New York dispatch. [volume], June 26, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
sweet, musical voice. “ Bob, you told me—you
both told me—that everything was perfectly
Correct and legal. lam sure”—with something
like a sob—“ I would not have consented had
you not told me so—no, indeed I” and two large
glittering tears showed themselves on the dark
fringes of her eyes.
“There, Hyacinth—there, my darling!” ex
claimed her husband, in great distress, placing
an arm around her, and pressing his brown
cheek against her fair face. “Why, you’re cry
ing- cry ng on your wedding-day—so awfully
unlucky 1 Look, Bob, at what you have done
w th your conscience and your scruples !”
Bulbre the perpetual curate of Herby could
reply, his sister turned her face toward him,
-opened her large eyes—so tearful and yet so
bright—looked up into his face, and said:
“It is right? It is legal? We are married,
are we not? It is not a farce—not one of those
mock marriages one reads of in books—ay; and
In newspapers sometimes ?”
“ Good hea\ ens 1” exclaimed her husband, his
face flushing with sudden anger, his voice shak
ing. “Can you suspect me of such a wicked
Vick? Why, Hyacinth ”
She made a gentle gesture with her slim white
V&nd, and smiled at him, although her eyas were
grave.
“Ido not think you would play me such a
Vick,” she said—“ Ido not indeed, Glynn. But
you arp. a man, and men have deceived women
over since the world began, and will continue
to do so, I suppose.”
“ And you dare to place me in your thoughts
by the side of the victims of whose crimes you
have read in the newspapers I You forget that
I am cheer-'ally risking the loss ot a great for
tune; that you are as necessary to me as the air
I breathe; that you are as pure and holy in my
©yes as the memory of my dead mother; that
you are my cousin; that your brother, whom
you know to be ordained, participates in the
* trick,’ as you are pleased to call it 1 Ob, Hya
cinth, I can scarcely believe that you are in
•earnest I”—and the young man withdrew his
arm from his bride and walked on hastily, hot
tears springing to his eyes.
She did not follow him and strive to woo him
back to her side, as many a loving girl would
have done; nor did she pout her lips and try to
look indifferent. The ominous quarrel that was
spoiling the first moments of their married lite
did not disturb her in the least. S'he raised her
left hand, looked at the plain gold ring with its
Hashing guard, sighed a taint low satisfied sigh,
and turned to her brother, repeating the very
question she had asked some minutes be ore: '
“Is it all right—legal? Are we marred,
Bob?”
“ Yes. It is a little informal, but it will stand
in any court ot law in the kingdom you may be
sure of that, Hyacinth. But you will be pretty
well sold if you find you’ve married a pauper—
a man without even a profession. And you know
what a hatred our usurping uncle has of us all;
if he knew Glynn was here, I believe he would
disinherit him.”
“ I know it is a ease of risk—a sprat to catch
a salmon; but miles and miles of rich and fer
tile soil by the river Nore, and a stately and an
cient castle, the home of our race since Henry
the Second gave it to red Glynn Verschoyle, are
worth risking something for. I would risk even
my life to be a Verschoyle of Verschoyle;” and
her eyes lost their steady calmness aud her
cheeks flushed with scarlet as she spoke.
“ Yes,” she went on, after a pause, “ I am wil
ling to run the risk; and, if 1 fail, I must put up
With the consequences.
“ Well,” said her brother slowly, “ the plan
Is a good one if it only turns out all right; but
there is generally a hitch in theao things—the
secret leak* out, or something.”
“This secret will keep, Bob—you will keep
it, 1 shall keep it, and wo will make him keep
it.”
“People in love are generally fools,” replied
the young clergyman sententionsly.
“And do you imagine that I am m love with
that gaby ?” she asked, glancing contemptuous
ly at the tall and handsome young fellow whom
a lew minutes be .ore she had solemnly sworn
to love and honor all the days of her life, and
who was now sitting on the old stone stile lead
ing into the lane, and still look ng angry and
mortified.
“‘Gaby’!” said Robert. “An honorable
gentlemen, well-born, well-bred, and one of the
kindest, best-hearted, pluckiest fellows I ever
Jtnew I ‘ Gaby ’!”
“I think so,” replied the girl, coldly; TI
-should think any man a gaby who, for the grat
igeation ot a whim, a fancy lor a face that
pleases him now, that may displease him a year
hence, and that he is aura to grow weary ot and
hate in time, would risk losing such an inherit
ance.”
“Ch, Hyacinth,” cried her brother, “you—
and all of us—ought to be the last to refuse to
believe in love I Look at our father—think of
what he gave up for our mother, and how pas
sionately he adores her and she h m, and how
happy he is in spite of our shabbiness and pov
erty ?’
“Well, they are exceptions, I suppose,” said
the girl, with a sneer; “ but let that slide. If a
cool head can keep a secret and force others to
do so, this morning’s business won’t leak out
Until-well, dead men’s shoes, you know, and
all that kind of thing. Hush now!” and her
tair, clear-cut face assumed its usual expression
of haughty calmness.
“ I wonder whether you have a heart, Hya
cinth I” muttered the curate. “It seems to me
that you might be chiseled out of a block of
atone, for all the human or womanly feeling you
display—you are quite unlike the rest of us,”
“Heart?” she said, immediately catching his
Words. “ Yes, Robert, I have a heart to be Mrs.
Neville—Mrs. Verschoyle Neville, of Verschoyle
Castle and Shangannon—but I have not the heart
to love yonder gaby,” dropping her voice to a
whisper as they came close to the stile and her
husband rose and opproacbed her.
‘•Forgive me, dearest,” he said, feeling heart
ily ashamed of his outburst of anger; “I ought
not to have taken offense at such a—a—title.
Of course you did not mean it.”
She made no reply in words, but she smiled
at him, placing her soft white hand in his as he
helped her over the stile. Her brother followed,
and the three walked down the lane together in
the shade of the laburnums and lilacs, crushing
beneath their feet the alien blossoms that al
most covered the ground. A little farther on a
grand old horse-chestnut tree, that cast a cool
shadow all about it and towered upward, a pyr
amid of graceful fan-shaped leaves and white
spiky blossoms, seemed to close the path. But
on one side of the massive trunk—indeed almost
behind it another stile led into an ill-kept wood,
where some of the trees were dying lor what of
light and air, others were already dead, and all
were more or less encumbered with treacherous,
clinging ground-ivy that it was apparently no
one’s business to clear away.
At this stile they paused, and Glynn Neville,
still assuming the air of an ill-used man, as if,
although be had forgiven, he had not forgotten
his wi e’s distrust of him, said:
•“Well, this is the limit, I suppose, Hya
cinth?”
“ I think not,” she replied, smiling. “ I think
you might come borne with ns. I dare say break
fast—it you can call our morning scramble for
food by such a name—is going on now; and if
any one saw ns together and you did not come
in, there would be talking and wondering and
questioning on ths r part, and downright lying
on mine—and,” with a little disdainful gesture
of the hand, “ I hate that.”
Glynn, who had brightened very visibly dur
ing her speech, declared with warmth:
“Yes, I should like to go up to the grange
▼ery much, dear; I delight in making my own
coffee and trying my own trout—in fact, any
thing except blowing the fire with my mouth.”
“ As you oaught Lil doing the first time that
you came,” said the curate, glad to find the con
versation taking this turn.
“ Yes—the beautiful child! Hyacinth, when
you and I are rich—live or six years hence—we
must take Lil to London and watch the world
worshiping her. It would be a crime to let such
a flower * blush nnseen ’ in Cheshire village, to
marry eventually the doctor or ”—with a laugh
ing glance at Fobert Verschoyle—“ the cu
rate.”
Hyacinth’s lip quivered, and she said, with
some bitterness in her voice:
“ Very well; if that time ever does come, it
will most likely coma when lam fading and the
flower ot her loveliness is fairest—a pleasant
reflection! Ah, there is my ridiculous parent
on the lawn 1”
They had now skirted the edge of the wood,
and come to another stile leading into nothing
more imposing than a large sloping field in
which some recently-shorn sheep were placidly
grazing. It was most decidedly a field, and
was called a lawn only because a large ancient
mansion, in a state ol partial ruin—with moss
grown roof and walls matted with ivy—stretch
ed, with its tumble-down stables and out-offi
ces, across the upper end of it. The old peak
roofed, gabled building had no grace er beauty
Of its own; and yet it was a fair and re reshing
sight to eyes tired with the glare of the sands
in the hot sunshine, for a profusion of uncared
for, neglected roses clambered over and clung
to and ran riot through the ivy everywhere.
The sweet-scented blossoms spread across
the little windows, starry sprays ot jasmine
peeped out between the stiff, formal passion
flowers. Everything but these lair gifts of na
ture spoke of ruin and decay, and a hopeless
ness th at had even led to a cessation of all ef
forts to keep up appearances. The broad grav
el walk in front of the house was so covered
with weeds that one of the sheep was nibbling
the grass growing between the stones. What
bad once been a r w of stately oaks was now a
line ot unsightly stumps not more than a loot
above the ground and bristling with bushy
growths. A broken statue of Amphitrite in a
grass-grown shell was a memorial of the time
when this field was in reality the pleasan nee ot
a noble mansion. The broken escutcheon over
the hall door—about which the ivy aud some
white roses were entwined—the ragged em
broidered curtain hanging at an open window,
the cracked and worn flight ot red sandstone
steps, the dilapidated, neglected, poverty
stricken aspect of the whole place, was such as
is more often found on the banks of the More,
the Shannon, er the Blackwater, than by the
side of an English river. Its appearance would
have suggested thoughts ot the Court of Chan
cery, had the fact not been so very apparent
that the disorder and neglect were evidently the
products of swarm ng Mie rather than the deso
lation of a house in the “ Courts.”
Such, indeed, bad been Glynn Neville’s
thoughts concerning it when—a month or two
before that la r June morning—he had first
loaned over the stria by the wood and looked
with disapproving eyes at his uncle's home, lit
tle thinking that in this remote, unvisited Che
shire village, he should find in his fair-faced,
placid, liaxen-haired cousin, his wife and his
CHAPTER 11.
“a puzzling glimpse of her real charac
ter.”
Although it was yet early morning, a group of
people was assembled about a tall poplar that
grew between the angle ot a bay-window and an
-ivy-clad wall. On the door-step beyond, a tall,
elegant woman was leaning against a broken
pillar, endeavoring vainly to keep a torn and
dirty morning-wrapper closed about her throat
and watching an elderly gentleman who, attired
in an extremely ragged dressing-gown, was
assisting three handsome out-at-elbow lads to
get a large kite out of the topmost boughs of
the poplar. A young girl of about sixteen years
of age, whose exquisite lace and shining yellow
hair almost succeeded in hiding the fact that
her gown was far from clean and her beautiful
abundant locks were uncombed and unbrushod,
sat on a broken garden-seat, laughing as only
youth and health can, at the efforts of her
father aud brothers.
“Give the line a jerk! There—it’s coming!
No ; it’s stuck faster than ever said Mr. Ver
schoyle, standing on his toes and making a vain
attempt to catch the tail of the kite as it swung
hither and thither in the air, h s heels ascend
ing from his carpet slippers as he did so, and
exposing the fact that his white cotton stockings
sadly needed washing and mending.
“it won’t budge; it’ll stay up there forever
and ever just to aggravate us. Ido believe it
knows we are on our honor not to climb the
poplar,” muttered a lad of about fourteen, sha
ding a pair ot beautiful blue-gray eyes from the
sun with a sleeve so ragged that his arm could
be seen through it in several places.
“I'll climb up and get it in two minutes, if
you’ll let me—do let me, Peter !” cried a
younger boy, pulling his father by the arm and
jumping up and down until the old gentleman
staggered.
“ You will not, Pat. Peter, don't let him,”
called out the lady standing on ike door-step.
“ He'll fall aud break his back it he does.”
“The kite won’t come down unless some one
goes up after it,” replied her husband unde
cidedly, “and it would be such a pleasure to
the lad.”
“Let the kite stay then, and send one of the
lads in to get breakfast. Ive lighted the fire,
as you may see,” she said, holding out a pair of
plump and well-shaped dirty hands for her hus
band 8 inspection.
“ I’ll go, mum I ’ exclaimed the girl who had
been sitting oh the broken seat, jumping to her
feet and running up the door-steps. “Have
we anything beside bread-and-butter and cof
fee ? Trout—game ?”
“There’s a bit of cold roast hare somewhere
—I ought to have jugged it, of course, but ’ —
with a sigh—“l didn’t; and I think I saw a
trout in Cha’s basket,” replied the lady, twist
ing up a long strand of hair, that had once
been golden and was now of a sickly orange
color.
“ Yes,” said the tallest of the lads, a sunny
haired, classical faced young fellow of about
seventeen, “ I put it under the table in the par
lor. Bo fry it, Lil—l’m awfully hungry.”
“Why, here’s our lady,” announced the girl,
catching sight of Hyacinth, her brother and
cousin on either side ot her, walking slowly to
ward the house.
“I dare say they picked up Glynn somewhere
and he’ll stay to break ast. He never minds
what he has to ent when he has our lady to
look at,” said Charlie.
“Well, she is worth looking at,” cried the
girl, with sisterly pride. “She is like a tall,
white lily compared to us; we are all boors and
png ugles beside her. The handsome Ver
schoyles. indeedj”
With this speech the girl entered the house,
and, alter avoiding some gaps in the broken
oak flooring of the hall with a dexterity ac
quired by long practice, suddenly disappeared
down some steps.
Mr. Verschoyle—old Peter, as he was some
what contemptuously called by his neighbors—
as soon as he saw the three figures approaching
him, handed over the kite string to the two
elder boys, and, with the younger still clinging
to his arm, went to meet the new comers, drag
ging his feet along the grass as ho walked, to
prevent his ragged slippers from dropping off.
There was a rapid exchange of glances be
tween him and the curate as he drew near, that
of the father seeming to ask: “Is all right?”
and that ot the son appearing to answer : “All
is right.” And then the old gentleman drew a
brick red envelope from his pocket and handed
it to his nephew, with a flourish, saying :
“ Good morning, Glynn ; that’s for you. Cha.
went to your lodgings to ask you to go fishing,
but found you were out, early as it was. This
was on your table, so he pocketed it, thinking
you would be here, hunting him up, by the
time he got back. 1 hope it is not bad news
people generally send a telegram only when
they have something very awful to toll. ’
The young man took the envelope, paused a
moment, and then opened it.
“It’s from Ireland,” he said, without looking
up.
Then, as he went on reading, his bronze face
turned pale.
“My uncle has had an unexpected turn for
the worse. He is sinking, and extremely anx
ious to see me.”
He crushed the telegram in his hand, thought
for a moment, while his hearers stood silently
about him, and then continued :
“ I must go at once. If I catch the next train
to Liverpool, I shall be in Holyhead by five and
Dublin by ten.”
Aud he turned his head so as to look at his
wife.
She was standing close behind him, and did
not move or speak a word, but her pale, calm
lace became almost as radiantly beautiful as
her younger sister’s ; the clear whiteness ot
her cheeks changed to vivid scarlet, her half
scornful, half demure lips opened slightly and
trembled With emotion, and her eyes shone
brightly.
But the outward signs of whatever emotion
it was that had stirred her remained on her
face only long enough to give her husband
a puzzling glimpse of the real character of the
woman he had married ; the next instant the
scarlet faded from her cheeks and the fire from
her eyes. She answered his passionate look
with a glance of warning, saying :
“ Your uncle ? Oh, you must go, of course !”
“Of course,” echoed Mr. Verschoyle. “ You
are the heir now—a sister’s child. Well,
well!”
“It is not my fault, sir,” said Glynn, earn
estly ; “ th. t piece of injustice was done before
I was born.”
“ Oh, I’m not blaming you, my boy; and, after
all, I would not change wire and children for
the wealth he lied and schemed to get ! Of what
use is it to him now, dying with strangers and
servants about hm ? I hope, Glynn, you won’t
prosecute me for ‘downing’ that row of oaks and
living en thorn, as he threatened to do—the
usurping old skin-flint!”
“Hush, father—you ought not to talk so
now !” said Hyacinth, gravely.
“ Oh, I’m not a woman—l can’t pretend to be
sorry when I’m not I I’ve been treated in
famously—my younger brother put in my place
—this wretched handful of property le:t me,
which I can’t wring a hundred a year out o ,
and have to pay a heavy rent for and keep in re
pair, and not touch the trees; and all-all”—
becoming extremely red in the face, and giving
a fantastic little whisk to the ragged skirt ot his
dressing-gown—“ because I fell in love with
and married the very identical girl he wanted !
W ell, as I said before, I have a wife and chil
dren, and be has money—Verschyle and Shan
gannon—and of what use are they to him
now ?”
“ What are you talking about so earnestly ?
What is the nows, Glynn ? May I know ? ’ called
out the lady who was leaning against the door
post.”
“ My uncle is very ill—had a relapse ; I must
start for .reland at once. I want to be in Dub
lin by ten to-night,” answered the young man.
Mrs. Verschoyle came down the steps and
sauntered toward him.
“ ndeed ! I’oor Murk !” she said. “ Well, I
don’t think he was very happy, a ter all. But
you mustn’t go without your breakfast, you
know ; I’ll hurry I.iland she folded her
j rms npon her broad bosom, sighed faintly, and
gazed at the fair scene before her—the woods,
the meadow, the fields ot green wheat, and, be
yond, the shining blue of the river—in placid
contentment.
Mrs. Verschoyle had never been guilty of
hurrying herself or those about her, and never
would be ; aud in this, far more than in their
straitened means, lay the secret of the dis
order and discomfort that reigned in her do
main.
Glynn, disturbed though he was by the ne
cessity lor his immediate departure, could not
hel* smiling as he declined her offer.
“ No, dear aunt,” he said, “ 1 must be off this
instant; but not for long—no matter how it
goes, not lor long’’—turning his eyes upon his
bride. “Good by! Good-by, Uncle Peter—l
shall telegraph as soon as 1 arrive at Vers
choyle.”
“ ho telegraphed to you ? I was under the
impression that you would be cut off with a
shilling, Glynn, if you were known to live in
the same parish as your disinherited cousins 1”
said Hyae nth.
“ Garret Croft; he knows lam here. We are
very old friends—school-fellows, you see. Good
bye, every one! Good-bye, Cha and Pat I
Where’s Lil? Oh !”—as the beautiful young
creature appeared at the door. “ Come and
give me a kiss—l’m going away.”
“Going away! Now—at once? Oh, where?”
exclaimed the girl, tossing her golden hair
back from her forehead and running down the
steps.
“To Ireland—to Verschoyle. My uncle is
very ill; 1 must go at once,” he replied, stroking
her sunny head, and looking with brotherly
admiration into her large, blue, brown-lashed
eyes, so full of innocence, purity, and gentle
ness.
“ Oh, I’m so sorry !” she said, looking up at
him. “ And I’m sorry for our uncle too, poor
fellow!”
“ I don’t see why you should be,” muttered
her father; “ he has treated me brutally all his
lite. Out of his fiiteen thousand a year he has
never.offered me a ten-pound note—me, with a
large family to bring up and educate ! Why,
when Bob was at St. Bees .”
“ Indeed I must go 1” interrupted Glynn, as
the old gentleman began to raise his voice and
whisk his dressing-gown from side to side.
“ Good-bye, Aunt Mary ! Good-bye, Bob 1”
“ Nevertheless I am sorry for Uncle Mark,”
confessed Lily, in her gentle way. “it must be
so dreadiul to lie on a bed of sickness, perhaps
of death, and know that there are things you
ought to have done and—and have not.”
Her voice faltered, and she stopped in some
confusion, as if afra d that her very pity would
condemn this man whom she and her brothers
and sister had been brought up to regard as her
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JUNE 26. 1887.
father’s most deadly enemy—a monster ot
wickedness and successful villainy.
“ What a good little thing you are, Lil !” ex
claimed Glynn, shaking hands with every one.
Then, turning to Hyacinth—“ Will you come as
far an the stile with me, and lot your breakfast
wait, or am 1 unreasonable ?”—and lie looked
what be dared not utter.
“ Yes,” said the girl, with her slow sweet
smile—“ and to the station.”
“Heaven bless you, Glynn; I don’t envy you
the old place —I don't indeed,” said Mr. Ver
schoyle, his weak mouth trembling.
“ Heaven bless you also, Uncle Peter, and
every one here, where I have been so happy.
Now, Hyacinth 1”
He turned and went away, the girl ho had
just married walking at his side: and in a few
minutes the thick neglected wood hid them from
view.
CHAPTER 111.
“ HER PALE FACE HAD BECOME DEADLY WHITE.”
Hyacinth had gone down to the post-office in
the village, hoping for a letter, on the evening
after her husband’s departure. A brief tele
gram had informed her of her uncle’s death;
and, panting lor more definite nows, she felt
her heart leap as a bulfcy envelope was given to
her. But she would not read it until she was
alone—alone with her great good fortune !
Up to her lather’s little wood she wont with
headlong speed.
The wood was quite a gloomy soiitude, al
though the leaves were yet reddened by the
glowing sun sinking down in the west. She
went in among the trees, and, seating herself at
the footot a young oak, took her letter from her
pocket and tore it open, it contained an en
closure, directed in handwriting very much
like her father's and addressed to “My
Nephew and Heir,” which was dated a lew days
back. She laid it upon the grass beside her.
paused a moment, and opened the note accom
panying it-written, she could see, by her hus
band, and dated the previous evening.
“My darling and beloved Wife—lam sending
you this letter of my uncle’s at once—first, be
cause ; have the most perfect faith and confi
dence in you; and, secondly, because I would
have you know at once that as soon as I had
read it 1 thanked Heaven with all my heart that
it came too late to part us. You are now
mine. I have you and own you for better lor
worse-and that is all the world to mo. Better
would bo Verschoyle and Shmgannon, plus
fiiteen thousand a year; but worse is not so very
bad after all. 1 have -as you know a very
smill property, which, when realized, will give
us some three thousand pounds to begin life on
—quite enough with youth and health to back it
—in Australia or the States. And believe me,
dearest, I do not regret the wealth 1 have lost
lor your sake; and I am sure that you will not
regret the wealth you have lost lor mine. We
are young; we love each other. I would, if I had
known of it, have lorfe ted with my eyes open,
what 1 forieited blindly to sign myseli as I do
now, “ Your husband, Glynn Neville.”
Her pale lace had slowly become deadly white
and rigid as she read, her eyes darkening and
the pupils dilating; but she had laid the letter
down quite steadily, drew one long deep
breath, flung her hat off her head as if its slight
weight oppressed her, and took the other letter
from where she had placed it. Then, settling her
self a little deeper among the ivy and lern-leaves
b bout the loot of the tree, she read page a ter
page without a sign of ©motion. But when she
had finished, she dropped the manuscript irom
a hand grown suddenly nerveless, and moaned
as she rocked herself to and fro; then she fell on
one side, and lay white and still aud almost
breathless, enduring an agony of heart and
brain that she was to remember ever afterward.
The letter that had so crushed her—that bad
almost driven the lite irom her slender lorm—
ran as follows:
“My Nephew and my Heir—As I lie here
with death threatening me and yet standing at
a distance, and with the thought ever before mo
that when be doss strike it will be but one blow,
and that you may not be near—may not have
come in time to hear certain things that 1 wish to
say to you, certain explanations respecting what
you may well think a cruel and capricious dis
posal ot my property—l have determined to
place my reasons on paper, so that, it what I
fear happens, you shall know why I have left
my wealth and estate as I have.
“Such has been my resolution for some time
past, and 1 have been dallying with it, putting
off the task irom day to day, as I believe sick
people often do. But to-night I reali e more
vividly than ever, as I sit by my chamber win
dow and look down upon the dark and rashing
waters ol the Nore, that this body, now tended
and cared lor, will soon be a piece ot lifeless
clay, and the immortal part of me is urging the
feeble hand, the flagging brain, to say to you
on paper what I believe my soul would come
back to earth and say, if I did not explain to
you fully and clearly. I am ouly fulfilling an
oath that I swore at my dying lather’s bedside,
as well as carrying out the codicil of the will
that made me Verschoyle of Aerschoylo and
disinherited my elder brother.
“You never saw your grandfather, Glynn,
but I dare say you have often heard—both irom
your mother and me—of bis tyrannical and
overbearing demeanor toward all who were de
pendent on him, almost the least considered of
whom were his own three children. Judge,
then, by what you have already hoard ol his
temper and disposition, of the state of abject
slavery in which we lived. Judge, I say, ot
how 1 eter was treated when he liatly refused
to pay h;8 addresses to the lady chosen lerr him
by our father, declaring that his choice was al
ready made. This choice—a beauti ul young
slattern ot an ancient but decayed house-he
refused to relinquish. He ultimately married
with the lull knowledge that he was selling his
birthright lor love ot a pretty woman. Our fa
ther then solemnly disinherited him, gave him
an old manor-house and some lew fields that
belonged to us in Cheshire, and put me m his
place. The little estate was just enough lor
your Uncle Teter to live on, and carried with it
the gilt of a small living.
“ Our lather, before executing a will so chang
ing the position ol his sons, required Irom me an
oath that in life I would not assist my brother,
or restore Verschoyle and Shangannon to ins
sons, or help or aid them in any way. This oath
I took willingly and gladly—not lor the sake ol
the wenlth and position that I was offered, but
from a motive that it does not concern you to
know—lrom a motive I nave atoned lor, if ever
sin was atoned tor, by suffering. I satisfied my
conscience then with plausible sophisms; but
now, with eternity whispering to my soul and
claiming it from my decaying body, with a long
life behind instead of before me, I know that
my sophisms will avail me nothing when I
stand to be judged for revengefully working on
the passions ot a violent, overbearing, head
strong oid man.
“The memory of this sin lies heavy on my
heart now; it brings me back every thought,
every word of that time; they come to me in the
sound of the wind among the trees, in the caw
ing of the rooks, in the murmur of the river
below ray window.
“Glynn, the will I have left, which without
this letter might seem strange aud capricious,
will, read by the light of what you now know,
be recognized as only an effort-an imperfect
one at best--to keep the oath I swore, aud in'
some measure make restitution.
“ 1 know—indeed, I took pains to find out—
where you have been tor the last three months.
It must have leen some evil spirit that sent
you into Cheshire, that prompted you to find
the banished family. Glynn, you have iound
them—you have been staying in a little seques
tered village lor three months now, with noth
ing attractive about it except your cousins, or
rather your cousin, Hyacinth, a fair woman, 1
suppose, as all our race are. Now I know -by
instinct, if you will, that this same evil influence
will urge you to wed her. if you do, my will,
by which I leave you Verschoyle and Shangan
non, will disinherit you, and take from her the
gilt that 1 have been accumulating for her-as
1 cannot benefit the boys -lor many years.
Therefore resist the temptation, if it indeed has
entered into your heart, and judge my will,
leaving you all my landed property aud my
brother’s eldest daughter ninety thousand
pounds, by this letter, and toll yourself that it
is an effort to make amends lor a great wrong.
“ And Glynn, one last word—not that I love
you—l can truly say that I have loved nw
human being lor* thirty years—but that I would'
not have the heart ol a man who has always re
spected me, who has never fawned upon me
with mock affection, so wrung by remorse, so
withered by a sense of what might have been,
as mine is now.
“ You are a young man, and, so tar as I know,
an honorable, moral, good young man, just and
upright in all your ways. Be so all your life—
be a good man to the end; do not suffer the
body to soil the soul—set will, virtue, and pride
to guard it. And, if you are tempted—and few
of us escape temptation—remember the man
who writes this, to whom wealth has given no
pleasure, to whom love - the simple home-joys,
affectionate wiie and smil ng child—is but a
name, who now, because he once succumbed
to the temptatioh of worldly advantage and re
venge, can scarcely lift up his voice in prayer
to that God before 'whom he must answer for
the deeds done in the body.
“Mark Verschoyle.”
Hyacinth did not read the last page; she
merely glanced at it Turning again to the
paragraph concerning the exact disposal of
the money, she dropped the letter and sank
down in an agony ol bitter regret, self-reproach,
and remorse which—denied its natural outlet ol
tears—almost stopped the beating of her heart.
The trees—their trunks black, their leaves
transparent against a red, stormy sunset
seemed to swim in blood before her eyes, some
thing loud and torturing rang in her ears, and,
although she did not lose consciousness, she
lay as one dead.
A hare came out from among some dry ferns,
and set up and looked at her with dewy inno
cent eyes; a bird sweeping low through the
wood, rose suddenly with a startled cry at sight
of her; a squirrel sprang upon a bough of the dead
tree above her, and peered at her between the
ivy-leaves. But none of these wild creatures of
the wood ventured near; they feared the silent,
motionless being, although she lay as quiet
as the ground beneath her.
Hyacinth did not however remain prone and
crushed lor long. The sun had dipped into the
sea, a flaming disc, when she fell, and it had
not disappeared when she raised herself, ill
and weak and trembling, and looked faintly
about her, her mind so utterly weary that for a
moment it refused to recall the cause of her ag
ony and despair. But her eyes fell upon the
letter that lay beside her upon the grass, and
she remembered at once, and pressed her
hands to her lace, and rocked herself to and
fro, then caught at the gold circle which, with
its diamond guard, she wore on a ribbon about
her neck, as if about to fling away iorover from
sight and touch this bar between her and
| wealth. But her habitual proud self-control
soon reasserted itsoli; her fury and agony pass
ed away, and le t her straining all the powers
ol her mind to find some way of securing this
wealth which her own hand had prevented her
from receiving.
She rose to her feet, leaning her trembling
body and white lace against the tree, and
thought desperately, intensely.
“Ninety thousand p unds I”
What power of worldly station, what stately
pleasure, what almost regal life, lay in those
three words! She repeated them with quiver
ing lips and burning eyes. The words seemed
to inspire her with something like hope at last,
for, when she had repeated them many tinvs,
she picked up her hat, and, staggering as she
walked, groped her way out of the wood and
turned back toward the village.
“It is only a chance,” she muttered—“only a
chance; but he is a fool—a rash, hot-headed
fool-and I can but try-oh, I can but try! I
will not give up without a struggle !’”
CHAPTER IV.
“YOU HAVE SOME REASON FOR ALL THIS MYS
TERY.”
Verschoyle Castle, on the banks ot the Nore,
had never looked more melancholy than it did
on the wet June evening when its master lay
dead within its walls. A mist hung over the
river, and the murmur of the water, as it beat
against the salmon-weir below, and the slow,
unceasing tolling of a church bell some way
down the stream,were the only sounds that dis
turbed the almost unnatural silence. The
whole place appeared to recognize the pres
ence of death in that chamber where lay the
body of Mark Verschoyle.
In the servants hall there wore signs of sub
dued merriment and secret and ghastly feast
ing, while the late master’s failings and short
comings were discussed in quiet whisperings.
There were no tears shed when t> e village
church bell announced that Verschoyle of Ver
schoyle had departed th s life; even his nephew
and presumed heir exhibited only a quiet sor
row. The old man had not been loved.
The scene outside tho castle, viewed from the
mist-wreathed paths by the cliff above the riv
er, was a melancholy one indeed, and so Glynn
Neville seemed to think as bo paced up and
down, tho tall gray wall of the castle on one
side, a hedge of dew-filled, drooping roses on
the other. The young man’s lace wore a sor
row ul look as he walked and pondered, lor,
honest and generous-hearted though he was,
he could not give up great wealth and high so
cial position without a pang.
Hyacinth, however, was first in his heart.
The thought ot her even subdued the intoned
and pass onato love that an Irishman bears
or the homo of his r ce ; while it pleased a cer
tain romantic, unpractical side of tho young
man's character to be disinherited for her sake.
And yet he seemed very much distressed as he
paced slowly backward and forward along the
river walk.
“ Would I undo what I have done even if I
could ? Do I regretdt lor a single instant ?” he
asked himself, looking down upon the flowing
water. “No a thousand times no—my proud,
beautiful darling ! If it were not done, and 1
knew all, I would still set myself to win and
wed her, and would give up of my own free will
what I must now give up of necessity. Yes ;
better our little home and our love for each
other than th s stately castle and these rich lands
with a broken heart, a dreary and desolate
hearth. I am happier than ever money could
make me ; she is more than all the gold in the
woil 1 to mt.”
The last words fell slowly and hesitatingly
from his lips, and the sorrow ul aspect of h s
countenance deepened just as the gray mists
changed to rain and the evening darkened into
night. Ho paused in his restless walk, and,
heedless of the falling rain, began plucking at
the wet roses, while his thoughts again took
shape.
“It is for her I tremble, not myself. lean
resign all this almost without a regret, because
I love her with all my heart and soul. But her
love or me is not like mine or her as yet, and
1 ear that the loss of her share of my uncle's
wealth through our marriage will harden her
heart against me, will make her compare the
splendor she has lost with the simple home 1
have to offer her. She might have given me one
word of affection, of encouragement, in the tele
gram she sent me a lew minutes ago. My heart
sinks when I think of it. Oh, if it is so—if she
would have chosen tho money and dismissed
me, what shall I do ?”
He asked the question aloud, in a tone o f in
tense doubt that was almost like a tone of des
pair, as he took a telegram from his breast
pocket and began turning it about with his fin
gers rather than reading it—for, indeed, ho
could have repeated the words of it. It ran :
“Keep Silent until 1 see you. Come hero at
once.”
That was all; and ha was still looking at it
and trying vainly to gather from its few words
the mood in which it was forwarded, when an
other step sounded on the walk, and a young,
manly voice-unmistakably the voice ol a gen
tleman—called out:
“Are you there, Glynn? Why, man, you are
not beginning to mope and listen to the river
already, are you ?”
“ No, time enough for that these thirty years,
although 1 can hear it very plainly to-night. I
came out to think—l have a great deal to think
of just now, Garret,” answered Glynn, soberly.
“ Yes,” agreed Garret Croft, a tall, well-made
young iellew, turning a pair of merry blue eyes
upon Glynn, “1 should say you had. Fifteen
thousand a year must require some thinking
about to realize it, I suppose. I should be halt
off my head, i tell you frankly, if it were my
case, especially as even an imitation of griei
is barely due to .” He stopped and pointed
toward a lighted window, high up in a gray
tower, which could just be seen in the dark
ness. “Well,” he continued, as the other made
no reply, “I really couldn’t take it so dole:ully
as you do—l couldn’t command my counten
ance. 1 hope, Glynn, you are not thinking of
the best torm of words in which to give my
lather the sack ? We’ve been agents to Ver
schoyle and bhangannon for three generations
now, and I hope to inherit tho post and the
chain shirt as he did.”
He paused, expecting, as a matter of course,
an instant disclaimer irom his iriend, but, to
his surprise, Glynn hesitated, reddened, and,
without answering, looked across the hedge of
roses down toward the river. In reality, he
was, in obedience to the telegram in his pocket,
stifling an ardent desire to tell his friend the
truth and cease to masquerade in false colors.
“ Why,” exclaimed Garret, watching him, and
scarcely knowing whether to be offended or not,
“ you surely don’t mean .” Ho stopped
suddenly, bewildered.
“ No, no, Garret, ot course; no matter who
gets the estate, the Crofts manage it, but you
know, until the will is read .” Ho stam-
mered and checked himself abruptly on the
very verge of a downright lie.
“ Oh, the will is all right, man I You may
make yourself easy on that bead; my father has
it sale and sound. You get the estate, the
Castle, the personalities, et-cetet’a, and I’eter
Verschoyie’s eldest daughter takes the nice
little sum of ninety thousand pounds. By Jove,
what a catch ' And a beauty, you may be sure;
the Verschoyles are a good-looking family, and
I’ve heard that her mother was something
wonderful,” said Garret cheerfully.
Glynn lumed inwardly at this light and care
less praise of the lady whom he so loved and
honored, and again ho was on tho point ot con
fiding in his Ir.end, when again the telegram
stopped him.
“ Yes,” Garret went on, unconscious of his
friend’s irritation, “and I’ve an idea that your
uncles quarrelled about the same beuuty;
through her the younger ia some way thrust
the elder out of the property on her account.”
“ Garret,” interrupted Glynn suddenly, “ I
wish you would not talk about these things
now; I cannot explain why, but 1 am really
taking a most unla.r advantage of you if I allow
you . Well, I suppose your father has
settled about the funeral ?”
“ Yes,” said the other slowly, trying not to
feel offended at this sudden reserve on the part
of his iriend, from whom he had never kept a
secret s nee they were children together—
“ Saturday, 1 believe.”
“Saturday? Well, that will do. I can get
to Liverpool and back before then. Come in —
1 want my great-coat. I’ll go up to Dublin to
night and cross by the morning boat.”
Garret stopped, stared at his Iriend for a
moment, wheeled round in front of h m, and
tapped him with an admonishing finger on the
breast.
“ May I ask you one question,” he said, with
mock solemnity, “ without taking an unfair ad
vantage of myselt—yes, myself ?”—and his blue
eyes twinkled.
“ Well, ask it, then,” said Glynn, with some
impatience, for he was not in the mood for
chaff.
“Do you know on what terms this is felt to
you? Because 1 do.”
“ Yos—substantially.”
“Then, Glynn, don t rush back to Herby,
where you have been so long. I know what you
are going for, of course. The beautiful cousin
of whom you have spoken in your fetters so
often, has fascinated you ; you are going to tell
her the great news, bid her an eternal farewell,
and stay and marry her, ruining both. Oh, I
know you, Glynn!”
“btop, Garret—stop, for Heaven’s sake ! Did
I not ask you to refrain irom talking of these
things now? Of course you don’t understand,
and I dare say you think me very strange and
odd ; but you will know all soon, and then you
will see that, had I allowed you to go on chat
tering like this, I should have been a downright
cad—indeed, I feel like one at present!” said
Glynn.
“ Very well; we will not quarrel over it,” re
plied the other, soberly. “I suppose you have
some reason lor all this mystery. Come, and I
will see you off—it is about time.”
(To be Continue!.)
Bismarck on Beer and Spirits.—
“Beer,” said Bismarck not long ago in the
Reichstag, “is, comparatively speaking, the
beverage of a well-to-do class; but spirit is the
drink of the famous ’ poor man,’ and spirit is
thus a drink which the laborer can not always
dispense with. Beer makes one lazy instead ot
exciting the nerves. It has, moreover, a draw
back irom the economic standpoint—it is a
time-killer. With us Germans perhaps nothing
kills time so much as beer drinking. Spirit has
in no way thia effect, and if you let the working
man choose between wine, beer, and spirit, he
will reject wine. I have never found that the
aborer, when he found his work hard, refresh
ed himself with Bavarian beer. The poor man
needs spirit—certainly to a moderate extent—
but still a small quantity daily for nourishment.”
“FRET” IN COURT.
A VERY PLEASANT STORY FOR
THE YOUNG.
(From an Unknown Contemporary.)
I was sitting at tho further end of the room,
reading, when 1 beard my eldest son, Jamie—
not over twelve—say:
“ By the power that in mo is vested, I do de
clare this court duly and formally opened.”
Making the least noise possible, 1 turned my
eyes in the direction ol the speaker, and found
him in his baby sister’s high chair, with her
resting board in front, his grandma’s glasses on
his nose, and a very thick book on the board,
which 1 knew to be*a picture work on tho ani
mal kingdom that he had received as a Christ
mas present from 1 anta Ola tie.
He looked just grave enough to be droll, and
I almost laughed outright. It is well I did not
do so, for this story might not have been told.
Not another person was in the room, and to
whom his speech was delivered 1 could not
guess, unless to the chairs, which I saw were
carefully arranged in rows.
I was not kept in doubt, however, for the door
leading into the drawing-room opened, and, one
a ter the other, in stern decorum, marched in
his brother Willie, aged ten, his sister Ella, just
turned eight, and last, but by no means least,
Annie, a little tot of throe, whose high chair
Jamie was occupying.
Annie carried in her chubby arms “ Fret,”
the greatest of big black cats, the household
favorite, and her own pet, while Ella, with ten
der care, held in her hand a sparrow which
seemed quite dead.
I grew more interested, and my book closed,
while I craned forward to hear all that was
about to pass.
“The court having assembled,” began Jamie,
“ the lawyers for the plaintiff and defendant
will separate, and the prisoner will enter tho
dock.”
I knew then why Jamie, not an hour before,
had questioned me so closely as to what the
“dock” was, the meaning of “plaintiff,” “de
fendant” and “attorney,” and what the lawyers
called the judge.
Willie took his stand on the right, with Ella
close beside him, while Annie dragged Fret to a
chair, purposely set in the middle as the
“ dock, ' and placed him on it, saying :
“ ’Tay ’ere, ’oo bad Fwottie ; ’tay ’ere
Then she toddled back to her littl® chair, and
looked on demurely.
As no one occupied the left row of chairs, I
concluded the prisoner had no lawyer, but must
plead his own case.
He did not seem at all frightened, however,
but looked curiously at Jamie, blinked at Wil
lie and gazed wistfully at the sparrow in Ella’s
hand.
“The attorney for the plaintiff will make his
charge,” commanded Jamie, turning several
pages of the “Animal Kingdom” with gravity.
“Your Honor,” began Willie, “this morning,
between the hours of nine and ten, as nearly as
I can guess, the plaintiff was perched on tho
snow-pile just outside of yonder window, quiet
ly picking the crumbs of* bread which the lady
in pink”—motioning to Ella—“had thrown him.
Everything was peaceful and happy and moving
nicely, when the lady in pink left the window
to attend to some household duty. She was
busy for ten minutes before she had occasion to
go to the window again. When she did so, she
saw the prisoner—he who sits there so uncon
cernedly staring your Honor out of sight—calm
ly leaving the snow-bank with the plaintiff in
bis cruel mouth. The lady in pink gave a
scream, and tho lady in white”—addressing An
nie, who was trying to look sterni? at Fret—
“ rushed out and captured the prisoner before
he had time to escape with his prey. The lady
in white delivered the plaintiff to the lady in
pink, and the ladv in pink promptly placed the
case in my hands on behalt of the plaintiff, as it
is unable to act for itself, because of injuries
sustained at the mouth of the prisoner afore
said.”
Willie bowed himself into a chair, and Jamie
said:
“ The lady in pink will now testify—the truth,
all truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“ Your honor,” said Ella, bowing and looking
at Willie for encouragement, “ what my broth
er ”
“Your brother?” demanded the court.
“ Where is your brother ?”
“ There,” said Ella, pointing at Willie. “ He is
your brother, too, and you know it!” she add
ed, with a toss of her curls.
“Contempt of court!” cried Jamie, apparent
ly quite enraged. “ Attorney Wise will acquaint
the young lady in pink of her misconduct be
fore she is fined.”
Willie stepped to Ella’s side and whispered:
“ He’s only joking, so do as I told you, and
don’t get frightened.”
Ella looked some better for this, and Jamie
proceeded:
“ You say Attorney Wise is your brother?”
“I do.”
“Then go on with your testimony,” ordered
Jamie, making due entry in his book.
“What my brother just said is true, every
word of it,” continued httle Ella. “1 was feed
ing the birdie ”
“Ha!” ejaculated the judge. “The witness
must not use foreign languarge in court I What
did you say you were feeding r”
“The plaintiff,” whispered Willie.
“ The paint if,” replied Ella, quickly. “ I was
feeding the paint if ”
“Plaintiff,” again whispered Willie.
“ The pla ntiff,” said Ella. “1 was feeding
the plaintiff, and I left the window to carry a
dish of pudding up stairs to grandma ”
“ Whose grandma?” cried the court, looking
straight into Ella’s face.
“ Why, my grandma, of course,” replied Ella
in surprise. “ And your grandma, too, and you
know it as well as 1 do, there !”
“ Contempt of court the second time!” storm
ed Jamie. “Attorney \\ise, if it occurs again,
the penalty will be dire! Acquaint the lady in
pink ot the fact I”
Willie again assured Ella that Jamie was
“funning,” arid she ventured to proceed.
“ U hen I come back from grandma’s room I
looked out of the window and bit- I mean the
plaintiff-was gone, and instead I saw Fret—l
mean the prisoner—coming away with the bird
— with the plaintiff—in his mouth.”
And Ella took her seat, very red of face, and
wondering whether Jamie was really in earnest
or not.
“ The next witness will now be summoned, ’
cried Jamie, protending to write furiously in his
picture-book.
Willie motioned to Annie to stand up. She
did so, on top of the chair, while Willie got be
hind to prompt her.
“Your Honor,” whispered Willie.
“ Cos ’onor,” lisped Annie.
“I took the ” whispered Willie.
“Me took ze,” said Annie.
“Plaintiff,” whispered Willie.
“Spaintiz,” said Annie, looking awfully wise.
“From the ’’prompted Willie.
“Prisoner’s mouth,” finished Willie.
“Pwisner’s mouze,” said Annie. And she sat
down with a suddenness quite alarming, and
certainly trying to the court’s nerves.
“What has the prisoner to say?” glared
Jamie.
Eret looked totally unconcerned. It did not
matter to him what they were doing so long as
he could continue his rest. He hadn’t quite
gone to sleep, for one eye was on the plaintiff in
Ella’s hand; but his very careless attitude
ruffed the court s dignity, and Attorney Wise
was ordered to “straighten the prisoner up
again.”
With one or two strokes and kind words Fret
stood erect, with bis ears propped forward. He
looked very pretty, and his great yellow eyes
stared at Jamie, but be did not say a word.
How could he?
“As the prisoner makes no defense, nor has
any counsel,” said Jamie, after a moment’s
pause, “and insomuch as it has been proven
that the prisoner is guilty of a felonious assault,
and as there is no evidence to the contrary, I
now make my charge to the jury.”
“Hold, your Honor:” cried a voice, and Alice
Berry rushed into the courtroom in a far from
respectful manner. “I would testily on behalf
of the prisoner.”
“Your testimony shall be heard,” said the
Court. “Silence!”
“Your Honor,” said Alice, “I heard what
Attorney Wise, the lady in pink and the lady in
white had to say. It is true so far as they
know, but they don't know quite all. If the
lady in pink had remained at the window a lit
tle longer, she would have seen a boy, Thomas
Try, hurl a stone at the plaintiff, which has
perhaps only frightened it. This Thomas Try
ran away as soon as he saw the result of his
wicked deed, and the prisoner, happening to be
crossing the snowbank at that minute, merci
fully caught the wounded plaintiffin his mouth,
no doubt to fetch him to this very room, where
he might receive aid. Therefore, your Honor,
I ask an examination ot the plaintiff’s condi
tion, and that the Court punish Thomas Try lor
his naughtiness and not this dear, good old
prisoner.”
The court adjourned to note the plaintifi’s in
jury. To the surprise and joy of ; 11, the spar
row suddenly lifted its head, hopped on one
foot for a moment, then put down the other,
which had been hurt. It flirted its wings a mo
ment, and wanted to fly away.
Tho Judge, having lost all his dignity, ran
with it to the window, and in a moment the
plaintiff was gone. The prisoner was restored
to bis former favor, and quickly hugged by the
Judge, Attorney Wise, the lady in pink and the
lady in white.
They caught me watching, and wc had a
jolly laugh, while Fret whisked his tail and
purred loudly, quite sure that he had played
his part well and done a good thing in saving
tho sparrow.
A FATHERLY*EMPEROB.
FRANZ JOSEPH, OF AUSTRIA
HUNGARY.
An Englishman, who attended an audience at
the palace in Vienna, obtained an insight into the
methods by which the Emperor of Austria re
tains such a strong hold over the affections and
loyalty of his subjects. The ante-chamber of
the audience-room was crowded with generals
and noblemen who had come to thank his ma
jesty for promotions or decorations. But min
gling with these were authors, inventors, pro
fessors, widows and orphans, seeking pensions,
and a number of very poor men and women
who had petitions to present. There are few
countries in which persons of this last category
would ever get a chance of seeing their sov
ereign ; but in this empire anybody who has
anything reasonable to ask of *the emperor, is
auro of an audience.
On one or two days a week his majesty re
ceives all comers who have applied to be re
ceived, and he receives them alone. Every ap
plicant takes his turn. A master of tho cere
monies opens a door, the visitor walks in and
finds himself face to face with the emperor,
who is unattended. The door oloaes, and the
petitioner may say to the emperor what he
likes. There is no chamberlain or secretary to
intimidate him. The emperor stands in a plainly
furnished study, in undress uniform, without *a
star or grand cordon, and he greets everybody
with an engaging smile and a good-natured
gesture ot the hand which seems to say, “There
is no ceremony here. Tell mo your business,
and if 1 can help you I will.”
This is a truly imperial w yof receiving. It
impresses everybody with tho fatherliness of
the emperor. The Emperor of Austria has a
penetrating eye and a quick, catching manner.
By a glance he makes people feel at home, and
by a word he draws from them what they have
to say. Then he gives his own answer, straight
out and fearlessly, but generally with an acqui
escing smile, and whatever ho promises is faith
fully performed.
There is nothing petty or evasive in him. He
is a monarch who replies by “yes” or “no,”
but always with so much courtesy that the hum
blest of his subjects receives from him at de
parting the same bow as he vouchsafes to am
bassadors. A most lovable trait in him is that
whenever he sees anybody nervous at his pres
ence ho makes tho audience last until, by his
kind endeavors, the nervousness has been com
pletely dispelled. This sufficiently explains Hia
Majesty’s extraordinary personal popularity, so
great that it forms a most solid bond of union
between races which, but for an emperor like
Francis Joseph, could not live together,
A WESTERN YARN.
THE EDITOR WHO WIELDED A
RED-HOT PEN.
(From the Chicago Herald.)
Said a commercial traveler: “My business
calls me a good deal to Colorado and Now
Mexico, and I have many acquaintances and
friends out there. One of my friends is a litile
fellow named McDermott, editor of a mining
camp paper. He is not much bigger than a pint
of cider, but he has tremendous nerve. He is
as quick as lightning with his gun, and is not
airaid of the beat man that walks. He was tell
ing me of one experience he had a few months
ago. A big, tough fellow walked into his sanc
tum one evening and announced that he had
como to do up the editor. He bad a six
shooter in his band and advanced with it
cocked. It happened that my friend had just
sent his revolver out to be repaired, and he
was without a weapon. Ho tried to palaver
with the desperado and talk him out of his pas
sion in order to gain time. But the more he
talked the fiercer the caller became. Suspecting
that the editor was unarmed, he took fiendish
delight in holding his victim covered with his
revolver and telling him that ho had only sixty
minutes to live. But my friend’s brain was work
ing at a lively rate all this time,, and while he
talked he held his pen in ths flame oi the gas_et
over his desk.
Without the desperado suspecting what he
was up to, he succeeded in getting the pen rod
hot—it took only a lew seconds—and then he
made a jump for hia assailant so suddenly and
with such catlike quickness that before the
ruffian, taken off his guard by the supposition j
that the editor was unarmed, could fire a shot
the little man had thrown one arm around the
big fellow’s (neck and was jabbing his rod-hot
pen into his face at the rate ot 200 s.trokes to the
minute. Imagine the wounds that big, sharp,
red-hot pen must have made, held securely in a
strong celluloid holder, driven by the arm of a
man fighting for life. Think of the sufferings
the desperado must have endured in the few
brief seconds before his agony conquered h s
courage and caused him to throw the revolver
to the floor as a token that ho gave up tho battle.
That ruff an—he was drunk on that occasion—
is now one of the best friends that little editor
has, though his face is badly scarred from the
wounds inflicted on him. Over the desk of my
friend hangs a pen, still covered with blood
stains its whole length, and over it is a placard,
written in the blood that was formed upon it
just after the battle: “ The pen is mightier
than the six shooter.”
OLD HICKORY’S WAY.
General Jackson Served as Bailiff for
His Own Court, Arresting a Desper
ado and Then Trying Him.
Judge Isaac J. Fanbes. County Attorney of
Jackson county, Kentucky, says that he had
the honor of naming hia county after Old Hick
ory:
“ You see, I knew Old Hickory personally.
My father served under him at New Orleans in
1814, when my eyes were first opened at Joaes
boro, East Tennessee. I’ve seen the bushes
many >a time behind which Russell Bean con
cealed himself when Jackson compelled him to
answer the summons of the court. Bean did
not like the appearance of his newly-born child,
which he said did not belong to him, and in his
anger he took a knife and slit its ear. Ho was
indicted by the grand jury and a warrant is
sued for hia arrest. General Jackson was judge
then of that district, and when the sheriff re
ported that he could not (.Treat the prisoner
unless he killed him in the attempt, the judge
said:
“ ‘You haven’t summoned the right kind ot
men to your aid.’
“‘Your Honor,’ said the sheriff, jocularly, ‘I
summon you.’
“ 1 he judge got off the bench, without saying
another word, went home and buckled on his
pistols and proceeded alone to a little hill where
Bean was hiding. He called Bean and told him
he must obey the law. Bean said:
“ ‘ Go way, general, I don’t want to hurt you.’
“ ‘ Deliver yourself up to me at once,’ said the
general,
•’Bean said he would not, when bang went
the pistol. The ball passed through Bean a
whiskers and grazed his cheek and scalp jiwt
above the e r. He cried out quickly:
“ ‘ Don’t shoot again, general, I’m* coming.’
“He was marched to the jail by the general
as a special bailiff, who, when he had turned
the prisoner over to the jailer, got on the bench
and opened court to try the case. Subsequent
ly the prisoner was convicted, and as we had no
penitentiary in Tennessee at that time he was
ordered to be branded on the right hand with
the letter ‘M? As soon as the branding iron
was applied and released, and while the steam
was still arising from the burned flesh, the pris
oner put his hand to his mouth and bit out a
large mouthful of flesh, and said:
“ ‘ There, now take your brand.’
“ I knew Andy Johnson and Parson Brown
low quite well. The Parson used to come to
meeting, and after taking off his pistols preach
a fearful sermon on the evil doings of mankind.
I recollect a prominent citizen named Rubel
once saw the pistol, and ordered Brownlow re
moved from the pulpit, saying:
“ ‘ Take him away. He comes with the imple
ments of hell to preach the gospel of Christ.”
“ In those days it was thought a terrible thing
to find a pistol on a man, unless he was a sol
dier or officer of some kind.”
AN ENGLISH SWINDLE.
WHICH 13 PERPETRATED BY
MAGAZINE PUBLISHERS.
(From the Boston Courier.)
English publishers have a code of ethics
peculiarly their own, and especially erratic do
the publishers of periodicals seem to be in their
interpretation of what constitutes fair dealing
with their subscribers. An instance of their
way of doing things is furnished by the notion
of the London Art Journal in regard to its
jubilee number. It issues for June a double
number, a method ot celebration which is not
infrequent in the country. Whereas, however,
in America publishers regard generosity as good
business policy, the English idea is quite the
reverse. In this country a double number is a
gilt to the subscriber of whatever is over the
regular size; in England tn extra charge is
made, and the publisher takes the liberty ol
withholding the last number of the volume
from those who do not send him the amount
charged lor the extra number.
The subscribers of the Art JbitrnaZ, for in
stance, have paid in advance for twelve num
bers, supposed to be issued one each month,
ftpleases the publishers to make the June num
ber twice its usual size, and countit as two.
Subscribers have then the option of going to
the trouble and expense of making an extra re
mittance or of having their magazine stopped
with the November number. In other words,
tho publishers of the ArJ journal take advan
tage of the fact that subscriptions are in tha’r
hands to force their subscribers to buy an extra
number, which they may or may not want.
In America this would be characterized as
what it is, a thoroughly dishonest piece of busi
ness; a swindle for which there is do posa ble
excuse which an honest man would think of o -
fering.
If the publishers choose to print an extra
number which was to be sold separately and
not included in the regular subscription price
they were bound in decency and honesty either
to have this understood before subscriptions
were received, or else to publish the number by
itself, so that the regular run of the monthly
numbers should not be interrupted.
The matter may not seem a great one, but
the principle is that of blackmail, and is as out
rageous as if the amount involved were large,
it is, moreover, a source of annoyance to every
subscriber, wh le dealers who furnish the Art
Journal to their customers are put to very con
siderable inconvenience. Accustomed as we
are to the generous and honest dealings of the
publishers of American magazines with their
subscribers, we find this sort of trickery es
pecially disagreeable on this side ef the water,
and it English publishers wish a success for
their periodicals in the United States, they
must drop these fashions of dishonesty.
Home Uses of Turpentine.—A bottle
of turpentine should be kept in every house,
Tor its uses are numerous. A few drops sprink
led where cockroaches congregate will exter
minate them at once; also ants, red or black.
Moths will flee from the odor of it. Beside, it
is an excellent application for a burn or cut. It
will take ink stains out of white muslin when
added to soap, and will help to whiten clothes
if added to the water while the clothes are boil
ing. Ono spoon: ul of turpentine mixed with
two spoon'niß of lard spread on flannel and ap
plied, will rcl eve severe pain.
THE DETROi T SORT RON.
NO RELATION-HE SANG—A SUN
NY V SON— ONSARTIN.
NO RELATION.
“Peter Smith,” said his Honor,, to the first
man out, “are you any relation to Peter tha
Great?”
“ No, sir.”
“Sure about this ■”
“ Very sure, sir. I have a family tree at tho
house, and it says I am related to Confucius.”
“ Ah. that clears you of suspicion. You were
drunk last night.”
“But it was a mild and gentle case, sir. Al
soon as I found the buildings nodding at me I
went into an alloy and lay down lor a nap.”
“ Well, that’s in your favor. I’oter, will you
take tho pledge ?”
“ No, sir. I’ve taken it and broken it about
twenty times, and I’vo got tired of fooling
around.”
“ I’ll mako it twenty days.”
“ Thanks. I've got a bank note due in fifteen
and this will give mo a good excuse fur having
it go to protest.”
HE SANG.
In the dead of night. William Davia wandered
down Lafayette avenue singing :
'•‘There was an old man in Beloit,
Wiro journeyed afar to Detroit,
A widow to see.
And her husband to ba.
Expecting that ha would enjoy it.”
Some one threw a potato and hit him between
the shoulders, and .or a lew minutes he leaned
against a tree and re looted on the w clsednesa
of the wicked world. Then, oi a sudden, he
trilled again:
” There was a young girl in Monroe,
Who very much wanted a beau.
But her mother said ‘ nay,'
And eo t other day,
Into a deep well she did go."
This time a policeman was at hand to give
him the collar, and the bird of sons left his
heart as the patrol wagon rattled him oxer tho
pavements.
“William, I can’t put up with such nonsense,”
observed tho court, “lou have do right to dis
turb honest people ot their sleep. ’
“ Haven’t 1 a right to sing ?”
“ Yes, if you will go off into tho woods by
yourself. You wore drunk as well as a dis
turlor.”
“Very well—send mo up. I’vo never had any
inn in this world, anyhow, and 1 never exuoct
to. Just the minute anybody sees me having
a good time they are ready to jump on mv
collar.”
“ Will you do bettor in future ?”
“ Couldn’t possibly do better. I’m almost an
angel now.”
“ Then it’s thirty days.”
“ Just as I expected, but I’ll come out to sing
some more.”
A SUNNY SON.
“ Ts your name Pedro ?” askod hia honor of a
dark-skinned son of italv.
“Ya.”
“ You cuffed a boy yesterday ?”
“B y he stealee peanuts.”
“ Yes, but you had uo right to cuff him.”
“ Learn boy betteu. No stealeo peanuts somfc
moare.”
“ You should have gone to court and asked
lor a warrant.”
“ Courtee no good.”
“ Well, Pedro, 1 shall fine you $3.
“ No payee.”
“Then I shall send you up for twenty days.”
“No goa up. Payee tree dollar.”
“ Very well. Next time you do any cuffing do
it in a legal way.”
ONSARTIN.
“Uncle Davis, the charge is drunkenness.”
“ Suah, it ain’t nuffin’ eise, sah;”
“ It saya drunkenness.”
“ No chickens ?”
“ None.”
“No fence-rail?”
“No.”
“Jist a plain drunk ?”
“ That’s it. What do you say ?”
“ I’m onsartin, sah. i might hey bin drunk*
an’ I might hev Lin asleep.”
“ Well, we’ll call it drunk and make it thirty
days.”
“ Werry well, sah. Yon’s had lots of ’spori
encoin sich cases, an’ you know best. Tell ’em
to gimme light work an’ plenty of strawberries
up dar, an' if de ole woman cums around axin’
lur me you kin say dat I’ze gone to Canada to
look fur a job.”
THE FOOD OF THE TURKS.
THEY ARE ESSENTIALLY VEGE
TARIANS.
(From the Cosmopolitan),
As to Turkish cuisine, it must be tasted to ba
appreciated; it is such that I dare not recom
mend it to any one. The basis of all culinary
operations in tStamboul is a certain kind of tal
low extracted from the broad and thick extrem
ity of the Caraman sheep. The tallow has an
odor so potent that wo would not use it oven lor
candles.
The Turks are essentially vegetarians. They
cat beef very rarely, and never pork or veal.
They indulge in drinks, lean fowls, and finally
sheep, the flesh of which they cut off in small
p oces. These pieces are strung upon long spits,
which are held and turned for some minutes
over hot coals, whero they are slowly roasted,
r. taining all their juices. This is what is called
ke.Lab, a healthful and nutritious food, which
Europeans find delicious.
Turkish paetrv is quite varied, and would not
bo disagreeablejif honey and sugar were not
used so abundantly, and if the taste of tallow
could be excluded. Bakalara and ekrnekkataif
(thick cakes cooked in honey, perfumed with
rose-water and covered with camak, a kind of
cream,) in particular recall very savory memo
ries.
Pachas and rich Turks always have at their
repasts a great number ot dishes, which Iho
servants bring in on brass platters, and nlaco
on the mat on the floor or sometimes on email
low tables, around which the guests squat
themselves. They eat in silence and in a grave
manner, and serve themselves generally with
their fingers as well as with their forks, and
with their teeth as well as with their knives.
Nevertheless they deign to use a spoon to con
vey to their mouths food that is not very solid,
like stewod rice. malebi y a kind of cooked cream,
and iaourt y thick and butterish milk, of all of
which they are very fond.
Their drink consists of clear water, but this
does not prevent them from imbibing before
their repast a white liquor, rak> y which is made
of the gum of the mastic tree mixed with
alcohol. It is an agrt cable drink, but it is used
like absinthe, the taste and properties of which
it possesses. Its use, and e.en its abuse, does
not bring remorse to the conscience ot the
Turks, for Mohammed has forbidden them to
use wine, but he forgot, prophet though ho was,
to forsee the manu’acture of ra t, an invention
more modern than his own.
It Pays to Lft Horses Grow.—■
“Using horses on the turf before they are ma
tured will injure them,” said a trotting man.
“On the running turf, colts and fillies are raced
when two years old. This is injurious in itself,
but that is not all, for they must be trained
when only a year old, carrying riders on their
backs, while the ordeal of training is severe and
arduous. On tho trotting courses they do not
begin so early, yet we have phenomenal trot
ters that are only three years old, and their
number is increasing. Unless breeders put an
end to this forcing process, the time will come
when a horse will he aged at seven or eight
years old, and instead of improvement being
the result, the step will be backward.
A Great Man of Letters.—Says the
Louisville Courier-Journal: It is a pity that
lew Wallace was a general. It is a pity that he
is a painter. It is a pity that he ever held office.
Accomplished in the arts both of war and peace,
and distinguished in public life -and brilliantly
so—ho draws, or seems to draw, something
from the commanding isolation of a career
which, carried to the hights of the attainable,
divides the honors of the world with competing
ambitions only to lessen them.
A Peculiar Boon.—Germans are hail
ing, as a boon to mankind, the invention of
Messrs. Lorenz, of Carlsruhe, of a steel-clad
bullet with a slight alloy of antimony, in addi
tion to increased powers of penetration, gives a
much flatter trajectory, and is warranted to
pass through a man s body without causing un
necessary discomfort. This is killing two birds
with one stone. It will kill two, or even three,
men at one shot, if they happen to stand in tha
way.
Hb Kept His Oath.—When Tom
Hendrix, living near Knoxville, Tenn., was fif
teen vears old, he was whipped by a local bully
named John H. Gallagher. The boy swore in
the latter’s presence that when he attained hia
ma'ority be would kill Gallagher. Last week
he reached his twenty-first anniversary, and on I
that day, recalling his oath, fulfilled the bond
to the letter, by riddling his enemy with bullets.
He confessed on arrest.
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