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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, September 05, 1886, Image 2

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Then Mr. Darrell turned away, and I went up
toward the Castle with O’Callaghan.
“Now tell me,” I said to Daddy, “all that
has happened since I lelt.”
I did not wish to brood over the future, and
bo become unnerved,
“On the morning you ought to have arrived
at Edinburgh a telegram came from Mibb Suth
erland, saying that you had disappeared at the
terminus, and that every inquiry was being
■•That was untrue,” I interrupted. “I never
went bo far. Now I understand why I was not
O’Callagban looked at me in amazement.
“ You did not go to Edinburgh 1 Miss Suth
erland’s story was that you disappeared there
in the crowd. She must have deliberately mis
led the detectives.”
“So it seems. Go on; tell me all.”
“His lordship was terribly upset, telegraph
ed to Miss Sutherland to employ the best de
tect!', es, and started for Scotland the next
night himself. I accompanied bis lordship.”
“ What did you think, Daddy?” 1 asked.
“I was sorely puzzled, but I blessed my
stars that your ladyship had that money. And
somehow,” he added, with a smile, “1 thought
it would not be long before you wrote to old
After this O’Callaghan drew himself up to his
full hight and continued his narrative in a pro
siao business-like tone, as if this momentary
familiarity had been nu indiscretion.
“ We could hear nothing of your ladyship,
ind we returned home. Lord Farnmore was
very ill for some days, and Miss Sutherland
nursed him with great care. I discovered that
his lordship was in the habit of taking large
quantities of opiates, and I fancy this has much
affected his nerves. When his lordship recov
ered, Mins Sutherland went to the Vicarage. I
heard her say that Farnmore was no place for
her now that "you had gone, but she came over
constantly and had long interviews with his
lordship, who daily grew more helpless.”
“My poor father,” I exclaimed, “ and I was
not there I”
“Don’t fret, mavourtreen,” said O’Callaghan,
momentarily forgetting his dry relation of facts.
“Sooner or later she would have found some
means of driving yon away.”
We were now within sight of the Castle, and
I stopped walking.
“ I must hear everything,” I said, “ before I
go in, and there is not much time to lose.”
“ One evening Miss Sutherland stayed to din
ner, and, before she left for the Vicarage, his
lordship called me into the library where they
wore sitting. * O’Caliaghan,’ he said, ‘ you
know how devoted Miss Sutherland has been
to ur family; you know how careful she has
guarded the secret of the past, and saved the
Farnmore honor. lam sure therefore you will
be glad to hear that this day week I mean to
make Miss Sutherland my wife.’ ‘Oh, yOur
lordship,’ I cried out, ‘ surely you won’t while
Lady Stella is away !’ I could not f>r the life
of me have stopped those words. His lordship’s
face clouded over. I never saw him look so
fierce since long and long ago. I was
frightened by his anger. ‘ Lady Stella!’
he said, and bis voice was BO string
it rang through the room. ‘Lady
Stella has forsaken her home, and is no child
of mine I’ 'I hen, honey,” O’Callaghan con
tinued, growing excited. “ I did not care a
straw for his anger. ‘ Lady Stella is your own
flesh and blood,’ I said, ‘ and as loving a daugh
ter as ever lived, but the woman you want to
marry has driven her ladyship away, and, how
ever well Miss Sutherland may have acted long
ago, 1 swear to Heaven it’s an ill deed she is
doing nowt’ ”
How the old man’s eyes flashed in his excite
ment I
“ I may have been wrong,” he added more
quietly, “ but sbure I could not hear a word
said against you, mavourneen !”
“ And my father? What did he say ?”
“He ordered me to leave the room and the
house forever. Then Miss Sutherland inter
fered, and in her slimy insinuating way she
asked his lordship to overlook my having for
gotten myself; she was sure it was only devo
tion to the family which made me hot-headed.
His lordship listened, and said that, to please
the future Lady Farnmore, ho would think no
more about it, and ho signed to mo to leave the
room. Heaven forgive me, I think I could have
eh iked Miss Sutherland I But I never said a
word. She gave me a look from under her eye
lids which told me, as plainly as if she had said
it, that she was only biding her time to make
me pay for my words, but I wes so afraid ot
losing the chance of serving your ladyship that
I determined to stick to the Castle as long as I
could. Now yon know all,” he ended, “ and
you must wait here till I see if you can pass in
to the Castle unobserved.”
I hid myself in the trees, where the under
word was thick, and O’Caliaghan lelt me.
He seemed absent a long time. Oh, if I could
but put a stop to this marriage 1 But 1 formed
no plan, only waited with beating heart. At
length O’Caliaghan returned.
“ Now,” he said, “ come quickly 1 His lord
ship is with his lawyer; Miss Sutherland is
Without a word we passed around rapidly te
the other side of the Castle, to the terrace upon
Which the billiard-room opened. Here and
there on the close-mown grass there were orna
mental trees, and behind one of them I con
cealed myself for a few minutes while O’Calla
ghan reconnoitered. In a few hours the being
whom I most hated might be the mistress of
my homo and I an outcast from my father’s
heart I As I stood there trembling, it seemed
to me, in the bitterness of my thoughts, that,
xvhen once my place should be taken at the
Castle, no one would eare what became of me.
I saw O’Caliaghan beckoning, and in a moment
I was in the billiard-hall. We passed quickly
through to the library. No one was there, but
the room was gayly dressed with flowers.
O’Caliaghan did not alhvw me to pause an in
“ Now,” he said, when we were in the turret
room, “lock the door isside. I must go, and,
when the time comes, Heaven help you !”
He went away at ones. I locked the door and
was alone with my thoughts. What thoughts
they were—wild and wicked when they turned
to the woman who had driven mo from my
home (there seemed to b»« no punishment too
cruel for her)—terribly sad when they dwelt
■On my father, whose life, I felt sure, would
grow more and more wretched day by day—
maddening when they rashed on to all the pos
sibilities of the next hour. What should Ido ?
What should I do? Softly I paced to and fro
In the little room, sometimes pausing with my
ear to the door, listening for sounds in the
library. At last there was a rustle ot a dress—
the bride was probably coming. I heard my
father’s step and others following ; then came a
low murmur of voices. I turned to the table,
where O’Callagban hjd thoughtfully left a glass
ot wine, I drank it. I heard the company tak
ing their places. Softly I unlocked the door,
very gently, very carefully, so that there was no
betraying click. Then, with my fingers on the
handle, I waited.
What a weight therq seemed to be in the air !
It had been very sultry all day, but now the
atmosphere was unbearably oppressive. Softly
I turned the handle of the door and pushed it
open the least possible bit. There I was, an in
visible witness of this hateful marriage.
Through the chink I could see Miss Sutherland.
She was dressed in white satin and brocaded
velvet; she wore no vail or wreath, but one
lovely diamond star sparkled in her hair. She
would be a stately Lady Farnmore. Her lips
were pressed tightly together, and yet they
smiled. To me, at that moment, she looked
capable of any cruelty. I could not see my
father, but I heard him say, " We are ready.”
flhe service began. I did not heod the words
at first. Suddenly a vivid flash of lightning
passed before my eyes, almost making me with
draw my hand from the handle of the door ; it
certainly rattled in my hold, but the sound was
lost in a loud peal of thunder which crashed
above our heads.
“Ah,” I thought, “the ceremony will be
stopped ! Supernatural power will prevent it;
I need not interfere I”
How foolish 1 was !
The clergyman had ceased reading.
“We are not in the least alarmed,” said the
bride quietly ; “ you can continue."
The clergyman resumed his office, and indis
tinctly, as it in a dream, I heard his voice, till
the words demanding if there were any impedi
ment to the marriage, smote clearly on my ear.
As it in reply, another roll of thunder burst
over the Castle, and I, feeling that I must take
some part, whether for good or ill, in this
scene, pushed open the door of the turret-room
and stood before the wedding group.
Shall I ever forget my father’s face, the terri
ble working of hie features, the haunted guilty
look of his eyes ? I was absolutely motionless.
He staggered, stretching out his arms as he did
on that night when I looked in at the turret
window, then fell forward on the floor.
O’Callagban and the clergyman rushed to lift
him. Miss Sutherland came up to me, and
seizing me by the wrist, so that her fingers
bruised my flesh, she whispered fiercely :
“You have killed your father by this farce 1”
Then I remembered that he had heart dis
ease-1 remembered it with a shudder, for
those horrible words of Miss Sutherland’s
might be true, and I might be my father’s mur
derer I
I stood in an utterly bewildered state while
my father was raised from the ground. He was
carried to his room, and we all followed. I no
ticed that Miss Sutherland whispered to the
clergyman, Mr. Langdale. As soon as my fa
ther "was laid on his bed, Mr. Langdale told
Miss Sutherland to send at once tor a doctor,
and suggested to me to go to the library, as I
could bo of no use.
We i.oth left the room, but I went no further
than' the passage outside my lather’s door.
When Miss Sutherland saw me standing there
she said, sharply:
“ t is quite useless for you to stay here—
your ; resence can only injury Lord Farnmore—
an I cf course you will be forbidden his room.”
How cruel, how vindictive, seemed to me the
flash ot her eyes I
‘ 1 am not in any one’s way,” I returned,
quietly; “ i shall stay here for the present.
Flease send lor Doctor Bracebridge at once.”
She seemed about to speak, but checked her
self nd went down stairs. In a few minutes
my lather’s door opened, and Mr. Langdale
came out.
“ How is my father ?” I asked, quickly.
“He is not yet conscious,” be answered,
Seeing that I did not move, Mr. Langdale
spoke again.
“ ill you come with me to the library? 1
should like to speak to you.”
“ Please speak here,” I replied. “ I will not
leave this spot just yet; we can be quite undis
turbed here.”
Wo withdrew a little into a deep window at
tho end ot the corridor, but still within sight of
my father s door.
“Lady Stella,” he began, “you must be 1
aware that, humanly speaking, you were the
cause of Lord Farnmore's illness, seeing you
was evidently a great ebook to him. It would
be advisable, therefore, that you should keep
entirely out of sight, and leave everything to
Miss Sutherland, who is a most estimable per
son, and tor whom Lord Farnmore has evident
ly a great affection.”
I was too sad, too heart-broken, to be angry;
I only felt a dislike to Mr. Langdale and a de
termination not to leave my post.
“My father need not see me; but I shall re
main here.”
1 could not say another word.
We shall see what the doctor says,” Mr.
Langdale replied, tartly.
I remained in the same place for nearly an
hour. O’Caliaghan did not leave my father; no
one came to me. At length Doctor Bracebridge
Ido not think he saw me as he passed into
my father’s room, where he remained for a tong
time. How I watched with beating heart lor
his coming I When he appeared at the head of
the stairs, Miss Sutherland was advancing to
meet him, also Mr. Langdale. They would take
the doctor away and not let me hear what he
said. I sprang" forward.
“ Miss Sutherland, 1 wish to sleep here to
night,” were the doctor’s first words. “Can I
have the room which opens into Lord Farn
more’s ?”
“Certainly,” Miss Sutherland answered.
“ Will you come to my boudoir ? I should like
to speak to you. I think it is better that Lady
Stella should not accompany us,” Miss Suther
land added.
I had crept up to the doctor. He turned round
and looked at me for the first time. He had
keen, penetrating eyes. I had always liked Doc
tor Bracebridge; but the moment be looked at
me that evening I felt he was my friend.
“I think itwoulS M much better it sheejme,”
be said firmly". “This wXy, I suppose?’ 1 be
added as he turned toward the other end of the
corridor and entered a room which was specially
appropriated to Miss Sutherland.
Of course no further objection to my presence
was offered, and we all followed.
“ I understand,” said the doctor, “ that Lady
Stella’s sudden appearance was the cause of the
attack which Lord Fftrnmgre has had; but I
must tell you that the state of bis health for
years past "has been such that this might have
happened at any moment. ’
Oh, how relieved I felt I I could have thrown
my arms round the doctor’s nock at these words.
“I do not say,” he continued,” “that Lady
Stella’s unexpected appearance may not have
accelerated the attack, and it is imperative now
that nothing should agitate Lord Farnmore.”
Miss Sutherland began to look quietly tri
“Exactly,” put in Mr. Langdale; “and for
that reason I should advise that Lady Stella
should keep entirely away from Lord Farn
more’s room, and that my estimable friend Miss
Sutherland should manage everything. You
are of course aware that this lady was to have
been Lord Farnmore’s wife to-day?”
“Her dress leads me to suppose so; but that
has nothing to say to the matter. You have the
higher office of ministering to men’s souls, but
I claim supreme control so far as their bodies
are concerned,” Doctor Bracebridge said this
good-humoredly, but quite firmly. “ I forbid
Miss Sutherland an 3 Lady Stella alike to enter
Lord Farnmore’s room; he must be left entirely
to O’Caliaghan, to me, and to a professional
nurse whom I will telegraph for. Miss Suther
land will kindly carry out all my directions for
Lord Farnmore’s comfort, and, as to Lady Stel
la, I suppose she can be somewhere near—in
the room on the far side of Lord Farnmore’s
tor instance—and she must be satisfied with
He sat down and wrote a prescription; then
he turned to Mies Sutherland and gave her some
“ Kindly see to this yourself,” he added; “ do
not trust to servants.”
She could not refuse to carry out his wishes,
a® toft the room.
“Now, Mr. Langdale,” Doctor Bracebridge
went on, “ I do not think we need detain you—
there is no immediate danger. I wish to speak
to Lady Stella, if you do not mind leaving us
" I will see Miss Sutherland,” said Mr. Lang
dato, rising, “ and, if she wishes me to remain
here to-night, I will do so.”
He looked deeply ofl'ended at being consid
ered of so little importance, and spoke pomp
ously. He left the room, and, as the door
closed, Doctor Bracebridge laughed softly.
“ What tools men are,” he said, “to think
their paltry little feelings ot any consequence 1
Now, Lady Stella, while we are atone, tell me
what ts the meaning ot all this. Why aid you
appear like a ghost or an avenging spirit at the
“ I wanted to stop the marriage.”
“Yon have succeeded. ’
“ Oh,” I said, desperately, “ papa will recov
er, will he not?”
“ I cannot tell—l hope so; but you seem to be
in direct antagonism to Miss Sutherland, and I
must understand things a little, as I have the
charge ot Lord Farnmore. It is quite natural
you should dislike a stepmother; but Miss Suth
erland seems a good sort of person, and you
appear to have acted rather unwisely.”
He looked at me very piercingly, as If to read
nay thoughts.
“Deetor Bracebridge,” I answered, frankly,
“Mtos Sutherland has acted so cruelly, so de
ceitfully, to me, I am sure she cannot make my
lather happy. Oh, I cannot tell you all 1 Will
yen be my friend? Don’t let her drive me
away from my lather.”
“ You have eloquent eyes, Lady Stella, and I
promise to do what I can; but it will be difficult
to d® much. You are very young, and Lord
Farnmore was going to marry Miss Sutherland;
that she was about to te Lady Farnmore gives
her a certain authority in the house. Every
thing would be easier if some near relative of
your lather’s could come and stay here.”
“ He has no near relative living; the Duchess
of Clayton is our nearest relative, and she is
euly a cousin. ”
“ Well, she is very kind; I know her, and will
speak to her. I will also speak to Miss Suther
land. Now I am going back to Lord Farn
He rose and left the room.
I do not know how long 1 sat there, my el
bows on the table, my head buried in my hands.
Something throbbed in my head and prevented
me from thinking connectedly. Everything
was hi a tangle. I seemed wicked, not Miss
Sutherland. Why had I forgotten that my fa
ther had heart disease ? Why should I have
been blinded to everything by my hatred of
Miss Sutherland ? She was kinder, better far
than I. Oh, if papa would only recover, I
would be gentle, submissive to her! She
might marry my father—l would say no word.
What did it matter about me ? Oh, if I had
only some one to talk to—some one to trust
some kind, loving woman I Then I broke down
and sobbed piteously for a long time.
When I raised my head it was growing quite
dusk, and Miss Sutherland stood beside me. 1
thought she had come to tell me of my father’s
“ Papa ?” I gasped.
“Don't bo frightened,” she said; “he is con
scious now, and we may hope that he will re
cover.” She spoke much more gently than
usual; she seemed changed somehow. “Iwish
to speak to you, Stella,” she went on. “ I see
how wretched you are, and I am sorry for you.
Perhaps I have been unjust to you. Why should
we be enemies ? Are you willing,” she added,
“to listen to me without prejudice and ill-will.”
I bowed my head. 1 was subdued, remorse
“ There are many things in the past history of
your family which you do not know; but per
haps some day you may understand all. I have
been ol use to Lord Farnmore. and he knows
that he can entirely rely on me. Had you cared
for me at all, we might have united in trying to
make your father's remaining years happy, for,
though not an old man, he will not live long. As
it is, be would have been utterly alone had I not
consented to be his wile, and that one poor com
fort you have put an end to, and by your rash
ness’ have endangered Lord Farnmore’s life.
There is little that either of us can do for him
She turned away her head as if trying to con
ceal her emotion.
“ Why did you never speak kindly to me be
fore ?,’ 1 cried.
“Is it too late, Stella?” she asked, as she laid
her hand on my shoulder.
I felt puzzled. 1 tried to forget her treach
“ I don’t know,” I answered. “In many ways
perhaps I have been wrong.”
“ Let us try to be better friends,” was her re
ply. “And now,” ebe added. “ will you leave
this door open? And, if the doctor requires
anything which you can attend to better than
the servants he will call you; I am going to lie
down for half an hour.”
When I was alone again I began to think a lit
tle more clearly. I lelt softened toward Miss
Sutherland; but I could not forget the forged
letters. My thoughts reverted to Mr. Darrell.
He would soon be waiting, and I had promised
to go to him or to send O’Caliaghan. The latter
I could not do, the former 1 now disliked doing.
I might be wanted, so I would wait till Mies
Sutherland returned.
I rang the bell, and one of the underhouse
maids answered. I sent her for a dark dress.
I longed to take off the white dress which
seemed so out of place. The girl brought me a
dress, and 1 changed in the boudoir, so as not
to leave my post. No one called me, and the
time crept on. Dinner would be at eight, and 1
should be expected to appear. If I waited much
longer, 1 could not possibly meet Mr. Darrell.
It seemed inconsiderate, aiter all his kindness,
to leave him waiting, perhaps lor hours. I did
not know where to write to him or how to com
municate with him. Presently Doctor Brace
bridge came in.
“ Lord Farnmore is decidedly better,” he said
cheerily; “ and now will you kindly allow me to
write some letters of importance ?”
In a few minutes he had everything be needed.
“ Am I wanted now?” I asked.
“ Not in the least,” he replied. “ You found
Miss Sutherland more amiable, did you not ?”
“ Yes. She seems touched by poor papa’s
“ Ab, well, perhaps she is not such a bad sort |
of person as you However.. 1 do not '
think she will try to inter ere with you ai !
“J have to tli-nk you for I’.i I -al ! rm’---.
I “I’irhakib *•'.er\ v; j < n
end,” eaid Dr, Bracebridge, as he eat down to ,
I did not feel buoyant at hie words, but 1 was
less despairing. i
I left him to his letters, and putting a shawl '
over my head, for it had grown chilly, I slipped j
out of the Castle. Miss Sutherland was lying
down—l was not wanted ; I felt I ought to keep i
my appointment with Mr. Darrell and see him
for a moment. I hurried throu ;h the wood ; he
must have been waiting quite halt an hour al
ready. As 1 approached the spot where I had
pa’rted from him that afternoon, I heard voices.
I stopped a moment, and then walked on more
cautiously, f had not gone much further when
I saw Miss Sutherland and Mr. Darrell. Ho
held her hand, and was bending over her, talk
ing earnestly. I stood still instantly, with a
painful sensation as it some one had struck me.
•‘I am not quite such a ruffian as you
imagine,” I heard Mr. Darrell say, “ and I do
not forget the past so readily as you do.”
“To tell you the truth,” Miss Sutherland re
joined, “ I don’t trust you ; but 111 try to do so
if you will promise not to trifle with Lady Stel
la’s feelings as you have hitherto done.”
Before Mr. Darrell could reply I turned away
and ran, I scarcely knew whither, into the
wood. My cheeks burned; I was ashamed ot
having overheard conversation not meant for
me, indignant with Miss Sutherland, with Doug
las Darrell—yes, above all with Douglas Darrell.
For several minutes 1 ran along the wood path,
then I went more slowly, and my heart sank
within me. Some spring of energy seemed sud
denly snapped. I would do anything that any
one wished; what did it matter about me? 1
retraced my steps, and before long came to the
spot where Mr. Darrell still waited. Before he
perceived me I saw him smiling.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” I
said. “Thank you for all your kindness. There
is noUiing to tell you except that I stopped the
marriage, and that my father is dangerously
(tried to speak naturally ; but a girl of seven
teen is a poor diplomatist, and my tone was stiff
and constrained. * *
“You are blaming yourself for this. Lady
Stella. That is weak. Remorse is stagnation.
Act; don’t oste time in regret.”
“ I certainly am weak enough to regret having
caused my father’s illness. Thank you again
for having tried to help me. There is nothing
more to be done.”
Bowin", I turned away, not even taking his
hand before parting from him. I walked back
to the Castle, my head throbbing, my hands
burning, and yet vaguely asking myself why
was all this excitement of feeling? I sought
Miss Sutherland at once ; that which was in my
mind to say I would say without delay. I found
her in her bed-room.
“Miss Sutherland,” I said quietly, “just now
in the wood 1 overheard a tew words which
passed between you and Mr. Darrell. It does
not seem honest not to tell you exactly what I
heard.” I then repeated their words.
Miss Sutherland smiled.
“I don’t mind your having overheard us,”
she responded—“indeed I am rather glad ; but
I fear you are too frank for the world, and peo
ple will take advantage of your simplicity. In
my turn, I will be candid. It has probably
never occurred to you that Mr. Darrell has
made use of you for his own ends. He wished
to put a stop to my marriage with Lord Farn
more; he was unscrupulous and successful.
Long ago I was engaged to Mr. Darrell; it was
an engagement which I broke ofl when I learned
his true character. Does that explain things a
little to you ?”
“Yes.” .
“Now it is the dinner hour; let us go. In
future we will try to be friends.”
As we passed out of her room together she
kissed my cheek. I did not go to bed that
night. My room was next to my father’s, and
from time'to t me I stole out into the corridor
and listened, hoping to hear how he was. Twice
I saw O’Caliaghan. HU dear faithful face was
lull of concern.
“Don't fret, honey,” he said. “His lordship
is coming round.”
The second time I srw O’Callagban he told me
there could be no further change for some time:
he entreated me to go to bed, promising to call
me if be had any news for me. After that I
stayed in my room, but I did not go to bed. It
was a miserable night; my nerves were so
strained that the most trivial things which I re
membered seemed to give me keen pain. Over
and over again I repeated to myself my words
to Mr. Darrell, over and over again Miss Suth
erland’s words to me. Why had I said that?
Why had she said this? And every thought
hurt and maddened. The only reflection which
gave me a moment’s comfort was that my state
of mind must change, and that time must dull
the acuteness of my feeling; the next day I
could not be in quite the same mental condi
tion. Thank heaven, I had a touch of philoso
phy in me I
I wrote to Lord Roland that night. My letter
was affectionate- too affectionate, I think, for
expression outstripped feeling. I believed my
self sincere; I could not detect that this ap
parent warmth toward Lord Roland was the
back-water of indignation with Mr. Darrell. In
my letter I said no word respecting the latter.
As mornmg dawned I dropped asleep in my
arm-chair. My letter to Lord Roland lay on the
table. When I awoke it was broad daylight,
and Miss Sutherland stood beside me, a cup ot
tea in her hand.
“I brought you this, Stella,” she said; “I
thought it probable that you had sat up all
night, as I did myself.”
I thanked her and took it.
“ How is my father ?” I asked.
“Better—his breathing quieter, greater calm
in his face. Dr. Bracebridge seems hopeful.”
My eyes now fell on my open letter. Mias
Sutherland must have seen it. Without a mo
ment’s hesitation I said:
“ I do not wish to be misunderstood any
more; I am engaged to Lord Roland.”
Somehow I felt strangely as I spoke; I felt as
though this acknowledgment was closing the
gates to hope and life. There was a sudden
light m Miss Sutherland's eyes, which to me
scarcely seemed that of sympathetic pleasure at
my tidings.
“ I did not notice your letter,” she said; “you
need not have confessed. But lam heartily
glad; and I am sure this news will give Lord
Farnmore joy when he is well enough to hear
Then some one knocked at my door, and
called Miss Sutherland, and I was left alone. I
added a postscript to my letter to Lord Roland,
saying that I had been obliged to tell Miss
Sutherland of our engagement, and therefore it
need be no longer a secret from any one to
whom he wished it made known.
From day to day my father improved—at
least, there was a flicker of life which grew a
little stronger by slow degrees. He began at
last to apeak a little. For some weeks O’Calla
ghan, a professional nurse, and the doctor were
his sole attendants. Doctor Bracebridge was
kind to me, and gave me full particulars of my
lather’s case. What mattered it what name was
given to my father’s illness ? The fact which I
grasped was that papa would never be really
well again. At length he asked tor Miss Suther
land, and every day she sat with h.m for an
hour or two, but he did not ask for me. Ot what
use was Ito any one ? I pined and drooped at
Farnmore Castle. Doctor Bracebridge noticed
this, and suggested a change. I broke down
when he spoke to me, and I told him that the
only possibility of happiness for me would be
that I should find some means of ministering
to my father’s recovery. The doctor shook his
“ You crave far more than human power.
There is one thing,” he added suddenly,
“ which might soothe him. His mental condi
tion is peculiar; from observing him closely, I
leel assured that ho reproaches himself con
stantly for som§ act. Ido not wish to pry into
family secrets, but you are his child, and maj r
know more than I do. If you could find any
means of removing that remorse from his mind,
the progress of his disease would certainly be
slower, he might be spared to you for many
years. I thought,” continued the doctor, “of
trying the effect of your presence, but he seems
to have forgotten your existence; and 1 fear it
would be a dangerous experiment, unless you
could simultaneously give him soms mental
“ I cannot do that.”
“ Then it would be better he should not see
you. In that case I repeat that you ought to
have a change.”
The long-cherished scheme rose in my mind.
Could I bring peace to my lather? It seemed
to me now that the effort would be an atone
ment. If investigation should only prove my
father’s guilt, then I must bear the secret in my
heart to the grave.
“ Thank you,” I said gently; “perhaps I may
go away for a while.”
That’evening I spoke to Miss Sutherland on
the subject. I told her that Doctor Bracebridge
advised me to go away, and thought it danger
ous for my father to see me. She seemed to
ponder a little after I spoke.
“ You wish to go ?”
“ I do, and I don’t. I feel ill and useless
here, but I should not like to leave if there were
any possibility of my father becoming worse.”
“ I would telegraph for you at once. With
whom do you propose going?”
“ With Lord Roland’s sister, Lady Dal
“ Your father could have no possible objec
tion to your traveling with such an escort. You
will want money,” she added. “Of course you
know that since Lord Farnmore’s illness his
solicitor manages his affairs, and pays what
ever is right; he, no doubt, would supply you
with money if Doctor Bracebridge deems it
right that you should go away.”
That night I wrote to Lady Dalchester; and it
was arranged that I should join her in London
in a fortnight.
1 knew that several times since my father’s
illness Mr. Darrell had called at the Castle to
inquire for him. I did not wish to meet Mr.
Darrell; nor did I know if he ever asked to see
me, until one day, after my departure from
Farnmore had been decided on, I chanced to
pass through the hall a moment after the foot
man had answered the entrance-bell and had
closed the door. I casually asked who had
called, and the servant replied:
“ Mr. Darrell. He asked for your ladyship,
and ; answered, as usual, according to Miss
Sutherland’s orders, that your ladyship could
not see any one.”
“ You did quite right,” I said quietly, and
I walked on. Perhaps John would have been
' n or;- i> he could have read my
! li U‘4b s.
: T!.e uii- i'pi reached lor my departure, and 1
unit ( J ili.it ...iss Sutherland was always on the
; m •; t-cpt the servants whenever there
. was a ring at the hall door. It provoked me
; that she should take the responsibility of re
fusing admittance to any one who asked forme,
. but I was too unhappy to attach much import-
' ance to anything she did.
| Two days before I was to leave Farnmore 1
was in a more depressed frame of mind than
i usual; everything seemed so hopeless to me. I
was going on a wild-goose chase, without a clew
to that which I wished to discover, without
friends to help me. Miss Sutherland noticed
my gloom, and suggested that I should take a
ride. She seemed to be unnecessarily urgent
that 1 should go early in the day. I was willing
to try any means of rousing myself. I was
ready at eleven o'clock, but somehow the butler
had misunderstood my order, and had desired
the groom to bring round the horses at halt
past eleven. Miss Sutherland’s annoyance was
very marked, though I was not in the mood lor
observing much. At last, after a tiresome delay
of half an hour, the horses came round, and I
mounted. Miss Sutherland came to thh door
and waited to see me off—a most unusual atten
tion on her part.
I had not "one far beyond the park gates
when I saw Mr. Darrell approaching. I bowed,
not meaning to speak "to him-as yet I had
put my horse only to a walking pace—and, to
my surprise, Mr. Darrell came direct to my
horse’s head.
“ I wish to speak to you, Lady Stella,” he
said, qu etly.
He did not erffer to shake hands, and the ex
pression of his face was peculiar. I could not
possibly have refused to listen to him ; he com
manded, I obeyed. As he spoke he walked by
my side. I had not to bend to hear his words;
though low, bis voice was very clear.
“ I am a peculiar fellow,” he continued, “and
people, as a rule, don’t like my ways. You
promised me friendship—foolishly or wisely,
who knows?—and Ido not mean to let that
friendship cease.”
I blushed. I felt suddenly that there had not
been sufficient grounds for my coldness to Mr.
Darrell; but f was proud, and I nothing.
I know, engaged to RolanS-and
in parenthesis l&t me sat ” he interpolated,
with a bright smile and a glow in his strange
eyes, “ that all the world of women, if they did
but know, wpuld envy you. You are engaged
to Roland, and he is my closest friend; J will
not lose him.” His tone was very emphahc.
* “You do not suppose,” I stammered, “ that
He gave a significant wave of the hand.
“ When a man is in love as Roland is, judg
ment, friendship, everything goes before the
breath of love as dust goes before the wind.”
“ You have no right to suppose that I would
try to influence Lord Roland against you,” I
said Indignantly.
Mr. Darrell smiled.
“ Lady Stella, your manner toward me has
completely changed ; Heaven knows why, I
don’t. However, as far as my experience goes,
there are but two causes for a woman’s change
of manner toward a man with whom she has
always professed to be on ordinarily friendly
terms; the one cause is not to be thought of in
connection with you, the other is that she thinks
the man insincere.”
The last cause I knew to be the true one; but
I was unwilling to admit it, unwilling to say
that 1 had overheard his conversation with Miss
Sutherland. Had he spoken of it himself, I
would have acknowledged having been in the
wood that evening; but my feelings had been
too contused on that occasion to allow me to
broach the subject. To escape from the posi
tion into which I was being driven, I said
“ The first cause you alluded to of a change
of manner in a woman, what is it?”
He raised his head and looked at me stead
“ Do you wish to know ?” he asked.
His glance swept over me. I quivered be
neath it. A moment later I felt it was an ab
surdity to be thus affected ; but at that instant
I could have got off my horse and begged his
forgiveness on my knees ! I did not do it—oh,
no—my bearing in no way changed !
“No, I think not,” he continued, in his usual
tone. “It would pain me and vex you to say it,
and we will put it aside as impossible. I con
clude that you distrust me, and I am resolved
not to allow the distrust in your mind to creep
into Roland’s.”
It was Lord Roland’s friendship he feared to
lose, not mine; this he made sufficiently clear.
“ i assure you you will take unnecessary
trouble; 1 should never dream of interfering
between Lord Roland and his friends.”
“ I have a little programme which I mean to
carry out,” he went on, taking no notice of my
words ; “it may affect many people, you among
others. I have had two real friends in my life
—one when I was a lad, who in the year—never
mind the year -disappeared out of my li.e, and
indeed of all lite, so far as I can make out; the
other friend is Roland. Somehow I have a
queer fancy that, if I find poor Cyril, I shall se
cure Roland for life.”
“ Really, Mr. Darrell,” I said, “ you speak
most mysteriously. Ido not see why all this
affects me, or why you should have made such
a point of giving me an account of your friend
I laughed nervously as I ended.
“I wanted to say ail this. 1 have tried to sect
you time after time. It your feeling toward me
had been friendly, you would never have re
fused over and over again to see me.”
I would have interrupted him at this point,
but he did not give me time.
“As the affianced wife of Lawrence Roland,
your good-will is important to me. I should
not dream of trying to win the good-will of
Lady Stella Fortescue; nor perhaps should I
care to fight for it. As it is, however, lam on
my defense, and I’ll make you think well of
He raised his hat suddenly, bowed, and
turned away across the fields to the left,
through a wicket-gate, followed by his dog, a
huge bloodhound. My eyes rested on the sav
age-looking brute, and involuntarily I thought
of Mr. Greville’s dog. Had not Mr. Darrell
called his friend “Cyril?” Was this another
link? In years gone by Mr. Darrell had known
Miss Sutherland Could it be that . I had
dropped the bridle on my horse’s and I
suddenly discovered that he was standing stock
still in the middle of the road.
To what silly conclusions I was rushing be
cause of a few strange coincidences ! Poor Mr.
Greville’s dog must have died long years ago,
and hundreds of men might have the name ot
“Cyril.” Yet I felt irritated that I bad been so
formal with Mr. Darrell and had not talked
more openly to him. It was too late now.
Stung by this reflection, I put my horse into a
canter, and, with the fresh air blowing in my
face, I tried to forget my confusing thoughts.
Ah, the glorious woods ot Farnmore, how I
loved them 1 They glowed now with the last
glory of Autumn, most gorgeous ere it dies.
All these lands through which I rode, this no
ble home, would one day be mine. Must Farn
more come to me darkened by a ghastly mys
tery? Oh, I should hate the dignity of the
ivy-clad towers, the beauty of field and fell, the
sheltering grandeur of the woods which had
waved in Spring tenderness and Autumn volup
tuousness over generations of our race, if here
my lather should die with gnawing remorse in
his heart, and if I, the only being who loved
him, could not lift in any measure the gloom
from hie last days I
At the end ot the week I left Farnmore. Dad
dy and I had many a private talk before I left.
I told the old man that I could not rest content
ed till I knew something more of my mother’s
tragic story. He seemed very grieved that I
would not let the matter rest.
“it will only bring you more sorrow, ma-
, vourneen,” he would say again and again; but
he gave me all the information he could.
O’Caliaghan had the gifts of his race, and so
graphically did he describe the house where
my mother died that I seemed to see it as he
spoke. Ho could tell me nothing of Mr. Gre
ville’s relatives. In vain 1 insisted that he
> must have sometimes mentioned members o
his family, and begged O’Caliaghan to try tore
call their names.
“ Maybe he had relations,” was O’Callaghan’s
i reply; “but I never heard tell of them. He
• was brought up abroad in the same family with
her ladyship, your mother; but, often as I’ve
i been in the room when Mr. Greville was stay
t ing at therCastle, I never heard him talk of kith
[ or kin.”
O’Caliaghan seemed to think that this search
I was about to undertake was perfectly useless,
but that I must be indulged in my whim as one
indulges a capricious child when its fancy will
do no special harm.
The day before I left Farnmore Daddy man
aged that I should see my father without being
seen. He was asleep, and I stood in such a po
sition that he could not see me even if he open
ed his eyes. His stern, handsome face looked
gentler, more peaceful than I had ever seen it.
I longed to stoop and kiss him, but I dared not;
I could only stand there with dim eyes and
quivering lips, not knowing if this were the last
time I should ever look on the only face that in
my memory was linked with childhood, home
and love. As I turned away, this thought came
strongly into my mind—that my mother must
have loved her husband dearly, and could
never have been treacherous to him, since to
me she had transmitted this- passionate affec
tion for my father, which endured in spite of all
his coldnese and severity.
I lelt my father’s room, and walked with bent
head through the corridor, down the stairs, and
across the hall into the library. Slowly I paced
up and down the room. I hoped no one would
come near me till the misery of that hour had
As I passed to and fro, to calm my mental ag
itation by physical motion, a letter lying on the
ground eaught my eye. Involuntarily I stooped
and picked it up. It was open, and I placed it
on the table without a thought of seeing its
contents; but the opening words I could not
avoid seeing. Tho letter began, “ Dearest Au
relia.” I went no further. Well, it was no bus
iness of mine if Miss Sutherland had hosts of
correspondents who addressed her thus affec
tionately; but in that moment I had recognized
the writing as Mr. Darrell s, and I laid the let
ter down with a feeling of contempt lor the
After all, he must have written those ridicu
lous letters to me which he had said were not
his. Why should he be so deceitful ? What
was his object ? Was he mad or wicked ? Who
were my friends? Who were my enemies? I
could not stay in the room with that letter; ly
ing there, it seemed to me a loathsome thing.
Ah, there was no one whom I could trust—no
one ’ Daddy was good and true; but he thought
me a fool to believe in my mother’s innocence.
I was very desolate, and my thoughts turned
to one faithful heart that was open to me, to
strong arms which were outstretched to shelter
me. In this bitter hour Lord Roland’s love
seemed my onlj’ refuge.
(To be Continue 1.1
Some time during the month of June. 1809,
the American brig “Sarah,” of and from Nor
folk, Va., entered the port of Liverpool with a
full cargo. She was commanded by Captain
William Brown, and his first mate was Tom
Macdonough, a trne-bearted Yankee sailor, who
hailed from somewhere in the little State of
Delaware. After the brig had been duly.en
tered at the Custom House she was soon cleared
of her cargo, and within one week alter her ar
rival she was loaded for home.
Ono pleasant evening—the one preceding the
day on which the brig was to sail—Tom Mac
donough took a stroll up into the town, was
seized by a press-gang, and in less than half an
hour found himself on board an English frigate
which lay at the mouth of the harbor.
“A fine set of men,” said the English captain,
as he ran his eyes admiringly over the stalwart
forms of the impressed seamen. “They will
just fill up the list of our maintopmen.”
“Are you the commander of this frigate?”
asked Tom, addressing the man who had just
“Captain Downie, at your service,” replied
the commander, with mock gravity.
“Then, sir, of you I demand my immediate
release. lam second in command of an Ameri
can brig now ready for sea, and no power in
England can legally detain mo.’’
“That won’t go down, youngster,” returned
the captain, with a sneer. “You are a little too
young for such an office. The king needs men,
and you must take your chance with the rest.”
“ Do you mean to say that I am to be detained
on board your ship ?”
“Then, sir,” replied Tom, while his eyes
flashed fire, “you will do it at your peril. Al
ready have your people run up a heavy reckon
ing. and the day shall yet come when your king
will have to settle it. lam exempt by your own
laws from impressment, and you know it.”
The captain showed a little anger as our hero
spoke, but turning to one of his lieutenants,
“ Mr. Monson, have these men’s names en
tered, and then station them and mess them,”
and without further remark he walked aft to his
In a moment Tom’s mind was made up, and
without resistance or remark of any kind he al
lowed his name to he entered on the purser’s
books, and his station and mess to be assigned
him, after which a hammock and bedding were
served out to him, and he was directed to “turn
in” as soon as possible.
The frigate was well guarded by sentries,
there being two upon the poop, one at each
gangway, one on the forecastle, and one on the
bowsprit, beside those which were stationed at
various posts below, so that no further notice
was taken oi the new-comers, after they had re
ceived their bedding, excepting to give the sen
tinels additional caution with regard to watch
ing well that no one left the ship unless he was
passed by the officer of the deck.
Tom’s hammock was already clewed, and hav
ing hung it up, turned into it without undress
ing. The night was warm and sultry, and as a
means of giving a circulation of iresh air the
gun-deck ports were lowered, and from the
place in which our hero swung he could look
out upon the water as it sparkled beneath the
beams of the bright moon. Tom lay quiet until
midnight, but as yet be could think ol no means
of escape.
Shortly after that hour had passed he heard
the relief guard called, and in some ten min
utes the corporal of the first guard came down
upon the gun deck and unlashed the hammock
which hung next to his own, which operation
being performed,he proceeded to undress him
self, hanging his clothes as he did so upon the
clews of the hammock. The lour hours’ duty
had given the corporal an excellent appetite
t. r sleep, and in less than five minutes a:ter he
touched the mattrass he began to snore.
“Now or never,” thought Tom, “is my
chance,” and with this idea in his mind he slip
ped quietly out from his hammock and pro
ceeded to divest himself ot his own clothes.
This having been accomplished he very un
ceremoniously substituted those of the snoring
corporal in their place, and then sat down upon
the breeching ot a gun to meditate farther up
on his plans.
One bell struck, and the sentinels passed the
usual “ all’s well.” Then Tom heard the cor
poral as he started to go his rounds, and ere
long he descended the main hatch ladder to
visit the posts below. No sooner had the ma
rine officer passed the galley than our hero
sprang up the ladder and gained the spar
The officer of the deck was aft upon the star
board side, the sentries were walking their
posts with regular tread, while the old quar
termaster stood upon the po >p, with his night
glass under his arm. The sentries performed
their walk upon gang boards raised even
with the bottom of the hammock nettings, and
running forward from the ladders. The lar
board gangway was shaded from the light of
the moon by the awning, and walking deliber
ately up the ladder Tom looked over the ship’s
“ Sentry,” said he, in a mumbling sort of a
tone, “ what boat is that at the boom ?”
“The second cutter,” returned the marine,
showing by his manner that he had ne suspi
cions of the spurious corporal.
Tom immediately walked aft to where stood
the officer of the deck, and, being quite assured
by the mistake of the sentry, he pulled his cap
down over bis eyes, and, touching his visor, re
spectfully remarked:
“ I should like to overhaul that second cut
ter, sir, for I think there is rum aboard of her.”
Tom knew he was playing a desperate game,
but liberty was to be the result oi success, and
he flinched not a hair.
“Ha! the villains!” uttered the lieutenant.
“Up to their old tricks again ! Go, corporal—
get down into the boat, and if you do find rum
in her, they’ll cateh it!”
Tom started quickly forward, but just as he
got abreast of the fore hatchway he saw the Si
mon pure corporal’s head rising above the
combings. The marine ascended no higher,
lor with one blow of his fist Tom sent him back
from whence he came, and then sprang quickly
out through the port upon the swinging boom,
and, having reached the place where the sec
ond cutter’s painter was made fast, he hauled
the boat up and leaped into her. The flood tide
was setting up the river very strongly, and,
quick as thought, Tom cast off the painter and
rapidly dropped astern.
“ Help ! help !” shouted our hero at the top
of his voice; “ the boat’s got loose !”
“ Get out a couple of oars, you lubber !”
cried the officer ol the deck, as he jumped upon
the poop on hearing the cry, where he arrived
just as the cutter was sweeping past the quar
ter. “ Ycu can hold her against the tide.”
Tom did get out a couple of oars, but the mo
ment he got them balanced in the rowlocks he
commenced pulling lor dear life, and, to the ut
ter consternation of the lieutenant, the boat be
gan rapidly to shoot up the river.
All the sentries on deck were immediately
called upon the poop, and their muskets were
fired at the deserter, but though two of the
balls whistled near the boat, yet none of them
did any harm, and the next moment Tom heard
the third cutter called away, but he knew the
men were all sound asleep in their hammocks,
and so he felt secure.
It was ten minutes be r ore the third cutter
cast off from the ship, and long ere they could
reach Tom he had gained the shore and was
running at a remarkable speed toward the city,
which he reached in safety, and before two
o'clock he was on board his own brig.
The next morning the “Jarah” dr pped down
' with the ebb tide, and as she paased the frigate
Tom saw the second cutter swinging in her
usual place, and, as he gazed on the proud flag
that floated at the Englishman's peak, he mur
mured to himself:
“If I live, I’ll s me day take the pride from
those proud tyrants.”
H--W literally was that saying fulfilled ! Tom
Macdonough had been Decatur’s favorite mid
shipman at the siege of Tripoli, and “ wherever
Decatur led he dared to follow.” Subsequent
to that brilliant chapter in the pages of our his
tory occurred the event which is embodied in
our sketch ; but five years afterward, on the
11th of September, 1814, Thomas Macdonough
met one of j nglancl’s proud fleet on Lake Cham
plain. At the first broadside the British com
modore, Downie, fell, and at the end ot a fight
which lasted two hours and twenty minutes,
without intermission, Commodore Thomas Mac
donough was the conqueror of Champlain. He
had gained a proud victory—he had indeed
humbled the pride of the tyrant, and that day's
achievement forms one of the brightest pages
in the history of America.
Commodore Thomas Macdonough—the hero
of Tripoli—the conqueror of Champlain. He
was a noble and true-hearted man, and a terror
to all enemies of his country. Peace to his
ashes, and everlasting honor to his memory.
(From the St. Paul Globe.
‘The little train boy was dying. On his death
bed the sufferer lay, his emaciated face and
hands exciting pity and concern. No mother’s
hand smoothed his brow. No mother’s tears
and sobs marked the going out ot his young
life. Father, brother and sister he had "none.
A waif upon the world he, from childhood’s
tenderest hours, had made his own way. Alone
had he waged the battle of life, and from news
boy and bootblack to train boy he had worked
his own advancement.
An accident in which he hid lost his leg
placed him in the hospital. The amputation
proved too much for his constitution and slowly
but surely his lite flickered and was going out.
A brave little patient, he bore all his suffering
without complaint, save that he was anxious to
get up and take bis “ run,” as he called it. No
one told him that his days as a train boy were
at an end. A fever set in and he became delir
ious. Train talk he constantly indulged in
during his delirium and made imaginary
“ runs” into St. Paul on the Milwaukee road.
Weaker and weaker he became. The nurse
and physician watched beside his couch. His
brow was covered with the dew of death. His
last “run ” on earth was soon to end.
“De box is on board,” said the dying boy,
addressing an imaginary conductor, “and yer
can’t start too soon ter suit me.”
They bathed his brow, these strangers—the
nurse and the physic.an, and listened to h s
strange words.
“ Dere’s jest one thing,” excia .ned, the I.'.th
en fferer, as if talking to a comuanio “it ;
should get kilt on ary of dese hero collision, '
dat silver ticker oh, yer know my watch, goss
ter Cully. Oh, what yer givm’ me. Don’t yer
know Cull? Why, Cully's my old pard. Him
and me done worked togethee too long fer mo
ter forget him.”
“Dere’s Winona,” he said, as if on his “run.”
“I’ll take der peaches trough for luck. Oh, it's
no good. Der won’t buy of me. I’ll try der
orange racket. ’Taint no better ; and here we
is at Hastings ”
“De.mist is on. I can’t see der river,” he
said hoarsely: “ and here we is at St. Paul,
at ”
Little “Peanuts” was dead,
During the evening of the day on which the
battle of Balaklava was fought, the 25th ot Octo
ber, 1854, a dozen of us were seated around a
fire lighted before the tent occupied by the first
lieutenant and myself. The night was chilly
and damp, as we had lost some good friends
during the fight. A silence had succeeded a
dull story related by a chasseur, when sudden
ly we were started by the big voice of Captain
Dumon, ot the 2—th Dragoons, saying :
“I wonder if I will see again in this world
this poor Boscal, cut in two by a cannon-ball
this very afternoon.”
“I hope you will not,” replied a lieutenant of
“ Why do you hope that?” asked the captain.
“Because he would frighten the life out of
you if one of these nights he came to visit
you,” replied the lieutenant.
“Hussar, Ido not permit you to insinuate
that anything supernatural or natural may
frighten mo, Captain Charles Dumon, of the
2—th Dragoons,” exclaimed, angrily, the brave
“ Pshaw ! sweetly, dragoon, sweetly I I have
seen men just as courageous as you are and
believe yourself to be, going into trances
through ’fright,” replied the lieutenant, with
the greatest calmness.
“job did np| see that, and I defy you to
prove it,’’cried the captain, now furious.
“ I did see that; and lam ready to bet you a
good dinner at fifty francs per capita, that with
in two months J, or somebody else, will cause
you such a fright as will be remembered by
you till your last hour. Dy you accept my
wager ?”
“ Most certainly I do, on the condition that
all ot us here present now, or what will be left
of us after the taking of Sebastopol, shall feast
at the expense of the loser, cost what it may.”
“ All right, dragoon.”
“ All right, hussar.”
As the “taps” sounded we separated, bid
ding good-by to each other.
The battle of Inkerman was fought on the sth
of November, 1854, eleven days after the battle
of Balaklava. The night following was exceed
ingly cold. It was about 11 o’clock P. M., and
every one was asleep in our camp but the sen
tries and grand guards. Alone in his tent, Cap
tain Dumon snored, buried to the nose in the
layer of fresh straw, discovered God knows
where, by his faithful but not over-scrupulous
orderly. Near by him was his big sabre, and
under his pillow, made of his horse’s saddle, a
pair of pistols showed their brass work, shining
like gold. Suddenly a human form, wrapped in
a white mantle and wearing on the head the
regulation helmet of the dragoons, under which
appeared a face deadly pale, entered the tent.
The apparition seemed to slide rather than
walk. It approached the captain and called
him by his name.
The captain awoke, sat up, rubbed his eyes
with his fist and said:
“ Who is there ? What do you want ?”
“ Has the grave changed me so much that
Charles Dumon, my bosom friend, cannot rec
ognize in me Prosper Boscal, killed eleven days
ago at Balaklava ?”
“Is that you ironically replied the captain.
“ Well, I thought the Russians to be better kill
ers. With us French, those that we demolish
never come back to visit their former acquaint
ances. Meanwhile, Prosper Boscal, my depart
ed friend, you will greatly favor me by return
ing to whence you came from. You must ex
cuse me, my dear, you being dead, have time
to sleep, and I, being alive, have not. Then,
good-by, my respects to all in Sheol, please, and
take care not to get cold by playing truant dur
ing such a Siberian night.”
“Dumon,” sadly exclaimed the ghost, “you
know how much I did love you while on this
earth. In order to see you once more, to bid
you an eternal adieu, to give you a last shake
of the hand, I have left the spirit world. In
stead ot the friendly reception that I have the
right to expect from you I get only sarcasm and
derision. Take care, Dumon, one never goes
unpunished that insults the dead.”
“Go to Hades I Let me sleep. If, in two
minutes, you have not vanished, I will finish
that Russian job, and I will do it properly, you
can bet. Get out, and mighty quick, too, or
else 1 will accelerate your departure with the
point of my sabre.”
“ I will remain with you ten minutes more.
Your menaces are foolish, your sabre is a play
toy, and you are powerless, Dumon.”
“ I am foolish and powerless and my sabre is
a play-toy 1 Do you want to get acquainted
with it ? Leave this tent immediately, you night
prowler. Will you go?”
“ No, not before ten minutes.”
“ Then, take that,” and the captain, drawing
his sabre, made a thrust at the ghost, who,
stretching forth his hand, seized the blade,
which remained in it, separated from the hilt,
held by the captain.
“ You see, Dumon I there is your blade,” and
the apparition threw it on the mantle spread
over the straw.
“I see nothing. Horns of the devil,” yelled
the captain, and grabbing his pistols he fired
both snots at the ghost.
“ As I have returned the blade of your sabre
to you, now I return the bullets from your pis
tols,” said the ghost, throwing two pistol bul
lets on the mantle.
Perspiration could be distinctly seen on the
captain’s brow, and as he panted for breath he
muttered: “ That is strange, very strange.
Perhaps it is the truth the dead may leave their
graves. How pale he is !”
“ The ten minutes have elapsed, Dumon. I
must leave you forever. I forgive you, and
there is my hand, and I am gone.”
Capttiu Dumon took the hand offered in his
own. It was icy and stiff—the very hand of a
dead man—and, as he shook it, the whole arm
following the impulsion given, fell heavily on
the straw.
Captain Dumon of the 2—th Dragoons, one ot
the bravest officers of the French army, uttered
a terrible cry and fell back senseless.
“ You have lost! You have lost I” cried we,
entering his tent.
He was speechless and unconscious. We
rubbed his face with snow, and one of the men
ran for a surgwin.
It was a long time before he revived, and we
were all of us making piteous faces. For my
part, I was ashamed of myself.
When he recovered he admitted frankly that
he had been thoroughly frightened, and two
days after the taking of Sebastopol we feasted
at his expense, but five of us were missing.
They slept their last sleep, far away from the
country tor which they had given their lives.
A little explanation is necessary, it was not
his sabre that Captain Dumon tried to use
against his visitor, but a broken one picked up
on the battlefield, the bullets had been taken
out from the pistols, and the arm that fell on
the straw had been given to me by our surgeon
ma, or.
With a Few Instances of Their Feeble
Fiction Efforts.
(From the San Francisco Post.)
“Lying ” Jim Townsend is a noted Bohemian
in Nevada, and well known in California. Meis
a genial, convivial soul, whose lies harm no one,
but are rather evidences of the abnormal de
velopment of the power of exaggeration. He is
credited in Nevada with having been the origin
ator of some of Mark Twain’s best jokes, in
cluding the story of the man who took a con
tract to run a tunnel a certain distance, and
having dug through the hill in less distance
than that specified in the agreement, completed
his contract by running the tunnel the rest of
the way on trestle work.
Jim was taking a stroll with a friend and
talking over old times, when he asked:
“ By the way, did you ever know ?”
“ No, 1 think not.”
“ Well, sir, he was a wonderful fellow—the
greatest mathematician that ever lived. You
could propound the most difficult problem in
mathematics to him and he would give you the
answer oil-hand at the snap of your lingers,
while other people of reputation in that line
would use a quire of and a gross of lead
pencils, and take a week to reach the same re
sult. Why, I’ll tell you what that fellow could
do. He could go into a graveyard and rub his
head against a tomb stone and tell you how
■much the corpse weighed when it died.”
Walking up town from the C. & C. shaft, one
day, with Dennis McCarthy, of the Chronicle,
Jim Townsend looked up at the steep side oi
Cedar Hill, and remarked :
“ I suppose you fellows in Virginia think
that's pretty steep, don’t you ?”
“ Well, rather,” remarked Dennis.
“ Why, that’s nothing,” said Jim. “ Down
in Lundy, where I’ve been living, they would
select that ground for the location of a race
Speaking of lying, every old Californian re
members Captain Jim Baker, immortalized by
John Ph i nix as “Truthful Jeems ” His habits
ot exaggeration were so notorious that San
Franciscans prided themselves in possessing in
him the champion of the world in that line.
But one day an English sea captain came here
who had achieved a brilliant reputation as a
liar, and the sea captains then in port brought
the two together at a d nner at Martin’s old res
taurant, on Commercial street. When the wine
was flowing freely the conspirators proceeded
to draw out their guests.
“ I presume you have seen some very severe
snow storms in yo ir travels ?” said one, ad
dressing the English captain.
“ Yes, sir,” be replied ; “ I have seen the
snow titty feet deep on a level, extending over
miles of country up in Siberia.”
“ And you inuot have seen some nretry
severe storms yourself, ( "aptain Jim ?” sa.d an
“ W ell, .1 should say so,” repl ed Truthful.
“ • >1 was o n.; o>er the Serra Nevadas
w ,u p a Ham rm i wn-n uti bad neaiuy
rv. cued im^summ' 4 A»rtvd to snow, an I i’ll
swear that it fell at the rate of an inch a min
“How long did this continue, Captain Jim?”
“Three days and nights, by , sir.”
(From the Baltimore News.)
There are a good many queer people in this
world. Just at present Baltimore contains as
odd a personage as Charles Dickens’s Mr. Dick.
He is a bookkeeper who runs his house by
rules. A reporter of the News, who recently
visited his residence, says :
Placards of rules wore placed in every room
for the guidance of its occupants, and for their
violation sundry penalties are provided. In the
ball the following rules were posted, the placard
being wedged in the crevice of the mirror in the
Please hang your Int up.
Please wipe your feet.
Please do not take away our umbrellas.
Please put your umbrella in the rack.
Enter the parlor by the first door to the left.
In the parlor he found a similar poster. It
was fastened to the shade of a droplight, and at
night its lettering was brought into conspicuous
prominence by the light under it. The placard
read thus:
Ph ase do not soil the photograph album.
Please do not finger the oil paintings to see if
they are genuine, for they are.
Please do not touch the mineral specimens on
the side-table.
Please do not move your chair from the posi
tion it occupies.
Please close the piano after using it and pub
the music where you found it. If you found it
out of its place put it where it belongs.
No visitors entertained in this parlor before 2
P. M., and between the hours 6 and BP. M.,
and after 10:30 P. M. Any visitor calling at an
hour when no entertainment is allowed will be
compelled to await the arrival of the hour when
some member of the family is permitted to
Young men will please observe the rule that
no visitors are entertained after 10:30 P. M.
Members of this family are prohibited from
occupying this parlor "except to entertain
The rules are rough on visitors, but the re
porter learned from a regular visitor to one of
the young ladies of the house that they are
rigidly enforced.
Suspended from a chandelier, whi h over
hangs the dining-table in the dining-room, was
a placard which read thus:
Please take your time in eating.
Please replace the different articles in tho
Please do not put your elbows on the table.
Please sit upright in your chair.
Please eat with your tork.
In the kitchen the servant girl kept such a
close watch upon the reporter that he could
n >t copy the rules he saw over the dresser. He
got a few furtive glances at them. They were
very long, and outlined in detail the cook’s du
ties, such as the amount of salt, pepper, and
other condiments to be placed in certain arti
cles of food, the amount ot four required for
biscuits and rolls lor each meal, when butter
was to be used, etc. There was a place for
every pan and pot, and each was specified.
Even tho am unt of coal re juired for a day’s
use in the kitchen stove was set down. There
was a special injunction that everything was to
be kept neat and clean, ana any failure to do so
would be detected by the master of the house,
who would inspect the kitchen every day. The
servant.girl was allowed to receive company on
one night each week, and she was permitted to
take Sunday night to herself, provided she
would return by 10:30 P. M. Violation of the
rules was punishable by her being kept on duty
on Sunday night and refused company either
for one, two or three weeks, as the magnitude
of the offense might justify.
The harshness of the pater-familiaa was
brought into full play when he devised the
rules for the bed-chamber which his two
daughters occupied. The placard was of the
same pattern as those in other rooms through
out the house—twelve inches by eight, plain
black lettering, surrounded by a broad black
The placard was suspended by ribbon from
the top of the mirror frame, and the card cov
ered the top of the glass. It was probably
placed in that position by the father to insure
its being seen long and often. Every time that
either ot those young ladies ties her bonnet
stnngs, arranges her hair or gazes into tho
depths of b.er blue eyes, she cannot help seeing
that placard. Any young lady must know how
often, then, those rules meet the eyes of the
fair occupants of the room. They read thus:
My daughters will refrain from using cos
metics, paint, powder and other such stuff, on
every occasion.
Tight lacing is prohibited.
No conspicuous jewelry must be worn.
Rose-water is the only perfumery permitted.
The teeth and nails must be carefully brush
ed at least twice a day.
The bureau drawers must be kept in prime
No high-heeled or tight-fitting shoes allowed.
No garments should be thrown haphazard on
the chairs.
The lights in this room must be extinguished
at 11 P. M. promptly.
It is unnecessary to add that my daughters
will say their prayers before retiring at night
and after rising in the morning.
Similar rules are placarded in the chamber
occupied by the father and mother. Even the
son is not exempt, and he is told how often to
shave, what Kind of cravats to wear, etc.
a vail.
Tho Way a Young Woman Knew the
Lost Heirloom of a Lower Chest.
(From London Truth.)
I must tell you something that happened once
in a country town, where dishonesty in the edu
cated classes is not so safe as it is in cities. A
girl I knew was one day ransacking an old
dower chest, and found, among other things
long laid by, an old-fashioned white lace vail.
It was about one and one-fourth yards in
length, and was quite a yard wide. The design
was heavy and rich along the edge, and the
rest was “spriggled” with small orange buds.
It had been the wedding vail of some anceters.
The lace was beautifully fine old brusaels, and
of course was valuable. The girl was so de
lighted to find it rolled up among a lot of old
linen, that she impetuously dragged it out ot
the chest, and, in doing so, caught one corner
of it on a wretched nail that lurked unseen in
side the big box. However, she darned it so
skillfully that it hardly showed, and she used
to wear this vail as afichu, and lovely it looked.
One very hot day, at a. garden party, she leit
it in the bedroom of her hostess, and, coming
up to get it in the evening, could not find it any
where. It had disappeared, and though she
was very sorry just at first, she soon forgot all
about it, as girls will. She married and went to
India with her husband. Her mother left the
village. But last year when my old friend was
home with her husband on furlough,
they met some old acquaintances who
had a place near their former home,
and being asked to go and stay with them, they
accepted. On the very evening ot their arrival
there was an amateur concert got up by the
musical people about, and of course every one
went, Jeanie and her husband among the rest.
They sat immediately behind a girl whom
Jeanie had known formerly, and whom she
recognized with pleasure, only waiting for a
pause in the performance to attract her atten
tion. This, however, she did very effectually
before any pause came. In a very piano
part of thO solo that was being sung, a loud
whisper rang quite audibly through the room.
This was Jeanie, who had found her long lost
vail, recognized her own dainty little stitches,
and uttered aloud, “My darn !” The girl be
fore her turned around, as did every one, and
when she saw Jeanie she grew as white as the
lace itself. You see, she had thought herself
quite safe in wearing it after all that long time,
thinking Jeanie was in India.
(From the St. Paul Globe.)
An anxious mother sat on the forward deck
of a Mississippi steamboat and held in her arms
the emaciated form of a baby girl. The little
patient’s face was white, and the blue veins
stuck out of the cha’.ky sur ace in undue prom
inence. The little one’s eyes were closed, but
not in sleep, as the drowsy lids were half opened
now and then as some person passed along or
her attention was otherwise attracted. They
I closed again wearily, as if the exertion was too
j great to keep them open.
‘The burly mate came up to direct the deck
' hands to remove certain freight that was stored
along the ca in deck. His oaths had been beard
by the passengers as he urged the negro roust
abouts to per.orm their work. The negroes
apparently were afraid of him. He appeared
to be exceedingly cross even for a steamboat
His immense form, fat face and round body
attracted the attention of the sick child as ho
passed between her and the setting sun. She
opened her big blue eyes and looked at him.
lie spoke in a deep voice and thundered at the
men. Sho continued to look at him in amaze
“ Your little one is sick, madame ?” queried
the burly mate, addressing tho anxious mother.
“ Poor little bairn. You look about tuckered
out yourself, madame.”
At thia moment the boat passed very close to
shore, so near, in fact, that the wild .Lowers on
the bank were visible to the sick child. Tbe
boat grazed along the bottom and soon struck a
sand-bar and stopped short.
i “Baby wants flowers,” lisped the little suf
ferer as*she noticed the blooming banks.
The mate went below. The mother at
tempted to quiet the little invalid without suc
cess. She had set her heart on the flowers and
would not be satisfied, it was some time be
. fore the boat got off the sand-bar, and dur.ng
• that time a burly man had taken a small boat
’ and gone ashore. He gathered quantities of
■ i wild flowers. When he came back he too c
them up on the cabin deck and gave them io tho
I sick child, who was delighted.
I The anxious mother thanked the Imriy mate
5 I for his kindness. 'I be mate held the tmy hand
• o. the baby tor a second and went bemw, and
1 booh ho was beard swearing at the roustabout*

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