New York dispatch. [volume], November 14, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
to the wants of a couple of old women, a grub
by-faced boy and a stout farmer’s Wife. He gave
Bae bis usual brisk nod.
“ Ah, Mr. Med I After some pills, are you -
th ?”
“ Not quite, thanks, doctor,” I said, laughing.
Ab, it’s well to be you I When he’s as old
tis you and I, he’ll sing a different tune—eh,
Mrs. Chump this to the farmer's wife. “I
(never took a drop ot medicine until I was thir
ty, and since then I’ve done nothing else. Now,
you give your good man a couple of these pills
when he goes to bed, and clap a good-sized
mustard plaster on his chest, and he’ll bo as
tight as ninepence in a week. Now, Goody,
What brings you here? Rheumatism again—
eh ?”
Goody, an ancient dame, toothless and al
tnost voiceless, began to state her case, her
poor, mumbling old lips held close to Dizarte's
ted ear. Apparently it would take some time,
eo I sat down on one of the slippery horse-hair
Chairs to wait, my eyes absently straying out of
the window to the tangled garden beyond.
I had entirely forgotten old Dizarte, and my
thoughts were back in the Lady’s Walk, when
the surgery door opened again, and I was
■Startled to hear a sweet voice say, timidly:
“Good morning, Mr. Ned.”
I looked up, to meet the rosy, childish face
Snd bright, dark eyes ot Lotty Wilde. In a
Bmart frock of pink print, and a big straw hat,
Irom beneath which her dark curls fell, the lit
tle thing looked uncommonly pretty, and looked
prettier still as she blushed when dropping me
■ pert little curtsey.
“Good morning, Lotty,” I said, smiling at
her. “ Why, you don’t want the doctor, sure
ly ?”
“ Oh, nq, sir ! It’s for father. He’s took worse
this morning.”
Miss Lotty’s grammar was capable of im
provement.
“ I’m sorry for that. What is it-gout still ?”
“I—l thick so, sir. He’s groaning awful.
Doctor Yorke said he’d come in early, but be
hasn't been yet, and the liniment’s out.”
“ Now, ray dear, what can I do lor you ?” old
Dizarte asked briskly, as the door closed be
hind the second ol the ancient dames, and Lotty
stopped her voluble communication to turn
toward him.
In five minutes the liniment was ready for
her, and she went out again, dropping me
another curtsey as she shut the door. I watched
the little light figure trip down the path, and
Baw her joined at the gate by the broad-shoul
dered, rather hulking figure of Phil Flood, who
#ad been waiting for her, it seemed. Old
■Dizarte, coming to look over my shoulder,
laughed.
“ That fellow sticks close enough to her
Mpron-strings—eh, Ned ? He’d be better at his
■forge. He’s going to the bad, it strikes me.”
“Eh? Why ?” I asked. The handsome,
Bulky young blacksmith was no favorite of
knine, but I did like pretty, pert little Lotty,
Bad, in common with all Whittlesford, I be
lieved that, in spite ot her saucy flirting ways,
the girl was fond of him. ” What makes you
plunk that?” I said.
“Igo by signs,” Dizarte replied, brushing
toms specks of Jalap-powder off his black coat-
Bieeve with his large red silk handkerchief.
The man lant.at his work three days a week,
Bud ho spends most of his time at tbe ‘Cap and
wells.' Beside, tbe young fool was mixed up in
■hat blessed poaching affair up at Roxborough
last week. He’ll be caught one of these times,
iaa sure as he has a bead upon his shoulders,
fend that will settle him. He ought to have the
Boiibo to know it.”
i assented, thinking that the mere rumor
Would "settle” him bo far as the Wayside Cot
tage was concerned, if it chanced to reach Mad
am’s ears.
" “ He used to be pretty steady too,” I said.
11 “Yes, I know, until a few months ago. It is
■nat saucy little puss of a girl who is to blame
tor it at bottom, 1 verily believe. It seems that
tie can’t rest without keening her within sight.
WVe can see Wilde’s shanty from here, you
know, and 1 never go out or come in without
Stumbling over Flood, either on tbe common or
kinder the hedge, slinking about somewhere,
wast night, for instance, I was called out to the
■ilectory—Mrs. Deeping had some new fad on
ff-and it was late when I got back—past twelve
b—and there, at the gate, I stumbled over the
gnan again. Brought my heart into my mouth 1
I wondered who it was.”
“-What! Lying down outside the gate at that
Jjimo of night?” I ejaculated.
•.I “Crouching down, at any rate.”
i \ “ I wonder what on earth for?”
V, “Goodness knows, unless he is’cracked !”
jplzarto said, moving away from the window.
*• All I know is that there he was. Queer—
•h ?”
“ Queer ?” I echoed. 11 Why, he must be go
ing off his head 1”
“It ho is, I hope he’ll choose some other
Iplaee than outside my garden gate,” said the ’
Doctor, dismissing the subject of Phil Flood 1
pnd his eccentricities coolly enough. “ What ,
brings you here, Ned? Nothing wrong at Chav
asse, 1 hope ?” '
“No,” I told him; but I had strolled over ,
hoping to see Yorke. Dizarte opened his little
gray eyes at me.
“Yorke? Why, he’s not here, my good fel
low I He was off by the first train this morn
ing.
s. •“ Off I” I echoed, astonished. “ Off where ?”
t, to Paris! Didn’t he tell you last 1
Bight that he was going ?”
“ Not a syllable,” I returned, feeling dazed. 1
•‘Paris? What has he gone there for?”
I ’‘Faith, that’s more than I can tell you.” said 1
Dizarte, with a laugh; "for he didn’t tell me.
Something to do with his sister, I believe. At
any rate he came in upon mo this morning be
fore I was out ot bed, all in a duster, and said
he must go, and that ho would be back in a 1
week. Confoundedly awkward it is just now, I
With so much sickness about, and without no- 1
tice too : but I let the boy go, of course. Won
dor he didn’t tell you 1 I’m going to have a bit .
Inf lunch be’ore I start; will you stay?”
But I declined tbe lunch, and, bidding Diz- 1
■rte good morning, turned out oi the Redpots
gates a good deal more puzzled than when I
had turned in at them. That this sudden Hight
of Roger to Paris had something to do with
I did not doubt lor an instant; J
the question was, what?
And tlie question remained unanswered, for, 1
although I brooded uneasily over the whole 1
■flair until Nat declared laughingly that I was !
Sn love, and suggested the Lady Idonea Clyde, 1
the Earl of Roxborougb’s elderly and freckled ■
daughter, as the probable ob.ect of my young ;
affections, I could come to no satisfactory con
clusion : nor did the course of events at Chav
asse help me. Mademoiselle Valdini had not
only won Madam’s goodwill, but was clever
enough to keep it, aud in tact had ingratiated
herself with almost everybody in Whittlesford
in whose way she came. It is true that I did
not like her, and that Miss Nat was in a state
of more or less open rebellion, while Alice
Deening refused altogether to give in to the
suave graces of the governess ; but I think that
we three were the only exceptions to the gen
eral rule. Madam declared that as a teacher
ehe was simply perfection, while Nat herself
poutingly admitted that Mademoiselle somehow
made her learn without any trouble at all. In
lact, Mademoiselle soon became a necessity at
Chavasse. She helped Madam with the ac
counts, she gave an eve to the housekeeping—
to the indignation ot poor old Batterbin—she
chaperoned Nat whenever it was necessary, she
played for us in the evening, she wrote some of
jVladam’s letters, and she never by any chance
Blade the slightest reference to Roger Yorke.
He had come back from bis visit to Paris
looking fagged, worried, and out of sorts, aud
Old Dizarte bad declared, with many a sly
£ buckle, that he must have been keeping it
pat a fine pace there. Whatever he had done
br left undone there, it is certain that he ut
tered not a word about it, good, bad, or indii
lerent. And somehow I had never found
exactly the right time to speak to him
of the interview in the Lady’s Walk. In
lact, I was trying to forget it, and to argue my
■elf into tbe belief that alter all it was no
business of mine. To me, and to all, bo far as 1
Could see, he was much the same as ever; but
there was a gloom and an uneasiness about
bim at times altogether new in debonair Roger,
though these grew less marked as the weeks
Went by.
Old Dizarte had a nasty touch of gout as the
weather grew colder, and was forced to lie up ;
and this was one reason why Yorke came less
. often to Chavasse just at this time. And, al
though I often saw them meet, 1 never caught
a second passionate glance from his blue eyes
at the little dusky tace at Natalie Orme, and be
gan to tell myself that i had made a mistake in
putting Roger Yorke down as a victim to the
fascinations of the little lady.
The weather bad grown very cold, November
Was half over, aud the trees in the park were
almost bare, when a bit of news ruffled the se
renity of Whittlesford -the engagement ot Alice
Deeping to Major Constable. The Hector came
in one day to luncheon and told us the news—
and uncommonly delighted aud excited about it
he seemed to lie.
“ Yes, I am very pleased,” he said, in reply
to Madam’s congratulations, “ very pleased. It
is a good match for Alice—very good. The Ma
jor is well-born and well off, and a groat favor
ite of mine. He is a man to whom any father
might bo glad to give bis daughter.”
“Indeed, I am sure of it,” Madam answered,
in her most cordial tones, “ and I congratulate
you and Mrs. Deeping most heartily. Major
Constable is a great favorite of mine, also. You
must give Alice my best love, and tell her we
shall expect her here to-morrow to be congratu
lated in due form.”
This was said as the Hector shook hands be
fore leaving. I followed him into the hall, to
help him on with his coat. Whether 1 looked
solemn or not, I do not know ; but he asked me
what 1 was looking bo glum about, and if I was
jealous.
“Yes, awfully,” I returned, laughing at the
Botion. “Tell Alice she ha broken my heart.
K say, though—l’ll tell you what I was thinking,
sir. Maior Constable is a . oily i ire fellow, and
I like him very much : but it is awkward about
his arm.”
“Ah, so it is!” said the Rector, his jolly
Bound face clouding a little. “ The very thing
| said.”
“ What does Alice s.’.y ?”
“Ally ?” he laughed. “« h, she said that she
had always found her two hands rather prone
to get into mischief and poke tliemsolves nto
bther people’s pies, and that, when they had the
Work of throe to do, they might contrive to
keep out of pickles ! She s very loud o: him,
bless her 1 Good-by, Nod. I’ll give her your
message.” .... ,
Turning back inxo the aining-room, 1 thought
fit first that it was empty, and was about to
leave it again, when a sound l>ke a stilled sob
caught my ear. r J here wts Not curled up in
pf the big window-seats, her Uwfc eyes
• swimming in tears. This sight was so extraor
s dinary that for a moment I stared in opeu-
. mouthed amazement.
• | “ by, Nat, my dear little girl, what on earth
l is the matter ?”
“ Nothing !” She tossed her curly head, and
I gave a queer little hysterical sound between a
, sob and a laugh. “( don’t know what I am
L crying tor. unless it is that lam cracKed. For
• , goodness sake, Ned, don’t stand staring at one
, in that moon-struck way ! Your eyes are posi
i lively goggling I”
1 ‘ Judging from these remarks that the young
i 1 woman s temper was slightly heated, I averted
, my eyes, and stared industriously at nothing
until h» r own were dried and her handkerchief
was restored to her pocket. Then I ventured
■ to say, with a becoming amount of meek inter
rogation:
i “Well, Nat?”
“I’m very glad, Ned,” sho said softly.
“ Oh, is that what you cried foe ?”
“ Pooh, you goose I Are you going up to the
rectory this afternoon ?”
“J hadn't thought of it. I will, if you will
como too.’’
“1 can’t. I must practice that song Madam
wants me to sing to-morrow evening ’’—there
was to be a dinner-party, rather a special affair
—“but I wish you would go. Say eery thing
nice irom me to Alice, won’t you ?”
1 said 1 would, not displeased with the task,
for I had nothing to do, as it happened. Be
side, I wanted to procure some gut for fishing
at IJovere’s too, aud so took myself off to the
rectory willingly, not without a touch of curi
os ty as to h >w Roger Yorke would take the
news, and wondering if there had been any
truth in the suspicion of Whittlesford that ho
was really in love with Alice Deeping. I hoped
not.
CHAPTER XII.
“WHAT IS IT THAT IS UP WITH ROGER YORKE.”
It was growing dark when I reached the rec
tory, f'-nd the gates were open. The gardener
had just passed through thorn with a barrow
load of dead leaves and other rubbish. He was
a crusty-looking old fellow in a fur cap and a
purple-sleeved waiscoat, and he had about the
testiest temper in Whittlesford. But I rather
liked old Goslett, and stopped to speak to
him.
“ Hallo, Goslett, how are you ? Plenty to do
—eh ?
Goslett growled, and informed mo in one
gruff sentence that there was “more ’an plen
ty ” to do, that the weather was “ cruel and
cold,” that ho had the “ rheum itisy bitter bad,”
and finally that this was the fifth time that ho
h»d filled “this blamed barter” with “they
bothersome leaves,” and, having delivered
himsel ot so much in a manner by no means
gracious, he took up his “ barter ’’ and went off
grumbling with it.
1 laughed and wont on to the house. Strik
ing into the path leading up to the hall door, I
camo upon a rather pretty little picture—Miss
Alice and her major saying good-by to each
other in lover-like fashion. Tho hall door was
open, and the flood of yollow light which came
streaming out throw their two figures into
strong relief—the major’s broad shoulders and
handsome head, and Alice’s pretty figure in its
cl.nging dress of crimson cashmere, her flufly
flaxen hair adorned by a coquettish littlo l ice
cap. And the light showed too a very softened
and gentle look upon her saucy piquant face, a
look which made mo involuntarily think of the
rector’s last words, and I too camo to tho
. conclusion that Miss Alice was indeed “ very
fond” of her soldier-lover. She wanted to
come down to tho gate with him, it appeared, a
suggestion which he combated on account of
the cold—which, to bo sure, was sharp enough.
But Alice had her own way, of course, and in a
minute or two they passed down the path, not
seeing mo, for I had drawn back into the shade
of a group oi laurels which grew there. In a
little while Alice came running lightly back. I
put out my hand and touched her arm as sho
passed me and sho started back with a slight
scream.
“ All right, miss, I saw you !” I said, laugh
ing.
“My goodness, Ned, how you startled me I
You horrid boy I What did you do it for ?”
“ Why, it wasn’t my fault!” I returned.
“Oh, no, although you have nearly fright
ened me out of my shoes ! How long have you
been here ? ’
“ Only a minute or two.”
“ Why didn’t you como in then, instead of
lurking about under the bushes like a burg
lar ?”
“Because I thought I might be in the way,
my dear,” I said, half laughing. “Didn’t I say 1
I saw you ?”
“ I’m sure you were welcome!” sho an- 1
swered, tossing her head, but blushing bright- 1
ly, too. “ Who told you, Nod, or did yon
guess ?”
“ Guess ? Not I. I wanted Nat to do that.
The rector told us. Ho was round at Chavasse
a little back. I’ve como laden with all the
congratulations that I can manage to carry.
Considering that you have broken my heart, I
hope I am fulfilling my agonizing task pretty
well.”
“You ridiculous boy !” cried Alice, laughing,
as wo entered tbe hall, and she shut tho door.
A brigh fire was burning there and a couple •
of comfortable-looking chairs woro drawn upto
its warmth. Miss Deeping glanced toward tbe
drawing-room and hesitated.
“ Will you care to go in, Ned ? Mother is
asleep, I think.’’
“ Not on any account then. We’ll talk here.”
I took one ol the chairs and she the other,
holding out her hands to the blaze. Pretty
hands they were, and on the third finger of the
left one gleamed a splendid ruby, in a dull
gpld twisted setting. I bent forward to look at
it more closely. ,
“ What a jolly ring, Alice !” .
“ Isn’t it?” holding it out. “ Very old-fash- <
ioned, of course; but I like it all the better for <
that. George got it in India.”
“ George?” 1 echoed, with a blank look.
“Of course. Didn’t you know that that was j
Constable’s name ?”
“ I didn’t indeed. That ring is valuable, too,
I should think, Alice.” ,
“ Oh, yes ! Father professes to be rather a
judge oi such things, you know, and I’m airaid j
to repeat what he says it is worth. For my (
part, I’m half afraid to wear it—l ve never been (
used to rings. As for mother, I believe sho
dreams oi it. I think she has asked me at least
thirty times to-day if I'm certain it is safe. She
is in a state of mild excitement about it—just
like her, isn’t it?”
“Just,” I assented. “I say, Alice, what does
sho say about it all ?”
“My engagement, you mean?” and she
laughed outright. “ Ah, Ned, it has been as 1
good as a play ! I’ve had warnings enough to
scare a Methodist parson. And the thing sho
wound up with,” cried Alice, her pretty face
dimpled with irrepressible laughter, “ was a
devout wish that I should never be such a vic
tim to spasms as she had been ! Did you ever,
now?”
“ I don’t think you look much like a victim to
anything.”
“ I’m sure I hope I shafi't be, if mother is a
fair specimen of matrimonial martyrs. How is
Natalie ?”
“ All right; sent her best love and all that sort
of thing, you know. She would have come with
me, only she had to practice some special song
with mademoiselle.”
“That mademoiselle is a horrid tyrant, I be
lieve,” said Alice, wrinkling tetr forehead. “I
don’t like her a bit; do you ?”
“Not a scrap,” 1 returned bluntly.
“ Neither does Nat, or lam mistaken. I say,
Ned, what is it that is up with Roger Yorke?' 5
She spoke quite coolly and easily, turning her
frank blue eyes upon me; but I know that.l
flashed her a look of quick suspicion in reply.
Tho name, mentioned so abruptly alter tha*t of
Lucille Valdini, had startled me; but certainly
I could read nothing o! concealment or half-ex
pressed meaning in her face. I repeated her
words stupidly:
“ Up with Roger Yorke ?”
“Yes. Do you mean to tell me that you have
not noticed it ?”
“ Noticed what ?”
“ Why, how he is altering,” said Alice, hold
ing out her hands to the fire again, and making
her ring flash redty in the light. “ I thought
you were sharp-sighted, Ned Chavasse I”
“ And so I think I am; but I certainly haven’t
seen anv change in Roger,” I said uneasily, all
the perplexities and doubts which I had tried to
stifle seeming to crowd upon me again. “ The
lact is, I’ve not seen quite so much of him late
ly. How do you mean he is altered, Alice ?”
“ Why, in every way !” Alice declared emphat
ically. “ A month or two ago he used to be al
ways ready to talk and laugh—altogether the
jotliest fellow in Whittlesford; now he is grave
and quiet, almost gloomy. I’m sure, when he
was here to-day, I could hardly get a sentence
out of him. And you haven’t noticed, you
say?”
“Perhaps he’s out of sorts,” I suggested.
“Pooh! It isn’t that. No; he is bothered
about something.”
“Do you know of anything likely to bother
him ?” 1 askad, flashing another keen look at
her, as I thought of tbe suspicion over which I
had been brooding as 1 came along, and in which
she was implicated.
She, however, shook her head with the frank- |
est of looks.
“Indeed, no; I wish I did know what it
was. I like Roger Yorke, and I don’t like to see
him looking so wretchedly depressed. He is
too steady to get into debt, and I don’t know
what else to put it down to, unless indeed he
has Talion in lovo with your charming made
moiselle,” concluded Alice, with a laugh.
“ What on earth makes you connect Roger
with mademoiselle ? ’ I queried, considerably
startled.
“\\ hy, nothing—it was only a joke ! Doctor
Yorke is hardly goose enough for that. I
should be far more inclined to imagine him a
victim to Nat—-tho demure little puss ! There—
there’s mother calling,me ; I shall have to run !
Will you come in and speak to her ?”
But 1 excused myself from that, and, leaving
only my apologies tor Mrs. Deeping, shook
bauds with Alice and came away. But outside
the rectory gates I paused and pulled out my
watch. Halt-past four, and tbe dinner-hour at
Übavasse was not until two hours later. With a
sudden resolution, 1 made up my mind to walk
ou to iiedpots aud see if I could not find old
Ro;er. i ruel had not noticed the change in
him of which Alice Deeping had spoken; but 1
had too firm a belief in the keenness of that
youn.; lady's observation to don' t that it was
there, and l had got it into my head that this
gloom of his was caused by the s cret, what
ever ;t was, in which Mademoiselle aldin; was
concerned. As I ha'.e said, ! had been trying
to lOrget the whole affiir of late; but Alice’s
words had again stirred up all my old doubt
NEW _ YORK DISPATCH, NOVEMBER 14 1886.
• and perpl£dty. After all, I thought I would
■ 1 speak to him about it and, take the chance of
I his tolling me to mind my own business. On
: tho other band, it might relieve him to refer to
it.
A brisk walk of five minutes brought me to
tbe gate of Redpots, and I hesitated a moment,
wondering whether Yorke would be in or not.
Across the tangled scrap .of common a light
gleamed from the lower window ot, old Wilde’s
cottage, and I saw Lotty’s shadow cross tho
yellow blind. As I looked, a heavy figure
slouched across the bit of common and 1 recog
nized Phil Flood the blacksmith. So the fellow
still kept up his crazy freak, I thought, remem
bering what old Dizarte had told me on the
day of Roger’s sudden journey to Paris. It
struck me, as i went up tjie path and knocked
at the hall door of Redpqjts, that bis chances ot
petting the Wayside Cottage or Lotty either
were growing less every day. Some of the
young blacksmith’s shiftless doings had come
to Madam’s ears, and I had heard it whispered
more sban once that of late Miss Lotty had
given him the cold shoulder.
Yorke was at home, I found, when the door
was opened: he and Doctor Dizarte had just
Ihrshed dinner. Would I go into the dining
room? But 1 declined to do that. Dizarte was
an old gossip, and I knew that if I wont in all
chance ot a quiet talk with Roger would be
over. So I told tbe girl not to disturb her mas
ter, but that I would wait for Doctor Yorke in
his own sitting-room. She accordingly showed
me in there and I sat down by the fire to wait.
It was a snug little room, although the furni
ture and fittings generally were rather worn
and shabby. There were plenty of books aud
papers, and pipes and books, not to speak of a
disconcerting-looking skeleton stuck up m one
corner.
It was a gruesome object, no doubt, and had
been known to bring two or three delicate lady
patients to tho verge of a fit of hysterics when
they had been indiscreetly shown into Doctor
Yorke’s sanctum; but I was used to it, and did
not give it a second glance. What did rivet my
attention was something which lay on the writ
ing-table, gleaming in the blaze of the fire. 1
got up to look at it more closely. It was a re
volver—a beautiful silver-mounted toy weapon,
looking hardly too formidable for a child’s play
thing. What on earth could Roger want with
such a thing? I wondered, staring at it.
I suppose I should hardly have been human
if I bad not picked up tbe think and fingered it,
though gingerly. I did not know much about
firearms, but I did know that they sometimes
had a trick ot going off when least expected,
and whether this dainty little toy was loaded or
not I had not an idea. It was still in my hand
when Yorke opened the door and came in. He
greeted me in his own hearty fashion.
“ Hallo, Ned, my boy, and how do you find
yourself?” lie said, shaking hands. “All right ?
That’s well. Nothing wrong at the Mount, I
hope?”
“ Oh, no ! I camo to have a pipe and a talk
with you, taking my chance of finding you in.
1 say, Roger, what’s the idea of this article?
Not going to ‘ burgle,’ are you ?”
“That?” He lauged, taking the revolver
from me. “Jolly nice little thing, isn’t it ?”
“ Oh, it’s pretty enough ! But what ou earth
do you want it for?”
“ Want it for ? Upon my word I hardly know.
For nothing in particular. I saw it advertised,
and thought I should like it—that s all. 1 was
giving it a clean-up just before dinner.”
“ Is it loaded ?”
“ Oh, yes ! Why ?”
“Why, you wouldn’t have caught me touch
ing it if I had known—that’s all. I say, Yorke,
would a bullet from such a little thing as that
kill a man now ? ’
“ Kill a man ?” Roger echoed, opening his eyes
at me. “ Rather. Stand over there by the win
dow, and I’ll soon show you whether it will kill
a man or not.”
“Not much!” I retorted, laughing. “How
long have you had it ?”
“Only a day or two,” Yorke answered, as he
put the revolver into its case, and pulling open
a drawer in tho writing-table deposited it there.
“1 haven’t tried to kill any one with it so far.”
“ Do you keep it there ?”
“ Yes—why?”
“Isn't an 'unlocked drawer rather risky with
servants about?”
“Pooh!” he interrupted. “Don’t disturb
yourself about that. They don’t know it is 1
there, and if they did, there isn’t a worn in in '
tho house who would touch it with a pair of
tongs. It is safe enough; I mean to have my
name engraved upon it.”
Nothing more was said on the subject. Yorke 1
made mo take ono of the deep, shabby arm- 1
chairs on one side of the big fire, and get out my
pipe, wh ie he hunted for the ingredients for
some whisky-and-water. It was mixed and
smoking in tbe two tumblers, and he was stand- ]
ing at the table filling his own meerschaum, J
when he asked, suddenly :
“And what was it that brought you hereto- 1
day, Ned? Anything very special ?”
“ Why, yes, it was !” I answered, with an
effort recalling my resolution. “I wanted to 1
speak to you rather particularly, Roger, and '
that’s the truth. In point of fact”—and I hesi- )
tated—“ there’s something I’ve been anxious to 1
say to you for some time now.”
I stopped, for Yorke ■ had wheeled round ]
quickly, and was looking at me fixedly. The 1
blaze of the fire shone full upon liis face, and '
revealed two things—first, that Alice Deeping ;
was right in asserting that ho was changed,
and, second, that he was half afraid of what 1
might say next.
CHAPTER XIII.
“WHAT IS IT YOU KNOW ABOUT MADEMOISELLE
VALDINI ?”
I suppose that deliberately to make an oppor
tunity, and then to back out of it when made, is
a thing which all but the most unpleasantly
strong-minded have been weak enough to do at
some time or other. It is very stupid, of course,
but very natural, lam afraid. And it was so
with me on the present occasion. I backed out 1
ignominiously as I met that unusual look in
Yorke’s eyes,* and came to the conclusion that I i
would not mention Mademoiselle this time. I ;
mumbled out something or other—goodness 1
knows what—concocting the first lib that came i
into my head, and then rattled off into a string <
ot gossip about nothing in particular. It had the i
desired effect, for Yorke, although he looked at 1
me doubtfully once or twice, regained in a min
ute or two his ordinary expression; and, taking i
the chair opposite to mine, began to puff at his <
meerschaum peacefully.
It was a long time since I had had a down- <
right good talk with my friend, and, in spite of 1
that reservation of mine, which pricked my con- 1
science now and then, 1 enjoyed it thoroughly, i
The whisky-and-water was out, and the pipes ;
were nearly so, when, in a pause in our talk, I ■
asked Roger what he thought of the Rectory
nows. My beliei in that bit of Whittleford tattle
which ba*d mixed Yorke up with the Rector’s
daughter had never amounted to much ; but :
still I felt curious to hear what he would say of
the engagement, and, of course, he must know
ot it. But, to my astonishment, ho simply
stared at me.
“The Rectory news?” he repeated, blankly.
“ What do you mean ?”
“ Oh, you haven’t heard, then ?” I said.
“I’ve heard nothing from there but Mrs.
Deeping’s last account of her last symptoms,
and I suppose you don’t mean that. I wasn t
there more than five minutes. What is it?”
“ Guess.”
“Can t,” said Yorke, puffing stolidly. “The
old boy hasn’t got a canonry, I suppose ?”
“Not that I’ve heard of. Try again.”
“Not I. You must tell me it you want me to
know. What is it? Good?”
“ The rector seems to think so. At any rate,
Miss Alice will have to leave off flirting forever
and a day.”
“Eh?” cried Roger, staring at me. “What
do you mean ?” #
“She is engaged to Major Constable—all
signed, sealed, etc.”
With a stifling sort of exclamation, Yorke
swung round in his chair, and sat staring
btraight at the fire, but he said nothing. It was
true after all, then, poor old boy—he was in
love with Alice Deeping ! That was the conclu
sion that I jumped to in one breathless socon d,
while 1 waited vainly for him to speak. But he
did not so much as stir, and, before I knew it,
1 was blundering out some awkward words of
consolation and sympathy. But their effect was
not at all what I anticipated. Yorke wheeled
round again in his chair, took his pipe out of
his mouth, and stared at me with such a blank
countenance that I faltered and stopped invol
untarily. .
“ What—on earth—are you driving at?” he
said, separating the words for emphasis.
« Why—l—well, you see, I -” I stopped,
and Yorke grinned.
“ Have you got it into that head of yours,
Ned Chavasse,” he questioned, with a rather
uncomplimentary stress upon “that head,”
“ that 1 am in love with Alice Deeping ?”
“ Well, I—that is, I didn’t know. I thought
it might be,” 1 stammered.
“ Ah, well, make your mind easy, Ned, my
bov! It doesn t chance to be the case, you
see.”
“ Well, I’m awfully glad of it,” I returned,
relieved.
“Soam I. Constable is a lucky fellow. He
has got one of the best and sweetest girls in
Christendom, but I don’t want to stand in his
shoes tor all that.”
“ And wouldn’t if you could?” I suggested.
“Just so—and wouldn’t it I could. So you
see, old fellow, I don’t need your sympathy.
Don’t know what could have put such a notion
into your head, for my part. But you are al
ways brimming over with fancies, Ned.”
“ Well, you looked queer enough when I told
you !” 1 aaid in self-defense. “As to what put
it into my head, Whittlestord has been marry
ing you and Alice for the past six months.”
“Looked queer, did I?” Yorke repeated,
picking up his pipe again, and turning away
lor a match t; light it. “ Oh, I was startled lor
a minute 1 I’ll go over and tender my congrat
ulations to Miss Alice by-and-by, if I’m not
called out. So the rector is pleased, is he ?”
“ Rather !”
“‘And Mrs. Deeping ?”
“ Takes it pretty much as she would take a
now symptom, I think,” I said, recalling Alice’s
account of how her mother had received the
news.
“1 suppose so. What is the opinion at Cha
vasse ?”
“ Oh, Madam is delighted ! Alice is a prime
favorite of hers, and she likes the major. Miss
Nat began to cry, for some reason best known
to herself.”
“ Cry ?” Yorke repeated.
“Yes, and snapped my head oft when I asked
her wi;al it was about.”
“Isn’t she well?” he asked, quickly and
r! i BU PP O3G so/’ 1 answered, though remem
-1 ; bering a't tho same time that i had fancied more
; tnan once of late that the little delicate dark
• j lace was lees rounded than it had been, and
that Nat s saucy speeches and laughter were
' less readv. “I tlwnk she feels the cold a good
deal,” 1 supplemented, “ Never been used in
Jamaica to anything like the weather wo have
here, you know.”
Yorke nodded, apparently absorbed in his
pipe. When he spoke presently, it was without
looking round at me.
“ Ned, that fellow at Holmedcane—is he often
at the Mount now?”
“ Fronde, do you mean ?”
“ Why, he is the only man there is at Holme
denne, isn’t he?” Yorke retorted. “ Whom else
should I mean? Yes, Fraser Fronde—l say, is
he often there ?”
“ Yes, pretty olton—four or five times a week,
I dare say.”
“Oh !”
With that monosyllable, jerked out in a tone
and manner very gruff and short, he fell to
staring out of tbe dark window as be pufi'ed,
and said nothing else.
1 knocked the asboa out of my pipo, and hesi
tated as to whether I should fill it again. I had
just made up my mind that there would bo
time ior a whift or two more, when Yorke :
startled me by turning round and aeking sud
denly :
“ Ned, do you recollect what you once said to
me about that fellow ?”
“ vVhat—Froude ?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mean that I didn’t like him? I
don’t.”
“Pooh, no! It wasn’t that. What a fellow
you are, Ned ! You said that something took
him to you know.”
“Took him to Chavasse?”! repeated, all at
sea.
atAne^ 0 8 e^°B aß^ an glance
U n OU ro uncommonly dense to-day, aren’t
you ?’ he said. “Yes—took him to Chavasse,
lou ought to remember it, if you don’t.”
I did remember it then in a flash, and won
dered at my stupidity in not remembering it
before. Of course, when the admiration of
Fraser Froude for Nat had been little more than
a careless suspicion, I had told Roger Yorke of
it, and had in consequence aroused bis incredu
lous astonishment and spleen. Recalling his
manner then, and linking it with his manner
now, I lelt an uncomfortable twinge. I began
to think that I did really see daylight in good
earnest at last. I said, awkwardly enough :
“Ob, ah, yes ! I remember now.”
“I thought it nonsense, then,” Yorke said in
a restless unhappy voice, again looking at the
fire ; “ I thought it a fancy ot yours, which per
haps even you, yourself, hardly believed in.
But I don t know now. What do you think ?”
“ Why, I think as I thought then!” I an
swered promptly and plainly.
“ That he goes as Natalie Orme’s suitor ?”
“ Her would-be one, at any rate ; Madam has
begun to see it lately, I fancy.”
“ And she permits it?”
“ How can she help it? Ho has said nothing.
She can’t well turn the man out.”
“Then can’t you?” cried Yorke, turning
upon me with a suddenness which made me
jump. “ After all, you are tho master of the
Mount to all intents and purposes. Haven’t
you influence enough to keep that fellow out of
it ?”
“ Why, I cin’t kick him down tho stops, I sup
pose ?” I retorted, a little injured, “It’s more
than you’d do yourself.”
“Is it, by Jove! I know that one of these
days I shall send those blessed shining teeth
ot his down bis confounded throat! The mere
thought . Bah ! There- hang it all!”—aud,
with something like a half-checked groan, he
got up, and, going over to the window, stood
there with his back t j me, looking out.
1 sat quite still, saying nothing at all. There
was no mistake about it. Roger was hit, poor
old fellow, and, judging from the symptoms,
rather badly ! I wondered that I had not had
the sense to see it all plainly long before this ;
no doubt I should but for having my wits mud
dled by that mistaken notion about Alice Deep
ing. Now things were on another tack, drifting,
the Fates only knew whither. And what on
earth would Madam say ? This last considera
tion was enough to chain my tongue without any
of the attendant perplexities. Presently Roger
gave a half-laugh.
“Nothing like being a big while you are
about it, is there ?”
“ W hat shall you do?’’ I asked. Of course I
understood him, and he knew it. There was
no need to waste time in explanations.
“ Make the best oi it—what else ?”
“ Well, but look here, Roger,” I remonstrated
—“I don't see really why you need talk about
it in that matter-of-course hopeless way, you
know.”
“Do you pretend to think that it is anything
but hopeless then?” he retorted.
Well, no—l did not, and I could not say that
I did. I knew pretty well what Madam would
say to it, in the first place, and, in the second, I
d d not believe that Miss Nat cared any more
for Yorke than she did for Eraser Froude, and I i
had long since come to the conclusion that, it
the master of Holmedeane came to Chavasse '
irom then until doomsday, he would merely
have his labor for his pains. And then there
was Nat’s ten thousand pounds, while Roger
had nothing but what ho could make, and he,
poor old chap, was head over ears in love with
her. Altogether it seemed a pretty complica
tion. I looked at the fire dubiously.
“ Well, at any rate, old man,” I said, at last,
“ she doesn’t care a rap for him, you know.” '
“ Nor for me.”
No. There we were again. I could not offer
consolation on that point, since my conviction
was that Nat was n > more in love with this luck
less lover of hers than sho was with the man in
tho moon or old Dizarte himself. Perforce, I
was silont again, until Yorke said, still without
looking round and with his strong brown hands
linked behind him :
“ Well, Ned, although yon haven’t called me a
fool, I’ve no doubt you think me one. I don’t
wonder—it’s my own opinion. Thanks for your 1
sympathy, my boy, for I know you feel it; but,
at the same time, don’t bother yourself about
me. I didn’t moan you to know it; but for the
moment I was oft'my guard. However, since you
don’t know it, remember that your knowledge
makes no difl’eronce -I moan it makes it no
harder for me. I have always known how it
would be, and should have been a worse idiot
than I am it I had expected that sho would ever
care for me.”
“Are you sure of that, Yorke?” I asked
doubtfully. I was beginning to think what a fine
fellow he was, and what a power of attraction
there was about his frank handsome lace
and cheery way. Nat might care for him
after all, and, if so, she was not the sort of girl
to heed the fact oi his being poorer than she,
Madam notwithstanding.
“As sure as I am that the sun will rise to
morrow. Sho has no more thoughts of marry
ing me than she has of marrying you.”
“ And you don’t even mean to ask her ?”
“No.”
“ Well,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, “I
know precious well that I should if it were my
case.”
“If it were your case!” Yorke laughed, as he
wheeled round from the window and came back
elowiy to the fire. “ Well, I like that! There’s
a great deal ot likeness certainly between the
future master ot Chavasse and ten thousand a
year, and Doctor Dizarte’s partner 1”
“ Weil, it you were in my position,” I was be
ginning, when Be cut mo short.
“it 1 wore, I would make her care for me.
As it is ”
“ As it is, you’re going to let Fraser Froude
get her, I suppose?” I supplemented, rather
out of temper,
“No,” i don’t think that,” he said quickly;
“I don’t anticipate that. But, attho same time,
there’s nothing—no, nothing that I would not
rather see. I hate that fellow, Ned !”
It was plain that he did from his style of say
ing it; and his manner startled me.
“ Well, you needn’t then,” I said. “I tell you
that Nat doesn’t care a straw for him.”
“Nor he for her. That’s what puzzles me.”
“Eh ?” I cried. “ VVhat makes vou think
that?”
“ 1 know it.”
“I think you’re out there, Roger. It he
doesn’t care for her, what do you suppose that
he’s eternally mousing about Chavasse lor ?”
“ I say that that is what puzzles me. I can t
make it out. Look here, Ned —l’m not likely to
make a mistake about a thing of this sort when
it concerns her, .and I tell you that he doesn’t
care for her. That is not the reason that he’s
always after her-be hanged to him !”
“ Well, but what cau be the reason then ?” I
asked dubiously, and certainly unconvinced.
“I say I wish I knew.”
“ I don’t like him, you know, old man,” I said
thoughtfully, staring at tho fire, “ and I wish
to goodness that he’d keep out of Chavasse, and
let Nat alone; but, all the same, this idea of
yours that bo doesn't care for her is new to me.
I’ve always given him credit for that. But of
course you may be right. If he wasn’t up to
the eyes in cash himself, it would make me
fancy that he’d got her money in view.”
“ Her money ?” Yorke repeated, turning to
stare at me. “ What are you talking about ?”
“ Natalie, of course.”
“ Has she any money, then ?”
“Of course she has—ten thousand pounds !
Didn’t you know it ?”
“ I never even dreamed of it,” he returned,
bis brown face paling a little as he looked at me.
“ I have always supposed her to be entirely de
pendent upon your mother.”
“ Bless you—no ! Her father was well enough
off. It was a home and protection that he want
ed Madam to give her—nothing else. He left
her ten thousand pounds, as I said.”
A pause ensued ; Yorke stood with his arm on
the chimney-piece, looking with a moody face
down into the fire, and said nothing. I glanced
at my watch -it was a quarter to six. It would
bo as much as I could do to get back to the
Mount by dinner-time. I took up my overcoat
aud began to put it on. My fingers were busy
with the last button when Roger said abruptly,
without raising his head :
“It doesn’t make much difference, after all,
Ned, my boy—only puts her a little further out
of my reach, if that could be. But look here 1
Iler having money explains to my mind my
puzzle about Froude. ’
“ Why, he’s as rich as a Jew !” I exclaimed.
“Doubtful. At any rate, we don’t know it for
a fact. Every one knows that a stockbroker —
and that's what he is, I suppose—may be a mil
lionaire one day and next door to a beggar the
next. Neither you nor Madam would much
like *he idea of his making a victim of—Miss
Orme.”
“By Jove.no! But I think you’re on tbe
wrong tack, Roger—l do indeed. Froude’s rich
enough, and I think he’s fond of Nat—not that
he’ll get her, though, any more than—
- | “Any more than I shall,” Yorke put in, finish
) I ing my sentence in away in which I had cer
tainly not meant to finish it. “ Well, you’ll keep
I silence, Ned? If I am a fool, Whittlesford
i needn’t know it.”
I “Of course I will,” I returned heartily, and
i with that we shook hands, although 1 was not
i quite ready to go yet.
“ Thanks, my boy,” and his big brown fingers
gave my hand a grip which made me wince.
; “ I meant to keep it all a secret, and make the
best of it; but since some one is to be, perforce,
in my confidence, I’m glad it chances to be you.
I’d sooner have my secrets in your keeping than
in that of anyone else.”
1 do not know how it was exactly—perhaps
because the confidential nature of our talk had
made me feel nearer to him than I had ever
felt yet, my chosen friend though he was—but
suddenly the resolution which I had bo igno
miniously broken when I first came in recurred
to me. I gave mysell no time to think hotter of
it, but hurried out tho words in a rush.
“Look here, Roger,” I said; “talking of
secrets, there’s something T should like to say to
you—something that has bothered me .a great
deal. I’ve been within an ace of speaking ot it
half a dozen times, but haven't Lad the cheek.
What is it that you know about Mademoiselle
Valdini ?”
Yorke’s face had simply worn a curious and
puzzled expression when I began to speak; but
a deep flush overspread it as 1 brought out the
name, and ho gave a violent start. I was awfully
curious, but I began to wish that I had hold my
tongue.”
“ What do you mean? What do you know
about it?” he demanded harshly and quickly.
“I saw you with her in the Lady’s Walk on
the very night she came to Chavasse,” I an
swered.
With an exclamation which struck me as being
a good deal more emphatic than pions, Yorke
turned away, strode to the end of tho room, and
came ba k.
“How camo you to be there, pray.
“I couldn’t sleep, and went out’to smoke a
cigar.
“If it were any one but you, Ned Chavasse, I
should say you had played the spy.”
“You’d better say it then,” I retorted.
“ Pooh ! Y r ou heard as well as saw, I suppose?
What did you bear ?”
“Very little,” I answered, feeling rather hurt
and a trifle sulky. As for playing the spy,
Yorke, if I had wanted to do that, I suppose 1
should have set all the tongues in Whittlesford
tattling by this time. As it is, I have never
mentioned it to a soul.”
“No, no, of course not I” he said hastily. “ I
beg your pardon, Ned; I was surprised. Thanks
for being silent about it. It was the best thing
— the only thing either to do or to be done.”
“ And is that all you are going to tell me ?” I
asked blankly, a good deal astonished.
“No,” ho said thoughtfully, after a moment’s
.hesitation. “Look here, Ned; I’ll tell you all
j that I can, without breaking the pledge which I
was fool enough, I think sometimes, to give her.
It isn’t much. I met her by chance in France
about a year before she camo here; Clara, my ,
sister, knew her. Her life had always been
rough, though I’m not at liberty to tell you how
or why. While I was still there she got into
awful trouble—what it was I can’t tell you--and
it fell to my lot to ba of some little service to
her. It was disgraceful business, horrible fine -
ness; but mind you, it was not her fault—for
she was no more to blame for it than you are. I
neither saw her nor hoard of her again until I
met her at Chavasse.” Yorke stopped.
“Well?” I said.
“ Well, I was awfully surprised, as you must
have seen. I knew well enough that, if Madam
became acquainted with her past life, she would
have to march from the Mount. Sho knew it,
too, and it was to beg me to hold my tongue
that she asked me to- meet her in the Lady’s
Walk. I wished that she bad never found her
way to Chavasse, and I told her so ; but I did
at last promise that, so long as nothing came
out from any other source, I would not speak.
That promise I have kept and must keep. Re
member, Ned, that for what happened in the
past she was not in the least to blame, and it
was entirely over and done with before sho
came to Chavasse.”
“ You are sure that it is- so ?”
“ I will pledge you my honor that it is.”
“And,”T said, thinkingot what he had told
me, and hesitating about what I wanted to say
next, “I suppose she’s all right? I meaii
that there's no doubt about her being a fit com
panion for Nat, you know—eh ?”
“If I had had any doubt about that, sho
would not have been with her for a week,” said
Yorke very quietly. “You may be sure of
that.”
“I suppose I may.”
“You may. Weil, will you trust me enough
to keep silence about this,’too, Ned ?”
1 said “Yes,” and meant it, feeling, although
I was puzzled still, that, after all, I would take
Boger Yorke's word against that of any one I
knew. But then a sudden thought struck me,
and I said abruptly :
“You flew off to Faris the next day, I remem
ber. Was that anything to do with mademoi
selle ?”
“Yes,” ho answered readily. “There was
one thing she told me which [ wanted to prove
to be true before finally pledging myself. I
went to do it.”
“ And it was true ?”
“ Strictly.”
I was as satisfied as I was ever likely to be
upon the subject, it seemed, and I said so, bid
ding him good night, and again promising to
keep his confidence in both particulars. But
on the doorstep a strange fancy came into my
head, which made me say :
“ I say, Roger, I suppose you weren't sweet
upon this blessed mademoiselle, were you ?”
“What’s that?” Yorke laughed out a loud
hearty laugh of frank amusement, which was
more like his old 1 ig'nt-hoarted self than any
thing I had seen in him that night. “What
next will you get into your head?” he said.
“ Remember, silence is golden. Good night!”
And it was not until I was back at Chavasse
and up in my room, hurrying to get my coat
changed in time for the ringing of tho second
dinner-bell, that I uncomfortably remembered
two things—first, that, after all, Yorke bad not
told me outright that ho bad never been in love
with Lucille Valdini,. and, secondly, that I had
forgotten to tell him that there had b’een a sec
ond and unknown witness of that interview in
tho Lady's Walk.
(To be Con-tinu.9 Li
THE DETROIT JOLUMON.
Awful Jones Didn’t Appear — Pre
sumably—He Felt Believed.
WHERE WAS AWFUL JONES?
“ Kin I remonstrate jist how flis calamity sur
rounded me?" asked fetor Dover, as he stood
at tho bar.
"You can.”
“Jedge, doos yon know Awful Jones—great
big cull’d gom’len who am lame in do off leg?”
"No, sir."
“Well, sah, he’s a bad man—bad all do way
frew. Ize been told that he stole a boss down
in Ohio, an’ killed a man out in Chicago. Doan’
s'ou hev nuiiin to do with him, Jedga—nuffin
’tall.”
" What has Awfnl Jones to do with the case ?”
" Y right smart, sab. If be hadn’t spit on de
top of my head, I shouldn’t hev disappeared
bel’o’ you dis miwnin’. Yes, sab, I was in a
saloon to git a glass of cider, when Awful Jones
walks in an’sots ont to pick a fuss wid me. I
didn’t want no fuss. Izo no slugger. I was
gwine out, so as not to erradicate a conflict,
when lie lilted up my hat, spit on the top oi my
head, and den jammed my hat clar’ down to my
eyebrows.”
" Well.”
“ Wall, I lot fly wid my right an downed him,
an’ I was gwine homo when dis ossiler arrested
me."
“ Officer, where was he?”
“ In the alley, sir.”
"What had he been doing?”
“ He flung a bucket of ashes at a colored wo
man employed in a restaurant kitchen. They
had been quarreling about money matters."
“ I see. Well, Peter, where does Awful Jones
como in ?”
"Dunno. sah.
“Nor I don’t. I shall send you up for thirty
days.’
“ Didn’t Awlnl Jones spit on mo one day las’
Spring ?”
" Perhaps so. Fall back, Peter, and let Steb
bins chalk your sentence right between your
shoulders.”
PRESUMABLY.
“ Mr. Short,” said his Honor to the next man
out, who was six teet tall, “you were found
lying on the sidewalk in a drunken stupor."
"Do you conclude that ! had been drinking?”
solemnly queried the prisoner.
“ Well, rather. People who keep liquor out
oi thoir stomachs seldom get drunk. That’s the
presumption, isn’t it?'
“ Presumably it is, but I might have been in
a fit.”
“ Certainly, which is about the same thing in
the eves of the law. How do you plead ?”
“ Presumably guilty, sir.’’
“ i thought so. Have you any money ?”
“ Not just now.”
“Do you wish to leave the city this morn
ing?"
“ I hardly think so.”
“ Then 1 shall sond you up for a month.”
“I presumed as much, sir. 1 bid you adieu!”
HE FELT RELIEVED.
When Henry Fields walked out it was evi
dent that lie had a burden on his mind. He
looked furtively around, and then whispered
across the desk:
“ Say, Judge, am I in the way bore ?”
“ No, sir—no, sir. Your company is perfectly
satisfactory.”
"Thanks. I don’t want to trouble anybody
if I cau help it. Is business good ?”
“ Oh, pretty fair.”
“ That’s good ! I didn’t know but tho hard
time was affecting you more or loss.”
“ Ob, no. We carry a full stock the year
round, and can depend upon about so many
customers. Did you want anything to-day ?”
“ How’s the Work House?”
“ Pretty fall, but it you want to be sent up
I’ll have to accommodate you.”
“ Will you i For how long ?”
" Well,’ sixty days.”
“ Make it ninety.”
“ Seeing it’s you I will.”
" Good ! I was airaid you’d go back on mo !
Couldu’t say six months ?”
“ No.”
“ Well, lot’er go at throo. That’s bettor than
1 expected, and I feel grc tly relieved. Good
bye,'Judge—keep the crank going and don’t let
the tuue play out."
SCIEMIFKJJI'RUTII
Regarding the Functions of an Import
ant Organ, of Which the Public
Knows But Little, Worthy Careful
Consideration.
To the Editor of the Scientific, American:
TH’ZZ you permit 113 to make known to the pub
he the facts we have learned (hiring •the past
eight years > concerning disorders of the human
Kidneys and the organs which diseased Kidneys
so easily break down? You are conducting a
Scientific paper, and are unprejudiced except in
favor of Truth. It is need'ess to say, no medi
cal Journal of “Code” standing would admit
these facts, for very obvious reasons.
H. H WARNER & CO.,
Proprietors of '• Warner’s Safe Cure.”
That we may emphasize and clearly explain
the relation the kidneys sustain to the general
health, and how much is dependent upon them,
wo propose, metaphorically speaking, to take
one from the human body, place in the wash
bowl before us. and examine it for the public
benefit.
You will imagine that we have befflre us a
body shaped like a bean, smooth and glistening,
about four inches in length, two in width, and
one in thickness. It ordinarily weighs in the
adult male, about five ounces, but is somewhat
lighter in the female. A small organ? you say.
But understand, the body of the average size
man contains about ten quarts of blood, of which
every drop passes through these filters or sewers,
as they may be called, many times a day, as
often as through the heart, making a complete
revolution in three minutes. From the blood
they separate the waste material, working away
steadily night and day, sleeping or waking, tire
less as the heart itself, and fully o‘ as much
vital importance; removing impurities from
sixty-five gallons of blood each hour, or about
forty-nine barrels each day, or 9,125 hogsheads a
year I What a wonder that the kidneys can last
any length of time under this prodigious strain,
treated rtnd neglected as they are ?
We slice this delicate organ open lengthwise
with our knife, and will roughly describe its in
terior.
We find it to bo of a reddish-brown color, soft
and easily torn ; filled with hundreds of little
tubes, short and thread-like, starting from the
arteries, ending in a little tuft about midway
from the outside opening into a cavity of con
siderable size, which is called the pelvis, or,
roughly speaking, a sac, which is for the pur
pose of holding the water to further undergo
purification before it passos down from here
into the ureters, and so on to the outside of the
body. These little tubes are the filters which
do their work automatically, and right here is
where the disease of the kidney first begins.
Doing the vast amount of work which they are
obliged to, from the slightest irregularity in our
habits, from cold, from high living, from stimu
lants, or a thousand and one other causes which j
occur every day, they become somewhat weak- |
enod in their nerve force.
What is the result ? Congestion or stoppage
of the current of blood in the small blood-ves
seis surrounding them, which become blocked ;
these delicate membranes are irritated; inflam
mation is set up, then pus is formed, which col
lects in the pelvis or sac; the tubes arc at first
partially, and soon are totally, unable to do
their work. The pelvic sac goes on distending
with this corruption, pressing upon the blood
vessels, All this* time, remember, the- blood,
which is- entering the kidneys- to- be filtered, is
passing: through this terrible, disgusting pus, for
it cannot take any other route I
Stop and think of it for a moment. Do you
realize the importance, nay the vital necessity,
of having the kidneys in order ? Can you ex
pect when they are diseased or obstructed, no
matter how little, that you can have pure blood
and. escape disease? It would bo just as reason
able- to expect, if a pest-house were set across
Broadway and countless thousands were com
pelled to go through its pestilential doors, an
escape from contagion and disease, as for one to
expect the blood to escape pollution when con
stantly running through a diseased kidney.
Now, what is the result ? Why, that the blood
takes up and deposits this poison as it sweeps
along into every organ, into every inch of mus
cle, tissue, flesh and bone, from your head to
your ieet. And whenever, from hereditary in
fluence or otherwise, some part of the body is
weaker than another, a countless train of dis
eases is established, such as consumption in
weak lungs; dyspepsia, where there is a delicate
stomach ; nervousness, insanity,, paralysis or
heart disease in those who have weak nerves.
The heart must soon feel the effects of the poi
son,. it requires pure blood to keep it in right
action. It increases its stroke in number and
force to compensate lor the natural stimulus
wanting, in its endeavor to crowd the impure
blood through this obstruct on, causing pain,
palpitation, or an ont-of-breath feeling. Unnat
ural as this forced labor is. the heart must soon
falter, becoming weaker and weaker, until one
day stops, and death from apparent
“heart disease'’ is the verdict.
But the medical profession, learned and dig
nified, call these diseases by high-sounding
names, treat them alone, and patients die,/o/
the arteries are carrying slow death to the af
ectedpart, constantly adding fuel brought from
these suppurating, pus-laden kidneys, which
hero in our wash-bowl are very putrefaction
itself and which should have been cured first.
But this is not all the kidneys havo to do;
for you must remember that each adult takes
about seven pounds of nourishment every
twenty-four hours to supply the waste of the
body which is constantly going on, a waste
o iual to the quantity taken. This, too, the kid
neys have to separate from the blood with all
other decomposing matter.
But you say, “My kidneys are all right. I
havo no pain in the back.” Mistaken man 1
People die of kidney disease of so bad a char
acter that the organs are rotten, and yet they
have never there had a pain nor an ache 1
Why? Because the disease begins, as we
havo shown, in the interior of the kidney,
where there are few nerv»s of feeling to convey
the sensation of pain. W’hy this is so wo may
never know.
When you consider their great work, the deli
cacy of iheir structure, the ease with which
they are deranged, can you wonder at the ill
health of our men and women? Health and
long life cannot be expected when so vital an
organ is impaired. No wonder some writers
say we are degenerating. Don't you see the
great, the extreme importance of keeping this
machinery in working order ? Could the finest
engine do even a fractional part of this work,
without attention from the engineer ? Don’t
you see how dangerous this hidden disease is ?
ft is lurking about us constantly, without giv
ing any indication of its presence.
The most skilhul physicians cannot detect it
at times, for the kidneys themselves cannot be ex
amined by any means which we have at our
command. Even an analysis of the water, chem
ically and microscopically, reveals nothing defi
nite in many cases, even when the kidneys are
fairly broken down.
Then look out for them, as disease, no matter
where situated, to ninety-three per cent., as
shown by after-death examination’s, has its ori
gin in the breaking down of those secreting
tubes in the interior of the kidney.
As yon value health, as you desire long li r e
free from sickness and suffering, give these or
gans some attention. Keep them in good con
dition and thus prevent (as is easiiy done) all
disease.
Warner’s Safe Cure, as it becomes year after
year better known for its wonderful cures and
its power over the kidneys, has done and is do
ing more to increase the average duration of
life than all the physicians and medicines
known. Warner's Safe Cure is a true specific,
mild but certain, harmless but energetic and
agreeable to the taste.
Take it when sick as a cure, and never let a
month go by if yon need it, without taking a
few bottles as a prevsntive, that the kidneys
may be kept in proper order, the blood pure,
that health and long life may be your blessing. ’
H. H. Warner & Co.
INTRODUCED hTpINK IERTON
BY M. QUAD.
If you are going anywhere from Camden, op
posite Philadelphia, my advice is to hire a
horse and buggy and promise the driver an
extra fee of from $75 to SIOO to get you out o',
the place as soon as possible. If you want to
go by train you wdl have to wait from four to
six hours, and it is worth SIOO an hour to wait
in Camden. I was there seven or eight
times last Summer, and no matter what time 1
got in, there was the same tedious wait to get
out—the same disappointed crowd—the same
swearing and grumbling. You can’t buy any
thing to eat in the depot. For this reason a
building five or six blocks away is called a hotel.
If there is any other reason for it being called a
hotel it must be because eight or ten loifers sit
on the vorauda facing the river and sleep and
emoke and spit. You can sit in the station and
starve, or you can go to the hotel and do the
same thing. The station, however, doesn't
charge you for it, while the hotel does.
On the floor in the railroad station at Tren
ton, which is another good place to wait, I found
a photograph of a good-looking man. On the
back was written : “ Two hundred dollars re-
ward. The above reward will be paid 'or the
arrest of George K. Smith, who is wanted at
Binghamton, N. Y., for arson. This is a per
fect likeness. He is slow ot speech, and clears
his throat often.”
I pocketed the picture, arguing that some de
tect! e, sheriff or constable had 1 st it. On the
way down to Camden I got the face down pret
ty fine in my memory, and made up my mind
to vary the monotony ot the usual five hours’
wait by discovering George, playing him for
awhile, and then turning him over to the po
lice and pocketing a couple of hundred dollars
to spend for shark-bait at Atlantic City. 1 had
been in the station hap an hour when I walked
down to the gate through which passengers :or
the seashore were obliged to pass. I wanted to
ask the gatekeeper when the train went. I
knew it was just four hours and a halt, but I
wanted to see ii he knew. He came very near
knowing when ho replied: “It will be over
three hours, anyway.”
As I was ready to turn away I noticed the
gatekeeper s companion—a man in citizen’s
dress, who stood beside him and had evidently
been looking me over. It seemed to me that
he gave a start o surprise. If he didn 11 did.
Hight there within arm’s length was George K.
Smith, described to a dot on the photograph,
and not a change made since the picture was
taken I It took me a full minute to realize the
situation, and I expect he.didn't get ahead oi
me more than a second or two.
1 h .d it down on my programme to play with
him for awhile, and I was tickled to (loath when
he observed that it was nice weather, asked
which way I had come, and walked up and
down with me. I never grew so friendly with a <
man on short notice. We offered each other
cigars, lied about the big fish we had caught,
and were twin brothers in agreeing that Camden
was the worst place in the United States. In a
very guarded manner, as wo walked, 1 pulled
out the photograph to make a comparison; the
comparison was all right, but I was grieved to
detect him with a photograph in his own hand.
Had accident furnished him with one, and did
he suspect he was being pursued ? If so, he
might become dangerous, and it would be safer
to give him away at once. There was an officer
at the ferry gate, and I kindly inquired of Smith
it he didn’t want to look around home a little.
He did. We sauntered up to the gate, and i
took his arm. He returned the courtesy by tak
ing mine.
“Officer,” I said, as we reached that official,
“arrest this man 1 Ho is George K. Smith, and
is wanted tor arson !”
“ You come with me !” said Smith, while the
officer smiled and chuckled.
“I tell you to arrest him ! He is wanted for
arson 1”
“ Now, come quietly and don’t make a scene I”
softly remarked Mr. Smith. “If you get too
bad I shall have to put the handcuffs on.”
“ Who are you ?” 1 asked, as we walked aside,
“ Mat. Pinkerton.”
“Oh ! And who am I?”
“Billy Soule, wanted for embezzlement I”
“Do you see that.” la sked, as I handed him
the photograph.
“And do you see this?” he replied, as he
handed me one.
They were fair likenesses. No officer would
have wanted anything better on which to make
an arrest. We had a little talk, and we crossed
to Philadelphia, where I was identified to Mr.
Pinkerton’s satisfaction and he t > mine. If he
hadn’t been, I should have made that S2OO. It
was mutually agreed in the editorial rooms of
the Press that nothing should ever be said
about it, but as I may come up for Governor
some Aay, and the matter be raked unand given
a .also turn, to my detriment, I have hereby
made a clean breast of the whole affair.
NEGRO BAPtTs ifINFLORIDA.
BY HAMILTON JAY.
It was a bright, fair morning in early June,
not a breath of air, the beautiful lake rippled
with its own smiling. It was not yet eight
o’clock, and yet the deep sandy streets seethed
with reflected heat. The sun sent his fiery rays
down as if he had a grudge against the popu
lace, or was trying to do two days* work in one.
A Sunday morning, quiet and still with the
surcease of all labor. One of God’s chosen days;
calm and peaceful, meant for holy thought and
converse; a resting place upon the weary road
of lite.
Down the long, sunny street came a solemn,
' thoughtful procession. A procession of the Af
rican race, of all sizes, shapes and colors. At
their head marched the stalwart pastor, a gen
tleman whose complexion was like unto that of
a new saddle. He had a rather du dish mus
tache and side wjiiskers, and very evidently had
a due appreciation ot the importance and re
sponsibility of his position, for his face was as
solemn as that of a country Justice of the
Peace.
The procession was that of African Missionary
Baptists, and their object was to wash away the
sins of a number of new converts.
Near a small saw mill there was an open
space leading into the lake, and here the crowd
halted. The initiated formed in line facing the
waters. They were clad in long white gowns,
with their head's emphasized with snowy night
caps. The contrast between their dirty com
plexions and their outer garments was very
amusing to the unregenorated, but they dis
played no levity, and seemed fully imbued with
the sacredness’of tho occasion. Their friends 1
and the members of the church were grouped
behind them. In the rear were the white look
ers-on. There was an air of decorum over all —
more than-1 have ever witnessed at a similar
spectacle. Now, from the right steps out a
pompous, middle-aged negro. He is dressed
in shining black, and has a long pole in his
hand. Proudly, and with dignified gestures,
he steps into the lake. He wades out until the
water is up to his arm*pits, then ho plants tho
pole in the sand. This m irks the place where
sin is to be finally vanquished. In the mean
time the preacher is- bombarding the converts
and the crowd with a discourse, largely inter
larded with: Scriptural quotations, and appeals
to John and Paul. His face earnest and thought
fill, his words ungrammatical, disjointed and
slightly incoherent. His speech is husky and
sing-song, showing that he has-a very bad'case
of parsonitis.
Now the devotees form in line, and, hand in
hand, march steadily into the water. Beaching
the pole they about face, and are aligned by the
deacons who have followed. Tho preacher fin
ishes his lecture and takes his place on tho right
ot tho line. The crowd on tho shore break into
oyous singing and keep it up during the entire
ceremony. Never before has there been such
quiet and good order. Only onco is it broken.
A colored beau, with a half-smoked cigar in his
mouth, makes some slighting remark and laughs
out loud. An old colored woman turns on him
wrathfully:
“De white fokes keep still, but you laff—you
pore mizzable creetur I You gwineter laff in
torment?”
He slinks away abashed. Ono by one the
preacher takes them by the arm and neck. The
invocation—squash I and with the amen they
come dripping out ot the water. They are cov
ered with a shawl and led out to their irionds,
who receive them with dry clothes and hearty
welcomes. So far there has boon no unseemly
behavior, no undue exaltation. But you can sea
there is a great deal of suppressed excitement
with the half dozen still remaining. The sing
ing, the ejaculations, tho sight of their compan
ions coming forth from baptism, all has an
effect. The singing stops, and there is a breath
less pause. Suddenly a jaunty-looking negro
steps to tho front. He is a now arrival. With
swaying body and softly patting hands he-sings:
out debits in his name,
An<.’e-;»am a lookin’ at me ’
An* bo/o hisself our sin and shame,
Angels am a lookin' at mo 1
Ho heal the sick, the lame mon walk,
Angels am a lookin' at mo I
Tho dea: man hear, the dumb naan talk.
Angels am a lookin' at me 1
John was a Baptist, so am I,
Angels, am a lookin' at mo I
He baptized Jesus ’fore he die,
Angels am a lookin’at me !
Come, my brethren and Bistern, come,
Angela am a lookin’ at me I
D.s am de way to git salo home,
Angels am. a lookin’ at mo !
All join in the refrain, and the very air throbs
with melody.
The next victim is a comely young woman.
She is trembling all over. As she comes up
from tho water, she throws her arms wildly
about and makes vain efforts to again plunge
under the water. At last sho quiets down, her
arms are gently but firmly held, and, her body
swaying forward almost helplessly, she is half
carried out and delivered to her happy friends.
The last oue is a tall, fine-lookiug man. He
is very quiet until he comes up from his volun
tary bath. Then he strides toward the shore,
yelling, “ Whoopee I Who-o-p I Wh-o-o-p •”
and executes a hall shuffle as he steps upon the
bank.
The two deacons range themselves, one on
ths right, tho other on the loft of the preacher.
Arm in arm, slowly and solemnly, they roach
the shore, and the assemblage is dismissed
with the benediction.
A SOLDI ER’S PRESCIENCE.
How Soult Was Out maneuvered by
Wellington.
While Wellington and Soult were maneuver
ing, the one to pierce the Pyrenees, the other to
prevent him from do ng so, the duke on one oc
casion thought it necessary to make a forced
march that he might anticipate the enemy in se
curing for himself a certain position. In tha
course ot this march the troops became ragged
aud straggled, and au attack by the French
would have been an awkward’ matter. Tho
duke, however, says Sir Francis Hastings
Doyle, in his recently published Reminiscences,
gave his orders with perfect coolness, and then
went on to say:
“ Now I shall go to bed.”
“To bed. my lord ?” was the somewhat anx
ious comment. “ But what if the French attack
us during the night ?”
“Oh, dear, no,” he said; “ wo are quite safe
from attack till ton o’clock to-morrow morn
ing !”
The troops as they camo up were properly
disposed ot, tho requisite preparations made,
and everybody looked out for the coming ten
o’clock. Accordingly, just as had been pre
dicted, shortly after that hour the French made
Taeir appearance in force, and endeavored to
wrest from the British troops the advantage
gained by that successful march. They were,
however, ba fled aud driven back. General
Alva ventured to put this question to the duke:
“Might [ ask, my lord, how you knew that
tho french would not attack us till ten o’clock
in the morning ?”
“Oh, certainly !” was the answer. “As we
were riding through such aud such a pass, did
uot you see three French videttes gallop off as
hard as they could ?”
“No,” said Alva, with his eyes and mouth
wide open.
“But I did,” retorted Wellington; “and I felt
8(t once what would happen. Those follows
went off and reported to Soult tint they had
s*?en me there in person, and I know Soult quite
well enough to be sure of his course. He would
summon a council of war as soon as possible,
and tell them, ‘lf Lord Wellington is there in
person, he must have got up his reserves. Be
fore attacking him, I must get up mine; and,
as lor his reserves, 1 was quite certain that they
could not be got up to act against us till ten in
tho morning, therefore Itook things easily,jand
went to bed.”
The sequel shows a singular coincidence. Sir
Francis was repeating this story in the common
room at All Souls one evening, old Sir Charles
Vau ihau, the ex-ambassador, being present.
“ Ah, yes,” ho remarked, “ 1 know that story
as well ns you do; and what is more, I can cap
it for you I I was telling it some ye ;rs ago at a
Paris'dinner. A French general, one of tho
party, on hearing it, looked for a moment rather
sulky and discomposed, but at last broke out ns
follows. ‘ Yea, indeed, tor 1 was second in com
mand on that occasion; and those wuroSvulla
very words.’”