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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, December 26, 1886, Image 2

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temper than I had been when I left Mount
Chavasse.
Doctor Yorke was at home, the servant who
admitted me eaid, but added that he had a pa
tient with him just then. No doubt he would
bo at liberty directly, if I would wait. I Baid I
would wait, and decided to do so in the hall,
Bince from there I could keep my eye upon the
door of the surgery. I had not been there a
minute when it creaked and opened to let out
Lolly Wilde, looking as pretty as a little Bed
Biding-Hood, with a scarlet cloak on, and a
puckered hood of the same color drawn over
her dark curls. The little cry she gave at the
sight of me brought Yorke to the door, too. He
started as ho saw me, and then came out and
Shook hands.
“ I thought I should see you to-day, Ned,”
he said, as Lotty, dropping her demure little
curtsey, took her departure by means ot a side
door. “Come into my den. There’s no one
there but the skeleton, and you can say what
ever' it is that you want to say, and I the
aamo.”
But, when we got into the room, and I had
imitated him in dropping into one of the big
chairs by the fender, it seemed that wo were
both tongue-tied. Yorke sat staring moodily at
the fire, and I sat staring blankly at him, won
dering how I could best contrive to tell him
about Fraser Froude. Palo, gloomy and miser
able enough he looked, but obstinate and angry,
too, and I began to see that Miss Natalie Orme
had contrived to rouse a temper as fiery and to
insult a pride as resolute as her own. Even
if she were ready to speak now, it would want
more than a few soft words to mollify Boger
Yorke. And now, between these two, who
should have been together, there loomed in my
mental vision the tall, still figure, the white
face, ths watchful, keen black eyes, and the
cold, perpetual smile of the master of Holme
deane. It was in this very room that Yorke
only a few weeks ago had blurted out to me the
Btory of his love for Nat; and now things were
in this precious pickle ! I thought of it as I
glanced about me, and my heart sank lower
and lower. Boger, looking up, caught my eye,
understood, and gave a short, bitter laugh.
“You're thinking that I'm a bigger fool now
than I was then, eh, Ned ? Well, you’re right.
I had made a iool of myself then—a thing which
any man can do when he likes; this time some
body else has made a fool of me—that’s all the
difference. Not much, is it ?’’
“ For goodness’ sake don’t talk that way I” I
said helplessly, feeling unable to say anything
else.
“Why not? It’s only to you. What lies
women tell, though, don’t they 1 ’
“ Lies ?” I repeated.
•' Act them, at any rate—l don’t see much dif
ference. What else do you call it?”
“Not that,” I returned, feeling relieved that
here at least there was something upon which I
could speak out and speak energetically. “It’s
enough to make you say so, old fellow, ot
course—or to say anything, for that matter; but
upon my honor you’re wrong there I”
“ How do you mean
“In thinking that Natalie was either speaking
or acting a he in saying that she loved you and
in behaving as she did. The only lie there has
been is in pretending that she doesn’t—the little
eimpleton ”
“ Did she tell you to say that i” he asked,
turning upon me quickly.
“ No, ’ 1 was obliged to admit, awkwardly.
“Of course not. She played the game as
long as it pleased her and then dropped it.
Well, she is the first woman to whom I ever
gave the chance of making a fool of me, and”—
With a deep breath—“she shall be the last I”
“ It’s she that’s made a fool of, not you,” I
retorted. “ She loves you.”
“ Ab, I don’t care about that sort of love, you
pee, Ned, my boy! It’s too changeable, eh?
Well, I shall get away from here.”
“What do you mean? ’ I cried, startled and
£ ecalling old Dizarte’s words of the preceding
ight. “Getaway?”
“ Yea— and as quickly as possible. You don’t
Suppose I want to stop in this confounded place,
flo you? Not I. I’ve had about enough of
Whi-ltlesford to last me for the rest of my life, it
Mtrlkes me. No—l’m off.”
“ You can’t mean it, Roger,” I said blankly,
With a grief and consternation which I knew
were perfectly selfish. Was I to lose my best
friend tor the willful vagaries ot a tickle little
bhit ot a girl? I thought in min Jed pain and
■nger, anathematizing Miss Nat as I had never
Hone yet. “ You don’t mean it ? ’ I interrogated
helplessly.
“Don't I?” Yorke returned, with a rough
laugh. “I mean it to the extent of letting
Whittlesford see the last of me in a week—
that’s all.”
“And you will stay away?” I ejaculated.
"Unless and until I am dragged back—you
may take your oath of that.”
“ And Dizarte ?” I was beginning, when he
cut me abort.
“I shall speak to Dizarte to-night. It will
surprise him, of course; but not more than it
would have done a tew weeks back, when I
had the same notion in my head.” He rose
and walked to the window before adding, in a
lower tone, “ I should have gone then it I
hadn’t been an idiot.”
“I don’t see what good you’ll do by cutting
Off,” I said ruefully.
“ Don’t you ?” He wheeled round again sud
denly with another laugh as hard and harsh as
the last had been. “ What on earth do you
take me for, you silly young fool, that you sit
gaping like that? Do you think 1 shall go and
make a hole in the first piece of water I come
pear, or let daylight into myself with that
blessed little pistol that scared you that day ?
Pooh 1 Fool as I am, I am hardly ass enough
tor that. You may make your mind easy on
that score. She would never willingly sea me
again, she said last night, didn’t she? All
right. Npvy I say that ] will never willingly
899 Natalie Ornlfi again unless she sends for mo.
And, considering all things, I fancy that’s about
the safest pledge that I could give.”,,
A silence ensued—a sileuee which I felt at
once too stupid and too miserable to break.
Presently Yorke gave another short laugh, and
touched my shoulder.
“ Don’t look so wretched, Ned, and don’t
bother yourself about it. It isn’t your fault;
Ono would think it was, to look at you. But
you ought to see pretty plainly that I can’t well
stop here. lam not an absolute block ot wood,
you seo, and, alter even this, I don’t think I
should make a success of standing aside and
watching St. George or that confounded Froude
get her.”
I had meant to lead up to the subject, and to
break this luckless news to him before going
away, but now, when he himself introduced
Fronde’s name, I felt my face redden, and knew
that 1 looked like a tool. Yorke’s eyes were too
keen not to see It, and tor a moment ho started
and stared hard at me. Of course I only red
dened more furiously and looked more stupid,
If that could be.
“I seo," he said slowly—“ I see. No need
for me to wait, eh, Ned ? Which of them is
it?”
“Froude,” I answered, blurting out the
eame, and anxious, now that the plunge was
made, to get it over. “It was only last night,
after you had gone; and upon my word, Roger,
I think she must have been halt crazy when
Bhe did it. She screamed and fell down in a
dead faint directly after telling me.”
Well, I said that, and a great deal more, en
larging upon Nat’s hysterical state and wild
talk when she told me, and also upon her eager
ness to see him again, before that interview
with a mysterious some one at the gate in the
park fence had poisoned her mind and aroused
bar passionate temper against him. Blunder
ingly I reiterated over and over again, as
earnestly as I felt, m.y firm conviction that, de
spite everything, the wilful little damsel’s love
for him was as complete and as strong as his
for hsr. I repeated too as many as I remem
bered of the thousand and one shy, loving
speeches of which I had perforce been the only
recipient. But I might as well have held my
tongue. Well, as 1 had thought that I knew my
friend, I found that ho had more obstinacy and
sternness in his nature than I had ever given
him credit for. When at last I rose to go, I
bad nothing to take with me but his reiterated
resolve to get out of Whittlesford as soon as
possible.
“ For goodness’ sake try to think better ot
that, old man I” I urged dismally, as he came
to the door with me, and we had for the second
time clasped hands to say good-night. But he
ebook bis head.
“ No chance of my doing that, Ned, so don’t
think it. I may go to the Cape. I had the offer
of a good post there a month or two back. It
tnay bo vacant still.”
“If you do, I shall go with you,” I returned,
thinking that this was worse and worse.
“ Poohl And break your mother’s heart ?
No, my boy, it’s of no use asking mo to stop
and see her throw herself away on Froude—
confound the lantern-jawed brute 1 He will
never make her that
- “I dQn’t believe shell marry him when it
comes to the push. She has made a nice mud
dle of things, and so she will find out, and all
for a few meddling words from Heaven knows
whom 1 That's what makes me so savage ”
“ Who could it have been Yorke asked sud
denly.
“I haven’t a notion, beyond that it must have
been the person, whoever it was, who overheard
you that night when I did. Who that was, good
ness knows !"
“ Why, 11l tell you,” he Baid deliberately—
“ Fraser Froude I”
“That it was not, for I asked her, and sfoo
said ‘ No.’ ”
“ She did ? ’
“Yea, and seemed astonished at the notion.
It wasn’t lie.”
“ I wish I knew who it was—l wish I know I”
Yorke said musingly and gloomily, clenching
the hand be had laid upon my shoulder.
A sudden thought came into my head which
startled me, but I asked first:
“ What put Fronde into your head ?”
“Because I hate the fellow, I suppose,” he
returned, with the same moody face.
“Look here, Yorke,” I went on, speaking out
my thought. “I suppose that if what you
said to mademoiselle was overheard, there was
no danger in it?”
“Danger .” be echoed, staring at me. “What
do you moan?”
" Well, to you ?”
“ Not to me, most decidedly.”
“Not to her—mademoiselle?”
“ Certainly not—so far as I know, at any
rate. She stands in no sort of danger to my
knowledge, in the sense you moan, and did
not then. Whoever it was, he or she has done
me all tho mischief that it was possible to do—
you may be sure of that!”
“ And, failing Froude, you have no sort of
enspicion, I suppose ? It must have been
somebody that ha'ted you.”
“ Nor shall I trouble myself to find one,” be
cepl.ed, shrugging his shoulders. “ Good
night. Ned, and thanks, my boyl If any one is
to know of my folly, lam glad it is you. Take
better care when your time comes—that’s all?’
Wo parted then, and 1 turned homeward mis
erable, to grow more miserable as I plodded
through the thickening rain and sleet and the
Blushy mud. And, despite Natalie’s denial, I
carried with mo a firm conviction that tho
stealthy witness of that luckless midnight inter
view had been Fraser Froude.
CHAPTER XXX.
“ THERE WAS EVEN NOW ONLY ONE 'HE ’ FOB HER
, IN THE WORLD.”
Turning in at the little side-gate as usual
when I reached Chavasse, and making my way
up to the house in the worst ot tempers, I was
startled when I reached the steps. Old Styles
had tho door open, and just coming down them,
his shadow preceding him like an elongated
lamp-post, was Fraser Froude. Apparently he
did not see me—or, at any rate, if he did, he
did not show it—perhaps "because I involuntari
ly stood aside, and was in the shadow. His
man, in the gorgeous Holmodeano livery, stood
waiting, holding his big raw-boned black horse,
and as quickly as he could Froude mounted
and rode off, jerking to and fro in tho saddle
iu his usual ungainly way. One glimpse I
caught of his thin pale lace—enough to show me
that it was even more devoid of color than
usual, and that under the heavy black mus
tache his large shining white teeth wore sot on
his under-lip. Certainly he did not look much
like a triumphant lover; and 1 wondered rapidly
what could have happened to drive the usual
suave smoothness from his face. Had he come
to announce himself as Natalie Orme’s accepted
suitor, and had Madam, forgetting those fine
sentiments with which Bhe had edified me at
the time of hie proposal, been giving him a
piece of her mind thereupon ? It might be, lor
truly he looked angry enough.
I went into tho house in a state of lively
curiosity, hoping—although I know there was
no real hope of such luck—that Misa Nat might
have come to her senses, and given him his
ring back, with her compliments. That there
was something wrong I soon found when, alter
removing my coat and hat, I went into tho
library. Madam was pacing up and down, a
look of such astonished trouble and incredulity
upon her fine face that, even knowing all that
I did know, I involuntarily asked her what was
tho matter.
“ Edward, did you see that man ?” she asked,
coming to a stand-still and laying her hand
upon my shoulder; and then for the first time
did 1 realise fully what a storm there was brew
ing. Ido not suppose Aladam had called me
“ Edward ” a dozen times in my life.
“Eh ? Do you mean Froude ?” I asked, try
ing to look as inuocent as I felt guilty.
“Yes, yeg,” she rejoined impatiently, “Fraser
Froude I I say, did you see him?”
I answered that of course I had seen him.
“ And do you know what ho came here to tell
me?” Madam pursued agitatedly. “I can
hardly believe it. Nod—l will not believe it!
That man told me that Natalie had accepted
him I ’
It Madam expected mo to look as scandalised
and astonished ns she herself looked, she was
mistaken, for I felt tliat just then there was no
particular use in gratuitously playing the hypo
crite, and 1 leit beside that 1 had about as heavy
a burden of coiicdklment weighing upon my
conscience as I could comfortably carry. So 1
only said:
“ Oh, I knew that I She told me so last
night.”
“ She told you ?” Madam echoed, with an ex
pression of dismay.
“ Yes.”
“That she had accepted him?”
“ Yes.”
“ Tho girl must be mad 1” cried mv mother,
her hand dr pping from my shoulder as she
sank into a chair.
“It is enough to make any one think so,” I
allowed dismally.
“ And I thought she cared, or would care, for
Baby St. George,” Madam went on.
“ She will never do that, mother.”
“But what can have possessed the child to
accept this man —a man old enough almost to
be her father, whom neither you nor I like, and
whom she has always appeared absolutely to
dislike? My dear, 1 cannot credit it—l cannot
indeed.”
I could have explained easily enough, but ol
course I was not going to break the double con
fidence reposed in me by doing anything of the
sort, and, although I remembered very plainly
just what Madam had Baid when" Fraser
Fronde’s proposal was a now thing, I could
not, while her face was thus dark with per
plexed trouble, remind her of it. Instead, I
“What did he say?”
“ Oh, do not ask me 1” Madam cried, with ir
ritable impatience. “ I scarcely know—l hard
ly listened. I tell you that I did not believe it.
She is only a child, after all, and was in high
spirits last night—almost excited. Perhaps she
said something heedlessly which he miscon
strued. It must have been so; she cannot have
been serious.”
I shook my head.
“ 1 am afraid she was though, mother—worse
luck 1 Why, she wears his ring 1”
“ His ring ?”
“ Yes. She showed it to me on her finger—a
big diamond. She wouldn’t do that if she bad
been having a joke with the old chap, you
know.”
There was a silence for a minute or two, my
mother s handsome lace clouding more and
more as she looked at the fire, presently she
looked round at me.
“ I don’t understand it, Ned; there is some
thing strange about it. But I tell you this —
Natalie Orme shall not marry Fraser Froude if
I can prevent it. She is as dear to me as my
own child—l could not love her more were she
really your sister. Her marriage is a matter of
as much moment to me as yours will be one ot
these days.” She paused with a sigh for a lew
seconds, and then went on, “ Ned, she told you
—not me—and I fancy that you have more ot
her confidence than I. I wish you would go
and speak to her. I have not seen her to-day.
She has refused to be disturbed, and I did not
dream that this was the reason.”
“ The reason ?” I echoed.
“ Yes; for 1 believe that, although the silly
child has accepted Mr. Froude of her own will,
she is still perfectly miserable about it. Did
she, I wonder, have any misunderstanding
with Mr. St. George ?”
“ 1 tell you she don’t care a fig for St. George,
beyond wishing him sa e back in Jamaica 1” 1
said impatiently. “Of course I’ll go and talk
to her if you like, mother, although I’m sure I
don’t know what good I can do. 1 should like
to drive the fellow’s blessed diamond down his
throat, and stop his confounded smiling for a
little while 1 Did he ask for her ?”
“ Yoe, but I refused to let her be disturbed.
She doss not know he has been here yet.”
“ Shall I tell her ?”
“ Certainly-jbe pgghi to know. It will
make her riializo what a foolish thing she has
done.”
Taking myself off with that across tho hall
and up the stairs, 1 thought inwardly that poor
little Nat knew that already, she had got
things into a nice knot, certainly 1 Fraser
Fronde’s ring was on her finger; Raby St.
George was coming the next day to propose fin
ally, and, to cap it all, Roger Yorke was off in a
week—Heaven knew where 1
Tapping softly at her door when I reached it,
I quite expected to be answered by Valla, who
I knew bad kept rigorous guard over her mis
tress all day, but, to my surprise, tho voice that
called me to come in was Nat’s own. Pushing
open the door, I went in accordingly.
it was the same pretty room which I had en
tered on the preceding night, and in which I
had seen the. brilliant little figure standing by
the big glass, almost outshining the wax-lights
which glittered round her, but there was no
brightness to dazzle my eyes now—only a
shaded lamp burned on a little table, and let
me see Nat lying back almost lost in a huge
chintz-cushioned chair by the fire. Her eyes
were closed, but she opened them slowly as I
approached, and her face brightened—if indeed
such a woe-begone little lace could brighten;
for, as I saw her more closely, it seemed to me
that she simply looked terribly ill.
“ Ch, it is you, Nod 1” she said, with a gasp
o! relief. “ I was afraid it was Madam.”
“Afraid?” I echoed, wondering very much
how 1 was going to get through my commission
to talk to her. I had Roger before my mind,
and somehow, although she looked so awfully
wretched—poor little thing l—l felt myself get
ting angry again.
“ Oh, yes—yes I” She got up, clasping my
arm with two eager little hot bauds, as she had
done on the previous night. “ I have shut my
self up all day because I was afraid. Ned, you
must tell her; I will not —I cannot 1”
“ She knows,” I said shortly.
“ Did you tell her ?” she cried eagerly, turn
ing pitifully white. “ What did she say ? Is
she angry ? Does she say I shall not do it ?
Does she ?”
“ Well, she says you must be mad,” I an
swered, with brusque candor.
“ Ab, so I was—no one knows how mad but
you and me 1”
“Don’t bring me into it; I had nothing to do
with it I” I returned ungraciously. “I would
have let you jump off tho top of the house as
willingly. Look here, Nat—haven’t we had
enough of this nonsense? You don’t mean to go
on with it, do you ?”
“ Yes,” she cried passionately, her eyes flash
ing; “you know I do 1”
“Oh, very well! It’s a cheerful look-out—
that s all. Do you know he has been here,
pray ?”
“He has ?” She dropped back into her chair
again, shivering. “He has been here? Oh,
Nod, I did not think he would ever do that 1 He
is so proud, and I insulted him before them all
last night, didn’t I? Do you know that all
night ami all day 1 have been seeing him, looking
just as he did lor that one second ? I have only
to close my eyes and it all comes back—his face,
and the lights, and the horrible crashing music.
And he came here, and you did not toll mo ? It
doesn’t matter, though, lor I said I would never
see him or speak to him again, didn’t I ? And
I moantit. Why did he come hero ? Was it to
say he would forgive me? Ah, he doesn’t
know, you see, that it is I who will never forgive
him 1”
She bnried her face in her hands as she fin
ished, shuddering violently still. Two or
three times I had tried to stop her words, but
without avail. There was even now only one
“he” in the world for her-that was certain—
and a lively prospect that seemed to open for
Fraser Fronde’s oromised wife. Aud soothingly
as 1 could, 1 said:
“ I only meant Froude, Nat.”
“Oh!" She dropped her hands listlessly to
stare at me. “Only Fraser Froude?’
“That’s all. Madam thought you wouldn’t
caro to see him, you know."
NEW YORK DISPATCH, DECEMBER 26 1886.
“ Oh, no, no I” she aaid, shuddering. “ Nod,
I was afraid you meant - him !”
It was on the tip ot my tongue to tell her bit
terly that she need not be airaid bt Yorke’s
troubling her again, but I bit my lip, and cheek
ed the words. The broach was wide enough iu
all conscience, and wanted no enlarging. In
stead, 1 said indignantly:
“ And you mean to say that you’re absolutely
going on with this farce—this engagement
while you feel like this? Look hero, Nat—it’s a
burning shame, whichever way you look at it I
How on earth do you think you’re going to bring
yourself to marry this confounded 1 imp-post ot
a stockbroker while you love Roger Yorke ?
You may say what you like, but I say you do
love him—you know you do I And you have
Fraser Fronde’s ring on your finger there I It
ought*to burn you—by Jove it ought!”
If it had indeed burned her, she could hardly
have torn it off more quickly or dashed it down
more passionately than she did as I spoke.
The ring rolled across the carpet, aud I stared
stupidly after it, finally asking:
“ And what’s that for ?”
“Because I hate it I” she answered vehem
ently. “ I—l had forgotten it. Don’t pick it up.
I loathe the sight of it I”
“ H’m !'* I said, deliberately. “if I were you
I’d pitch the g.vor after it. Let it lie, by all
means; 1 don’t want to touch it. But doos it
mean that you’re going to do that?”
“Do what ?”
“Be sensible, and throw Fraser Froude over,
of course.”
“No,” she returned, a sudden flush of color
rushing into her cheeks, “it does not mean
that. 1 had no right to take it off. 1 did not
mean to take it off. Pick it up for me.”
“ And will you put it on again ?”
“ Yes,” she said, obstinately.
“Very well. But look here, Nat—once off
your Anger, that ring shouldn’t go on again.
You have no right to wear it.”
“No right I What do you mean ? ’
“That you have no business to wear a ring
given you by any man but Koger Yorke,” I re
turned, doggedly, looking straight at her.
Quite calmly and coldly she looked back at
mo, and I saw her little dark face harden and
sot as it had done on tho previous day in the
laurel alley by the gate in the park fence.
“Ned,’ she said, quietly, “am 1 to pick that
up, or will you?”
“ Ob, all right!”—and I shrugged my shoul
ders. “As you please, ot course. Am I to
pick it up or not ?”
“ it you do not, I shall.”
I crossed over and picked up the ring, and,
bringing it back, tossed it into her lap. It fell
upon her Augers, and at its touch she shivered
with about as much aversion as she might
havo shown at the touch of the hand ot its
giver. As she did not attempt to touch it, I
said, ironically:
“ Perhaps I had better put it on for you.
Shall I?”’
But, instead of answering, she burst into a
passion of weeping. Ido not think I ever seen
a woman cry Lke that before, and I was utterly
scared, wondering what on earth Madam would
say should she chanoe to come in and And us.
It was fortunate that Nat stopped when she did,
or I should have done something desperate.
“1 say, Nat—you ought to have some wine or
something,” I said, a good deal softened.
“ This sort of thing won’t do, you know. You
will havo aAt of hysterics next. Is there any
wine up hero ?”
“No,” she answered, petulantly; “I don’t
want wine—it will only make my head throb
more than it doos now. Fetch my oau-de Col
ogne, if you like—it is in the next room.”
“ All right. Where shall I find it?”
“Ask ior it. She is there—mademoiselle.
Madam sent her to sit with me, but I can’t bear
her in my sight. She will give it to you.”
Fearing a second outbreak if I did not hurry,
I crossed the room quickly to the door of com
munication between it and the next, and went
in. My entrance was startlingly abrupt, I sup
p >se, lor it was followed by a low cry of sur
prise and fright] ana a figure which had been
bending eagerly over the dressing-table, exam
ining something by the light of a candle, turned
a pale lace and scared eyes upon me as 1 ad
vanced, while something rattled from its fin
gers, failing to the ground like a sparkling
string. Then I uttered an exclamation, too,
for the woman who had been bonding so eager
ly and secretly over the dressing table, that
was strewn with the glittering contents of Nat
alie’s _ewel cases, was not Lucille Valdini, but
Virtue Dent.
Yes, Virtue Dent! And, of all the frightened,
disconcerted faces which I ever remember to
have seen, 1 think this girl’s was the most so,
always excepting the time when I had found her
crouched behind the clump of bushes iu the
park on the frosty night when Raby St. George
had made his first appearance at Mount Cha
vasse.
She did not even drop her usual demure curt
sey—an action which always seemed mechanical
with her—but merely raised her pale-colored
eyes to mine deprecatingly, her thin fingers flut
tering nervously. So we stood lor a minute, I
should think, the diamond necklace which she
had let fall sparkling and glittering on the car
pet between us. At last I said sharply :
“ What are you doing herd, Virtue ? ’
“ N-nothing, sir,” she stammered confusedly,
and stooped to pick up the necklace.
“ I thought mademoiselle was here ?” I went
on, glancing round.
“So she was, sir. But her head ached, and
so she asked me to come and sit here while she
went to lie down, for fear Miss Natalie called
and wanted anything,” tho girl returned, look
ing from me to the toilet-table aud back again.
“ Oh, I see 1 Where’s Valla ?”
“Down in the housekeeper’s room, sir. Her
teeth ache dreadfully, and Mrs. Batterbin’s
afraid she’ll have to have one out. Does Miss
Natalie want anything, sir r”
“ Yes. Give me her eau-de-Cologne, will you ?
I suppose you know where it is.”
She went to the other end of the room to get
it, coming back in a moment with a dainty little
gold-stoppered cut-glass bottle. As I took it, I
looked back at the glittering mass lying there
in the dull light of the one candle, aud at the
empty cases.
“I say, Virtue—does Miss Orme leave her
things about like that ?”
“N-no, sir,” she faltered, turning as red as
the cherry-colored ribbon on her cap ; “ only—'
only——”
“ Only what
“ Only last night she left the key in the cabi
net, and just now I saw it, and hadn’t anything
to do, and so I thought it would be no harm just
to look at them. That’s all.”
A great liberty, all things considered, I
thought, supposing it was all; but I did not
say so.
“ Well, I’d put them away now if I were you;
they're a good deal too valuable to be played
with. Miss Orme forgot last night, I suppose.
Lock the cabinet and bring the key to her in the
next room.” * \ T f
“ Yes, sir,” she answered hurriedly, and turn
ing to thg table, to put the things back
into their cases as fast as her thin hands could
move. With the bottle of eau-de-Cologne in my
hand, I went back to Natalie.
Sho was quiet enough now, and thanked me
almost in her usual manner, but on the baud
she held out I saw Fraser Fronde’s ring shining
again. She meant to be obstinate—that was ev
ident—and in more ways than one too, for, try
as I would now, I could get no further word out
o' her, and was at last fretfully desired to go
down stairs and leave her to herself—a pettish
request which I complied with just as Virtue
came in softly with the key of the jewel cabinet,
and as the dinner bell was clanging away its
loudest down stairs.
A dolelul dinner it was, and served to a dole
ful couple of diners. Madam merely toyed with
her knife and fork, and sent her plates away,
one after another, barely touched, and I was al
most as bad. Natalie would not come down,
sending a message to the effect that she was
tired and would go to bed, and mademoiselle,
on the plea of continued headache, kept up
stairs too. *
That wretched ball was partly to blame for
our low spirits, 1 dare say, lor I am sure I sat
yawning until my eyes watered; at any rate, it
was not ten o'clock when we both gave up the
pretence of being sociable, and said good-night,
Madam bestowing upon me an affectionate sa
lute—a piece of ceremony which she never in
dulged in unless unusually troubled or soft
ened. And I went drowsily and drearily up
stairs, sleepily wishing two things—that I pos
sessed some spell capable of neatly and com
fortably annihilating Fraser Froude, and that I
had one yet stronger which should bo able to
keep Koger Yorke in Whittlesford.
CHAFTEn" XXXI.
“ Natalie’s jewels have been stolen !”
I do not know exactly what passed between
Madam and her ward on the subject of that
miserable engagement. AU I know is that, com
ing down rather late on the following morning,
yawning and feeling that 1 had still considera
ble arrears of sleep to make up, I found both
Nat and my mother already in the breakfast
room, and saw in a moment that whatever ex
planation there had been to make between the
two was over. And by and by, when the meal
was finished, and Madam called me into her lit
tle office room to help her with a batch of busi
ness letters, I was none the wiser, lor she only
told me calmly, although still with the heavy
look of trouble upon her face, that for the pres
ent at least she could do nothing, and that she
wus too worried to talk about it any further. So
I had to repress my impatient curiosity, and ap
ply myself to my letters.
They were a pretty heavy batch, for the ball
had upset Madam’s usual methodical exactness,
and when they were disposed of it was close on
luncheon time. A message from old Batterbin
called Madam away as we crossed the hall, and
going to the morning room, where tho interval
between breakfast and luncheon was asually
spent, I found that the chair in which Nat had
been sitting was vacant—that only Mademoiselle
Valdini was there. She was on the opposite side
of the fire, knitting away at some white woollen
work.
“Hallo!” I said, looking round—“where’s
Nat, mademoiselle ?”
“Mademoiselle Natalie has gone out,” re
turned tho lady, equably.
“Out?” I echoed, with a blank look at the
window. “ Why, it’s snowing like one o’clock !
What on earth did she do that ior?”
“ She did say that the house did choke her,
and that she should scream if she did not have
tho air,” answered Mademoiselle composedly,
“She oughtn’t to have gone. A fine fuss
Madam will make ! It’s enough to give her her
death of cold. How awfully foolish
“Bah, Monsieur Ned,” cried the governess
impatiently, giving her needles a click—“ it is
you that are foolish, I think 1 Mademoiselle
Natalie is not what you do call an enfant — a
babeo—that she cannot look after herself, if it
does snow and she does not like it, she will
coma in. She did go ot her own accord.”
Just so ; but it seemed to me that in her pres
ent state of mind, Miss Nat might do a good
many things of her own accord which could not
be accounted precisely sensible, though I did
not choose to say so to mademoiselle. Instead,
I went out into the hall, put on my hat and
overcoat, and, calling to old Styles, who passed
toward the plate-room with a tray filled with
spoons and forks, to tell Madame that I had
gone to fetch Miss Orme, I went out.
She would be somewhere in tho park, I
guessed, and tramped off down tho drive, first
peering between the clumps of bushes and thick
trees, but failing to catch a glimpse of the car
dinal-red dress which I knew she had on. Evi
dently she was not on the lodge side, for, al
though I whistled and called her name loudly,
I received no reply. Turning back again, I
crossed over and got into the Lady’s Walk and
made my way toward the littlo gate in the fence,
wondering if she could be there. No, there was
no signs of her, and then a sudden thought
struck mo that she had probably wandered off
to the little lake, where, m the Summer, I had
taught her to row. It bad always been a favor
ite spot ot hers, and in fine weather was a pleas
ant enough lounging place, though it made me
shudder to think what it must be like on such
a day as this. No doubt I should find the ridicu
lous little goose trying to freeze herself to death
there ! The snow was falling faster now, and I
quickened my rapid walk into a run, hurrying
down the broad path which led to the lake. I
was almost in sight of it, and was congratulat
ing myself on the luck of having thought to
bring a thick shawl over my arm, when a sud
den sound on my right brought mo to an abrupt
halt. I heard Natalie’s voice, and a man’s which
lat once recognized. Springing in among the
trees and round the trunk of a huge oak, I came
upon them, standing in a little clearing carpeted
by the dead leaves which the wind had not yet
swept away and scattered, Nat looking pale,
angry, frightened—all at once—and close before 1
her—so close that he could have touched her—
Baby St. George. i
I have said how she looked, but his face, its
dark beauty distorted with passion, and ot a
dull white pallor, was quite horrible. What
ever it was that she had last said, it seemed for
tho moment to have stricken him dumb, lor he
stood with his eyes dilating as he glared upon
her pale, scared, defiant face, and his arms
hanging beside him as though they had been
arrested in some passionate gesture. Then Nat
alie made a quick start as if to leave him, and
in an instant his hand upon her stopped her and
pulled her back. That was more than I could
stand. I sprang toward him, clutched his shoul
der. and dragged him back with such violence
that he staggered and then fell heavily among
the leaves.
I did not mean to use so much force, for I was
stronger than he as well as a head and shoul
ders tailor, but my blood was up just then. He
rose almost as quickly as he had fallen, and
stood eyeing me, his breath coming fast.
“ You will be sorry for this one day, Chavasse,”
he said slowly, bringing out the words with a
short pause between each.
He breathed as though he had been running
violently.
“I’m sorry enough now,” I answered, for
though I did not like him, yot I did not want to
hurt tho fellow, in his feelings or otherwise.
“ But it isn’t my fault, you know. Whatever
you have to say to Miss Orme must be said with
out that sort of thing, Mr. St. George.”
“ What do you mean ?” he demanded fiercely.
“What I say, ’ I returned doggedly, putting
one arm round Nat's shoulders, for she had
given a scream and was now clinging to me—
that I won’t see her treated as 1 wouldn’t see
my sister treated if I had one, and 1 say that
that sort of thing won’t do. We’re not used to
it. Gentlemen in England don’t as a rule bully
women. And, as I came out to take Misa Orme
in, it would be as well if you put off what you
want to say to her until some other time, if you
please,” 1 concluded, flustered in my way as
much as he was in his.
“ As I havo had my dismissal from her, I need
not stop to take it from you,” ho retorted. “But
I tell you at parting, Ned Chavasse, that, if you
are sorry now, and the day ever comes when the
madness which is in my blood rages in yours,
you will bo more sorry yet.”
He said not another word, nor waited for any
reply, but without a glance at Natalie, turned
and disappeared rapidly among the trees. The
snow was coming clown" so thickly now that the
traces ot his footsteps were blotted out almost
as they were made, and Nat, still holding fast to
my arm with her face hidden against my sleeve,
was shuddering violently, although I hardly
thought with cold. I put the shawl round her.
“Come, Nat—we must hurry. This is awful.
A tine cold you’ll catch ! It was lucky I found
you. What made you go out ?”
“The house stifled me,” she muttered.
“ Ugh ! That’s better than having the snow
bury you. How came that fellow here alter
you ?”
“ He saw me, and followed me.”
“What for?”
“ Ob, as though you did not know !” she cried
impatiently. “For mercy’s sake, do not tor
ment me, Ned ! He came to plague me as he
has plagued me before, and to threaten me as
he used to threaten me in Jamaica, when I was
first afraid of him.”
“Threaten?” I interrogated indignantly.
“ Yes —threaten. If you had listened you
would have heard. It does not matter—nothing
matters. I don’t think we shall ever see him
again—l hope not. Do hurry—l am so cold.”
From the tone of her voice I knew there would
be little use in saying anything else, so held my
tongu-egas I helped her through the narrow
paths leading to the Lady’s Walk, and so on up
to the house.
Tho hall was empty, and, as I took off the
snow-laden shawl and assisted her to unbutton
her fur jacket, a sudden thought made me ask:
“Isay, Nat—you didn’t tell St. George that
you were—that you were ”
“Engaged to Mr. Froude? ’ she put in, look
ing at me deliberately. “ Yes—l told him.”
* . * r »
All ths rest of the dsy the snow lasted,
although falling less thickly, and I did not, as 1
had intended, walk into VVhittleslord to see
Yorke; but the next morning was bright enough,
and alter luncheon I set off, knowing that that
was as good a time as any to catch my Iriend at
home. But I was disappointed, lor old Dizarte,
whom I found having a nap by tho fire iu the
dining-room, with his red silk handkerchief
over his bald head, told me that Boger had
left ior Market Waxford an hour before. Cow
drick the banker had taken a turn for the
worse, it eeemed.
I stayed a few minutes talking, for the old
Doctor was full of bis “ boy’s” new freak to
leave Whittlesford, and was glad to have any
one to whom he could enlarge upon his griev
ance. Getting away by no moans more cheertul
lor our talk, I stood hesitating at the gates of
Redpots. no| caring as yet to go back to Cha
vasse, which seemed io have had a cloud upon
tever since the night of that luckless ball. I
was just debating whether or not I should en
deavor to cheer myself up by turning in at the
Rectory lor a chat, when a dog-cart, bowling
swlltly down the road, pulled up iu front o! me,
and I looked up to recognize the Lodge vehicle,
with Major Constable in it, looking very brown
and jolly, and his man beside him holding in
the spirited bay mare.
“ What are you after here ?” the major asked,
bending down to shake hands. “Yorke, 1
suppose—eh ?” . . . „
“Yes; and he isn’t here, worse luck I Where
are you off to?"
“I? Oh, Bridgely Norton !”—a busy town
some eight miles on that aide of Whittlesford.
“ I’ve some business there."
“Then I wish I had,” I said, laughing. “I’d
come if there was room.”
“Wouldyou care to? All right then; Jones
can go back, provided that youTl undertake to
drive. I can’t manage that with one arm, you
see. Jump up !”—as the man descended. It’s
a glorious aiternoon for a drive.”
So it was; and the drive and the major’s
oheerlul company pretty well dispelled the
“ blues” for the time being.
His business took longer to transact than he
had expected, and it was late when he got back
to Whittlesford—seven struck as he pulled up
the mare at the Lodge gates. I drove oil' again
pretty rapidly, for the major had insisted that 1
should not walk, and I do not think it was a
quarter ol an hour later when I reached Cha
vasse.
Telling the man who came to take the reins
to look well after tho mare before driving her
back, I hurried into the hall, wondei'in'g how
much time I had spare before dinner. But
my coat was not ofi before I was considerably
startled by something—the sound from the li
brary, the door ot which stood open, of half a
fiepre of excited voices all talking at once.
'Lherb Ware Madam’s clear tones, 4 little higher
than usual, and some shrill, voluble sentences
in French from mademoiselle; Nat’s voice, old
Styles’s feeble treble, and half a dozen others,
among whom I recognized Virtue Dent’s.
Hurrying across the corridor, I went in.
Madam stood in the middle of the excited
group; old Styles was trembling like a leaf;
poor old Batterbin was sobbing loudly in com
pany with three or four of the maids; madem
oiselle was gesticulating most excitedly and
ponring out scraps of mingled French and En
glish at a rapid rate, and Natalie, very pale and
quiet, stood close at my mother’s side. Valla
was there, but she and Virtue Dent stood to
gether, a little apart from the rest. What could
be the matter? I wondered, glancing from one
face to the other before asking:
41 What in the world is up ? Anything wrong,
mother?”
“ Wrong 1” Madam echoed, tragically, and,
coming forward, sho put her hand upon my
shoulder. “Worse than that. Ned, there has
been a robbery here. Natalie’s jewels have
been stolon. Every stone is gone 1”
(To ba Continual.!
AN AFFECTING SCENE.
A Circus Manager Breaks Down in
Parting With a Favorite Horse.
It was after the auction was over.
His ring horses bad been sold, when Cole
discovered that unintentionally three particular
duns had been allowed to go. They had been
with him since the earlier days of his venture
in the circus business and had aided him in ac
cumulating the $500,000 that he now possesses.
They seemed like a part of his own family and
were as affectionate with one another as three
kittens.
He determined not to part with them under
the circumstances, and seeking out the pur
chaser bought them back. Then turning to Mr.
W. B. Leonard, the livery stableman, who was
standing by, he said that he would never con
sent to h|ye those horses pass into the
of anyone who would make them work. He
could not think of their being driven to a wagon,
cart or dray, receiving blows and abuse from
careless owners or cruel drivers. They should
be bled to death. This was his determination,
as he thought it would be an easy mode of
putting them out of the world and away from
laborious duties. Mr. Leonard suggested that
the use of chloroform would be a better and
less painful mode. This was finally decided
on and a reliable man procured who was to
have performed the operation.
They were all collected in the circus tent.
There were Cole, Leonard, the riders and the
clowns, the ring-master, the tumblers and
leapers and the three pet dune. Calling the
little mare by name one of the actors told her to
kiss them all good-by. Ae if sho knew the fate
awaiting her. the intelligent animal, stretching
forward her head, kissed each and every one an
affectionate farewell.
This was more than they could stand. Tears
glistened in every eye, and tho sacrifice was put
off. Colo had no place to take thorn to, no farm,
no stable. So, Mr. Leonard promised to find
some one who would assumo charge of them
under a guarantee never to work them, but to
keep them in good order until old age should
claim them for the grave. This ho did, and the
three old circus horses, well fed and cared for,
will dash no more around the sawdust ring.
A WOMaTiN IT.
BY A SECRET SERVICE DETECTIVE.
From 1861 to 1866 I was personally cognizant
of at least fifty instances of embezzlement from
the Government by amployees and officials at
Washington, and in every case but one the vic
tim owed hts downfall to a woman. During the
rush and excitement of those days Uncle Sam
was more careless ot his money than he is now,
and the opportunities for peculation were
numerous. Of the smaller cases not more than
one out of five reached tho public ear. If the
amount was comparatively small there was a
settlement of some sort, and if it was large the
bondsmen quietly came forward.
At the beginning ol 18611 was detailed to look
after the various paymasters as they visited
Washington. My business was to know each
one by sight, see where he stopped, what places
he visited, how much money he used, what com
pany ho kept, and report on what kind of a man
be was generally. The great majority were all
right, and I was put to no trouble to watch
them, but there were others whom it was neces
sary to keep under surveillance from the hour
they entered the city after their money until
they were back in the military linos. One of
these mon was a single man, 28 years of ago,
whom I will call 1 aynor. Ho had a frank, hon
est face, his bonds had been readily signed by
men ot influence, and there were plenty who
predicted for him a brilliant career.
When he was first put on my list he lived in
Baltimore, and was engaged to tho daughter of
a wealthy citizen of that place. He afterward
came to Washington and took bachelor’s apart
ments. Once in two months he went away with
his money to pay certain troops, but he had a
great deal of time on his hands.
In the Fall ot ’6l there came to Washington,
from no one knew where, one ot the handsom
est women it was ever my luck to see. It was
said that she was an English widow, but that
was only a surmise. She was as bad as sho
was beautiful, and she had not been in the city
a fortnight, when she made a dead set at Ray
nor. She was the gossip of the clubs, and
scores of high-toned ladies walked up and
down Pennsylvania avenue ot an aiternoon on
purpose to get sight of her.
There were plenty of men who went crazy
over “The Countess,” as she was called, but
she saved her smiles for Raynor. Had there
been less excitement over her presence, he
might not have fallen into the trap, but, as it
was, he became an easy victim. I found it out
as soon as any one, and I felt certain that a
climax of some sort would occur within a tew
weeks.
Raynor was getting a pretty good salary, and
bad a few hundred dollars in bank, and his
money went like the wind. His first present to
her was a diamond ring, costing $!'.)•?, and his
second a pair ol bracelets, costing $250.
Of all the infatuations in the catalogue that of
the man of sense who gets struck on an adven
turess is the worst. The fact ot his having
sense and being ordinarily level-headed seems
to work against him in such a case. I sent
Raynor’s best friends and heaviest bondsmen
to him to argue matters, but he either lied to
them outright or stood boldly up and argued
the question, claiming to some ot them that he
intended to marry her. I went to her in person
and tried to scare her out of Washington, but
she impudently defied me. I had an idea that
there were other parties behind her, and that
she was working for big money, and this idea
was correct. I had the pair under surveillance
for about six weeks. By ibis time Raynor had
used up all his ready cash, stripped himself of
jewelry, and borrowed money of everybody who
would lend. 1 knew that the climax could not
be tar off.
When the time came for him to draw his
money to pay the troops in his department, 1
did not lose sight ot the woman ior more than
three hours at a time. Raynor was to take out
over SIOO,OOO and proceed with it to a portion ot
Grant’s army. The money would bo placed in
a sale at the Treasury Department, the sale
placed in an ambulance, and he would have an
escort of cavalry to go with him. He
tried in the most energetic manner to get
his money out of the Treasury in the
forenoon of the day he was to leave, and would
have succeeded but lor me. Ho would then
have made some excuse to delay his departure
until the following day.
What was to happen I learned from the
woman two or three months later, after she
had been “pinched” for blackmailing a Sena
tor. She was the tool of a ring who were play
ing for a big stake. Raynor was to get the
money and abscond with her to Europe. They
had even gone so far as to engage passage on a
steamer. She was to get him out of Washing
ton with the cash and before reaching New
York was to ply him with drugged wine. Ho
would enter the city in a stupefied state, and a
carriage was to be in waiting to drive him to a
house iu Brooklyn, where he was to be detained
for two or three days. Having his money, “the
Countess ” and her confederates were to lose
no time in getting out of the country. It
needed only my story to put the Government on
guard, and when Raynor got his money he had
no opportunity for delaying his departure or
getting his bands on a dollar of it. When ho
returned the woman had other game. He
seemed to got his eyes open then, and from that
time out he was one of the most circumspect ol
officials. 1 met him in Pittsburg one day long
after tho close of tho war, aud ho confidentially
asked:
“ I have heard that you once had me under
espionage. Is it true?”
“ I think I once saved you from being dis
graced for life,” I answered.
He shook my hand and said no more. I
thiuk he
THEY PIgAJIEAKED.
FUNNY INCIDENT ON THE RAIL
(.From the Atlanta Constitution,)
1 witnessed an amusing littlo incident one
day list week, which happened on the Savan
nah, Griffin and North Alabama Railroad, be
tween Carrollton and Newnan. 1 was returning
from Carrollton to Atlanta. Tho train leaves
Carrollton about an hour before day. They
have a peculiar and novel way over in Carroll
county of signaling a train when a person wants
to get aboard between stations. He has only
to build up a camptire, and when the tram
heaves in sight and the engineer sees a blazing
light ahead he does not reverse his engine aud
call for brakes to avoid a fatal catastrophe, but
simply comes to a gradual stand-still, ior he at
once knows it is not a danger signal, but a
signal that informs him some one desires to get
on.
On the morning in question, when about two
miles out from Carrollton, the engineer rounded
a sharp curve, which revealed to him one of
these familiar signals. The would-be passen
gers wore evidently experimenting with their
first signal lights, or they would have built
their fire on the “straight line,” so the engineer
could have seen it in time to stop by the time
he carpe up tq them. But, be.ng built in the
place il was, it was impossible lop him to stop
short ot a quarter of a mile. As it nappefied,
the train run far enough before coming to a
stand-still to put a trestle (that spanned a little
creek between the now disgruntled signalers
and tho train. It was very cold that morning,
the ground being covered with a big white irost.
The trestle was about til teen feet high, and the
water was probably two and a half or three feet
deep.
As soon as we found our “bearings,” the
conductor knew that there was a trestle be
tween tho waiting train and the men, who were
then running as fast ae their feet could carry
them, for fear the train would leave before they
could reach it, did not know that there was dan
ger of their falling through. By this time sev
eral passengers had collected on the back plat
form to witness what they wore sure would be
an accident. They could see but very littlo,
but could hear the tramp, tramp of the running
men who were getting nearer and nearer to the
trestle, which was to furnish fun or sadness to
the watching passengers. Closer and closer
they came, laughing and talking, little dream
ing of the accident that seemed inevitable, un
less they were in some way warned and checked
before they could reach it.
“They will run onto that trestle and be
killed 1” shouted the conductor.
“ Somebody tell them to stop 1” yelled an
other.
“ That trestle is a mile deep 1” chimed in the
funny passenger.
“ Oh I” sighed the little nervous lady.
I stood there and laughed—wrong, perhaps,
but the thought of what 1 was about to witness
tickled me and I couldn't help it.
The men came on.
The conductor waved his lantern and yelled
at them.
The mon did not hear him, but they saw the
lantern waving.
“ They are fixing to go 1” said one of the run
ning men.
“ They are almost onto the trestle 1” ventured
the accommodating bell-cord puller.
,‘ Oh, Maria, tell 'em to stop 1” came from the
funny passenger.
“ Oh, Lord, save them I” pleaded the good
little lady.
“ Where is the train hand ?” asked one.
“ Send him back 1” cried another.
“Too late 1” again ecreamed the good little
woman.
“Now they’ve struck it,” said the conductor.
There was a painful silence for a minute.
“Kercbug !” went one of
“Ugh I” came from another.
“Thunder I” rang out on the c<Vb frosty air,
from the other.
The men had disappeared.
Not a man was hurt.
“Was it deep?” asked one of the passengers
of the man who was hugging the stove, (Vying’
his thoroughly wet clothes.
“Deep’s fur es I went I” he snapped bettfaon
his chattering teeth.
“ Was it cold ?”
“ ’Spect it ter be warm ?”
Silence.
RENT COLLECTIONS.
AMUSING INCIDENTS IN IRELAND
(Jrom Chambers's Journal.)
The collection of rents in Ireland is often an
unpleasant duty, but amusing incidents some
times arise. Last year, a farmer in the county
of Cavan, came to mo on the rent-day and said
he could not pay more than half the sum he
owed. He had much to tell of losses, bad times
and low prices, and I listened with patience un
til he had finished. I then reminded him that
his rent had been reduced under the Land Act,
and that L had voluntarily cancelled a consider
able arrear, and I firmly refused to accept less
than the full amount. Mickey Sheridan—that
was his name—was married, and I knew his
wife ruled the roast.
“Now, Mickey,” said I, “you ought to be
ashamed of yourself I After what has been
done to relieve you, I did expect you to behave
better. lam sure your wife would not approve
of your conduct.'’
Mickey had frequently confided to mo that
“herself”—nis wife—gave him “a sore life,”
and I desired to learn how far she had meddled
in this matter.
Alter some hesitation, he replied : “ Well, sir,
if ye won’t discover ou me, 111 tell ye the
thru th. Herself advised me to pay only half
the rent. She’s a good scholar, an’ reads the
papers, an’ she tells me a new Land Act will
soon be passed an’ all arrears wiped out. Will
yer honor take the half year ?”
“ No, Mickey, I cannot. Be honest and pay
the money you owe. I feel sure you have it all
in your pocket.”
That was a hit, for Mickey, with an Irish peas
ant s quick sense of the humor of the situation,
replied :
“ Begorra, it’s in two pockets ! Herself made
up the two half-years in separate parcels, an’
put thim into different pockets, to prevint any
mistake, an’ I was only to give yer honor one of
thim, if I could manage it. But here’s the full
money, an’ maybe it’s best to keep out of debt.”
A few weeks later, when 1 was collecting rents
in the county of Longford, one of the principal
tenants came forward, before any money had
been paid, as the spokesman of thirty others
who were present, and asked for an abate
ment.
“ Why, Pat Molloy,” said I, “ you and all
here hold your farms at reduced rents, which
you agreed to pay under an amicable arrange
ment made only two years ago and according to
the provisions of the Land Act. I cannot do
what you ask, but if you really have not the
full year’s rent, I will accept throe-fourths of it
and give you a reasonable time to pay the re
mainder.”
“We thank yer honor,” said Pat, “an’here
is my money.”
“ How much did you give me ?” said I, after
I had carefully twice counted the bundle o!
notes.
“Thirty pounds, sir; an’ all in one-pound
notes, an’ enure it’s the hard work I had to
make it !’•
“Och, thrue for ye, Pat Molloy,” said a voice
behind him; “faith, it’s not aisy to make the
rint those times !”
“ Well, Pat,” said I, “ you have given me
thirty-nine pounds, and I now have the pleasure
of handing you the receipt for the same.”
Whether the ten-pound note had been paid to
Pat Molloy in mistake for one pound, and its
value was unknown to him, or that he had omit
ted to take it out of the bundle, could only be
matter of conjecture. He kept a close mouth
and left the room.
The misadventure ot their leader broke up
the concerted union of the tenants, and when 1
announced, after Molloy departed, that I should
insist on full payments—seeing ten-pound notes
were apparently plentiful in the district—nearly
all the tenants came forward and paid.
it is well known that a great part of the thirty
million of deposits held by the laish joint-stock
banks have been lodged by farmers. I have
often received deposit receipts when collecting
rents. I remember a thrifty man who used to
lodge his savings when they reached even five
pounds. On the rent-day, it was his annual
custom to enlarge on the badness of the times
and the low prices ; but he invariably supplied
the best refutation of his statements by produc
ing a number of deposit receipts for small sums
and indorsing them with much pride.
When the land agitation was at its hight a few
years ago, a friend of mine was collecting rents
one day in a town in the county of Leitrim. He
was seated in a large room of a hotel, and near
ly fifty tenants were present. Very little money
had been paid. Abatements were asked which
the agent had no power to make, and there was
more conversation than business going on.
But my friend understands the Irish character
and its love of talk, and be knew that if he per
mitted the men to expatiate on the reasons why
they could not pay, ho would be more likely
finally to get the money : so he patiently list
ened to the usual jeremiads and bided his
time. But fortune favored him. The ring
leader, or chief land-leaguer among the assem
bled tenants, was Denis Lynch. He held a
small farm, but was also a cattle-dealer, and his
time was of value to him, and finding he could
extract no further concession from the agent,
who had offered a fair abatement, he announced
that he would pay a half-year’s rent.
“ I must be off,” he said, “ to the fair of Boyle,
sir, an’ can’t delay here, like those men. Here
is a deposit receipt for ten pounds, an’ the half
year’s rint is nine pounds. But be all the saints,
yer honor, I made the little thritle by dealing,
an’ not out of the farm !”
“ Well, Denis,” said the agent, “ you could
not deal in cattle without a farm to feed and rest
your stock, and I have told you that lam in
structed not to accept less than a year’s rent.
But”—glancing at the deposit receipt, which he
had taken from the man, and turning it down
on the table—“indorse this receipt, and I will
consider your case.”
Lynch wrote his name across the back of the
document, and the other, adding his own signa
ture said to his clerk:
“Take this receipt to the bank up the street
and fetch me pound-notes for it.”
He then proceeded to fill a form of receipt for
a year’s rent, and handed it to Lynch, who was
astute enough to see that he might profit by
what he supposed was an error, and quietly
folded up the receipt and put it into his pocket.
When the clerk returned, the agent said :
“Now, Denis, here is your change,” and be
began counting and pushing across the table, to
the astonished tenant, note after note.
“O. sir,’ cried Lynch, “ what are ye doin’ at
all?” ’ *
“ jYby, Denis,” replied the other, “ I am pay
ing what is due to you. You gave me a deport
for om> taaflK'J ponbas ; y?u baVa got
a rodSipt for I year’s rent, and here are eighty
two one-pound notes, together with eighteen
shilinga in silver, which is five per cent, dis
count on your rent. You can’t blame ms for re
taining a year's rent—you accepted a receipt for
it. And, indeed, when a man has hundreds at
his banker’s, he may fairly be required to pay
his rent in full. Yet I make you an allowance.
You cannot suppose, alter what has taken place
and your readiness to avail yourself of what you
believed to be an error in the rent receipt, that
you should receive the ten per cent, abatement
offered to the tenants generally. I have given
you half of it, not wishing to be severe. But
your tricks have not succeeded, and I hope you
won’t forget the lesson of to-day, and that you
will remember in future that honesty is the best
policy.”
All eyes in the room were turned on Lynch,
who hastily gathered up the notes and stuffed
them into bis pockets, and as he made bis way
to the door, he was heard to murmur, “ Begorra,
’twas the wrong receipt I ’
lie departed, feeling ho had lost all title to
leadership, and as men will still worship suc
cess, even when accidental, many voices joined
in complimenting “ his honor, who was too
jharp for Denis Lynch, who thought to act the
rogue, but met wid a mistake, glory be to
God 1”
“His honor” was soon busily employed in
receiving the full rents, which nearly all the
tenants had brought with them. But he be
lieves his collection on that day would have
been a very small one, it Denis Lynch had not
presented the “wrong” deposit receipt.
WHO WAS TO JLIdFTiRST ?
Two Canarias Teach Two Children a
Lesson in Politeness.
(From the Youth’s Companion.}
The very first snow of the season had come—
just enough to slide on without going in over
your boots.
It was a sunny November day, and Ted and
Mamie were out on the terrace, all ready for
fun.
Mamie wore her blue hood and red mittens.
Her eyes matched the hood and her cheeks
matched the mittens. She wanted the first
slide down the terrace.
“ Oh, please let me, Teddy !” she begged in a
happy flutter.
“No,” said Ted, “I’m going to elide first,
’cause I’m the oldest. ’Sides, it’s my sled.”
“ Then you're a mean boy,” said Mamie.
“Say much and I’ll glide all the time,” an
swered Ted, coolly.
Wasn’t it a pity that a quarrel should cloud
the beautiful bright day? Mamma thought so.
She had opened the window to get a handinl of
fresh snow, and she heard it all.
“ Ted! Mamie! ’ she called, “ I am going to
give Tony and Cleo a bath. Don’t you want to
see ?”
They came, hanging back a little.
“ Ob, yes !” cried Mamie.
It was yet one of her delights to watch the
now canaries bathe.
Ted didn’t say anything; he didn’t care much
about such fun himself. But he looked on
while mamma took off the cage bottom and set
the cage over a glass dish lull of water on the
oil-cloth mat.
Tony bopped to the lowest perch with an
eager flutter and dipped his yellow bill in the
water. Then all at onoe he seemed to remem
ber something.
Ho looked up at Cleo.
“ Chip, chip, chip ! ’ said ho.
Cleo understood.
“Chee up I” she answered, softly.
Then down she came, and into the water she
went, while Tony stood by and sang as if ha
meant to burst his little throat.
When Cleo had finished her bath, he took W
his, scattering the water drops like rain. J
Mamma looked at Teddy. —
“ What do you think of it ?” she asked, with a
twinkle.
‘‘l think Tony’s a little gentleman," answered
led, promptly—“and I’m going to be one, too.
You can slide first, Mamie.”
“No, you can,” said Mamie.
„ !° 806 wh ° shouldn’t be first this time.
Btftleddy conquered.
AN OLD TIME RACE.
THREE HEATS OF FOUR MILES
EACH._
“ Talk about racing,” said an old-timer to a
Courier-Journal reporter. “There is no racing
now. Six-furlong and mile dashes, sometimes
a mile and a half, and a long time between the cup
distance. And a heat race of over mile heats is
a rarity, indeed, now. Why, it is no good at all.
Just look back to the good old dayaof four-mil®
heats, when it was running all around every
time, too. That was racing worth seeing.. Now,
by the time you got the colors well fixed in your
mind for the start, the finish has been made and
the thing’s all over. It is extremely unsatisfy
ing to an old stager, I tell you. You have hoard
ot the great run Gray Eagle, oj Kentucky, gave
Wagner, the pride of Louisiana, on the old Oak
land course. Well, I was looking through some
old papers, a few days ago, and in a sporting
journal of the year 183 i) 1 camo across this de
scription of the race. Now, if yon want to read
about a race that was a race, just road that,”
and the old gentleman handed the reporter the
clipping which is printed below. It is an inter
esting description of a race that was one of th®
greatest of ye olden time.
“The champion of Louisiana is the victor,
and nobly has he won his laurels; but the Gray
Eagle of Kentucky has tins day won a place in the
annals of the turf that might ba envied by the
best race-horse the world ever saw. His per
formances to-day not only throws in the shade
any ever before made in this State, but is supe
rior to any raco ever before run south of the
Potomac. Such an assemblage ot tbo talent,
beauty, and chivalry of the Stale was never
seen as presented to-day on the Oakland
course. Kentucky’s most distinguished sons
and her loveliest daughters were gathered here
in one lustrous galaxy. Not loss than
two thousand equestrians were upon the
ground, while the multitudes in tho stand and
within the enclosed space could not be less
than ten thousand. The track was in fine
order and the day delightful. Owing to the
thousand ills which even horseflesh is heir to,
but four nominations came to the post —Wag
ner, ot Louisiana, and Gray Eagle, Queen
Mary and Hawk-Eye, of Kentucky. Everyone
seemed inclined to back his favorite, and con
siderable sums were laid out. Wagner against
the field was current on all sides, while
Gray Eagle was backed freely against any other
Kentucky horse.
“The stirring notes of tho bugle brought the
horses on the track a few minutes before one
o’clock. To Gray Eagle was awarded the track,
while Queen Mary was placed second and Wag
ner on the outside. At tho tap of the drum
Wagner bounded off with the load like a moun
tain deer, Queen Mary second. On the second
turn Hawk-Eye took the track : Gray Eagle got
up third, next to Wagner, but Hawk-Eye led to
the stand. On the back part, the field nearly
closed ; Wagner lapping Hawk-Eye, he soon
after outfooted him and came first to the stand,
Hawk-Eyo being second and Queen Mary third.
Soon after commencing tho fourth mile, tho sad
dle of Queen Mary slipped on her withers, and
her chance was out. Hawk-Eye, too. having
cu t the work so far, seemed disposed to let the
others fight it out by themselves. Half way
down the back part, Gray Eagle caught up tho
running, as the others declined, and made a
most gallant effort. Opposite the house he got
a little in front and looked like a winner, and
the shout sent up by the excited multitude,
made the welkin ring for miles around. When
near the last turn, Wagner's rider called on the
noble animal, and after a most beautiful con
test home to the judges’ stand, he won by two
lengths in 7:13, the best time ever made in Ken
tucky. Queen Mary, who was third, pulled up
inside the distance stand and walked in, while
Hawk-Eye was technically ‘nowhere.’
“ The result ot the heat appeared so indica
tive of the result of tho raco that any odds wore
offered on Wagner, but no takers. The Ken
tuckians would not bet against their own
horses. Many of them, however, to get out of a
tight place, jumped out of the frying-pan into
the fire, by backing Queen Mary against Gray
Eagle. All three horses cooled off finely, and
Gray Eagle’s proud bearing and game appear
ance when he came up to the contest in a second
heat for the meed of honor and applause was
the admiration of all. The start for the second
heat was capital; Wagner led off the dance with
a fine racing stride. Gray Eagle being second
and well up; he soon after challenged for the
lead, and, after a fierce brush, came m front.
Seemingly inspired by the cheers ot his friends
Gray Eagle kept up hs killing stroke in the
most splendid style, coming first to the stand,
with Wagner second. Throughout the entire
second mile the ‘gallant gray’ kept up his rate,
carrying on the running at a pace to ‘ fright the
souls of fearful adversaries.’
“The pace seemed too good to last, and no
one dreamed it equid be increased, but so it
was, on the third mile. Near tho Oakland
House, Wagner set to work to do or die, and at
the fourth turn he collared Kentucky s cham
pion. Down to the stand the struggle was des
perate; claret was tapped on both sides, and
whips were at work. Gray Eagle came to tha
stand Haifa length ahead, and soon alter drew
out half a length in front. For a time tha
cheers were deafening. Half way around tha
last mile Wagner once more ‘tried it on,’ but it
was no go. Like twin bullets they sped round
ill© last turn into the straight work, and it was
impossible to s.iy which was ahead. The feel
ings of the thousands oi individuals comprising
the assemblage was wrought up to the highest
pitch; each jockey was plying ‘steel and tim
ber’; each horse was out and doing his best
now Wagner, how Gray Eagle, has the advan
tage—a deafening shout, a thrill ot emotion,
and the race is over! Wagner wins by a neck,
in 7:14, the best raco ever run south ot th© Po
tomac.”
ANECCENTRIC MILLIONAIRE.
MILLIONS OF FRANCS STOLEN.
The Naples correspondent of tho London
Daily Necos says: A strange case is at present
going on at Piacenza. In that city there lived
the Marchioness Fanny Anguissola, tho heiress
oi two of the oldest noble families ot North Italy,
the ViscQQtia and the Angniesolas, connected
during four centuries with the history of Italy.
The marchioness possessed a fortune of ten or
twelve million francs. She was always very ex
travagant and irritable, and the early death of
her husband and only daughter, who foil a
victim gwhappv love a.flair, increased the
edcemricity oi nor disposition. Tto?
to her one son, Filippo. With the pride and
exclusiveness of a feudal lord, be combined a
fanatic love of socialism and great activity and
delight in reforms. He was crushed by a
threshing machine while superintending his
agricultural affairs, and lost Lis life in conse
quence.
This misfortune rendered his mother misan
thropical. She shut herself up in her palace,
which she closed to all visitors, and lived in a
miserly fashion. Her only friend was her lap
dog. Her servants, finding themselves deprived
of all perquisites, revenged themselves, it is
alleged, by robbing her. It was her custom the
whole year round, to take her meals in an arbor
in the garden, and there in various holes and
corners she hid large quantities of gold and
notes. These, it is said, she often missed, but
never complained, fearing that if she did, her
immense wealth would become known to the
public. She was so desirous of being consid
ered poor, that once, when a note of 1,00) francs,
which she had paid in mistake, was returned to
her, she refused to take it, saying that she bad
never possessed a note of that'amount.
But her avarice alternated with fits of lavish
generosity. To many persons who begged of
her she gave “handfuls of bank notes. She
sent 100,000 francs to the American mission
aries, but at the same time complained ot the
expense ot the Post-office order. She frequent
ly io!t her home to spend some time at con
vents near Piacenza or Milan, where she de
voted herself to religious services, and met
with much flattery, for she gave money readily
for pious ends. At these times of absence all
Piacenza, we are told, was aware that the
Palace Anguissola was searzhed from collar to
garret, and it is believed that in tho coarse of
years its mistress was robbed of millions of
francs. During her lifetime the police could
not interfere, for she would 1 sten to no warn
ing, and ut erly refused to believe in the possi
bility of her being robbed. -
She died of apoplexy, and afterward about 1
300,000 francs were found hidden in tho mat- ’
tresses of the beds, in the stufling of the chairs,
in old stockings, behind picture frames, and
other curious places. There was a report that
she had been poisoned, but a post mortem ex
amination proved it to be unfounded. But now
justice interfered, and evidence respecting tho
various robberies supposed to have been com
mitted was collected. Many of the domestic
servants of tho bouse, together with their rela
tives and friends, had grown rich, and could
not explain the source of their wealth. They
were also found in possession oi valuables be
longing to their mistress, which they said had
been given to them by her. Many persons in
Piacenza are now either accused of thelt or
summoned as witnesses.
The case was commenced the other day
and excited great interest. The accused,
eleven in number, were all dressed in
mourning. They are coachmen, doorkeepers,
house servants, Ac. One coachman confessed
to having deposited at various times in various
banks sums to the amount of (it),000 francs,
which he said had been given to him in tho
course of years by his mistress, out of gratitude,
because he bad driven away some thieves who
broke into the palace and for other services,
or in order to induce him to stay when ha
threatened to leave. The doorkeeper, on being
interrogated concerning a certain box contain
ing immense sums, which had boon sent from
his house through various hands and of which
at last all trace was lost, accused his brother of
having demanded a bribe from him of 50,000
francs, failing which he would be accused of
having false keys. The examination of these
two witnesses, tho latter of whom looks like ar
old soldier, gave rise to much laughter in coiufc

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