1 am alarmed at myself,” she went on. “I
i did not know that it was within me—this
- power of hatred. lam so frightened that lam
b going away, Raoul. My patience has failed
- me-”
“It is a sad story. Tell me, Hildred—why
s does your patience fail ? I love Uiric—l love
i you ; I can judge between you. Why does your
u patience fail ?”
£ “ I do not want to speak evil of my husband,”
□ sho replied, slowly ; “the very fact that ho has
t injured me should make me generous to him—
i the very fact that I dislike him should compel
- me to speak well of him. I love a noble foe.”
“If you were a foe at all, you would be a no
;; ble one,” ho said; “ but you are not. You
a may speak frankly, because you are speaking
h to one who loves Uiric Caraven in spitu of his
faults. Tell me honestly all about your dis
t like.”
o She was silent for some minutes, and the
>, crimson leaves of the clove-carnation fell one by
r one to the ground.
i- “ I do not like speaking of it,” she began.
3, “You must see, Raoul, as well as I do—you
o must understand. How could any one help
e despising and disliking a man who lives for
3 i w^o care 3 f or nothing but his nwn
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 31, 1878.
• pleasure, and leaves every duty neglected ?
. How can I love a man who married ma only
for my money, despising ma the while—who has
- not since marriage shown me the ordinary civil
l ity that a gentleman never fails to show to a
i lady? He is selfish, indolent—oh, Raoul, Ido
not like saying this, but if you saw his cruel
, neglect, his cruel oppression, if you knew how
i carelessly be leaves everything to John Blan
tyro, how heedless he is as to the claims of jus-
l tice, you would bo sorry for mo I”
“I see,” ho replied, quietly. “ Now tell me,
riildroi—l know you will speak quite frankly—
do you see one re looming quality amid ail your
• husband’s faults ?”
l She thought long before she answered him,
and then she looked into his face.
“ I am afraid not—l do not remember one.
Yes, there is one. I have never heard him speak
i falsely.”
Sir Raoul’s face cleared.
“ Uiric was a truthful boy,” he said. “Do you
know of anything else in his favor ?”
She thought again.
“ I think,” she replied, even more slowly,
“ that he is tender-hearted. Ho is not cruel;
he does not like to see people suffer; he is cruel
only to me.”
True in word and tender of heart—those are
two good qualities : we know that he hae a hand
some face, au easy grace of manner, a musical
voice. You see lam trying to discover his good
qualities. I will tell you something else. He
is a spendthrift—l do not deny it. He may op
press the poor on his estate—that lam sure is
done unwittingly; but ho has never yet refused
to help aco urada in distress. Years ago. when
I was a hard-working soldier, with nothing to
rely on but my pay, if I would have borrowed,
he would have lent me half his fortune. Ho is
open-handed."
“Yes,” she replied. Sir Raoul smiled.
“Liston again, Hildred. He has done all
kinds of foolish, mad. senseless actions; but no
one ever told ot him that ho had deus » mean
one.”
“It was mean to demand rent from the poor
widow wnose husband was killed in hie service.”
“lam perlectlycertain that John Blantyro
has misled him,” was the reply.
“It was mean to marry me for my money,”
she said, with flushing face.
“Ah, there I must yield! It was moan—it
was, in one sense, the worst action of his life,”
eaid Sir Raoul. “Let us make a resume. Hil
dred. Ho is true in word, tender of heart; he
was never cruel; he is open-handed ;he has
committed but one mean action; he is hand
some and accomplished, well fitted to win the
heart of any woman. Tell me—do you think it
quite impossible to love such a character ?’•
“I can hardly tell,” she replied slowly.
“ I think that Ulno Caraven has in him the
elements of a noble character, Hildred. Give
to a sculptor a block of shapeless marble, aud
what does he lashion from it?”
“A beautiful statue,” she replied.
“ True. Giveu a shapeless mass of qualities,
good and bad intermixed, I say that a good
woman from them can mould a beautiful char
acter. Listen—l will tell you how.”
He had drawn nearer to her, and the leaves of
the crimson carnation fell at his feet; the west
ern wind seemed to pause and listen—it fell
with a faint, subdued sigh.
“Listen,” he repeated ; and there was a grave,
sweet music in his voice that overawed her.
“Our lives, Hildred, are very much what we
ourselves make them ; your case is, I grant, an
exceptional one—your fate has in some measure
been decided for you ; but your ultimate des
tiny lies in your own hands.”
Sne murmured faintly that she knew it, and
that she was unhappy in tho knowledge. He
went on.
“ Your life lies before you now, divided into
two paths. Granted that you have been vic
timized, that you have beeu married for your
money, that you have beeu sold, as it were, for
a title, that your girlish romance and your
womanly tenderness have been anke outraged,
that you h.vo been deceived, persuaded that
you could live happily without love, and that
you find it all a mistake.”
•• Yes,” she repeated, “all a mistake.”
“Some girls in your place,” he continued,
“ would revenge themselves. Having no homo
happiness to tall back on, having no home love,
they would rush into excess of gayety and flirt
ation. There are some who would do even
worse than that—who would seek abroad the
love they did not find at home—l speak quite
frankly to you -but you ere too good, too pure,
too true to think or dream ot such a thing.”
She made him no answer; but Sir Raoul did
not seem to heed that. He went on.
“ You have borne your fate bravely as yet,
but now you have tired of it; your courage and
patience have failed—you have told me so, and
I can plainly see that in your own mind you are
seeking some means ot escape. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” she answered, “I must go away.”
“That would be a commonplace ending, alter
all—running away from your trouble. Hildred,
i can see how you may make yourself a hero
ine—how you may rise from this, your girlish,
dissatisfied life, to the graudest bights of he
roism. 1 see it, aud, unless lam greatly mis
taken in my estimate of your character, you
will do it; it is better to die on the bights of he
roism than m the depths of despair.”
She looked up at him with a gleam of inter
est in ber face. She had been so long without
hope that to be told she could be heroic
awoae within her a feeling of wonder.
“There are two ways before you—that of
fighting against your fate, rebelling with all
your heart against it, and that of submitting to
it and making the bast of it. You may, tor in
stance, leave Lord Caraven. You have money
in abundance, you could live either in England
or abroad, you could have plenty ot society—
but you would never be happy. You might try
to throw your whole heart and soul into the
gayeties and frivolities of the world—they would
tiro you; you are too noble for that. Then the
chances are that when you found all these
things pall upon you, you would want to lead
the woman’s true lite, which is that of love. Of
all fates that would be the most dreadful which
could overtake you.”
“I am not afraid of it,” she replied, slowly.
“So you think now; but I am one of those
. who believe that no woman can live without
b love. It you should ever, when tho world had
. tired you and your heart ached with the weignt
of your loneliness, seek comfort or consolation
. in the love of any creature, your fate would be
terrible. Picture yourself so situated—a wo
man beautiful, gifted and brilliant;‘married, yet
with no husoand ny her side; all duties of rank
and position ignored; mistress ot a home that
sho never saw; beautiful, yet miserable with the
never-failing consoiousuess that she had run
away from a life that might have been im
proved. It is a sorry picture for a noble wo
man, a sorry ending for a life that might have
been heroic.”
“ Yes,” she agreed, “a sorry ending.”
“Now look on the other side—suomission to
your fate. Believe this—whether he knows it
or not, every man is more or less in
fluenced by a woman; every sensible mini w.ll
own it—will own frankly that he owes the bet
ter part of his character to the influence of a
noble woman.”
She raised her eyes with wonder in their
glance to his face.
"1 thought,” she said, “that mon affected to
despise the influence of women?”
“Not true men. You may take it as a safe
rule for guidance that when a man rails against
women he is no gentleman. Ho may be a par
venu, a snob, an ignoramus; be sure ot one
thing—ho is no gentleman. The first instinct
of a gentleman is chivalry. Tne man who has
none should lay no claim to that title. Believe
mo, Hildred, most great aud wise men owe the
greater part of their wisdom to tho influence of
good and noble women. It is the grandest influ
ence in the world”—and tho soldier raised his no
ble head proudly. “ 1 need not quote history to
you—you are better versed in it than I am. 1
need not quote biography or poetry, nor point
to the man who said that he owed all his suc
cess in life to his mother, nor to the man
who owned that ho owed all his good
ness to his wife. It is the same story. 1 fool
inclined sometimes to think that the grandest
of God's gifts to this fair earth is tho influence
of good aud noble women.”
His eyes brightened, his face flushed, he
spoke like a knight of old. She looked uu at
him with wondering awe.
“ You may run away and leave your home,
Hildred; but that will be a commonplace end
ing. Dothat which is nobler, higher, bettor—
resign yourself, submit to your fate and make
the best of it. As a handsome and noble wo
man use your influence with your husband to
rouse him from his slough of desnond into a
higher life.”
“How can I influence Lord Caraven?” she
asked.
“You can do it by patience and persever
ance. Say to yourseli that tho task of your hie
shall be to make him a good man. Instead of
running away irom it, devote yourself to it.
i There is much said of woman’s mission—let
that be yours: and surely ihere can bo tio high-
I er or holier mission than to rouse an indolent
. man to a sense of his duty, a selfish man from
; his self-indulgence.”
“ But how could I do it, Raoul ?” sho asked.
“ You could do it in some tasnion. The well
being—nay, the very souls of men lie in wo
men’s hands. Hero is a life-long task for you
i —a glorious mission, a noble work. Give your
life to your husband—to the task of awakening
■ him to a sense of bis duties—to the task of
. making him a good man and a useful member
of sec oty, a conscientious steward of great
wealth, a just landowner; teach him how to be
; kind and just and merciful, help him to lead a
fair and noble life. Could any woman wish for
[ a more glorious task than this ?”
i Some of the light that shone on his face was
i reflected on hers.
i “It would be a noble task,” she said thought
fully. “Could I accomplish it, Raoul?”
r “ With perseverance and self-control that
: would amount to heroism you might,” he re
: plied. “ You must be the sculptor who from a
mass of qualities, good and bad intermixed,
’ must try to produce a perfect character.”
i “But,” she said, half doubtfully, “he does
- not love me.”
1 “That does not matter. I prophesy that he
will love you in the end—that when you have
. roused his soul from its sloop it will turn to
i you naturally as the sunflower turns to the sun.
; Do you not foresee it, Hildred ?” And an al
-3 most saintly enthusiasm shone on his face.
“Itis possible, Raoul, but-—•”
“Nay, ba brave. You must not even think
s of tho word ‘but.’ You must bo enthusiastic
f over it—nothing can be done without enthu
siasm. You must give yourself up to It, as a
. missionary does to tho conversion of the
i heathen, as a martyr does to his death. You
e must wont for it, live for it, die for it. Have
r you the courage and the constancy for this. Hil
n deed?”
> The light was deepening on her face, the fire
in her eyes. The passion of his words was be
ginning to tell upon her.
“ I have both tne courage and the constancy, ”
, she replied.
i “Think of the difference in the ending,” ho
said. “Imagine the earl on his deathbed, tor-
’ tured by the ghosts of those whom he has neg
lected, by the ghosts of duties left undone,
■ ready to curse the young wife who, by flying
from him and leaving him to his own devices,
bad hastened his ruin, body and soul—picture
• that. Then fancy to yourself the ear! on his
• death-bed, blessing the dear wife, the noble wo
man who saved him from ruin, who woke his
soul from its long sleep, who taught him how
to live and to die. Could you hesitate for one
moment between these two pictures ?”
“No, not for one moment, Raoul. Ido not
hesitate—l will not hesitate. I will do my life’s
work.”
“That is well said. You must resolve to
overcome all difficulties—you must say to your
self from the beginning that nothing shall
daunt you. You will think that lam preach
ing to you; but, although I have been only a
rough soldier, lhave seen a great deal of life,
and I have come to the conclusion that if wo
men, instead of studying medicine, quarreling
over votes, and attending public meetings,
would devote themselves to cultivating the best
qualities of their husbands, the world would
be better than it is.”
“Reforming their husbands’ instead of the
British Constitution,” put in Hildred, smiling.
But he bad spoken in solemn earnestness and
could not understand her smile.
“I cannot tell you,” he said gravely, “how
highly 1 think of you for having made me this
promise. When in tho years to come I see the
man whom I loved as a boy esteemed, honored,
and respected, I shall bless your name, even as
he will.”
A faint smile parted her lips.
“Baoul,” she said, “you seem very certain as
to my success. You have no fear that I shall
fail?”
“No. Those who sot to work with thorough
good will seldom fail,” he replied; ana there
was something in his quaint earnest simplicity
which carried her with him.
“I do not say for one moment that you will
have all plain sailing,” he continued. “ Indeed,
frankly speaking, I know no man is easily turn
ed from such fatal habits of self-indulgence as
Lord Caraven has contracted—it is a work ot
time and oi patience, of almost infinite love.
And you knew my opinion of it,” he wont on;
“it is the grandest of all missions that a wo
man can undertake. The apostle of the house
hold has a task as exalted as that of the apostle
of the heathen.”
She pondered bis words in silence broken on
ly by the westerii wind, as it bent the beads of
the roses, and shook the white acacia-blossoms
on to the giuss.
It was Hildred who with a little cry broke the
silenoe as sho looked into Sir Raoul’s face.
“We have forgotten one thing,” she said;
“we have decided tbatUiric’s reformation must
be attempted, that is a good thing to under
take, but you have not told me how it is to ba
set about.”
“Your own instincts will tell you that. Will
you let me speak !quite freely to you, Hildred,
and promise me that you will not be offendu d
with one single word that I shall say ?”
She raised her dark eyes to his.
“ You are so good, Raoul,” she cried, “that
I am quite sure you could never displease me,
say what you might; indeed, I look upon It
rather as a luxury than otherwise to be scolded
by you.”
“This is not scolding. You ask me how you
are to win your husband. I will tell you. We
start from this point—chat a great wrong has
been done you, but that you are too notde to
seek revenge.”
Her lace cleared.
“1 want no revenge,” she replied.
“Good,” said Sir Raoul; “a wrong has been
done you, but you will not retaliate—you are
even willing to return good for evil. Tne first
thing you have to do, Hildred, is to lay aside
that proud, injured, defiant expression that you
always assume when your husband is near.”
“Do 1?” sho asked*in wonder.
“Yes; you are perhaps bright, animated,
charming, when he enters the room, but the
next moment you are like a woman turned to
stone; a proud chill seems to come over you, to
freeze you, your eyes grow cola, all the smiles
die from your lips, you are as different in hrs
presence as sunlight is from darkness.”
“ How con I help It, when I know that he
does not like me?" she asked piteously.
“It is difficult, I adtnir, bur heroism will do
much. Now I knowsuch a mannerupsets him;
he does not like it. You may say that as be
does not care for you your manner can make no
difference.”
“I should most certainly have thought so,”
was her reply.
“But you are wrong, Hildred; I have watched
him very keenly, and I say that you are quite
wrong. When you draw that cold mask over
your face, you harden his heart against you.”
“It is always hard for me,” sho said.
“Then you make it worse—l have seen it.
When you arc proud and defiant, be tries to
show you that be does not care, that it is of no
moment to him; be says things to you that ho
would never say if you wore gentler. Shall I
give you an example of what I mean? Tho
other morning you were in my room; you had
brought me some beautiful flowers—you wore
like an sngel of goodness to me—your face was
bright, your lips were smiling, your eyes glad.
I was thinking to myself how lair and graceful
you were, how above all other women you
were calculated to brighten a man’s heart and
his home. You were holding a spray of mig
nonnette in your hands, telling me how fra
grant it was. and inventing all kinds of pretty
fancies in connection with it. Uiric came in—
you remember?”
She bent her head, and her face flushed.
“ I do remember,” sho assented shyly.
“He saw the m'gnonnotte in your hands,
and bent forward to look at it. *lt is ths
sweetest flower that blows,’ ho said. Tho cold
mask in a moment fell over your face, and I
saw you—mind, I saw you—throw the pretty
spray away as though it had stung you.”
Sho clasped her white hands with a pretty
air of penitence.
“It was very wrong, Raoul, I Know; I have
no excuse.”
“Then Uiric, in his turn, said something
about ‘ladies ’ airs which you did not like. You
swept out of the room; aud the next time you
met neither of you spoke.”
“How closely you have observed mol” she
said, with a hot flush oa her face.
“ Because I love both you and Uiric so dear
ly,” he replied. “Now for my illustration, Hil
dred. Suppose that, instead’of throwing away
the flower that bo lilted, you had looked up Into
bis face and had said something gay or grace
ful or pretty; ho would have returned a smiling
answer, and all would have been well; aud the
next time you met he would have been even
more smiling and you more kind.”
“But, Raoul,” she asked, “would that have
boon sincere ? Ido not feel kind or pleased—is
it sincere to affect to be so ?”
“You ought to feel kind—he is jyour own
husband. All that I can say is that you should
try to fee! so, whether you do or not. Now
begin this very day; throw off that stony mask
for ever. How Is he to know what a tender
soul is hidden by that freezing face unless you
give him some chance of finding it out ? Do
not say tc yourself that you will begin to-mor
row or the day alter—begic at once. Say to
yourself that you will win him.”
"is it not unwomanly to seek for love which
is not offered to you, Raoul ?”
“it might bo in a girl, it is not in a wife. I
think a wile should aspire to wiu her husband,
to make him love bar with all his heart.”
“Lord Caraven will never love me,” she said.
“I do not tbiuk that ho has any heart to give;
it is all wasted—he has had a hundred loves.”
“ But not one real one, Hildred. If you win
his heart, take my wordjtor it, you will bo his
first love. We will take our stand on some
thing higher. To win love is pleasant, but you
shall not devote your life to that. You shall
devote yourself to the rousing of a soul, natur
ally noble, but long buried in self-indulgence
and folly; you snail spend your life in making
the Earl of Caraven worthy of the name he
bears. You have promised.”
“I promise again,” she replied.
“Ah, child, you know but little, after all, of
what you will have to encounter 1 But a true
soldier uever deserts his post; he dies doing his
duty. You will have many sore humiliations,
many bitter hours of annoyance, many a con
test with your own pride, but you will win in
the end—of that lam sure—and we shall begin
our now life, Hildred. to-day.”
She had clasped her hands together, and she
looked at him with piteous entreaty.
“I wish,” she said, “that you would tell me
what to do first. 1 could go oa if I only knew
bow to begin.”
He smiled gravely.
“Perhaps you would think my first lesson a
very hard one,” he said.
“I will do what you tell me, Raoul, lot it be
what it may.”
“Then I shall suggest this. You wish to
make a little advance—nothing very marked,
but some trilling act of civility that will make
amends, aud show your desire to be what chil
dren call ‘friends.’”
He did not know what an effort it cost her to
say “Yes,” but she did say it, aud she meant
it.
“Then this is what I suggest. It was about
a spray ot nugnonnette that you displeased
Uiric last. Gather some beautiful sGrays of it,
the finest you can obtain, and take them to
him. Say quite carelessly, ‘ You admire mig
nonnette, so 1 have brought you this.’”
“And suppose,” said Hildred, “that he re
pays mo in kind by throwing it away’?”
“Never mind—courage and patience must be
your watchwords. Ah, Hildred, alter all, our
likes and dislikes should have little to do with
our duties 1 Yon will not bo alone in your strug
gles; I shall watch over you, I shall help you,
and sympathy is sweet.”
Sho caught bis hand and kissed it. He saw
her face clear, and a bright earnest light shine
in her eyes.
“Do you know, Raoul,” she said, “ that I feel
happier even now before I bavj begun. I did
' not like Hie thought ot running away ; there
was something very cowardly about it. Now I
shall never think of it again. I shall enduro to
the very end. lam happier even for the re
solve. 1 have something to live for—
. < Something io live for, life to begin;
Something to fight for, something to win.’
, I must ba more patient than patience itself. I
, must bo huiublo; all vanity and sell-esteem
; must leave me before I begin the task that you
, have set me. I must rise from the cotainon
. -'>co to the heroic, and say to myself, it is for
she good of a human soul."
i “Hildred, you do not know how often I have
- longed to speak to you about this,” he remarked
—“to help you, to advise you; and now that you
” have given me the privilege I shall not be slow
to avail myself of it.”
3 It was wonderful how the expression of the
- beautiful face had changed during that quiet
- interview. She rose with the gayest, sweetest
, laugh he had ever heard from her lips.
j “I am a Woman with a Mission,” she said,
, “and I shall always think of myself with capi
□ tai letters. Raoul, I cannot bo grateful enough
3 to you. When you first entered the house I
- felt as though Heaven had sent mo a friend,
a If happiness comes to me through following
r your counsel, how shall I thank you ?”
3 “Ishall need no thanks, Hildred,”he replied.
“ You are and have been, ever since I first saw
t you, the dearest object on earth to me. You
a are my dear sister, Ulric’s wife. I have loved
Ulrio all my life—l could not help loving you.”
) “ Now lam going to practise my first lesson
in humility.” she said. “Raoul, I wish that
I you could be in the room when I give my has-
- band the mignonnette.”
i “That would spoil it all,” he replied, laugh
, ingly; “and he is so quick, so keen, he would
• find out at once that the little scene had been
' arranged between us.”
, “Thenl must venture all by myself, I sup
; pose,” said Lady Caraven. “Ifeel as shy as—l
I cannot tell you wnat. Raoul, if he is cross or
contemptuous I shall lose heart.”
i “No, you will not. Having once put your
hand to the plow, you will not turn back.
I When your hope or your courage fails you, say
to yourself. ‘I have to win my husband’s heart’
r —that will give you all your courage again.”
i She walked slowly down the path, Sir Raoul
) by her side. She looked lound on the four high ■
, ivied walls. ■
( “I have always loved this little pleasaunce.” .
she said. “1 shall love it better than ever
now. It will seem almost like a church to me.”
i “ Why like a church ?” he asked, with some
I amusement.
“Because one of the best sermons I have ’
i ever heard preached has been preached to mo 1
> here,” she replied. “I have learned a lesson '
r here. I shall never see these high ivied wails <
or touoh a crimson carnation without thinking 1
of you, Raoul, and all that you have said.”
, Then ho watched her as she went from one
. bed of mignonnette to another, looking eagerly <
for the choicest sprays, holding them up to 1
t him with wistful, eager face and sweet, pa- '
thetic eyes.
; “Will this do, and this?” she asked, as sim
ply as a child. “ Oh, Raoul, I hope he will not 1
bo’ angry—l hope he will be pleased! I shall
i tell you how 1 get on. lam nervous about it.” ;
In another minute the beautiful face had dis-
■ appeared, and Sir Raoul was left in the pleas- 1
aunce alone. <
i “A man might lay down his life for such a
woman as that,” he said, with what was almost
> a sigh.
Lord Caraven stood in the billiard-room at
. Ravensmere; be had been playing with one of i
his friends, who, having received a telegram,
i had gone to answer it. He stood alone, leaning 1
carelessly against the open veranda, something ’
more than his usual indifference darkening his 1
, face; he never liked interruption during a
t game. <
“A most unpropitious moment,” thought the I
young countess, as she caught sight of him;
but having given her word to Sir Raoul, she 1
would have marched up to the mouth of a load
ed cannon rather than have broken it. :
L Looking up, the earl could not but confess :
that he had seldom seen a lovelier picture than <
bis young wife at that moment presented, with i
i a flush on her face, and her hands filled with <
i sprays of fragrant mignonnette.
> Bhe would not reveal her hesitation, but went :
straight to him, smiling so that he little guessed <
how ner heart beat. He raised his eyebrows as (
she drew nearer to him. Wnat was going to
happen? Before he had time to speak his face i
was buried in a soft, dewy mass of fragrant
mignonnette.
“ There 1” said a laughing voice. “You said 1
i this morning that this was your favorite flower. I
I have been looking for the most fragrant sprays ■
of it that I could find.”
, He could not believe the evidence of his :
i senses; it was incredible that the laughing voice
i belonged to his cold, proud wife—the girl who ’
bad swept imperiously from the room when he J
i saw her last. He looked at her in amazement. 1
i She would not sea the surprise on his face or
make the least difference because of it.
s “ You have the very pick of the garden here,” .
she said; “every spray has its own special (
beauty.”
He roused himself, and tried to recover from ,
she wondering stupor that had overcome him. j
> “You really remembered, Hildred, what I (
said?” be began, with a pleased look.
1 “ Yes, and I think you showed good taste,” f
she replied. “1 know no flower lovelier than .
fragrant mignonnette.”
i “ And you realiy think that I have good
■ taste?” he said. (
“ Yes. Why should that surprise you ?” she ,
asked with a smile.
, His face flushed and his eyes drooped.
“ 1 fancied,” ho said hurriedly, “ that you
> considered me altogether graceless and with- ;
i nut one redeeming quality.”
“Indeed I do not,” she replied earnestly, '
i thinking ot ail that Sir Rioul had said in bis
favor. “ That is a great mistake of yours.” (
. «• There is one thing,” he confessed in a low (
voice, “I have shown the worst side of my
character to you.”
I She felt frightened and inclined to run away. (
I “ You will not lose my flowers or throw them ,
away ?” she said. And tuen she was startled,
■ tor bis handsome indolent eyes wore looking
into heis with a new expression in their blue
’ depths. '
“Aml so wanting in chivalry and gallantry,
Hildred ?” he asked her. “ I believe this is the
first thing that you have ever given me of your
own free will, is it not ?”
“ No,” she replied quietly, “ it is not.”
“Ah, pardon me,” he said, with a quick
change of face and voice—“ you gave me your ,
fortune 1”
There was hot rebellion for one moment— ,
hot. bitter rebellion. Then she remembered ,
■ Sir Raoul’s words, it was for her husband's
good. She trampled down the hot impulse of ]
• angry pride—she stilled the bitter anger and (
contempt. Her victory over herself was so ,
great that she was even surprised at it. She
laid her hand on his arm. ,
“Nay, Lord Caraven,”she said gently, “you ]
are quite wrong. I was not thinking of money.
i Gold is dross, I despise it—l could almost hate 1
it for the mischief it makes. I was thinking of (
something very different from money—some
thing that money could not buy.”
He was looking at her with keen curiosity.
• “ Something that money could not buy,” he
repeated. “ 1 declare that you puzzle me. I
thought gold was omnipotent.”
• “I do not think so—ldo not like it. Omni
potent? Why, Lord Cara yen, all the wealth of
the world could not buy happiness or love.”
• “ No,” he said quietly, “it could not ; yet,
Hildred, money has done something for me?’
“I do not intend to depreciate it,” she re
marked ; “ but it is not omnipotent ; and there
are many things in this world of far higher
value than money.”
“ It is true,” be said thoughtfully.
She laughed again, and, it he had known her
better, ho would have detected tears in the sound
of that laugh.
“We are positively agreeing, Lord Caraven,”
• she said.
He was looking at her with intense curiosity
in his face.
“ Hildred, what have you given me that money
could not buy ?”
The dark eyes gleamed softlv.
“ I will not tell you, Lord Caraven,” she an
swered.
; “ But I must know. You have excited my
curiosity—you must gratify it. You have
enumerated three things that money cannot
1 buy—happiness, virtue, love. It was none of
these. Then what could it be ?”
“ I must go, Lord Caraven/’ she said, her
I face growing hot and her heart beating quickly. ,
“If you weigh every word that I say, I shall
1 have to be very careful.”
“ Hildred, tell me what you mean?” he re-
' quested. “ What have you given me ?”
“ I will tell you,” she replied laughingly,
“ when you have counted all those tiny leaves
■ on the mignonnette.”
> She turned to go. but he put out his hand to
1 detain her. She eluded him, and, with a light
laugh, disappeared, leaving him by the verandah
alone.
i (To bft Continuel.)
i♦■ » ,
LEADING A CALF.
1 THE SAD EXPERIENCES OF A BOY.
(From the Easton, Pa., Free Press.)
He was a small but muscular bov, with a de-
1 velopement of unadulterated cussedness that
would do credit to a Georgia Kukiux Klan Cap-
’ tain. There was a rope between them, and, as
they went down South Third street, bets wore
’ about oven as to whether the boy was leading
• the calf or the calf leading the boy. The calf
‘ made a dash for the Central Express office. The
‘ boy pulled him back and he made a dash for the
boy, who ran around a wagon and fell ovor a
} watermelon pile, the proprietor whereof swore
E copiously.
“ Come back here, you infernal clodbuster,
“ and pay for this melon.”
1 “ Say, M'hister I whoa—give me my—thun-
’ deration on you—hat, won’t yer?”
} And the calf kicked up his heels and b-a-a-d,
“ and tried to run into a store, but the boy sat
back on the line with all his strength and sud-
• denly sat down in the mud as the calf altered
his mind and turned around to look at him.
3 They went quietly ten steps, till a dog baraed,
r when it took four circles around the boy in as
1 many seconds, tying his legs up in. the line,
’ bringing him down in the mud again and drag-
> ging him around until he looked like an old hat
that had been run over by the ice-cart for two
r seasons.
3 /A philanthropic fat man by the name of Wil
son, a lawyer, went to the boy’s assistance, but
} the calf kicked him on the shin and butted him
1 in the condenser, so that he sat down on the
J curbstone and tried to die easy. Then the boy
1 and calf untangled themselves and started
3 down the street like a mail train behind time,
'• until the calf, scaring at something, stopped
suddenly, and the boy fell over it and lost 'the
rope. Tao calf at once took to his heels, every
boy in the street running after and grabbing at
I the robe, until it got tangled in the bridge.
q when his conductor caught him by the ear and
u tail, and a lively fight took place all across the
bridge and out of sight while everybody along
i r the street proceeded to toil how easy it is to
Lead a calf if you ouly zo their wav about it.
THE DETROIT SOLOMON.
A MISTAKEN MAN AND A LADY
OF IMPULSE.
BIJAH AS A FARMER.
It is believed that all our readers will rejoice
to be informed that the Board of Police, Com
missioners have granted Bijah permission to
fence in part of the alloy in the rear of the Cen
tral station as a farm. The old man has. al ways
loved the pursuit of agriculture ever since he
was old enough to steal water-melons and gir
dle shade-trees, and ho will certainly take a
great deal of comfort over this special permis
sion so kindly granted him. His stock of farm
ing utensils was gathered together the other
day, and it inventoried as follows •
1 curry comb.
1 pint of beaus.
1 pair of ,?.ate hinges.
Parts of three whoelbarrows.
1 bunch of shingles.
Three hoe-handles and the crank of a fanning
mill.
He will soon pick up a first-class stock of
tools, however, and during the cool, delicious
mornings he will be heard singing to the rising
sun:
Come up, old boy, and sbine upon
This timothy aud clover;
And make these cabbages head out
Till every oue slops over.
** Pour down upon these onion beds,
And give these beats a show;
And don’t forgot the big sunflowers
A-stamling in a row.”
Providence has been very, very good to Bi
jah. Some men. having such feet, and blowing
their noses with such a cannon-like report,
would have been lynched before they were
thirty years old.
AN APPALLING MISTAKE.
Charles Ballentine, in his progress up Monroe
avenue, just covered a twenty-foot sidewalk.
Some people assorted that he was not drunk,
but only waiting—waiting for a civil engineer to
survey him a direct route. Others offered to
bet an old wagon against a pair of overshoes,
that the man had always walked that way from
his birth, in order to receive the full benefits of
any and every sidewalk. It was left to Charles
himself to decide the query. Ho suddenly halt
ed, pitched forward, and as ho stood face to
face with a very thin man who carried a very
thick cane and was out to air his consumption,
he called out:
“Wisher merry Chrismus. Whaz you git m
y’r shocking has nize ? ’
“Christmas—stocking—last night 1” exclaimed
tho astonished invalid. “Sirl you must be
drunk!”
“Ish zhis New Years ?” vacantly asked Mr.
Ballentine.
“Git out! You are growing drunker all tho
time 1”
“Mas’ bo Forzo July, then—’rah for St. Paz
rick Wash’cun I”
Charles was taken into custody. Even a po
liceman with red hair could no longer doubt
that it was time for tho law to step in and freezo
the stranger’s vitals with torror.
“Mr. Ballentine, have you got the kinks out
of your tangled brain yet?” asked the court as
tho man sheepishly stood before the bar.
“I don’t believe it’s April Fool Day,” evasive
ly replied the prisoner.
“The remnants of that drunk still hang bv
you,” sighed the court. “Now that I look into
your eyes I see that you are only three-quarters
drunk. While you seem to be a peaceful sorb of
a man, I observe that you need washing and
combing, and scouring up for tbo Spring trade.
1 can either hire Brother Gardner to whitewash
your legs and kalsomine the rest of your body,
or send you up for thirty days. I guess I’ll
elevate you.”
“I wouldn’t do that by you I” protested the
man.
“I know you wouldn’t. You’d let mo go
forth to fall into the river and became a par
boiled cadaver. My respect for you mduces mo
to ask that you step into the corridor, take a
seat on a nail-teg and keep your toes turned in
till tho police barouche canters up and calls for
your check.”
“That's the meanest trick over served on
mo!” sighed Charles as the back of his head
appeared to the audience like a rutabaga stuex
full oi wheat straws.
HER IMPULSES.
Her plain name was Jane Shay. If she had
been an actress it would probably have been
Genevieve D i Forrest. Her hair fell in a grace
ful twist over her left shoulder, and her dross
was looped up like an oat big hung over a plow
handle. Meeting her at the depot as she came
down from Saginaw some folks might have ta
ken her for tne Lady of Lyons, but she was
simply a lady of sudden impulses, as she ex
plained to his Honor. -She said:
“I took a sudden impulse to come to Detroit.
After I got hqre I took a sudden impulse to
drink some brandy to cure my earache. I have
no doubt that I took a sudden impulse to come
to this caravan and occupy one of your front
chambers.”
“An ! I sea, as the oyster observe 1,” replied
his Honor. ‘-Do these sudden impulses seize
you very often ?”
“Yes, pretty often.”
“If you had a sudden impulse to go to tho
circus you’d gad right off, leaving tbo dinnor
disnes on the table, 1 suppose ?”
“ 1 should, sir.”
“Well, we don’t believe in sudden impulses
down here, Miss Shav. True, if some ot the
papers charged me with receiving free gas, I
might have a su iden impulse to rush around
and pay the bills for the last six months before
an investigating committee could put me on
oath, but, as a genera) thing, Detroiters go
slow. We wore four weeks getting the State
Fair here, in order not to surprise folks.”
“Well,” she impatiently remarked.
“Well, all this is preparatory to remarking
that you are booked for thirty days.”
“ 1 am, am 11 1 f I know anytning about law
there is an alternative.”
“ Yes, so there is. I was coming to that pret
ty soon, it is thirty days or ten dollars, cash
down.”
“I can cover that fine and hive eight dollars
left,” she replied, as sue pulled out eighteen
one dollar bills and counted off ten of teem
without wetting her thumb but once.
Tne court looked surprised, several bovs over
the ropes chuckled, and Bijah grinned with de
light. His Honor caught him at it and said :
“ Mr. Jov, if you have the cholera you’d bet
ter put some cayenne pepper on your tqngua—a
ton or so 1”
BY THE WAYSIDE.
Along the muddy road of life
James Do vaer drank some ma,
And present y began to see
That ho was quite dum-fum
Ha staggered as he along.
Hi? lege to sh iko,
And by and oy he Hid' him down,
A long, swoos uap to take.
Part two, etc.:
A blue coat found him as he slept,
Ani knowing 'twae a sin
To leave a drunkard in the ditch, •
Aroused and took him in.
His Honor said it was a shame
To practice such bad ways;
Aud Dowuer in a miuute got
A pass for thirty days.
(SOMNAMBULISM.
CURIOUS CASES OF SLEEP-WALK-
ING. _
On the above curious subject a retired naval
officer obligingly sends us tbo following notes.
Ono bright moonlight night I was on deck, as
was frequently my wont, chatting with the lieu
tenant or the middie watch. It was nearly calm,
tho ship making little way through tho water,
and the moon’s light nearly as bright as day.
We were together leaning over the capstan,
chatting away, when W -suddenly exclaimed:
“Look! II ,at that sentry,” pointing to
the quarter-deck marine who was pacing slowly
backward and forward oa tho lee-side of the
deck.
“Well,” I replied, after watching him some
what inattentively as he passed once or twice
on his regular boat, “ what of him ?”
“Why, don’t you see he is fast asleep? Take
a good look at him when he next passes.”
I did so, and found W was right. The
man, although pacing and turning regularly at
the usual distance, was fast asleep with his eyes
closed.
When next the man passed, W stepped
quickly and noiselessly to his side, and pacing
with him, gently disengaged the bunch of keys
which were his special charge—being the keys
of the spirit-room, sheil-rooms, store-rooms,
etc. —from the fingers ot his left band, to which
they were suspended by a small chain ; he then
removed the bayonet from bis other hand, and
laid it and the keys on tho capstan head. After
letting him take another turn or two, AV
suddenly called “Sentry!”
“Sirl” replied the man, instantly stopping
and facing round as he came to tho “ atten
tion.”
“ Why, you were fast asleep, sentry.”
“No," sir.”
“But 1 say you were.”
“No, sir. 1 assure you I was not.”
“You were not, eh? Well, where are tho
keys ?”
Tne man instantly brought up his hand to
show them, as he supposed; but to his confu
sion the hand was empty.
“Where is your bayonet?” continued W .
Tho poor fellow brought forward his other
hand, but that was empty also. But the puz
zled look of astonishment be put on was more
than we could stand ; botn burst out laughiag ;
and when the keys and bavonet were pointed
out to him lying on the capstan, the poor fel
low was perfectly dumbfounded. W was too
merry over the joke, however, to punish tho
man,’and he escaped with a warning not to fall
asleep again.
Sentries and look-outs must be very liable to
fall asleep from the very nature of their monot
onous pacing, and this may in some degree ac
count tor the facility wicb which sentries have
at times been surprised and secured before they
could give an alarm. In this instance, the most
curious fact, I think, was the regularity with
wuich the man continued to pace his distances
and turn at tne right moment I have known
other instances of sentries and others walking
in their sleep, tbougfh the end has not always
been so pleasant to the victims. In one case,
the quarter-deck sentry, in the middle ot the
night, crashed down the vi ird-room hatchway
with musket and fixed bayonet, with a rattling
that startled us ad out of our cabins. The fel
low fell on his back upon the top of the meas-
• not m P c ' d tij e worse for his exploit.
On another occasion a messenger boy paid us a
t h6 M I a °hair, which
unhSt. h PleC ° S ' b tha 81eoper eacapad
These can hardly be considered true cases of
somnambulism, but show how m on niaY con .
3 tmue thoir occupations when overcome by eleeu
- Nothing but seeing his bayonet and tho keys
> lying on the capstan could have ever cervincod
- tho marine that ho had been sleeping; no mor(
3 assertion to that effect would over have influ
3 ’enced him.
! A WOMAN’S GRAVE.
■ A ROMANCE OF CALIFORNIA LIFE
(From the Sacramento Record-Union.)
It is only one woe romance of the many whick
are interwoven with tho pioneer history ot El
Dorado county—a romance of a woman’s grave.
Tho tiny mound is upon the crest of a pretty
■ knoll, overlooking tho desolate, deserted min
ing camp of Cold Springs, half way between
f Placerville and Coloma. Tho sifted sunlight,
i trembling through tho leaves of a grand old
' live oak, falls lovingly, tenderly upon tne gravo,
just as it did twenty years ago. Marveloui
changes have crept with the years ovor all tha
surroundings. Five thousand miners worked
in tho flats and gulches of the little mountain
rimmed camp in those early, golden days. Na
claim, was allowed to be over fifteen feat square,
and even then the ravines and hollows, the val
leys and hill slopes, wore ail Located, and there
were miners to spare. It was one of the love
liest camps in the foothills. There wore soma
f of the grandest men, the most generous, the
’ most heroic, in the mines in those days that
; ever the sun shone on—men whose nobility of
soul would have stamped them heroes in any
age or clime. And one such was a largo, broad
shouldered man—handsome, well educated, a
general favorite among bis fellows, and who
was always known as “Judge.” There! I had
almost written his name, and. you would all
• know him, and it is the one ten'dor event of his
• life lam telling.
When any of the boys were sick the Judge
was the first to see that they were properly
' cared for, and when they recovered he invaria
bly gave them a “stake,” as it was called, and
. helped them to find employment. When tbs
i Flynn boys and their friends attempted to jump
tho claim of poor old “Tennessee Bob,” just
because he had struck rich diggings, and was
too aged to protect himself, the Judge knocked
down their sluices and a couple of their chief
bullies, ran the whole crowd off the premises,
and reinstated the old miner.
Once when “Hangtown Creek” had become
swollen by the rains until it was a torrent—a
groat, boiling, seething flood, filled with drift
wood and remnants of cabins which it had
borne away—the young doctor was washed from
his horse while attempting to lord the stream.
A thousand mon gathered on the banks to watch
the struggles of tne drowning man, but never a
one thought of braving tho angry torrent. The
doctor was nearly exhausted, and it scorned as
ii he could hold out only a moment longer,
when, just as they reached the great curve be
low to wn, there was a splash and two mon were
struggling in tho water.
You should have hoard the hurrahs that
went up for the Judge as ho reached tho dying
man 1 When way down by tho Falls claims he
managed to catch a rope thrown from tho land,
and was drawn ashore with the doctor, who was
unconscious from exhaustion. You should
have seen now the boys lifted tho Judge upon
thoir shoulders and bore him triumphantly
hack to to wn.
Lt you chanced to be in Cold Springs on tho
day June Meredith and her husband came to
town, you were doubtless standing with the
crowd by the hotel, watching the stage as it
came lumbering down tho Hangtown Hill. The
news had flown ahead of the stage that a genu
uine respectaoie married woman was coming
with her husband to live at the Springs!
Every claim was vacated that afternoon to see
the phenomenon—tor, in that little valley, with
its hundreds of men, it was indeed u phenom*
anon to have a real lady to come and settls
among them.
Just as the plump, pretty figure, the blui
eyes and the light brown hair, emerged from
the stage, and a thousand breathless voices
were whispering “How beautiful!” she gave a
little stifled scream and fell fainting in tho
arms of her husoand. Everybody said it was
the heat, the fatigue, the excitement, which
caused her to swoon, and all were too much en
gaged with the event to observe the blanched
iace of the Judge, who clutched tho columns of
the porch to Keep from falling.
Wii6n a few days had elapsed and the excite
ment over the new arrival had partially subsid
ed, it was discovered that the Judge had disap
peared. No one remembered to have seen him
after tho stage drove in.
******
Ere the swarm of busy life swept away from
tho placers, and tho hum of mining and ot
miners’ voices ceased, tho little knoll overlook
ing tho plat became dotted with graves. Many
wao left homo and friends with au ardent, eag>ar
thirst for gold, wearied and well asleep among
tbo gold veins—found resting places in the very
heart of the diggings where they worked. And
some mines in tn is mining camp burial-ground
coveted hearts that in life were warmer and
tenderer, it possible, than those of the brave,
generous pioneers—covered hearts of the pion
eers’ wives. In oue of these graves, tho one
waose romance I am telling, lay June Mere
dith.
When the mines wore worked out, and the
oustfing camp had become a farming>village,
most of the graves were removed to a fitter
burying place near the road. When the bodies
were being removed the workmen, early one
morning, round a well-dressed, middle-aged
stranger sitting on the grave under tho oak.
He hid been seen to enter the village at dusk
the evening before, and it was reuduy conjec
tuieu that ue bad bean by the grave all night.
Ho said a few words to the man who had charge
of the work, and emphasized his language with
a handful of money, and then ho disappeared
without‘letting any oue know who he was, or
whence he came. Lt was scarcely necessary to
say this grave was not touched. The knoll was
tobbed ot all its other dead, but Juue Meredith
sleeps whore they laid her. The date on the
marble tombstone showed that tho stranger had
visited the spot on tae anniversary night of the
death of the woman who lay slumbering there.
In speaking, one with another, concerning tho
event, it was ascertained that the stranger, or
some one resembling him, had been seen in the
neighborhood during prior years, at about tho
same time of the year.
This is about all. The “Judge” had never
been seen at the Springs after his sudden dis
appearance, until the stormy, dreary night
when June Meredith died. No matter how com
pletely ho worshiped her, no matter how deso
late was his aimless lite, his sense of honor for
bade him from so much as visiting her whilo
she was another’s.
But when she was dving, when all hope of
life was gone, when she lay with closed eyes so
quiet and still that sne seemed to be listening
to voices from the further shore, tho door open
ed softly, and the Judge entered the room. Ha
was pale and haggard and careworn, and was
only a shadow of his former soli, but the blue
eyes unclosed and brig at med with a joyous
recognition. In the dim shadowland of death
there was no hesitation. Y/ith eager, out
stretched arms she clasped his neck, and as
his lips touched hers she murmured:
“Ln Heaven!”
The next moment she was dead !
Every year, oa the anniversary night of her
death, he 4 visits her grave.
The old mining camp is completely deserte I
I now. The night wind sweeps chilling and deso
late past the old flat where the boj r s mined,
past the tailings, past drifts of washed sand,
■ and patches of bedrock left clean and bare, but
in all the valley it finds never a human form,
save the one lying silent and motionless by that
lonely grave. Wuen tho vigil is past, he goes
i quietly back to the groat city, back to the whirl
and drive and turmoil of life and business. Pa
tiently he waits for tho longed-for time when ho
can join her in that heaven where all tho mis
-1 takes of this life will bo righted.
CAPTURING A GHOST.
1 How Two Plucky Detroit Girls CaptureJ
a Sheeted Stroller.
■ Several times during the past month tw»
1 young ladies living in tho Western part of ths
city have boon startled while on their way homi
from work, just at dusk, by the sudden appear
ance of & tail figure envelopedin white aud giv
ing utterance to what ware intended for soul-
1 harrowing groans as it stalked up tho street
ahead of them, to suddenly disappear in the
darkness of a vacant lot.
[ Tue young ladies not being of a particularly
I timid disposition, and not at all superstitious,
resolved to capture the “ghost,” having a sus-
■ picion that they knew the shadowy party. Oa
Tuesday eveding they started for home about
an hour earlier than usual, accompanied by two
- ocher young lady friends. Arriving at the place
where tne‘’ghost” usually put in an appear
ance, two of the gins secreted taemselves at
tne point where ne always disappeared, whlia
the other girls went back and waited, so that
they might appear at the usual hour.
‘ Promptly on time, no sooner had they turned
the corner, than out from the alley ahead of
> them walked the party in white, who, as be-
• fore, marched along siowly and with groans.
Instead of following at a respectable dis*
• tanee, the girls tip-coed rapidly to within tan
’ feet of the “ghost,” when, hearing their hur
ried steps, he looked back over his shoulder
> and started on a liveiy run for the holo in the
; tence. . Tho girls at this point braced thein-
I selves for the climax, and when ho jumped
■ through he was seized and firmly held uucil the
» four girls had him completely at thoir mercy,
stripped of his white alieet and paper hat, and
recognized him as a youth eighteen years old
with whom they were all well acquainted.
> In payment for his silly trick, the girls tore
• the sheet into shreds, tied his hands behind
• him, tied the paper hat firmly on bis head, aud
) with a well-twisted cotton leading-string about
r his neck,pulled and drove him a distance oi about
t seven squares, the last half of the parade being
i through a comparatively public street, where
i the “ ghost” received the full benefit of hia
i “make-up” in the derision he excited among
r passers-by.
J
’ The following is a Sin Francisco advor
-5 tisemeut : “ Correspondence ia solicited from beard
r ed laaius, Circassians, or other iemale curios. ties,
» wno in return for a true heart and a devoted hus-
• baud, would travel during tne Summer mouths, au<t
- allow bun to take the money at the door.”