New York dispatch. [volume], September 04, 1887, Image 1

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

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H BIINHED BT A. J. WILLIAION’B SONS.
VOL. XLII.--N 6. 47?
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
__ N. Y., as Second Ciass Matter,
THE YORK DISPATCH,
PUBLISHED AT
80. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a Journal of light, agree
able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
to Music and the Drama.
The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and
suburbs, al FIVE CENTS A COP if.
T RMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS:
SINGLE SII-BS’CPJPTJONS $2 50& year
TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “
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ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUgT'BE PAID IN AD
VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE
DISPATCH OFFICE.
Address NEW YORK DISPATCH,
Post Office Box No.
PLAYS ANDTiPLAYERS.
THE HEW GLANCE AT SEW YOKE.
Mose Come Aga.tn—L«ize Refined—Willie
Heroes, But No Red-Haired 'Women
—Three Effects—A Public
Want Filled, Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
“Sykesy, take de butt I”
Once the spirit of Mose is abroad in the
land and Materialized into a living entity—minus
the red shirt, the soap-locks, the swagger and the I
want-the-earth air.
J/mus, too, the trumpet, the saucy Lizo, the little
" putchy and the '•go-in-lemons” war-cry of the
old-time when he crazed the town, lifted Chanfrau
into immortality and made pandemonium of the
pit of the old original and only Olympic.
Dear old Jem Baggs Mitchell and his little thea-
are nothing now but bits of dust in the fog of
memory-but the spirit of Mose will not down,
r" You can't put him out.
This time he comes to us with the march of Bou
langer in the orchestra and with all the modern im
provements.
With trained horses, telephone, telegraph signals
and steam and amid the glaro of the lime light and
fustian of melodrama.
Nevertheless, despite his new form, the absence
of the typical shirt and the shovel-fronted fire-hat—
you recognize the presence of Mose. The courage,
the dash, the manhood and loyalty of the typical
hero of the •' masheen ” of forty years ago, are as
~ plainly visible in Joe Manly as they were in the
Mose who was once so dear to the popular heart.
' Over there, at the Fourteenth Street Theatre, on
Tuesday ifight last, Mose, in his latest guise, came
forward.
It was "A glance at New York” in the days of
Jake Sharp, and bearing the trade mark of
“THE STILL ALARM.”
Everybody had a “still on” of expectancy—and
everybody made up the audience.
There was a large contingent of the remains of
the Volunteer fire laddies—worn-looking old fellows,
who had passed through the purgatory of flame
long before half the rest of the audience were born—
fellows who had killed for Keyser and fought for
Liza away back in the “Tippecanoe and Tyler too ”
days.
But I looked in vain for their old leader—Harry
Howard.
l Not even the last big chief—Decker—was there to
hb yield his tribute of applause.
g Dear old Baker, who cooked up the original sketch
B of the Chanfrau Mose, did not put in an appear
p ance.
The indomitable and undying tfarry Watkins,
whose “New York Fireman,” with its lurid realism
of red fire, crash of falling flats and wreck of supers
made the gallery boys of the old Chatham howl
with delight—even he who played Pythias before
Noah floated into history in his ark—yea, even he
was conspicuous by his absence,
•• A Still Alarm ?” Why, there was nothing still,
either on the stage or in front of the house.
The gods of the gallery were rampant and the
fair goddesses in the boxes were effervescing with
excitement.
There was enthusiasm enough on tap in balcony
and orchestra to supply a dozen George mass meet
ings.
It was a sort of popular uprising—a picnic of ex
citement for the boys. Not since the time of Daly’s
“Gas Light ” drama, with its delirium of Snorkey
and sensation, had there been such a theatric up
rising.
Even the fellows of the press—planted in their
accustomed seats, and who came there to snarl and
bite and tear and do the clove and cracker act be
-tween acts—forgot their mission and brightened
1 into a show of interest.
One blase, gray-haired reprobate of a critic who
sat near me, pounded his heels upon the floor and
* mashed his hat with them
" IN THE VERY ECSTACY OF DELIGHT,
x. and a Washington Market butcher who was once an
honored and burly member of Big Six, fairly shout
ed at the close of the first act.
At the close of the third act there wasn’t a dry
eye nor a dry aesophagus in the house. The play—
the “New Glance at New York”—went through the
ordeal of judgment with a rush. It was a weird
and unexpected relief to the monotony of your
everyday melodrama and the innocuous desuetude
of your full-dress dawdling society drama.
There was in this “Still Alarm ” no revelation of
novelty in stage effect: no startling overturning of
established usage in the methods Qf acting. AU the
ancient and fish-like formulas of business and
trap were closely observed, and there was no pre
tence of sounding rhetorip,
THE STOkY OF THE PLAY
is built upon the old lines, to depart from which is
tredsou to theatric art and a crime in the sight of
the popular playwright,
The regulation villain, the persecuted maiden
who chews the caramel of virtue, the painfully em
barrassed old father and the very low comedy man,
the usual appendix vermiformis of fashion—the
idiotic dude—are on deck in the dramatis persense
of “The Still Alarm,” and move in the old way
♦their wonders to perform.
Yet the gallery boys lifted up their voices and
raised the dust with their exuberant stamping and
one acclaim pronounced it good. And all the
Xst of the great throng of spectators with much of
noisy and emphatic demonstration indorsed the de
cision.
> There was one critic who after his third clove
corker ventured the opinion that it was rubbish—
that the play was nothing but a pair of horses and
a fire-engine; and another scribe in glasses and red
necktie, mildly remarked that it was too cheap to
ast.
I enjoyed that first night’s performance—it was
as refreshing and exhilerant as the refreshments
around the corner, where you get a toothpick and
satiety for five cents.
Marla, who was with me and who regards a
play as a preliminary penance for the after per
formance, oysters and a small bottle—which she
gets when she is under my protecting wing
whispered me that it was about as thrilling as the
details of a divorce case.
When a woman becomes so absorbed in the pro
gress of a play that she forgets to drop her fan or re
sort to some other one of her favorite foibles where
by she can distract your attention from the scene—
it goeswithout saying that she will be able to tell
you what the play is about on the way home.
And anent this “ Still Alarm.” I have said that
THE SPIRIT OF MOSE
was once more abrpad and on duty in the land,
ancient member of the gone before Volunteer
department, Gabriel, blew his trumpet and
HPmsed the red-shirted hero to active service, and
hero he is—not only ho, but some of his boon com
panions, once made so familiar by Ben Baker,
Here in this “ Still Alarm ” he has Harry Lacy as
his representative; won’t the Joe Jones, of Gallagh
er, answer for our old friend Sykesy; and as for Ma
jor Gates—isn’t he redtvivus in the Doc Wilbur of
Jaques Kruger?
And Lize—here we have her, not with the saucy
audacity of the Bowery in action and speech, but
with the grace of a Vassar and the charm of a high
toned distressed heroine, in the Elinor Fordham
ot Blanche Thorne.
You see they are all here, but cleverly disguised,
—all old friends in new clothes—but nona the less
acceptable nor any the less welcome.
This “Still Alarm” is a strong and effective drama
—of its kind, and it is of the kind which will always
have a place in the favor of play-goers. It is
not poetic; it isn’t an idyl—its aims and purposes
have nothing to do with dramatic art.
Like Rider Haggard’s “ She’’ and “ Allan Quatar
main”—it was made to sell, and the object of its
mission has been fairly accomplished.
It is what Charley-Wages-of-Sin Overton calls “a
winner.”
Call its situations and effects claptrap and its dia
logue fustian if you will, but, as with our daily
bread and beef, they are necessities. They are com
mon, to be sure, but we must have them.
Yet, after all, in the four acts of the drama
THERE ARE BUT THREE EVENTS
which are its foundation and vitality, and these are
the crashing of the window and the rush down the
fire escape by Jack Manly; the starting from the en
gine house of the engine, and the trick of feigning
illness by Jack, whereby he is enabled to confront
and expose the villainy of his enemy, John Bird.
In this trio of incidents you have the chief factors
of interest, and it is needless to say they are deftly
introduced and admirably contrived. Really, there
is enough material in this work to serve as the sub
stance of two or three plays.
The engine horses are well-trained heroes. I
don’t think the days of their frisky colthood were
passed upon the sands of Arabia; I don't think
either one of them would prefer an oasis to a peck
of oats. In fact, while I have an abiding faith in
the veracity of the average house programme of the
theatre, I cannot divest my mind of a doubt of the
truthfulness of the statement that these steeds are
Arabian, either in pedigree or appearance.
No more than I can place confidence in the asser
tion that their names are Pegasus and Bucephalus.
They are not war steeds, nor are they of the beer
wagon variety.
Whatever their pedigree, they have been well ed
ucated, and their schoolmaster, Mr. Harry Lacy,
did bls duty nobly in teaching their young idea
how to shoot that steamer out of the engine-house
with a celerity which ought to make even Realism
sick with envy.
These steeds are white—and on that first night
there wasn’t a red-headed woman or girl among the
audience.
There was a red-haired manager, who runs a
Jersey theatre, but he don’t count.
Ah' I but having noted these unconsidered trifles,
here comes your copper-lined cynic, with his
chronic growl banging on his lips under his mus
tache, and the unmistakable autograph of his
chronic sneer written In wrinkles upon the acidu
lous and hardened cuticle of his smileless face—here
he gets in an example of his fine work,
•' BAH! IT’S STUFFED WITH ABSURDITY;
** its crammed with impossibilities and over-loaded
with the improbable. Did you ever see an engine
house interior like that; did any body ever see a
soubrette cavorting around the engine-room as
does that character. Cad Wilbur ? Bah 1 what d d
nonsense. Who ever heard of such a thing as a
fellow rushing around an engine-room and whack,
ing away at the telegraph wires with an axe—just
as if there wasn't a fireman or any human being
within a mile of the place. Or does any sane person
imagine that there are, or ever was, any such blath
ering Irishman as that Joe Jones, permitted to work
the growler and be half drunk as well, io an engine
house.
“ Bah ! what are they givin’ us anyhow I Lacy is
an actor, and he may have manufactured this “Still
Alarm.” It’s just what I’d expect in an actor’s play
—for they live, breathe and have their being upon
imagination. When a fact strikes them it knocks
'em speechless. Yes, Lacy is likely to be the author,
but you mustn’t try to cram it into my mind that
Nym Crinkle Wheeler touched a pen to it. That
sort of work isn’t in his line.
•' When a trained critic and a man of ideas like
Wheeler tries his hand at play writing, he thinks, he
analyses, he doesn't let his fancy go free, nor allow
his imagination to run away with his reason. Com
pare anything Wheeler has ever written, either for
the press or the stage, with this “ Still Alarm ’*
stuff—and then tell me if you dare, that he has bad
anything to do with the composition.
“Eh? Youthink what? That there are traces
of Nym Crinkle cropping out here and there in the
dialogue? Don't be a clam. Don’t argue like a
gibbering idiot. Don’t tell me that there are
stranger things in fact than there are marvels in
fiction, and that the impossible is as likely to hap
pen in real life as in a play. I won’t have it. And
now you know what I think of the play and its au
thorship. It’s a thing of horses and buncombe.
It’s a pot-boiler, and it’s the pot-boilers of the play
house that catches the crowd.”
I forgive the old cynic. He looks at the stage and
its people through a pickle. I don’t. A stick of
Taffy is good enough for me.
I don’t see, even through this stick, as I look at
the play, anything of dramatic art, But I do see
money in it.
I see in it a fine harvest of shekels for its authors
and owners.
If it were a bright and shining example of dra
matic art, brilliant with poetic inspiration, noble
in its aspirations, and with the brightest and
daintiest flowers of rhetorio scattered through its
dialogue, i| woulda’t be wtli a dollar in the the
atric market.
While the author of “ Pendragon” will be gun
ning around to make sure of his to-ihOiTow's break
fast, the makers of “ Still Alarm” will have their
bank deposits swelling up like a boiled pudding.
To the dogs with Art I Give us the play which
I)rances into the popular fancy upon a pair of Ara
bian steeds; a play in which there is a crash of
window glass and the very latest sensation of the
realistic world.
Over-Oiliolous.
COMPLAINT SHOULD BE PREFERRED BEFORE
THE POLICE COMMISSIONERS.
Austin P. Gibney and John P. Roth, two stylish
ly-dressed young men, were arrested and locked up
over night in a cell, on the charge of disorderly
conduct, preferred by Officer Jackson, of the Nine
teenth Precinct. He said they were in a dispute
with a woman, and when he ordered them to move
on they refused.
The prisoners said they were walking along, when
a woman stopped them and tried to force one of
them to go with her, by seizing the lapel of his
coat. The gentleman took hold of her and tried to
shove her away. Just then the officer came up and
ordered them to move on. They refused; they
thought he was the woman’s lover; he was in citi
zen’s clothes, displayed no shield, did not say he
was an officer, and gave no indications of being a
policeman except by his bluster.
Justice Gorman asked the officer if he showed his
shield or said he was an officer, when he ordered
the gentlemen to move on. He said “No,” not
until some time after, when he arrested them.
“The prisoners are discharged/’ said the Jus
tice.
“And have we no redress for this unjust arrest
and being locked up in a coll ?” said one of the
gentlemen.
“Not here,” replied the Justice.
The officer asked why the accused were dis
charged; they had refused to obey him.
“You should have told them you were an officer;
you should have shown your shield. How were
they to know you were an officer ? '
Very likely the gentlemen will br.ing the case to
the notice ol the Police Commissiouert'
NEW "yORk/sUNDAY," SEPTEMBJER 4, 1887.
1 DESPfiRATESCSKME.
How Mr. Greatorex was Kid
napped.
The Secret of the Vaults Under
Clitt House Disclosed.
Shipped in a Contraband Lugger
to Dunquerque.
A Notorious Gang of Smugglers Broken
Up and Punished.
On the north of the town of Hartlepool, on the
coast of Durham, England, are the remains of what'
was onee a fine old dwelling. In 1820 Mr. Scamell
resided there and owned the place, including some
ten or twelve acres of land. In former times the
domain was much larger, but Mr. Scamell'• ances
tors had managed to get rid of it bit by bit, and at
his father’s death the entire estate did not yield
over £4OO pounds a year. In August of the year
named Mr. Scamell died, leaving his property to
his second cousin, Mr. Greatorex, a London mer
chant.
Mr. Greatorex was unmarried and in his forty
second year. When he found that ha was the de
visee of the Cliff estate, as it was called, he deter
mined to go down to Hartlepool and sea what it was
like. In those days passenger smacks ran between
London and the coast towns on the east of England,
and in one of these Mr. Greatorex sailed and reached
Hartlepool in sa’ety. He found on the property a
man named Cropper, who had acted as a sort of fac
totum for the former owner. The dwelling was
large and irregularly built, with many rooms unin
habitable, and those that were Habitable were sadly
in need of repair. The furniture was very old and
well worn, and it was with difficulty that the new
master could find accommodation for the night.
THE OLD HOUSE RENEWED.
The place was finely located, and Mr. Greatorex
saw that it would be well worth the expense to re
store at least a part of It. Though unmarried, as
already stated, a widowed sister and her eight chil
dren resided with him, and he thought what a
pleasant spot his new acquisition might be made
as a summer dwelling. The cliffs on the summit of
which it stood were lofty and bold, and the view
seaward was magnificent. With the help of some
workmen from Hartlepool several rooms were made
comfortable, and the best of the furniture, after be
ing well cleaned and repaired, was placed in them.
Mr. Greatorex procured a woman of some experi
ence and put her in charge, still retaining Cropper
to look after the garden and assist in other ways.
Mr. Greatorex had brought down with him a con
eiderable sum of money, which be had placedin a
drawer in the dining-room, used for the time as a
general sitting-room. From this drawer he had
taken money to give his housekeeper and to pay the
workmen from Hartlepool, and Cropper had been
present when he had so done.
ABOUT MR. CROPPER.
Cropper, it would appear, was dissatisfied with
the new condition of things at the Cliff, and had
expressed himself pretty strongly to the house
keeper on the subject, saying that he could manage
the property better than Mr. Greatorex, and make
more out of it both for the owner and Jaimself.
Mr. Greatorex had tried in vain to discover how
the former proprietor had subsisted. He had left
no money and there were no tenants to pay rents,
and yet in the cellar was a good stock of wine and
liquors, and Cropper had repeatedly stated that Mr,
Scamell was always well provided with money.
At last Mr. Greatorex put Cropper through a sys
tematic questioning, for he thought that there must
be some source ot income known to the man which
for his own reason he did not wish to disclose. Mr.
Greatorex was the more induced to believe this
from the fact that he bad learned that Cropper
owned considerable property at Hartlepool, and had
from time to time been purchasing land and build
ing houses at Seaham, a small seaport a few miles
to the north. Nothing, however, could be elicited
and tho matter dropped.
DISCOVERIES IN THE OLD HOUSE.
Mr. Greatorex made a very careful examination of
the old dwelling and some interesting discoveries
were the result. He found that there were no less
than three concealed stairways and passages which
led from as many different apartments to secret
closets or rooms in various parts of the building.
In one of these he found the remains of a richly
embroidered suit of clothes, a sword and a couple
of horse pistols. A tray lay on the ground, and
upon it were goblets and a large silver wine-jug.
The floor was covered with what had once been a
very elegant carpet, and light and air were admitted
by horizontal slits, evidently, just under the eaves.
In another closet was found a bag of coins of the
time of Charles 1., and a prayer-book, beautifully
illuminated and bound.
After this, Mr. Greatorex directed hisjattentlon to
the cellars, and in order to do that, he had to obtain
the keys from Cropper. That person tried hard to
dissuade him, and at length said that he had left
the keys at the house of his son, in the town. Mr.
Greatorex bade him go for them and hasten back,
but he didn’t return until some time after it was
dark.
Procuring lights, Mr. Greatorex and Cropper de
scended to the cellars—the housekeeper being aware
of the fact. She went about her business and did
not trouble herself further about the matter. Next
morning she was greatly surprised to learn from
Cropper that M. Greatorex had gone to London in a
hurry.
THE SMUGGLERS OF HARTLEPOOL,
In order not to mystify the reader unnecessarily,
what happened to Mr. Greatorex will be narrated
here.
In those days the east coast of England, from the
mouth of the Humber to the Tyne, was infested
by smugglers. The coast guard was numerous and
there were stations all along the shore. Beside this,
a revenue cutter lay in almost every harbor and
cruised at short intervals to intercept the unlawful
traffickers. In spite of all precautions, however, an
immense contraband trade was carried on with the
Continent, and it was a very rare thing, compara
tively, for the smugglers to be caught. Ail along
the coast were places where cargoes could be suc
cessfully run, and the cliffs that skirted tho ocean
contained innumerable caves and hiding-places
where goods could be concealed. These secret de
positories were known only to the residents, and,
ail of them profiting more or less by the illicit trade,
were not likely to disclose their whereabouts.
One of these gangs of smugglers had long success
fully plied their work around Hartlepool. They
were all residents of the town and ostensibly fisher
men. They came and went and were never ques
tioned by their friends. So adroitly had they man
aged the business for years, that the coast guard on
the station had never suspected them, and had
chiefly directed their attention to the neighborhood
of Sunderland, which lay much further north.
4 A COMPACT.
This gang wM beaded by an old and experienced
fisherman named, very appropriately, Surfey. Years
before, he had become on intimate terms with Mr,
Scamell, and finally made a proposition to him
which ho gladly accepted.
The Cbff House stood not a hundred yards from
the ooeah, and could be reached from the shore by
a narrow path which led up a gully. At the end of
this gully was a flight of atone steps, as the rock
arose there perpendicularly to a height of nearly
forty feet. Up to this time the smugglers had
landed their booty under the shadow of the old
fortifications of Hartlepool, and their friends had
carried it off with a will and distributed them here
and there in a place of temporary security. This
was a very unsatisfactory arrangement, however,
for the coast guard bad latterly used part of the for
tifications for their quarters, and the work had be
come very risky.
Suriey arranged with Mr. Scamell that the goods
should be run ashore close by the ascent to his
dwelling, carried up the gully and then hoisted up
the cliff and deposited in the cellars of the dwelling.
For this purpose
AN OLD SUBTERRANEAN WAY,
which had been constructed in troublous times for
the purpose of escape or to enable refugees to enter
the dwelling without observation, was opened and
cleared out. At the top of the cliff where the steps
ended was a roughly-built look-out, consisting of
two rooms. One of these rooms was enclosed, and
the other was open toward the sea. By drawing
out two beams the floor of the enclosed room could
be lowered on huge hinges, and below was the en
trance to the concealed way leading to the cellars
on the east side of the mansion. These were con
nected with the other cellars by an arched way,
which was carefully hidden with wine casks and
barrels.
From time to time the goods were removed from
the cellars and carried to a boat, according as a
market was found for them and a fair share of the
profits was handed over to Mr. Scamell. Cropper
was the go-between, and profited largely by the ar
rangement. When Mr. Greatorex took possession
of the Cliff the smugglers were in a quandary, for
they well knew that a London merchant of stand
ing like him would never condescend to make
terms with contrabandists, but would certainly do
all in his power to stop their traffic and punish
them. When Mr. Greatorex first visited the cellars
Cropper accompanied him and was careful to keep
him away from that part of it where the entrance
to the east cellars were.
SURFE-Y’S SCHEME.
As soon as Mr. Greatorex announced his inten
tion of thoroughly exploring all the apartments
under the mansion, Cropper was alarmed, and made
the statement that he had left the keys at his son's
house in order to gain time to communicate with
tho smugglers, who were engaged that very night
sadess antr Ijihpnhnt
in removing part of the goods to the lugger which
lay in the offing, as they had resolved to seek
another hiding place for fear their present one
should be discovered by Mr. Greatorex. As soon as
Surfey learned that the cellars were to be thor
oughly explored he resolved upon a desperate
course, if circumstances rendered it necessary.
As Mr.Greatorex,along with Cropper,examined the
cellars, he came to the very floor which it was de
sirable he should avoid—the arched way Into the
eastern cellars. Cropper used all his ingenuity to
induce Mr. Greatorex to believe that there was
nothing beyond but an unoccupied place, little bet
tor than a dungeon; but he was resolved to see
with his own eyes, and, finding a crowbar, speedily
removed al! obstructions to his entering the unex
plored region.
KIDNAPPED.
No sooner had he placed foot within it than he
was seized by two mon and pinioned, not, however,
before he had dealt one man a blow with the crow
bar which laid him senseless and bleeding. He was
gagged, and in spite of his struggles carried off by
the secret way to the cliff, and conveyed thence to
a boat, in which he was laid. The boat was rowed
out to sea, and in a short time Mr. Greatorex was
transferred as a prisoner to the lugger.
Once on.board, he was strictly guarded, and as
soon as several boat loads of goods had been
placed on board the lugger, she set sail to
the north, and the next night landed her
cargo north of Tynemouth. Then she sailed for
Dunquerque, which she made in due time. Mr.
Greatorex was kept on board for some time, but
finally was carried ashore and imprisoned in a
house which the smugglers usually made their
headquarters at Dunquerque.
WHAT THE HOUSEKEEPER SAW.
In the mean time,Crpoper was greatly puzzled what
to de with the man whom Mr. Greatorex had brain
ed. The smugglers had left him behind in their
haste, perhaps, and the next day he died. After
waiting for nearly a week, Cropper secretly dug a
hole in the garden, at the rear of the dwelling, and
in the silence of the night carried the corpse from
the cellar and through the rear door of the house
into the garden. Then he stripped it and put it in
the hole, carefully covering it up. The clothes he
burned up piecemeal in the kitchen fire. The next
day he sought an opportunity to arrange things
near the grave, so that no suspicion might be ex
cited.
A fortnight more passed and there was do newS
of Mr. Greatorex. The housekeeper had carefully
avoided Cropper all this time, and that worthy was
not sorry. Once or twice she had made an attempt
to vis.t her friends in the town, but Cropper had in
sisted that during her master’s absence she must
not quit the premises.
INQUIRY BEGUN.
As for Cropper, he was growing more and more
uneasy every day. Two letters had arrived from
London for Mr. Greatorex, and Cropper had not
dared to open them. Finally, the junior member
of Mr. Greatorex’s firm appeared at the Cliff, and
Cropper’s consternation was something dreadful.
He told to Mr. Simpson, the junior member, the
same story he had told to the housekeeper.
“It is very singular,” said Mr. Simpson; • we re
ceived a letter from Mr. Greatorex, written the day
before you say he left here for London, and he has
certainly not reached that place. Pray what was
the name of the vessel in which he sailed, and from
what port did she clear?”
“ 1 forget the name of the vessel,” replied Crop
per; “she was a trading smack, and sailed from
Hartlepool.”
“ You will please to ascertain her name for me at
once,” said Mr. Simpson.
Cropper went off, wild with dread of what was to
follow. Scarcely had he quitted the Cliff when the
housekeeper sought out Mr. Simpson.
' “Oh, sir,” she said, “do you know anything of
Mr. Greatorex ?”
“Certainly Ido not,” he replied; “but who are
you ?’’
* I am the housekeeper, sir; and I am sure some
thing dreadful haa happened.”
THE HOUSEKEEPER’S STORY.
“ What do you mean ? Explain yourself immedi
ately.”
“ Well, sir, one night, Mr. Greatorex and Cropper
—that’s the man, sir; the only man about the house,
sir—went into the cellars, as Mr. Greatorex wanted to
find outsomething—l don’t know what. I never saw
Mr. Greatorex after that, and next morning Cropper
said he had gone to London. He would not let me
leave the house, sir; and I was afraid of him, and
kept away from him. That night week he was up
when I went to bed. He told me I'd better go, as I
looked sleepy. Sol went, as I was afraid of him;
but I determined to watch him, sir. So I slipped
down-stairs and hid myself in the butler’s pantry.
Presently I heard a footstep and a key turn, and
after a while I looked out and saw a light on the
cellar stairs. Then I knew Cropper was down
there.”
“ Why didn’t you follow him ?”
“ A TERRIBLE MAN.”
“I was afraid of my life, sir. He is a terrible
man, sir, when he’s angry. I watched for over ten
minutes, and then I saw him come up the cellar
stairs, and he was carrying a man in his arms. The
man, I am sure, was dead, and I believe he was
bloody about the head and face.”
“ And you have kept this to yourself all this
time ?”
“Cropper watched me. sir, and wouldn’t let me
leave the house to sea my folks in the town, and
when they came here he said I was busy and
couldn’t see them. Well, sir, he carried the man
out into the garden, and that was all I saw.”
“ Did you examine the garden or the cellar ?”
“No, sir. He had the key of the cellar and for
bade me going into the garden, as he said I spoiled
things there.’’
THE ARREST OF CROPPER,
Mr. Simpson immediately left the house and
went to Hartlepool. In half an hour he returned
with a magistrate and three constables, and found
that Cropper had just reached the Oliff.
Cropper was quietly informed that be was a pris
oner, and asked to explain the story which the
housekeeper had told. He was like a dazed man,
and solemly swore it was all a fabrication of the wo
man, who was his deadly enemy.
The officers, however, went to work, and, after
finding traces of blood in the cellar, searched the
garden, and soon came upon the spot where Crop
per had buried the dead smuggler. The body wa?
found greatly decomposed; and the firm conviction
was that it was the corpse of Mr. Greatorex.
Cropper was accused of the crime of murder, with
the design of getting possession of the money Mr.
Greatorex had in his drawer, and which was miss
ing. Not until he was indicted and within a day or
two of being tried for his life, did he make any
statement. Then he narrated what has already
been disclosed to the reader.
Officers were at once dispatched to Dunquerque,
and, after a prolonged -search, found Mr. Greatorex
a prisoner in the hands of persons who were inter
ested in the smuggling trade. He was speedily re
leased, and returned to London. All the parties
implicated in the outrage were punished, and the
gang of smugglers led by Surfey was broken up
forever.
JPleadecl His Own Case.
HE RAISED A DOUBT AND GOT THE BENEFIT
OF IT.
On the morning of the 27th of August, John Bush,
aged thirty, who described himself as a carpenter,
was charged with stealing an overcoat worth $lB.
Mary McNamara, residing at No. 78 East Broad
way, said tho prisoner came into her house and
asked for breakfast. She left him standing in the
hall, and sent out his breakfast by her girl. The
OVetcoat hung in the hall, and when she came back
to inquire into the history of the tramp, he was
gone and so was the coat.
Mary O’Brien, said her mistress, the last witness,
told her to give the tramp his breakfast. He
couldn't have finished his breakfast, as she was but
two minutes gone, and when she returned, man
and coat were gone.
Both witnesses were certain of the identity of the
prisoner.
“ Going to work Saturday morning,” said Bush,
“ this lady, that I never saw before, stopped me in
Park row, and said: ‘Ain’t you the man I gave a
cup of coffee to, this morning?’ 'No, ma'am,’ I
says. She says: 'You look like the man; and he
took an overcoat.’ Isays: ’lf you think I'm the
man, I’ll go to the house.’ ’*
“ And she had charged you with taking a coat ?”
said the Court.
“ Yes, sir; rather than have any bother in the
street. I knew I was innocent, and waited in the
house till a policeman came and arrested me. I
went from Park row to East Broadway. I would
like you to postpone my case to show you where I
got my breakfast that morning—to show you I was
not capable of committing the theft. I had money
in my pocket, and five days’ wages coming to me.
“ This is a case of mistaken identity. I've been
twenty-three years in the city, and never was in
trouble.”
The officer said the arrest was made in complain
ant’s house.
Mrs. McNamara was recalled, and said when she
saw the prisoner in Park row, he came back with
her, but there was a man with her—Mr. Pierce, who
owned the coat. It was three-quarters of an hour
after, and she had been to several pawnshops.
“ When you stopped him, what did you say ?'*
“ You are the young man I gave breakfast to.”
“ I live at South Fifth avenue and Bleecker
street, and was going to work when she stopped
mo,” said the man,
“ Where did you find him ?”
“At Chatham and Worth streets,” said the com
plainant; “four blocks away.”
“You might be mistaken?” said the Court.
What time was it ?”
“Half-past seven. I sent down to Dey street,
where he says he works, but found the place locked
up.”
“I have had no lawyer because I had no money.
If I could get word to my boss, I could prove my
innocence. Give me a remand.”
Mary O’Brien, recalled, said the door was open,
and no one could get out without being seen.
Tho thief in this case did both—go in and out.
The Court said there was a dnnbt. and discharged
Bush.
A MYSmiOUS FAMILY.
Stopped in a ,I£ovv by
a Sister.
DEAD UNDER TH: HORSES’ FEET.
ASON FOUND IN THE RIVER.
Discovery Made by Horrified
Neighbors.
THE SEARCH MADE BY A CORONEB.
STARTLING LETTER OF A WOMAN.
Among the immigrants who arrived at Zumbro
ta, Minn., in the Spring of 1871, were a family
named Stauble. There were seven of them, the
father and mother, careworn and anxious looking
people past the middle age; Charles, the eldest son,
about 25; Frank, 22; Herman, 20; Gustave, 16,
and Lena, 13. They claimed to be Germans
and they spoke the Germarf tongue fluent
ly, but there was nothing of the German in their
appearance. They were strange looking people.
All had wiry, muscular frames, thick, straight black
hair, biack, flashing eyes, dark complexions, and
thin, firm lips. They settled in a little hamlet just
outside of Zumbrota, called Forest Spring, where
they bought a farm, and built a comfortable home.
They seemed to have considerable money.
All the people in Forest Spring and many in Zum
brota were Germans. They possessed all the Ger
man love of sociability and a good time. Old coun
try merry makings were of weekly occurrence. Vis
iting between the families went on all tho time.
The Staubles took no part in these things. They
were as different from the rest of the people in dis
position as in looks. They shut themselves up
resolutely in the bouse and held no communion
with their neighbors. People who forced them
selves into their house to see what the new comers
were like were not encouraged to repeat their visit.
The Staubles said nothing at all except in answer
to questions. They looked at the callers with cold
dislike and distrust. The visitors reported to their
neighbors that all the time they were present the
strangers seemed ill at ease. It appeared to be a
physical impossibility for them to keep still. They
walked up and down with the lithe, nervous tread
of cats, or twisted restlessly about in their chairs.
So the villagers gave up the attempt to make any
thing out of them. They were very quiet. The
farm was industriously cultivated and Its tillers at
tended strictly to their own business.
In none of the family were the Stauble character
istics more strongly marked than in Herman, the
third son. His strength was prodigious. He had
been known to crush a walnut between bis thumb
and finger and smash in the head of a sugar cask
with his fist. He had
A BRUTAL, CUNNNIG FACE
and a savage nature. When the good natured vil
lagers saluted the other Staubles they got some
kind of a reply. From Herman they got nothing
but a stare and a muttered curse.
Things went on this way four years, the Staubles
living an isolated life, shunned by the other people
when they went out, and going out as seldom as
possible. Then the first thing happened that drew
public attention to them. The nearest neighbor
gave a party, to which all the villagers except the
Staubles were invited. While the festivities were
at their bight, Herman Stauble suddenly appeared.
The people were gathered in groups about the front
yard. He rushed through them with blazing eyes
and furious yells, wrenched the tongue from a big
farm wagon and, using it as a club, drove the terri
fied guests before him. They fled in all directions.
Then he entered the house and began to wreak his
vengeance on its contents. He smashed tho furni
ture to bits, battered down the doors and demol
ished the windows. As the people afterward ex
plained, he looked so like a perfect demon that none
. of them dared to oppose him.
But while he was in the midst of his destruction
his sister Lena appeared. She was
A REMARKABLY HANDSOME GIRL,
tall, straight, and commanding. She went up to
Herman, laid her hand upon his arm, and said
something to him with an imperative gesture. He
flung the wagon tongue through the side of an out
house, and with a fierce oath strode away.
There was some talk of having Herman arrested;
but the Germans are an easy-going people, so they
charitably concluded that the young man was only
drunk, and let the matter drop. None of the Stau
bles thought it worth while to offer any explanation
or reparation for the damage Herman had caused.
Time went on, and the villagers had ceased to talk
about the incident, when one morning old man
Stauble was found dead in his barn, under his
horses’ feet. It looked as though he had been tram
pled to death—so tho family said, and so the vil
lagers believed, until the coroner made an autopsy.
Then he found a clean, sharp fracture at the back of
the head that was never made by a horse's hoof.
The Staubles seemed singularly indifferent to this
discovery. Such of them as talked about the mat
ter at all said the old man must have been mur
dered by tramps. That seemed likely enough, as
the country was overrun with tramps. Robberies
were frequent, and murders not uncommon. There
was an abortive effort to find tho tramps in this
case, and then the matter passed.
That was in the Summer oi 1875. A year later,
Charles, the eldest son, suddenly disappeared.
When he had been gone a week, some fishermen,
seining in a creek, near the house, grappled his
body. It was wound around with a pump chain,
and a bar of iron was tied to the head. The autopsy
discovered that
THE YOUNG MAN’S SKULL HAD BEEN CRUSHED
IN
by a heavy blow, with a blunt instrument, before
he had been thrown into the water. The inquest
developed little more than this. The Staubles were
not more disturbed over the death of their brother
than they had been over the lose of their father.
Such questions as the coroner put to them they
answered with cold intelligence and indifference,
and no contradictions could bo discovered in any
of their statements. Charles had left the house one
afternoon to walk to Zumbrota to buy some stores,
they said. They had not seen him since. There
was more futile skirmishing for the unknown
tramp, and graduallly the case dropped.
And now a sudden and surprising change came
over one of the strange family. Frank, the eldest
son, left alone, seemed at once to have lost the
Stauble characteristics. He ceased to seclude him
self as the others did. He went out among the
young people, and cultivated their good will. He
seemed to long for companionship. There was no
reason why be should not find it. Although the
villagers regarded the family with a sort of fearful
interest, from the tragedies that had taken place in
it, Frank was a handsome young fellow, and bright
and intelligent. He was not long in becoming
something of a popular favorite. He began paying
his addresses to Mary Berger, one of the best look
ing girls in the place. A year after his brother's
death, he married her.
None of the Staubles attended the wedding, or
paid any attention to the briie. They continued
to live in the same solitary way they had at first
adopted. Frank did not take his wife among them.
He had built a little house on the remote part of
the farm, hidden by a clump of trees from his moth
er's residence. Part of the estate he assumed to
cultivate for himself. He was a hard and willing
worker, and he prospered. After awhile a child
was born to him, and then another. His mother
and brothers took no interest in these events. They
never visited his house, nor gave him more than a
passing salutation. Although
SOMETHING SEEMED PREYING ON HIS MIND,
Frank maintained a cheerful denjeauor in spite of
the slights. It was a pretty little home that he
had, and the villagers said he had a pretty little
bank account, too.
On the night of December 4, 1879, some of the vil
lagers were awakened by a very bright light in the
direction of the Staubles. They hurried there, and
found Frank’s house almost burned down. Neither
Frank nor bis wife nor his children were anywhere
about. His relatives seemed fast asleep. The
neighbors waked them up. Herman and Gustave
came and looked at the fire stolidly. They did not
know where Frank and his family were. Perhaps
they had gone to Zumbrota, they said.
But when the fire had burned itself out the hor
rified neighbors found that Frank and his lamily
had not gone to Zumbrota, for their half-consumed
bodies were lying in the ashes. And right through
the forehead of each was a round bullet hole.
The whole State was aroused when this was made
known. People flocked from all directions to see
the bodies and help catch the murderer. Detec
tives from St. Paul and Chicago were sent for. Ev
ery bit of ground was searched lor an indication of
the flight of the perpetrators of the dreadful crime.
Every stranger who bad been in the neighborhood
for weeks was followed and questioned. Lynch law
was the punishment that every one declared would
be meted out to the murderer.
During all the excitement the Staubles were calm
and impassive. They stood about the corpses, look
ing at them with sullen interest, but no emotion.
AU except the mother. She shed tears the first time
she saw the little children’s blackened bodies. Her
sons hurried her home as though they were ashamed
of her weakness. She did not come out again.
For days and weeks the hunt went on, the detec
tives exhausting every clew. The most plausible
theory they could find was that a Swedish farm
hand named Aleck, who had done some work lor
Frank and had some trouble with him, was the
murderer. People remembered that he was an
ugly, surly looking man. with an irrascible temper.
By ana by the investigation settled down to a search
for Aleck. The policescoured tho country high and
low for him.
OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST.
At last, one day, he walked into the Zumbrota jail
and gave himself up. He had heard that the police
were looking for him, he said, and there he was.
He had a narrow escape from lynching before he
could prove, by undisputable witnesses, that he
was with his countrymen in Bt. Paul, the night of
the murder and for days before and afterward.
Now, while the crowd was gathered around the
smoking ruins of Frank Stauble's house, the day
alter the fire, a bright young man, who had been
one of the first to roach the scene, was occupying
himself in studying their faces. He was
THE CORONER OF ZUMBROTA,
and his name was Dr. George H. Henry. He had
presided over the inquest on the remains of Charles
Stauble. The peculiarities of the family had made
a great impression on him then. The failure of his
efforts to solve the mystery, had worried his pride.
As he stood there watching, Herman and Gustave
Stauble came up and looked at the bodies. The
utter indifference that they displayed, reminded
him of a similar scene when the body of their bro
ther had been found. He had not been in that re
gion long, but be had heard of Herman's adventure
with the wagon tongue and of his cruel and savage
nature. It seemed to him that a man who could
look, unmoved, on the mangled bodies of his bro
thers and his brother’s children, could do worse
things than that.
He determined to devote all his energies to the
unraveling of the mystery. He discovered that
when the bodies of the old man and of Charles had
been found, not a cent of money was in their pock
ets. Although Frank was well off and was known
to have had money in the house, there were no
signs of money nor of his watch, nor of his wife’s
jewelry, in the ruins. He found that Herman had
been nearly as well known for his avarice as for his
savage nature. From a clerk in the Zumbrota Sav
ings Bank he discovered that shortly after the
deaths ot both father and brother, and again, a few
days after the murder of Frank, Herman bad made
considerable deposits.
All this looked like pretty strong evidence, but
the doctor was not satisfied. He spent all bis leis
ure in studying the surroundings of the house.
The detectives hud looked carefully for footsteps in
the foot-deep snow that lay on the ground, lie
looked again and still more seaachingly.
The situation of the house was this: It stood
about a quarter of a m le from the residence of the
other Staubles, and perhaps throe or four hundred
yards from the road. Between the two houses was
a clump of trees, and through it ran a fence that
divided the Stauble estate irom the farm of their
next neighbor. This fence started several hundred
feet from the old house, and passed within two feet
of Frank's. In the middle of the clump of trees it
crossed a little stream.
Now, the failure of the detectives to find the foot
steps of the murderers anywhere about the prem
ises had been
ONE OF THE MOST PERPLEXING THINGS
in the search. While Dr. Henry was walking aim
lessly about the place one morning, he came to the
fence, and sat down upon it to rest. As he sat
there, he happened to notice that in several places
little particles of bark had fallen from the saplings
of the fence upon the snow. There had been no
rain to knock them off and no wind to blow them
off, and he was at a loss to see how they got there.
Presently he saw that the bottom sapling of the
fence had been abraided here and there. Following
the fence, he saw the marks at intervals all the way
along. He went on until he came to the creek.
The ice and snow there were over the lower sap
ling, and there, right in the middle of the frozen
stream and close by the fence, he saw the impress
of a human foot.
The bits of bark still led on across the stream,
and he followed them. They led him clear across
the Stauble farm, and ended in a path that ran
from the fence to the Staubles’s back door. Then
he went back and took the measurements of the
footmark on the stream. It was made by a big
rubber boot or overshoe. Whoever had made it
had evidently walked sideways on the fence from
the path at the Staubles’s back door to Frank Stau
ble’s house. And it was just such a mark as Her
man Stauble’s big feet would make.
And now Dr. Henry thought it was time to act.
One of his most intimate friends in the village was
a young lawyer, who had just been made Assistant
District Attorney. He laid all his evidence before
him and
ASKED FOR HERMAN STAUBLE’S ARREST.
The astonished lawyer agreed that it was a won.
derful chain of circumstantial evidence. He said
he would get tho warrant at once. The doctor
started with him for the court-house. In the street
they heard news that showed them they had not
been too hasty.
There had been another tragedy in the Stauble
family. Soon after midnight Gustave had appeared
at the house of the village doctor and asked him to
see his mother, who was very sick. When the doc
tor reached the house he found old Mrs. Stauble on
the floor at the foot of the staircase dead. Gustave
said she muse have fallen down stairs but the doc
tor found a round hole in the top of the head that
was never made by falling down stairs.
The warrant was issued now and Herman arrest
ed. The people mobbed the jail to lynch him but
the officers fought their way through with revolv
ers and clubs and got him safely to St. Paul. The
trial came off a month later. Herman maintained
his stolid composure all through it, notwithstand
ing that it was with difficulty that he was saved
from the hands of the furious people wherever he
went from the jail to the court house. Dr. Henry
was the principal witness for the prosecution. He
told of the previous tragedies in the family. Of
Herman’s disposition of the bank accounts; the
trail of the fence and the footsteps in the snow. Oth
er witnesses corroborated him evendown to the fact
that the pump chain which had been wound around
Charles Stauble came from the Stauble pump. The
cause of the defense seemed very weak. A convic
tion was a foregone conclusion.
But Herman Stable was not to perish just yet.
Among the daily witnesses of the trial was his
bright-eyed, handsome sister Lena. She watched
every stage of the proceedings with breathless in
terest. On the last day of the trial she sat all the
time with her head between her hands and her eyes
fixed on the floor.
Both sides had closed, and the judge had post,
poned the reading of his charge until next day.
When he opened court in the morning he found
A LETTER
lying on tho bench, addressed to him. It read as
follows:
"To the Judge : I, |Lona Stable, being about to
die, solemnly declare to you and the world that my
brother Herman is innocent of the charge brought
against him. He did not kill Frank Stable and
his wife and children. I killed them. It was I that
hit father with an ax and put him under the horses’
feet. It was I that hit Charles on the head and
dragged him to the river. It was I that killed my
mother. Why did Ido these things ? You will
never know. No one will ever know. They are
better off dead than alive, and so will I be.
"Lena Stable.”
Officers hastened to the Stable house. They
found Lena cold and dead. She had taken poison.
There was no evidence to hold Herman after that,
and the judge reluctantly discharged him. Within
an hour he and his brother Gustave had left town,
and were never seen there again.
Sorry to Acquit.
BUT A CASE WAS HARDLY MADE OUT LE
GALLY.
John P. Joyce, a rather stylishly dressed middle
aged man, was charged with personating an officer.
The complainant was Victor Bruck man, a rather
stupid lad, who couldn’t speak English. He had to
tell his story through an interpreter. He said:
" This man wanted to arrest me and told me he
was an officer. I mc-t him in the street and he said
I was under arrest. He took me over to Delaney
street and demanded money, and said he would let
me go if I gave him money—he was a detective.
He took me to a saloon, 104 Hester street, and or
dered two beers and made me pay for them. I told
the saloon keeper 1 was arrested and he sent for an
officer.”
"Did he tell you why h* arrested you ?”
"He only said he bought something that had no
taste.”
Defendant said he was going up Fourteenth
street, looking for employment, and felt a very
strong smell of perfume. Passing this young man,
he said to him, " What is this ?” This, the ©by
said, was cologne. He bought three package, and
put them in his pocket. He saw the bpy on the
other side of the avenue, mixing the stuff. He then
went back and asked him what he called that stuff
he was selling for cologne. The boy said it was
cologne. He told the lad he had better have noth
ing to do with such an adulteration.
" Why did you take him to a saloon ?” asked the
Court. _
"He can say what he pleases. I asked him about
bis parents. Ha had none. I said it was a shame
to see a boy peddling a iraud. I went with him to
his uncle, and told him the wrong he was doing;
better stop him from selling the stuff. I went
in the saloon with him, and asked if he wanted a
drink. I was thirsty myself.”
"You went from Fourteenth street to-Delaney
Why did you tell him you were a police officer ?”
"I didn’t.”
The boy was recalled and said prisoner told him
he was a detective, and when prisoner asked for
money he said he didn’t have any.
" Did yon ask him what the money was for ?”
"He said selling that stuff. I did not sell him
anything.”
The officer who made the arrest asked prisoner if ’
he was an officer. He said no.
"Is that all the conversation ?” asked the Court.
" Yes, sir; he said he would make his statement i
in the station bouse. I asked his authority. He ’
did not give it.”
" We will have to let you go,” said Justice Smith,
"and very sorry that wo have,” ]
He was discharged.
A good man never hates another for ,
not being good as he, and all the persecutions ever ]
ma le were not because men wi re not good as their
perse utors. but b -causo they would not believe as 1
d.d their persecutors.
PRICE FIVE CENTS,
HAIL I AND BF STRONG.
At morn and eve my daily pilgrimage
Leads by a garden gray with Summer flowery.
And bright among them blooms the scarlet sage,
To cheer thp early, soothe the later hours.
To me, heart-worn with mine and others’ grief,
In August heats when August days are long,
From brilliant blossom and from gray-green leaf
The hopeful message comes: " Hall and bo
strong !
" Bo strong; despair not; doubt not; do not fearj
To every life there comes some final gain;
We waited faithful half the changing year.
And lo ! the guerdon of our patient pain.
" Be strong, and to be hopeful be not loath;
Not outward things but thine soul shall change;
The sun and dew that fed our flowarless growth,
They, and none other, feed these blossoms
strange.
"Oh, sister ! learn our lesson ore we die.
Who bravely lived and tearless face the tomb;
Tread thy low path with faith and purpose high.
And bliss for thee, and flowers for us, shall bloom.**
(foiling Sio.
a wowFhate.
BY A WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR,
CHAPTER I.
“ MY CAT’s BYES LEFT MF, OUT OF THE CROWD.”
Lady Rushton’s garden-party is nearly over;
the smooth lawn, whose green slopes reach
down to the broad sparkling river, is not so
crowded. The band throws less spirit into tha
final valses, which are a more accompaniment
to the adiex tho guests are making to the pret*
ty, halt-pleased, half-fluttered little lady on tha
broad steps leading to the terrace.
“So charming—such a perfect success, dear
Lady Rushton 1” says tho Honorable Mrs. Coke-
Lyttleton, who is herself renowned as an enter
tainer, and whoso words therefore have weight
and authority.
Ethelind Bushton’s face flushes with pleas
ure, but she shakes her bead.
“I am glad everything wentoff well, and that
you were pleased,” she answers, with tho child
ish frankness that is young Lady Rushton’s
greatest charm; “ but you should praise Mar
cella, Mrs. Coke-Lyttleton, not me. I should
have made innumerable blunders but for her.”
Mrs. Coke-Lyttleton smiles, murmurs a polity
assent or dissent—it is impossible to say which
—and passes on to her carriage. But, although
she does not pause then and there to comment
on words that strike her as oddly significant,
she talks a good deal about them on her home
ward drive.
“ 1 hardly thought Marcella Rushton would
have sworn friendship so soon with that foolish
little step-mother of hers, yet they are evident
ly great allies,” she says thoughtfully; and Mr.
Coke-Lyttleton laughs.
“My dear Julia, why should they be any
thing else ?” he says, with a fine manly scorn
for tho feminine fear of small domestic compli
cations. “ Marcella is not the girl to nourish a
mean jealousy of her lather’s happiness, and
Lady Rushton is pretty and lovable enough to
win any one’s affection.”
“That is your opinion, and no doubt Sir
James Rushton’s also,” the lady returns some
what severely; “but we women do not love ona
another for our pretty faces, William; you have
been long enough in the world to learn that.”
“I have the lesson by heart, my dear; but I
also know that a girl as handsome as Marcella
Rushton is not likely to be jealous of her step
mother’s pink and white baby-like prettiness.”
“ That is quite true; and alter all Marcella is
only Sir James’s niece, which makes a great
difference,” Mrs. Coke-Lyttleton concludes ju
dicially; “though in any case it must be hard
to take a second place where you have been ac
customed to take the first. But she will marry
now, of course, and I will tell you whom,
William.”
“Ah I” Mr. Coke-Lyttleton strives to executf
the difficult feat of smothering a yawn and ex
pressing the interest that politeness exacts. Hu
has a real, half-fatherly liking for Marcella
Rushton, but sees little roason at the present
moment for discussing her matrimonial pros
pects. “You think she will marry Jimmy
Beauchamp, I suppose ?” ,
“ Certainly not Mr. Beauchamp never had
much chance with her; he has none now.”
“Why, what has lessened his chance? Ha
seems to be as devoted as ever.”
.“And is; but his devotion is wasted. If I
know anything of girls, and above all of Mar
cella, she will marry Fergus Glenroy.”
Mr. Coke-Lyttleton is so astounded that he
actually assumes an upright position and for
gets to wish that his wife would let him have
his doze' out in peace.
“ You don't mean to say that, Julia ? Pool
old Glenryval’s fourth or fifth or sixth eon—
which is it 1 Why, the lad cannot have a penny
piece. 1 don’t suppose Bushton would enter
tain such an idea for a moment.”
“As for that, the Glenroys would consider the
condescension all on their side,” Mrs. Coke re
plies, with a keen recollection ol the fact that
she too belongs to an old and noble house that
has deigned to redeem its ancient splendor with
modern legal gold. " And Sir James, having bo
decidedly consulted only his own taste in his
marriage, may be disposed to leave Marcella
the like liberty of choice.”
“Perhaps,” eays her husband, doubtfully,
“He married for love himself. I am sura
Ethel Crane had not a farthing,” Mrs. Coke-
Lyttleton says; but she is ashamed ot the weak
objection, and adds almost immediately: “Bui
that is different, of course—a man excuses
everything in himself. Ido not for a moment
say that Sir James will consent to Marcella’s
marrying young Glenroy. I only repeat that I
am sure she will marry no one else.”
“Will prefer permanently residing with a
step-mother, in fact. Well, that is somewhat
singular taste. In the circumstances it is well
for all concerned that she and Lady Bushton
manage to agree.”
“Yes; it would be better still if Miss Crane
were not here, William. I have taken a most
unreasonable dislike to Lady Ruston's sister.
Her nature, I am sure, is thoroughly false.”
Mrs. Coke-Lyttleton speaks with such un
usual energy that her husband may well look
surprised, as he says :
“My dear JuMa, you are not harsh in your
judgments, as a rule. What has that unlucky
young lady done?”
“Nothing,” Mrs. Coke-L yttleton replies, im
patiently. “ Did I not tell you that my dislike
was unreasonable? But it is strong and deep
rooted, nevertheless ; and, though I have tried
honestly, I cannot succeed in arguing it down.
I should like to hear Marcella’s opinion.”
Mr. Coke-Lyttleton simply yawns. If be does
not grow excited over Marcella Rushton, whom
he has known and liked ever since he first saw
the slim graceful, dark-eyed girl, on her return
from her convent school, his interest in Mw»,