New York dispatch. [volume], August 07, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
" “ What nonsense ! There is not the slightest -
flanger for either of us. And, as you are so 1
fearful on my account, remember that the fur- v
ther you get into the room again the further I 1
phall have to carry you in the end. You may ®
just as well come at once.”
At this point in the argument Juliet almost J
reaches the wall—she having been retreating v
and he advancing—and, not knowing how near ,
she is to it, she unexpectedly comes into con- .
tact with it and totters for a moment. He takes
advantage ot the opportunity, and she is forth- v
With conveyed out of the room and down tho
stairs in his arms, Cecily following with a shawl
on one arm and a cloak on the other, and Edith,
leaning over the baluster, watching the descent I
With vexation in her eyes.
Juliet’s mind is in a whirl when she finds her
self being carried in her husband’s arms—partly
with chagrin at her defeat, but far more with a
passionate pleasure in her strange position,
with her head pressed against his shoulder, and *
one of her arms clinging round his neck. For '
the first moment she is angry at being over
powered by his determination but lor the first
moment only. A tide of passionate womanly 1-
love comes sweeping over her in its full force
of long-restra ned tenderness, which almost d
tells her secret m that unguarded moment, he
however contents herself with pressing one
quick silent kss upon the rough sleeve of his
ulster—a Kiss in which is concentrated all the
love which has grown up in her heart during ®
the last two years. He kissed her at that Christ
mas-tree party; now she kisses him back but
how differently I . , . i
Without pausing for a moment he carries his
painiully light burden past, the great hall door L
and down the steps, regardless of the concerned
gaze of Sanders and Mitchel), and never relin- r
quiahos it until it is safely deposited on the '
back seat of the carriage, in a perfect neat o*. J
furs and rugs.
“ Thank you; you must be very tired,” she 1
says faintly. >
“ Not at all. Mitchell, I don’t see the foot- ‘
warmers 1 told you to put in.” J
“ les, sir; here they are, sir. I pushed them ‘
Under the seat.” .
“You are none the worse, 1 hope?” he con- [
tinues, to Juliet, putting the man aside, and J
arranging the foot-warmers and rugs for her j
With His own hands.
“Oh, no, than e you 1”
But she is so ghastly white that it is no won- ’
der he asks the question. Cecily comes out 1
then, and he stands aside to help her in. She <
puts the question which is already in Juliet’s 1
mind, but which she has not been able to sum- f
mon up courage to ask. . 1
“ You are coming with us, I suppose, Sir
Evelyn?”—seating herself opposite to Juliet.
“Yes; 1 have finished my business here for
to-day,” he returns. *
.He gets in, gravely stooping to rearrange a J
rug which had f allen from Juliet s knees; and
then they drive off, going very gently. He does f
hot speak tor some time, but sits scanning his 1
Wife’s face as she half reclines amid her furs, '
her eyes closed, and the blue veins on her eye- 1
lids and temples painfully visible.
“I do not think it will hurt her,” he says ‘
presently, hal -doubtfully, as if trying to con- r
yince himself of the truth ol his words.
“ I feel certain it will not,” answers Cecily J
Yeassuringly. “ And it is a great deal better I
jor her to be at her own home.”
“So I think,’’ he returns decidedly. 1
“ Tenham, too, is on higher ground than
Compton,” she continues, “ and more healthy 1
on that account—unless, indeed, the more ex- ’
posed situation should prove too cold for her.” ’
“ Oh, no; we will take care of her ! If there i
were any danger of that Doctor Abbott would
have said so. And I must thank you heartily, i
Mrs. St. John, for your kindness in coming to
be with her. Ido not know whatever she would l
do without you.”
“I am very glad to be able to do anything I
For her,” replied Cecily, glancing tenderly at
her cousin’s pale face. “Almost every one loves
her, 1 think.”
Was that “almost” flung at him? He glances <
Sharply at Cecily, but, seeing her eyes still rest
ing upon Juliet’s face, his own follow her gaze,
knd dwell there until at last a heavy sigh is
heard, and Cecily looks up in astonishment, to
see an expression on Sir Evelyn’s lace which
she never saw there before. A little more con
versation passes between them, for the most
part relative to Burnet's Return in the evening
to Tenham, instead of to Compton, but very
Boon they arrive at their destination, and the
carriage stops before the broad flight of steps.
It may be the motion or the unwonted excite
ment ol the ourney which has had so powerful
an effect upon Juliet, but she is taken out of the
carriage halt-unconscious, and carried up-stairs
In her husband’s arms almost swooning. The
first thing that rouses her is the soft contact ol
& mustache with her cheek; and, coming to her
self with a start, she finds that she is lying back
In a deep easy-chair near the fire, with her hus
band kneeling by her side, and no one else in
the warm luxurious room. Cecily, for reasons
of her own, has contrived to be detained down
stairs for a few minutes, and has also contrived
to detain Juliet’s maid along with her, rummag
ing among the luggage.
“ Julietsays Lovelace tenderly.
“Yes,” she answers in dreamy bewilderment.
Then she suddenly rises from the chair. “1 am
better now,” she summers. “It was—it was—
I was tired, I think.”
He rises and stands on the rug before the
fire, tall and stately, and Juliet, stealing a
glance at his face as the firelight shines upon it,
sees that it is sterner even than usual, and with
an added shade ot gloom darkening his brow.
For one moment she almost thought —but no: it
could have been only a mere impulse of pity,
or he would not look like that now. Cecily’s
voice is heard on the stairs at that moment, and
he turns and walks straight onto! the room.
Cecily enters directly afterward, and is soon
busy with Sims in getting Juliet to bed, for after
the first few minutes the invalid finds herself
thoroughly exhausted with the novel events of
the day. When she has taken some retresh
ment she falls into a deep sleep, and Cecily goes
to meet her husband and Sir Evelyn at dinner,
but when she comes up afterward she finds her
charge awake, and unusually bright. She talks
quite cheerfully to Cecily, but declines to see
Sir Evelyn again; and her cousin is really glad
of her refusal, for she soon discovers that her
new flow of spirits is more from excitement than
anything else, and she tries to compose her,
(earing its effects upon her weakness.
The next morning Juliet seems quite as well
as she has ever been since her illness. All the
night long her husband’s kiss seemed to burn
her cheek: awake she has thought of it—asleep
she has dreamed of it: and many a time has her
hand passed fondly aver the part touched by
his lips. The cloud of doubt and fear which
came over her immediately alter his last kiss
Beems to have lifted; almost unknown to her
self, a’tiny|bloesom of hope unfolds in her heart.
Edith is not here; her presence no longer sheds
its disquieting influence over her; and Juliet in
her new peace and contentment almost forgets
her cousin’s existence. It so happens that
Edith herself has no opportunity of reminding
her of it, for she takes a severe cold, and is en
tirely confined to the house for three weeks.
Business of course often takes Lovelace to
Compton, and when he comes back he sits in
Juliet's room by her side, not quite so grave as
usual—his smile not quite so rare. Their in
tercourse just at this time very much resem
bles that at Evelyn Priory two years ago, in
their quiet friendliness and apparent kindly
feeling toward one another; and Cecily rejoices
to see the gulf which separated them bridged
over, if ever so slightly. Perhaps her loving
presence warms their hearts; perhaps the evi
dent tender affection existing between herself
ftnd her husband incites them to emulate so
good an example-certain it is that Lovelace
never showed such kindness to his wife as now
—kindness that at times almost amounts to ten
derness.
Juliet improves wonderfully under the new
Older of things. Every day she gains strength.
First she comes down to dinner, and then to
luncheon, until at last she resumes her ordina
ry life down stairs, and begins to look some
th ng like her old self again, with a faint rise
flush on her cheeks, and a bright and more na
tural light in her sweet blue eyes.
Cecily decides that she and’Burnet must go
now; her presence is no longer really neaded,
and she thinks that the husband and wife
should be leit alone. She trusts that a new and
happer lie is dawning upon them since Ju
liet’s illness, and she is content to leave the rest
to time.
Juliet is loath to leave her cousin. The two
girls were always friendly enough when they
met, but until the past weeks ot trial and anx
iety nothing had ever happened to draw them
together in the .firm bond of affection. But now
—Juliet’s heart almost fails her as her dear
friend and cousin announces that she must re
turn home.
Che misses both Burnet snd Cecily very
much when they are gone, for Lovelace is ne
cessarily out a great deal looking a;ter his own
affairs, as w 11 as keep ng a watchful eye upon
the new steward appointed to the management
of the Compton estate; and there is beside, a
great deal o' business to be done in the library
with Mr. Lewes and the lawyer; so that alto
gether she is very much alone, and half in
clined to be mopish again. It is not as though
she and he were true husband and wife, with
their two lives and interests bound fast togeth
er in one bond f mutual love; they are separ
ate, living their lives apart, each knowing little
or nothing ot the other’s real trials, though they
each pitv the other for imaginary ones.
Soon afterward Ed th recovers sufficiently to
drive over and pay Juliet a visit.
“ It seems quite a long time since I saw you,”
says Edith effusively; “ and yet it is not really
long, is it?”
“No; scarcely a month. Haven’t you brought
little Ilan dal ?”
“I declare, Juliet, you are looking wonder
fully better. You must have a very robust
constitution to pick up again so fast. Why, I
was quite prostrated by that cold 1 caught the
day a*ter you went away. Dr. Abbott says i
was suffering from nervous debility.”
She talks on without heeding her cousin’s
question, and Juliet cannot but seo that her
eyes constantly wander to the door, as if in ex
pectation ot its opening to admit somebody.
“ I am glad to see you are better again, ’ she
answers, courteously. “ This sharp Spring
weather has given nearly every one cold; the
frost has nip ( ed all my violets and primroses
under the south wall. But is Randal ill, that
you did not bring him ?”
“ Oh, no; he is well enough. I did not think
about it until the last minute, and it would
have taken ages to get him ready, and I couldn’t
wait then. But 1 will send for him if you par
ticularly want to see him.”
“ I should like to - very much. It is a month
now since I left Compton, and I have never
seen him once in all that time. You know lam
very proud of my—nephew* I was going to say
—but 116 is only my second cousin, after all.
But, whatever he is, I am very fond of him. ‘ E
“Oh, yes, I know you are," answers Edith,
with a conscious little laugh. “And so is Sir ( 1
Evelyn. Really, the not.ee he takes _of the , f
child is something wonderful, considering the ( i
sort of man that he is. Randal knows him , e
quite well, and will o ten go to him when he 1
won’t come near me." _ 1
The color rushes to Juliet’s face, and then
dies away almost instantly, leaving her paler t
than she was before, while her hands tremble I
visibly as they lie in her lap.
So this is the way in which her husband
spends his time when he is at Compton—not in
discussion with the lawyers and in going over i
papers with Mr. Lewes, as she had believed,,
but in petting and admiring Edith a child—in i
company with her, evidently. t
Edith seems to read her bitter thoughts m ;
her face; at any rate, she blushes and looks 1
away, with a half-triumphant smile upon her 1
lips. But Juliet soon recovers herself, and de- ;
termines to bring her cousin to her senses with I
a sharp re.oinder. . , T 1
“And what about his father, Edith? I sup- <
pose you have heard nothing ?”
The smile fades instantly, and, she turns to
Juliet with an air of sorrow ul resignation.
“Dear Randal? No, nothing. 1 dare not
hope that he is alive.” , .
“But you are not in mourning for him? —
with a glance at tho elegant crape bonnet which <
surmounts the smooth golden hair, and which
is by no means a widow's head-gear. 1
Juliet feels vaguely that her question is pnt
with almost cruel directness and. indifference; £
but she does not try to soften it. She is stunned ]
beyond the power of feeling for others. j
“No, my dear," replies Edith, putting her |
handkerchief to her eyes. “ I have kept on
driving it off, thinking that something might be
heard at last. But it is too late now—we all ,
feel convinced of his death. I am going into (
mourning for bim immediately.”
There is a quiver iu her low, care hilly modu
lated voice’, ending in a hysterical sob ; but
Juliet is too much absorbed in her owu reflec
tions to heed her.
It has come at last, then. It is too late to
hope any more. And site alone stands between.
the two who love each other. Before either of
them speaks again the door opens to admit
Lovelace, and Edith brightens perceptibly at ths
sight of him. He greets her very gravely,
without the shadow of a smile on his handsome,
dark face—without, any tone of pleasure in his
deep voice. But that is for his wife’s special
benefit, Juliet decides. It is hard for her to sit
quietly by and see another woman’s face light
up at the sight of her own husband.
“ So you are out again ?’’ he says, briefly.
“les; I thought 1 must try to come and seo
Juliet, since she has not yet been able to come
and see me. But how much better she looks.
1 am sure she will soon be out of doors again.”
“Not while this east wind is blowing,’ he
answers, in the same decided but indifferent
way in which he might announce that he in
tended to keep some delicate plant indoors dur
ing the cold weather.
“Ah,” Edith exclaims, with a charming air of
tender sadness, “she has some one to take
good care of her—fortunate girl that she is."
She stops, and again puts her handkerchief to
her eyes, and Juliet sees her slender shoulders
heave under her furs.
“ Well, I think you have not wanted for care
yet,” he answers, bluntly.
“No, you have been most kind,” Edith fal
ters. “You have been a very good friend to
me, and I owe you a great deal which I can
never repay. But you don t know what it
is ■”
“ I think I know what trouble is,” he inter
rupts, with eyes lull ot stern sorrow.
Juliet listens and trembles. Has he quite
forgotten her presence, then, that be speaks out
his mind so bluntly ? Or does he wish to let
her see plainly what a burden she is t<? him ?
“Then ( am very sorry for you," answers
Edith, sottlv, raising her gentle, blue eyes to
his for a 'moment, as he stands beside her
chair.
Juliet watches them in silence. Yes, they
have quite forgotten her now that they have
each other to look at and to speak to. What a
perfect pair they make, placed so near to each
other I
“Do you know,” says Ed’th, presently, chang
ing the subject, “ little Randal grows so intelli
gent—he seems quite to miss you when you are
not at Compton.”
“Does he, indeed?” he replies, absently,
with no change of expression.
Juliet watches him intently. Is this indiffer
ence real or assumed ?
“ Yes,” continues Edith placidly; “he would
not go to Mr, Lewes when he was here this
morning; directly he took him he cried so that
the poor man was quite frightened, and nearly
let him drop. And yet he never cries when you
take him "—with another upward glance at him
from beneath her long lashes.
“Ah! I suppose that honor is so very rare
that he makes the most of it when it is bestowed
upon him,” Mir Evelyn answers, with a laugh.
“He always took to you,” remarks Edith
sweetly, ignoring the rebuff conveyed in the
last sentence; but Juliet, I ke a culprit at the
bar, weighs every word and watches every look.
He tells a different story from Edith, that is cer
tain.
“ Well, it is time I was going,” Edith contin
ues presently, but without rising from her chair.
“How soon are you coming to see me, Juliet?”
turning to her cousin,
“I cannot allow her to go out in this cold
weather, ’ he interposes.
“ Oh, it would not hurt her!” says Edith
lightly. “I dare say it would brace her up.
“ You must allow me to differ with you on that
point,” he re oins.
“Fancy me out in this bitter wind,” she goes
on, “ and Juliet kept indoors I” laughing half
contemptuously. “ Why, she was always as
strong as a horse 1”
“ Nevertheless, I cannot allow it,” he repeats
firmly, putting aside all discussion of the sub
ject, and Edith feels in some vague way that
she has lost ground, though how she cannot ex
actly tell.
“But she will be very pleased to see you
whenever you can come,” he adds, alter a short
pause.
“ Yes,” supplements Juliet, with an effort to
be cordial. “ Come to dinner to-morrow, won’t
you? We are very quet now that Burnet and
Cecily have gone, but if you do not mind ”
“Oh, I shall be delighted 1” interrupts Edith.
“ You have no idea what I suffer from loneli
ness. Your dullness can be nothing to mine. I
am devoured with ennui.”
“I drd not say I was dull,” returns Juliet with
dignity,and then,feeling that her husband's eyes
are upon her her face, she colors and turns
away, while Edith looks sharply from one to the
other, wondering what may be tho meaning of
that very conscious blush. Not succeeding in
gaining much from either countenance, she cre
ates a diversion by inquiring whether Sir Eve
lyn is going to Compton that day.
“Yes; 1 have an appointment with Mr. Lewes
at one o'clock,” he says, looking at his watch.
“We are going to Bailey’s about the lease. Plen
ty of time yet.”
“ Oh, then, I can take you back in the car
riage with me I” she says readily. “It will be
pleasanter than going on horseback on such a
day as this.”
“ Thank you,” he replies a little stiffly, “ but
1 had made up my mind to walk the distance
this morning. It is not far, and I should be
sorry to inconvenience you •”
“ It will not inconvenience me; there is plenty
of room in the carriage. Indeed you must not
walk, Sir Evelyn. The wind is full in one’s face
. ah the way.”
He laughs a short, sarcastic laugh.
“ That would make no difference to me,” he
says; “but, since you are kind enough to be
pressing, Mrs. Blakey, I will avail myself of
your offer.”
Edith rises quickly enough then, with an air
of satisfaction, and makes her adieux to her
cousin.
“1 will come early to-morrow,” she says, in a
confidential manner, that calls forth Juliet’s
secret resentment; “ and then we can have one
of our nice long talks.”
She lea es the room with Lovelace, looking
back with a smile at her cousin, who returns it
very coldly, and then goes to tho window and
looks at her husband putting Edith into her car
riage. With miserable, jealous eyes she watches
each little commonplace attention on his part,
and magnifies it a thousandfold.
Neither ot them looks up as she stands there
neither of them seem to remember the lonely
wife gazing out of the window. They settle
themselves comlortably among the furs and
rugs, and drive away out of sight.
All the old despair comes over Juliet, as she
turns sadly away and seats herself by the fire.
It is burning low, but she does not trouble her
self to ring lor coals. She feels nothing, knows
nothing, but that her husband has just gone
away with the woman whom he loves, and who
loves him, with never a look or a thought for
her—his wife.
Ho does not return until she is dressed for
dinner, and sitting in the drawing-room with a
book.
“I shall just have time to dress,” he says,
looking into the room on his way up stairs. “ I
lunched at Compton.”
“Ot course,” she returns, coldly.
“Why ‘of course’ ? ” he-demands, glancing at
her in some surprise.
“That you must answer for yourself. I
should think you ought to know.”
In her jealous and angry mood she takes a
malicious delight in rousing his displeasure.
“ I do not know what you moan,” he says,
coldly.
“ I am sorry to be so inexplicable,” she re
torts.
; Ho turns on his heel then and leaves tho
room, and when he comes down stairs again he
. is not in a very good temper, as she quickly dis
i covers. When dessert is set upon the table, and
they are left alone, be speaks for the first time.
, “ I met Lady Carstairs to-day when I was
out. She has .just returned from Paris, and was
very much surprised to hear of your illness.
i She is coming to see you to-morrow morning.”
. “ Ah ! A great pity to waste her time,” Juliet
answers, carelessly. “I shall be engaged. Little
Randal is to come up to-morrow morning, and
, he will want all my attention.”
; “As if he need prevent you from seeing her,”
3 he answers, contemptuously.
3 “He is a very welcome and honored visitor;
t I cannot put him aside for anybody,” she says.
“Pshaw! A baby 1 You will have to see her
i Juliet.”
1 “I shall do as I like I” she retorts. “Tray
t where will you be that you cannot do the hou
- ora of your house ?”
“ It is you—not me—who she is coming to see;
i you speak like an unreasonable child,” he re
r joins. “Beside, I shall be at Compton then,”
o he adds, “steadily meeting the fire of her an
y gry blue eyes.
NEW YORK DISPATCH, AUGUST 7, 1887.
“Oh, I might have known that I” sho replies 1
sarcastically.
“I do not think the boy will bG able to come i
to see you to-morrow,” be continues, unusually f
forbearing on account of her weakness. “He *
was ailing and fretful when 1 left this a ternoon, >
and they think he is sickening for something, I *
beliex e,’so that it is not likely there will be any j
hinderance to your seeing Lady Carstairs. J
“ If Randal is going to be ill I must go and
see him to-morrow morning,” she persists will- J
fully. ‘
“No, you must not.”
“But 1 must, if he is ill.” 1
“You will not go outside this house without -
my leave,” he returns. , 1
Juliet looks coolly for one instant into his
wrathful eyes, and then rises and sweeps out of
the room in silence. Presently he hears her
playing the piano and singing snatches of gay '
little songs, and when her new strength is ex- ’
hausted, which is very quickly, she makes great
pretense ot reading and working, which she 1
keepsup until past ten o’clock; but Lovelace
does not go into the drawing-room again that
evening.
CHAPTER XII.
“ I LOVE HIM—I LOVE HIM—I LOVE HIM !”
The next morning, before Juliet had finished
dressing, her maid brings her a note which has
just arrived from Compton. She opens it hur
riedly, half guessing the contents, and reads:
“ Dear Juliet—Do come at once, if you pos
sibly can. Randal has got the croup, and has
beeii so ill all night; I believe Doctor Abbott
fears the worst, but he will not say. I have not
been to bed at all, and am perfectly exhausted.
“Edith.”
“Where is Sir Evelyn?*’ inquires Juliet, look
ing up from the note with a set purpose in her
eyes
“He went to Price’s farm, my lady. He told
Mitchell he should be ba.k in time for break
fast.”
“I believe I hear him now. Make haste,
Sims.”
The maid is astonished at her mistress’s unu
sual eagerness to meet her husband, and when,
scarcely allowing her to complete her duties,
Juliet leaves the room and almost runs down
stairs, she stands gazing after her in amaze
ment. Entering the breakfast-room with more
haste than dignity, Juliet nearly runs up against
her busband, who is standing by the table with
a newspaper in his hand. One look at bis face
sobers her a little. That he has not forgot
ten their somewhat stormy interview of
the previous evening is very evident in his
moody brow and resentful dark eyes. She need
expect no favor at bis hands she can see that
at a glance. If he lets her go, it will be because
Edith needs her—not because she herself asks
him. He does not bid her good morning, nor
indeed d es she give him t me. Perhaps, in her
hurry, she is a little unwise.”
“f have just had this from Compton,” she
says eagerly, handing him the note. “ i'andal
has got the croup, and they fear he will not
live.”
He reads it through leisurely, and lays it
down upon the table beside him.
“ Well ?’’ she demands breathlessly, finding
that ho does not speak.
“ Well ?” he returns coolly.
“ You won’t mind me going now the dear lit
tle fellow is so ill, and Edith in such trouble?”
“ I should mind very much indeed.”
“Edith is no nurse, you know,” she pleads,
keeping her impatience under strong control.
“ Neither will you be, for the present.”
“ Oh, what does it matter about me ?” she ex
claims bitterly.
“It matters this—that I you are not to
go.”
“ And I say I will I” she retorts passionately.
“Let me see you dare to disobey me,” he re
turns, with a sudden menace in his eye that
makes Juliet's blood boil.
But in the midst of her wrath she has still
common sense enough left not to announce her
intention—instantly formed in her mind alter
his last speech—of taking him at his word. She
would never have a chance of carrying it out,
she wfs well aware. She turns and goes out
of the room and up stairs to her own apart
ments, while Lovelace sits down te his break
fast, considering the matter settled. He has
always been accustomed to command, and
forthwith to be obeyed; it does not occur to
him at the present time that a young and weak
girl—no matter how impatient of control—will
be the first to set his authority at defiance.
An hour afterward l ady Lovelace again in
quires as to her busband's whereabouts, and
hears from her maid that he hi s started to go
round the place, as he is in the habit of doing,
the first thing after breakfast.
“ Very well. Now order the carriage for me,
and then come back to help me to dress.”
The maid obeys, in some surprise, being well
aware that her mistress is not yet considered
strong enough to brave the weather, and when
she returns she ventures to offer a faint pro
test.
“The wind is bitter, my lady,” she remarks,
as she fastens her mistress a fur cloak; “ it cuts
one through like a kni e. 1 hope it won’t do you
any h rm, my lady.”
“ You don’t understand, Sims—this is ur
gent. The fact ia, the baby ia very ill, and,
ahould he not get better soon, 1 may be de
tained there for several days. If ao, I ahall
want aome thinga, of course, but I will send you
orders.”
“Hadn’t I better come with you, my lady?
Y r ou want taking care of still,” bima ventures to
remind her mistress.
‘•Not now; but if I stay overnight I may send
for you—though not to take care of me, Sims ”
with a weary smile. *, I think I am strong
enough to look after myself now.”
“ Tell Sir Evelyn, when ho returns, that I
have gone to Compton,” ia her parting injunc
tion to Sima, as she gets into the carriage.
Arrived at the house, she meets with very
grave faces aa the servants come and go with
hushed voices and noiseless footsteps. They
can give her no good news of “little Master
Randal.”
Juliet goes straight up stairs to the nursery,
where, to her astonishment, she finds only
Jane, one of the housemaids, by the sick-bed ol
the little boy.
Juliet is told that the doctor had to go away
for a short time, but that he will return as soon
as he c.-.n; that the child’s own nurse went
home late tho previous night to her dying mo
ther; that Mrs. Blakey has gone to lie down for
an hour or two—she was tired out—and her
maid is with her.
Juliet has little to say in answer to this, but
she immediately installs herself as head nurse,
and dismisses the housemaid to her duties.
Once, when she thinks he is muqh worse, she
sends for Edith, but Prescott comes to &ay that
her mistress is in a sound sleep, and is she to
wake her ? Her mistress told her never to
wake her on any account—she got so little
sleep.
“ Yes, wake her,” says Juliet, pitilessly, and
a lew minutes afterward Edith comes into the
room in a profusely-emtroidered dressing
gown of plain blue cashmere, her beautiful
golden ha r in becoming disorder, and an ele
gant scent-bottle held to her nose with one del
icate white hand.
“Is my dear boy w’orse ?” she cries, hysteri
cally. “Uh, Juliet, what am Ito do?”
“ You can do nothing, I am airaid,” Juliet
returns, gravely. “ I only thought, if ”
She stops, out ol consideration tor her cous
in’s weakness.
“ Oh, Juliet, you don’t mean to say that he is
dying ’. Oh, don’t be so cruel I My child !”
“ 1 don’t mean to say anything about it,” Ju
liet answers, as gently as she can; “but he is
worse just now, and 1 thought you ought to be
here ”
For soma time they watch by the side of the
suffering child, doing what little they can to re
lieve him, and fearing that every moment will
be his last; but presently he rallies slightly,
and Edith sinks into a chair, covering her face
with her handkerchief and relapsing into hys
terical wailing.
She does not stay in the sick-chamber for
long, but presently retires to her couch, weep
ing.
Shortly afterward Dr. Abbott arrives.
“ Yon here, Lady Lovelace?” he says, in as
tonishment. “Why did you come out in such
weather as this ? 1 told Sir Evelyn ”
“ Ob, it has not hurt me, doctor,” she an
swers. ‘‘l could not stay away when this poor
child was so ill.”
“ They ought not to have told you,” he an
swers, gravely. “ Indeed, Lady Lovelace, this
is no tit task lor you. You are not strong
enough yet.”
“You shall judge of my strength by my ac
tions, she says, smilingly. “I am here now,
and not a bit tired. ’
But even as she utters tho words she feels an
odd sensation of faintness coming over. her.
She has been standing ever since she left the
carriage, and she has not broken her fast that
morning, but she masters the feeling and rises
to the occasion, unconsciously eliciting silent
admiration from Dr.’Abbott.
“ Shall I call bis mother ?” she asks once,
when the boy seems in great danger.
“No.no; let her be. She’s of no use,' 1 he
answers.
It wrings her heart to look upon the child’s
sufferings, but she does not flinch-she does all
that can be done ; and when there is nothing
more to do she never turns her eyes from the
poor little agonized face, watching eagerly lor
, the first sign of relief, He is better again pres
ently, and the doctor ventures to express a hope
that he shall “pull him through this time.”
They are talking in low tones about him,
■ when Juliet hears her husband’s voice below.
Has he come to fetch her back—to let them all
i know how she stole away in his absence—to let
i them all see how ill they agree together? But
■ an instant’s reflection tells her that she need
I fear no such conduct from him. Lovelace is
, one to conceal rather than to reveal the unhap
i piness of his domestic affairs, nnd his stately
i dignity would never stoop to upbraid his wife in
. the presence of a third person. Nevertheless
’ her heart beats wildly as she hears his step
; ascending the stairs.
i He opens the door and advances into the
1 room, his glance leisurely taking in each of its
occupants, and falling last of all upon the trem
’ bling figure of his wife, holding on by the rail
of the cot as if to support herself.
; “ I think you must be tired by this time, Ju-
’ liet,” ho says, in his ordinary voice, and then,
r without waiting tor an answer from her, he
turns to the child. “Is he as bad as they tell
r me ?” he inquires.
“ Not now ; I think he'll do a f ter a bit,” is the
reply. “But he could not be much worse than
; he has been.”
. Lovelace bends over the cot, watching the
’ child critically. There is no sound in the room
- save the hard breathing of the little patient and
an occasional crackle of the fire. Juliet stands
holding on to the rail as if her life depended on I
it. The deadly sensation of faintness is upon i
her agan -it is iu vain that she struggles
against it. She is just thinking in a bewildered 1
sort of way that she-will go and sit down, when I
the door again opens and Edith comes in. She i
also had heard Lovelace come up stairs, and
was by no means pleased that he should find ;
her away from her child at such a time.
“ How is he now ?’’ she says, anx ously, pass- >
ing to the bedside and affecting at first not to i
see the new-comer. “I told Prescott to be sure
to call me in ball an hour, but she did not—l i
suppose she knew how wearied I was. Ah, Sir
Evelyn!” with a languid uplifting of her sad ;
blue eyes to bis, “you have come to condole
with me in my sorrow?’’
“There is no need for condolence, Mrs.
Blakey,” interposes Dr. Abbott, bluntly. “I
quite believe he will get the better of it this
time.”
“ Oh, how thankful I am I May I really be
lieve it? Oh, my child ’’
But here her ejaculations of joy are suddenly
broken off, and ller eyes, as well as those of the
two men and the maid, turn in the direction of
Juliet, who has quietly slipped down upon the
floor beside the cot and fainted away.
When she comes to herself she is lying on the
couch in Edith’s room, and some oue is dash
ing cold water on her face. A querulous voice
is speaking, and she listens to it as one in a
dream,
“It was so silly of her—l am sure I did not
want her to over-exert herself. Really, lam
very sorry, but ”
“ Don’t distress yourself, Mrs. Blakey,” inter
rupts another voles, deep and grave, “iwill
take care it does not occur again.”
Edith begins to cry at that, and Juliet hears
her husband go out of the room. He soon re
turns, and tells Edith that the doctor requires
her presence in the nursery.
“ You forgive me ?" asks Edith, and Juliet
knows by the rustle of her garments that she
has risen and is standing before him.
“ I have nothing to forgive,” he replies with
cold courtesy, and Juliet, though her eyes are
closed, can so well imagine the foYmal bow
which, she has no doubt, accompanies his
words, that, in spite of her feeling of extreme
weakness, she almost laughs.
Edith goes away then, and Lovelace ad
vances to the couch.
“ How is she now he says to Prescott.
“Better, sir, I think. She has got a little
color in her face now.”
“ Juliet.”
“Yes.”
She opens her eyes and looks at him.
“ That is right. How do you feel now 1”
“Pretty well, only——”
“ Only ?”
“Rather weak,” she is forced to confess, as
an excuse for maintaining the reclining posi
tion, lor she feels that she cannot get up.
“ I think you may go now ; 1 will stay with
Lady Lovelace,” he says to Prescott, and the
husband and wife are left together.
He sits beside her for a long while without
speaking. She lies still, with her eyes closed,
wondering vaguely what he will eay.
“ How is liandalshe asks at length, when
the continued silence is no longer endurable.
“Better. Cut of danger, I believe.”
“ 1 am glad to hear that.”
She speaks very calmly, and Lovelace eyes
her critically, as if calculating the amount ol
her strength.
“Do you know I came here to bo very angry
with you, Juliet ?” he says, alter a long pause.
“ I thought you did,’’ she replies, so naively
that an involuntary smile curves his lips. But
she does not see it.
“However, you have had your punishment,”
he continues. “Are you not sorry that you dis
obeyed me now
“I cannot say that.”
“Do you take such a delight in defying my
authority, Juliet ”
“ I did not think of you at all in the matter,”
she answers. “ I camo here for little Randal’s
sake only.”
He rises trom his chair, and begins to pace
thoughtfully up and down the room. Juliet,
stealing a glance at him now and again, sees
that his brow is heavily clouded, and that his
eyes are both stern and sorrowful.
“I (ear it was a mistake,” he says, half to
himself, as he pursues his walk. “ I fear it was
a mistake.”
“1 know it was a mistake,” she says, aloud.
She knows what he reiers to—he means that
he had better have had their marriage dissolved
at first, instead of trying to enduro her in bis
house. He comes and stands by her side at
that, looking sadly down at her.
“You think so,” Juliet ?”
“ Yes, I do. I would give my life to undo the
past.”
She speaks with almost unconscious energy,
glad to take this opportunity of letting him
know how humbly and truly she regrets her
mad act act on that March day two years ago.
It may solten bis pain—if ever so li tie—to
know that she does not triumph over him in her
sad success.- But it seems to her that another
shade of sorrow comes over his dark face.
“it is too late now,” he says, and turns
away.
From that time there is a sort of armed peace
between them.
Juliet remains at Compton for several days,
for the weather continues very severe, and both
her husband and the doctor think it better for
her to stay where she is until it improves ; but
she is not allowed to have much to do with the
nursing of little Randal, nor, in spite of her en
tre dies, is she permitted to sit up even a single
night with him.
Sittiug by the fire one afternoon with Edith,
the latter alludes to former times.
“ We have not been fortunate, have we ?” she
says. I have lost my husband, and you—any
one can see that you are not happy with
yours.”
Juliet has not enough of her old spirit to re
ply to this assertion. She only droops her head
lower over Edith’s child upon her lap.
“ There are some people who can never get
on together,” continues Edith, meditatively.
Not that it is their fault in the least degree,
but their natures seem opposed.. Now, though
you may not think it, Juliet, I can assure yon
that Sir Evelyn is a most kind-hearted and
agreeable man.
“I am glad you think so,” Juliet replies,
raising her head proudly. If Edith saw the
flash of her cousin’s blue eyes and the sudden
haughty gesture ol her graceful head, she
would surely take warning thereby, and leave
the dangerous subject where it is, but her gaze
is fixed upon the glowing fire, and she notices
nothing—not even the ominous change in Ju
liet’s voice.
“ Well, you see,” she goes on, slowly, “it was
being forced into marrying him that made me
dislike him at first. But if lie and Randal could
have changed places—Randal have been the
owner of Tenham, and Sir Evelyn the poor sol
dier-—” She pauses.
“Then—you think you would have chosen
differently ? ’
“It is impossible to tell, my dear,” deprecat
ingly. “My feelings at the time were so very
much prejudiced by poor dear father's strong
advocacy of Sir Evelyn’s suit.”
“ Still,” pursues Juliet, determined to know
the worst, “ you think it would have been bet
ter if I had not interiered—if things had been
left to take their own course ?”
i “ Well, perhaps it would. Of course you did
it for the best—to help me—and a very good
little cousin you were ’ —patting the passive
hand near her own -“but you see, my dear, the
plan has not turned out well.”
Juliet sits like one turned to stone. In this
the girl who at one time was her friend—cousin
—sister who sits there speaking words of such
cruel truth? Whatever she feels about it, she
might at least conceal those feelings from the
woman who spoiled her own life for her sake i”
“ I am sorry I cannot die to oblige you 1” she
remarks, in hard indifferent tones.
“Oh, my dear Juliet 1” exclaims Edith, as
though painfully shocked, “ how can you say
such things ? Now just suppose, as a punish
ment for such a naughty speech, you should
die as you sit there, with my dear boy in your
arms I That would be a dreadlul thing 1”
“ 1 wish I could I” returns Juliet, with reck
less fervor.
“ Why, Juliet, how perfectly shocking ! Do
you hate Sir Evelyn so much as that?”
“No, I don’t hate him,” Juliet answers, rising
suddenly to her feet, and putting the child
abruptly into his mother’s lap. “ Why do you
keep harping on my imaginary dislike lor him?
I never told you I hated him—l don’t! I love
him- I love him—l love him I”
She stands before her cousin during this im
passioned speech like an insulted and indignant
queen, and Edith remains quite still, as though
cowed by the Are of her angry eyes and the
majesty ot her righteous wrath. The child
begins to cry at the sudden and unceremonious
change of position, but neither of them hears
him —they ga :e into each other’s eyes, heedless
of all else, until Juliet turns and walks out of
the room.
In the evening, sitting alone in the drawing
room after dinner—for Edith had gone up
stairs on the excuse ol being anxious about
little Randal—Juliet’s thoughts become intolera
ble to her. It she cannot die, she longs with a
irenzied longing to get away from her tor-
I mentor. Tins feeling grows upon her to such a
| degree that she at last determines to go to her
husband while she has an opportunity, and beg
i bim to take her home—to send her to Lady
Thorncrolt’s—anywhere outof that house.
She rises, and goes to the dining-room in
i search ot him, but he is not there; then to the
library, with no better success. She gives up
hope then, and the sudden longing in her heart
dies away into despair. Alter all, what does it
. matter where she drags out the rest of her mis
: erablelife?
; She falls upon her knees beside a chair, rest
ing her arms on the seat, and burying her lace
i in her hands. She does not cry, she is conscious
• only of an overwhelming longing to die, and be
out of the way of Edith and her husband. How
i long she has been there she does not know,
i when the sound ot a voice startles her—a
> familiar voice, which makes her spring to her
feet with quickly-throbbing heart.
> “Juliet! Why, Juliet, what on earth is the
i matter ?”
It is Randal Blakey who stands before her—
I Randal, though his pink cheeks are brown now,
and the laugh in his blue eyes in sobered to a
■ kindly, wondering smile !
, Juliet runs to him, seizing both his hands,
i scarcely knowing what she does in her thank
-1 fulness and gladness. It would do no good now
if she died that minute 1
> “ Randal, Randal! Oh, how thankful lam 1”
i she exclaims. “ Oh, Randal, we thought you
were dead 1”
s “ You thought I was dead ? I must have
i frightened you, then. But what was the mat
-1 ter ? Not Edith, I hope, or the bey ?”
i “ No. no ! She is very well, and the child.
too. Oh, Randal, I was so miserable, but lam
so happy now 1”.
Her lace is radiant, her eyes sparkle with joy;
her whole expression seems transformed in her
sudden, glad excitement. Blakey stares at her
in undisguised amazement. (
“Phy, Juliet, what on earth has come to ,
yon ? 01 course you are glad to see a follow ,
whom you thought to be six feet under the ,
earth; but—but—l declare I scarcely under- ,
stand ”
“ Randal, don’t you remember when wo were
married—how I cheated Sir Evelyn ?” ;
She has fallen upon her knees beside the chair ,
again, and is pouring out her words in rapid,
nervous tones that will brook no restraint—fur- ;
ther selt-control is impossible to her in her j
weakened and excited state. •
“ I have been so miserable lately, Randal.
Wo believed you were dead, and 1 began to ,
think, if I could die, too, Edith and Sir Evelyn
could be married. I have sometimes thought
that he really cared for her then, instead of
merely wanting to marry her for the sake of
Compton.”
“ You absurd child ! Is that what you have
been fretting yourself to a skeleton about ?
What a vivid imagination you must have !
And how coolly you disposed of my wife 1
Why, it would take a great deal to bring all
that about. Edith hates him like poison—al
ways did 1”
“ Oh, Randal, perhaps T was very silly, but
I felt that I had separated them, and that, if he
did care lor her, it was through me ho lost
her. I couldn’t bear to think that I alone kept
—him—from his happiness ; and now you have
come back ”
“Then you do not oare for him, Juliet? I
always felt sure you would, somehow—aller
awhile.”
“He does not care for me, Randal. Is it
likely, when ’’
“ But, my dear child, he does oare for you. I
have good proof of it.”
He speaks with an air of superior wisdom
that would make her laugh on an ordinary oc
casion, but now it comforts her unspeakably.
A year or two ago she would not have believed
that the time would come when she would
make the young soldier her confidant, but now,
excluded from all others, she finds comfort in
talking to him, and listening to his assurances,
while he, tender-hearted as ever, but grown
graver and manlier from his close acquaintance
with the hardships and dangers of the battle
field, is more worthy of her confidence than
ever he could have been before.
“ Did you think that I was such a coward as
to let you put yourselt into Lovelace’s power,
without some guarantee of his good behavior
to you ?” he says half reproachfully, bending
over her and laying one hand upon her shoul
der—a hand which, twelve months ago, was
white and delicate us a woman’s, but which now
is brown and hard with toil and exposure. “ I
had a guarantee, Juliet—the best I could have
had. I knew he loved you. You don’t ask me
how I found it out,” he continues, as she does
not speak. ”1 suppose you don’t believe it,
but listen to what I can tell you. Only a few
days before you and Edith told me of your
plane, Ju, 1 caught that follow making a regular
fool of himself over a bow of ribbon that had
dropped from your dress
“ How do you know it was from my dress ?”
she questions, raising her eyes for a moment
to his animated lace, “It might have been
from Edith’s.”
“ Because I saw it fall, madam, and also saw
him pick it up and kiss it, and put it .”
“ Don’t 1” she exclaims, with a half-sup
pressed laugh that is almost a sob, and hiding
her face in the cushions of the chair, but he can
see the tips of her ears turn scarlet, and he
draws a favorable augury therefrom.
“ It's as true as that I stand here, my dear
girl; and that is why 1 ventured to fall in with
your plan. I knew 1 should be doing him a
good turn, and I thought you could not fail to
care for him soon. Whichever way I looked at
it, it seemed square enough, and, as my own
inclinations were strongly biased . 1 would
have told you long since if I had thought there
would be any need. But I did not consider it
my business to tell his secrets, and I trusted
him to win your heart, if he had a mind. A
fellow like that, Ju ! I can t think however you
have resisted him all this time—just the sort
the women rave about! I can tell you I have
often wondered how Edith came to prefer me to
him—lucky thing she did, though 1”
Juliet rises to her feet with a face that is
almost calm. She will never undeceive him.
As far as she is concerned, he shall always be
lieve that his wife loves him as fully and tender
ly as he does her.
“ Never mind about that, Randal, so long as
she did prefer you, and is yours now,” she says,
smiling gently.
“ Ob, no, I’m not going to bother myself
about it 1 When I’ve got the loveliest wife on
the face of the earth, I can afford to snap my
fingers at all the other fellows. But now, Juliet,
it will be all right with you. You know he
cares lor you, and I am sure any woman might
be proud of such a husband."
“ Yes; I am proud ot him,” she acknowledges
softly.
“ That’s right. And you forgive me now for
letting you sacrifice yourself to—us? You be
lieve that I did not consider only my own hap
piness?”
“ I never thought of such a thing, Randal. It
was I who did it, not you. I did it of my own
Iree will, to save Edith from—from—
“ From that terrible ogre of whom you are so
proud,” he laughs. “ And now, Juliet, I should
like to see my wile, U you can tell me where to
find her.”
“Ob, Randal—of course 1 How selfish T have
been, talking to you about my own troubles all
this time! What must you have thought ot
me?”
“ Nothing but what I have thought all along
—that you are the kindest and most generous
little girl in the world. I would talk to you for
a week without stopping if I could make your
life any happier by so doing. Have I succeeded
at all ?” he asks again.
“ I am very glad to know what you have told
me,” she replies, evading a direct answer to his
question. “ But now let us think of Edith.
Bhe must not be told too suddenly of your
arrival—she is not strong enough to bear such
a shock.”
“No; my poor darling was always delicate;
we must be very careful. And is the boy all
right, Juliet? And what sort of a fellow has he
turned out?”
“ He has just got through an attack of croup,
but the doctor says he is doing well now. He
is a beauty, Randal. ’
“ Ot course be is, because he is Edith’s boy.
And is all this mourning for me ?” touobuig her
black dress.
“Not altogether. I suppose you have not
heard of dear uncle rhil's death?”
“The colonel dead! No, indeed—l knew
nothing of it. Dear, dear 1”
Tho young man looks very grieved at tins
news, for he always entertained a most sincere
respect and admiration for the fiery old man,
who rated him so routfdly lor stealing his
daughter and forgave him almost in the same
hour.”
“ But; Randal,” she asks, “ how is it you have
been away so long ? Your regiment came home
months ago, and there has been search made
loryou. We all thought you must he dead
when nobody could get any news of you.”
“ I was taken prisoner and carried into the in
terior. They made a slave of me as long as
, they could keep mo, but that wasn’t very long
as you see. I toot myself off at the very first
opportunity, I can tell you, and a precious nar
row squeak I had of it, too. But never mind
about that now. I can tell you my adventures
another time,” he continues, following her to
, the door as she is about to go in search ot
( Edith, his kindly thoughts evidently more busy
with the troubles he finds at home than with
, those from which he has just escaped. “I dare
say I should have told you about that little
affair of the bow, when I found that Sir Evelyn
and you were really married and were going to
live the rest of your lives together; but I knew
Edith thought he cared for her, and I knew
also that it pleased her vanity to imagine it—all
pretty women are vain, you know,” with a fond
smile at the thought ot his wife—” and so I—l
let her think so, and didn’t say anything de
cidedly to the contrary. I hope it has made no
mischief'?”
“My husband has always been kind to me,
Randal,” she answers, quietly; “and 1 thank
you heartily for what you have told me to-dav.
Now let me go and tell Edith of your arrival.
You must bo longing to see her.”
(To ba Oontinuol.l
OLD SAM HOUSTON.
INSTANCES OF HIS BEADY WIT.
(JY’oin the Memphis Avalanche.}
While sitting socially with some triends in his
room at Willard's, Gen. Sam Houston was in
truded upon one night by a stalwart army
officer, who bolted in unceremoniously, stalked
across the room in full regimentals, and de
manded of Houston an apology for insult.
“ You labor under some mistake, sir; I am
not aware of ever having had the honor of
meeting you, or of ever seeing you, be ore this
moment,” said the general, in bis quiet, courtly
manner.
The intruder angrily rejoined: “You brushed
your elbow against mine to-day on Pennsylvania
avenue, and never stopped to beg pardon. I
feel grossly insulted, and told my friends that I
! should demand an apology, though I did not
, expect to get it. Nothing is left me but to seek
, the satisfaction due to a gentleman.”
■ Houston now rose trom his chair, stood with
that imperial dignity which he could assume at
will, and said, in a tone clear and satirical, as
he pointed the door to the visitor: “Commend
, me to the man who demands an apology when
! he don’t expect to get it.” Exit officer amid
( roars of laughter.
The vote of Gen. Houston in the United States
Senate on the repeal of the Missouri compromise
\ rendered him temporarily unpopular in Texas.
• In the political campaign following be drew
large crowds, as usual, wherever he spoke on
> the hustings, but was sometimes interrupted.
On one occasion a local politician, Col. (call
him Thompson), gave the old veteran the lie
direct in the middle of a speech. The general
J, paused; all eyes were upon him, and every one
was curious to see how the hero of San Jacinto
would resent the wanton insult. He said,
’ promptly and very deliberately: “Col. Thomp
r son calls me a liar. [Profound silence.] I can
not truthfully say that in my long life I have
’ never told a falsehood, but, fellow-citizens, I
t will now tell the biggest lie I ever told in my
life -Col. Thompson is a gentleman I”
j
“ Listen to your wife,” says a medical
advertiaement. As though one didn't have to listen
. to her.
AS HE HAD LIVED.
BY M. QUAD.
Day finally broken, and there is a red- 1
deuiiig of the eastern eky. The taint Unshoe
deepen—the purple fade's to gold—the gold '
turns to fire—and the topmost rim of the sun
rises from the plain and burnishes the crags ■
and peaks of the Powder River Mountains as if '
preparing them for temples of worship.
Five minutes later and a great continent is
beamed upon by the full suu of a glorious '
morning in Indian summer.
You ha.e seen a grand old horse—almost
blind -almost ready to die from old age, rise
from his grassy bed of a summer morning '!
The morn seemed to put new life into him.
Thera is fire ig his eyes as he flings his head
about and snuffs at the sunshine, and for the
moment he is young and strong again.
So on this morn, from his camp in the foot
hills, rises a grand old man, and, as he draws
himself up to his full bight and faces the glori
ous east, his eyes grow bright, his muscles
quiver, and the strength comes back to every
limb. But it is not for long. The sun is scarce
ly a foot above the plain when the tail form
stoops, the limbs begin to weaken, and the tire
dies out of the eyes and is replaced by a dull
stare.
It is the wreck of a man—a mighty hunter
and fighter. These plains and mountains and
valleys haxe been his home tor a score of years.
Face—chest—limos—everywhere about him,
are scare of wounds dealt by savage or beast.
The going down of the sun has found him
alone; the dawn of day has found him solitary.
Break a man’s heart and he turns from the
worid and hates vice and virtue alike.
He is old and his strength has waned. Death
has been long in coming, but it has drawn nigh
at last. The chill of death drives some men
back to the world, to die with tender hands
about them. Others defy the grim monster to
the last, and they die alone, unwept, unoared
for.
“It is my last day on earth I” So says the
grand old man as he slowly turns on his heel
to look about him. The vision that could once
discern a moving buffalo hall a score of miles
away can now scarcely make out the ragged
trees across the little valley. The arms which
could have once lifted the most powerful war
rior high in a:r for a dash to death, can now
scarcely bring the rifle to an aim. He has run
his race and his time has come. '
The sun climbs up, and the day bursts
forth into fulljstrength. The mountains stand
out with such ruggedness and grandeur as
never beiore. The valleys and the hillsides
never held the sunshine as to-day. Nature is
to give the old man a grand funeral.
And the sun climbs higher, and it is midday.
And how should he die—one whose Hummers
and Winters, whose months and years, have
been passed in the sunshine oi the sterile
plains, in the shadows of the rugged mountains,
with the growl of the grizzly and the shout of
the red warrior in his ears ? In the dramas of
the stage men die as they have lived ; why not
in real life?
The old i man is ready. Rifle in hand,, his
grizzly locks half hidden by his fur cap, his
strength coming back as if he had been born
again, be seats himself upon a great rock and
scans the winding valley at his feet. God gives
him back his sight once more, and no creeping
thing escapes his vision. To the right all is
well. To the left—wait I He half rises for a
better look.
Enemies—warriors I
Have they got the word that to-day is the old
man’s ia t day on earth, and are they to sit in
front and applaud as the curtain goes down?
It is well. That long ride has sent more than
ono warrior to hie death. That great frame,
now so rapidly wasting, bears the scar of bullet
and tomahawk and knife.
A dozen warriors—a war party bent on rapine
and murder—come galloping swiftly up the
valley. The old fighter grows young in years
as he watches the advance. The thrill of ex
eitement brings the blood to his cheek-the
whisper of danger strings every nerve. Fate
has been kind to him; as -ho has lived so shall
he die. Would you have the hero of a score o
battles die in his bed, alone and unseen, or in
front of his foes, fighting gallantly to the last,
and his death applauded even by those who
slew him?
Ah! they have caught sight of him. The
gaunt figure outlined against the sky is a fa
miliar one. It has been feared lor its strength,
hated for the destruction it has wrought. Es
cape is cut off to the right—to the left—in
front. The background is rugged hillside, on
which the warriors are more at home than the
hunter. And so shouts of defiance and exulta
tion fill the air as the warriors dismount and
advance.
Make ready now I The drama of life is near
its close. The life and strength which excite
ment brought are beginning to die away. Their
shouts come faintly to his ears; there is a blur
before his eyes; the hands which hold the rifle
tremble with weakness. Death is sweeping up
from the valley in its war plumes—death is
creeping down from the hillside with a swift
step, but invisible form.
And now the shouts of the warriors are near
er and louder, and their rifles are blazing death
at the hunter, and he turns bis face to heaven
and pleads:
“ A tew last seconds of strength and sight
and I am ready to go !”
They are given him. His eyes clear—his
form grows erect -he is the grand old fighter
once more. Up comes the rifle—up—up—his
eye covers the sights—the weapon is held as
firm as a rock, and when the red flame leaps
out a chief flings up his arms and utters his
death ory.
The drama has ended, and the curtain has
gone down. The warriors creep nearer and
nearer. They wonder and are mystified. They
finally reach the rock to find the old man lying
dead, his face upturned to the sun, whose ris
ing wilt see him no more. There is no blood
no wound. They gather about him like chil
dren about a mystery, and they whisper to each
other:
“It was not for us to slay him. The Great
Spirit gave him his life, and the Great Spirit
took it away.”
talismlnicT tricks.
QUEER HABITS OF PEOPLE WHO
BELIEVE IN LUCK.
(Jfann the .Sf. Louis Evening Chronicle,)
It is surprising what a large number of men
are governed by some pet superstition. It is
generally designated as “whim” or “eccen
tricity,” but it is adhered to with unwavering
devotion. A Franklin avenue liquor merchant
recently employed a new clerk, who came well
recommended, but whose position lasted less
than a day. The clerk, on entering upon his
duties, took a survey of the surroundings, and
resolved to get into the good graces of his em
-1 ployer by giving the place a thorough cleaning.
' The opportunity opened up at once. The pro
prietor was called down-down. The clerk
1 would surprise him. The show-window, filled
' with decanters,casks and straw-wrapped bottles,
1 looked as if it had not been cleaned for years.
■ Dust covered everything and cobwebs filled
every corner. An opportune beginning. The
■ clerk got soap and water and opened the as
-1 sault. About the time he got a good start ho
was suddenly jerked out of the window, and
when he looked up his employer was standing
over him.
“Get out of here at once. You pretend to
know the wholesale liquor business and com
mence by cleaning a window. You have lied to
me. You never worked at the business be
fore.”
The terrified clerk fled, and the proprietor,
in apologizing to a customer, made this expla
nation :
“A liquor dealer’s window is his ‘mascot.’
The dustier and fuller of cobwebs it is, the bet
ter will be his trade. Clean it up and ill-luck
will follow. The superstition is general with
the class. Look all through the city for proof
of this. If the liquor store windows are clean,
it. is because the proprietors are new in the
business.”
THE LUCKY MONEY DRAWER.
A grocer in the west end has a very singular
superstition. Years ago, when Market street,
for a mile east of Grand avenue, was a huge
commons, he started a little grocery. By close
attention to business he built up a iair country
trade and accumulated considerable property.
One unlucky day he built an addition to his
store room and changed the shelving. This
necessitated a new cash drawer. From that
time on his good luck deserted him, and in a
year he was forced to the wall. He had a little
stock left, however, with his old fixtures and
the old cash drawer, and with these he fixed up
another room. Fortune again smiled upon him,
and now he is worth a quarter of a millio-n. He
still uses that old cash drawer, and would not
exchange it for the value of all the rest of his
stock.
A SILVER POCKET PIECE.
A certain politician, who was recently defeat
ed for office, ascribes his defeat to the loss of a
silver pocket piece. Years ago, when he started
West from the Atlantic coast, a .silver quarter
was given him by an old lady who conjured him
to keepjt at all hazards. He was successful from
the start, and is to-day worth $100,600, mostly
in valuable St. Louis real estate. He would
give a large sum for the return of his pocket
piece, and ask no questions.
LAWYERS’ SUPERSTITIONS,
Lawyers, if not exactly superstitious, are ex
tremely whimsical on the subject of jewelry.
Any observing frequenter of the court-rooms
will notice this. One well known attorney of
this city wears a diamond ring when he appears
for the plaintiff, and a cameo when be is counsel
for the defendant. One of his clients was re
cently sentenced to two years’ imprisonment,
and the lawyer says it is because be did not
wear his cameo when making the plea. Another
youthful limb of the law, who already enjoys a
practice as extensive as do many of bis older
and abler competitors, firmly believes that his
success results from his possession of several
works on jurisprudence presented to him by the
late Emory A. Storrs, of Chicago.
SPECULATORS’ BELIEFS.
But speculators on ’Change show more im
plicit and unquestioning confidence in signs and
omens than any other class. One member, well
known for the interest he takes in politics, as
1 well as for successful speculation, regards it as
“great luck” to disarrange, inadvertently, any
’ article of clothing in the morning. He will be
seen taking big risk that day, no matter what
the condition of the market. His enemies as-
L sert that this confidence in a ridiculous omen is
i but a subterfuge to catch the unwary, but any
how. it that man says to a friend, “ One of my
stockings is on wrong side out,” that friend will
fight wild of any transaction the man is push
ing.
There are very few members on ’Change who
do not carry some kind of pocket piece, which
they secretly regard as a lucky talisman. On j
has a bullet that was cut out of his shoulder
during the war; another, a splint of bone that
was taken from his leg. Most of the “fetishes,”
however, are old coins, pieces of strange metal
or quartz, buckeyes, and, in tact, almost every
imaginable article that can couioniently be car*
ried in the pocket.
HUMOR OU T?I3 HOUR.
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRES 3 FIEND.
AN HONEST LOT.
“ Have you an honest ci tv go ■ ernment here?”
he asked of a Detroiter whom he fell into con
versation with on the City Hall steps.
“ We have, sir.”
“No charges against the Aidermen?"
“None that amount to anything.”
“You believe them honest, then?"
“ I do, sir.
“l erhaps you are a contractor?” suggested
the stranger.
“ No, sir, lam not. lam one of the Alder
men.”
TOO PARTICULAR.
“ I wish to report a case of larceny,” she said
as she entered the police station yesterday.
“ Yes’m. When did it occur?”
“ Last evening.”
“ At what place ?”
“On a ferry boat, sir.”
“ What are the particulars ?”
“Why, I was with a young—young man,
and—
“Oh, you were I Well, go on.”
“ And tell his name ?”
“Of course.”
“And thai I never saw him before ?"
“ Certainly.”
“ Then 1 won't report the case, sir. You are
too particular, and the ring wasn’t worth over
three dollars anyhow.”
A BOY’S ADVICE.
A pretty hard-looking citizen was seated in
Moffat alley y sterday reading a piece of news
paper he had picked up, when a bootblack ap
proached and asked him for a match
“Don’t you see I’m reading?” snapped the
man as he looked up.
, “ Is it an Injun story 1”
“No, sir. I’m reading about sunstroke, and
fourteen rules to be observed in such cases.”
“ See here, stranger,” said the boy as he
went closer and dropped his voice to a confi
dential tone, “you are throwing your time
away.”
“ As how?”
“I see it tried in the Police Court every day,
and she don’t work."
“ Why?”
. “ Because the Judge braces up and calls out:
‘ Patrick O’Harrigan—case of sunstroke—come
up hero! Huie one—or thirty days 1’ Just
take my advice, mister man, and throw that
paper away, Here’s a novel about love. Love
is all right, and the Judge can t sock ye for it,
but let sunstroke alone. The law is dead agin
’em in this climate."
A TWO-INCH MISS.
The Colonel had contributed fifty cents at
Deeatur, a quarter at Birmingham, thirty cents
at Verbena, and tbil'ty-five at Bessemer—all :or
the “ rebuilding of colored churches destroyed
by cyclones,” and when we got to Sheffield and
an ancient darkey struck him again with the
same old chestnut, he turned on the man with:
“ See here I Where is that cbnreh ?’’
“ 'Bout ten miles from lieah, sir.”
“ When did the cyclone hit it ?”
“ Las' September.”
“ I don’t believe it! I believe you are lying
tome! Now, then, will you tell the truth lor
hair a dollar ?”
“ Y-yes, sab.”
“Very well. Was that church building blown
down by a cyclone or not ? I waut a straight
and truthful answer.”
“ An’ you’ll gin me to’ bits ?”
“ Yes, I will. You only wanted two bits
for the church, while here are four for tho
truth.”
“ Den, sah, I shall let do church slide an’
stick to de troot an’ hope fur de Lawd to lorgin
mo 1 Dat sighcloue jiet missed de church by
two inches, but I fought dat was elite 'huff to
collect a lew dollars on I”
ONE ON THE CONDUCTOR.
The other day a man got aboard of a train on
the Detrot and Lansing road, accompanied by
a big dog, and in due course of time the bag
gage man walked back into the car and said :
“ Mister, that dog must go into the baggage
car.”
“ I guess not.”
“ Bnt I guess he will ! No dogs are allowed
to ride in passenger-cars.”
“Well, we’ll wait and hear what the con
ductor says. He is a friend of mine, and if he
says the dog can’t ride here that will settle it.”
It was hall an hour later beiore the conductor,
accompanied by the baggageman, got around to
the man.
“ I hat dog must come out o’ here,” announced
the conductor.
“ For why ? He isn’t hurt’ng anybody.”
“Because no dogs are allowed in the cars.”
“ And if I don’t take him to the baggage-car
you’ll—
“ Put him off.”
“ If you put him off,” replied tho man, after
taking a look from the window, “ I shall go with
him. My dog is just as good as I am,”
11 Will you take tho dog forward ?”
“No, sir.”
The train was stopped and the dog led out
and pushed off the platform.
“ Are you going, too?” queried the conductor,
with h s hand on the bell-rope.
“ Yes, 1 guess I will. 1 live in that farm
house over there, and if I go on to Howell,
where I bought my ticket to, I’ll have to walk
four miles back. Much obleeged to you, con-
i ductor. I just kind o’ figgerofl to have the dog
: put off at about the right spot.”
POISONED ARROWS.
An Indian Tells How These Deadly
Weapons are Given their Venom,
(From the Omaha Republican.)
I had often heard of po:soned arrows and de
j termined to ask the old Indian arrowmaker
■ about them and how they wore made and im
: pregnated with tho deadly poison which they
; are supposed to contain. He looked at me fox
1 a full minute and then said:
i “First we take a bloated yellow rattlesnake
j in August, when he is most poisonous, and tie
him with a forked stick to a stake; then we tease
him until he is in a great rage. This is done by
, passing a switch over his body from his head to
- his tail. When he thrashes the ground with his
: body and his eyes grow bright and sparkle like
diamonds we kill a deer, antelope or some oth-
, er small animal and, tearing out the liver,
. throw it to the snake while it is warm and the
blood still coursing through it. The reptile
» will strike it again and again, and pretty soon
- it will begin to turn black, When ho tires the
i snake is teased again and he is induced to sink
I his fangs into tho soft flesh until all the poison
; is extracted from him and the liver is reeking
withit. Heisthen killed and the liver li ted
) with a sharp pole, for so dangerous is it, no one
dare touch it. The liver is let lay for about an
i hour, when it will become almost jet black and
emit a sour smell. Arrows are then brought
and their iron heads pushed into the liver up
, to the shaft. They are left sticking there fol
-about an hour and a half, when they are with
drawn and dried in the sun. A thin glistening
’ yellow scum adheres to the arrow, and if it but
■ so much as touches raw flesh it is certain to
: poison it to death.”
i I asked it Indians still used poisoned arrows,
“No,” he replied, “no man, Indian or white
, man, for years has been shot with these
i arrows, and they are no longer made.”
How Poole Chalked Onp. —Some few
years before his death, Poole, the tailor, was
taking a walk on the west pier, Brighton, look
-5 ing, as he always did, a beaming specimen of
j health, content, and success. A young man,
r who did not know perhaps that he was a suob,
was also on the pier with a couple of ladies, to
j whom he said as he saw Poole com ng:
, “Now, you wouldn’t take that good-looking
t man for a tailor; but he is. He’s an impostor.
Just listen while I take him down a notch or
J two.” I’ll tell him my coat, which I have just
[ had from him, doesn’t fit.”
> As he spoke Poole approached, and politely
acknowledged the salutation of his customer,
, who, walking up to him, said:
I- “ Here, Poole; now do take a look at me. Does
this coat fit ?”
Poole took in the situation, for he was a good ~
physiognomist, and the countenances of the la
dies betrayed the plot to him.
“ It certainly does not fit,” said he; and, pull
ing out a bit of French chalk, he proceeded lib
erally to mark and to cross the coat of his i
would-be queller all over, and then observed,
1 with the utmost sang-froid and urbanity, “ Now,
1 it you will kindly send that coat to my shop, the
alterations will be attended to.”
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