New York dispatch. [volume], March 13, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
two, and three are considered enough even for
a washerwoman.” Then she looks round at the
rector, who stands gazing at the fire with pre
occupied eyes, listlessly tapping his spoon
against his cup. ", What have you been talking
about all thia time, pupsie ?” sho says.
The rector gives a little uneasy start, and
glances at Seymour Meltord,
“ Oh, all sorts of things, my dear,” he says;
« all sorts of things. Ahem ! I don’t think you
put any sugar in my tea, Greta,” and ho holds
cut his cup.
“ Why, you have drank it all 1” she says, smil
ing.
“Have I?” he says absently. “Sol have.
Dear me I Give me another cup, my dear.
Greta, Mr. Seymour will stay to dinner.”
“No, thanks,” ho says, “not this evening.
My father is coming down, and 1 must keop him
coui'peny while my sister is away.”
“Quite right—quite right ” assents the rector.
“ By the way, I had a long letter from Diana,"
says iSeymour’Melford, smiling round in his so t,
conciliatory way. “She appears to be spending
a remarkably good time down there. Do you
know Lady Farnham, Miss Greta ? ’
“ No,” says Greta.
“Diana says she is a most charming old
lady. Quite one of the old school,” he goes on
slowly and easily, turning to hold his white
hands to the fire, and so commanding a view ot
Lome's pensive face. "She lives at an old
Elizabethan mansion near Latcham, you know.”
Lorrio still sits perfectly motionless, and ap
parently not hearing a single word.
“The earl and Lady Farnham are very old
and great friends,” he continues. “It is said
that they were sweethearts. They visit each
other quite frequently now—that is, whenever
the earl is well enough to drive over."
“I hope he is bettor.” says Greta.
“ Oh, yes; quite well again, Diana says,” he
replies; “ and she hears very often, for Lord
Kendale rides over to Lady Farnham’s every
day.”
Is it the flicker of the firelight, or has Lorrie’s
face grown red?
Mr. Seymour Melford gets another cup of tea,
then resumes.
“ They have been quite gay down there, Di
ana says, and she tells me that Lord Kendale is
the life and soul of their riding and dinner par
ties.”
Lome looks up; her face is pale now, and her
eyes wear the set look of a person trying to
suppress all expression from her face.
“ Isu t it time to dress, Greta ’I" she says,
coldly.
But Greta is interested, and only glances at
the clock and node.
“I think Lord Kendale is one of the most
cheerful of young men,” she s iys.
“So my sister says,” he remarks. “ She says
that nothing comes amiss* to him, and quite
sings his praises in her last letter. There is to
be a large dance at Lady Farnham’s next week,
and Diana wishes to know if she shall ask tor
an invitation for me, but ”
Me pauses and suppresses a little sigh.
“ I don’t care aboutit lam happier where I
am, and he Just glances at the immovable fig
use beside him.
“ Miss Diana must take care, or she will lose
lier heart,” says the rector, with a smile.
Beymour Melford nods and laughs.
“ res, I must give her a word of warning.”
“ No. I think that the warning should go to
I,ord Kendale, who is more in danger than Miss
Diana,” responds the rector, with his little
courtly bow.’
“ Better let them both alone,” remarks Gre
ta, smiling. “1 think they would make a very
excellent match.”
Lorrie rises.
“I don’t like to hurry you away from so
piquant a discussion, Greta,” she says, dis
tinctly, “ but, unless you want the dinner
spoiled, hadn’t you better oome and dress ?”
and She walks toward the door, which Mr. Sey
mouf glides across to open for her, receiving
the coolest and most ungrate ul of bows for ac
knowledgment.
But Mr. Seymour still smiles—smiles as he
shakes hands with Greta and the rector, smiles
as ho goes across to the Pinos, and still smiles
as he sits down to dinner opposite Mr. Melford
senior. So the fowler may smile who sees the
bird proudly soaring above the net, and knows
that within a given time it will be beating its
golden wings within his palm.
“ By the Way, sir,” he says, when the servants
bay® left the room and Mr. Melford has com
menced on his port, “do you got the interest on
the money lent to the Latchams pretty regu
larly?"
Mr, Melford grunts.
“Not’arf so regular as I should like,” he
flays.
“It is a large sum of money to lay idle—or
out at low per centage,” murmurs Seymour,
watching bis father’s heavy face intently."
“ Yes, it is,” assents Mr. Moliord—“ a tre
mendous lot. I can’t think why I should have
been such a fool as to lend it.”
Seymour looks at him.
“ I don’t think it was very foolish,” ho says,
slowly.
“ You don’t—why not?”
Seymour reaches a nut and places it in the
crackers, keeping hie eyes upon his lather s
lace.
“Diana is staying near Latcham,” he says.
Mr. Melford nods.
“I know that. What’s that got to do with
it?”
“Lord Kendale is at Latcham with his la
ther.”
Mr. Melford nods again.
“Diana is a very clever girl, and good-look
ing into the bargain.”
“ Thai’s no news,” grunts Mr. Melford, refill
ing his glass. “What are you driving at? I
suppose you think that they might make a
match ? No go, Seymour; I keep my eyes open
es well as you, and I tell you that cock won’t
, fight. The young fellow’s sweet on the Rever
end Latimer’s girl, Dolores.”
Seymour Meltord’s eyes flash, but he still
smiles.
“So I have heard,” he says coolly. “ But
I,ord Kendale can’t marry a girl without money.
Miss Dolores has none; Diana will have plenty,
I suppose ?”
“ 1 suppose sho will,” grunts Mr. Melford;
“ but I can’t force him to marry Diana, can I?”
“ I think so,” says Seymour, and ho arranges
' his nut accurately. “ When people are driven
hard for money they will do—anything. The
Jjatohams are driven hard now; they are like
this nut, and you are the crackers. You have
them sound and whole while you like, but when
‘ the time comes you-crack, thus !”
And he cracks the nut and drops it on to his
plate.
The old man watches him out of his smals,
cunning eyes.
“I see,” he says, with a long-labored breath.
Seymour nods approvingly.
“ You say ‘I want my money.’ The earl says
•I can’t pay you. I cannot borrow the sum you
have lent—what is to bo done ?’ There is one
thing he can do—let Lord Kendale marry Diana.
She will be the Countess of Latcham, and you
the grandfather of the future earl 1”
The old man’s face reddens, and he clutches
the decanter, fills his glass and empties it.
“ The grandfather of the future earl I” he re
peats ;“ an earl for a grandson ! Seymour, you
Ain’t a fool.”
Mr. Seymour nods and smiles.
“ Not quite,” he assents. “Perhaps yon won’t
mind taking a little advice from me ?”
f‘ Go on,” grunts Mr. Melford.
“ It all depends upon the time you put the
screw upon them. If you doit too soon, you
spoil yourself; if you do it too late ” he
shrugs his shoulders. “ Let me tell you when
to crack your nut, sir.”
Mr. Melford thought a moment.
“ All right,” h® says; “ I’ll leave it to you.
Of course,” he adds, cunningly, “ you’ve got a
game to play, Seymour ?”
Seymour nods.
” Yes, sir,” he assents.
The old man thinks for a moment.
- “What are you always hanging about that
Rectory for ?” he asks.
“ Because I am in love with Miss Dolores,”
replies Seymour, coolly and without hesitation.
■ Mr. Melford stares at him.
“ The devil you are ! I see ! Yon want to
cut out young Lord Kendale !”
“Exactly,” acquiesces Seymour.
The old man laughs and thrusts the stopper
. into the bottle.
“You are a’cute fellow, Seymour I In love
with that little girl at the Rectory, eh? That
■ eeams rather weak, though; she hasn’t any
money.”
“ I have enough already, sir.”
•‘That’s true. And she’s well-born—she’s a
lady 1 Well, work it your own way, and I’ll
leave this Latcham business to you and Diana.”
“Thank you, sir,” says Seymour, rising.
Mr. Meltord stamps toward ths door, then
stops suddenly.
“ Oh, look here 1 I met that man of yours—
'Wheeler. He says that you hold ten thousand
pounds’ worth of the Wheal Rose; it that
true ?”
“it is true; but Wheeltr should not have
told you.”
“Oh, he told me because he was in a funk.
That mine is going to the bad rapidly. Better
sell out, Seymour. But I suppose you have ?”
“ No, sir,” replies Seymour, with a smile; " I
am still holding on.”
“ Then you’ll lose your money !” remarks Mr.
Meltord,with an oath. “But I suppose you can
' afford it. What is your game ?”
“ I don't think I will trouble you with it just
now, sir,” says Seymour. “If I’lose my money
* 1 shall get something for it.”
The old man looks at him curiously, then
grunts again.
“ v. ell, you are cute, I know, but don’t he too
.clever; that a all. It’s no business of mine;
the money Is your own. Going to lose it, eh ?
Well, well I” end ho tramps out.
Lorrio went without her dinner that day, not
withstanding her anxiety lest it should be kept
waiting and spoiled. Locked in her own room,
she sat with her hands fast clasped in her lap,
her eyas fixed upon the darkness outside the
window.
Mr. Seymour’s artful words, like seed sown
in a ertile soil, were springing up in a rich pro
fusion of weeds in Lorrie’s mind.
Here was she sitting waiting patiently tor her
lover to return to her, and he, meanwhile,was the
gayest of the gay, the choice spirit among a set
Of people of whom Diana Melford was the centre.
He saw her every day, diued with her, danced
with her, while she, Lorrie, whose heart he had
stolen, was left to pine in solitude 1 This was
tho current of her thoughts, and not being an
angel, though almost as beautiful as one, her
spirit began to rise. Guy was away flirting with
plana Melford; well, two could play at that
game. She could flirt as well as he could. He
was amusing himself, why should not she?
There was material for flirting and amusement
cead; to her hand in Seymour Melford. Slio
knew that he loved her, that he craved a kind
word, a soft glance from her as a hungry dog
craves a bone. Why should sho sit with folded
hands wearing tho willow and waiting like a
patient Grizel for her lord and master's. return
from his dinner parties aird dances No I
With a laugh that was not pleasant to hear,
that sounded in her own ears like a discordant
sigh, she paced up and down with feverish rest
lessness.
“ I’ve been ‘ good ’ too long !” she said with a
defiant glance round as if she were addressing
an audience. “It does not agree with me. 1
must amuse myselt as Guy does. He flirts with
Diana Melford, I must flirt with Seymour. At
any rate it will pass tho time !” and sho threw
up her hands with a wistful sigh. “ Were the
days ever so long in all the world before? Ob,
Guy, why did you leave me ? Why didn’t you
stay ? But if you must go, why flirt with D.ana
Meli ord
CHAPTER XV.
“I SHALL NET YOU YET.”
When Mr. Seymour Melford comes through
the rectory gate next morning, Lorrie is stand
ing nailing up a creeper against the wall; he
raises his hat and gives her good-morning, ex
pecting the curt response which he usually gets
from that young lady, but Lorrie turns and
smiles—actually smiles.
“Good-morning, Mr. Melford; I’m hard at
work, you see !”
“Nailing up the creeper;” he says, stopping
beside her.
“No,” she corrects him sweetly, “knocking
the skin off my fingers with the hammer.”
“ Let me do it for you ?” he says eagorly.
“No, thanks,! hit softer than you would.
“ Ob, you mean nail the creeper—thanks I You
are suro you don’t mind ?” and her voice grows
dulcet.
“You know I shall be only too glad, Miss
Dolores,” be responds.
“ Wait until you have been at it five minutes,”
said Lorrie, gayly. “ You must be quick, be
cause the old gardener will be back directly,
and he objects to anybody interfering with his
business.”
“ I’ll risk his anger,” ho says. “ What a love
ly morning 1”
“isn’t it? The sort of morning when one
wants to sing. Do you want to see papa ? I’ll
go and fetch him.”
“Please do not,” he replies. “I have only
come to see him about the schools.”
“ They seem to take up a great deal of your
time?” says Lorrio, not coldly, as she would
have spoken to him last night, as she would
have spoken now—it Guy had not flirted with
Diana Melford ’ “1 think it is very good of
you, Mr. Melford.”
It is seldom or never that she calls him by
hie Christian name, and his eyes grow bright.
“ Not in the least, Miss Dolores,” he says.
“I am almost an idle man, and 1 am only too
grateful to Mr. Latimer for allowing me to taka
part in hia plans for the welfare of tho village.’
“ And you have come to see him about them
this morning?” she said, pleasantly.
“Yes,” ho answers, with a guileless smile.
“ It is quite an important matter, and requires
a deal of talking over.”
“So I should think,” she retorts, but with a
smile, “seeing that you and papa talk of noth
ing elee.”
As she speaks the rector comas through tho
doorway, and seeing only Seymour Melford,
says, with an anxious eagerness :
“ Good morning, Seymour. Any news
Seymour Melford glances at Lorrie warningly,
and the rector flushes and stops short.
“No, no news. I was just going to ask you
to walk down to the plot of land. I have
thought of an improvement.”
“ Yes, yes, certainly,” says the rector. “ I’ll
get my hat,” and he gooa in, coming out again
almost instantly, and with a quick, hurried step,
very unlike hia old, measured, courtly gait.
“ I suppose you’d consider two company and
three none, or I’d offer to go with you,” says
Lorrio, carelessly.
Seymour Melford turns with an eager smile.
“ Will you ? Pray do, Mias Dolores, it is such
a beautiful morning, and I should like to ex
plain to you what wo intend doing !”
“ Yes, come by all means, my dear 1” says the
rector, but he does not say it with any extraor
dinary heartiness.
Lorrie rune in and gate her jacket, and the
three set out.
Yesterday sho would no more have thought
oi offering to take a walk with Seymour Mel
ford, even in her father’s company, than of fly
ing; but yesterday is yesterday, and to-day is
to-day; and to-day Lorrie’s heart is burning
with tho fire ot jealousy and misery. So she
takes her place beside Mr. Seymour instead of
as iar off him aa possible, and to everything he
says she responds with a pleasant word and a
smile that makes the blood run warm through
his veins.
When they have reached tho site of the pro
posed new schools, and he points out the im
provements—improvements which he has had
to invent upon tho spur of the moment—she
does not contradict him as she would have done
yesterday, but agrees with him in toto.
“ The world has lost a great architect in you,
Mr. Seymour,” she says. “Don’tyou think Mr.
Seymour is very clever, pupsio ? You and I
would never have thought of all this, would
we ?”
“Eh ! no! Very clever indeed, my dear,”
responds the recta’, with an absent stare. “ Ex
cellent I We cannot be too grateiul to Mr. Sey
mour,” and ho glances at the smiling face signi
ficantly.
“What can we do to show our gratitude?
What do you say to a statue, full length or on
horseback, waving a plan ot the schoolroom, on
the village green, Mr. Seymour ?”
He laughs softly. There is a warm flush on
his usually pale cheeks, and his black eyes glit
ter.
“ If I ever did anything worth speaking about,
Mias Dolores, I’d rather occupy a niche in the
people’s hearts than stand erect as marble in
the market place.”
“That’s a beautiful sentiment,” says Lorrie.
“ Why, you are a poet as well as an architect 1”
and ahe flashes upon him one ot those rare
smiles which won Guy’s heart.
“ Mr. Seymour is our very good friend !” says
the rector, in a low voice.
“ That’s a title I would rather wear than that
of a duke. Miss Dolores,” murmurs Seymour
Melford,
“And I wouldn’t!” says Lorrie promptly.
“ Who wouldn’t be a duke it he could ? I know
I’d give anything to be a duchess. But, then,
very ambitious, you know. ’
He looks at her. The rector has walked on a
few paces, and is staring at the church with a
pre-occupied gaze.
“So am 1,” he says, in a low voice. “So we
agree, Miss Dolores.”
For once,” she says, his low half pleading
tone turning her cold.
“Not lor once only 1” he says softly. “I do
not think there is any opinion of yours that I
should not think right, that I should not be pre
pared to swear by I”
“Then you’d commit perjury very often 1”
she says, trying to speak pleasantly.
“I’d risk that,” he responds. “I’d risk
a great deal to win your good word, Miss
Dolores 1”
“Don’t risk a farthing!” she says lightly.
“My good word isn’t worth having, I assure
you 1”
“To mo it would be the most precious thing
in the world 1” ho says earnestly, his eyes fixed
upon her with a steady gaze.
Lorrie shrinks within herself in an instant
and he sees by her face that he has made a mis
take-gone too far in fact.
“But we are boring you to death with our
plans and estimates, Miss Dolores; shall we go
back now ?”
“ I will go and look in at some of the cot
tages,” she says, and with a nod walks away.
“Fool!” he mutters. “1 have been too quick
and frightened her ! But her sweet voice, her
smile threw mo off my guard. I must be more
careful. Ob, my pretty bird, you may flutter
your wings; but I shall net you yet! I shall
net you yet! And soon !”
“ Well, what news?” says the rector, coming
up with an anxious nervous manner. I have
been dying with impatience all the while
Lorrio has been with us. What is the news
this morning?”
“No better,” says Seymour Melford. “ I got
a telegram from my man, saying that the shares
are still going down.”
The rector groans.
“ Gracious Heaven !*’ he ejaculates. “ What
.is to be done ?”
“ Wait,” replies the spider, with a calm,
easy smile. “My dear sir, there is no need for
alarm; shares go up and down like a bucket in
a well.”
“ But these Wheal Rose have been going
down and down,” says the rector, wiping the
perspiration from hia face. “If I sold them
now I should lose .”
And he groans again.
“It would be madness to sell them now,”
says Seymour Melford. “ Why, my dear sir,
you would lose two thousand pounds I”
“ Better lose that than my little all!”
“ You will not lose your all, nor any portion
of it,” argues Seymour Melford. “ Why, my
dear sir, I think of buying, instead of selling;
the shares are sure to go up again; go higher
than they have ever been ! Yes, I shall buy!”
The rector scans his face with anxious eyes.
“ It—it seems terribly risky,” he murmurs;
“ terribly 1 I—l cannot get the thought of the
thing out of my mind for a single instant! I
cannot sleep at night for dread.”
Seymour "Melford smiles.
“My dear sir, do you think I should have
advised you to purchase these shares if 1 had
not felt convinced that they would make a
fortune. Remember, I hold them myself 1 If I
were not certain, at least as certain as anyone
can be of anything in this world, that they were
going to go up, do you think I should not sell
them?”
“ Yes, yes; just so! Very true?’’ says the
rector. “ You run the same risk that I do, and
yet, not the same, for mine is my all, my
children’s sole dependence, while yours is but a
bagatelle.”
Seymour Melford smiles.
“ A bagatelle !” he says. “ I assure you, sir,
that even on the Stock Exchange we do not
count five thousand pounds a bagatelle ! But
do not let me persuade you ! If you feel so
uneasy sell them, by all means !”
“And lose two thousand pounds?” says the
rector, wiping his face. “ No, no ! I will take
your advice. I will do aa you do. You must
know the right thing to do ! I—l will leave it
in your hands, Seymour.”
“ Really, air, I think that la your wisest plan,”
says the spider. “Rest assure;! that I will act
with the greatest caution. lam as nnx-ona as
you are that the Wheal lloae shares should dou
ble your fortune. You will know why, some,
I {lay, Mr.- Latimer.’’
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 13. 1887.
The rector looks at him with a half-dazed in
ten tn eas.
“ What do you mean ?” he says. “ Pray apeak
out! Ido not understand ! I—l think lam
not so clear-headed aa I was.”
“It is very easy to be understood, sir,” says
Seymour Melford, with a respectful, affectionate
glance at the careworn face. “ I thought that
you could have seen it yourself.”
“Seen it! Seen what?”
“That I entertain the strongest and deepest
affection for your daughter, Mias Dolores, sir,”
he aays in a low, intense vo ce.
Tho rector starts.
“ Good heavens ! For Lorrie ?—you said Lor
rie? Why, she is but a child ! She knows or
dreams nothing about love •”
Seymour smiles to himself bitterly as ho
thinks of the scene ho witnessed between Lorrie
and Lord Guy.
“ A child in innocence and purity.”
“Yea, indeed, sir,” he says softly. “But I
trust that you will not think her too young to
become my wife ; that you will give me your
permission to pay my addresses to her.”
The rector stands and stares before him with
a doubtful, dazed eye.
“ I—l—this has taken me utterly by sur
prise !” he stammers, hesitatingly. “ Have you
said anything to Lorrie ?”
“Certainly not, sir. I should not dream of
doing so until 1 gained your consent to my
speaking to her.”
“ Yes, yes ; thank you, thank you !” says the
rector. “What can I say? I Know nothing of
what she thinks-I do not think she has ever
thought of love and marriage. A child, Mr.
Seymour-a mere child ! But—but ”
What is it that whispers warningly in the
rector’s ear, and makes him hesitate? Is it
Lorrie’s good angel pleading for her?—is it a
sudden instinct that the man who is speaking so
soHiy and politely is a suako in the grass ?
“1 love your daughter Lorrie most devotedly,
sir,” goes on Seymour Melford. “ I do not
think it is possible for any man to love a woman
more truly and deeply than I love her. Ido
not ask for more than your permission to speak
to her, and your good wishes. lam aware that
my request must sound precipitate, but, sir, I
have loved her for some time, though I have
kept silent. ’
Still the roctor hesitates, and stands silently
regarding the ground.
“ Have you any personal objection to me,
sir?” asks Seymour Melford meekly.
The roctor starts.
“ No, no; certainly not. It is only because I
am taken so utterly by surprise. Objection!
No 4 Your proposal is an honor to—to us. We
are poor, as you know, and you are rich
“ Oh, sir !” pleads tho so t, insidious voice.
“ Do not let us spoak of money in connection
with Miss Dolores; the very word is repugnant
and he turns away as if deeply wounded.
“ I beg your pardon ! Forgive ma !” says the
poor rector. “ You are right; no thought of
money should enter into the matter. Yes,
Seymour, 1 consent, and—and you have my bast
wishes, my very best wishes.’ I can say no
more; 1 cannot answer for my child. What her
answer may be 1 cannot guess.’’
“ Nor 1, sir,” breaks in Seymour Melford. “I
do not propose to speak to her at once—l will
wait until t have some slight reason to hope. If
you knew how deeply my heart is set upon
gaining her, sir, you would sympathise with
me.”
“Yes, yes, I do, I do !” says the rector; “ and
I wish you every success 1” and his eyes grow
moist as he holds out the hand, which Seymour
Melford seizes and presses so earnestly/
This night, as Lorrie sits over the fire at tho
rectory—calling up the handsome face of her
lover in the flames, going over every word of
the love vows he uttered in the lane that never
to-be-forgotten night of Carshal races ; longing
with a desire which none but a girl in the throes
ot her first love passion can understand, for one
touch of his hand, one word from his loved lips
—there is a grand dinner at Lady Farnham’s,
and Lord Guy is there ! «
Mr. Seymour Melford might have lied when
ba said that Lord Guy was at Farnham Hall
every day, for it was just as easy for him to lie
as to speak the truth. But he had not lied.
He w s far too clever to run unnecessary risks.
Lorrie might have written to Lord Guy, and
detected Mr. Seymour Mel ord, and that would
have been bad lor the latter gentleman. No, he
had spoken the truth. Not a day passed but
Guy rode or drove over to Farnham Hall, and
he dined there aud danced there.
Most women possess that sovereign gift—pa
tience. Few men can even understand it. Lor
rie would have boon con tout to wait and wait,
suro of her own heart, it she had been sure of
Guy’s, till she was, say thirty. Would have been
content to live tho gray, dull life at the rectory,
with nothing for her heart to live upon but the
memory of Guy's kissos and Guy 3 passionate
words. But mon are made ot different stuff to
women, and Guy, shut up at the Court, was so
bored that be turned, as naturally as a duck to
water, to Farnham Hall.
Wheu he bad flrat caught sight of Diana Mel
ford at the meet, he had sworn to himself that
he would not go near her; then he bad ac
cepted an invitation to dinner, and—the raat
was easy.
His love for Lorrio had not waned in the
slightest. She was still queen of his heart.
Not eno hour of the day but ho thought of her,
not a night but the vision of her beautiful, be
witching face rose and thrilled him with the
passion which she had aroused. His love for
her was as deep as ever, and ho swore that wheu
the mouth was out ha would dare all, risk all
and go to her and claim her, his beautiful, dark
oyod witch !.
But a man cannot sit with bis hands in his
lap and think of any woman, love her as well
and passionately as be may. He must have
some thing to do; and there was nothing to do
at Latcham Court. If he did not want to go to
Farnham Hall on his own account, the earl gen
erally had some message for Lady Farnham,
and “ would Guy mind riding over ?”
And when he rode over, Lady Farnham, with
whom Guy was an old favorite, was always so
glad to see him. It was impossible that he
should go before luuch; he must stay to dinner.
No excuses served him, and there was no re
sisting the old lady, who had been the most
charming ot young women, and was now the
most charming ot old.
He stayed to lunch, to dinner, and everything
about the beauti ul old place was laid, so to
speak, at his feet. Lady Farnham knew his
lavorite dishes as well as they did at the Court;
he was allowed to smoke in a little room luxu
riously furnished, as it seamed, for hia special
benefit, and when there ha was never dull.
Lady Farnham was one of the beat talkers of
her time. No subject came amiss to her. She
could talk crewel work to the women, and dogs
and horses to the men. And last, but not
least, there was Diana Melford, the girl ho
ought to marry, but whom he bad sworn never
to marry.
She was beautiful as a rose; soft, fair skinned,
lustrous eyed. There was no occasion for her
to talk, she had only to sit or lounge—lounging
was her favorite position—for her to satisfy the
eye ol most men. Lord Guy, like most ot his
sex, worshiped beauty, aud here was Beauty
personified.
And she, too, welcomed him with a smile.
She did not talk much herself, but she listened,
and that is what a man likes ! She would l.steu
for the hour together while he talked of Gypsy,
and the barracks, aud the last little war. Listeu
with her beauti ul deer-like eyes fixed upon his
face so intently, that he might- almost have fan
cied that he could see her soul through them.
And she could play and sing.
After lunch, when the rain came down in tor
rents and Lady Farnham declared that it was
tar too wet lor' him to go home, and that he
must stay to dinuer, Diana Meltord would rise
in her indolently graceful fash ion,aud, unasked,
go to the piano. She would play, not loud and
aggressively as some women, as most women
play, but softly, soothingly; and Lord Guy
smoking his cigar in the little room, divided
only !rom that in which she sat by heavy cur
tains, would listen to her, aud like Saul be
satisfied.
And if the weather should happen to be fine
she would ride with him. Like most women oi
her typo, Diana was not a perfect horsewomen;
but she had what most people lack, plenty of
pluck. And she made a picture in the saddle.
A woman always looks her best in a habit, and
Diana Melford looked like her namesake the
goddess in her tight-fitting moleskin.
If they came to a fence aud Lord Guy hopped
over it, she would follow him with a smile upon
her beautiful face, though her heart was in her
boots. In fact, she was a perfect companion,
and though Lord Guy still cherished Lorrie’s
image in his heart, aud longed for the eud bl
the month wheu ho could fly back to her, he
found it very pleasant to spend several hours a
day with Diana Melford.
As to marrying her! No! Not it all the
world, Latcham Court included, depended upon
it!
In this frame of mind he went to the dinner
party on the night of the day upon which
Seymour Melrord had proposed to the rector for
Lorrie.
It was a grand party, and tho elite of the
county had been aakod. Guy’s brougham had
to thread its way through a maze of carriages,
and when ho entered tho drawing-room he
found himself in a crowd, a crowd which con
verged and concentrated itself round a certain
couch, upon which sat Diana Meltord.
She was looking more beautiful than ever that
night. Her dross, a masterpiece oi Worth’s,
was studded with ocean pearls. Usually she
shunned jewelry, but to-nigbt, bar hair and
neck and wrists were ablaze with diamonds. A
crowd of men surrounded her, paying her that
homage which is as the breath oi their life to
most women.
She lay back upon the couch gently fanning
herself, her glorious eyes half-vailed under her
long golden lashes. She seemed half-asleep,
wholly inattentive and irresponsive to the flat
tery which, like a libation to a goddess, poured
over her.
It was some minutes before Guy could get
near enough to her to shake hands, and direct
ly his hsnd touched her she seemed to wake.
Her whole manner changed. From indolent
sleepiness she awoke to alertness and attention.
The men who had surrounded her saw the im
pression which Lord Guy had produced upon
her, and drew back, and he was left, so to speak,
master of the field.
“ Aren’t you late ?” she murmured. “ I think
the first bell has rung.”
“Oh, wo are waiting for the duke,” he said
with a smile, “and he’s always late—it is a
ducal privilege.”
The duke entered as Guy spoke, and they
wont into dinuer.
Guy took in au old countess, whom he re
membered as an old woman when he was a boy,
but Diana sat opposite him, and all dinner
: time she seemed, like a tigress well fed, half
; asi-iop.
: Lui t'ue momdfit he neat the couch ia
the drawing room, she was awake, and wel
comed him with the soft, sweet, seductive
smile.
“I wanted to speak to you,” she said. “I
have had a letter from home.” w
“ Yes ?” ho said, and as she swept her dress
nsido and made room for him, he sat down be
side her.
“ Yes, from my brother Seymour. Poor Sey
mour 1”
“ Why * poor ?’ ” fie asked with a smile.
“ Oh. because all men are proper objects for
sympathy.when they are in love.”
“ And is your brother in love ?” ho ased,
smiling. It seemed, somehow, so ludicrous to
connect Seymour Melford with the tender pas
sion.
“ Oh, yes ! Didn’t you know ? He is madly
in love with Mr. Latimer’s daughter—Dolores I”
Lord Guy turned pale, but he managed to
smile.
“ Indeed ! That is news I”
“Is it? I thought all the world, at least, the
world at Carshal, knew it. It was patent to
everybody I should think. Poor Seymour I I
am very glad 1”
“ Why are you glad ?” said Guy.
She shifted her fan, and waited the scented
air over him.
“Because he seems to be in a fairway to
gaining the object of his affections.”
“ Oh ! ’ muttered Lord Guy.
“ Y r es. Miss Dolores and he are inseparable
companions. They arc building a new school,
or something of the kind, and they are always
together.”
“Indeed ?” said Guy, his blood running riot
in his veins.
“Oh, yes. It is to be quite a grand school.
I never knew my brother so philanthropic be
fore. But he and Dolores Latimer seem to un
derstand each other.”
“As how?” demanded Guy, the room spin
ning round before his burning eyes.
‘‘They spend most of their time together,”
said Diana, indolently. “Plans, and all that
sort of thing; and Seymour tells me that he has
spoken to the roctor, and got his consent.”
“Oh!” said Guy, scarcely knowing that he
spoke.
“ I’es; it will bo rather a good match for Do
lores Latimer, you know ! My brother is re
markably clever, and ho has mado a largo for
tune. 1 don’t care about money myself—l de
test it: but most girls like it.”
“I suppose so,” said Guy, and he sat and
stared at the fan she wafted to and fro.
This was the end then ! Lorrie had sold her
self to Seymour Melford, and he, Guy, was for
gotten !
(To be Cantinas l.i
TnE SECRET Or AN OLD MAN’S LIFE.
The last remnants of tho dinner bad been re
moved from the table; the curtains were drawn
across the windows; the oil lamp was placed be
tween us; the tiro roared up the chimney; wo
faced each other in two arm-chairs, my grand
father and I. It was the anniversary of his
birthday, and I, his grandson, the only relative
ho had loft in tho world, had spent the day at
his fireside, more in pity lor his loneliness than
for any love of kinship. They said I should in
herit tho large fortune he had acquired*, none
knew how; but the life ol this strange old man
had ever been an enigma to the few who were
intimate with him, and none could foresee from
day to day iu which d rection the next seeming
freak of his folly would lie.
So I was dimug with him on tho ninetieth an
niversary of his birthday, and when tho repast
was finished wo had drawn up the groat arm
chairs, and in silence I watched tho daop glow
of the firelight play upon his haggard face, as
ho seemed to search the inmost depth of tbo
bla e with his p.ercing and outstanding eyes.
His life had been » mystery to those who had
known him; for years he hid lived in that little
house with one servant, and it was only on an
niversaries of his birthday that 1 dined at his
table. It was on such occasions as these that I
had learned enough of the old man’s life to
know that some heavy aeerot lay on his mind,
that some ono act in his long span of existence
had marred and seared the remaining years.
The fevered mutterings, tho staring eyes, the
long fits of abstraction, followed by hoarse
pleadings, as if for pity, had told their tale. Oc
cas onal mention, too, of early days in Paris—of
spectacles there that bad dulled the courage of
the stoutest hearts, of women and men dying at
the hands of fanatic Republicans, of little chil
dren falling in tho wide-spread sacrifice—all
these led me to believe that it was in Paris that
my grandfather had spent his oarly years, with
Paris and with tbo past that his secret lay. More
I know not; more 1 dared not ask, for I was al
ways ill at ease in tho company ot this strange
old man, whoso very eccentricities repelled the
least advance.
Would he ever tell me moro ? was the ques
tion I asked myself that night, and as I watched
the quivering lip and the trembling eyes and
heard from time to time the muttered prayer,
I felt that his secret would perish with him.
But 1 was mistaken, for suddenly he turned his
chair from the fire, and clutching tho arms of it
as if with determined purpose, ho began to
speak in a low and solemn voice. In a minute
1 learned that the time had come; tho mystery
would be hidden no longer.
“Grandson,” he said, “it comes to every
man at a certain season tokuow that the end oi
his li 0 is not iar distant; that the day is ap
proaching when he must faco his Maker. When
such a season is come to a man, it behooves
him to think of those who will inherit his pos
sessions when he is gone. I have thought over
that difficult question, and I have made my de
cision. You are my only relative—you will in
herit such property as I possess; but more than
this, you wdl learn now from me chat which no
doubt has oiten troubled you—the secret of an
old man’s life. It has not escaped you, this
weight that lies upon my soul and threatens to
crush it- Others have o.ten questioned me
an idle curiosity prompted them to do so; you
have shown your sense and held your peace.
Your discretion has not escaped me; it shall be
rewarded by a gratification ot your suppressed
curiosity, painlul though it may be lor mo to
give it. You have learned from the words that
have escaped me that images ot the past rise
ever before me—images that never leave mo
day or night—that carry mo back again to Paris
and my crime.”
The’old- man paused a moment here, for
emotion was working strong within him; then,
recovering himself,|iie wont on hurriedly:
“ My father, himself a man of letters, decided
to educate me lor a literary profession. With
souse and determination, he planned for me a
scheme ot education which embodied a wide
range of reading and of travel. I was to work
ray way at Eton, to study for a time at Cam
bridge,’then to seek the great centres ot learn
ing upon the Continent, and to finish in the
richly stored libraries ot the East, it was a
grand idea, worthy oi a noble and generous
man. Alas, that his generosity was so thrown
away!
“I wont to Eton aud passed through the
school, making friends here, gaining honors
there, learning something of the classics and of
those difficulties and disappointments that face
us all wheu we start on the battlefield of life.
At Cambridge I was a scholar and took honors,
i remember now tho gladness ol mv poor father
when the news camo to him that I bad mounted
one rung ot the ladder before me. I hear again
his hearty words ol congratulation, feel again
. the warm pressure of his band, undergo once
’ more the welcome labor ot writing to my
mother. It was a happy time, lor I was full of
hope and confidence in my own powers and
around me were those whose every thought
breathed a prayer for my welfare and happi
ness.
“ Then it came that I should set out for Paris.
It was with reluctance that they let me leave
home, for at that date the first murmurs ot the
mighty torrent of revolution which swept over
France were beginning to be hoard. Tho
writings of Voltaire and Rousseau were com
mencing to bear their fruit. Agitators in the
byways were decrying the king and demanding
liberty; as the low moaning of the wind before
the storm, so were these the warnings of what
was to come. But I had no J ears then; rather I
hoped to learn much from seeing a country
whose people had commenced to test the truths
which the great philosophers of so many years
had preached in their writings and in the teach
ings. You must remember, too, that none could
then foresee that under the cloak oi freedom
men wodld lose their instincts of humanity and
would become as wild beasts; that rapine and
vice would prevail where virtue and goodness
had been; that women and children would be
sacrificed to ambition and to fear; that the land
would lie under the curee ot misrule. My
father could not foresee this, or I should never
have left the comfortable home in the midlands
and have faced the dangers that soon awaited
me in Paris. When I arrived in that city it was
hard to believe that beneath the gayety and
brightness lay hidden a great stratum of dis
content and poverty and crime. It was yet
harder to believe as one heard the frenzied
cries of welcome that greeted king and queen
that the cries were a mockery, that tho voices
were but empty sounds. That was the year
1788 and the Bastile had not yet fallen; Pitt
himself scarce gave heed to the rumors. Why
then should I, a student, foresee beneath this
wealth of loyalisin a rising power that would
crush and kill both the landers and the lauded ?
“80 I began my studies at the University.
Making few friends, retiring to my lonely rooms
at night with my books, I had little opportunity
for noting the changes that spread so rapidly
over tho political and even the private life oi the
country. Yet tho first comings of the approach
ing storm did not entirely escape me. Ono day
a student, who had frequently made overtures
of friendship, chanced to talk with me in the
library oi tho University. I was handling some
old folios of the fathers, and noting the opin
ions of the great French theological thinkers,
when, pulling me by the arm he said: ‘My
friend, why waste your time? Do you not know
that Frenchman no longer believe in such books
as these ?’ I stared at the speaker, and the
volume fell from my hand as he poured his in
sidious words into my ears. Then, for very
shame, I quitted the building and retired to my
own rooms. I pictured to myself the old home
with the village church, where purity and belief
went hand in hand, and I shuddered lest a
rumor oi that which I had heard should ever
outer that quiet community. But, thank God,
my own life was never tainted with their words;
my ears refused to receive their mockery and
their blasphemy.
“ The student who had so advised me camo
to my rooms one evening with an invitation to
his club to hear a great speaker. Though I was
no iriend of the boy, my curiosity led me to ac
company him) that I might assure myself that
the pretended agitation was but the work of a
few fanatics. I outered the hall. It was crowded
with some hundreds ot students and workers
and rascals, the last apparently drawn from the
worst slums of Paris. A man upon the plat
form, with fervid oration, advised the extermina
tion of king and nobles. His words were at
times drowned by tho storm of applause they
occasioned. I learned afterward that the man
who spoke was Jean Paul Marat, and that there
were many such clubs aa the one I had that
night attended. The fanatics then were many;
in a short time we were able to say that they
were a majority in the city.
“ From that date the tide of revolution flowed
fast. In the succeeding year the Bastilo fell,
and France, nay, Europe, rejoiced as, from that
relic ot despotism aud darkness, the prisoners
were restored to the light ot day. I was before
the gates as the mob of women and o! men per
petrated that wonderful and surprising deed,
and never did I witness a multitude that dis
played such a vivid resolution and such united
action. But a glance at the mass of upturned
and repulsive faces showed the dauger of
trifling with people who regarded no sacrifice
of human life too great for the accomplishment
of their purpose.
shortly after such an event that,
walking with a fellow-student near the Palace of
Versailles, a carriage passed ns on the road to
Paris. Tho vehicle was occupied by an aged
man and a girl, who must have been but twenty
years old. It was in the Spring time, and the
woods were white with blossoms, and the cot
tages filled with the scent of May flower's; and
as the carriage camo slowly along the hard road
from a chateau that stood upon a neighboring
hill, 1 felt that one oocupant’of it at least was
worthy of tho glorious picture that nature un
folded around us. Ah, Marie! how can I find
words to spoak of you ? Grandson, it is enough
to say that since that hour bor faco has been be
fore me day and night, sleeping and waking, in
prosperity or misfortune. Everywhere I look I
see those eyes of hor’s speaking to me, those
hands lifted in pleading, her lips moving as she
bids me to her side, and i cannot stiir !”
The voice of the old man sank low, the veins
on his forehead swelled, he stretched out his
arms, then for a moment or two he was silent,
and his heavy breathing aud stilled sobs alone
were heard in the room. After a time, becom
ing somewhat more calm, he continued:
“My companion, in answer to my questions,
told me that the old man was the Baron Jendavi,
and that the girl was Marie, his daughter. I
followed tho carriage with my eyes until a cloud
of dust alone marked its progress along the
road; then, with little ceremony to my friend, I
turned back and walked straight to Paris.
“it was only when I was alone in my rooms
that I asked myselt what prompted this strange
action. I had seen but for a few moments a
face by the roadside, yet I believed that not one
atom of tho beauty of it had escaped me. In
that short walk I ha 1 created to myself an ideal
in a world of fancy, which ere this my imagina
tion had never penetrated. Before, I was the
scholar; life waa~ for me in the mass of volumes
that lined the walls of my rootns and of the libra
ries, among the thoughts and the researches of
those who had left to their fellow-men an im
perishable record of the labor for the good and
the elevation of mankind. If I had looked into
tho future, it was with the hope that I should
then find mysoif striving to follow the example
of these great mon, perhaps winning some of the
rewards that fall to the successful in a career of
letters. But such matters as home life, or wife,
or children, has never caused me a moment’s
thought. The change in me, then, was sudden
and startling. As tho scene that delights us ono
moment is forgotten in the beauty ot the one
that replaces it, so did my ambition fall as the
taco of Marie rose up belore me. A new realm
of ideas was opened, but the new would not
blond with the old, lor the one was absorbed in
the other.
“ Whoa common-sense had in a measure re
turned to mo, I beg n to remember that my
hopes and dreams rested but on a name—“ Ma
rie Jendavi, the daughter of the Baron Jendavi,
of an unknown chateau on the road to Ver
sailles.’ We werp seemingly separated by as great
a gulf as divides tho Old World from the New.
Whom did I know in Paris, then, that I could
go to and say, ‘ 1 have a fancy to be introduced
to ihe daughter of the Baron Jendavi—will you
do that service lor mo ?’ Such a reflection dis
turbed me more than in those days 1 would
have been w iling to have confessed. Agitated
with fear and hope, I paced the narrow room
where I lodged, until I sank upon my bed from
weariness. Who would unlock the’ gate that
shut me from tho presence of the woman whom
I would have staked so; much to have seen ?
“ .n such a mood, I chanced to remember my
letters of introduction. In my negligence and
desire tor solitude, I had made use of the one
to the head of the University alone. Tho others
—and there were many—lay as J had brought
thorn irom England. With some anxiety lest
they should la missing, I opened my valise,
and after a short search, I found them intact.
There was one to Monsieur Bailey, the talented
and at that time popular Mayor of Paris, and
another to Madame do Btael; also to Lafayette,
at that time the Captain of the National Guard.
Tho others were to citizens of leas position, and
I did not attach much importance to the posses
sion of them lor the purpose I had in view.
“ I presented my letters at tho earliest oppor
tunity, was cordially received, and, by the in
strumentality of Lafayette, introduced into the
family of the Baron Jendavi. I say family, but
1 should add that the Boron and his daughter
alone were numbered m it, he having lost his
wife some ten years before I met him. He was
a thorough representative of the French school
oi nobles as then existing; courteous to a de
gree, dressed with extreme care, yet without
great display ; of a reserved manner, and ap
parently devoid of affection or of sympathetic
leeling. He received’ me for some time iu his
library, where he had collected many valuable
treasures of Lterature and of art; aud as be
was very anxious to learn something about the
men aud manners of that productive set of
scholars and writers who had lately adorned
the clubs of London, I managed iu a measure
to interest him. But it was wearying work lor
me sitting there with that grave old man,
dressed in his solemn black, the diamond
buckles upon his shoes alone relieving the
dullness of his attire, and knowing that Maria,
so full of life and pictures ]ueness and color,
was scampering across the great park with the
dogs, or kneeling at her desotions in the chapel
—a very type oi girlhood and purity and love.
Yet tho e hours of heavy explanations of the
peculiarities of Johnson, the foibles of Boswell,
the 'ailin <s of Goldsmith, wore alike forgotten
when at dinner I faced her, aud could for soma
minutes be entranced w.th the soft beauty o
her :ace, with the sweet gentlesness 01 her
words.
“‘Ahl’ you ask, ‘ why has my life been a mys
tery ?’ The key to this mystery is buried iu
those days, when no world seemed so lair as
Fiance, no woman so beautiful as Marie. I
loved her as I believed no man ever better
loved a woman; and sho, too, returned my a
- —not with a careless word, not with &
hall-promise mado but to be broken, but with
the whole outpouring of her affectionate nature,
with a love that was strong—because it was a
love !
“It was but in scattered moments that I
could speak to her, yet we found thorn all-suffi
cient to build for ourselves a future with every
stone a wealth of happiness. But at the very
ioundation of our hopes we met rebuff. One
night, aa we returned Irom the little chapel, she
confessed her fears to me. Her lather, blind to
everything around him but his own interests,
had, a ter the lashiofi of his countrymen, en
tered into negotiations for the barter ot his
daughter with au old aud affluent member of
one oinhe noble houses 0! France. I said noth
ing, but leaving her, went home to think. Aa I
passed through the village, the peasants, many
of them half-naked, all ot them wanting bread,
were gathered around a speaker who, in fiery
terms, exhorted them to break the chains of
despotism that bound them and to establish a
new order. They banned me as I passed
through their midst, for I was from the cha
teau. In the words addressed to Louis, the
King, ‘it was no longer a revolt in France, it
was a revolution.’ That night, when I arrived
at my lonely rooms and lay down to rest, Louis
XVI. had left Paris and was on the road to St.
Menehould. When he was brought back, and
the citizens received him in silence, I foresaw
that a crisis was rapidly approaching, and de
termined to make at least one effort to secure
the hand of the woman 1 loved. I would go
boldly to her lather and state my wishes. He
received ma with his usual courtesy, treated
my request with the most business-like air, re
fused me with a smile, regretted that other ar
rangements had been made.
“ What could I do? Pleading with such a man
would not have recompensed the loss oi dignity
entailed. I was dumb before him, but my brain
reeled under the blow, and as I left the chateau
and the great gates closed behind me it seemed
that my life had been left in that mass of stone
and brick that stood over the village. Along
the roadside the ragged peasants gathered the
harvest. I envied them their lot; they had their
wives, perhaps the women they loved. The gay
clothing of the fields, laden with the golden
grain, irritated me. Why was all so fair and I
so sorrowful, so devoid of hope, by which alone
man lives ? Ah I the dream is ended, yet I
would live my life again for a repetition oi those
hours.
“ I returned to the city, now dark and over
cast, as whispers of the terrible reality forced
themselves irom the slums and the low fau
bourgs into the great palaces and the houses of
the rich. Many fled; many hid themselves in
fear; none knew when the reaping wonld come
in all its hideous intensity. I rarely left my
rooms, yet 1 hated their loneliness. I could not
stir in the streets; the surface gayety. never
stilled during that period of bloodshed and
vice, galled me to despair as my heart went out
to the chateau, or rather to the fair woman with
in its walls. I would have studied—her face
was on every page, her eyes looked into mine
from every painting. Hope having gone, despair
was followed by a deadly hatred of the man who
bad thus broken both our lives. In my rage I
heaped obloquy upon his aged head’. I have
been punished; may my punishment atone !
“ I waited my opportunity for revenge for
nearly a year. It came. Visiting again the Ja
cobin Club, where nearly two years before I had
heard Jean Paul Marat denounce the Monarchy,
I listened to violent and unrestrained demands
for the immediate sacrifice of the leading nobil
ity who had had th® courage to remain in their
Dative country. The scene was one I shall never
forget; tho clamor of the ruffian crew—their
faces rendered more repulsive as th® flickering
oil lamps shed their yellow rays upon them —
resounded through the vaulted chamber like
the roar of distant thunder. Had you pierced
into the hearts of such men you would have
found no trace of affection, of good, of right
knowledge, of any instinct of humanity. They
were like so many wolves howling for their
prey, and the eight of them would have chilled
the bravest heart I
“ 1 watched the proceedings from a bench in
the rear of the room. At length silence was
somewhat restored, and a terrible process
known as the ‘ naming’ commenced. The pres
ident rose in his seat and addressed the turbu
lent crowd. ‘lt was the intention,’ he said, ‘of
the club to hasten the cause of Liberty, Equality
and Fraternity, by removing those who so prom
inently stood in the way of its advancement.
Ah, mes enfant? Jho went on, * how great a les
son have we taught our oppressors in the past
few years ! The flag of progress is unfurled;
the fire of those who would enslave us is en
kindled; wo shall soon sift the ashes and sweep
them away; but we must be unceasing in our
work; our courage must be unfailing, our self
denial unbounding. If it is necessary for the
safety of our country, wives and daughters,
fathers and mothers must be handed to the care
of unswerving justice. They must die !’
“ The President finished and produced a sheet
of paper. A man rose among his hearers, and
denounced ‘Bailly.’tho scholarly and courteous
Mayor. Another rose, another death warrant
was signed, ay, as surely as if the victim then
stood upon the scaffold. I shuddered as I saw
the list growing, growing, and I knew that those
whose names were written there, though at the
moment surrounded perhaps by wife and chil
dren, would in forty-eight hours be numbered
with the dead.
“ Contrast the picture, grandson: a low, vault
ed, stifling room, 300 mon, like fiends, asking
for the life-blood of many of those they had erst
while applauded, cheered, honored. Away,
perhaps, not half a mile, a home, where the
husband built, with his wife, loving plans for
the little ones asleep above; children kissing
their father as he returned from his labor; men
kneeling at the feet of the women they hoped to
spend their lives with; everywhere affection,
home-life, brightness, godliness. And these
men were to die ere the sun had twice set.
“But to resume. As man after man rose to
denounce his victim, it happened that the
namers approached myself, so much so that ths
very member at my side began to speak. What
evil spirit spoke to me then I know not. Only
this, that a great wave of irrepressible anger
rushed across my mind, destroying every im
pulse of good, and left me for the moment as
one of the wretches that sat by me. When my
neighbor had finished speaking, f stood and in
a loud voice denounced Monsieur le Baron Jon
davi.
“ ‘ Who speaks?’ said the President.
“ ‘ J shouted the crowd—* a stranger.’
‘“I am a stranger, citizens,’ I replied; * but I
speak in the name of Liberty, Equality, Frater
nity.’
“Grandson, I lied—lied in my heart, with
my tongue. I spoke rather in the name of pride,
of ang?r, of a thirst for revenge. In that hour
I destroyed my happiness forever.
“As I heard the cries of applause, saw the
name of the baron inscribed upon the sheet, the
room swam before my eyes. Tottering, hal r
swooning, I reached the street, but the words I
had sp >ken yet rang in my ears ; tho very sky
seemed red with the blood of the coming sacri
fice. As I paced my own chamber a deadly
spirit of exultation crept over me ; the whispers
of remorse I silenced, as I murmured : ‘ Marie
is mine—mine forever.’ But as her face rose
before me in my self-created vision, it seemed
that a green gull lay between us ; on her side
the crystal streams, and the green swards, and
the golden valleys, where in unending bliss the
good had gained their reward, while on mine,
the bleak chasms where the cries of the wrong
doers echoed from rock to rock, and where a
spirit of evil descended upon all. I crushed the
vision, and all the next day lay upon my bed
awaiting the coming morn. Tlie night seemed
endless ; I was afraid in the darkness. The low
roar from the city ceased ; Paris was sleeping.
At every sound I started, and from a fitful doze
awoke, and trembled as ths white light from the
moon fell upon my bed and cast heavy shadows
upon the paneled walls. I could sleep no more,
but watched the day breaking over the spires
and domes. Cold and gray the light struck the
roof's; a workman passed on on his way to his
daily labor, a few carts rumbled on the pave
ment; the sun rose, a golden orb in a setting
mist. It was day.
“ I opened my door and breathed the fresh
morning air, but I walked as one that is guilty,
and felt ashamed as I stood in this great purity
of nature. By and by the streets filled ; the
citizens, laughing and wishing ‘ good-day.’
were mostly walking to one spot. An irresist
ible impulse drew mo thither. It was to the
Ohamp-de-Mars, where the guillotine stood. I
can see it all again, ay, so vividly, for tho scene
has never left me, day or night. * It is my retri
bution. A great crowd has assembled there—a
sea of faces, diabolical, fierce, making merry
with death. From their midst, on a platform,
rose a tall, dark ob ect, that chilled me as I saw
it—it was the guillotine.
“Then, and not till then, did I realize my
crime, and with returning reason I would have
willingly given my life to have saved the man I
had destroyed. But it was too lata. Already
from the distance the roar of the crowd was
borne on the wind. Those around, as tho shouts
of 'A bas 'es aristocrates ! became more distinct,
elbowed me to the front. There, surrounded by
groaning and shouting men, whose horrid cries
of execration rang in my ears, I could see, yet
some way off,, the wagon that bore the victims to
their doom. As it drew nearer, so did the ury
of the mob increase; had they been able, they
would have torn the condemned limb from limb.
In an agony of fear I turned my head away, for
remorse, terrible, overwhelming remorse, came
upon me, as the horrible deed of revenge was
about to be acted. But that strange fascination
again prevailed, and 1 was compelled to take
one look at the death-cart. It was full of men
and women. Men, the lights of intellectual
strength and culture, now rewarded for their
labors by the curses ot those for whom they had
labored; women, the fairest and most innocent
in France, who clung, trembling and weeping,
to brothers, or fathers, or lovers, so powerless
to help them. A spell held mv eyes.
“I looked for the baron. He stood with his
back to me, his head bowed down, buried in
his hands; but clinging to his arm was a girl,
with her hair streaming over her shoulders, her
hands upon the neck ot the man at her side.
For the moment I could not realize her pres
ence; the cart passed close at my side; she
turned, and her eyes met mine. Then she
stretched out those arms to me; those lips
moved as if in pleading. It was the tender,
loving face of Marie that looked on me, her
great eyes that spoke, her arms that invited
me ! May Heaven forgive me—i had sacrificed
the daughter with the father. She was to die I
Realizing the terrible crime, with an awful cry
I tried to force my way through the crowd to
join her in life or death, but the soldiers beat
me back, the mob pressed upon me, the cart
had stopped.
“ The people and buildings around grew faint
and confused before my eyes; yet, as the dead
ly faintness came over' me, I saw that face of
anguish still looking for me. Grandson, she
believed that I could save her; she knows now
that I had brought her to her doom. I had
killed Mane, my love I”
The old man ceased speaking; he half rose
from his chair, and the fire showed that he was
deadly pale. His mind was again enacting that
terrible scene. At length he stretched out his
arms, moaning “ Marie I Marie 1” and fell back
into his seat. His life’s tale was told—my grand
father was dead.—CViambers’s e 7eurna / .
SPIRITUALISM.
SOME GHOSTLY TALES.
At a spiritualistic fact meeting, recently held
in Cleveland, 0., Mr. Lemmers, says the Plain
Dealer, remarked that one of the facts in bis ex
perience most convincing to him was this:
Once, when ho was away from home, and his
wife did not know where he was, she went to
see Charles Watkins, the medium, who was in
the city at that time. The spirit of a little boy,
a sister’s son, mani'ested, and his wife asked
him if he could toll where his uncle was. He
wrote on the slate that he was then in Detroit,
which was a fact, although no one in Cleveland
knew.it at that time.
Mr. Gaylord said that once, when he was in
vestigating spiritualism, he met a friend and
asked him to come to his room. They went,
and sat down to a table and placed their hands
on it. Soon the raps began, and they began to
spell out the alphabet iu the usual way. The
raps spoiled out the word “ Horace,” and Mr.
Gaylord’s friend said :
“ Now we will have something from Horace
Greeley.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Mr. Gaylord.
“ What does Horace Greeley want with us ?”
The raps continued. The next letter was G
and the next R.
“I began to think now,” said Mr. Gaylord,
“ that it must be Horace Greeley, and I had no
doubt that the next letter would be E. But no
sooner did I begin to call the alphabet than the
raps stopped me at ‘A.’ I thought that was a
mistake and began again, but was again stopped
at ‘ A.’ I asked if A was the letter and the an
swer was that it was. The spelling went on un
til the name ‘Horace Gray’ was spelled out.
That was plain enough, but I knew no one of
that name and had never known any one and
neither had my friend. I asked if he had lived
in Ohio and was told no. By questioning fur
ther I ascertained these facts : That his name
was Horace Gray; he was the son ol Harvey
Gray, ot Bristol, Conn., and had died there
twenty-four years before at the age of thirty
one. I had once known Harvey Gray, but had
never known he had a son named Horace.
Happening to be in Bristol about a year after, I
visited the cemetery and found there the tomb
stone of Horace Gray, with the fact recorded
that he was the son of Harvey Gray, and that he
had died twenty-four years before the time the
communication was received. Now this is an
elementary iact, and you can consider it, but
notice three things. All this took place in my
own room with no one present but myself and
my friend, so that there was no fraud. The
name given was not known to either of us, nor
any of the facts in the history of the person sup
posed to be communicating, so that the mind
reading theory will not answer. We cannot say
that it was will power or unconscious mental
action, because we thought the name was Hor
ace Greeley, and tried to make the raps spell
that name, but they would not do it, and spelled
the other name instead, that we had neither
thought of nor known anything about. Now,
what was the source of that communication ?
>Mr. Lees related that when Charles Watkins
was in the city, an Irishman living in Warren,
0., named Tom O’lleilly, brought to see him a
Scothman named Douglas, who was of a materi
alistic turn Oi mind and a skeptic on spiritual
matters. The Scotchman brought his own slates
and took great pains to wipe them clean. Put
ting them together in the usual way a message
I was received purporting to be from the Scotch-
man's father. It road all right, and Mr. Doug
las was perplexed to account for it, but he no
ticed that the name attached to the message was
“John Duglas.”
“That can’t be right,” said tho Scotchman.
“That message can’t be from my father. Ho
would never misspell his own name. His name
was John Douglas, not ‘.Duglas., ”
The slates were put together again, and this
was written:
“ Go homo and look in the old Bible.”
Mr. Douglas went home, and, getliug down
his father’s old Bible, found writton in the fam
ily record the name placed there, by his father’s
hand sixty-five years before, “John Duglas,”
spelled just as it was spoiled on the slate. It
was that way that the father had snellod the
name, and the son did not know it.
Mr. John White said that in his younger days
he worked on a farm and with his younger
brother, James, was one day hauling stone 'for
the wall of a well. While they wore at the quar
ry his brother was taken sick and lay down
under a tree. When he had taken the load of
stone home he returned and found his brother
too ill to walk, and so carried him home on hie
back. His brother got well of that illness, but
subsequently died. Years after Mr. White went
to a medium, and what purported to be the
spirit of his brother, Thomas, came and talked
to him. He told him many things about the old
home life, but still he doubted, and said:
“ You claim to be my brother. I think vou
are, but I don’t know. Tell me something that
only you and I know and so convince me. ’
“John,” said the spirit, “ I am your brother
James. You remember that day we were haul
ing stones and how I took sick and lay under a
tree, and how you came back for me andcarr.od
me home on your back? Now, if that doesn’t
convince you, I can say nothing that will.” Mr.
White said that convinced him, as he know no
body else knew of that circumstance, and ho
had forgotten it himself.
HINDOO WOMEN.
THEIR LIFE ONE OF WRETCHED
NESS AND MISERY.
“During the ten years of my residence
among the Hindoos,” said a female missionary
just returned from India, in a lecture delivered
before a Brooklyn audience the other night, “ j
never saw a Hindoo child receive a caress from
its mother. Scarcely clothed, beaten and de
spised, it knows hardly where to laj r its head or
to get its meals. If it is a girl, tho mother can
not be fond of it, for it may be the means of dis
grace to her. If a wile has no male child, her
husband may divorce her. This is changed
somewhat when tho child becomes old enough
to be engaged. This is six years. The affair is
settled without consulting the poor girl herself.
And who do you think finds the girl a husband?
The barber. He knows the circumstances of
the family and rank in life, as he has to visit
the house every day to shave the male members
of the family before they can pray. He travels,
sometimes,weeks and months through tho coun
try before finding a young marriageable man
of the same station in life ?s the girl—for in In
dia there is no intermarriage between castes.
“Now for an idea of a Hindoo woman’s home
life. The floor and walls are ot clay, with no
ornamentation of any sort and tho least furni
ture possible. Every morning she has to pray
—not for herself, as she is taught that she has
no soul—but for her husband, lor rain nud for
general blessings. Then she spends two or
three hours preparing breakfast. She doesn’t
eat with her husband, but, perhaps, fans him
at hia request. During the daytime she either
sleeps, gossips with the other women, or some
times a reader reads to them from the lives of
the gods. Those stories are unfit for human
ears; they are vile from beginning to end. The
children and women are taught them.- At night
they prepare their husbands’ moal in the same
manner. They are not protected against the
weather and dampness, nor are they properly
led and clothed. The rich live the same as the
poor. If sick they are deemed cursed by the
gods and are taken to the stable and left alone.
The only food they can get is le t by stealth.
Thousands die of neglect. The first day that a
Hindoo boy abuses his mother is a festal oc
casion with his father, who boasts of it to his
friends. To be a widow is the sum of unhappi
ness. She is especially cursed by the gods. As
the husband dies, half a dozen barbers’ wives
rush upon her and tear the jewelry from her
ears and nose. Behind the funeral cortege she
follows, surrounded by these fiends who throw
her into the water. It she drowns, they say she
was a good wile after all. ‘She has gone to
meet her husband.’ She is kept in a darkened
room for fourteen days. At the end of this time
her husband’s ashes are taken to the river, and,
after a peculiar ceremony of prayers, the soul
is supposed to bo free, it may enter an insect
or an anima). The worst punishment the soul
can sustain is to enter the body of a woman.”
quail cdmiTsinp.
A NOVEL SIGHT.
(From the San Diego {Cal.) Sun.)
I once had the pleasure of witnessing the*
ccurtiug and pairing off of a flock ot quail. I
was sitting so I could look down upon a flat
rock that stood up higher than the tops of a
thicket of brush and weeds surrounding it,
near a small brook. I first heard the chatter of
quails in the brush.
xAfter holding quite an animated confab one
hen quail flew up on the rock and was followed
by five or six males. Mias Quail strutted around
a iew times, apparently not noticing her admir
ers, assuming coquettish attitudes, and putting
on more style and affectation than a human
dudess ol tue present day. She finally took a
conspicuous position and appeared to devote
her entire attention to herself. Her admirers,
iu tho meantime, stood around and looked at
each other with defiant eye and mien. They
then began to strut around, spread and trail
their wings, try graceful walks and poses, each
striving to outdo the others. The more they
tried to make a favorable impression before
Miss Quail the more excited they became, until
they went to fighting.
They fought hard and furiously, until at last
one of them, by a fortunate pass, knocked Lis
antagonist off the rock. He did not stop, but
pitched into the first one he came to, and then
kept knocking off one at a time until there was
but one left. The victor took one comprehen
sive look over the field of battle, struck up a
rattling clatter, and walked up to Miss Quail,
strutted around a few times with self-import
ance enough for a United States Senator, keep
ing up a rattling string of—of—well, blarney, I
suppose. Finally they rubbed heads and bills
together, walked to the north aide of the rock,
rose simultaneously and flew away, lighting to
gether, ready for housekeeping. Another hen
then came upon the rock with three or four
males, and went through the same form of court
ing, and to the victer—the reward o; a wife. So
it went on until all the hens were mated and
gone. A ter that three males came upon the
rock, and di I absolutely look forlorn, and
show’od it in every motion. They flow in a dif
ferent direction -Torn all the others. When a
male had been whipped or driven off the rocks
he nor none of the others would come up again.
After rhe contest started, those who commenced
were the ones to win or lose. The whole thing
was very much like human nature.
HE BUYS A RING.
ANOTHER SWINDLE ON CARL
DUNDEE.
“Maypellike to ask you something,” said
Carl Dander in a hesitating, sheepish way,as ha
called in to sea Sergeant Bendall yesterday.
“ Moro trouble, I suppose ?”
“ Vhell, 1 oxpect I vhaa a fool.”
“ Exactly. I’ve told you so a dozen times.
Now, what ia it?”
“Vhell, last eafnings I vhas alone :n my
biace, und a strange man comes in. All of a
sudden he ehumps aroundt und soliramblea
aboudt und picks up dis ring from der floor.”
“ I sea; it’s solid brass, and they are bought
by the bushel.”
“ When he picks up der ring he says dot vhas
great luck tor a poor man, because he can sell
him for fife dollar. Den he says he vhas too
honest to do dot. Somepody lose dor ring and
would feel badt. He vhill keep him und get
tree dollar reward.”
“Same old game. He finally suggested that
you give him two dollars and keep the ring,
didn’t he ?”
“ Dot vhas it. Und so he vhas prass ?”
“Pure brass, and you are two dollars out.”
“ Und won’t he come back to play some more
games on me ? ’
“ Never. You will never see his gentle lace
again.”
“ Sergeant 1”
“I'm listening.”
“ If I vhas foundt dead in my bod to-morrow
it vhas all right. I like you to come oop, Be
cause you vhas my friendt. You can toll der
coroner it vhas laudanum, und dot nopody else
vhas to plamo. See dot my funeral goes off all
right, uud I like tohaf you gif Shake some good
advices. Good-by, sergeant! Dis world vhas
no blace for fools’any more !”
Diner —“ I see you have turtle soup on
the menu—is it mock turtle?’' Waiter —'.‘No. sir;
jt’a mud turtle.”
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