New York dispatch. [volume], September 19, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
erland was an enemy, -nut I supposed her to
be so, why did Mr. Dar- Ml assume to be the
friend of us both ? Why did he keep up any in
tercourse with a woman whom ho professed not
to like ? Did not everything point to the con
clusion that Mr. Darrell had really been attach
ed to Miss Sutherland, had been piqued by her
rejection of him, and had made use of me to
renew his intimacy with her and to put a stop to
her marriage with my father?
My heart throbbed with indignfition, 1 felt my
cheeks burn with anger. Suddenly the ques
tion arose in my mind: Why did I feel so wound
ed by Mr. Darrell’s conduct? Phil's words—
“ You love some one else ” —had revealed me to
myself. I loved Douglas Darrell I With shame
and humiliation I acknowledged it, and bent my
head as though the world knew and was taunt
ing me with my folly. I remembered the day on
the river, when, as he was sitting on the bough
of the tree, Douglas’s voice had trembled, and
a wave of tenderness had seemed to pass over
him and then to vanish. 1 remembered all he
had ever said, all his looks even. Lord Roland’s
frank expression of affection, his deep true love
had not touched me in the least, while the triv
ial glance of tenderness which was no doubt a
pastime to Douglas Darrell made me feel his
his slave I _ ,
What a contemptible fool I was ! Then I de
clared to myself th»t I would unmask this man;
I would prove him insincere, dishonorable, and
so conquer my weakness—l would see him as
he really was, and then the glamour would pass
from mv eves.
I felt that Phil observed me closely, noting
each change in my face. I looked up and mot
his glance calmly.
“Phil,’’ 1 said, “this man, Mr. Darrell, who
has addressed this envelope, must be playing
some double game. 1 don’t understand it, but
I must find it out. He told me he was leaving
England at once; he has not done so. He is
seeing Miss Sutherland, and is in some way con
nected with her and her schemes.”
“ What sort of man is this Mr. Darrell?” Phil
asked.
I was silent for a moment.
“In appearance or manner?’’ I asked in re
ply.
1 was puzzled. How could I describe him to
Phil?
“Tell me your first impression of him,” he
said.
How could I ? Would it be possible to explain
to Phil the strange attraction I had felt toward
Douglas Darrell on the night of that ball at
Farnmore? Could I relate all the incidents of
that day on the river—that one day of girlish
happiness which stood out so clearly in my
xnemovr?
“ Why do you not speak, Stella ?” Phil said,
gently but eagerly. “ This man has had some
influence over you.”
How penetrating Phil was! I must not let
him for an instant suspect that Douglas Darrell
was the man I loved.
“It is difficult to describe. I was thinking
how I could best make you understand what
sort of man Mr. Darrell is. 1 think you must
see him to understand at all. He is peculiar—
ho looks an artist; altogether, he is not quite
like others.”
I looked down as I spoke. Somehow I could
not return Phil s keen glance. I folded up my
letters, and then found myself unibiding them
again.
“ He is rather handsome,” I continued, “ and
has beauti ul eyes—eyes lull of intelligence and
refinement.”
“That docs not sound like a scoundrel. Go
on. What is his manner ?”
“Very eccentric; he says anything that comes
into his head —he does not seem to mind what
any one thinks, or to follow the rules o! society
aLall. He ’
I hesitated. Phil looked at me questioning
ly.
“He is perhaps a little familiar in his man
ner. And yet,” I added, anxious to qualify this
statement, “it is not quite that. He does not
seem to care to express himself in the usual
formal way, but 1 am sure he does not mean to
be unpolite.”
Phil was silent for a while, and, when 1 look
ed at him, 1 saw that h : s eyes were closed.
“Mr. Darrell has always been rather myste
rious,” I went on; “ he seems to delight in mys
tery. At one time he admitted that he wrote
notes to me, and had them placed on my table;
afterward he denied this, and said that Miss
Sutherland had imitated his writing. 1 now be
lieve he wrote the notes himself.”
Still Phil did not speak. At last he opened
bis eyes suddenly and said:
“ What motive has Mr. Darrell in deceiving
you ?”
“He was at one time engaged to Miss Suth
erland- He says he broke off the engagement;
I think she did. Plainly ho now wishes to re
new it. He tries to make me think evil of Miss
Sutherland, so that I may exert myself to put
a stop to her marriage with my father. He
tnakes use of me, in fact, lor his own ends.
That is my explanation of Mr. Darrell’s con
duct.’’
I forced myself to say this; I persuaded my-
Belf that I believed it.
“ Such is really your conviction ?” Phil ask
ad. “ Then this fellow Darrell must be a low,
intriguing ruffian.”
I did not answer.
“ What age is this Darrell ?” he asked.
“Thirty, I think,” I replied.
“ And Miss Sutherland
“ She must be thirty-five, but she lo ks
younger.”
“ And you ?”
“ Seventeen.”
Phil seemed to ponder all this for a time.
“I can understand,’’ he said, “ that this man
Should wish to prevent Miss Sutherland from
marrying your father if he has any fancy for
her himself, but I cannot see what he has to do
With the past which you are trying to sitU”
“There is some secret between them,” I an
swered, “ and perhaps Miss Sutherland tears
that Mr. Darrell may betray it. What that se
cret is I know not, but somehow I feel that it
is connected with the past, and I feel that, if I
find it out, it will throw light on my moth
er’s history. Is this very foolish of me ? Don’t
laugh at me, Phil; I really don’t know what to
think.”
“I’m always inclined myself to trust more to
feeling than to fact, so I can’t laugh at you.
Have you anything more to tell me about these
iwo ?”
! I tried to hide the fluslrtbat came when Phil
spoke of Miss Sutherland and Mr. Darrell as
these two.”
I “ Nothing, except that I fancy Miss Sutherland,
though she wants to marry my father, does not
like to lose her hold on Mr. Darrell. Perhaps I
km unjust; for years I have had a most unac
countable dislike to Miss Sutherland.”
• f ‘ How old is Lord Roland ?”
“Ob, some years older than Mr. Darrell!”
)It did not occur to me till a moment later that
t must seem absurd to measure Lord Ronald’s
r ears by Mr. Darrell’s; but I thought I saw a
light smile on Phil’s lips, and this made me re-
Lect on the foolishness of my words,
» “ Well,” he said, “it seems to me that we had
potter start to-morrow for Scarborough.”
C “ 1 will do so,” I answered firmly; “but you
must not accompany me.”
For the first time I saw Phil angry.
“ Why, pray?” he asked indignantly, while an
'angry flush spread over his face, “it is true I
jim a cripple; but I can travel. lam not so ab
solutely helpless as to be a drag and burden to
every one.”
( I was nervous and overwrought. I began to
cry.
I “Oh, Phil!” I exclaimed, “ why do you hurt
Kne by talking in that way? You came here for
jrour health. Why should you make your moth
er wretched by doing away with any good you
pave gained?”
/ He did not take any notice of my tears.
“ And do you propose to go alone ?”
“ Yes.”
“ Well, let us be perfectly frank, Stella. You
know I cannot live long, and that the good
gained by being here is very slight. Ido not
Jike yon to go alone.”
. “I will be just as frank,” I answered, brush
ing away my tears. “ Either I go alone or I
don’t go at all. This interview with Doctor Dris
coll must take place at once, if it is to be of use;
a hurried journey would shorten your days;
your mother loves you—l love you; if I were
the cause of your losing even one week of life,
X could never forgive myself. If you insist, I
.Will not go at all.”
i. For a few minutes he did not speak; at last,
With a slight smile, he said:
/ f* And Lord Roland ?”
• 1 was at that moment thinking of him.
. “He won’t like it,” 1 answered; “ but I can’t
help it. He must trust me.”
♦ { “If he does not trust you, he is not worthy of
you.”
. We were both silent after thia. By and by
Mrs. Carlyle returned, and Phil asked me to
leave him alone with his mother. I went to jny
room and packed my trunk. Presently Mrs.
Carlyle came to me and said that Phil had told
per that I was obliged to go to England on press
ing business, and that she must not interfere.
{Then I begged of her to remain at Tora till my
return. We went back to the sitting-room aad
took counsel with Phil. Finally it was decided
that Phil and his mother should stay at Tora
hither till I returned or wrote to say that it was
Impossible to return.
( It was a sad, quiet evening. We went early
BO our rooms. I was glad to be aione, but I
could.not sleep. I was young to feel so bitter
ly, as I did that night, the incompleteness of
life. Love was lavished on me which I could
not take; love wasi wasted by me on a man un
worthy, who cared not for it. Mystery and sor
row seemed to surround me. Unwillingly I
gave pain, undeservedly pain was given to me.
But one glorious prerogative of youth was mine,
the unreasoning confidence that my own brave
heart and strong hands could right the wrong,
could conquer happiness for myself and others.
CHAPTER XIX.
“ THAT WAS MY MOTHER’S NAME.”
It was a raw cold morning when I was roused
from half-conscious sleep by the cry of “ bcar
As I stepped out upon the platform I was en
veloped in a frosty mist. This was a cbaa&e
from the climate of Italy ! I had been fQ.ll S
excitement on the journey; now I felt paral
yzed. I was in the cold practical atmosphere
of England, and I felt like an inexperienced girl
about to make a thorough fool of herselt 1
asked for a hotel, and went to the first that the
-railway-porter suggested. It. was not a very
(large of fashionable hotel, but, as I entered t£e
pall and asked for a bedroom Sitting-room,
ft felt as it all eyes were upon tae, and aft jj; I
pre some culprit escaping from justice,
f I must confess that, after I had lain doWn for
nn bear, breakfasted, and dressed myself, I
fe?? ft weak-minded mortal,
though I was far from feeling calm confidence.
I had told Phil that, if anything occurred which
he might wish to communicate, he was to tele
graph to the Scarborough post-office; so, after
breakfast, I walked there to inquire it there
was a telegram. I did not expect one, but I
thought, before I went in search of Doctor Dris
coll, I had better see if there was any news
from Tora. Perhaps the truth was that I was
anxious to delay my visit to this unknown doc
tor. . .
To my surprise, on inquiring at the post-of
fice, a telegram was handed to me. I opened
it in great excitement. It was from Phil, and
these were his words:
“Lord Roland arrived here this morning.
Leaves to-night for Scarborough.”
My first feeling was rage. Why did they give
Lord Roland my address ? Could he not leave
me in peace ? What right had be to pursue me
in this way ? I would break with him entirely
when he came, and then he would probably
consider it his duty to inform my father where
I was, all my schemes would be spoiled, and I
should never discover anything. But that I
was in the public street, I could have stamped
my foot and cried with vexation. When would ;
Lord Roland be here? 1 should probably find
him at the hotel when I returned.
I looked at the telegram again. It was dated
the day after I left; therefore I had twenty-four
hours’ start of Lord Roland. Even if he trav
eled as fast as I did, he could not p asibly
reach Scarborough till a day later than I ar
rived. I felt relieved; morever, I felt incited to ‘
action. Ail my listlessness and timidity were at
an end. I would see Doctor Driscoll at once.
No one should put a stop to the carrying out of
my plan. Anything 1 had to learn I should
have learned before Lord Ronald’s arrival, and
I would tell him absolutely nothing.
I hurried back to the hotel and inquired of
the-hall-porter if he knew where Doctor Driscoll
lived.
“You moan the bead of the private luuatio
asylum, I suppose, madam?’’ he replied.
“ I mean Doctor Driscoll of the Cedars,” 1
rnswered.
“ Yes—that is the same man.”
“ Will you order a fly at once to take me
there?” I said.
The porter replied in the affirmative, and I
went to my room to put on a warm cloak and a
thick vail.
“ A private lunatic asylum,” I repeated to
myself, as I took my seat in the carriage and
drove away. What could Doctor Driscoll have
to do with Miss Sutherland and me. or my
mother’s past history ? How could I introduce
myself ? What was Ito ask ?
It was a drive of only about a quarter ol an
hour to the Cedars. It was a very large house,
standing in a garden and surrounded by a high
wall. I noticed, when the fly stopped at the
hall c. ;or, that there were iron bars to all the
windows. I asked to see Doctor Driscoll, and
was led by the servant, a tall stalwart man,
through a long passage into a study. It was a
pleasanter room than a doctor's study usually
is, and it looked out upon the garden. Even
here the window had iron bars; and, as Hooked
into the garden, I noticed men and women
walking to and ira, whom I quickly saw to be
patients.
Of course I knew th : s to be an asylum when I
came, but my first sight of the inmates made
my blood curdle—the expression on their faces
was so dreadful. 1 t an ferocious, bestial,
sullen, apathetic. Varied enough were the
faces, but all soulless, apparently. How could
any man keep such a den of wild animals as
this ? I thought of all the horrid tales of men
and women entrapped into lunatic asylums,
and a sudden dread came over me that I should
never leave the walls, but be caged here till I
became even as these poor creatures; and my
terror was increased by the thought that I could
give no reason for being here at all.
At that instant a hand was on the door, and
Doctor Driscoll entered. Up to this moment I
had framed no sentence to introduce myself,
had no explanation to offer which would seem
plausible. Thank Heaven, in moments of
emergency my brain becomes swift and keen !
I advanced toward Doctor Driscoll.
“ I ought to have a letter of introduction to
you,” I said calmly, though with a sinking
heart, “ but unluckily an accident happened to
it, and this is all that remains.”
1 banded to him, as I spoke, the envelope
with his address on it.
“ Ah, ’ bo said, glancing at it, “ from Mr.
Darrell! lam glad to see you. I suppose you
wish to see Cecil Greeley ?”
“ Yes,” I answered quickly, “ but I also wish
to go over your establishment, if you will allow
me. I have a cousin whom 1 think it would be
desirable to place under your care.”
“ Will you sit down a moment? I shall have
much pleasure in showing you my house; but,
as Mr. Darrell will no doubt expect you to re
port on Greeley’s case, I must give orders that
he is to be taken to his rooms.”
He touched a bell, and instantly a man ap
peared as tall and strong as the servant whom I
first saw. Doctor Driscoll whispered a few
words to him, and he left the room. 1 had time
to observe doctor Driscoll now. He was a man
of between fifty and sixty; he had a bard, stern
face, but not a cruel one. He looked extremely
intelligent, notin a dreamy way, but in an in
tense way, as if all his faculties had been di
rected into one special channel. It struck me
that for this man the world simply consisted of
the sane and insane, and that the former did not
interest him. He had considerable decision and
strength in bis face, and looked as if he would
stick at nothing. This is what I fancied the man
to be, in those few minutes in which I observed
him.
He listene4 to my account of my imaginary
cousin, and smiled somewhat at my very hazy
description of the case. I excused myself by
saying that my cousin’s mother would come and
speak to him, and that I bad merely volunteered
to inquire about the physical comforts provided
for the patients, as 1 was calling to see an in
mate ot the asylum. This statement seemed to
satisfy Doctor Driscoll, who rose and asked me
to accompany him. I smiled to myself as I
thought of my fears of being detained here;
Doct >r Driscoll evidently considered me quite
unworthy of a place in bis asylum.
"As I followed the doctor through long passa
ges, I repeated in an undertone, “ Cecil Greeley
—Oecil Greeley!” Where had I heard the
name, or a name resembling it? Probably this
man was some relative of Mr. Darrell’s; and
what right had I to spy out this sad secret
whick perhaps he would not wish me to know?
“ This case is a very curious one,” said the
doctor. “ I feel confident he cannot recover,
and yet there are strange moments of lucidity.”
As he spoke, he stopped at a door.
“ Number Eleven come iu yet ?” he asked a
keeper who stood in the passage.
“ No, sir. Weston has gone to fetch him; he
will be here in a few minutes.”
We entered the room and sat down. It was
prettily furnished, and there were books and
music lying about.
“It is a curious case,” repeated Doctor Dris
coll. “He reads, and seems to understand,
then suddenly loses all connection in his read
ing, and doos the strangest things. For in
stance,” he continued, placing his hand on a
writing-table where two books lay open, “ here
is a novel and here is the Bible. He has been
making notes from the two, and, if you were to
read the notes and his comments to prove a
theory, you would see that the argument is
clear and strong, but from the most absurd pre
mises. Sometimes he will spend hours writing
a name on slips of paper; and I never could find
•nt that the name had the slightest connection
with his past life. See—there it is;” and he took
up a slip of paper and showed it to me.
On this paper were the words “ Philip Car
lyle.” I started and trembled; surely every
thing was growing more and more strange !
What revelations were to come ? If Doctor
Driscoll had looked at me, he must have no
ticed my excitement; but he went on calmly
with his sketch of the case.
“Sometimes he is very violent. I hope you
are not nervous. If you are, pray don’t show
it. There is no cause for nervousness—l am
here. Weston will bring him in, and there is
another man in the passage.”
I shuddered.
“ When did he become mad ?” I asked.
“Did not Mr. Darrell tell you? It is not
hereditary insanity, and this at times made me
almost hopeful. His madness was the result of
brain-fever alter a pistol-wound. I contend that
a fragment of the skull still presses slightly on
the brain, other men differ frqm me and say it
is impossible. At first I thought I should have
eared him; but the lapse of time at length
makes me hopeless; it is* now ten years since
he came to me.”
I con Id have screamed aloud, “ Cyril Gre
vihe 1” but I controlled myself with an effort.
At that moment the door opened, and leaning
on the arm of a keeper came the patient Doctor
Driscoll was expecting. I looked earnestly at
him as he entered. Oh, if his face could tell me
bis history ! There was no doubt in my mind
that this man was Cyril Greville, and a wave of
joy passed over me at the thought that he was
not dead. It faded quickly as I watched him.
Was not this life worse than death ? He was
tall and slight, a man perhaps of thirty-five; he
stooped a little, and his lips at this moment
wore a slight smile. He must have been hand
some in bis happy days, before this strange flit
ting gfence came to his poor eyes.
I was sitting with my back to the light, and
he could not see me well; but he looked sur
prised when he saw people in his room. He
approached his writing-table, and a fierce, hard
expression came into his face as he saw that his
papers had been disturbed. I suppose Doctor
Driscoll knew that this expression was premoni
tory of violence, for 1 saw him make a sign to
Weston. I felt, if the keepers were rough to
this man, my chance of speaking to him was
gone; and something urged me to rise from my
seat and stand before him. I was in the full
light now. He raised his head and looked at
me—first with astonishment, then with a pain
ful bewilderment, as if searching for some lost
thought; then a bright light swept over his
warn face, he threw his arms around me and
sobbed like a child.
AM thi£ occurred almost in an instint. The
keeper was about to seize Cyril Greville: but
Doctor Driscoll waved Weston back, and signed
to bixa to leave the room. Strange to say, 1 had
bo fear of this madman, for such he was. I saw
titat Weston left the door open, also that Doctor
stepped into the recess of the window
Meund Uft, My nerves were in such a state of
teuaiem that nothing escaped me. I saw that
was to lea vs Cyril Greville to me. I
isied to soothe him. Ha eat down near me; he
. began to address me in terms of endearment,
and say heart sank. Of course I understood
. that the poor confused brain had gone back ten
years in thb past, and that he thought he was
Speaking to my mother. Was not his mode of
addressing me confirmative of my mother's un
faithfulness 1
“ How long you have bqon, bssaid.,
-j, - x "
NEW YORK DISPATCH, SEPTEMBER 19 1886.
“ I thought you would never come. You look
as young and beautiful as ever—too good lor
your tyrant of a husband. Why don't you
speak to me?” be added suddenly.
“ I have come back to you,” I muttered.
“ Your voice is not the same, and yet - and
yet—it is Beatrice. lam an old man now.” he i
continued, passing his baud over his dark hair
—“ an old man and quite gray; they’ve kept me
so long in prison, so long ? You see, after all,
you were wrong,’ he said petulantly. “ You
said, if I kept the secret, it would be all right;
but they found me and put me in prison* I
ought to have looked lor Carlyle—he is such a
good fellow—and he would have forgiven me.”
I sat there silent, trying to find some mean
ing in his apparently unconnected ramblings. I
stroked his hand, and it seemed to soothe him,
and he looked at me gently now and then.
“ You could not find him? ’ I questioned, hop
ing to lead him on to be more explicit.
When 1 spoke, he gazed at me with a puzzled
expression and a doubt in his lace, then, after a
little while, seemed contented. I guessed at
once that my voice was not like my mother’s,
and resolved to speak as little as possible. Poor
fellow—the loved voice still lingered in his
ear I
“No; they said he was dead. I don’t believe
it. But it is all over, Beatrice, you are going to
take me away ?” he said pleadingly.
I did not answer.
“ This vile prison does not agree with me,”
he went on more violently; “ it makes my head
bad, and I can t work as 1 used to.
Then there was silence. He did not seem to
notice that Doctor Driscoll was in the room; he
seemed for a time even to forget me. Suddenly
he looked up aud stared at me.
“is that brute Farnmore dead?” ho asked.
“ Hush,” I said—“ hush !”
“ Oh, that’s always the way ! I must not say
a word against him; he is perfection. Look
here I ’ he exclaimed, springing to his feet and
going to the table. “Do you see these two
books? Well, I’ve wonked out the whole prob
lem as clear as day-the connection is quite
plain; and I’m hanged if this stupid old pro
lessor did not say I was wrong. li’s all money
—money—money I” he muttered, alter a pause.
•‘They know I am in debt; that’s the meaning
of it.”
Then he sat down at the table and covered his
face with his hands, and I saw the tears trickle
through his fingers. I rose and stood beside
him, and laid my hand on his shoulder.
“Phil, old fellow,” he murmured, without
looking up, “ I did not mean to harm you. By
Jove, 1 have paid for it I An outcast, an out
cast ! No one sticks to me but Beatrice.”
I did not dare to address him, lest I should
change his mood; but what had I learned? Noth
ing that would clear my mother’s memory from
stain. Presently he removed his hands from
his face, and burst into a laugh.
“ Don’t 1 do it well ?” he asked. “ Look,
Trixy—look 1”
He dipped his pen into the ink and began
writing over and over again “ Philip Carlyle.”
I began to feel as if I were going mad myself.
Suddenly be wheeled round on his chair and
put both his hands on my shoulders, and held
ma with a grip. I almost feared him.
“ Why don’t you speak ? Why do you look
so white? Because that brute is killing you!
Let mo tell him the truth,” he added, plead
ingly.
I did not answer.
“Yoir wont? His infernal pride would be
wouudafi. lam not to come to the house. He
distrusts you, he dares to suspect you, his
wile. By Heaven! 11l tell him the truth,
whether you will or not. What do I care ?
They may take me to prison if they like. I’ll
tell the brute that I’m your brother, and then ”
—he ground his teeth in a horrible way—“ I’ll
flog him till he drops.”
He looked up from my pale face, caught sight
of Dr. Driscoll, ana sprang across the room
like a wild beast. I shrieked aloud ; but his
hands had scarcely touched Dr. Driscoll when
the two keepers had seized him. Then fol
lowed horrible sounds as the poor madman
found himself in their power.
It was all too much for me. I tried to re
member all he had been saying. I tried to
calm myself, but for an in instant the room, the
furniture, Mr. Greville, Dr. Driscoll, the keep
ers, all seemed in a general struggle, and then
I lost consciousness.
When I recovered, I found myself in Dr.
Dricoll’s study. The window was open and I
was shivering. When I unclosed my eyes, ho
shut the window and pushed my chair to the
fire, then he made me take some wine. By de
grees the events of the morning returned to my
brain.
“ Where is he ?” I asked.
“ He is safe was the reply.
“ They are not unkind to him ?” I ques
tioned, quickly.
“ I am a physician, dear madam, not a sav
age,” said the doctor, smiling.
“ Will be never be better ?” I asked, in a tone
of awe.
“ I fear not. This is the worst attack he has
had for a long time, and it seems to have been
brought on by some flickering of memory.”
“ 1 believe every word he uttered referred to
things that have happened,” I said, eagerly.
“ I wish I could recollect every word accur
ately.”
Dr. Driscoll smiled again.
“ It is all written here,” he said, touching a
note-book which lay on the table.
“ Thank Heaven !” I muttered.
“Of course I took notes of the whole con
versation. It was not merely for your safety
that I remained in the room. I always try to
get a clew to the minds of my patients. Of
course my patient mistook you for some one
else,” ho added.
“ For my mother. lam very like her.”
“ You would not object to informing me ”
I would not allow him to conclude his sen
tence.
“ I will tell you everything by and by, but
not till I have made out this man’s whole his
tory. Will you trust me ?”
“ I am forced to do so.”
“ There has been some treachery,” I said,
“ and, until 1 can prove it, it would be harmful
to every one that you should know scraps of
evidence.”
“There has been no treachery in placing him
here, my dear young lady; he is as mad as can
be. I would stake my professional reputation
on it.”
“No one can deny it. lam ready to swear to
it,” I responded.
“ Perhaps, as you will not tell me anything, I
can help you. Is there anything you wish to
know ?”
“ When did this man first come to you ?”
“ Exactly ten years ago; this is the very
month in which he arrived. He came in charge
of an Italian who was the bearer of a letter from
Mr. Darrell and the certificate of the doctors as
to this man’s insanity. The certificate was
signed by two medical men at Vienna ; one was
au Englishman whom I knew personally, aud I
recognized his writing al once. Tlie man was
decidedly mad. He was iu a state of mental
torpor when he first came ; after a few weeks he
became violent, then improved slightly, and has
so fluctuated throughout the past ten years,
though I think I may say that on the whole
there has been some slight improvement.”
“ Has any one visited him?”
“ Three or four times Mr. Darrell’s solicitor
has called. A liberal sum has been paid to me
by Mr. Darrell; but, strange to say, I have never
seen him.”
“One thing more,” I said—“ do not speak of
my interview with your patient to any one till I
see you again. Will you promise this?”
“ Willingly, provided you have confidence in
me, and let me know the result of your investi
gations.”
“ I will do so.”
“As far as having placed the man in an asy
lum, there is no other place for him—l am quite
satisfied on that point; but there may be com
plications in his lamily history which it is right
I should know. A physician in toy position
cannot become a party, knowingly or unknow
ingly, to any underhand business. I have been
quite straightlorward with you; 1 rely on you to
act toward me in the same way.”
“ Certainly I will,” I answered firmly, looking
up at him as 1 spoke.
He seemed satisfied.
“ Tell me anything more that you can about
him,” I urged. “Do you call him ‘ Mr. Gree
ley,’ and does he accept that as his name ?”
“ He does not seem to notice what I call him.
On the arrival of patients I have a habit of mak
ing them sign their names in a book. They
sign the most fantastic names. I had a patient
who called himself Julius C&isar; another, Pon
tius Pilate; yet I always adhere to this custom.
I like to know whom they fancy themselves
to be.”
“And this man?” I interrupted impatiently.
“ He signed himself ‘Cyril Arundel.’”
“ Arundel ” was my mother’s maiden name I
“ May I have the notes you took while your
patient was talking to me ?”
“ No,” he answered, smiling ; “ but you can
copy them, if you like.”
He gave me paper and ink, and I began at
once to copy. This did not take very long.
When my task was ended, I sat quietly reflect
ing on my nextstep. My father was not guilty
of murder, my mother was good and true.
Who bad concealed all this and left such a curse
on my parents ? All that I had learned pointed
to Miss Sutherland and Mr. Darrell. They had
been accomplices in this wickedness.
And I had loved this man, had trembled at
his glance, had blushed at his name ■ I re
solved to bring him and Miss Sutherland to
justice, to save my father from marriage with
the latter, to lift the curse from him, and at last
to win my father’s love.
The old home seemed doubly dear to me
now that I pictured it the home of love. I had
forgotten Lord Roland, I had forgotten Phil.
My mind was filled with leve and pity for my
father, with anger and vengeance toward Miss
Sutherland and Mr. Darrell. I looked up sud
denly, and saw Dr. Driscoll watching me.
“ And this cousin ot yours ?” he said, with a
laugh.
“ He does not exist.”
“ So I thought.”
“ I will go now,” I said ; “ and I thank yoa
for all your kindness to me.”
At this moment a servant entered the
and handed Dr. Driscoll a card.
“ Show him in,” he said, sharply.
And, as the door closed, the doctor gave the
card to me.
“ Douglas Darrell!” I exclaimed. “ I don’t
want to see him. Can you not let me go away
first?”
I spoke hurriedly. I had lost my presence
of mind. Dr. Driscoll looked at me suspi
ciQusly.
“ I could not imagine that you would not
wish to seft him, as you gave me to understand
that it was at his request you called here. I
fear it is now too tato to escape, fqr here ho ip,”
As he spoke, the door opened, and Douglas
Darrell entered.
He came in with his usual air of careless ease,
but, as he saw me, his manner changed. He
stared at me in astonishment for a moment,
then, taking no notice of Dr. Driscoll, he came
forward eagerly toward me with outstretched
hand.
“ You here, Lady Stella !” he exclaimed. And
his eyes flashed as he spoke.
I took no notice of his proffered hand, I
looked unflinchingly into his face for a moment,
with all the wrath and contempt that I could
convey in my expression. Tiien I turned to
Dr. Driscoll, said “ good-by,” and swept past
Mr. Darrell, who quietly opened the door lor
me, and let me go without another word.
I was glad that I bad at once shown him that
I was his enemy, not his friend—shown him
also that 1 had unmasked him, that now I de
spised him, and that for the future it would be
war to the knife between us.
I had soothed my pride. Surely the thoughts
of love which I had given to this man were
fully ballanced now by my expression of dis
dain ! But, when I entered the fly and drove
back to the hotel, my hands trembled, my
cheeks burned, and I think I was the most mis
erable woman living.
CHAPTER XX.
“ OUR ENGAGEMENT WAS A MISTAKE.”
I was quickly back at tho hotel, had taken off
my cloak and hat, and was pacing to and fro in
my sitting-rpom—l was too agitated to sit
down. I had found that I could dwell with
love and reverence on my dear mother’s mem
ory; I had found that 1 might soothe my fa
ther’s last years and make his life peaceful; yet
I was wretched. I wept for a minute, then
brushed away my tears. What pitiful creatures
we women are ! I thought. We gain what we
desire, and we cry over it. Oh, for a man’s
spirit !
What was beat to do ? I longed to rush off to
Farnmoro to see my fafher and to tell him the
truth; but, it he did not believe mo—it 1 had
not sufficient evidence Perhaps it would
be best to write first to Phil, and obtain more
convincing proof of the identity of Doctor Dris
coll’s patient.
I sat down and wrote to Phil at once. I
begged of h m to learn from his mother if she
or her husband had ever known a man named
Cyril Arundel, and I entreated of Phil to in
duce bis mother to give me all the information
she could respecting this man, however pain
ful it might be to her to allude to him. I as
sured 1 ini that it was of the utmost importance
I should know Cyril Arundel’s history, and, as
I closed and addressed the letter, I ielt con
vinced that Phil’s reply would be satisfactory.
Alter I had rung the bell and given the letter to
be posted, I remembered that it would be a
week before I could receive an answer. I also
remembered that Lord Roland was on his way
to Scarborough, and that the next day he
would arrive. 1 was easily traceable, and I did
not wish to see him. What was to be done ?
I was fairly bewildered. It was against Lord
Roland’s wish that I should travel alone, and,
in spite of my half promise to him, I had dona
so. I did not feel in the least inclined to plead
extenuating circumstances, nor to explain my
presence here at all. My mission seemed to
me so important that I was impatient ot being
thwarted in any way. If I waited here for Phil’s
reply to my letter, I must see Lord Roland ?
Could I not escape bv going to some place at a
little distance from Scarborough, and returning
here to get Phil’s letter ?
1 rang the bell to ask the waiter for a “ Brad
shaw.” The door opened almost at tho same
moment, and Douglas Darrell was ushered in.
I stared at him for a minute m surprise, then
rose to my leet.
“ What is the meaning of this visit ?” I asked.
“I wish to speak to you, Lady Stella,” he re
plied, throwing his hat down upon a chair and
standing opposite to me. “Must one ask for
an audience of your majesty ?”
His tone provoked me.
“ I thought I had made it plain enough that I
did not wish to speak to you—that we are no
longer friends, not even acquaintances.”
A peculiar light seemed to flash from his
eyes, and his lips had a scornful expression.
“Ah, yes, I understand. In society a man
must never ask the reason of a woman s ca
price. He must accept her favor one day and
her insolence the next; is it not so ? But I be
long to rhe fair land of Bohemia, and 1 have the
audacity of my race. I have come to ask most
respectfully the meaning of your change of de
meanor, begun at Farnmore and completed
here.”
“ And I decline to answer you.”
“And you consider yourself justified in turn
ing from more than ordinary friendliness to
more than ordinary dislike ? lam a student of
human nature. Do you mind telling mo this ?”
If he had not used thoae words—“ more than
ordinary friendliness ’—l might have given
some sort ot explanation—l would have been at
least courteous; but I read in bis words a rec
ognition of my weakness, aud I thought that
Douglas Darrell had descended to the unman
liness of taunting me with it. All tho tire in
my nature was stirred.
“ I have changed because at first I was an ig
norant girl, and imagined that being a friend of
Lord Roland’s was a guarantee of your being
all that was honorable and gentlemanly, and I
accepted you as my friend because you were
his. Circumstances have made me understand
what you really are, and, as my object now is
to expose your real character, 1 ani not hypo
crite enough to pretend to be your friend.”
I had gone too far—l saw that at once—but
tho words came almost against my will. I had
been living for months in a state ot excitement;
it was not possible for me to be calm now. I
was only conscious of an overpowering desire to
show Douglas Darrell that his unmanly taunt
was undeserved, and that there was no touch of
tenderness in my heart for him.
“ Thero is one thing I wish you to know,” he
said ; and his voice seemed to smite me. “ I’ll
ask of you no explanation, and you can, by your
prerogative of womanhood, stab me in the back
it you like—that is your privilege, and I should
be sorry to deprive you of it now that I see you
prize it so much ; but, before I go, this is what
I mean you to hear.”
He approached me and held my wrist in a
tight grasp as be spoke.
“ A short time ago I loved you. You perhaps
remember the day on the river? I was tempted
to tell you then, tempted almost beyond a man’s
power of resistance ; but I honored you, and I
loved my friend Roland. Shall I tell you why I
took you on the river?” he added; and his
voice grew soft and vibrated in away that
brought the hot blood to my face. “Because I
wished to have one bright day to remember in
my life. I meant to guard the memory, and
never to let you know tho truth.”
He paused a moment; then his tone changed.
“Dp yon know why I tell you now ? Because
I wish to blot out that memory forever. I tell
you of my love to-day, not as a homage, but as
an insult, tor I am ashamed of myself—heartily
ashamed for having wasted the best feelings of
my nature on a woman sb liltle-m hded, so un
just, on a woman who in a moment is ready to
believe all evil ot one she proiessed to trust as a
friend. 1 leave you to your wealth, your beauty
and your rank, and I trust you will never curse
poor Roland with them I ’
Then he flung my hand from his grasp with
infinite contempt and left the room.
I remained in the same attitude for some
time, stunned by the scene. I had a curious
feeling that I dPQgrvpd aH though my rea
son condemned such a notion. I wished to go
back to Dr. Driscoll and ask him to tell me all
that had passed between Mr. Darrell and him
self; but this seemed an impossibility. Dr.
Driscoll would look on me with suspicion now,
he would be influenced by Mr. Darrell; beside,
I was not calm enough to talk of the latter.
Could I allow all the world to guess the secret I
had tr ed to shield? Even it I were wrong in
my estimate of Mr. Darrell, even it I could bring
myself to apologize to him, had I not read in his
face that I could never be reinstated in his good
opinion ? There was nothing to be done but to
continue on the path I had begun to walk.
When I knew all, when I had linked together all
the portions of the sad story I was investi
gating, it would prove either that Mr. Darrell
. was an accomplice of Miss Sutherland’s or that
I was justified in thinking him so.
I do not know how the remaining hours of
the day passed. I had not courage to move to
any other place; I relt too ill and broken in
spirit. I could not rest in the house. I went
out and walked for many miles. As I was re
turning to the hotel, I passed Mr. Darrell close
to the railway station; evidently he was going
away. I felt so desolate that I almost called to
him as he drove past; but his name died away
on my lips. He did not seem to see me. I
stood on the railway bridge and saw him enter
the station and go down on the platform. Then
a train came in, and, when it passed out of the
station I saw Mr. Darrell no longer. I went
slowly back to the hotel, dragging myoelf fee
bly along.
On my return, the waiter tormented me with
inquiries as to what I would eat. I silenced
him impatiently and went to bed, feeling no tri
umph from my discoveries at Scarborough—
—only a feverish longing to wake no more.
It is not when we most desire to escape from
the struggle that death comes. I awoke the
next morning in my usual health. The sun
was shining brightly; a new day had begun—a
day which was to bring Lord Roland—and, as I
dressed, I ielt it would be cowardly to run
away from him. I was resolved not to give him
any information; but I promised myself to avoid
quarreling with him if possible.
Lord Roland did not appear till the after
noon. I was returning irom a walk when 1 saw
him standing on the steps of the hotel. I
thought his manner was constrained as he
shook hands with me.
I asked him to come in, and led the way to
my sitting-room. I took off my hat.
“ It was not fair of Phil to give you my ad
dress,” I said, with a slight smile.
“ You wished it concealed from me ?’’ he an
swered, quickly. “If so, you ought to have told
him not to mention it.”
“Do not let us quarrel,”! said, wearily—“sit
down, please.”
Lord Roland did so, but he did not speak.
“ Why did you follow me ?” I asked at last,
His brow clouded.
“I went to Tora because you had not written
for some time, and I had grown anxious. I had
no intention of remaining there; I went to Tora
merely to see how you were.”
“ But here,” I said, impatiently—“ why did
you come here ?”
“ When I learned that you had left for En
gland, alone, I concluded that something of
great importance must have made you break
your promise to me.”
I did not promise,” I interrupted.
“Not absolutely,”ho said, quietly; “but it
was understood. I came here thinking you
might need me; but I see that my presence is
not welcome. Is it not so, Stella ?”
He was very gentle in his manner with me,
but he irritated me. Probably an angel from
heaven would have irritated me on that day.
“Not altogether,” I answered, “but, lor somo
reasons, yes.”
“I was foolish enough to think you might be
glad to see mo; but several things have made
me see the folly of that supposition.”
After the preceding day’s excitement, I was
unnaturally quiet; I did not feel to have energy
enough for recrimination.
“ How did yon find me?” I asked.
“ I mot Darrell this morning ; ho told me.”
“Mr. Darrell is still here?” I asked eagerly.
“I thought he had loft Scarborough.”
My eagerness probably annoyed Lord Roland.
“ Perhaps there is some mysterious attrac
tion,” he said coldly.
“ f do not like innuendo,” I rejoined, in a stiff
tone.
“ Nor do I like mystery,” ho answered. “Why
are you here, Stella?” he added pleadingly.
“Bo frank with me. Why is Darrell hero ?”
“/Is to Mr. Darrell, ho has not explained his
business to mo; as to myself, lam not at liberty
to explain.”
“And do yon really expect, Stella, that I am
to be quite contented that my affiapced wife and
my oldest friend should intrigue to deceive me,
and that they should have secrets of which I
know nothing ?”
“1 always told you that you must trust me
entirely or not at all.”
Lord Roland was silent for a little while.
“Do you ask me to trust you ?” ha said at
last, with an earnest expression.
I looked at him. I felt grieved to pain him,
he was so good and true.
“Lord Roland,” 1 said gently, “if I say ‘Yes,’
you will feel bound to trust through every
thing. I may perhaps never explain things
which are painful to ma to speak of. You will
dislike my silence, though you will ask no ques
tions. I think it is better not to ask you to trust
me.”
“Is there to be no trust between two people
who are to pass their lives together ? You can
not mean that, Stella?”
“ Not exactly. ’
He looked at me steadily for a moment; then,
in a bitter tone, he said :
“ Please speak. You do not surely expect me
to help you to say words which will hurt me ?”
“I am a coward, ’ I muttered, looking down
in my confusion.
Lord Roland did not speak. At last I grew
desperate.
“Forgive me,” I said impetuously; “I can
never be your wife; our engagement was a mis
take. 1 was led into it by moan selfish feelings;
I wanted a homo, some one to love me, and on
whom I could rely. I admired you, I respected
you—l do so now; but that is not enough. lam
only a child ; but—but—l know that is not
enough. When you are away, I don t long: for
your presence, I am not unhappy; I—l ”
“ Stay 1” Lord Roland stopped me abruptly.
“ Who has taught you that admiration and re
spect are not enough ?” His voice rang through
the room.
“No one,” I answered sharply, trying to call
anger to my aid, but feeling only shame.
“ That is not true,” he exclaimed impatiently;
“the knowledge comes from love of another
man, and that man is Douglas Darrell. That I
should be robbed of the love of my promised
bride by my closest friend is a fit ending to my
personal history. You have hurt me cruelly,
child,” he added ; “ but I pray Heaven you may
be happy with him.”
He rose as he spoke. I could not bear this.
“ You are mistaken—utterly mistaken; Doug
las Darrell is nothing to me—absolutely noth
ing. I consider him deceitful and unprinci
pled, and I will prove him so; I have told him
thia myself.”
“He is neither the one nor the other. Let us
not speak evil of him; do not suppose you will
please me by doing so, Stella. I was moment
arily unjust to him—that was all.”
There was a long silence. Lord Roland stood
by the window; his back was toward me. At
last he turned to mo, and his voice was very
gentle.
“ I suppose lam too old for you, child; the
mistake of our engagement was mine, not
yours, lor I ought to have been wiser. It would
be absurd for me to offer to be your friend; my
feelings cannot bo subdued to mere friendship;
and, beside, you do not trust me, and you do
not need me. It is best for us both, Stella, that
we should not meet.”
Perhaps I looked unhappy at his words, for
he said, kindly:
“Do not think any more of this, child, and
do not distress yourself about me. I suppose
you could not help it. Let the pain of it rest on
me; I have served my apprenticeship to trou
ble, and I can well bear a little more.”
How good and noble he was—what a gentle
man through and through ! My tears fell as
he spoke.
“ You will not stay here alone ?” he asked.
“You will allow me to ask that?”
“I am going home,” I stammered.
“I am of it,” he said, “it is better to
stay near your father, and bear with Miss Suth
erland, however disgraceful she may be.”
There was an awkward pause.
“ Will you say good-by, Stella ?”
His voice trembled as he spoke. I rose and
went to him.
“ Oh, forgive me !” I sobbed. “I am so sorry
to hurt you 1”
I believe I held my face up to be kissed, like
a repentant child. He pressed his lips to my
brow long and tenderly, and then he left me.
I was alone.
“I have driven my truest friend away,” I
thought, “the soul of honor and tenderness,
and I have cast my love at the feet of a man
who has trampled on it!”
(To be Ooutinuel.)
TIIE DETROIT SOLUMOX.
THE ABLE JUDGE AGAIN TO THE
FRONT.
ARREST OF INNOCENT PEOPLE.
“Mr. Stebbins, isn’t it curious how many in
nocent people are being daily arrested?”
queried bis Honor as ho came in and hung up
his hat.
“It is indeed,” sighed Mr. Stebbins. “ I was
just reflecting onto that vary fact.”
“ You probably have a low on hand this morn
ing ?”
“ I believe I have. In fact, sir, there are two
or three poor unfortunates here whom I wish
to intercede for. lam sure they are guilty of
nothing more than being the victims of misfor
tune.”
“ Bring thorn out, Mr. Stebbins, and let the
blind goddess weigh them in the scales.”
INNOCENCE THE FIRST.
Catherine Tromoil was the first innocent pris
oner brought out. Her hair was down, one ot
her eyes in mourning and one of her fingers was
badly bitton. She looked as tough as rhinos
ceros steak.
“Mrs. Tremoil,” said his Honor, “ Mr. Steb
bins regards you as an innocent woman.”
“ Mr. Stebbins be hanged, sir I” sha stoutly
replied.
“ Then you are not innocent ?”
“ Not by a barrel-lull, sir, and I don’t thank
him tor slandering my character. I had a few
sips of boor, your Honor, and then me and
Mary Jane Bustead engaged in a bit of holiday
exercise.”
“Do you plead guilty to disturbing the
peace 1”
“Of course I do. That’s what I’m here tor.
If I’d been at home mending my husband’s
stockings 1 shouldn’t have been collared by a
blue-coat and brought down here to sleep on a
plank bed all night.”
“ Well, I’ll say thirty days.”
“ Which the same is very reasonable, sir, and
I’ll always speak a good word for you.”
Stebbins turned white and red and plum-pur
ple, and retired to bls corner with his feelings
much hurt.
NUMBER TWO.
He was a tall, lean, lank man with a sorrow
ful face and leet which almost stuck out of
doors. Stebbins had given him tobacco and
kind words, and had expressed the belief that
an innoeenter man was never behind the bars.
“ James Dakin, perhaps there has boon a
mistake about this?” queried his Honor.
“ I rayther guess not,” replied James.
“ The charge is disorderly conduct. You
don’t look like a tough nor a drunkard.”
“ Well, I’m both, and don’t you forget it!
The chap as takes me for anything innocent
ought to have his hair glued on. I plead guilty
to the charge and want to be sent up.”
“ For how long ?”
“ I’m not particular. Of course, I don’t
want to be a hog and take all the sentences
you’ve got to give ont, knowing that other peo
ple have rights, but perhaps you could make it
two months 1”
“ I think I could.”
“ Thank you. I want a rest and a place
where I can get the whisky out of my system.
If Dm asking too much I . ’
“ Oh, no, no, no ! I’m desirous of extending
you every possible help, and will make it sixty
days. You can fall back.”
Stebbins was a broken man by this time, but
he had still another surprise in store for him.
NUMBER THREE.
Perry P. Davis was a very short and solid
man, with largo blue eyes which seemed to be
looking into the far-away. There was a quiver
to his lip as he faced the music, and Stebbins
turned an appealing look to the desk.”
“ Prisoner, you seem to be hugging some
great sorrow,” remarked bis Honor.
“I do, eh? That’s where you get left.
Judge. All the sorrow I hug you can put in
your eye !”
“Be a little more respectful in your lan
guage, sir. The charge is that you got drank
and kicked in a door.”
“Humph! Didn't they say anything about
my licking three different men ? I’want that put
down to my credit.”
“ Then you plead guilty to the charge in the
warrant?”
“Exactly. I’m a bruiser from aw»y back,
and I don’t care who knows it. I’m not going
to plead the baby act when cornered.”
“ You have sorrow in your eyes, Perry.”
“ Pooh ! That’s the gin I guz led last night.”
“ Mr. Stebbins, here, believes that yon are a
wronged man.”
“ Oh, he does ! Well, Mr. Stebbins, here,
don’t know enough to chaw putty ! When any
body wrongs Perry P. Davis you'll hear Rome
howl, and I don’t thank anybody to give me
taffy.”
“ How will $lO fine do you ?”
“ All right, but i can’t pay."
“ Then i’ll make it sixty days.”
“ That’s fair, and I can’t complain. Good
bye, Judge, and if your man Stebbins don’t get
eunstruok this Fall you’d better put him under
a glass cA.se for tlio Winter.”
oliFsongs.
SOME G-OOD AND SOME BAD.
(From the Family Herald.)
We are by no means inclined to join with
those wildly conservative persons who will have
it that nothing new can possibly be good: for,
in the first place, even old things must have
been new at one time, and, in the next place, we
trust we have sufficient common sense to judge
for ourselves as to the merits of the new things
that come before us. When we hear some con
fident musical bigot saying, “ Ah, there are no
songe like the old songs! This modern trash
is very unsatisfactory,” we feel inclined to say,
“You are a very silly person, and, if you had
taken the trouble to study a few hundreds of
old songs with care, you would change your
opinion.” We have few modern lyrics fit to be
compared with the exquisite dew-drops of song
that are scattered throughout Shaksore’s plays;
yet we make bold to say that masterpieces like
“As through the land at eve we went” (the
best, or second best, song in English, to our
mind), “Sweet and low,” and “Come into the
garden, Maud,” are on a level with the best
songs done by the monarch ol literature. More
over, we should be puzzled to find anything
much better than Mr. Swinburn’s one per oct
song, “ Ask nothing more of me, sweet,” which
is indeed flawless. There is no sense in being
over-superstitious and reverential in the matter
of poetry, and we certainly think that any one
who says that such a senseless thing as
When daffodils begin to peer.
With hey the doxy over the v d%
is better than a lovely lyric like ‘‘Low, lute,
low” is straining his literary consc ence. We
know the antiquarian fanatic, and we love him
not, for we find that the things which he selects
as objects of slobbering admiration are usually
not very good, to say the least of it.
But, while we utterly repudiate theunreason
able lovers of ancient song, wo do most em
phatically say that there are many most quaint
and lovely lyrics which ought to be preserved. 4
In many cases the old-fashioned song was dull,
or childish, or exceedingly gross; but there are
scores of gems which are as pure and pretty as
may be, and there are others whose very silli
ness is droll and touching. Strangely enough,
some of the very best of these old ditties have
never been printed, and they can be picked up
only by people who travel much over the
country and hear the droning of rustic singers.
There are various capital collections of songs
and ballads; but somehow the expert who
knows the genuine article is apt to detect signs
of touching-up in some of these modern-an
cient productions. The best of the old songs
were written at the time when part-singing was
common in England, and when every gentle
man could hold his own in a round or glee. Ono
curious collection, printed in 1598, contains
some really pretty verses. Here, for example,
is one which is most perfectly adapted for sing
ing. We modernize the spelling.
WAep no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast ?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste.
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lie sleeping.
Softly now, softly lies
Sleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling.
A rest that peace begets.
Doth not the’ sun rise smiling
When fair at eve he sets ?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes;
Melt not in weeping
While she lies sleeping
Softly now. softly lies
Sleeping.
The very arrangement of the lines shows that
the little thing was meant to be sung, but we
have no record of the air. Another song in the
same budget is very nice; it runs:
Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed.
Your breast whore Cupid trembling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed.
These are but gauds—nay. what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean’s stream,
The which when your adventurer dips,
Full oft he perisheth on them.
The last quatrain is rather lame, but the other
is pretty. To the same period belongs the ex
quisite “ Drjnk to me only with thine eyes,”
which is a jewel. But, apart from the genuinely
artistic songs, there are many others which are
worth reviving. They have no great poetic
merit, but they are simple, and they are certain
ly more agreeable than the fearsome produc
tion known as the “drawing-room ballad.”
When we read some of those works of art, then
we do for a moment sympathise with the con
servative thinker who cares only for days of
old. How sensible girls can sing them we have
never been able to discover. Certainly they
are strictly decorous, but they are so feeble, so
sickly, so shot through with flabby and tearful
sentiment that, to uae the common phrase, they
make a man feel as if “ he did not know where
to look.” We observe that a gentleman named
Robin inspires many of these poems; and Mr.
Robin has away of racking the hearts of his
lady friends by dying, or being shy, or disap
pearing, or flying across the salt sea foam, or
going a-wooing at large, or otherwise conduct
ing himself in w • vs which no steady young man
should practice Mr. R. is requeued to
back, or to go Av v, or to gaze frdm atari and
W 6 Certainly do not wonder at his obstinately
staying away when we consider the quality ot
the strains which invite him to return. We
understand his “ bolting,” as he does in some
of the songs, but coming back—never I Then
there are the passionate utterances of ungram
matical and forlorn maidens, the deplorable
utterances of impossible sailors, who have a
habit of telling “ high-falutm’ ” yarns, and the
lugubrious remarks of persons who talk about
the tomb and who rhyme “ ever ” and “never”
and “sever” in away which is distracting.
Honestly we must say that nearly all of our
modern popular songs are pure.
It is true that the master-cad, the music-hall
Yahoo, the “ lion comique ” sometimes dares to
tickle the ears of the groundlings with foulness;
but the ordinary lyric of the people is quite
harmless, let it be ever so feeble. All that we
complain of is the somewhat sickly and vague
character of the sentiment. Sometimes the song
has absolutely no meaning whatever: for in
stance, what is the significance of the following
rhythmic observations ?
Ah, whether in the throng I rove,
Or by the festive board.
My soul is still with thee, my love,
In mem’ry s secret hoard I
Now the old songs are not by any means so
refined and ambitious as these; but they have
an innocent pathos or gayety, and sometimes a
laughable simplicity, which make them attract
ive. Let us try to save a few of the unprinted
ones frpm oblivion. If mechanical difficulties
were not in the way, we should like to give the
traditional tunes, but that would be impossible.
First, then, let us take the lovely “Home,
dearie, home,” which is perhaps the most per
fect of all the forgotten songs.
Oh, Amble is a fine town, with ships in the bay.
And I wish with my heart I was only there to-day—
I wish with my heart I was far away from here,
A-sitting in my parlor and talking to my dear !
Ohorus.—And it’s home, dearie, home—oh, it’s
home I want to be I
My topsails are hoisted, and I must out to sea ;
For the oak and the ash and the bonny birchen
tree,
They're all a-growing green in the North Country.
And it’s home, dearie, home!
Tn Baltimore a-walking a girl I chanced to meet,
With her baby on her arm as she came down the
street,
And I thought how I sailed when the cradle it stood
ready
For the pretty little babe that has never seen its
daddy.
And it’s home, dearie, home, etc.
And, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring,
And. if it be a lad, he shall live to servo his king ;
With his buckles and his boots and his little jacket
blue,
He shall walk the quarter-deck as bis daddy used to
do.
And it’s home, dearie, home, etc.
Oh, there’s a wind that blows, and it’s blowing from
the West,
And of all the winds that blow 'tis the one 1 like the
best,
For it blows at our backs and it shakes the pennon
free,
And it soon will blow us home to the North Ooun
tree I
And it’s home, dearie, home—oh, it’s home I want
to be !
My topsails are hoisted, and I must out to see ;
For the oak and the ash and the bonny birchen
tree,
They're all a-growing green in the North Countree.
And it’s home, dearie, home!
Now that is the way a sailor would talk. A
seaman would never think of speaking in the
fashion ot the mimic “salt” the drawing-room;
he would not say “ Yeo-heave-yeO !•” or “ Hilly
hiley-hilly-hoh 1” in his most frantic moments,
for he ne’er uses such terms, so far as our ac
quaintance with him goes. “Home, dearie,
home” has a most lovely air, and, if such a
singer as Madame Albini rendered it once or
twice, we believe that it might possibly take
place even with “ Home, Sweet Home.” Cer
tainly the tune is more beauti ul than that of
the song which stirs all English hearts. Anoth
er <>f the old songs Is so deliciously and uncon
sciously tunny that we cannot resist giving it
in lull. So far, it has appeared in no collection,
but it is still sung as a “ E rebitter ” when
ships ot war are away on distant stations. It
is indescribably comic to hear the drawl ot the
singer and to observe the seriousness of his
audience;
lu Cawsaud Bay lying, with Blue Peter flying.
And a l hands turned up for thejwchor to weigh,
'there cam* a young lady as fresh as a May-day,
And, modestly hailing, this damsel did say:
“ I wants a young man there. Do you bear ? <JJear
a hand there
To hoist me aboard or send to him to me:
I or his name's Henry Grady, and I am a lady
Just come to prevent him from going to sea.”
Then the captain, bis honor, when he looked upon
her,
Ran down the ship's side for to help her aboard.
Says lie, with emotion, •• What son ot the o ean
can thus be looked after by Minor Ford?”
Then the lady made answer, “That there is my
man, sir;
i'll make him as fine and as free as a lord.”
“No, no,” says the cap’n, “that cannot woll
happen;
I’ve got sailing orders. You, sir, stay aboard I”
"Avast I” says the lady. "Don’t heed him, Henry
Grady.
He once was your captain, but now he’s at large.
Don’t you stay aboard here, for all that man’s
order,”
And out of her bosom she hauled his discharge.
Thon the captain says he now, "I’m blowed bu»
he's free now I”
Says Hal, "Let old Woatherface koep all my
clothes.”
Ashore then ho steered her, and the lads they all
cheered her,
But the captain was jealous, and looked down his
nose.
*****
Then she got ashore a tailor to rig her young sailor
With tight nankeen breeches and blue long-tailed
coat,
And he looked like a squire, for all to admire.
With his dimity handkerchief tied round his
throat.
And they had a house greater than e’er a first-rator.
With servants in uniform handing the drink,
And a garden to go in, with flowers a-blowin’—
The daisy, the buttercup, lily and pink.
And he got education quite fit for his station—
For you know we are never too old lor to larn ;
And his messmates they found him with young
sters around him.
All chips of the old block from the stem to the
starn.
When thia ia sung by a vocalist who has &
true sense of the stupid humor of the narrative,,
the effect is irresistible. The mechanical skill
shown in the rhyming is by no means despica
ble, and the whole song is a document which
gives a curious glimpse of a long-past time. \V&
have heard lately of a vessel which went on a
three years’ commission, and during the whole
time the captain did not hear one “Forebitter”
sung, so we resolved that, at all events, “ Caw
sand Bay ” shall not fall into oblivion even if
the sailors forgot their old habits.
A fragment of one beautiful song is preserved
in a volume called “The Romance of the Coast,”
which was published many years ago. Strang®
to say, the ancient air of this song—one which
was sung in the days of James I.—has been
transplanted to Ireland, where it is now known
as “ Billy O’liorko.” To such base uses may
ballad-musie come. The verses are:
Oh. hast thou seen my bonny lad.
And ken ye if he’s weel, O ?
It's o er the land and o’er the sea
He’s gone to moor the keel, OI
Upon the sea I spied him I
His grave is green, but not wi’ grass.
And thou 11 never lie beside him.
And is he doon belaw the sea,
And will he never rise oot?
I saw him on the cauld. cauld wave.
And the sea-gulls picked his eyes oot.
And will I never see him mair,
And never mair walk wiv him ?
Eh, no, thou'll never see him mair.
Till the Lord’ll take thee tiv him.
Regarding the last stanza, it should bo noted
that Borderers say “wiv” for “with,” and “tiv”
for “to,” when a liquid sound follows the word.
The woman who used to croon this song was
about ninety years old (she lived to be 100),and
she learned it from her grandmother; so the sad
little fragment is tolerably antiquated. It
should be noted that, when we come beyond
the ballad period, the old-fashioned repetition®
cease. In the ballads the valiant hero always
has “his golden sword sae fine” and his “ sil
ver shield,” and those implements are mention
ed with distressing frequency. The best of the
old songs date from the middle of the last cen
tury, and they are usually very simple and di
rect; the best of the sea songs date from about
1780. Dibdin, considered as a nautical writer,
is simply ludicrous, and sailors refuse to have
his songs at any price, for the inaccuracies tickle
Jack too much. Dibdin is the nautical laureate
of Whitechapel and the Victoria Theatre; but
we have not quoted'him, as his wild and war
like chants are distasteful to those who know
the dialect which he attempts to imitate. The
advent of Burns had a most curious effect on
the production of songs, and we know no more
remarkable example of a great poet’s influence.
His lyrics speedily became known in England,
and the popular writers seemed to recognize in
stincively that he thad said all there was to be
said about love and merriment and carusing and
death and friendship and parting m re effect
ively than any other man. At the time when
Dickens began writing, the only song-writers
in the field were the absurd Haynes Bayley and
Pr octer, while Barns was perhaps at the very
bight of popularity. Assuredly it needed a
courageous man to follow the author of “Mv
Love is Like the Red, Red Rose,” and it was
not until Tennyson gave the new key-note that
any really fine lyrics were written. Kingsley
t ok his note from Tennyson, and produced
some beautiful songs; then George Macdonald
gave us a few jewels like “ Oh, How Easily
Things Go Wrong 1” Others have followed,
and we now have enough pretty modern songs
to offer a practical rebuke to the extravagant
praisers of past days. Still, while we extol our
own writers, we contend that many at the old
er lyrics which are now unprinted or buried in
aged collections might with advantage bo
brought before the world. If Mr. Austin Dob
son would only undertake the task, there would
be joy in many righteous breasts, but such a
boom is almost too much to be hoped for. Wo
have before us about ninety traditional lyrics,
and we wish we c mid to give our readers more,
but for the present we must bo reticent, and
we only hope that thetwo or three samples
which we have given may arouse fruitful cari
osity.
clever; smuggling.
HOW A DETECTIVE WAS BADLY
EUCHRED.
The contraband Irade in Swiss watches, some
years ago, was carried on to such an extent in
Paris that the chief of the French detectives de
termined to perform a clever piece ot detective
work and bring the offenders to justice. With
this ob,ect m view he went in disguise to
Geneva. He there applied to a celebra ed
dealer in watches to sell him one hundred of
the finest quality. When the price was agreed
upon the detective disclosed the condition that
they must be delivered in Paris, to which th®
watch-dealer readily assented upon an addi
tional sum being added for the risk of trans
portation.
The detective gave a feigned name and ad
dress, and it was settled that within a month
the watches should be in the French capital.
Upon his return the chief gave notice to th®
French officers on the frontier of these facts,
and, after exciting their vigilance by everything
that was calculated to act upon their fears,
their pride, or their patriotism, he watched,
not without anxiety, the result of his mission.
Within the time limited a stranger called at tho
and number which the detective had
gi\ eii, inquired for him by bis feigned name,
and, upon seeing him, signified his readiness to
deliver the one hundred watches agreably to
contract. The agent was taken into custody,
was examined, wroalenecl anil re-examined, but
to no purpose ; he protested that he was only
an agent in Paris to deliver the articles in ques
tion for a stipulated price.
The chief of the detectives, mortified and en
raged, went back immediately, again in dis
guise, to Geneva. He sought out the watch
maker, and besought him to discdose the means
he had used to pass the watches over tho fron
tier; but he was met with only a smile and an
evasion. Finding that persuasion had so little
effect, he next resorted to threats, but with no
better Success; finally he determined to use
that master-key which sb often unlocks the
bosom where secrets, not otherwise discovera
ble, lie hidden. He agreed to give the watch
dealer ten thousand francs provided he would
make a lull disclosure. The bargain agreed
upon and completed by the payment of the
money, the watch-dealer said tq the detective:
“ Sir, when you came to my place of business
disguised like a dealer in watches, I knew you
as jyell as yea knew me; indeed, before you
called Upon me (bad information that you were
in Geneva, and I was there ore on my guard.
When therefore you made me stipulate that tho
one hundred watches should be delivered in
Paris, I had no doubt but that you meant mis
chief, and I acted accordingly. The case was a
difficult one; I perceived at once that the
watches could not be passed over the line in
the ordinary way ; I therefore bribed your own
servant, and he passed them over as a part of
your own baggage, which, on account oi your
public situation, I foresaw would escape exam
ination.”
The chief of detectives returned to Paris wiser
than he left it, for he had learned that Geneva
watch-dealers could use spies and bribes as
well as the French uolice.
A M Li; H' A N ’I'ABLES.
CONSIDERABLY AFTER THE PER
SIAN.
A QUARTER OE MUTTON.
A Wolf who had Borrowed a quarter of Lamb
of the Lion greedily Devoured it, but soon af
terward Remarked:
“ Seems to me that Mutton wasn’t quite up to
the Spring Lamb standard. Indeed, 1 never ate
a Worse Piece.”
“ And yet,” replied the Lion, “ had you seen
me Devour it, you would have licked your
chops and thought how Delicious it was.”
moral:
If the Watermelon you send to a neighbor is
over-ripe, you will be Criti. ized; if not ripe
Enough, you will get no Credit for generosity.
THE UNGRATEFUL MEXICAN.
A Mexican who was shouting for War and
Loudly Abusing the United States, was ad
dressed by a Passer-by w.th:
“Since you have stolen at least five hundred
head of Texas Cuttie and Escaped being Plant
ed on that side, I fail to see what Motive has
induced you to indulge in this Tirade.”
“ Oh, I’m not speaking Personally,” he re
plied, “ but for the Community at Large.”
moral:
Thieves sometimes stop Stealing long Enough
to Read Honest Men a Lesson in Integrity—in
your Eye !
THE PATIENT AND THE DOCTOR.
A Peasant who was very 11l and expected to
Die promised the Doctor nfty dollars if he saved
his Li e. A fortunate turn of the Disease Ena
bled the Doctor to pull bis Patient through,
but when he Presented his Bill the Peasant ex
claimed:
" What a Monstrous Robbery I I’ll never
pay it I”
“ But you set your own Figures.’’
“Yes; but any jury will decide that I was too
11l to Transact Business.”
moral:
Don’t Depend upon the Promises of a maw
down a Well.