New York dispatch. [volume], October 13, 1878, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
J ’’''That is her lover,” thought Sir Owon, as he s
looked reflectively at them. “Weil, he may i
come—it will save trouble. he sees all 1
that he will see, he will bo taught a lesson. <
Violet was more pleased and contented when t
he smiled. She did not {know why she felt so 1
greatly relieved. . ,
Then Sir Owen rose to take his leave ; he was j
going to London that evening, ho said, and it 1
would be some days before he wuuld see them i
again. Ho asked Violet to go with him to the £
garden-gate \ and again, when Mrs. Haye saw
the peculiar expression on her busband’s face, a
Bhe whispered— . $
“Not one word. Francis Haye, not one word, 1
or you will spo.l it ail,” and he obediently held J
his peace. *■
They saw a look of perplexity on Violets
beautiful face all that day, and she had lost her c
animation. She fell into long fits of musing; o
eho was unlike herself; but no word from father r
or mother helped her m her difflcalty, or solved i
her doubts. .
Felix had been quite pleased about his invita
tion; he smiled and thought to himself how c
foolish he had been. What could be more nat- f
oral than that S r Owen should admire his beau- t
Aiful Violet ? He could not help it; .he told him- c
eelf tha| he had been unreasonably jealous, that n
here was a proof of it. If Sir Owen bad enter- b
tained any false, dishonorable notion of sup- s
planting him in Violet’s affections, here was a d
proof that he had changed his mi id. Another t
end more generous Idea a till came to him— c
namely, that Sir Owen bad not known at first a
fthat Violet was engaged, and bonce admired h
her, but that, now that ha did know it, be had a
Changed his ideas. 13
“Some one had told him,” thought generous
Felix, “and that is why he invites me.” . e
'This noble-hearted man could not imagine a a
fellow-man holding out one hand with a smile, b
he clutched a dagger in the other. He ''
.was sorry for having misjudged him, and d
thought to himself that on the dap of the fete, c
• lie would seek out Sir Owen and shake hands b
With him. So, to Violet’s great relief, there b
was no cloud on his face when be told her that P
he would be pleased to attend the,fete.
* But he looked very thoughtful when Violet d
told him of the invitation. J*
“1 do not want to go.” she said—“l do not n
like Lady Rolfe; beside, Ido not see the use of h
making friends with all these great people—it
cannot last,” * ?
h “You really do not care to go there, Violet? L
lie asked. " P
‘ “No, not to the Hall. 1 shall enjoy the/ete,
font I shall not enjoy the visit.”
Q JPelix drew near to her. 8
|* “Violet,” he whispered, “you will not think
tne jealous or disagreeable?” P
. |No,” she replied. “
want you ro do something for me. lam °
jbuzzled. Sometimes I think Sir Owen must
(know that we are engaged—sometimes 1 fancy a
t Jtflat he does not; yet he must know.” 11
p.“I should imagine that he does know—every
one round hero knows; he would be sure to hear
it spoken of.” £
I “Most probably. But, Violet, lot us make 11
Bure of it — tell him yourself, sweet. He will be
quite sure to talk to you, and it will be so easy; n
just in a few little words, and then allmysus- 8 -
jpense will bo ended—indeed I have not felt at “
,(all anzious about it since I received this invita- »
'felon. No man could be so false as to invite an
other to his house it he intended doing him any r
barm. lam quite easy about it, Violet.” w
I- And ho meant what he said; ho judged oth- u
jers by himself, and in his nobleness of heart v
had no notion what meanness was. e
l There was a great surprise in store for Violet. &
Bhe had talked to her mother about her dress, s '
and Mrs. Haye had said that she must have a
something very nice; but something “very 8
Dice ” would be costly, and Francis Haye was a
hard to manage on such points. a
1 Mother and daughter were discussing what
was to be done under the circumstances, when 8
a large box from London was brought by the ,
carrier’s cart to their door; it was fox Miss 8
: Haye—there was no mistake as to the address w
■—and with some curiosity they hastened to s '
open it “
, “It is directed in a lady’s hand,” said Violet, i
>’What can it be, mamma ?” ?
I*.- “We shall see, my dear,” replied Mrs. Haye.
When it was opened both ladies were speech- ?
less with surprise. It contained three complete ?
postumes—one for a garden-party, a most 11
charming combination of blue and white, with
a tasteful Parisian bonnet, gloves, shoes, and P
. Everything to match—a dress that Mrs. Haye
declared made her heart beat to think of the 11
«noney it must have cost; then an evening
jdreas of white silk, with a train of blue velvet
»nd blue velvet trimmings; lastly, a full and
linost exquisite costume for the ball, of white
Bilk trimmed with silver fringe and silver leaves.
Mrs. Haye was amazed when she saw it. With j
It were white satin shoes, a fan, white feathers „
mounted -in silver, a silver bouquet-ho id er, a
gloves, and a marvellous handkerchief of dainty z
laoe. Violet looked at the treasures in wonder.
I v“ Who can have seni those, mamma?” she
asked. “1 do not like to take thorn. Have you
ever seen anything so beautiful?”
/‘lf I believed in fairies,” said Mrs. Haye, “I
should think that a fairy bad sent them.”
In her own mind she felt quite sure that the
donor was Sir Owen, but she would not say so. v
Violet had no suspicion—not even the faintest.
She never thought of Sir Owen.
“It must be a lady who sent them,” said Vio- a
let. “No man would have understood what l
was wanted. Mamma, should you think that it v
was Lady Rolfe ?”
J “I am really puzzled,” replied Mrs. Haye. r
/‘We will call your father.”
Francis Haye came to the rescue. Violet |
■wearied herself in trying to guess, but she e
could not divine who was her benefactor. When °
she had carried the ball-dress away, the hus- (
band and wife looked at each other.
“It is just as I said, Francis ; out, mind, not t
one word I • One careless word mly spoil it ail.” a
And neither of them breathed a sound to Vio- €
let of what they suspected.
a
t
CHAPTER XV. t
“violet was queen of the evening.”
Mrs. Haye declared that it was fortunate rain r
fell two days before the fete ;it cleared the air, s
it freshened the grass, it washed the dust from c
the trees and hedges, it made the whole face of 6
Sature so sweet, so fresh and fair, that it was j
pleasure to breathe. The air was odorous a
,With the scent of flowers and of green leaves. f
, Sir Owen appeared to time; his sumptuously p
appointed carriage, with the magnificent roans, Q
drove up to the Limes. Nothing could have 1
exceeded his Kindness—he was so attentive to 1
Francis Haye, so kind to Mrs. Haye, so def- y
erential to Vioiet. Again she felt how pleasant
it was. She saw deep satisfaction on her fath- a
er’s face, great pride on her mother’s. She was E
young and heedless, and on such an exquisite
June day how could she help feeling bright and t
happy? Moreover, she held something in her a
hand which gladdened her heart. Just as she t
was starting, while Sir Owen stood bat in hand s
waiting for her, a messenger came with a note s
from Felix—only a few short lines hurriedly t
written, but which went straight to her heart. t
“My daeling Violet— l send a few words to r
greet you as you are starting, and to wish you fc
a very pleasant, happy visit. You will not forget
me, sweet? You will say to yourself over and 1
over again that you are pledged to me ? I trust v
you implicitly. You love me, and I am con- c
tent. I kiss your hands, and leave my c
heart in them.” ' t
i How he loved her 1 She repeated it again and t
again. How he loved herl The little note a
pleased her. . She drove away, with Sir Owen r
whispering all kinds of compliments to her; t
but her lover’s face was before her eyes, and bis
• words were in her heart. They drove through g
the magnificent park with its herds of antlered g
deer, through the superb grounds, to the grand
entrance, and then Violet looked up in wonder, s
The afternoon sun fell full upon the grand old ]
building, showing the towers and turrets, the g
deep oriel windows, the Venetian balconies,
bringing out the picturesque outlines of the no- 1
ble edifice. There was a flight o: broad marble (
' steps, and then the great door opened into an c
cntrance-hall the first glimpse of which bewil- ?
dered Violet. She hardly knew taat such treas- ]
ures existed—that such splendor could be; un
consciously she crushed her lover’s little note
in her hand as she beheld the treasures on the i
walls. I
She passed through, long, broad corridors,
Where white marble statues gleamed from <
among pyramids of choice flowers; she gazed <
on glorious pictures and picturesque fountains, {
and all the time Sir Owen walked by her side )
whispering gay, pretty compliments. Taey <
came to the drawing-room at last—a large, lofty ]
room with an exquisitely-painted ceiling, and i
bright with flowers and statues, in the midst ]
of all the magnificence stood Lady Rolfe, with <
a smile on her face, waiting co receive them. i
That was remarkable in itself; but that she <
Bhould be so gracious and so amiable was more
remarkable still. She welcomed them with 1
' courtly, kindly words, and in all she said she i
was seconded by her daughter Lavinia. Sir ]
Owen, she said, had asked her to assist him, 1
and she had for a time undertaken the duties of ]
hostess.
Then she sent them to their various rooms, i
Before Violet had been many minutes >n liers, a ;
B Parisian soubrette entered, who announced ■
f as Lady Rolfe’s maid.
“Her ladyship,” she continued, “thought
-that, as you had not brought a maid, I might
be of some service to you.”
For half a moment\Violet felt a sensation of
shame that she tad brought no maid, then of
wonder as to what she should do with one. She
accepted the prod-red heip, and the little Pa
risian, Almee by name, soon had everything
ready for her.
Violet had never worn a fashionable evening
dress before, and she looked in real wonder at
the marvellous whiteness of her fair neck and
.arms, and at her rounded shoulders, that wore
perfect as a master-pioce of sculpture, while
the white silk showed off her graceful figure.
The train of blue velvet gave her the look of a
princess, io her hair Aimee placed a beauti
iul white camelia, and another lay, like a.white
star, in the oodice of her dress.
To Aimee it was a labor of love to dress Miss
’ Haye. She did wonders with the shining, gold
en hair ; and when Vioiet was ready to go down
stairs she stood before the great mirror m won
'tier. Was that exquisitely radiant girl herself?
. She longed tor Felix to see her. There was no 1
pleasure witbput him. How he would admire
' her!
What a never-to-be-forgotten evening it was!
! Hcr great difficulty was in keeping herself from
expressing her wondor. She went down to the
drawing-room and found two or three other
M“dies witn Ladv Rolfe. She had an uneasy
consciousness that they were all talking about
UwLAiowU suddenly.’
and looked at her curiously. But Lady Rolfo
introduced her, and they were so startled by
her striking beauty that they were more than
civil to her. Sir Owen almost followed her into
the room. How his eyes brightened as he saw ;
her I
“For a girl like that to marry a country so- 1
licitor, to hide such beauty as hers in a place
like Lilford, is simple madness,” he said to 1
himself. “She will thank me m after-yoars for
saving her from such a fate.”
Then he went up to her, and scarcely left her '
all the evening. It was against the laws of eti- i
quette for him to taka her down to dinner ; but ;
Lady Rolfe accepted his apology with a smile.
That astute lady had explained the motives of
her policy to Lavinia.
“I understand Sir Owen,”she said. “If any
one oppose him he will lose bis reason over the 1
girl. Place no obstacle in the way of his admi
ration, and he will soon tire of her. He can
not marry her, for she is engaged to Felix Lons
dale.”
So, with great amiability, Lady Rolfe had ac- <
ceptod Sir Owen’s invitation to act as hostess
for three or four days. She had determined 1
that she would give him every opportunity of I
being with Vioiet, on the principle that the 1
more he saw of her the sooner ho would tire of
her. Sir Owen took her down to dinner, and
sat by her side. Violet was dazed with won- i
der. She saw the superb gold and silver plate, (
the magnificent epergnes, the rare flowers, the >
costly wines, the richly-cut glass. She felt half i
afraid of the well-trained butler and bis noise
less assistants—it was all a scene of splendor
and magnificence, that dazed and bewildered J
her. <
Sir. Owen gave her little time to think, and c
every one took their cue from him—visitors
and servants. Violet was queen of the evening. 1
She concealed her trepidation, and carefully 1
watching Lady Rolfe, she imitated her exactly. 1
Then, when the ladies withdrew, she was the
centre oi observation—her exquisite beauty, 1
her dainty dress, the attention paid to her by 1
Sir Owen, made her the most important person
present.
Sir Owen did not long delay entering the -
drawing-room ; and then he selected a luxuri- I
ous chair, and enthroned her. He found her a t
footstool; he waited upon her as though she c
had been a princess and he a page ; he never
left her; and she, looking at the splendor *
which surrounded her—looking at the wealth,
the magnificence—wondered that she should 1
play a part in such a scene. It was a night of i
triumph to her ; but she did not forget Felix; i
all would have been perfect had he been by her
side.
The guests talked of the morrow’s fete— they
had music and cards. Sir Owen gave Violet a t
lesson in besique ; and when the evening was f
over she went to her mother. t
“Mamma,” she said, “how delightful it has
all been! lam so sorry that it is over. I wish £
it would last forever.”
Mrs. Haye smiled. I
“It is more pleasant, Violet, than the strug- i
gle that falls to the lot of people with limited g
means.” v
It was pleasant. The dainty, luxury-loving t
nature found it wonderfully pleasant. Violet f
smiled to herself as she sat in her room that 1
night. Aimee was brushing the long, shining, e
golden hair. She was surrounded by every lux- i
ury—hangings of silk and lace, Dresden china, t
Bohemian glass ; the room was a marvel in its t
way. She smiled as she realised how dear luxe
ury was to her already—how she admired soft v
velvet chairs and thick soft carp. ts —liked to
eat from silver plate and drink from richly-cut
glass—liked to be waited on by well-trained £
servants—to live in this atmosphere of splen
dor—to wear rich silks and costly lace, precious t
stones and gold. It was an entrancing life, s
and the other would never seem quite the same
again. Atter all, there was nothing like money, a
She dismissed her maid, and would have t
slept, but that a ray of moonlight shone in
through the window. One part of the rose r
silk hangings had been left undrawn. She ‘
went to arrange it to shut out the moonlight, i
so that she could sleep, and, when she stood r
near the window and saw the silver light on the I
trees and flowers, her thoughts went back to r
Felix—went back to that lovely night when she
had stood with him by the lilac-bushes. How t
he loved her! His face appeared so plainly be- 1
fore her—the love-lit earnest eyes and winning r
lips.
After all, love was best; wealth was very c
pleasant, but it was sweeter to be loved than 1
to be rich. And she fell asleep with her lover’s i
name on her lips. I
£
CHAPTER XVI. I
“l HOLD MT LOVEK’S LIEB IN MI HANDS.”
The next morning was bright and warm. 1
There was a hurried breakfast—every one <
seemed to have so much to do ; from early t
dawn men had been at work in the park. Sir i
Owen came down-stairs radiant. t
“Who will say one word against English 1
weather after this?” he cried; than, when he j
saw Violet, he bowed low to her. “The qaeen t
of the fete” he whispered, and she blushed as i
she heard him. 1
The post-bag came as they sat at breakfast, <
end there was a note for her ; she saw that it i
was from Felix, and put it aside until she i
should be alone. Looking up suddenly she 1
saw Sir Owen watching her intently, and again
a hot flush burned her face. He did not leave i
her—everything was referred to her; her 1
wishes, her tastes were continually consulted.
“My dear Lavinia,” said Lady Rolfe, with up- 1
raised hands, “it is something incredible—he i
treats her just as though showers mistress of i
this house. It is quite enough to turn any 1
girl’s brain.” I
Though he spent bis whole time with her. Sir
Owen did not forget her parents. Francis Haye ■
declared that he was “inclover;” bis wife had 1
never been so happy; they were waited upon ;
and attended to before every one else—they had
every luxury, every attention.
The guests arrived early. Everything was a >
success, but the crowning satisfaction of all was
that the weather was so fine. Violet found time
to. read her lover’s note ; it said how disappointed
he was that he could not come to ttarswood, but ;
to attend the/ete even for one hoar was an im- ;
possibility for him. His father had had a very :
serious relapse, and he.could not leave the
office. Sbe was sorry, yet she could not under
stand how it was she experienced a certain feel
ing of relief—her present triumph was so great,
and she enjoyed it so thoroughly. It must all
have ended when Felix came. It was like a
play now ; she was playing the part of mistress
of a magnificent mansion—of-queen of that bril
liant .fete. Sbe must have given up this role if :
Felix‘bad come. She must have spent the time
with him.
“I shall never in my life have such a triumph
again,” she said to herself—“never again. I
may as well enjoy this while it lasts.”
She looked superbly beautiful m the dress <
that had been sent to her forthejfete; and, as
she walked through the grounds wita Sir Owen
by her side, she was the observed of all ob
servers. She felt-her triumph keenly—it was no
small one—yet she had an uneasy sensation, too,
that it was, after all, a false position. She was
the promised wife of another man—she had
no right to be queen there, with Sir Owen by
her side.
It was a brilliant fete— she had seen nothing
like it in her life. The fete at the Vicarage,
which had always seemed to her the very acme
of aristocratic gaiety, dwindled into insignifi
cance. The sun bad seldom shone on a more
brilliant scene ; flags and banners waved from
the tall trees ; there were numerous evergreen
arches, marquees, and an infinity of amuse
ments. The music from the bands echoed
through the park.
“It is very beautiful.” said Violet, as' she
stood with Sir Owen, watching the various
groups.
“ If you are pleased, I am well repaid,” he
said. “Do you not know that I would give all
I have to please you ? I would do all this over
and over again to win one smile from you.”
Suddenly, standing there, she remembered
her promise to Felix that she 'would toll Sir
Owen she was to be bis wife. How was she to
do it ? She could not turn round to him
abrubtly and say, “I am going to marry Felix
Lonsdale.” She was tempted to do so, but-it
would be too brusque.
"I shall find an opportunity during the even
ing,” sbe tbougnt. “ I can easily make one,
but not at present. I will enjoy myself now.”
Then Sir Owen conducted her through the
grounds. It was a veritable triumph. Her
exquisite beauty, her superb dress, her radiant
face, the evident admiiation of this wealthy
baronet by her side were the sole themes of
conversation. People bowed to her who had
never seemed to be aware that she existed be
fore; ladies pleaded for an introduction who
bad passed her with haughty insoience; men
crowded round her, and none ,eceined content
until he had won one smile from the sweet lips,
one glance from the lovely eyes.
They passed on, Sir Owon talking eagerly to
her; but she hardly beard what he was ssying,
she was so engrossed in the brilliant scene. Ho
led her past the front of the hall, and through
the superb gardens. It seemed to her that they
passed acre after acre of glass-housos, then
they came to a little hill. At its foot was the
river bank, and its summit was crowned with a
group of silver larches. A seat had been placed
under them, for from the summit of that hill
there was to be seen one of the loveliest pic
tures in England.
“ Where are wo going?” asked Violet, as they
left the hall and the grounds.
“I want to show you Larch Hill,” he replied.
Sbe did not quite like being there alono with
him. Felix would not hko it, yet how could
she resist?
“Every one who comes to Garswood sees
Larch Hill,” he continued. “It is really the
prettiest spot about here.”
“ But your guests will miss you,” she said.
“I am with the queen of the fete," ho re
turned, with a low bow; and she saw that be
did not care in the least whether he was missed
or not.
He led her to the summit of the hill, to the
rustic seat under the larches.
“I was thinking ah last night,” he said,
“that I would bring you here to-day. I want
you to look well around you. See now the sun
shines on Garswood I Look at the hall first.”
It was a magnificent panorama that was
spread out before her. Not the least import
ant feature in it was the grand old hall, with
its towers and turrets. He stood by her side.
“From here as far away as your eye can
reach,” be said, “is mine. North, south, east,
and west —it is all mine. You see the river like
a broad silver line in the distance—the boats
and the barges on it are mine. You see the
villages nestling among the trees, the rich,
well-cared-i'or farms, the quiet, pretty home
steads —they are mine—ill mine.”
. “It is a noble property.” sue said.
NEW YORK DISPATCH, OCTOBER 13, 1878.
“Yes; there is not a larger or bettor estate
in England, and tho beauty of it is that it lies
all together. You see the dark mass of woods
over there to the left; the trees lu them a mag
nificent fortune in themselves, and they are ail
mine. You see that broad stretch of meadow
land where the cattle graze—it is all mine I”
Sbe made no reply; his words and looks con
fused her.
"I am lord of the soil,” he said, “for many
miles round. I know no other place so fine as
Garswood. Violet Haye, all this is mine; and,
if you will speak only one word, it shall all bo
yours.”
She turned to him with a startled glance.
“I do not understand you," sbe declared.
“ How could it be mine?”
“It can all be'yours if you will marry me,Vio
let,” ho'whispered.
Her beautiful face grew pale as death.
“I cannot marry you,” she replied, quickly.
“■Why not, Violet? Tell me why?”
“Because I am engaged to marry Felix Lons
dale.”
“Is that all? What on earth does that mat
ter? He ought to be ashamed of himself to
presume to ask such a girl as you to marry
him; he must ba mad to think you would.”
“He loves me,” she said, quietly.
“So do I—so do manyothers. You must not
marry him, Violet; he has no money, no influ
ence, no position; his father is under a cloud
which must darken the son’s future. You can
not marry him—it would bo madness.”
“I am engaged to him,” she replied.
“As if that mattered.! Engagements like
yours are broken every day; it is the common
est thing in the world—no one thinks anything
of it.”
She seemed to sea her lover’s face as he had
looked into hers that night by tho dew-laden
lilac bushes—she almost heard his voice. She
looked up at Sir Owon, her face deathly pale.
“Do you know, Sir Owon,” she said, “ that if
I were false to Felix Lonsdale it would break
bis heart ?”
Sir Owen laughed aloud.
“My dear Miss Haye, lawyers have no heart
—what could they do with such a commodity ?
He might lose his temper; but man never break
their hearts—a good cigar will cure the most
desperate love affair. You amuse me.”
“I hope you are speaking falsely,” she said.
“I hope men are better than you paint them.”
“They are all very much alike, my dear Vio
let,” be returned. “It is most refreshing to
hear that you think any man capable of break
ing his heart.”
“Ah, but you do not know Felix Lonsdale.
You do not know how he loves me.”
“I nover wish to know Felix Lonsdale,” he
told her. “ I have no partiality for men under
a cloud. I know how much I love you, and
that is more to the point.”
She shrank from him with a pale, scared face.
She did not like this discussion of her lover.
“Let me tell you,” he continued, “how much
I love you. 1 think you the most beautiful wo
man I have ever seen in my life. Your beauty
gladdens my heart. To win it and keep it al
ways near me, 1 would give all that I have in
the world. 1 love you well enough to lay all
my wealth at your feet, to worship you all my
life. I love you so well that neither your plight
ed word, the opinion of the world, nor any hu
man power, shall come between us. I would
break every tie, every bond, crush every love,
to win you and make you mine. I will throw
everything to the winds if you will only say the
word.”
The pale, beautiful girl shrank from him.
“I cannot,” sbe said ; “you know that I can
not—l must marry Felix Lonsdale.’’
“I could kill him!” muttered Sir Owen under
his breath, with an oath. Aloud he said, “ You
shall never marry him.”
Sbe shrank still further from him, and cried
aloud; and then he was full of remorse—he
tried his best to comfort her.
“Listen.to me, Violet.” ho said; and once
more she raised her beautiful face to his.
“Forgive me—l am more accustome Ito shout
ing at men than to pleading with ladies. Do
not think I am so cruel—why should I kill
him ? Do not tremble so—l shall never forgive
myself.”
Sbe tried to conquer the fear that had mas
tered her; sbo stilled the tremb.ing of her
hands, tho wild beating of her heart. He spoke
more gently to her.
“1 am more than half a savage,” he said. “I
am ashamed of myself. How different 1 should
be if I had a gentle, beautiful girl like you near
me! I should grow civilized. Now, Violet,
listen to me. You shall not give me your an
swer now—not yet for many days; but 1 do
pray you to be my wife. Do not loox at me and
say you cannot—you can if you will. Such
promises as yours are broken every day. 1 will
not let you give me an answer until you have
thought the matter well over. Look round you
once more,-Violet—look at this stately home,
this broad domain—think of yourself as its
mistress—mistress of Garswood Hall and forty
thousand a year. As Ladv (Jhevenix—how well
the name sounds!—as Lady Chevenix, I say,
you would be queen of the whole county, you
would be one of the most popular and wealthy
women in England. Yon will have the world at
your feet. I will buy you the most magnificent
diamonds—indeed everything that women like
best. You shall be surrounded by every luxury
that the world can give, if you will only say,
‘Yes.’”
“I cannot,” she murmured; but her voice
was weaker and fainter this time, and he no
ticed the change.
“I will not accept your answer yet,” bo re
turned. “But now look at the other side of
tna picture. You marry this man who is under
a cloud, he takes you to some wretched little
home, he works day and night, yet can hardly
get money enough for his expenses ; you spend
the prime of your life, and lose ihe glory of
your beauty, in a helpless struggle to make
both ends meet; and you die before your lime,
your beauty faded and gone, worn out—even in
the prime of lite. I say that it is a crying shame
for such a marriage tb take place, iou see the
difference, Violet?”
“Yes, I see it, Sir Owen; but——”
“Then,” he interrupted, “we will not talk
about it to-day; you shall think it well over—
you will be of my opinion soon. Now wo will
go back again—and you will not for ;et the view
from Larch Hill? The first mome.it I saw you,
I meant to win you, Violet. I swo.e to myself
that you should be mine. You have promised
me the first dance to-night, remember.”
He talked to her on indifferent matters as
they descended the hill; then he said;
“ Violet—you see that 1 cannot c ill you ‘Miss
Haye’—try to drive that scared loo.c from your
face; my guests will think I have been frighten
ing you.”
She made a great effort to bring back the
smiles and the brightness to her lace, but she
did not succeed very well; the World was all
changed for her since sbe had gone up Larch
Hill—quite changed. There she hail been calm,
content, with just a shadow of long.ng for the
grandeur around, yet happy in her lover and
her lo.ve. Now she had been through a scath
ing temptation—one that had left her heart
burning and her train whirling; there could
never be calm content tor her again.
As her eyes wandered over tho various beau
ties of nature and art surrounding her, she
thought to herself:
“Alt this might be mine—l might be Lady
Chevenix and give grand entertainments here;
1 might be mistress of all.”
Sir Owen said no more to her, but he redou
bled bis attentions, and people began to make
pretty free comments about the matter.
“ Felix Lonsdale will lose hisyianeee if be does
not mind,” remarked Captain Hill, “and I shall
be sorry for it.”
“I believe, Lavinia,” said Lady Rolfe, with
an air of dismay, “Sir Owen is so infatuated
that he will marry the girt, after all—he will
indeed.”
Francis Haye and his wife looked on in seem
ingly calm unconcern.
Violet found herself the centre of attraction
to all men; one wanted her as a partner at cro
quet, another wanted her for lawn-tennis, a
third craved permission to row her across the
lake.
“1 should like that best,” she said, with a
smile, so sudden and so beautiful that the hap
py recipient of it lost his presence of mind at
once.
Violet wished to be alone; she wanted time to
think, to still the thrilling of her nerves; but
she was mistaken in imagining that she would
find solitude in a boat with a solitary compan
ion. However.no man was more completely
deceived—Violet sat listening to him with a
flush on her face and a smite on her lips. He
thought that he was making a great impression
on her, whereas sbo was congratulating herself
that‘she was not compelled to hear or to an
swer his compliments.
She tried to think, but she could not; the
only thing she could remember was that she
might be Lady Chevenix and mistress of all she
saw, it she liked. What would people say?
They had spoken of Sir Owon almost as though
he were an inhabitant of a brighter sphere.
Sbe had heard his probable mu-ria ;e discussed
almost as an arrangement of State: no one un
der the rank of Lady Rolfe’s daughter bad ever
before been thought of tor him—and now he
bad asked her. She had heard the future of
bis wife, when he should have one, discussed
many times—how she would go to court, and
be one of the high ones of the earth, because of
her husband’s great wealth; and no vthis honor
had fallen on her.
How wonderful it seemed! Of course she
must not talk about it; but before sbe finally
refused him she would like certain people to
know what a brilliant offer had b ,-en made to
her—people who had not always treated her as
their equal.
The boat was touching the shore, and a dozen
hands were stretched but to as.-ist her. It
seemed to her only a few moments since they
had started, yet they had Deen all round the
lake. She looked up with a bewildered smile at
her companion as ho spoke a few polite words ;
he seemed to know by instinct then that this
girl had chosen the boat as a kind of refuge.
Then Sir Owen came and claimed her—she
must have some refreshment—and he remained
by her side until the round red sun set and the
fete was over. Sbe watched it sink behind
Larch Hill, and she felt that sbe would neyer
see its crimson light again in the sky without
remembering what had been said there.
There was an hour for rest before the dress
ing for the ball began.
“If you are wise,” said Lavinia Rolfe, “you
will try to sleep for an hour, and then have
some tea—that will restore you after tho fatigue
of the day.”
Violet followed her advice; she lay down to
rest; but bow could she sleep? Through her
heart swept unceasingly the same retrain:
“I could be Lady Chevenix, mistress of all
around, if I chose; but I hold my lover’s life in
mv hands.”
would it be a great sin. a erieypua VfrQßg. t<i
break such a promise-? Then she reproached
herself for even entertaining the thought. Of
i course she would keep her promise to Felix;
but in the meantime there could bo no harm in
1 thinking of what had happened and how won
derful it all was.
She looked exquisitely lovely when she was
dressed for the ball. Admiring eyes followed
her every movement. It was agreed that the
beautiful girl in white and silver, with a crown
of silver loaves, was certainly the belle par ez
cellence. To Violet the ball always remained
more of a dream than a reality. She remem
bered her wonder at her own loveliness, the
homage paid to her, the half-subdued murmur
of wonder when Sir Owen opened tho ball with
her, and then the significant glances that said
■ plainly, “Wo can all see what this means.”
She longed to say, “There is nothing in it—l
am going to marry Felix Lonsdale. I am only
queen of the fete, and my reign ends with it.”
But she could not, so she played her part grace
fully ; it was all to end so soon, and then it
would speedily be forgotten. Sbe might just as
well enjoy herself while she was there,
Sbe was so brilliant, so gay, so enchanting,
that Sir Owen grew every moment more hope
lessly in love with her. People oouW think
what they liked about Violet, but there was no
mistake as to him—not the least in the world ;
he was quite lost; ho saw and thought of noth
ing nut Violet. Everyone agreed that the ball
■ was worthy of the fete. To Violet it was a long
dream of homage—tho most eligible men in the
room surrounded her—she was besieged by
would-be partners.
Sir Owen took Violet down to supper—the
grand supper served by Gunter, which was in
itself a wonder; and then they danced until the
sun lose in the eastern sky. Sir Owen went to
Mr. Haye.
“I will do myself the pleasure of driving you
home this afternoon,” be said, “if you will not
spend another night here. I have something
to say to you before you go.”
CHAPTER XVII.
“ DEAB HEAVEN ! HOW WILD IT END.”
“If 1 had been Mephistophiles himself I
could not have managed better,” thought Sir
Owen, as he watched the three visitors who
were of such vital consequence to him. “See
ing I have had just what I wanted aii my life, it
is not likely I shall begin to go without it now.
After all, what is a promise of marriage ? What
does it mean ? People break them every day,
and every day they are broken for them—loss
of fortune, loss of health, a hundred common
place reasons—loss of fancy—all make a prom
ise of marriage null and void. Such a man as
this Lonsdale had no right to ask a girl like Vio
let Haye to sacrifice herself to him. It is the
privilege of a rich man to win for himself such
beauty as hers. So far from doing a bad action,
I am doing a good one in rescuing this beautiful
girl from poverty and obscurity. What ia a
broken promise ? She has said she will marry
him—she finds that sbe has made a mistake,
and alters her mind. If any one sees wrong in
that, I do not know what wrong is.”
These reflections were caused by a simple re
mark made by Captain Hill. He had said :
•“Has any one told you, Sir Owen, that Violet
Haye is engaged to marry Felix Lonsdale ?”
And tho baronet’s answer had been a muttered
curse.
He had believed himself in such a lofty posi
tion that be could do as he liked without com
ment, but he found it was not so. Tho girl
whom he was so madly pursuing, whom he had
sworn tawin, come what might, was engaged
to another man, and people would make their
own comments about the matter. So he rea
soned and argued with himself—and to himself
his ideas seemed excellent—that honor was sim
ply a dead letter—it did not exist; it was a vir
tue to be subordinated to convenience—a prom
ise was mere empty words, with no meaning,
and he consoled himself by trying to believe
that he was doing good rather Ilian barm. That
Violet would ultimately refuse him he did not
for one moment believe. No woman, he argued,
could be proof against such temptations as he
offered.
This was the day on which he had promised
to take Violet and her parents back to the
Limos. He was very unwilling to let them go.
“They will have that handsome young lawyer
about the place again, and all the good I have
done will be undone,” he said.
But Mrs. Haye was even more worldly-wise
than himself—she declined to spend another
evening there. He had ordered a damty lunch
eon to be prepared for them in a charming little
ante-room known as the Star Room—it bore
that name because it was one blaze of light,
through the number of its mirrors, girandoles,
and lustres. When the sun came through the
eastern window, and lighted it, the effect was
something magnificent. If he had hoped to
dazzle them with a fresh exhibition of his
wealth, he, had most certainly chosen the right
way.
Then luncheon was laid on the table, elabor
ately spread with handsome plate, rare wine,
costly fruit—every luxury that could gladden
the heart of man. When Sir Owen sat down
with them, Mr. Haye expressed his regret at
leaving so magnificent and hospitable a house.
His host looked up with a slight lau ;h—a keen
observer would have seen that he was agitated.
"I am glad you like the place,” he said. “ I
have been asking your daughter to remain
here.”
A warning touch from his wife told Francis
Haye that he was to remain silent. She looked
at and addressed Sir Owen.
“I do not understand you; how could Violet
remain here without us ?”
“ As my wife, Mrs. Haye; if she will only con
sent, Garswood and its master, with all that it
•contains, shall be hers.”
Mrs. Haye rose slowly and drew her shawl
round her shoulders.
“You are very kind, Sir Owen,” sbe said dry
ly, “and I am sure that Violet must be quite
flattered by your generous offer; but—she has
promised, I believe, to marry Felix Lonsdale.”
“That promise sho*ld not bind her,” he cried
eagerly; “it was won from her under false pre-,
fences. It will be a crying shame if you allow
her to keep it.”
“So I think'” said Mrs. Haye, as she drew on
her gloves; “but I am quite powerless in the
’ matter.” Nor would she hear another word.
She hastened their departure, and Sir Owen
left his other guests to drive thorn home.
In this case as ip others Mrs. Haye showed
herself to be a woman of more than ordinary
: intelligence. An average woman would in
stantly have taken Sir Owen’s part—would have
■ done her utmost to , induce her daughter to
break her promise—would have railed against
> Felix. Mrs. Haye was far too wise—to taae
i that course would be to confirm Violet in keep
ing her word. She understood women—she
i knew that, if sbe opposed her, Violet would
, take refuge in making herself an interesting
martyr; whereas, if she and her busband re
l mained passive, and allowed her to see just
• what she might have and what she might lose,
; Mrs. Haye had no doubt of the result.
> Sir Owen remained at the Limas with them
for an hour or two, and it was Mrs. Have who
• reminded him that his guests were waiting.
i “I do not care for my guests,” ho said—“l
oaro only for you. If you will not go back with
' me you must let me stop hera;” and she had
great difficulty in persuading him to go.
Notone word about Sir Owen was said to
■ Violet after his departure.
> “ Leave it ail to me, Francis,” said Mrs. Haye
to her husband; “if you interfere'you will mar
i all. Leave it to me, and do not utter a single
i word.”
He obeyed, well pleased to have no responsi
i bility in the matter—he did not like the idea of
1 a broken promise.
I Violet had expected expostulation, re
proaches, persuasion. She could hardly realize
• the silence; then she came to the conclusion
that her parents must have thought Sir Owen
i was joking, and her dignity was somewhat
• wounded at the notion.
i Later on in the evening Felix came, and she
i saw that he looked anxious, worn, and hag
gard. Mrs. Haye had never received him more
i kindly. Mr. Haye was tired, and had gone to
. his own room. Mrs. Haye made Felix sit
t down with them, and began to’talk to him
about his father, his family, the business, and
1 his prospects.
t The simple, noble-hearted young fellow open
-1 ed his whole heart to her ; he told her all his
- sorrow and distress about his father—how he
7 had been out, and had met some one who had
t spoken to him harshly in respect of the will
i case, and the consequence had been a severe
i relapse.
f “ The fact is,” said Felix, “ that my father is
- breaking his honest heart, Mrs. Haye.”
“It is very sad,” she returned, “very sad,
s and very hopeless.”
a “ Yes—it is almost hopeless,” agreed Felix ;
i “it seems as though the very spring of his life
? were gone. I know what would be the only
i thing to cure him. It would ba it all his fellow
. townsmen—all his old friends—mot together
1 and did something to prove that they had con
. fidence in him ; something of that kind, prov-
■ ing to him that ho was respected and esteemed,
a would be the only thing to cure him.”
f “And that will never happen, of course,”
1 said Mrs. Haye.
1 “lam afraid not; but it is the only thing to
f save him. Dear Mrs. Haye, you are very good
r to listen to me—l ought not to bring my trou
bles herb.”
e; Mrs. Haye looked kindly at him.
f “Of course,” she said, “if ho gets no better,
o the maintenance of the whole family will fall
a upon you, Felix ?”
s “Yes,” he replied, “it will fall upon me ; 1
cannot desert them—l must work for my moth
i er and the little ones.”
t "In that case, my poor boy,” she asked,
y “ what will you do with a wife ?”
a He knelt down by Violet’s side, and took her
t hand in his ; be kissed It with a passion that
; could pot be told.
s “What shall I do with a wife?” he cried,
i. “Ask me rather what 1 shall do without one.
e My wife will be my haven, iny rest, my hope,
1 my refuge—will give me courage and hope and
e fortitude ; she will give strength to my mind,
I my heart, my brain ;my wife will be the whole
r world to me.”
t “Yes,” agreed Mrs. Haye, gently, “but,
Felix, how are you to keep her? How is she to
i- live ? You could not take a wife home to Vale
House, to an invalid father, a step-mother, and
u all those children."
e “No ; I should make a home of my own,” he
e replied. “ Ah, you do not know how I love Vio
let—how I should work—how I should toil day
o and night-tor her! I would keep both homes."
t Then he looked up into Violet’s face. “You
would help me, my darling, would you not ?
II You would dispense with luxuries for a time—
n only for a time? You would be the nerve of my
. arm, tho strength of my soul. You love me
<1 enough tQ Jwld me over a tew troublesome
1 years, and then fortune will smite on me. You
f love me enough for that, swoet heart ?”
; “Yes, I love you,” she whispered.
i Mrs. Haye rose from hor seat and said she
• must go to her husband. She left Felix kneel
ing at her daughter’s feet; when she was gone
I lie buried his face in the silken folds of Violet’s
I dress ; be kissed them, he kissed her bands, he
i called her by every endearing name.
i “It has seemed to me like an eternity,” ho
■ said. “ Oh, Violet, sweet, you must never go
I away from me for three days again I Every hour
■ has seemed a year long. Let me look into your
i eyes, and see if you love mo as you did when
: you went."
i “Yes, just as much,” she said.
I “And all the luxury, the pleasure, the admi
’ ration, has not robbed me ot one beat of your
! heart ?”
“No, not one," she replied.
’ “Oh, true heart—oh, dearest love, how Heav-
• en has blessed me in giving you to me! How
s selfish it seems oT me to have brought raytrou
i bles here to you, just as you have come from
such a bright world 1"
"1 have a right to boar your troubles." she
• said ; but her eyes dropped half sadly before
his. She said to herself. “Dear Heaven, how
i will it end?”
; “You are all the world to me!” he cried, pas-
■ slonately. “I have but you, Violet. It seems
I to me all a blank where you are not. I work
: for others, and I love them ; but you, my wife
i that is to be, are my hope and my refuge; you
' are the sun of my life—without you ”
She laid her hand gently on his lips.
“ We will not talk of that," she said; and once
i more, with all the deep passion of his heart, bo
kissed the silken folds of her dress—the sweet
bands—the tresses of golden' hair.
"My love is a garment that enfolds you,
sweet,” he said. “ The ground on which you
stand is sacred to me ; the breeze that kisses
your face is sacred, too. I would make my love
a shield and a bucklor for you. Oh, Violet, it is
almost a terrible thing for a man to love a
woman as 1 love you! Will you tel! me now
about the/efe? Did not every one'envy mo?
And tell me, my darling, did you keep me in
your memory ?”
Then came to her tho memory of Larch Hill
• and the fiery temptation she had battled with
i there; but she answered him—
“ Yes, I remembered you the whole time
and he clasped her in his arms.
(To be Continued.)
the’lastlteaw.
BY HARRIET IRVING.
Up to the 7th ultimo Phipps was scissors and
quill for Mr. Spickens, editor of the Milktown
Asterisk, the Centreville Dot and the Blissvillo
Dteseminator, three weekly papers circulating
in the three towns from which they lake their
names. He received for his services the rather
meagre compensation of five dollars a week,
and why he preferred his occupation to break
ing stones or any other such comparatively
lignt and easy alternative, no one was ever able
to discover. The only very plausible solution
of the enigma ever suggested was that he had
been mesmerized by Spickens and couldn’t
leave off.
I have said Mr. Spickens was the editor of
three papers. An account of his mode of edit
ing may prove amusing to those unacquainted
with editorial business, and, possibly, instruc
tive to those who think they know all about it.
Firstly, Mr. Spickens’ papers were of equal
size, containing thirty-two columns each. He
' hired “boxed type” to the amount of six col
umns, for the use of which he paid thirty-five
cents a column, and which, having used, ho dis
patched to its next place of destination. Mr.
Spiokeas took the word of the hiring parties
that those six columns were good, readable and
popular matter, and it went simultaneously into
nis three weekly papers. Resident story and
poem peddlers never sold anything to Mr.
Spickens.
“ Why, I’d have to pay my printers as much
as fifty cents a column to set it up,” He would
say when the purchase of a manuscript was
suggested, “and that would be a clear loss of
fifteen cents a column, if they’d give it to me.”
Secondly, Mr. Spickens sooured Blissville,
Centreville and Milktown, tho adjoining neigh
borhoods far and near, as well as tho roads that
led to New York City and the metropolis itself,
for advertisements. . Early and late, week in,
week out, he went his daily rounds. He repre
sented to deluded merchants, mechanics and
professional persons of every sort that his three
papers were the best advertising mediums to
be found, that those who were wise in time and
took advantage of the opportunity offered wore
certain of success in business. He gave his
solemn assurance that the circulation of those
various sheets was large and rapidly increasing.
The result of his endeavors was an aggregate
■ of some forty-eight columns of advertisements,
bringing fifteen dollars a column, and most of
it, Mr. Spickens congratulated himself, tripli
cated, so that there was little more than sixteen
i columns to “set up,” All this made Spickens
the envy of his rivals—the editors of weekly
editions of the local dailies. Whether adver
tisers received a fair return for their outlay or
not, it is difficult, perhaps impossible, to say.
No one but Phipps and Mr. Spickens knew the
circulation ot the triad of newspapers, and
neither of them ever told.
There remained ten columns of each paper
to ba filled, and Phipps did it. Here again the
triple accommodation served to a great meas
ure. Local items for Blissville and Centreville
went into the Milktown Asterisk healed “Vi
cinity,” and vice versa all round the triangle.
As for editorials, much the same plan answered
for them, with a little management. When the
Centreville Bridge, or lamps, or pave nents, or
taxes, or public officers, as the case might be,
must be grumbled about, Phipps wrore the ed-
■ itorial, and it was carefully preseived until
' wanted, with the slight alteration of names for
. Blissville or Milktown. The other editorials
•I were produced by a process perhaps not indi
’ genous to Mr. Spickens’ office. They were re
worded from metropolitan journals of Mr. Spick
ens’ political persuasion. For instance: “The
: passage of these resolutions has resulted in an
imniense/urore,” read “The passage of these
i resolutions has created quite a stir.” “The
s are apparently apprehensive that devel-
I opments will be made by the investigation
' which will occasion,” &c., read “The s tear,
if one may judge by appearances, that thisin
i vestigation will result in disclosures which
- may,” &c., and as Mr. Spickens was not espe-
- cially critical as to correctness of grammar or
> elegance of style, the method answered very
■ well.
So Mr. Phipps, although sole writer, item
izer, reporter, re-worder, bookkeeper, cashier,
; chief agent, canvasser and collector for three
popular newspapers, and a hard-worked man,
t had not such a herculean task as might first be
supposed.
For the rest, Mr. Spickens’ staff consisted of
i three very green printers and one good proof-
> reader, who bore the sins of the three on his
devoted head, and did all tho urging, scolding,
I correcting and teaching necessary, to the im
i minent hazard of his life and intellect; and,
1 finally, one carrier and errand-man combined,
who in the first fortnight of his career lost ten
> pounds of flesh, and did not gain as many dol
lars.
> Mr. Spickens’ final step in editing was to
: look into the office once a day and ask:
> “ Everything right ?"
To which Phipps’ rejoinder was always an af-
■ firmative nod. He never bad time to speak.
f On publication day Mr. Spickens came fairly
in and dropped into a chair, laid his watch out-
- as a reminder of waiting advertisers yet to be
i beard from, seized Phipps’ready pile ot local
i items for revision, and proceeded thus, or in a
i similar manner—one occasion will serve for a
t specimen:
“Mr. Henry Jones, of Drinkewater street—
i ‘ls there any such street in Blissvi-le?’ look-
■ ing searching!? at Phipps, who trembled with
> agitation, but found the locality with his well
i worn pencil on the office map. "narrowly es
t caped being thrown from his horse,’ mum—
i mum—mum —-1 suppose that will do. What’s
1 next?’,”
“ The Milktown Orpheons gave a grand vocal
- concert on Wednesday— ‘ Ain’t there some mis
s take about that? I wasn’t fetched up to spell
a orphans with an e.' ”
1 “Orpheons, Mr. Spickens,” interrupted
1 Phipps.
a “From Orpheus, you know.”
“ Where’s Orpheus?”
s “ No place, sir.”
“You mustn’t put fancy names in, Phipps.”
, “Allow me to explain,” said Phipps, growing
red in the face, but conciliatory in manners,
; “ Orpheus is a deity,” “The ancient Greeks.”
i “ Young Orpheons ”is a musical society, meets
7 in Temperance Hall, explained the carrier,
r with a view to smoothing difficulties,
r “Then why didn’t he say so?” growled
- Spickens, taking a look at his watch.
- “Where was I—‘Concert at the M. E.
■ Church, which fully came up to the most ex
travagant expectations ever entertained by
" their or any other audience. An overflowing
house, packed from ceiling to floor, showed
i their approval of tho talented company by
I thunders of prolonged applause. The ‘pro-
- gramme was powerfully rendered! Our local
genius, Samuel Brown, sang ‘The Sweet Bye
and-Bye,’ and was favored with four encores.
, Mr. James Williams also rendered in a superb
II manner ‘Susannah, Don’t You Cry,’ and re
ceived the ovation of six encores. Miss Ade-
1 laida Smith whose voice though sweet is low.
- You mustn’t say that Puipps. Won’t do to’
criticise patrons. They’ll stop the paper.”
I, When after a series of like interruptions this
reading was completed, Mr. Spickens asked his
r final question :
t “ Sura you’ve said j ust what the other papers
said ?”
I. “Sure.”
>. “ And ain’t used the same words ?”
>, Which being satisfactorily answered, the
J editing for that week was done but Phipps had
i, to go hardat-it again with scissor ana pen,
e clipping and pasting and rewording items and
editorials for the next week.
i. Indeed Phipps was always at it. He spent
o his evenings going to amateur entertainments,
e fairs, festivals, lectures and prayer-meetings,
d bowling-alleys and saloons, not for the purpose
of reporting what he saw, for it was far easier
e to reword them from the dailies, but chiefly that
i- tho Asterisk, Dot and Dissemminator, might be
y represented in a proper manner. He was full
’’ of professional pride and devotion to Mr. SpieK
u ens. He rose early and went to bod late, took
? his lunch walking, and neglected his toilette
- and his sweetheart, to whom he had beon en
y gaged for fifteen years, all for Mr. Spickens,
e and this his employer Isuow and gloried iu
All went smoothly with the triple editor un
til his rivals, perceiving nis great success in
procuring business notices, became envious,
and started on the Beaton for flaws. Then
Phipps’s work became more arduous. The
Centreville Daily discovered the re-wording
scheme, and laid traps for the Dot. It printed
false statements on Friday, which were carefully
copied in the character of .eye-witness, by the
indefatigable Phipps, who couldn’t by any
means be spared from the o-ffice for true re
porting on the latter days of the week.
On Saturday the weekly edition corrected the
mistake, but as for the especially after the
thing had happened several times, its best
policy was silence, and, in any case, it could not
correct until the next issue. Then uneasy
spirits wrote notes innumerable to Spick
ens, desiring retractions and censuring Lis
carelessness, and occasional cases of libel
arose.
The Blissville Daily, suspicious of the source
of the Disseminator's news, kept its best and
choicest morsels for the Saturday edition, al
ways alluding to them as being published
“ solely by us,” thus stopping off one of Phipps’
chief fountains of supplies, and exasperating
him unmeasurably.
The Milktown Daily wrote vicious leaders ex
posing the Asterisk's contrivances, called it “a
mere advertisement sheet,” and other far more
opprobrious and inaccurate epithets, and
Phipps spent miserable hours searching his
Latin dictionary for learned and dignified
phrases with which to silence this invidious
foe. All this Phipps pointed out to Mr. Spick
ens, but it was long before the latter could bo
made to give his attention.
Ho said that ho was a poor man struggling
for his livelihood ; that editing .absorbed such
immense sums that it was with difficulty ho
procured food for bis wife and children; that it
was necessary for him to be out after adver
tisements unceasingly; that he had no time to
spare making his paper better; that his paper
was good enough.
“We don’t propose,” said he, “to spend
much timo getting up this matter. We pro
pose to avail ourselves of the labors of others.”
But, after much importunity on Phipps’
part, a cabinet council was held, at which both
agreed that it was necessary for the well-being
of tho Dot, Asterisk, and Disseminator that
Friday’s news should in some manner be pro
cured for insertion in Saturday’s issue. Phipps’s
set about this new task with his accustomed
determination. Tho details of bis proceedings
would fill a volume. Suffice it to say that he
succeeded.
One Saturday morning a wild-eyed boy pre
sented himself at Spickens’ office, and, being
closeted with the editor, produced certain
strips of printed items, for which he demanded
his price, promising to procure similar ones on
every succeeding Saturday.
They were not reprints, bub rewordings of
Saturday’s items in the rival papers, and an
swered admirably: but the extra expense
weighed on Mr. Spickens’ soul. Attar due de
liberation ho reduced Pnipps’ salary. It was
necessary for Mr. Spickens to live, so he stated,
and having increased hie outlay he must save
somewhere.
On the evening which dated this conclusion,
Phipps was seen standing at the office door
glaring into vacancy and quite unconscious of
observers.
“It isn’t the half dollar,” he muttered, shak
ing his head mournfully ; “not the halt dollar,
but the meanness of it.”
On Monday Mr. Spickens found a vacant of
fice, and inquiries failed to elicit the secret of
Phipps’ disappearance. Whether the Dot, As
terisk, and Disseminator will survive the loss is
still uncertain ; but if they do, the outlay will
be such as to wring groans of anguish from the
prudent editor. Who shall replace to him the
lost and faithful Phipps ?
As yet there is no tidings of the late lament
ed. Rumor cries loudly that he has made a
rash end of himself, and a coat and bat some
what resembling his, and taken from the river
bank, hang in Spicken’s little office ; but rumor
also whispers low that the Milktown daily has
a new attache who is deep in the confidence of
the editors, and that ho goes by a circuitous
route, which takes him a mile out of town, to
reach his place of business, and enters looking
over his left shoulder like one who fears a phan
tom. This may be Phipps.
BEST SCOrFqN RECORD.
Forty-four made out of a Possible Forty
five Bull’s Eyes.
( Correspondence of the New York Herald.)
Washington, Oct. 2, 1878.
Mr. Joseph Partello, of this city, has accom
plished a feat which is likely to make him quite
famous. Yesterday afternoon, during a prac
tice trial at the target ranges of the Columbia
Rifle Association, of which he is a newly-affili
ated member, he achieved the extraordinary
score of 221 out of a possible 225. In other
words, he made on the three targets forty-four
out of a maximum of forty-five bull's eyes. It
will be remembered that the nearest approach
to this was at the so-called walk over of the
American team at Creedmoor, the other day,
.when Sumner attained tho then unparalleled
score of 221, beating by two points Bruce’s
score of 219 in the great international match.
Mr. Partello is a clerk in tho War Depart
ment, and, comparatively speaking, a new be
ginner with the rifle. When the international
teams were here two years ago, ho went to the
target grounds to see the shooting, and became
infatuated with the sport. By tho advice of
Colonel Burnside, president of the Columbia
Rifle Club, he set to work practising with a
small gun—one of *22 calibre—and at short,
ranges with diminished targets. Last Spring
he was admitted to the club as a regular mem
ber, and during his practice therewith had
never heretofore made a higher score than 208.
He went to Creedmore with a taatrf of the club
to shoot in the inter-State match, and made a
tie, it will be remembered, with Hyde. It was
noticed during his presence at Creedmoor that
he studied most closely the circumstances
and details of every shot, and it is supposed
that he so profited by what ha learned in this
way that he acquired the dexterity and accuracy
which enabled him to strike forty-four out of
forty-five bull’s eyes.
'lt is said that he derived several excellent
suggestions as to the amount of powder and the
loading of his piece, which be immediately put
in practice. Moreover, he corrected an error
in position in firing, and abandoned the so
called Fulton style and substituted the more
natural plan of putting the left hand to tho
middle of his piece. ./He also removed the Ver
nier eight from the side to the end or butt of
the rifle, thereby lengthening the distance be
tween the two sights fifteen or eighteen inches.
Regret is expressed bv the club that the ex
ploit of Mr. Partello will not have official recog
nition, as it did not take place during any match
or contest. The practising days of the club are
Tuesdays and Fridays, and yesterday Mr. Par
tello, in company with the Preaidant of the
club and the son of the latter, Mr. James B.
Burnside, went out to the range, wiiica is situ
ated partially on the race track at Benning’s
Station, on the Potomac railroad, about five
miles from Washington. Usually there are
balf-a.dozen members practising together at
the range on these days, among them Professor
Harkness, the astronomer, who is a devoted
lover of the sport. But it happened that the
shooting was confined to Colonel Burnside and
Mr. Partello, young Mr. Burnside acting as
scorer and keeping the telescope. Firing began
about ithroo o’clock in the afternoon, the day
being exceedingly fine, with only a light wind.
Mr. Partello ascribes much of hie success to
these favorable conditions, the range being usu
ally a difficult one to make good scores upon,
owing to the fact that it traverses a long marsh
and is subject to mirages and to distraction by
the unevenness of tho surrounding scenery and
country. Colonel Burnside also felt the benefit
of these same influences, and made a score of
211. But the shooting of Mr. Partello soon ab
sorbed his attention, for the latter soon aston
ished him with a string of 15 bull’s-eyes on the
800 yards range, and then followed it up with
12 bull’s-eyes on the 900 yards target. This
made 27 consecutive bull’s-eyes. .The few
breathless spectators were now grieved to see
at the next shot tho disc cover a “centre” or
four shot, but the marksman’s hand found its
■ cunning again on tho twenty-ninth shot, and
he finished the score with another string of
seventeen bull’s-eyes. Colonel Burnside was so
delighted with tho skill of bis protege that he
telegraphed the exploit to the leading rifle clubs
of the country.
It remains to bo seen whether Mr. Partello
can repeat this record. It should not bo sup
posed that he had any advantages in the mat
; ter of a short range or a special rifle. The
piece he used was tho Remington Creeumoor of
calibre 15, the regulation rifle of the National
Association. The range was laid out by Profes
sor Harkness, of the Naval Observatory, and is,
■ if anything, moro precise in its distances than
any other range in the country. To get these
distances a causeway had to be built out into
tho swamp, and tho'lines were run and the tar
gets placed by professional triangulation as ex
act and accurate as the survey of any United
1 States government work. Mr. Partello is a
’ young man, about twenty-five years of ago, and
■ of dark eyes and complexion. He is rather un
l der the medium hight and slightly built, weigh
' ing not much over 130 pounds. His tastes have
■ hitherto been of a literary and musical nature,
1 and he occupies tbe position of organist in one
• of the Episcopal churches of this city. He has
■ been a teerotaller, and recently, to assist the
.. steadiness of his nerves, ho gave up smoking.
When the score book was handed to hiin with
the record of bis triumph, he remarked to Col.
1 Burnside that the next timo be would make a
1 perfect record. In answer to the telegrams an
nouncing his feat he received to-day congratu
i latory dispatches, among them one inviting
him to visit Boston.
> A COURT SCENE.
• HOW JUSTICE WAS LADLED OUT
IN A MINING CAMP.
(From the San Francisco Chronicle.)
At Owen’s River Mining Camp when Big Bill
) Moody swore point blank at a trial to ascertain
r tho exact line between two claims, that he had
t seen the original stake driven in 1852, Mr. Gra
) ham said—
L “Mr. Moody, do you swear that you saw that
- stake driven in 1852? Remember, sir, you are
t on your oath.”
j Moody—Yes, I do.
Mr. Graham—Could you not be mistaken?
, Think, eir, was it not some other stake ?
1 Moody—No, sir; it wasn’t.
Graham—(his hand slowly eliding rQUQiI
to the bank of his belt)—Do you swear. sir. vou
could not be mistaken?
Moody—Well, I—l am pretty sure. I
Mr. as his band grasped
something at his back, which answered with a
click, click) —Don’t you know it to be a fact
that you never saw any stake in any place driv- *
en into anything by anybody?
Opposing counsel calmly draws a navy six
and examines it contemplatively.
The Court—l will state to the opposin’ coub- j
sei that there shan*t be no shootin’ done in this
court, an’ for drawin’ a shootin’ iron, which that
is contempt of court, the opposin’ counsel
stands committed until further notice,
Mr. Graham—A righteous sentence. 5
Opposing Counsel (slowly rising)—lf your
Honor please, it is a well-established point of
law, as laid down by that eminent jurist, Chief
Justice Storage of Texas, that it is the right of
the counsel in a suit at bar to see to it that tho ’
learned counsel on the opposite side does not
get the drop on his witness. Your Honor may
have heard the ominous cocking by my learned
brother of a deadly weapon known and describ
ed as a six-shooter. I submit to yotir Honor
that if I stand committed he should be sent
with me.
The Court—Yes ; it is so ordered.
As the nearest jail was sixty miles distant, as
Caliph’s judicial 'acquirements did not include
a knowledge of how to draft a commitment,
and as the constable was himself “one of the
boys” and perfectly understood tho matter,
these occasional interruptions of a triji amount
ed to no moro than a temporary adjournment,
during which the constable and the bar, and a
few inside friends, had a convivial game of
draw.
AN HOUR WITH BIJAH.
His Sister has Freckles—A Decree of
Separation that Didn't Work Worth e
Cent.
A boy about twelve years old entered Bijali’i
parlor so softly, and eat down soqo.jtly, that
the old janitor kept right on singing : f
" Hoe, Emma I Hoe. Emma!
Hoe in tue garden no mure.”
When he finally became aware ol the pres. 4
ence of the lad, bo looked down neon him
kindly, gave his white head a fatherly pat, and
said:
“ Bub, you don’t look the least bit like a mur
derer.”
“No, sir; I never murdered nobody'in my
whole life,” was the mournful reply.
“I am glad to hear it, my boy—real glad. .
Tbe boy who has remorse on bis mind can't ,
half [enjoy a velocipede or a miucc-pie. Did,
you call here to consult me?”
“ Mother said I might.”
“Did, eh, the good old soul. Well, my son,
you can unbosom yourself just as freely as it I ji
had banged hair and wore dollar-store rings
over yalier kid gloves.”
“Well, it’s about my sister,” began the lad.
“ She’s eighteen years old, and she’s got freckles, *
and her hair won’t curl.”
“Do tell! Aud so she’s always writing poe
try on tbe sad sea and the pale moon, aud
is probably out to-day gathering Autumn *
loaves ?”
“I guess so, sir; but she’s always stealing
all tbe money I can save up. She tasos it and
buys stuff to remove freckles and mike her hair ,
curl. I’ve talked and mother has talked, but '
she won’t behave herself, sir ; and mother said
I'should come and get advice from yon.”
“ Hum—yes—yum. She takes your hard- >
earned wealth and squanders it for bandoline
and freckle lotions, oh?”
“ Yes, sir.”
“And has she succeeded in taking off any of 4
tho freckles ?”
“ Not a one.”
“ And does her hair curl ?”
“Not a curl.” *
“Good I It is a judgment upon her I Tha
wicked never prosper, and don’t you forget it 1
However, she’s bound to keep trying if it takes
all the money you can earn, I suppose ?” ,
“Yes, sir. bhe says she’ll take those freckles ’
off if it kills her, and if I hide my money where
she can’t find it, she’ll run mother 111 debt at
the drug store. Mother says she wishes you .
would scare her most to death.”
“Scare her! Why, let me get sight of her
and I’ll give her some statistics that will curl
tier hair till she can’t get her jaws together I y
Boy, do you know what these freoklo lotions are
composed of ?”
“ No, sir.”
“ Of course you don’t—you are too young and
innocent for that. They take and dissolve '
old cross-cut saws in nitric acid, add a butch
er-knife or two, douse in some vinegar, sprin
kle in kyann-pepper and a bowie-knife, and it
is mixed up by a man who has committed six, X
murders 1”
“But sister isn’t the least bit afraid of it,
sir!” protested the boy.
“Just like all the rest," muttered the janitor, *
as a shadow of disappointment passed over his
taco. “ I verily believe that the average Ameri
can woman would take the chances of going
over Niegy Falls if she was sure that the trip
would remove her freckles.” - -*■
“Yes, sir,” replied the good boy.
“And yet freckles are positive indications
that a female is kind-hearted, high-minded,
noble, forgiving, charitable, lady-like, and is J
certain to have a large funeral and the best
lot in the cemetery. At this very hour I can
name five queens, six dukssesses, ten earlesses.
twelve countesses, and tho wives of 161 mem
bers of Congress who have freckled faces aud *
comb their hair straight back.” . ,
"Yes, sir!” sighed the good boy.
“Go homo, bub—go home and feel easy in ,
your mind. I’ll drop in on your folks to-mor- ’
row about noon, and when I get through talk
ing to your sister she’ll never want any moro
freckle-syrup. Don’t give her any hints, as I
want to come upon her suddenly, the same as J
a trusted bank cashier starts for Europe.”
dividing ur.
A man of forty-five, having a wooden leg *
and the look of one who had suffered long with
the toothache, sat down in tho chair vacated
by tho boy, and after a smile of encourage
ment began:
“If matters don’t mend pretty soon I’ll <
either murder her or take my own life I”
“Domestic trouble, I suppose ?” queried Bi
jah.
"That’s it, sir, and I’m getting desperate. I /
left home thinking I’d jump from the dock, '
but I happened to think of you aud so I thought
I’d ask advice.”
“ Is the bread heavy ?”
“Blast the bread! I can stand heavy broad, ,
sloppy tea, raw meat and half-cooked potatoes,
but I can’t nor I won’t stand this infernal
whining, complaining and jawing around!”
“Fellow traveler along the tow-path of Time’s
broad-gauge canal, I think I see tho pint. You t
have been married about two years ?”
“Not quite.”
“ You are fifteen years older than your wife ?”
Yes—eighteen.” ♦
“You have a wooden leg, and she—she ?"
“She hasn’t, but I wish she had two of 'ami”
“ She likes good clothes ?”
“You bet!”
“She likes the mad whirl of society—sixteen
dollar bonnets—reserved seats at the opera— ’
eight dollar boots—forty button kid gloves and
trains on her dresses?”
“Sho does—that’s her to a dotl” exclaimed j
the husband.
“And you prefer your home—evening fire—
newspaper—snow apples—game of checkers—.
glass of cider—oat on the hearth, and so on ?” .
“That’s the sort o’man I am, sir, and she
harasses me to death. She’s on the trot all
day, and on the gad all the evening, and if I re
monstrate she says I want to make a slave and 4
a prisoner of her.” "
“Don’t you go along with her to the theatre
and parties?”
“I used to, but for the last year she’s got
awful particular about my wooden log—says V'
the public will think I was shot while stealing
chickens.”
“Does, eh? And you sit at home and keep
your beeis warm by the cook-stove while she
gallivants ?” ■ ?
“The same, sir; and now what shall I do
about it? Something has got to bo did, and
that right oft'. I’ll be hanged to Davy Crockett
if I put up with it another day! You are an
older man than I am, and you’ve had threo <
wives to my one, and I’ll do just as you say
about it.”
“Fellow-man, you have been wrong from tha
beginning,” slowly answered Bijab, as he look- /
ed out of the window.in a weary way. “The
man who marries a woman only half his age is
a d. f. (deceived fried-cake) at the start. Youth
may reverence old age, bat love isn’t reverence.
Youth and old age don’t like their taterscooked
the same way, and the man who says they do is
a forger. They don’t sea alike, and it’s a cat
and-dog life. Then again, you have a wooden *
leg, and you should have married a woman with
a glass eye or a broken nose as an offset. In
that case neithor party has anything to twit
the other about. If I was to marry again, bald
headed as I am, I should look for a lady wear- >
ing No. 10 gloves and No. 9 shoes as an offset.
Do you love your wife ?”
“ Well, to be honest about it, I don't think
either of us are dying of love.”
"Then, my friend, you go home and have a
candid talk, divide up tbe things, and part
good frjepds. Give her the largest half, throw
in some small change, and see that she gets
safe home to her mother. By-and-by you can
quietly secure a bill of divorce, get on some
store clothes, and look out for a woman of fifty t
who has the rheumatics so that she can’t gad.”
That’s honest, is it?”
“Honest Injun. If you can’t live happy to
gether don’t hesitate to live happy apart. No
use in any scandal or hard words, but divide \
up and call it a bad mistake. This killing
one’s sell on account of domestic troubles is all
bosb.”
“ That’s so, and I’ll walk straight home and
begin tho dividing up business. Thank
Bijah, may your feet stop growing as a reward
for this.” .... , ■ ,
When he had departed Bijah took a short cut
through tho alloys, and presently gained a posi
tion from whence he could view the house where
the man lived. Developments did not tarrv.
The husband had not been in the house five
minutes before he was suddenly rushed out
ams, hat and cane flying, and his share of the
things, consisting of three flat-irons, a kettuja
and two bricks, overtook him before he could
d °"So’ young and so artless!” mused Bijah as
he turned away; "and yet that last brick
thumped him between tbe shoulders mat as
purty as if I’4 tljrowft it Bivaelf.’*-