New York dispatch. [volume], February 21, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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curious patience, so intensely that the gulf be
tween us seemed to narrow, and we stood for a
little space side by side, as husband and wife
should stand—moments in which I did not for
get you or the treachery that parted us, Bose,
but in which my heart softened strangely to the
woman whom I, of all men, had the least right
to judge and condemn. And in those moments
Abigail always came between us—how, I can
hardly tell you—but I know that she did, and I
grew to hate her grim hovering presence in the
house—to hate her almost as much as she hated
me.”
“ Why should she hate you, Neal ?”
“Why? For two reasons, Rose. She was
Jealous of and for Maud—jealous of the aflec
tionA that I most surely had neither deserved
nordesired, jealousy suspicious, that that affec
tion met with no full return. I have seen her
watch me with a murderous light in her dark
eyes, and have felt, with a thrill of supersti
tious terror, that such fiery hatred as hers to
me was hardly likely to remain a waste force,
that sooner or later she would surely do me
come deadly injury.
“But she never did injure you,” Rose puts
•in gently. She is as much surprised and
shocked by her ordinarily self-possessed lover’s
nervous agitation, and tries with gentle tact to
lead him back from the region of fanciful ter
rors to that of solid fact. “ Poor Abigail is un
lucky in her look and manner, Neal. In the
old days, cross and ugly old women used to get
themselves burned as witches; in the present
we only suspect them of the worst of crimes.”
Neal laughs; he is a little ashamed of that
momentary sell-betrayal, and does his best to
seem his ©ld easy self as he answers in a lighter
tone:
“ An ingenious parallel, but I am no Mat
thew Hopkins, child I I never found a witch
before, and 1 hope with all my heart never to
Btumble across another specimen of the tribe.”
, Alter that the conversation takes a lighter
tone, and Abigail’s name is not again mention
ed, but, though, or perhaps because ho so sed
ulously tries to forget the grim woman,who has
once again risen in his pathway like a spectre of
the sorrowful past, the haggard lace, and dull
eyes with their leaden malignant glare, are ever
in Neal’s sight—they oven come between him
and the girl he loves, making him preoccupied,
nervous, and altogether unlike himself.
For the first two or three days after his arrival
In the quiet country place, where every one
knows every one else, hp is half afraid to stir
out for fear of encountering Abigail. He never
passes a tall, shrunken figure in a black dress
Without a nervous feeling that the dreaded mo
ment has come at last, and he must prepare to
encounter his foe, but a whole week goes by,
and she makes no sign. He hears that Rose
has seen and found her neither more nor less
amiable than usual, though she knows that he
is here, and so, little by little, his fears subside,
and he begins.to think they are the overwrought
fancies Rose calls them, to recall his thoughts
from the darkly-shadowed past, and let them
revel in the future that seems so promising and
bright—the future that is to give him the one
love of his life and make amends for all pa*st
Borrows.
> That future is all arranged now. In one
month’s time he and Rose are to be quietly mar
ried from Mrs. Lindsay’s house ; then they are '
to travel about for six* months, and then settle
down somewhere—not at the Grange, Neal
thinks, with a little shiver of painful dislike,
•but somewhere where they can be happy to
gether.
It is to be the quietest of weddings—both
Neal and Rose are quite determined on that
.point; the Nesbitts and the Lindsays count as
the only guests, though Minnie, who officiates
as chief bridesmaid, of course brings Mr. Mal
colm in her train.
“ Oh, Rose darling, I am so glad I” that im
pulsive young lady cries, when she arrives at
the quiet little hotel of the place two or three
days before that fixed for the wedding, and,
leaving her parents and packages at that primi
tive hostelry, comes flying over at once to em-
I brace the bride. “It was charming of Mr.
iDacre to wait so long, and then to come to you
!.at once. We all think him. delightful, and we
ball feel sure, after the test that he has been put
•to, that you will have the best husband in the
world.”
I “ Except Mr. Malcolm, of course,” Rose says,
smiling, though her eyes are full of glad and
; grateful tears.
“ Oh, George!” Minnie tosses her bright
|head with a slighting little laugh. “ George is
I the best of all good fellows, of course, but then
*he is ‘ a steady and stolid every-day young
'man.’ Slocombe has never gone out of its way
either to calumniate or canonize him ; there has
been no dead set against him, and consequent
ly no revulsion of feeling in his favor.”
“ And has there been any such feeling in Slo
combe for or against Neal ?” Rose asks quietly,
but with an emphasis that makes Miss Minnie
color a little, and mentally stigmatize herself as
an indiscreet and chaptering idiot.
“ Oh, no, I was only talking nonsense !” she
replies, walking over to the open window and
looking uneasily out over the lawn and wide
stretch of sparkling sea. “Of course there was
some small amount of gossip after poor Maud’s
death, and that curious will, and—and that was
all, indeed I It was a nine days’ wonder, noth
ing more. Are those my two little fellow
bridesmaids, Rose?”
It is with infinite relief in her tone that she
puts the question, with infinite satisfaction she
nails the approach of the two girls who come
running up the path, and are soon on easy and
friendly terms with the lively young lady who
has much to say, and who naturally takes such
strong interest in the all-absorbing question of
the bridesmaids’ dresses.
“ It is so nice to talk to any one who under
etands,” Kate says complacently, as she leans
against the rose-grown window, and surveys her
new friend’s perfect traveling dress with frank
ly admiring eyes. “Miss Fane says she knows
nothing about weddings—and mother has for
gotten her Abigail Hunt Oh,
Mary, do you remember Abigail’s pleasant
Bpeech when I said something about my dress ?”
“Yes,” Mary answers with a little shiver.
“She said, ‘You had better ask me about
shrouds and winding-sheets and grave-clothes,
Miss Kato; they are more in my way than wed
ding garments,’ and then she muttered some
thing to herself that we could not hoar.
“Abigail Hunt!” Miss Nesbitt turns with
rather a troubled look from the chattering chil
dren to her pale and silent friend. “Is that old
horror hero still, Rose? Has she not tired of
her queer fancy for following you about?”
“Apparently not, Minnie.”
“ And are not you tired of her lugubrious
company ? But I see you are, poor dear !” Min
nie says, slipping her arm affectionately round
the other girl’s waist, and speaking in a bright
consolatory tone. “But there will soon bo an
end to her* persecutions, for 1 do not suppose
you mean to take her home with you, and let
her rule the second Mrs. Neal Dacre as despot
ically as she did the first.”
Rose shakes her head: but there is less decis
ion than her friend would like to see in the ac
tion.
“ She will be talked over yet, I know she will,”
the girl thinks with a touch of scorn for the
weakness that forms no part of her own charac
ter; “ and, it she is, it she brings that grim
death’s head figure to the bridal feast, good-by
to all chance of a happy married hie for her. I
shall just sound Mr. Dacre, and ventilate my
own views on the subject, if I get the chance.”
She does get the chance, and does not let it
Blip. Neal Dacre walks home with her that
night, and in the most natural manner in the
world she turns the conversation first upon Rose
and her manifold beauties and perfections —a
theme the young lover naturally finds of en
grossing interest—next upon the future opening
bo brightly before them, and then, by a curious
ly swift transition, upon Abigail Hunt.
“Is it not queer that that cross old woman
should follow Rose here, Mr. Dacre ? lam sure
I could not bear the infliction of such a depress
ing neighbor; but Rose is so weakly good-na
tured, so sure to yield to any appeal made to
her compassion or her memory of the past, that
I should' never be surprised to see Mrs. Hunt
permanently established on the staff of hex* new
home.”
Lightly and carelessly as th© girl seams to
prattle on, she is watching Neal with shrewd in
tentness all the time, and has the satisfaction of
seeing that her words strike home. It is a tan
talizing satisfaction, after all, though; for though
the young man winces and grows visibly paler
in the soft half-light, he does not give the prom
ise Minnie has hoped for—the promise that his
strength will balance Rose’s weakness and keep
Abigail Hunt at;a safe distance from his home.
Something, indeed, ho says; but it is so vague
and indistinct and unsatisfying that the girl
breaks in with an irritable laugh.
“ Ob, well, Mr. Dacre, you think me a busy
body, I dare say, jnd, no doubt, I am meddling
in things that do not concern me. but l am so
fond of Rose that I would risk a snub any day
to do hex* a real service, even against her will 1
No. do not interrupt, please”—as Neal, with a
tightened color in his face, ventures a faint pro
test against the objectionable phrase—'* I know
you will only snub me in the most courteous
fashion, and, as 1 said before, I am prepared to
run all risks to spare poor Rose another pang,
fche has had much to bear in the last two years,
Mr. Dacre.”
- “She has indeed,” the man agrees, with a
fehort impatient sigh; “ but, with Heaven’s help,
I will shield her from all pain in the future.
What man can do to make her happy, I will.”
“ I am sure of that—sure that she will be hap
py, if only ”
“ If only whirt?”
Minnie pauses, twisting the thick knob of her
parasol nervously round, and looking with
pleading eyes that seem to bog him to spare her
the trouble of further speech; but he does not
help her in any way, and by and by, screwing
up her courage, she blurts out the end of her
request with startling suddenness:
“ If only you will keep her apart from the
scenes and surroundings of your first married
life. Mr. Dacre, you think me mad, or worse;
but I must ask you to promise that, whether
Rose wishes it or not, you will not have Abigail
Hunt in yo«r now home.”
ThexM is no anger in Neal Dacre’s handsome
face, as the girl half fears there may be when
ebe ends her bold appeal; but there is a dark
and terrible Miguish that frightens her even
more. She makes no attempt to press that ap
peal, though it remains unanswered until they
roach the gate of the inn—she almost hopes
that it will remain unanswered altogether, lor
ahe has a vague, uncomfortable feeling that she
has, all unconsciously, been meddling with mat
ters better lot alone.
“ I see my father in the garden !” she cries,
hurrying on as the faint scent of a cigar is wait
ed to them; but Neal detains her now, saying, a
little unsteadily:
“ Ono moment, Miss Nesbitt. We cannot part
like this, or you will think me indeed a boor and
Itfute. With all my heart I thank you for your
j generous care for Rose, your brave attempt to
serve her; but I cannot give the promise you
ask.”
“ Cannot ?” Minnie echoes scornfully. “That
| is hardly the right word, I think, Mr. Nacre; but
; I will bid you good-night now. Of course, if you
! think Abigail Hunt a safe and pleasant inmate
of your home, a suitable companion for your
wife- ”
“ I think her neither,” Neal interrupts stern
ly ; “ and all that I can do to keep her and Rose
apart I will; but I cannot forbid hor entrance
to my house, and I will not!”
“Goodnight, Mr. Dacre,” is Minnie’s only
answer ; and she just touches bis hand with the
tips of her fingers, and passes in at the gate
with a bright flush on her cheeks and her pretty
head held very high. Not for worlds would
she give way in his presence, or have him guess
how ho has mortified and hurt her and shaken
her strong faith in him. She has always liked
Neal Dacre, and been his faithful advocate and
champion when the tide of public opinion set
most strongly against him, just after Maud's
death, and she is angrily conscious that her loy
alty has met with a poor reward.
“He cannot send her away!” she cries, gulp
ing down the big lump that will rise in her
throat and brushing the tears from her eyes.
“There are people who, hearing him make that
admission, and guessing what Abigail Hunt
knows of his first married l.fe, would say he
dare not, instead.”
And what Minnie Nesbitt says in her girlish
petulance Mr. Malcolm echoes with a darker
significance, when, by-and-by, she tells him the
story.
“ Dare not? Yes, that must bo it!” the lawyer
agrees, though, lawyer-like, he gives even his
adored Minnie no clue to his secret thoughts.
“ He cannot like the woman who made his home
wretched, and whois ampiy provided for by his
first wile’s will, and yet he will not refuse to let
her hang about the second. Ergo— he fears her,
and the question is, why?”
CHAPTER XV.
“you gave her the stuff that killed heb.”
It is the night before Neal Dacre’s wedding,
and the whole party are assembled at the cot
tage. Mr. and Mrs. Nesbitt, Mr. Malcolm, Mrs.
Lindsay, and the two girls are in the long, nar
row, low-ceilinged drawing-room that runs the
whole width of the house and opens on to the
creeper-grown verandah and wide green lawn.
Minnie and Rose alone are missing from the
group ; but all there know what is detaining
them.
“May I not go and see if they are ready,
mother ?” Kate breaks in at last. She is in a
state of the wildest and most irrepressible ex
citement, and has been hovering uneasily be
tween the window and door for the last ten
minutes. “ They must be ready by now !”
“They will coma when they are, my dear;
there is nothing to detain them,” Mrs. Lindsay
says, with a tranquility that only adds to the
daughter’s imp tience. She turns away, shrug
ging Her shoulders, and saying in a loud whis
per to her meek confidante Mary :
“Nothing to detain them I Why, she and Miss
Nesbitt will stay chattering all'night—such non
sense, and waste of time 1 Ido not see why we
should not help to dress her; we are to be
bridesmaids too.”
But presently, as she catches the sound of
light footfalls and the rustle of silken skirts
upon the stauis, the volatile young lady forgets
her grievance aud, seating herself at the piano,
begins to hammer out the triumphal strains of
the “ Wedding March,” while Mary, catching
something of her lister’s enthusiasm, flings the
door open to admit the bride.
She stands like a picture in a frame, as lovely
a pi lure ns pa'nfor’a brush ever employed
itself upon, blushing deeply in the novel splen
dor of her bridal robe. Airs. Lindsay's wedding
gift, which, to please the generous giver, she
has donned to-mght.
“Aladame Onvine has done you justice,
child,’ Mrs. Lindsay says, alter a long and
critical survey, her delicate face lighting up
with something of proprietorial pride. “What do
you say, Mrs Nosbitt? We shall not have to
blush tor our bride to-morrow.”
“ I think the dress is perfection,” Mrs. Nes
bitt begins, cord ally, and her husband cuts her
speech short with the jolly laugh fox* which the
squire is renowned.
“ That's your womanish way of describing
the matter, my dear,” he says, his eyes twink
ling kindly and merrily as they rest on the
deeply blushing girl. “ I don’t doubt the ‘fal
lals’ are all very well in their way; but I should
have reserved the epithet of ‘perfection’ for
their wearer—oh, Neal?”
Neal does not speak, but, looking at his hand
some face, rending the passionate gladness
there, the squire does not feel that his ques
tion is unanswered, and goes tranquilly on:
“And it is not only her beauty we admire—
she is as good as she looks, and that is more
than we can say of every, bride, even among
those that are not specially well-favored.”
Pausing to chuckle at his own wit, the good
man becomes suddenly conscious of a gauefterie
as he meets his wile's reproving eyes and goes
on less comfortably:
“ Well, as you will not give me a chance to
all* my eloquence to-morrow, I must say what I
think to-night, and that is that, when Neal Da
cre walks out of church with his wife on his
arm to-morrow, he will have reason to thank
Heaven with all his heart, and think himself the
Luckiest fellow in all the world.”
“As I shall!” Neal cries, in quick, clear
tones, that thrill the listeners with their fervor,
and are oddly echoed by a shrill, discordant
laugh, that comes from the direction of the
veranda.
All turn, and Minnie Nesbitt gives a piercing,
terror stricken shriek as she sees, framed in
the open window, Abigail Hunt.
For a moment no one speaks. To all the
new-comer, with her livid lace, lighted by the
glittering eyes, her tall, meagre figure draped'
from head to loot in rusty black, seems more
like some spectral apparition than a being of
flesh and blood; nor even, when they recognize
her, are their superstitious fears allayed. That
she has come on some evil errand all guess,
and Mr. Nesbitt puts his angry thoughts into
words.
“ What brings you here in this sensational
fashion ?” he asks, sternly, wishing with all his
heart that he could divert the attention of those
dull, malignant eyes from the shining figure in
the bridal dress, that Rose herself would slip
out of the room—not stand there with wide, di
lated eyes, lull of agony. “ Can you not speak,
woman, or did yon come here to play the part
of ghost, or bogey, and hope to frighten sensi
ble people out of their wits ?”
Again the old woman laughs, and her eyes
shift suddenly from the girl’s tortured face to
rest with a look of triumph on Neal’s, which
now, through all its deep bronze, is hardly a
shade less pale than Rose’s.
“Oh, yes, I can speak,” she says, arrogantly,
“and speak to some purpose, too! Though I
have held my tongue so long, I meant to hold
it a little longer ; but there is such a thing as
letting vengeance wait too long, and getting
the sweet cup dashed from your lips. lam an
old woman, and my nerves begin to fail me. I
might die before to-morrow; so I shall speak
to-night.”
Watching intently from his quiet corner,
George Malcolm feels his heart sink within him
with a dull conviction that his worst fears are
confirmed, as he reads the wild terror of Neal
Dacre’s eyes and sees how convulsively his
sinewy fingers plasp the back of the tall chair by
which he staucra.
“Speak, then,” Air. Nesbitt puts in roughly,
awed by and yet fiercely impatient of the
ominous silence that reigns around. “If it
pleases you to play tho part of malignant mis
chief-maker, I do not suppose we can muzzle
you ; but of one thing I am very certain”—and
he turns with a kindly, re-ass’uring smile to
the young couple at whom tho coming blow is
aimed—“ though you may say much to pain
and. distress, you can do nothing to injure any
one here.”
“Very well, I am the more free to speak,
then, the woman returns, equably; but, to
the amazed horror of all present, or of all per
haps, with the exception of George Malcolm,
Neal breaks in with a passionate, beseeching
cry:
“’No, no—for Heaven’s sake, say nothing here
and now—this is wanton cruelty ! Spare her,
if you have no mercy on me 1”
His face is pallid as that of a dead man now,
great drops of anguish are standing on his fore
head, his stalwart, well-knit frame trembles
from head to foot. He is quite unconscious of
the sudden horror in the faces of those around,
of the quick significant gesture with which they
all shrink from him, unconscious of everything
but the one great dread that is crushing out his
manhood.
“ Spare her !” Abigail echoes, with savage and
biting emphasis, her dull eyes glowing. “Is
that appeal from you likely to move me to pity,
Mr. Neal Dacre ? When did you ever spare
your wife one pang ? Did not I—who loved her
better than my life - have to stand by and see
you break her heart?”
The ghastly terror in Neal’s face is still there;
his hand still quivers in the same convulsive
fashion, but the fixed sternness of George Mal
colm’s features relaxes a little, and Mr. Nes
bitt draws a long breath of relief, and says,
abrubtly:
“Well, my good woman, if you have only
come here to make vague charges against the
master who was always a great deal too in
dulgent to you, and rake up old stories to make
©very one uncomfortable, I think you had bet
ter go.”
“No doubt,” the woman returns, with the
sullen composure that only deserts her when
she is directly addressing Neal. “If I were so
ill-armed, Mr. Nesbitt, I should hardly dare at
tack a gentleman surrounded by such a faithful
body-guard of friends as Mr. Dacre ; but, as it
happens, ‘I have another weapon in my cham
ber.’ Isn’t that in a play, sir—some play where
a man murders his wife ”
A cry, broken, pitiful, full of a wordless an
guish and horror, breaks from Rose Fane’s
white lips. She moves quickly toward Neal;
but, as he seems to shrink from her, she pauses
and staggers back. Minnie is by her side in a
moment, and draws her to a chair, frantically
whispering the comfort that is anywhere but in
her own sore heart or troubled thoughts.
“Neal, for pity’s sake, end this shocking
scene,” Air. Nesbitt says sternly. “To you it
seems to have some meaning, to us it is a tragic
farce. Either the woman has or has not some
definite charge to bring. Alake her speak, or—
hold her tongue. ”
Neal lifts his blanched and haggard face at
that appeal, and even those in whose minds a
vaguely horrible suspicion is fast taking dehnite
shape pity him then.
“ She has something to say, s : r—something
very shockin- and terrible, something that i
hoped you m gl.-i never know. As she has
NEW YORK DISPATCH,' FEBRUARY 21, 1886.
said so much’’—lie pauses, draws a heavy
breath, casts one long lookVM lo vo a, 'd anguish
inexpressible at the bowdM golden head that
rests on Alinnie Nesbitt’s lap, tho crushed
crouching figure in the shining bridal-drcss,
then goes on with a- reckless, desperate haste—
“ she had better finish the story, had bettor toll
yon all.”
“Abigail Hunt laughs again, rubbing her
skinny hands together with ferocious glee as
harshly—
“ Nobly spoken—quite like the hero of a play
—isn’t it, ladies and gentlemen ?—the hero of
that play wo wero talking about just now—the
black gen Homan who killed his poor wife?
Miss Aland took me once to see that play in
London, and, as I wasn’t used to theatres, it
made a great impression on my mind. Itcomos
in use r ui now, and helps me to tell my story,
though, after all, the cases are not much alike,
for Othello loved his wife, if ho did smother her
with a pillow, and afterward had the courage to
avow his crime.”
Again she pauses, gloating over tho anguish
of her victim, as a cat prolongs and amuses it
self with the futile straggles of a mouse ; but
Air. Nosbitt cuts the tigerish pleasure short.,
“Spor.k plain English, woman!” he cries,
wiping the great drops of perspiration from his
broad genial face, and vainly trying to control
his voice to a steady sternness. “ Do you accuse
Air. Dacre of—murdering his wife ?”
There is a pause, during which ever? eye
rests with an aw'ul fascination on the woman
who stands rigid and motionloss as a grim inex
orable Fate. At last her gray lips part, but they
do not answer the question ; they simply turn
it over to Noal.
“Ask Mr. Dacre if his wife died a natural
death—ask him what her last words wero ?”
“Dacre—for Heaven’s sake speak!” the Squire
cries. “ Are you mad, man ? Do you not see
the horrible position in which you stand if you
leave this charge unanswered ? Do you tfidan
ns to think good Hoavon, that I should ask
you such a oueatfon !—de you mean us to think
you a murderer?”
“No -no, not that!” Neal ejaculates wildly.
‘•I sometimes think that her death lies at my
door.”
“ You sometimes thiuk !” Abigail echoes, with
passionate acorn ; then she turns from him and
goes on rapidly, “I have been silent too long ;
it is time to make my definite charge. Mrs.
Dacre died, not as the doctors charitably led
tho world to believe, from heart disease - not, as
they thought themselves, from an over-dose
of the ch-foral with which she deadened her
constant pain—but from. 3 swifter and more
potent poison administe'rbd by her husband’s
hand.”
“ No, no I”
Rose reuses from hor trance of terror to
throbbing tortured life ; she breaks from Minnie
Nesbitt’s cfoso clasp now, and takes her stand by
Neal Dacre’s side, clasps his cold, shaking hand
in hers, aud faces the horror-stricken group
with a passionate fire of emotion in her wide
gray eyes. The charge she has heard is so mon
strous, so horrible, that to her indignant fancy
it seems to defeat itself. How can they look in
Neal’s brave, frank face, spid think him a secret
poisoner? To her alone that face seems still
unchanged, to her alone the man’s inexplica
ble silence has brought not even suspicion, far
less a cruel, crushing conviction.
“ No, no,” she cries, her voice ringing clear
and bell-like in its passionate appeal. “ You
must not listen to—you must not believe her -
she is mad. Noal, tell them how shamefully
this woman lies. Tell them how Aland died.”
She places one hand upon his breast, and
looks with a lovely fullness of unshaken faith
up into his face. Excitement has given back
the warm tints that fear had banished, her eyes
shine like stars between their dark curled
lashes, her red lips are apart, and near—so
near his own. He draws hor to him, kisses her
passionately twice or thrico, then pushes her
almost rudely away, and says, with a depairing
groan:
“It is our farewell, Roso. You will shrink
rom mo when you know all; and you would
have been my wife to-morrow !”
Then he turns to Air. Nesbitt, and says, almost
calmly:
“The woman speaks the truth, sir; the only
wonder is that she has been silent so long. Aly
wife died, as she says, by poison ; and I ”
“ You poisoned her !” Rose echoes, with an
accent of indescribable incrudulity. “You
murdered tho woman who loved and trusted
you ! I will not believe it, Neal—no, not from
your own lips, far less from those of any other
witness ; you are the victim of some horrible
delusion or mistake—you never meant to mur
der her.”
“ Aleant!”
Neal lifts his heavv head, his dim eyes wander
with a questioning look round the room, and
read in all tho faces there a shocked suspicion,
a terror-stricken disgust. The sight seems to
strike him like a blow, his face flushes scarlet, he
staggers back and passes his hand rapidly across
his eyes.
“Meant!” he repeats half stupidly. “Do
they think I meant to murder her ? Oh, this is
worse than all !”> Thon, turning to Abigail, who
still stands stolidly silent, he adds with feverish
imperativeness—“ Woman, tell the whole truth
now ; bad as it is, it will bear no comparison
with this—tell them what from me they might
not credit now—that your mistress’s death was
hex’ sin, not mine—Heaven knows, no wilful sin
of mine!”
Abigail lifts her heavy eyes, and looks long
and steadily into the passionate ones that con
front her. The sweetest moment of her life has
come, the moment in which she can pay back,
pang for pang, in heaped and overflowing meas
ure, every pain and wrong her dear dead mis
tress had endured. She has waited for it with
a grim and terrible patience ; but it was worth
waiting for. Oh, how gladly would she prolong
it now ! But already Neal’s question has been
sharply echoed on either side ; she must speak
and break the spell. Her lips part in an evil
smile, as she answers slowly, and with delib
erate, careful emphasis—
“ Why should I slander her to save you, Mr.
Dacre ? I only know that you quarrelled fierce
ly a few hours before her death, and that you
gave her the stuff that killed her.”
“Yon know no more than that?” Neal quer
ies—not passionately, not with such strong
feeling of any kind as would surely in the cir
cumstances have been natural, but in a dull
stupid fashion, with his hand pressed to his
head, as though he was struggling desperately
to recall the incidents of some forgotten dream.
“ Yes, one thing more,” the woman answers
grimly—“ the words she scrawled in her dying
agony, we found them on her lap, Mr. Dacre—
perhaps you have them still—if not I can quote
them for you. ‘lt is all I asked, Neal—death,
near you, though I did not think it would be
death at your hands. But I was m the way ; I
could never make you happy ; let me die !’ ”
“‘ I was in the way ; I could never make you
happy ; let me die !’ ” Neal repeats heavily, and
without any show of emotion in look or tone ;
then he moves a step or two toward the middle
of the room, and quite suddenly, without cry
er warning of any kind, falls with a dull crash
ing sound to the floor.
* * * # * *
An hour later, Minnie Nesbitt, crying her
pretty eyes out in a passion of sympathetic
greif and nervous anxiety, pushes her lover’s
arm away, and petulantly refuses to listen to
his murmured consolations.
“ No ; you do not care, George ; you did your
duty and ran yourself out of breath to fetch a
doctor ; but you would have done the same for
the worst of men. It is treason to Rose and
poor Mr. Dacre to talk or listen to those who
believe him gailty on the word of that wicked
old hag, who ought to be hanged or burned as
a witch.”
“ Did I help to spread her calumnies, Min
nies?”
“No, but you believe them ! You always did
suspect him a little, George !”
“ Yes,” George Malcolm agrees thoughtfully.
“I always had an uncomfortable idea that there
was something kept back about Mrs. Dacre’s
death, and at times that idea almost grew into a
suspicion of hex’ husband. Now—
“ Now,” Minnie echoes, with a resentful flush,
“you think how wise you were to see where we
were all blind. Now, you are sure of his
guilt ?”
“ Wrong, my logical little love !” the young
man says, smiling faintly. “Hearing all the
evidence against him, I am lor the first time sure
of Neal Dacre’s innocence to-day.”
CHAPTER XVI.
“ MAKE THEM SEE HOW INNOCENT YOU ABE.”
Contrary to the frightened expectation of those
who saw him fall, Neal Dacre does not die—nay,
after the first few hours, during which the doc
tor regards him very gravely, he is not even ill.
At least, he says he is not; and, though his
haggard face and feverishly-glittering eyes
rather belie the assertion, he makes ,it with an
energy that no one can gainsay.
With the same fierce determination he insists
on an immediate interview with Air. Nesbitt,
who, horror-stricken and utterly bewildered,
afraid to sift his own thoughts ana say even to
himself what he really does believe, would lain
defer indefinitely what must needs be a pain
fully trying scene.
“ He can hardly be himself, can hardly have
collected his thoughts yet, or be sure of what
he is saying,” he says, when Mrs. Nesbitt gent
ly insists on the accused man’s right to be
heard ; “ there is no such hurry, for, after
after what passed last night, he can hardly be
mad enough to think the wedding will take
place to-day.”
•‘No, there can be no wedding,” the woman
answers, with a little shiver ; “ but there is no
time to spare—matters cannot rest here.”
“ By George, no !” the Squire cries, clenching
his fists and pacing the room in strong agita
tion. “The present is bad enough ; but I grow
as faint and shaky as a frightened girl when I
think of lasing what is to come. Ido not know
that I was ever over-fond of poor Maud ; but to
think of her dying such a death as that, poi
soned like a rat in a 'hole, and by the man she
loved so madly—why, my blood boils ! I fairly
lose my senses!”
“Do not dwell upon such sad fancies, dear,
and, above all, do not let your pity for Maud
make you unjust to Neal Dacre. You have,
against your own knowledge of his honest up
right character, your own strong liking for him,
only the word of— of—a fierce, strange creature,
whom most persons would bo inclined to think
a malignant madwoman.”
“Oh, no ; if it were only that—but you forget
the half-coafession of his words, the whole con
fession of his manner, the fashion in which the
scene ended! Would any man conscious of
perfect innocence meet such a charge as that by
fakxting like a girl? By George, if any man ac
cused me ” The Squire breaks ofl abruptly,
growing very red in the face, and shaking his
Tlrst and breathing hard, in vague defiance of
a snspiclQaa world.
“ If any one brought such a charge against
yon, yon would long for a chance to clear your
seii, for a lair if not a friendly hearing, as
; ardently as Noal Dacre longs for it. Now
| go, dear, and hear his story, for he has a story
to toll. I admit that bis manner last night was
painfully str mge, but it will tak«e much strong
er evidence than that to make mo behove him
gailty oi a cruel crime.”
And, thus ad ured, Air. Nosbitt goes, finding
to his groat relief that George Malcolm is not
only ready to accompany ivm, but anxious to
take part 1:1 the momentous interview.
“ George is so clear-headed a id clever, pa
pa,' Alinnio whis-pers in his ear, as the two men
set out in the fresh aweetnpss of the early dawn
for Airs. Lindsay's cottage; “ he will see what is
best to be said and done at on e It will bo
perfectly useless for even the cleverest schemer
to try to hoodwink him.”
Air. Nes.iitt does not wish to damp his daugh
ter’s hopes; but ho himself is far from sharing
hor perfect fait lin Neal’s inno ’ence. He has a
vague idea that Mr. Malcolm has not hitherto
regarded tho bridegroom with any special fa
vor, and ho thinks dismally that it is quite pos
sible, in making this quick witted expert a
sharer in Neal’s confidence, he may bo merely
setting a detective on tbo doomed criminal’s
track.
However, be comforts himself with the re
flection that, whatever happens, he is acting
only as the blind agent ot an inevitable fate; he
has nut arranged ihinga—they h ive arranged
themselves, and must work to their predeter
mined end.
They find Noal in the room to which ho was
taken over night, and to which the doctor’s or
der s:ill confines him, ghastly palo, and looking
even paler for tho bandage on his head, whore
i:e had cut it severely in his fall.
Ho l ows grave'y, as a criminal entering
court might bow to his judges, as the young
ba:ri >t: r thinks, u Ith a quick professional sim
ile, but makes no attempt at any friendlier
greeting, a recognition o' his position as an ac
cused man which Mr. Nesbitt seems to acqui
esce in by returning tlie bow with awkward
stiffness; but, not a little to his elder compan
ions surprise, George Afalcolm walks straight
acroas the r 6m, and, holding out his hand in a
frank, friendly fashion, says, cordially:
“I am glad to see you so mu h better, Dacre.
You m inaged to g ve us all a fine fright last
night.”
Neal Daoro’s sensitive face quivers painfully
for a moment, and tho blood mounts swiftly to
the roots of bis clo<e-cut, crisply waving hair.
He ; draws a long brea h, and says in a hurried
whisper, as he returns the close hand-pressure
with a vise-like clasp:
“Thank you. I can say no more than that.”
“And so much is not ne cssary,” the young
man answers, brightly. “Am I not sworn to
serve the cause of truth and justice, Da re, and
conse ;uently bound to serve you?”
“Then y<-u believe that I —”
Neal pauses, looking with a painful intensity
of questioning at the keen, bright face.
“That you are altogether innocent of the
crime laid to your charge? Ido?” is the em
phatic answer, which makes Noal turn his head
abruptly aside to hide the tears of gratitude and
joy that rush blindingly io his eyes. “ But my
boliel will not clear you, Dacre,” the barrister
goes on. “If lam to fight your battle, you
must put weapons into my hand. Last night
you did your best to arm the enemy.”
“You moan ■”
“ I mean that, by your evident dread of what
the woman had to say, your weak outbreak of
what sounded like remorse and regret, yon
g«ve a certain coherence and apparent reality
to what would otherwise have seemed a night
mare of horror. Cred n lon a and suspicious
people he glances meaningly at Air. Nesbitt,
who, with knitted brows and troubled eyes, is
storing vaguely through the open window —
“ might be led to think that you had pleaded
guilty. Now lam neither credulous nor suspi
cious, but I think ”
“You think?” Neal echoes, drawing up his
head with a half-defiant gesture.
“ I think that you owe it to yourself and to
others—above all to Alias Fane—to explain your
self fully and at once.”
The speech ends rather awkwardly, and for
once the self-possessed young barrister is con
scious of a little embarrassment, tor Rose Fane
enters the room while he is speaking, and
stands quietly listening to his appeal.
She too is very pale, and her eyes have the
strained look, the dark violet rings that tell of
sleeplessness and tears repressed, but she is
even more composed than her lover, and, as
she turns to him, after a grave greeting to the
others, her wan lace even brightens with a pa
thetically deprecating smile.
“ Mrs. Linday thought 1 might come, Neal. It
is my right, dear, to hear all—to share all your
pain now.”
She goes nearer to him, and Blips one hand
within his arm. Mr. Nesbitt looks at the young
pair, so true and so tragically tried, suffering
such torture now, and threatened with even
worse in the dark days to come, and, looking,
ho forgets his suspicion, and only thinks of
sparing the brave girl present pain.
“Send her away, Neal; she has had enough
to bear,” ho urges.
•‘ Rose, will you go ?” Neal asks. “ I warn
you that what I have to say will shock and pain
you, will make you turn from me perhaps !”
“Never!” the girl says proudly and firmly,
looking not at her lover, but at George Mal
colm and Air. Nesbitt, in whom she seems to
see her lover’s advocate and judge. “Do not
thiuk of me, Neal; speak as though I were not
here; tell them all, and make them see how in
nocent you are.”
Her lull conviction of his power to do this
thrills Neal Dacre with a passionate joy, but he
does not thank her even with a look, does not
touch the little hand so near his own; he sim
ply draws forward a chair, with grave courtesy,
then, turning to the two men, says quietly:
“ 1 will try to explain the words that natural
ly misled you, but the story is a long and, to
me, an intensely painful one; I hardly know
how to tell it—how to begin ”
“ We know your marriage was not a happy
one—no need to dwell upon that,” Air. Nesbitt
puts in bluntly. “Tell us how it ended. Tell
us what happened after Minnie and I left the
Grange en the night of your wife’s death.”
Looking at the pale girl, seated by the table
now, with both hands tightly locked upon a
book, Mr. Malcolm sees hex* set lips quiver and
partly divines hex’ thoughts. How often—oh,
how often she has pondered the events of that
terrible evening, and tried in her aching fancy
$0 piece together the story that Minnie perforce
left incomplete!
“What happened?” Neal repeats drearily.
“That which had happened a dozen, twenty
times before, Mr. Nesbitt—a painful scene of
rage and jealousy, and at last—yes, I must own
it to my shame—of bitter recrimination; some
thing your daughter said, some careless inno
cent allusion to that past upon which we neither
of us dared to dwell, had roused Maud’s pas
sionate jealousy, and no sooner were you gone
than she turned upon me with savage taunts
and insinuations, that drove me to fury. I had
been patient with her until then, sir—Heaven
knows I had 1 A hundred reasons combined to
quell my naturally hot temper, and made me
gentle with the frail suffering creature, who
would implore my pardon and confess the
wrong she had done with abject penitence when
ever the paroxysm of rage was past; the grati
tude I owed her, the sight of her constant, pa
tiently-borne pain, the knowledge of the frail
tenure on which her life was held; all these
things were ever present in my mind, and
served to restrain me when harsh and impa
tient thoughts sprang to my lips in sharp and
stinging words; hitherto, in spite of all, I had
been master of myself. But then ”
He pauses, shuddering violently, and for a
moment the silence is broken only by his long
drawn labored breathing; then, with a strong
effort, he goes on:
“ That night I was ill, tired, weary of the vain
effort to cry peace where peace was not. That
night the chained demon in me broke loose,
trampling down reason and self-respect, and
the strong wifi that had hitherto kept my worst
passions in check. I turned upon her with sav
age cruelty, giving back taunt for taunt, insult
for insult, quelling her with my mightier pas
sion and more merciless tongue. I must have
been possessed by a demon then, for, though I
saw hex’ lace grow whiter and whiter, her eyes
dilate and darken, though I saw her poor frail
hand steal with the old betraying gesture to her
loudly-throbbing heart, and the dreadful blue
gray hue, the last danger-signal of which the
doctor had warned us, creeping about her livid
lips, I did not spars her even then.”
“ Neal—oh, Neal 1”
The cry breaks from Rose against her will,
the tears are coursing thick and fast down her
pale cheeks. Neal gives her one quick entreat
ing glance, then continues:
“ Not even then. Oh, Heaven, how that pale
drawn face has haunted me since,in my dreams
and waking fancies I Do you wonder at my re
morse when 1 recall it—do you wonder at my
wild words ot self-accusal ? At times I have
felt the red-hot brand of Cain burned in
my brow, and felt in very truth a murderer.
No; wait 1” He lifts his hand with an entreating
gesture as Mr. Nesbitt is about to speak.
“Judge me, condemn me, say what you will to
me by-and-by, bu-t first hear my story to the
end. To save my neck from the hangman, I
think I could hardly tell it twice.
“ Maud suddenly cut me short with a wild
cry, piteous, though there was more of rage
than pain in its sharp ring.
“‘ At last—l know the truth at last I” she
panted, clutching in her desperate weakness at
the back of a chair, yet facing me with a fierce
defiance still. ‘ You have thrown off the mask,
the pretence of gentleness and forbearance that
you have worn so long. You bate and loathe
me, and the love you never sought. You long
for my death, for the breaking of the chains that
gall and fetter you. Very well, sir, truth is
worth buying even at such a price.’
“ She paused, staggering a little, and I
thought I saw a dimness come over her eyes;
then, in a sudden flash of reason, I seemed to
realize and sicken at my own horrible insensate
cruelty, the storm-burst of brute rage that had
perhaps imperilled her life.
“ ‘ Maud, forgive me—l was mad—l did not
moan one-tenth oi what I said 1’ I cried, as I
sprang toward her, but, with a cry of rage and
terror that still echoes horribly in my ears, she
shrank back, and, when I tried to touch her, she
pushed my baud savagely away.
“‘No, never again!’ she said, wildly. ‘I
know now the horror, the effort—all that it costs
you to endure my presence. Well, you will be
free, sir, soon, almost as soon as you can wish,
and then ’
“The words died on her lips ; I felt myself
pushed rudely away, and then 1 saw Maud half
lying on the ground, half resting in Abigail
Hunt’s arms.
“ I was so alarmed that I forgot the awkward
ness of my own position and tho woman’s uncon-
, coaled dislike and thinly-vailed insolence to me.
I I bent across her and tried to take Maud’s cold,
trembling hand in mine, to speak some words
of conciliation, but she shrank from me and hid
hor poor livid face on Abigail’s breast, crying,
with that helpless accent of terror that was the
cruellest of reproaches to me :
“ ‘ Take mo away, Abigail—l am safe with
you !’
“ ‘ You hear, sir,’ tho woman said, as she
jerked her head, over her shoulder, and I
thought her ordinarily dull eyes sparkled with
a feverish malignitv of triumph —‘ you hear ?
My poor mistress will have a chance at least to
recover if you leave her to me.’
“I had no choice but to accept tho insolent
dismissal, and I went, mentally anathematizing
the ill-luck that had sent Abigail on tho scene
at that inopportune moment; but for her I
would have appealed to Aland’s generosity, to
her real love lor me ; I would have forced her
at least to listen, and, in some fashion, I did not
doubt that wo should have patched up a peace.
As it was, my heart sickened within mo with a
dull sense of impotent misery, for I knew that
all tho influonce’of the servant, who swayed al
most a mother’s authority, would bo used to
widen tho breach between mo and my unhappy
wile.
“ ‘ I ohall not even bo allowed to seo her,’ I
thought, with a dreary bitterness, for the situa
tion was not only painful, but humiliating in the
extreme. I imagined the servants amusing
themselves at my expense, pitying tho master
who was so mere a cipher in tixo house he was
supposed to rule.
“ Hours crept drearily away, while I sat on,
absorbed in painful thought. I was just think
ing it was time I retired to rest, when, to my
amazement, the door opened, and Abigail Hunt
came into the room.
“She looked so livid and horrible in an old
gray drossing-gown, with the light of tho lamp
she carried falling fully upon hor face, that
I might havo been excused for taking her
for some spectral visitor. I could not havo
shrunk from hor with more instinctive terror or
intense dislike had she been indeed a ghost.
“She saw and understood my backward
movement 1 know, for her rugged brows drew
together above tho glittering eyes, and tho grim
lips tightened, but she said, with a mook civility
that almost took my breath away :
“ ‘ Would you please to come to my mistress,
sir ? She wishes to see you before she sleeps ?’
“ Aly heart leaped at tho words ; I felt as
though a heavy burden of remorse wero lifted
from my soul. At that moment I regretted
nothing, not even mv ill-omened marriage, not
oven you, Bose. Sitting there, horribly haunted
by Aland's death-like face, I had felt myself an
unpardoned murderer. Now, so intense, so im
measurable was the relief the message brought
mo, I could almost havo fallen at tho feet of tho
grim messenger.
“ ‘ Of course I will come,’ I answered eagerly.
‘ Is your mistross better, Abigail, and free from
pain ?’
“ Wo had traversed the corridor aud reached
tho door of Maud’s room as I put the question.
Never shall I forget tho look that seemed to
transform Abigail Hunt’s grim face in some
strange fashion as she turned, with what was
surely a commonplaco and reassuring answer :
“‘She is better now, sir—much hotter, and
she will soon be freo from pain I’
(To be Continued.)
THE LiTTLFsCHbOLMA’AM.
A STORY OF PLUCK AND ADVEN
TURE.
“Speakin’ of the rural regions,” said an old
chap at tho end of a bar, who had trouble in
raising a glass ot beer to his mouth with his
right arm, “I might bo indooced to relate a
leetle adventure which happened to mo in Lnji
any last Summer.”
Ho was earnestly advised to free his con
science of its burdens, and he continued :
“ Well, I had been bangin’around Indianapo
lis for several weeks, and finally tho Police
Judge advised mo to leave town. I never argy
with a Police Judge. When they come right
down to fatherly advico I accept’it and git. I
lott the town inside ot two hours, and it didn't
take me over throe hours to reach a mile post
ten miles away. About tour o’clock in the
afternoon, as I was restin’ beside the high wav,
a schoolma’am passed. She was a chipper leetle
body, weighin’ about ninety pounds, and white
faced, and when I sort o' riz up to ax her it she
didn’t have a bit to eat in hex* basket, she uttered
womanish yelp and started off on a dead run.
I didn’t have ou iny swaller-tail coat and stand
in’ collar on that day, and I guess she took me
fur a tramp.
“Now, gents, when a feller is ragged, hun
gry and out o’ rhino, what does ho do? He
makes a break, in course. I walks along fur
about a mile, and when I comes to a farm house
with a look of comfort about it, I stops in and
asks if a poor man, who has lost his hull family
in the groat Chicago fire, can git a bite to eat to
brace him up as he journeys toward tho settin’
sun. The motherly old soul of a farmer’s wife
would hev set out a squar’ meal fur me, but
that leetle schoolma’am was there to prevent. I
heard ’em whisperin’ together in the next room,
and by and by the old lady came back and give
me the bounce. A tramp as has belonged to
the purfesh fur fifteen years hadn’t orter fire up
over sich a trifle as that, but it hit me like a
blow below tho belt, and I determined on re
venge.
“I went into the orchard and stole some
apples, and then lai-d around to watch. I found
out afore dark that the farmer was an old man,
and that there was only three of ’em in the
house. Long ’nuff ’fore the lights wore out I
had arranged wrth myself to break in. There
was a chance of plunder, and I intended to
scare that leetle schoolma’am out of a year’s
growth. I don’t say as I .would hev laid hands
on her, but that very thing might hev happened,
you know.
“ Well, about half an hour afore midnight I
begins operations by creepin’ up to the back
door. It was shut, but; not locked, and I crept
in, struck a light, and found my way to the pan
try. There was cold meat, pumpkim pie and
bread and butter, and it took me a good half
hour to fill up. I might hev gone out then, but
1 wanted sunthin’ else. There was nobody
sleepin’ down stairs, and after pocketin’ a watch
I crept up stairs into the old folks’ bedroom.
They was sleepin’ as sound as you please, and
the moon shinin’in furnished all the light need,
ed. I went through a bureau and got a wallet,
and was searchin’ the old man’s pants, when I
heard a step at the door and a voice cried out :
‘ Surrender or I’ll shoot 1”
It was that leetle schoolma’am. She stood in
the door in her night dress, a revolver pointed
full at me, and I could see her eyes blaze. I
made a rush to seize her, when ‘ crack ! crack !’
went the revolver, and one bullet struck me in
the right shoulder and another in the side. I
went down as if shot through the head, and up
jumps the old man and piles on to me like a ton
of brick. The little scheolma’am went down
stairs after a rope, and then helped tie mo hand
and foot. More’n that, she kept guard over me
while the old man rode off for an officer, and
every time I fetched a groan she Lad that revol
ver ready to shoot.
“In conclusion, gents, permit me to remark
that the Court give me five years fur that little
affair, while the plucky leetlo schoolma’am re
ceived a public purse of S2OO. Sometimes I’ve
felt.asif it was my dooty to hunt her up and
marry her. ’
LODGE BUSINESS.
THE MYSTIC CEREMONIES DIS-
CUSSED.
(Jhwi Texas Siftings.)
Airs. Yerger.—“ You have no idea how much
trouble I have with my old man. I didn’t think
it was possible for him to get any sillier than be
was already, but I was mistaken.”
“ What is he up to now ?”
“He is always up to some new foolishness.
He is just running the lodge business into the
gieund. I would like to know all that goes on
in these lodge rooms.”
“I would, too. Judge Peterby comes home
every night about one o’clock smelling.of whisky
and beer, and when I aek him what sort of
smell it is, he has the impudence to tell me it is
incense, which they use in their mystic cere
monies.”
“I’ve noticed the same smell about Colonel
Yerger. He, too, said it was incense, and that
the effect it had on me proved it was incense,
because I became incensed as soon as I smelled
it We poor women never find out any lodge
secrets, for even if a man is ever so talkative,
when he comes home from the lodge he is not
in a condition to talk. I don’t know what Colonel
Yerger has been doing to deserve it, but they
have made him a Grand Sachem.”
“ What in the world is that.?”
“ I don’t know. That’s some new order he
has joined. He already belongs to the Order
of the Vailed Nightcaps;'and the Order of Idi
otic Red Muffs, and three or more Ku-Klux
gangs.”
“ How did you find out that ho is a Grand
Sachem ? Does he talk in his sleep ?”
“ No. Day before yesterday was his birth
day. Just as we were getting up from the sup
per-table there came two knocks at the door,
and a deep, grave-like voice said, ‘ Is the Grand
Sachem in his wigwam ?’ Col. Yerger opened
the door, and there was Gus de Smith, Kosci
usko Murphy, Mose Schaumberg, Gilhooley,
Hostetter McGinnis, old Judge Pennybunker
and a lot of those reprobates. They came into
the room in Indian file, and said: ‘ls our red
sister well T 3 Just think of it.”
“ I’d have scalped them with a fire shovel,”
said Mrs. Peterby.
“ Then Gillholy struck an attitude, and said:
• Alost Noble Grand Sachem, this is thy birth
day, and thy red brethren, the noble red braves
now present in this wigwam, in consequence of
the high esteem they have for their noble broth
er, and his great services to the lodge, do here
by present thee, noble savage, with this gold
headed walking cane. Lean on it most worthy
son of the forest, on thy stroll in the direction
ot the happy hunting grounds behind the set
ting sun.”
“Do you allow such proceedings in your
house, Airs. Yerger? Why,l would have scald
ed them. I d have exterminated them.”
“ I couldn’t help it. Colonel Yerger was very
much moved. He said it was the happiest mo
ment of his life, but.that his heart was too full
for utterance,- and turning to me, he had the
impudence to say, handing mo a quarter:
‘ Here, noble squaw, take this string of wam
pum, go to the corner grocery with the tin
growler and bring some beer, that I may
make merry with my red brethren of the forest.
Be seated, braves.’ ”
“I would have mopped the floor with him.”
“And for a week afterward ho put ou lots of
airs. When I wanted him to walk up and down
with the baby, he said it was not the business of
a warrior to carry the papoose around. For a
whole week, Mrs. Peterby, that wretched man
talked dime novel to me until I threatened to
invito mother to come and stay with us. That
took the nonsense out of the Grand Sachem.”
“ What silly fools these mon are.”
“ Well, ain’t they ?”
LIFE IN A SHOOTING BOX.
a picnic undelLpioturesque
CIRCUMSTANCES.
(Jh>m the Cleveland Leader.)
Next to his home and rights the Englishman
holds dearest his dog and gun. The national
fondness for hunting and shooting has become
proverbial. Dynamite plots may threaten the
throne; the Egyptian question may rear its
grim and sphinx-like front in the halls of West
minster ; the abolition of the lords may be im
minent, but none of these, not even the awful
and omnipresent '‘Deceased Wile’s Sisters’ Bill,”
can ever keep in town the fortunate Briton who
owns a shooting box, or who has a friend who
owns a shooting box. Do not allow your
imagination to picture this euphoniously named
residence, situated among the hills, as a tiny
box, 4xß, in which the patient huntsman sits
waiting for the whirr of partridge wings.
Imagine instead an artistic, modern dwelling,
with nineteenth century improvements, or
possibly an old farmhouse, with bay windows
and wings added, cosily furnished, and look
ing like a toil-worn old la ly in silk and velvet.
It was my good fortune one summer to spend
a few weeks in a Highland shooting box of the
latter description. The rambling old stone
house in which wo stayed stood in a narrow,
green valley, which lay between two heathery
hills. In front of the house rippled over the
pebbles and moss, one of those clear little
“burns,” for which Scotland is noted, with here
and there deeper depths in which the fish play
with as much delight as do the “bairns” in its
shallows.
But to come back to the shooting box. In its
rear stands a row of small unpainted rooms,
which are occupied as sleeping’apartments by
the “gillies” and male servants of the estab
lishment, The host, a wealthy member of Par
liament, has invited seveiwl friends to accom
pany him, so there is a congenial and merry
party of five or six gentlemen, four ladies and
several half-grown children.
When the days are fine, as they usually are
during August and September, the gentlemen
immediately after breakfast, star tfor the moors,
accompanied by the “ gillies, ’ whose task it is
to carry the game-bags and “ start up ” the
game. The ladies spend the forenoon in writ
ing letters, sketching, reading, or sewing. Gen
erally, the gentlemen return at noon, but fre
quently the ladies and children, in simple flan
nel dresses and thick shoes, walk out to meet
thorn in some picturesque spot, and there have
a picnic, which would oe perfect were it not for
the accompaniments in swallow-tailed coats and
white cravats, known as butler and footman.
These solemnly stalk around the festal damask,
and are as agreeable as the “ death’s head ” at
an Egyptian feast.
After lunch the party spend the a r ternoon in
telling stories, chatting, talking politics, etc.,
until the pony phfetons arrive to take them
driving. About 5 o’clock they reach home and
find that it is time to dress for 6 o'clock dinner.
This is the event of the day. Here and only
here does the British matron of good taste,
while in the mountains or at the seashore, dis
play her silks and jewelry. To wear for morn
ing shopping, or on the street, bracelets, nock
laces, and showy watch chains is considered
outre, and stamps the wearer as a shoddy
person. But, at home or abroad, an evening
dinner party allows th© fullest liberty in thia
respect.
After the dinner, which commonly lasts about
an hour and a half, the ladies withdraw to the
drawing-room, while the gentlemen, after
drinking their wine, follow them. Then come
music, reading and conversation until nine, at
which time the butler and footman appear,
bearing trays with tiny cups ©i tea and coffee
and sweet crackers. About 10 o’clock the host
rings tor candles, and the company disperse
for the night. Occasionally an evening is given
to private theatricals or to a literary entertain
ment gotten up by the children. One fourteen
year-old dameel recited without mistake “ The
Lady of the Lake,” and received for it sls. The
gentlemen would offer the children prizes for
the best essay, and the competition was both
keen and amusing.
Yet even more interesting than this upper
stratum and its doings was that of the lower.
Here opportunity offered itself to study two
distinct types of Scottish character; the one,
smooth, oily, servile, and inquisitive; the other,
strong, intelligent, independent, reserved, and
full of self-respect. The first was represented
in “auld Jennet,” who “tuk care o’ the big
boose when the gentry was awa.” Jennet in
her “linsey goon,” white match, and apron,
would make believe that she had but one aim in
life, and that was to serve her employers, but a
close observer who noticed the keen gray eyes
and vain attempt to look genuine, the simper
which was meant for a smile, and the ever flat
tering word to her employers said to himself,
“That’s a selfish, deceitful auld body,” and so
it proved.
We gladly turn, however, to number two, the
most common type in Scotland. The embodi
ment of this class was seen in a gillie and his
sister, who lived in a three-roomed cottage near
by. This gillie, a kind of shepherd and general
factotum, took charge of the stock and out
buidings during his employer’s absence.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered Scotchman,
and in kilt and plaid, with frank, blue eyes and
tawny beard, looked every inch a Highland
chieftain.. His sister, resembling him much,
could almost match his six feet two. Their re
serve and lack of demonstration wore a con
stant puzzle to me. I happened to be in the
room when their brother, a theological student
and the pride of the family, came home from
Aberdeen. His sister had not seen him for a
year, and instead of rushing into his arms and
welcoming him with kisses, she reached out her
hand, and giving him a vigorous shake, said,
“How’s a’ wi’ ye?” I knew that her love for
and pride in his were limitless, yet both would
have blushed and been half ashamed had either
one offered any oscular demonstration.
IN TEXAS. ~
SOME MEN THAT ARE THERE AND
WHY THEY WEN T.
(From the Chicago National Weekly.)
“ I say,, gentlemen,” said the man from Chi
cago to the crowd in the bar-room of a Texas
hotel, as they sat huddled around the stove, “it
is wonderful how many mistakes are being
made every minute.”
“ Yes, that’s so,” asserted the Maine man, as
he kicked the dog from under the stove, “and
some terribly awkward ones have I made my
self.”
“ Voted for Blaine, I expect?”
“ Oh, leave off on Blaine. Let bygones be by
gones. Anyway, this is not a ward caucus or a
prohibition meeting,” returned the Maine man,
and the missionary in the corner by the water
tank coincided with his views as be heard the
chink of glasses and inhaled the odor that could
exhume from nothing but the genuine “ Bour
bon, ’68.”
“ One of the biggest mistakes I ever made in
my life was one time in Lexington,” said the
man from the Blue Grass region, taking a fresh
chew of tobacco.
“ Let’s hear of it.”
“Well, lam ashamed to own it, but lam
afraid I will have to. 1 was correspondent to
the Enquirer at the time, and was well known
and looked upon in the higher circles, and of
course, being a bachelor, I was quite a favorite
with the girls. The one that took my heart was
a Cincinnati girl—not that the Lexington girls
are not as pretty and sweet and all that, but the
Cincinnati girl was rich—yes, even to six figures
—so I concluded she was the girl lor me. Asked
her. Everything agreeable. Asked old man.
He said:
“ You may have her, my dear boy, under one
consideration. That is, take pledge. Take her,
and may God bless you.”
“ Didn't take the pledge, eh?” ventured the
Maine man, thinking that he had discovered the
root of the fatal mistake.
“Didn’t take the pledge? Why, pardner,
there’s where I made my m stake—took the
pledge, and also girl; old man busted, not worth
a cent; girl she simpered and couldn’t make a
biscuit, and because of the pledge I was always
as dry as a bone. Didn’t take the pledge ! Why,
gentlemen, if I hadn’t taken that pledge, I’d
have been a rich man to-day.”
“ You may thank your stars, stranger, that
you had no mother-in-law,” said the sad-look
ing man from Michigan.
“No mother-in-law I Great snakes, man,
that was the straw that broke the camel’s back,
so to speak. She had a regular Chicago mother !
In the depth of my affliction, I broke my pledge.
Lost $l5O on that Got drunk, and my mother
in-law threw hot water on me. This is the
worst mistake of my life, and it is because of it
that lam in Texas to-day.” And he sobbed
audibly as he told the barkeeper to fill up the
glasses, and all drank in silence.
A HUEvN OSTRICH.
(From the Philadelphia News.)
Bill Jones is a colored man from Waco, Texas.
Bill Jones, in his outward appearance, resem
bles other colored men, but Bill Jones has a
digestive apparatus that is as far superior to
that of an ostrich as an ore crusher is to a oof--
fee mill. Bill Jones proved this conclusively
last night, when he devoured, with great rel
ish, one white glass lamp chimney and a cham
pagne glass as a main meal, and, for dessert, a
sandwich made of two slices of bread, a thin
sliver of ham, and a small section of an ordi
nary window and powdered glass. He did this
without the slightest inconvenience, and after
he had finished, put the fragments of another
half-eaten lamp chimney in his coat pocket for
an appetizer at midnight.
Jones is a typical Southern darky—doesn't
know his own age “jes’ eszacly,” can read
“ writiu’,” and believes in “ Abo Linkum.” He
was born somewhere in Missouri, about thirty
five years ago, and when a child pi ked up a
piece of glass, thinking it was ice, and ate it.
This, he believes, developed his taste for sharp
edged food, because after that he frequently
amused his companions by chewing up and
swallowing whisky tumblers iu bar-rooms.
When he found that no injury require 1 from
this diet of glass he continued it daily, until at
last he became so thoroughly addicted to the
habit that an erudite physician in Poker Flrft
declared that he was afflicted with “ glass
phobia.” Jones's exhibition admits of no de
ception. After he had chewed up each mou.th
ful of lamp chimney last night he got on hia
knees, opened his mouth so that everybody
could see the bits of glass on his tongue and
then swallowed a glass of wine and with it the
mouthful of glass. His mouth was carefully
examined afterward and not a particle of glass,
except that sticking to his teeth, could be dis
covered. He cats with the same facility glass
ground into small pieces and mixed with ice
cream or soup, pudding or pie. On Tuesday
last he underwent a critical examination by two
prominent physicians, who kept him under
surveillance for twenty-four hours, and were
satisfied at the end of that time that he had
really digested the glass. He claims to be able
to eat a spoonful of arsenic, or the same
quantity of any other mineral poison, and to be
thoroughly proof against the effects of alcohol,
no matter how much he may drink.
STORM.
ALMOST. WITHIN SIGHT OF HIS
OWN DOOR.
A trip on horseback over the Kansas plains in
the vicinity of Syracuse, when the sun shines
brightly and the air is orisp and bracing, is not
an unpleasant experience, unless its object be
such as that which has kept the settlers there
abouts busy for a week or more—the search for
victims of the storm. Although there have
been many colder days in Kansas than those
experienced during the recent blizzard, there
never was a fiercer wind nor a more blinding
and cutting snow. For days it seemed as though
the earth was wrapped in vapor, and objects
not fifty feet away were not distinguishable.
When the storm subsided and the intense
cold had moderated sufficiently to make it safe
for men to venture out, reports were received
of many fatalities, and since that time men
have been busily at work scouring the plains in
search of possible victims of the blast, and for
the purpose of visiting remote habitations and
relieving distress.
Biding in the face of a keen northwest wind
that scoured the prairies bare in some places,
and in others polished the heaped-up masses oi
snow until they looked like brightest silver, a
rescuing party came upon a little plain board
shanty about twenty miles west of Syracuse that
told plainly enough that death was within. Ou
one aide of the building the hard earth wat
swept clean, while on the other side the glitter*
frig and hard-crusted snow was piled from five
to ten feet high. Against the door of the shan
ty the snow had beaten until it could scarcely be
distinguished from the side of the house ; while
all about the place were evidences of recent set
tlement and the hard beginnings of a pioneel
life in the wilderness.
One of the horsemen dismounted at the cabin
door, and, kicking the ice and snow away, finally
forced his way into the wretched abode. Not a
stick of furniture remained. The one stove was
cold, and the floors and sides of the House were
covered with frost. In some places on the
north and west exposures, where little cracks
wore to bo seen, some of them partly stuffed
with rags, the snow had drifted in. .
A glance at the furthest corner revealed a
mass of bidding, and under it, stiff in death,
with frost on their hair, but eyes closed as in
sleep, were the bodies of a young woman and
two little children. One of the latter was
wrapped tightly in the mother's arms, and the
other was clinging tightly on her back. No one
spoke, but a further scrutiny sufficed to show
how bitter had been the struggle, and how ta
the very last the woman had fought against the
inevitable; The handle of the ax with which
she had demolished tho furniture bad been
burned, the blade itself being fished from the
cheerless hearth, and so close had been the
economy of fuel, that, though everything that
could be split had been used, not a splinter
was to be found anywhere. Pinned against tho
door was a scrap of paper, on which the woman
had written:
“We are going to bed. I have used every
thing that I could find, and the fire is almost
gone. We have had nothing to eat to-dav. If
you would only come. Little Mary cried for
you to-night, and before we went to bed we all
prayed for you and for us. I'm afraid about
you—the storm is. dreadful—but I also fear that
if you com© you will be too late.”
“ Where is the man ?” some one asked.
“Lost, of course,” was the reply of nearly all
the others in concert.
One by one the men filed out into the bright
sunshine and swept the horizon with their hand
shaded eyes. Everywhere snow, and bleak,
bare spots stretching away for miles and touch
ing at last the blue above. Slowly the men
mounted and by common consent began a
search of the country within a mile of tho claim.
After a half hour or more spent in this way, one
of the riders spied an object, which had been
partly uncovered by a preceding horseman, and
a moment later the body of a man was brought
to view.
A little to one side, where the snow had been
blown away, were discovered the footprints o!
the wanderer, and without much difficulty,
though they were lost sight of frequently, they
were traced in one instance to a point not more
than fifty rods from his own home. As he was
empty-handed, it was evident that he had never
got more than half a mile away on his search
lor relief, and that perhaps at the very time
when his faithful wife and little ones were lying
down to their last sleep, he may have been plod*
ding aimlessly bu-t painfully in tho dreary cir
cle, almost within sight of his own door.
The man’s remains were conveyed to the
house, and the men returned to make arrange
ments for the burial of the unfortunates.
WORN-OUT."
BY M. QUAD.
No. she was not strong; she had never beoa
very strong. Farmer Grey knew it when ho
married her. Eight children called her mother.
She made all their clothes and did her own
house work, and yet “mother was not strong.”
Farmer Grey said it often, and always regret
fully. Perhaps he was unselfish to" wish that
she were stronger for her own sake, but I fear
not. He was a very'robnst, active man, and ex
ceedingly anxious to “get along” in the world.
Therefore, I fear that bis regret for mother's
feebleness was simply a regret that she could
not do more to aid him in bis “getting along”
schemes.
She herself regretted that she was not
stronger.
“Father works so hard,” she would say; “I
feel that I am not as much help to him as I
might be if I were a real strong woman.”
What more would she have done ? What
more could she have done? And, most of all,
what more should she have done?
She kept the house in order. She did a
loving, God-fearing mother’s duty by her
children. Bho was up early and to bed late.
She was busy every hour of the day. She
milked and made butter, worked in her gar
den, cooked for “hands,” raised and sold
chickens, but never had a dollar of her own
She could, and did, “when father waa
rushed,” go out into the fields and drop corn
for halt a day, and then come into her hot,
stuffy little kitchen and get dinner for fourteen
people, and yet—“mother was not strong.”
She often wondered if she would ever be
strong. She would sit down on the kitchen door
step some nights long after all the others were
in bed, dreading the coming of the morrow,and
hoping it wouldn’t be so very hot. She was
afraid she might “give out.” She would lean
her aching head against the upainted door
frame, cross her tired hands listlessly in her
lap, close her eyes and “wonder” about many
things.
Some of her neighbors, with families onlv
half as largo as her own, kept a strong hired
girl in the kitchen the year around.
She often wondered vaguely how it would
seem to have a girl in her kitchen ; she won
dered how it would seem for her to be away
from home over night.
The fondest hope of her life for ton years had
been that she might visit her mother, who lived
206 miles away. She said she wouldn’t ba
afraid to go “such a long ways” alone, and
“father” hail often said she should go if such
and such a thing “turned out well.”
These things often “turned out well,” but
mother never made that visit—no, never.
“ One thing and another,” she said, “ kept
her at home,” and one day a message came
bringing the news of her mother’s death. She
would have liked to go even then to see once
more that beloved face, even though it was
cold in death.
But father said, that, “seeing as she couldn’t
do any good, there was no use wearing herself
out making the trip,” so she stayed at home,
grateful to father for his thoughtfulness in not
wanting her to “ wear herself out.”
But she was so utterly worn out one day, so
worn out in body and mind and soul, that when
she clasped her tired hands over her breast in
sleep they were never unclasped again in thia
world. There was no response of “Yes, I’m
coming,” when lather called her in the gray
dawn of a November morning.
Ono Father who had truly loved her, and who
had helped her bear her heavy burdens through
all these twenty years, had called her in the
night, and I think she was glad to say : “ Yes,
Father, I’m coming.”
l-f U/Ao RS,
Blenvs!]es
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