New York dispatch. [volume], July 31, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
“ Edith could not coma here then,” ehe says
flefiantly.
“ Well, I should not break my heart about
that.”
She goes away then, a little comforted by his
ltrs t speech.
*. * • • « * •
“ Well, Juliet, I am sure you ought to be a
very happy girl; you have a beautiful home
here,”
The two cousins are sitting in the drawing
room when Edith makes this remark. It is
August now, and the soft breeze wafts the lace
wiodow-curtains to and fro, and from the cloud
lees blue sky the summer sun is shining down
upon the lair undulating park and pasture-lands
Ol Tenham.
“ Yes, it is a beautiful place,” assents Juliet.
•‘.Sir Evelyn is a good deal richer than father
'—any one can see that. But I don’t believe
you halt appreciate it—not as I should, at any
rate.”
“ Why, what makes yon think that?” Juliet
asks, smiling, but in the depths of her heart a
little fearful. She has not inueh peace now
Edith is here—there never passes a day but that
ehe makes some attempt to pry into her domes
tic concerns, and the questions she allows her
self to ask are often very painful to bear with
as well as hard to answer. She even goes so
far as to hint occasionally that Juliet and her
husband are not happy together; but Juliet will
never gratify her curiosity upon that or any
other point, when she can possibly avoid it.
“ You never wear that locket Sir Evelyn gave
you,” continues Edith, without answering her
cousin’s question. “How is that? Don’t you
like it because it was intended for me in the
first instance?”—with a little laugh that may
mean anything or nothing.
“ It is broken,” Juliet tells her shortly.
“Broken! How careless you must have
been! What did he say ?”
“Nothing. You know he is not a talkative
man. Let us have baby down,shall we, Edith ?”
—rising and going to the bell.
“Not unless you are prepared to hold him,”
answers the other, with a half-smothered yawn,
“lam quite tired out with our drive this morn
ing. But, really, Sir Evelyn is a great deal
nicer than 1 ever thought bo could bo. I did
not know I was in the least tired until I reach
ed home.”
“ I am glad you think him improved,” says
Juliet gayly; but her heart is lulljof passionate
pain and regret. Each day as it passes shows
her that her husband is not necessarily cold
and sarcastic to all as he is to her—that he can
be attentive to Edith’s wants—almost gentle
with her weakness. She has been at Benham
three months now, and she and Sir Evelyn
seem to grow better friends every day; neither
of them shows signs of wearying of the other’s
society, and he stays at homo more than ever
be did before, while Edith’s brightest looks are
all reserved for him. Juliet sits brooding over
these things, and she begins bitterly to rue the
day when she interfered between them, as she
thought, for Edith's happiness.
Before Edith has time to say anything more
the nurse brings in the child, and leaves him
with them; and directly afterward the door
©pens again, and Lovelace enters the room.
“ I just came in to tell you, Juliet,” he says,
that your cousin, Aubrey St. John, is bore. I
found him at Compton, where be had arrived
this morning, not knowing the colonel was
away, so I asked him up here instead. He
will stay here to-night, and perhaps for a few
days.”
“You should not have done that,” says
Edith, with a laugh.
“Why not?” demands Juliet, resenting her
Cousin’s interference.
“ Yes—why not ?” repeats Lovelace, looking
at his wife, though addressing Edith.
“ Oh, don’t you know why not ?” she answers,
Btlll laughing coqnettishly. "Don’t you know
that Aubrey was terribly in love with Juliet be
loro she was married—poor boy ? I don’t ex- i
pact he will care about coming here to see her
now that she is Lady Lovelace. Did Juliet 1
never tell you ? Then perhaps I ought not to
Eave mentioned it.”
Juliet, angry and indignant, can say nothing.
Edith has, after all, only spoken the bare truth 1
—there is nothing in her words she can deny, i
for she has not mentioned the possibility ot
Juliet’s returning his passion. Yet still she i
deals vaguely that the suspicion of it is pointed I
;at her, and in such a manner that she cannot i
defend herself. She is stung to the heart, and,
to make matters worse, the consciousness of
her husband’s gaze fixed upon her brings suck
a rush of color to her face that she is forced t 6
bend over the child on her knee to conceal it. <
“He could have stayed away if he did not
Wish to come,” he answered, coldly.
“ No, no ; that would never do. He would be
afraid of making you suspect him.”
If Juliet were to give way to the promptings
of her passionate nature at this moment, she
would go up to her cousin and strike her a blow
with all the strength of her arm, but that being
impossible, she does the worst thing she could
do—she defends Aubrey from Edith’s attacks.
“I don’t think Aubrey is afraid of anyone,’
ehe says, boldly, “He was never a coward—
nor a sneak,” she cannot help adding, and then
bends again over little Randal, with cheeks that
glow even warmer than before.
But Edith is quite equal to the occasion.
“ Well, dear,” she answers, with languid
sweetness, “you certainly ought to know more
about him than I, or, indeed, any of the family,
for you were so much together—from quite
little children. Now don’t be jealous, Sir
Evelyn ’’—turning to him with that coquettish
smile which Juliet is learning to hate. “I am
sure you”—with a stress on the pronoun—
“need fear no such rival as Aubrey St. John.”
“I am not likely to be jealous,” he answers.
“ We ere going to look up the grouse, now,
Juliet, but we shall be back in time for dinner.”
Some hours afterward Juliet comes into the
drawing-room, dressed for dinner, and finds
Lovelace standing before the windows with his
bands in bis pockets, apparently lost in gloomy
thought She advances toward him hesita
tingly.
“ Sir Evelyn, I want to speak to you,” she
begins, timidly.
She always feels afraid in his presence now.
“ Well ?” he asks.
His manner is not encouraging. She fancies
he is cooler than ever.
“ I wanted to tell you—l only wanted to say
B-that what Edith said •”
l T But there she comes ? to a stop. What Edith
Bald was perfectly true—she cannot deny it.
Bewildered by. the sudden subtle accusation,
and weary with the burden which she carries
from day to day, she stands, flushed and stam
mering,'before her husband, who regards her
with cold displeasure.
i “ You wished to speak to me, I believe ?” he
says, at last; and at his icy tones she almost
breaks down.
“I thought you would think,” she begins,
hurriedly, “ that because, as a boy, Aubrey
pared for me, I—perhaps—cared for him—and
that I am regretting him all this time. 1 want
ed to tell you that I am not—that it has never
been more than friendliness on my part. I
.didn’t want you to think——”
Hbe pauses again, in great distress.
•’ What does it signify what I think
The careless, scornful tones pierce her heart.
“Do you believe me?” she says, placing her
ißelt before him in desperation. “ Edith wanted
to make you think ”
“ Edith said not a word of what you are talk
ing about. She spoke only of him. The other
idea must have originated with yourself. ‘ Qui
s’accune.' ”
The cruel words spoken, he resumes h!s posi
tion at the window, and Juliet quietly leaves
Hie room and goes up stairs with a face as white
cis marble and a heart lull of jealousy and
despair.
But she is brilliant that evening at the dinner
table, and for the time being even Edith’s beau
ty is excelled by her cousin’s radisnt loveliness.
Lovelace is astonished at the running fire ot wit
kept up by his wife, though her tongue is ever
ready, as he knows from personal experience ;
and Aubrey thinks how happy and merry Juliet
seems, and how proud and fond of her bir Eve
lyn must be.
The next day Juliet is standing in the morn
ing-room, all her feverish excitement gone—a
jiale, sad-faced girl, with a world ot sorrow in
ter dark-blue eyes—when she is surprised by
the sudden entrance of Aubrey.
“I thought Lovelace was here,” he says.
•• We are going to have another pop at the
grouse directly.”
“ No, ho is not here,” she answers, with irre
pressible bitterness. “He is taking Edith lor a
walk in the garden, and you and I must wait,
Aubrey, until that important business is over.”
“Don’t speak like that, Juliet,” he says.
•' Aren’t you well this morning ? I never saw
you look better than you did last night, but now
you are quite pale.”
Ehe turns away her head to hide the burning
tears which come so quickly at any slight sym
pathy or show of kindness, so little ot either
does she get now. But he, with his watchful
gray eyes, sees the tears and draws nearer to
comfort her in her unknown sorrow.
“ What is the matter, Juliet? Do let me help
you if 1 can,” he says.
“ it is nothing -you cannot help me,” she re
plies between, her sobs.
“ Nothing ! But you don’t cry for nothing,
Juliet. You always were the brightest little girl
_I can’t bear to see you so miserable.”
She sits down in a chair and covers her face
with her handkerchief, while he stands beside
her in wondering distress—tall and sturdy in
his gray shooting-cost, his tender, honest eyes
looking down at her in great perplexity.
“Tell me what is the matter and let me see if
J can’t help you,” he urges, presently.
She raises her head for a moment, and just as
she does so Lovelace and Edith come within
eight-she leaning upon his arm and smiling
up into his face, while in her other hand she
holds a flower—plucked for her, no doubt, by
him.
“ You see ?” Juliet says, bitterly, pointing to
them. “ That is what is the matter.”
She leans upon the table then, covering her
face with her hands, and for the next minute
nothing is heard in the quiet room but the
sound of her convulsive sobbing. Presently
young St. John breaks the silence.
“No, 1 don’t see,” he answers doggedly,
watching the couple as they draw nearer. “ I
don’t see that the tact of Lovelace’s walking
down the garden with Edith need trouble you.”
But his eyes have grown stern and troubled,
■and they rest upon the figure ot his cousin
Edith with no pleasant expression in their
depths.
“But, Aubrey, it does—it must! It is my
fault that they are not husband and wife. I
ilave spoiled their lives I”
“ What on earth do you mean, Juliet ?” ex
claims the young man, turning to her in unaf
fected astonishment.
“ You do not know the story of my marriage,
No. J not -y hM Peon e? wo-
i fully concealed. Well, I will tell it you now. I
must speak to some one, Aubrey, or my heart
; will break. All these months my trouble has
been growing heavier and heavier—l cannot
I bear it alone any longer.”
“Tell me, then, if it will do you any good,”
ho says.
And, sitting up straight in her chair with her
hands folded, she tells him the whole miserable
story from the beginning Ha listens in utter
amazement,while the couple outside turn round
and retrace their steps down the winding path.
“Of course I heard about the plot to change
husbands,” he says at last; “ but I thought—as
every one else does—that you were all four ot
you accessories to it—Lovelace as well.”
“ Yes, 1 know, and that is what they must all
continue to think. I have told you the truth,
Aubrey, because I had to toll some one—l could
not bear my sorrow any longer alone.”
“Still, Juliet”—after a pause—“l don’t see
what that'has to do with this,” nodding toward
the garden. “Edith undoubtedly cares for
Blakey, or she would never have given up such
good prospects for him—not to speak of letting
you risk so much for her.”
“ Oh, Aubrey, I don't know what to think !”
she answers, clasping her hands together. “She
was fond of Randal, I know, and terribly afraid
of Sir Evelyn. I thought it so dreadful for her
to bo bound to such a man, but now I begin to
see that I was wrong. I should have left them
alone, and she would have loved him in time.”
She relapses into another fit ot passionate
weeping.
“ I admit,” says St. John, between his clench
ed teeth, as he again catches sight of the flutter
of a white skirt through the green leaves, “that
she is making a dead set at him. My suspi
cions were aroused last night, but, not having
the key, I could not understand her behavior.
Now I see it all. I don’t believe ehe cares a but
ton for him, Juliet; she is too vain and selfish
to care much for anything or anybody beside
herself.”
“You were always hard on Edith,” interposes
Juliet.
“ I am speaking no more than the truth now.
Nor do I believe that Lovelace cares for her.”
“ Is he vain and selfish too ?” asks Juliet,with
a hysterical laugh that is immediately followed
by tears.
“Is Edith going to stay with you until Randal
comes back ?” Aubrey asks, when she is more
composed.”
“ I don’t know, She doesn't speak of going.”
“I should give her a pretty broad hint if I
were you.”
“ No, I can't do that. She might guess the
reason, and I should not like her to think that I
feared her. It has done me a groat deal of good,
Aubrey, this talk with you—though perhaps I
should not have told you ; but Edith's depart
ure alone cannot make me happy as things are.
I love my busband now, Aubrey, though he
does not love me.”
She makes this confession with a patient
sweetness that is new to her impetuous spirit;
and Aubrey answers her in passionate indigna
tion :
“ He must be a brute if he doesn’t, then 1”
CHAPTER IX.
“she saves all heb stbenoth fob what is
BEFOBE HEB.”
For tho few days that Aubrey St. John re
mains at Tenham he constitutes himself Edith’s
chief attendant, leaving Lovelace and his wife
at liberty to pass their time together or apart,
as they choose. It is he who takes Edith for
walks in tho garden, and puts her into the car
riage when they go for a drive. He carries her
cup of tea to her in the drawing-room alter din
ner, and lingers near her chair while she drinks
it; and when she wants assistance of any kind,
which is very frequently, he is always at hand
to render it. The young fellow is very much in
earnest in this matter, hoping by his behavior
to show that Edith’s monopoly of her cousin’s
busband has gone to such lengths that it has
become noticeable, and therefore undesirable ;
but if she sees his meaning she takes no heed.
“I don't know what Aubrey has taken into
his head lately,” she says to Juliet, “to dance
attendance upon me like this. He never oared
to speak two words to me before, and I am not
going to believe that he has changed his mind
now—he was always an obstinate boy. I think
it must bo in order to blind Sir Evelyn to his
love lor you.”
“ You have no right to say such a thing,” an
swers Juliet, warmly. “Aubrey would never
act such a part; and really, Edith, I think you
ought not to talk about other men being in love
with either of us, when wo have each our own
husbands.”
“ Now that is nonsense,” declares Edith, pla
cidly, turning over tho colored wools in her
lap. “ Neither speech nor silence will alter the
fact that I have just mentioned. You know
Aubrey is in love with you.”
“ 1 know nothing of the kind. He was, per
haps, before I was married, but I don’t believe
that he would allow himself to think ot any
such thing now.”
“ Well, ' was,’ then, if that pleases you better,”
acquieces Edith, “ though really, my dear,
there is little or no difference. Yes, Aubrey al
ways admired you, and he never oared for me,
but that was not to be expected. The same man
would never admire both you and me, Juliet,
we are in such different styles, though I sup
pose there is some likeness between us.”
When Aubrey has gone back to Oaklands,
Edith resumes her monopoly of Lovelace, with
no one to interrupt her, for Juliet scorns to say
a word, or to appear in anyway to notice her
behavior. She spoiled her life for Edith’s sake
—if Edith can so treat her now, in her own
house, she has nothing to say; but all love and
confidence between them are at an end.
One bright morning, at the end of September,
Randal’s name appears in the newspapers
among the reported as “ missing.” Edith faints
away at the breakfast table, and when she is re
stored to her senses there is a terrible scene,
which tries Juliet’s overstrung nerves to the
full. It is in vain that they try to persuade her
that this is by no means conclusive evidence of
his death. He may have been taken prisoner,
or have escaped from the enemy and be in hid
ing—a dozen things may have happened to him;
but she will hear nothing—she will take no com
fort to herself.
“ He is killed, my own darling husband—l
know be is killed I” she wails; and Juliet, look
ing on at the grief which she is powerless to as
suage, reproaches herself for having imagined
that Edith had a single thought for any one be
side her husband.
“I dare say it comforted her to talk to Sir
Evelyn,” ehe says to herself, “ and of course
he would rather talk to her than to me. I shall
see now that no one except Randal occupies her
mind.”
But to her astonishment, Edith seems to care
more than ever to talk to Sir Evelyn after her
first agitation has subsided; she loans upon
him, and looks up to him as ehe never did be
fore.
* “My girl,” says tho old colonel to his niece
one day in early Winter, “ I don’t know what
Lovelace can be thinking about not to take bet
ter care ot you. You are like the shadow of
your old self.”
“ No, indeed, uncle; I am quite well,” she in
sists gently.
“Even your voice is different,” he geos on.
“It has lost its freshness. Do you mean to tell
me that you are really as well and happy as you
were nearly two years ago, before you were
married ?”
She does not know how to reply to this ques
tion, and, when at last she does speak, tears al
most choke her voice.
“ You ought to have gone away for a change,”
the old man says. “ Lovelace would have taken
you if he had thought of it, I know; but he has
been very busy about tho place, and couldn’t
very well leave. I can’t tell you one half of
what he is doing for the poor people, Juliet;
but if there ever was a good landlord, it is he.
Still, you ought to have had a change; you must
have one now, 1 think. I shall speak to him
about it. Half a word would be enough, lam
sure.”
“ Oh, no, uncle,” she says eagerly; “ don’t
you begin that too ! He wanted mo to go to
Italy with bis cousin, Lady Thorncrolt; but I
wouldn’t. I told him so.”
“ You told him you wouldn’t 1 Does he allow
you to address him in those terms,young lady?
It so, you are tho only one, I can tell you 1”
“ I believe he was vexed,” she answers, blush
ing and faltering painfully. “ But he did not
insist on ms going, and if he had, uncle, I would
have run away!”
“What! As insubordinate as ever! Your
old spirit isn't gone, Julie.”
He laughs in keen enjoyment of his favorite’s
pluck, but she almost weeps as she clings to
him.
“ Uncle Phil—dear uncle Phil, promise me
that you won’t say anything to him about send
ing me away I I should die if I were sent
away !”
“ 1 can’t say anything about that, my dear,”
be answers firmly, though with unusual ten
derness. “Your health must be thought of
even before your wishes. We’ll hear what Doc
tor Abbott says. It may be necessary for you
to go as far away as Italy, you know; some
where in England may answer the purpose.
But I begin to think that a change is the only
thing for you.”
“Does he mean that I am going to die?”
thinks Juliet, after her uncle has gone, and she
stands looking meditatively into the fire. Oh,
how glad she would be! She would be out of
everybody’s way,then, and, if Randal should be
dead, then Edith and Sir Evelyn could be mar
ried. Bandars regiment had just returned
home, covered with glory. Nothing can bo
heard of the missing officer. Every inquiry has
been made, and official search has been insti
tuted, but all in vain. No trace of him can be
found, and tho young man’s fate is wrapped in
mystery.
Presently Edith enters the room, and sinks
languidly into a comlortable low chair by the
fire.
“ You have no idea how ill I feel, Juliet,” she
1 commences, putting one little satin-covered foot
i on the fender, and closing her eyes. “ I have
such dreadful palpitation—l am sure I laid
awake more than halt the night, and Prescott
had to sit up with me the whole time. What
with baby teething, too—so fretful as he is—l
am sure my troubles are more than I know how
; to bear.”
’ Juliet does not pity her much on this last
score, for she knows that she concorns herself
but slightly with little Randal, who is chiefly at
tended to by bis own nurse and by Juliet her
self. Many nights lately, since his teeth have
’ made him ill, she has sat up with him, taking
[ it in turns with the nurse.
“It is too hard,” Edith goes on plaintively.
■ “I may not even mourn my dear husband,
• though in my own mind lam perfectly assured
of his death. Oh, it is very hard,” she con
, tinues, putting her handkerchief to her eyes,
“ that I do not even know whether 1 am a wid-
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JULY 31, 1887.
ow, and my child fatherless ! It ought not to
be—the truth ought to be found out in some
way—l have a right to know the truth I” she re
peats.
And Juliet, shocked and ashamed, suddenly
awakes to the fact that Edith would rather have
positive knowledge of Randal’s death than be
loft in uncertainty about it. There is no tender
regret in the tone ot her voice, no passionate
longing to see him again—no clinging to the
faint hope of his return—only a peevish repin
ing, because his life or death is a matter for
doubt. From that moment Juliet feels all tho
anxiety that his wife should feel—she longs and
prays for his return with passionate fervor, re
membering, in strong anguish, that when tho
news ot his death reaches them, ehe will be the
only one remaining who stands between Edith
and Sir Evelyn. Oh, surely she must die then!
she thinks.
In the course of one short week, however,
there is a decided change at Tonham. It is ar
ranged that Juliet shall spend Chrismas and
some weeks following with the Thorncrofts, at
their own house in Kent, whither they re
turned some time back. She makes only one
feeble remonstrance to her uncle.
“But what is to become of Edith ?” she asks.
“ I cannot turn her out.”
“ She has been with you quite long enough,”
he answers. “lam afraid the charge of her
and the boy at once has been altogether too
much for you. It is time she found another
home, and she can scarcely do better than stay
with me until Blakey comes back.”
Juliet feels certain that Edith will never stay
at Compton Cheney—that sho will endure any
thing rather than live under the restraint of the
father whom she has always feared more than
she has always loved. But to her utter aston
ishment, Edith announces hor intention of ac
cepting her father’s offer, and begins to make
arrangements for a visit of indefinite length to
her old home.
Juliet knows then that there can be but one
reason for her determination—the desire to bo
near Lovelace. She will see him every day ;he
will be in and out continually with the colonel
—she will be able to talk to him—to gaze upon
bis face—while she herself—hie wife—is to be
exiled from him.
Juliet is full of sorrowful indignation, but
what can she say ? Edith has more right to be
under her father’s roof than any other while
her husband is away, and, if it chances to be
within easy distance of Tenham and its master,
whose fault is that ? Not hers, certainly, but
Juliet chafes and frets under the hard facts,
seeing the bare truth which lies beneath them.
Edith is in very good spirits. She does not
seem to mind her forced removal, and she
shows but small concern for her cousin’s grow
ing weakness, contenting herself with express
ing a hope that she will come back with a little
more flesh on her bones, for really she is noth
ing but a living skeleton at the present mo
ment.
Lovelace seems as though suddenly awak
ened to the knowledge of Lis wile’s critical state;
and, for the time that she remains at Tenham,
is more than ordinarily careful and attentive,
though there is an entire absence of any ten
derness in his manner. He takes her to Thorn
croft Hall himself, and places her in the hands
ot his cousin, with a recommendation to her
kindest cure. Not a thought ever crosses that
good lady’s mind that tho pale, wasted girl
brought to her to see what change of air and
good nursing will do is simply dying for love of
that husband who has just shown such earnest
though quiet solicitude for her.
“ Why, my dear, whatever have you been do
ing to yourself?” ehe asks, startled at the sight
ot Juliet’s white face, as sue is nan lea, ball
supported from the carriage to the hall door.
“Nothing, dear Lady Thorncroft,” answers
the girl, smiling faintly into the kind, concerned
face. “Perhaps if I had had more to do I
might have been better. My illness is not from
overwork—l can assure you that.”
“ Poor child! And the last time we met you
were the gayest of the gay, with such roses on
these poor cheeks!”—patting them gently.
“ Well, my dear, you waut taking care ot—it is
easy to see that, and our sweet Kentish air may
do wonders for you.”
She does her very best, and Juliet presently
revives a little, almost in spite of herself, under
Lady Thorncrolt’s untiring care and watchful
tenderness. Edith does not write to her cousin,
nor does Juliet wish to hear from her—if she is
absent from the one whom she loves best, it is
at least a relief to be rid of the society of another
whom she has learned to tear and dislike.
She cannot play with Edgar and Harry now,
but in their quieter moods they love to come
and linger round their dear Lady Lovelace, and
hear her talk to them in her sweet failing voice.
If this is dying, then she thinks death must be
kind indeed. She wants but one sight ot her
husband’s face to content her for evermore.
She falls asleep on her couch one dim after
noon, and when she awakes she is conscious of
a presence in the room—a something—she can
not tell what. She raises herselt, and looks
about her, but the darkness has gathered fast
while she has been sleeping, and she can see
nothing.
“ Don’t be frightened, Juliet. It is only I,”
says the voice of her husband, as he advances
from a dusky corner, which the cheerful glow of
the wood-fire is not able to reach.
“Sir Evelyn! What is the matter?” she
asks, in startled tones, rising to her feet half
dazed, and looking at her husband almost in
terror.
“Why should anything bo the matter because
lam here ?” he demands. “ May I not come to
see how you are ?”
There is no one in the room but themselves.
“ But something is tho matter,” she persists.
“ I have come to fetch you home—if you are
able to travel, but you scarcely look fit for it.
However ” His pause is significant.
“ What is it ?” she asks, trembling in her
weakness.
“ The colonel is ill, and he has a fancy to see
you ’’—speaking as carelessly as he can, but
her ear detects the underlying gravity ot his
tones. “ Do you think you can bear the journey
in this weather ?”
“Ot course. I could bear anything—for
him.”
Her weakness is at once forgotten, and in a
few minutes she is her old clear-headed, deter
mined self. She talks over Lady Thorncroft,
and goes up-stairs to dress for the journey,
while her kind hostess is still disputing with
Sir Evelyn on the subject.
“ It will very probably be the death of her,”
ehe declares.
“ I will take care of her,” says Sir Evelyn.
“ Now that she Knows ot her uncle’s illness she
would tar more likely die of fretting to be with
him, if she were kept here against her will.
Beside, he is dying, and wants to see her. She
has always been more like a daughter to him
than Edith; and I don’t feel that I ought to
keep her from him at sucl) a time. She shall
have every care, you may be sure of that.”
Little is said on the homeward way, and that
is on the subject of the colonel’s illness.
“ Is it serious ?” Juliet asked.
“ I believe so.”
“ Is there hope ?”
“ I fear not much. Doctor Abbott is not en
couraging. Not that he is such an old man, but
he seems to have suddenly broken up.”
She does not cry, she does not even sorrow
for her best friend—yet; she saves all her
strength for what is before her. One other
question she asks, and then she has done.
“ Is Edith there now?”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER X.
“I AM ALONE IN THE WOULD, NOW.”
“ Juliet, my girl, is that you ?”
She scarcely recognizes the pinched face on
the pillow, so gray is the pallor ot the skin, so
deep are hollows round the keen, bright eyes,
dim now in approaching death.
“ Yes, darling, I have come to you,” she says,
stooping over the stern, worn face which has
always been so dear to her.
“ I wanted to say good-by to you, my dear.
I’m going fast.”
“No, dear uncle—no ; I want you. What shall
I do without you ?”
“ You have your husband.”
At that answer she falls upon her knees by
the bedside, in a sudden agony of passionate,
desolate tears.
“ Julie, my dear, there are a few things I must
say to you before I start on my long journey. Is
there any one else in the room?”
“No, uncle.”
“ My girl, when you first came home to Tan
ham with your husband I had good hopes of
your marriage turning out a happy one for both
of you, though it was rather a queer one”—a
momentary smile lighting up his pale face.
“You were a plucky girl, Juliet, and men of
Lovelace’s stamp generally admire pluck ; and
for a time I thought my expectations were
being gradually realized, but lately I have fan
cied differently, somehow or other. I don’t know
whether my fancies have misled me; I have
been growing old very fast this last year. Am
I right or wrong?”
“Right, uucle, I am afraid,” she whispers.
“Then I wish I had done it before ; but there
seemed no necessity ; he specially charged me
to keep it to myself. You seemed pretty hapny
until last summer, though at times I thought
you seemed to pine a little, but that was scarcely
to be wondered at; perhaps there was some
girlish affair to get over—eh', Juliet ?”
“No, uncle,” ehe answers, clearly ; “I never
loved any one but my husband. I love him, if
it will comfort you to know it.”
A gleam of satisfaction passes over his tired
face.
“ Then it will be all right, Juliet. I thought,
if anywhere, the lack of love was on your
side.”
He lies silent for a long time, while she re
mains in her kneeling position beside him,won
dering what he means, and if he is really dying
—this dear uncle, who is so kind under his
outer sternness, so thoughtful and tender be
neath his rough exterior. Presently he speaks
again.
“ I forgot what I was saying. I have been all
this time trying to remember it, and where—
where I put it. Let me tell you at once, Juliet,
before I forget. There is a letter from your
husband to me—about you—in the little top
drawer of the cabinet in my study. It isn’t
locked; you have only to pull open the drawer.
There are others there along with it, but you
will know his handwriting from the rest. I was
not to tell you, Julie; he thought it was not the
best way to win your love; but now—l think it
will do you good. Read it, Julie, and alter
that I think you and he will get on all right.”
“Thank you, dear uncle,” she answers, bend
ing over him. “ I will do all that you say, and,
please Heaven, we shall be happy then.”
He looks at her contentedly, now that the
burden is off his mind.
“ He ought to be proud of you,” he says, fee
bly. “Aud. Juliet, you will look alter Edith, if
her husband never comes back ? She is weak
ly, and can’t do much for herself.”
“Yes, darling; 1 will always take care of her
and little Randal.”
“ Ah, yes; I forgot the boy, though I’m very
proud of him. I’m getting very sleepy, Juliet.
Give me a kiss and send Lovelace in—l want to
speak to him—and then HI have a nap, and
perhaps I shall wake up brighter.”
She does his bidding, and after his interview
with his kinsman he almost immediately falls
asleep—rib ver to wake again. Within the next
two hours the master of Compton Cheney yields
up his last unconscious breath, with his niece
Bitting by his side, holding his hand, for she
crept back into the room directly after her hus
band’s departure.
A day or two pass by. Juliet keeps as much
by herself as possible, and sees very little of
her husband or c.ousin. When she is not with
the little boy she is generally to be found in the
still chamber of death, kneeling by the side of
that motionless form dimly defined under the
snow-white sheet, gazing upon the set, stern
face, which, however, does not look half so cold
as it feels when she puts her lips to the icy
forehead.
A good many of the family are expected for
the funeral, but they have not yet arrived, and
the stillness is undisturbed; a deep hush has
fallen upon the house, footsteps and voices are
muffled, and only Ediths lamentations are
faintly heard from the darkened room where
she lies bewailing the sad fate which has bereft
her of both husband and father.
To add to the general gloom and sadness
which overshadow the house as with a pall,
little Randal is taken with convulsions, so vio
lent that his life is despaired of, and Edith, be
ing utterly incapable, all the care of the child
falls upon Juliet and his nurse, and, on the day
when all that remains of Colonel St. John is
carried out to be laid with his fathers, Edith
lies helpless upon her bod, really ill now from
the shock of the sad event ot the past week,
while Juliet and the nurse watch the boy
through the most painful and dangerous period
of his little life.
Juliet has little or no time for her own grief,
and the additional anxiety is trying her slight
strength to its very utmost. On the day follow
ing the funeral, the child rallies to such an ex
tent that Juliet finds herself, for the first time
since her uncle’s death, with some leisure time
on her hands, and her thoughts, going tenderly
and sorrowfully over his last words to her,
presently revert to the letter of which he had
spoken.
When at last sho rouses herself from her sad
reverie, she proceeds to the study, and, going
to the little cabinet in the recess by the fire
place, she pulls open the top drawer as in
structed. She turns over the letters and papers
until she comes upon one directed in her hus
band’s firm hand, and, carrying it to her own
room, ehe stands by the window, and reads:
“Mv Deab Colonel—l have a piece of in
telligence for you which I fear will prove a some
what disagreeable surprise, but I think it wiser
to acquaint you with it now, that you may be
prepared to see your niece, instead of your
daughter, returning with me on Thursday. It
appears that your daughter and Captain Blakey
were enamoured of one another—though this is
the first I have ever heard ot it—aud her en
gagement to me was causing her so much
trouble that your niece determined to help her
to be rid of her objectionable suitor in some way
or other; and finally, by some art perfectly in
comprehensible to me, the two young ladies
managed each to pass for the other at the wed
ding, changing places several times in order to
keep up the illusion. The deception was main
tained until both couples were fairly en route
for their respective destinations. It was not
until the train had proceeded some distance
from the station that I discovered, to my utter
amazement, that your niece—not you daughter
—was my companion, and that, in fact, when I
believed 1 was marrying the latter, it was the
former whom I received as my wife, while your
daughter was plighting her faith to Captain
Blakey, who was of souse a party to this most
ingenious and daring iraud.
“ But, sir, I must beg you not to visit your
natural and justifiable anger too unsparingly
upon their heads. They are all very young and
inexperienced, as you will judge when I tell
you that your niece assured me that she had no
idea she was really marrying me, thinking that,
because in her own mind ehe did not seriously
mean the vows she took that day, and signed
the register falsely, tho ceremony was not legal.
She was considerably and disagreeably sur
prised when I informed her that she was un
deniably and lawfully my wife.
“ I think it possible that suoh a marriage
might be dissolved, but, even were I inclined to
try for it, our end could not be gained, for, in
consequence of this false signing of the register,
Captain and Mrs. Blakey had doubts as to the
validity of their marriage, and had therefore
made arrangements to have the ceremony per
formed a second time on their arrival at Folke
stone, so that all possibility ot the proposed
joining of the two estates is at an end. You will
no doubt be astonished when I tell you that
that will be no disappointment to me, but, since
this strange event has occurred, I have.no longer
reason to withhold the truth from youj
“ I admired your daughter exceedingly, and
esteemed her highly, as you are aware, and
looked forward with great satisfaction to seeing
her at once the mistress and the ornament of
my home; but it was not until I met your niece
that I knew what it was to love. I had not seen
her half a dozen times before I loved her with
all the strength of my heart, though my passion
did not blind me to the fact that she regarded
me with more than indifference—with positive
dislike. Had it been otherwise, however, I
should still have endeavored most strenuously
to keep my word to you and your daughter.
But permit me to add that, had I known how
extremely distasteful to your daughter was the
idea of marriage with me, I would not have
persisted in it. I believed that she was only
slightly unwilling—that perhaps she thought
me but a grim bridegroom—l meant to show
her every care and kindness, and had no doubt
of a happy result; but I certainly was not aware
that there was a younger and more favored
suitor in tho background, or I would have
waived iny claim at once.
“ To return to the subject of my wife. Chance
having put my happiness into my hands, I
mean to hold it fast—l am too selfish to let it go
—and, if I wore to yield to her wishes and try
to get the marriage annulled, it would not be
to her advantage in the end, for, even if I suc
ceeded, it is scarcely likely that she would
make a very good match after such an escapade
—these things always get wind, and are exag
gerated out of all likeness to the simple truth.
Expediency and my own wish point in the same
direction, and I think I am fully justified in
keeping her, though sorely against her will.
She does not like me now—in fact, she dislikes
me very much indeed—but I have heard that
in such matters hatred or intense dislike is
more hopeful than indifference, as it not infre
quently changes to the opposite extreme. How
true it is I cannot tell; but I am going to ven
ture my life’s happiness upon the hope ol it.
The dearest wish ot my heart is that my wife
may learn to love the husband who will never
fail in his deep affection for her.
“But I will say no more about that, for, as it
is, you must think me a fool—and I am sure
you never heard me talk in such a strain as I
am writing now. Still, I know your fondness for
your niece, and I cannot believe that you will be
sorry to hear she has fallen into no worse hands
than mine, after such a wild—though most no
ble—act of self-sacrifice. Sir, in considering
this, I beg you to keep in remembrance the fact
that your niece has risked her life’s happiness
for that ot your daughter—that Captain and
Mrs. Blakey have consummated their much-de
sired union at her expense: and you must allow
me to observe that I think her faithful affection
for her cousin—the courage and fortitude dis
played by her in the meet trying circumstances
—worthy ot the highest praise. I earnestly en
treat your pardon tor her—it is your anger that
she fears—it is the thought of your displeasure
that grieves her. What she did she would not
have done for any one else but her dearly-loved
cousin and your daughter—let this considera
tion have its due weight with you.
“ I have not told her that I am writing to
you, and she is dreading the return home, be
cause, however fearlessly ehe has braved the
wrath ot her husband—whom she dislikes—she
knows she cannot treat you—whom she loves—
in the same fashion.
“ We shall take the mid-day train from Hud
dersfield, and expect to arrive at Compton
about six. “ Yours truly,
“ Evelyn V. Lovelace.
“ Evelyn Pbioby, April 5,18—.”
The letter is dated within a month from their
marriage. Juliet reads itin great astonishment,
her heart glowing with tender gladness and
fresh hopes bursting suddenly into full bloom
—hopes which she had never dared to cherish
until this bright moment.
Then he loved her all the time—that was why
he would not try to get the marriage set aside’!
But how is she to account for all his coldness,
and, at times, absolute unkindness, to her ? Oh,
she cannot account for anything—she can think
only ot one thing in the sudden new joy ! Her
husband loves her—that is enough for her! She
is wildly happy—almost delirious in herjoylul
ecstasy as she stands by the window in the
twilight, clasping the precious letter to her
breast. All will be right now; she will tell him
all about it.
At that moment sho hears his step in the
corridor, and, with a sudden impulse to take
advantage of the opportunity, she flies to the
door and overtakes him before he reaches the
head of the stairs.
“Sir Evelyn 1” she exclaims, putting her hand
on his arm.
And then, as the light from the lamp above
their heads falls upon his stern dark face, she
shrinks back, something of her old tear of him
overcoming her gladness.
“ Hush, Juliet!” he says coldly. “ You will
awaken your cousin it you speak so loudly..
Prescott tells me that she has just fallen asleep
for the first time for three days. I beg you will
be careful.”
He goes down the stairs without taking any
further notice of her, and she leans over the
baluster, watching him as one who is stunned
by a terrible blow, yet noticing vaguely how he
softens his footsteps—for Edith’s sake.
When he has disappeared, ehe creeps noise
lessly to her room, and sits down before the fire
in the gathering darkness, first dropping the
letter softly into the glowing mass of coal, and
then staring blankly at it.
She had forgotten Edith. Of course he loves
her now. Just for a little while, when ho was
piqued by Edith’s coldness to him, he thought
■he loved her—Juliet, but he could not help
loving Edith directly she showed herself kind
to him. He admired her—the letter said so.
What a noble letter it was—shielding the girl
who had so duped him—defending her in every
possible way—a letter worthy ot the high
minded man who wrote it I Ob. if oulv she
could have held that passionate, short-lived
love I They could not help loving each other,
Edith and he, and she ought to have left them
alone.
Her head falls forward upon her breast, the
listless hands unclasp, and she loses conscious
ness.
One afternoon early in February, Juliet opens
her eyes, to find her cousin Cecily sitting by her
bed.
“ Cecily, is that you?” she says feebly, half
startled at the sound of hor own voice—so weak
and altered is it since she last heard it.
“ Yes, my darling,” Cecily answers, bending
to kiss her.
“ I suppose I have boon ill, Cecily, or I
should not be hero—in Led?”
" Yes, dear, but you are going to get well
now.”
“Am I?”
She lies silently staring at the opposite wall
for some time, while Cecily watches her some
what anxiously, not liking the look on her face,
and yet almost fearing to rouse her. Presently
Juliet speaks again.
“This is Compton, Cecily—not Tenham?”
“ Yes, dear. You were taken ill here, you
know, and so here you remained.”
“Taken ill? How?”
“ We found you leaning back in your chair,
darling, unconscious, but I wouldn’t trouble
about that now if I were you; it is all over now,”
answers Cecily gently.
“ Leaning back in my chair ? Ab, I remem
ber 1”
She closes her eyes, while such a deathly
pallor overspreads her face that Cecily hastens
to administer restoratives and to call the nurse,
but in spite of all they can do she suffers a re
lapse, and for a lew days her life again is in
danger.
Consciousness returns again in tho following
week at about the same hour as before, when
Mrs. Ewell has gone down-stairs to have her tea
and a chat with the housekeeper in her cosy
room, and Cecily has again installed herself as
head-nurse.
“ Cecily,” says Juliet, suddenly opening her
eyes and fixing them upon her cousin’s face,
“ you were here before—did I dream it—when
was it?”
“ Yes; I am staying here, darling.”
“To be with me ? You shouldn’t do that.”
“ Would you rather I were not here, dear ?
Because it so I will go away, and send any one
you like.”
“ No; I like you best. But Burnet—he must
want you. Aren’t you married now, Cecily ? I
forget.”
“ Yes, dear—since October. Burnet is here
too. He goes up by rail every morning, and
comes back in time for dinner, so you need not
be uneasy about him. I can stay with you
until you are quite well again. I wanted to
come to help nurse you, so Edith asked us
both. She is not strong enough to be with you
much herself, you know, and Burnet is very
useful—if is handy to have a gentleman in the
house.”
Cecily talks on as long as she can to prevent
her charge from exhausting her strength by at
tempting to talk too, but here she comes to a
sudden confused stop, not knowing whether
Juliet will remember her uncle's death or not.
To her extreme relief Juliet’s mind seems per
fectly otear with regard to all that has happened
lately at Compton.
“ Yes,” she answers; “you must all miss dear
Uncle Phil very much. I shall, I know—if ever
I get up again.”
" We will do all that we can for you, dear
Juliet,” answers her cousin, gently ; “ though
I am afraid we can never fill his place to you.”
“ I’ou are very kind, Cecily,” is the reply, in
tones of quiet despair ; “ but he was my best,
my dearest friend. I am alone in the world,
now.”
Cecily pities her with a sudden, tender pity,
as she thinks of her own fond husband, and
contrasts him with the cold, stern man who
seems to have broken his wife’s heart.
“ Don’t say that, my dear,” ehe says, speaking
out of the fullness of her warm heart. “ Don’t
say that while you have us. We all love you
ths very children cried when they heard you
were ill.”
“ Thank you, Cecily, dear,” Juliet answers ;
but the sorrow remains deep and settled in her
eyes, and no tenderness or endearments of
Cecily’s can lighten the sadness of her brow.
Her heart's bitterest grief cannot be assuaged
by a few loving words—thfi wounds are too deep
for that.
Cecily notices that she dbes not mention her
husband's name, and she determines to bring
it up in conversation, when Juliet is a little
stronger, but at present she will not risk any
thing.
In a day or two she asks her if she would like
to see Edith, but Juliet shrinks and trembles,
and shakes her head.
“ Need I ?” she asks, piteously.
“ Certainly not, unless you like, dear.”
“I don’t think I am strong enough to see any
fresh faces yet. Will she be offended, do you
think, if I ask her to wait a little longer ?”
Her eyes look questioningly at her cousin’s
face—almost as anxiously as though Cecily were
a judge and she a culprit waiting to hear sen
tence pronounced upon her.
“ No; of course not. She knows how weak
you are, and really I ought not to have pro
posed suoh a thing yet awhile, only I did not
think.”
One afternoon, as Cecily sits at the bedside of
the invalid, talking to her of commonplace
events and people, she begins upon a fresh
subject.
“ I dare say you wonder, my dear, that we
have not yet allowed you to see your husband.
The fact is, as he is not staying here ”
“Not staying at Compton?”
The sudden flush on Juliet's cheek warns
Cecily what dangerous interest the new topic
possesses for her ; but ehe is fairly in for it now,
and cannot well draw back—with those eager
eyes watching her.
“ No, darling; he went back to Tenham some
time ago; there was no occasion for him to stay,
as you recognized no one, and he could do noth
ing for you. The house was to be kept as quiet
as possible; so the fewer visitors there were in
it the bettor; but he was here every day, of
course—two or three times generally—to hear
tho latest of you.”
“ And to talk to Edith,” adds Juliet to her
self.
“ Well, Julie, as I was about to say, since you
have been better, you have slept a good deal,
and it has so chanced that you have been sleep
ing soundly whenever he has called, and, of
course, wo would not disturb you for any
thing.”
“ Never mind about that, Ceeily.” And then,
after a painful pause, sho continues : “ Tell mo
the truth. Have I talked a good deal—whoa I
have been unconscious, I mean I”
“ You rambled a little, but you never raved,
as some people do,” her cousin answers eva
sively. “ Some people seem to go quite mad,
you know; but you were very quiet.”
“But you could hear me, Cecily—you heard
what I said ?”
“ Sometimes—not always.”
“Tell me what I said. Did I talk about my
husband ?”
She speaks with painful earnestness, her eyes
shining and restless. Cecily sees the dangerous
excitement under which she is laboring, and
does her best to soothe her.
“ Well, darling, you did talk about him some
times, but you need not fear, we shall not take
any notice of what you said—no one ever minds
what sick people talk about.”
“ Then I said he did not love me—and all
about it?”
“ Yes, my darling,” Cecily admits, inexpressi
bly grieved.
“Do you know the story of my marriage,”
Cecily ?”
“No dear; but never mind that. You will be
so tired if you don’t rest now.”
But Cecily’s thoughts go back to the bewild
erment created in the family when Lovelace
brought home Juliet for his bride, and young
Blakey appeared with Edith. The explanation
then offered was not of the most satisfactory na
ture, and she begins dimly to understand that
something connected with that wedding must
have robbed this young life ot its happiness and
beauty.
“ I can’t tell you now, Cecily,” the weak voice
goes on, “ but I will begin to-morrow and go as
tar as I can. Aubrey knows—he has known for
some time.”
“ Very well, dear, if it will do you good.”
The next day, in falitering words, and with
many pauses for strength, Juliet tells Cecily the
story of her marriage.
“ I did it for the best,” she concludes, “ but
I see now that I ought not to have interfered
between them. I deserve all that I have brought
upon myself.”
Cecily is shocked and amazed ; but, when the
first feeling of astonishment Is over, she, like
the old colonel, forgets Juliet’s folly in the
thought af the noble generosity of heart which
led her to risk her life’s happiness for her cous
in’s, and feels only sorrow—tenderest sorrow
tor the sad results of the plan which was made
and carried out with such good intentions, and,
as she stoops down to kies the trembling lips
which have told the sorrowful tale, she thinks
that she would have been a truer friend to this
brave girl than Edith has proved—that if such
a sacrifice had been made for her, she would
have shown herself more grateful than Edith
has done.
“My dear,” sho says, “I don’t know any one
else who would have done such a thing for an
other. Edith ought to be overflowing with grati
tude to you for the remainder of her life I”
To this Juliet makes no reply.
“ And so that is why Aubrey is so bitter
against Edith,” continues Cecily presently.
“He never liked her much, but lately he has
seemed to hate the very sound of her name.
He and Burnet being in business together, we
see a good deal of him, as you know.”
“ And I can trust you, Cecily?” Juliet turns
to her with an anxious look in her blue eyes.
“You will not tell any one but Burnet? I am
not going to ask you to keep any secrets from
your husband.”
“No one but Burnet, my dear, and I am
quite sure he will not teU any one. We may
even be able to help you in some way, per
haps.”
“ I don’t see how that can be, Cecily, though
I know you mean to be very kind, and I am
grateful to you.” After a long and thoughful
pause—" Cecily, I don’t think I can ever go
back to Tenham again.”
“ Why not, my dear ?”
Cecily’s voice is very calm, and her face per
fectly eomposed as she takes a fresh length of
cotton and threads it.
“ Oh—l don’t think I can!”
“ You have no more reason for keeping away
from Tenham now than you had before your
illness, have you ?”
“No-o; I suppose not. But, Cecily, Burnet
loves you—you cannot imagine what a very
awkward and unhappy position mino is as dis
tress of Sir Evelyn’s house.”
“I know it must be very painful, my dear;
but—well, I think we need not discuss that
question yet; you are hardly strong enough to
think much about anything.”
“ Yes, Cecily, I am. lam a great deal stronger
than I have been—l wish I were not”—with a
hoavy sigh.
“Hush, Juliet; you must not have such
wishes 1”
“ Well, I know it is wicked, but if you were in
my place you would be tempted to wish the
same thing. Tell me what you were going to
say, Cecily, I have slept so much to-day that I
feel quite strong now.”
“My darling”—her cousin speaks firmly but
tenderly—“ I was going to remind you of your
duty—to tell you that, however you became Sir
Evelyn’s wife, his wife you still remain, and
that you owe him honor and respect at the very
least. My dear, remember that, however he
has behaved to you, he gave you the shelter of
his name and home just when you had defeated
all his plans for the future—when he might
have exposed your conduct to the world and
the world would have viewed it no charitable
light; you would certainly have suffered more
or less at its hands—do you not owe him any
thing in return for his forbearance ?”
“ Oh, yes 1” answers Juliet, with an over
whelming sense of the pain she had suffered
during the two years of her married life. “ I
would do anything I could for him, Cecily. But
it would not please him to have me back at
Tenham—he doesn’t want me.”
“But, my dear, you forget that in leaving him
you would do him a very great injury. You
would give people reason to suppose that he
had ill-treated you in some way; you would
damage his good name irretrievably.”
“ I remember, when he had just found out
that it was I, instead of Edith, whom he had
married, and I wanted him to get the marriage
dissolved, or a separation or something, be said
ho had too much respect for both our names to
do that. Would this be as bad ?”
“Just as bad. Worse, if anything, after liv
ing together for two years.”
“Then 1 suppose 1 must go back,” wearily.
“My dear, when you are quite strong and
Well nothing will seem half so hard.”
Cecily kisses her again as she says this, and
Juliet puts her weak arms round her cousin’s
neck in a sudden impulse of affection. If she
has lost one true friend, her illness has certain
ly gained her another.
As she gets stronger she can no longer refuse
to see Edith, who, however, has been by no
means anxious for an interview ; and fortified
by Cecily’s presence, Juliet endures her cousin’s
daily visits with a fair amount of composure.
Edith herself does not evince much relish for
her company, so fortunately Juliet’s strength is
tried but for a short time, and presently she is
allowed another visitor, very much more to her
mind—little Bandal, who is brought in crowing
and laughing in the nurse’s arms, and who at
first turns away crying from the thin white face,
which is so altered that his baby eyes cannot
recognize it. But he soon begins to know her
again, and Juliet’s heart warms afresh to Edith’s
child as she sees how he has grown and im
proved since last she saw him.
Still there is no news of Randal—nothing but
a silence as ot death, which every one feels will
never be broken now. Juliet thinks of it more
and more as she gets stronger. Is she really
now the only one between those two? Heaven
grant it may not be so, for then indeed the bur
den of her life will be too heavy to be borne.
One morning, when she has been dressed and
is lying on the couch expecting Edith’s daily
visit, Cecily comes into the room with the air of
a person whose mind is made up.
“Juliet, my dear,” she says, advancing to the
eouch and speaking in a matter-of-fact tone,
“ Sir Evelyn is here and wants to see you. Shall
he come up ?”
“ Sir Evelynl” repeats Juliet, half raising
herself upon her pillows, a nervous flush mant
ling her cheeks. “ I think I would rather not;
I—must I, Cecily ?” appealing to her cousin in
her weakness, and looking as if it would be a
relief to have the decision taken out of her
bands.
*' I think you should, dear; he has not seen
you since you were ill.”
“ Well, if you say so. But I would much
rather not.”
“Oh, you will be glad when you have seen
him. You are quite strong enough now—indeed
I think the sight of a fresh face will very likely
do you good. You have been moping lately."
Cecily leaves the room, and in another minute
Juliet hears her returning step upon the stairs,
accompanied by another and heavier one, the
sound of which makes her heart beat faster
and brings the color to her face in quick, nerv
ous flushes.
Cecily does not enter the room with him,
however. He closes the door after him and
stands before his wife the same stalwart figure
as ever, the same handsome face, though a
shade of care rests upon the brow and dwells
in the keen dark eyes.
“He does not look any happier for being all
this time with Edith, with nobody to interrupt
them,” is Juliet’s first thought.
He is greatly shocked at the eight of her al
tered face, and indeed none but those who had
seen hor could imagine what a change had been
effected.
“ You must have been very ill, Juliet," he
says, taking her hand and looking very much
concerned.
“ I suppose I have been,” she answers, with a
violent effort at cojnposure ; “ but I am much
better—l get up every day now.”
“I am very pleased to hear it. Of course
they told mo how ill you were, but I never im
agined ”
He checks himself, perhaps thinking it un
wise to enlarge upon her altered looks, and
they both remain silent for a few moments,
neither of them knowing what to say. His
words, when they do come, are very stiff and
forced, and hers are almost inaudible through
extreme nervousness and a wild longing to cry,
which it takes all her strength to repress.
“We are very quiet at Tenham,” he says
presently. " How soon do you think you will
be able to come back ?”
" Oh, I don’t know,” she answers, doubtfully,
almost making up her mind to ask him then
and there it she need ever go back; but then
she remembers what Cecily said about it. No ;
she will at least do her duty by him, though he
can never love her. “ I think not just yet,” she
adds more gently. But his next words take
away her breath.
“No, not this week ; you are scarcely strong
enough for a move yet, but We will hear what
Dr. Abbott says about next week. You could
easily be carried down stairs and out to the car
riage, and Sanders should walk the horses all
the way, so that you would not get shaken.”
x. Juliet absolutely trembles. Does he really
mean what he says ? Does he mean to take hor
away from every one and keep her, so weak and
helpless, in that great and lonely house ?
“ But I couldn’t do without Cecily yet,” she
remonstrates feebly.
“ Cecily would come with you, and her hus
band, and of course Mrs. Ewell and any one
else you would like. There is room enough at
Tenham for every one that you can want,
Juliet.”
“Thank you; you are very good,” she re
turns, and then falls to wondering why he is in
such a hurry to have her back.
It must be, she decides presently, with a sud
den sinking of the heart, that he wants to get
her out of Edith’s way—that he fears she might
be troubled or disturbed by an invalid in the
house. There can be no other reason, is the sad
conclusion to which she comes.
He goes soon afterward ; but short as his stay
has been she is more exhausted than she has
been after a much longer visit from any one
else.
(To bo Oontinued.l
IN OLD-FASHIONED STYLE.
A VERY PHILOSOPHIC CHASTISE
MENT.
(From the tfacon, Ga., Telegraph.)
Minerva Brown and her daughter, Georgia,
colored, was before Recorder Baxter yesterday
morning on the charge of disorderly conduct.
Minerva is one of the old-fashioned kind of
negro women, for whom a Southern man will
give up his seat in a street car. There are but
few of this sort left, and the Recorder recog
nized one of them in her at the first glance.
He therefore leaned back in his chair and told
her to tell her story in her own way, and this
is about what she said:
“ You see, boss, dis is de fust time dat I ever
come to such a place as dis here—de very fust
time, an’ I don’t know the rules, so you’ll have
to ’scuse me, boss, if I dooze wrong. Dis hero
gal, Georgy, is my chile, an’ I’se tried to raise
her lack er lady ever sence she was born. Well,
she’s been giftin’ mighty uppity lately, an’ I
couldn’t do nothin’ wid her by reeznin’ an’
coaxin’ an’ shamin’ her, so ’cided to checkti-ze
her. But when I tried to checktize her, she
wouldn’t lemme-she done got so biggitv like.
Den I took up a bed slat—l ’knowledge’ I hit
her, boss ; I hit her wid the bed slat—an’ den I
set down an’ calmed myself. Den I hit hor an
other lik, and den I calmed myself ergain.
Always hit hor when I was calm, boss, an’
every now an’ den I hit her an’ got calm. An’,
boss, dis is de trufe, I didn’t hit her enough,
bekase de way dat chile’s been actin’ is scandal
ous —owtdacious.”
The Recorder dismissed the case against the
mother, and fined Georgia $5 for using im
proper language sufficient to justify the charge
of disorderly conduct.
AMERICAN-ZABLES.
CONSIDERABLY AFTER THE PER
SIAN.
THE EXCHANGE FIEND AND THE BOGAR
DES KICKER,
An Old Man, who had for a Generation made
it an Almost Daily Practice to Visit a Certain
Newspaper Office and Paw over the Exchanges
and Pocket such as he Fancied, one day fell
Afoul of the Bogardus Kicker. After a Barrel
or so of Water had been Poured over him and
he had Recovered Consciousness, he Bitterly
Exclaimed :
“Alas ! to think that I who have had the Run
of this Office for over Forty Years should Suffer
such an Indignity 1”
“Just so,” replied the State Exchange Editor,
as he clipped out another Item about a Bushel
of New Potatoes being Laid on Our Table;
“ but what have been Our Feelings during this
long Interval ?”
MORAL:
Wo seldom think of the Other Fellow. For
Prices and Description ot the Bogardus Kicker
—three sizes--Address this Office,
SMITH AND THE EDITOR.
Upon a certain Occasion, as the Editor of the
Weekly Jabwock sat in his Sanctum, a young
man by the name of John Smith Rushed up
Stairs and Demanded that his Honor be cleared
of a Vivid Stain. The Jabwock had announced
that some one by the Name of John Smith had
been sent up for Thirty Days. This John Smith
wanted it known that he wasn’t the John Smith,
°r h® would bring a Great, Big, Overgrown
Libel Suit.
“Certainly—with Pleasure," Replied the Edi
tor of the Jabwock. And he wrote that tho
John Smith of Pumpkin Pie avenue was not the
John Smith who Pounded his Aged Mother;
nor the Smith who stole a Harness; nor tho
Smith arrested for Bigamy ; nor the Smith who
had a Prize Fight; nor the Smith who Set the
Saw Mill on F ire. In fact, he cleared him of
all the Crimes and Offenses on tho Calendar,
and the result was that Smith Stopped bis Pa
per, Withdrew his Advertising, Ambushed and
Licked the Editor, and was the means of Bank
rupting the Paper.
mohal:
There is such a Thing aa Being Too All-Fired
Anxious to Please Subscribers.
HUMOR OF THE HOUR,
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND.
SOME OTHER DISEASE.
“ They say she died of a broken heart,” said
the first woman, as they came up the car steps.
“ I don’t believe it,” sharply replied No. 2.
“But why?”
“ Why ? Because she bad aa many as six now
bonnets a year, and not one of them cost less
than fifteen dollars.”
THE ONE SHE WANTED.
“How much for this melon?” she asked at
the market yesterday as she indicated her
choice.
“That melon, madam, is a green one.”
“But how much ?”
“ You wouldn’t want it at all, madam, as it
would disappoint you.”
“But I do want it, sir, and hero's a dime foi
it.”
“ Ah, how dull I am to-day, to bo sure I”
sighed the man as he looked after her. “She
keeps a boarding-house, of course I”
A MEAN TRICK.
“Never heard ot anything so contemptibly
mean in all my life—never I” he said, as he
brought his right hand down upon his lelt.
“What was it ?”
“ Why, I bet twenty dollars with a man on
one of the races, and we put the money in tho
bands of a stakeholder. I won it.”
“Well?”
“ Well, a constable stood right there and at
tached the whole forty dollars lor a debt of five
years old I”
“ No I”
“ He positively did, and be offered to mop the
ground with me to boot. It is just such work
as this that has brought horse racing into disre
pute, and which keeps honest people away from
the tracks I”
AN AGREEABLE CHANGE.
A housewife on Antoine street had cleared off
the breakfast table the other morning, and just
as she gave her pan of dishwater a heave into
the back yard a man came around the corner of
the house and received the full contents from
chin to heels.
“0 I dear, but I beg a thousand pardons I”
exclaimed the woman when she realized what
she had done.
“ Not a pardon, ma’am,” he calmly replied.
“ But it was so careless in me I”
*' Not a bit careless, ma’am. lam a gentle
man out of work and with no means. I make it
a practice to call at various houses in search ot
cold victuals. In most cases they sling the
bull-dog or the ax at ms. I lay my hand upon
my heart and assure you that this is an innova
tion—a change —a diversion that I can really
enjoy, and I thank you for it. Good-day,
ma’am.”
HER KIND OF RACE.
It was on a Michigan avenue oar yesterday.
An oldish woman, having three or four parcels
on the seat beside her, listened for awhile to a
conversation between two men on the opposite
seat and then leaned forward and asked:
" Were you talking about races ?”
“ Yes’m,” replied one.
“ Going to be in town ?”
“ Yes’m ”
“ What kind of races ?”
“ Horse racing, ma’am.”
“ Oh, it is ? Wall, that’s all. It it’s hose
racing I don't keer to hear any more about it.”
“ What kind ot racing did you want to see?”
"Who? Me? Oh, I kinder belong to the
church aud don’t believe in any sort ot racing,
but if they’ve got to race, and if I’ve got to be
there-, I like to see about a dozen fellers bop on
to them boycikles and go tearing and ripping
hip—hurrah—around a track—hi-a-h-h-h’l”
And she breathed hard and wiped the sweat
off her nose, and when everybody laughed she
said she begged their pardon and hoped they
wouldn't lay it up against her.
A NARROW ESCAPE.
An ancient looking darkey, who had been told
that tho price of admission to the race-ground
was only ten cents, appeared there yesterday in
company with his young wife, who was evident
ly his second. When informed that it would
take a two-dollar bill to admit, they fell back
across the road and looked at each other for a
minute before he said :
“Dat settles us.”
“ We might pay jiet once,” she pleaded.
“ It’s ompossible. Dat’s our rent for half I
month.”
“ But it’s gwine to be awful excitin’ Moses.”
“ Mebbe so, but we shan’t see de inside of dat
air fence.”
“ Won’t you please go in to please me ?” she
said, as she patted him on the back.
“ Lucinda, look yere I” hs replied as he faced
her. “In de fust place I ain’t got but six bits.
In de next place mebbe we’d get killed. In da
third place, boss racin’ ain’t no account dess
days, anyhow, an’ in de fo’th place, it’s mighty
wicked, an’ de Lawd might ebet us out o’
Heaben.”
“But you were gwine in fnr ten cents.”
Wall, mebbe I was, but do you know what I
was gwine to do, Lucinda? I was gwine to
keep one eye shet and repeat de Lawd’s pray’r
all de time ! We’ll hev some lemonade an’ pea
nuts an’ go back hum.”
A TOUGH YARN.
TOLD BY AN ANCIENT MARINER.
“ Talking of life preservers,” said the truth
ful mariner as he knocked tho ashes out of his
pipe, “you remember the old steamer 'Roust
about ’ that used to run from Buffalo to Chica
go. I was mate on her the year before she was
lost. We were about sixty miles out from Chica
go when Mike Lanagan, who was doing some
thing up on the mast, fell, struck on his head
on the roof of the cabin and bounced clean out
into the lake. Well, the captain he see him
fall and he stopped and backed that old Roust
about quicker’n you could say ‘scat.’ Mike
went down like a plummet, for he was knocked
insensible and I know’d there was no use to
heave a life-preserver for him, so I jest hurried
up the boys in getting the boat down although
I didn’t expect it ’ud do much good. We had
Jim King on board. Passengers from Chicago.
You remember Jim King, don’t you ?
“ Can't say that I do,” remarked a bystander.
“Well, Jim was champion quoit thrower in
them days. He’s dead now, poor fellow, but
Jim was a boss on throwing quoits. 1 tell you
quoits were a great game them days. Every
village had a quoit club and the boys on the
farms used to throw boss shoes. It was some
thin’ like baseball is these times, although I
never could see as much fun in baseball as I
could see in a good game o’ quoits.”
“ Oh, come off,” cried the impatient listener.
"What did Jim do, or did he do anything?
Did the man drown ?”
“Now don’t be too fly. “Who’s tollin’ this
yarn ?”
“ Well, you don’t seem to be.”
“Goon! Go on I” said the crowd.
“ Well, you know, in quoits a ■ ringer' was
when you put the jjuoit round the stake. It
counted double. Well, Jim he picks up the
round life preserver—it’s like a great big quoit,
you know—and as the oapn’n came running aft.
Jim he sings out, ‘Capp’n; I’ll bet you five dol
lars I'll make a ringer on that man if he comer
up within the length of this line.’ ”
“ 'Bet you twenty dollars you cant,” said th«
capp’n.
“ ‘Take you,’ said Jim, and just at thet min
it up bobs Mike’s head about sixty feet astern.
Jim threw it, and I’ll be durned if that life-pre
server didn’t go plump over en Mike’s head
clear down on his shoulders, and there it stuck.
We got down the boat, and when we got to Mike
he hadn’t come to yet, and didn’t for some time
after. He'd been a goner if it hadn’t bin fur
that ringer, although it took the skin often hie
nose.”
“Did the captain pay the twenty dollars?”
“Pay it? You fist bet he did. And Jim ho
handed it over to Mike, and Mike he blew it all
in when we got to Detroit. I wish some of it
was here now, fur I’m mighty dry. Thanks.
Don’t mind if I do.”
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