New York dispatch. [volume], October 11, 1885, Page 2, Image 2

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Ploughshares, rising to his feet with wonderful
rapidity. “We owe you an apology for discus
sing these horrors before you.”
“It is nothing,” Maud responded very faintly;
but Lord Ploughshares pulled forward a chair
. for her with some officiousness.
“ You had better have some wine, my dear,”
Sir Charles said anxiously. “ This has been too
mush for us all, I think.”
He sat down at her side, taking her hand in
his and speaking to her kindly.
“ It is nothing, really,” she persisted, looking
at them. “Why are you all so grave 'I I felt
giddy—it is all so terrible 1”
“ Terrible indeed,” agreed Lord Plough
shares, with sympathy, to think a man’s life
may hang on a glove ! But let us dwop the sub
ject, at least while ladies are yah.”
And having thus mildly reproved every one,
the yotiug lord sat down, quietly gazing across
tho room at Maud.
“ What do you think of it, Oswald ?” askod
Sir Charles, turning into the library with Os
westre.
“ I don’t know what to think of it; “it’s all so
horriblo. so sudden 1”
“I am very sorry for Mainwaring,” Sir Charles
went on; “for his sake, I hope Bandal Dering
did not die intestate.”
“ Poor fellow 1 I don’t like to think of him in
that bouse alone—now especially. Could you—
should I—
“ I shall go over again this evening, Oswald,
and see what is to be done for him.”
“ I have begun a new volume of poems,” said
Lord Oswestre slowly; “between that and other
things and Parliamentary business, I am being
worked too hard. I want a secretary, or some
one who will help me a little. Or some one
ought to be at Oswestre in my place.”
“You have the kindest heart in the world,
Oswald,” Sir Charles declared warmly, “and
podr Mainwaring will be in good hands. I may
not have agreed with him on all points, but my
liking for him has never changed?’
Soon after Sir Charles and Oswald had gone,
Maud rose and went up stairs to her own room,
or rather the dainty boudoir she shared with
her sister. Closing’ the door softly, she lifted
from the top of an old cabinet a small rosewood
desk. Setting this on the table before her, she
unlocked it, turning over its contents with a
band that was not very steady. The desk was
filled with treasures, relics of times gone by,
Wil’s first epi. Iles to bis sister, early portraits
of the young man ; but apart from these was a
little packet which the girl took out in fear and
trembling.
She had put it there in memory of one most
happy day, a souvenir of the hour when love’s
dawn first became apparent to her ; it was a
glove, gray, with dainty littlelinks of pearl and
gold, and its follow had been given to Francis
Mainwaring on that day when they had wan
dered about tlio island together, on tho day
when those dark eyes of his told the story after
ward confirmed by his lips.
She stared down at the little glove with some
thing like dismay, when she beard the sound of
breathing beside her. Lord Ploughshares had
noiselessly entered, and bis eyes wore steadily
fixed on the object of her fears. She almost
screamed, she turned faint with horror and fear,
and then her white face crimsoned. She rose
by one great effort.
“Lord Ploughshares, this is my private room,
and I came here to be alone.”
“I apologize for the intrusion, Miss Warring
ton.” He walked to the door, but halted there,
with his hand on the lock. “Is it your wish,
Mies Warrington,” he said, “ that I forget what
I have seen here?”
“ What you have seen here ?”
“ Yes.” he replied, now returning, “ I have
seen the glove for which search will soon be
made. I guessed from your manner that you
knew something about it; but I did not quite
expect this 1”
Maud made an attempt to answer, but she
could not; only an indistinct murmur would
come.
“ It is my duty tv tell the detective this.”
went on Lord Ploughshares tranquilly — “to
tell him that the glove which he declares has
been dropped by Bandal Dering’s murderer
was yours. ’
“ Sou may tell him so; I shall not deny it.”
" But at the time of the murder was not in
your possession,” he continued. “ I could al
most guess to whom you gave that glove, Miss
Warrington. Francis Mainwaring once aspired
to your hand, did he not ? He is in Rylworth
now—no doubt he was last night; this morning
his master was found dead, and the only clew
lies in the glove given by you to Mr. Mainwar
ing.”
“Why do you say all this to me?” gasped
Maud. “Do you accuse him of the murder ?”
“And if I do?”
“Tho accusation is false. lat least would
never believe it.”
“He may be innocent—doubtless he is. But
better men than he have been hanged on cir
cumstantial evidence.”
“ You frighten me 1” cried Maud, whose very
lips were twitching. “ Why do you say such
horrible things, Lord Ploughshares? And—
and I do not believe that you are cruel enough
to speak of this.”
“You sre right, Maud. My advice is, destroy
it. He will keep silent for his own sake, and I
will do the same for yours. Why should your
name be dragged into such a thing ?”
“lean only thank you,” Maud responded,
still trembling.
Lord Ploughshares smiled faintly.
“ But perhaps I want a little more than that,
Maud. Are you treating ma fairly or generous
ly? Have I not a right to ask something in re
turn for my silence ? You refused me once be
fore. I could bide my time. Do you refuse me
now ?”
“As firmly as I did before, Lord Plough
shares.”
“ Then 1 really see no reason why I should be
silent, Miss Warrington. I am quite willing to
screen Mainwaring, to save your name; but I
certainly expect something in return.”
“Yon set too high a price upon your silence,”
Maud retorted, with scorn. “ Until this mo
ment I believed you a gentleman, now 1 know
you for a coward. May I remind you that I wish
to be alone?”
Lord Ploughshares, who had reddened slight
ly, for answer suddenly stretched out his arm
and took possession of the glove.
“ I will leave you, then,” ho said vindictively.
“ My duty takes me to Detective Amory.”
But Maud caught his arm with one rapid
movement.
“ You have no right to that—it is mine I You
must return it.”
“In the interests of justice, no. It is my duty
to denounce the murderer, and that I will cer
tainly do, unless ”
“What's the matter? What are you fighting
about ?”
The speaker was Wilmot, who had just en
tered, and stared from one to the other in sur
prise. Maud, with a cry of relief, stretched out
her hands to her brother, who caught her just
in time, and gently laid her on the couch, all
the while fixing his eyes on Ploughshares, now
standing defiant and at bay.
“ What is the matter ?” demanded Wil again.
“ What have you been saying or doing to my
sister, Ploughshares?”
“ Don’t put yourself in a fury, Wilmot. I have
got a clew to the murderer, that is all.”
“ What has Maud to do with that?”
“ Not much perhaps. But the glove found by
Amory once belonged to your sister, and its fel
low is in her possession.”
“And you aecnse Maud of the murder? I
am very much obliged to you, Lord Plough
shares.”
“lam not a fool, Wilmot, and the matter is
too serious for irony.”
“You will perhaps have the goodness to ex
plain yourself,” said Wil, who was trembling
with rage, “or I may find the matter too seri
ous lor patience, and throw you down-stairs!”
“ You dare not! Just listen, Wilmot; the
man who dropped that glove was Francis Main
waring.”
In an instant Wilmot’s hand was at the oth
er’s throat.
“ You liar 1” he hissed through his teeth.
“Itis no lie ! You had better let me go, or I
may proclaim to all the house what 1 know—
that that glove was given by your sister as a
gage d'amour to Mainwaring—Squire Dering's
illegitimate son I”
“ And did you dare threaten my sister, you
contemptible wretch ?” cried Wilmot, so sud
denly releasing the other that he staggered and
fell. ’“ I see through your plot now ! Lord
Ploughshares, you are my father’s guest, and
therefore I only order you to leave the house.”
Ploughshares raised himself slowly, and stood
for a moment or two surveying the other.
“ You have struck me,” he said ; “ very well,
Mr. Warrington. A trip to the Continent may
benefit us both.”
“ I don’t understand you,” Wil responded, at
which Lord Ploughshares sneered.
“I scarcely thought you would. But I de
mand satisfaction. Is that plain enough, or
does your limited understanding ”
“ You will find me when you want me,” inter
rupted Wilmot, pointing to the door. “ Now
go ; every moment of your presence is a fresh
insult to Miss Warrington.”
Lord Ploughshares, though not frightened,
was discreet. He left the room, gave certain
instructions to his valet, and then quitted the
Towers without seeing any one.
Wilmot, turning to his half-insensible sister
as soon as Ploughshares had gone, asked her
for an explanation, and Maud told him all that
sho could, all that she knew.
“ There will be some trouble over this,” Wil
observed gravely, “but don’t you fear, Maud.
As for Mainwaring, he’s no more guilty than I
am. Poor Frank 1 I never thought of anything
of that kind about him. But I don’t care ;
nameless or not, he’s worth a round dozen of
Lord Ploughshares, for all his title and long
line of ancestry.”
“Do youthink he can do any harm, Wil?”
asked Maud nervously.
“lam quite sure that he will try,” Mr. War
rington answered tranquilly, “ but we need not
fear him.”
And then Wil retired, going to the library,
where his father and Oswald were sitting in
happy ignorance of the recent rupture.
“ Where is Maud ?” asked Sir Charles.
“ She is in her room. Theo is nursing mo
ther.”
“That is well. What have you done with
Ploughshares ?”
“H; has gone,” replied Wilmot.
“Gone where? Away from the house?
Why ?”
“Because I told him to go. We have had a
row, and it ended in my reminding him that we
had a door.” ■ •
“ Wilmot,” exclaimed Sir Charles, reddening,
“ you young fellows are always so rash, so
ha»tv ! I hope von not forget th* 1 ’ ; q- 7
Awujjmibweg waa jour feUmt’a I
“No, I remembered; and that is why he
walked down-stairs instead of being thrown.”
Oswald stared, so did Sir Charles.
“I think you owe me some explanation, Wil
; mot,” said the latter, with gravity. “We do not,
; as a rule, treat our guests so.”
“ Well, we had a row about Maud, father, that
’ is all. She had refused him, and, not being
, man enough to take her answer, he—he said a
lot about Frank Mainwaring, so I have throt
t tied him I And he means to get up something
about this murder. He says Frank Mainwaring
■ did it.”
; “Nonsense, nonsense 1” ejaculated Sir
Charles, glancing at the flushed and excited
young man. “ You must tell me all about it
, when you are cooler. I dare say the pair of you
. said a great many hot and bitter things that
neither of you meant. No doubt Ploughshares
will come back.”
i “If he enters this house again,” declared Wil
mot, bringing his hand down upon tho table
[ with force, “ I shall go out of it.”
“ What will his father say, I wonder, when he
knows that you ordered his son from his old
, friend’s house?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry enough that it
, should be so, on account of tho Muldails, but on
, his own account lam very glad.”
“ Well, perhaps you will give him a coherent
t explanation later on,” said Sir Charles, rather
dryly. “ Where has Ploughshares gone ?”
“ 1 really do not know. Are you very angry
with me?”
“Not exactly angry, Wil, only I am very sorr.y
that you lost your temper with a guest. You
look angry yet'yourself, my boy, and I shall not
hear any more until you can tell me quietly ;
then I may be better able to judge who is right
and who is wrong.”
And, indeed, Sir Charles was disposed to re
gard this as but a youthful quarrel which time
and reflection would put right.
Leaving Wilmot to cool himself, the baronet
returned in the evening to Dering Hights, won
dering if anything new had transpired since the
morning.
CHAPTER X.
“if you wish to be pbaised, die.”
Mr. Mainwaring was sitting alone in melan
choly mediation when Sir Charles arrived. Over
all the bouse the presence of death had cast a
solemn silence. Frank had been sitting in dark
ness, so that Sir Charles did not immediately
see how wan and haggard he was.
“ I am airaid you are giving way too much,
Frank,” he said, when lights were brought.
“Perhaps I am, Sir Charles. But no death
since my father’s has touched mo so nearly. 1
feel adrift, astray. It is as though the object of
my life were gone.”
“That is a natural feeling which time will
help you to overcome.”
“No doubt. As yet, I can only feel that
something has gone out of me, that there is a
blank in my heart, in my life, and everything.
“If there is anything I can do for you,” said
Sir Charles, “I hope you will tell me, Frank.
Would you like to come to the Towers ? You
need only see Wilmot, and it might be less
lonely for you.”
“You are very good, Sir Charles,” Mainwar
ing replied ; lam very grateful. But I wish
to remain hero with him. I am not lonely, I
don’t think o; that; and so long as I can be
near him I will be. You understand mo, I am
sure.”
“Perfectly, and sympathize with you. Indeed
we all do.”
There was a brief silence in tho room, the
hushed and subdued voices ceasing. Never,
thought Sir Charles, had the likeness to the
family been more marked than it was now in
that pale and weary countenance.
“ Only yesterday I bad a letter from him,”
said Frank at length, “ little thinking it was the
last I should receive from him. He had sent me
away for rost and change of air; he was always
thinking of .me, and planning kindnesses for
me—”
Leaving his sentence unfinished, he gave Sir
Charles that last letter which ended—“it is
hard for a man to do without his right band,
and you are more than that to Randal Dering.’
“ And so I came back, to find Rim dead, bru
tally murdered. I have telegraphed for Mr.
Williamson, not that he can do very much ; but
still he is better here.”
“ May I ask, my dear Frank, if Randal left a
will ?”
“Hadid. It was made some time ago. The
estates of course are entailed ; but he had per
sonal property which he leaves to—to his fath
er’s natural eon.”
“ I am glad of that,” said Sir Charles heartily.
“I hoped that he would do so. It takes a weight
Off my mind. He did well.”
“ His usual generosity, Sir Charles. At the
time, 1 thought it was very like him.”
“ You have known all along of the will, then ?”
queried Sir Charles; he wondered why he
should recall certain words anent undue influ
ence once used by Ploughshares with regard to
Dering and Frank.
“ Yes; I was present when he made it; and I
really do not think that he had any secrets from
me.”
“Did he ask any advice as to the disposition
of his property ?”
“He asked mine, and acted on it, in direct
opposition to his solicitor. This is in confi
dence, Sir Charles.”
“ Certainly,” said the Baronet rather blankly,
and with a vague feeling of disappointment in
some one or something. “ And what are your
plans, my dear Mainwaring ? Do you go
awav ?”
“ I am not sure; I have not had time to de
cide,” replied Frank, and then he went on :
“ Will you not call me by my father's name,
Sir Charles ? There is something horribly in
congruous in masquerading now and all Ryl
worth will know my identity soon.”
“ By your father’s name I” echoed Sir Charles,
with something like a gasp of wonder.
“Is my request so very unreasonable?”
asked Frank, noting the other’s surprise with
astonishment on his own part, as his face re
vealed.
“ No, not at all,” the other said, rather con
fusedly, and feeling uncomfortable—“ that is, 1
was not aware that you had the right to bear
it.”
“ Well, it may not be a very good name—l
have learned that in later years—but still it is
my own, the one thing my lather left me.”
Sir Charles stared again; the words implied
that there had been a marriage between the
young man’s parents and yet how impossible
that was !
“If you had not known who I was before,
Sir Charles, I should say that you doubted my
word, “Mainwaring added, coloring a little.
“Oh, dear, no!” stammered Sir Charles.
“ But 1 don’t quite understand why you call
yourself by ”
“ By a name synonymous with infamy in this
part of the world, you would say.’’ .
“ That is not my opinion at all. Thoughts of
that kind never entered my mind. For the
name of Dering I have more affection than any
thing else.”
“ You must forgive me if I remind you that
once you told mo something very different, Sir
Charles.”
“ We are evidently, too evidently, at cross
purposes,” said the baronet, after a pause.
“ To prevent further and perhaps worse mis
takes, will you tell me who you are now ?”
“ Now,” repeated Frank, sorrowfully and not
without bitterness—“ now, Sir Charles, to my
regret, .! am Squire Dering, of the Hights.”
“ The estates are entailed !” cried Sir Charles.
“ They are.”
“ I—l—thought the nearest heir was Randal’s
cousin—James Dering’s eldest son?”
“ Well ?” said Frank, tranquilly.
“ Well!” repeated Sir Charles in bewilder
ment.
“ I am James Dering’s son, Sir Charles—Ran
dal’s cousin, the old squire’s nephew. Have I
made everything clear now ?”
Sir Charles got up and then sat down again;
in other circumstances there would have been
something ludicrous in his amazed perplexity.
“ I thought you knew this all the time,” went
on Francis Mainwaring-Dering. “Do you not
remember telling me how you had said to Lady
Warrington, ‘ This is Dering’s son’ ?”
“ Yes; but I meant—l thought—
“ What ? Sir Charles, in Heaven’s name, for
whom or what did you take me ?”
Sir Charles bent his head with a feeling of
utter humiliation.
“ I thought you were Squire Dering’s natural
son, Randal’s half-brother.”
“ And that is why you sent me away ?” cried
the young man.
“ Yes.” Sir Charles could only falter that
monysyllable, remembering with painful clear
ness all that scene, and again beholding the
burning darkness of Frank’s eyes when he had
uttered that word “ contamination.”
“ Considering what you believed, and upon
what errand I came, you let me off much more
easily than I deserved, Sir Charles.”
“ Frank, I don’t deserve that from your gen
erosity. I owe you an apology, but I cannot
express my regret.”
“It was no doubt a very natural mistake,”
interrupted Frank, “ and therefore let us pass
it over.”
“ I hope you will forgive my harshness, now
that you know under what delusion I spoke,”
said Sir Charles, not yet recovering from his
amazement. “I never connected you with
James Dering; I knew him very slightly after
his marriage.”
“Yes? He often spoke of you, though. My
father was very proud, Sir Charles, and, like all
the Derings, hasty and obstinate. Having quar
reled with his brother, he severed himself en
tirely from his native place, and I only knew my
uncle and cousin by hearsay.”
“You told me once that you had neither
brother nor sister. I was under the impression
that James had a large family. Another error,
of course ?”
“ His wards lived with us, Sir Charles, and no
doubt we were often mistaken for his chil
dren.”
“ And let me ask, Frank, what you meant
when you spoke of your father’s sudden death
and the wrong he did you ?”
Frank was walking slowly up and down the
room, but he halted to answer, with a deeper
melancholy:
“ He sent me from home, he disinherited me,
because I refused to marry the yoflhger ot his
wards. I had no affection for her, but be had
planned the marriage. As I stood my ground
and declined to marry, then he, in a fit of an
ger, sent me away and made a will dividing his
money between his wards.”
“ jVbat injustice !” cried Sir Charles.
“ Oh reflection I am sure he would have seen
that it was so. I believe firmly that he would
have undone it it he could. But he bad no
I undo, ol heart-disease. He was found dead in ’
NEW YORK DISPATCH, OCTOBER 11, 1885.
his chair, Sir Charles; he had died in tho very
act of writing a letter which began, ‘My dear
son,’ but which was never ended.
Frank was looking downward, but “ through
the long dark lashes low depending,” Sir
Charles could see the eyes glistening with tears.
“ I felt it very much,” resumed the young man
after a pause; “the little place in Devonshire
was very dear to me, and it was mine no longer.
Worse still, there was no reconciliation between
my father and myself. I went to London, be
ing thrown on my own resources, with tho in
tention of doing something or other for a liveli
hood, and there I met Randal Dering, my cous
in, my generous friend. He gave me not only
help, ho gave me love and liking and confi
dence, and, thank Heaven, I never lost them 1”
“ I do not know why he liked me so much,
but he certainly treated me as his brother. I
would have done anything to serve him. It
was pleasure, not toil, to do anything for him.
We went abroad together, I acting as his secre
tary. I had complete control over his affairs.
He had no secrets f rom me.
“ When he had in some degree recovered
from the shock of his father’s death and other
things, ho found out his half-brother. Later on,
he sent the young man to Canada, where no ono
knew him, and where, lam glad to say, he is
doing excellently.
“ Learning, in various ways and from differ
ent sources, the state of affairs here, the dis
content of the tenants, and the general bad con
dition of things, I urged my cousin to return
home, saying, as I thought, his duty was here.
Many things had embittered him; but nothing
had hardened him. He was sensitive to a de
gree, morbidly so; he could not bear—actually
he could not bear—to return here to encounter
the coldness and worse he knew was awaiting
him. Once he had been popular in his youth;
but absence had destroyed that popularity;
he would not return to face hatred and scorn.
“ But a man can live down that and force peo
ple to respect him, if he will. I urged that upon
Randal, but ho still refused to return. And
then I offered to come here as his agent, to put
all things right, to win back for him the lost love
and esteem of his people-so to speak, to uplift
a fallen standard. This task I Volunteered to
undertake, for his own sake and lor the sake Of
his people—not that I wished to come.
“He consented, but only on one condition,
that I left the name of Dering behind. It would,
he said, be more than enough to prejudice peo
ple against me before they had seen me, on the
priciple that a bad tree does not bring forth
good fruit. I opposed this most strongly, and
then Randal refused to allow mo to come here
at all. So I yielded, giving him a gromise to tell
no one who I was, unless necessity arose. That
is why you have only known me by my second
name.
“I certainly found dislike enough to justify
What I had thought only a whim. ‘Romanoff’
does not sound sweet in the ears of a Pole. The
Daring faults were looked at through magnify
ing-glasses. Faults there were, worse than
faults, but not in Randal, whose name however
bore the blight.
“ For myself, I came against my own desire,
and only because ho would not. That sounds
like a contradiction, when I have told you that
I volunteered to come. I did that because I
knew Randal would never impose on me a task
he believed too hard for himself. My desire, my
wish was for him to return, regardless of me.”
“ I would like to ask you something,” said Sir
Charles, as Frank paused. “ Did you tell Ran
dal of what passed the last time you were in my
house ?”
“ No. I toid him that you and I had dis
agreed, but I did not say why. How could I ?
You know now at what cross-purposes we
were, and what I thought was the cause of
your anger—a bad name, but a name that was
his as well as mine. Sir Charles, was it not a
mercy that I did not ? I should have told him
au unconscious lie, embittered him against
you, and he had enough to bear without that.”
“ You were always generous, Frank,” de
clared Sir Charles; “ but I shall not easily for
give myself for the pain I caused you. What a
horrible mistake—a tragedy of errors !”
“ And this is the end of it,” said Frank. “Oh,
Charles, only to think that Randal came here to
meet his death ! If I had not urged him to re
turn, he might have been living now.”
“That is not even common justice to your
self,” Sir Charles protested; “do not let that
idea take possession ot you, Frank. Would it
not be better to have some one with you ?”
“ No. lam not afraid of anything. lam not
lonely. It is kind ot you, but I think lam bet
ter by myself.”
“As you will. I shall see you to-morrow.
In the meantime, can I do anything for you ?”
“ Only one thing, Sir Charles. Will you tell
me who I am ?”
Sir Charles understood and assented; their
hands met once more in perfect friendship, and
then the baronet-returned home. The informa
tion he brought with him was so surprising
that no one remembered Wilmot’s quarrel with
Lord I'loughshares, nor asked the cause of his
lordship’s absence.
“ What an extraordinary thing that no one
thought of his being Randal’s cousin !” Lady
Warrington remarked to her husband.
“It is. I wished I had had the smallest sus
picion, and Frank himself and Maud would
have been spared a great deal.”
By this time the news of the murder had
spread over Rylworth, exciting horror and in
digation and regret. “If you wish to be praised,
die,” is an old saying—bitter, perhaps, buttrue.
People forgot or palliated Randal’s faults, now
that he was dead, and pitied him, until, through
compassion, came the wonder, “ What will the
new squire be like ?”
CHAPTER XI.
“why did he do it?”
There was very little sleep for Francis Dering
on the night of the discovery. He came down
stairs on the following morning tired and
weary, the gloom of the tragedy upon him still.
He was the sole being who mourned Randal’s
death—the only one who felt that that death
was loss.
The servants did not disturb him; they won
dered among themselves what would be done,
and if the new squire would take possession of
his house, or if he would shut it up as had
been done before. They wondered, too, who
he was, all unconscious that the new master
was the pale young man alone and silent in a
darkened room, mourning the loss of a friend—
the man he had redeemed from misanthropy,
to whom he had given the ardent, unquestion
ing affection of youth, and the secrets of whose
life were in his keeping.
Now and then Bruno lifted his great eyes to
stare at his master, as if wondering at the un
usual idleness and gravity. But Francis was
not to remain thus brooding, struck almosj
helplesss by his sorrow, crushed by the horror
of that death; he was roused from his mournful
meditations by the entrance of Amory, the de
tective. There was possibly a shade less defer
ence in that worthy’s manner now than there
had Deen at his previous visit; but the young
man did not observe it.
“ I am as little able to help you as ever,” he
said, rising. “ Have you discovered any
thing ?”
“Yes, I think so. When the man who killed
Mr. Dering went off he dropped something in
his flight. That is the clue. A lady's glove,
gi-ay, with pearl and gold links.”
“ What ?” demanded Frank, staring straight
into the detective’s immovable face.
Then all at once his hands began to tremble,
and he himself shook with agitation. He pull
ed out his pocket-book, turned it over Quickly,
and then it dropped from his nervous fingers
just at Mr. Amory's feet.
“ You have seen that before sir,” he remark
ed, picking up the book.
“ Until this moment I believed it to be in my
possession,” replied Frank blankly.
“And these notes. I have the numbers of
’em here. They were paid to Mr. Dering by
one James Black; so I ascertained yesterday.
Mr. Mainwaring, it is my painful duty to arrest
vou.”
“ To arrest me ? Do you mean to say I stole
the notes ? They were put there as I believe,
by Mr. Dering himself.”
“ Perhaps so,” said Amory, studying his
finger-tips, “ but I must ask you to go with me
all the same, sir. On account of information
lodged with me only this morning, it is my duty
to take you in charge, on suspicion of ”
“ Stop I” cried Frank. “In Heaven’s name
do you mean to accuse me of tho murder ? Why,
man, Randal Dering was my own cousin !”
There was a dead silence; then Mr. Amory
coughed a little.
“I am not sure that that makes it any better
for you,” he said dryly.
“I was not here at the time even; I only re
turned to Rylworth yesterday morning.”
“Well, sir, if you can prove that, so much the
better for yourself.”
“ Who accuses me ? Are you in downright
earnest ? Are you actually here for the purpose
of arresting me ?”
“ I am, sir; and the quieter you go the better,”
returned Amory, whose speech knew little va
riety.
Frank answered nothing; he stood vacantly
staring before him, hardly realizing the true
horror ot his position. He remembered how he
had seen the notes, put there beyond doubt by
his cousin’s generous hand, remembered how
he had smiled over the gilt and the manner ot
its offering; but he had never missed Maud’s
glove, and he could not imagine why Randal
had taken ii, for he was not given to practical
jokes; and how that glove really did come into
Randal Dering’s possession Frank never knew.
“If you wish to see any one,” began Amory
as a hint.
“I do not. You are waiting for me ?”
Frank was very quiet, but very white and
stem, the unrest ot the soul shining in his
eyes.
“I will go with you,” he added, “if I mimt.
It is neither the time nor the place to declare
my innocence.”
Then he walked tranquilly into the house
keeper’s room, and told her what had hap
pened, stopping her exclamations at the outset.
“Mr. Williamson will be here this after
noon,” he said; “ I will leave a note for him
with you, Mrs. Hornby, and you will please
look upon him as master during my absence.”
“ But, Mr. Mainwaring ”
“ ‘Dering,’ Mrs. Hornby, if you please.”
He wrote a letter to the solicitor—a rather
lengthy letter—and gave it to Mrs. Hornby;
then be went up stairs to the room where, dead
and disfigured, lay his cousin, once more touch
ing the lifeless hand that had responded to his
in love and fellowship so o.teu, and now was so
chilling.
“I thought,” he said, as though the dead
could hear, “ that I might have remained with
YOU to the last, ltandal--it is very hard 1”
> * ¥ * J- »
Tho tidings of ths arrest spreaij wjgj pro-
verbial rapidity of ill news. Wil Warrington,
riding homeward, heard it, incredulously at
first, then he impulsively turned his horse’s
head round and went o t to see the prisoner.
“ I know who has done this,” he muttered
through his teeth, “the scoundrel I Not only
does he want to ruin Frank, but to injure
Maud, It will all come out at the trial.”
Hot, indignant, grieved, he burst in upon
Frank, who was quietly enough writing to his
solicitor.
“ Why, what’s all this, Frank ?” ho exclaimed,
looking round the place with his angry blue
eyes. “My dear fellow, what a horriblo
shame I”
“Of course you have heard,” said Frank, as
Wil went on shaking his hand over and over
again.
“ Yes, I have heard soon enough. Look here I
What are you going to do ?’•*
“Stay here until the inquest, I suppose. I
am not afraid, Wilmot. Everything depends
upon the time; I did not reach Rylworth till
morning, and that I can prove without difficul
ty. The murder was committed over night.
That at least is my belief, and Doctor Carr’s
also.”
“In that case you are all right,” said Wil,
though by no means without anxiety. “It is
all through that—that glove, don’t you know.”
And then he related the little scone between
himself and Lord Ploughshares, suppressing
the challenge, however. Frank made no com
ment in words ; his expression was quite
enough.
“My father told us last night of his awful
mistake,” went on Wilmot. “He was very
much cut up about it,” I assure you.”
“Does Miss Warrington know?”
“ She was the first to bo told; it was only fair.
I am not going to tell you what she said, Frank.
I dare say you can imagine.”
“ Will you tell her?” began Frank eagerly and
then stopped abruptly. “ No, say nothing; I
shall send no message to her until I am free,
cleared of this charge.”
“ And what are we to do for you ? Only give
me something to do, Frank; I don’t care what
it is. Could Ido anything at the Hights for
you?”
“ Nothing, Wilmot. Oh, I feel that more
than anything!” he went on, with much emo
tion. “To think that I may not even see my
dead, that ho lies there, and so soon will be
gone, never to be seen by me again. I know
what you are going to say, Wilmot; but—things
will be all different there and no ihan will need
another's help or pity.”
Wil did not answer; in all his life of sunshine
lay no cloud such as this. He waited a time,
mutely and motionless and then said, with
wisttnlness, touching enough:
“ Can’t I do anything for you, Frank ?”
“ You cannot, Wil. But let me thank you,
with all my heart and soul, for this, for your
trust and boliet in my innocence.”
“ Why, do you suppose for one moment that
any of us think otherwise ? Wo shall all come
and see you, Frank; so don’t you lose heart.”
And thus Wilmot went on, until a second vis-
in the person of Mr. Williamson.
“ Well, Heaven bless me,” he began with
much vigor, “ this is a pretty kettle of fish!
What have you been doing ?”
“He hasn’t been doing anything!” flashed
out Wilmot. “ They might as well nut me
here. It’s a burning shame 1”
Mr. Warrington, tor the hundredth time, ex
tended his hand to Frank and then, remem
bering how much the two must have to say to
each other, retired, with a promise of speedy
return.
As he rode toward Topplingtowers, he beheld
Lord Ploughshares driving with a young officer
from the garrison town. Wil felt the blood
tingling to the roots of his hair as he drew rein.
“I should like two words with you, Lord
Ploughshares,” he said, as the young soldier
pulled up.
“ You can have nothing to say to me,” replied
the individual he addressed. “I am quite
aware that you accepted my challenge; but it
does not suit me to be put out of tho way be
fore your friend’s trial. Why are you stopping,
Latimer ?”
And the equipage passed on, leaving Wilmot
boiling with wrath, Ploughshares had certainly
had the best ot it.
Mr. Warrington arrived at home and, finding
his father and Oswald together, threw the news
like a bombshell between them.
“ It can’t be true I” Lord Oswestre said, with
an air of conviction which, in the circumstances,
was rather exasperating.
“But it is true,” retorted Wilmot; “1 have
just seen Frank. And I wish I had broken
Ploughshare’s head I”
“ Well, don’t lose your own,” said Sir Charles.
“What has Ploughshares to do with it?”
“ It’s all through him, father. Oh, yes, it is,
Oswald !”
Thon Wilmot told the story over again, with
the challenge suppressed.
“ What is to be done ?” asked Sir Charles
blankly.
“ I don’t know ! Frank’s chance is an alibi,
according to himself. He’s not afraid; why
should he be ?”
Leaving his father and Oswald to exhaust
their wonder and dismay, he went in search of
his sister, and found her in that beloved green
chamber, dear from childhood, the room Where
Frank had passed that long bright afternoon,
when Theo had read the loves ot Hafed and
Hinda.
The shadow and grief had gone from Maud’s
face, and sho met her brother’s eves with all
the old brightness.
“ What is the matter, Wilmot?” she asked, as
he sat down with a somewhat weary air.
“I’ll tell you, it you will listen quietly,
Maud.”
The promise being given, Wilmot told his tale
to a breathless listener.
“ And you have seen him, Wil ? That was
like you 1” cried Maud. “ Oh, Wil, what did he
say ? Does he feel it very much ? Is there anv
fear ?”
“ There’s always that, Maud—not that Frank
shows it. I do wish I had not let Ploughshares
off so easily. Father is going to see Frank to
morrow.”
“I shall go with him,” Maud declared. “I
shall, Wilmot—as a iriend.”
“ Well, it will all come out at the inquest,”
replied Wilmot; “ so your going will onlv make
bad worse, or good better. We can’t keep you
out of it, Maud, thanks to Ploughshares.
They’ll call you as a witness.”
“ I can say nothing that will injure Frank.”
Wil did not answer. His sister would have
to admit the giving of the glove, but he was
thinking less of that than of the sweet morsel
of scandal the admission would be to Rylworth
gossips, and how his sister’s name would be
bandied about.
“ It they were engaged, no one could sav any
thing,” he muttered, “ but father’s unlucky
blunder has stopped that. However, one must
just hope for the best.”
Another night passed by, and popular ex
citement deepened rather than decreased. It
was surprising how many people had suspected
that Mr. Mainwaring was not what lie seemed;
a lew indeed had guessed his identity from the
first, but had concealed this with a prudence
above ordinary human nature. The popular
question was not “Is he guilty?” but “ Whv
did he do it ?”
Frank, of course, could not hear the comfort
ing comments. He was sitting thinking—the
only thing he could do—thinking of the sad old
house where Randal lay, until he found himself
back in his childhood, in the pretty vales of
Devonshire; now in his young manhood de
clining a marriage of convenience with charac
teristic energy; then that letter, begun too late,
never to be finished, with its three words of af
fection—“ My dear son.” Then there was the
meeting with Randal and the long days of serv
ice and devotion.
The young man shuddered involuntarily ; for
the first time the terror of his position came
home to him. The sorrow, the fear, the pain,
nowever, melted into one feeling, which found
utterance in the words, “ Thou knowest, and
in Thee have I put my trust. Let me not be
confounded.”
He had put his hands before his face, and so
sat, when he heard the grating ot keys, then the
rustle of garments, and there entered Sir Charles
Warrington and his daughters.
He looked from one to the other in surprise :
there was such frank belief in him, such kind
sympathy in each face, that he was almost over
powered. He had nothing to say, he scarcely
knew what they were saying.
“It is all very well for Wil to tell every one
we don’t believe the charge against you,” said
Sir Charles, affecting to speak very easily and
lightly, “ but I mean to show people that our
friendship is the same. Seeing is believing, is
it not ?”
“ However it may go with me,” began Frank.
“Why, there’s only one way it can go with
you, Frank,” interrupted Sir Charles. “lam
going to the Hights to see that lawyer of yours.
I am not in the least afraid for you.”
And then Sir Charles and his younger daugh
ter gazed abstractedly through the window,
while Frank gazed down at Maud, whose hand
lay in his, in the warm, loving clasp of old.
“ I wish I could have kept your name out of
it,” he said, looking into the tear-bright depths
of her gray eyes.
“Why, Frank? What does it matter? Do
you think I mind that? As Wilmot says, it
must all come out.”
“I thought perhaps you would have been
spared this,” he replied, “and but for that
glove, lost by me in some unaccountable way,
you would have been.”
“ What should 1 have been spared ?”
“ Why, 1 suppose you will be asked why you
gave it to the prisoner.”
“ Even so, Frank,” she said, “ do you think
I have any feeling save pride in that ? My love
would be worth very little if I wanted to hide it
and disavow it because of this accusation.”
For answer he kissed the hand he still re
tained. There was no allusion to the past, no
need of explanation.
“And it I am cleared, Maud, and, if I come
to you, asking the old question, when all is
over ■”
“ Why not before ?”
“My dear girl, my dear, noble, generous
girl!” cried Frank, and then Sir Charles looked
round, and the interview was brought to a
close.
(To be Continued.!
Blows With a Babe Hand.—A San
Francisco reporter, while passing along the
street, was amazed to see through an open door
way a man in the act of driving a ten-penny nail
into a wooden beam with blows of his bare
hand. The blows were lusty, the nail sank visi
bly into the wood as each blow was delivered,
and still the man apparently suffered no pain.
The reporter approached him and learned that
he had a hand and arm, from the elbow down,
of hpUow stool, fee natural lixnb having bean
lost bf ai tyiojtbjjt t/enty Jc4r» b»for«»
THE REAL MEPHISTOPHELES
Two Actors for One Part.
BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER.
It was near the ©nd of November. The Im
perial Garden of Vienna wae bare and deserted.
The broad avenue, however, thanks to the sand
that covered it, was dry and smooth.
A young man was pacing this avenue with
visible signs of impatience. His costume was
of theatrical elegance. He was twenty-seven
or twenty-eight years old. His pale and regu
lar features were full of shrewdness, and irony
lurked in the corners of his eyes and the curves
of his mouth.
The short space to which he circumscribed
his promenade indicated that he was waiting
for some one. And, indeed, it was not long be
fore a young girl appeared at the end of the av
enue. A hood of black silk covered her rich
blonde hair; her complexion, ordinarily of wax
en fairness, had taken the hues of a Bengalese
rose under the damp chill of the evening.
“Ah, Heinrich,” said the pretty Viennese,
taking the young man’s arm, “I have been
dressed and ready to come out for over an
hour, but my aunt could not bring her sermon
on the dangers of the waltz to a close, or her
receipts for Christmas cakes. I came out on a
pretense of having to buv some gray buskins
which Ido not need. Ana it is for your sake,
Heinrich, that I tell all these little lies that I
repent ot and begin on again every day. What
an idea it is of yours to devote yourself to the
theatre! It was certainly well worth your
while to study theology so long at Heidelberg.
But my father and mother loved you then, and
we might have been married to-day. Instead
of meeting in secret under the bare trees ot the
Imperial Garden, we might have been sitting
side by side before a beautiful porcelain stove,
in the warm parlor, discussing the future of
our children. Now, wouldn’t that be a happy
lot, Heinrich?”
“ Yes, Katy, very happy,” replied the young
hlail, cressing the girl’s dimnlAd arm nndA*
her satin aiid fursf “But what would ydll
have ? It is an irresistible destiny. I dream
of the theatre by day and think of it by night.
I desire to live in the creations of the poets. I
seem to have twenty existences. Every part I
play gives me a new life. I experience all the
passions I express. In such a case as this it is
very difficult to resign one’s sell to the humble
condition of a village pastor.”
. “Thatis all very fine; but you know that my
parents will never have an actor for a son-in
law.”
“Of course, not an obscure actor—a poor
traveling artist; but a great comedian, covered
with glory and applause, better paid than a
minister of state; however hard they may be to
please, they will be willing to have him. When
I come for you in a grand coach, whose var
nish shall serve as a mirror to the astonished
neighbors, and a lackey in gold lace lets down
the step for me, do you think they will refuse
mo, Katy ?”
“I suppose they will not. But how do you
know that will ever come ? You have talent,
but great good fortune also is necessary. When
you come to be that great comedian our youth
will be past, and would you still marry old
Katy, having your choice among the gay queens
Of the stage ?”
“That future,” replied Heinrich, “is nearer
than you think. 1 have an advantageous en
gagement, and the manager is so pleased with
the manner in which I played my last role that he
has given me a gratuity of 2,000 thalers.”
“ Yes,’ responded the young girl seriously,
“ the role of tievil in the new play. I con
fess, Henrich, that I do not like to see a
Christian take the form of the enemy of man
kind and speak blasphemous words.”
“ Nonsense, Katy ! But to-morrow is tho last
time I am to wear the black and red which so
displeases you.”
“ So much the better, then ! I am very much
afraid that this part, profitable as it is in point
of fame, profits but little for your salvation. I
am afraid, too, that you will fall into bad habits
with these actors. I am sure you never say
your prayers and I would wager you have lost
the little cross I gave you.
Heinrich opened his coat and displayed the
little cross sparkling on his breast.
Chatting thus the lovers had reached the
shoemaker’s shop where Katy was to purchase
the buskins. Having yielded her slender fin
gers to Heinrich’s clasp. Katy entered, and her
lover turned on his heel and walked slowly to
the sign ot the Two-Headed Eagle.
The Two-Headed Eagle was one of those
jovial resorts celebrated by Hoffman, whose
threshold was so worn and slippery that one
could not set foot on it without finding himself
within, his elbows on a table, a pipe in his
mouth, a pint of beer on one side of him and a
measure of new wine on the other.
Through the thick cloud of smoko that choked
and blinded one at first, could be distinguished,
alter a few moments, all sorts of strange figures,
Hungarians, Bohemians, Germans, Tartars,
Turks and Moldavians, with their elbows
on the tables, eating and drinking—drinking
strong beer and a mixture of new red and old
white wine, and eating slices ot cold veal and
ham and pastry.
Past the tables couples were whirling care
lessly in one of those long German waltzes
which produce on the Northern imagination the
effect which hasheesh and opium have on the
Orientals.
Heinrich went to the back of the cellar and
took his place at a table where were already
seated three or four persons in high good
humor.
“Look, here is Heinrich !” cried the oldest of
the company; “take care of yourselves, my
friends. Do you know that you were actually
diabolical the other evening ? I was afraid of
you. To think that Heinrich, who drinks beer
likens and never refuses a slice of cold ham,
can take on airs so venomous and so sardonic
that a single gesture of his sends a shudder
through the audience 1”
Heinrich seated himself modestly, and order
ed a glass of mixed wine, while the conversation
continued on the same topic. On all sides there
was admiration and flattery.
The other drinkers, attracted by these excla
mations, looked attentively at Heinrich, glad to
have an opportunity to examine closely so re
markable a man. The young men who had
known Heinrich at the university came and
grasped his hand cordially, as if they had been
his intimate friends.
One man alone, sitting at a table near, seem
ed to take no part in the general enthusiasm.
With his head thrown back he was drumming
absent-mindedly with his fingers on the top of
his hat, and from time to time he uttered a sort
of humph ! singularly expressive of doubt.
This roan’s appearance was excessively fan
tastic, although he was dressed like an honest
gentleman of Vienna in the enjoyment ot a rea
onable fortune. His gray eyes shaded to green
and emitted phosphorescent gleams like those
of a cat. When his pale, flat lips parted they
revealed two rows of teeth, very white, very
sharp, and very far apart, of a most fierce -and
cannibalistic appearance; his long, shining,
hooked finger-nails bore a vague resemblance
to claws ; but such a physiognomy was evident
on him only at brief instants. Under a pro
longed examination he resumed the appearance
of a respectable, retired Viennese merchant, and
one wondered at having been able to suspect of
villainy and slyness so ordinary and trivial a
countenance.
Inwardly Heinrich was disturbed by the non
chalance of this man; his disdainful silence
took all the worth out of the sounding praises
of his companions. His silence was that of an
old connoisseur, who is not captivated by first
appearances, and who has seen far better things
in his own time.
Atmayer, the youngest of the group, Hem
rich’s warmest enthusiast, could not bear his
cold expression, and addressing the singular
man, claimed his assent to an assertion :
“ Is it not true, sir. that no actor has over bet
ter filled the role of Mephistopheles than my
comrade there?”
“ Humph !” said the unknown, puckering his
colorless cheeks and gnashing his pointed teeth,
“ Mr. Heinrich is a youth of talent, and I esteem
him highly, but for playing the part of the devil
he lacks a great many qualifications.”
“Have you ever seen tho devil. Mr. Hein
rich ?” he asked, rising suddenly from his seat.
He put this question in so singular and mock
ing a tone, that all who heard him shuddered.
“ That would be, however, an experience
highly necessary for the truth of your represen
tation. I was at the theatre the other evening,
and I was far from being satisfied with your
laugh ; at the best it was nothing more than the
laugh of a petty rogue. Why, my dear little
Heinrich, you ought to laugh this way.”
Thereupon, as if to set him an example, he
gave forth a peal of laughter so shrill, so stri
dent, so sardonic, that the orchestra and tho
waltzers paused instantly, and the windows of
the building rattled. For several moments the
unknown continued this pitiless and convulsive
laughter, which Heinrich and his companions,
in spite of their terror, were forced to imitate.
XVhen Heinrich recovered his breath the walls
of the room were repeating, like a feeble echo,
the final notes of that ghastly and terrible
laugh and the stranger had vanished.
A few days after this singular incident, which
had passed from his recollection except as a
pleasantry on the part of an ironical gentleman,
Heinrich was playing the part of Mephistopheles
in the new play.
On the first seat in the orchestra sat the
stranger of the Two-headed Eagle, and at Hein
rich’s every word he shrugged his shoulders,
shook his head, half shut his eyes, frowned and
gave signs of the liveliest impatience. “Bad,
bad,” he muttered under his breath.
His neighbors, astonished and annoyed at
his behavior, applauded the more loudly, and
said :
“That gentleman is unreasonably hard to
please.”
At the end of the first act the stranger arose,
as if having fornj.ed a sudden resolution, and
disappeared through the little door that led from
the orchestra to the stage.
Heinrich was walking to and fro behind the
scenes, awaiting the rising of the curtain, aud
on reaching the end of his short promenade and
turning to recommence it, what was his terror
at seeing in the middle of the narrow passage a
mysterious personage dressed exactly like him
self, and looking at him with eyes whose green
transparency had an untold depth in that ob
scurity. His teeth were pointed, white and far
apart, and imparted ferocity to his sardonic
smile.
Heinrich could not mistake the stranger of tho
Two-headed Eagle, or rather the devil in person,
for it was he.
•‘3(11 b»! mj litti# air, jotj aje ambitious to
play the part of the devil I You were very poor
in the first act, and would give altogether too
bad an opinion of me to the good people of Vi
enna. You will permit me to take your place
this evening, and since your presence would
embarrass me, I will send you to the second
floor below/’
Heinrich felt that he was lost; mechanically
raising his hand to Katy’s little cross, he tried
to call for help and to murmur a formula of ex
orcism; but terror held him by the throat, and
he could utter nothing but a feeble rattle. The
devil grasped Heinrich’s shoulders with his
hooked fingers, and threw him forcibly down
ward; then, his call having come, he went on
the stage like a consummate comedian.
His incisive, envenomed and truly diabolical
acting took his auditors by storm.
“ Heinrich is in a perfect mood to-day,” was
the exclamation on all sides.
The thing that above all others produced a
magnificent effect was that laughter, harsh as
the grating of a saw, that laugh of a lost soul
blaspheming against the joys of paradise. Never
be ore had an actor attained such power of sar
casm, such depths of wickedness. Men laughed
and yet trembled. The whole audience was
palpitating with emotion; phosphoric sparks
shot from the actor’s finger-ends; his feet left
prints of flame where he stepped; the gaslights
grew dim and a sulphurous odor pervaded the
hall. Thunders of applause closed each
sentence of the miraculous Mephistopheles.who
often substituted verses of his felicitous inven
tion for those of the poet.
Katy, to whom Heinrich had sent a box cou
pon, was in a state of extreme disquietude. She
could not recognize her dear Heinrich; she had
a presentiment of coming misfortune in that
spirit of divination which love bestows.
The play ended in indescribable tumult The
curtain fell, and the public loudly demanded
the reappearance of Mephistopheles. They
sought for him in vain, until at last a page came
to the manager saying that Heinrich ha'd been
found on the second floor be:ow, having doubt
less fallen through a trap-door. Heinrich was
unconscious, and was carried to his home.
Katy’s little silver orogß httd preserved him
from death.
A® #lOOll as he was Convalescent the manager
proposed tt? him a most advantageous engage
ment, but Heinrich refused it.
At the end of three years he inherited a small
fortune, and married the fair Katy; and now,
side by side before the porcelain stove, they talk
about the future of their children.
THE DETROIT* SOLOMON.
A SHAMEFUL THING-HE COULD—WHY
SHE WEPT.
A SHAMEFUL THING.
“ Moses Taylor, I can’t have it—no, I can’t
and won’t!”
These words were addressed by his Honor to
a tall and weary-looking colored man of an un
certain age, who promptly inquired :
“Jedge, was dat ear remark impressed to
me ?”
“ Of course I mean you I”
“An’ what has I bin doin’?”
“Last night at 10 o’clock yon were lively
drunk, and you waltzed your way up one street
and down another, singing at the top of your
voice:,
" In Chicago there lives, as I've often been told,
Such a sweet cull’d gal as you seldom did see;
An’ she sighs fur to marry some barber so bold,
An' dat same bold barber am sartingly me.”
“ Yes, that was the song that you sung, Moses,
and I heard it myself.”
“An’ am I gwine to be bounced up de spout
fur singin’ ?”
“ You disturbed the peace. When an officer
ordered you to cease Binging and stagger home
you relused. Indeed you struck a new key and
went off on:
"De Spring time am heah—de autumn leaf am fai
lin’—
De snow am on de ground, an’ de Summer passeth
by;
De Winter wind am howlin’—do daises am in blos
som—
An’ do cluckin' of do hens shows dat Christmas
drawoth nigh.”
“ Moses, that singing will cost you $5.”
“ I hain’t got it, sab.”
“ Then you'll have to go up for thirty.”
“ Dat’s shameful, sail—de shamefulest thing
I eber heard on ! 1 wouldn’t do dat on you it
you were de las’ man on airth ! Good-bye,
Jedge—you 11 lib to wish you hadn’t.”
HE COULD.
" Can I get a civil answer to a civil ques
tion?” queried Horace Walpole Smith, as Bijah
lelt him in front ot the desk.
“You can, sir.”
“ Then I want to know why in gimcrack and
Gineral Jackson I have been locked up here
and treated as if I had no feelings 1”
“ Softly, prisoner Smith—sottly 1 No man
ever yet helped his case in court by showing
bad temper. The charge against you is drunk
enness.”
“ You don’t say.”
“But I do. You were too drunk to drive
your team home, and were brought down here.
Do you remember drinking anything?”
“ Why—why, I had two or three glasses of
beer.”
"Did you experience any peculiar sensa
tions ?”
“ Why, I felt sleepy.”
“Do you remember of seeing the lamp-posts
whirling around and the buildings trying to
dodge you ?”
“ Yes, I believe I do. Say, Squar’, I must
have been drunk.”
“ Ot course you were.”
“ Wall, I swan I Then that’s tho way a drunk
comes. Sav, Squar’ I ’
“Well?”'
“ I’m guilty. Here’s five dollars to settle the
case. Don’t say another word, but let me
skip. I’m ashamed to look a decent man in the
face, and it seems as if my wife was going to
enter that door every minit 1”
“You may go.”
“ Thanks, Squar’—you’re a gentleman. The
fust bar’l of cider I make this Fall goes into
your cellar.”
WHY SHE WEPT.
She was a very middle-aged woman. She was
also possessed of 180 pounds of fat and a large
and well selected stock of tears, sighs and
“Oh! dears 1” She stood on the mark and
wiped her weeping eyes on a polka-dot-apron
which hadn't been washed for three weeks.
“ Polly Gaines, this is a sad, sad world,” ob
served his Honor at last.
“ Yes, sir—awful, awful sad I”
“Sorrow stalketh up and down the land,
Polly.”
“ Yes, sir, she does.”
“And the tears of the unfortunate would,
float the ships of the truly happy.”
“ Yes, sir—you are right. It does me good
to have you talk to me in this way. Go on,
judge.”
“ Why has your weeping-machine been set in
motion this morning, Polly ?”
“Thinking of my dead husband and chil
dren, sir.”
“Ah ! being drunk last night had nothing to
do with it then ?”
“ Oh, no, sir. I just put a little alcohol in my
aching tooth, and I suppose the policeman
brought me down to consult the doctor. He was
a very nice man—very.”
“ Thirty days, Polly.”
“ W-whatl”
“ Thirty days in the cooler.”
“ You don’t mean it ?”
“But I do!”
“ Then it’s an outrage which I won’t put up
with, and it any of you come near me I’ll dig
your eyes out!”
“ Come, woman, be calm.”
“ Never I”
“Fall back to the corridor.”
“ Never ! I’ll die first!”
Bijah advanced and clasped his arms abon't
her and lugged her off, and amid her shrieks
and screams and vows of vengeance court ad
journed.
WITH A. STRING.
HOW A WOMAN WAS MADE GLAD.
She was a woman apparently fifty years old,
plainly dressed, and she sat in a doorway on
Monroe avenue with tears in her eyes and a
mad look on her face. By and by a boy who
was hanging around there asked if she was cry
ing because she had lost her husband.
“Naw ! If it was only that I should be a hap
py woman/’ she replied.
“Have yer broke yer leg, or lost money in a
busted bank, or come to town for a divorce?”
he continued.
“Naw 1 The trouble is that I’ve got an old
tooth here which has been trying to jump out
of my head lor a week. I’ve been here three
times to have it out, but I dasn’t go up stairs
to the dentist.”
“I kin imagine your feelin's ma’am. I’ve bin
r’.ght there myself. Let’s see the tooth.”
She opened her mouth very wide, and he
peeked and peered, and finally placed his dirty,
finger on the identical tooth.
“Is it a stiddy ache, ma’am?”
“Yes, purty stiddy.”
“Kinder loose, ain’t it ?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want the dentist to pick up a bowie
knife and jab the gum around the root—grab
for a chisel and pare away at a prong—clap on
his old pinchers and jerk the top of your head
over the roof? Madam, are my surmises cor
rect ?”
“Mercy I but don’t talk that way ! I’m all in
a chill 1” she gasped.
“Say I” he whispered, as he pulled a cord
from his pocket and made a slip-noose, “lemmc
try at it. I’ll pull as soft as ’lasses, and if it
hurts you can catch hold of the string.”
It took five minutes to coax her into it, but
at last the noose was slipped over and drawn
tight. She was on the fourth stair; he on the
second.
“Now, open your mouth as big as a bucket,
shet your eyes and think of sweet cake,” he
said, as all was ready.
She obeyed. Next moment he jumped back
ward off the stairs. There was a yell—a gasp
—a whoop—and he held the tooth up and cried
out:
“Here she is ! Behold the remains !”
She rose up, spat out the blood, cried a little,
and then suddenly rushed for the boy and
pinned him fast to the wall, and kissed him
lorty-so en times on the chin, twenty-four times
on the point of the nose, and eighteen times on
the right oar. Then she forced a halt dollar
into his paw, grabbed the string and the tooth,
and skipped out the doorway with the joyful ex
clamation :
“Qli, you dear, good angelic bov! I haven't
been so Xor twenty-ssvon long yeays T i
TWO NOTED^MINSTRELS.
Who Have Won Fortunes and What
They Say About Stage Life.
(From Stage "Whispers.)
t{ Billy ” Emerson has recently made a phe
nomenal success in Australia, and is rich.
Emerson was born at Belfast in 1846. He be
gan his career with Joe Sweeney’s minstrels in
Washington, in 1857. Later on he jumped into
prominence in connection with Newcomb’s min
strels, with whom he visited Germany. He
visited Australia in 1874, and on his return to
America joined Haverley’s minstrels in San
Francisco, at SSOO a week and expenses. With
this troupe he played before Her Majesty, the
Queen, the Prince of Wales, and royalty gener
ally. After this trip he leased the Standard
Theatre, San Francisco, where for three years
he did the largest business ever known to min
strelsy. In April last he went to Australia
again, where he has “ beaten the record.”
“ Billy ” is a very handsome fellow, an excel
lent singer, dances gracefully, and is a true hu
morist.
“ Yes, sir, I have traveled all over the world,
have met all sorts of people, come in contact
with all sorts of customs, and had all sorts of
experiences. One must have a constitution like
a locomotive to stand it.”
“ Yes, I know I seem to bear it like a major,
and I do, but I tell you candidly, that w;<h the
perpetual change of diet, water and climate, if I
had not maintained my vigor with the regular
use of Warner’s safe cure, I should have gone
under long ago.”
George H. Primrose, whose name is known in
every circle in America, is even
more emphatic, if possible, than “Billy” Emer
son, in commendation of the same article to
sporting and traveling men generally, among
whom it is a great favorite.
Emerson has grown rich on the boards, and
so has Primrose, because they have not squan
dered the public's “favors.”
THAT’S ALL.
BY M. QUAD.
One higiii, when his stomach had rebelled at
the coarse far© of the poorbouse table, and ha
had been cursed and sneered at and told that
it was too good for hirer, he sat by the open
window and looked out into the darkness. His
wounds pained and bis heart ached, but not tor
long. The rat! tat! tat 1 of the drum suddenly
came to his ears, and through the gloom of
night he caught sight of a waving flag and
marching men. It was a company marching
away to the war. New life camo to his blood—
new strength to his limbs. He looked more
closely, and he saw that he himself marched in
the ranks and waved his cap in response to the
cheers of the populace.
The vision changed. There was the rattle of
musketry and the boom of cannon, and a battle
was on. He saw regiment alter regiment ad
vance, halt, oblique to right or left. Batteries
galloped here and there, bodies of cavalry
thundered along with banners and guidons
hidden in the smoke. His own regiment moved
forward to the edge of the woods, and directly
there was a blaze of fire all along its front. It
was advancing again, the men were cheering,
when darkness suddenly came to him. Ho had
been wounded. In his vision he saw the hos
pital to which ho was borne, heard the groans
ot the wounded, caught the whispered words of
a surgeon:
“ Very seriously wounded, but I hops wa
may save him.”
The vision changed, and the roar and crash of
Antietam came to his ears. He was a corporal
then. When the smoke cleared away he looked
down at his sleeve and it boro the stripes of &
sergeant. There was silence for a time, broken
only by the wind rustling among the apple trees
and whirling away the dead and dying leaves.
Thon camo a crash and din as if the earth was
breaking up. It was the guns on Falmouth
Hights bombarding Fredericksburg. When theft
roar died away he crossed the historic river—he
pushed up the narrow streets—ho faced the
deadly stone wall at the foot of Marye’s Hill.
Night came to him again. Another bullet had
plowed its way into his flesh.
Again the roar and din of battle came to him.
It was the terrific crash at Gettysburg. His
sleeve now boro the insignia of an orderly ser
geant, and as he looked up and down the lines
ot his company he was* amazed to see how few
men were lelt him, and how bronzed and old
their faces looked. The earth shook as if earth
quakes were battling. Death laughed at pros
pect ot such a harvest; mon were no longer men
but demons. The crash died away, and there
came the vengeful crackle of musketry. Right
into the flame of fire advanced the sergeant,
waving his cap to cheer his men, but it was not
for long. Darkness came for the third time, and
it was long hours before daylight came again,
and he knew that he was a cripple for life and
fought his last battle.
There was a vision of crutches—of home- of
sympathetic words, but it was crowded out of
sight by a clearer one in which the word “ Pov
erty I” seemed to extend from east to west. If
he drank—if he was weak-minded—it the
troubles of life bore him down, the world should
remember that he had been a soldier.
The vision of a poor old cripple was clear to
his eyes when his ears caught the sounds of a
muffled drum and the tramp of men. From out
of the darkness came six men bearing a pall,
and they were followed by soldiers with bowed
heads and reversed muskets. Who was the
dead soldier on the pall? Something forced
him to Hit the flag and look‘upon the face of the
dead. He started back in horror. He saw his
own corpse 1
“ Heigho !” called a gruff voice as the sun of
morning shone upon the poor-house again,
“ but here’s ji go ! This crippled old soldier
has died at his post! Tell the men to get him
to the dead room and dig a grave as soon as
possible.”
“ And the headstone ?”
“ Oh, yes:
“JOHN DOE.
Died at the County House, September 10, 1885.’*
“That’s enough—that’s all!”
SOME INFORMATION.
HOW TO OLEAN A BOOK WITH
OUTJNJURY.
(From Chambers’s Journal.)
An adept in tho art of washing or cleansing
dirty books sends to the Publishers’ Circular a
few plain directions to bo followed by those
who wish to cleanse their soiled volumes. The
amateur book-cleaner had better begin to prac
tice on some worthless volume, until he ac
quires the necessary skill. All traces of lime,
acid, Ac., used in the cleaning process, must be
removed from the book, else in time it may be
completely destroyed.
The first thing to be done in a book that wants
washing, is, to cut the stitches and separate the
work into sheets. Then a glance may be taken
for the separation of those leaves, or sheets,
which are dirty, from those which have stains
of ink or oil. The dirty leaves are now placed
in a bath composed of a quarter of a pound of
chloride of lime and the same quantity of soda
to about a quart of water. These are left to
soak until the paper has regained its proper
tint. The pages are now lifted out tenderly
into a second bath of cold, and, if possible, run
ning water, where they are left at least six
hours. This removes all traces ot lime. The
paper, when thoroughly dried by exposure,
must be dipped into a third bath of size and
water and again laid out to dry. This restores
the consistency of the paper. Pressure between
printers’ glazed boards will then restore smooth
ness to the leaves.
The toning of the washed leaves in accord
ance with the rest of the book is a delicate pro
cess, which requires some experience. Soma
shag tobacco steeped in hot water will usually
give the necessary coloring matter, and a bath
in this liquid the necessary tone.
The process described above may do for water
stains; but if the pages are dirtied by grease,
oil, coffee, candle-droppings, or ink, different
treatment will be required. Dilute spirit of salt
with five times its bulk of water, and let the oil*
stained pages lie in the liquid for four minutes
—not longer; then remove and wash, as before,
in cold water. To remove ink, a solution of ox
alic, citric or tartaric acid should be used, but
care must be taken in the washing and sizing.
If the grease is a spot in the middle of a page,
place between two sheets of blotting-paper, or
cover it with powdered French chalk (the blot
ting-paper is preferable), and pass a hot iron
over the place. This will melt the grease, which
is immediately soaked up by the chalk or paper.
For dirty finger-marks, the following is rec
ommended: Cover tho mark with a piece of
clean yellow soap for two or three hours, then
wash with a sponge and hot water, and dip the
page in weak acid and water. Give another bath
of hot water, and then thoroughly cleanse with
cold water.
To remove ink-stains: Dip the page in a strong
solution of oxalic acid, then in a solution of one
part hydrochloric acid and six parts of water,
a ter which bathe in cold water and allow to dry
slowly. Vellum covers which require cleaning
may be made almost equal to new by washing
with weak salts of lemon; or if not much soiled,
warm soap and water. Grease maybe removed
from the covers of bound books by scraping a
little pipe clay, French chalk, or magnesia over
the place, and then ironing with an iron not too
hot, else it will discolor the leather.
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