New York dispatch. [volume], January 03, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
him to th© world’s encl for one look of love, one
kindly word ! All her paltry covetousness, all
her ambition had faded, dimmed forever by the
light of her great love. Ah, how she loved him,
her handsome, kingly, gray-eyed lover I How
insignificant ami commonplace the other men
seemed when compared with him 1 How stupid
and inane their compliments were ! How dif
ferent were the dances she danced with him
from any others 1 Ah, how could she bear her
life without him now ? How had she borne it
hitherto ?
And Alick Wolfe, coming up to claim her for
a waltz, saw how the sweet eyes softened and
brightened as they met bis, and how the pretty
color came and went. As they glided away,
another couple came up, whirling round rapid
ly, and cannoned against them with some vio
lence ; Sir Alick’s brows met in a slight frown.
There was a moment’s pause, followed by mut
tered excuses, then the dancers were off again,
the girl’s long pnk silk train likely to do fur
ther mischief, and Sir Alick, looking down, saw
that Madge bad suddenly grown very pale.
“ What is it. dear ?” ho whispered, anxiously.
•‘Are you hurt ? Is the room too warm lor
you ?”
“ No—oh, no I” she replied, rather faintly.
But tho young man, seeing how pale she* was,
Whirled her out of the circle of dancers and led
her into the conservatory, which ran along one
entire side of the great room, and which, with
its soft light and cushioned wicker chairs, made
ft very pleasant nook for those weary of the glit
ter and noise of the ballroom. It was almost
empty just now, and Sir Alick found a seat for
Madge in a fragrant corner, and stood looking
down at the slim white figure, for which the
crimson cushions of her chair and the green
leaves made such a charming background.
“Thatclumsv brute deserves a regular slat
ing I” he said laughingly. “Are you sure he
did not hurt you, Madge ?”
“Oh, quite sure I ’ she answered hastily, lift
ing her tan to her lips to hide the quiver she
could not otherwise conceal.
“Are you en oying yourself ?” he continued,
Beating himself near her, and gently possessing
himself of the large white fan. “Does it come
Up to your expectations, Madgie ?”
“ Qh, yes I”
’ “ And’ what does being tho belle of the ball I
Feel like?” he asked, beginning to fan her i
softly.
“ I don’t know,” she replied, leaning her head |
against the red cushions.
“ What do you feel 1 ke then ?’ : the young man
said, laughing.
“ I?” she echoed lightly. “ Bfeel as Cinder
ella felt when she was waiting for twelve
o'clock.” She had spoken as if involuntarily,
.with a touch of bitterness, which made her
glance at her questioningly; then
ehe went on eagerly, as if anxious to dispel any
impression her words had made : “ How pleas
ant it is here; and how pretty those Chinese
Xanterns look I Is that a terrace outside ? How
beautiful the grounds must be in the moon- i
light.” i
“There are no grounds worth speaking of I
here,” the young fellow eaid carelessly. “Mad- I
gie, lam airaid you are tired 1 Do you know, I i
toever disapproved of waltzing before, but to- j
night I hated every man you danced with ! I :
wish I had tire right to forbid you to dance with
any other fellow I”
- “ Have you not ?” she returned, With a sweet,
ehy glance, and the young man’s strong hand
closed fondly over the fingers lying on her lap.
“ It is a very humiliating confession, is it not,
dear ?” he said caressingly. “ But I’m a horribly
jealous fellow. I feel almost ready to kill any
man who touches your hand I It is so pleasant
to me to think that ‘my love is but a lassie
yet,’ ” he added very tenderly, “ that she comes
to me with pure lips and a heart unsullied and
free from any taint of flirtation ! You never bad
©ven a passing penchant— what a little French
woman like you would call a caprice— for any
one, had you, Madgie ?”
“No,” she answered, smiling faintly—“nev
er.”
“ I thought not. I knew your innocent eyes
could not tell me any fibs,” he said fondly, and
ft silence ibll upon them as they sat there to
gether.
In the ballroom dancing was going on gayly,
end the soft sweet strains of “ Dreamland ”
came softly into the conservatory. Never after
award could Madge recall the melody without a
3>ang.
Presently the music died away, the dancing
ceased, and Sir Alick raised himself from his
leaning posture with a sigh ; the quiet minutes
were over now. for the dancers were coming
Into the conservatory, talking and laughing
gayly, flushed and heated with their exertions.
A strange look of dread crept into Madge Lock
hart’s brown eyes, and once more she strove to
bide the quiver of her lips with the soft mara
bout feathers of her fan.
“ Here come our assailants !” Sir Alick re
marked, a little laughter stealing into his gray
eyes as a fair-haired man and a tall girl in a
long pink dress came sauntering in, the girl
fanning herself affectedly, and laughing in an
equally affected way; and Madge shivered
slightly as she shrank back on her crimson
cushions.
They came on slowly, the long rich folds of
pink silk trailing over the tesselated pavemefit,
the pink fan waving affectedly, the girl’s bright,
well-opened blue eyes glancing around her as
she held her fair head erect. Madge’s heart
almost stood still as they drew near. Would
the bright, keen eyes see her where she sat in
the shadow of the leaves ? If so, Cinderella’s
hour was come—twelve o’clock would strike for
her ! Her suspense was not long-lived; ere
sixty seconds had passed, Julia White’s long
pink train had swept over Sir Alick’s loot, she
had turned her head languidly, and her blue
eyes rested on the lovely pale face crowned with
soft, curling dark hair.
“Madge I” she exclaimed, in surprised tones.
M Who ever thought of meeting you here ?”
Madge stood up, her face colorless as her
dress, and held out her hand.
“I saw you a few minutes ago,” she re
sponded, calmly.
“ Oh, then it was you we cannoned against!”
Julia White said, with a laugh. “ I thought the
girl’s face was familiar, but, of course, never
imagined that it could Be you.”
“ No, I dare say not.”
“But how did you come?” Miss White per
sisted, with a keen glance at Sir Alick, who had
rwen and stood by Miss Lockhart’s side.
“ Whom are you staying with ?”
All this time the bold eyes were wandering
over Madge’s dress, noting tho richness of the
satin, the filmy lace, the exquisite cut and style.
Sir Alick, glancing at Madge, saw how pale she
looked, and guessed that the rencontre was not
a pleasant one.
“I am staying at Wolfingham Abbey,” she
said, quietly. “ Are you all quite well, Julia 1”
“At Wolfingham Abbey! Good gracious!
And ”
“Are you all well, Julia? Is Adelaide
here ?” Madge asked, in a tone of mingled pain
and pride and fear which jarred upon the young
man standing so calmly and proudly by.
“No, Addie isn’t ’ ere; I am staying with
Miss Danby for a few days,” Julia White an
swered, sharply. “And I should fancy you
know how we all are better than I do, as, of
course, Frank writes regularly. He knows you
are here, of course.”
“ Yes,” Madge answered, faintly.
“ Madge, may I ask for an introduction to
your friend ?”
Sir Alick’s musical voice broke in here, strik
ing on the girl’s heart like a blow. She won
dered afterward where she found tho courage
to perform the introduction with composure; it
must have been in her despair, she thought.
Julia White flushed and looked delighted
when Sir Alick asked her it she had a dance
left for him, and finding that she was disengaged
for the next, he scrawled his initials on her pro
gramme, and gave it back to her with a word of
thanks. Almost simultaneously the music
struck up, and a tall young fellow with a short
red beard and laughing blue eyes came up hast
ily to Madge.
“ Miss Lockhart, this is our dance at last,” he
eald eagerly, and so led her away.
Aa she passed out of the conservatory she
looked back with a swift, terrified glance, which
shoved her that Julia had dismissed her part
ner and was sitting on the wicker-chair she had
vacated, while Sir Alick had resumed his former
place
Madge never know how she got through that
dance; she bad a dim notion of talking and list
sning, of smiling now aud then, of music which
seemed all discordant and out of tune, of lights
which dazzled her weary eyes, and flowers the
fragrance of which made her head ache. And
half an hour before she had been so happy!
Dazed confused as she was, she saw Sir
Alick WoJe clearly as he entered the ball-room,
and one glance told her that he knew all, al
though onlr eyes made quick-sighted by their
love could nave seen any change in the proud
calm face; but Madge saw the alteration, slight
as it was, saw that the light had faded somehow
from the gray eyes, which looked darker in their
sternness, and that the mouth was set and reso
lute under the heavy drooping mustache.
“ Supper is to be served at midnight,” Madge’s
partner said to her as tho music died away again
and they stood still for a few moments in the
ball-room. “ Who is going to take you in ? I
dare not hope that you are disengazed.”
“Sir Alick Wolfe is to take me in,” the girl re
plied, with a weary smile. “ Is it nearly twelve ?
He—he—is coming this way now.”
“It wants about five minutes,” answered the
young man smiling. “ You look awfully tired,
Miss Lockhart. I hope Lady Wolfe won’t leave
very early, Sir Alick,” he added, as the baronet
reached them, “although Miss Lockhart looks
as if she were not fit for much more exertion.”
“The room is rather too warm for her,” Sir
Alick said; then, bending slightly toward her,
he added, “ I was just going to ask you if you
would like a breath of fresh air. It is lovely on
the terrace, and I have your cloak.”
Madge removed her hand from her partner’s
arm in silence, and dismissed him with a grave
bow; then, very coldly, but with all his usual
gentleness, Sir Alick wrapped her white cloak
closely round her and led her out through the
conservatory on the terrace beyond. As he
closed the glass door by which they left the
house behind them the clock in the stable-yard
struck twelve.
CHAPTER IV.
“ I LOVE YOU—YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU.”
The moonlight lay on the stone pavement of
the terrace, and on the broad atone balustrade
which edged the slope leading to the gardens,
and the silvery beams lent to the somewhat
limited grounds a dignity they did not possess
by Wie garish light of day. The house itself,
rising against the clear sky, looked stately now
instead of vulgar, and, though its size dwarfed
the trees which surrounded it, it was seen at its
frost ia such a light.
i The night was very still; there was the faint
est breath o wind stirring among the dry
leaves, so slight that it barely stirred the soft
white swansdown round Madge Lockhart’s
throat, or tho dark curls upon her brow, as she
and Sir Alick crossed the terrace in silence and
stood by the balustrade.
As they had passed out of the house, Sir
Alick had turned to close the door after them,
and in so doing had released the little hand
which had rested so tremulously on his arm,
and as they went on he did not offer his arm
again.
Madge felt faint, she was trembling in every
limb, and her heart was throbbing so fast and
furiously that she could scarcely breathe. She
had gathered up the long train ot her dress as
they passed out of tho ball-room, but now it
fell’from her nerveless band and lay in shining,
lustrous folds on the pavement. For some
minutes they stood by the balustrade in poriect
silence; tho windows of the house behind them
sent forth a stream of warm golden light, which |
contrasted vividly with the cold moonlight'
which bathed the* gardens. Outside all was
still, but from the house came some sad, sweet
music, alternating with louder bursts of melo
dy. While Mr. Danby’s guests supped, they
were being entertained with some of Verdi’s
and Mozart's most beautiful strains.
At any other time Alick Wolfe would have
been keenly and sensitively alive to the com
ments which his absence from the sapper-table
would occasion. All Mr. Danby’s guests were
to sit down together in the great dining-room,
and so distinguished a guest as Sir Alick Violle
could not fail to be missed, but be heeded noth
ing just then. Cairn as he was to all outward
seeming, a very volcano of passion raged be
neath his cold composed exterior.
She had deceived him, this girl whom he had
loved with all the strength and passion of his
manhood, with the one great love hia life would
over know, she whom he had trusted so fully
and freely that it needed but one word from
her to make him believe a lie. a base, despica
ble, unblushing lie ! .
And his anguish was all the keener, all the
more bitter, because until he met her his faith
in womankind had not been very deep. He
loved his mother well, but he knew hoi- to be
i shallow, vain and worldly, and deeply imbued
: with the philosophy of the time which says so
I lightly, after us the deluge ! And he had been
I for so’ long a mark for the maneuvring of Bel
| gravian mothers and their marriageable daugh
l tors; he had seen so clearly how high a value
they had set upon his wealth and position and
title that it had seemed pleasant beyond all
words now to think that this girl was frosh and
innocent, and free from worldlineas. Ab, from
wbvta happy dream he had been aroused !
Could it be possible, bo wondered bitterly,
trying to subdue his passion be ore he broke
this terrible silence, that this girl, so young, so
lovely, looking so pure in her spotless draperies
which shimmered iu the moonlight, should be
false and < ruol and mercenary aud base ? Were
; those sweet lips, those which had lied to him,
: those dark eyes, shamed and downcast now,
i those which had met his with such love ? Ah,
; no, no—it was impossible • And yet had she
| not grown pale and trembled at sight of Julia
! White? Did she not know that he would dis
• cover her deceit then?
“Madge,” he said passionately, turning his
face to her in the moonlight, “ how conk! you
deceive me eo ? ’ It was but the one cry of an
guish wrung from him by his bitter pain almost
immediately he recovered his composure, and
i spoke with all his usual languid coldness, save
that his voice was somewhat husky and strain
ed, and the handsome face looked almost hag
gard in the chill pale light shining so peacefully
from the cloudless sky above them. “ Less
than an hour ago,” ho went on, in strained ac
cents, “ 1 would have staked my life on your
honesty and truth; I looked upon you with all
honor, all reverence ! Now I come to you, ask
ing you why you lied to me, why, betrothed as
you were to another man, \\ ho’trusts you no
doubt, poor fool,, as I did, you promised to be
my wife?” A violent shudder snook the girl,
and the little gloved hands were clasped tightly
together. “Did you never hear an old song,”
he continued, leaning agaipst the balustrade
and looking at her with a vvdTld of scorn in his
gray eyes, “ which bids you be ‘ off with the
old love before you are on with the new ?’
Would it not have been as well if you had re
membezed it, Miss Lockhart, when, with Mr.
White’s/ring upon your finger, you did me the
honor <k accepting the offer I made'you?”
“ I was mad !” the girl murmured miserably.
“ Mad ! That would be an easy solution,
would it not ?” he retorted, with a faint sneer.
“ But I fear the symptoms of insanity are lack
ing. To refuse, or rather to jilt, a richer man
for a poorer one might be madness, not to jilt a
poorer man for a richer one.”
Madge turned toward him, and her eyes, full
ol horror, looked straight into his.
“ You think that I—that it was your money—
that ”
“ What else ?” he interrupted, in the same
sneering tone. “Do you suppose that I too am
mad—mad enough to believe you—you love
mo?”
She shrank from him as if he had struck her;
he, leaning against the cold etone, saw the
movement, and laughed.
“ Don’t be afraid,” he continued scornfully;
“I am not going to reproach you. I only want
to ask you—l suppose I have not mistaken what
Miss White said, or that she is not mistaken
when she assorts that you are engaged to her
brother, Frank White, and that the ring you
wear is the token of that engagement ?”
Madge answered nothing, but stood with her
head bent down upon her breast.
“ I will put the question more plainly,” he
continued bitterly, “ and this time let the an
swer be a true one. Are you engaged to Frank
White?”
She tried to speak, but the words died away
on her pale parched lips.
“ Are you engaged to Mr. Frank White ?” re
peated the young man remorselessly.
“ Yes,” she murmured faintly.
“ And, when you told me so a short time
ago,” he continued, pushing back his hair from
his forehead, “ that he was nothing but a friend,
vou told a—falsehood ?”
“ Yes.”
“Ah 1” The exclamation broke from him al
most like a cry of pain.
Madge trembled as she heard it, and, putting
out her hand, caught at the stone balustrade
for support. There was a painful silence.
Presently Sir Alick raised himself and stood
erect.
“Shall we return to the house?” he asked
quietly, but in a tone which cut the girl like a
knife. “ And may I ask you to convey to Mr.
Frank White my most sincere congratulations
on his engagement., and my apologies for hav
ing unwittingly endeavored to supplant him ?”
“Wait!” Madge cried suddenly, in a voice
which had no likeness to her old girlish tones.
“Wait! You must hear me. Oh, think how
great the temptation was ! I loved you.”
A harsh mocking laugh echoed on the moon
lit terrace and silenced her.
“ I need hear no more,” he said scornfully
“You deceived me, you lied to me. Nothing,
no amount of love and devotion,” he added
contemptuously, “ could obliterate that. But
you must allow me to doubt if love worthy of
the name could force itself to such a deception
as yours 1”
“ I loved you !” she cried passionately, catch
ing at his arm as he turned from her. “I love
you—you know I love you ! Yes, I am base,
false, despicable—yes, I have lied to you, but
through it all I loved you. And it was because
of that love that I stooped to falsehood. Yes, I
am engaged to Frank White; I yielded to his
entreaties and my brother’s. I liked him very
much; he was so good to me, and ”
“You repaid his goodness nobly,” the young
man broke in, with a bitter, mocking laugh.
“ He is a lucky fellow to have won so true and
charming a /iancee/”
“ Ah, how cruel you are I” she cried. “ Will
you not have some pity ? Will you not remem
ber bow young I was, and how poor ? Anything
seemed better than my home-life, with its com
parative poverty; only when I came here and
knew you ”
“ And discovered that Wolfingham Abbey and
its revenues were even a better prize than that
you had won,” ho interpolated, with a fierce
bitterness in voice and look.
“It was not that, it was not that 1” she wail
*ed. “If you had been poor ”
Again the harsh laughter broke the stillness;
Madge, hearing it, loosed the feeble clasp of
her hands and fell back trembling against the
balustrade, leaning against it as she let
her miserable anguished eyes meet his. And,
meeting them, she knew that it was all over,
that she had lost his love for ever, that hence
forward she would know only his contempt, his
scorn, that she had lied in vain, that further
humiliation would be equally fruitless, yet.
reading this but too clearly, she could not lose
him thus without another effort.
“ \\ ill you not even forgive me ?” she said,
raising her pathetic eyes to his face with infi
nite entreaty, infinite pleading in their lustrous
depths. “My fault was great, but not greater
than my repentance. I know that I deserve
your contempt, your hatred; I know that I
have been false, cowardly, vile—that I wronged
you; yet will you not forgive ?”
“Forgive!” he echoed bitterly. “Of what
avail would my forgiveness be ? Would it give
you back the honor and truth you forfeited ?”
“ You will not even forgive i” she moaned
again. “ And you said you loved me ?”
“ Loved you ! I did more than love you—l
believed in you, I Vested you.”
Thera were unutterable passion and scorn in
his voice—not one touch of relenting, not one
toueh of pity; it seemed to Alick Wolfe that
every spark of the mad love he had felt for her
had died out, quenched by her falsehood, by
her treachery.
“It served me right,” he thought. “ I set
up an idol to worship; 1 might have known that
it was but of clay 1”
The experience was very bitter; the last
month had been eo happy—happy with a happi
ness new and strange and sweet in his pleasure
seeking, roving life ! It was hard to give it up
and go back to the old emptiness,hard to lose all
the sweetness which had made life so pleasant a
thing lately—bitterly hard; and yet he did not
hesitate—not for a moment. She had lied to
him, she had betrayed him; and the other man
who loved and trusted her as he had done—
she could never be anything to him in the
future. But she was so beautiful—and even
now her beauty filled him with a passionate
f longing difficult to suppress. The supple,,
i graceful figure, the lustrous eyes, the clear
skin, the ruddy lips—how could he give them
i up now when lie had thought to possess them
i for his own ? Yet how could he touch her lips
, when he knew them to be false, when he knew
r that they bad suffered othhr kisses than his ?
L How could he be sure that it would not be so
j again ?
“phalli take you back to tho house?” he
NEW YORK DISPATCH. JANUARY 3, 1886.
i asked coldly, breaking the silence which had
I lasted since his last bitter speech; and the
I girl shuddered and stood erect, as if his words
had galvani ed her into life.
“ How can I,” she moaned—“ how can I go
back now ?”
“ You are a good actress,” he replied calmly;
“ surely your histrionic powers will not fail
you 1”
“Ah, you are cruel !” she cried faintly.
“Cruel to you, when you have broken my
heart and ruined my life ! It becomes you to
talk*of cruelty,” he retorted, with a bitter
laugh. “ Cruel! Why, the one hope, the one
desire of my future life will ba that 1 may never
see you again I”
She uttered a cry of pain, and lijted up her
hand as if to ward off a blow; then, without a
word, she walked beside him into the conserva
tory.
It. was still empty; supper was not yet over;
.the musicians were playing softly. Madge sunk
’down wearily on the nearest chair.
“ Let. me stay here,” she said, faintly; “I am
not well.”
Without a word, without a glance at her, he
turned and loft her, and without a word or cry
she let him go, but sat there shiver ng as if with
cold, drawing her white cloak round her, as
Cinderella, fleeing from the king’s palace, might
have drawn hor rags around her iu the chill
blast of the wintry wind.
CHAPTER V.
“too late.”
Tho gray dawn of the October morning was
just breaking in the east when a sloopy maid
servant knocked at Madge Lockhart’s door with
a look ot mingled dismay and sympathy on her
face.
“It’s not two hours since she went to bed,”
tho girl muttered, as she stood waiting for her
summons to be answered. “It’s too bad to
have to waken her up; and she was that tired
last night that she could hardly drag herself
up-stairs. Why, Miss Lockhart* I do believe
you have not been to bed at all !” she exclaimed,
as tho door was opened, and Madge, with pale
cheeks and hollow eyes, appeared on the thres
hold.
“ What is it?” she asked, with a faint, tune
less laugh. “We came homo so late that it was
hardly worth while going to bed.”
“Aud you’ve not been to sleep at all?’’ the
maid eaid, gently, pitying the look in the wide,
desolate eyes, and fearing the effect of the tid
ings she had to bring.
“ I don't think I have,” Madge responded,
putting her cold fingers on her aching eyes for
a moment; “I was too excited, I suppose. But
what do you want with me, Susan?”
“ It’s a telegram, miss,” the maid answered.
“A man on horseback has just brought it from
tho village. It was important, Im said, and
thought you’d better have it at once.”
“ A telegram !”
Madge caught it in her trembl'ng hands, her
heavy eyes eager enough now, her lips quiver
ing ominously. The arrival of a telegram was
an important event in Madge’s life, and her fin
gers were so unsteady that for a moment she
was utterly incapable of opening the envelope,
and Susan, with a consideration not so rare in
her class as it is supposed to be, turned away
and busied herself about the room.
“ Susan !”
The girl started and turned with an exclama
tion of surprise. Madge was standing beside
her with a terrible look on her face.
“Susan,” tho harsh voice repeated, “will
you read it, please ? I—l-there is something
wrong with my eyes, I think, for I cannot
see i”
The servant took the telegram in silence,
with a glance of sympathy at the trembling lit
tle figure and piteous, pale face ; but, as she
read the message to herself, tho pity deepened
into pain. .
“ Can’t yon read it. Susan?” Madge asked in
a hollow whisper. “Is there something tho
matter with your eyes too?”
“No, Miss Lockhart; but ”
The girl hesitated.
“But you are a raid to read it to me,” Madge
whispered, swaying slightly as she spoke.
“Then I read it correctly, I think. Does it say
that if I—oh, road it again !” she cried hoarsely.
“Let me understand it, for pity's sake !”
“It says just this, Miss Lockhart: ‘lf you
svaut to see Phil alive, come at once.’ Ab !’’
She dropped the telegram and caught the
young girl as she swayed suddenly backward.”
“No, no!” Madge cried breathlessly, strug
gling against her faintness. “lam not ill—l
won't faint. Det me go! Oh, Phil—oh, Phil !”
Her head drooped for a moment on tho arm
which bold her; then, with a desperate effort,
tho unhappy girl rallied and shook off her faint
ness.
“ I shall not be long,” she said, with a pathet
ic intonation in the sweet girlish voice which
brought tears into the maid's eyes. “Susan,
will you ask if I can have a carriage to go to the
station, and what time the train leaves?”
As she spoke, she was hurriedly removing her
ball-dress with trembling fingers, heedless of
the damage she was doing to the delicate lace
on the bodice and sleeves, and when she had
taken off the costly gown the flung it carelessly
from her; the very sight of it was hateful to her
now, she thought. All was forgotten but her
brother's illness. Her sorrow lor him was great
enough to exclude all other thoughts. An hour
before she had grieved sorely for the love she
had lost, the position and wealth so near her
reach which had eluded her grasp, all the beau
tiful and costly things which she had hoped to
possess, and which would never be hers now.
But now that grief was as if it had never been;
all was forgotten but her brother’s danger, all
was merged in her intense anxiety to get to him
with all speed.
“1 must take the first train possible,” she
said hurriedly, donning her serge dress with
feverish haste. “There is no need to trouble
Lady Wolfe or—or Sir Alick, Susan; I can go
alone, and I am sure I can have a carriage to go
to the station.”
“Sir Alick did not come homelast night, Miss
Lockhart,” Susan said, assisting her as much as
she could. “Did you not know that he drove
back to Vavasour Castle with Lord Vavasour?”
“ I thought he was in another carriage,” tho
girl answered faintly. “ Thank you, Susan. I
can do the rest now, if you will see if I can
start at ouce.”
“Tho train leaves at &15,” the woman said.
“ I will got you some breakfast, miss—there is
plenty of time. You shall catch the first train,
Miss Lock hart.’
Left alone, Madge completed her toilet and
then sat down wearily to wait for Susan's re
turn. The daylight * grew in the east dim
and gray; a chill, dreary wind moaned
among the sere and yellow leaves of the trees,
and Madge shivered as its sound reached her.
She felt dazed and bewildered in her misery ;
she scarcely knew where she was or what had
happened ; she only felt the intolerable oppres
sion of the weight upon her heart.
Then, slowly, full consciousness returned to
her, and she sprang up feveriehly, and began to
pace the room with swift, uncertain steps.
Philip ill, very ill, dying, and she not with him ?
Could it be true? Could it be possible? Phil,
her only friend—Phil, who had been so good to
her! Dying! Ah, no. no—there must be some
mistake I If he were ill, they would have writ
ten to her be'ore now. Strong young men did
not die suddenly without
Like a flash of lightning, the truth came upon
her. For days now she had had no letter from
Philip, and Frank White’s letters she had put
aside unread, when they might have told her
all, have warned her of Phil’s illness, have sum
moned her to his side to nurse him, to win him
back to life and health by her care ! And now,
though she went to her desk and took out the
three sealed letters, she dared not open them,
she could not force her fingers to open them
and, even if she had, her dim eyes could not
have read them. She would read them pres
ently, she thought, slipping them into the pock
et of her dress, and then restlessly recom
menced pacing up and down the room.
She remembered afterward, although barely
conscious of them at the time, Susan’s kindness
and gentle care of her, and her entreaties that
Madge would drink the cup of strong tea which
she brought her; and how she tried to drink it,
and it seemed as if it would choke her;'and
then the long drive to the station, which all Su
san’s wraps could not prevent from being cold
and comfortless, and the empty compartment in
which she felt so lonely and desolate, as the
train left the station, and she realized that she
was on her way to Phil.
It was a dreary day for traveling, cold and
foggy and gray, but it was all the more in har
mony with Madge’s mood, as she leaned back
in her corner and looked out of the window
with wide sad eyes which heeded nothing, and
which, during all that long journey, never knew
the relief of tears; she had wept all her tears,
the girl thought bitterly, daring those night*
hours which had preceded that terrible dawn.
It was easy to weep over such a grief as the loss
of Sir Alick Wolfe’s love, but this new trouble
was so immeasurably greater, it was past weep
ing for.
Mid-way on the journey she recalled the let
ters which were still unopened in her pocket,
and, taking them out, read them in their order.
They were brief notes, very unlike Frank’s
usual letters, which were lengthy, very full ot
endearing epithets, and rather rhapsodical.
The first told her that Phil was not very well
he had taken a feverish cold, and was going to
keep quiet for a day or two, but she was not to
be alarmed or hurry back. The second was
graver in tone. Phil was no better, but his
great anxiety was that Madge should not be
alarmed or distressed; Frank was with him.
and ho had every care. But with the third note
Philip had evidently nothing to do; it was
short, and almost incoherent. Phil was very ill,
tho feverish attack had proved to be typhoid
fever in a severe form : lie did not wish to send
for Madge, Frank knew, but ho would be glad if
she camo.
Oh, what agonies of self-reproach the girl
suffered as she read tho few simple lines Frank
White had written from his friend’s bedsido!
How she loathed herself ! How unworthy
she seemed of the tenderness her brother
had always lavished upon her ! She had been
so heedless of him that when he had not writ
ten for days she had thought nothing of his si
lence, had laughed and enjoyed every hour,
while he her brother, her dearest and Lest, lay
dying!
*Tbe fog hung thick and heavy over the great
city as the train glided into the busy station, and
Madge scarcely waited for the train to stop be
fore she sprang out upon the platform, looking
eagerly with wild dry eyes for a familiar face,
and seeing none. Frank had not come to meet
her—surely that was a good sign ! If Phil had
been—if Phil had no longer needed him he
would have come ! A faint gleam of hope dawned
in her aching heart. Phil would get better;
aho would uuibo him so tenderly, so ceaseless-
ly, that he could not fail to get well, and she
would never leave him again—never for a day,
au hour!
Oh, how long the drive home was, how the
cab crept through the mist, how the tortured
heart of the lonely girl ached as she sat strug
gling with her fierce impatience, so helpless,
almost desperate in her anxiety !
At last the familiar East-end square was
reached, aud Madge stood on the steps of the
corner house, over the door of which the red
lamp burned. The door was open and she went
in. The gas was burning in tho passage and in
the sitting-room, but both were empty. A great
stillness pervaded the house. Madge eat down
for a moment, trembling in every limb; then,
with a great effort mustering all her courage,
she rose aud began to climb the stairs. As she
reached the landing a door—the door of her
brother’s room—opened, and Frank White came
out. He looked worn and pale and haggard,
and he started violently at sight of her.
“Madge,” he said, and even in his surprise
his voice was not raised above a whisper, while
the girl’s heart sank with a terrible fear as, with
wide, questioning eyes, she stood looking at him
in the dim lamplight. “ You have come at last,”
ho added, with an irrepressible touch of bitter
ness, wrung from him ny the recollection of the
dying eyes which had looked in vain for one
loved form, of the face which lay upon the pil
lo’ws calm, responseleas, peaceful—oh, so peace
ful now, all its longing over I
“Yes,” she answered faintly, loaning heavily
against the wooden baluster in her anguish. “I
did not know ”
Her strength was failing her now. In mute
entreaty she looked at her lover, her great pa
thetic eyes fixed upon his face, which'seemed to
fade aud grow misty as she looked.
“ He does not need you now,” the young man
said simply, with a break in his kindly voice.
“ You are too late; Madge.”
“'l oo late Madge whispered, a great dark
ness coming down upon her, a sound as of rush
ing waters in her ears, and Frank caught her as
she fell.
CHAPTER VI.
“ I KNEW IT WAS USELESS TO LIE AGAIN.”
“ I wish you would lot Addie or Julia come
and stay with you,” Frank White said, in a
pained, almost impatient tone, aa he paced up
and down the shabby sitting-room. “ You will
not come to us and you ought not to be here
alone.”
“ Addie or Julia here !” Madge Lockhart ex
claimed, with a dreary little laugh, as her sad
eyes conjured up tho vision of Adelaide or Julia
White’s tail, buxom form, elaborate toilettes aud
sweeping trams in the dingy house. “ How well
they would harmonize with my surroundings,
would they not?”
“ What does that matter?” the young man
returned, impatiently. “I am sure they would
be glad to come if you woo d have them. You
ought not to be here alone.”
The girl’s brown eyes, so full o; unspeakable
sadness, wont slowly from his faco to the red
glow ot the coal-lire in the grate. Not alone!
Would not the rest of her life be passed alone
now ?
A week had elapsed since that cheerless,
foggy day, when Philip Lockhart was laid to
rest in a cemetery on the outskirts o. the great
city where he had labored and died —a week
since Madge and Frank White had followed
him to his last resting place. They were not
the only mourners who had stood by that deso
late grave. A few stern, worn-looking men wore
there, paying a last tribute of respect to one
who had labored among them and given of his
skill and care, without sparing himself, to alle
viate their suffering; a few poor women, some
carrying children, whose lises he bad been in
strumental in saving, had wept when they saw
the clay thrown over tho grave of the cheery,
kind young doctor, who had sympathized with
them and cheered them with kind words in the
timeo. troub e. They, had wept and the tears
bad stood thickly in Frank’s eyes; but Madge
herself Lad not shed a tear—she had stood pale
and rigid, with a terrible despair in her aching
eyes.
And now, as the days went by, she preserved
the same composure, or rather the same in
sensibility distinguished her. There was not a
trace of the usual grace in hor movements;
even the marble-white face seemed to have no
likeness to the lovely, laughing countenance
which had looked out from the train so short a
time before; only her eyes had any expression—
and the look ot blank, terrible despair in their
depths was awlul to see. Any passion of grief,
any rain of tears would have been better, Frank
thought, than this frightful insensibility to all
outward things.
“ You ought not to be here alone,” the young
man repeated, with impatient pain in his tone,
tender as it was. “You want a woman’s care
and tenderness ! I feel so horribly helpless,
Madgie I ’
“There is no one in all the world whom I am
so glad to have with me as you,” she said, turn
ing to him with a faint, lorced smile. “He
loved you, Frank, and you were so good to
him when I '
Her voice failed her and the words died
away on her lips—the poor, pale, pinched lips
which had lost their smiles and their color.
“ You must not blame yourself, dear,” Frank
said, gently, sitting down beside her and taking
one slim, cold, passive hand in his, “He did
not wish me even to let you know that he was
ill; he was afraid of the infection for you, and
he was so often unconscious that he did not
miss you. He was glad you were happy and
en oying yourself, and ”
“Don’t,” she cried out, suddenly, with keen
pain in her husky voice—“don’t remind me
how good he was and how selfish I was ! How
could I stay there happy, unconscious of his
suffering? How could I not know that he
needed me ? Was there nothing to toll me—
nothing ”
“Dear, I wrote to you,” the young man in
terrupted, gently.
“ Yes,” she responded, bitterly. “But I road
your letters only when it was too late.”
“How was that, Madgie? Had you not
time ?” he asked.
“ No,” she replied, with another bitter laugh.
“I had not time.”
There was a short silence; tho rain, falling
heavily, pattered against the windows, making
a dreary, melancholy sound. Madge took her
hand irom his clasp with a petulant little move
ment.
“ I wish it would cease raining,’ she went on
pettishly. “It seems to beat against my head;
it pains me.”
“Boor little woman I” he said, sorrowfully.
“ I wish I knew how to help you.”
“No one can help me !” she cried out, smit
ing her hands together with sudden passion.
“ Oh, why was Phil taken and I left here
alone ?”
“ Not alone, darling,” Frank corrected fond
ly, trying to possess himself of her hand; but
she pushed his away and turned from him.
“My mother is coming to see you to-morrow,”
he continued, alter a brief pause, not heeding
the impatient gesture, which had hurt him
cruelly, nevertheless. “She has been so sorry
that her cold kept her at home and made her
■ seem neglectful of you, Madgie.”
“ She is very kind, but”—rising abruptly and
moving from him—“she must not come, Frank;
your mother must not come here.”
“ Why not?” he asked, forcing a faint smile.
“She and my father are anxious to show you
all kindness, dear, and I shall be glad to see
you under their care until I take you into my
own, to love and cherish as woman was never
loved yet.”
“ Wait!” she said, hurriedly, almost breath
lessly. “Don’t say any more, Frank. Your
words hurt me--oh, how they hurt me’’’she
added, with an intensely pathetic gesture,
pressing her hands to her breast.
“Why should they, darling? You know I
love you; you know -for I have told you - how
pleased Phil was to leave you in my care.”
“ 1 know,” she responded, in a faint, despair
ing tone—“l know it made him glad;
me so many times. And that makes remorse
all the greater.”
“ lour remorse !” he exclaimed, trying to
take her hands in his. “That is a strange
word, darling.”
“No--don’t touch me I” she whispered,
hoarsely and breathlessly. “Don’t toueh me;
wait—l have something-to—tell you.”
She had been pale before; but, as the words
passed her lips, her face grew even paler, and
the slender, drooping figure swayed forward
slightly. He advanced to her assistance, but
she shrank from him, leaning heavily against
tho round table in the centre of the room.
“ Wait I” she repeated, in a voice which was
almost inaudible, looking at him with despair
ing eyes.
A lew minutes passed in silence. Startled
by her manner, Frank looked at her anxiously,
while the girl stood pale and trembling, sup
porting herself against the table, trying to find
strength and courage to tell him, to put away
Irom her the only good her life held now.
“ Why distress yourself so terribly ?” he
asked, gently. “Never mind, Madgie. Is it
anything very important?”
“It is something you must know,” she an
swered, faintly. “Oh, Frank, help me—let me
tell you all and then forgive me if you can !”
“ Ah!”
The exclamation broke from him involun
tarily—something of the truth began to dawn
upon him. He grew very pale and drew back
slightly.
“ Ah,” she repeated, passionately, “ you
know now • You guess—you know what a vile
creature I am—bow basely I have betrayed
your trust in me I”
“ Do you mean to tell me that you care for
some one else?” he asked, simply and pathetic
ally. “ Surely not I Madge, tell me anything
but that 1”
There was no mistaking the suffering in his
voice, even though he strove to conceal it from
her. The girl shivered aa she hoard it.
“Yet that is what I must tell you,” she re
turned, mournfully.
“ That you care for some other man ! You,
Madge Lockhart, my future wile 1” he cried,
with sudden, fierce bitterness.
“Yes, II”
There was a short but terrible silence,
Madge stood leaning heavily against the table
pale and agitated. Frank, opposite to her, was
breathing heavily, like a man in deadly pain.
“It you will let me, I will tell you all,” she
continued, forcing herself to speak by a strong
effort. “It is not a very creditable story, but
you shall know the worst of me at once. When
you asked me to be your wife, I consented, for
two reasons. He”—the strained, husky voice
faltered and failed her for a moment—“ he
wished it, and I was so weary of my life here,
so worn out with the struggle with poverty, that
I was glad. I knew that I did not love you,
but I liked you—very much—better than ‘any
one—and you were rich and an only sou and I
longed lox weaiy**”
He raised his hand with a deprecating ges
ture, but she did not heed it; she went on in
the same mechanical manner, halting, as it
were, between every word.
“At Wolfingham Abbey I met another man,
richer than you and his own master,” she said,
“and ”
“ And you are going to jilt me for a richer
suitor?” he exclaimed,Bitterly.
“Do you think ho would let me?” she an
swered, with equal bitterness. “He did like
me—nay, for a tew brief moments I was mad
enough to think he loved me; and—oh, merci
ful Heaven—how happy I was then. I forgot
everything when he held mo in his arms I I
forgot my honor, my pledge to you, your good
ness, your trust. 1 forgot even his wealth then
—oh, Frank, forgive me !”
“ You do not spare me,” he said, hoarsely,
without looking at her. “Go on; let me know
what I have to forgive.”
“My happiness was ot brief duration,” she
resumed, feebly. “It lasted only a few min
utes, Frank. 1 let fall a letter addressed to
you, and he asked me what you wore to me.”
“ And you said ”
“That you were an old friends of ours—of
Philip’s and mine -and nothing more.”
“And he believed you?” he asked, con
temptuously.
“ aes; but my lie was of no avail. That very
night—the night before your telegram came—
we were at a ball, and Julia, your sister, was
there. I did not know that she was in the
neighborhood; if 1 had known, I should not
have let them meet. But,” she went on faintly,
disregarding his scornful laughter, “ they met,
and Julia told him that we were engaged, and,
when he asked mo if it was true, I knew it was
useless to lie agfain.”
Her voice failed her completely now; the
thought ot that interview on the moonlit ter
race was terrible to her, keen and painlui as a
freshly-opened wound. A spasm of pain con
vulsed her features for a moment, her eyes
were dim and misty, her head fell forward
heavily on her breast.
Frank had covered his face with his hands,
and stood leaning against the mantelpiece silent
and motionless.
For some minutes not a sound broke the
stillness in the little room. Twice Madge tried
to speak: the oppression and stillness were ter
rible to hor, and she felt as it both strength and
senses were leaving her. She was shamed, hu
miliated, pained; she dreaded, yet longed, to
meet Frank’s eyes and hear his voice.
“Frank,” she whispered at last—“oh, Frank,
speak to me ! Won’t you try to forgive me ?’
Frank raised bis head and turned to her, his
comedy yet somewhat commonplace counten
ance altered and ennobled by the suffering he
could not conceal.
“ I need not try, Madge,” he replied gently,
in a low, husky voice. “If I have anything to
forgive, it is iully and freely forgiven. 1 was
most to blame-you were so young. Be very
happy, dear,” the young man went on kindly,
stretching out his trembling hand to her, “with
the lover whom you love.”
A shrill, terrible laugh broke irom Madge
Lockhart’s white lips and rang through the
room.
‘‘With my lover,’ she cried, scornfully —
“with the man whose one wish is never to see
me again, who would not give me one word of
forgiveness, who, if I were dying at his feet,
would not stoop to make the death-pangs less
bard ! Oh, Frank, you have shown me only too
plainly that he never loved mo ! What was his
wrong to yours ? And you have forgiven me.
Frank, if you will, I am ready to ful.il my en
gagement to you !”
bhe spoke in desperate earnest, meaning in
all truth every word she said, and waited trem
bling for his answer. Even she herself hardly
knew’ what tho words cost her, or how terrible
such a prospect seemed. To marry one man
when all her love was given to another! It
would be easier to die—yet she v;as ready.
“Do you think I will accept such a sacrifice
at your hands, Madge? No, dear—a happier
fate is in store lor you.”
“The only fate in store for mo is slow starva
tion ! she cried bitterly. “I shall never see
him again, Frank ! You may trust me, or rath
er you may trust him. He will never look on
mo or speak to me again.”
“ And even now, loving him, you would be
my wife ? Poor Madgie !”
There were tears in bis eyes as they rested on
her, there was only tenderest pity in his heart.
The love which had awakened no return ia hor
heart was nobler, less unselfish, truer than the
love for which she would have given her life.
“If you will have me, I will boa good wife to
you, Frank,” she said, raising her eyes .steadily
to his. “Try to think that 1 had loved some
one else, and that he is dead—lor indeed he is
dead to me!”
She was tempting him sorely, for he loved her
with a great love. She was so friendless, so ter
ribly alone ; she needed the care and protection
which none but a husband could give ; and, ns
it was he was powerless to help her -he could
not even be her friend. If he married her, he
could keep poverty from her ; yet did he love
her so little as to put all chance of happier
things out oi her reach ?
“ I am old-fashioned enough to want my wife
to care lor me,” he responded, forcing a smile.
“ And I love you too much to sacrifice your hap
piness to mine, Madge. You will let me be your
brother, dear. Not that 1 can ever hope to re
place the one you have lost; but oven he would
not be more faithful to you than I shall be?’
“It would bo no sacrifice,” she said reckless
ly. “I am homeless and friendless. You can
give me both homo and friends, and I am wil
ling to pay the price for them.”
“ You will not lose your friend because of
this,” he said huskily. “ You offer too high a
price, dear. Have you thought what iXjmust be
to give up your life and liberty for eveY'to a man
whom you like pretty well perhaps, but whom
that very liking precludes all thought of loving?
Y’ou would be miserable, Madge, and I doubly
so! What do you take me for?” he went on,
with sudden passion. “For a stock or a stone,
without heart or feeling or mind ? Of course I
will not marry you to break your heart and my
own I Let me go now ; I have borne enough
to-day —I can bear no more I” He went hastily
across the room to the door, but, as he reached
it, he paused, and, coming back to her, held out
his hand. “ Good-bye, Madge !” he said more
gently. “I will see you to-morrow.”
The girl put her slim cold hand into his with
out looking at him.
“You are not angry?” she asked faintly.
“ Angry ?” he repeated. “ No, I am not an
gry, Madge and he dropped her hand and left
her. And Cinderella had lost both her lovers.
(To be OontinuedJ
HUMOR OF THTiIOUR.
BY THE DETROIT FREE_PRES3 FIEND.
A WARM WAVE.
“I’m looking for No. —,” said a bill-collector
to a pedestrian on Grand River avenue the other
day.
“ Got a bill, I suppose ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“ Well, that number is two blocks further up,
and I can save you the trouble of walking.”
“Family moved?”
“Oh, no; but I’m the party you want, and I
can’t pay the bill Please don’t go and ring the
bell, for my wife has just gone to bed with the
sick headache and you’ll disturb her. Fine
weather for Winter, isn’t it ?”
And he lighted a twenty-cent cigar, took a
new grip on his gold-headed cane, and smiling
ly wrenched himself away to pursue his walk.
WANTED A CIVIL ANSWER.
“ What is this about the President’s mes
sage ?” he confidentially asked of a man occu
pying a window-sill in the post-office corridor.
r “ Why, the President lias written a message.”
“He has, eh? Writes a purty good hand, 1
suppose ? Who got the message ?”
“It was sent to Congress.”
“Exactly. That was purty white in the Presi
dent. eh ? I’ll be hanged if I would do it unless
they paid me purty well. What did Congress
want of the message?”
“ Why, don t you know what the President’s
message is !” exclaimed the man.
“Of course Ido ! Haven’t I been Overseer
of Highways in my town for the last thirteen
years ? You needn’t snap a man’s head off be
cause he asks a civil question ! Was the mes
sage in poetry ?”
“Did you ever see a I lenl’s message in
poetry.”
“No, sir, but I don’t claim to have seen the
hull earth ! The message hasn’t anything to
do with a play, has it ?”
“ See here—you go home ! You don’t know
enough to pound sand 1”
“You’re a liar I” was the prompt response.
“ I come up to you in a gentlemanly way and
ask a civil question, and you tiy mad and abuse
me! You are no gentleman, sir 1 I didn’t
know but the message was to be dramatized.”
“ Well, did I ever !”
“ There you go again ’ Seems as if you don’t
know ’nuff to answer a civil question ! I’ll bet
a bushel of’taters to a cent that you don’t know
nothing about tho message yourself!”
“I won’t talk with you !”
“Neither will I talk with you ! You go your
way and I’ll go mine, but don’t you try to bluff
nor bulldoze me any more, or I’ll crack your
heels agin the ceiling ! I know what the Presi
dent’s message is just as well as you do, and
don’t you dare feel yourself higher’n 1 am I”
HE ISN’T THERE NOW.
One of those friendly, good-natured fellows,
whom you don’t wish to offend, aud yet whom
you detest because they bore you. attached him
self to a Detroit insurance agent some months
ago. He was not only asking lor a loan every
few days, with no idea of ever paying it back,
but he spent several hours each day at the of
fice, and became in time so much at home that
he used the office stationery and stamps and
tendered his advice on all important matters.
The other day he was asked to mind the office
while the agent went out,and he had just opened
a new box of cigars to have a smoke when a
stranger entered and brusquely said :
“See here, Blank, I want that money.”
“You’ll have to call again,” replied the bore,
as he looked up from his newspaper.
“I’ll be blanked if I do! That money was
due a month ago, and I won’t be put off any
longer!”
“ Come in at 11 o’clock !”
“ I won’t do it!”
“ Um ! Well, Blank isn’t in, as you see.”
“ You are a liar ! You are Blank, or else I’m
blind, and I think my eyes are good yet! Come
down!”
“ Really, sir, but .”
“ C-o-m-e down !”
“ But, sir
The stranger reached out for the bore and
flopped him on the floor. Then he jerked him
to hU leot and slammed him over a table. Then
he shook him until both suspenders gave way
and the pegs in his boots were loosened. Then
he jammed his head through the map of Michi
gan and kicked him with a boot manufactured
in Michigan and finally flung him in a heap and
walked out with the remark:
“ I’ll repeat that dose every day in the future
until you pay that bill!”
The bore doesn’t hang out in that office any
more. When the agent returned and found
him lying half dead on a box of ink-blotters
and fire insurance statistics he didn’t seem to
extend the sympathy demanded by the oc
casion. Indeed, his cold and unfeeling con
duct rather led the bore to suspect that a cold
blooded plot had been laid to deprive him of
hia valuable life.
I'ew yews.
BY ETTIE ROGERS.
“What a ridiculous’ paragraph I” Aurora
Hartzells murmured as she impatiently tossed
the paper down upon the cab seat beside her.
It was a copy ot a provincial sheet which
chronicled the daily doings of the littlp town to
which she had just arrived, and also the pre
sumed doings of the greater and less familiar
world beyond, and what she had just perused
was not particularly gratifying to her, evidently.
“ We have learned from" what we think a re
liable surce,” she read, as she again took up
the paper and shrugged her handsome should
ers with vexation over the offending paragraph
—“ that the songstress, Aurora Hartzelle, has
latterly met with a series of painful reverses.
All her proceeds from her career as a public
singer seem to have been swallowed up in the
insolvency of a well-known firm of bankers,
and her voice has entirerly failed her. It is said
too, her accumulated misfortunes have been the
causes of breaking a marriage engagement be
tween her and a certain wealthy young gentle
man of the city.”
“Could anything be more annoying ?-or
more painfully provoking ?” she murmured as
she again flung the shoot aside, nnd glan ed
with suddenly changed interest from the win
dow of the cab, which at the moment had
stopped before a rusty iron gate opening into
the inclosure of a dingy farm-house.'
As she alighted from the cab she paused ab
ruptly, as if checked by some heretofore uncon
templated possibility.
“ Perhaps I may need you to drive me back, if
you do not mind waiting a half hour,” she said
to the driver.
“No, mum; I don’t mind, not at all,” that indi
vidual obsequiosly answered as he dexterously
jerked a blanket over his bony horse, drew hia
head turtle-like, within the immense collar of
his lengthy coat, thrust his hands in his capa
cious pockets, and began a brisk tattoo with his
stout heels—alter the fashion ol his fraternity in
similar circumstances!
Aurora sighed unconsciously as she went up
the narrow graveled walk to the dingy larm
houae, set in a gray treeless lawn with a gnarly
orchard on one side and on the other a ragged
field of bleak corn stubble.
Five years had elapsed since she last trod
that familiar pathway, since she had left the
home ot her only relative and gone forth to live
her life in her own way.
She had been ambitious perhaps—this slim
girl with a face like a flower and with the voice
ol a thrush, her heart was ever thirsting and
hungering for something “ better than she had
known, ” or would have been likely to know
within the walls of the not particularly cheery
residence toward which she was now slowly
walking. These five years had not been profit
less; she bad attained much, and she had noth
thing to regret, even it doubt and difficulty had
o ccasionally beset her, and even if she must
be now and then made the target of some
odious scribbler, and the subject ol a paragraph
too provokingly sensational 1
, And new she was coming home for her New
Year’s ! And her soft cheeks flushed, her dark
eyes sparkled with eager feeling, as she once
more neared the familiar threshold.
“I wonder will they be glad to have me
back?” she thought as she tapped blithely upon
the porch door, which was presently opened by
a personage whose aspect was like that ot the
place itself—wintry, forbidding, and puritanic
ally severe.
“ I have come home, Lew,” she said simply,
with a little quaver in her eager voice.
“ Well, Rory, we always somewhat reckoned
you would. Guessing how matters would end
with you waa mighty easy, Rory,” he returned,
with more indifference than hospitalisy.
“ You guessed I should have reverses?” she
queried, as she followed him into the primly
iurnished sitting-room and took an unofi’ered
chair.
“ Well, we always kept pretty good track of
your doings, Bory,” he said in his level, meas
ured, frosty tones. “We heard you made some
money, though honest country folks aren’t like
ly to believe you earned many thousand dollars
singing, even if you did spend your share of the
farm learning things in foreign countries. We
heard, too, you put money in bonds or some
thing which aren’t worth waste paper, cent lor a
pound, and that I reckon may be the truth,
judging by your coming back here.”
“1 thought you would like to have me here
again for a New Year’s,” she responded with a
choking sound in her voice, and in her large
eyes a look which would have been of pain had
there not been, too, a swift gleam of something
not unlike amusement.
“ We heard too about your voice not being the
right sort any more, and about nobody wanting
you in concerts and such,” continued her broth
er, ignoring her response.
“Perhaps 1 may need only a fAw months of
rest and quiet,” she remarked, with a manner
which had become dignified and non-committal.
“Well, I am sorry for you, Rory,” he re
sumed with nothing especially suggestive of
sorrow either in his wintry accents or his for
bidding countenance. “You can stop here a
night or two, I reckon-not that I can afford you
anything very fine or merry, as may be you are
used to having. I haven’t fatted calves for prod
igals who squander their own substance, though
I couldn't be uncharitable and deny you a bite
and a sup at my table for once, you know.”
“ I thank you,” Aurora said rather hurriedly,
as she arose and moved toward the door.
But he was there before her, and he stretched
an arbitrary hand detainingly toward the knob.
Evidently ho intended to vouchsafe her one
more assurance of his immense brotherly sym
pathy.
“There was a young man,” he pursued in
quisitively, “ a very rich young man, who was
always dangling around alter you. What has
become of him, Bory ?”
With a start of sudden unreflecting pain, but
with a gesture, too, of dignified resentment,
Aurora pushed her dainty tulle vail away from
her handsome, flushed face, and turned the in
dignant splendor of her proud dark eyes upon
him.
“If any possible reverses of mine could
change Mr. Godfrey or his regard for me, I
should instantly bog him to consider our be
trothal canceled,” she said, with spirit.
“ But that would not be a sensible thing to
do, Rory,” he said with pious disapproval ot
such a wicked and idiotic procedure. “ And
you might have kept the bad luck to yourself
until after you bad him yuur husband fast and
tight. But I reckon he would never have cared
to marry you ; he flattered and feasted you,
maybe, but he never exactly wanted for his wile
a girl who left her own honest kin to go singing
in strange city play-houses. lam afraid, Rory,
you have learned to prevaricate ‘. I am afraid
you have pursued ways which are dark in your
longing and chasing alter the vainglories of a
world which passeth away. But lam mightily
sorry for you, Rory, and if you would like some
thing—a glass ot buttermilk, or anything—afore
you start, I don’t begrudge you,” he added as
he stepped stiffly back from the door and so
permitted her egress.
With some incoherent utterance she declined
his munificent offer. Then, with a little shiver,
she drew her traveling cloak more closely about
her, tripped quickly down the low porch steps,
and in another moment she was gone.
“ She expected to stay quite a spell, I calcu
late,” the generous brother muttered as he
noted the modest traveling trunk which occu
pied a conspicuous niche on the seat beside the
cab-driver.
And as he stood there, indifferently regarding
the vehicle which was already rattling toward
the station and town, not a mile distant, he es
pied a juvenile pedestrian hastening obliquely
across the lawn toward him.
The boy was bringing to him the latest issue
of the provincial sheet, which had so unwitting
ly spoiled Aurora’s New Year’s home-coming.
And as he unfolded it and glahced over its fresh
columns, he directly uttered a grim ejacula
tion.
“ We feel called upon,” he read curiously,
“to correct a mistatement which appeared in
our issue of yesterday concerning a distin
guished young lady formerly of our town. And
we are happy to inform her many friends that
the gifted and honored Miss Hartzelle has met
with no reverses whatever ; her money is intact
and safe; her voice is as transcendent as ever ;
and there is no broken marriage engagement to
shadow a future which promises her brighter
laurels and additional wealth.”
Her worthy relative finished the perusal with
dilating eyes".
“I must overtake Rory and bring her back.
My bounden duty is to assert my brotherly
authority and keep her here with her own lov
ing kinfolks, eveu if she is so uppish and stub
born,” he muttered with an aspect of injury as
he invested his austere self in a top-coat and
strode up the frozen road toward the station.
Meanwhile, the bony horse and rattling cab
had stopped beside the platform and Aurora
had alighted to come face to face with an attrac
tive young gentleman who looked sadly trou
bled and yet ineffably gladdened as be beheld
her.
“Dick!” she said, with a little cry of sur
prise.
“Yes, it is Dick,” said ho, taking both her
hands and regarding her with tenderest sym
pathy. “There are distressing rumors about
your reverses, and I came alter you just as
quick as steam could fetch me.”
“ But ” she began, with her eyes lowered
and a tinge of hoi scarlet wavering in her
cheeks.
“There is no ‘but’ in the matter,” he inter
rupted, decisively. “In your misfortunes you
are but dearer to me; you are mine, and my
place is beside you.”
“But,” she began again, rather roguishly,
“ the rumors are ridiculous, and all wholly and
grossly untrue.”
Richard Godfrey stared for a second ; Aurora
blushed divinely ; and then both laughed gayly.
And just then a very erect and a very solemn
personage strode around an angle of the build
ing and approached her.
“Sister Rory,” her brother announced, with
unabashed confidence, “I reckoned a bit of
coaxing might keep you for a while with your
own loving kinfolks, and so 1 just followed you
to bring you back. You skipped away in such
a huff and hurry, I couldn’t get a chance to
tell you that you are welcome, Rory—welcome
as the happy New Year.”
“You had not got a chance yet to consult
your evening paper, I fancy, brother Lew,” she
answered, more perhaps in mischief than with
designed rebuke as she glanced significantly at
the betraying sheet which he had allowed to
protrude too prominently from a pocket of his
top-coat. “I am sorry I cannot return with
you, Lew ; but I have promised Mr. Godfrey
my company back to the city. However, per
haps sometime I may have the privilege of re
ciprocating your hospitality.
Her brother Lew was not eminently astute,
certainly, but he seemed to detect something
ironic behind tho quaint smile, and he looked
rather blank as ho turned solemnly away.
“ I calculate I shan’t give her a chance to
reciprocate my hospitality,” ho mentally
avowed.
And he never did ; nor did Aurora ever re
peat her experiment of going home for New
Year’s.
COME AHEAD ON THE ROCKET
Incidents Attending General Hovey’s
Expedition Up White River.
To this day survivors of General Hovey’s di
vision, Thirteenth Army Corps, love to recall
what is remembered as the White river expedi
tion, having for its objective point Duvall's
Bluff, Ark. The start was made from Helena,
via steamer, two gunboats leading the way, and
the trip up White river was more monotonous
than eventful. Both the Mississippi and White
rivers were at high tide, and the latter was out
of its banks in many places, while its narrow
channel, swift current and sharo heads made
navigation somewhat complicated for the larger
boats. The transports, or steamers, numbered
a dozen and more, following each other in reg
ular succession. The Eleventh Indiana was
quartered on tho “ Rocket,” a stern-wheeler,
with swift and powerful machinery, but she was
long and narrow, and in sweep’ng around soma
ot the sharp bends of White river she would
take a sheer on her pilot and plunge half her
length in the dense canebrakes before her
headway could be chocked.
This river can take the palm for crookedness,
even to this day, and a careful lookout w.is nec
essary to prevent collision with the preceding
boat, particularly when she had to stop and run
out a line to aid her in swinging around. Hence,
when the way was clear, the captain of
the advance boat would sing out, “ Come
ahead, on the ‘Rocket;’” and it wasn’t
long, until the regiment had picked
up tho cry and shouted it upon the slightest
pretext. The captain of the “ Rocket” was
a clever civilian, but tho pranks of the soldiers
nearly drove him wild, and sometimes, in sheer
desperation, he would stand and curse until
the Heavens were fairly blue. This only made
the situation the more grievous, and eventually,
day or night, hourly could be heard the cry,
“Come ahead on the ‘Rocket,’” which was
given with lusty voiees- on the slightest provoca
tion. Well, the expedition reached Duvall a
Bluff without special adventure, occupied it for
several days, and then returned down the river.
It was during tho occupation that the division,
more particularly the brigade embracing the
Eleventh Indiana, was exposed unsheltered
within twenty-four hours to a temperature rang
ing from mid-summer heat in early morning to
rain, sleet and snow, the latter falling to the
depth ot a foot and more before midnight.
The writer was on picket detail that afternoon
and night, and even to this day does not recall
his experience in that terrible exposure without
a shudder. The return trip varied but little
from the outgoing, save perhaps that the cap
tain of the “Rocket” was bedeviled until fairly
beside himself. Shortly before dark one even
ing, the Mississippi river was reached, and the
fleet was ordered to the banks for tho night.
The current of tho Mississippi was exceedingly
swift, and as the “ Rocket ” swept out of White
river and attempted to round to, her tiller-rope
slipped, the pilot nervously jerked the bell to
stop her, and that also broke, and so she
plunged against a government supply steamer,
tearing away its wheel and making a bad break
in its- hull, while the “ Rocket’s ” own flagstaff
came down, and her chimneys reeled as if de
termined to topple over. High above the crash
of the collision, however, there arose from
scores of throats a shout to “ Come ahead on
the ‘Rocket,’ ” and hardly had it died away be
fore the captain sprang in front of the Texas,
shaking his clenched fists and screaming at
the top of bis voice: “You blankety-blank,
blank d—n blank ! If she were on the brink of
hell, under a full head of steam, you blankety
blank d—n blank — — — — would shout,
‘Come ahead on the ‘Rocket!’” Whatever
else he said was drowned in a roar of laughter
of tremendous volume, so hearty and strong
that the captain forgot his rage and finally was
forced to join in the general glee.
There was one special incident on this trip
worthy of recall: Ono afternoon, after sweeping
around a bend, high banks were seen, on the
top of which was a small village of perhaps a
dozen or more houses, and in full view were a
score and more of women and girls, swinging
their aprons and bonnets as if waving a wel
come to the boys in blue. The soldiers on the
steamer ahead were new to Arkansaw, and
while the Eleventh was reaching for its guns
they threw aside their arms, and, springing to
their feet, wildly cheered the ladies. As their
boat came abreast, however, the ladies sud
denly disappeared, and in their stead up rose
half a hundred or more guerillas, who opened
on the steamer with buckshot and ball, doing
little execution, but stampeding the boys as if
a shell had hoisted them. Many slid down the
fenders to the deck below; some laid down ;
others kneeled and prayed as if their time had
come, while a few grabbed their guns and began
firing back. The incident, however, had been
observed by the gunboats ahead, and one or two
shells judiciously dropped, scattered the guer
illas, and permitted the steamer bearing the
Eleventh to pass unmolested. The regiment
attacked, if memory serves correctly, was Col.
Bringhurst’s, and it is said that its members
for months afterward never saw a woman wave
a scarf without at once standing to arms and
being too suspicious to return the salute.
No Mysterious Hieroglyphics.
To be Found Among the Signatures of
the Business Men of Chicago.
(From the Chicago Herald.)
“ Bad signatures ?” echoed the bank cashier,
as a reporter fired questions at him through the
little golden gate. “ Bad signatures ? We don’t
have any in Chicago, except what come from
the East. Everybody out here writes well. In
New York and the East everybody in the bank
ing business writes his signature just as awful
ly as he can.
“ How do we account for the style in New
York ? It is imported. English, you know.
Bank officers down East write their signatures
in such away that you have got to learn them,
as you do any other mysterious sign, before you
can tell what they are. There are no letters in
them. Here is one that fills the paper from
margin to margin, you see. There doesn’t seem
to be any letters in it, but on close examination
you’ll see there are letters as plain as can be..
This man always makes his name fill from
margin to margin, no matter what the width of
tho sheet. Here is one that looks as if t-ha
writer had put his pen on a pivot and sent it
spinning, winding up with a shoot off to the
right, a good deal like the pin-wheels we boys
used to play with on tho Fourth ot July. Soma
men sling on so much ink that their signatures
have to be spread out in tho sun to dry before
they can be put into an envelope or used in any
way.
“1 am happy to say that tho use of ‘blind’ sig
natures has taken no root in the West, though,
of course, there is a case hero and there. For
instance, Deter White, in the bank at Marquette,
starts in with a spin of his pen, circle after cir
cle, each smaller than the other, and then a big,
broad drop stroke from the centre. Of course,
it doesn’t look like anything at all in the shape
of a name. Canadian bank signatures are also
nearly all ‘blinds,” but here in Chicago I can’t
think of anybody that uses ‘blinds,” or that even
Writes illegible signatures. In Chicago it is
hard to find a man that writes badly, while in
New York it is hard to find one that doesn’t, so
far as bis signature is concerned.
“it is remarkable how well even tho boya
write in Chicago. Some of our best penmen are
the messenger boys just from school. Most of
tho poor signatures in Chicago are from elderly
men whose nerves are shaky. Occasionally wo
get a signature which doesn’t look right, and wo
compare it with the signature book; but 990
times out of 1,000 the man was a little drunk or
careless, or excited when he wrote it. I am
mighty glad the ‘blind’ style never became pop
ular here. There is no sens© in it. The ‘blinds’
can be counterfeited just as easy, if not easier,
than ordinary signatures.”
Atlanta men do not wear ear-muffs.
The sidewalks are too narrow.
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