New York dispatch. [volume], October 06, 1878, Page 2, Image 2

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lix made some remark, and again the Daronet
answered him with a careless word or two.
“1 hear that we are to hare quadrilles,” said
Sir Owen to Violet. “ Will you favor me with
the first, Miss Haye ?”
She answered ‘‘ Yes,” because she did not
know how to refuse him.
“1 had no idea that this kind of thing could
be so well managed in a place like Lilford,”
said Sir Owen, “It inspires me with an idea—
-1 must really give a fete at Garcwood.”
“That would bo very pleasant,” returned
Violet shyly. ... i
“it would if you were there, thought Sir
Owen; “and there you shall bo queen of the
fete ir lean manage it.” Aloud he said, “ Have
you seen Garswood, Miss Haye?”
“ 1 have been in the park,” replied Violet,
“but I have not seen the house.”
“ Tuore is plenty of room for 9, fete there. I
am quite in love with the place myself—it has
such fine old trees, such grand oaks and elms,
such ferns, and all that kind of thing.”
Violet wondered for one moment whether it
was fashionable to be always speaking of “ that
kind of thing,” and why it was that the baro
net bad such a dearth of ideas. She looked up
at him so inquiringly that Sir Oweu almost in
voluntarily said :
“ Were you going to ask me anything ?”
Her face flushed again, remembering what
she had thought. Ho thought her rich lovely
color going and coming the most attractive
thing ho bad ever seen in his lite. To give her .
time to recover herself b Q addressed some in-'
different remark to Felix.
He was not gifted with any remarkable come
liness, this young baronet to whom fortune bad
been so kind. He was tall and thin, without
any dignity or ease of manner ; his gait was
awkward, his hands and arms always gave one
the impression that they were more than be
could manage. His hair was black, his eyes
were dark with a furtive expression ; he had a
dark heavy moustache, wnich drooped over
cruel lips; his face was a strange mixture of
moral weakness and brute force. His voice
was unpleasant; there was no mellow ring m
it; no music; it was high, clear, and shrill; but
then he wore a superb diamond pin and dia
mond rings, his dress was a marvel of the tai
lor’s art, and he had an income of forty thou
sand a year. What was the grand manly beau
ty of Antinous, the grace of Apollo, compared
witu that?
“You will remember you have promised me
the first quadrille, Miss Haye, i see Lady
Rolfe. I must pay my deooirs to herand
with a low bow Sir Owen turned away.,
“What splendid diamonds I” cried Violet.
“What a horrible man I” thought Felix.
Violet had been struck with the gems, Felix
had been chiefly impressed by the awkward
gait and ungainly carriage. He turned to Vio
let.
“My darling.” he said, “why have you
promised to dance with that horrible man?”
“Horrible!” cried Violet. “Do you know
how rich and bow groat he is, Felix?”
“That makes him even more horrible—it is
60 many magnificent gifts wasted. You must
not dance with him, Violet, but with mo. You
are mine—you belong to me. I cannot let you
go to him even for one dance—even for live
minutes.”
Violet laughed.
“I must dance with him now that I have
promised, Felix.”
“1 do not think that I shall be able to endure
it, Violet, lam afraid, if 1 see his hand touch
ing you, I shall strike it aside.”
81ie laughed again 'as a child laughs who
points a loaded gun for mischief, never dream
ing that it may cause sudden death.
“I feel that I ought to have danced that
quadrille with you, Felix,” she said, “but re
ally 1 did not know how to refuse. I was quite
embarrassed—you must have seen it. How
jealous all the other girls will be! How Lady
Rolfe will watch me! She said the other day
that her daughter, that insipid looking girl,
was far more beautiful tbau 1. She is not, is
she, Felix?”
The lips that asked the question were of the
loveliest crimson, the eyes that looked up iato
his were like violets steeped in dew, the face
smiling before him was like a blush-rose ; that
the words were foolish never occurred to him.
“My darling, you are more beautitul than
anyone else,” he said. “Violet, you must
dance this quadrille with Sir Owen, I sup
pose?”
“Yes, 1 must indeed,” she replied.
“It drives me half mad to think of it. Vio
let, do not look at bim as you look at me—do
not, do not let him know now sweet your smile
is. Ob, Violet, I shall go mad if you do1”
Again she laughed.
“You will have to go mad, then, Felix, for I
cannot dance with him like a Stoic, can 1?”
“ You are mine, Violet. If I had a "lovely,
rare, and precious lily, should I like everyone
to touch it and inhale its sweetness? You are
my own—you belong to me.”
“Here comes Sir Owen,” said Violet, cutting
short the passionate words. “I shall not be
long away from you, Felix ;” and, laying her
white haua on Sir Owen’s arm, they went away
together.
CHAPTER XI.
“I BELONG TO YOU, FELIX.”
As Violet had foreseen, glances of wonder
followed her and her companion. Lady Rolfe
was bitterly aunoyed; here was this girl chosen
by Sir Owen, while her own daughters sat un
noticed. Mrs. Hunter did not know whether to
be glad or sorry; of course it was a great thing
to have Sir Owen there, and to see him enjoy
himself and evidently feel so perfectly at home,
but Sir Owen should have danced with Miss
Rolle, certainly not with Violet Haye.
Sir Owen, however, was grandly indifferent;
a man possessed of forty thousand per annum
is master of almost every situation, and he cer
tainly was master of this. He enjoyed the
quadrille very much.
“I had no idea alfresco dancing was so pleas
ant,” be said; “but dancing anywhere with
you, Misb Haye, would be the same, I should
imagine. Who was that gentleman talking to
you under the tree?”
“ That is Mr. Felix Lonsdale,” she replied.
And he fancied the warm blush that came
over her face was the result of ais compliment.
" Lonsdale 1 Is not that the name of the lawyer
who forged a will, or something of that kind?”
asked Sir Owen.
She looked up at him, horrifi >d by the words.
“You are making a grave mistake, Sir Owen,”
she said. “Mr. Lonsdale was falsely accused
of having influenced one of his clients to leave
him money, but it was not true.”
“True or not, I wish that 1 were in his place,”
said Sir Owen.
“Why?” she asked in wonder.
“Because you defend him. 1 wonder, if you
heard evil spoken of me whether you would de
fend me?”
“Do people speak evil of you ?” she asked.
“I supposb so,” was the careless reply; “not
that I care. Why should I care? Nothing of
that kind matters to me. Bu: I know they tell
queer stories about me. They say I drink and
gamble—they say that I But I forgot—l
must not repeat scandal to you. Now if von
heard these things said of me, would you de
fend me ?”
“ How can I answer you ? You forget that I
have never seen you before.”
"Yet you defend this Lonsdale. Do you
know him ?”
“The Mr. Lonsdale who has suffered so un
justly is the father of the gentleman to whom
you saw me speaking,” she replied, “and he is
one’of the oldest friends I have m Lilford.”
“I suppose,” said the baronet, "that Lons
dale’s son imagines himself a very handsome
man. That kind of man always thinks a great
deal of himself.”
“Do you not think him hands ime ?” asked Vio
let, who knew well that her lover had the
statuesque beauty of a Greek god.
“I never waste one thought oa a man’s
face,” he replied.
But Violet’s quick instinct told her the awk
ward baronet was jealous of t.ie young lawyer.
Then the quadrille was over, but he would
not leave her. She must go with him to have
some refreshment—ha was sure she felt tired.
If he had only known, he would have sent all
kinds of choice fruits for the/e.'e, but bow could
he foresee that the queen of society herself was
to be present ?
It was all flattery, but very pleasant flattery,
when offered by a man worth forty thousand
per annum. It was pleasant too to know that
every one was looking at her, every one was
thinking and talking about her. She could not
help contrasting her present position with that
she had occupied half an hour previously.
Felix Lonsdale had been but coldly received.
No one seemed to forget that he was the son
of a man whose fair fame was darkened by a
dark cloud. The elite bad not received him very
kindly. Lady Rolfe had passed him with a bow;
Mrs. Brownson had held out two fingers tor
him to shake, and bad drawn them back very
quickly; Mrs. Boulders bad sb .ken hands with
him and then looked round very quickly to see
if any one had observed her. Ha had not been
“cut;” no one had been pointedly uncivil, but
he had been coldly received, and Violet bad
observed it even more keenly than he had him
self,'when she stood talking to him. She bad
a strange feeling as though sue were in some
manner sharing his disgrace—as though she,
too, were under a cloud.
Now it was so different. Sir Owen’s glory
seemed to be reflected on her; people who had
never troubled themselves to sneak to her be
fore now were fulsomely polite .0 her. It was
but reflected glory, she knew; still it was very
pleasant. *
I Sir Ewen insisted on her taking some re
freshment; he waited upon nor as though she
bad been a princess; she oou.d not tell how it
was, but she seemed suddenly to have left far
-behind her the world of sorrow, pain, and dis
grace in which, through sympatny with Felix,
she bad been living so long.
“Here is your friend,” said Bir Owen; and,
looking up suddenly, she saw Felix at the en
trance of the tent looking wistfully at her.
At first something like impatience vexed her.
It was such a magnificent triumph for her, he
might let her enjoy it—he might have waited a
few minutes. It was not every day that she
was warted upon by a rich baronet and envied
by other women ; she might never see Hirllwen
again, while all her life was to be spent with Felix.
Surely he might have waited a few minutes
longer ; but no, he was coming to her, and her
triumph was ended; she had no idea of resist
ing his will, and rose from her seat. Sir Owen
looking at her in amazement.
“Are yon going?” he asked. “I was just
about to presume to ask it you would go with
me to see the flowers; they have some very tine
ones here, 1 am told.”
She looked helplessly from one to the other.
Eh* did not knew how to r-.»'usa such a tamot.
ing offer from Sir Owen; it would be an un
equaled triumph for all the guests to see her—
to see bow proud and pleased he was to escort
her through the grounds; but it seemed equally
impossible to leave Felix, who had looked for
ward with such delight to this holiday with her.
So the beautiful eyes glanced first at one and
then at the other, while the white fingers toyed
with the pretty flowers she held up until their
scented leaves fell ou the ground. Felix cut the
Gordian knot for her.
“Pardon me for the interruption,” he said.
“Miss Haye was kind enough to promise me
that honor.”
Ho took Violet’s hand, placed it in his arm,
and led her from the tent..
The baronet stood looking after them with
more than amazement in bis face.
“What unequaled impertinence!” he said.
“The father of such a man as that would be ca
pable of forging half a dozen wills.”
“Oh, Felix,” said Violet, “I am afraid you
have offended him 1”
“I do not care if I have, Violet. You are
mine. What right has ba to monopolize you?
I know we are not married ; but it is almost the
same thing.. You are my promised wife, and no
one shall take you away from me even for one
hour. Come away from all these people—l waht
to talk to you. Come down this avenue of chest
nuts.”
He mastered her by his stronger will; she
went without one word. They walked slowly
down the avenue of chestnuts, trie sunlight
glancing on her golden hair and white dress.
“Let me look at you, Violet,” ho cried, with
the paßsiou»te impatience of a young lover.
“It seems to me. that that man’s presence near
you must have dimmed your beauty as poison
ous air kills a delicato flower. Let me look at
you, my darling.”
He held her hand and stood looking at her,
watching the radiant face with such love in his
eyes that a woman must have had a marble
heart to resist him.
“No,” he said, “you are just the same.
You must biimor my fancies, Violet. Does
not some one say that ‘great love is semi-mau
ness’? It is true. You must humor my fan
cies, sweet. Stand here; let this cool breeze
blow over you—it will purify vou from even the
very breath and echo of his words.”
She laughed a low, tremulous laugh, but the
words touched her. She stood quite still, and
the western wind kissed her face, played with
her golden hair, showered the chestnut-blos
soms over her.
“You shall not even have the echo of anoth
er man’s words hanging over yon, sweet,” said
lie. “Now the breeze has taken it all away.”
“Ob, Felix, bow much you love me I It makes
me tremble to think of it.”
“You do not understand it even yet,” ho re
plied.
As she walked by her lover’s side she could
not help feeling the contrast. Woo would ever
—who could ever love her as tms man did?
Who in the whole wide world, she thought, had
ever been so loved except herself ? The mem
ory of his words thrilled her; they stirred the
inmost depths of her soul. How be loved her,
this handsome, noble-hearted min! His very
heart, his soul and life, seemed wrapped up in
her.
Even as she felt these things she could not
heip noticing the difference. When she had
crossed the lawn with Sir Owen she had met
nothing but bows, smiles, glances of admira
tion, ill-concealed envy and won ler. Now that
she was once again with Felix 110 one noticed
her, no ono spoke to her. It was like being in
a different world.
Sir Owen had been asked to play croquet, and
had reiused. He had taken a bird’s-eye view of
the party—four old maidsand a hopeless school
girl. It was not in bis line, ho assured Mrs.
Hunter. He would not engage himself in any
particular way; he would only linger and wait,
watching for the next glimpse of the beautiful
face that had set bis heart and brain on fire.
He saw her at last, standing with Felix, watch
ing the players at lawn-tennis, aud the next mo
ment he was by her side. Lady Rolfe, eyeing
him, whispered to Mrs. Hunterr
“Sir Owen seems to be infatuated with Violet
Haye. Some one should tell him she is engaged.
Dear Mrs. Hunter, would you mind saying that
I should like to speak to him ?”
And she smiled a well-satisfied smile when she
saw the vicar’s wife deliver her message.
“You wished to speak to me,” said Sir Owen,
approaching Lady Rolfe with an air of ill-con
cealed impatience.
She saw that he looked annoyed, and had re
course to her favorite weapon—flattery.
“It it is permitted to an elderly lady like my
self to feel jealous, I certainly am jealous. We
are old friends of nearly two months’ stand
ing, yet you have not spent five minutes with
me. Sit down here, and give me your views
about the/ele.”
Ungraciously enough he took a seat by her
side. She saw him look with angry eyes at Fe
lix and Violet; but Lady Rolfe was a woman
with a purpose. It took much to daunt her.
“I have no views,” ho declared, angrily. “I
am quite tired of people with views.”
“Clever men are all alike,” remarked her la
dyship, land his face softened a little at the
words. “At least we havehad a beautiful day,”
she said, “and beautiful music.”
He could not deny it, or he would have done
so. She continued; 1
“This is the first time that you have met
your new friends and neighbors together. Do
you like them ?”
“They are very much like other people,” he
sneered.
“You are sarcastic,” cried her ladyship. “It
is very wrong, but I really adore sarcasm.”
His face relaxed just a trifle more. She
watched him intently. He was worth-some
trouble, for as soon as he had entered the
neighborhood she bad resolved upon marrying
her daughter to him.
“There are some nice girls here,” said her
ladyship—“some very pretty girls—Violet Haye
for one.”
Then his face brightened. She had touched
on a happy theme at last.
“Violet Haye is quite the queen of the fete,”
she continued. “There are few, if any, who
can compare with her.”
“There is not ono,” he said, and in her heart
her ladyship disliked him for the words.
“Perhaps you are right,” she allowed, calm
ly. “I do not know who could really be said to
be like her. She is a fortunate girl, too. She
has no great fortune and no connections, yet
she is engaged to be married to that handsome
young Mr. Lonsdale.”
“Engaged to marry him 1” cried Sir Owen,
with an angry scowl. “A girl like that en
gaged to marry the son of a man who has been
tried for perjury, or forgery, or something of
the kind 1”
Lady Rolfe laughed lightly, and touched him
on the arm with her fan.
“Nay, nay; it was not so bad as that. Poor
Mr. Lonsdale was innocent enough; but she is
to marry his son—the wedding-day is fixed, and
they will be a very handsome pair. She will
marry him, I hear, in the Spring.”
“That accounts for it,” he said, and the
heavy black mustache drooped over as cruel
lips as were ever seen on a man’s face.
“Accounts for what?” asked Lady Rolfe,with
a great assumption of innocence.
“Oh, nothing in particular. But I thought
he seemed to consider that he had some kind of
right to her.”
And then, looking at him, Lady Rolfe saw a
stern, cruel, set expression settla on his face.
“So they are to be married in the Spring, are
they?” be asked, slowly. “I suppose this
young Lonsdale is very proud of her?”
“ What a question to ask me. Sir Owen! He
is a man, and has eyes 1 I should not think it
would be possible to toll how much he loved
her.”
"Does she care for him?” he asked, quickly.
“Dear me, yes. Care for him! Why, it is a
love match 1 She cares very much for him and
for no one else beside.”
He asked no more questions, but Lady Rolfe,
still watching him intently, saw that the set,
firm look deepened every moment on his face.
She could not tell whether she bad done right
or wrong. She had told him that the girl was
engaged, and that it was quite useless for him
to think of her; but what did that look mean ?
Like every one else who had any part in naming
Violet Haye to Sir Owen that day, she had an
uneasy feeling about it.
Sir Owen seemed to think that he had done
all that was required of him. He rose from his
scat, and left her ladyship with a bow.
“He will go to Lavinia now,” thought Lady
Rolfe. "He will waste no more time over Vio
let Haye.”
But Lavinia beamed upon him in her superb
costume of mauve silk all in vain— he passed
her with a careless bow. The moments seemed
to him hours before he should oe near Violet
Haye again.
It was well for his popularity that no ono saw
the lowering, angry expression of his taco as he
crossed the croquet lawn.
“ 1 would have her if I wanted her,” he said
to himself, “if every other man on earth laid
claim to her, and if I bad to fight them all.”
Lady Rolfe bad unconsciously done the very
thing to defeat her own purpose. The fact
which would have made Violet sacred to anoth
er man simply urged him ou. It would be a tri
umph to win her, because so many others ad
mired her; but it would be a double triumph if
she was engaged to another man. Sir Owen
often congratulated himself on his perfect free
dom from what he was pleased to call “affected
nonsense;” and he was never more free from it
than in this case. If, beside winning Miss Haye
for himself, he could add to that the triumph of
making her break an engagement to another, it
would be the greatest success of his life.
“She is beautitul enough to be a queen,” be
said, “and it would take a hundred lawyers to
frighten me. A man with forty thousand a
year ought to be able to do as be likes. If he
cannot, what is the use of money ?”
He went at once to Violet, and Felix, standing
by her side, longed to lift him np in his strong
arms and throw him over the bridge.
“Miss Haye,” he said, quite ignoring the
presence of her lover, “do you live here in Lil
ford ?”
She appeared half frightened as she answered
him.
“Yes—l live at the Limes.”
“I know it,” he went on. “It is a pretty lit
tle place just outside Lilford. I have often ad
mired it. Does your father bunt?”
“No; ho is quite an invalid,” replied Violet,
half longing that Sir Owen would leave her, and
half enjoying the distinction that his great no
tice of her brought.
“ Ah, an invalid—very unfortunate 1 Not able
to leave the house Otten, I suppose?”
"No, not often,” replied the girl, looking at
her lover’s averted face.
“I shall be glad to see him sometimes,” said
Sir Owen; “he his no objection to visitors, I
suppose?”
NEW YORK DISPATCH, OCTOBER t>, 1878
- I “No,” replied Violet; *‘he is pleased to *re-
- ceive any.”
t ‘ Theo, with your permission and his, I will
y ride over to-morrow,” said Sir Owen.
- He waited tor her reply. Violet made none.
. She was frightened at the expression on her
1 lover’s face.
1 “You do not say that I shall be welcome,
r MDa Haye,” he added, impatiently.
e She recovered herself. Attar all she was do
ing no wrong.
. “We shall bo pleased to see you, Sir Owen,”
a she told him, with quiet dignity; and then the
baronet, finding there was no chance for fur
, ther conversation with her, went away.
“My darling,” cried Felix, “du not be at
i home to-morrow when he comes! Ido not
like him, Violet—he has a cruel, bad face, and
. there is an evil light in his eyes. Ido not like
- him, sweet.”’
“I wonder why he has paid me so much at
i tention,” she said, “and why he is coming to
see us ?”
3 But Felix was too wise to answer that queg
? tion. He only clasped the little hands in his
3 own. To him this girl, in her beauty and inno-
> cence, was little loss than an angel.
3 “My white dove,” he Said—“my pure sweet
t love, never mind him. Promise me that when
- he or any other man comes to you with flatter
ing words, you will sayj ‘I am pledged to my
3 lover—l am pledged to Felix Lonsdale.’ Will
j you say that, Violet?”
j “ Yes, 1 will,” she replied.
“ Would that I could take you away from them
i all, and keep you safely under the shelter, of my
, own great love, Violet! You will not be in to
? morrow when he comes? Promise me, my dar-
- ling—do you not see that lam half mad with
t jealousy?—promise mo you will go out. If I
knew that to-morrow he would sit by your side,
, touch your hand, look into your b jautiful face,
i I think that I should shoot him to-night ’”
“Oh, Felix, what a dreadful thing to say !”
“Jealousy is like fire—it destroys all things,”
ho said; “ but I am foolish to ba jealous. I
j have all faith in you, sweet—all faish. Say once
again, ‘I belong to you, Felix.’ ”,
The sun shone on her fair face as she raised
i it to his; the wind stirred the leaves as she
said:
“I belong to ybu, Felix.”
>
CHAPTER XII.
“1 LOVE FELIX AND WILL BE TRUE TO HIM.”
The fete was over, but people still talked of it
—of the unexpected appearance of Sjr Owen
( Chevenix and his admiration tor beautiful Vio
let Haye. Violet had said buc little at home;
. she had told her father that the oaronet in
tended to come to see him. and Francis Haye
i had looked up in bewilderment.
“Coming to sea me!” he cried. “What is
• that for?”
He did not see the hot flush on his daugh
ter’s face. She know well enough why he was
coming.
“if it is about that right of road,” he con
r tinned, “he may save himself the trouble, for
t I shall never give in—never.”
“You will see what he is coming for when he
comes,” said Mrs. Haye; “ there is nothing so
[ absurd as guessing. I shall not oolieve it un
. til Ido see him.”
' Thea after talking eagerly of his boundless
wealth, the beauty of his estate, the number
of his horses, Francis Haye exclaimed—
“ And to think that ho should come to see
us!”
I Violetremembered her promise; sheknew that
t Sir Owen would probably call abo.iG one o’clock.
Soon after noon she put on herga. len hat, and,
without saying a word, went outi.ito the woods
where no one could see her, ah ; no servant
could be sent after her. She sat there think
[ ing—thinking of how Felix loved her, and how
sweet it was to be loved—telling herself that
she would not exchange his love for the world.
Why did he dislike Sir Owen so much? , Why
was he so anxious for her to be away during
the baronet’s visit? She .had nc/er loved Fe
lix better than she did that morning, as she sat
1 thinking of him; her heart warmockto him—his
great love had touched her at last. .She would
not go back home until after two; the baronet
could not prolong his visit beyond an hour, she
> thought.
As she entered the bouse she saw her mother
watching eagerly for her at the dining-room
window. She went to her at once. The mo
ment she opened the door she heard ihe baron
‘ et’s voice.
“Good morning, Misg Haye. I was just say-
• ing that, after my long ride over, 1 would not
J go away without seeing you, if I had to stop
' here until midnight.”
1 She looked up at him in simple surprise.
1 “I thought that it was my father you wanted
to see, Sir Owen.”
He laughed; he was somewhat disconcerted
at her answer.
“Did you not see that that was my excuse
for coming to see you ?” he said.
Violet turned away, while Francis Have and
his wife looked at each other. The baronet sat
down again; nor did he leave until long after
J three. He talked of all kinds of things which
he thought would interest Francis Haye. His
least word was listened to with intense admira
tion by those children of Mammon. Then, after
promising to send grapes and choice fruit, after
1 offering all kinds of favors, he wen g away. Vio-
> let was compelled to go to the garden-gate with
him. He asked her, and Mrs. Haye answered
J for her.
“What a very good natured friendly neigh
b bor!” said Francis Haye, as he, with his wife,
watched the baronet mount his horse.
> His wife turned to him with a f.ice that quiv
-5 ered with agitation.
5 “He is worth forty thousand a year—forty
I thousand! If you are a wise man. you will not
say one word, Francis Haye—not one word; if
’ you do, you will spoil it ail.”
' So when Violet returned, half dreading the
debate that she felt sure must follow, there was
I no reference made to the baronet or his visit,
save that, m general terms, her father expressed
himself much gratified. The only perceptible
• difference was that the girl’s parents treated
her with even greater deference and affection
• than before.
That night—it was a lovely night in May—
■ Violet, sitting with her parents, heard a signal
1 that she knew well.
1 There was a quick beating of her heart, a
' thrill ran through her veins—E lix was out-
> side.
“ How the leaves tap the window,” said Mrs.
Haye. “It is growing late; we will have the
■ shutters closed.”
1 Violet hastened away, ostensibly to see that
f her mother’s wishes were obeyed, but in reality
to see if Felix were outside.
How lovely the night was ! The world lay
calm and smiling under the light of the moon ;
the soft breeze brought the scene of the pink
hawthorn in the hedges, of the clover in the
I meadows, of the violets in the woods. Violet
I went quietly out, and there, by the great lilac
bushes, stood Felix. She had no time to
remonstrate, for he had clasped her in his arms
as though nothing but death cou.d part them.
“ Did I frighten you. sweet ? I hope not—l
have but five minutes to spare.”
“Will you not come in the bouse, Felix?” she
1 asked.
t “No. I havo but five minutes, and I want to
spend them with you. I ought not to have run
1 over, but I could not help it—l could not rest.
I want to know if you saw that m in to-day, and
! what he said to you. Yes, I know,” he con
-1 tinned, “that lam jealous. Never mind that,
sweet. Jealousy is a consuming fire. I could
not rest, I could not sleep. I have tasted no
' food—my very life has seemed to be leaving
l me. I felt that I must run over, that I must
hold you in my arms, Kiss your lips, hear you
’ say that you love me, or the fire would destroy
me.”
Once more his great love mastered her—once
more the mighty passion in him seemed to
make her strong and noble b/ example.
“ Tell me about it, sweet,” be said.
Looking into his handsome face, hig lovelit
1 eyes, she could not say many words which would
1 hurt him.
1 . “There is.little to tell you, Felix,” she.re-
plied. “I went out soon after twelve; I did
‘ not return until after two. Then he was still
here. He went away soon afterward.”
“Did he talk much to you, Violet?”
> “No; he talked to my father,” she answered.
He drew her nearer to him.
“He has not taken one thought, one word,
one look, one smile from me, has he, sweet ?
1 Oh, my darling, if I could but take you where
your beauty could gladden no eyes put my own !
> It seems to me, Violet, that this fever of long
-1 ing is burning my heart away. Will the longed-
I for time never come ?”
' “Yes, it will come,” she replied; and this
time she did not add her usual remark—“l
have not quite promised, you know.”
1 She was sorry for him. She could not quite
understand hia feelings, but she bad some dim
perception of what he suffered, of the torture
of his love and jealousy, of the greatness of his
love. She saw such pain in his face and in the
trembling of his lips that she did what she had
never voluntarily done before—she caressed
■ him of her own free will; she laid her hand on
• the clustering hair, and drew his face down to
- hers. She turned her sweet lips to him.
“You need not fear, Felix.” sne whispered,
i “I love you—no one but you!”
“That was worth walking a hundred miles
1 for,” he said. “If you are so kind to me, Vio
' let, lam afraid that I shall run ©ver every
‘ night. I would walk all day and walk all night
f ror the chance of hearing such words.”
t The dew was falling, and tne fragrance of the
lilac floated round them.
’ “ 1 must not stay, Felix,” she murmured.
> “No; 1 will not ask you. My darling, say
1 only once more to me the words I love to hear
» —say, ‘Felix, I belong to you.’ Say it, Violet 1”
he added with a sudden passion.
“Felix, I belong to you,” she whispered, and
> ha was content.
He touched the lilac flowers with his hand.
2 “Darling,” he said, “I shall love every lilac
• that blooms because it will remind me of* this
night and of you. See, there are dew-drops on
1 your hair! You must not stay, sweet; you
must go in, Violet. You will repeat my name
before you sleep to-night, and wl you wake v
- You will say, ‘Felix—Hove Felix, and will be
■ true to him.’ ”
“Yes,” she answered.
. He touched the little golden chain that she
1. wore round her neck.
“I wish I were that chain. I wish I were
this golden ring of hair that lies on your face.
0 I wish—oh, Violet, lam mad with wishing
mad with longing ! But I love you so dearly.”
t In another minute he was gone. The moon
was shining, the dew lay upon the lilacs, and
1 Violet stood alone, her heart beating as it had
I never beaten before.
“After all. it ia better to be loved thaa to be
>- rich,” she thought; “it is better to have love
than riches. I—l wish that I had always been
Ll kinder to Felix; but 1 did not think—l did not
understand.”
i. ! She stood for some minutes while the west
r j ern wind the hot flush on her face, and
I she became calmer as she watched the pale
light of the moon.
■j “There is nothing like love,” she repeated;
. I “and there never yet was any love like his for
I me.”
” ! if the girl’s father and mother suspected any
e , thing they made no sign, they said no word,
> 1 and Violet was grateful.
It happened tnree days later that Felix, find
,t ing be bad a leisure hour in the afternoon, went
t over to the Limes. He took with him a little
d bouquet of roses; they were the first choice
e ones that he had seen, and he knew that Violet
loved roses. He found her at home ; and he
> was received with civility, though not with
o warmth, by her parents.' Violet was ploasod
with tno roses. She praised them—she buried
- her face in them, and Felix wished with all his
s heart that he'were one of tnem.
While he sat there a box came from the Hall.
Francis Haye was excited about it. It must be
fc opened alonce—he could not imagine what it
a contained. Felix offered to help, aud his offer
wag eagerly accepted. The first thing they saw
y was a magnificent bouquet—such a bouquet as
[1 had never been seen in Lilford—the conserva
tories must have, been robbed to provide it.
There were camelias, red and white, gardenias,
q stephanotis, wnite heath, heliotrope, lemon
y scented verbena—thu rarest and loveliest flow
_ era that grew. A little white card was at the
side of it—a card which bore the hackneyed
i quotation, “‘Sweets to the swoet.’ For Miss
I Haye, with Sir Owen Chevenix’s compliments.”
t Violet gave a little cry of delight when she
t saw it. Mrs. Haye took it up in her hands,
and, turning it round, said, in a most impress
ive voice :
” “This is worth five guineas, at least.”
I Thea they uncovered several bunches of su
-3 perb grapes, some fine peaches and apricots—
delicacies such as previously Violet had only
1 heard mentioned —also a dozen bottles of choice
3 Madeira lor Mr. Haye.
“ it is very kind of him,” said Francis Haye;
“ wonderfully kind. I have never met with any
one so generous.”
And Felix, wno was far above all ignoble jeal
ousy, joined in praise of the baronet. But when
Violet stood at the’ garden gate alone with him
he said half sadly :
“What does it all mean, Violet? I cannot
t understand it.”
i For to his mind—so brave, so noble, so inca-
- pablo of meanness or wrong—it had not yet oc
; curred that any man could deliberately try to
■ take his betrothed wife from him. He would
3 have scorned the notion—he never oven ever so
faintly suspected it, until it was too late. But,
3 as he stood there—and it was only natural—
there came to him for a moment a passionate
- longing for wealth. If he could only make
5 such presents as those he had just helped to
unpacK!
“Violet,” be said, half sadlv, “I am afraid
r mv roses seem very poor and trilling by the
side of all Sir Owen’s magnificence. My dar
) ling, if I could coin my heart’s blood into gold
5 and lavish it upon you, I would do so. My poor
- roses I”
She laughed a low rippling laugh, that sound
s cd very sweetly to him.
r “Those beautiful flowers will stand in mam
ma’s favorite old china bowl,” she said. “ Look
a where one of your roses is”—pointing to the
bodice of her dress ; “they shall change places
t if you like.”
. A passionate embrace was Felix Lonsdale’s
, only response; and as he walked home that
J night he felt that he was the happiest man in
t , the world.
v
t CHAPTER XIII.
‘ "HIS HANDSOME YOUNG FACE HAD GBOWN WHITE.”
; There was no place in England prettier than
- the old parish church at Lilford. it was an old
t Norman edifice, with quaint square towers and
i a harmonious peal of bells. The church stood
1 on rising ground, and behind it was a grove
t of oak trees—fine old spreading oaks, that
a had seen many generations of men and women
come and go. Great green hills stretched out
r on either side—hills with quiet little ham
-1 lets nestling on their wooded slopes; little old-
- world villages were doited around, and the old
- church stood up royally on the hill-side. The
wails were gray, and covered with ivy; the old
- windows were of stained glass; ivy covered the
t square towers; the old porch with its stone seat
? was a marvel of architecture; the path that led
to it was bordered by lime-trees; look where
one would one saw notbing but ripples of loli-
I age and a gold-green light.
Sunday in Luford was a day that would have
1 charmed a poet. The very spirit of peace and
rest seemed to brood over the earth, while the
e sweet chime of the Sabbath bolls sounded
through the venerable oaks.
1 So long as he could remember, Pelix had al
t ways walked home with Violet from church;
r when they were children they ran down the
li hills in very gladness of heart, but now they
s walked sedately, Felix almost forgetting the
- beauty of the fair world around him, as he
r looked into the beautiful face of tho young girl
r by his side—Violet faintly conscious of the ad-
- miring glances that came from all sides, yet
1 really trying with all her heart to disregard
d them because it was Sunday.
It would hardly have seemed like Sunday to
• Felix if his privilege had been withdrawn. He
S went, as usual, on the first Sunday in June,
when the old church was looking its fairest and
’- the sunlight on the oak-trees was wonderful to
see. There was Violet, her beautiful face shin
y ing, ho thought, like the face of an angel;
t there was Evelyn, looking like a fair, meek
,f saint. Great was his surprise to see Sir Owen
Chevenix also. It was the first time he had
e made bis appearance at church, and the con.
s gregation was just a little excited about it.
;, Doctor Hunter, on seeing him there, fondly
d fancied that it was due to the tame of his ef
e fective preaching. Lady Rolfe suspected that
1 the charming Lavinia had lured him there, but
i the vicar’s wife, shrewd Mrs. Hunter, sighed
and smiled. "It is the old, old story,” she
- said to herself; and then she reproached her
.l self for the thought and applied herself to the
Psalms.
a Felix did not think much about the matter,
- He was not asbamedto bow bis handsome bead,
and join with all bis heart tn the beautiful
i. words of tno service; but when it was ail over
e he hastened to meet Violet. She was standing
with her mother, and, to his surprise, Sir Owen
t Chevenix was talking to them. He gave a
y careless nod to Felix, but continued talking.
“I beg that you will let me drive you home,
y Mrs. Haye,” he was saying. “To tell you tho
; truth, I ordered my carriage on purpose—l did
k indeed. It is a lovely morning, and if you
e .will permit it, we will drive round by Queen’s
t Ash.”
c He did not look at VioleMs he spoke. He
o knew that whatever her mother did she must
s do. Felix had taken her hand.. He did not
care it all tho world hoard what he had to say.
I "You will not break through the old custom
of walking home with me, Violet, or rather of
e allowing me to walk home with you ?”
She looked from one to the other with real
o distress in her face. Sir Owen did not even
i glance at her ;he know that his cause was safe
. in Mrs. Haye’s hands.
J “Violet,” said Felix, “you cannot hesitate,”
- and the girl stood looking at him whiie her
mother said :
i "Really, I do not know what answer to give
o you, Sir Owen. Ido not know wbat people will
? say.”
t “ Why, what does that matter, Mrs. Haye ?”
a “Well, you see, Sir Owen, Lilford is a small
y place, and ‘everybody’ knows ‘everything.’ ”
“My dear lady, what can it matter if all the
a world knows of this ? I shall be very proud of
a the honor, I assure you. Lady Rolfe would not
require so much pressing.”
The last words, vulgar as was the spirit, which
t dictated them, quite determined Mrs. Haye.
1 Evidently, if sue did not go with him, he would
drive Lady Rolfe and her daughter. She sim-
- pered a little.
1 “Since you are so kind, we will accept your
I offer,” she said. “It will certainly be very
pleasant. I always tell Haye that the one thing
I want to make me perfectly happy is a carriage.
. Now. Violet.”
“Violet will allow mo to escort her, Mrs.
Haye,” suggested Felix.
? “Oh, no,” replied Mrs. Haye, “Violet must
3 come with mo I I cannot go alone and leave
1 Violet with you. Another time, Folix, you shall
- be her escort. Sir Owen has boon kind enough
- to order bis carriage for us ; it would be really
impolite to refuse. We will say good morning
s to you now.”
I And she watched him while he shook hands
first with her and then with Violet.
o His handsome young face had grown white
i even to the lips; but what could be do?. He
3 was a gentleman ;he could not make a "scene ;”
3 he could not take the girl from her mothei’s side
3 against her will; be bad no carriage with roan
1 steeds, and coachman and footmen in livery.
I What could he do? Only one thing. If Violet
a was to go in the carriage, he himself would put
3 her into it. The baronet's hand should not
touch even his darling’s dress.
. So he walked by her side down the avenue of
limes, aud they reached the high road where
s the carriage stood. There were many curious
- eyes watching them. Lady Rolfe and the fair
y Lavinia looked on in angry indignation.
t " What does that girl mean by encouraging
Sir Owen ?” said the mother. “Surely one lover
e ought to be enough for her. Felix Lonsdale
must be blind.”
“Perhaps be cannot help himself, mamma,”
y returned the philosophical daughter, and in
r that she was right. ■
” When Felix bad helped Violet into the car
riage, he bent over her to arrange her dress.
I " Darling, you would sooner have walked home
with me, would you not.”
“ Yes, I would,” she replied ; and after that
c the disappointment was not quite so hard to
s bear. He had one satisfaction; be turned away
n without a word or a bow to Sir Owen.
u “ This is pleasant,” said Mrs. Haye, as the
e carriage rolled swiftly along the high road.
r “Violet, of all tho luxuries ot life give me a car
fl riage.”
The luxury and grandeur were certainly very
pleasant, while the novelty delighted Violet.
e Sir Owen did nothing to alarm her. He talk
ed to Mrs. Haye, while he merely looked at Vio
e let. He was wonderfully solicitous that she
3. should be comfortable, and there was but one
- drawback to Violet’s pleasure, the memory of
’ the pain on her lover’s face.
n " How I wish Felix had a carriage 1” she said
d to herself. “ But that will never be.”
,d She enjoyed her father’s surprise when the
horses stopped at tho flames, and she wonder
's •! wUM box mother meaat when she ggjj;
e “If I had a chance of keeping such a car
u riage as that, 1 should not lightly throw it
t awav.”
(To ba Contiaisl-i
I AN HOUR WITH BIJAH.
. THE OLD MAN IS IN TERRIBLE
; TROUBLE.
A FEM.'_LE DEMON.
I, Just as the old man was getting his parlor in
order for visitors be received notice that his
- presence was desirable at the Central Station,
t Making his way down town, be was kindly
e greeted by his Honor, who tossed the remains
e of a State Fair egg-plum out of the alley win
t dow and said:
a “There are four or five cases here which
i seem to concern you more or less. There is,
1 lor oue, a female in the corridor, who says she
1 is engaged to you. If such is the case I don’t
s wan tto send her up, of course.”
“Engaged to me 1 Great heavens 1 but I was
. never engaged in my life I” exclaimed the seem
-0 inglv astonished Bijah.
t “Well, that’s what she says. I don’t know
r anything about your love affairs, though I have
v had many hints that you wore about to take a
s wife.”
"Lot me see the demoness who dares make
i. affldavy that lam going to build fires for her
i, this Winter 1” demanded the old janitor, his
- eyes as wild as those of a runaway uorse; and
- he was shown into the corridor.
a ft She was there. She sat on an inverted bushel
I basket, belonging to the City Sealer ol Weights
s aud Measures. She looked about forty years
” old, and she had banged hair, a thin nose, and
ea chin sticking out like a bay window. She
, knew him at sight, and sbe rose up and called
- out:
“Darling, I knew you’d come!”
Bijali stood before her without a word. The
. wobble ot his knoes was plainly heard by the
_ audience, and ho breathed like a boy'running
f out of a melon-patch with four dogs after him.
0 “ Don’t you recognize me, Bijah ?” plaintively
inquired the woman.
; “Never! Never I” be shouted, dancing around
- on bis toes. “I never saw you before—l don’t
know you—l won’t know-you 1”
“My love, have you been drinking?” she
i softly asked.
i “Don t call mo your love—don’t put on them
’ore grins for my benefit. You are an old im
t positoross, a jackaless, a swindle'ress, a deceit
ess, and if you don’t own up that you have been
- lying, i’ll sue you for slander 1”
- “Aud only last night he called me his silver
-3 plated coal-stove I” sbe replied, turning to the
I reporters, with a gesture of despair.
j “I never didl FII ma.te oath on the Bible
, that I don’t even know your name I”
“Boy, beware!” sbo hissed, as she pointed her
3 slender finger at his nose. “If you turn mylovo
s to hate, it will be the worse for you
i “Let ’er turn! Let ’er turn! I say you
are-—•”
I She clawed out for him, and she reached him.
3 Four of her finger-nails raked bis. nose from
- bridge to end, and tho other band would have
1 gathered up all the hair on top of his head if he
r hadn’t baen bald.
“Serpent!” she hissed through her clenched
- teeth, “ when I get out, I’ll meet you on the
street and throw snuff into your villainous
-. eyes I”
t “You’ll never get out—not for a thousand
3. years!” he called back, one band holding his
i nose, and the other keeping her off.
She was taken out and sent up for six months
s on a charge of drunkenness and disorderly
t conduct. When she had' been locked mro a
i ceil, ho nut his nose through the bar.; and kindly
inquired:
“ Mary Ann, why did you try to play that on
me?’
“Wait till I come out!” she yelled, as sbo
’ jumped for him.
i “ASSIST THE BEABEK.”
I In cell No. 4 was a long-chested, liollow-eyed
1 man, whose principle article of clothing was
j the remains of an old army overcoat. He had
9 been lunching around town during the day,
t taking in everything, from a saloon spread to a
j bard apple picked up on the street, and tho
t police finally ran bim in for a vag. After his
. arrest he claimed to be a veteran of the Mexi
. can war, and produced a paper reading as fol
lows :
“ Toledo, Sept. 1,1878.
“Bijah—Please.assist the bearer of tuis.
“Tom Collins.”
t He was brought out of his cell, and Bijah
L looked him over and asked:
, "And do you claim that I agreed to marry
. you, too ?”
“No, sir. I was told that you would get me
. into the post-office.”
I “You was, eh? It’s a wonder they didn’t
i tell you I’d get you into the House of Correc-
I tion.”
Won’t you just mention to the Judge that
. I’m a distant relative of yours ?” asked the
, stranger.
J “No, sir! Even it you were I’d deny it!”
r “But I honestly believe we used to play to-
s getber, and are old friends.”
, “ We never played together—never! I never
I played with anybody; 1 always had a sore toe
. or boil on my leg, or had to go for the doctor.”
; “Won’t you say to the Judge that I can skip
I this town in fifteen minutes?”
“No, sir 1 The country hay-stacks are honey
( combed with tramps’ nests uow. If be lets you
, go, aud you go ’round town telling folks that
you even know how to spell my name, I’ll hunt
j you down and cut your hair and make you
, wash up.”
The prisoner turned pile and shrank back,
and the three months’ sentence never moved
: him in the least.
I MISTAKEN IDENTITY.
A young farmer had been arrested for smash
' ing in a shoemaker’s window and ra sing a row,
• and he claimed that Bijah was responsible. He
' explained to tne court:
' " You see, I had a lift put on mv left boot-
' heel at that ’ere shop, and he charged me a
t quarter. 1 handed him a trade-dmUr, and he
knocked ten cents off for discount. That made
1 me hoppin’ mad. but I was chokin’ it back when
’long came Bijah. He said ■it was a cheat and
! a fraud, and told me to go in and mash things
and he’d back me. I said I didn’t want a row,
■ aud he called me a hen turkey an 1 allowed I
’ dasn’t mash a ’tater. Thou I got madder than
1 ever, went in and mashed, and here I am.”
’ “I am Bijah, andjidid you see -ne there?”
> asked the old man.
1 Tbe prisoner looked him’over in the most
‘ caretui manner, and then replied :
"Please sing four lines ot ‘Darling, I am
Growing Old. I may recognize you by
' your voice.”
1 “No need of singing,” replied the’.court.
1 "Does this look like the maa or not
1 “I’d like to have bim shut up bis left eye,
just as that follow did,” continued tne prisoner.
' "I was greatly excited, but I can never, never
t forget haw that fellow drew down his left eye
6 as ne told mo to go in and unsuacklo my
strength.”
i “is he the one or not ?” impatiently demand
-1 ed his Honor.
. The prisoner walked around Bijah, carefully
1 examined his heels, glanced at bis bald pate and
1 yellow necktie, and finally said :
3 “I don’t think he’s tbe man, but he comes
„ mighty near it, though. I think you’d better
„ send him up for three months on general prin
r ciplesl”
"I think I’ll fine you about ten dollars, and
j you’ll have to pay for the window beside,” re
-1 marked tbe court, after the laugh subsided.
“ What 1 And lot him go 1”
“Yes.”
1 “Then 1 appeal 1”
“Towhat?”
I “To the Supreme Court at Washington, and
t I want five oi the best lawyers in this town I”
1 “Very well, your appeal is noticed, and you
, can go in and sit down and wait tor the Ma
ria.”
; The prisoner pondered the matter over and
1 concluded to pay his fine and then begin suit
tor SIO,OOO damages.
There being no one else there who knew Bi
jah, tbe old man started home, growling out as
; be left the station :
' “Here I’va tooled away a whole hour, and
’ this was the day I was to show old Mrs. Jones
how to put up castor ile for Winter use.”
ADAM’S LONELY BOYHOOD.
* An Affecting Picture of the Original Mar-
f lied Man.
; BY THE FAT CONTRIBUTOR.
9 In beginning a series of sketches concerning
the youthful days of eminent people, it seems
e eminently fitting that we commence with
3 Adam, it is rather difficult to couceive Adam
” as a boy, we admit, owing to the popular su
e perstition that has paintod him coming into
a the world full grown, with whiskers and mus
, tacho complete, and a prevailing belief thatthere
t wasn’t a boy in the world until Eve came and
t raised the Old Boy with Adam; yet we prefer
t to think of our ancient progenitor as having
had something of a boyhood, and we suppose
f we have as good a right to theorize upon the
e subject as any one else.
s Adam was probably as mischievous, naturally,
r as boys, generally are. In fact, Darwin says he
was " a perfect little monkey,” which, we be
j Have, is a synonym for mischievousness the
r world over. But he had no companions in bis
e gambols. If be staid out after dars and got to
cutting up, it was all by himself. And what
” sport could he have ringing door-bells without
i a lot of other boys to scamper away with ? Aud
consider the melancholy fun of fastening cords
- across the walk at night with nobody to trip
over them.
e We can imagine young Adam, with all tbe
instincts of a boy two inches thick in his na
.t tiire, looking about for some way to divert
o himself as other boys do, and whimpering to
y himself. “ Can’t have an yfun 1”
Of course, he couldn’t by any possibility have
e any fun. No fun running away from school, or
1. stealing off to go in swimming, because there
:- was no oue to lick him when he got home. No
fun sneaking up into the bay-mow to indulge in
y a surreptitious game of euchre—always had to
“play it alone.” He couldn’t play “tag,” be
:- cause he might yell “I’ve got the tag” all day,
i. and there would be no one to come and take it
e away from him. “Hi-spi” had no cliarm, for a
3 boy soon gets tired of hiding when he has to go
f to work to find himself. And where is there a
boy who likes to work and “ find himself.”
1 Tbe more we think about Adam’s lonely boy
hood the more we are inclined to pity bim. Ho
,e never knew wbat a circus meant, at least not
> until Eve came and introduced him to one.
But we have nothing to de w“ b
are only treating of Adam’s boyhood. True,
there was a big menagerie ail round him, but
the animals were tame affairs, lambs and lions
lying down together in the most spiritless con
cord, and the hippopotamuses and canary birds
playing with each other like kittens. Little
Adam never sat way up on the highest seat and
gazed awe-stnclren while a man in spangled
tights sprang, whip in hand, into a cage of sav
age beasts that rolled their eyes, gnashed their
teeth, and roared until the canvas overhead
flapped for vßry fear. No, indeed. He never
saw a thin-legged female in short skirts ride a
loping horse around a ring and jump through a
hoop, while a man with his face painted white
and his mouth a red exaggeration tells that
convulsive story about stuffing hay into bis
shoes to fill them out and his calves going down
to eat the hay. Young Adam never saw “ the
old clown,” though he camo very soon after
Adam’s day, and the jokes he commenced with
he has been getting off ever since.
And how about base ball ? Do you suppose
that Adam knew anything about that exhilarat
ing diversion that is now doing so much toward
developing the intellects of our American youth?
There is no likelihood of it, not while he was a
boy. His son Cain, however, seems to have
been the first who got up a “club,” but it was
the death of bls brother Abel.
While there were so many things that the boy
Adam missed, think not that his solitary life
was not without its compensations. There was
no other boy.to steal bis marbles, or bide his
top, or jeer at him because he bad to wear bis
b‘g brother’s cast-off clothes, or holler across
the street that he bad “a letter in the post
office,” or fix a bent pin for him to sit down on,
or make faces at bis sister, or spell him down,
or steal his dinner, or teil on him when he had
been in mischief, or beat him out of his sweet
heart. Adam escaped these and a thousand
other annoyances that boys subject each other
to. He hadn’t any brothers and sisters to tease
and worry him, and with whom he was com
pelled to divide his playthings and any nice
things to cat that might come that way. He
could leave a piece of sweetcake lying around
anywhere, knowing that.none of .the rest of the
children would touch it; and a tonight, on re
tiring, he could stick his “gum” on to the head
board, confident that it weald rest undisturbed
until morning.
Whatever trouble and annoyances his matri
monial life may have brought him, we find a
kind of satisfaction in reflecting that Adam’s
boyhood was exceptionally free from care, and
on that account wo are bound to’conc.ude that
bis lite was not an entire failure..
POWER OF CHEMISTRY.
(From the London Observer.)
A most unfortunate accident which has oc
curred at Prague recalls in many of its details
and circumstances the quiint traditions that
were once prevalent with regard to the mediae
val alchemists. Professor Fischer, of the
Prague Gymnasium, a young man, only twenty
five years of age, and of the highest eminence
in his profession—that of chemistry—has come
to an untimely end, under the most melancholy
circumstances. No one needs to be told that
cyanide of potassium, a drug largely used in
photography, is a poison of the most deadly
character. Its active ingredient is prussic
acid. Prussic acid in its pure, or—as chemists
would term it—'“anhydrous” form, is a sub
stance too dangerous to be kept, or even man
ufactured. If a glass capsule containing a
wineglassful of pure prussic acid were broken
in the pit of a theatre, those among the au
dience who were nearest the doors might per
haps escape, but the great majority would be
killed on the spot. I'be prussic acid ordinarily
sold, and occasionally used for killing dogs ana
cats, contains about a drop of the pure acid to
a quarter of a pint of water. Pure prussic acid
no chemist dare keep. He might as well com
press a ton of dynamite into a single cartridge
—supposing such package to be possible—and
then leave the deadly parcel lying loose upon
his table.
Cyanide of potassium is not, like prussic acid,
volatile. It is a white powder, rather resem
bling flour or chalk. It is, however, so poison
ous that.a mere pinch of it, sprinkled over an
open wound or sore, will cause almost instan
taneous death? that a fragment, almost imper
ceptible to the eye. will, if swallowed, prove
equally fatal; and that its mere smell has be
fore now produced immediate death. It was,
it seems, the ambition of Professor Fischer to
discover some means of rendering cyanide 01
potassium harmless. We can do this with gun
powder—although the analogy is not strictly
exact, the means employed with gunpowder be
ing, mechanical, while those for which Profes
sor Fischer sought wore chemical. We know
what happens if a light is applied to a keg o.
gunpowder. If, however, we *mix the powder
with four or five times its bulk of sawdust, a
torch maybe held to it with impunity. The
mechanical resistance of the sawdust makes it
impossible for the explosion to at once spread
to the whole mass, and the consequence is that
a sort of splutter ensues, like that of a squib or
blue light. Professor Fischer’s idea was that,
if cyanide of potassium were thoroughly mixed
with sal ammoniac, it would be as harmless as
gunpowder mixed with sawdust, but would still
remain equally available for all those purposes
of photography for which it is at present abso
lutely indispensable.
In the course of his researches, Mr. Fischer
made a mixture, of which in his own mind he
felt assured that it would meet the conditions
of his problem. He compounded the cyanide
with some other substance, and then—turning
to his laboratory assistant—said :
“Science has now so far advanced as to be
even able to render harmless so dangerous an
agent as cyanide of potassium.”
With these words he tasted the mixture, and
was almost in an instant seized with the most
violent and excruciating agonies. He at once
implored his assistant to send for medical aid.
Cyanogen, however—whether as prussic acid or
as cyanide of potassium—kills almost instanta
neously. In a few seconds Professor Fischer
was beyond help. Wo are told that there is no
possible reason to suppose that a deliberate sui
cide had been planned and carried out, under
the mask of experiment. On the contrary,
there is every reason to believe that the profes
sor has met the fate which befell only too many
of the early chemists and their predecessors,
the alchemists.
We know, now, what will happen to any ex
perimentalist if he dips blotting paper in nitric
acip, washes it, dries it, and then incautiously
treads upon it. What happened to the man
who is believed—for his records perished with
him—to have first discovered fulminate of sil
ver, is matter of scientific record. That he was
engaged in researches upon the fulminates, and
more especially upon the fulminates of the
higher metals, was well known. How it pre
cisely came about that he disappear as he did
will remain matter of conjecture. There came
one day a puff, a slight shock, and a smart noise
as if some one had inflated a paper bag, and
then burst it between his hands. Of the pro
fessor himself, of his laboratory, of his appara
tus, and of much else within the radius of some
yards, mot a vestige or trace was left.
So it used to be with the alchemists—the
heritors of the hidden wisdom of Bohme, and
Roger Bacon, and Albertus Magnus. They
were always blowing themselves up, or asphyx
iating themselves with some noxious vapor.
For a man who knows nothing, or next to noth
ing, of chemistry, it is a very dangerous game
indeed to mix together a couple of substances
of which he knows nothing, and then bray
them in a mortar. Common sulphur is harm
less stuff enough, so is charcoal, so is nitre;
but let an ignorant man mix the three and ap
ply a light to them, aud the result will much
astonish him.
When, of old, an alchemist was reduced to
fragments in this fashion, our ancestors had an
easy explanation. He was a magician, they
used to say, and the devil had come suddenly
and carried him off. There was a time—be
tween the days of Roger Bacon and those of
Davy, Black and Cavendish—when the foul
fiend was thus always carrying off alchemists.
We know now how it happened. If a man goes
into a chemical laboratory and takes up a big
beaker, and pours into it the contents ot thfo
first two bottles that are ready to his hand, the
probabilities that he will be reduced to atoms
on the spot are sufficiently serious to call for
his careful consideration.
Apart from the sad fact that a young man
with a bright and indeed brilliant future before
before him skeuld be thus suddenly cut off,
the death of Professor Fischer has another
moral. Chemistry—whatever Mr. Lowe may
have to say in praise of civil engineering—is
the science of the world and of the future. The
bri’dge, which it takes the engineer years upon
years to construct, the chemist can, in as
many sixtieths of a second, reduce to atoms.
Chemistry has given us the balloon ; it has
put in our hands gunpowder, nitro-glycerine,
dynamite, and, above all, fulminate of gold—an
explosive so terrible that if an ounce of it be
left in a stoppered bottle, its grains falling
among themselves by their own weight, will
create a -convulsion sufficient to lay ail London
in ruins. It has given us poisons so subtle
that—were wo to resolve to employ such means
of warfare—we could sail in a balloon over the
camp of the enemy and drop upon it a shell,
the bursting of which would kill every human
being within a mile of its range.
«Then, too, chemistry has given us disinfect
ants. To the chemist we -owe carbolic acid,
chloride of lime, and permanganate of potash.
Chemists have taught us to disinfect our
sewers and drains, to ventilate our houses, to
burn gas instead of oil, and to light our streets
with what is more powerful than even gas it
self—the electric light. It is to chemistry, in
deed, that we owe almost all the comtorts of
every-day life.
But, on the other hand, the possibilities of
chemistry are almost too terrible to be contem
plated. As the science- at present stands, any
student can, if he have access to a well-stored
laboratory, carry away with him in a pill-box
matter sufficient to lay London in ruins, or to
poison the whole community of its inhabitants.
The chemist can, as every schoolboy knows,
convert water into ice in the centre of a red-hot
crucible. He can construct a shell the size of
a cricket-ball which will explode the moment
it touches the water, and overwhelm in flames
a hostile fleet. Indeed, the chemist reduces
• the world to its original and primal elements.
For him, even more than for the engineer,
nothing is impossible. And yet his power, vast
. as it is, is limited. He can more easily destroy
1 than construct. He can take life, but he can
. not give it. He can level a city with the plain,
but he cannot build it again. He can create
prussic acid, but ne is ignorant of its antidote.
i He is like the fisherman who rashly opened the
t vessel sealed with the ring of Suleiman Ben’
. I Daoud. The forces at his control are beyond
‘ * Kj* cn mm and; the powers he eau evoke ho
, not lay. It is the old story of Ctaraelius Agrip
-3 pa - those who trifle with Nature'* secrets do so
i at their peril.
i
A NOVEL SPOILED.
“la Will Forsyths to bo your company to
' morrow ?”
I “Yes.”
“Well, that’s strange; that’s what 1 call sec
ond fiddle.”
“ Why, what do you moan ? I'm not second
1 fiddle.”
- ’’On nothing; only be was going to take Elsie
1 Gray too. I wont to see bar this afternoon and
1 found her sick, and while 1 was there she sent
word co Mr. Forsythe that eho wouid not be
able to go to-morrow. I thought it. very queer
1 tbat she was to go with him, for I supposed ot
course he would be devoted to you as usual.”
“I think myself that tbat is exceedmglystrango,
exceedingly,” said X, growing more emphatic.
“When the picnic was first talked of I was
afiaid I couldn’t go, because it was so near the
■ close of school, and he insisted upon my going,
1 aud even offered to take me backto school that
1 evening alter our return from the woods, if it
was necessary. But I’ll rot go with him; of
that X am very certain, it tbat is the way ho
1 moans to do;’” and f shook my head rather
; more defiantly than was necessary to loosen the
hair that I was uubraiding before X brushed it
i tor the night.
1 X was attending boar ling-school in the city,
and had gone out to stay all night with my
friend Anna Murray, at Elmwood, expecting to
go picnicking the next day. it w.is al-most
earn when I reached Anna’s, aud immediately
after dinner callers came in, so it wai not until
we had gone to our room ior the mgnt that we
were alone,.and she b-dan opportunity to tell
me that my escort had intended escorting somo
one else to the picnic along wita me. Not a
! very welcome piece of-news, every one must ad
mit; for what girl likes to share her escort on
such an occasion with some one else Not that
1 I had any claim to Will For,yt;io—oh, no, in-
■ deed! I shouldn’t have acknowledged that te
■ any ene, although X knew even bettor than An
na that l:e bad been, as she had said, “devo
ted” to me, doing and saying so many iittlo
things that cannot be told, you know, but may
mean a great deal, too. Those tilings that
Mrs. Browning must have mea-1 when she
said, “buck things have their weight with
- g rls,”-
How provoked I was at myself for having al
lowed such things to have “their weight” with
me 1 Wo were not confessed lovers at all, but
wo bad arrived at that point in our acquaint
ance where it required but one step to make us
suih, and in thinking of that ; ionic I had
thought tbat maybe—oh, well, never mind
, what X had thought. What are girls apt to
think under like cireumstan-es ? My air-cas
tles were now as shapeless and devoid of color
as so many pricked soap-bubbles. Here wm
my divoted cavalier, who had urged me to at
. tena Ibis picnic as though all his happiness fot
tho day depended on my presence, with all his
arrangements made for escorting some other
girl. No special harm in that, to bo sure. As
we were all going in eno omnibu >, he could very
conveniently attend to two; but way had he
said nothing about it to me ? Why had he act
ed as if my going was all that was nocessary to
his happiness,while all the time he was intend
■ ng to take some one else ?
What a stinging satire X could have written,
just then, on the falseness of men! How X
vowed that X would never—no never in this
world believe one of them again. And, to spite
the whole race, I made a solemn vow to myself
that f would be an old maid all my life, and I
went to sleep with the picture in my mind of a
dignified unmarried lady of uncertain age—why
are there no married ladies of uncertain age, I
wonder?—living entirely alone, and spending
her lime and money in charity, kind and affa
ble to all, but surrounded witb’an impenetrable
air of reserve. This, it is needloss to say, was
mvsolf at fifty.
Just before we left, tho next morning, Mrs.
Murray gave us each a boutonniere. to give to
our escorts, she said. Bull decided in my own
mind tbat while Anna could make such dispo
sition of hers as she chose, mine should never
ornament the lappel of Will Forsythe’s coat.
Accordingly, when be asked me for it, as soon
as wo started, as I had expected him to do, I
replied that X couldn’t possibly think of such a
ching as giving it away. I wanted it myself.
AU sub-rosas I promptly nipped in the bud,
ahile I managed to carry on a lively conversa
tion with my vis-a-vis, Mr. Hughes, the hand
somest man in the party.
Soon atter we arrived at the grounds Mr.
Forsythe went with one of tho other gentlemen
for a bucket of water, and while they were gone
wo found a suitable place, and commenced a
game of croquet. When they came back he sat
down by me on a log, whore I was waiting my
turn to play, and the very first thing he said
was :
“ Why, where’s your rosebud ?”
I was not expecting the question, but replied,
looking down where it had been piuued to my
dress:
“I don’t know.”
Just then some one called.
“Miss Mitford, it’s your turn to play,” and
we both looked up to see Mr. Hughes coming
for me, wearing the boutonniere.
Xt was a moan thing to do, and I was equal to
anything that dry or I coulln’t have done it,
but X was not prepared for the pained look that
camo into his face as our eyes mat. It cut ma
to the quick, but I was determined not to show
it, so wnen just before Mr. Hughes reached us,
ha said, “X didn’t thinkjthat of you,” I turned
without a word and went off laughing with my
partner. I had lost all interest in the game,
though, as well as in the other little game X was
playing. I began to think that there must ba
some mistake about his having asked any ona
else, or, that if he had, he bad not done it ta
cut me, for X knew from that look that he real
ly did think as much of mo as—well, as I want
ed him to think, and now, by my hasty, jealous
and unkind treatment, I had probably brought
about an estrangement that might last always.
I was to graduate the following Thursday and
return immediately to my home in a distant
town, and there would bo no time for a recon
ciliation, even if the pride of botu should per <
mit it. My heart was as heavy as lead after 1
bad found out what I had done, notwithstand
ing, to all appearances, I was the gayest of tho
gay.
Why will girls persist in doing things to make
others suffer when they always suffer more than
any one else all the time ?
At dinner Mr. Hughes devoted himself to me,
while Mr. Forsythe was very attentive to Millie
Shipley, a circumstance which afforded me a
vast amount ot comfort, for, having frequently
heard him laugh at her stupidity, X had the sat
isfaction of knowing he was nor enjoying the
conversation half as much as appearances indi
cated.
The place where the picnic was held was pro
vided with a largo two-seated swing, made some
tning after the fashion of a sleigh, which had
been the scone ot a good deal of fun, oil
and on, all day, and late in the afternoon, al
most the entire party had gathered there, when
somo one proposed that the girls swing the
gentlemen. Accordingly, several of us mado
the attempt to run clear under the swing and
toss it up. We had gone only a few steps,
though, when I—always the unfortunate me—
stopped on my dress, and my loot became
wrapped up in it so that I flel, much to my
own vexation as well as mortification. How
over, I picked myself up as soon as possible,
which was just in time to have been knocked
down again by the swing, which was coming
back with additional force, if some one had not
quickly jerked mo out of the way. I turned as
. quick as I could to thank my rescuer, when,
i imagine my surprise, if you can, I saw Mr.
• Forsythe. X knew he was standing near when
wo started, and remembered bearing him say
we oughtn’t to attempt it, but as I hadn’t seen
f him—that is, talked with him—since the bou
. tonniere affair, I was very much surprised now
to see him appear m tho role of my preserver,
and still more so when ho showed no inclina
tion to leave, but accompanied mo to a seat a,
few steps away, where I did what X could to
make my torn dress presentable. I thanked
i him with the most dignified and distant air I
■ could command, but apparently not observing
the lack of cordiality, he remarked, as he took-’
i a seat beside me, as coolly as if nothing bad
i happened that day :
“ I toid you you oughn’t to attempt that. If
• you had taken my advice this wouldn’t have
■ happened.”
i “Your advice?” said I. “You perhaps da
• not know that advice unasked, is about as wel
come as ‘ltoid you so’ after one has gotten
i into trouble.”
“Thank you for reminding me of my lack of
knowledge.” perfectly unruffled by my tart re
joinder. Then, after a pause, “W il you please
tell me what is the matter with you, to-day?”
i Now. X will not deny tbat X was very well sat
isfied with the turn affairs had taken, and
I meant, in due time, to make sufficient explana
tion for my behavior, but I didn’t think it best
. to show my willingness to ‘make up ’ too soon.
So, utterly oblivious to his meaning, I said:
> “Matter with me? Nothing at all. I never
, enjoyed better health in my lite.”
“If it is any satisfaction to you,” ho contin
ued, entirely ignoring myMast remark, “you
have succeeded in spoiling the day for me.”
“X spoil the day for you, Mr. Forsythe? In
. deed, I should think any anticipated pleasure
■ you may have missed from this trip could be
> attriouted to the absence ot Miss Gray. Her
i illness must have been quite a disappointment
. to you, as, I believe, you were to escort her to
day.”
I saw in a moment that that attempt at in
difference was a wretched failure.
f “Miss Gray?” he said; “what has her pres
ence or absence to do with my pleasure ? Is
• that it ? Why don’t you know that—”
I But never mind what he said then. I don’t
; believe I remember. Suffice it to say every
i thing was explained satisfactorily, and a recon
. ciliation effected at once, and when I went
horns tho next week I wore a diamond ring
t which (not because of its beauty or elegance,
f for it would have bean all the same if it had
; been made of gutta porcha or leather) I
i thought more of than anything else I possessed,
i it was a novel spoiled X know, for he should
have gone off to California and not been heard
from for several years, during which time I
t should have remained at home thinking of him
, and rejecting numerous suitors until after a
. sufficiently long time wo should meet, aftei
which everything would be lovely. But I enjoj
3 the far less tragic ending of the little misun
derstanding, and have had a weakness fof
i swings ever since, and Will, who has been look
’ ing over m.v shoulders, says be has too, and
1 he intends to build a big one under our oal
. tree next Summer.—Ctrwlnztafi TtaWh