New York dispatch. [volume], February 06, 1887, Image 1

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

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PUBUSffI BI A. J. WILUAMWB SONS.
VOL7'xLII.--Sd; “17.’
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
THE KEW YoRkTdISPATCH,
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PLAYS AnTpLAYERS.
THE YANKEE OF DEN THOMPSON.
The Undying Stage Yank-What He Was
bjt<l What He Is —Josh Silsbee— Dan
Marble-“ Yankee” Hill-Thomp
g«;n’s Sketch—'l he Growth of Josh
Whitcomb—The Picture that is
Never Finished, Etc., Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
The “Yankee ” comedian is not dead yet. There
is a large amount of surplus vitality in him. For a
little while there existed a general impression that
he bad closed up his horn-handled jack-knife,
thrown away his half whittled shingle and that his
nasal twang and his whistling of Yankee Doodle
would be heard no more in the glare of the foot
lights.
And, in fact, that the patriotic whistler had whis
tled himself off into the realm ot the forgotten.
But he hadn t. On the stage as in politics, the
universal Yankee will hold his place until his race
Beases to exist.
Like the everlasting Uncle Tom, the Solon Shingle
in one form or another will, from time to time,
some to the front and never lack hJ.« ehare of wel
-some. Put the Yankee out of a farce a2?d on he
comes in a drama. Eradicate him from the 501 id
old drama and 10, here he is again in a comedy.
The Fashion of the time, may say to him—" Got
thee gone”—but although he may vanish for a sea
son or two, he doesn't get-bim-gone altogether.
VoH may be sure he is somewhere in hiding at the
wings watching bis chanco to reappear in one dis
guise or another.
Your stage Yankee is not to be snuffed out. He
is a light of another sort than your ordinary penny
twinkier.
In the course of my life I have noted the en
hances and exits Of this peculiar individual—and I
have never lost sight of him so long that fols a ' b .
scnce aroused the belief thjkt I would an( j fcear
him no more forever.
As well might r exp&bt tragedy to throw .away
its stilts; op era abandon its yawp and
opera come to us without its choristal legs,
to fancy that either in drama, comedy, farce or
Durlesque the undying Yankee would not from time
to time come to the surface as a chief ingredient;
as the very head and front of the cast.
Years ago—it seems almost a century of years ago
—the Yankee—his representative had a great deal
of the American stage in his possession. And on
one or two occasions he made a vigorous but in
effectual
ATTEMPT TO GET A FOOTHOLD UPON THE
LONDON STAGE.
Dan Marble, I remember, tried to give a down-
East twist to the tragic tail of the British lion, at
the Strand Theatre, in 1845.
His “Deuteronomy Dutiful ” charmed tha cock
neys of the pit no more than the low comedy of
Toole a few seasons ago beguiled the patrons of
XVallack's.
Josh Silsbee tried the same twist—and succeeded
no better. So did Yankee Hill—and one or two
ethers whose names I have forgotten.
There is extant a grave suspicion that John Bull
has not had an overwhelming regard for the Yankee,
either in politics, literature, commerce,. art or the
theatrical business, since the little ruction of 1776.
Probably the old-time Yankee of the period of
Hackett, Hill, Marble and Silsbee, with his long
tailed calico coat, his short vest, and brief legged
pants, long straps, thick boots, tow hair, with his
refrain of •• Du tell—why I want tu know,” may
never again obtain p'ace as a character on the
stage.
But we have him in other forms, all the same.
Wo have had him in a somewhat different condi
tion in the Solon Shingle of John Owens. I remem
ber him, too, as the Solon Shingle of Charley Burke;
and I have not forgotten how this same old owner
of the “bar’l of apple sass ” was so mangled and
tortured out of all semblance of anything of Yan
kee origin by a fellow by the name of Leffler whom
I saw try to play the part in a Western theatre. He
•was billed as
“LEFFLER, THE YANKEE COMEDIAN.”
In the daytime he peddled recipes for making vin
egar and ink.
He is net the only fellow who has tried to double
up the vocation for which nature fitted him for
that of an actor.
It is so easy to act. All the counter jumper, the
cobbler or the carpenter has lo do is to learn his
lines, go on for rehearsal and with a dab of paint
on hie face and a wig ou his precious head—presto !
he is an artist.
At least he thinks he is, the opinions of the critics
and the public to the contrary, notwithstanding.
I have asserted that the Yankee still liveth and
fiourisheth upon the stage.
In his latest form he is with us now; not with
the old-time twang and ejaculatory “jumping Je
ru-sa-lem,” the stick-whittling and yarn-spinning ;
but the Yankee, the Down Easter as ho is, and as
we know him to-Jay, and divested off all the flavor
Of burlesque.
If you doubt it, witness Den Thompson’s method
of getting out of himself into Josh Whitcomb.
Or rather his method of making you believe that
Whitcomb is merely the twin brother of Deu
Thompson, and that one is simply the under-study
of the other, and it doesn’t matter which of them
it is.
This is the live Yankee of to-day. He is the Ver
mont farmer, the genuine, dear, old, lovable hayseed
jay of Down East.
There is nothing of extravagance; you forget that
you are in the theatre looking over the glare of the
footlights from the centre of the darkened orches
tra—you only see and feel that you are looking at
and listening to
THE YANKEE FARMER,
royal in his honesty, democratic in his humanity,
and with nothing of guile in his nature. Shrewd,
yes; but In that degree and to that extent only
which means honest thrift.
There is much in the personal appearance, the
quiet force, the naturalness. If I may so term it, of
Den Thompson’s stagework which reminds me of
George H. Hill, otherwise known as “Yankee Hill ”
as he was described by his critics and biographers.
If they were correct, Hiil was in many respects the
ante-type of Thompson. I trust the later and latest
representative of New England character may not
repeat in his career the dismal life, socially, of
Hiil. So far as his professional history was con
«orusd, his was
SOMETHING OF A ROMANCE,
beginning with disappointment, then glowing in
the brilliant light of success, and at last ending in
gloom and despair, and when, on September 7-th,
1849, at Saratoga Springs, he died in comparative
poverty, the world had forgotten him and the
pleasure his work had given it.
In his latter days he had abandoned the stage,
and, broken in spirit and in health and wrecked in
fortune, he began the practice of dentistry, in
which, however, he met with indifferent success.
Once, toward the close, he essayed to again
come before the public. The effort was the last
flash of the expiring light. When at the bight of.
his success, John A. Stone, the author of “Meta
mora, ’’ wrote for him a play—“ The Golden Fleece;
or. The Yankee in Italy”—which did not meet with
the favor anticipated for it by either author or
actor. For that play Stone received s2so—half the
amount which was paid him by Edwin Forrest lor
“Metamora.”
Den Thompson began his career as a delineator of
the peculiarities of Yankee character in a little
sketch, appearing in it on the variety stage. This
sketch formed the basis of the drama of “Josh
Whitcomb,” which he has made familiar to play
goers throughout the country. He no more
dreamed in the early days of his stage life what
this roughlv-devised sketch would lead to than
Hill imagined his Yankee recitations, given between
acts in the old Warren Theatre in Boston, would
open his way to fame and fortune.
Gradually this sketch grew to something of dra
matic significance. There was not much in it save
the brightness given it by Thompson; it was popu
lar; it brought to him an understanding of the
talent no posifesßcd, end the sketch expanded into a
drama—and
JOSHUA WHITCOMB AND DEN THOMPSON
became famous—and have held their place in the
affections of tha play-going public.
I do not mean to s&y that out of this special and
limited range of character portraiture Den Thomp
son would bo acceptable. Really, Ido not think he
could, tried he ever so hard, play anything else
than Josh Whitcomb. This character has become
his alter ego— his other self. He looks, walks and
suggests Whitcomb rather than himself when off
the stage. The hearty, wholesome atmosphere,
with its odors of the farm-yard, surrounds him.
When you moot him in social life—after having
seen him on the stage—there comes to you tho im
pression of rural existence, in his gesture, the pecu
liar twinkle of the eye, the hard-lined, honest old
face, the gestures of the naan, and the very method
of his speech—almost tempt you to button-hole
him into a corner in order that you may privately
advise him in his walks about town to beware of
the watchful Bunco steerer; the wiles of the strange
Woman, and other evils that lie in wait for the un
sophisticated countryman.
Dan Marble could drop his nasal voiced Solomon
Swop and take up with a lively and appreciative
sense of its nature, tho performance of William in
“ Black-Eyed Susan.” He could give proper em
phasis to an impersonation of Damon and wind up
witti t be “Wool Dealer,” and even Josh Silsbee
could, up°D occasion, vary the monotony of bis
eternal prying Yankee by a dash into
the realms of mo?? serious dramatic work.
But this sort of a transmigration of his person
ality is not, I fancy, within ti»& compass of Den
Thompson's ability. Wisely enough he has never,
so far as I know, attempted it. In “The Old
Homestead ” he has merely added another chapter
to ths autobiography of the same o!4 Josh Whit-
W.ab. ana in this obanUr >... ;
deeper study of the character ot tho old farmer.
The portrait is made the truer, the outlines tho
bolder and the lights and shadows tho more pro
nounced—and the surroundings of the picture the
more effective.
THE DEAD PAST
has buried its dead—but if it could itself be galvan
ised into a “pernicious activity ” and so resurrect
its defunct integrals—and we could have once again
in their habit as they lived and acted the Yankees
of Marble and Silsbee, and their corteraporaries—l
think they would have but a sorry showing, beside
this Joab Whitcomb.
They, with theirgrotesgue extravagance of action,
and of costume—their broad and not infrequently
vulgar jests—their violations of all the canons of
dramatic art, and in distorting the characteristics
of the Connecticut and down East Yankee into the
condition of comic almanac caricatures, how would
they compare with Thompson’s fine drawn, clearly
defined transcript of the homely simple nature of
the Vermont farmer?
A critic not Jong since made the remark that
“Den Thompson is all well enough—but he can’t
do anything else than this Whitcomb. It isn’t in
him.”
Well, who wants him to do anything else ? He has
struck the keynote of success, and why should he
desire to swim in strange waters and flounder out
beyond his depth and sink from sight ?
It is better to be the one and only frog in a pud
dle than it is to be merely an indistinguishable
mackerel in a school of a million just like it.
“ It isn’t in ” Edwin Booth to play Virgiuius, but
I do not see why this fact should detract from the
greatness of his Hamlet or the beauty of hisJHche
lieu. There is no special complaint on the part of
the public or the critical because Mr. Lawrence
Barrett, having been successful as Lanciotto in Bo
ker’s tragedy, does not extend the sphere of his
theatric usefulness and prove that it is “in him ’’
to make a fool of himself as Toodles.
When an actor drifts into a role which in almost
every respect is fitted for his ability, and in which
the opportunities are apt for the display of all his
mental and artistic resources—and the playing of
it brings him the sunshine of popular favor
he is little less than an ass if he abandons it.
Den Thompson drifted into the role of Josh Whit
comb—it closed in and about him—it was “in
him.” He will live in tho theatric history of his
time only as Josh Whitcomb. There was
NO ONE YANKEE CHARACTER
in which Silsbee, Marble, Hill, or later on, John
Owens made himself memorable. The Yankees of
their dramas and farces were all of the same mold
—each one a duplicate in coat, hat breeches and
boots of the other; there was only the difference in
the name of the character and of the drama in
which he was the central figure, to distinguish
them apart.
It was with these types a distinction without a
difference.
From Jonathan Slick to Deuteronomy Dutiful, the
entire repertoire was the same. The same jack
knife, the whittled stick, the long hair, the wink of
the eye, the leer and absurd laugh and the regula
tion country dance, were the inevitable and un
changed stock in trade for every one of these stage-
Yanks.
Precisely as the stuffed stick, “The Low-backed
Car,” “Theßould Soldier Boy,” “Whist ’and “Be
the Piper that Played Before Moses,” were the only
necessities of a regulation Irish comedian.
I admire Den Thompson for the persistency with
which he has held on to what w “in him.” Josh
Whitcomb is his; it is his own creation; he has
made it, not as a thing of fancy, but as a transcript,
a duplicate of an existent and he has not as yet,
true and faithful artist that he is in this sole and
sufficient work of his life, sat him down, with
folded hands, and complacently said: “It is fin
ished; I can add nothing more toward making it
perfect. ’ Like the painter at his easel—the picture
he is painting is never finished to his own satisfac.
tion; at every sitting he touches out a little newly
discovered defect there and puts in a new touch of
beauty here, and so he goes on from day to day.
The study and development of a character, like
the study and development of a painting, are never
ended. Something to brighten and beautify it, to
strengthen and glorify it, can always be done; is al
ways suggesting itself.
In Den Thompson’s Josh Whitcomb this careful
study, this thoughtful and earnest touching and re
touching is plainly visible. Aside from Jefferson’s
Rip Van Winkle I know of no example of individual,
ization iu the matter of art study as thorough and
complete as this of Whitcomb; nor of none in which
there are fewer blemishes, nor iu which there are
so many, beauties.
Let us be thankful, therefore, for this survival of
tho Yankee upon our stage—the Yankee as he is
and iu his truest and best condition.
— ■ ♦—
Sold at a Loss. —lsaac Levinsky sold
a two dollar pair of pants on Sunday, and was fined
$5 by th© Court for violating tho Sunday jaw
NEW YORK?^ 6, 1887.
BROTHERSOFTHE MORGUE.
The Little Affair That Was a
Failure.
MADAME CHALIFERT’S PLOT.
The Marriage That Was Inter
rupted.
Another Glimpse at Crime in the
French Capital.
Madame Chalifert had been for years the propri
etress of a resort for men about town on the Avenue
de la Roquette, Paris. She had managed things well
and had always been on good terms with the police.
She had amassed wealth and was beginning to think
of retiring She was a woman of about sixty, small
and well made, and with a face that would of itself
have almost won her canonization as a saint. Her
gray curls were arranged with fastidious care at her
temples and a modest old-time cap rested upon her
head. Her brow was smooth and white, her eyes of
a deep and softened blue, her cheeks plump and her
complexion fresh and blooming. She was the last
person in tho world any one Would have supposed
to be engaged in such a business as she had carried
on tor years. When she visited her friends and rel
atives in Brittany, which she did at intervals, she
was their idol and they considered her the embodi
ment of all the virtues which in their rural sim
plicity they admired. Consequently, it was thought
a great thing for Marguerite, her neice, when she
took her to Paris to live with her. The girl’s en
lightenment soon came and she rapidly acquired
all the art and skill necessary to make her an ac
complished courtezan. For ten years she lived a
wild life of folly and dissipation, her friends being
all the time kept iu utter ignorance ot the fact.
Once, when her father, a widower, visited her iu
tha great city, he found her, as he supposed, the
wife of a rich man, living in splendor and sur
rounded with luxury; and went home with a won
derful story of the loveliness and great good fortune
of his only child. When he died. Marguerite was at
his bedside, and found hersolt the possessor of
75,000 francs.
A PROPOSITION.
Marguerite returned to Paris and invested most
of the money, along with some of the savings of her
aunt, in the house on the Avenue de la Roquette,
into which they moved. i'mm this time forth,
money flowed into the exchequer. Though the old
lady nominally owned everything and invested the
savings, the niece was perfectly satisfied that when
her aunt died all would bo hors.
The time came, as already stated, when Madame
Chalifert proposed that they should realize on all
they had and retire to some pleasant town where
they were not known and assume the role of re
spectability.
“You see,rby dear/* she said, “you ate still love
ly. nay superb; but your attractions won’t last long
in the city. In the country, we shall have repose
and amusement of an innocent kind—to tell you
the truth—l have no doubt that some agreeable and
reputable gentleman will marry you. Then, as for
me, why I shall devote myself to piety and good
works and resume those religious duties with which
the busy life of a city so greatly interferes.”
This was a most agreeable proposition to tho
niece, and she argued that they should at once take
steps to getaway from all their former associates and
endeavor to assume ft respectablQ sUtioa Yn'the
world, / -
AN OLD WOMAN'S FANCY.
Though age had come upon Madamb Ohalifevt
apace, she had always had some male friend of her
own to whom she had shown marked partiality.
The last was Pierre Dirinon, a young man of twen
ty-five. He was of low origin and had small educa
tion, but possessed a handsome face and splendid
physique. Madame Chalifert had discovered him
as a clerk in the office of Lawyer Delorme, who at
tended to business matters for her, and she had ta
ken a liking to the young man. She never suffered
him to visit the house; first, because she was afraid
her “boarders,” and even her niece, would make
fun of her for selecting so young a lover; and, sec
ondly, because sho feared that he might find some
one there who would draw away his “affections ”
from her. She furnished two handsome apartments ,
for him on the Rue des Amandiers, and made him
occasional presents of money.
On October 15. 1880, Madame Chalifert went to
Diriuon's lodgings.
“Pierre,” she said, “I and my niece are going to
give up business. lam going to sell all the prop
erty I possess, and of the proceeds I shall have to
give Marguerite one-half. It is too bad, is it not ?”
“ Indeed it is,” Dirinon replied; “how much do
you expect to realize?”
“About 400,000 francs,” she answered.
“ And you must give your nieee 200,000 francs?”
Dirinon said, in a half sulky tone.
“Or she will go to law—just so,” Madame an
swered.
“ Let her go to law,” the young man said.
“But the expense, my Pierre—think of that,”
Madame Chalifert said. “You see, if I can leave
Paris, with you,with 200,000 francs, and find a pleas
ant spot in a nice town in one of the provinces, how
comfortably we might live. You would pass us my
son, you would marry—aye, marry—
A LOVELY GIRL, VERY LIKELY AN HEIRESS,
and then, when I am gone, all I have would be
yours.”
“ That is all very pretty,” was the reply, “ but it
would be much prettier if it were twice tho amount
—as it might be.”
Madame Chalifert gave the necessary instructions
to her lawyer. She notified her “ boarders” to find
other quarters and began her arrangements for her
and her niece to quit Paris. Alter a long and ap
parently anxious consultation, they had come to the
conclusion to pass as mother and daughter—Madame
Saintonge and Mkdame Lezay, both widows. They
had also decided to make Lamarche, in Lorraine,
their temporary residence.
In due time all the property was sold and Madame
Chalifert got tho money into her possessiou. In
two days’ time she was to give up possession of the
house on the Avenue de la Roquette.
On November 27th Madame Chalifert had along
conversation with Pierre Dirinou.
A NICE GANG.
The same night Pierro went to No.—Rue Ste.
Marguerite. He ascended to the top floor, knocked
once, then five times and then twice in quick suc
cession. The door was opened and he was admitted
into a large room, poorly iurnished. Three men
were seated at a table at cards. Bottles and
glasses stood near by. The men were as villainous
looking a.set as ever graced the felon's dock. The
door was fastened behind Pierre and ho was wel
comed with a nod and a word and the offer of a
drink.
“Now, my Brothers of the Morgue,” he said,
“put away those cards and listen, for I have some
business of importance to communicate. You re
member that since I first had the pleasure of your
acquaintance, when I worked up that alibi for
Pepinster here, I have put several good things in
your way. Here is another.”
“That s the talk,” said one of them; “ we’re dy
ing for work. Here we have to drink this cursed
cognac and to eat—why, anything we can get. We
want a change of diet, and, I think I may add, a
change of apparel.”
All laughed quietly, and, after some further talk,
Pierre said:
“At No. — Avenue de la Roquette, there is a lady
with 200.000 francs in her possession. To-night, at
eleven, sho will be alone in the back room opening
on the garden, which can be reached easily from the
Rue Richard Lenoir. The door leading into tho
apartment cannot be mistaken. See, here is a dia
gram of the premises !”
PREPARING FOR A CRIME.
With that he spread a sheet of paper before them
and pointed out the house, the garden, the mode of
entrance to it from the Rue Richard Lenoir and tho
door into the house.
“ One of you will ring the door-bell on the Avenue
de la Roquette,” he said, " and the woman, who is
alone in the house, will go to open the door. Then
you will force the door into her room and be ready
when she returns. Throw a cloak, a rug, a sheet
over her and stifle her cries. She keeps her money
in a leather bag behind some largo volumes on a
back shelf.”
“ But how do you know all this, my fine Jack,
daw ?” asked one of the men.
“ How did I know the secret of the other little
affairs? ’ Pieri* flaid; “you seem to forget that I
am the confidential clerk of a famous lawyer.”
This seemed to silence, tho gang and they entered
with seriousness into the scheme.
“ Now," said Pierre, “it is eight o’clock. Arrange
the affair among yourselves. Eleven or half-past
will be a good hour. Remember 1 I shall expect
an equal share of the plunder.”
THE FORTUNE IN A VALISE.
That afternoon Madame Chalifert had had an
interesting talk with her niece. About eight o'clock
she prepared to go out.
“ Now,” said she to Marguerite, “ here is the
valise with all our fortune in it, take good care of
it. I have locked it and have the key. lam going
to see an old friend who has premised me a hand
some sum of money. I shall be back as soon as
possible. When I come, I will ring the bell, so you
must let me in.”
When Pierre reached his room that evening
about nine o'clock, Madame Chalifert was there.
“ Ah, my bird,” she said, “you have come. Have
you arranged everything?”
“Of course I have,” replied the young man; “do
you take me for a fool ?”
“ Well, now,” she said. ”1 have thought of some
thing better. See, hero is the key of the front door.
You know the way in. Why should not you go and
get the money—tho 200,000 francs all to yourself?
If your friends do tho job. yon will only get a small
sharo of it, if you uo it, you will get it all.”
Pierre stood with his eyes flxad upon her for fully
n miauu’.
art fnhprttnt
“It is no small sum,” he said, “but then, if I
did it myself, 1 should run the risk ot losing my
head.”
“ Bah 1” exclaimed Madame Chalifert; “ it 1b all
easy and without risk. You go there; you enter
the house; Marguerite is in the back room. You
knock her on the head and take tbo money from
behind the books on the shelf and there is an end
of it.”
M But the chance of discovery ?”
“When are the others, your friends, to be'at the
house ?”
“Soon after eleven.”
“You will have completed your work long before
then, and can send a message to the police—’Bur.
glare are to be at work at No avenue de la Ro-
quette at eleven o’clock.’ The police will be on tbo
lookout, and the—the—your friends, will be cap
tured, and punished for the crime.”
“ WHAT A WOMAN YOU ARE I”
“My God 1” exclaimed Pierre, “what a woman
you are 1”
“You see, my son, I love you,” was the answer;
“and I am always devising nice things for those
whom I love.”
“ Must I knock her in the head ?” asked Pierrs.
“I see no other way.” was the answer.
“But suppose I kill her?”
“ All the better. She will tell no tales. And,
then, you forget that your friends will have to an
swer for that.”
“ But they will give me away ?”
‘ No fear; if they do, you and 1 will be far enough
away before daylight.”
Pierre started on the business. He let himself
into the house, and went on tip.tpe to the back
room, extending on tho garden. The door was ajar,
and he could see Marguerite seated inside, reading.
He drew from bis pocket a sand-bag, pushed open
the door, and stepped into the room, and struck the
unsuspecting woman on the head as she turned
toward him. She fell in a heap on the floor. Pierre
never looked at her, but, going to the shelf, re.
moved the books, seized the valise, and quitted the
house with it.
On the corner of the rue de Charoms, he waited
until a licensed messenger came along. Ho handed
him a note and bade him hurry with it to the near,
eat police station at once. Thon Pierre started
down toward his room on the jue Ste. Marguerite.
THE DISGUISE.
When Pierre left Madame Chalibert in his apart
ments, she waited a short time and then took off
her dress, put on a plain garb, a wig, a close-fitting
cap, a pair of old thick shoes, and a check shawl.
Then she washed her face and hands iu a dark
colored liquid which she poured from a bottle, and
examined herself in the glass. Next she tied her
clothes in a coarse handkerchief, felt to seo that a
leathern belt which was round her waist was all
right, and started down the stairs.
She walked briskly toward the Pont d'Austerlitz,
over which she dropped her bungle-in- the Seine;
then sho turned into th» orTSans railway station
and bought a ticket. In fifteen minutes she was on
her way from Paris.
Pierre reached his apartments to find them de
ociioj. He thought that Madame Chalifert had
probably gone out for a few minutes, and would
soon return. He waited an hour, and there was no
sign of her. Ho wailed until one o’clock, and then
he grew nervous and hot. Finaßy he broke open
the lock of the valise.
There was nothing inside but a few newspapers ’
In the meantime, “The Brothers of the Morgue”
had been captured. The police, duly notified by
Pierre’s letter, had lain in wait. They saw the man
ring the bell, and then they captured him. They
heard a noise in the house, broke in, and found a
woman lying apparently dead in tljs rear rgojn 1 the
light from which shone through the open door into
the hall. They found a door leading to the garden
broken in. I'hoy rushed into the garden and cap
tured two men in the act of escaping over the iron
railing into the Rue Richard Lenoir.
The three men denied that they had assaulted the
woman, who, after some days, recovered conscious
ness. They vrere, nevertheless, convicted and sen
tenced to tho galleys for life,
MaDAME BORLATB.
In the lovely town of Gaunat, in the mountains
of L : .nague, not far from Clermont, lived Madame
Borlais. Bhe had come there as an invalid, and had
rented a pretty villa. She was a saintly-looking wo
man, and all the people loved her for her goodness
and charity.
This lady was Madame Chalifert.-
One day a miserable tramp went to the villa to
beg, and was never seen more. The next day Mad
ame Borlais went into Clermont, and returned with
a huge package of gentlemen’s apparel, and the fol
lowing day a gentleman appeared at the villa whom
Madame Borlais addressed as her son.
This tramp and this newly-found son was Pierre
Dirinon.
He had found the old wretch, as he called her to
her face, at last, and meant to cling to her. She
showed him round and boasted of his virtues, and
in six months’ time he was engaged to be married
to Maidemoselle Mignan, the daughter of one of the
richest landowners in those parts.
MARGUERITE.
When Marguerite realized the fact that her aunt
had concocted a sebeme for her robbery and mur
der, she was filled with vengeance. But what was
she to do ? There was no doubt in her mind that
her aunt had robbed her and endeavored to compass
her death. She was left penniless and without a
friend. In this dilemma she met with a former
acquaintance, whom a decent mechanic had mar
ried and made an honest woman of. She took Mar
guerite in and cared for her. By a lucky discovery
the mechanic hit upon a method by which water
could be supplied to boilers by a simple, self-acting
process, and thus he became rich. He was a native
of Garmot, and went down there and bought an
estate. Hera he went to live, and Marguerite ac
companied him and his family.
THE MARRIAGE.
The marriage of Madame Borlais's son was a great
event, and Marguerite went to the church to wit
ness tho ceremony.
When she saw the bridegroom approach the altar
she was seized with a dreadful chill which seemed
to stop the flow of her blood.
“Great God she exclaimed, “ there is the man
who attempted to murder me 1“
The spectators were startled. Marguerite had
arisen, and in her magnificent bight and with out
stretched arm, attracted the attention of all.
“ That is tho man !” she cried; “and,” she added,
“there is my aunt, Madame Chalifert 1”
By this time consternation had seized on the
bridal party. The bridegroom grew deadly pale;
Madame Borlais fell in a fainting fit. Marguerite,
recovering herself, stepped out and strode to the
altar.
“ This is the man,” she said, laying her hand
upon the arm of the supposed Madame Borlais.
Then she narrated, in a brief but incoherent way,
the story, as already known to the reader.
The bridegroom attempted to treat tfie charge as
the utterance of a mad woman, but Marguerite
said :
•• I know you ! I saw you—l had a short but per
fect view of you as you raised your hand to strike
the blow; and here—will you tell me that this self
condemned woman here is not my aunt, Madame
Chalifert ?
NEMESIS.
Marguerite made good her accusation and her
words, and so this miserable old hypocrite, Madame
Chalifert, or Borlais, and Pierre Dironon, were ar
rested for a crime for which others—guilty in a
sense, no doubt—were suffering punishment.
All Paris was stirred for a. brief space over the
sensation, but the excitement soon died out; and
when Pierre Dironon and Madame Chalifert were
sent to the galleys, the offense for which they suf
fered was almost forgotten. Dironon made a full
confession, and then Madamo Chalifert professed
penitence and corroborated his statement. The
three men who had been led into crime by Pierre,
through the influence of Madame Chalifert. were
released, but only on condition that they quitted
France and did not return for ten years.
Zdghts and Shadows.
THE TWO JOES AND JOSEPHINE.
Joseph Horan was defendant, Joseph Matlech was
complainant. Both Joes had enlargement of the
head by reason of coming in contact with a chair.
Joe the complainant, who lives at No. 27 Henry
street, said Joe the defendant assaulted him.
“ What with ?” asked the Court.
“ Can’t say,” was the reply.
•• In the Police Court you said he struck you with
a chair?” said Justice Kilbreth.
“ Well, he had a chair, but I don’t know that he
struck ms with it.”
Counsel for the accused then took the complain
ant up.
••Joe’s wife was in your room ?”
Joe on the stand said “ yes,” with a nod of the
bead.
“ And when he asked her to oome home with
him, you lifted a chair and gave him a welt on the
head ?”
“ That isn’t true,” said tho complainant.
Joe, the prisoner, got up in the witness chair and
told his story. He said he was a olgarmaker and
lived at No. 420 East Tenth street. He said his wife
went to the other Joe's house, and when he went
after her and tried to coax her to come back, Joe
told her not to do it. come and live with him and he
would pay three dollars a week for the child to be
boarded out and they could live hunky-dory. This
riled the husband (Joe) and he expressed himself in
classic Italian, and Joe, the lover, raised a chair and
hit him. He showed a mark on his classic fore
head. He got possession of the chair and laid his
rival (Jee) low.
Both sides then called the wife (Josephine) to give
a true verflion of this domestic brawl. She said her
husband was the first hit with the chair and bled
very much. He did no more than try to get away
from the man who was assaulting him. Her hus
band got away, and. getting out of the door, Joe
the complainant) helped to make Joe (her husband)
hop, skip and jump out of the door, with his foot.
Joe (the husband) was acquitted and Josephine
took his arm and marched out of court with him.
She could not be induced to part from her first Joe.
The toboggan is only an elaboration
of the banana skin principle.— Philadelphia Star.
IIUNTINGAGIIOST
The Supposed Elaunted
ZEouse.
MEN WHO PLAYED GHOSTS.
The Gang of Thieves That Was
Captured.
Gruesome Adventures of Two
Young Men.
Not far from the town of Goderich, Canada, and a
few miles back of a little railroad station called
Aisla Craig, stands a large, rambling, unpainted
frame house. The country is wild and sparsely
settled. The house is in a lonely spot on a de
serted road. It has not been occupied for years,
and its dilapidated and forlorn appearance would
secure for it the reputation of being haunted with
out any of the strange occurrences I am about to
relate, and which are absolutely true.
The house was built many years ago by a queer
old Englishman, who lived there with bls servant
in complete seclusion, and was understood to have
a great deal of money. The settlers knew very lit
tle about him, except that be liked to hunt and fish,
until one time, when he wasn't seen for a long
time, and when the settlers finally gathered to see
what was the matter, they found the old man sit
ting bolt upright in his bed, murdered, with
HIS HEAD CUT OFF
and held between his two hands, while the house
was rifled and the servant gone. This was the
story the settlers told me the first time I heard
about the haunted house of Aisla Craig. They said
that the old Englishman's headless ghost had
haunted the place ever since, and at the middle of
the month—that was the time when he was mur
dered, they thought—gathered other ghosts and
made blood-curdling sounds and sights.
I never had any patience with ghost stories and I
always promised myself that if I over found a
haunted house I would live in it, if necessary, until
I found the secret of its ghost. This was the
chance I had been looking for. As sooa as I heard
the story of the haunted house of Aisla Craig, I set
out to find it.
It was not hard to discover. As I stood and looked
at it there was something about it that sent the
chills down my back, scoff at ghosts as 1 would. It
stood remote from the old road, half hidden in a
dark and gloomy clump of pines. The blinds were
all closed. The pathways were overgrown with
weeds. The ancient porch was rotting away and
the roof falling in and grass was starting up be
tween the shingles. I climbed oVer the CMinibiing
rail fence and crept through the underbrush to the
old front door. The porch creaked and rattled
dismally as I stepped on it, A hideous echo sounded
inside as I turned the handle. The
locked, but the rusty iron gave fray and the door
swung open. I looked inside. There was nothing
but
A HALLWAY WITH STAIRS
at one side and open doors to the rest of the house.
A horrible chill came out of the vault-like place as I
entered. There were two front rooms connected
by folding doors. Everything had been loft exactly
as when the old Englishman died, and a rotten
carpet, worm-eaten books and fallen pictures
covered the floor.
From the second of these rooms a door led to
some region behind. It was locked, but after much
labor I battered it open. The room it opened into
was the old dining-room. Thero WA? DO furni
ture except a table aud some benches. In one cor
ner was a pH§ of Old bottles and in the centre b
trap door with fastenings so rusty that I couldn’t
budge it.
This room was in the extension, parallel with the
road, and it was from its windows that the ghostly
sight had most frequently been seen. There was no
glass in the windows and the strong shutters were
fastened by heavy chains. Behind this room a hill
rose abruptly, covered with a thick forest, that ex
tended thence for miles into the wilderness.
Upstairs wove a few furnished rooms, all in good
order except one. That was
THE ONE IN WHICH THE OLD ENGLISHMAN
WAS MURDERED.
There was the bed in which he was found, and I
started when I saw on the turned back bed clothes
the dark stains of his blood. With a sight of that
room my search ended.
The settlers had told me that the ghosts only ap
peared at the middle of the month. That would be
two nights off. I determined to wait and see the
promised manifestations. I got a dark-lantern, a
piece ol rope with a noose and loaded a revolver
and was ready for ghostly business.
The night, when it finally came, was hideously
dark, cloudy and threatening rain, with an unpleas
ant South wind blowing through the trees. I waited
on, hour after hour, scarcely daring to take my eyes
off the house lest something should escape me. It
was past midnight, as I could see by my watch
whenever I held it before my cigar, and I was think
ing of becoming reasonable again and going to bed,
when I saw something in the house that made me
jump aud shout.
There it was, as plain as anything I ever saw in
my life—a light shining through the broken shut
ters of the dining-room. It was just suctya light as
the farmers had described, too—taint and flickering,
and sometimes going out altogether.
It might be a phosphorescent light, like the will
o’-the-wisp, I said to myself; or it might be mis
chievous boys. Anyway, a mere light was no proef
of ghosts, and I would not believe there were any
such things until I had seen one with my eyes, and
had tried to lay hold upon it with my rope noose.
I lighted my dark lantern, felt for my revolver,
and started for the house. As I drew near, I stop
ped a moment to listen. There were
UNMISTAKABLE SOUNDS
coming from the house. I could hear wild laugh
ter and whispers and groans, and sounds like the
clattering of chains across the floor. They wero
not sounds to encourage a man who had no ereat
stomach to be around there anyway; but I pushed
on. As I did so, the sound eeased.
I felt my way to the front door, and with a sud
den push sent it open. I stood for a moment in
the doorway, with one hand on my revolver, and,
turning on the lantern so that it cast a broad road
of light before me, entered the house. As I turned
into the front room, I saw. with a start, that the door
into the dining-room, which I had left open, had
been closed, and under it I could see the ghostly
light shining, and behind it I could hear light foot
steps, and now and then a groan.
My heart was pounding out a fearful tune upon
my ribs and my knees shook not a little, but I kept
on. I reached the door that led into ths room of
the ghostly secrets, and with a final effort, laid my
hand upon it. The same instant the light under
the door went out, the door flew open, something
large and soft flew over me, putting out my light
and knocking mo down. With a wild yell I scram
bled to my feet and fled, and I never stopped run
ning until safe within my tent, I turned to give
battle to any pursuing ghost.
The next day I got out of that country as fast as
my legs could carry me. and two days after, was
back in Toronto, with decidedly enlarged ideas of,
the possibilities of ghosts.
I never mentioned that adventure to a soul until
one night, three years alter, being something the
worse for wine at a club, I told the whole story, ex
pecting to be well laughed at. A wager grew up
whether I dared to go back there, and finally my
old friend, Will Scotten, doubled the wager that he
would go with me and we would
BRING BACK THE GHOST,
dead or alive. My blood was up again then, and I
would have gone to settle the mystery if I had to
go alone.
It was again the Fall of the year when Will and I
reached Aisla Craig, but later in the season than
when I bad been there on the memorable occasion
of my defeat.
The night on which we arrived was the very
night on which the ghost was due, and as it was al
ready dusk no time was to be lost. We hurriedly
packed up our necessaries, including a bottle of
good old rye, and approached the house.
Not a thing had been changed since I left there.
The rails which I had broken when I climbed into
the yard, were rotting on the ground. The crumb
ling porch still showed the marks of my presence.
The door which in my wild haste I had loft open,
had been blown partly to by the wind,but still stood
ajar. Wo looked over the house carefully, though I
did not consider it necessary to point out the blood
stains on the old Englishman’s sheets. There are
some details that are not always essential to any
proceeding.
We made ourselves comfortable in the dining
room, got out our cigars and prepared to watch.
Midnight found us sitting bolt upright, not daring
to take full breaths, and listening intently to ticks
and the crickets. Suddenly there was a sound of
voices behind the bouse. Then the blind was
shaken vigorously. Then we heard whispers ap
parently close at hand aud then the blind was
shaken onco more.
I looked at Will. He was very pale, but very de
termined, and giving the signal agreed upon, I
rushed to the window, unfastened the chain that
held it and both sprang out. We stood together by
the window and flashed ?ut light in every direc
tion, but there was nothing to be seen.
We returned to the room and sat down to await
further manifestations, but we waited in vain. Not
another sound did we bear, but the rain on the roof
and the wind in the old pines. With daylight we
returned to camp with only a very little more
knowledge, but a great deal more curiosity.
It seemed evident that it was useless to hunt for
ghosts with lanterns and candles. Plainly thny had
declined to come last night because they disliked
our illumination. The idea of waiting in that
creaky old house for hours in the dark was not par
ticularly pleasant; but there seemed nothing else to
do, for to go back to Toronto, knowing as little as
we knew, was out of the question.
OFFICE, NO. II MKPORT ST.
The next nigbt, then, we again crept into tbe old
ruin, just as it grew dark. After casting about for a
good hiding-place, whence we could securely ob
serve the ghostly antics, we decided upon the closet
in the dining-room and lay down in such a position
that we could see through the wide chink, under tbe
door, whatever might transpire in the room.
It was dreary work, lying there and trying to get
enough satisfaction out of our desultory conversa.
tion to ease the pain of our uncomfortable position,
and help tbe time to creep away. I had fallen
asleep, and was dreaming I was waltzing at the
Light Guard assembly, when suddenly Will began
kicking me very hard on the shins. 1 was wide
awake in an instant and listening intently. There
were low voices, at first far off, then suddenly close
at hand. Then there was a few moments' silence,
and then the window shutter was shaken violently.
Groans followed, just as they had the night before.
Then there was
A CREAKING OF RUSTY IRON,
the slamming of a door, a noise as of the sliding of
a heavy body across the floor, and moro groans.
Then a light began to glimmer through tbe crack
under the door. It grew into a dim and flickering
blaze. Then there was a sound of whispers and
then more chain rattling, and getting my eyes
closer to the crack I saw tbe blind slowly open, and
presently appear, not a ghost, but the head and
shoulders of a man.
We lay there in breathless astonishment, while
another and then another appeared, until five had
crept in at the window. They were not agreeable
men to look at. Most of them looked like fit candi
dates for the penitentiary. Some were armed and
wore spurs, aud others were well dressed, and were
apparently not riders like the rest. They came in
one by one, and the signal which each gave was a
rattling of the blind and then two groans, answered
from within by one groan and a short and mirthless
laugh.
As they came in they talked in hoarse whispers
and sat around tbe table on the rough benches.
Their talk was as little reassuring as their faces. It
only needed a few words to show in what business
the ghosts of the old Englishman's bouse were en
gaged. They were
BURGLARS, HIGHWAYMEN AND ASSASSINS.
At that time that part of Canada was overrun by a
gang as desperate in every way as that of Sam Bass
and Jesse James were in later days. I had heard a
great deal of their exploits and the fruitless efforts
made to catch them, and there was nothing in the
reputation they had that made me desire a closer
acquaintance.
Pretty soon there was another groan and more
rattling at the blind, and in scrambled a man whom
I recognized at once as a well-known figure in To
ronto. I had seen him almost daily on the streets,
and I knew something about his business. He was
a jewelry broker for a New York firm, and had a
gorgeously furnished office in St. James street. I
had heard once that he had been suspected of smug
gling, but I knew nothing further against his repu
tation.
The object of the meeting was very quickly dis
closed. The members of the gang, ono after an
other, pulled out the proceeds of their robberies—
jewelry, gems and plate—from places of conceal
ment in their clothes. The jewelry broker exam
ined each, told what it would bring, gave a sort of
receipt to each thief for the amount he had con
tributed and put the whole into a satchel which he
carried.
Then he took from his pocket a bag of money and
apparently cashed the chocks he had given on a
preyigus occasion.
The talk then turned to the night before and tbe
strange presence of outsiders in the haunted house,
and the curious and painful manners of death that
they would like to visit upon tbe stupid intruders,
and other things of a nature calculated to make us
in the closet feel particularly cheerful. Then they
debated whether the two Intrusions—my own, three
years ago, and our adventure of the night before—
didn't mean tbat.tlie place was getting too notor
ious for them, and it was agreed that they should
meet there three months from that time, and after
that somewhere else. Then I began to breathe more
easily, for some of them got up and were preparing
to go. One of them had opened the blind, in fact,
and was just stepping out.
And then of a gqdden J felt a convulsive move
ment beside me, and Will sneezed.
I don’t know what possessed me just at that mo
ment, but I must have had a flood of sense let in
upon me that amounted almost to genius. I never
understood it myself. On the instant I whispered
to Will, "Lie still,’’ and before
THE STARTLED GANG
had recovered from their astonishment, I had
sprung out, slammed the door behind me, and
dashed out of the window before their eyes, knock,
ingone man end over end, and getting fairly out
side before any one could draw a revolver. There
was a wild scramble and a fusilado of shots, aud
I could hear footsteps coming after me, but I was
young and a fleet runner, and I felt sure that none
of them could catch me. I never halted until
breathless and covered with mud aud perspiration,
I burst into the station at Aisla Craig and made the
frightened keeper understand something of my
story. Together we roused tbe scattered people of
the little settlement, and in twenty minutes had a
squad of men and boys, armed with guns, pitch
forks aud crow-bars, marching up the road. A few
rods from the old house we met Will, crouching
along the road, and half paralyzed with fear. He
told me, when I had laughed him into some sense,
that after I left, the gang had pursued me for some
distance, and when they camo back had disap
peared. As soon as he had dared he had crept out
of the house and run for bis life. He had narrowly
escaped one of tbe gang who had been left as a
sentinel in case I should return, and had been fired
at a number of times, but had got away unhurt.
Will and I did not waste any time In packing up
our camp. We ran to the station, took the first
train for Toronto, and before the next night wo had
poured tho whole story into the ear of the chief de
tective and he had detailed his best men to work up
the case. We were retained to assist them.
The first thing was to lay for the jewolry broker,
who was known in Toronto as Sherwood. Nothing
could bo done until he should go to another ren
dezvous. After the occurrences at the haunted
house, the robbers wouldn’t meet there again.
When the three months were up,
THE DETECTIVES REDOUBLED THEIR VIGI
LANCE.
We saw Sherwood leave his store ono night aud
followed him to the dopot. He got on a train with
out buying a ticket, and we followed him. It was
arranged that we should get off whenever ho did,
and the rest as soon after as they could. The lot
fell toj Matt Sumner, one of the best detectives I
ever know.
We followed the broker alt that night and the next
day. He led us a wild goose chase away up into
the peninsula of Canala. Sumner dropped from
the train just after him when he got off, and
wo followed him shortly after. Sumner
followed tho broker and we followed Sumner until
tho broker led us to a Jog-hut in ths middle of a
pine forest. We made a midnight raid and captured
the whole gang except two. They were tried at
Toronto. One of them turned Queen’s evidence,
and revealed all the operations of the gang. Sher
wood got twenty years in the Central Prison, but
afterward escaped and reorganized the gang. That
was Sam Arkdale, the outlaw. Years afterward he
operated in Manitoba and Montana heading des
perate gangs, and making his name a terror every
where. He was captured several times, but always
escaped until one time about ten years ago, when
he was caught in an attempt to rob a coach near
Port Arthur. He was consigned to the Central
Prison, and died there last week.
A Fiendish Crime.
A WOMAN’S TERRIBLE FATE.
A horrible murder was committed at Colton, San
Bernardino county, Cal., recently, the mystery of
which has been laid bare by San Francisco de
tectives, revealing ono of the worst Crimea in tho
annals of the coast.
William Pierce registered at the hotel in Colton on
Tuesday morning. January 25th, with his wife, giv
ing Sau Jose aa his residence. They were not no.
ticed after that, but on Wednesday morning their
room was entered by tho chambermaid, who dis
covered the dead body of the woman lying on the
bed. Her skull was crushed by a heavy blow, and
there wero gashes in her throat mado by some blunt
instrument. Papers soaked with kerosene wore
found smoldering on the floor and a portion of the
woman's under-clothing had been charred by the
flames.
In the room was found the short-handled hammer
with which the fatal blow had been struck, and two
photographs of the dead woman, which the assas
sin had evidently left behind In his eagerness to
escape. A full description of the criminal was sent
to Ban Francisco, from which tho detectives worked
out the following facts ef the luring of an honest
young woman to her death by a worthless gambler:
Two years ago Katie Handeroff, a hard-working,
saving and good-looking German girl, was serving
aa housemaid in the South Park Hotel, Ban Fran
cisco; Ono of the boarders was a young fellow
named William Springer, who had come from Ari
zona, where he had been a cow-herder. He was so
poor when he arrived that he had to be trusted for
his board, but this did not prevent him frorq paying
court to Katie, who was reported to have laid by a
snug sum.
Suddenly, Springer grew rich, and when settling
with tbe landlord, he told him that he had inherited
a legacy of $6,000 from his father in Germany. The
legacy was really only S6OO, and with this Springer
opened a saloon at Lodi. Miss Handeroff went to
Liveimore to work, but on December 7th last she
came to San Francisco, met Springer at a hotel, and
was married to him on the following day. The
couple started on their honeymoon to southern
California, a wedding journey which ended in tbe
lady’s murder. She was known to have S4OO in a
city bank, some jewelry, and a note for S2OO, which
she had loaned Springer.
The police theory is that Springer induced her to
take the southern trip by promising to show her a
homestead which he owned near Colton, and that
being out of coin and near his old Arizona sporting
field, he deliberately murdered his bride lor her
money and then tried to cover the traces of the
crime by burning the body in the hotel. Springer,
was well known in Tombstone, where he bore a’
hard reputation. The murdered woman has rela
tives in the Livermore Valley, across tbe bay from
San Francisco, who opposed the marriage. She al
ways bore a good reputation, and her little savings
wero tho result of years of labor.
PRICE " FIVE "CENTS?
—•_ 7
WE ARE CHANGED!
We feel our love has long grown cold,
And yot we dare not own
That, day by day, a silent change
Has o’er our spirits grown.
We see it, though our eyes the while
Are blinded by our tears;
With words of former tenderness
We strive to mock our fears.
But we are changed. We are not one,
As we were once of old.
Oh 1 would to God that we had died
Before our love grew cold 1
We’ve struggled hard against our fatty
Our hearts still warm to keep.
As wayworn men strive with the cold
That numbs them into sleep.
We have not let one unkind word
The bitter truth reveal—
The world knows not, must never kno*
What both of us now feel,
That we are changed. We are not one.
As we were of old.
Oh 1 would to God that we had died *.
Before our love grew cold !
Bound, like the felon bound of yore.
Unto the lifeless clay,
Linked to a love long dead, that shows
Each moment more decay.
In secret we must hug our bonds,
Till death will set us free.
I weep, my wife, to think that I
Have forged these chains for thee;:
For we are changed. We arc not ono,
As we were once of old.
Oh ! would to God that we had died
before our iove grew cold.
HITtIH iom,
BY A NEW AUTHOR.
CHAPTER V. .
" THE ONE GIRL IN THE "WORLD FOR MB?* -
"Well? Are you going to stand looking at
yourself all night, Seymour, or are you going
to bed?”
It was a quarter of an hour after the Latimers
had left, and papa Melford, having betaken
himself to the smoking-room for tbe glass
of hot gin and water which now wound rip
every evening of his liie, the brother and sister
were alone.
Diana had stretched herself out upon th*
couch and lay languidly surveying Seymour,
who stood leaning upon the mantel-shelf, his
dark eyes fixed upon his reflection in tbe glass.
He started, and with a swift turn of his head
looked at her.
“ I am not looking at myself, Diana,” he said.
“ No, I do not see my own face there,” and he
pointed hie thin tapering finger at the glass,
“ not myself, but the future. It lies all spread
out before me there as plainly as if it were *
map. The future, Diana, which I shall make—
or mar.”
"Never mind the future,” she said with a
yawn. “What about to-night? Were you satis
fied with me ?”
“With you? Yea,” he answered. "I am
always satisfied with you. You acted admira
bly, admirably. Your dress was a masterpiece,
and your manner all that I could wish it—per
haps a little, a leetle too cold.”
She smiled indolently, but her eyes flashed.
“You are wrong, Seymour. My manner
matched my dress, and I meant it to! Do yon
think I do not understand how to treat this
young viscount 1 Oh, I know well! He came
expecting to see a fine example of the vulgar
parvenu family. Ho thought I should be
dressed like a May-day sweep, with at least a
couple of thousand pounds’ worth of jewelry
about me, he dreaded that I was going to toady
him and ‘ make up’ to him on the spot! I saw
it in the look of surprise with which he glanced
at me when he came in. He thought I should be
entirely different to the grand ladies of his own
set, and he was astonished to find that I was
not. That was enough for ono evening. I did
not exchange a dozen sentences with him,
scarcely looked at him, bnt I saw all that was
passing through his lordship’s mind I Ah I”
she drew a long breath that almost hissed as it
passed her white, even teeth. “ How I hate
them all ! I wish I had lived in Paris at tho
time of tho revolution. I should have stood
beside the guillotine and seen their heads faH
without a shudder I I would have cried • Death
to tho aristocrats I’ till my threat dried up;”
and the milk-white, hand that held the fan
closed upon it with a soft, cat-like ferocity.
The brother loaned his head upon his hand
and watched her.
“I would have joined yon,” he said, with a
low laugh and a cruel curl of the thin, Greek
lip. “ And I have more cause to hate them
than you ! You do not mix with them in tho
outside world—l do ! I have felt their cold in
solence, have winced under the sneer of their
lips and the scorn in their eyes. Hate them 1”
Ho laughed. “If by a shako of this finger I
could lay them all ruined and destroyed at my
feet, I’d do it I This insolent yonng fool to
night lookedat me as if I were the dirt under
his feet, as if he wondered how I dared enter
the same room with himself. To that gawky
Latimer boy he was all smiles and affability.
It was ‘Jack, old man 1’ with him; but when he
spoke to me, it was ‘ Mr. Melford I’ ” Ho raised
his hand aud looked at it; it was quivering.
“ The father, the old earl, was hard to bear, with
his cold, fishy stare when I spoke, bnt his son,
‘ my Lord Kendalels,’ easy, lounging insolence,
made my blood boil, till at times I could have
seized a knife from tho table and stabbed him
where he sat 1” and the white hand made a swift
downward movement, aa if it were thrusting
with a knife.
Diana looked at him from under her half
lowered lids.
“ Take care, Seymour ; that temper of your*
is rather—dangerous I”
He passed his hand over his forehead as if to
efface tbe signs of passion upon it, and laughed
softly.
“ That is wbat I felt, Diana !” he said. “What
I did, was to make myself as pleasant as possi
ble to onr guest. I thought, even as I longed
to strike him, ‘ I’ve a better game to play with
you, my lord. Tbe man you look as if ho wore
dirt under your feet, shall be your dearly be
loved brother-in-law, and then—— ’ ”he paused
and smiled.
Diana fanned herself.
“ It is all very well to say it,” she said ; " but
how are you going to bring it to pass ?”
“We will see,” he said, concisely. There was
silence for a moment, then he walked to the ta
ble, and with his back to her said, " Why did
not Dolores come to-night?”
Diana turned her bead, and a keen look came
into her half-closed eyes.
“I don’t know. What does it matter?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he assented carelessly—
too carelessly.
“lam rather surprised she did not,” resumed
Diana, slowly; “ for she knew Lord Keudaio was
coming; I told them in my note,"