New York dispatch. [volume], September 27, 1885, Page 2, Image 2

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

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
2
hia mother, MAud and Theo were discussing
the day’s doings, according to custom. “ Per
haps the grim squire has been pitching into
him by the penny post, or the wetting he got
has given him a chill from which he will never
recover.”
“ You are worse than Lady Muldail,” said
Theo. “Do be original, Wilmot, if you can !’’
“Certainly. Why does a miller wear a white
hat? To keep his head warm. There—l made
that myself; nobody told me ! Apropos of the
Muldails, we shall lose them to-morrow, but re
tain our Ploughshares.”
“I don’t think he and Mr. Mainwaring care
very much for each other,” Theo remarked
meditatively.
“Neither do I,” returned Wil—“at least I
can answer for !• rank. You’d better ask Maud
about Ploughshares.”
“ Ask me ? Why, rather than any one else?”
“I thought you were in his confidence—that’s
all. Don’t blush ? Bless ye, my children—be
ye happy I”
“Wilmot,” cried Maud, blushing from brow
to chin, “I detest jokes of that description.
I ”
“I beg your pardon, Maud. I’m sure 1
neither want to annoy you nor say a word
against him.”
“ But it's all the same to me whether you do
or not.”
“Is it?” queried Wil, shaking his head signi
ficantly. “Good night, children—goodnight;
■and dream of his cigar, his wit, his song, his si
lent letter ‘B.’ All the same, there are three
men worth a dozen of him -Oswald, Frank, and
the humble individual who now retires.”
“Is this true, Maud, my dear?” asked Lady
Warrington, when left alono with her elder
daughter, “or hiAVilmot oking?”
“ Uh, mother, you don’t think I care for Lord
Hoifgbshares ?”
“Perhaps**? -yourfather and I—hope it, my
dear. We have known him so long, and his pa
rents. And be is very nice; he sings exquis
itely.”
“But one wants more than a voice,” Maud
responded.
“You had met Mainwaring, I supposed?”
Sir Charles was aMi i.ig his latest guest. “Do
you remember him ? Do you know him ?”
“I know no g< iof him.”
“Do you know any ill ?”
“Notill, perk. Only he did not call him
self 4 Mainwaring ' ;ti Naples. I know so much.
There, or yah, h ■ has an alias— not that it con
cerns me.”
“ Were you introduced to him at Naples ?”
“No. He undertook to lectchaw me. 1 had
made some remark about Randal Dering which
seemed to annoy !!.■> young man. No doubt he
was right in standing up for his mastah—no
doubt—l should expect my own servants to do
as much for me.”
“A remark about Randal Dering!” echoed
Sir Charles.
“Yas. Elliot was telling mo about his pen
sioning or providing tor his father’s illegitimate
son, and I said, as I thought, that he was a fool.
This young man fired up, and presumed Mr.
Dering was the best Judge of his own affairs,
and when any one wished to-criricise bis con
duct insolently, that, one should be careful that
noneofMr.Dering’sfwiendswerepwesent. Quite
theatrical, upon my word !” And his lordship
laughed noiselessly. “ Has he supweme power
Sih? Ha! And what has become of Dering?
he in a madhouse'?”
“No. Why do you ask that? Mr. Main
waring expects him io return to the Hights.”
“Does he? 1 think the young man knows
his game bettah. No, I am not prejudiced—
not the smallest little bit. Good night, Sir
Charles. I shall not stay yah to finish this
cigah. Good night. ’
His lordship’s smoke was not disturbed;
Owestre, indeed, looked in, nodded a good
night and then climbed the stairs slowly; his
day at Toppingtowers was ended. After what
had passed between himself and Theo, he
could not remain there; he must go away,
whither be was not sure. To Owestre Hall he
had hoped to lead back a fair bride and that
hope had proved delusive. He beard the first
faint notes of “ Ye banks and braes.” Wil’s
signal and rather reluctantly returned into
the room where, in picture, Chenier smote his
brow and Chatterton 44 with poison froze the
God-fired breath.”
“ You are a nice kind of fellow 1” said Wil
mot, in an injured tone. “ Been waiting here
for you this hour. How glum you’look!
Have you fallen foul of Ploughshares, or is it
the weather, on can’t you find the rhyme to
• dove’ ?”
u Yes, I can, Wil and I wish I couldn’t, al
most. lam thinking of going away.”
“ Not to make . more 'speeches, I hope.
The country won't stand it. Oswald, are you
serious ?”
“I am, Wilmot--very serious—so serious
that I almost think I shall join Clifford’s In
dian party and go off pig-sticking.”
Wilmot opened his blue eyes wide.
11 Why should you do that?” he asked, sharp
ly. “ Why do you want to get away from me ?”
“ I don’t. But I cannot stay here, because
she whom I loved has refused me, and that, my
dear old fellow, is something of a facer for me.”
“ She hasn’t much taste, whoever she is,”
said Wil, rather indignantly; “ but this is some
thing of a facer to me. don’t you know. I never
thought of your marrying. It is a thing that I
shall never do myself.”
i£4‘Qb, the wisdom of twenty-two I”
■ “ No, I shall Dot. £our friendship has al
ways been enough for me. Why do you talk
going away, ;ust because some girl, who
-doestri know b myu mind for two moments
refuses you
“What can I do?” •! can’t blow out mv
brains, for obv ■ reasons; I can’t stay here;
•doubtless I’m ; great fopl.”
I don't admit wo great, the other I won’t
question. But don’t give way; ehow her you
don’t care.”
“ But I do care very much, Wil, and that’s
just it. You know the old proverb, 4 Man is
fire and woman ■- • \ mid somebody comes and
begins to blow.’ I thought I was the man, but
it seems I’m only the somebody. I cannot
stay.”
Wilmot stared at him for some moments, then
broke into a kind oi angry laugh.
“Oswestro, if any one had told me that one
day a woman would come between us ”
“No one has come between us, Wil. Just let
me go quietly away and get over this, the great
est disappointment I ever had.”
“ Ob, I’ll let you, of course ! I can't prevent
you. so it is a safe permission. But, if you go,
you'spoil me entirely.”
“I am sorry, but I can’t help it.”
“You don’t want to help it, Oswald,” said
Warrington angrily, 44 but it is no business of
mine. What are you going to do I neither know
or care; you have sunk the ship, and so the
whole thing is ended. I hope you’ll enjoy
yourself in India.”
And Wilmot stalked from the room to his
own, the door of which he slammed. Lord Os
westre felt stunned; it was the first quarrel m
fifteen years. Was be to lose everything, love
and friendship at one blow ? He went after
Wilmot in a few moments and tried the door in
vain; then he knocked, but there was no an
swer.
“ Wilmot! Wil, don't go off like that I” Dead
silence. Lord Oswestre thought of Douglas
Jerrold’s words when besought reconciliation
with Dickens—“ A life- is not long enough for
this’’—and knocked again. “Won’t you say
just 4 Good night,’ Wilmot, old fellow ?”
But there was no answer, and he turned away
very sadly, back to the old room, with his pic
tures, his poems, and Wil's flute, and sat down
mournfully.
“ A pretty fellow, I, to talk of manliness !” he
thought. “ She never looked on me as much
better than a buffoon, and perhaps I am not.”
And then he thought of what might have
been, the bright v.sta of love closed for ever,
the friendship for the brother secured and made
firmer by the love of the sister; ho thought, too,
of all the golden hours of that pure and perfect
friendship—“ one long smile.” Was he to lose
both sister and brother ?
There were very few who understood Lord
Cswestre, not because he was a genius, but be
cause ho hid his nature in morbid sensitive
ness; its passion, its ambition, and earnestness
he put out of sight. Theo would have stared
had she seen this vigil of his in this lonely
night, seen the gathering mists in her old
iriend’s eyes.
A clock struck two, but Oswestro did not
move. By-and-by the door opened, and Mr.
Warrington ente ,’ed h -if-dressed, meeting the
sad eyes with a haughty stare.
“ I am very sorry to disturb you, Lord Os
westre, but I have left my—my penknife here.”
He began to search under chairs, in books, in
the inkstand, and other likely places vainly.
Giving up the sear ci’ ho turned to leave the
room, but his way was barred by two shaking
hands.
“ Wil, old fellow, you’re very hard I”
“ Why in the world do you try to pick a quar
rel with me?” cried Wilmot, nearly wringing
the hands off. “ Why do you get into such tem
pers? At your time of life too I is that the ex
ample you set me ?”
“ I’d rather lose my life, Wil, than your
friendship. Don i you know it?”
“ No, I don’t. - either of us cares a pin
about the other. Ob, ■ Owestre, why didn’t you
kick me?”
And thus they were reconciled.
“ No more nonsense about India,” said the
young autocrat.
“ Well, may I go to Oswestre Hall, just for a
lew months ?”
“ You may. And, in the meantime, I ”
“You will make a friend of Mainwaring,
Wilmot. He’s a very nice fellow.”
“ Yes, he’s fond of his own way, like you.
You are the most disagreeable man I knew.”
“After you is ma ners. What’s that?”
There was a sound down stairs, a stumble, a
kind of crash.
“Burglars 1” c claimed Wilmot in a whisper
and they stole out on tiptoe, peering oyer the
balusters.
It was not burglars, but Lord Ploughshares
being helped up by his valet and they crept
back noiselessly, shutting the door; there are
times when a gentleman must efface himself.
“You know now v.rat I meant about your
sisters,” said Oswestre, in a whisper.
“ I know, keep it quiet. If ever that danger
threatens either of them, I shall know what to
do.”
So Lord Oswestre went away with the Mul
dails and, beside himself, only Wil and Theo
knew why he had gone; the others thought it
one of his freaks. He went to Oswestre Hall
and they read of his welcome home under the
heading, “Extraordinary speech by Lord Oswes
tre.”
“What has become of Mr. Mainwaring?”
asked Maud of her brother one day—they were
both on horseback, waiting lor Lord Plough
shares to join them in a ride—“ he has not
been here lor some tunc.”
“ 1 think Ploughshares has frightened him
away,” replied Wilmot, holding up his hand to
admire the fit of a new glove—he was thinking
of what Frank had said about the quarrel, but
his sister thought he alluded to the conversa
tion which had taken place in the growlery and
she colored —“ but I shall hunt him up one of
these days, having Oswald’s orders to make a
friend of him. Just like Oswald to go off tilt
ing at some windmill or other I”
And then Ploughshares mounted his gray
steed, named by Wil “ Billy-rough-un,” after
the Laureate’s lyric, rode gently up and the
trio went off through the November mists.
“ What places are these, Wil?” asked Maud,
when they had gone some distance. “ I don’t
remember seeing them before !”
“Those? Mainwaring’s new cottages. He’s
knocked down all the old ones, don’t you know.
Ob, you should just hear the people talk about
him! Unless Randal Dering knows how to
make himself popular, it will be rather hard for
him to come after Mainwaring.”
“No doubt the young man is perfectly aware
of that,” put in Lord Ploughshares, with a slow
smile. “ Yah he comes too. Shall we turn
back ?”
“What for?” asked Wil. “Hallo, Mainwar
waring—just the man I want!”
Frank rode slowly up, took off his hat to Miss
Warrington, and apparently no more saw Lord
Ploughshares than that youthful nobleman saw
him.
“ Are you going home ?” asked Wilmot. “So
are we. Off you go, Billy-rough-un !”
Bellerophon obeying, Wilmot followed; thus
Maud and Mr. Mainwaring were left behind.
There was a curious constraint between them,
neither looking at the other. Miss Warrington’s
thoughts went back to the day on the island,
and evidently Mr. Mainwaring’s did the same,
for he presently expressed a hope that she had
not suffered any ill effects from the storm.
“None whatever. I never had the opportun
ity of thanking you for all the trouble you put
yourself to on my account, Mr. Mainwaring.”
“ Did I?” he asked. “ I can assure you it did
nbt seem trouble to me, Miss Warrington, but
privelege and pleasure to do anything for you.”
It was the language of compliment possibly,
but it did not sound so as uttered by him. She
lifted her eyes involuntarily, meeting those
bright dark ones of his, until, blushing and
confused, she turned her head aside.
Mr. Mainwaring accepted Wilmot’s invitation
to the Towers smilingly, bowed, and rode
homeward to dine in solitude.
“ I suppose I shall have the felicity of seeing
Lord Ploughshares monopolize Miss Warring
ton and the bliss of hearing him sing ? Quite
enough to tempt me to the Towers. But what
says Montrose ?
“ ‘ He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who will not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it al!.’
And did not she remind me that man is man,
and master of nis fate ?”
He walked from his room tb the long picture
gallery, candle in hand. Side by side were the
squire and his wi'e, his brother, his son, Ran
dal—then in the flush of his fiery youth—and
Frank looked up thoughtfully at them.
“What’s in a name?” he asked. “Have I
not often said that a man could be great, could
make himself honored, let his birth be what it
might? Whether I am right or wrong, 1 shall
put it to tho touch, to gain or lose it all. Oh,
Maud ?’
Arriving at Topplingtowors, he was shown
into tho drawing-room, where he found the
family, all save Maud.
“ Man is man, and master of his fate,” he mut
tered to himself, “but not master of a head
ache. That, no doubt, confines Maud to her
room.”
But he was mistaken.
“You should see our new orchids, Mr. Main
waring,” said Theo, marking, without under
standing, his wandering glance, and thinking
Lord Ploughshares’s supercilious nod made
him uneasy. “Come into the conservatory,
and name them for us, please. Maud says you
know all about them.”
“ Well, look here, Theo ! That’s tho nicest
way of playing my' accompaniment! How am
I to get through ‘Maid ot Athens’ alohe.”
Frank could have gone down upon his knees
to Wilmot, and blessed that blond-headed
youth, for down the long vista of the conserva
tory, with its banks oi green leaves and waxen
bells, he perceived Maud.
“Do not let me detain you, Miss Warring
ton,” he said to Theo, magnanimously, and so
he was left to meditate on what he should say.
Time was short, moments wore-few and pre
cious. He hesitated a little while he arranged
his thoughts and words, walking very slowly to
get his speech ready, when Maud herself heard
the approaching stop, and came out of her al
cove.
"She is coming, my own, my sweet!
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat.
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead—
Would start and tremble under her feet
And blossom in purple and red,"
Away to tho winds, to the unknown regions
of unspoken thought, went all Frank’s prepared
words. Love leaped out of ambush, shot his
arrow, and was victor.
“ Maud !”
“ Frank I”
He never remembered that anything more
was said—the two words seemed enough. Just
for one brief stolen moment he hold her in his
arms, just lor one moment their lips met.
And then there was a pattering step, a voice
breaking through green foliage.
“ My deah Miss Warrington, what have we
done to deserve punishment so cwuel as youah
absence ?”
Lord Ploughshares came into view, with arm
extended to the young lady, not in the slightest
degree noticing Mr. Mainwaring,
But what cared Frank lor that, when the
bright head, the delicate lace and pure soft eyes
turned back to him ? Let his lordship hover
about all night, if he would; Maud was not lor
him.
The scent of the flowers, the power of his own
joy, seemed too much, happiness too great. Ho
made no attempt to follow, but remained
among the flowers, a waking man m a dream,
till Wilmot found him.
“ I suppose Ploughshares has been at it
again,” said the young gentleman. “ Don’t
mind him, Frank. Nobody does—except him
self.”
But what mattered Ploughshares to Frank ?
He was not thinking ot him; he was thinking
that love is love forevermore, and that nothing
on earth could separate Maud from him, now
that her love was his.
Alas, poor Frank!
He went home and to his room, but not to
sleep. How was sleep possible to a man in love
and a love? triumphant? Ho pressed his face
to tho window-pane, staring down at the Tow
ers, watching until the broad glow of light from
its many windows faded, and all was dark, all
silent, save the rushing river and the sighing
wind, all sleeping—even the stubborn pride, the
fiery temper, which were his by heritage, all
sleeping—save the love and hope and joy of his
heart.
CHAPTER V.
“ THE MELODY WENT OUT WITH HIM, AND RANG IN
HIS EARS.”
At Topplingtowors there was a very fine ave
nue of trees—a charming place in Spring, a de
lightful place in Summer, though somewhat
bleak on a November morning such as this, when
spectral forms of mist wreathed themselves
about tho old trees and hung on the bare
boughs; yet this was the place selected by Miss
Warrington for an early morning walk.
There was nothing remarkable in that, she
being in the habit of roaming there at all times
and seasons; but it certainly was remarkable
that there should come looming through the
mist the figure of Francis Mainwaring; it was a
coincidence so truly surprising and unaccount
able that, after certain preliminaries, each com
mented on it.
“How strange that you should be here,
Frank !”
“ How odd that I should find you here, Maud !
And yet I don’t know that it is, alter all,” he
said, drawing her arm within his own; “ we are
‘in sympathy,’ are we not ? I wonder how long
you have cared for me, Maud ?”
“I wonder how long you have cared for me,
Frank?’
“Do you suppose, my dear, that I have not
cared for you from the first time I saw you,
when I came stumbling down stairs, and there
you stood ? But I didn’t know it until that day
on the island.”
‘My love grows hourly, sweet.’ ‘Mine too doth
grow;
Yet love seemed full so many hours ago.’
Thus lovers speak till kisses claim their turn."
And thus Frank and Maud wandered up and
down the long avenue in the morning of their
love.
“Now I must ask you something, Maud,”
said Frank, when the far-off chiming of some
clock brought them back to earth. “You do
love me ?”
“Doubting already! Oh, Frank, Frank, how
many more assurances must I give you ?”
“As many as you will—so. But I want to
tell your father, Maud. May I?”
“ So soon?”
“Is it soon ? You see he has been very good
to me; he has received and treated me as a
friend, with invariable kindness, and I don’t
want to be in his house on anything like false
pretences. As an ac juaintance lam one man,
as your lover another, in his eyes, you see.
That is why I wish to speak to him.”
“You are right, Frank. /Ynd we will—Theo
and myself—never have secrets from our par
ents.”
“ Not many can say that, Maud. ‘Well, I am
not going to teach you deception, so I must see
Sir Charles. And—and there is another thing
I have to tell him. Perhaps lam not quite what
I seem; perhaps ” He stopped, looking a
little confused. “ I dislike sailing under false
colors,” he added presently. “ However, Sir
Charles must sit in judgment on me, and you—”
Here they were interrupted by the sound of
a voice chanting musically:
“ ‘Now, Alonzo he was handsome,
And Alonzo be was young !’ "
“ I shall see Wilmot later on,” said Frank,
not being just in the mood for that gentleman's
society, and then the lovers parted, as so many
part with the “meeting again” before them, as
it life were one great certainty.
“ I expect Frank Mainwaring to-day,” Sir
Charles remarked to his wife alter lunch; “ I
met him tins morning, and he asked for a pri
vate interview.”
“Did he, indeed?” said her ladyship, wiib in
terest. ’ffiiat can it bo about J .''
NEW YORK DISPATCH, SEPTEMBER 27, 1885.
“ I don’t know. Perhaps he has had some
dispute with Randal, and wants me to inter
cede.”
“ Perhaps ho wants to tell you who he is.”
“Possibly, poor follow ! He may have some
romantic notion about a secret marriage be
tween his parents.”
“Do you think there might have been,
Charles ?”
“ I am quite sure, my dear, that there was
not,” replied the baronet emphatically, “much
as I wish, for Frank’s sake, that there had
been.”
Lady Warrington sighed.
“ Wilmot does not know, of course?”
“No, but Ploughshares does. And, by the
way, do you think ho and Maud ”
“ Oh, lam sure of it!” cried Lady Warring
ton eagerly. “ Wilmot was joking about it the
other evening.”
“ Was he ? Well, it will be a very nice thing.
Ploughshares is less clover than Wilmot and less
good-tempered than Oswald; but they are ex
ceptions. You find very few young men like
them in these days. We shall make a states
man of Wilmot; i have been struck often by the
soundness of his judgment on political ques
tions.”
And while this was taking place the rising
statesman was chalking hie cue in the billiard
room, and saying:
“ Ob, hang politics, Ploughshares I Let a
man have a minute’s peace. Beside, you know
you don’t care two pins about the Ministry, and
lam sure I don’t ! We’re not all born politi
cians, like Oswestre.”
“Born idiots, you mean, my deah fellow.
Ha, ha!”
“Born idiots then. The things being the
same, according to you, perhaps we two are—
politicians. Go ahead !”
And Lord Ploughshares, espying a red dan
ger-signal in Wil's fair cheek at the dispara
ging mention of his friend, went “ahead” in
silence.
Sir Charles had selected the hour “ between
the dark and the daytime ” for Lis interview
with Frank, and that young gentleman was
punctual to the moment; he had come direct
from Dering Hights, over the little bridge
which now spanned tho river, and was a joint
improvement of his own and Sir Charles’s.
Frank looked as he felt, just a little nervous ;
but the baronet was disposed to help him, and
spoke in his kindest and most encouraging man
ner.
“I dare say, Sir Charles,” said Mainwaring,
when they had gone over the beaten track of
conventional inquiries and remarks, “I dare
say you wonder why I come to you, and what I
want. I want to make a confession, to tell you
who I am.”
Sir Charles, in his delicacy, looked steadfast
ly at the fire.
“1 can spare you so much. Frank,” ho re
sponded very kindly. “I know already who
and what you are.”
“You know! How could you know, Sir
Charles ? Did Randal tell you?”
“No, he did not, indeed. But reflect how
well I knew the family and how strongly you
resemble them. You are very like Randal.
The first time you came here, or rather were
brought, I said to Lady Warrington, ‘ This is
Dering’s son.’ From the first I was certain.”
“Well, you relieve me of one portion of my
task, Sir Charles, but you would blame me,!
suppose, lor not tolling you at first openly and
frankly who I was ?’’
“ Nothing of tho kind. I understood your
feelings and sympathized with you, as I do
now ; only I certainly thought and still think
that Randal made a mistake in sending you
here ; for, of course, he did send you ?”
“Yes, against my own desire. However,
that is neither here nor there. 1 camo, and saw
and conquered, as far as his tenants were con
cerned, and no doubt he did right in sending
me, after all. No man ever had a truer friend
than I have found in Randal Dering.”
“ So I have always understood.”
“ Lord Ploughshares would nave enlightened
you had you not already known,” said Frank,
rather abruptly, “because, when we mot
abroad, he did not know me as Mainwaring.”
“I understood all that, Frank. Wo need not
go into it.”
“You knew my father, of course,j’ said Main
waring, after a slight pause; “he'often spoke
of you.”
“ I knew him intimately.”
“ And the manner of his death—the sudden
ness of it?”
“ Yes. It was very sad—very sudden. I felt
for—for you.”
“ Thank you, Sir Charles. But you must let
me say that from my heart I believe that, if he
could, he would have undone the wrong he did
me.”
“No doubt. But his repentance—like most
men’s—came too late. You, the innocent, suf
fered for the guilty.”
“ I call it a wrong,” went on Frank, “ because
others do, because they have spoken harshly
of him on my account? But I know that he
was fond of me. When his death came, I felt
it all very much ; but, after Randall and I met,
we had at least one thing in common—grief
for the loss of a father. From that arose our
friendship, and we. forgot all else. What little
money my mother had is mine, Sir Charles.
It is not very much. I am not at all a rich
man ”
“But, my dear Frank,” interrupted Sir
Charles, wondering at the young man’s eager
earnestness, “ I have never thought of that; my
liking for a man is not measured by tho length
of his purse.”
“ I know that, and you remind me that I have
not told you why lam here. After what I have
just said, you may-possibly you will—think
me presumptuous, but tho object of my visit is
to tell you that I love Miss Warrington. That
is why I speak of my own affairs.”
“I am very sorry,” said Sir Charles, with a
little gasp, and, after five minutes of dead si
lence, he really did not know what else to say,
he was so amazed.
“ From a worldly point of view, I admit that
you well may be so, but I love Miss Warrington
most sincerely, and,” he added, coloring a; lit
tle and speaking diffidently, yet firmly, “ I have
every reason to hope that my affection is re
turned.”
Sir Charles rose from his seat, and began to
walk from one end of tho room to the other. In
all his life he had never felt in a position so
awkward and so painful.
“ Why, my good Frank,” he said at last, giv
ing his hair a rub tho wrong way, “ you abso
lutely amaze me ! You have so much sense, so
much modesty and manliness, that I must con
fess I expected better from you.”
“ I hope with all my heart,” cried Frank,
“that you are not misjudging me, that you
don’t accuse me of fortune-hunting. Though l
am comparatively a poor man and Miss War
rington is the daughter of a wealthy gentleman,
I ”
“That has nothing to do with it,” inter
rupted Sir Charles, really pitying Frank’s dis
tress ; “ such a thought was not in my mind at
all. Heaven forbid that either of my daugh
ters should marry a man only because he was
rich, or refuse another because his sole ‘ fault ’
was poverty. lam not mercenary-minded any
more than you are. Your wealth or your
poverty does not in any way affect the question.
What the obstacle is your own good sense will
tell you.”
There was a blank envelope on the table, and
jto tear it into infinitessimal frag
ments.
“I suppose,” he responded, in alone tone,
“ that it is the old thing, Sir Charles— 4 take a
bird from a clean nest ?’ ”
“Well?’ said Sir Charles, standing with his
hands behind him and looking down at tho
young man showering the bits of white paper
on the cloth, and noting how they fluttered
with his rapid breathing.
“ That is punishing tho innocent for the guil
ty, is it not ?” Frank asked, after a long and
very painful silence. “No matter what those
who have gone before me may have been, 1
assure you, Sir Charles—not as a boast, not in
any vainglorious spirit, but simply in justice to
myself and in love for her, that I can look back
upon my own life withotit fear,or shame.”
“ I believe you, and it makes mo all the more
sorry for you, because it cannot remove the ob
stacle.”
Frank answered not. Leaning his head on
one hand, he pushed the scraps of paper to and
fro with the other.
“ Have you spoken to my daughter ?”
“Yes.”
“ And told her, I presume, who and what you
are ?”
“ No, I did not.”
“That you should have done,” said Sir
Charles, emphatically ; “ it was your duty, be
fore ever uttering one word of love. My daugh
ter, seeing things as I see them, would have
given you an answer then, and the pain of this
interview would have been spared us both.”
“Suppose that she loved me despite every
thing?”
“If I must speak plainly, her own pride
would have prevented the acknowledgment. I
am very sorry, more sorry than I can express,
because you have been a favorite with-us. And
I am disappointed; your conduct toward my
daughter was dishonorable.”
“I don't see it,” protested Frank, turning
red.
“ Then your moral vision must be strangely
perverted, ’ returned Sir Charles, whose pa
tience was at ebb—“ at least, I don’t quite mean
that; you were placed in a hard position ; but
why did you go to her first?”
“ Because, if she refused, what did your con
sent or refusal matter? And I thought in tell
ing you all, that I was acting rightly and honvr
ably.”
“ Well, I can’t say anything more, Mainwar
ing. But it certainly does surprise me that you
did not see from the very first how impossible
it was for me to consent.”
“I did not think that you took such a narrow
view oi things,” returned Frank, gloomily ; “I
expected better, I hoped better from your liber
ality and generosity.”
“ Heaven bless me !” cried Sir Charles, out of
patience and temper at last. “Put yourself in
my position, with a name, old and honored and
stainless as is mine, and then tell me it you
would choose for your daughter, high-born and
high-placed, the contamination ”
“ Contamination !” cried Frank, springing to
bis feet so abruptly that lie sent his chair to the
ground, and facing Sir Charles with eyes ablaze
beneath the angry brows meeting like a black
bar on his forehead.
“ You force me to say what seems unkind,”
said Sir Charles, cooling. “ I don’t want to
taunt you with your birth, or anything ot the
kind, but I cannot’help my anger. What you
propose is impossible.”
“ You have made that perfectly clear,*’ re
■ tinned Mainwaring, standing with his hand on
• ibo door and still white with passion. “You
; i;j; fear my pressing my suit, Sir Charles.
There may be contamination in me, but there
is also, I think, something of manhood, and,
oddly enough, something of pride !”
With these words he left the room. Passing
through the hall, he heard Lord Ploughshare’s
laugh blending with Maud’s and the throb of
some German valso ; the melody went out with
him and rang in his ears as he walked away
from the Towers in no pleasant frame of mind.
He turned his head once; the servant was light
ing up the room where the family were, and
just for a moment he saw a gleam of bright
ness, of pictured walls, of a tall girl standing
before an easel and a light-haired man turning
over the sketches upon it; then the curtains
dropped, and the light and melody were gone ;
he was alone in the November mist, muttering
to himself, “Contamination!”
“ Well, I shall get over it,” he said, suddenly
throwing back his head, as he began the ascent;
“ neither of us believes in the world well lost
for love. Her own pride would have prevented
the acknowledgment! Would it, I wonder ?
Who knows? But I shall get over it. A man
can overcome any passion, any feeling, if he
will only try hard enough.”
Arrived at Bering Hights, he found dinner
waiting for him, but he did not touch it. He
sat down very dejectedly before tho fire, his
elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his
hands, watching the curling smoke.
And then he thought of Maud’s white hand
extended to him when ho had come from his
sick-room ; of all that long sun-bright after
noon ; of the many meetings ; of the kindnesses
shown him; of the day on the island; of this
very morning, when they had walked to and fro
in the long avenue. Suddenly something bright
fell from his eyes, and, lifting his hands, he
found them wet.
“ What ! Am Ino better than a schoolboy?”
he cried, almost angrily. “Am I to sit and
whine, or master my fate manfully ?
*’ ‘ I don’t believe in what poets have said
Of hearts that are broken and lives that are
dead;
Lives well ordered will stand in their course.
And hearts of true metal ring little the worse !’
Marriage is not the one end for which we were
created ; there are other things in life yet.”
He ro-e, and, as he did so, saw, for the first
time, a letter lying on the table; opening it
hastily, he read it, and then rang the bell for
Mrs. Hornby.
“ Have Mr. Dering’s room ready for him,” he
said to her; “he is coming homo. I cannot tell
you when exactly, because I don’t know my
sel% -But take care that everything is as it
should be.”
Mrs. Hornby went solemnly away to the
servants’ hall.
“ Squire’s coming home, Janet,” she an
nounced, then added: “and, between master
and man, wo shall have a nice time of it!”
Mainwaring, meanwhile, wrote to “master” a
letter of the briefest, simply expressing gratifi
cation at tho prospect of liis return.
{To bo OontinuoLl
BIS MCTHBR’S PORTRAIT.
BY R. H. S.
It was a gloomy, half-lighted attic-room in a
tenement house, a room where tho smoke from
the smoldering fire curled in odd fanastic
wreaths in the angles of the sloping ceiling, and
mice gnawed stealthily at the baseboards.
Not a pleasant place to die in, and perhaps it
was just as well that poor Phoebe Wells, in her
restless delirium, fancied herself back once
more among the velvet grass and apple-blos
soms of the'sweet-scented orchard at home.
Meanwhile a child of four years old, with his
round face besmeared with dirt, and his flaxen
curls tightly matted together with neglect, sat
coiled up in a window seat, playing with a head
less wooden horse and singing softly to him
self. For tho afternoon sunshine was warm on
his face, and what did little Charlie know of
death ?
“Sure, it’s wanderin’ she is,” said one of the
women whp wore sitting in the room, “ and
enough to tire the patience of the blessed saints
themselves, sitting here. There’s the bit of a
letter she began to write and hadn’t strength to
finish. What shall we do with it ? ’
“Burn it/’ shortly returns a wrinkled old
hag, who was already busy in turning over the
slender store of linen in the worn hair trunk to
find something fitting for a shroud; “it’s no
use to any one now, an’ she can’t spake reason
able to tell us where it’s to go. Yes, yes, honey,
I know,” as Phcebe stretched out her attenuated
hands with a wistful cry of:
“Charlie—my boy —you’ll take Charlie home?”
“Sure; an’ it’s that we will,” said the old wo
man, chuckling. “ We’ve got nothin’ else to
do, my fine lady, an’ lots o’ money to spare, ex
cursioning round the country ! Lie still—that’s
a dear!”
But still she cried, “ Charlie—Charlie !” and
the younger woman lifted the little creature,
still clinging to his wooden horse, on to tho bed.
Charlie opened his blue eyes wonderingly, and
began to cry.
“ Mamma, what makes you look so strange ?”
She drew him close.down to her with a shud
dering sigh, his cheek against hers, his tangled
curls mingling with her dishevelled black
tresses.
“Oh, my baby, I cannot go and leave you—l
cannot! I ”
The death rattle in her throat interrupted all
further attempts at speech. There were one or
two incoherent murmuring sounds—that was
all—and so poor Phcebe Wells died.
They took little Charlie away bewildered and
terrified, and dispatched some one for the
“pauper’s coffin,” which was to enfold the poor
creature’s last remains.
“She's got no friends,” said Mrs. Dennis,
“an’it’s but fair, afther all the trouble we’ve
had, Nora Macarty, we should divide the little
she’s left.”
“ It’s mo ought to have tho bits o’ clothes an’
things,” said Nora jealously. “ You never came
a-nigh her till the last two days.”
“ Well, an’ it’s no more than fair, Nora, dear,”
said the Irishwoman, smoothly ; “ an’ you goin’
to be married in a month. You kape the clothes,
an’ welcome, and I’ll have the bit of a boy ; he’s
just tho child I want for beggin’, since they
took poor little Barney O’Toole away, worse
luck to ’em ! Come along, cliild, an’ stop that
cryin’, or it’ll be the worse for yez. Did ye
want a taste o’Mother Dennis’s strap? Then
hould yer noise ! ’
Charlie followed his rough guide, frightened
into a trembling silence.
Poor little creature ! It was well that he was
not old enough to realize the terrible fate now
opening before him.
“ Yez wouldn’t belavo it, an’ him so young,”
said Mrs. Dennis triumphantly ; “ but he’s the
b.est lifter in all the children ! See there, Mike
Dooley, two hankerchers an’ a snuff-box, let
alone the two apples from the peddler’s stand,
an’an ash-box half full of illigant paper-rags.
Give him a drop o’ yer beer, Mike, an’ ye shall
have baked potaties an’ pigs’ trotters for your
supper, darlint!”
This.was one of Charlie’s lucky days. Some
times he came home blue with cold, penniless,
and without booty of any kind, and then Hrs.
Dennis was as liberal in the use of the strap,
and what she called “ the rough side of her
tongue,” as she was in her system of rewards.
Altogether, Charlie’s life was one of vicissi
tudes..
“ I’ll run away when I’m big enough!” re
solved the little six-year-old hero, many a
night as he lay on his straw pallet, with half a
dozen other puny wretches as miserable as him
self, watching the peaceful stars shining
through the rafters overhead.
“ Mrs. Dennis says my mamma’s name was
Bridget Lanigan, but it wasn’t—it was Phcebe !
She told me so once, and I had a wooden horse
to play with and 1 used to say my prayers at
night. I can’t remember ’em now and Pat
Keelen says they’re all trash—and—and ”
So little Charlie dropped off to sleep as for
lorn a little wretch as night brooded over with
her peaceful protecting wings of starry dark
ness.
But Charlie did not run away. In the first
place there was nowhere to run to and Charlie
was sufficient of a conservative to remain
quietly when he was sure of a shelter and daily
bread to eat; not always that, however, unless
Mrs. Dennis happened to be in tolerably good
humor, and then, child as he was, he felt him
self to be a sort of pariah in the outer world,
h ; s tiny hand against map’s and every
man’s against him, particularly the police.
Such was the state of affairs on 6 December
night, when our little hero came wailing home,
with purple cheeks and chilled fingers and toes,
conscious that he had nothing to plead why he
should not be sent supperless to bed.
But, to his astonishment, Mrs. Dennis was all
motherly affability and Mike Dooley himself
took him between his knees in front of the blaz
ing fire and helped to chafe his hands. Mike, in
general, being as brutal a ruffian as ever came
in contact with the law, Charlie could not
imagine what it all meant.
“ It’s two old maids of ’em livin’ all alone,”
said Mrs. Dennis, resuming the conversation
wher.e it had been broken off at Charlie’s en
trance, “ and there's a closet full of old plate
an’ Norah says—Norah cleaned them, yez
knows—the staircase windy, openin' on the
back street, would let a good sized cat in be
twane the bars, and where a cat can go our
Charlie can. Wouldn’t yez like that, Charlie,
dear, to help crack a crib ?”
Charlie stared vacantly into the fire and
munched his crust of stale bread, and “didn't
care.”
“All ye’ll have to do will be to creep in atween
daylight an’ dusk, honey, an’ hide away like a
mouse. Norah says there’s an illigant place
under the turn o’ the back stairs, just where
you get in a’most, an’ you can lie there as still
as a kitten until they’ve gone to bed, an’ thin,
sure, it’ll be aisy to stale out an’ unbolt the
basement door, an’ Mike an’ me’ll be waitin’, an’
if we get what we want you shall have a brand
new suit of clothes like Mickey Warren’s, wid
gould buttons on ivery same.”
Charley's eyes brightened somewhat at this
prospect.
“There! you see he’s all right,’ 4 said Mrs.
Dennis, nodding her head triumphantly at her
coadjutor. “Sure it’s a pleasure to dale wid the
likes of him—always cheerful an’ willin.”
“Oh, stow your blarney 1” contemptuously
ejaculated the less rhetorical Michael. “What's
the use o’ words ? If he’ll go, he’ll go, an’ that’s
the end on't. To-morrow night at eleven.
Mrs. Dennis acquiesced.
“To-morrow night at eleven I’ll be waiting at
the corner of the street wid a cloak an’ a big
market basket, an’ I’ll see that Charlie’s there
aiore us.”
The next afternoon, just as the wintry twilight
was fading into the black, indistinguishable
Mrs. Dennis skillfully propelled the slen-
der, cat-like figure of little Charlie through the
narrow iron bars of the staircase window.
She was just in time, for as she stooped again
to poke in tho depths of an ash barrel with her
well-worn iron hook, a policeman lounged round
the corner of the house.
“Hallo ! old woman! What are you doing
hero 1”
“An’ is it tho cinders ye’d grudge me ?”
whined Mrs. Dennis, “an’ the fire going out on
the hearthstone, wid the six little ones blue wid
the cold. Arrah, an’ it’s hard lines for tho poor
folks, so it is, an’ Mickey McGargan, me hus
band, that is ”
“Well, well, you needn’t make such a noise
about it,” deprecated the policeman, striding
on.”
And Mrs. Dennis smiled stealthily under her
ragged red hood.
Meanwhile Charlie, obedient to orders, curled
himself up under the stairway, amid a lot of
tin bath-tubs, disused furniture, and invalided
saucepans, and went composedly to sleep.
How long he had slept he did not know, but
tho narrow stairway was lighted up by the glare
of a candle when he awoko, and a hand was on
the ragged lapels of his coat.
44 Why, bless me, it’s a child 1” shriked a fe
male voice.
“Nonsense, Nancy; it’s only a cat!”
“I tell you it’s a child, and he's fast asleep.”
Another figure advanced into the yellow cir
cle of flickering light thrown by the candle—
that of a tall, pleasant-looking woman, with a
something in her face that made Charlie’s heart
stand still, andsbrought the long disused word
“ mamma ” involuntarily to his lips.
“ How on earth came you here, little boy ?”
she asked, little less astonished than her com
■panion had boon.
Charlie glanced furtively about the room, in
the vain search of a loophole of escape; but
there was none, and Charlie had no idea of sa
crificing himself for the sake of Mother Dennis
and Mike Dooley.
“ Mrs. Dennis put mo through the window,”
he whispered, “and she and Mike are coming
at eleven o'clock to steal the spoons and other
things, and I’m to unbolt the front door for ’em,
and please, ma’am, I never did such a thing be
fore, and I m so cold, hnd—and ”
Charlie wound up his explanatory speech with
a burst of very genuine tears, and screwed his
little knuckles tightly into his round blue eyes.
“My goodness gracious !” ejaculated the eld
er lady.
“Bless us and save us !’’ shrieked the young
er.
“It’s a planned burglary,” said Miss Nancy.
“Send someone for the police,” screamed
Miss Betsy hysterically.
44 Yes,” sobbed littie Charlie, entering heart
and soul into the new cause; “ get a policeman
to stand back o’ the basement door, an’ I’ll open
it, just if nothin’ had happened. And. oh, don’t
you give mo up to ’em, please—please, lady, or
'they’ll beat me to death an’ sell mo to the doc
tors afterward 1”
“ Don’t be a’r&id, my little fellow,” said Miss
Nancy, who had been giving some orders in a
hurried whisper to a grizzled old servant-maid
who had stood staring in the background.
“ Come with me. Why, how cold your hands
are ! No one shall barm you.”
She led the sobbing, shrieking little urchin
into a cosy parlor, where the crimson carpet
and curtains seemed to reflect ruddy lights
from the glowing sea-coal fire, and the chande
lier diffused a shaded lustre through the room.
The walls were hung with soberly-tinted old
family portraits, which seemed to stare down
upon the bewildered child with human eyes ot
reproach and curiosity.
44 See, Nancy—he is really pretty,” said Miss
Betsey, smoothing down the tangled, curly hair
as she led him up to the fire. “ And only see
what blue eyes he has ! Poor little soul! And
so young, too—a mere baby ! What is your
name, child ?”
“ Charlie.”
“Charlie what?”
But the child shook his head vaguely.
“Only Charlie—and mamma’s name was
Phoebe.”
At that instant, in hie restless motions
around, the little fellow caught sight of a por
trait hanging in a recess, hitherto obscured
from his gaze. He uttered a cry:
“ Mamma !—that is Charlie’s own mamma !”
“Gracious goodness !” exclaimed Miss Nan
cy, trembling in every joint; 44 what does the
child mean ? That is our Phoebe !”
“It is mamma ! Mamma’s name was PhT.be,
and she had black hair just like that, and big
black eyes.”
And the child, who had treasured up that one
flower of memory in his mind for two long
years, began to sob and cry pitifully:
“I want my mamma—they have taken her
away from me ! Where is my mamma?”
Miss Betsy rose up, pale and solemn.
“ Nancy, it’s a voice from the grave! It’s
Phcebe come back to us, to put her little child's
hand in ours ! We have searched for her in
vain these five years, now her orphan child has
come straight to us ! Don't you see God’s hand
in it. Nancy? We disowned her, and sent her
away, because she would marry the man she
loved—we never relented when we heard she
was left a widow, but we mourned and sought
her long when it was too late !”
Her voice was stifled by tears, but little
Charlie was held close—close to her heart. The
outcast babe—the little neglected pariah, had
been led by the guiding hand of Providence
straight to tho home and the hearts that were
waiting for him.
If poor Phcebe Wells could but have seen that
day, amid tho mists that surrounded her dying
sight!
The policemen, summoned duly by old Mar
gery, arrived, and were put on the watch. And
when the basement door was stealthily unbolt
ed Mr. Dooley and Mrs. Dennis walked straight
into the arms of two burly detectives, who were
in no haste to unloosen "their affectionate em
brace.
“ It's that little chate o’ the world who has
betrayed us, but 111 tear his heart out!”
shrieked Mrs. Dennis, vainly struggling with
her cantors. But Charlie, holding tightly on to
Miss Nancy’s protecting hand, boldly defied her
threats and Mike Dooley’s deeper and more
silent rage.
Charlie was too young to know it,*but he had
escaped a fate worse than death. The two old
maid aunts took him into the vacant spot in
their hearts, and Charlie learned lor the first
time in his little hunted life what it was to have
a home.
“ Some people talk of fate,” Miss Betsey
would say reflectively, 44 but I call it Provi
dence. It you don’t believe what I say, just let
me tell you the story of our little Charlie !”
THE DETROITJOLOMON.
NOT AN HOSPITAL - ADVICE
WANTED—THE BOUNCED.
NOT AN HOSPITAL.
“This can't be no hospital!” said James
Smith, as he toed the mark and looked around
him.
“Well.” said his honor, “here is where we
presoribe for the ailing. Sometimes we work a
cure, and sometimes we fail.”
“What did that man lie to ma for ?”
“Who?”
“This old feller you call Bijah. He told me
over and over that this was a hospital, and that
I could have my liver complaint cured.”
Bijah turned as red as the British flag, and
hid *away in the corridor while his honor que
ried :
“Got trouble with your liver ?”
“I should say so 1 The doctor says it has en
larged fourteen times. That was what ailed me
yesterday. It was enlarging some more, and
my actions attracted the attention of the po
lice.”
“I see. You will have to try my remedy.”
“I’ll do it. What sort of herbs do you use ?”
“I load the liver into the Black Maria, drive
it to the Workhouse, secure it a cell ou the sec
ond tier for thirty days, and warrant a cure
nineteen times out of twenty.”
“Judge, must I go with the liver ?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you ain’t fooling ?”
“No, sir.”
“Then all I’ve got to say is that you don’t
know the difference between charity for a fellow
mortal and last year’s mush.”
His sentence was increased to ninety days, and
he sat down pretty well cured.
ADVICE WANTED.
“Sfaudge, I like to ask you some advice?”
said Peter Smith as he squared away in front
ot the desk.
“ I’ll give it to you, Peter.”
“If some neighbor vhas madt at you and
poisons your dog would you kill his shickens ?”
“ No, sir.”
“ How would you do ?”
“ I’d be so kind and good to him that he’d be
ashamed ot his meanness.”
“Shudge, I guess you neffer owned a dog.”
“I’ve got one now, Peter, and if I should
find him dead in the yard I shouldn’t pull off
my coat, hop over the fence and begin pound
ing my neighbor.”
“Vhell, I feels badt. I own dot dog for five
years, und he keeps all der purglars avhay.
Vhen I goes home und finds him deadt I vhas
halt grazy. Shudge, would you advise me to
buy some more dog?”
“No. You had better buy a bear tran in
stead. It is a good thing to catch burglars,
and the neighbors can’t poison it.”
“Dot vhas a goot idea. I vhas much obliged
und I like you to come oop to my blaoe some
time und eat some grapes und shmoke a cigar.”
“ Yes, but don’t go just yet. The clerk wants
to see you $5 worth.”
“ How vhas dot 1”
“Your fine.”
“Vhas I fined $5?”
“ Yes, sir.”
“Vhell, did I eafer! Shudge, dot vhas like
der sbmall-pox 1 I pay dot money, but you
needn’t come oop to see me. I eat my own
grapes and shmoke my own cigars 1”
THE BOUNCER.
When J. Henri Clifton was led out it was evi
dent that something of unusual interest was
about to happen. J. Henri was a colored
dandy.
The two witnesses who went to the desk were
man and wife—also colored. They glared at
J. Henri. He looked at them with reproach in
his eyes.
“Well?” queried the Court as he looked at
the prisoner.
“ Ize sorry, Jedge.”
“ What for?”
“Bekase of dat little row on dis man’s doah
step last nite. If he hadn’t insulted me dar’
would hev bin no trouble.”
“Jedge, I want to tell you how it was,” said
the maa referred to. “ This ’ere dude has bin '
sparkin’ my darter Jane. I don’t like him, an’
I told him to be off. The old woman turned
him out doahs a week ago, but las’ nite he cum
back as big as a lord and wanted to see Jane.
When I told him to skip he called mo names
and threatened to razor me.”
“J. Henri, is this true?”
“ De gal luvs mo, sab, an’ we is ingaged to be
mar’ied.”
“Well, you must love and marry without
breaking the law. I shall tine you $5.”
“ Heven’t got it, sab.”
“Then you’ll have to go up for thirty. It
your love for Jane doesn’t grow cold in that
time perhaps you can find away to melt her
father’s heart. Bring on the next. Ah! no next?
Then Bijah may adjourn the court aud sweep
out the peanut shells.”
STEER.
BRAVE CONDUCT OF AN OFFICER.
Last week the steamboat “Emma 0. Elliott”
arrived at the foot of Chestnut street, St.
Louis, from a trip to St. Genevieve. The
“Elliott,” among other things, had on board
twenty-eight head of Texas steers, shipped from
St. Genevieve to the Union Stock Yards. An
experienced herder named Pollard, who was
in charge of the steers during the trip, made
preparations to drive those which he considered
dangerous oft’the boat. Pollard placed his as
sistants, four in number, along the line of
travel, so as to keep the cattle well bunched
and avoid alt possibility of a stampede that
might result in the loss of human life. The
wharf was crowded with spectators to witness
the rare feat of landing such dangerous animals
in a thoroughfare where hundreds of people
are passing hourly. The signal was given to let
them come, and as the steers rushed through
the passage-way they appeared almost irantic.
When the beeves reached the levee, and their
hoofs came in contact with the hard rocks, they
could be seen jumping about as if a break was
to come.
“Don’t get too near,” was yelled out by the
cowboys, and the crowd did not wait until the
second request came.
Simultaneously a cry went up from more than
half a hundred voices. All eyes were turned
north on the levee, and at once it was observed
that a steer was running in a zig-zag way on the
levee. A crowd went out in pursuit of the ani
mal, which by this time had reached Olive
street. Cries of “ Look out for the wild cow I”
were set up along the route, and many store
keepers rushed into their stores and procured
a pistol, gun or whatever weapon was the hand
iest, and joined in the chase. \\ hen Vine street
was reached there were fully 200 people in the
pursuit trying to effect the capture of the wild
animal, either dead or-alive.
The steer reached Main street and turned
north until the, wholesale saddlery store of Ja
cob Strauss, Ko. 521 North Main street, was
reached. Here a brge whit-) horse stands in a
doorway, equipped with bridle and saddle, as a
sign for the firm’s business. The wild steer no
doubt labored under the delusion that the ma
jestic looking horse w*as running loose on the
plains and belonged to some cowboy, who prob
ably was taking a rest under a neighboring tree.
In less time than it takes to write this the
steer turned sharply and darted through a nar
row door at the side of the white horse. The
door-frame, which by measurement is three
feet m width, barely afforded a passage, and
the unwelcome intruder ran along behind the
counter until the middle of the store had been
reached. The store was filled with clerks and
customers at the time. Several of the gentle
men in the store who were standing at the
counter where the Bteer first entered thought it
was a dog running behind the counter, and
wore about to go and head it off. When they
discovered the true character of their guest,
and heard the yells of the crowd on the outside,
their feelings may be better imagined than de
scribed. Clerks could be seen climbing up the
shelving and placing themselves among the
goods, while others rushed to the front door for
their lives. The steer by this time ran upon a
number of valuable collars lying on the floor
ready for shipment, and trampled upon them
until they were damaged to a considerable
amount. The eager crowd, which stood on the
pavement at the front door, could not help
laughing at the way in which the store was
emptied. It had contained fully twenty-five
persons when the steer made his appearance,
and in a few seconds following not a single hu
man being was visible.
Where they went, and how they disappeared
so quickly, will no doubt remain a mystery to
themselves. The steer, after finding away out
from behind the counter, ran out of the rear
door to the alley, and then south until Vine
street was reached again. By this time the
crowd, which had been following the steer, had
doubled in size, and a large number carried
arms ready to get a show to shoot, but the pres
ence of people running in every direction pre
vented such' action. The steer ran west on
Vine street until Third street was reached,
when it turned south toward Locust street.
Officer Ryan had been attracted to the scene.
The officer, with rare presence of mind, called
up at the second-story window of a dwelling
house on Locust street, where a lady was sit
ting, to throw down her wash-line. The woman
made haste to the kitchen where she procured
a rope and threw it out of the window to the of
ficer. Ryan rushed out on Third street in time
to catch a glimpse of the steer on Olive street,
but being a good runner and having had ex
perience as a cowboy while out in the West, the
agile officer overtook the animal. Fixing his
lariat in true cowboy style, Ryan stood at about
ten feet distance and caught* the maddened
brute around the neck. Loud cheers arose
from the throng of people who had gathered.
Ryan called for some one to help him pull the
steer over to some point, and, strange to say, not
many responded. A telegraph pole, however,
was reached on the west side of Third street,
drawn up close to the pole by the officer, who
had securely wound the rope around it. For
uear Olive street, and there the animal was
a few minutes the animal stood quiet as a
lamb, but suddenly it commenced twisting and
pulling and snorting. Officer Ryan came to the
conclusion that the rope that held the animal
would break at any time, and asked a citizen to
get a chain or cable. *
By this time the rope that held the steer was
cracking, and the minutes seemed hours to the
officer until the citizen came back with a large
steamboat rope, and Officer Ryan at once tied
the steer securely about the horns and neck
and made him fast to the telegraph pole. An
hour following an effort was made by the own
ers to take their steer away to the stock yards.
After releasing him from his position they made
a start north on Third street. Alter a few min
utes’ experience, it was deemed best to retie
him and send for a four-horse transfer wagon
and have him tied on behind, and haul him
in that manner. The wagon put in an appear
ance, and with a little trouble the animal that
made Officer Ryan the hero of the day was led
away.
“ BABY CLARK.”
THE PATHOS OF EVERYDAY
LIFE.
She was not a beautiful woman—not even a
young one. She was gray-haired and dim-eyed.
Time had left a great many lines on her laded
face. She was only a “help” in a hotel. No
one ever saw her family, or knew it she ever
had a family. She received no letters, or tele
grams, or messages. She sent none. No one
es er saw her linger fondly o ver a picture, a letter,
or little clothes, or anything that might have
been a memento of her past life. She made her
self into the smallest possible bundle, and strove
to occupy the smallest possible space. No com
plaints were heard from her concerning her
rights. She did not seem to know that she had
rights. Each day as she rose to her toil she ap
parently had no wishes for the future and no
memory of the past, and each night she lay
down experiencing neither hope, disappoint
ment, nor regret.
One day there was a “rush.” All the servants
were hurried. Waiters hastened to and fro and
issued orders in peremptory tones. She was
busy at work, bending over the ironing ta-*
ble.* With her wrinkled hands she pressed
and smoothed, and made beautiful the gar
ments happier women wore. The linen was
spotless in its whiteness and polished to the last
degree, yet she did not e. en show satisfaction at
the success of her work.
The landlord entered, accompanied by a stran
ger six feet in hight, broad-chested and large
limbed. A turn m her work and she faced him.
A rapid, startled glance, and “Baby Clark I” she
almost screams. With one move the lusty fel
low gathers up his little mother, and hot tears
fall upon her faded lace.
Ten—twenty years drop from her like a gar
ment, She is the young mother again—the hap
py wife—the hopeful matron. Love flutters his
red signals in her cheeks ; there is a lustre in
her eye. He is her Baby, and he has returned
to her.
SAM JONES IN HARD LUCK.
His Stables Blown Up with Dynamite
and His Gospel Tent Wrecked.
(From the G-lohe-Democrat.)
Sam Jones’s home in Cartersville, Ga., was the
scene of great excitement one. evening last week.
The great evangelist was to have closed the
camp-meeting for the season. The people of
Cartersville were awakened early in tlie morn
ing by a terrible crash and the inmates of >am
Jones’s house felt it tremble and heard windows
rattle. At the same time a man at the gospel
tent, several hundred yards distant, saw a flash
of light in the direction of Jones’s residence,
accompanied by the explosion. The flash seemed
like a suppressed bolt of lightning, that appear
ance being caused by the explosion taking place
within the walls of the house. A crowd gath
ered and found Mr. Jones’s large stable had
been blown up by dynamite. The charred fuse
of the cartridge was found. No one was in
jured. In the course of one of his sermons, Mr.
Jones made a very severe attack on the men
who are flanking the prohibition law in Carters
ville and it is supposed they did the work.
On the evening of the 20th, as services were
in progress in the great tent, which was filled
with people, a fearful gust of wind, with tor
rents of ram, burst over its white folds. The
great ropes snapped like thread, and the tent,
with all its rigging and paraphernalia, settled
down like a great bird on its nest, covering
lamps, pulpit and congregation under its vast
folds. Men, women and children, who but a
moment before felt as secure from the raging
element as if they were under their own roofs,
rose to their feet shrieking and running hither
I and thither among the sea of plank seats. The
’ scene was indescribable. The wildest confu
®lOl\ r f’Sned, with the terrified children cling
i ing to their fleeing parents. Hats, shawls and
. other light articles were blowing about like
i chaff, and all were swept out into the storm and
darkness. Two tiers of lamps, most of them
electric burners, were swept from their fasten
-3 ings and burst into one wild glare that illumin
ated the darkness for an instant, and then fell
t into the mass of dry straw that covered every
foot of ground under the tent. This caught,
and would have consumed all if the rain had
t not drenched every stitch of the canvas. Many
t were unable to get out till the tent had settled
’ and then ripped openings in the tent through
? which they escaped into the blinding darkness,
• rain and driving wind. The egress of the pea
pie was greatly impeded by the seats and the
tangled ropes. Fortunately no one, so far as
now known, was seriously injured, though
many wer£f scratched and bruised. Rev. Sam
Jones will leave Cartersville for St. Joseph,
Mo., where he will spend about fifteen days in a
, great union tent meeting.
> a governmeSt scout.
. GOING HOMEJFROMTHE FRONT.
, Last week one of the trains from the West
j brought a strange figure to the Union Depot,
1 St. Louis. A tall, buckskin-clad,- sombrero-
- covered inhabitant of the plains stepped from
f the car as from one of the yellow-covered nov
l els read in secret and in youthful days. He
t looked about the depot sheds for an indication
3 ot a path out of the wilderness of tracks, and
then, quietly “catching on” to the trail being
3 beaten for him by the other passengers, he fell
j in with it and stalked heavily toward the exit.
; Officer Dixon caught sight of the queer figure,
i and, as he passed, of the tips of a brace of ro
. volvers that peeped below the edge of the short
• buckskin hunting coat.
r “Here, stranger!” he called to the uncou
-3 scions Westerner. “Hero, I say 1 Hold on ! ’
“Well.”
3 can ’t g° about this town with them
5 things on.”
“What’s the matter ?”
i “Why, those revolvers. ’Gainst the law to
I carry them here,”
I “Well, I guess I don’t need them, but I’m a
j Government scout and I’m off on leave—just
. same as a soldier, vou know. Guess I have a
) right to carry them.”
He showed the officer his papers. Frank
. Lowana was his name; but on the plains—that
[ paradise of sobriquets—be is known as “ Win
. cheater Frank.” He is a scout in the govern
t ment service, attached to the fort at Tucson,
j Ari ’ona, and has been employed during tl.e
I past Summer on Geronimo s trail. He is on a
thirty days’ furlough, going to Boston, Mass.,
I his home fifteen years ago, “ All them years
. I’ve been out on the plains and never heard a
s word of thorn. I wonder if they're dead or
t alive, or what’s happened to them.”
i The police officer, after hearing his story,
• quietly informed him that he could not walk
. through the streets of St. Louis clad in a buck
» skin suit without a cortege of small boys folio w-
■ ing him around. Then the generous policeman
, offered Fra'nk the use of a suit of clothes, but
j the scout declined, remarking that he had a
trunk with some store clothes, but would gladly
) accept the proffered use of the officer's room to
j make the necessary change. A now man stepped
I out of the quiet little lodging bouse and few
) people who saw the tall, swarthy, neatly-dressed
i athlete on the street, would recognize* him as a
[ frontier character, Frank left for Boston in the
- evening.
‘ Sfe fMwe gfehiw,
, No Tr als Last Week—Light Fines by the
Present Boarc’.
I —
i There were no trials last week, for the reason that
■ both political parties held their nominating con
ventions at Saratoga, and the Commissioners, as a
. matter of course, had to be there.
A large batch of cases have to be disposed of, but
1 the men are not particularly anxious to have de
' ductions made from their pay; they would prefer,
1 if possible, to let well enough alone.
' The present Board deals very leniently with the
i men, as will be seen Uy the fines imposed. With
j previous Boards there would have been several dis
missals from the force, and in other cases ten and
twenty days where there are two and three days’
fines.
Janies Brennan, of the Eighteenth Precinet, was
fined ten days. A number of children were playing
’ on the pavement. At the approach of the officer
- all fled but Walter Erndstan, a little cripple, who
’ could not follow the lead. The officer came up and
) took his cane from him that he used as a crutch,
> and assaulted him. The officer said it was only a
slight tap, but the mother said there were welts on
i the child’s body. Would such an officer have pa
tience with a prisoner who was slightly refractory ?
Thomas D. Mitchell, of the Sanitary Squad, was
charged with using profane and disrespectful lan
-1 guage toward Roundsman Ivory, of the Eighth Pre-
> cinct, and also with being under the influence of
liquor.
, The roundsman was going through Charlton
street when he saw Mitchell, who was in uniform,
. strike a boy with his fist. The boy then ran off into
Hudson street, and the officer made no attempt to
follow. The roundsman asked Mitchell what the
■ trouble was. He answered that there was a d d
lot of little boys playing checkers around his (the
' roundsman’s) post, and he wanted him to keep
! them out of there. The roundsman replied that
> the officer lived there and was himself an officer,
and why not arrest? At the same time the officer’s
j hat was back front, and the roundsman called at
( tention to the fact. Mitchell told him to go about
■ his business, he was as big a loafer as the young-
I sters. The roundsman took out his book and took
l the officer's number. The officer followed the
• roundsman, using most profane language. Then
the roundsman noticed that Mitchell was under
> the influence of liquor. The officer went in the
t station house to make complaint agaifist the
, roundsman, and the sergeant at the desk arrived at
the conclusion that Mitchell was under the influ-
> ence of liquor.
. He got off with jr ten days’ fine.
Lawrence McGovern, of the Third Precinct, used
improper and profane language to Citizen Patrick
i Hatton, No. 303 East Thirty-seventh street. At the
1 time the officer was not on duty. Complainant,
> who is an undertaker, buried the officer’s mother in
I February, 1883. Complainant called on him two or
> three times to pay the cost of the funeral. He had
been employed by the officer. Ou the last visit
j McGovern said ho would pay when he G d
, pleased. Hatton said ho would lay the case before
the Commissioners, and McGovern told him to go to
i hell and do his best.
1 McGovern said this was a family affair. When
: dunned, he told the undertaker he “ wa’n’t going
i to straddle the whole expense,” when there were
• two brothers who had a right to pay their share.
. He had been doing nothing but paying debtsand
j doctors’ bills. He denied the language charged,
. but said to Hatton: ‘‘You wait. I’ll see my bro
-3 there; we’il try and see what can bo done.”
1 The case was disposed of with a reprimand,
J Com. Porter said: “He (the officer) was not on duty,
" but he forgot the respect due his position.”
Louers, of the Twenty-seventh Precinct, assaulted
t and arrested Ellen Kennedy, of No. 132 Greenwich
1 street. She lay over the window watching for the
coming home of her brother Tom. He came at last
to the door slightly intoxicated. Louers stepped
out from behind a showcase, where he had been
chinning with a woman twenty minutes, and ar
rested her brother Tom. She ran down stairs and
followed the officer to the station-house to inter
cede for Tom, aud on the steps of the station-house
the officer assaulted her. He was fined three days.
v Officer Lion, charged with assault on a citizen
and using profane language, was fined three days.
I Owou Beagan, Thirty-fifth Precinct, was absent
from post thirty minutes in a restaurant, fined two
} days.
• Wm. E. Petty, Eighteenth Precinct, did not patrol,
■ fined two days.
i Garrett Redmond, Seventeenth Precinct, who did
not properly patrol, fined two days.
j James Connors, Fourteenth Precinct, sitting on
coal box, fined one day.
5 Ahern, Fifth Precinct,, absent from post, fined
one day.
Peter Gough, Eighteenth Precinct, absent, roll
•' call, fined one day.
I John Kiely, Twentieth Precinct, not patrolling,
■ fined one day.
> Pat. McKenna, Twenty-eighth Precinct, absent
r in cigar store, fined one day.
Aug. Kelz, Fifth Precinct, not proper patrolling,
fined one day.
Charles 13. Walker, Twenty-eighth Precinct, in ci
i gar factory, fined one day.
L Thomas Courtois, Fourteenth Precinct, absent in
store, fined one day.
Peter Reboltz, Twentieth Precinct, not proper pa-
L trolling, fined one day.
James Monahan, Eighteenth Precinct, absent roll
3 call, fined half a day.
i Wm. Clark, Seventeenth Precinct, conversation,
t fined half a day.
James McGoldrick, Eighteenth Precinct, conver
sation, fined half a day.
James Smith, Twentieth Precinct, failed to report,
fined half u day.
George May forth, Tenth Precinct, failed to relieve,
) fined half a day.
M. J. Hickey, Twenty-first Precinct, conversation,
3 fined half a day.
George J. Grace. Seventeenth Precinct, conversa
tion, fined half a day.
T. F. Bainwick, Twenty-second Precinct, absent
roll call, fined half a day.
J Peter D. Carter, Fourth Precinct, failed to patrol,
f fined half a day.
I Lawrence T. O’Brien, Fourteenth Precinct, con
versation, fined half a day.
Joseph Halliday, Nineteenth Precinct, complaint
dismissed.
» Johu J. Sacks, Seventeenth Precinct, complaint
dismissed.
) Patrick Nolan, House of Detention, escape of wit
ness, complaint dismissed.
Those judgments will show how leniently the
Commissioners are now dealing with the men, com
pared with other Boards.
For Cleansing the Skin and Scalp of Birth Humors,
3 for allaying Itching, Burning and Inflammation, forcur
’ ing the first symptoms of Eczema. Psoriasis, Mil': Crust,
Scald Head, Scrofula and other inherited skin a; d bloo 1
’ diseases, CUTiCiJRA, the great Skin Cure, and CUTICURA
1 i Soap, an exquisite Skin Beautifier, externally, a: d CD
-1 ticura Resolvent, the new Blood Purifier, internally,
’ are infallible. Absolutely pure. Sold everywhere. Price,
, CuTicußA, 50c.; Soap, 25c.: Resolvent, sl. Potteo
r Drug and-Chemical Co., Boston,
j i Send for “ llow t,9 §£in