2
joy, seeing how much 1.,e poor girl needed Fa
woman’s care and te? terness. There was a
light knock at the door, and Mrs. Mason came
in—then, with a muttered apology, turned to
leave the room again.
“Do not go, Mrs. Mason,” I said, hastily.
“ This young lady needs your assistance, I
think. Speak to her.”
Mrs. Mason went to her and touched her
gently.
“Come, my dear,” she said, softly—“come
with mo.”
The girl looked at her in a dazed fashion.
“ He did not write them,” she faltered. “And
I ”
The words died away; the pale face stiffened
as if in agony.
Mrs. Mason put her arm round her and laid
her head tenderly on her broad, motherly
shoulder.
“I will take care of her, Mr. Russ,” she said,
and so led the girl, unresisting and passive,
from the room.
When we were alone, Russ and I opened one
•of the letters, and a lew lines were sufficient to
confirm our suspicions. The cousin who had
almost brok n his heart already had nearly
cost Russ his life and his life’s happiness. Al
though dead, his works yet lived. There was
no need to read all the letters to know that he
had won Mabel Cro't’s love and cast it aside,
that, as he had betrayed the cousin who loved
him '-nd the friend who had entertained and
nursed him, and from whom he had stolen his
wife, even so had he betrayed this woman, who
also had loved him with the love which was her
doom.
I think there was not much sleep for either of
us that n ght; we were both intensely eager for
the morning, winch would give us, as wo
hoped, Av.co’s explanation; but, when morning
came, Mrs. Mason, looking grave and concern
ed, informed us that Avice had disappeared.
TOLD BY RUSSEL CAREW.
Avice was gone. All through the night Mrs.
Mason had watched by her side, feeling anxious
and alarmed at the state or terrible agitation
the girl was in; but, when morning came, she
had le't 1 er, and, when she returned to the
room, it was empty.
I was terribly anxious, for the intense excite
ment of the previous evening, which had le't
mo weak to helplessness, must have been very
hurtful to her, and 1 was afraid her remorse
might lead her to do something rash. Toward
noon, howev< r, a messenger brought me a let
ter. There was no answer, he said, and hur
ried away through the snow, without waiting
for any questions—r -ther ns if ho were anxious
not to give us an opportunity of asking any.
My poor foolish Avice ! The letter, blotted
with tears, written evidently both hastily and
under considerable agitation, yet told us much
we wished to know. It ran as’follows:
“ You have told me that you did not write the
letters, and I believe you. I think—nay, I
know you would not deceive me; but, since you
know the writer, since he borrowed your name,
and since, through my mad desire for ven
geance, you have suffered for his sms, I write
these lines. Ido not ask you to forgive me.
You could not, I know, nor do I deserve that
you should; yet tlrs confession may make you
think a little more kindly of me and that is all
I dare hope for now. I did not condemn you
without some reason, as you will admit when
you read this. You will read it, I know, be
cause you have always been so generous and
good to me.
“My name is Avice Croft—the name by which
you have known me was one 1 had assumed to
effect my purpose. Lady Wynne wanted a
French governess, and I had learned from the
letters that Sir Ralph Wynne was your brother.
If I obtained admission into his house 1 obtained
admission to you; tor the time 1 became French,
and I myself wrote the letter of recommenda
tion under an assumed name, which obtained
for me the situation. You see lam hiding none
ol my baseness from you. lam guilty of pass
ing under an assumed name, of giving false let
ters of recommendation, as well as of cruelty to
you.
“There was no difficulty in passing myself off
as French. Most of my liie has been spent
abroad, and my mother was French. She died
when I was eight years old, and her death left
us—Mabel and me -all alone in the world. My
father had died the previous year. Mabel was
ten years older than I, and she had always been
like’a mother to me. By my mother's wish I
was to remain at school in Paris until I was
eighteen, and Mabel lived with a French family
then, to be near me. She was so good to me. so
good—and I loved her dearly. A few months
before my eighteenth birthday she came to Eng
land to get our home ready for us, and for many
months we lived very happily at Rosemount.
Then I wearied of our quiet life, and last Winter
I went to Italy with some friends, leaving her at
home. Why did I go? Why was Iso selfish as
to leave her? It was during my absence she
met the man who called himself by your name.
I do not know where they mot; she never spoke
of him to me. I think her love was too sacred
in her eyes to be spoken of. I never knew of
his existence unt 1 after her death.
“ She seemed quite bright and happy when I
oame home in the Spring; but as the days passed
she seemed a little quieter and paler, then she
would brighten up again. Isetters came for her
from India occasionally ; but she had many
friends whom 1 did not know, and she never
epoke of any one out there except an old school
friend who ’was married to an officer quartered
at Calcutta.
“ So June came, with its roses—she was fond
of roses—l filled her cold hands with them as
she lay in her coffin and laid them fresh and fra
grant on the pulseless heart which Russel Ca
rew had broken.
**lhft<J been in London for a few days, and
returned home one lovely evening. Mabel was
not at the station to meet me, and when I reached
home my old nurse, who acted as her house
keeper, was surprised at this. Mabel had gone
out, she said, and she had thought she was go
ing to meet the train. I waited a little while;
then, finding she did not return, I went out to
seek her.
“ ‘ She has gone to the cliffs,’ I thought to my
self; ‘ she is so fond of the cliffs that she has
forgotten the time.’ I was right: she had gone
on to the cliffs and had forgotten the time—nay,
time no longer existed for her, it had merged
into eternity. It was a beautiful evening, the
fiun was setting over the sea in a glorv of purple
and crimson and gold, which was reflected by
the water, and the last lingering rays of light
fell tenderly upon her face as she sat on her fa
vorite seat, her hands clasped loosely in her lap,
quite dead.
“ Your mother is dead, and you have spoken
to me of her as if she were very dear to you, so
you know a little of such grief as mine. But
you had other ties, while Mabel was all that I
ijiad in the world—mother, sister, friend, she
was all the world to me. 1 spoke to her, but
ehe did not answer. I caught her hand m mine;
■it was ice-cold. I laid her head upon my shoul
der; it rested there like a leaden weight. I re
member shrieking out with a horrible cry which
brightened me; then I remember nothing more.
“ They said she died of heart disease, and one
Of the doctors said her death must have been
accelerated by some great shock or trouble.
; What trouble had she, our beautiful, happy Ma
; Jjel ? Nothing that I knew of.
“ People were kind to me and pitied me, and
■wanted me to go away for a change; but I could
think of nothing but that doctor's words. A
ehock, a trouble had killed her. What was it ?
Am I wearying you ? Forgive me. There is not
much more to tell now, and it is such a relief to
tell you at last. It was only some weeks after
we had laid her to rest under the shadow of the
old church that I found courage to examine her
devonport and her work-table, and even then,
when I put the key into the lock of the latter I
could scarcely turn it. When the mist of tears
had cleared away, I took the contents of the ta
ble, fingering gently, reverently the pretty gay
Bilks, the little gold thimble I had given her
years ago, and the carved needle-case. The ta
ble contained some pieces ot work, a half-fin
ished cushion, a strip ot satin embroidered in
poppies, a handkerchief worked by her skillful
fingers with my name, and yet one thing more—
a little tobbacco pouch covered in olive green
plush, embroidered on one side with myosotis,
on the other with a crest and part of a mono
gram not yet completed. I did not know the
crest then—it has become familiar enough since;
it is yours, and the one finished letter of the
monogram was ‘ R,’ the other, as yet incomplete,
was evidently ‘O’; the needle was still sticking
in it; Mabel had worked it herself, I felt sure.
After all, it seemed as if she had a sec ret in
which 1 had no share. I put the dainty pouch
back, and locked the work-table.
» “In the devonport there was little of any im
portance -packets of my letters, written to her
at different times, a few from my mother and
some from our lawyer, which I put aside with
out examination. I had one drawer still to search
and I was already weary of my task. What
right had I to pry into her secrets, if she had
any? And yet there was no one else. I must
do it. The drawer I had left to the last, shrink
ing from opening it, was one fastened by a pe
culiar lock, very difficult to open unless one
were initiated into its mystery. I knew it, and
opened it without difficulty, and having done so,
drew back, overpowered by a strange thrill of
dread. And yet there was nothing terrible in it.
The first thing I saw was a crushed letter thrown
in carelessly, as if it had been crumpled by a
trembling hand and tossed out cf sight; under
it a little heap of withered flowers, a silk hand
kerchief, a photograph, and a small packet ot
letters tied together with ribbon. It seemed as
if the letters and photograph had been put in
carefully, but that the rest of its contents had
been thrown into the drawer indiscriminately in
haste or passion. I took out the handkerchief
—it was a large one, evidently a man’s handker
chief—and in the corner, daintily embroidered,
was a monog&m of three letters—‘R. E. O’.
Then I gently moved aside the faded flowers,
and took from beneath them the letters I gave
you last night and the photograph; it was a like
ness of you. And lastly I took up the crumpled
note, and when I read it I knew what had killed
my sister.
“ Was it any wonder that madness seized me
■that I swore vengeance? Was it any wonder
dhat I thought you were the cause of mv
misery ? Surely the proofs against vou were
strong enough to deceive me I You te’ll me that
you did not write the letters, and I believe you
—I am glad to believe you. You have been
very good to me; and the man who wrote them
killed Mabel, and he called himself by your
name.
“ That is all. If you can, forgive me for the
pain I have caused you. You know now why I
came to Woodgate, with what mad designs for
'vengeance, which your trust in me rendered
easy enough. If it is any consolation to know
that I too have suffered, you have it fully I
iQOUId w>t leave here until I knew tbM mad-
ness had not hurt you much. I think it has
not-1 hope it has not. Thank you once more
for the patience and forbearance with which
you have treated me.”
Thus abruptly the letter ended. It was un
signed, and blotted here and there with tears.
My own eyes were dim more than once as I
read it, and pictured her misery, her despair.
Just think of it! The poor child—she is little
m )ie even now—finding her sister dead, with
out a word of warning, the sister whom she
loved so tenderly, and whom she had left a few
days before well and strong I How she must
have suffered ! And, thinking me what she
did, how she must have bated and loathed me 1
Ay, and she was too proud and true not to de
spise herself for the deceit she practised; every
day, every hour of her life at Woodgate must
have been full of misery; every kind word,
every thoughtful attention, every proof of our
confidence and admiration must have stung her
to the quick, poor unhappy girl. She must have
suffered far more than I have done.
Yet the last few hours have been painful
ones. The wound he inflicted months ago has
been re-opened, and it aches still. I loved my
cousin so well, I trusted him so fully, that any
fresh proof ot his treachery cuts me to the soul.
He was the man who, dropping his first name,
Edward, and passing under the two we bore in
common, won Mabel Croft's love, and threw it
aside when he tired of it. My blood boiled
when i read the few careless lines of farewell,
or rather of dismissal, he wrote her. They
were dated the day before he left Jumnapore
with poor Frank Vernon’s, wife, and, before
they reached her, their writer and the miser
able woman whom he had tempted to her
shame, and whose husband he had shot—how
could he lilt his baud against one he had so
cruelly wronged?—were at rest under the ever
rolling blue waters, never to rise again until the
sea gave up its dead, for the ship in which they
sailed for England was lost with all on board.
As soon as we had read her letter, Duncan
started for the village, and during his absence
Adelaide came down to the cottage. How her
pretty blue eyes widened with surprise when I
told her the truth I And lor once she listened
in silence.
“Do you remember that song she sang?” she
asked, when I bad ended my narration. “No
wonder it sounded like a wail I”
Duncan came back, wearied and distressed;
Avice had left Grangetown, and the only clow
he could obtain to her whereabouts was at the
station. A young lady in black, thickly veiled,
had taken a*ticket for London.
Fortunately Adelaide had kept the letter of
reference Avice herself had written, and there
we found the address—“ Rosemount, Shell
lord.” In her confession she had called “Rose
mount” home, and in all probability she would
return there.
.“ Shall I go, Russ?” Duncan asked, perhaps
reading my anxiety in my lace, and, while I
hesitated, Ralph struck in.
“ Let no one go until Russ is able to go him
self,” he said. “ She is a foolish girl, and she
has given us a good deal of trouble already. Of
course she will go home, and, if we leave her to
herself fop a little while, she will come to her
senses quickly enough. Besides, it will be an
incentive for Russ—he’ll get well all the
quicker when he thinks that he will be able to
make a fool of himself as soon as he is strong
enough to do so 1”
“ Why should I go?” I asked lamely. “ She
told me plainly enough that the sight ot me
was
“ I dare say she talked a lot of nonsense,”
Ralph interrupted, with a laugh. “ But she
took care not to return your photograph, and
she used to walk half a dozen miles through
darkness and snow night after night, merely to
hear news of you. When you are well enough,
the least you can do is to take half a day’s
journey to hear some of her.”
A VICE’S STORY CONTINUED.
Christmas is coming; in a few days it will be
here—the first Christmas I have spent without
Mabel, the first Christmas I shall spend haunted
by remorse and shame and misery unspeaka
ble. •
I have been at home, back at Rosemount, ten
days. Ten days! How short a time that is in
reality: what a lifetime of agony it has seemed
to me! Years of suffering surely could not
have changed me more than that one awful
night, when I knew the truth and found that
the vengeance I had so rashly taken into my
own bands had fallen upon the innocent.
Shall lever forget that night? Never, I be
lieve, even if my life should be a long one. It
takes a great deal to kill some people, I think;
it takes a great deal to kill me, I know, but I do
not think any one, however strong, could live
very long with this terrible never-ending pain
gnawing at the heart.
I know that the suffering has altered me
greatly. Nurse’s face, her surprised eyes,
which hardly recognised me at first when she
opened the door to me, told me that: the grieved
anxious expression with which she watches me
now shows that she thinks lam ill. Yesterday
she urged me so gently yet so earnestly to see
a doctor that I could not help smiling. What
doctor could do me any good ? 1 have received
my death-blow, but it takes longer to kill me
than it did to kill Mabel.
How they haunt me; how, in the long sleep
less nights, 1 see two faces, Russel Carew’s and
Duncan Cole’s, looking at me with pitying com
passionate eyes which seem to break my heart !
If they had been harsh to me, it they had ut
tered one word of reproach, I think my remorse
woul4 have been less terrible to bear. If even
the kind women who loved Russel Carew and
knew that I had been the cause of bis suffer
ing had said anything in condemnation of my
vileness, it would have taken off some of my
Self-reproach, but they only looked sorry for
me, only sorry—never angry. Only sorry, when
I had hurt them so cruelly, when I had almost
been the cause of Russel’s death. I feel, like
Guinevere, that their “ mercy choked me,” that
anything else would have hurt me less.
To-day is the first day that I have opened my
diary since I returned to Rosemount, and, al
though I have forced myself to have the cour
age to open it and write, I have not dared to
look back upon the pages I wrote at Woodgate.
I need not do so, though, to recall the incidents
which I would give worlds to forget, but which
now seem seared into my brain in letters of
fire.
I cannot forget—l never shall forget the gen
tle consideration which I received from him
during my stay at Woodgate. He did not know
—how could he?—that every gently-spoken
word and kindly action and considerate atten
tion from him cut me to the heart. Trying to
hate him as I was, I could not but own to my
self how noble he seemed; 1 could not but
think Mabel’s love natural and almost inevita
ble, and I despised myself for so thinking. Yet
all the time I jnyself was learning to love him
with a love which grew and increased notwith
standing my efforts, a love as great as the love
my poor Mabel felt for the man who so cruelly
betrayed her. Who this man was I do not
know; 1 am only sure that it was not Russel.
His simple assertion that he did not write those
letters which are signed by his name was suffi
cient to upset all the evidence against him
which seemed so overwhelmingly strong and to
assure me of his innocence.
I cannot remember very clearly what followed
that assurance. I have some dim remembrance
of Mrs. Mason coming in and taking me out of
the room, and then a long darkness, and after
ward reviving, to find myself in a quaint little
low-ceiled room, lying on a bed, and feeling
strangely weak and frightened until I saw Mrs.
Mason’s kind familiar face jand remembered
where I was. And then I think I caught her
hands and began to sob like a madwoman—and
indeed I was mad then I
She was very good to me, very patient: she
hushed my sobs upon her breast as if she had
been my mother and I a little child, she bathed
my face with water and moistened my lips, and
I clung to betas I have never clung to any one
since Mabel died, and I felt the bed on which I
was lying shake with my great choking sobs.
And she calmed me most ot all by whispering
that they would hear me, and that Captain Ca
rew would be distressed. I tried to still my
sobs, remembering this, and then endeavored
to induce Mrs. Mason to leave me and go to
her rest. But she would not; all that night she
stayed with me, dozing sometimes in her chair.
We, she and I, were not the only wakeful
people in the cottage that night. Many times I
heard voices and footsteps in Russel’s rooms
beneath, and I felt keenly how bad this sleep
lessness and want of rest must be for him who
was still so weak from long suffering.
Early in the morning, just before dawn, Mrs.
Mason went down stairs, leaving me alone, and
as soon as she had gone I rose and slipped on
my fur coat—l had not undressed—and went
soltly and noiselessly down stairs. The sitting
room door was ajar, and as I passed I oould
hear Mrs. Mason’s voice within, and Duncan
Cole telling her softly that Russ had fallen
asleep at last from sheer exhaustion, and, as I
stood in the passage outside, 1 bent forward
and kissed the door, and said in my heart,
“ Good-by,” then went out into the chill dawn.
It was snowing, but only a very little, as I
walked hurriedly away from the lodge. I was
weak and faint; but I hurried on, lest my
strength should fail me. It was full daylight,
as full as it ever is on a dull, gray snowy morn
ing, when I reached Grangetown, and the walk
had quieted me, and I was able to calmly tell
my landlady that I had spent the night at Mrs.
Mason's. The people at my lodgings had not
missed me; they thought I was still in my
room. The woman looked curiously at me as I
ordered some coffee, and told her that I was
going to leave Grangetown by the noon-day
train ; but I was not in a mood to be annoyed
or distressed by her curiosity ; all other feelin*’’
was swallowed up in the one which will ever”
more be paramount in my heart—remorse.
I had not much packing to do, and my prep
arations were soon made, but when these were
completed, I had yet one terrible task before
me, to write the confession of my falsehood and
deceit to the man who had treated me so gener
ously. I could not go until I had told him all
the truth.
At first it was difficult, almost impossible to
write ; my hand was so unsteady that I could
scarcely hold the pen, my mind was so contused
that I could not form the sentences ; my eyes
were dim and aching so that the lines on the
paper were blurred and indistinct. But after a
while I grew calmer again, and, once begun, it
was almost easy to pour out all my heart to him
and tell him how I had suffered and how sorry
I was, how eternally grieved for the pain I had
caused him.
All my heart ? Did 1 tell him all that was in
my heart ? Ab, no. no—not all I How could I
tell him of the great and passionate love for him
which had grown in me, in spite of all my mis
trust of him? How could I tell him that, even
when I had so scornfully rejected his love 1
loved him-tUat, in the wood, when X spofy
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MAI 30 1886.
such bitter, terrible words to him, that I loved
him ; that, when he lay dying, as I feared,
through my sin—my crime, I loved him with a
love which will never die ?
Could I tell him so? Once or twice, as I
wrote, I wondered if he knew of this love, would
he be inclined to think more kindly of me, less
harshly of my baseness—would he pity me a
little ? Ah, he is sorry for me I I saw it in his
eyes when they mot mine, as ho uncovered
them after he had hidden them in the first pain
of seeing those letters and recognizing the hand
writing.
He is sorry for me ; but the love of which he
told me must be forever dead in his heart, nev
er to rise again. How could it be otherwise,
now that he knows all ?
I finishedjthe letter, and sent it by a messen
ger whom I could trust, a poor lad whom I had
helped to obtain an honest living, and who I
knew would serve me well and faithfully. I
told him to deliver the letter and hasten away,
without waiting for an answer, and be obeyed
me. I left Grangetown at noon, without see
ing any one from Woodgate, and so, alone and
wretched, came borne.
That is ten days ago now—ten days lull of
anguish, of suffering, of despair; ten days, every
hour, every minute of which was fraught with
misery from which there is no escape. Even
during the first two days, when mv weakness
and prostration forced me tcT keep my room, I
had no respite, 1 had no peace. My punish
ment is not perhaps greater than I deserve, but
it is almost greater than I can bear. I seem to
have put myself beyond all help. By-and-by,
perhaps, if I live, a time may come when I shall
find ease to my pain in hearing that he is happy
and beloved, that he has given his love to a
woman worthy of it, but that time is not now;
for now it is the blackness and darkness ot
despair.
Since I returned to Rosemount, I have heard
nothing. Once or twice I thought of writing to
Mrs. Mason, and begging her to give me some
news of him, but I could not find the courage.
Now and again too I have almost dared to hope
that Mr. Cole would write to me to return
Mabel’s letters, and perhaps add a few words
as to Captain Carew’s welfare, but the hope has
never been fulfilled. 1 have not had a line or a
word from any one, and it seems to me that this
silence, so dark and impenetrable, shuts me
out from them all forever.
If I were brave enough, if I had sufficient
strength of mind to take up my cross, I might
lead a useful, it not a happy life here. There
are all Mabel’s duties which I might perform,
and so win in time something like forgetful
ness, but I can settle to nothing. I can only
wander restlessly about the house doing noth
ing, unable to road or to work, and haunted al
ways by the memory of my sin. Ah, even those
who must hate me for the pain I made him suf
fer might find it in their hearts to forgive me
now, if they knew of my wretched days, my
tortured nights!
If I were only a poor girl, forced to work or
else to starve, 1 might do better; I should be
obliged to rouse myself and find work, and
through it perhaps win something like peace,
but 1 am rich, I have servants to forestall every
wish and means to gratify every whim, and yet
how gladly, bow more than gladly I would give
all my wealth for a draught, a potent draught
of the waters of the Lethe !
And yet, miserably inconsistent that I am,
there are times when I would not forget, when
I would not even undo much of those last
months, even if I could do so—times when it is
sweet to remomlw that, believing me poor, ob
scure, a penniless dependant in his brother’s
bouse, Russel Carew yet loved me with a true
and tender love—“ dearer than his own life,”
ho himself said he loved mo and with a love so
strong that it must win mine in return.
There are moments, full of a bitter sweetness,
when 1 remember how tenderly his eyes met
m ; ne, how his face brightened when I appeared,
how gently his hand closed over my fingers;
when I recall his care of me whenever there was
a picnic or party at Woodgate, and the govern
ess might have been overlooked but for him;
when I think that sometimes in the schoolroom,
when he came in to beg for a cup of tea and sat.
talking in his kind voice, I used to forget any
cause of enmity against him, and bask in the
sunshine of his’ presence, as any love-sick girl
might do. Ab, every recollection I have of him
shows him good and generous and noble, while
every thought of me must show me to him as
false, base, deceitful, cruel! Perhaps he may
even think that I wounded him on purpose and
left him lying to die alone, but tor Duncan
Cole’s fortunate presence there in the wood !
Yet, ill, wounded, suffering as he was, his
first thought was for me, to save me d stress, as
his friend said, trying to conceal his own con
tempt for me as ho spoke.
That little note, which he could not write
himself, yet which he signed with his weak,
helpless, shaking fingers, will never leave me.
I have made a little case which I can wear at
tached to a ribbon round my neck, and I have
put it with the curl I cut from my dead sister’s
head, and I wear the little always, and it
shall be buried with me. And I have his pho
tograph, too, the one I found in the drawer,
and which 1 thought was the likeness of the
false lover who had betrayed her ; and, although
save bis assurance, I have no proof that he is
not that lover, I shall keep it with hers as my
only comfort now. For I never dare to hope
that 1 shall see him again, and sometimes I hope
that I shall not, lest I see too the look of con
tempt in bis eyes as they rest on mine, which I
have never seen yet, and lest it should obliter
ate that look of pity which, painful as is, is
better than one of scorn,
(To be ContiuuedJ
PARLIAMENTARY TITBITS.
SOME HIGH-TONED FUN.
. (From Chambers’s Journal.)
Edmund Burke, the distinguished orator and
writer, at the close ot an election in 1774, in an
eloquent speech, thanked his constituents for
electing him as their member. He was followed
by his colleague, Mr. Cruger, a merchant, who,
after the orator’s remarks, eon tented himself by
exclaiming:
“ Gentlemen, I say ditto to Mr. Burke I”
Two stories are told of Lord Brougham. On
being offered the post of Chief Baron of the
Exchequer, Brougham refused it, alleging that
its acceptance would prevent the continuance
of his parliamentary duties.
“True,” rejoined Canning; "but, you will be
only one stage from the woolsack.”
“Yes,” sa.d Brougham; “but the horses will
be off.”
The second is contained in a remark of Sydney
Smith, who, seeing Brougham in a carriage on
the panel of which was tiie letter 8., surmount
ed by a coronet, observed:
“ There goes a carriage with a B outside and
a wasp inside.”
Lord Erskine had the following unique form
of replying to begging letters:
•• Sir—l feel honored by your application, and
I beg to subscribe”—here the recipient had to
turn over the leaf—" myself, your very obedi
ent servant.”
Lord Palmerston’s good humor as a distinct
element of his character is well known. We find
it even during his last illness, when his phy
sician was forced to mention death.
“Die, my dear doctor 1” “that s the last thing
1 shall do.”
When Shiel bad learned by heart, but failed
to remember, the exordium of a speech begin
ning with the word “ Necessity,” which he re
peated three times, Sir Hobert Peel continued:
“ Is not always the mother of invention.’’
Some good sayings are attributed to George
Selwyn, who was called “the receiver-general
of wit and stray jokes,” and was a silent mem
ber of Parliament formally years. When told
that Sir Joshua Reynolds intended to stand for
Parliament, Selwyn replied:
“Sir Joshua is the ablest man I know on a
canvas.”
Horace Walpole, when complaining one day
of the existence of the same indecision, irresolu
tion, and want of system, in the reign of Geoge
111., as had been witnessed in that of Queen
Anne, remarked concerning the continuance of
the Duke of Newcastle as First Lord of the
Treasury after the accession of George III.:
“ There is nothing new under the sun.” “ Nor
under the grandson,” added Selwyn, George
111., being the grandson of George 11.
George 111. one day alluded to Selwyn as
“ that rascal George;” on which Selwyn asked:
“ What does that mean ?” Immediately adding:
“ Oh, I forgot; it is one of the hereditary titles
of the Georges.”
The Duke of Cumberland on asking Selwyn
how a horse be had lately purchased answered,
received the reply:
“I really don’t know; I have never asked him
a question.”
When it was proposed at one time to tax ooais
instead of iron, Sheridan objected to the pro
posal on the ground that "it would be a big
jump from the frying-pan into the fire.”
Many other examples might be given of
Sheridan's wit; we shall mention three. On
meeting one day two royal dukes, one of them
said that they had just been discussing whether
Sheridan were a greater fool than knave. Thh
wit, placing himself between them, quickly re
plied, “Why, faith I believe I’m between the
two.” His son said that were ho in Parliament,
he would write on his forehead, “To let,”
“Add ‘unfurnished,’” suggested the father.
On another occasion, when asked by his tailor
for at least the interest of his bill, Sheridan re
plied : “ It is not to my interest to pay the prin
cipal, nor my principle to pay the interest.”
With this last we may compare Talleyrand’s
method in dealing with creditors. When asked
by one when he should receive payment, the
only answer given was : “ Jlfo/o;, how inquisi
tive you are!”
We shall draw this paper to a close by quot
ing from “ The Anecdotal History of Parliament”
the following:
“Ax Ibish Election Bru,.—The following
bill was sent by an innkeeper at Trim to Sir
Mark Somerville, who had given an order that
all persons who voted for him in a contested
election for Meath should be boarded and
lodged at his expense. The bill, it is said, is
still kept in a frame at the family seat:
“ Apbil 16, 1826.
“ My Bii.l—
--“To eating 16 freeholders above-stairs for
Sir Marks, at 3s. 3d. a head, is to me £2 12s.
“ To eating 16 more below-stairs, and 2 priests
after supper, is to me £2 15s. 9d.
“To 5 beds in one room, and 4 in another at
2 guineas every bed, and not more than four in
any bed, at any time cheap enough, God knows,
is to me £22, 15s.
“ To 18 horses and 5 mules about my yard all
night at 13s. every one of them, and for a man
which was lost on the head of watching them all
nifiht, is to me £5 ss.
“Tor breakfast qu tay in the morning for
every one of them and as many more as they
brought, ns near as I can guess, £4 12e.
“ To raw tvhisky'and punch, without talking
of pipes, tobacco, as well as for porter, and as
well as for breaking a pot above-stairs and other
glasses and delf for the first day and night, I
am not sure, but for the three days and a half
of the election as little as I can call it, and to be
very exact, it is all or thereabout as near as I
can guess, and not to be too particular, is to me
at least, £79 15s. 9d.
“ For shaving and cropping off the heads of
the 49 freeholders for Sir Marks, at 13d. ior
every bead of them by my brother had a wote,
is to mo, £2 13s. Id. For a womit and a nurse
ior poor Tom Kernan in the middle of the night,
when he wes not expected, is to me ten hogs.
“ I don’t talk of the piper, or for keeping him
sober as long as he was sober, is to me, £O.
THE TOTAL.
2 12 0 0
1 15 0 9
22 15 0 0 Signed
5 5 0 0 in the place of Jemmy Cars wife
412 0 0 his
79 15 0 9 Brian x Gaubati
2 13 0 1 Mark.
10 10
0 0
“ £llO 18s. 7d., you may say £lll os. Od. So
your Honor, Sir Marks, send mo this eleven
hundrd by Bryan himself, who and I prays for
your success always in Trim, and no more at
present.”
MR.MERIUyALfWARKIAGE
BY AN ENGLISH EX-DETECTIVE.
CHAPTER I.
THE FAMILY SKELETON.
“Well, sir,” said I, as I put down my empty
glass upon the table, “I do not understand it.
But for all that, 1 will do my best to discover
how it is done. Please just let me read over
my notes, and tell me if 1 have taken them down
correctly.”
“Goon,” said Mr. Merrivale, as he leaned
back upon his easy-chair and sighed deeply.
“ Pray heaven that my suspicious are not true ! ’
Turning to my notes which were on the table,
I read out as follows:
“ Your son, George Merrivale, had a serious
quarrel with you two years ago, and you
parted, never, as you both vowed, to meet
again.”
“ That is so. I need not go into all the par
ticulars ol the case—it is too painful. But this
1 must say—he was not my son.”
“Not your son!” 1 exclaimed in surprise.
“ If I am not mistaken, you called him your
son a little time ago.”
“Ah, yes, yes, I always used to call him my
son, but he was not so.”
I saw there was a mystery here, and felt that
the case I had iu hand would be hopeless if I
did not learn the secret. So placing the pencil
on my book, I leaned back in my chair and
threw out the hint.
“ Son by adoption, I suppose ?”
The old man shook his head sorrowfully and
then a long pause ensued.
The above conversation took place in an old
fashioned drawing-room, fitted up in the most
exquisite style and taste.
1 was seated at the further end of the table,
my note-book, a decanter of wine, wine glass
and biscuits before me.
In an easy-chair sat Mr. Merrivale—a fine,
healthy old man of about sixty, but looking
nutek younger. He had evidently in his youth
ful days been very handsome, for his features
were still regular, and his long silvery white
hair, combed back from his noble head, made
him look more venerable. There was a soft,
kindly, yet sorrowful look about his eyes which
I liked ; but the mouth was firm and the chin
and lower jaw square cut and powerful. No
weakness there—a man on whom it would not
be wise to play too many jokes.
Such was Andrew Merrivale, Esq.—a man
supposed to be worth half a milliou of pounds
at least.
In the deep old-fashioned windows, wherein
was one of those old-iashioned window seats,
reclined a beautiful young woman, dressed in
the highest fashion, and, as theatrical managers
say, “ got up regardless of expense.”
To attempt to describe this lady I will not. I
am not good at female description, either of face
or fashion of dress. All I can say is, that she
was very beautiful and had soft, dreamy eyes,
over which the silken lids hung gently.
She was reading a novel, and, beyond making
me a bow—a very cold, distant one—had taken
no interest in the conversation.
“ Pardon me, sir,’* I said, almost in a whis
per, “ but I think 1 must enter into some very
painful subjects. Do you not think that your
daughter had better leave tho room ?”
“ That lady is not my daughter, except by
adoption,” replied Mr. Merrivale.
“ Good gracious me !” thought I. “ This old
gentleman seems to be surrounded by relations
who are not related to him.”
I suppose the old gentleman saw something
of this iu my face, tor he said, in a gentla voice
to the young lady:
“ Ella, my dear, would you kindly retire ? I
would speak to this gentleman ulono.”
i 1080, never saying a word,
butjnoquw hur nead iu obedience, and then,
sue passed me. she gave me the same cold
bow, but at the same time she raised her eye
lids and honored me with a glance such as I
had never known or seen before—a look which
seemed to pierce my very soul, and I knew not
whether it wag one of hatred or warning, defi
ance or pleading. It was just one flash, and
then the silken eyelashes fell upon the peacL
like cheek, and she passed from the room.
When she had gone, Mr. Merrivale turned to
me and said in a low, calm yoice :
“ Mr. Gerval, if I tell you the story of my life,
will you promise mo that it will be kept se
cret?”
“ My dear sir, you may be sure that whatever
secrets you trust with me will be held sacred.
We detectives, like doctors, have our profes
sional honor to look to, and would not betray a
solemn confidence. Therefore, you may speak
without fear.”
“ You are right, Mr. Gerval,” he said, “and
I think I may do so. You must know that I was
never a man much given to society, and although
considered a sharp business man, outside of my
office I knew little of the world save that called
commercial.
“My parents had died when I was a mere
child, and left me in the charge of an uncle who
believed in nothing but/..«?. cL. whoso only
books were the cashbook and ledger, and whose
chief hatred was woman. For what reason I
know not, but he detested them.
“X loyqil business, and by qtjofcing to it,
pleased him. But I loved other books and
pleasure. Enough! I was entrapped by a
lady—a beautilul woman whom I loved with
wondrous devotion. She made me do so. So
thoroughly did I fall into her toils, that I mar
ried her in secret, and adopted her child—a
boy—as my own. Indeed, I would have done
anything for her; and what was the return ?
My uncle was furious at the marriage, but I
was my own master, and had a fortune of my
own; besides, I was partner in the concern, and
he dared not openly break with me. But he
did what I should have done at first—he made
inquiries into my wife’s previous character, and
soon discovered that she had never been mar
ried. The whole story ot her widowhood had
been one long fabrication. But I need say no
more. A tremendous scene ensued, and 1 for
gave her, but a month afterward she loft my
home, and—there, there !—she died a misera
ble and disgraceful death.”
“ Are you sure that she is dead ?” I de
manded, eagerly.
" Perfectly. I viewed the body, laid out in a
miserable abed at tho back of an undertaker’s,
examined the few papers she had upon her, and
the letter which she had left for'me. There
could be no doubt that she was my wife. Be
side, in her letter she asked me to be careful ol
her boy, and confessed her guilt.”
“ A miserable history !”
“ Ay, one to shudder at, not to dwell upon ”
said the old man, sorrowfully. “ But let that
pass. I took the boy and brought him up as
my own. Perhaps I was kinder to him than if
he had been my own son, for I feared that—
that ! was hard with him at times. However, be
grew up a wild genius—what the world calls a
‘ ne’er-do-well.’ His chief love was chemistry
and I let him have his own way in almost every:
thing.”
“ You will excuse me,” said I, " but I think
that a most foolish plau. Clever boys want
more curbing than fools.”
“I know that, now it is too late, but I did not
Jtnow it then. A cousin of mine died and left
her daughter—Ella—iu my charge, whom I
adopted. I don’t know how it was, but some
how, by some cruel Iriend, George learned tho
secret of his birth. Of course I did not know
it at the time, but I discovered it afterward. He
made desperate love to Ella, whom he fancied
would inherit all my money, and she returned
his love. I did not like the idea of their mar
rying, but should not have strongly opposed it.
You see, I bad grown to love Ella as my own
child; at least she was ot my blood ” —here the
old man drew himself up proudly—“and fool
ish as it may be, that has weight.”
He paused as it for my approval, but I only
bowed and said nothing.
“ The villain proposed a secret marriage,
knowing full well the history ot his birth. She
resisted, and swore she would not marry him
while I lived, unless with my consent. He be
lieved that I would never consent, so what do
you think he did ?”
I shook my head. The old man leaned across
the table, and placing a tremulous hand upon
my arm, groaned out this:
“ The wretch, knowing what I had done tor
him, endeavored to poison me.”
“ Good heavens !—impossible I”
“Nay, nay, good sir, it is but too true. Hap
pening to enter my office one morning—the car
pet being thick, 1 made no noise—judge my as
tonishment when I beheld George putting some
small white crystals which he took from a stop
pered bottle into the draught I used to take tor
a cough I
“ Creeping up to the desk, I noiselessly drew
therefrom my revolver, and then snatched the
bottle from his grasp. It was marked * Strych
nine.’
“At first he seemed greatly discomposed; then,
folding his arms, he leaned carelessly back
against the wall, and defied me.
..“Presenting my revolver at his breast, I ac
cused him ot attempting to murder me.
“He did not deny it—rather boasted of it.
Told me that his knowledge ot chemistry was
so great that he had already been able to weak
en me; that the cough I now suffered from was,
in fact, caused by his diabolical means. I need
not go into the horrors ol tho cage. Tho hard-
ened ruffian twitted me with his mother’s se
cret, boasted ot Ella’s love lor him, and defied
me to give him up to justice.”
“Surely you did not let the scoundrel es
cape ?”
“ For his mother’s sake, I did. I gave him a
thousand pounds; made him swear that he
would never see Ella more -in fact, that he
would go to America and never return. Ho
gave me his word of honor.”
“ His word of honor I” said I, contemptuously.
“ His word of honor I Could you, as a man of
the world, trust in that ?”
“ I did trust in it. I hoped against hope.
Beside, I saw him start for Amerira, and I have
kept strict watch on Ella. I told her that
George had behaved dishonorably, and had to
fly the country ; that he had disgraced the fam
ily, and that his name must never be men
tioned again in my house—in fact, that he must
be looked upon as dead. She cried a good deal
at first, but in a marvelously few days she
seemed quite resigned.”
“ She never knew the truth ?”
“Never.”
“Strange I Well, of course, as Mr. George
is in America,” said I,' “he cannot have stolen
these notes, deeds, &c., or committed the for
geries ?”
“Of course not,” said the old man, triumph
antly ;“ of course he could not. I know one of
my partners thinks he has; but he is always
suspicious always.”
“Just so, just so; some people trust too
much aud others too little” I repled, as I gazed
thoughtfully at a portrait. “ Pardon me, is that
your son—l beg your pardon, Mr. George’s por
trait?”
“ Yes, yes,” said the old man, hastily
“There, we have spoken enough about him
Now, do I understand that you undertake this
business ?”
“Certainly. I cannot, under the circum
stance, assure you ot success, but all shall be
done that can be done. Let me see- let me
see. At about what time did you begin to miss
these notes? It was before the forgeries, I be
lieve ?”
“ Oh, yes. The forgeries are all checks drawn
in the name of the firm. It must be almost a
month ago, it not quite, to-day;” and here the
old gentleman was seized with a violent fit of
coughing.
“ You have a very bad cough, Mr. Merrivale.”
“Yes. But this matter must be found out;
my partners will hear of no excuse. It will
bring the firm into disrepute. The banks have
taken the matter up, and I have already paid a
large amount as my share. So, sir, find this out,
aud you shall be well rewarded. Ugh, ugh, ugh I
Oh, this racking cough I”
“ Trust me, it shah be found out. How long
do you say you have had the cough ?
“It came on a little over two weeks ago. I
can’t say precisely when.”
“Is it anything like the cough you had be
fore?”
Mr. Merrivale’s face became ghastly, and
grasping the arms of his chair, he gasped:
“ You do not mean to say that you think ”
“George Merrivale has come back. He has
committed the robberies and forgeries, and is now
trying to murder you ! ’
The old man gave one awful yell, and then
fell back senseless in his ohair.
CHAPTER 11.
THE STOLEN LETTERS.
Now I think the reader will admit that 1 had
about as difficult a task beiore me as a man
could well have.
No trace could be found that any one an
swering to the name or description of George
Merrivale had landed from America.
As for the servants at Mr. Merrivale’s house,
they all declared that no stranger had ever
been there without their master’s knowledge.
Miss Ella! Could she be the traitoress ? It
was hard to think so, for upon hearing Mr.
Merrivale’s cry oi grief she had rushed into
the room—rather too quickly to please me —and
shown the deepest anxiety about his suffer
ings. What was Ito think? She had not a
thing to gain from Mr. Merrivale’s death. She
might come into his wealth, but it was as good
as hers now, for he spoiled her in every way.
All the inquiries I made turned out useless; so
I resorted to disguises, and, dressing myself up
as a swell, managed to pass Mr. Merrivale’s
pretty villa at least twenty times a day, and at
last my patience met with its own reward.
One morning i had sauntered carelessly out,
when I saw Miss Ella come out as it for a walk.
She stopped a little boy and spoke to him.
What she said of course I could not hear, but
it must have pleased the lad, for he took off his
hat in the most graceful manner. She gave
him some few shillings, and then handed him a
letter, with which the boy darted away like an
arrow.
I wanted to follow him, but Miss Ella stood
some minutes watching him, and I dared not
pass her, because 1 suspected her, and 1 knew
that she returned the compliment.
No sooner had she re-entered the house than
I was alter that boy—for 1 felt that tfie letter
held a clew to the mystery—but I qquVJ not «eo
him.
I a hansom cab, and bade the man
drive rapidly down the road.
He naturally asked “Where?” WWwered,
“ Anywhere,” and away we went at a rapid
pace—l keeping my eyes well fixed on the
f lavements to see if I could catch sight of the
ad. But no sign of him could I see.
Then I shouted to the cabman to drive up the
road. He pbeyed my directions, urging his
horse on full speed, till at last I caught a
glimpse of the boy, and, to my surprise, saw
that b$ was followed by a man—a man dreaaod
like a first-class mechanic.
The boy turned round the corner of a court
to make a quick cut. The mail followed. 1
bade the cabman pull up at the corner oi the
court, leaped down, gave the cabby double his
faro, and hurried into the court just in time to
see the lad caught by the man.
A brief struggle ensued. The letter was
snatched away by the fellow, who hurled the
boy from him with some violence.
Calling upon the ruffian to desist, I rushed
forward, but the fellow turned and fled with
amazing speed, taking the letter with him.
The little lad, whom I raised from the
ground, was very much dazed, but he was no
common boy, and only thought about the lady’s
letter, not seeming to care one jot for his own
bruises—and they were bad enough. I can as
sure you. Of course I told him that tnat would
be all right; in fact, I knew the lady living in
square, and would let her know he had
done his duty. 1 then cross-questioned the
lad, and found out that he did not know Ella’s
name or proper address. The letter was io be
taken with all haste to the Cafe Lulu, but the
name ot the gentleman to whom it was address
ed he did not rsad. thinking, as he was told to
make all haste, that it would be time enough to
do that when he arrived at the cafe.
I secured the boy’s name and address, and
then gave him another shilling, with which he
departed, rejoicing.
“Here is another difficulty,” thought I, as I
stfolled away. “The man who seized that let
ter is not George Merrivale. He would have
waited and had it quietly delivered to him.”
For that the letter or letters were meant for
that gentleman 1 was convinced. “ Then why
should he —the thief—track the boy to a lonelv
spot, and rob him of what could be ‘ only val
uable to the owner,’ as the advertisements have
it ?” There could be but two answers, in my
thinking. One was that this man was an enemy
to George Merrivale, and wished to get him in
his power; the other was that the fellow had
personated George, and did the iorgeries and
so forth from information which be had re
ceived from that gentleman.
At all events, there was but one thing to be
done, and that was to go to the Cafe Lulu. So,
lighting my cigar, cocking my hat, and putting
on a swaggering air—for I know the place was
one that is generally known among us as
“shady”—l strolled down, and seated myself
in the long room.
I smoked on and watched, until, hearing the
click of billiard balls coming from another room,
I went there—went only to meet another disap
pointment.
There was George Merrivale—l could have
sworn to him anywhere—playing billiards with
the fellow who had stolen the letters !
* * * * * *
I sat quietly and watched the game—or ap
peared to do so—while I listened to the men.
They made frequent allusions to America,
smoked, drank freely, aud seemed perfectly
well acquainted—l mean that this was no casual
meeting. This was another staggerer. At last
they drank a great deal too freely, and some
nasty words arose between them.
“Come, come, Master George,” said the man
who had stolen the letters ; “ you need not put
on such a mighty bounce before mo. You should
remember that you are in my debt.”
“ Pah !—what of that? When she sends the
letter I shall be all right again.”
“ Ah, when she does send the money,” grinned
the fellow, with a fiendish grin, “ but my fine
lady does not seem in any very great hurry to
send the letter. It is my belief that what you
have told me is a lie from beginning to end.
Haven’t I watched the house in square,
given the signals you told me you had agreed
upon with her, and never a glimpse have I had
of this beautiful creature ? Take care, Master
George Mer ”
“ Hold your confounded tongue,” said George.
“Do you not see that we are not alone ?” Then
he added, in a whisper: “ Have you forgotten
that my name is Clgford— Clifford, you idiot ?”
While this conversation was going on, I had
pretended to doze off into an uneasy sleep, and
thus deceived the men, who, however, con
versed in angry whispers, so that I could only
catch a word now and then, such as :
“Long waiting—dead men’s shoes -might re
fuse to marry—got the money ”
“I know she must—die in three weeks ”
“ How do you know tb it ?”
“ Never mind. I do. Can swear it.”
“Phew ? That is the reason of your private
laboratory in Drummond street.”
“Curse you for a .00l I Do you think that I
would do such a deed ?”
•‘ I do. I have done many an action that has
put my life in danger when in ’Frisco ; but that
sort of work I’ll have no hand in.”
I had heard quite enough, and so, pretending
to wake up quite dazed, I left the room—“to
get a drink,” I muttered, but really to consider
what my next move should be. However, 1
called lor drink, and managed to pour a good
lot of the stuff away ; for, although I flitter my- !
self I can drink as much as most men, 1 did not |
care to do it just then. In fact, 1 had hit upon |
a plan, and was acting on it.
Glass alter glass I drank down - or pretended
I did—until i appeared greatly the ‘ woise lor
liquor. What kept the fellows m the other
room IdQ not know—not billiards. Now aud
then I heard them in dispute, and then only the
murmur ot voices; At length out they came,
and I, turning round suddenly, rolled up
against them, catching George as if for support.
“Don’t you see where you are going to, sir?”
demanded George, hotly, as ho shook me off.
“ Beg pardon,” I muttered, in a drunken voice
—“going to play billiards.”
“ Go and be I”—a command but too often
given and very seldom obeyed.
“ Beg pardon, gentlemen. Letsh have a
drink,” I muttered, apologetically.
They walked up to the bar without taking the
slightest notice ot my invitation. I staggered
up to the counter, but took good care that 1
stood some distance from them. Calling for-a
bottle of champagne, I drew forth a number of
pieces of gold to pay for if. I saw the effect on
the fellows, and as L paid the barkeeper mutter
ed something about “Gold diggings—Australia.”
They called him to them, and, I saw, questioned
him about me, for they laughed and glanced my
way. At last they came round to me, and
George said:
“ Look here, old fellow. I spoke roughly to
you just now; I am sorry for it. Here’s my
hand.”
“All rightsh. Take a glass of wine?’
Mr. Clifford and his friend became very socia
ble, and forced me to drink. Thank Heaven,
not only have 1 a strong head, but also bad not 1
drank as much as 1 had pretended. At last I
shammed being almost speechlessly drunk, and;
then, of course, the old game was played. Cards
were proposed. I excused myself on the score
of too much drink. The bait took. George pro
posed that I should go to his surgery—for he
said he was a doctor—which was close at hand,
and he would make me up a drug. That would
put me right directly.
Dangerous as it was, I accepted. 1 knew I had
my man, and come what might, I meant to have
him at all risks that night.. So we left the cafe,
George supporting me on one-side and his friend
on the other. In a lew minutes we reached the
laboratory—a kind of brick outhouse, having no
connection with any other building.
On our way wo had met one of our men, who
seemed much surprised to see his sergeant in
such a beastly state. But pretending to be of
fended at him, I demanded to know what he was
staring at, and as I did so, gave him the office to
follow.
“ You had better keep watch outside,” I heard
George whisper to his companion. “I shan’t
be many minutes.”
He opened the door with a latch-key, and led
me into the place, which, with the exception of
some chemicals and retorts, had very little else
in it.
He put me into a seat, and then quickly mixed
me a potion, taking a little fluid out of about a
’ dozen bottles and placing them in a medicine
glass. This he thrust into my hand, and or
dered me to drink it down.
Perhaps I should have mentioned that during
my sham drunkenness I had purposely declared
that Mr. Clifford was like some one 1 had
known—and at last had hiccuped out the name.
“ Shav, Mr. Mer-ri-vale.” He laughed uneasily,
but his eyes glared like a tiger’s. The same
deadly look came into his eyes as he bade me
drink the mixture. I raised it to my nose,
smelt it, and lowering it again, declared it very
nasty.
“ Drink I” he cried, impatiently, stamping his
foot—an action which told me the mixture was
poison. He had, I believed, discovered my se
cret. Still 1 raised the glass, but paused as if
uncertain what to do.
At that moment there was a sharp report, a
winnow pane was smashed, and a well-directed
bullet broke the medicine-glass to atoms.
George reeled back in surprise, and be'ore he
could recover himself I had the handcuffs upon
him.
“ All right, Mr. George Merrivale. You had
better come quietly. I have assistance out
side.”
“ What right have yo to arrest me, even if you
be a policeman, as I suppose you are? With
what am I charged ?”
“Not much. Only robbery, forgery, and at
tempted murder.”
He groaned heavily and sank almost insensi
ble in a chair.
At that moment I heard my man knocking at
the door, and at the same time calling:
“ Mr. Gerval—Mr. Gerval I Open the door,
or I will break it in.”
“No need of that, Tom,’ said I, as I threw the
door open. “ I have landed my man. Have you
caught the other scoundrel ?”
“The other scoundrel has saved your life,
Mr. Gerval,” said the fellow, who was also
handcuffed. “I watched all that passed
through that broken shutter. I knew he meant
to poison you, and shot the glass out of your
hands.”
“ But you might have shot me !”
'‘.‘No fear of that, Frank Fuller—or’Frisco
Frank, as I used to be called at the mines—
never misses aim. But look here, sir, I mean
to turn queen’s evidence, and make a clean
breast of it. Take us all at once in a cab to Mr.
Merrivale’s—at onoe, or murder will be done.”
The man so impressed me that I determined
to carry out his wish, and in a very few minutes
we were all standing in Mr. Merrivale’s library.
Mr. Merrivale reclined back in his chair, look
ing almost like death. Miss Ella was seated on
a couch, shivering with horror—her face pale,
and her beautiful eyes fixed on the bent-down
head of George Merrivale.
As quickly as I could I told all Hl? proceed
ings, and that I felt convinced that George had
for tbs second time attempted to poison his
stepfather 1
“The unnatural wretch !” cried the old man,
trembling with excitement. “ Now the law
shall run its course. But Sergoat Gerval—you
have no proof oi the second attempt?”
“it he has not, 1 have,” said ’FriscQ Frank.
“ Sergeant, just put your band. 4 n my pocket.
You’ll find theroip. a letter tnat young lady gave
to a little boy to" deliver to this fellow. As I
knew George was playing me a double game, I
took the liberty of taking the letter and the con
tents from the' boy.
As 1 opened the letter, Ella buried her face
in the sola pillows and moaned. The letter ran
thus:
Dear George—l cannot meet you. as 1 aifi
watched. The police are at work about the
forgeries. I dare not steal any more notes. We
must complete this work quickly. He has
lately refused his coffee, and locks up his medi
cine; so I have had to put the powders into
night draughts. I cannot live without you, my
dear husband. Your loving wife, Ella.
Mr. Merrivale rose, pale and trembling, and
endeavored to speak, but he fell back in a tit
from which he necer recovered,
Ella, directly she had heard of the d’soovery
of the letter, had no doubt swallowed a packet
of poison she carried about with her concealed
in her bosom, to have handy to use against her
father by adoption at any opportunity. She died
almost instantly, and I must confess I was
glad she did.
’Frisco Frank went for fourteen years, and
George for life; and such was the outcome of
Mr. Merrivale’s Marriage.
matthias Baldwin.
The Builder of the First Locomotive in
America and Founder of the Works.
(Gath in Cincinnati Enquirer.)
SVq can see what good mechanics they were
in early times from the fact that the engine
which Matthias Baldwin made, about 182:), is
still m existence and active operation. The lo
comotive was near the same time invented in
England, and as the public here had not seen
one, Mr. Peel, who kept a museum in Philadel
phia, and was the Barnum of that day, came
over to Baldwin and asked him to build a min
iature locomotive to run around the museum.
Baldwin had seen nothing but descriptions
and sketches of the British locomotive, but he
set to work, and April 25, 1831, had his minia
ture locomotive made. It ran around the mu
seum on hoop rails, and carried four passen
gers in two cars. Thus commencing at a toy, an
infant railroad company in the vicinity applied
to Mr. Baldwin for a genuine locomotive. Bald
win went up to Bordentown, where there was a
newly-arrived Stephenson British locomotive.
He examined this machine, which was not
complete, and indeed was in parts, and he
commenced his work by boring the cylinders
With chisel fixed in a block oi wood and turn
ed by hand.
At that time the blacksmiths could not weld
a bar of iron exceeding one and one-fourth
inches in thickness. The founder of the great
locomotive works set to business with his own
hands, created his tools, invented tools, and
finally he made the Old Ironsides, as the loco
motive was called, and its trial trip was made
in November, 1833. It worked twenty years.
After making this engine, the corporation ob
jected to paying the full amount lor it, present
ing some excuses, and Baldwin got but .*3,500.
He now set to work resolved to give himself
up to this business of locomotives. He went
up to Albany to look at an English locomotive,
and immediately saw some improvements which
could be made, and which he patented as far
back as 1834. He then built a large locomotive
for South Carolina, casting the driving wheels
in solid bell metal. Then the State of Pennsyl
vania gave him an order for a locomotive, and
this one hauled nineteen loaded burden cars,
which was unprecedented at that day. Other
engines followed for the State road, and in 1835
the Baldwin locomotive works were commenced
where they now stand, on Broad street in Phil
delphia. In the course of time this man’s en
terprise led to the employment of four thous
and hands. I attended a school for four years
in the vicinity of these shops, and I have seen
them turn out four thousand male operatives
for a parade, nearly every man an American.
By 1837 Mr. Baldwin employed three hundred
men; by 1839 he had built j 3 » locomotives. In
1810 he built a locomotive for Australia. In
venting all the time, increasing the power of his
engines, studying the subject to the last, this
man filled the West with transportation en
gines. By 1851 he could build forty-nine loco
motives a year. Matthew Baird, who had been
his foreman since iS3q became his partner in
1854. This man Baird was one of the builders
of the elevated railroads in New York, though
he had been a humble mechanic. By 18u0
Baldwin could produce eighty-three engines a
year. Mr. Baldwin died in 18.(i. All through
his life he gave unobtrusively to charities and
to churches, and the year he died 118 locomo
tives were turned out of his shops, and in 1871
they made 331 locomotives, or nearly one for
every day in the year. Individual laborers
from these works have become foremen and
founders of other important machine shops.
Thnre are some men of so little im
portance that they cannot even bring disgrace on
any organization to which they may happen to be
long.
A LIBERAL OFFER.
Five Thousand Dollars to any Charitable
Institution, If It Cannot be Done aa
It is Stated.
(Rochester, N. Y., Union and Advertiser.)
Friends of ex-President Arthur aro very much
disquieted.
Of course he is not going to die I He is in the
hands of a very particular physician.
His doctor does not call it Disease I
No, it is a stomach disorder that he is sufloring
from now, and every few hours he takes a cold,
and from time to time many other' symptoms
are developed. These symptoms the public
should know are really secondary to Bright’s.
Disease.
His physicians say that everything that medi
cal skill can do for him is being done.
That is not so !
This case is a prominent one because the gen
eral is an ex-President; and yet there are
thousands of farmers quietly dying, in their
farm-houses, of secondary symptoms of• Bright’s-.
Disease, called by every other conceivable
name: thousands of workmen, likewise dying,
leaving helpless families; hundreds of thou
sands in all walks of life who have sickened,
and are likewise dying, helpless victims, of
powerless physicians.
Eightyoars ago a very well known gentleman
was about to enter upon large commercial
transactions. His medical adviser quietly
dropped into his office one day and told his con
fidential clerk that he would be dead in three
months, and that he ought to settle up his busi
ness affairs at once 1
The man is alive and well to-day. yet he. was
given up as incurable with the same disease
that is killing General Arthur !
Our reporter met this gentleman yesterday,
and in conversation about the general’s case; he
said:
“ I will give $5,000 to- any charitable institu
tion in the State of New York, to be dcsignated
by the editor of the New York Worid, the editor
of the Buffalo Rews and W. E. Kissel-burgh of
the Troy 7’imes, if Warners safe cure (taken
according to my directions; which, cured me.
eight years ago. cannot cure General Chester A.
Arthur of Bright’s disease, from which he i»;
suffering.”
“Now I want you to understand,” he said,,
“that wo do not profess to make new
but we do know from personal experience ami
from the experience of many thoirsands of s m
ilar cases, that we can stop the consumption of-'
the kidneys. Many a man has gone through
life with one kidney without inconvenience.
Thousands of people have lived a ma ority of
their life with- one lung. They did not have a.
new lung made. We do not make new kidneys,,
but if the kidney is not consumed too much we
can stop disease and prolong life if taken in
time.”
This offer comes from H. H. Warner, proprie*
tor of Warner’s safe this city.
Mr. Warner also said: “ My dear sir, there are*
Governors, Senators, Presidential candidates.
Members of Congress, prominent men and
women all over the country whom I personally
know have been cured of disease, such as Gen
eral Arthur suffers from, by our Warner’s safe
cure, but owing to the circles in which they
move they do not care to give public testimonial
to the fact.”
Mr. Warner is interested m General Arthur’s
case because he is personally acquainted with
him, and he says that it ts a shame that any man
should bs allowed to die under the operation of
old-fashioned cathartics, which have no curative
effects, rather than that a modern, conceded
specific for kidney disease, whose worth is ao
knowleged world-wide, should save him.
“ H you doubt the efficacy of Warner’s safe
cure,” say the proprietors, “ ask vour friends
and neighbors about it. This is asking but lit
tle. They can tell you all you want to know.”
“We have kept a standing offer before the
public for lour years, ’ says Mr. Warner, “ that
we will give $5,000 to anv person who can suc
cessfully dispute the genuineness, so far as we
know, of the testimonials we publish, and none
have done it.”
Were General Arthur a poor man, unable to
be left “in the bands of his physician,” he
would use that great remedy, as many thou
sands of others have done, and get well. How
absurd then for people to say that everything
that can be done is being done for the ex-Presi
dent, when the one successful remedy in the
world that has cured, or that can cure a case
like his, has not been used by them.
A QUEER WOOING.
BUT THE RESULT WAS ALL
RIGHT.
When Viscount Giddys. eldest so-,
of Timberdale, was staying on ahootin" visit
03 -- to the Lady"B V elU
•A a< ? y V ’ aS b •> r intimates called her
*- -* which she might divine
J?' xl6r ladyship was to go alone
1A ‘ - ,!1 hard A with her face
to the orbj t 0 ohaut
Abracadabra, kind and iruo.
Let a maiden Bing to you—;
Sing aud turn, then let her see
What her future Hie shall he !
Then she was to swing round from the glow
ing west to the darkening east, aud preserving
the kindest and best of feelings toward all
men, to look and listen with all her might.
The Bady Billy went to the hill, saw the sun,
sang the chant, warmoil her heart toward urau-,
kindj and ■ ■
“ nooh I” said a voice from behind a tree.
“Who’s that?” asked the lady in a startled
tone. “ Good gracious! 1 believe it’s you,
Viscount,”
“ Have you the best and kindest feelings for
all men, including me ■” asked Lord Giddys,
ill-disguising hie own kindly voice.
“ You ridiculous man, come out I” cried the
lady, laughing.
“Booh! X’m the wizard Abracadabra,” said
Giddys, as he emerged into the light, waving
his stick childishly in the air. “ What can Ido
for the Lady Billy ?”
“ Tell her the disclosure I” she replied, as the
meaning of the whole situation quickly flashed
upon her.
“ Well, don’t be cross, then. This is my
way of getting a chance of telling you what I
have wanted to tell you for the last fortnight.
I love you. There ! Now you can’t say that I
imposed upon you when I said you miglit learn
something of your future by coming up here.
Billy darling,” he continued, seizing the lady's
hand, “ don’t retuse a fellow! Will you bo my
wile?” and with a small effort he succeeded in
kissing her lips.
I say 1 I say I” pleaded the Lady Bella, in
gentle alarm. Don’t Lord Giddys I Some one
might bo looking at us through a telescone.
Aud see how your horrid beard has made
my cheek burn 1”
“ Well, say ‘ Yes,’ darling! Quick, dear,
dear Billy I You don't knew what lam suffer
ing?’ -
“ Yes,” answered the future Peeress, ner
vously. “But let us get down off this hili, I'm
shivering with cold, and I’m certain that the
whole estate is watching.”
Her ladyship’s .maid, Sanderson, noticed
afterward, in dressing her mistress for dinner,
that one side of the beautiful lace was really
and truly redder than the other. But the saga
cious domestic had seen such a phenomenon
before, on her own face, indeed, if it comes to
that; and she was able to equalize and balance
the tint by the vigorous application of a clean
and dry hair brush to the paler side.
‘“P.ed sky at night, to-morrow delight?
Your ladyship remembers saying,” she re
marked, in tones of respectful good nature,
when the trick was completed. And Lady Billy
took this adroit congratulation in excellent part.
-
Joints in Practice.
TEN LEGAL COMMANDMENTS NOT IN THE
NW YtBSION.
(From the Chicago Ledger.)
"Oyez, oyez, oyez!" both bantam barristers and
sly old solicitors, ‘- catch on” to the following codifi
cations:
L Plead all your cases with fire and energy.
Use “ Coke” to start the tire.
2. In summing up, avoid long sentences. This is
particularly applicable in defending a burglar for
that’s just wliat he hires you to avoid in his be
half.
3. Always go up on appeal to a higher court.
There is only one instance where a lawyer went
down on a peel to a lower court—and that vas when
he slipped on a banana skin and made a meteoric
stairway descent into a basement court.
4. Be very careful when foolin’ round with prima
facies, writs of certiorari, mandamuses, capias ad
satisfaciendums, etc., and not run up against any of
the words—unless you want to be lugged off to the
hospital, and reported in the newspapers as having
been “ accidentally stabbed.”
5. Slake it a rule to invariably suavely refer to
the opposing counsel as “ my learned brother” or
“the distinguished advocate on the other side,’'
during the progress of a suit. After adjournment,
and getting outside, you can blow about “ that
egregious ass,” and call him all the blankity-blank
“ shysters” you choose, t. e. if he is not present to
resent it.
6. Evidence your goodness of heart by never ac
cepting a retaining fee from a poverty-stricken
client; if it’s a poor cripple going to sue a railway
corporation for damages, wait until the amount
awarded by the jury lor his injuries is paid, and
then rob him of seven-eighths of the same for "legal
services rendered.”
7. Cultivate the society of some second-hand
bookstore proprietor. Then whenever your office
library is pawned with "Uncle Levi,” you can drop
around to your friend's place of business, and
" crib ” the data for your arguments from his stock
of old law volumes.
8. Don’t be overcome with awe, or assume an air
of bashful reserve on meeting a dignified and sanc
timonious-looking judge of the Supreme Bench in
the street. It would hardly be advisable, however,
to ba so funny and familiar as to accost him with,
" Hello, old rocks 1 Let's go and have a little mu
tual practice before some rum-shop ‘bar !’ It’s my
treat.’ ” When you appeared before him in a trial,
he might " treat ” you meauer'n the very devil, and
dub you “Mr. Fresh,” whilegreudering an unfavor
able decision, and sarcastically exposing any exist
ing defects in your brief.
9. If you are attorney for a lady plaintiff in a di
vorce case, make her believe that her husband is a
monster of cruelty because he wouldn’t give her
SIOO to invest in a Parisian imported bonnet.
Then, if you are a married man, show your sinceri
ty by going home at night and refusing your own
wife fifty cents with which to buy herself a needed
pair of rubber overshoes for bad weather. (Tell
her "a woman’s proper place is in the house, au l
not to be forever gadding all over town !”)
10. Having put Blackstonian quibbh-rs in ' pog
sion ” of “ nine points of law,” I will now suffer
an execution of an "ejectment ” frixn further com*
pauy ql Ataese columns.