New York dispatch. [volume], February 23, 1879, Page 2, Image 2

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

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
2
Belf-satisfied as he is if he could dream or guess
it I—that before ho has made Lady Ethel his
countess, you will have become mine and have
forgotten him!” .
* * ♦**’(' *
Perhaps it is the excitement, perchance the
suddenness of this change which has thrown a
lurid glare—it cannot be called a beam of sun
light—over the dark sky ; but be the cause what
it may, there is a tinge of color upon Kitty’s
face, which, though it may be hectic rather than
healthy, is an improvement upon the strained,
pallid countenance, which had looked down upon
him when she first rode up.
Por the convenience of conversation, she has
slipped from the saddle, and leading Jack by the
bridle—he had throughout shown an unreason
able impatience of the whole proceeding, and
even now threw up his bead at times, and
neighed an indignant protest at her inaction ;
leading Jack by the bridle, she walks beside this
new lover. He, watching her face with all the
anxious attention of a man in bis position, is
quick to notice the change in her, and wel
comes it with a sigh of relief, and a smile of
hope.
“I am afraid,” ho says, tenderly, “that you
have found the last week tiresome and boring ;
if you knew how constantly I thought of you;
how often, night and day, I have pictured sit
ting in that little, silent drawing-room, or walk
ing among your roses, alone and weary ”
“ Not always alone,” she interrupts him, and
speaking with a musing bitterness. “Not al
ways alone—papa is awake—sometimes, and
then I read the papers to him—all the speeches
the mon make who want to get into parliament,
and the letters of the men who don’t want them
to get there ; interesting, is it not ?”
“ My poor darling 1”
“And then we have visitors,” she says, still
more to herself than to him. “ Mr. Sedgwick,
the clergyman, who keeps pigs, and talks about
them; I suppose he has grown so tired of trying
to cure sonls, that he has turned his attention
to curing bacon I” and she smiles, not the old,
merry smile, bnt so dry, and sarcastic, and hard
a one, that it makes the speech sound not clever,
but ill-natured. “ Then the Popham’s—they
came ” (
“Why did you see them?” he asks.
“Why should I not?” she demands, lower- ,
Ing her eyes, as brilliant in color and as hootic
as her cheek. "They came to see me at the ;
stake—gathered round as the Indians do when i
they have a victim at the torture. I couldn’t j
refuse them the -pleasure—one of the few i
pleasures of their miserable existence—the ,
eight of another woman’s misery. No, no 1”
she says; “they thought me miserable, that j
was all; but they were disappointed. I did ’
ndt flinch, trust me 1” and she presses her
lips. “It was very hot that afternoon, and
they sat round in the hideous yellow chairs ,
in the drawing-room, and stared at me and (
baited me like so many cats—not dogs—at a
bear; but some bears can dance better with a <
Bore head, and I danced for them. I never was I
BO hapny, and I made them laugh I Disap- j
£0101611! it is not tho word for what they felt!
They expected to see mo with rings round my £
eyes, and my mouth down at the corners. Ah!” j
and she smiles grimly. “Poor Ellen looked f
more down than mo, and there were rings round t
her eyes, though they bathed them for her, and ,
powdered her, and set her back to the light! t
Poor Ellen! Why should I pity her?” shade- c
manded. “Suffering is the proper training tor
gentle women; Ethel read that to me out of one
of her poets. It is very pretty, is it not ? Well,
they did not see mo suffer, and I played it out
to the last. I took them out into the garden—
I made them come, and then poor Ellen’s red
eyes and dropping mouth showed out in all
their ghastlinessl” and she laughed a quiet c
laugh of hard bitterness. a
“Served them right,” he says, instantly, and t
With angry eagerness; “but why should sho—
the girl Popham, 1 moan, be miserable ?” r
! Kitty looks round at him with a curl on her i
finely-cut lip. I
“Because we have an unlucky knack in this f
part of the country of falling in love with the r
wrong person. James Ainsley has gone I
• abroad.” c
“I see!” he says, with an uneasy flush, t
“Well, it serves her right; it was heartless of I
them to come and stare at you, my darling! e
Heartless 1” i
“Heartless, that is what she said,” muses t
Kitty, looking down at the burned grass and I
flicking at her riding habit with her restless, J
nervous whip-hand. I
“Who said?” be asks, feverishly interested. <
She looks up at him as if unconscious that [
She had spoken her thought aloud.
“Who—his mother!” 1
“His mother —whose ?” i
“James’s,” she says.with a tightening at her
lips. “ Did I not say that she camo ? Oh, yes, f
Bhe came and caught me in ths garden, and <
hedged ma into a seat and kept me there, 1
Standing over me looking like—like—the moth- t
er of the Gracchi in bombazine, armed with a :
gingham umbrella; she clutched it so tightly i
and held it up once or twice with such energy I
that I thought she meant to strike me with <
it.” <
An oath, not loud but deep, is muttered at s
her side. I
“Who is she—what did she come for—con— t
Confound herl”
“She came to avenge James—poor James i” r
and for the first time Kitty’s face softens and t
grows lovely and womanly—“she came to speak 1
her mind and toll mo of how great a treasure I i
had lost, and the injury I had worked her son; <
Bhe called me designing, mercenary, unprinoi- 1
pled, heartless; asked me whether I dared en- 1
ter the church on Sunday and pray with the i
memory of the wrong I had done her son—poor i
James!—frosh upon my soul! She was very i
hard on me—l should have felt it more if she <
had not been so red, and had left the umbrella :
athotbe; but the umbrella—made me hysteri
cal, and I nearly had a fit. I think she thought £
I was crying, for she told me that she co.uld not t
cry, that tears could not relieve her or bring t
back the happiness 1 had robbed her boy of! i
Then she called me heartless once or twice <
more, and left me with—well, anything but a ;
blessingl” 1
“The old harridan!” he says, with an evil <
snarl. “And he—he is no better! The man ]
must boa our—not a mere baby as I deemed <
him—to go home and set his mother on to <
you!”
She flushes and turns quickly.
“No!” she says, curtly, “you are wrong! ;
James knew nothing of it; ho is different from
that—he is only too good to me, only too good, <
He did not know that she was coming, he has :
gone abroad—like all the rest of the world.” i
He shakes his head with angry incredulity, i
but he does not venture to convince her of i
James’s iniquity.
“Anyway.it was a cowardly, cruel kind of i
thing to do, and—and, by Heaven, we will be i
even with them all some day! You shall show 1
them how much you care for them, my dar
ling 1” and he tries to take her hand, but Kitty i
draws it away from him coldly.
“It doos not matter,” she says; .“it is all i
Over.” i
“ Yes,” he assents, eagerly, “it is all over— j
all this stupid, tiresome time is over; and now ,
you will let me try and make you happy ? Dear i
Kitty, wo will soon forget this doleful place— ,
this miserable, sleepy hollow I Where shall we ;
go first? You shall choose the Elysiah Fields ■
—Paris, Italy—what do you say?”
» She looks up listlessly, and shakes her head.
“I do not care,” she says; “I have no
choice.”
No choice! Why, if Paris had been even so ,
much as hinted at a month ago, how her eyes
would have danced—ayo, and her limbs, too, 1
for that matter. But now she does not care— ,
Bhe has no choice.
"It shall bo where you please. I shall be
happy in any corner of the earth—tho ugliest
and dreariest—if you are by my side.”
No blush, such as bo looks eagerly and thirst
ily for, mounts to her face; with downcast eyes
and calm, absent composure, she walks by his
side, graceful, beautiful, but not Kitty—not the
Kilty whom Lord Sterne and James—poor
James!—have loved.
Inaudibly, as ho turns his head away, he
curses the pair of them—those men who have
come before him and stolen the bloom off the
flower which he has succeeded in grasping at
last. '
“ Kitty,” ho says, flushing as hotly as poor
James could have done—“ Kitty, you do not
doubt my love for you ?”
She turns her large eyes upon him with
moody self-questioning, and then she smiles
Strangely.
"Doubt? why should I? Why else—if you
did not wish mo to say yes—should you come
and ask me— me!— to—to be your wife I lam
not a Lady Ethel—l am as poor as a church
mouse—l am neither useful nor ornamental.
Yes, 1 suppose that you love me.”
His face shows something of the torture
Which her cool indifference means for him.
“No.” he says, “you cannot doubt me. But
you. Kitty; do you think you will ever ” —(he
actually trembles—he, the cold, calculating
man of the world—he, the impassible Sydney
Calthrop, trembles with passionate eagerness
as he puts this lovers’ question)—“do you
think you will ever grow to care for me ?”
She pauses a moment, then answers, as calm
ly as if she were replying to a question re
specting the weather—politely, gravely—
“l,cannot tell; at least, ’more softly, “Iwill
try.”
“You will?” he says—“that is all I ask.
Bee!” stretching out his hands, “I am content
with that. I know that I can make you love me
and I am content to wait until that happy time
comes when you shall own that I have suc
ceeded.”
Then he goes on to speak in a lower and more
eager tone—persuading her, arguing with her,
though she does not say a word; and at last he
unto.ds bis plan.
“ You can trust me, Kitty,” he says, “and see
how 1 trust you I I stake my happiness on your
laith. If you were not to come on Wednesday
morning—if I were to wait in the meadow there,
and found that you had failed—l, Kitty, I would
not answer for the consequence. Tut,” he
Bays, with a gesture as if he waved all doubt
away, "Iknow you wdl come—you would not
deceive me.”
Sho raises her head and looks beyond him,
musingly, absently.
“ I shall not deceive you,” she says, quietly.
"And this girl—Mary—you can trust her ?
She will not betray us ? A word, a hint would
be sufficient to do so.”
“Mary will 'not say that word or give that
hint,” she says, with a little weary movement of
the dark eyebrows; “I can trust her.”
"Then ail will bo well,” he says, raising bis
hat and wiping his brow; “and would to God
Wednesday wqrc hero and well done with 1”
Kitty does not echo his profound ejaculation,
but she turns a trifle palqr, and gathers the I
bridle in her hand. Quick io notice her slight- I
pat ujoysfflest, he locks up at th “ -ky. I
“ You must go ?” he says, reluctantly. ,
“Yes,” she says; “papa does not like to be ]
kept waiting for bis glass of Madeira, and it is
I who must pour it out for him.”
He sighs.
“ One day more of bondage 1” he murmurs ;
“then you reign supreme, at least over one de
voted slave.”
As ho speaks', she springs into the saddle bo
fore he has time to assist her. The moment
she is mounted, Jack darts forward and gets
upon his heels. It is a difficult thing to stand
near him, but Sydney Calthrop grasps his mane
with one hand and extends the other.
“You will not leave me like this?” he whis
pers, looking up at her thirstily. “ One word,
Kitty, for me to. live on until I see you. Shall I
see you to-morrow ?”
“No,” she says, promptly—too promptly;
“not to-morrow; it might not be safe.”
“Yes, I see, I see!” he assents, with forced
alacrity; “I will de anything, everything you
wish. I shall not see you to-morrow I It will
seem an endless day! But, at least, Wednes
day comes next! Kitty, my heart, my life, is in
your hands. You will come on Wednesday—in
tho meadow by the ash?”
Her face grows paler, and her lips set, but
she looks at him with a fixed, forced determina
tion.
“Yes,” she says, in a low voice, “I will
come.”
“My darling!” he responds, passionately;
“you shall never rue it, I swear it!”
Then he tries to take her hand and press it
to his lips, but Jack seems to require her hand,
both hands at the moment, and he does not
succeed. The next moment she murmurs some
thing that sounds like “good-by,” and is a
score of yards out of his reach. He stands the
victor, tho successful plotter, the triumphant
lover, gazing after her; but certainly it is not
unmixed triumph that is expressed by his face.
There is a great deal of unsatisfied longing, not
a little of moody longing for revenge—revenge
upon the man who has robbed his flower of its
bloom, and a spice of doubt, not the most ef
fective ingredients for happiness.
But after a moment of struggling, conflicting
emotion, he casts his fears, his rage, his doubts
to the winds, lifts his bat from his brow, and
extends his arms.
“I have won her!” he cries, his eyes spark
ling, “I have won her from them both! Love
ly lit is not the word for her! And she will
keep her word—l know it 1 Love is a good mo
tive spring for women—but revenge, pique, are
stronger and more reliable ones! My proud,
wounded little lioness will come to me—l feel
it! God! I shall not know a moment’s rest till
Wednesday! till I have got her—my own, my
very own 1”
Then, as he paces up and down with folded
arms and working face, he laughs with a touch
of scorn.
“Great Heaven! how changed I am! l—
over a woman! I can understand what he must
have suffered the other niqht! My Lord Sterne,
I can almost find it in my heart to pity you!”
So strange is Mr. Sydney Calthrop’s behavior,
so utterly at variance with bis usual confident
placidity, that it is fortunate for his reputation
for serene impassibility that the only witness
to bis excitement is one of the Eosedale bulls,
which, feeding in an adjoining moadow, rushes
to the fence and snorts and stares at the ex
cited man with unbounded astonishment.
t
CHAPTER XXII.
“ I WILL BUN AWAY TO-MOBBOW MOBNINO.”
With a moderation worthy of praise Kitty had
described life—her life in especial—at the Lawn 1
as dreary; she would have been equally within >
the truth if she had called it hideous.
After that expression of his wishes and com- I
mands, the Honorable Francis bad relapsed i
into a state even more comatose, and was indif
his own, and quietly, coolly, and with consum
ferent to every living creature’s existence except J
mate cruelty—though he might perhaps have 1
been quite shocked if any one had given his >
conduct such an ill-bred name—ignored his
daughter. As Kitty had said, he spentagreater !
part of bis time in sleep, either in bed or in the <
easy chair in the morning-room, or on the couch <
in the stifling drawing-room; the remainder of 1
the day, when Kitty’s presence was inevitable, 'I
he leaned back with lowered lids and looked be- i
yond her or beneath her, taking his cup of oof- ;
fee from her hands, or listening to her reading ’
of the dreary political nows with the same im- I
passible, contemptuous indifference.
That she would dare to disobey him, to thwart
his wishes, to question even his disposal of her, >
never entered his aristocratic, comatose brain.
Perhaps he did not notice that Kitty was ’
growing thinner, paler, changing under the or- 1
deal—to give him his due, we may say positive- 1
ly that he did not notice. The incarnation of '
selfishness, he would have noticed the merest
gnat-bite on his own face reflected in his look- '
ing-glass, would have been greatly distressed
by the appearance, say, of a pimple on bis nose 1
or a wort on his thin, white, uselessly aristo
cratic bands; but Kitty's facemighthavegrown 1
a dark blue in color, and her nose have disap
peared altogether before he would have noticed '
any change in her.
The evening following that on which she had >
met Mr. Sydney Calthrop, Kitty was in her place
at the little gipsy-table in the drawing-room, in
her place to give the Honorable Francis his cof- I
fee, and on her face was a hectic flush that :
camo and went by fits and starts. Moro stifling '
than usual seemed the hot room, more glaring- ■
ly yellow than ever the satin ormolu chairs,
more like a mummy the reclining, motionless
figure of the honorable father as he lay back,
with his white hands folded together, his thick
eyelids dropped, like the tired birds one sees
at the Zoo.
Once or twice Kitty glanced at him, and once
as he stirred slightly in his chair her lips quiv
ered, and she seemed about to speak; but cour
age failed her time after time’. Presently he
moved bis hand—that meant another cup of
coffee, and Kitty poured it out for him and
placed it at his side. As she did so she let her
hand fall lightly and timidly on bis arm. His
eyelids moved slightly, but he did not look up.
But Kitty had been gradually summing up res
olution and courage to speak, and was not to be
daunted—at least at the first effort.
“Papal” she said.
He gave an irritable little start, and just
glanced at her.
“What is it?” he said, querulously—“my
coffee ? Thanks. I—er—l wish you would re
sume your seat; nothing distresses me more
this weather than to have any one standing
standing over me. It—er—stifles me. What is
it?"
She looked down at him for a moment with a
strange compression of the lips, a mingled scorn
and regret, then sho moved noiselessly away
from him.
‘lNothing,” she said, quietly. “I think now
that I need not trouble you with it.”
“If it is anything that would trouble or an
noy me, 1 am glad you have—you have decided
to reserve it,” he said, his brows knitting, as if
in physical pain. “I am already—er—suffi
ciently troubled and—er—annoyed. By some
unaccountable —I must say carelessness—you
overlooked, or did not choose to read me the
paragraphs in tho Times respecting Lord
Sterne’s refusal to accept office. It is very
strange that you should have overlooked the
most important thing m the paper! The nows
has distressed me very much—very much. Er—
I cannot account for it! Tho earl will bo seri
ously upset, and—er—all the party. I should
have thought that your cousin Ethel would
have used her influence with him. She " — with
a weak, spiteful emphasis—“is the only woman
in our family that understands the responsibil
iiy of her position, and—er—should have pre
vented this fiasco. I—er—must confess that I
expected bettor thihgs of her; but,’’with a sigh
and a contemptuous half glance at the still,
white face opposite him, “I seem doomed to
disappointment.”
Kitty doos not speak—a reply is not required
of her, but she sits quite motionless for a few
minutes; then she rises, and noiselessly leaves
the room. Like a drowning man she had
clutched at that straw—that veritable reed—
the Honorable Francis, and be had bent and
broken in her band. Ono kind word—one look
of encouragement would have melted her, and
saved her.
As she walks up stairs Kitty is conscious of
feeling very tired—jnst that kind of languor
which succeeds an exhausting effort, eituer
physical or mental; and, once, when she is near
her own room, she puts her band—it has grown
thinner aud whiter, as girls’ hands will quickly
change, during the week—against her bosom;
but she laughs, as she stops to got breath, and
thinks, with self-directed irony:
"Getting asthmatical—or is it heart disease ?
People die of that sometimes. 1 wish ” then
she puts the evil thought from her, with a pang
of remorse. “No, that’s like the sentimental
young ladies in the novels. They get thin, and
blue under the eyes, and lie up against the win
dow, and talk about the stars and the spring
flowers they will never see again—and which I
fancy they didn’t care twopence about when
they could see them! No; I should make a mis
erable kind of consumptive heroine—dying to
slow music and a display of pocket-handker
chiefs is not my fate I I have got to live—to
live for ever so long,” and she smiles, with dry,
aching eyes, up at a round Venetian mirror,
which reflects her graceful and well-rounded
figure.
Though she is not dying of consumption, Kitty
takes the favorite attitude of the unfortunate
heroine, and seating herself on a low ottoman
■beside the open window, rests her elbows on
the sill and props up her chin on her knuckles,
and stares with an absent, moody countenance
at the long vista of meadows dissected by the
Lombo. Her maiden meditation, fancy free, is
doomed to interruption however, for Mary,
coming into the room, gives a preliminary
start at the apparition of the figure thrown up
against tho soft, gray evening sky, and then
hurries, with affectionate and respectful indig
nation, to the window.
“Law, Miss Kitty, how you frightened me!”
“The last person you expected to see—in
my own room,” says Kitty, with gentle sar
casm.
“I certainly didn’t expect to see you sitting
there by that open window, miss, in this damp
evening air——”
•■Damp! May the brown grass and that
thirsty cow out yonder forgive you, Mary; I
won’t!”
“ Well, miss,” retorts the faithful Mary, upon
whom irony and sarcasm are thrown away, “if
it isn’t damp it’s too late for you to be sitting
there with nothing on—you forget as you’ve
been ill, miss.”
“If I do it’s not your fault, Mary,” says Kitty,
quietly. “You take care to remind mo of it at
i least ten tiiflos a day. An influenza cold—a
I fashionable doctor couldn’t call it anything
I worse ",
NEW YORK DISPATCH, FEBRUARY 23, 1879.
1 “ Colds in the head, miss,” says Mary, firmly,
! “don’t taxe your appetite away and make you
thin in a week—l’m not blind, miss ”
“Nor dumb, Mary.”
“No, miss,” says the girl, gently but firmly,
lowering the window; “at least, Miss Kitty, I
couldn’t stand by and see you catch your death
without putting in a word. Not damp! look at
the nasty mist rising from the Lombe, and,” as
she draws a crepe shawl round Kitty’s should
ers—“and you’re as hot as you can be, miss 1"
"I can bo hotter still, Mary, with this shawl
on,” says Kitty, and she lets it drop and springs
on to the bed, curling herself up like a young
tigress, her bead pillowed on her arm, her eyos
still staring at the windows.
Mary gives a patient sigh, after the manner
of nurses, and goes about the room picking up
tho various articles of dress and toilette which
Kitty, as is her habitual custom, throws and
drops about her, tidying the room for the night
and making it, as Kitty would say, “disgust
ingly neat.”
Notwithstanding Kitty’s protest, it is more
than a cold in her head that has boon the mat
ter, and several days during the past week
Mary has been tempted to brave the numerous
and awful threats which her wilful mistress has
held over her, and send for old Dr. Greene. As
a matter of fact Kitty has been sailing danger
ously near fever, and only her constitution,
tough and strong as a cable, has kept her off
the breakers of a serious illness.
During this week Kitty has been entirely in
Mary’s hands, and the affection which tho sim
ple girl always bore hor lovable young mistress
has deepened and grown into an attachment
that Kitty is fully conscious of and feebly
amused by.
After going about on tip-toe for some time
Mary looks over the foot of the bed, and seeing
her pretty head has dropped on the pillow,
jump’s to the oonclnsion that its owner has
fallen asleep, and seating herself by the dress
ing table takes out some work, but her delusion
is dispelled with a suddenness that causos the
needle to run into her finger and her work to
drop on her lap.
“Mary,” comes from the bed, apparently
from under the clothes, “did you ever run
away from home ?”
“Law, Miss Kitty!” is the startled response.
“Me run away from home! No, that I never
did!”
“I’m sorry for that,” says Kitty, with a sigh.
“You might have been able to toll me the best
way to do it ”
“Law, miss! Whatever put such a thought
into your head ? Why should I run away from
home ? I was too happy.”
"Yes,” says Kitty, musingly, “I remember
seeing you when I went to engage you; your
father was in his shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe,
which I think be swallowed when I camo into
the room—tor it disappeared, I remember, in a
supernatural manner; and your mother dusted
a chair that shone like ice for me to sit on; and
—yes, I suppose you were happy—there was a
little girl sitting on your father’s knee ”
“ My sister Folly, miss,” says the delighted
Mary; “father always used to have one of us on
his knee,” and she laughs as she bites her cot
ton.
Kitty’s face flushes, and she turns uneasily on
her arm.
“Your father was fond of you, Mary ?”
“Yes, miss, he was always fond of all of ns,
especially us girls.”
“Strange man!” mutters Kitty, with bitter
irony. “A touch of insanity, I expect.”
“What did you say, miss ?”
“Nothing. And so you never ran away from
home, and you don’t know how it’s done? Well,
the thing will, at least, have the charm of nov
elty. Mary, you and I will run away to-morrow
morning.”
Mary bolds her breath for a moment, as a
sudden dread of delirium crosses her nursely
mind; then she laughs.
“You are always fond of making' fun of me,
Miss Kitty. I don’t mind, though sometimes
I’m afraid you think I’m very stupid, for I
don’t always know whether you are serious or i
not.”
“ I was never more serious than I am now,
Mary,” is the response. “You have just one
clear evening in which to say good-by to Tom—
or is it Edward ?—that is, if you wish to retain
the delightful and joyous task of combing my
hair and fidgeting my life out by draughts and
rumors of draughts. Do not let me persuade
you to leave tho gay and jovial life you lead un
der this cheerful roof—do not let me tear you
away from the society of Tom—or Edward.
You shall bb tree to go or stay——”
Miry throws down her work and goes hur
riedly to the bed, with the intention of ascer
taining by an inspection of the speaker’s face
whether her young mistress is serious, or mild
ly enjoying the pastime of teasing her faithful
domestic, a sport wnioh Kitty not seldom in
dulges in.
Something in her face—so pale, so much at
variance with the halt sarcastic tone—sends
Mary’s blood galloping, and then leaves her
pale and frightened, but calm.
“What do you mean, miss ?” she says, in a
lojv voice.
“What I say,” says Kitty, and she looks up
with that steady look in her eyes which Mary
knows so well. “I am going away to-morrow
morning.”
"Oh, miss I to leave the Lawn ?”
“I don’t love it well enough to take it with I
me, even if I could,” says Kitty, trying hard to
maintain her cold tone of cynicism; but the
quiver of the lip shows how much the endeavor
costs her.
“Miss Kitty—l—l think your’vo having fun
with me. I don’t believe you’re serious.”
“ Why not?” says Kitty, with a hard smile;
“ because lam so cheerful ? If I let down my
hair, and cried and threw my arms about as the
ladies do in the novels—you wouldn’t doubt me
for a moment then—eh, Mary? Why shouldn’t
Ibe cheerful? lam going to leave the Lawn,
where I am—not happy—and I am going where
I shall be happy.”
Mary, pale and anxious, looks down with a
puzzled sigh.
"You used to be happy, Miss Kitty, singing
about the place all day, and with the dogs and
the horses. Oh, Miss Kitty, this does trouble
mel”
“Because it is new to you. Suppose it has
troubled me, and I have got over it and grown
merry?”
Very merry her face looks.
Mary looks at the beautiful face, so set and
steadfast, so immovable, in silence for a mo
ment, then she asks a very natural question:
“Whore—where are wo going, Miss Kitty?”
“We!” echoes Kitty, with a faint, hard
smile of triumph. “You will not leave me,
then, Mary?”
The girl sinks down on her knees beside the
bed, and takes the white hand that is plucking
the counterpane, and draws it to hor with a
gontlo, impetuous gesture, full of devotion and
entreaty.
“Miss, you know I shan’t leave you! You
know I couldn’t let you go alone 1 Oh, dear
Miss Kitty, must we go? Have you quite—
quite made up your mind? Must wo-go? I
know something has happened, I know you’re
not happy ; haven’t I sat beside you these last
nights, and held your band while you’ve been
asleep, and haven’t I heard you talking and
crying out in your dreams ; I know you haven’t
been happy ; but—must we go ?” she breaks off,
for Kitty has roused herself on her elbow, and
is looking, not at her, bnt miles beyond, with a
restless, speculating gaze in her eyes—eyes that
are bright with the unnatural brightness, with
the brilliance of a hunted animal’s.
“ Yes—yes,” she says, clenching hor hand;
“I cannot stay here, Mary ; not a day longer.
I could not, even if he bad not asked me——”j
"He?” breathes Mary, anxiously.
“ This place is stifling me, I cannot bear it!
I know that if I stay I shall go madl”
She springs up as she speaks and stands up
right, raising her hands to her head with a
quick passionate gesture. Then she sinks on
to the bed. and placing her hand—it is hot, as
Mary can feel through her dress—on the gul’s
shoulder, looks her full in the face.
“Mary,” she says, “don’t ask me more ques
tions than you can help. You and I leave this
place to-morrow ; it is very simple,” absently,
“ very easy; there is no post-chaise and pair!
You and I—separately—have to cross the
meadow, by tho bridge, at half-past ten. That
is all.”
Mary’s face looks as if she thought it was a
pretty considerable "all” too; but she does
not offer any objection for a moment. Then
she whispers—
“ But the clothes, miss!”
“A small bag—no more; you must pack it to
night—l will help you. Yes, yes, I must do
something ; I cannot sit still. You see—” with
a queer smile—“l am so anxious to be off.”
“ And the—the gentleman ?•’ murmurs Mary,
blushing.
" Who told you there was any gentleman?”
says Kitty, sharply, and with a sudden wince,
but sho smiles a moment after. “He will see
to everything ; we must trust everything to
him.”
Mary looks down in anxious thought for a
moment.
“And—did his lordship say ”
Kitty starts, and a vivid crimson stains her
face and neck. Then she turns pale and laughs
a harsh, hard laugh.
“No more questions, Mary,” she says. “Run
down now and say good-bye to Tom or Edward
—no, not good-bye, or they would know you
were going ; but go down and leave me. Let
me see your face,” and she turns tho startled
girl to the light.
“Murder, arson, burglary are written on that
face I You goose, take that down into the
kitchen and the rest of the flock will be run
ning round you and force the secret out of you
in five minutes. iThere,” pushing her with gen
tle force. “go and bathe your eyes first, and
smile, and then go down.”
But Mary is on her mettle, and gets rid of the
soared expression without the aid of water.
“I’m all right, miss,” she says, with a long
breath. “You can trust me, Miss Kitty,” and,
pressing her lips tightly, she leaves the room.
Then Kitty falls to walking to and fro like a
young tigress waiting to be fed, and then she
stops and throws up her head with a smile, and
to murmur bitterly—
“ His lordship I—his lordship !”
CHAPTER XXIII.
ELLIOT STEBNE SAVES THE LIFE OF CALTHBOP.
If a feat of pedestrianism could have solved
Kitty’s troubles, her sorrows and perplexities
would have been overcome and slain that night,
for she must have walked many weary miles in
her little stockinged feet. Mary, the faithful,
came up aud knocked for admittance, but got
no answer, waited at the door, listening with
anxious ears to the pat, pat of the shoeless
feet of her beloved mistress, and tben went
troubled- away, for she ’ ew that to expect to
get in when Kitty meant her to keep out of the
room was utterly futile.
So Kitty walked her weary pilgrimage until
quite worn out, then, palo and haggard, sho
sank, dressed as she was, upon the bod, and
.fell, by tho force of sheer exhaustion, into that
deep, almost painful sleep winch rewards tho
foolish individual who is unwise enough to ex
haust tho mental and physical faculties at the
one and the same time.
There was no moon, a small night lamp throw
a faint light about the room, and- across the
bed, and tho pale face of the girl as she lay
there.
It was a very lovely face for all its pallor,
lovelier, perhaps, than it had been when Kitty
had stood upan the edge of the trough and
earned the odious name of Tomboy; for her
heartache bad given her that last touch which
the sweet picture wanted ; the great artist Ex
perience—or was his name Sorrow?—had add
ed the magic touch and given her that spiri'.uelle
look which reveals the fact that the woman one
looks on has more than skin-deep beauty—a
loveliness of soul.
As the lamp shone on her she looked a prize
lovely enough to have tempted Paris in tho
matter of tho apple ; lovelier still when, moved
by who knows what dream ? the clear pallor of
her face was slowly changed to a soft, sweet
blush, the lips unbent and curved into a loving
smile, tben pouted with a kiss, and her arms
slowly extended as if to embrace or be em
bracod. It was only a dream, but a dream so
vivid that it changed her wholo face, and when,
as she fancied—it must have been tho fancy of
a dream—she heard her name called in a hushed
yet cloar, lingering whisper, she awoke sudden
ly with a half-sob of joy and welcome.
But as she woke up the stillness of the room,
tho silence unbroken save by the ticking of the
clock, struck the sweet fancy from hor heart
and made her shiver. She walked to tho win
dow and threw the blind aside, and shrank back
timorously as the darkness before dawn.
"-■What was it?” she panted; “what did I
hear? Pve been dreaming! Oh, my God! I
thought he had come back, and it was only a
dream!” and she covered her face with her
hands.
But it came out of them quickly with a pas
sionate energy.
“What am I speaking of! He come back 1
He is with his bride elect—dear, lovely, accom
plished Ethel! He will not come back until ho
can bring her on his arm, and then he will find
that I have not waited for him! No!” and
with a passionate gesture she sank on hor
knoes in front of the wardrobe and commenced
to turn over her dresses—there were not many
—with the impatient, restless desire to be do
ing something, to be on the move, to act down
thought.
Mary had placed the dressing bag on a chair
ready tor packing, and Kitty, making a hasty
and supremely reckless selection, threw a small
heap of things to go into that bag, which cer
tainly would not contain one-half of them.
With feverish restlessness she turned out one
drawer after another, almost forgetting the
object of her self-imposed task, feeling only
that she must do something or that she should
go mad.
Presently her eve was caught by the heap
she had piled up beside her, and glancing at
the bag she laughed discordantly, and pull,
ing open another drawer, commenced to toss
tho things in again; but suddenly she stopped
short, and her head seemed to swim round.
With a stifled cry she pulled from its hiding
place, the stained morning frock, which she
had worn tho morning Elliot Storne had come
to her, and taken her heart from her. It was
a very unsentimental object; not a faded rose,
or a crumpled letter, or a broken fern, only a
soiled morning dress, but the very practical
and unpootic object, brings all that happy, too
happy day before her, and Kitty trembles and
quivers like a person suddenly recoiling from
tho brink of a great crime. Her hands, a mo
ment ago so restless and impatient, fall upon
tho soiled dress as it lies on her lap, and her
great eyes stare at it with remorse, shame, sup
plication. If tho crumpled thing could speak,
it could not have spoken more eloquently than
it did.
“What are you about to do?” it seemed to
say; “you who have known what love is, you
are going to sell yourself for pique—revenge, a
pitiful self-torturing spite! Shame! canyon
look at me, and remember whose arms have en
folded me, against whose breast I have rested ?
can you recall the words I have beard whispered
to you ? can you, who put me out of sight as a
thing too sacred for common handling, as con
secrated by his touch, can you be contemplating
this thing? Shame! It is bettor to have lived
and loved, than never to have loved at all; bet
ter to live upon the memory of one day, than to
drag out an existence of remorse and self-re
proach. Be content! You who have known
what love is, can never desecrate and degrade
its sacred name by such a deed as you would
do!”
This is what tho dumb thing says, as plain
as muslin can speak, and Kitty bearing it
grows red, then pale, and then with a sob sho
bows her head over it and kisses it, and the
pent up tears burst forth, and the tortured
heart speaks out:
“No ! no! I cannot do itl God forgive me
for over thinking of it! I love him! I love
him! I have been his lovo of only a day, and
Ino one else shall call me his 1 Oh, my love, my
love 1 I am yours, though you never, never
come back to me, though another has the right
to claim you, 1 am yours to the very end and
no one else’s.”
Devoted Mary, coming up the stairs some
hours later, and for the tenth time, and far too
anxious to be satisfied with a silent denial of
admittance, opened the door cautiously and
looks round the room with a perturbed counte
nance. Sho soon is staring into every nook
and corner—falls on the heap of clothes, the
soiled frock, and on the black bag, hut not on
Kittv. Mary looks behind the curtains, under
the bed even, then, crying by this time, into
the bath room. But that is empty; tho door is
open, and Kitty has flown !
Kitty has flown, but the bag in there, and
clinging to it as a drowning man clings to a
rock, poor helpless, bewildered Mary sits down
and weeps, with alarm, relief, aud consterna
tion as mingled and confused as the muddled
up heap at her feet,
If Mary bad had the sense and mother-wit to
run to the window and pull up the blind and
look out, she would have seen her fugitive mis
tress walking across the fields. But though
Mary did not see her, another pair of eyes, that
had been as watchful and anxious as Mary’s
own, was on the watch; and Mr. Sydney Cal
tbrop, pacing moodily and expectant behind
tho elm, saw tho slim, graceful figure, and felt
his heart leap out to meet it.
Ten o’clock bad struck by tho stable clock; it
was ten minutes past. Ho thought, until he
had looked at his watch, that it must at least
have been a quarter to eleven before he saw
her; and no pen, however graphic, could paint
the tortures of those ten minutes endured by
tho creature who bad never known before what
impatience meant.
Even now, when he saw her, he could not for
the moment go forward to meet her. He must
needs stop and calm himself, wipe the great
drops of cold perspiration—the dews of. doubt
and misgiving, rising and falling hope—from
his forehead. Then he summoned all his self
composure, and, vaulting over the stile, hurried
toward hor.
But he has not gone two yards before he
stops with a sudden, swift, but convincing
dread. It is not because he has seen her fa’ce,
for she is too far as yet—it is not because she
is alone, though that fact would be sufficient
reason tor the icy hand of doubt that seems to
grasp at his heart and turn him cold. It is
something in the manner of her walk; it is too
hurried—for Kitty is not tho one to hurry to
any man, least of all to a waiting lover—some
thing in her bearing, in the pose of the litho
figure and the droop of tho small, sleek head.
Sydney Calthrop stops short and waits beside
the stilo, his heart beating, his eyes hungrily
watching to read his sentence.
A glance at her face tells him more than
enough. In a moment the thousand conflicting
hopes and fears fall into nothingness, and a
heavy despair settles upon him.
He does not even hold out his hand, but
grasps tho top bar of the stile with one band,
and looks steadily at her.
Panting, but not from her spaed, Kitty stands
before him, as pale as himself—more affooted
outwardly, but firm and immovable (he knows
it) as a rock.
“Ihave come,” sho says, drawing her shawl
against her bosom, doubtloss to still, if she
can, tho throbbing at her heart—“l have come
because —because I think that I ought, Mr.
Calthrop.” He winces at the formal address,
but his eyes do not move for a moment from
her face. “ Mr. Calthrop, I was mad and wick
ed when I saw you last, and said words and
promised to do what I never ought to have said
or promised. Oh, do not look at me like that 1”
for his face works for a moment, and his eyes
gleam with reproach and accusation. “Indeed
1 have suffered. lam more sorry, sorry, sorry
than I can tell you—than you would believe it I
told you. But I don’t think I have quite known
what I have said and done lately,” she goes on,
with a startled look ot pain mingling with her
imploring, penitent one. “ I have been wicked
and—and heartless—heartless, indeed I Mr.
Calthrop, I hope that you will not think too
much of it—that you will remember what a
worthless —utterly stupid and worthless girl
yob—you honored and confided in—and—and
forget her,” and, with eyes that are dimmed
with tears, she holds out her hand.
He looks at it for a moment, tben slowly raises
his eyes to her face again.
“You will not come—is that what you mean?”
he asks, struggling with his voice, that sounds
hoarse and unnaturally calm.
“1 cannot,” she says, clenching her hands
and hiding her face away. “ I cannot and dare
not; it is not only for myself that I draw back,
that I break my promise. For your sake I
ought not to—to do what you want me. I see
it all clearer to-day, and know how heartless
and cruel I should be if I yielded——”
“ Heartless and cruel,” he says, slowly, and
staring at her. “Yes, you have been heart
less and cruel to every one who has loved you.
1 might have known—if I had not been a fool,
if I bad not taken you for a simple, guileless
girl—that you would have cursed me as you
did the rest. lam rightly served—we are all
fools, all three—Ainsley and Sterne——”
“ Oh, stop, stop 1” she breathes, putting up
hor hand and turning white and wan. “ Stop!
You do not know. You judge me too harshly—
and yet—yes, I deserve it. Say what—what
you want to and let me go,” and she stands be
fore him with drooped head and patient, mis
erably clasped bauds.
“Say,” he says, with a dull kind of passion.
“ What will words do for me ? If I stayed all
day and said a hundredth part of what I could
say, it wouldn’t harm you or do me any good.
I knew—xes, by heaven, I knew it 1. That you
i would play me false, that you wouldn’t keep
your word! I was nover set on anything so
1 hotly as I have been on this. I have loved you,
e I love you still; and you go aud leave me, and
1 tell me I can say what I like. Well—l can curse
t vou, and I doI” and he throws bis hand toward
3 her, palm outward, as if he hurled a curse
- with it.
> Kitty shrinks as if struck, and then with a
cry of horror, and covering her eyos, turns
■ away.
i He. stands for a moment looking after hor,
r and yet without seeing. What he sees is the
Nemesis which has come down upon the heels
, of liis treachery ana betrayed bun. What he
' sees is a long, weary, sterile struggle with the
1 fruitless passion that teays his heart. Wbat
: ha feels is simply despair. It numbs him soul
i and body so that he cannot stand, and he sinks
■ down upon the step of tho stile and rests his
face upon his arm.
1 Five minutes pass, and then suddenly ho
• leaps to his feet, hot, panting, with blood-shot
1 eyes and quivering lips.
“Fool! Accursed fool! I have let her go! I
i had.her here—the carriage was in the lane—what
was easier than to throw that shawl round her
face and make her keep her promise ? Fool—
f fool! Too late I Is it too late ?”
Like an electric current the wild,' mad hope
runs through his veins.
; With an oath ho springs on the stile and
• stares before him.
i Yes, there she is, going with dragging foot
steps across the meadow—the next meadow
’ but one; the footpath turns to the left, she has
nearly gained it; if he cuts across this next
field and runs he can reach her before she can
gain the lane.
A moment—a half moment is sufficient for
i the calculation, and the next minute ha springs
to the ground, dashes over the gate of the ad
joining field, and runs with the speed of a man
: racmg with death.
Racing with death!
What is that behind? That strange echo
that reaches his ears, muffled, as it were, by a
breathing harder and louder than his own ?
For a few seconds he takes no notice of it,
but suddenly the echo grows too loud, the
breathing, which he fancied was his own, grows
into a fierce, unearthly snort—be turns his
head and his brain reels; behind him, so close
that ho fancies he can feel the animal’s hot,
savage breath, comes, at a headlong pace, the
bull.
With its smooth, iron head bent low, blowing
the hot steam from its nostrils, flinging the
foam from its cruel jaws, the brute glares with
its small, savage eyes, a look of ferocious cun
ning straight into the horrified ones of the
man.
Before them both—seeming miles away in
the distance—is the gate which the man will
never reach ; the bull knows it as well as doos
his victim ; he gives a long snort of ferocious
delight, and dashes on.
Sydney Calthrop the hunter, turned into the
bunted, utters not a sound, but keeps on his
wav; suddenly Kitty, turning hor head, sees
the race of life and death, and a scream, shrill
and piercing, rises into the .air.
Then, for tho first time, the brute opens his
nostrils and bellows, bellows with defiant mock
ery and rage.
Kitty hears it and sinks on hor knoes, grasp
ing the gate to keep herself from falling, and
stretching out her hand toward tho pair—she
will not faint—she bites hor lips till the blood
runs down them to keep the deathly stupor
away ; but she cannot rise, she can only cling
powerless and helpless, watching and waiting.
Sho sees the white face of tho doomed man
coming nearer—sees the distended, brutal nos
trils behind and the head all speckod with foam
—then suddenly she feels, rather than seos,
that a third is on the field, for a man has with
out a word sprung, like a succoring god, over
the hedge and is runnipg with something red
waving in his hand toward the bull. It is a
minute before the bull sees it, but when he
does he reels back on his haunches, throws up
a stream of grass and dust with his horns,
stamps with bis feet, until the. earth seems to
rock again, and then, with tenfold fury, dashes
at the now victim.
With a spring, light as a Jpanthor’s, Ithe res
cuer darts on one side, and takes up' the .race.
He does not run straight, but curves aside—the
bull cannot curve—and then, with each turn, .
nears the gate. Once his face is turned toward
it full and distinctly, then, with a great cry—a
cry from two hearts—his name is sobbed out—
out to Hoavoo.
It is Elliot Sterne 1
It is Elliot Sterne, come to ’give his life for
the man who has robbed him of all that made
that life worth baving.
(To be Continued.)
An Act of Kindness is Never
Thrown Away.
Monahon, one of the most faithful and zealous
champions of Odd Fellowship, had after Brother
Williams’ recovery, determined to remove to the
country and try bis luck at farming. With the
confidence and self-reliance which is such a
prominent trait in American character, ho folt
that he could swap pursuits in middle age with
out detriment to himself. People in this
country are always changing pursuits. Tho
farmer who has spent halt his life between tho
plow-handles, considers himself capable of run
ning a successful dry goods store. The hun
dreds of failures all over the country attest the
folly of such a change. On the farm he might
have had plenty, and continued to live a life of
independence. But the farm must be sold and
the proceeds invested in merchandise. In forty
nine cases out of fifty ho becomes a bankrupt in
a few years, with a penniless old age staring
him in the face. The merchant and mechanic
think they could farm; but they could not do
it successfully. Their extravagant habit could
never be controlled, and their expense account
would grow faster than their corn. Any busi
ness to be successful, must be the study of a
lifetime. Machines that go up and down in
one groove need only power and oil to make
them go smoothly; but farmers, lawyers, doc
tors, merchants, and mechanics, need brains
as well as muscle.
Monahon left bis bench and removed to a
farm. He had this ranch, however, in bis favor
—that bis younger years had Deen spent in agri
cultural pursuits. He had for many years been
in. the shade ; but he hoped that by going into
the fields early in tho Spring he could become
accustomed to the sun. He was a manly fellow,
and, removing his wife to their country home,
he went to work in bard earnest. Fences wore
repaired and the fields plowed and planted. He
had bought out, his predecessor’s wheat fields
that had been sown the Autumn previous.
There were twenty broad acres of it, and the
prospect of an abundant yield was very favor
able. Each night, as Monahon would come
home, ho would congratulate his wife on their
flourishing prospects. “ How much better,” he
would say, “is this living in the country than
spending one’s whole life in the dust of a shop 1
I have to work harder, but when night comes
my day’s work is done. Tho sun and I are in
the field together all day, but wo quit it at the
same time. The sun has been trying all Spring
to drive me to tho shade, but ho can’t do it. I
mean to see him through. Than, wife, tho best
of it all Is, that lam my own master. There is
no one to say, ‘Monahon, go do this, or go do
that,’or compel me to live like a newspaper
editor—on promises to pay.
Thus would Monahon argue, as though he
expected his wife to take the opposite side ol
the question, and put forth something to rebut
his assertion, but she only gave consent.
One evening tho good man came home over
flowing with joy. “ Good wife,” he said with a
chuckle of delight, “ did youlook at the wheat
field to-day ?”
“Yes; but I saw nothing unusual. The
cattle have not broken in, have they ?”
“ No, indeed ; but you women never sea any
thing. Do you not notice that the wheat is
ripening ? If you had looked vou could have
seen the grain turning to that golden color which
indicates that it is ready for tho sickle. Next
week it must be harvested. In three weeks at
tho most we shall have bread from new flour.”
Mrs. Monahon only smiled at her husband’s
earnestness.
At Daybreak Monahon sprang out of bod; but
as he did so fie uttered a groan, and sat down on
the bed-rail.
“ What is the matter?” asked Mrs. Monahon,
springing up.
“ Oh, nothing much, except that my feet
and ankles pain me so that I cannot stand upon
them.”
“What can I do?” asked the good woman,
with the greatest anxiety depicted on her coun
tenance.
“ Get me some warm water, and I will try
bathing them. Perhaps they have been sprain
ed in some way.”
Mrs. Monahon hastily built a fire, and soon
had a tub of hot water. She noticed that his
feet and ankles were considerably swollen. The
• application of warm water, while it slightly re
duced the swelling, did not lessen tho pain. A
boy who was employed on the farm was dis-
, patched to L for a doctor. Tho man of
medicine arrived in the forenoon, and, after a
careful examination, declared that Monahon had
an attack ofrheumatism. Being unaccustomed
to walking so much on the damp ground, the
ailment had been contracted.
i “ How many days will it be before I can be
about again ?” inquired Monahon.
’ “ There is no telling. Rheumatism is one of
the most stubborn diseases we doctors have to
deal with. It is not very dangerous to life, but
often fails to yield to treatment. It is a very
, eccentric disease. Not unfroquently it leaves
as suddenly as it came. Every , granny has a
cure for rheumatism, and each claims her own
1 as infallible ; but nature is the great restora
i tive. Your attack may, and I hope will, last
only a few days. Give nature a chance—keep
oft your feet, and let them rest.”
. “ But my wheat crop.”
“ Oh, you can’t help that. You must keep
’ quiet, aad let the wheat go if you can get no
i one to cut it.”
i “My God, sir, half my fortune is in that
1 wheat-field. If I should loose it I would be
ruined.”
> “ You can hire men to cut it ?”
I “ Perhaps so.”
- h “ However, you are in no condition to work
: now, and I must insist that you do not walk
■ about until you are batter.”
. “ Your injunction is unnecessary. Icouldnot
walk ton steps now without crying out with
, pain.”
1 The doctor then left some liniment to be ap
-1 plied externally, and an anodyne to bo taken in
.. ternally, in case the pain became too great to
a be borno<
I The following morning found Monahon still
unable to rise from his bed. That day the
Noble Grand of the Lodge at L called to
ascertain bis condition, and, if necessary, send
watchers to sit by his bedside at night. Mona
han declined the proffered assistance on the
plea that it was as yet unnecessary. Ho, how- 1
ever agreed that in case it became necessary
he would notify the officers of the lodge.
The groat burden of Monahon’s thoughts,
when there was a momentary lull in the pain,
dwelt upon the wheat-field that was now ready
for the sickle. He dispatched Tom, the hired
boy, in search of hands ; but at evening he re
turned with the sad news that none could bo
found, as all had made engagements elsewhere.
The next day he was sent in a different direc
tion, but with no better success than before,
the third and fourth days were spent with the
same futile results. The case looked desperate,
and Monahon gave up in despair. He sat in a
rocking-chair, with his feet placed upon a pil
low on another chair, and bewailed the fate that
cheated him out of his crop. The wheat was
over ripe, and as he groaned with the pain of
the disease he cried out in anguish that filled
his heart.
“ Wife we are doomed to starvation,” he
would say a dozen times a day.
Mrs. Monahon would endeavor to soothe and
cheer him.
“Itis no use wifo—no use. There is no such
thing as fighting against fate. I used to have
some friends, but just as soon as a fellow gets
on his back they desert him.”
While they were thus discussing the matter,
Mrs. Monahon stepped to the door, and natur
ally gazed out upon the wheat-field. She
stopped and looked as if some unusual sight
had attracted her attention.
“ Why, father,” she said, “ I wonder what so
many men are getting into our wheat-field loY ?”
“ Coming to steal it. I suppose, because the
owner is tied to his bed like Prometheus to the .
rock,” growled Monahon. The good woman
made no answer, but continued to gaze upon
the scene.
The rheumatic could stand it no longer, but
sliding down upon his knees, crawled to the
door and looked out.
“ Wife,” he said, “ that looks like an army
Setting into our field. How many are there ?”
e added, shading his eyes with his hand.
“ Fifty, father, if there is one.”
“ Wife get my spectacles and put them on and
see if you can make out what it means. You
know you can seo far off better with my glasses
than with yours.” '
Mrs. Monahon, following her husband’s sug
gestion, caught up his glasses and adjusted
them. By this time at least forty sickles were
gleaming in the sunlight as the grand army
swept down that twonty-acre field like a hurri
cane. The wheat fell before the gleaming steel
like dead timber in the path of a tornado.
These forty blades made a path through the
grain fifty yards wide.
“ Can you tell who it is, wife ?”
Mrs. Monahon gave a kind of hysterical laugh. •
“ Yes, yes, I see it all now ; the members of :
your Odd Fellows Lodge have coma to cut our
wheat for us. I see Green and Warburg and
Stacy and Williams and McCullough, and 1
don’t know how many more.”
“ Thank God we have some friends left yet,”
said the sick man burs ting in to tears. His wife
heartily joined him in crying.
After a moment Monahon asked who led the j
reapers.
She took off her spectacles, and, with a corner
of her apron, wiped the tears out of her eyes,
and looked agais Before answering.
“ It’s Williams, the wounded man we nursed.
He’s cutting a swath twice as wide as any of
them, and next to him, and coming like a steam
engine, is Hugh McCullough.” ,
“ That shows us, wife, that an act of kindness
is never thrown away : and I’ll warrant that
Williams was the first man in the lodge to think ,
of coming out here to cut that wheat. ,
The reapers marched back and forth across <
the field, gathering the grain. There was a
large force of binders following in their wake,
and others detailed to gather the golden I
sheaves in the shocks.
Monahon’s rheumatism washalf cured by the
sight he had witnessed. Mrs. Monahon kept
an eye on the reapers, and at 2 o’clock the last
cap was put on the last shock, and then three
■ rousing cheers were given. Mrs. Monahon
busied herself putting things to rights, expect
ing an immediate call en masse. When every
thing looked tidy, she went to the door to see if
the army was approaching ; but there was not
a man in sight ; the last had departed for his
borne. The shocks stood like sentinels on the
field, or like the monuments of what willing
hands could do' when impelled by friendship
and affection.
THE FUEL SUPPLY.
UNIVERSAL HOLELEXPERIENCE.
(Bob Burdette in Burlington Hawk-Eye.)
There is one point in household economy
upon which the landlord and the guest will
never agree. It is on the quantity of wood re
quired to heat a room. Now the landlord is
firmly convinced, and he grounds his convic
tions upon a long series of actual tests and
practical experiments, extending over a term
of years which data back to the year he began
to “keep tavern,” that two sticks of wood,
about two inches in diameter and somewhat
longer than a match, will, if properly used, keep
a bright fire, snapping and roaring in a large
stove all day, and then, if you cover them up
carefully when you retire, they will smoulder
all night long, and you will only have to open
the damper to have a nice warm room to dress
in, the next morning. He knows this, because,
he tells the guest ho has tried it, and does try
it, very successfully in his own room every
night. I never heard the guest dispute the
landlord, but I can’tremembcr ever having seen
him look convinced. When I order a fire in
my room I usually have about this kind of a
circus. Isay to the boy, in commanding tones:
“ Bring up some wood.”
The boy looks amazed, goes away slowly and
just before the fire goes dead out, returns with
two armsfull of wood, one stick in each arm.
The sticks are short, but thin.
I seize them gladly and thrust them both
into the stove.
“Now then,” I cry cheerfully, “ bring up
some wood!”
The boy disappears, and I catch a passing
glimpse of his white, terror stricken face as '
he slides down the balusters. In due Jtime ■
comes to the room, not the frightened bov, but
with heavy, solemn tread, the landlord. There
is trouble in his face.
“What do you want?” he asks, suspiciously.
“Wood,” I say, “wood! wood 1 My cry is ■
still for wood 1 Fuel 1 Combustibles ! Inflam
mable substances 1 Vegetable growth and de
velopment! Wood!”
“Why,” he asks, with a puzzled expression
on his face, “didn’t the boy bring you up some
woodjustnow?”
“Yes,” I reply, truthfully. And it sounds
kind of oddly to me, but after all, I am glad I
told it under the circumstances.
The landlord looks wondenngly around the
room, glances behind the stove, stoops down
and peers under the bed.
“Well, why,” be says at last, in a perplexed
tone of countenance, “where is it?”
S“ln the stove,” I say.
An expression of incredulous bewilderment
spreads over his questioning face. He asks,
feebly and falteringly :
“ Yes, but the rest of it ?”
“ In the stove, too,” I say.
“What 11!” the good man shouts, “All of
it?’.’
And there aren’t enough capitals and exclam
ation points in the news room to convey his
emphasis and expressions to the types. I re
gard his indescribable amazement with piti
less composure.
“All of it,” I say.
He doesn’t believe me. He stoops down be
fore the stove, opens the door and looks in.
His worst fears are realized. With a hollow
groan he closes the door and shuts the damper
with such an easy, quick, long practiced turn
of the wrist that an inexperienced man can
never detect it, and rising to his feet goes
feebly down stairs, holding one hand to his be
wildered head, and the other to his throbbing
heart. By-and-by he comes back into the
room, with the wan, silent face of a spectre.
He boars two sticks of wood, somewhat thinner
than the ones the boy brought, but on the
other hand, considerably shorter. He shud
ders as he walks past me, and lays them down
in the bottom of the wood box, and covers
them up with a piece of an old envelope to hide
them from my extravagant eyes. But I seize
them from under his bands even while he is
hiding them, and not heeding the tremulous
hand he reaches forth to stop me, 1 thrust the
sticks into the stove, and say, calmly and
sternly:
“Send the boy up with some chunks.”
The landlord presses his hands over his eyes
and goes reeling out into the hall. He says, in
a ghastly whisper :
"Well, ef you can’t crowd more wood into
that stove than any man I ever see.”
And as he goes down stairs I can hear him
sobbing, and telling the hall-boys they’ll have
to keep an eye on the crazy man in No. 72 or
he’ll set the house on fire.
A BATTLE WITH TRAMPS.
“IT’S A MEAN MAN THAT’LL SHOOT
I A WOMAN.’’
(Battle Creek, Mich., Cor. Inter-Ocean, Feb. IT.)
Two tramps called at the farm-house of Mr.
and Mrs. George Newell, in Pennfield township,
a day or two ago, and demanded food and old
clothes, both of whieh were refused. They
went away threatening. The family sat up
quite late that night, talking of the great in
crease of tramps in the neighborhood and of
their terrible misdeeds. When they retired
they took the precaution to lock and bolt the
outer doors and let the watch-dog loose.
About two o’clock in the night Mrs. Newell
awoke suddenly, hearing strange voices in the
cellar. She listened, and could plainly hear
steps on the cement cellar bottom. She awoke
her husband, and both arose to listen. Still
the noises continued. It sounded as though a
man with a dim light was walking about, stum
bling against boxes and barrels. Mr. N. had
been selling cattle lately, and immediately
thought that some one nad come to rob him, or
else the tramps had returned for vengeance.
“Take your pistol, George,” said his wife,
“and go down celiar, and seo who is there and
what tney are after.”
George very reluctantly took his revolver,
■ cocked it, and stealthily proceeded toward the
i I cellar door with his pistol at “present arms.”
I He halted a moment, and thought be overheard
voices in a hoarse whisper. Thinking there
might be more than one, and that it would not
be safe to go alone, he returned to the bedroom.
There a little piece of strategy flashed into his
head, and ho said to his wife :’
“Mary, Mary ; you go down and see. I ain’t
I afraid, you know, but he might try to do some
thing, and it’s a mighty mean man that will
shoot a woman 1”
But Mary had no idea of going, and think
ing that valor’s best part was discretion, had
crept under the bed.
Something must be done immediately. He
rushed up-stairs, awake his son and the hired
man, who grabbed a shot-gun, and the proces
sion started for the cellar, resolved to “hold
the fort.” They were a noble band—hired man,
with shot-gun, as advance guard; son, with
ball club, as right flank ; father, with pistol
flourished in air and ready for retreat, as cen
tre corps ; and mother, whose courage had re
turned, with broomstick in hand, and ono hand
holding the dog, whom she had let in at the
back door, bringing up the rear.
Slowly and silently they wended their way
down the steps. The noise had ceased—no,
there it was again at the cake-safe ; and, with
hearts beating wildly against their ribs, they
watched the hired man cautiouslyopon the cel
lar door ; then at a signal they made a grand
rush, fired gun and pistol, yelled and screamed,
threw broomstick and club, and the dog, think
ing something had really happened, was now
at the front, barking furiously; Not a thing
stirred. They must have shot the burglar. A
light was brought. Nothing was to be seen ;
but, after searching around among boxes and
barrels, they at last discovered a rat in a trap,
Which he was dragging after him, thumping
against the barrels, and thus causing the noise,
which, with its squealing, had caused so much
commotion.
George tried to bribe the boys to “keep it
quiet,” but somehow it leaked out, and now al!
the neighbors have to say to him to get a
“ treat ” is, “It’s a mighty mean man that will
shoot a woman
THE DETROIT "SOLOM ON.
A Sailor of the Seas—Why She Wept—
Drunken Men Never Slip Down.
“Those who go down to sea in ships,” began
his Honor, as he laid aside his pen and looked
over the desk at James Glencoe, “ shouldn’t get
drunk before the ship leaves the port.”
“That’s so; I quite agrees with your Honor,"
replied the prisoner.
He had sailed the whole five lakes
On schooner, brig and bark;
He bad climbed a.olt in a nor’west gala
When the night was pitchy dark.
So ho said, and he further added that if ha
had been brought in drunk he didn’t know it.
“That’s nothing,” replied his Honor; “we
bring men in here every day so drunk that they
can’t remember whether they discovered Amer
ica or America discovered them. 'What do you
mean by sailing into this port a long six weeks
before the sad sea waves will begin to whisper:
•‘Strong ships which battled awhile
With wave and tempest’s roar,
And then drove in for the roelty coast
To leave their bones on the shore.”
“That’s pretty good,” said James, as ho rub<
bed his hands together. “Has your Honor ever
been to sea?”
“I’ve been to see the sea.”
“And you can box the compass ?”
“I suppose I could put the compass in a
box.”
The sailor grinned with delight, and offered
to shake hands, but his Honor drew away and
said:
“ Now, then, you were drunk, and it won’t
pay you two cents on the dollar to deny it. You
ought to be punished for indulging in a drunk
en sleep in the doorway of a bank, and fright
ening a private watchman almost into fits.”
“It was the first time in seventeen years,
your Honor. I get on a spree just once in sev
enteen years, and the time was up yesterday.
It’s a long time between drinks, your Honor.”
“Well,” slowly replied the court, “I might
possibly let you off this time, provided—
“ Provided I batten down the forehatch and
don’t ship any more whisky.”
“That’s it. You’ve got to sail close-hauled
after this.”
“I’ll do it, Judge.”
“If you miss stays—
“ But 1 won’t, sir—not if my sticks hold.
Good-by, Matey—Heaven bless you—l’ve got
an offing, and you’ll never see my figure-head
in this dry-dock again.”
why SHE WEPT.
Old Nancy had been telling Bijah that she’d
give the court as good “sass” as he sent, and
that he might give her six months and bo
hanged to him. She walked out with an ugly
look in her eyes and her teeth shut, and was
impatient for the affray to begin.
“Years and years ago,” began his Honor,
talking as if to himself, “I used to pass a wbita
house on Second street. It was so white and
clean, and its green blinds contrasted so pret
tily, that 1 used to stand on the walk and won
der if the inmates were not the happiest people
in Detroit. They were happy. Tfiey had
plenty. They bad children who played games
on the green grass, and the birds sang all day
long in the arbors.”
Old Nancy looked around uneasily as he wait
ed a moment.
“As the years went by the white house
turned brown with neglect. The birds went
away. The children died or grew up ragged
and uncivil. I well remember the day the hus
band and father put a pistol to his head and
ended his shame and lite together. The wifo
was drunk when the body was brought homo
by the crowd.”
A low moan of pain escaped the old woman’s
lips.
“It was her love for drink that killed that
man—that buried the children—that sent the
birds away—that passed the place into stran
gers’, hands,” whispered the court. “Is the
woman dead?”
Old Nancy groaned as her tears fell.
“No, she lives. She has no home, no friends,
no one to love her. There must be times when
she looks back to plenty, peace, and happiness,
and has such a heartache as few women know
of. There must be times when she remembers
the graves she once wept over, and children’s
voices must some time remind her of the tones
of those laid to rest long years ago. I would
not be in her place for all the wealth in the
world.”
“ Ob 1 sir 1 don’t talk to me—don’t call it up 1”
she moaned, as she wrung her hands. ’
“You may go,” he quietly said, “you have
not long to live. There are those here who can
remember when you had silks instead of rage—
when you rode in your carriage.instead of wan
dering through alleys and lying in the gutter.
Some morning you will he found dead. That
will be the last act in a drama so full a” woe and
misery and wretchedness that it will tea relief
to know that you are dead.” ■■ j
White as a ghost, trembling in every limb,
and weeping like a child, she passed out.
SLIPS.
“John Cain, why are you here?” asked the
court of a wild-eyed man who seemed t< have
put in a bad night.
“I was brought here, sir, for slipping dovn.”
“ Weren’t you drunk when you slipped ?”
“Never a bit; I defy any policeman to say
that he ever saw a drunken man slip down.
They always fall flat; my case was as fine a slip
as you ever saw.”
“Had you been drinking?”
“I had; I had taken one glass ; but one nip
of whisky isn’t a drunk any more than a Janu
ary thaw is April weather.”
“Do you think you can keep straight after
this?”
.“I know I can. I’ll pull a pair of socks over
my boots, and there’ll be no more slips. Good
day, sir, and may you never know what a bail
fall is.”
A CARSON CLERGYMAN.
Remarkable Conduct of a Rev. Mr*
Davis—The Brethren Amazed.
Rev. Mr. Davis, says the Reno (Nev.) Gazette,
has recently become the rector of the Episcopal
Church at Carson. One evening, shortly after
his arrival, a social was given at the church
for the purpose of giving the members an op
portunity of becoming acquainted with the new
pastor. Two of the oldest and most respect
able’ pillars of the sanctuary entered the pas
tor’s study—a cosy little room, where a fire was
brightly burning—and found a dozen gentle
men lounging around in easy attitudes and
smoking. As Mr. Davis was known to be a
Western man and liberal, the cigars didn’t
shock tno brethren much. They were intro
duced, and rather stared at Mr. Davis, a very
unclerical-looking gentleman, with a drooping
black mustache and a somewhat rakish air.
“I’m glad you’ve come among us, Brother
Davis,” said one of the old gentlemen, politely.
“Thankee,” replied his reverence, affably.
“It is a pretty good layout, I reckon.”
The old man gasped, but managed to say that
he hoped the church would prosper under his
ministrations.
“Well,” responded the clergyman, with
cheerful confidence, “I’ll give the boys a rat
tle, and do what I can to drive in a few gospel
stakes. Is it a pretty good crowd for busi
ness?”
Both the horrified brethren stared speech
lessly at the pastor. Seeing that they failed to
comprehend, the reverend gentleman kindly
explained:,
“Ob, you don’t tumble to the racket! What
I mean is, will you church fellows stand in
when I peel and go for the sinners ?”
Finally, murmuring something about being
always willing to assist in the Lord’s work, the
brethren were staggering out when their new
pastor stopped them with :
“Isn’t tnis rather a dusty style of treating a
fellow? Can't you trot out suthin’ to wet one’s
whistle?”
They fled after one scared look at ono anoth
er, and were rushing from the church, when an
other brother hailed them and said he wanted
to introduce them to the new pastor.
“We’ve seen him,” groaned one.
“Where ?”
“In the study, in a cloud of tobacco smoke.”
“Impossible. He’s in the vestry, and a very
nice old gentleman he is.”
‘•And who is the other Mr. Davis—the young
man in the study?” asked the relieved breth
ren when they had shaken hands with a wholly
acceptable and entirely respectable Mr. Davis.
The good old gentleman chuckled, and re
plied :
“My son Sam, doubtless —Sam, of the Vir
ginia Chronicle.”
It was indeed he—be with the plats C* straw*
berries mark on the stomaclx.