New York dispatch. [volume], January 17, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
2
your own fault, you know. You will not come
down in the evening.”
“Itie not that indeed,” the girl answered,
with nervous, almost hysterical earnestness.
“Then what is it?” asked Mrs. Mowbray
sharply, with an angry glance at the pale, quiv
ering face. “ Have you any secret reason for
wishing to leave the only home you have ?”
“I am ill. Oh, do you not eee I am ill ?”
Madge cried piteously, holding out her thin
hands in eager supplication.
“Then I will send for Doctor Garrard. He
will be only too glad to have an excuse for com
ing,” said Mrs. Mowbray.
“ I do not need him,” declared the girl.
“Ah”—triumphantly—“then you are not ill I
You are a silly girl and don’t know what you
want. You ehail have some quinine and port
wine. Now run away—l am busy.”
Madge turned away in obedience, and Mrs.
Mowbray was going back to her devonport,when
the girl paused abruptly.
“ I can’t stay,” she cried passionately—“ I
can’t stay ! I must go 1”
Mrs. Mowbray turned her head and glanced
back at her with some disdain.
“You forget yourself,” she said haughtily.
“If you persist in your determination, you can
give me the notice agreed upon when I engaged
you. Three months is the period, I think. Do
you wish it to date from to-day ?”
“Three months?” Madge repeated. “I can
not stay here three months longer I”
“ That is unfortunate, since the law requires
it,”responded Mrs. Mowbray. “At the end of
three months you leave my service, not before.”
She raised her hand with a gesture of dismis
sal, and sat down before her devonport with a
proud look set upon her face which Madgo had
never seen there before, and which silenced her.
effectually. White as death, and trembling,
stung by the last haughty, disdainful words,
the girl turned away and left the room in si
lence.
Although as yet none of the party who would
spend the Christmas holidays at Mowbray had
arrived, there was an air of preparation about
the house and some cheerful bustle among the
household. As she crept up the stairs a couple
of maid-servants turned and looked after her
rather pitifully, and said how ill she looked, and
the children in the school-room gave her no
trouble that morning: even their childish self
ishness was not proof against the great despair
ing eyes and pale face, and, when lessons were
over, they ran off to their play-room, leaving
her alone to see what quiet and strong smelling
salts would do for her “headache.”
Once alone, the despair deepened in her eyes
and she threw out her arms with a passionate
gesture.
“How shall I bear it ?” she cried. “ How can
I bear it ? All my strength seems gone. If he
comes here again and I see him, I shall betray
myself. How can I bear it ? To see them to
gether—happy 1 Ah, no, no, no I It is horrible;
I cannot do it, 1 canot do it I”
Yet, when she grew calmer, she saw there was
no alternative for her. She must bear it, she
must be patient and resigned, and know, even if
she did not see, that the man she loved was un
der the same roof with her, and with his prom
ised wife. She must see his love for her, his
caro, hla tenderness; sne mnot see his oyoo grow
tender and hear his voice grow softer, as it used
in that one happy month when Cinderella was in
the prince’s palace, and basked in the light of
his smile.
The last three months had been terrible to
Jive through; they had worn the girl to a shadow
with their misery and unrest. For days she had
lived in constant dread of meeting Sir Alick, of
seeing him return to the Hall, for his first visit
had been a short one.
But Miss Daneoourt had been visiting at vari
ous country houses so he did not come, although,
as Ethel would return to the Hall that day, no
doubt he was among the guests expected on
the morrow, and the Christmas festivities were
too general even for the governess to escape
taking part in them.
Madge felt maddened, almost desperate, as
she paced up and down the schoolroom. With
ail her passionate young heart she loved Alick
Wolfe, and with all her strength she rebelled
against the cruel fate which had brought her
to Mowbray to witness his love for another
woman. Sho could not, she would not stay 1
And yet, as Mrs. Mowbray had reminded her
that morn .ng, she had no friends to whom she
could go, and she knew that she had only a
small sum of money in her possession. When
that was exhausted, whither could she go,
what could she do ?
Beside, had net Mrs. Mowbray told her that
she was bound to stay, that she could not leave
without permission, and the poor girl, in her
ignorance of the law’s powers and of her own
rights, pictured herself being dragged back to
Mowbray Hall by force, or imprisoned. She
must stay, she must stay and suffer—there was
no alternative.
And she was so tired of suffering, so tired of
always feeling unhappy and heart-broken, of
forcing herself to smile, of talking merrily to'
the children when not one word found an echo
in her own heart, of playing gay dance-music
for them, of singing when her heart was so
heavy 1 The sense of weariness was intolera
bly painful to her.
The girl was really ill, worn out with long
slooploss nigh's and the constant strain upon
hsr strength ef tach day’s duties ; all her bright
beauty, her sweet, dusky, sunlit loveliness had
left liar; she was hardly pretty now, with her
palo cheeks and hollow,wistful eyes. It was no
wonder, she thought many times, catching the
reflection of her face in the looking-glass, that
Sir Alick had not recognized her at the tennis
tournament ; the only wonder was that ho had
recognized her at all I Even Mrs. Mowbray’s
careless selfishness could not fail to see that
the girl was in bad health, but she did not want
the trouble of looking for a governess just then,
and Miss Lockhart must stay for the present.
The schoolroom at Mowbray Hall was situ
ated in one of the two wings which projected
prominently on either side of the house, mak
ing three sides ot a square, and Madge’s favor
ite window-seat commanded a view of the hall
door and the broad steps which led to it. The
children, released from their tasks by the
Christmas holidays, were grouped in the wide
cushioned seat now, looking eagerly at the
carriages coming up the drive. All the trains
had boon met by vehicles from Mowbray Hall
on that day—that following Madge’s desperate
appeal to Mrs. Mowbray—and the three little
girls wore full of eager excitement at each new
arrival, while Madge, leaning back in her low
chair by the fire, listened to their chatter, wait
ing for the blow to fall which, so it seemed,
must break her heart in twain.
" Here is the landau at last I” Grace ex
claimed, the words, spoken in her shrill child
ish voico, ringing clearly through the quiet
room. “ Grandmamma has come, and Auntie
Ethel, I suppose.”
The carriage- wheels stopped, and, moved by
an uncontrollable impulse, Madge went over to
the window and looked out over the children’s
heads clustered round the window-pane.
The December afternoon was clear and sun
shiny, but bitterly cold and frosty. The landau,
with its pair ot grays, stood before the hall
door.
A tall fair man m a long fur-lined coat had
just alighted, and was holding out his hand to
assist some one from the carriage ; very hand
some and distinguished-looking he was, with a
smile on his lips as bo helped out a tall faded
looking woman whom Madgo recognised at once
as Mrs. Danecourt.
“There’s grandmamma, and—yes—hurrah,
there’s auntie Ethel 1” cried one ot the children
gladly; and Madge saw how carefully Sir Ahck
helped the girl to alight.
The children shouted and hammered at the
window, and Ethel looked up, laughing and
nodding ; Sir Alick looked up also and raised
his hat, then he drew Ethel into the house, and
Madge went back to her seat by the fire.
An hour later, when they were at tea, Ethel
Came in, a pretty figure in her close-fitting blue
cloth drees, and the children sprang up eagerly
to greet her. Perhaps it was their clinging arms
which prevented her from offering her hand to
Madge, but she nodded and smiled at her over
the children’s heads, and a look of concern
came into her blue eyes.
“ I have come for some tea if Miss Lockhart
will give me some,” she said lightly; and, as
ehe took the cup from Madge’s hand, the gover
ness saw the gleam of diamonds on the third
finger of her left hand, and knew what it beto
kened.
It seemed to her during the half-hour which
followed that much of Ethel’s merriment was
forced and strained, and that the girl was some
what pale and sad, and that her eyes when they
met Madge’s had a wistful look in them ; but it
might exist only in her imagination, Madge
thought, as sho tried to join in the gay chatter
and laugh with the others.
When tea was over, Miss Danecourt rose and
Baid gayly:
“ Who is coming to my room to help me un
pack the Christmas presents? All of you?
Then scamper off, and I’ll come directly.”
The children needed no further bidding, and
rushed away, leaving the two girls standing be
fore the fire in silence, Ethel looking dreamily
into its depths, Madge’s dark eyes, very wistful
and very tender, dwelling on the fair grave face
of the happy girl who was to be Aliok Wolfe’s
wife.
“ Mrs. Mowbray has told me,” Madge said,
touching with her unsteady fingers the flashing
gems on Ethel’s hand. “I am very glad; I
hope you will be very happy.”
“ Thank you,” Ethel responded ; then, meet
ing the sweet, wistful eyes, she bent down sud
denly, kissed Madge lightly on the cheek, and
went away quietly, leaving Madge to her own
thoughts.
CHAPTER XL
«* HER GAZE WAS FASTENED ON THE YOUNG MAN’S
FACE.”
“ Miss Lockhart, mamma wants you in the li
brary.”
The Wintry dusk had gathered like a pall
over the schoolroom, and Meg’s bright eyes
could scarcely distinguish the slender drooping
form crouching on the window-seat, for the fire
was dying of neglect under the tall mantel.
Madgo pushed her hair back from her hot fore
head as she rose.
“ Whero is your mamma, Meg ?” sho asked.
“In the library. Don’t keep me, Mias Lock
hart. W’e are playing blind-man’s bufi in the
hall.”
The child sped away, and Madge followed
slowly down the long gallery and broad oak
steps. As she crossed the wide dimly-lighted
hall, there were sounds of mirth and laughter,
and moving forms of children and pretty girls
and young men, who took not the slightest
heed of the slender black figure as it'paessd
yspidly on t ? the li . rar..
A quick “ Como in I” answered the govern-
ess’s knock, and she hurriedly pushed open the
heavy oaken door, her heart throbbing hopeful
ly. Perhaps Mrs. Mowbray was going to lot
her leave after all.
After the darkness of the schoolroom and the
dim light of the hall, the lamps burning in the
library dazzled the young girl’s aching eyes,
and almost involuntarily she put her hand over
them for a moment; when she removed it, she
found that Mrs. Mowbray was not the only oc
cupant of the library. She was there, certainly,
looking radiantly beautiful in a tea-gown of
palest gray, with a cascade of Mechlin lace fall
ing Irom her throat to her gray satin slippers;
but there were several other ladies in the room,
and two or three gentlemen gathered round the
great wood-fire, and Ethel, in a long white serge
gown was standing by the afternoon tea-table,
the diamonds gleaming on her slim white fin
gers as they moved deftly among the old Crown
erby china of the tea-service. Madge, startled
and trembling, stopped short, half-way across
the room.
The library at Mowbray Hall was a long nar
row room with French windows opening on to
the lawn, and lined with books in sombre bind
ings of the darkest green. One or two hand
some bronzes were the only ornaments, and the
usual aspect of the room was a somewhat
gloomy one; but to-day the ruddy fire-glow and
the soft light of the lamps made it a suitable
meeting-place for the daintily-dressed ladies
and the stalwart handsome men assembled
within it.
“ Miss Lockhart,” Mrs. Mowbray said gayly,
“we are in a dilemma I We want you to help
us out of it.”
All the gentlemen had risen at her entrance,
and Sir Alick was the only one who did not look
at the young governess. One of them, with a
glance at her startled face, pushed a chair for
ward and bowed. Ethel came forward and took
Madge’s hand in her#.
“It is nothing very formidable, Miss Lock
hart,” she said. “We are getting up, as of
course you know, a little French comedfe.and we
want you to do us the favor ot taking part in
it.”
“ Oh, I could not 1” Madge declared at once,
putting out her hand with a pathetic little ges
ture, as if she were warding off a blow.
“We all said we could not at first,” said a
young lady who was leaning back in one ot the
wide leather chairs, “ and I am afraid some ot
ns have proved the truth of the declaration
since; but we are persevering, you see.”
“ And we can’t do without you,” added Mrs.
Mowbray, with an imperious grace of manner
which was too playful then to seem unkindly.
“ My sister is going to play and you will surely
not refuse.”
“But indeed I cannot,” Madge repeated,
shrinking from the many eyes turned upon her,
kindly as most ot them were. “ I should be
euro to fail and spoil——”
“ You will not fail, dear,” Ethel assured her;
while Sir Alick’s gray eyes watched the two
girls as they stood together. “You speak
French so perfectly and the part is not a
difficult one."
“ Miss Lockhart need not deny that she has
histrionic powers,” said a languid, musical
voice at this juncture. “I have seen her act
and can testify that they are of the highest
order.”
“ You, Sir Alick ?” laughed a pretty brunette.
“Then I am sure we can depend on your judg
ment.”
“In this case. Lady Lyndon,” he said,
smiling; " I speak from
“ What will he say next ?” Madge wonaexoa,
her hand growing icy cold in Ethol s soft
fingers.
“I did not know you had met before,” Mrs.
Mowbray faltered, with a quick glance at the
young man’s face.
“Did you not?” he asked, carelessly. “Have
I not told you that Miss Lockhart and I were
old acquaintances ? At least, if not quite that
we have met, and I assure you that she is a
capital actress.”
He crossed the room to replace his cup on the
table. Ethel had not relinquished Madge’s fin
gers—she had felt how icy cold they had be
come—and glancing for a moment at the girl’s
face, saw its intense pallor and feared she
would faint.
“ Ethel,” Sir Alick said, “ may I ask for
another cup of tea ?”
“ I did not know you were a tea-drinker, Sir
Alick,” Lady Lyndon observed, holding her red
fan between her face and the tiro and laughing
up at him with great shining eyes ; “ or have
you become so,” she added, in a lower tone,
“ in the circumstances ?”
The words were spoken with a significant
glance at Ethel. Sir Alick smiled.
“Perhaps,” he replied, lightly.
“ Sit down, Madge,” Ethel said, gently push
ing her into the low, deep arm-chair near.
“ Mr. Ferris,” she added, turning to the grave
looking, bearded gentleman who had offered
Madge a seat, “if you will kindly explain the
plot of the comedy to Miss Lockhart and the
part we want her to take, she will perhaps with
draw her refusal.”
“ Certainly—with much pleasure,” he an
swered, and, seating himself beside Madge, he
began to give her a rapid description ot the
play.
Bousing herself with a strong effort, the girl
tr.ed to listen and understand; she even spoke
once or twice, but, while she kept her eyes
downcast, she seemed to see Sir Alick and Eth
el standing together at the tea-table, the young
man’s head bent as he spoke to her softy, a
warm red flush in the girl’s cheeks.
“ You see it is not a difficult part,” Mr. Ferris
finished, turning over the leaves of the yellow
covered book—“a rich yonng widow with two
suitors, one poor, played by myself, one rich,
which is your role, I think, Sir Alick.”
“And ot course I am accepted at last,” said
Sir Alick, laughing. “The French author is
true to nature, and too wise to make a woman
disinterested I”
The gay group round the fire also laughed
lightly, and one or two delicate cheeks flushed.
Ethel, who was looking at Madge, saw the girl’s
great brown eyes go swiftly to the handsome
face of the speaker with a passionate glance of
reproach and protest. As she saw it, Ethel’s
deep blush faded, and a sudden look ot com
prehension flashed into her own blue eyes. She
moved forward hastily.
“I dare say Miss Lockhart would like tp
think it over,” she said. “Take the book with
you, Madge,” she added, “and I will come by
and-by and hear what your decision is.”
“ I hope it will be a favorable one for ns,’’
Mr. Ferris observed, smiling, as Madge rose.
“ Think over it well, Miss Lockhart. You will
be admirably supported. Sir Alick’s acting is
perfect I”
“ Oh, I shall play my part con amore !” Sir
Alick said, laughing, and, crossing the room,
he opened the door for Madge to pass out.
She did so in perfect silence, holding her
head erect, but her eyes were downcast, and
Ethel, whoso gaze was fixed on the young man’s
face, saw how it softened into intense pity and
tenderness.
The children were still playing blind-man’s
buff in the hall when Madge passed through it
and began to ascend, rather slowly and wearily,
the shallow steps ot the broad oaken staircase.
The laughter pursued her as she went, echoing
through the long picture-gallery, and even when
she had shut the schoolroom door the sounds
came faintly to her still. The room was bright
with lamp and fire light now; the servants had
evidently visited it during her absence.
Madge threw the book upon the table and be
gan to pace up and down the room, her cheeks
hot and burning with painful blushes, her eyes
blazing with pride and pain.
How dared he, how could he utter the words
he had spoken ? the girl thought passionately,
in her anger of wounded pride and real sorrow.
Had be no pity, no consideration ? Had she not
suffered enough already, that he. who once pro
fessed to love her, should add so heavily to her
burdens ? How cruel he was—he who was so
happy and blessed, who had all his heart could
wish for, everything that made life desirable
and pleasant —love, wealth, beauty !
She caught up the yellow-covered book and
began to read it eagerly, standing in the light
of the gas, burning in the centre of the room.
It was a clever little comedic, charming only be
cause of its wit and brilliance, for the plot was
by no means new and the situations were not
unusual. The part assigned to her was that
of a wealthy, coquettish widow, living with a
young niece and possessing, as Mr. Ferris said,
two suitors, one wealthy—one impecunious; she
prefers the latter, but finally accepts the former,
while her niece consoles the poor suitor.
Beading it rapidly, with throbbing heart and
burning cheeks, Madge soon came to a deci
sion. She would act, she would show him she
did not care; she would enjoy the fun and the
rehearsals and the play; she would forget for a
time that she was poor and lonely and a gov
nerness ; she would be happy as sho was at
Wolfingham Abbey.
The hot color had faded from her cheeks, but
her eyes were bright with a strange, feverish
glitter when Ethel came in, in her elaborate
dinner-dress, to know her determination.
“ Have you decided ?” ehe asked. “If you
would really rather not play, I will excuse you
to my sister.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, then Madge
looked up smiling.
“ Thank you—you are very kind ; but the
part ie an easy one and I wiM play it with
pleasure.”
“Oh I” Ethel said, coloring slightly. “ Then
I will tell my sister so; she will be pleased.
And you think you will like the part ?”
“ Yes,” Madge replied, coolly, “ I think so—l
even think”—with a little laugh—“that, like Sir
Alick Wolfe, I shall play it con amore!"
CHAPTER XII.
“ I CAN BEAB NO KOBE TO-NIGHT."
“ Is all ready ?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“ Where is Miss Lockhart?”
“ She’ll be here directly.”
Bustle, accompanied by a certain amount of
cenfusion, reigned supreme behind the scenes
of the stage at Mowbray Hall. Expectation
and flirtation divided the honors among the
audience while they waited for the curtain to
rise.
It was a brilliant audience, too, clad in silk
and lace, and velvet and satin, aud line linen
and broadcloth ; the ladies were using their
fans ooquettishly, the men were consulting the
scented programmes, or admiring the pretty
girls who thronged the great, gilded room.
Stately Mrs. Mowbray moved among her
guests, the perfection of a hostess—graceful,
courteous, smiling; the children, in gay pink
:rocks, were uttering with expectation.’ Pres
ently the orchestra played a I,right overture
and tho drop-scene rose smoothly and noise-
Inss-v, di»<! '»ii! ■■ a charming Loirs XV. bon
.m.r, lurmiure and out- |
■ pobaed satin hangings—such a coquettish room. |
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JANUARY 17, 1886.
a regular bonbonniere, Lady Lyndon said, with
a smite, as ehe leaned back in her arm-chair,
the diamonds glittering round her dusky
throat.
“ Why, who is this ?” she asked, consulting
her programme. “ Have they obtained a new
recruit? I thought that pale little governess
was to play Clothilda I Who can that bo ?”
“Whoever it is, she is a very lovely girl,”
laughingly replied the man beside her. “Let
me see who she is”—consulting his programme.
“ • Clothilda—Miss Lockhart.’ ”
“Then it is the governess,” Lady Lyndon
said, looking with widely-opened eyes at the
figure on the stage. “Is it possible ?”
Was it possible? Lady Lyndon was not the
only one who asked that question. Mrs. Mow
bray locked at her governess over the mara
bout feathers of her fan, and her blue eyes
darkened with a sudden troublesome thought,
a doubt as to her prudence in allowing Madge
to act. The children stared incredulously.
Could that be Miss Lockhart, who was so pale
and grave and sad in her black gown ?
She looked wondrously lovely; her dark eyes
gleamed like stars under her’powdered hair,
gathered high on her shapely head, the rouge
upon her cheeks gave her back tho old bright
loveliness, the dainty dress she wore, of pompa
dour satin bunched up over a rose-pink petti
coat, became her to perfection, and the intense
excitement uiider which she labored gave her a
feverish brilliancy which made her berutilul
beyond words, a brilliancy which increased as
she met the startled, incredulous look on Alick
Wolfe’s face, and felt how his hand trembled as
it touched hers.
Ethels fair girlish comeliness, Mrs. Mow
bray’s grand Saxon beauty, Lady Lyndon’s
brunette prettiness, all faded into insignificance
before Madge Lockhart’e brilliant, piquant love
liness. She acted to perfection, with a grace
and self-possession which surprised those who
knew her, as the shrinking, timid governess,
and which’ made Alick Wolfe’s proud lips dose
firmly as he thought what an actress she was,
how well she had feigned sorrow and loneliness
when she had wished to gain pity, while now,
behind the scenes, she was coquetting with Mr.
Ferris, laughing up at him with great shining
eyes, listening to his low-spoken words, as natu
rally as before the audience, she coquetted with
Alick himself, her wealthy suitor.
Madge herself was vaguely conscious of the
success she was achieving; every nerve was
strained to its uttermost tension, her pulses
were throbbing furiously, her cheeks burning
under her rouge. Once she saw Sir Alick start
as he touched her ; the girl’s hand was burning
with fever, ita very touch had made him start
and half withdraw his own. The young man
himself was moody and sarcastic, and his act
ing was decidedly far inferior to what it had
been at rehearsal.
Altogether, however, the little play was a suc
cess. Ethel’s performance was pretty and pleas
ing, and the troubled, questioning look which
would come again and again into her sweet
blue eyes was not unsuited to the part ehe had
to play, while Madge could not help noticing
how gentle Sir Alick's manner to her was, how
his voice softened when he spoke to her, and
what tender deference he paid to her. Mr. Fer
ris was too keen an observer not to note that, if
there was a comedy going on upon the stage,
there was something very like one proceeding
behind the scenes, for he was the only one of
the company in the green-room who caught the
look in Madge Lockhart’s eyes as she watched
Sir Alick and Ethel standing apart from the
root.
When the play was over, wie Uiiioi pvrfwtHVM
were recalled to receive a round of applause.
Ethel and Mr. Ferris went first, the girl'flushed
and smiling, Mr. Ferris with as professional a
ooolness as he could assume—then Sir Alick
and Madge; and, as the curtain fell upon the
picturesque figure in its flowered sacque, with
powdered hair and great lustrous eyes, Sir
Alick saw a sudden change in Madge’s face, and
the hand which lay in his changed from burn
ing heat to deadly chill.
“ What is it ?” be asked anxiously. “ Are you
ill ? Has all this been too much for you ?”
“ The girl looked at him for a mo’ment in a
strange bewildered way, then she gently with
drew her baud.
“No, thank you,” she replied. “I am not ill.”
In the green-room there was a group of actors
aud actresses in their costumes, and of friends
full of eager congratulations, and a lively dis
cusa-ion had been taking place as to whether the
“ company ” should retain their dresses for the
rest of the evening, or change them. The opin
ions were divided. The women, as much at
home in their quaint skirts and sacques and
high-heeled shoes as in their usual evening
dress, preferred to retain them; the men, feel
ing that their unaccustomed attire would be in
convenient for the dance which was to follow,
would have liked to change it. But the strains
of dance-music coming Irom the ball-room made
them hesitate, and they had just decided to re
main as they were, when Miss Lockhart en
tered, followed by Sir Alick. Mrs. Mowbray
turned languidly.
“You did very well, Miss Lockhart,” she said
patronizingly. “We are quite indebted to Sir
Alick for his testimony in favor of your histri
onic powers. Don't teach the children how to
act though,” she added, with a laugh. “It is
not always a desirable accomplishment. Now
will you come into the ball-room ? They are al
ready dancing there.” And Mrs. Mowbray
swept away, her rich dress rustling against
Madge's pink satin and lace as she passed out,
followed by the company.
Madge alone remained, leaning heavily against
a chair by which she stood ; the scornful words
had stung her to the quick, spoken as they were
before Sir Alick. Of what avail was her triumph
now, since he had witnessed her discomfiture ?
Her head drooped forward upon her breast, her
hands fell languidly at her sides, a deathly
faintness came over her.
With an effort she shook it off* and stood
erect; but even as she did so she felt that the
strength given her by excitement was fast fail
ing her. Now that the reaction had set in, she
was weak and helpless ; the long strain she had
put upon herself had broken her down com
pletely, any further effort was beyond her ‘ she
must get to her own room quickly, ere her
strength failed her entirely.
She crept slowly out of the green-room into
the hall. It was brilliantly lighted, and pro
fusely decorated with flowers, the fragrance of
which rose sweet and heavy on the air, but it
was empty, save for one or two servants, who
were moving about, while from the ball-room
came the gay, tender waltz-tune she remem
bered well. It was one they had played at New
Place on the night of the ball when Cinderella’s
bright dream vanished into thin air, and it
brought an added pang to her aching heart as
she ascended the stairs.
She was faint and dazed and trembling. Oh
for a breath of cool air to bring back her fleeting
senses I Staggering, catching at chairs or por
tieres for support, she made her way to a win
dow, opened it desperately with a last effort,
and sank heavily against the open frame, with
her face, ghastly for all its rouge, turned toward
the grounds. For a minute or two she must have
swooned and lost consciousness, for, when she
came to herself, the sharp wind had carried in
some flakes of swiftly-falling snow, and they lay
on her arm and shoulder. She did not heed
them, for the ice-cold blast was grateful to her
burning, throbbing temples, and she only thrust
her head out further, gasping and panting, al
most unconscious still, but slowly coming back
to the bitter pain and suffering which for a mo
ment had been forgotten.
She had leaned there for some few minutes,
the driving wind forcing in the heavy flakes of
snow, when Sir Alick Wolfe, coming wearily
down the long gallery, caught sight of her. In
an instant he was by her side, and gently but
firmly drew her from the window, closing it
with one hand, while he supported the trem
bling, swaying figure with the other. The girl
turned her dim eyes languidly upon him.
“ How could you be so imprudent ?” he asked,
in great agitation. “It was madness. You are
quite wet!”
She looked at him piteously, in her dizzy
faintness hardly realizing what was passing,
but instinctively she tried to release herself
from his clasp.
“I am afraid you are ill,” he added. “ Let
me take you to a seat and call for assistance.
All this excitement has been too much for
you.”
The words reached her ears, but for a moment
they brought no meaning with them; then she
stood up giddily.
“Thank you—l am not ill; but it was very
warm, and I ”
The words died upon her lips and she turned
away. The young man watched her in intense
anxiety. Slowly, faltering at every stop, she
made her way to the schoolroom, and he fol
lowed. He dared not leave her ; he feared every
moment that she would fall, but she reached
the schoolroom and passed in. For a few sec
onds he hesitated, then followed. The fire was
dying out on the hearth ; the gas was burning;
it was turned low, however, and gave but little
light, but what little there was fell lull upon her
as she stood leaning on the table.
“What do you want?’’ she asked, in low,
hoarse tones. “ Cannot you leave me in peace ?
lam tired—l am not well; I can bear no more
to-night—l can bear no more I”
She sank upon her knees by the table and
bowed her head upon her arms.
“I will not trouble you,” he said, huskily;
“ I am going at once ; but before I go, Madge,
tell me that you forgive me. I did not mean—l
did not think I should hurt you so.”
She raised her head and looked at him re
proachfully.
“ You know you must hurt me,” she re
sponded, with a touch of anger in her voice;
“you even tried to do so. But for you, I should
have been spared the ordeal of tp-jjigJit. an or
deal which nas nearly killed me.l Why could
you not leave me alone ? You are happy now.
Surely I have been punished enough for a de
ception which gained me nothing I”
A faint flush of shame rose in his face. In his
own pain and anger he had forgotten her suffer
ing, and he had made her suffer cruelly.
“Forgive me,” he pleaded; “forgive me,
Madge I It was my own misery which made me
cruel—my own pain which made me wound
you ! Madge, have you forgotten”—he went to
ward her eagerly, holding out his hands, a
groat tenderness in his gray eyes—“ what we
hoped once to be to each other ? Do you think
that our meetings here were fraught with no
pain for me ? Madge, darling, listen I Madge,
what is it ?” She had risen slowly to her feet,
and was drawing back from him, holding out
her hands to keep him from her. “ What is
it ?” he went on, eagerty. “ Are you angry with
me lor my cruel words the other day ? Oh,
sweet, forgive me I I was mad with rage and
pain; and you seemed so indifferent that I
wanted to try to sting you into some feeling,
even ii it were hatred lur iuu. Lui you wai nuu
hate me, dear,” the young lellow cried, pas-
sionately, catching her in his strong arms and
looking down at the piteous, imploring face—
“you will forgive me, because through it all I
loved you, and it was the very depth of my love
that made mo seem cruel.”
“Your love 1” she echoed, in a faint, horror
stricken tone, putting her hands to his breast to
keep him from her, while she felt her heart
throb passionately with a sudden wild, fierce
joy which was almost overpowering.
“ Yos—my love; I have always loved you,
Madgie, although I tried so hard to put you out
of my heart,” ho responded, his handsome,
eager face all aglow, his heart throbbing furi
ously against hor shoulder. “•! oould not do
so, dear I During that long year you were
never out of my thoughts, and since I saw you
here in the Autumn all the old love has come
back.”
“ The old love I” sho repeated, her eyes di
lated, horror-stricken, then, sud
denly a faint, bitter laugh echoed through the
silent room, a laugh which startled her.
Was she going mad ? Ethel’s fiancee, almost
her husband, talking of love to her, holding her
in his arms, telling her he had always loved
her, looking at her with eager, loving eyes. The
room whirled round and round, there was a
strange, rushing sound in her ears, the hand
some, eager face faded away, and the girl’s head
fell heavily forward u-)on his breast.
“ Madge, my darling.” Sir Alick whispered
tenderly, holding the trembling, passive form
In his arms, “ speak to me, dear 1”
The tone more than the words brought the
girl back to consciousness. For a moment she
had surrendered herself to this great happi
ness, but now she remembered the reality and
raised her head. Ah, poor Cinderella, the
prince had come back to her, but he was not
free I
She withdrew herself from his arms, giddily
unclasping his hands with her unsteady fin
gers; and a strange look on her face prevented
any resistance on his part. In a minute she
had moved from him, and her eyes haggard,
despairing, resolute, met his.
“ Perhaps I have deserved thia at your
hands,” she said, in & low faint tone, which,
feeble though it was, was clear and firm.
“ Long ago it seems I gave you the right to in
sult me, but I did not think I had merited
such shame as this 1”
Startled, almost awed, the young man looked
at her ouestioningly, but made no step toward
her, held out no hand to arrest her steps as
she went toward the door leading into her
room.
“ Do you remember,” she continued, turning
toward him, “that once you said you would
never willingly look upon my face again, that
the one desire, the one hope of your life, would
be that you should not see me again ? It is now
my turn to echo yonr words; it will bo my chief
prayer that I may never see you, never hear
your voice again.”
“ Madge i” he cried passionately, advancing
toward her; but she moved away, the door
closed after her, and ho was alone. “ Madge!”
he cried again, but there was no reply.
Down stairs dancing was going on gayly;
outside the snow fell heavily. Sir Alick waited,
but no sound came from the inner room. On
the floor at his feet lay a small pink satin slipper,
which the girl had lost as she fled to her room,
and, half meehanicall, he stooped, took it up,
and carried it away with him.
“ I will give it her back some day,” he mur
mured to himself, with a faint smile; “ she will
not always be inexorable.”
The snow fell heavily through the greater
night, and, when iho Ky dawned,
and Madge Luckarl looked out after a sleepless
night, the sky was gray and lowering and the
snow was falling still.”
(To be Continual.)
OS BURKED' ffMBL
BY J. W. SHERER, C. S. I.
Ths bold act ol Lord William Bentinck, in
prohibiting the sacrifice of female life in India,
through the rite usually though erroneously,
called that of suttee, was so successful that 'it
not only stopped the usage, but also, in great
measure, effaced the recollection of its nature,
aud the ritualistic ceremonies attending it. A
brief notice of what the custom was in theory,
and what it became in practice, may not, there
fore, prove .uninteresting, and indeed to some
may seem even novel. It is not well to force
phiology on those unwilling to receive it, but a
plain explanation tof the word suttee, supplied
by a Sanscrit scholar, will throw much light on
the character of the whole proceeding.
Sat is, in Sanscrit the present participle of
the verb as. to be. The third person singular
of the present tense indicative of this verb is
familiar to every one in the Latin and French—
ert. The feminine form ol this partioiple is sati
(suttee), and has come to mean the woman
who actually is a wife. Enough. The idea will
have been caught. Marriage, according to
Hindoo belief, is not a bond which, as with us,
is to last till death (or Hannen) thus do
part, but a union which is completely
consummated by. death. The virtiiouswoman, bv
the act of perishing with her husband, reaches
the higher degree of the positive wife—the Sut
tee. in fact—or wile that has-actual existence as
such. This was the transcendental view of the
subject, and was doubtless urged., in glowing
terms by the Brahmins on the minds of widows
till they became, in some instances, inflamed
with a real desire of self-sacrifice, and in these
oases, where the act was entirely voluntary, the
element of cruelty was less prominent. There
was, however, even where the consent of the
victim was undoubted, this amount of pressure
exerted, that tlie widow who did not burn was
held up to obloquy, aud her miserable fate en
larged upon. She would be considered super
fluous—would be relegated to menial offices—
would be neglected, or it contemptuously at
tended to, the very attention would be held
equivocal. And we must be slow in extending
appreciation to the more spiritual aspect of the
rite, for it bears traces of a one-sided argument
and of masculine ingenuity; since wo hoar no
where otthe propriety of a man sacrificing him
self with his dead wife; though marriage might
surely be mode complete as well in one direc
tion as in the other. The Mahommedan Govern
ment which preceded us in the general rule of
the oountr.y, was greatly averse to the perform
ance of the rite, and, indeed, prohibited it, but
with the unfortunate concession that an allow
ance of the ceremony might be obtained from
the local authorities. This opened the door to
bribery, and rich families, at least, experienced
no difficulty in burning their widows, for the
single obstacle in their way—the consent of the
Governor—was by no means an insurmountable
one. The British Government mostly confined
its interference to directing that in cases ot pro
posed female sacrifice, it should be ascertained
that the victim fully understood the character of
the rite, and was quite agreeable to its per
formance. And this state of things continued
to the time of Lord William Bentinck, who was
appointed Governor-General in 1828. The local
government of Bombay, however, greatly to
its credit, had, some years before, taken upon
itself the responsibility of prohibiting widows
from burning themselves, without formally
abolishing the practice.
As may be supposed, the aspect of the sacri
fice depended on the behavior of the woman.
Where, actuated throughout by a high-spirited,
if fanatical, determination, she exhibited great
courage and met her'end with dignity, a certain
moral grandeur materially softened the horrors
of the scene. But where, though supported by
convincing arguments and excited by drugs',
poor trembling human nature asserted itself,
and the widow shrank from the terrors of a
needless death, imagination could scarcely
Lighten the brutality ot the spectacle. If the
victim escaped, it was amid a storm of execra
tions and contempt; or if she failed in her at
tempt, she would be dragged back by main
force to encounter a fate for which she had no
longer the least enshusiasm. It is true our
government interfered to prevent violence, but
in native States, and even on British territory,
through want of sufficient precautions, most
distressing scenes occasionally occurred. Two
narratives, founded strictly on fact, and illus
trating the ceremony —the one in its best light,
the other' in its worst light — will perhaps be
more readable than a detailed general account.
It was an evening in the Spring of the year,
and the sun was hastening to the west, when a
young woman of some twenty years, above the
average bight, and beautifully formed, with
handsome features, and eyes particularly large,
full and commanding—took her seat by the
waterside, under a grand state umbrella ot
red and gold. Her skin was discolored
with tumeric, her hair disheveled and wild
ly ornamented with flowers, aud her general
look was that of one whose thoughts were
lar away. The locality was that of ths Sangam,
or Confluence, near I’oona, a lovely spot where
the rivers Mula and Muta meet, and from
whence the view of the Mahratta city has been
pronounced enchanting. There were temples
near at hand, enclosed in a garden, and here
and there were observable flat stones with two
feet engraven on them, aud marking the site
where a female sacriiice.had taken place. But
the immediate object which, on this occasion,
attracted most attention, was a huge pyre sup
ported by four upright poets. This was formed
of substantial timbers to the bight of a man’s
waist, and covered with bundles of straw and
bushes of the dried basil plant. From near the
top of the uprights was suspended by cords a
roof ot slender rafters, on which were piled as
many billets of wood as the structure would
support. The space between the pyre and the
roof was closed in at one end and tlie two sides,
with brushwood, straw, and the sacred plant—
the basil; but the other end was left open, and
formed an entrance, as it were, to a gloomy and
sinister cave. The young woman, as she sat
under the umbrella, distributed money among
the Brahmins, and presented her friends with
her personal jewels, retaining only her bracelets
and nose ring. When not thus engaged she sat
entranced—her hands joined as it in prayer and
her eyes resting on the beautiful sky of even
ing.
Presently ths body of a young man of thirty
was taken up Irom the waterside where it had
been lying, aud was deposited within the hollow
formed between the J pyre and its roof. Sweet
meats were put iu with it, and a paper bag oi the
dust of sandal wood. The widow rising, walked
three times round the pyre,slowly but with a firm
step, and without support; and she then seated
herself on a square stone exactly opposite the
aperture of the hollow. Here she accepted and
returned the endearments of her friends, strok
ing affectionately the heads of those she loved,
aud letting her arms fall in a lest faint embrace
round the necks of the dearest. Then she
turned from them, raised her hands ou high,
and beadiug her looks earnestly into the dark
cavity, stool for a few mojnouta like a piteous
statue. But at last, without moving a feature,
and unassisted, she mounted the pyre, entered
the aperture, and laid herself on the right side
of hor husband’s corps. The Brahmins, who
always seem to have been nervous on such oc
casions, lest any failure ot resolution should
take place, waited only for the victim to adjust
herself, and then exhibited extrordinary activi
ty. Bundles of straw were stuffed into the en
trance of the cave, the pollen of red flowers was
flung into the air, obscuring the scene, the
ropes ot the roof were out.and it tell with a crash
on the wretched woman,’while fire was in sev
eral places applied to the pile, and liquid but
ter poured on the rising flames by the nearest
relatives of the victim. To add to the horror ot
the scene, the Mahratta guard (for Poona then
belonged to the Peshwa) blew their trumpets
and battered their tom-t>ma to drown all
sounds of woe, and raise a deafening disturb
ance, such as the fearful drums ot Santorre
raised around the royal guillotine.
Thus perished Toolsee Bhai, in the pride of
her youth and beauty, and so wonderful is tho
power ot delusion, that the foul act of self
slaughter was regarded as ono of the glories of
her family. And when a slab was placed where
the pyre had stood, similar to those she had
gazed upon with dying eyes; and when on tho
stone were rudely cut the figures of her pretty
feet, weeping women were sure to have gone
there, and prayed that, if their trial should
come, they might be found at tho last, steadfast
and religious as she.
But a different spectacle must be described.
In the year 1796, a Brahmin named Bancharam,
died at a village called Mujilpoor, a day’s jour
ney, south •of Calcutta. It was the season of
the rains. The parched earth, relieved by the
heavy moisture, gave forth grass and weed and
tangled undergrowths with extraordinary exu
berance. The happy frogs croaked aloud in the
tanks; snakes shook off their long torpor and
came forth with alarming activity ; the hum of
insects at night was overpowering. The heavens
which canopied the deep shade of the thickets,
were corruscated with lightning, and the heavy
throb of the thunder rumbled along the hori
zon. At times the showers fell with violence,
and the hoarse water-ducts resounded in every
direction. But the duties of religion could not
be neglected. Bancharam’s widow, it was un
derstood, was wiling to burn with her hus
band. She was old ; no one cared ; it seemed a
good way of getting rid of her. But the fear of
death had fallen upon the poor hag.
The preliminary observances had all been
performed ; it was late at night, and dark and
rainy, when the priests and relatives assembled
on the bank of the Hooghli river, for what they
intended to boa perfunctory ceremony. The
body of the Brahmin was placed on the pyre,
and the trembling old widow tied alongside of
him, with ropes. Then fire was brought and the
wood kindled. But the damp made the obse
quies a tedious business. The slender crowd
sat down in the darkness, and waited impati
ently for the flames to rise.
At last a fair conflagration was excited, when
some curious person got up and peered amid
the gloom to see how the bodies were being
consumed. To the consternation of all, he who
had approached closely to the pyre, shouted out
that there was only one body on the logs.
Priests and relatives all sprang to their feet,
and searched in the neighboring jungle for the
missing sacrifice. They got torches, and plung
ing under the wet leaves and amid the thick
grass, looked high and low, till at last they found
the poor shivering widow crouching where the
brushwood was most interwoven. The slow
flames had gnawed the ropes asunder that
bound tier ou toe unleaded pyre, and she,
scorched and discolored, but not disabled, had
slid oft tho top, and crept on her hands and
knees into the shelter of the foliage. Her son
was one of the successful searchers, and would
only agree to her shirking tho fire if she would
promise to drown or hang herself. But she plead
ed for dear life, aud he was inexorable. He
should lose his caste, he said, and be dishonor
ed, and she must die. She caught his knees
and howled for mercy. But with his own hands
he firmly secured her with ropes. By this time
the pyre was in full blaze. They stirred it with
bamboos. The sparks ascended and illuminated
the feathery foliage. And then the son lifted
up his screaming mother and flung her into the
midst of the Hames. And they beat her down
with staves till she was wholly consumed.
The two vignettes that have been presented,
will give some idea ot what the shocking usage
was when brightened with all tlie hues of un
wholesome sentiment, and to what, in many
cases, ii degenerated, when seen in its naked
and undisguised form of pitiless murder. A
lew particulars remain which may bo related,
out of the great mass of details collected by
those philanthropic pamphleteers who were
most urgent tor the abolition of the rite.
Tavernier, it appears, relates that he had
seen bodies which had been brought from very
considerable distances to be burned on the
banks of the Ganges, and the widows tied on to
the pyre, when their husbands were in an ad
vanced state of putrefaction.
The same writer also mentions that from what
lie had observed, he concludes that tho rela
tives of women who have announced their in
tention of being burned make use of them as
messengers to the world of the departed.
He had seen a woman seated ready lor crema
tion, on the pyre, were her husband’s corpse was
laid, to whom her kindred brought various ob
jects, some a letter, others pieces of calico,
others money-silver or copper-with direc
tions that they were to be delivered to friends
already dead. The woman, when ehe had re
ceived alt these articles, made them into a bun
dle ahd placed them between herself and the
dead body.
The Mohommedans were very particular in
the cases where tho proposed victim had chil
dren; and where there was a babe not yet
weaned, positively forbade the ceremony.
There was, perhaps, not much difficulty, how
ever, in evading this prohibition, for an in
stance is recorded where permission was given
on the ground that, though the infant was not
weaned, it would not die it deprived ot its
mother.
An account is given, on good authority, of a
babe in arms who was brought to see its mother
on the pyre. The little thing recognized the
accustomed face and put its arms out to be con
veyed to the welcome breast.
Hoftoned for the moment by the slender ory of
joy, the mother took the child, suckled it, gave
it back to the attendant aud then directed that
lire should be applied to the funeral logs.
Among the anecdotes collected by the zeal of
those most anxious for tho prohibition of the
usage, there is ono giving glimpses ot a motive
whicli the students of the human heart may
well ponder with extraordinary interest. Per
haps a more curious psychological study has
hardly ever been recorded. It will be found in
the travels of the Dutch Admiral, Stavorinus,
and was noted by Dr. William Johns, a, strong
advocate for legislative interference. A broker
of the Netherlands Company, residing near their
settlement on tho Ganges, died, leaving a wid
ow, aged seventeen years. This girl he had
systematically neglected, being, indeed, entire
ly under the influence ot another woman, to
whom he was much attached. At his decease
the friends of the widow frankly told her that
they saw no necessity for her self-immolation,
as it was notorious that her husband had treat
ed her with disrespect and contempt. She re
plied that if he had not loved her, she had al
ways loved him, that she had been once united
to him aud that the bond was eternal. The
truth was, she perceived that her death would
put her into a position with regard to her hus
band, which the concubine could never occupy.
For though concubines and slave girls have
often burned themselves with the man to whom
they were attached, they did not thereby be
come suttees. Not having been wives at all, of
course they could not advance to wifedom of
the higher or more spiritual degree. Aud so,
completely to defeat the alien who had deprived
her ol her husband’s love, this young creature,
who really could not bo said to have had a
proper experience either of life or of love, cheer
iully encountered death, embraced and kissed
the dead body, and directing the flames to be
kindled, passed away, in her own opinion, per
manently triumphant over her rival.
The result of Lord William Bentinck’s firm
determination must have been most gratifying
to those who had long battled against the foul
usage. Croakers predicted very serious conse
quences from an interference with the religious
customs of the natives, aud especially iu a mat
ter affecting their women. But the public con
science was with the legislator. And from the
moment that his lordship put bis toot down and
said, “Custom or no custom, I will not permit
it, and any man aiding or abetting in the cere
mony shall be charged as accessory to man
slaughter, while the principal herself who at
tempts such an act, must answer for her con
duct at the public bar of justice,” not a mur
mur was heard.
And yet it would not be true to say that,
though no resistance was thought of, the wish
to perform the rite died entirely out. The
Brahmins were in favor of it, and their power
and influence wore, and still are very strong.
And in native States, long alter the abolition,
women, particularly those ot rank, were sacri
ficed on the death of their husbands.
Bunjit Singh, of Lahore, died in 1839, and the
visitor will find in his mausoleum at that city, a
raised stone platform, on which is a marble
lotus flower surrounded by eleven smaller ones.
The central flower covers the ashes of the Ma
haraja, the others those of four wives and seven
slave girls who perished on his funeral pyre.
The present writer, on acceding to the charge
of the district of Cawnpore, immediately on the
restoration of British power, in 1857, found that
during the brief interregnum a widow had been
sacrificed within three miles ot the station.
WE CANNOf QQW.
BY M. QUAD.
It was twenty years ago to-day that I saw her
part from her son at the railroad station. She,
a motherly mother, with purity written on every
line of her face—he, a boy of fifteen, with clear
eyes an-d honest countenance. They laughed
together—together they wept at the parting.
Ten years had passed when I saw her again —
ten Summers—ten Winters. The motherly look
had departed from her face; purity had been
replaced by vice. She had become drunken and
vicious. That boy with the clear eyes would
not have called her mother now. He would
have fled from her in horror. She muttered
drunken curses on me as she passed, aud she
raved at the children who fled away as ehe ap
proached them.
I saw her again last night. It was for the last
time on earth. I went with men into a hovel to
help restrain her in her delilium. Poverty I
Why, I never imagined that human beings could
live as she had passed her last years. Vice
degradation—ruin 1 Ah I a single look gj por
w-i to aalie ouo shudder.
Old, gray, utterly wrecked—little better than
a skeleton—and yet the delirium of drink was
upon her and strong arms had to hold her down
on her bed of rags. She cursed God and man.
She reviled earth and Heaven. Women who
had timidly entered to offer their aid hastened
beyond hearing as she blasphemed them. It
was the ghastly ending of a decade of wretched
ness. The doctor came, but it was not a case
for him. He looked at her with compassion in
his eyes and went away. When her delirium
was strongest—when her rovilings were loud
est—some one whispered in her oar the words :
“ Whore are the children ?” A change came in
stantly. Her strength was gone, her voice
hushed, and she looked about her in a startled
way. By-and-by she moaned :
“ Ah! My children ! Don’t let them come
In ! It would break their hearts I”
They tell you that the dying never weep.
She waptr. Aye, her sobs died away in a death
rattle as the king of terrors laid his icy hand on
her heart!
To-day she is to be buried as a pauper, Am
I her judge ? Are you ? Is anybody but God 1
And may not He who knowoth all things, say to
her as she stands before the white throne ot the
judged:
“ Men did not know your temptations—your
miseries—your bitter trials. I know them all,
and I can forgive much of your sins.”
THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK.
A FRENCH HISTORICAL GHOST
STORY._
Once upon a time —that is, toward the close of
the last century—the forest of Senart did not
possess a better reputation than the forest of
Bondy has enjoyed in our days. One fine night
in the Summer of 1799 the diligence from Paris
to Melun had just entered the allee which trav
erses the entire length ot the forest -centennial
oaks whose thick branches shroud the road in
darkness. The rotunda and coupe of the old
iashioned vehicle were full; inside were two
travellers, and on the imperials a provincial
tenor made the woods echo to his such
a situation no one seemed to run the least risk,
and the diligence proceeded gently at a walking
pace. On arriving near Corbeil the driver shook
up his horses and made the stones ot the sleepy
town rattle. At the relay office the guard got
down and invited the not unwilling passengers
to partake of refreshment. The latter, nothing
loth to accede to the proposal, descended from
their perch, looked at one another, yawned, and
counted their numbers. “Hullo I” cried the
conductor, “ What has become of my two in
side passengers?” “Don’t torment yourself,
governor,” said the tenor. “ They will turn up,
your travelers, and the wolf will’not have de
voured them.” “ Par&Zeurejoined a notary
on his way to Melun, “ Why, just before enter
ing the forest I leaned over to offer them a pinch
of snuff at the window.” The conductor
searched in vain. No trace of the travelers
was to be found. The diligence had to start
again without picking up the missing pair.
A few days after this surprising incident the
police went to inform M. Mehnl, Professor at
the Conservatoire, of the disappearance of his
old friend, Monsieur X. Nothing had been seen
of him since the evening on which he had step
ped into the diligence for Melun in the Cour des
Messageries. The news caused profound grief
to the celebrated musican. All the researches
be made to discover his friend remained fruit
less. So strange an occurrence could not but
greatly disturb the composer, who spoke and
thought of it incessantly—so much so that he
lost appetite and sleep. One night, when toss
ing on his bed, the clock of St/Roch having just
struck two, the moon, shining through the half
opened shutters, threw it rays on the figure of
a queer little hunchback holding in his crooked
hands a roll of cord. Mehul rubbed bis eyes
and raised himself on his pillow, endeavoring
to convince himself that he was not the victim
of nightmare. The hunchback was still there,
close to the bed, and the terrified musician was
about to inquire the reason of this singular ap
parition, when suddenly his tongue clove to the
roof of his mouth, his hair stood on end, and a
shudder passed through his frame. Behind the
little figure with the crooked hands he descried
the white, shadowy outline of his missing friend,
whose faint glance seemed directed toward
him. The next instant a passing cloud hid the
moon from sight, and the vision vanished.
On waking in the morning, when trying to
collect his thoughts, the suspicion that it must
have been a dream forced itself upon his mind.
And yet how vividly he recalled the whole
scene.
“ I could have sworn,” he said, “that I saw
my poor friend looking at me sadly, and making
signs to me. But what could the little hunch
back have to do there ?”
Gradually, however, the remembrance of the
phantom, which he did not dare to relate to his
wife, disappeared from Mohul’s mind, and if he
sometimes thought of his lost friend, he forgot
to associate him with his vision.
Five years elapsed. Imperial C.nsar had as
cended the throne of the kings of France, and
all the world was abroad to gaze at the rejoic
ings that marked the close of,one of the troubled
stages of the national annals. Mehul and his
wife, followed by their children, stood admiring,
like good citizens, the illuminations in the
Champs Elysees. All of a sudden he felt some
one tugging at the skirts ot his coat. Turning
sharply round, the composer seized the hand
of the pickpocket, whose crooked fingers and
misshapen form recalled a familiar appear
ance. Where had he seen them before ?
While holding the man in his grasp, the recol
lection of the phantom flashed across his mind.
But in presence of the Commissaire de Police,
Mehul shrank from giving vent to his suspi
cions. How was it possible to accuse a man
of a murder on the evidence of a dream?
Nevertheless it was only with an effort that the
musician refrained from telling his strange
story. All night, while lying on his bed, with
half-open shutters, the moon shone forth as
five years before and the clock of St. Roch
gave forth the hour of two. Just at that in
stant a white shadow emerged from the lumi
nous rays at the window and a sepulchral voice
mumured : “ Avenge me, my friend—avenge
me. * This time the composer of “Virata” no
longer hesitated. “Yes, dear friend, I will
avenge thee.” Forthwith he repaired to the
fiolice station of the Champs Elysees and re
ated what he had seen. If it had been any
one less important than the maitre de chapeile of
the emperor, the commissary would have dis
missed the bearer of so strange a message, as
a lunatic; but the olficial listened gravely to his
story.
A keen examining magistrate was employed
to ferret out the secret of the hunchback. It
traspired that during the Reign ot Terror the
man belonged to an association known as the
“Tape-dur” (strike hard). After the collapse
ot the Committee of Public Satety” portions of
this band betook themselves to the highway for
a living, which our friend the hunchback pre
ferred to following his trade of a tailor.
Through the indiscretion of a servant, he had
heard that Mehul’s friend was going to Melun
to pay into the hands of a notary the price of a
country house he had bought, in which he
hoped to spend the remainder of his days.
Taking advantage of his lonely situation, the
bandit strangled the of the dili
gence, and disappeared with his body, which he
buried in the lorest. A less sentimental jury
than is to be met with nowadays condemned
the murderer to the scaffold.
Such was the story related the other day in a
Parisian boudoir by the grandson of a marshal
of France, who heard it from Mehul himself.
The imprimatur ot “ Mary Summer” is given
to this legend.
AN INTERESTING GAME.
AND ONE RAPIDLY GROWING IN
FAVOR.
the Cincinnati Commercial Gazette.)
A correspondent, who is a member of a party
of five, styling themselves a “Heart Club and
who have played the game for a year and kept a
record of each evening’s play, with the win
nings, losings and penalty of each player, sends
the following partial description of the game :
It is played with fifty-two cards. If four play,
the paca is dealt one at a time, giving each
player thirteen cards. If five play, the two
black deuces are left out and the cards arc dealt
as before, singly, giving each player ten cards.
There are no partners. The game of hearts
combines some of the elements of whist, with a
large proportion of science and horse sense,
and does not merely consist, as some suppose,
of indiscriminate following suit and “ throwing
off.” A player must carefully study his hand,
determine his long and short suits and reasona
bly conclude from these his best play, so as to
reduce his hand of largest cards and retain
those with which to underplay and lead in any
suit. There are no trumps. In a four-hand
game any suit led is reasonably certain to go
around twice with each player following suit; a
third lead of the same suit is therefore danger
ous, unless it be with a small card which the
player knows some one of the other three must
take. Hence it follow's that the first two leads
in all suits except hearts should begin with the
highest.
It is very essential that the players should re
member what cards have and have not been
played, as a failure to do this might result in
having hearts dropped where none was expect
ed. For instance, suppose a player leads, first,
ace of clubs; this goes round, each player fol
lowing suit (necessarily when ace of any suit is
led each of the others will reduce his hand
of the highest of that suit); next, say
king, or the next highest held, is played in the
same suit; again, all will follow unless it hap
pens that a player has but one club, which he
has played on the ace previously led, in wich
case the player who has no club will reduce his
next dangerous or long suit by throwing off say
a high spade or diamond, or if these suits are
well protected, and he has a high heart, this
will be the proper place to drop it. So, also, it
in the first or second lead of clubs, spades or
diamonds, as the case may be, a player is seen
to follow with a low card—two, three or lour—
it is reasonably certain that he is out of that
suit, and it will just be as well not to lead that
suit again unless the player having the lead
should hold the low cards remaining, and in
that case he may, as the other two players must
take the suit with the chance of having a heart
dropped unless the player who is out of suit
ureters to reduce some of his other suits, which
is frequently the case, and good play.
The principle of the game is to take no
hearts, audit loliows, there .ore, that a player
should avoid taking tricks as iar as possible.
In a course of play it will happen, however,
that a player om tko five or si tri iis on: ol ;
the thirteen and yet take no hearts* but a player
who holds a hand that will enable him to un
derplay, will win all the time. If a player
holds a long suit in clubs, diamonds or spades,
say of six cards, consisting of ace, queen, nine,
seven, four and three, his proper play, whether
as leader or in following suit, is to underplay
the king, which in all probability will appear oh
first lead; if it does not, he should still play
queen and lead back with seven. It may hap
pen in a play like this that first lead will causa
king, queen, jack and ton to fall; the player tak
ing trick will lead baek with eight spot, which
will call for seven (from long suit player), six
and five. This leaves in the hands of playet
with long suit the aco, nine, four and three, and
in the hands of one of the others the deuce.
When the deuce is led there is, of course,
nothing else for the player with long suit to do
but take it. for which he will, nine times out of
ton, often be rewarded with a heart or two from
the players who do not follow unless both arc
long or dangerous (to themselves) in other
suits when it is their play to throw off. When
a suit is played around three times and fol
lowed, the remaining card is known as the
“ case” card of that suit. So, too, when a
player holds, say six or more or leas of a suit,
and one or more plays leaves him with the rest
of that suit—none of the other players having
any—these remaining cards are known as
“ case” of that suit. To play a “ case” card
shows inattention or poor playing, as, of
course, the others not having any, they will
unload their hearts or some other suit, which,
if lead, would perhaps put the boot on the
other leg, so to speak. In leading hearts in a
four-hand game, the two, three or four is the
proper lead first, as necessarily the five must
take the trick. If a player led off with the
two of hearts, next follows with three, next
with four, and the fourth have the five or six
and a high heart, his play is, of course, to take
the trick with his high card and lead back with
his low.
The game is full of variety of hands and play
required, and is the only game I know of where
the unexpected generally happens. In simply
social games the loser is the ono who, in a series
of games, takes the greatest number of hearts,
a record of which one of the players keeps on a
tab prepared for that purpose. Generally, how
ever, it adds far more to the game if the players
provide themselves with, say fifty 1-cent pieces
each, and put a penalty of one cent on each
heart taken, the player or players who take
none, or the least number each hand, to receive
the penalties from the others. When two play
ers take no hearts or one or two each, and are
the winners, the “pot” is divided between them,
and this case there will be an odd penny,
they cut for it, or it may be set aside and the
odd ones of each succeeding hand be added—
the whole to go to the winner or winners of the
last game. This feature, like the game itself,
is susceptible of variety according to the tastes
of the players.
The game of hearts is not a gambling game
any more than euchre, “old maid,” or “mug
gins,” but the penalty feature above suggested
produces an interest, watchfulness and care in
playing that nothing else will induce. Or the
penalty feature may take the shape of a prize
for the player taking the fewest hearts, as in
professional euchre. A five-hand game re
quires, if anything, even better playing than a
four-hand, and is more difficult and uncertain.
The introduction of a fifth hand, some think,
improves the game; but I would advise, lor
social purposes, and until at least one had ac
quired a good knowledge of the game and its
intricacies, its surprises and disappointments—
and it has all of these—a iour-naud game as
preferable.
THE LOST TOWN.
History of the Deserted Village Re
cently Discovered.
(From the Walla Walla Union.)
W. H. Toles, ot San Francisco, who has sev
eral times made the voyage of the Upper Co
lumbia, from the Little Dalles to the head of
navigatiou, in British Columbia, informs the
historian of the Union that the “ deserted town”
spoken of in a letter recently published in ths
Oregonian, is an abandoned mining hamlet, on
the Upper Columbia, about three hundred and
twenty miles above the Little Dalles, near
French creek, about one and a half miles above
Death Rapids, where in 1865 or 1866, twelve
men and one woman met a watery grave. The
party, who were in a batteau, attempted to make
a landing, and threw a rope to a number of
miners ashore, and, misjudging the distance,
the rope tell short, the boat turned sideways to
the current and was upset.
Previous to this, when Captain Pinkston was
running the old steamer “ ’49,” placer diggings
were discovered on French creek, and shortly
after a rush was made for the new El Dorado,
and with the influx of miners came salaon-keep
ers, with their liquors and paraphernalia, bil
liard tables, gambling outfits, etc., the mer
chants with miners’ supplies, and in an incredi
bly short space of time a thriving village was
nestling amid the towering forest. A few
months’ work on the part of the miners soon
convinced them that bedrock was “too far
down” to be successfully worked with the ap
pliances at hand, and as other mines offered
alluring chances, the camp was abandoned.
Just previous to this, the steamer “ '49 ” was
abandoned, hopelessly lost on a reef of a roch,
and the hardv pioneers were forced to make
the trip down the Columbia in dugouts, bat
teaux and rafts, which necessarily compelled
them to leave their tools and other heavy ob
jects.
The deserted village was visited by our in
formant about eighteen months ago. There
are about a dozen or so cabins, all of which con
tained few or more miners’ tools, camp outfits,
etc., and in a building which had probably
served as a saloon stood an ancient billiard
table, which could easily be passed as a relic
from the days ot Pompeii. The prospect on
French creek is fair, and’ will some day prove
remunerative to enterprising men who will
place the necessary machinery on the ground.
If, as stated by the Watkins letter, the town was
situated 500 miles from the Little Dalles, it
would be close to Columbia City, at the first
crossing of the Columbia, on the Canadian
Pacific, every foot of the country adjacent having
been thoroughly prospected.
Wm. O’Donnell and Thomas Rowe, of Walla
Walla, were also pioneers of the “ Lost Town.”
It was then known as “ French Creek,” and one
time there were fully 1,000 miners in the district
round about. Mr. Rowe informs us that another
village was built about six miles from French
Creek which also was abandoned. The name
of the place he does not remember. We believe
this evidence fully settles the identity of the
Lost Town.
BABY’S ENGLISH.
WONDERFUL CONVERSATIONAL
POWERS.
(From the Philadelphia Press.)
Many infants talk at a surprisingly early age.
Instances have been known ol babies yet in
their swaddling-clothes who would discourse on
all manner of topics. To be sure, the drift of
their remarks had to be interpreted by a fond
mother, but no one would dare say that baby
didn’t talk.
I myself heard a year-old child say a great
many things the other day. I was calling on a
friend whose son was just a year old.
" Can he talk any yet ?”
“Talk I” exclaimed the fond mother, with an
injured look. “ 1 should think so 1 He can.just
say everything, can’t you, duoksy daddle ?”
“800, boo, bwe, ye, ya I” screeched baby,
growing black in the face with the effort.
“ Hear him I” cried the proud mother. “He
said, ‘ I guess I can talk I’’’
This information surprised me a little, but I
discreetly held my peace.
“ Now tell the gentleman your name,” said
baby’s mamma, coaxingly.
“800, boo, da, da, boo I” “Charles Edgar
Jones, just as plain as anybody could say it,
you little sweet I” cries the triumphant
mother.
My surprise increased.
“ Now tell mamma whom you like best in all
the world.”
“800, boo, bwe, da, da !”
“How cunning I” I exclaim. “ Da, da, means
‘ papa’ don’t it ?”
“ Mercy, no I Didn’t you hear the little bless
ing say that he liked the gentleman best. He
meant you.”
I am flattered, of course, and amazed at my
own stupidity. I thought I was familiar with
the “ King’s English,” but the Englsh of this
little king is new to me.
“ Now say, ‘ Sing a song o’ sixpence’ for the
gentleman.”
“ Yee, yee, boo, baa, bo,” sputters baby.
“Oh no, deary I” says mamma, reprovingly.
“That was ‘Little Bo Peep.’ Now say the
other.”
“ Zee, zee, boo, baa, be !”
“ That’s it 1 that’s it! You blessed old boy 1
I knew you could say it I And to think that the
gentleman asked if you talk any yet I I guess
he won’t ask it again.”
I guess not, too. Either that bady or I can
not speak the English language in its purity,
andl am adverse to displaying my possible ig
norance.
HUMILIATING
ERUPTIONS
V ,TCH,NG
Y and
BURNING
TORTURES
and every- species of Itching, Scily, Pimply, Inherit
ed Scrofulous, and Contagious Diseaa s of the Blood,
Skin, and Scalp, with Loss of Hair, from infancy to old
age, are positively cured by the Cuticura Remedies.
Ctticura Resolvent, the new blood purifier, cleansea
the blood and perspiration of Impurities and poisonous
elements, add removes the cause.
Cuticura, the great Skin Cure, instantly allays Itch
ing and Inflammation, clears the Skin and Scalp, heali
Sores and restore the Hair.
Cuticura Soap, an exquisite Skin Beautifier. is indis
pensable in treating Skin Diseases, Baby Humors, Skin
Blemishes, Chapped and Oily Skin.
Sold everywhere. Price. Cuticura, sOc. ; Resolvent,
$1; Soap, 25c. Prepa ed by th® Potter Drug A Chem
ical Co.. Boston, Mass.
Send lor “ How to Cure Skin Diseases.”
Mjk Rheumatic. Neuralgic, Sciatic, Sudden. Sharp and
Ko. T-0 :-5 Pa-n-. instantly relieved by the CUTXGUttX.