New York dispatch. [volume], March 20, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
and tell her what he had heard ? No, he could
not do that! He bad given a promise to his
lather, and in Guy’s eyes a promise was a thing
too sacred to be broken.
Ono thing, however, he was resolved upon.
He would not bo driven into marrying Diana
Melford. He would not go near the Hall for the
next lew days, not until the night of the ball, at
which he had promised to be present
He slept little that night, and the next day
he got on to his horse, and rode far into the
country, returning only in time for his solitary
dinner. The Earl sent for him before he retired
for the night, and looked up questioningly at
the sad, handsome faco.
“ Anything happened, Guy ?* he asked. “You
look rather triate, Are you unwell ?’’
“I was never better in my life, sir,” replied
Guy, staring at the fire moodily.
“ Bad news, perhaps ? Is that horse of yours
all right ?”
“I hope so,” said Guy, grimly. “It will be
bad for me if anything goes wrong with it.”
“I see,” said the Earl, with a sigh. “It is
dull for you here, Guy* Never mind, the time
will soon pass. 1 suppose you are still as de
termMied to ruin yourself as over ?”
Guy raised his face. It was pale and grave.
“ Don’t let us talk about it, sir,” he said.
“Good night!” and he went off to bed, and
dreamed that Lorrie had married Seymour Mel
ford, and that she stood at the altar laughing
at Guy.
The next day he wont out as before, riding
somo distance, and getting his lunch at a way
side inn. It was dull and dreary work, but he
had determined not to go near Diana Melford
until the ball ot the next day, and he stuck to
hia resolve. The morning broke clear and
bright, and be bad bis bath and went down to
the breakfast room. With the sunshine a gleam
of hope had stolen into his heart.
Perhaps it was not true about Lorrie and
Seymour Meltord; perhaps Mr. Melford would
not foreclose the mortgage; perhaps Gipsy
would win the Grand Stakes; and, in some un
explainable way, things would work round
right!
In this lighter mood he could think of the
ball to-night with something like pleasure. You
see ho had spent two extremely dull days!
How delightful it would be, he thought, if only
Lorrie could be there I Ho had never danced
with her yet, and the blood rushed to his face
as ho fancied himself whirling to the music of
the Waldteufel with Lorrie—dear, aweet Lorrio
—in his arms I
Whistling a few bars of the melody, he sat
down to the luxurious breakfast, and was count
ing up the days to the and of the long, dreary
month, when Rawlings entered with the letters.
Guy turned them over eagerly, and his face
brightened as he saw one with the Carshal post
mark. Lorrie had written at last, and there
would be her photo inside —her own photo this
time, not that of a black bishop.
But his face fell as ho saw the handwriting
was Jack’s.
“Jack is not the rose!” he muttered with a
sigh, ft ßut he has been near her, and I must
be content with that, I suppose,” and he smiled.
But the smile died aw y, and his faco grew
pale ss he read the scrawl. There was a good
deal about the coming race, but it was not that
which sent the color out ot Lord Guy’s face.
The sting was in the postscript.
“Have you heard that Seymour Mel ord has
got mashed by my sister Lorrio? Fact. He
has asked tho’governor and got his blessing,
and so, I suppose, the affair is as good as set
tled. Nice having a rich Cretans for a brother
in-law, isn’t it ?”
Guy’s hand fell upon the letter as if he would
drive it through the table as well as out of his
mind.
It was true, then. She had been false to him.
Thrown him over without a word, too. A black
and bitter leeling came over him, and a curse
upon all women rose to his lips.
With a sigh be pushed the plate from him,
and rising, fell to pacing the room, with a pain
at bis heart that seemed as if it would choke
him.
It was true, then. The girl he had deemed all
truth and innocence and purity, had jilted him
for a “ good match ” as coolly and easily as if
eh 3 bad been a garrison hack ot half a dozen
seasons. With a groan he leaned against the
mantel-shelf, and laid his hot forehead upon his
hands.
“ Oh, I.orrie! oh, my darling I” ha murmured
Jiuskily; “and eo soon, so soon! Would to
Heaven I had never seen you I I shall never
get your sweet face out of my heart—nover,
never 1”
The door opened and Rawlings entered again.
Lord Guy turned angrily.
“Why the devil don’t you knock?” he de
manded.
“1 did, my lord,” said Rawlings respeoFully.
“Then knock louder next time. What is it,
now?”
“ A telegram, my lord," said Rawlings, with
his eyes fixed upon the ground, but seeing his
adored master’s white face, nevertheless.
Guy took it and tore it open absently; then he
uttered a low, bitter laugh that startled Raw
lings out of hie presence of mind.
“ Ob, my lord—what is it?” he asked anxious
ly-
Guy stared at him, then laughed long and
loudly.
“ Oh, not much I” he said wildly. “ I hope
you haven't put any money on Gipsy, Rawl
ings? ’ mockingly; “ because, if you have ” —he
stopped, aud something seemed to choke him—
“he was poisoned last night.”
“Oh, my lord!” gasped Rawlings; “it isn’t
possible 1”
“ It’s more than possible—it’s a fact I” retort
ed Guy. “Head it lor yourself.”
“Ob, my lord!” gasped Rawlings; “who
could have done it?”
“ They don’t know. Of course they do notI"
said Guy bitterly; “ they never do.” ,
“ The horse was watched night and day, my
lord.”
Lord Guy groaned.
“ Would to Heaven they had poisoned me in
stead !” he said.
It was not ot the horse he was thinking so bit
terly, fond as he had been of it, but of the lose
Of Lorrie.
“ Is there anything I can do, my lord ?” asked
Rawlings in a hushed voice. The sight of his
master’s face awed him.
Lord Guy shook his head.
“No. What is to be done? Yes, you can tel
egraph and offer a reward of a hundred pounds
and say that I will be up by the next train. Get
things ready, will yon ?’’
Rawlings went off sorrowfully, and Guy sunk
into a chair.
Lorrio gone from him forever, his horse dead.
What else was there that could happen? Al
most as if in answer to his bitter question Gil
low stole into the room.
“ The earl desires to know, my lord, if you
oould come to him at once.”
Guy rose. The earl had evidently heard about
Gipsy, and had sent to condole with him. It
was kind of him !
Ho followed Gillow along the corridor, and
entered the earl’s room. His father was seated
in his usual place, his hand resting on an open
letter which lay npon the small table besido
him. The old man’s faco was gray rather than
white, and as he raised his eyes, Guy saw that
they were heavy and dull, as if with some in
tense pain.
The earl waited until Gillow had left the
room, then signed to Guy to take a chair, and
for a moment sat in silence ; then ho said, in a
voice hollow and sad, and yet perfectly under
control:
“ Bad news, Guy?”
“Yes, sir,” said Guy, grateful to his father
lor feeling the death of the horse so much.
“Very, very bad news ! I would not have
minded it it had come in the ordinary course
and naturally; but to think that it occurred
through foul play I It makes every drop of’
blood in my veins boil I”
“Foul play!” said the earl, dully. “What
do you mean ? I told you to expect it, I warned
you ” then, seeing the look of surprise on
Guy’s face, he broke off quickly. “Of what are
you thinking and talking. Guy ?”
“Ot the death of Gipsy, air,” said Guy.
“Isn’t it that ”
“No, no !” said the earl, waving his hand im
patiently. “ I know nothing of it. This that
1 was speaking ot is worse news than even the
death of your racehorse, Guy—Mr. Melford has
foreclosed I”
Guy stared at him heavily for a moment
bolero be realized the lull significance ot the
few poignant words. Thon he burst into a dull
laugh.
The earl looked at him sternly.
“ Do you comprehend what I have said ?’’ he
asked. “Bo yon know that this means ruin
ruin—ruin ? You laugh, Guy I”
“Forgive me, sir I” said Guy, wildly. “Oh,
yes, 1 understand ! And Mr. Melford has fore
closed -to-day. When trouble comes it comes
not singly but in battalions. I thought we had
had enough ior to-day, but Fate—or Mr. Mel
ford rather-thinks differently, it seems 1“ and
ho laughed again.
The earl looked at him keenly.
“Ib there anything else, some other evil tid
ings that I do not know of?” he asked.
“ Oh, these Will serve, sir 1” said Guy. “ Fore
closed ! How long before the final blow falls,
■air ? Six months, isn’t it?”
“Six months, yes,”assented the earl, wearily.
“But long before then the vultures will have
got nows that the end is near, and swoop down.
Poor Latcham I”
His eyes did not fill with tears, but a look
camo into them that was worse even than
tens ; the look one sees in the eyes of those
who are too old and weary to find the great
solace of weeping.
“ Foor Latcham ! I have grown fond of every
stone oi it; there is not an inch of the land that
I have not lelt was part and parcel of myself.
And—and I hoped to hand it down to you—l
hoped ” he stopped and put his white hand
tremulously to his lips. “No matter I Mr.
Mellord will take better care ot it than we have
done. No doubt lie will live here; these par
venu always settle upon the spot they have
gained. ‘The king is dead, long live the king !’
The Latebams are no more, long live the Mel-
Ibrds !” and be nodded despairingly.
Lord Guy stood, with his baud pressed hard
upon the table.
“You forget, sir,” he said, almost hoarsely.
" All is not lost yet ”
“ All save honor 1” eaid the earl, sorrowfully.
“ No, sir ; there is still a loophole of escape.
You pointed it out to me a fortnight ago. I will
do a you wish, my lord."
It was a long time since he had addressed his
i’atiier by his title, and the earl colored as he
looked at him.
“ You will !”
“1 will save Latcham, sir I” said Guy, with a
hard, set look on his tace. “I will marry Diana
Mel ord—if she will have me I”
The earl, notwithstanding hi* crippled leg,
almost rose from his chair.
“Guy! Oh, great Heaven, if I oould but
think it I”
“ You may believe mo, sir,” said Guy, almost
solemnly. “I will marry Miss Melford, Latob
am shall be saved, and you, 1 trust, sir, will be
happy I”
The earl winced at the emphasis on the
" you !”
“At least,” he said with grave dignity, “ I
shall die in peace 1 But, Guy, have you thought
what all this means—the cost to yourself ;” and
he scanned the pale, strained face anxiously.
A bitter laugh escaped Guy’s lips.
“Cost, sir?” he said. “What cost? A
broken heart ? As you say, sir, broken hearts
are scarce ! One may lose a point or two in the
game ol life, but the whole game is not lost.
Don’t bo alarmed on my account, sir; I have
been brought to my senses—no matter how !
Love I” ho laughed bitterly and mockingly, “it
is an empty name ;it doesn't exist—at least, in
a girl’s heart!' Ob, no, sir, don’t be alarmed !
I am all right 1”
The earl looked at him still anxiously ; there
was that in his harsh, cynical tone that was not
good to hear.
“ And—and—Miss Dolores ?” ho ventured to
ask.
It was an unlucky question. A spasm, as of
pain, passed across Lord Guy’s brow, and his
hand opened and shut.
“ Mies Dolores ?” he echoed, and the sound
of the name seemed to smite upon his heart
like a knell. “ Miss Dolores will not break her
heart either, my lord. All goes merry as a mar
riage bell!—merrier than it would have gone it
it had been her marriage bell, for we should
both have been marrying the wrong people.
Miss Dolores I" —he laughed again — “ M.ss
Dolores Latimer will be Mrs. Seymour Melford,
sir! Fray give her your good wishes! She has
had a lucky escape, my lord! The son of a
Crcesus, instead ot a penniless young peer with
a burdened reut-roll and a coffer full of mort
gages I Oh, Lorrie is all right I”
He stopped breathless, white and panting.
“ Any message for Lady Farnham, sir ? The
ball takes place to-night. We have had a great
many festivities there lately, and Miss Melford
has reigned queen ot them all I Any message
for her
The earl, almost stunned by the flood of wild,
despairing, reckless verbiage, shook his head,
aud Guy moved toward the door.
There he stopped for a moment, then camo
and laid his hand upon the earl’s shoulder. It
shook like a leaf.
“ Forgive me, sir I" he said hoarsely and with
something like a sob. “ I—l am a little upset,
that is all.”
The earl answered never a word, but his head
sank still lower and his lips moved tremulous
ly ; they formed the words, “ Heaven bices
you 1” which they oould not speak.
CHAPTER XVII.
“ DIANA, WIM. YOU BS MY WIFE ?”
Lord Gny caught up his bat and getting his
horse, dashed off wildly, where, ho knew not,
nor cared, so that he oould get away from his
thoughts, get far away from that vision ot Lor
rio as she stood looking into his eyes that night
in the lane. Was it all a dream—did it ever
happen? Was he going mad? For the first
time in his life he was guilty of unkinduose to
a horse, and when he came back panting and
foam-flecked, his nostrils strained, his chest
heaving, the stablemen looked at him and
thought that the death of Gipsy had driven
their young lord out ot his mind!
He dressed and came down to dinner, and
Linnet, the butler, tried not to look at the white
strained face, but expressed his sympathy by
more than the usual attention. But Guy did
not want to eat now.
“ Get me some champagne,” he said.
They brought some champagne, rare wine and
costly, and Guy drank it like water. Then he
sat down before the fire and—did not smoke,
which was a sign that things were very bad in
deed, with him. He sat there lor hours motion
less and with the same hard look on his hand
some face. The brougham came round aud was
sent back twice, and Griffiths had almost made
up his mind that his master had given up the
ball, when the order came round.
“ The viscount’s carriage—at once 1”
On some occasions Rawlings accompanied his
master in the brougham, to help him with his
coat, put a tie straight, and so on; aud to-night,
not liking the expression which all day had sat
like a bird of ill omen on Lord Guy’s face, he
meekly suggested that he should go as far as
the Hall with him.
But Guy stared and shook his head.
“ What do you mean?” ho said withe hard
laugh. “Do I look as if I were not to be
trusted? Do you think lam goiug to commit
suicide, man ?”
“ Suicide, my lord I” echoed Mr. Rawlings.
“ Yes, suicide I” repeated Guy; then ho
smothered something which sounded like, “ 1
don’t know that I’m not I’’ and getting into the
brougham was driven off.
As he neared the Hall, and the lights streamed
upon the carriage, he Beemed to awake from
the evil dream that had taken possession of
him all day, and “ pulling himself together,” as
he would have phrased it, forced something ol
the hard look from his face.
He was late, and it was thought that ho would
not come, and the servants, with whom he was
as great a favorite as he was with the class
usually, came forward hurriedly to meet him.
The news of his arrival spread from the hall
to the ball room, and a little murmur arose, as
it does upon the approach of a late arrival whose,
social importance ranks as high as Lord Ken
dale’s, but the murmur of expectancy died out
suddenly as he entered. Usually his appear
ance was greeted as that of the careless leader
of the party of the moment, the gayest and most
central figure in the giddy throng. His smile
was catching, his laughtar mirth provoking, but
now—as he entered—a kind ot chill fell upon
the crowd, for hie usually cheerful face was
white, and there was an unoauny brilliance in
his handsome eyes.
Lady Farnham, as lie came toward her, felt a
little spasm of pain and apprehension, but
smiled up at him as usual.
“How late you are, air! But I mustn’t scold
you, my poor boy 1 lam so sorry."
He started. Was it known already 1
“ Your poor horse !” she explained.
“Oh, yes, yes I” he said, looking beyond her
absently, and even with a smile. “Awfully sad,
isn’t it ? Yes, yes!” and he passed on.
Lady Farnham looked after him.
“ He has lost a large sum of money,” she
thought. “ I wonder would he let me if I of
lered to help him. Poor boy I”
Guy made bis way into the centre of the room.
A dance had just finished, and the usual prom
enading was in full swing. He looked round
aimlessly, with the unnatural brilliance still
showing’in his eyes.
“ Looking for a partner, Kendale ?” said Lord
Bruce.
Guy started.
“ Eh ! yes, yea !”land ho turned abruptly to|a
young girl standing near him. “ Will you
dance this with me ?” he said.
“ Oh, yes !” she said, and as she spoke the
music began. )
Guy, to whom dancing came as a kind of in
tuition, whirled her round so fast and furiously
that she stopped, panting and laughing.
“ Oh, do let us wait a minute,” she said. “ I
thought I could keep the pace, Lord Kendale;
but this—this is too fast even for me.”
“1 beg your pardon,” he said, looking be
yond her into space. “ Will you sit down ?”
“ No. I only wanted to wait a moment. But
you must promise not to go so fast. What a lot
of people are here; and yet the beautiful room
isn’t crowded. Have you seen Miss Melford
yet?”
“ He started, almost perceptibly.
" Miss Melford ? No?’
She looked up at him curiously, struck by his
tone, strangely harsh and quiet.
“No ? Then see her as soon as you can! She
has surpassed herself to-night. Her dross will
be the talk of the county for the next six
months. It is more than beautiful. Lady Farn
ham says that she will take London by storm
next season.”
“Oh,” he said; “I thought women never
praised each other ?”
“ Nor do we, unless we are obliged—and we
are very much obliged to, in this ease,” retort
ed the girl dryly.
Something in the speech and her manner re
minded him of Lorrio, and ho winced.
" What is the matter ?” she asked.
“ Nothing, nothing 1" he replied, forcing a
laugh.
“1 think you have caught a chill,” said the
girl; “you look just as my brother did last
Winter, when he got the fever.”
Guy laughed.
“ That’s encouraging 1” he said. “Suppose I
try and dance it oft?”
They danced out the end of the waltz, and
then he resigned her to her next partner, and
looked round again.
There was a small crowd at the end of the
room, and in the centre ho caught the shimmer
ot diamonds and pearls. He knew who the
wearer was, but he turned away and went
into the room where refreshments were being
served.
The footman approached obsequiously with
the claret cup, but Guy shook his head.
“ Give me some champagne, please.”
The man poured him out a huge glass, and
Guv emptied It and held it to be re-filled.
Then, with the brilliance in his eyes Stillmore
marked, and with a flush upon his handsome
face, be went baok to the ball-room and made
straight for the wearer of the diamonds and
pearls.
Diana Melford looked up as he approached
and gave him the faintest ot nods, and went on
with her conversation with the man sitting next
her. Guy knew him; it was one of the wealthiest
peers in the county—an old man of seventy, and
there was in bis eyes as distinct an admiration
lor the beauty by his side as a man dare show.
Gny laughed to hlmselt with wild selt
mookery.
“ I may be too late even to save Latcham I”
he muttered.
Almost as if she had heard him, Diana Mel
ford looked up with the sudden flash of her
large, beautiful eyes.
“ What are you muttering to yourself about,
Lord Kendale ?” she said.
The old peer beside her took the hint, of
course, and, rising with a bow, gave place to
Guy.
Guy sunk on to the lounge.
“ Do you want to know ?” he said.
“ Did 1 not ask ? But I am not so curious
about that question, as about the other,” she
replied.
“ What is the other 1" he demanded.
Her eyes drooped, and she plucked at ths
feathers on her lan; then alio raised her head
and looked at him full in the la. e, with a kind
* aeons.og. ivproaoh'.ul ga
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 20. 1887.
“ Why have you avoided me for the last three
days ?”
Guv met her gaze with a wild, reckless smile.
“ Do you know that the astronomers have to
refrain from looking at the sun too often?” he
said. “It is dangerous. They go blind, and
sometimes lose their wits.”
“Then lam the sun. Thanks I It is rather
a large compliment, isn’t it ?”
“Not too large,” he retorted. “See how
many ot us bask in your beams !” and he
glanced at the crowd of courtiers, who still ho
vered near her, anxious lor him to depart.
The indolent, alnlost insolent gaze, swept
them slowly.
“ How tired the sun must be of always shin
ing 1” she said.
“ Which means ■" he said.
“That I think I should like to retire behind a
cloud for a little while.
He rose at ones and held out his arm, and
gathering up the train of her exquisite dress,
she slipped her arm in his. He led her to one
of the side rooms aud found her a seat, but she
would not sit down.
“I am tired ot sitting,” she said—“lot us
stand. lam so sorry about your horse "
“ For Heaven's sake, say no more I” he said,
abruptly, almost fiercely. “ I want to forget it
to-night, and everybody reminds me of it. Foor
Gipsy I”
She looked at him, and her eyes drooped un
der his fixed regard.
“ What am Ito say to you, then ?” she asked,
pouting her red lips and arching her brows.
“ You stay away three whole days, as if—as if
we had the plague, and then when you come
two hours late to the ball which is yours as
much as anybody’s—you fly at me I What have
I done?”
As she spoke, she raised her eyes and let
them fall upon him with a look which, when it
comes from such a woman, is sometimes mad
dening, always irresistible.
Gus s blood rose. He had had more cham
pagne tiiat day than he had drunk for a year.
The light, the music, the despair that burned
within him, were telling upon him.
“ Lot us dance 1” he said.
“But I am engaged 1” she said.
“Refer him to mo,” he said recklessly.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Do you think I want a duel on my con
science? But I suppose you must have it, if
you must! Your humor to-night is too much like
that of a wild Indian’s to be baulked.”
She put her hand on his shoulder, and his
arm encircled her waist.
Some faint perfume, perhaps from the exotics
in her hair and the bosom of her dress, dif
fused itself over his senses. Never had she
Ift&kSd more beautiful than to-night, he thought,
forgetting how ftltenjie Jjad thought game
before. From the diamonds, which shone upoil
her matchless arms, specks of fire seemed to
strike and dazzle him. Her breath came in
long, soft inflections as she danced, and her
touch seemed to cling to him with a tender, ap
pealing regard. In short, the charm of 'a
superlatively lovely woman, dancing with the
man she wished to conquer and bring to her
feet, was working through all his veins.®
The music made msd revelry in his mind; the
despair which had settled upon him gave place
to a reckless wildness, and onoe be pressed her
so closely to him that the blood mounted to her
lace, and her lips parted with a hall-passionate
sigh.
“ Stop 1” she breathed at last; “ I am tired.”
“ I am iated to exhaust all my partners,” he
said, with an unsteady laugh.
“Take me somewhere where it is cool,” she
murmured.
He went straight to the fernery, and, with
drawing her arm, she loaned over a fountain
and began drawing off her glove.
“Are you so hot?” he asked. “Let me get
you au ioe.”
“ No,” she said, in a constrained voice. “I
will cool my sell—so 1 ’ and she dabbled her
hand in the water. “Take off my other glove,
please," and she hold out her left hand im
periously.
He took the hand in his and commenced un
fastening the numerous buttons.
“Oh, take care!” she murmured. “You
will tear it. It is the only pair ot long gloves of
this color I have left.”
“Who oaros about the glove?” he said,
swiftly. “It is the hand—the hand 1”
Her eyes flashed round upon him, then
drooped.
“You will hurt that if you are not careful,"
she breathed. “Do not be so rough !”
“Am trough? Forgive me. It is a beauti
ful hand. Will you give it to me, Diana ?”
The words had escaped him in his madness
almost before he knew it. It was done now.
But she laughed softly.
“ I think you have it already," she said, and
tried to draw it away.
“For a moment,” he said. “But will you
give it to me lor always—forever ?” and his hot
fingers closed round the soft, glowingly warm
ones of the white hand.
She turned toward him.
“ l ord Kendale 1 Is this not a rather warm
flirtation ?’’
“ By heavens, I am serious !” he said, almost
fiercely, tor the charm was still upon him, the
lumes of the champagne still potent. “ Give it
me, pray 1 Am Ito speak still more plainly ?
Diana, be my wile !”
it had come at last. For a moment she stood
looking at the water that reflected the smile of
triumph lu her eyes; then she turned them upon
him in a soft blaze.
“Still in earnest?” she murmured.
“In very earnest,” he returned, his eyes glit
tering. “Is it so wonderlul ? Is there any man
in this room who would not say so ?”
“ But you ?”
“ And I,” he answered. “ Diana, once more,
will you be my wife ?”
“ Why ?’’ she asked, qnietly.
Her question startled him into soberness for
aseoond.
“ Can you ask ?" ho said, quietly. “ Because
I love yon !”
She turned and hold out her hand which she
had taken from him.
“ Yes, ,” she said softly, with a look
which would have conquered most mon, which
—lor the time, the time only, alas !—conquered
him I
He took her hand and clasped it in both
his, then as her eyes still dwelt upon him,
he drew her toward him aud pressed his lips to
hers.
With a little, quick sigh—was it of triumph or
love ?—she draw back.
“ Oh, Guy 1 How wild! how reckless !” she
murmured, and the rare color dyed her face.
“ Am I sb wild?” he said in the tone of a man
intoxicated by passion and beyond himself.
“ Ah, I can be more reckless still 1” and he put
his arm round her and pressed her to his heart.
# 0" V A ...
The ball went on, but Guy and Dians Melford
danced no more that night. Long alter dawn
had crept into the heavens and gazed down in
fright, as it seamed, upon the brilliant light that
flooded the Hall grounds, Diana crept softly to
Lady Farnham’s side. Her ladyship was tired
and -rather out of humor.
“ Well !*’ she said. “ What is it, my dear ?
Where is Lord Kendale?”
Diana looked down.
" Guy is in the supper-room,” she said.
“ ‘Guy!’” echoed Lady Farnham, raising her
brows with a smile. “Oh ! Who gave you the
right to call him by his Christian name, made
moiselle?”
“ He, himself!” murmured Diana, and she
raised her eyes with a sparkle of triumph in
them.
Lady Farnham looked at her curiously.
“So it has come at last!’’ she said ia a low
voice in which there was a mixture ot wonder
and relief. “No need to ask if you are happy,
my dear.”
“ No,” breathed Diana.
“ And Guy?” said the old lady.
“ Had you not better ask him ?” murmured
Diana, and she glided away.
Two hours later, when the guests had all
gone, including even Guy, who had disappear
ed like a dream, with no word of farewell to
any but Diana, that young lady satin her dress
ing room.
“ What time is it, Belton ?*’ she asked of the
maid, busy removing the much-admired ball
dress.
“ Nearly eight o’clock, miss,” with a stilled
yawn.
“Don’t swallow mo, please. Nearly eight.
Do you think you could send one of the men to
the telegraph office lor me ?”
The maid looked doubtfuL
“Take a sovereign from that purse,” said
Diana. “Do you think you could find a man
to go for me ?”
“Oh, yee, miss,” said the maid with prompti
tude.
Diana drew her writing case toward her, and
filled in a telegram form to Seymour Melford,
Esq., Carshal.
“Lord Kendale proposed to-night, and I ac
cepted I” she wrote.
Oh, Lorrie, Lorrie 1
<To be Continual.)
SCORN* OF A LIE.
WHY MB. LINCOLN WAS CALLED
“ HONEST ABE.”
(from the St. Louis Globe-Democrat.')
A. H. Chapman, a step-nephew by marriage
ef Mr. Lincoln, has this to say of him as to why
he was called “ Honest Abe:”
In his law practice on the Wabash circuit he
was noted for his unswerving honesty. People
learned to love him ardently, devotedly, and
juries listened intently, earnestly, respectfully
to the sad-faced, earnest man. Ho was never
blamed for bribery; nothing could move him
when once his resolutions were formed. There
was nothing scholarly in his speeches, and he
always rested his case on his merits, only ask
ing ior simple Western justice, and the texture
of the man was such that his very ungainliness
was in his favor before a pioneer jury. His
face always wore a sweetened and kindly ex
pression, never sour, and burning to win them,
his tall frame swaying as a pine, made him a
resistless pleader.
I remember one case of his decided honest
trait of character. It was a case in which he
was for the defendant. Satisfied ot bis client’s
innocence, it depended mainly on one witness.
That .witness told on the stand, under oath,
what Abe knew to be a lie and no one else knew.
When ho arose to plead the case, he said :
“ Gentlemen, I depended on this witness to
clear my client. He has lied. I ask that no
attention be paid to his testimony. Let bis
; words be stricken out; if my case fails, Ido not
I wish to win in this way.”
' His seorn of a lie touched the jury. He laid
bis case before them magnificently, skillfully,
I masterly, and won in spite of the lie against
' him. From such work camo his “Htmest Abe.”
I never knew Abe to have a coat to fit him; all
were iil-fitting, but underneath was a big, hot
heart that could adjust itself to all humanity.
He had at his tongue’s end the little items that
make up the humble world of the pioneer farm
er. Once at a hotel, in the evening, during
court, a lawyer said : “ Out case is gone ; when
Lincoln quit ho was crying, the jury was crying,
the Judge was crying, and I was a little damp
about the lashes myself. We might as well give
the ease up."
THE HEimOFBEMDELL
BY ADA PENLY.
The sunlight sifting down through dusky
leaves touched the bowed head of a girl lying
prone unon the ground near the edge ot a gur
gling brook, and lay in banners of gold on her
graceful, petite form, shaken with suppressed
sobs.
A musical voice trilling a love song floated
upon the warm June air,drew nearer and near
er.
Ceasing her sobs the girl sprang to her feet
and turned to flee; too late, there was a flutter
o! white drapery amid the rose bushes, the song
trailed into an airy laugh, and a pair of cold
gray eyes leveled themselves upon the girl
shrinking against the trunk of a stately beech.
“ Goodness, Edna, you seem to live in a per
fect deluge of tears,” her stepsister exclaimed
lightly. “Uncle asked me this morning if I
know what had changed his sunbeam ? But of
course I could tell him nothing,” sneoringly,
“ as I am not honored with your confidence.”
“I wish we had never come here,” Edna
broke in.
“ Speak for yourself," Cora cried passionate
ly. “ I’m not sorry. I would rather die than
return to our former life of eternal turning of
old dresses and grinding attempts to stretch a
ene dollar bill into two; but—’’ abruptly, “I
haven’t told you the news. Robert Elson has
fallen heir to a largo fortune, and was married
on the twentieth to a wealthy lady in Balti
more.”
There was a low wail; a grayish pallor drifted
into Edna’s beauti ul face. An awful despair
shadowed the dark blue orbs fixed on the speak
er, carelessly tossing pebbles into the restless
stream. Twice she opened her lips, but the
words died into a hollow moan. A vindictive
light leaped into the eyes covertly watching
that agonized young face from beneath their
light lashes.
“ You know I warned you against your un
cle's ex-bookkoepor before he went on that sud
den journey South last Spring,” Cora remark
ed, shrugging her narrow shoulders. “ Urgent
!4J9intMjis w«, I etrpngly suspect, a ruse to
break freS ffohi a girl rateateilod with utter
beggary if she married him in the teeth of her
uncle’s commands. Now, to use a vulgar ex
pression, the fascinating Robert, who was sum
marily discharged for daring to raise his eyes
to his employer’s niece, has not only stumbled
into a soft nest, but mated with a girl who is
not under the unpleasant necessity of waiting
for dead men’s shoes.”
Her cutting tones broke into a cry of pain as
Edna’s fingers closed in a stool-like grip about
her arm.
“It is a black—black lie!’’ she whispered hol
lowly, her breath coming in quick short pants.
“ You bate him because be—no sought ma in
stead of you, who gave your love unasked.”
A hiss like a serpent’s warning broke from
Cora. Wrenching herself free, she raised her
hand as if to strike her companion, then clenched
it in the folds of her dress, a fiery spot
burning on either sallow cheek. A wicked
gleam in the eyes, slowly sweeping the graceful
form of her step-sister, who shuddered from
head to foot, and drawing her dainty wrap
more closely about her, turned away with a
bitter sigh.
“Stop, aud hear what I have to say,” Cora
cried.
“True, I did give my love unsought to
Robert; a love the depths of which your shallow
nature can never fathom. Ho passed my plain
face by- to bask in the thrall of your baby
smiles. You lived in an air castle lor a lew
brief weeks, then found yourself desorted, and
with all your beauty i would not change places
with you to-day. There is the prool of your
lover’s infidelity.”
Thrusting a newspaper into Edna’s cold hand,
the speaker trailed her light robe down the
shady path, her taunting laugh striking like a
knell upon the ears of the beautiful creature
clutching the printed sheet-a frozen look ot
horror turning to snow-dimpled cheek and
curving lips.
Halt way down the leafy glade Cora paused,
and shaking her clenched fist at that motionless
figure muttered:
“ I will deal stab for stab. W-hy should she
have wealth aud love, while my life is only a
barren waste? When she won him she gained
my everlasting hatred. In every throb of my
wounded heart I vowed to give blow for blow,
and thus avenge myself upon the man who
slighted me, and the woman who bewitched him
with her beautiful face.
Thrusting the rose-bushes aside, she glanced
at the stately mansion outlined amid branching
trees, tinkling fountains sparkling like liquid
jewels in the sunlight, and sloping lawns
starred here and there by bright flowers and
exquisite statuary. “It is well worth scheming
for,” she uttered lowly. “At last, after many
weary mouths ot waiting I can strike, and
if art and a desperate woman’s cunning cm
accomplish it, yonder sniyiling girl shall be
turned from Beechdoll this very night by its
proud Master, and I, instead ol my dainty step
sister, before the month is past will be heiress ot
all tins wealth.”
> * * « It- * *
Ten years before, Mr. Stoddard, the owner of
Boeohdell, disowned his sister ior marrying a
handsome ne’er-do-weil waiower with one
child, a girl two years older than the lady a
little daughter. Having gambled away his
wife’s fortune he died. .Repenting his harsh
ness, Mr. Stoddard hastened to his sister, whom
he found dying. After her death] he brought
both girls home, formally declaring Edna his
heiress.
Seated in his superb library that evening, the
gentleman looked up with a glad smile which
wonderfully brightened and softened his proud
patrician face, as Edna stole softly ia and
slipping her hand in his, seated herself on a
low ottoman at his feet.
“What makes my sunbeam so pale and sad,
lately?’ he asked, patting the slender ringed
fingers.
The girl bent her dusky head until it touched
his knee.
Taking her pale face in both his palms, Mr.
Stoddard turned her toward the light streaming
from a student’s lamp at his side.
“Edna, ’he demanded, gazing steadily into
her prettv eyes, “ are you mourning that young
fellow .”"
She flushed crimson, then grew deadly pale.
Drawing back, with a smothered sob she placed
one trembling hand over her heaving bosom.
“ Uncle,” she murmured in low, pathetic
tones, “I do not deserve your love, I—l .
Ah, let me confess my sin upon my knees, and
then”—with another bitter sob—“ I will go from
dear Beechdoll.”
“Just heavens! hush!” he cried, trying to
raise her from her lowly position, but she only
clung the tighter to him.
There was the rustle of woman’s drapery, and
Cora stepped from a silken-draped arch.
“I, too, have a confession to make,” she said,
in silky tones, that belied the steely glitter of
her eyes. “I cannot remain silent longer. I
pity poor, misguided Edna,” sho continued,
sighing, “ but 1 cannot see you, dear uncle, my
almost father, deceived by a wicked woman.”
“What do you mean ?” Mr. Stoddard thun
dered, drawing his stately form erect and shak
ing her clasp off his arm as he would cast aside
the folds of a rattlesnake.
Cora set her teeth; then said, slowly : “ Edna
did not go on a visit to a school friend, as she
led you to suppose, last Spring. Ask her with
whom she went away.
Silence, utter silence fell after that slow,
deadly voice ceased. Mr. Stoddard stood like
one dazed, gazing down in dumb agony at his
niece, her white arms still wreathed around
him. Then Edna sprang to her feet and faced
them, white as death, her eyes blazing like sap
phire stars.
“ I went away with my husband !” sho cried,
in clear, distinct tones. “ Ah, forgive your
sunbeam, uncle! coming closer to Mr. Stod
dard, a piteous ring in her girlish voice.
“Robert was not to blame. He wished to open
ly claim me, he said, trusting to time to win
your pardon; but I was afraid—oh, forgive me 1
—I dreaded lest you might oast me from your
heart, and persuaded mv darling to a secret
marriage. I intended telling you to-night, for
I could keep my secret no longer. Oh, do not
utterly cast me out ol your life !” she pleaded,
raising her tear-drenched face to the haughty
one above her. “Only pardon your Edna her
great wrong, and make Cora your heiress, for
sho has never deceived you. I have sinned,
but I have washed mv sin in tears.”
“ Who performed the ceremony ?*’ Cora inter
rupted.
Edua’s dark head crested haughtily.
“A friend ot Robert’s, who was staying at the
next village ior a few days prior to his depart
ure for Africa,” she replied, with great dignity.
“ His sisters, who were to accompany him, act
ed as witnesses.”
Taking a paper from her pocket, she opened
it, turned to hand it to her uncle, then reded
backward, her eyes wildly dilated, a sickening
tear blanching her beautiful face.
Gliding to her side, Cora fixed a strange, in
tent gaze on the paper, which was a marriage
certificate, but the spaces that should have been
filled ia with the names of contracting parties
and witnesses was blank, and instead of a cler
gyman’s signature a smooth, white surface
marked the reeling senses of the girl, who ut
tered a moan of mad despair, flung it irom her,
and shrieking “ Oh, my God ! lost—lost!” fled
like a wild creature through the long French
window and down the fragrant, moonlit walk
straight into the arms ol a broad-shouldered
man hastening toward the house.
» * *• * * * ■
As Edna’s gown fluttered across the window
sill, Cora crept softly to Mr. Stoddard’s side.
“ Let me comfort you, dear nucle, and atone
for Edna’s wicked deception,” she purred from
amid the folds of her handkerchief. “I’ve
warned Edna against Mr. Elston, but she would
not hoed.”
Sighing heavily, Mr. Stoddard turned con
temptuously away.
Raising the bit ot lace to her eyes to hide the
vengeful glitter, Cora crossed to the window,
only to recoil with a shrill cry, as Edna, all
smiles and blushes, leaning on the arm ot a no
ble-looking fellow, confronted her.
“Mr. Stoddard, will you not pardon two
headstrong young people?” the new-comer
queried, frankly. “ I have mere tte.u enough
ot this world’s goods now to surround my pre
cious wife with every luxury. Receiving no
answers to my letters lor several weeks, 1 be
came alarmed, and resolved to hasten to Beach
dell, claim Edna, and crave your forgiveness.
You can well imagine my delight, a few min
utes since, when this little woman ran plump
into my arms as I came through the grounds."
Drawing Edna to him, her uncle kissed her
tenderly.
“ My dear, I forgive you freely,” he said un
steadily, “ I intended telling you to-night that
you might send tor Robert, but all is well that
ends well, aud with God’s help,” placing her
hand within her haaband’s, “ we will in future
have no secrets from each other.”
“I presume I am in the way,” Cora exclaimed
mockingly, “ but before I retire I may as well
con:ess that I intercepted your loving letters.
If uncle had possessed the haughty disposition
I gave him credit for, he would have turned
Edna out ot doors, but woman's plans have
before now been ruined by man’s obstinacy.
So instead of playing the amiable, and usurping
Edna’s place in the heart and wUI of the rich
master ot Beeebdell, I’m compelled to retire
from the field ia disgrace.” Walking to the door
she swung around, and gazing steadily at
Robert continued: “ Yon may thank mo for
the announcement of your marriage to another
woman. I wosld have broken your wife’s
heart had you not returned at this unfortunate
time, but you have tied my hands. Au revoir,
may you be as wretched as I."
Still with that mocking smile on her thin lips,
she left them, and walking out into the warm,
sweet-scented night, went straight down to the
moon-silvered river bank and—death.
“May God forgive her as freely as I do,”
Edna murmured softly.
Picking up the certificate, Robert held it up to
the light for a moment. Slowly the blank spaces
filled with clear writing and standing out in
distinct letters, could be seen the names ot
witnesses and a clergyman’s bold signature.
“ By Jove, it’s filled in with sympathetic -ink,"
Mr. Stoddard exclaimed in astonishment.
“ Rather an odd fluid with which te make out
a document of Uiis kind isn’t it?” Robert
laughed. “ The truth is, the night this naughty
girl and I were married, my friend having no
ink among his luggage at the hotel, I lent him
my portable inkstand, forgetting in my hurry
that I had filled it the day previous with sym
pathetic ink, which I intended experimenting
with. I’m afraid dearest,” pinching Edna’s
rosy cheek, “we will have to frame this precious
bit of paper and keep a perpetual light burning
bafilLSfif."
“ Yes, we will frame and hang it in the draw
ing-room,” Mr. Stoddard smiled, patting hie
neice’s silken head, “that all may see the
heiress of Beechdell’s strange marriage cer
tificate.”
THE MISER’SJAND.
A LEGEND FROM THE ITALIAN
FOLK LORE.
(From the Pittsburg Chronic-e,)
The Italians have many pretty stories which
they tell one to another as they Bit about talking
to each other in a friendly way of an evening.
Here ia one that they tell, and it ia a favorite
with them:
One evening in the year 1520, a female, com
pletely enveloped in a long black mantle, was
walking toward the Bridge of Rialto, m Venice.
Her steps wore weak and uneven, and at inter
vale sho looked around with a harried, fright
ened glance.
Hhe paused at the centre of the bridge and
looked down with a shudder on the clear, blue
waters of the Adriatic. Then closing her eyes
and murmuring faintly, “ Antonio, my Antonio,
adieu I” she prepared to throw herself over the
parapet.
Just as she was falling, a man rushed for
ward, seized her with a powerful grasp and
drawing her back, said :
“Girl, destroy not the life which has been
given you I If you are unhappy, enter your
church, kneel on its hallowed pavement, pour
out your sorrow and thank your Maker that you
have been prevented from rushing uncalled into
His presence.”
By degrees she told him wiio she was and
where she lived. Hor history might bo summed
up in a few words : An avaricious father, a poor
lover, a mutual but unhappy love. Vainly had
Maria pleaded with her father, a rich inkeeper
in Venice, the cause of her lover, Antonio Bar
barigo, the handsomest gondolier plying be
neath the Bridge of Sighs.
At length, this evening, her father, Giannet
tini, so far lorgot himself as to strike his daugh
ter with some violence, and she, with a far more
culpable neglect of her duty, fled from her
home, and, as we have seen, was arrested on
the verge of suicide.
The person who had saved her led her gently
to her home, and, having given her up to her
father, seated himself in an obscure corner ot
the hostelry.
Giannettini received his child with rude re
proaches; and, bidding her return to her own
apartments, he cast a suspicious .glance at the
person who had brought her home, whose stout,
manly figure and firm countenance, however,
deterred the innkeeper from addressing him in a
hostile manner.
As Maria turned to depart a young gondolier
appeared at the door, aud furtively approaching
her, said:
“Dearest! dearest!”
Giannettini rushed forward, shouting:
“ Out of this I Ont of my house, beggar !”
“Certainly; you are rich,” replied the young
man; “but what hinders that I should not be
come so, too? A stout arm, a brave heart, an
honest soul, will, with the help ot heaven, do
much.”
“ A lover’s dream.”
The man in the corner had listened attentively
to this dialogue. He arose and touching Barba
rigo’s shoulder, said:
“ Well spoken, gondolier. Courage brings
success, and struggling, conquest. Maria shall
bo thy wife.”
“ Never cried Giannettini.
“Well,” said the unknown, turning disdain
fully toward him, “if this youth could lay down
600 pistoles, would you ob,ect to the marriage?”
So saying, he drew from his pocket a piece of
parchment nnd a crayon, and turning to a table,
began rapidly to sketch a man’s hand. It was
represented open, impatient, with a hollowed
palm, as it expecting a ahower of gold pieces.
It had, so to speak, an avaricious expression,
and one of the fingers was circled with a mas
sive ring.
“ ’Tis my hand !” cried Giannettini.
“And your history,” said the artist.
Giving the sketch to Antonio, the author de
sired him to carry it to Pietro Benvolo, librarian
at the Palace of St. Mark, and demand in ex
change for it 600 pistoles.
“ Six hundred fools’ heads I” cried the inn
keeper. “ I would not give a zecchiu for it.”
An hour passed, then hasty, joyous steps
were he ird, aud Antonio appeared, bearing in
his hand .a bag and a latter. The bag contained
600 pistoles, and the letter was addressed to
the artist and prayed him to honor the librarian
with a visit.
“Take these coins and weigh them,” said
the unknown, as he threw the bag toward
Giannettini.
Antonio Barbarigo stood before his benefactor,
pale and trembling with joy.
“ One favor more,” he said, “ who arc you ?”
“Men call mo Michael Angelo !”
As to the crayon sketch ot the miser’s hand,
it was taken from Italy by a soldier in Napo
leon’s army and placed in the Louvre. During
the invasion of 1814 it was unfortunately lost,
and, so tar as can be ascertained, has never
been recovered. The story of its production
still lingers among the traditions of Venice.
HUMOR OF THE HOUR.
BYTHE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND.
THE OTHER ONE.
“So you have got a stop-mother ?” she said
to a little girl ol 7.
“ Yes.”
“ Well, I feel sorry for you.”
“ Oh, you needn’t do that,” replied the little
one. “ Please feel sorry lor pa I”
A KANSAS SQUATTER.
Traveler—” What kind of corn did you raise
last soason ?” \
Farmer —“ I raised ‘ Mammoth White’ mostly,
but my neighbor down hero raised some
‘ Bloody Butcher’ and some ‘ Ninety-day’ corn.”
Traveler—“ I meant, how much did you get
offau acre?'
Farmer—“ Got all that growed on the acre..
Gee up, there, Jack.”
A VERY PARTICULAR SIGHT.
“Bub, are there any partiouler eights in De
troit?’ he asked, as he was getting his boots
blacked.
“ You bet I”
“ What are they ?”
“ Well, there's one of the best-looking girls in
an office over here you ever set eyes on, and
she flirts with mo through the window. Come
around and see her when I git t’other boot done
—no extra charge.”
HE WAS SKUSED.
“This is the sixth time you have inquired for
George Smith this morning,” said the clerk
at the post-office delivery to a young colored
boy,
“ An’ dar hain’t no letters ?”
“No. Who is George Smith?”
“He’s a cull’d gom’lan, ma’am, an’ dar’s a
purleeceman huntin’ fur him, an’ his wife am
watchin’ ober on de co’ner, an’ about sixteen
tellers who have lent him money am tryln’ to
git in de back way ob do shop to lick him.
’Skuae his anxiety to git a letter, ma’am. He’s
’a pectin’ one wid a ferry ticket in it"
A PERSONAL MATTER.
“Ought we to annex Canada?" inquired a
Detroiter of a stranger in one of our hotels
yesterday.
“ No, 1 hardly think we should. Still my op
position to it may be a personal matter.”
“ You not interested in property there,
are you ?”
“ Well, no, But you see I have a son who
used to be cashier ot a bank in Ohio, and,
and .’’
“ Ah, yes, certainly. Of course, under the
circumstances, you would be rather prejudiced.
Good-day.”
VERY LIBERAL.
“ What repairs will you make it I take the
house?” she asked alter looking it all over.
“ Why, ma’am, I’ll be very liberal.”
“ But what will you do?”
“ Well, I’ll see that those two panes ot glass
are put in, fix this front stop, aud .”
I “ About the painting?”
| “ I’ll promise to look for a paintar and ask
him how much he'll take to go over the house
one coat, and if he’s a responsible party, and
his figure is reasonable, and the weather bolds
good for painting, why, I’ll . Say, suppose
I put in three new window lights and l,et the
painting go?"
AN OLD ROW.
A boy about nine years old sat on a door-step
on Clinton street yesterday, and a patrolman
who beard a great noise up stairs in the house
inquired of him:
Isn’t that a row going on up stairs ?”
<C Vpq ’*
"Who is it?"
“Dad and ma’am.”
“ Why didn’t you tell me they were fight
ing ?”
“ Well, they begun early yesterday morning,
and the thing has gpt so old that I thought you
would yoll • chestnuts I’ at me if I said any
thing.”
PEACH TREE CREEK.
GEN. KILPATRICK’S RAID BEHIND
GEN. HOOD AT ATLANTA.
(M-om the Indianapolis Hews.)
General Hood made a desperate attempt on
the lines of General Sherman on Peach Tree
creek, on the 2ist of July, 1864, but was unsuc
cessful. On the 27th be gathered a strong force
on his left, on the west side ot the city, and a
similar fight was very imminent. General
Hume’s brigade of Wheeler’s cavalry, composed
of the First, Second and Fifth Tennessee regi
ments, and Major James Aiken’s battalion wore
dismounted and formed on the left of the infan
try, and, to our disgust, we had to begin to dig
dirt and throw up breast-works, like the regu
lar infantry. Just as things were getting ex
ceedingly uncomfortable about noon of that day,
we were ordered back to our horses. The
movement was so sudden that it mystified us,
but we were nevertheless glad to get to our
horses again. A cavalryman always feels better
when mounted, or at least with his horses. We
were ordered to mount and moved rapidly
south, and the further we went the better w*e
felt, as it carried us further from the infantry
and into service better adapted to our training
and inclination. It was about noon when we
left the infantry line. We marched until nearly
stopped to feed. Ud tc this Time the
object of our movement was all conjecture with
us, but it now began to be rumored that Gen
eral Kilpatrick was on a raid to the Atlanta k
Macon railroad, which was Hood’s only reliable
line to his base of supplies. After feeding wo
mounted again and pushed rapidly toward
Lovejoy Station, which is forty miles south of
Atlanta. We marched until a late hour and
wont into camp at daylight
Js T sxt day. about noon, we arrived at Lovejoy
Station, and came up with General Kilpatrick’s
command. We found them tearing up ths rail
road track and destroying the iron and ties.
We commenced an attack on them and they
retreated oast. We followed them up, skirmish
ing with them for three miles out from the
station, when we ran into Armstrong’s brigade
of our own array. General Kilpatrick had dis
appeared, and where he had gone was the mys
tery. Alter beating ou each side of the road
for some time we found that Kilpatrick had
loft the road in the woods and gone south. He
found that he was running into Armstrong on
the and we were hot after him from be
hind, and to gain time he very adroitly left the
road at a place where we could not detect his
tracks, without a close hunt for them, and slip
ped quietly out to the south side ot the road.
When his track was found we started in active
pursuit, but by the strategy he had gained an
hour’s start. After going south a short distance
he turned west and recrossed the railroad two
miles south of Lovejoy’s Station, and moved
briskly toward Newnan, Ga. The hour’s start
gave him a good chance to get out of the coun
try. We all felt this and General Wheeler
pushed us forward as fast as possible. At
nightfall we came up with his rear-guard,
charged it and captured a few prisoners. Our
horses being exhausted we were compelled to
stop and feed, and take a few hours’ rest.
Mounting again about midnight we began the
most dangerous of all operations, which is to
follow the track of an enemy in the night. We
moved cautiously forward the remainder of the
night. Next morning, at daylight, we came up
with his rear guard again. General Hume
directed Major Aiken, ot the Ninth Tennessee,
battalion to move through some timber and cut
the rearguard off. The movement was prompt
ly executed, and as Major Aiken charged on
their rear, my regiment, the First Tennessee
cavalry, charged on the main road. We cap
tured the whole force, some two hundred mon,
and only had one ot our men wounded. The
pursuit now became close and active. We
charged several small rear guards during the
morning and captured some prisoners. About
noon we arrived at the town of’Newnan, Georgia.
Gen. Roddy’s command was on a train at the
depot, on their way from North Alabama to At
lanta. His command was fifteen hundred strong.
Gen. Kilpatrick finding th s command in the
town, promptly turned south, as at Lovejoy
Station. Leaving the road in the woods and in
such a manner that we did not see his tracks,
we pushed forward to find the town occupied by
Roddy, whose men could not tell us which way
Kilpatrick had gone. Wo soon found, however,
that ho had moved south by the railroad track.
Tho dirt road runs south from Newnan, parallel
with the railroad, and about one mile west of it.
My brigade was ordered down the dirt road ata
brisk trot, and the writer of this and one other
man were the advance videttes. We were now
between Kilpatrick and the river.
When seven miles down the road at Bohanan’s
farm we heard a sudden rattle of arms in the
woods, a few hundred yards behind us. Six
miles out Kilpatrick had turned sharp toward
the Chattahoochie river, and ran into the offi
cers’ extra horses and servants, in rear o r
Hume’s brigade, and of all the confusion one
ever saw. the condition of those darkies was the
worst. Gen. Hume wheeled about and charged
back on Kilpatrick, and Gen. Sul. Ross, with his
Texas brigade, the Third, Sixth and Ninth Texas
regiments, charged them from the other side.
About five hundred made it through . between
the two brigades; Gens. Hume and Rosa cut the
remainder off, and after a rough and tumble
hand to hand fight forced them back to the rail
road.
General Kilpatrick was now in a desperate
strait. We had a much larger force, and felt
sure we would capture him. On the south side
of the Bohanan farm, in the woods, was a deep,
rugged creek, with a wooden bridge across it
on the dirt road. This bridge now became Kil
patrick’s only means ot escape from his peril
ous position, unless he took the back track.
My regiment was ordered to this bridge and in
structed to hold it.
In an hour General Wheeler had his com
mand well up in line, and, strange to say, com
mitted the folly of withdrawing my regiment
from the bridge and forming it on bis extreme
right, preparing for a general charge with his
whole force. General Kilpatrick discovered
that the bridge was uncovered, and now was
his opportunity. We soon found that he was
escaping across the bridge, and my regiment
was ordered to charge to the bridge and cut
him off.
We were quickly dismounted, so as to get
through the timber more readily, and went at
them with a will. We cut off seven hundred
men, who returned again to the railroad
and surrendered to General Wheeler. The
writer of this seized the bridle of one ot Kilpat
rick’s men, who was riding a mule that he had
captured from some farmer, and giving it a
strong, sudden jerk, he threw the mule on its
haunches; this threw the rider to the ground,
who was promptly made a prisoner. General
Kilpatrick and Colonel Brownlow—a son of the
noted Wm. G. Brownlow, ot Knoxville, Tenn.—
escaped across the bridge.
The Second and Fifth Tennessee cavalry,
commanded by Colonel Ashby and Colonel Mc-
Kenzie, were'very keen to capture Colonel
Brownlow, and wefflT deeply chagrined at his
escape. We had captured altogether about one
thousand of General Kilpatrick’s men, with
their horses and accoutrements.
From Bohanan’s farm it was about seven
miles to the Chattahoochie river, and it now be
ing night, and our horses being completely ex
hausted by hard marching, it was impossible to
overtake them again be ore they crossed the
river. Thus ended an active raid, and although
General Kilpatrick did not accomplish the ob
ject of his raid, yet his ability as a cavalry offi
cer was well displayed. He was in a strange
country and with the advantage we had of him,
if he had been less determined we would cer
tainly have captured his whole command. This
was not to be, however, as he was destined to
play an active part in Sherman’s march to the
sea. The two generals, Kilpatrick and Wheeler,
were constantly in contact for the next few
months and had many a hard contest in the pine
woods of Georgia and the rice fields of South
Carolina, as Sherman forced his way and deso
lated the country.
THEgPENSIONg BUILDING.
ITS GREAT SEATING CAPACITY.
(From the Washington Star.)
The interior of the great hall of the Pension
Building will soon be finished. The immense
stretch ot wall has nearly all been plastered,
and some idea can be formed of what the com
pleted hall will look like. Whatever difference
of opinion there may be as to the merits of the
outside of the building, it will no doubt be
generally admitted that this hall is a grand
room. In point of size, it is larger, with one ex
ception, than any audience room in this coun
try, and in point of capacity stands about fourth
in ths list ot the large interiors of the world.
The great Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City
is said to have the largest capacity of any build
ing in this country. It will seat about 15,000
people. General Meigs, the architect of the
Pension Building, says that the hall in the Pen
sion Building and the galleries surrounding it
have a seating capacity of 11,307 men. The hall
itself is 316 feet long and 116 feet wide, while it
has two tiers of galleries extending all around
it which are twelve feet in width. A third gal
lery, which encircles the hall, has a width of
five fest. General Meigs says that he has esti
mated that 30,000 people can find standing-room
in thia great suace. St. Peter’s Church, Home,
which is the largest structure in the world, will,
in the same way, hold 54,000, while the Milan
Cathedral will accommodate 37,000; St. Paul’s,
Rome, 32,000, and St. Paul’s, London, 25,000.
General Meigs says ho has no doubt that the
principal portion ot the inauguration exercises
will in the future be held in this hall, as well as
public funerals and other exercises which at
j tract large gatherings of the people.
A JAMMED MAN.
BY M. QUAD.
You have soon people who seemed to ache all
over to make some one unhappy? Just such
an old curmudgeon was on tho train the other
day when It stopped at St. Thomae, and a bridal
couple entered our car. Wo all knew it was a
bridal couple, because there were friends down
to aee ’em off, and the bride and groom stood
there and received the congratulations for four
or five minutes. The bride looked a bit older
than the groom, and the minute tho old cur
mudgeon noticed this he slid over and planked
himself in the seat ahead ot them, and after a
minute or two turned and said<
“Beg pardon, but can you tell me who’e fu
neral that was back there?’*
“ Why, there was no funeral!” exclaimed the
bride, in answer.
“Oh ! I thought there was,” be said, in a dry,
sarcastic way, and he pretended to read hie
paper for three or four minutes before turning
again with;
“ Are you taking your son to the seashore,
ma am ?”
“ No, sir. This is my husband 1”
“Oh, it is? I’d never have suspected it I’*
Thon ho went on for a quarter of a hour, tell
ing about a farm he owned in Canada, and then
suddenly inquired:
“ Young man, I’d like to have you and your
aunt go and see tho farm and make me an offer
for it.”
The bridal couple turned white and red and
let go of hands for a moment, while tho old
curmudgeon changed the sub.eot and began to
talk about Niagara Falls.
“Ever there?” he asked.
Both shook their heads.
“ I’d advise you to stop off if you have time.
It’s a grand sight. I suppose, though, you want
to arrive at Buffalo at the same time with the
body. What did he die of, ma’am ?”
*• I—-I don’t understand you,” she stammered
in a painful way.
“Oh! beg pardon; I somehow got it into my
head that you had been to a funeral, of wore
going to one, or some such thing.”
He then related the particulars of a smash-up
on the road in which he had an arm broken and
his wife was killed, and added:
“The case is in court yet, but I’ve lost ray
marriage certificate* aq(| caif t prove flbe was my
wire, ana uou’t Oxpeot to get any damages. I
think I understood you to say, ma’am, that you
had been married fourteen years ?”
‘ r Oh, no—no, sir 1”
“ pardon; but perhaps it is only nine or
ten. What I was going to say was that you
ought to sacredly preserve the certificate. I
suppose you have it with you ?”
Bride and groom looked at each other in con
sternation. The document hadn’t been thought
of in their hurry and happiness.
“Was reading of a case the other day,”
placidly continued the old wretch, “ where a
hotel-keeper bad a couple sent to prison for two
years because they could not show a marriage
certificate.”
The bride turned so red that it seemed as it
she would suffocate, and the groom so white
that his oars looked like new blotting-pads.
That was the last straw. Five or six of us had
been holding an indignation meeting a few seats
back, and our delegate, who had whipped hia
seventh man in the prize-ring, now went for
ward and whispered in the old curmudgeon's
left ear:
“Say, mister man, you let that couple alone,
or I’ll break your neck ! This thing has been
carried far enough.’”
*• Certainly—certainly,’’said old meanness, as
be got up. “ Excuse me, ma'am - and you, bub
—and if you should have any trouble with the
corpse in Buffalo, don’t fail——”
The delegate choked him off there and took
him to the last soat in the car and jammed him
down and warned him to stay jammed, and
such looks of relief as stole over the faces of
that bridal couplo 1 never expect to see again
on earth.
WHAT IT COSTS TO SMOKE.
HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS SPENT
FOR CIGARS EVERY YEAR.
(From the American Grocer.)
Last year the losses by reported fires is tho
United States reached a total ot $120,000,000, or
an average monthly loss of $10,000,000. This is
regarded as an enormous waste and is largely
due to incendiarism and carelessness. How to
reduce the amount so lost is a matter ot con
stant study. Legislatures, local govrnments,
insurance companies make regulations and
exercise the greatest care to prevent fires.
And yet the loss they occasion is $60,000,000 per
annum less than the amount paid by consumers
for cigars, and $86,500,000 less than the total
cost ot tobacco consumed in smoke.
Last year tax was paid upon 3,510,898,488
cigars. The average smoker is content with a
cigar worth S3O per 1,003, or one that retails at
five cents. On that basis there annually goes
up in smoke $180,000,000, or $15,000,000 every
month, or $500,000 every day. In addition, boys
waste on cigarettes $6,500,000, and those who
prefer a'pipe, a further sum of $20,000,000.
How many smoke ? If we deduct from ths
total population as non-smokers ail children
under fifteen, constituting forty per cent, of the
total population of 60,000,000, it leaves 36,000,-
000, of whom one-half are iomales; deducting
these gives a male population, above the ago ot
fifteen, of 18,000,000. it six out of every tea
males above the age of fifteen smoke, it means
that 10,800,000 persons consume 3,510,898,488
cigars, or an average per smoker of 325 cigars
per annum. Thia is less than one cigar per
day. The average smoker, however, is not apt
to be contented with a daily allowance ot ona
cigar, demanding at least two. If the latter
basis is the nearer correct, the army of cigar
smokers would be 4,809,449, being eight per
cent, ot the total population above the age of
fifteen.
Whatever the number of smokers, it is a
moderate estimate to place the cost of smoking
to the people ot the United States at $206,500,000.
if the cost of chewing tobacco is added the total
expenditure for tobacco reaches $256,300,000;
that is a sumthat represents a per capita tax of
$3.44 per annum. If the number of smokers is
4,809,449, the average expense of smoking is
$42.09 each per annum; 11 the number is 7,000,-
000, the cost is $28.64 per individual; if 10,800,-
000, it falls to $19.12, a sum sufficient to afford
one five-cent cigar daily and leave a balance of
eighty-seven cents for extras.
What relation the expenditure for the smok
ing habit bears to the consumption ot a few
other articles more or less of a luxury is seen
by the following exhibit, the figures showing
the estimated cost to the consumer, averaging
coffee at twenty cents per pound, tea at fifty
cents, cocoa and chocolate at torty cents, sugar
at six cents :
Liquor, —
$700,000,000.
Tobacco, —
$256,500,000.
Sugar, ——
$187,000,000.
Coffee, tea, ——
c0e0a.... $130,000,000.
Schools,
$110,000,000.
Sugar is the only article that is universally
used, and is properly regarded a staple and
necessary article of diet. About fifty-two
pounds per capita are used at a cost of $3.12.
Alcoholic and malt liquors, tobacco, coffee, tea,
chocolate are non-essentials, or articles con
sumed for the more gratification of the appetite.
For that pleasure a portion of tho community
pays $1,086,000,000 annually. Not to exceed,
one-fourth of the total population habitually
uses alcoholic or malt beverages, nor more
than one-sixth tobacco. Steadily do the habits
of selt-gratiflcation increase, their growth stimu
lated by a higher civilization. The more the
masses have the more are the luxuries of lite
demanded.
Emebson’3 Own Daughter. — Ellen
Emerson, daughter ot Ralph Waldo Emerson,
is as independent in her movements as her
father was in thought. She was out walking the
other day, when it began to rain heavily. Along
came a rustic horse dragging a swill cart, with
a conventional country boy ou tho rough plank
that served for the driver’s seat. Miss Emer
son calmly stopped the cart and climbed up to a
place on the plank beside the driver and rode
home as fast as the boy could make the animal
go. The conventional part of Concord, and that
is the greater part, looked outoi misty windows
in horror. But the proper people there kava
long since grown accustomed to a more pecu
liar sight than the daughter of the philosopher
on a swill cart. Mies Emerson has a donkey,
tho gift of a friend, upon which she lavishes
considerable affection. She has horses and car
riages, but whenever it suits her fancy she has
thb donkey saddled and brought to the door.
There she mounts him and rides unreservedly
about town. She is so tall and the donkey so
short that she has to hold up her feet to pre
vent them from dragging on the ground. Vis
itors to Concord who have not been familiar
with donkey-riding in Europe, where the habit
is comparatively common, find the sight enter
taining.
Give neither counsel nor salt till you
are asked for it.
Diseases'
with the
CUTicUqx\
Remedies;
Torturing, disfiguring, itching, scai.Y and
pimply diseases of the ekin. scalp, and blood with
1oh« of hair, from infancy to old age, are cured by tho
Cuticura Remedies.
Cuticuri Resolvent, the New Blood Purifier, cleanses
the blood and perspiration of disease-sustaining ele
ments, and thus removes the cctuse.
Cuticura, tho great Skin Cure, instantly allays itching
and Inflammation, clears the skin and scalp of crusts,
scales and sores, and restores the hair.
Cuticura Soap, an exquisite Skin Beautifler, is indis
pensable in treating skin diseases, baby humors, skin
blemishes, chapped and oily skin.
Cuticura Remedies are the great skin beautifiers.
Sold everywhere. Price, Cuticura, 59c. ; Soap, 25c, ;
Resolvent, sl. Prepared by the Potter Drug anb
Chemical Co., Boston, Mass.
Send for “ How to Cure Skin Disease,.”
TINTED w.ith the loveliest delicacy is the skin bathei
UN with CUTiGUiiA. Medicated twtf.