New York dispatch. [volume], September 04, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
Crane Is absolute y infinitesimal, and he makes
this so very manifest that his wife, too
thoroughly trained a woman of the world to
endure the thought of boring even her hue
band, wisely lets the subject drop.
Meanwhile the object of her animadversion is
making herself as disagreeable to pretty little
Lady Rushton as Mrs. Coke-Lyttletbn can well
imagine her to be. Matron and rich woman
though she is, she has never yet shaken off her
poor and prospeetiess eider sister’s yoke.
“Upon my word, Linda, you are too ridicu
lous,” Miss Crane says, sharply, when the Bis
ters are left alone for a few moments. “I
could have shaken you this afternoon with pleas
ure.”
Lady Rushton opens her sleepy, blue eyes,
and puckers her brow.
“Why and when' What have I done?” she
asks, piteously. “ Yon are always finding fault
with me, Harriet, and no one else does.”
Harriet Crane slightly raises her slim shoul
ders, while her thin lips curve in a singularly
unpleasant smile.
“Please talk like a woman, not a spoiled
child, Ethelind,” she answers, coldly. “Every
one else may conspire to spoil you, but lam
your sister, and really have your interest at
heart, though it is quite possible that by telling
you of any blunders you may make I shall only
Win your d slke.”
“No, no, Hattie; you must not talk like that!”
Linda Rushton breaks in, with generous and af
fectionate eagerness. “ 1 know that you are al
ways thinkin: ot mo and my interests. lam
very stupid, but Sir James is so kind, and Mar
cella helps me so much ”
“That is it,” Mias Crane interposes—“ that is
the grand mistake—the mistake against which I
earnestly warn yon, Linda. You are young
and you make little blunders, of course, but
you are very ar rom being stupid, and with
your beauty and ths advantages you now pos
sess you may make a great figure in the world
it you only avoid the one or two stumbling
blocks that Fate has perversely set in your
path”
J ady Rushton smiles a weak, well-pleased
smile. Her sister’s nlan of alternating battery
and rebuke has its usual effect—the ductile na
ture is molded to her will.
“What are the stumbling-blocks, Hattie?”
“The first and most dangerous is Marcella ”
Linda suddenly grows grave ; the pleased
look fades from her blue eyes, to be succeeded
by one of perplexed distress; her slender, gem
med fingers toy restlessly with the flounces of
her lace dress, as she says with nervous earn
estness
“Marcella is a help, not a stumbling-block,
Hattie—l should be shamefully unjust it I did
not tell you and every one that. I dreaded her
co, but from the very first she has been my
friend.”
“And you permit her still to rule your hus
band’s house. Very well, my dear, if you
choose to be a nonentity ”
“ Harriet” -Lady Rushton’s face flushes, the
accusation of weakness being the one thing her
timorous nature cannotendure—“ you are more
than usually un ust and unfair. Marcella is as
unlikely to claim as I am to yield the right of
governing.”
“ Ane yet 1 heard you tell Mrs. Coke-Lyttle
ton a warm partisan ot Miss Rushton’s, and a
most insolent person, by the way—that the suc
cess of to-day’s party was due to Marcella, not
to you.”
“ And so it was, Hattie.”
“Then it should not have been; anyhow, you
should not have proclaimed it. I tell you, Lin
da, you must assert yourself or consent to be
altogether eclipsed How will you like to hear
people talkin.: about ‘Miss Bushton’s enter
tainments,’ ‘ Miss Rushton’s parties,’ by and
by? Not at all, I should say. Yet you may
take my word ’or it, that is what they will do.”
“ How unkind you are, Harriet 1”
“ And how foolish you are, Ethelind, not to
tinderstand that 1 can be speaking only in yonr
interest! What does it matter to me, personal
ly, if Miss Rushton rules her father and her
father's house as completely as though he had
no wife?”
Miss Crane assumes an .air of indifference,
her long thin fingers trilie indolently with the
peacock-feather fan that hangs from her waist,
her calm gaze wanders toward the green lawn
and the sunset glory beyond. Yet for all her
apparent abstraction, she is perfectly well
aware ot the troubled expression on her sister’s
Hushed face ; she has been accustomed to rule
Ethelind from her earliest days.
The sisters do not resemble each other much.
In the first place, there is ten years difference
In their ages, and the soft curves that are the
special charm ot Ethelind Bushton’s beauty are
sharpened into angles in Harriet’s figure and
face. The younger sister, indeed, has the ad
vantage in every way, so far as present appear
ances are concerned, though her small well
rounded form will probably not keep its grace
so long as Harriet’s taller, more slender figure;
both are blondes in a sense, but, whereas Lady
Bushton has a pink and-white skin, blue eyes,
and sunny, golden hair, Miss Crane is pale, her
skin has a slight yellow tint, her hair is more
drab than golden, ber-brows and lashes are a
faint fawn color, and her eyes, the strangest
and most striking features of her face, are of
BO light a brown that occasionally they have
almost the appearance of being yellow.
Her eyes redeem Miss Crane’s face from ab
solute plainness, and give it a character so re
markable that, where much better looking
women pass unnoticed, she is sure to attract a
second glance.
“My cat’s eyes lift mo out of the crowd, and
I am thankful for them,” she has said, more
than once hersell. “1 should simply be on the
Sbelt but for them; and it is better to be known
as ‘ the girl with the yellow eyes, don’t you
know,’ than as that social nonenity, Lady Bush
ton’s elder sister.”
Miss Crane fully realizes the importance ot
giving a proper setting to her peculiar charms,
and bestows much thought and care upon her
dress. Fortunately for her, these are the early
days of » stheticism, and she is one of the most
ardent followers of that singular cult. The
subdued tints harmonize with her own, the
clinging draperies suit her tall, slender figure
to perfection, and she assumes with little effort
the requisite tone of mind, the morbid melan
choly proper to the part. Indeed, she looks so
mysteriously miserable at times that her more
simple Bister becomes alarmed, and frets and
fidgets over the thought that “ poor Harriet has
something on her mind”—a tear Miss Crane
takes no pains to dispel, since it secures the
prolongation ot a visit she finds more than
pleasant.
She has been staying with her married sister
nearly five months, and is dismally conscious
that it is about time that she began to think of
taking her departure. Sir James Bushton is
devoted to his young wife, and is all courtesy
and consideration to herself, but it is not likely
that he desires the permanent presence of a
Bister-in-law under his roof; and, though in all
probability it will be long before he suggests
her return to that poor, dull Dorsetshire par
sonage, in which her lile had been spent, he
Will not unnaturally expect the suggestion to
come from her., and tor the present, at least, she
Is resolved not to stir.
“I will know, one way or another, before I
go,” she says, within herself, from day to day,
as the will-o’-the-wisp hope that dances before
her still dazzles and misleads. “ I will make
him meet me—make him speak. If—if he does
care for me, I will try to be a better woman
try to show my gratitude for an answered
prayer. If he does not, then she has stolen him
from me, as she sot herself to steal him from the
first, and I will find some means to punish her
for robbing me of the only love I ever cared to
Win,
The brooding fancy is rarely absent from her
thoughts. It occupies them now, while Lady
Bushton is turning her sister’s spiteful caution
over in her mind. Presently her ladyship ex
claims pettishly:
“ 1 cannot see why you should try to make
me quarrel with Marcella, Harriet; things would
not bo nearly so com brtable here if I did.”
“For her they certainly would not,” Miss
Crane responds, with an ambiguous smile.
“ Nor could they be for me or Sir James, or
Oven for yourself, Hattie.”
“ Oh, as for me,” says Miss Crane, with an
upward glance of sublime renunciation, “ I am
only the stranger within your gates, Linda;
yonr household arrangements only affect me in
so far as you are concerned. Give me some
credit for disinterestedness, my dear.”
“ Then give me some too I” Ethelind retorts,
With an unusual flash of spirit. “I will not
argne the matter on such selfish grounds. Mar
cella is a dear kind girl.”
She concludes her little speech in a fine fiery
glow ot affection: but the smile withwhieh Har
riet listens is so full of cynical amusement, and
her supercilious “ My dear child, have your own
way, and, tor Heaven’s sake, do not cry again!”
eubdues l ibelind at once. She actually whim
gers as she unconsciously avenges every sting
Harriet has dealt her by saying:
“ You are cruel, Harriet—you always were;
but, even if you were justified in warning me
against Marcella’s influence here, your warning
would be wasted. She will not be with us
long.”
“ What do yon mean by that ?” Miss Crane
asks quickly. “Is she engaged?”
Linda laughs a bright, triumphant little
laugh.
“ I tell no secrets, my dear, for I know none,”
she says gayly; “but I think, before many
months are past, we shall see Miss Marcella,
Bushton transformed into Mrs. Fergus Glen
toy.”
CHAPTER IL
“ MISS CIIANE NOT MUCH Of A FUOPHET.”
There is a tinge of malice in the pretty little
lady’s exultation; but malice takes a very harm
less and feeble form with her—she hae only
meant to tease her imperious elder sister; and
When the bright blue eyes rest on Harriet’s face
and note the ghastly change there, their sparkle
dies out at once, and is replaced by a look of
genuine concern.
“Hattie dear, are you ill, or have I vexed
you ?” she aeks affectionately. “ I did not mean
jt; I was only joking.”
Miss Crane stares at the eager face; the ten
der ploadiug moves her not at all; but she fan
cies there is a gleam of hope in the last words.
“ You were only joking about Miss Bushton
and Mr. Glenroy, Linda?”
“ No, no; I believe that is true. I meant—l
hardly know what I meant; but I did not in
tend to vex you, and you looked so terrible, I
could not imagine what I had done.”
Miss Crane does not answer, and draws her
arm almost rudely away irom the coaxing ca
ress of the dimpled little hands. Many women
in her place might have felt bound to conciliate
the wealthy and well-placed sister; but Harriet
is too wise a woman for that. Her empire over
gent’s yielding nature is beet muiUjaed
by self-assertion, as she knows, and, except in
Sir James Rushton’s presence, she asserts her
self accordingly, and pretty Ethelind is her
willing and well-drilled slave,
So now, when Miss Crane frowns and sets her
thin lips, Lady Bushton only eyes her appre
hensL ely and feels her heart throb unpleasant
ly fast.
“ Why should she take the news so strangely
—how san it concern her ?” the poor little lady
asks herself in much perplexity. “ She likes
Fergus Glenroy, I know, and he certainly talk
ed to her a good deal while Marcella was away;
but it is hardly possible that she should care
for him like that.”
But even while she tries to reassure herself
in this fashion, the conviction that her self-con
trolled strong-willed Bister, who has hitherto
shown no disposition to lavish her affections on
anyone, does “care,” quite beyond sense or
reason, for the man of whom she speaks, takes
firm root in Lady Bushton’s mind and makes
her feel very miserable.
“It is too absurd, for she must see his devo
tion to Marcella. lam sure he made it patent
enough to-day,” she thinks petulently, when
H.rriet’s clear cold voice cuts her musings
short.
“You were always a match-maker, Linda;
but your schemes never met with much suc
cess, and I do not imagine the present case will
prove any exception to the rule. For myself, I
think nothing more improbable than a mar
riage between Miss Hushton and Mr. Glenroy.”
She opens the door as she says the last words,
and, as ill-luck would have it, utters them al
most in Marcella Rushtoil’s face.
For a moment or two there is an awkward si
lence, during which it would be hard to say
who blushes the more, Marcella or Ethelind
Rushton: even Miss Crane’s sallow skin is mo
mentarily suffused with a warm tinge; then
Marcella breaks into a low sweet laugh which,
although a little etrained, relieves the embar
rassment of the situation.
“Listeners ne er hear any good of them
selves, they say; but I was not listening, Linda
dear,” she cries, frankly facing 'the difficulty
and resting her hand affectionately on Lady
Bushton’s shoulder. “ Fortunately’l did not
hear anything very bad; indeed I heard nothing
from you.”
Miss Crane pauses in the doorway to regard
the two young women, whose perfect trust in
and liking for each other are evident in every
look and tone; then, with a smile that is more
unpleasant in its character than most frowns,
she glides from the room.
Both girls feel the relie f of her absence, and
Ethelind betrays her feelings with her ordinary
ch’ldish frankness.
“You are not angry, Marcella?” she asks
eagerly, raising her eyes to her much taller
companion s bright face. “ Harriet is queer
sometimes and says strange things, but she
does not mean any harm.”
This is an article of faith with Lady Rushton,
and she enunciates it with such absolute sin
cerity that Marcella would not for the world in
sult it even with a good-naturedly incredulous
smile. Personally she dislikes and distrusts
Miss Crane, and is especially indignant with her
now; but Etbelind’a chiidish championship,
Ethelind’s simple faith in the sister who bullies
her secures that sister from even an unkind re
mark from loyal Marcella.
“ Angry ? No, you dear frightened child,”
she answers—Miss llnebton is always protect
ing and maternal in manner to her young step
mother; “ but Miss Crane is not much of a
prophet, Linda.”
The last words are spoken and accompanied
by a vivid blush. Marcella is always brilliant
and joyous, but even simple Linda sees that
there is an additional sparkle and brightness
about her to-day.
“ A prophet,” she repeats vaguely, while her
blue eyes wander admiringly over the slender,
stately figure in the gold-colored dress. She
takes in every item of the richly tinted southern
beauty—the clear-cut features, the great shin
ing hazel eyes, the black silken hair twined
about the small well-carr,ed head.
“Yes, a prophet,” Marcella answers brightly,
though that betraying blush has moupfed now
to the tips of her small ears, and she obviously
finds it difficult to finish her speech. “ I heard
what she said as I came in ; and—Mr. Glenroy
“ Oh, Ella, do not talk any more of that,”
Lady Rushton puts in imploringly.
Marcella laughs.
“ I must, my dear, because—well, because I
have to disprove the prophecy at once.”
“ Marcella I” Lady Rushton’s cry is full of
consternation and dismay; site half rises from
the pretty plush-covered chair in which she lias
been lounging. “You do not mean that Mr.
Glenroy- that you—
“ Yes, just that, Linda,” the girl finishes
saucily—" that Mr. Glenroy has found out that
he ffkes me, and has asked me to marry him.”
“ And you, Ella—what did you say ? ’
“Only‘Yes,’” the girl answers, with a shy
sweet smile that adds to the beauty of her deli
cate dark face. “ Only that, dear; but I think
it was enough for both of us.”
Lady Rushton’s comment on this news is
startling and would disconcert the strongest
nerved and sweetest-tempered bride-elect. She
sinks back into her chair, then covers her face
with both little dimpled hands and begins to
cry—not passionately or hysterically, but with
the pitiiul, painful whimper of a frightened
child.
Mies Rushton looks on with mingled feelings
of astonishment and indignation; she has never
credited Lady Bushton with much common
sense or force of character, but she is surpass
ing herself in silliness now.
“Beally, I did not believe any one could be
so foolish,” Marcella thinks, hardly knowing
whether to laugh or to rebuke the sobbing girl.
“ What could there be in what 1 told her to
make her cry ? I will not ( try her nerves again
—that is certain.”
But, even as she makes the resolve, Ethelind
raises her eyes, half drowned in tears, beseech
ingly to hers, and Marcella, who has an almost
masculine susceptibility to the appeal ot beauty
in distress, is mollified at once.
“ What a child you are, Linda!” she says,
with a rebuking shake of her head that is con
tradicted by a most affectionate smile. “ What
was there in my speech to make you cry ?”
“ Nothing,” Linda answers, penitently, wiping
her tearful eyes. “ I could not tell you why I
cried, Ella, for I really do not know ; I think i
am a little tired; and Harriet has been so tire
some: and then you frightened me about—
about Mr. Glenroy.”
She lowers her voice to a whisper, and looks
apprehensively round as she utters the last
words ; Marcella stares, more and more bewil
dered by her curious manner and speech.
“ My dear Linda, do speak plainly,” she says,
with a touch of impatience. “ I understand
the first and second reason—Miss Crane is
rather fond of vexing you, 1 think ; but the
third puzzles me, I admit. Why should you
be frightened to think of Fergus Glenroy as my
lover ?”
Lady Rushton trembles at the sound of the
tender word that Marcella utters with defiant
pride and energy. The timid lady is thinking
Of Harriet’s fierce outbreak, of the disappoint
ment in store lor her, and the probable scenes
to come; but she is too loyal to her sister to
aliow her step-daughter a peep into her troubled
thoughts, and so answers disingenuously.
“ Ob, Ella, of course you know I lam think
ing of you; lam afraid—afraid Sir James will
object?”
“ Why ?” Marcella’s great eyes grow larger
still. “ Papa likes Mr. Glenroy, thinks very
highly of him ; I have heard him say so a hun
dred times.”
“That may be, and yet he may not think him
a suitable match for you ; he is so fond of, bo
very proud of you—l am sure he expects you to
make a great match. Ella, how unkind you
are ! I wish you would not laugh.”
But, despite the piteous protest, Ella does
laugh, quite gayly and heartily now ; her dark
eyes sparkle and the sweetest dimples come
and go in her soft cheeks.
“ Oh, 1 must I” she cries, breathlessly, at last.
“Forgive me, Linda; you mean well, I know,
my dear; but just at present you are too deli
ciously absurd—
“ * With a little board of maxins
Preacliing down a daughter s heart.'
You have studied Tennyson to some purpose,
Lady Bushton ; but I am afraid I cannot con
gratulate you on your first appearance as a
match-making mamma.”
She laughs again as she stoops to wind up
the saucy speech with a forgiving kies, but the
expression of Ethelind’s face sobers hers. It
is so full of trouble and distress that, in spite
of her clear head and robust common sense,
it stirs within her a faint thriß of superstitious
ear.
“Linda, you are not kind,” she says, drop
ping her lighter tone, and speaking with re
proachful gravity. “1 thought that you at least
would sympathise with me and wish me joy.”
“So 1 would—so I do; but, Ella, I cannot
help it I really am afraid.”
“Otwhat? Of iny father? Fergus will speak
to him to-night; and I at least have no anxiety
as to what the answer will be. Come, Linda,
you must not shake your head and look so dis
mal—l want every one to be happy to-day I”
Lady Rushton tries to smile, but only suc
ceeds in looking more dismal than ever, as she
says in a most lugubrious tone:
“ Well, we can only hope for the best. And
now, dear, it is time to dress. lam sure I heard
the first bell.”
Marcella slightly elevates her fine brows, but
makes no other protest against what is a palpa
ble excuse to dismiss her, since the bell will
not sound for another half-hour at least. Her
step-mother is very unlike herself, she thinks,
as she walks away to her own room, but alter
all the change in her does not trouble the girl’s
happy thoughts much. She is fond of Linda, in
a half-amused, half-protecting fashion, but she
has other subjects than I.ady Rushton’s whims
and fantasies to occupy her mind to-day.
“ What will papa say ?” she muses as she
leans her bright face against the jasmine
covered casement, and looks out with dreamy
eyes into the slowly falling dusk of the Summer
evening, another Juliet in her loveliness and in
the tender passion of her thoughts. “He will
not be unkind. Why should I let my faith in
him be shaken by Linda’s childish fears? He
thinks so highly ot Fergus—he has such faith in
his future, he will not say ‘ No,’ and, even if he
did ”
She pauses there, blushing hotly, alone and
shadow-shrouded though she is, at the rebellion
of her thoughts. The next moment she is taking
herself mercilessly to task.
“ There is some perverse spirit at work in us
all to-night, I think," she says, with a nervous
tremulous laugh. “ First Miss Crane irritates,
then Linda alarms, and now the very thought of
my kind dear father makes me abominably re
bellious and ungrateful. I will try not to think
of the matter again until I hear my fate.”
. ’. acts resolutely u. tbiv Urmination
NEW YORK DISPATCH, SEPTEMBER 4, 1887.
so far as lies in her power, and walks down the
broad staircase as the last bell is sounding with
a composure and serenity that delight herself.
At the foot of the staircase she comes sud
denly face to face with Sir James _Bushtou,a
fine-featured, keen-eyed man, who is hurrying
across the hall, but who pauses to exchange a
word or two with her, despite a haunting con
seiousniss that he is already late.
“ Why, Marcella, I have hardly seen you to
day; and I have a bit of news to tell you.”
There is something significant in the lowered
tone and the strange smile that plays about the
mobile lips. Marcella raises her eyes with a
nervous start—it is not possible that Fergus
can have spoken yet?
Her sudden confusion did not escape Sir
James’s notice—reluctant witnesses and trem
bling criminals could testify only too well that
very few things do escape his well-trained eyes
—but it rattier puzzles him—he oannot connect
it in any way with his late speech.
“Do not expect anything very startling,” he
says, dryly, still closely watching the tell-tale
face. “My news only concerns Miss Crane;
perhaps you have some to tell ms, dear ?”
There is a note of tenderness in the full,
pleasant voice that goes to Marcella’s very
heart, and brings a misty haze across her love
ly eyes.
“ Oh, not I—not now, papa I” she cries, with
irrepressible agitation. “But, if you hear any
thing to-day, you will bo good to me now, as
you have always been?”
“ As I have always been,” Sir James repeats,
mechanically. “You are not learning to mis
trust me, Ella? Have 1 not always given you
what you had a right to ask ?”
There is an almost tragic sternness in his
tone and a curious darkening in his bright gray
eyes. Marcella has never seen her father look
at her, never heard him address her like that
beiore. Her courage begins to fail her; there
must surely be some reason for this singular
change—he must be warning her not to expect
too much of him—he must be preparing her for
Fergus Glenroy’s rejection.
The last thought fills her heart with pain, but
she says:
“ You have given me all and more, papa
more than a daughter’s place in your heart and
home. You have made me very, very happy—
until to-day.”
“ And your happiness shall be my chief ob
ject still, Ella.”
He stoops and kisses her forehead beneath
the waving, dusky curls. He is a man so little
given to any show of affection, that there is
something of the character of a seal set to a
promise in the unasked kiss. Long afterward
she thinks she understands the passionate,
pitying tenderness of that caress.
“And now we really must not keep our
guests waiting any longer,” Sir James says,
with mnch composure, and the next moment
they are both in the well-lighted room.
CHAPTER 111.
“ THE LAB IS A GOOD LAD—HONEST, BBIQHT AND
FBANK.”
“You have every right to think me presump
tuous, sir, and, so iar as money is concerned,
Miss Bushton might unquestionably make a
better match; but she is content, and I have
faith in the future and in you.”
Sir James laughs—not an ill-pleased or ill-na
tured laugh, by any means, though it certainly
has a sarcastic riug.
“ You are sanguine, Mr. Glenroy,” he says,
dryly, and the cold gray eyes never relax their
keen, inquisitorial scrutiny.
It is a giance that many suitors would shrink
from, but it troubles Fergus Glenroy not at all,
since there is literally nothing in his circum
stances, or even in his thoughts, that he cares
to conceal, though, as be candidly confesses,
the former at least are by no means what he
wishes, or what his questioner has the right to
expect.
“I am sanguine. I cannot help that,” he an
swers, with the frank, winning smile that most
people think irresistible, and that finds its way
somehow even to the great lawyer’s case-hard
ened heart. “I have, as yet, always won the
things 1 set my heart upon, and this day, of all
others, you cannot make mo disbelieve in my
lucky star.”
There is a quaint mingling of boyish confi
dence and manly frankness in this appeal that
Sir James Rushton finds very attractive. He
has always liked Lord Glenroyal’s handsome,
energetic younger son, whose modest progress
at the bar he has watched with more than usual
interest. He likes him better than ever to-day,
and leels that he could salely trust Marcella to
his care; but—.
There are many “ buts ” in the ease, and they
weigh heavily upon the great man’s mind to all
appearance, for he frowns darkly at the great
library table by which he sits, sighs wearily
once or twice, and hesitates so long over his
answer that Fergus Glenroy’s love and pride
both take alarm.
“ You will not send me away, sir,” he cries,
his face flushing. “ 1 know there are many ob
jections to be made; first, there is the all-im
portant one ot money ”
“The least important in my eyes, though of
course, as men of the world, we must consider
that too. You have in all
“A hundred and fifty pounds a year as a
life-charge on Glenroyal. Beyond that, nothing
but my professional income, which is at present
small.”
“ But will increase, no doubt. I think very
well of your prospects, Mr. Glenroy,” the great
man says kindly, and Fergus bows his bright
head, fully appreciating the prophecy from such
a source. “ And, for the present, there would
be Marcella’s fortune. You know that I give her
a considerable portion, I suppose?”
“ I certainly did not imagine that your daugh
ter would be portionless,” the young man an
swers with honest simplicity. “ How much or
how little you may choose to give her, I have
never thought of asking. In my circumstances,
a wife with money is almost a necessity, so the
world says ; but I think you will do me the jus
tice to believe, sir, that I did not seek Miss
Bushton for hers.”
“I do believe itl” Sir James answers at once.
He likes the young fellow’s spirit, likes even the
dash of old-world haughtiness with which he
ends his little speech. It is natural enough, he
tolls himself, in a son ot the old Glenroys, who
are proverbially proud and poor as Highlanders
of endless pedigree should be. And as he thinks
this he sighs again, and a shade of the strange
trouble that Fergus has noticed before, flits
once more across his face. “ I believe m you,
Mr. Glenroy, and, as I said before, I believe in
your future. You have talent, pluck and per
severance ; there is no reason why the highest
honors of our profession should not fall to your
share.”
The lover’s eyes sparkle, and his heart swells
within him, not only because the first lawyer of
his day has spoken this eulogium on powers the
world has hardly recognized as yet, but because
he feels such words can only be the precursors
to consent,
“ You are too good,” he murmurs, gratefully.
Sir James can hardly repress a smile.
“ Wait,” he aays, with a curious gentleness.
“ You can hardly take the measure ol my good
ness yet. The money is our least difficulty. If
I can trust you with Marcella, I shall hardly be
airaid to place her fortune in your hands, and
that will be enough to make your path smooth
for a time.”
“ Ob, sir!” the young fellow breaks in, eager
ly; but Sir James raises a warning hand.
“ Wait,” he says again, and there is some
thing in his look and tone that dashes Fergus
Glenroy’s hopes. “Did I not say that that was
the first and most easily removed obstacle ?
There are others in your path. To take one at
random, Lord Glenroyal might object; I am a
self-made man, you know, and you Glenroys
are a proud race.”
Fergus stares; there seems something forced
and out of place in the speech, Sir James Rush
ton being of all men the least given to self-de
preciation or mock modesty. The young lover
is awkwardly conscious of this, but answers
quickly:
“Such an objection is impossible. AU the
world knows and honors you, and, though my
lather lives so much out of the world, he
knows that any one might be proud to win your
daughter.”
Sir James bows gravely; the lamplight falls
upon the handsome gray head, but the fine-fea
tured face is in shadow.
For a few moments there is perfect silence in
the large, lofty room that has something of the
imposing appearance of a council chamber, and
in which Fergus Glenroy has a curious feeling
that he is somehow being tested and put to the
proof. He is just wondering how to break the
awkwardness of that solemn pause, when, with
out looking up, Sir James speaks again.
“ That may be,” he says, very slowly and
clearly. “ But Marcella is not my daughter.”
“Not?”—Fergus pauses at the monosyllable,
flushing at the stupidity of his own surprise.
“ Of course I have heard that; but she always
speaks of you as her lather, and I had half for
gotten. She is your niece and adopted daugh
ter, 1 believe.”
“My adopted daughter? Yes.” Sir James
Rushton’s long-drawn breath seems to testify
to a quite unintelligible amount of relief. “As
dear as my own child could be, and with as sa
cred a claim upon me; and that is all I can tell
you of her origin, Mr. Glenroy. Are you con
tent to know just as much and as little as the
world knows on that point?”
I know that she is as beautiful as an angel,
and as good,” the young man answers, with all
a lover’s ardent enthusiasm. “As ior taking
her—only say you will give her to me, sir I”
Sir James smiles, and, rising, pushes his
chair back and stands erect.
“ A moment more,” he says, looking with un
disguised satisfaction st the bright, irank face
before him. “ You must answer lor Lord Glen
royal’s assent to the same terms, you know.”
“ I will—l do I” Fergus cries eagerly. “ Why,
Sir James, he has seen Marcella !’’
The last argument is of course convincing in
the young lover’s eyes, and probably is not
without its weight with Sir James, though he
says, with good-natured sarcasm :
“Oh, of course Ella is absolutely irresistible
in everybody’s eyes because she happens to
dazzle yours 1 She is a good girl and a hand
some one, too, though not quite the world’s
wonder that you think her. Go to her now,
and, when you can spare her, tell her to come
to me,”
“ That means that I may tell her ?”
“ Tell her anything you like. I dare say the
story cannot be made too foolish to please her.”
Sir James says, dryly, and Fergus is not slow
to avail himself of the permission. He mutters
a few eager incoherent words of thanks, wrings
the hand of his future father-in-law in a|vise-like
grip and speeds off upon his pleasant errand.
Left alone, Sir James stares at the table be
fore him with thoughtful eyes, and mutters un
easily :
! “Have I done right? I hope so, but Heaven
knows ! The lad is a good lad, honest, bright
and frank. She will be sale with him, even it it
should come to the worst. Bali, what a coward
lam ! Of course I would make her safe at any
cost to myself, but there will be ne inquiry';
things will go smoothly as they have always
done with me since those early days. lam full
of absurd lancies to-night.”
He shakes himself impatiently, and crossing
the room, walks up and down by the book
shelves, thoughtfully reading the gilt lettering
on the backs of a handsomely bound row of
“Law Reports.” He decides at last upon a
particular volume, and is about to take it down
from the shelf, when he is startled by an impa
tient rap at the library door.
Replacing the book with what almost looks
like guilty haste, he calls out a sharp “ Come
in !” and, alter a moment’s hesitation, Lady
Rushton steps into the room.
She looks a little flushed and angry, but very
beautiful in her pretty evening dress ot India
muslin and cream lace, with scarlet poppies at
her white throat and in her shining yellow hair.
Her husband's grave, stern face lights up as it
always does at the sight of her childish loveli
ness, and, as he advances to greet her, his re
cent and very real trouble becomes for the mo
ment a forgotten thing.
“Linda, my darling,” he says, seizing the
small hands in his and even Fergus Glenroy,
in the first fervor of his love-dream could not be
more lover-like in manner than is this ornament
ol the judicial bench—“are you in trouble,
child ? Tell me at once 1”
Her ladyship laughs and averts her face, but
the laugh ends in a little hysterical sob, and
when Sir James forces the blue eyes to meet his
own, he sees that they are misty and dim.
“Tears, Ethel!” he cries, troubled, but not
seriously alarmed, for Ethlind knows and appre
ciates the value of a judicious tear, and he is
accustomed to such little scenes. “My dear
girl, something must be wrong.”
“Something is wrong,” her ladyship agrees,
pouting her rosy lips, and looking more like
a naughty child than ever. “ I have been
wanting to see you ior hours, and you have
been shut up all the time in this nasty old
study.”
Sir James smiles; with all his wisdom, he is
flattered by such words from sweet and silly
lips. He touches the little golden tendrils that
stray about the broad white forehead, and an
swers, tenderly:
“ You foolish little creature, I have been here
for half an hour at most, talking business with
Fergus Glenroy.”
“ Yes.” Ethelind’s fingers toy nervously with
the buttons of her husband’s coat; she seems
oddly and unaccountably nervous, he thinks,
to night. “And what had Mr. Glenroy to say—
oris his business a secret, James ?”
“ Not a secret to be kept from you, dear—in
deed, it will be public property soon. He asked
me for Marcella.”
“ And you said
“ And I said ‘ Yes.’ Why, Ethel”—as his wife
starts away irom him with a strange, quick, half
frightened cry—“ is there anything dreadful in
the news?”
“ Yes—no—yes—that is, I am sure I oannot
tell I” Lady Bushton cries, distractedly. She is
thinkihg of Harriet, and has much ado to keep
back her tears. “ I am quite taken by surprise,
James.”
“Are you?” Sir James asks, incredulously.
“ Where have your eyes been, Ethel ? Mr.
Glenroy’s devotion to Ella has been so patent,
that if I had disapproved of him as a son-in
law I should long since have given him a hint.”
“ You did not give Mr. Boauohamn one,”
Ethel persists, aggrievedly; and Bir' James
smiles.
“ Marcella gives him plenty; but he will not go
until she administers the coup de grace. It is
quite useless trying to save him from his fate ;
but Glenroy is a different sort of man.”
“He is a very lucky one,” Ethelind puts in
with almost painful emphasis. “He oould
hardly have expected you to consent, James.
Everj' one says he is dreadfully poor.”
“ ‘His faith is large in time,’” Sir James
quotes, thoughtfully. With his talents and
Marcella’s money they will be comfortably oft,
and can afford to wait. Do not spoil my satis
faction, darling, or make objections where I see
none.”
There is something plaintive in the appeal.
Her ladyship’s tender heart and sensitive con
science are both touched ; she stands on tip-toe
to reach her husband’s face, kisses him heartily,
and says, with remorseful eagerness :
“ I will not, dear. I would not vex you for
the world, and you know best, of course, lam
glad, indeed, that dear Marcella will be
happy.”
“ And you have no dislike to Fergus Glen
roy?”
“Dislike ! No, indeed one could hardly dis
like him,” Ethelind cries, impulsively; then
adds, in a slower and more thoughtful tone, “ I
must tell you that—that 1 made a mistake about
Mr. Glenroy, James ; I thought he admired Har
riet, not Marcella.”
“My dearest Ethel 1” There is bo much
startled and amused surprise in ‘the rejoinder
that Ethelind colors faintly, and Sir James is
instantly aware that his surprise is not too
courteous to Miss Crane. He does not himself
admire his sesthetio and exacting sister-in-law,
though he does much more than tolerate her
for his young wile’s sake, but that all people do
not regard her with his eyes he has excellent
reason to know. “ Forgive me, my dear I Tnat
was rather an uncivil remark, but I meant no
oftence to Harriet, I assure you. If Fergus
Glenroy does not admire her, some one else
does, and some one much better worth the
catching, for a ‘ portionless maid.’ Guess who
it is, my dear.”
Ethelind contracts her pretty brows and
purses up her lips, in outward evidence of
earnest thought, then shakes her yellow head,
and says With a smile:
“ You must tell me, James;! never guessed a
riddle in my lile, and I can think of no one else
who has paid her any particular attention.”
“ Think of some one who has paid her none
at all,” her husband answers, with a humorous
twinkle in his bright gray eyes; “think ol Bome
one who has seemed to divide himself wholly
between his out-door duties and his dinner, and
who all the time that we thus mis udged him
has been falling most romantically in love with,
as I should have thought, the most impossible
person.”
“ You do not—oh, James, you cannot mean
old Mr. Turberville ?”
“ The very same. Pray do not laugh, Ethel I
With him at least it is no joking matter, and,
as he is about the richest old rogue at the
Bar, Harriet too may be disposed to take it
seriously.”
Lady Rushton is not in the least disposed to
laugh. She takes the matter more than seriously,
and asks in an anxious tone:
“ This is not a joke, James ?”
“ No joke at all, my dear; the old fellow came
to me to-day, and asked me to use my—or rather
your—influence in his behalf, bo I shall leave
the matter in your hands. I never saw a man
more infatuated in my life.”
CHAPTER IV.
“ LAW BEEOBTS OE 18—.”
Lady Rushton is astonished and excited at
her husband's startling piece of news, but, after
the first feeling ot surprise is over, she is by no
means displeased. She begins indeed to leel a
certain amount of satisfaction in the thought of
telling Harriet ot the honor in store.
“ Oh, James, what a queer idea it is I” she
cries, all her youthtul spirit restored. “I never
thought much ot poor old Mr. Turberville be
fore, but ho must be quite too delightful as a
lover. lam longing to hear what Hattie will
say.’,
“ She will say ‘Yes ’ if she is a sensible wo
man,” Sir James answers in comfortably con
fident tones. He himself feels pretty sure as to
what his sister-in-law s answer will be—her
matrimonial value, as a woman past her first
youth, penniless, affected, and far from sweet
tempered, is not great in his eyes; and, though
he has no special respect or liking for Guetavus
Tuberville, he secretly thinks her uncommonly
lucky to have found favor in his sight.
Ethelind shakes her yellow curia; the pretty
butterfly’s thoughts-have not traveled beyond
the fun and excitement of making the proposal
known. She is by no means so sure as her
husband that Harriet will answer it with an im
mediate “ Yes.” indeed, the more she consid
ers the question, the more doubtful she feels
this satisfactory ending to be, and she finishes
her reflection with an impatient:
“ Oh, no one can say what will happen! Hat
tie Is rather a queer girl—romantic, and all that
sort of thing, you know.”
“ Really—at her age ?” Sir James says, with
a slightly incredulous smile. “ Well, my dear,
she is her own mistress—no one can coerce her;
but I think, if I were you, I would use my in
fluence on Tuberville’s side. It may not be a
romantic, but it will certainly be a most res
pectable marriage.”
“ It will at least modify the effect of the other
piece of news upon poor Hattie,” is the com
forting reflection to which Ethelind pays more
attention than to her husband’s prudent words;
and then, eager to impart the consolation, she
leaves the room, and Sir James, as in duty
bound, follows in her train.
Hardly has the great leather covered door
swung behind them when the dark-green cur
tain that vails the embrazure of the window is
lifted, and Harriet Crane’s dilated eyes glare
cautiously round.
“ I did not listen for nothing,” she says, with
a repellent and unsteady laugh, as she comes
slowly forward. “ Mine has been a sensational
half-hour, worth all the cramp and crick in the
neck it brought me. I did not anticipats such
a lull evening’s enjoyment when I hid behind
the curtain just to hear what Fergus Glenroy
had to say. I expected a love-scene, and I have
had tragedy, drama, farce, all tumbling on each
other’s heels.”
Agein she laughs in the same harsh unmirth
ful fashion; again the wild eyes wander round
the room with the same restless glare of mis
ery.
“Soit is all over,” she mutters. “ Marcella
Rushton has beaten me—Mr. Glenroy is hers.
She has the right to claim all hie attention, to
flaunt her happiness in the face of the world;
and the way is to be made smooth for her, dif
ficulties are to be cleared away, and I am to see
it all—to stand quietly by, go to the wedding,
perhaps—l, who thought, who hoped, who had
the right to hope once, that he cared for me !
Never-never 1 I would rather see her dead.
See her dead? I would rather kill her myself;
and I could do that if there was no other way!”
The last words gain in threatening force' by
being spoken in a calm and quietly reflective
tone, while the speaker stretches out and cu
riously regards the long slender hands that
look capable of any amount ot strength and
cruelty.
“ But there are other ways, luckily,” she goes
on in tho same deliberate monotone—“ ways
that Sir James himself has been kind enough to
suggest. We all know that cup and lip do not
always come together, and 1 think in this case
there will be the proverbial slip. The bumper
foams high for you, my proud Marcella. You
long to taste its nectar, do you not ? But how
if the cup falls crashing to the ground just as
you stretch out yonr hand to seize it and raise
it to your lips ? ' I think it will—l think it will.
In spite ot your lover s ardor and your guar
dian% complaisance, it is not written in the
book of fate yet that Miss Marcella Rushton shall
merge her somewhat mysterious identity in that
of Mrs. Glenroy.”
Wandering restlessly up and down the room,
Harriet pauses mechanically and half uncon
sciously at the very bookshelf on which she had
seen Sir James Rushton place hie hand a short
time back. Instinctively, not knowing at the
moment to what impulse she yields, she raises
her hand and touches the very volume he had
been about to take down.
“ ‘ Law Reports for 18—,’ she roads slowly.
“Why did he wish to study those now ? Was
he thinking of Marcella end her lover, of some
painful complications in the case ? Was he
merely plunging into business in a desperate
effort to divert his thoughts, or ”
The conjecture which, as it flits across her
mind, makes her eyes sparkle and her sallow
cheeks flush remains unspoken, for at that mo
ment she feels an iron grip upon her shoulder,
and, turning her head, looks straight into Sir
James Rushton’s eyes.
That lie is angry beyond all apparent reason
she sees at once, and the sight makes her heart
beat faster with mingled feelings of excitement
and triumph. There is a secret, and that a
dangerous one, almost within her reach, or he
would not stare at her with that look of fierce
inquiry in his eyes.
“Dear ma, Sir James, how you startled me!”
she says, with a sharp hysterical laugh. But
there is no answering smile on his stern face
as he retorts, with uncompromising grimness:
“The right to feel startled, or at least sur
prised, is mine, Miss Crane. lam not accus
tomed to find ladies meddling with my law
books, nor, though it may seem discourteous to
say so, do I care to see them so employed.”
“I am so sorry I ’ Harriot Crane answers,
with well-acted terror and dismay. “I took
this shelf almost at random. I only wanted a
book, and another will do just as well. Please
tell me which corners of the library 1 may visit,
and 1 promise to confine myselt strictly to
them, Sir James.”
“ Three-lourtlis of the room are open to you
or any one, Miss Crane,” Sir James rejoins,
with the same air of stern displeasure. “lonly
reserve this corner to myself.”
He places himself be ore the shelves as he
speaks almost in the attitude of a man prepared
to defend some sacred treasure with his lile.
There is something ridiculous in the position,
as he is instantly aware, and the consciousness
of the fact does not lessen his anger with Miss
Crane.
the accepts the reluke however with an
angelic meekness that forces him at least to
seem softened, and pours forth her apologies
with a fluent profuseness he is compelled to
stop.
“ Oh,well, perhaps I spoke unkindly; in which
case you must forgive me, Miss Crane !” he
says, with a most ungracious and non-apologetic
air. “But this is a subject on which my feel
ings are strong. However, we have said more
than enough about it. Ethelind was looking for
you everywhere Just now.”
“ For me ?” inquires Harriet innocently. “ I
had better go to her then.”
Sir James answers by a grave bow ot assent.
But, when the door has closed behind her, he
utters something like a malediction upon her
mischievous spirit and prying ways, and, drag
ging the book down from the shelf, throws it
violently upon the table, saying in a tired trou
bled tone:
“ How long has she been here? What does
she guess—what does she know? What brought
her to that shelf ol all others to-night? If I
thought she had found out anything to make
her suspect and meant any harm to Marcella, I
would have the whole thing out at once, what
ever pain it cost me.”
All the time he is speaking he is hurriedly
turning the pages with hands that shake in a
fashion calculated to astonish the friends and
admirers of the ordinarily calm and equable
judge, but Sir James Bushton is strangely un
like himself to-night.
Suddenly ho pushes the book away with a
hollowlaugh.
“ Bah, what a womanish fanciful fool I am I”
he says. “ What can she know? How could
she possibly guess ? If she had been, as 1 half
fancied, hidden in the room, she would have
heard not only what concerned Marcella and
Glenroy, but that which was far more important
to herself—the fact ot Turberville’s proposal.
Even if she meant to refuse him, that would
naturally take the first place in her mind.”
There is something so reasonable and satis
factory in this re lection that Sir James’s tears
die a sudden death. Ho is not given to foresee
ing unhappy contingencies, and the act of riding
out to meet ill-luck half-way seems to him about
the most foolish mistake a man can commit.
“AU will go well, of course,” he says, with
the brisk conviction of one with whom most
things have gone well hitherto. “ Why should
I make myselt wretched for a mere fancy ? The
past is done with—we have to deal only with
the present now.”
Byway of commentary on this comfortable
conviction, he does not replace the volume on
the shelf, but locks it safely away in an inner
drawer of the great library table, of which he
invariably keeps the master-key.
“ The apple is as well locked up and kept out
of the reach ot any daughter of Eve. I suppose
Miss Crans is as curious as the rest of her
sisters, at least; and I have done my best to
arouse her curiosity to-day. Fortunately, the
Turberville affair is likely to drive all minor
matters from her mind.”
He would hardly take the comfort he does in
this thought could he see his sister-in-law’s
white face and gleaming eyes, as she slowly
mounts the stairs on her way to Lady Rushton’s
room, could he hear the broken, incoherent
words of scorn and triumph and bitter exultant
hate that break every now and then from her
lips.
“ There is a secret. I felt sure before—a
child, an idiot oould not doubt it now—a secret
that would sting the pride of the Glenroys, that
even the lover could not be trusted to hear.
Well, I know where to look lor it now, and be
fore I am many hours older, Marcella Bushton
shall be in my power.”
She comes suddenly upon Ethelind in the
shadowy corridor, and the girl starts back with
a quick cry of terror, recovering herself, how
ever, and saying with a nervous laugh :
“ Why, Hattie, I took you for your own ghost;
too much excitement is ruinously shaking my
nerves ! You are just the person I was looking
for, though. Come into my room for a moment,
dear; I want to tell you a bit of news.”
Harriet Crane regards her sister with a curi
ous Bickering smile.
“ Nothing that will shake my nerves I hope ?”
ahe says, as sha follows Lady Rushton into the
pretty octagon chamber, with its dainty hang
ings of sea-green silk afid its artistic furniture.
“But I fancy, my dear, they are raiiiOr stronger
than yours.”
Ethelind looks as though she hopes her sis
ter's nerves will not be shaken, but answers for
the moment only by drawing lorwara a eoltly
cushioned chair and saying :
“Don't stand, Hattie—it does not look com
fortable, and I want a nice long chat.”
This speech is accompanied with the pretty
propitiatory smile lew people find easy to resist.
It is not the smile, however, but her own incli
nation, that Miss Crane obeys as she sinks lan
guidly into the proffered seat.
“Now lor the startling news, Linda,” she
says, with a slight mocking smile that does not
make Lady Rushton feel more comfortable or
easy in her mind, “or shall I spoil your sur
prise and spare you the trouble of telling it, my
dear ?”
Linda looks up quickly.
“By all means, if you can; but I hardly think
that it is possible—you cannot know the whole
budget—that is certain.”
“No? Well, I will content myself with an
‘ elegant extract ’ then—you were going to tell
me, in the first place, about Miss Bushton and
Mr. Glenroy.”
“ Something about them, yes,” Linda answers
nervously, twisting the gold band that clasps
her white arm, and looking anywhere rather
than in her sister’s face. “Do you know what
that something is I”
“I think I can furnish a fair guess—they are
engaged with Sir James’s full approval. That
is it, is it not, Linda ':”
“ How clever you are, Hattie I” Ethelind cries,
with an outburst of enthusiasm that is inspired
quite as much by relief as admiration. “Did
Marcella tell you, or did you guess ?”
Miss Crane shrugs her slim shoulders.
“ I am not in Miss Bushton’s confidence, but
neither am I quite blind, my dear, and I have
seen the happy pair together.”
“They are happy,” Ethelind agrees, a kind
and gentle expression shining in her eyes and
brightening her pretty face. “I am very, very
gfad, Hattie, tor Ella has been more than good
to me, and there are few girls who in her place
would not have resented my coming here as a
step-mother!”
“ I know you are given to making idols,
Linda,” Harriet says, with a yawn. “ Miss
Rushton always struck me as a very common
place person, I must admit, but you are wel
come to think her a paragon it you choose. One
thing I can understand, though, and that is
your pleasure at the prospect of her speedy
marriage, since it will take your dear friend out
of your way.”
“Harriet!” Lady Rushton cries angrily, stung
by what she knows to be an undeserved sneer;
then, checking her indignation, she adds a little
sadly: "But we will not quarrel; I cannot
make you understand Marcella or my feeling
for her; and you have still to hear my other bit
of news, er will you guess that ?”
“I am rather tired of guessing—you may tell
me now.”
“ Well, then”—the dimples come back to
Ethelind’s face; her present task at least pre
sents no painful difficulty—" Sir James has had
to interview more than one anxious lover to
day, Hattie, and the second wooer came for
you.”
“Well?” Miss Crane says inquiringly, with
an absolute composure that startles her sister,
who says half-laugbingly:
“ You did well to boast of your nerves; they
are not easily shaken. Do you not want to know
your suitor’s name?”
“ Perhaps I can guess that too,” Harriet an
swers, rising and looking as bored and seli
possessed as ever, “ but you may tell me, Linda
—I am not ambitious to figure as a witch in
your thoughts.’’
“ What do you say, then, to Mr. Gustavus
Turberville 1”
Harriet elevates her fawn-colored brows io a
slightly depreciating fashion, and answers
quetly:
Not a very romantic personage, Linda, but
Mr. Turberville has solid and substantial at
tractions of his own—one might go farther and
fare worse. ’
“ You will accept him then?” Lady Rushton
asks, half pleased that the matter should be so
soon and so easily arranged, half troubled by
her sister’s singular m inner.
“ I did not say that,” the other answers
dreamily. Sufficient for- the day is the one
notable engagement of the Bomeo-and-Juliet
like young pair down-stairs. We will not spoil
the romance of their story just yet.”
And with this enigmatical utterance she bids
Lady Rushton good-night.
(To be Oontinuel.l
A SU UGLOVS LIFE.
A Page From the Experience of a Fa
mous Physician and burgeon.
I have always maintained that it is impossi
ble for any man to be a great surgeon it be is
destitute, even in a considerable degree, of the
finer feelings of our nature. I have o ten lain
awake lor hours the night before an important
operation, and suffered great mental distress
for days after it was over, until 1 was certain
that my patient was out of danger. Ido not
think that it is possible for a criminal to feel
much worse the night before his execution than
a surgeon when he knows that upon his skill
and attention must depend the fate of a valua
ble citizen, husband, father, mother or child.
Surgery under such circumstances is a terrible
taskmaster, feeding like a vulture upon a man’s
vitals, It is surprising that any surgeon in
large practice should ever attain to a respecta
ble old age, so great are the wear and tear ol
mind and body.
The world has seen many a sad picture. I
will draw one of the surgeon : It is midday ;
the sun is bright and beautiful; all nature is
redolent of joy ; men and women crowd the
street, arrayed in their best, and all, appar
ently, is peace and happiness within and with
out. In a large house, almost overhanging this
street so full of life and gayety, lies upon a
couch an emaciated figure, once one o the
sweetest and loveliest of her sex, a confiding
and affectionate wile, and the adored mother oi
numerous children, the subject of a frightful
disease of one of her limbs, or, it may be, of her
jaw, if not of a still more important part of her
body, in an adjoining room is the surgeon,
with his assistants, spreading out his instru
ments and getting things in readiness for the
impending operation. He assigns to each his
appropriate place. One administers chloro
form ; another takes charge Of the limb ; one
screws down the tourniquet upon the principal
artery, and another holds himself in readiness
to follow the knife with his sponge. The flaps
are soon formed, the bone severed, the vessels
tied, and the huge wound approximated.
The woman is pale and ghastly, the pulse
hardly perceptible, the skin wet with clammy
perspiration, the voice husky, the sight indis
tinct. borne one whispers into the ear of the
busy surgeon, “The patient, I fear, is dying.”
Restoratives are administered, the pulse grad
ually rises, and after a few hours of hard work
and terrible anxiety, reaction occurs. The poor
woman was only faint from the joint influence
oi the anesthetic, shock and less of blood. An
assistant, a kind of sentinel, is placed as a
guard over her, with instructions to watch her
with the closest care, and to send word the
moment the slightest change for the worse is
perceived.
The surgeon goes about his business, visits
other patients on the way, and at length, long
after the usual hour, he sits down, worried aud
exhausted, to his cold aud comfortless meal,
with a mouth almost as dry and a voice as
husky as his patient s. He eats mechanically,
exchanges hardly a word with any member oi
his family, and sullenly retires to his study, to
prescribe for his patients—never, during all
this time, forgetting the poor mutilated object
he left a lew hours ago.
He is about to lie down to get a moment’s re
pose after the severe toil of the day, when sud
denly he hears a loud ring of the bell, and a
servant, breathless with excitement, begs his
immediate presence at the sick chamber with
the exclamation, “ They think Mrs. is dy-
ing.” He hurries to the scene with rapid pace
and anxious feeling. The stump is of a crim
son color, and the patient lies in a profound
swoon. An artery has suddenly given way; the
exhaustion is extreme; cordials aud stimulants
are at once brought into requisition, the dress
ings are removed, and the recusant vessel is
promptly secured.
The vital current ebbs and flows, reaction is
still more tardy than before, and it is not until
a late hour of the night that the surgeon, liter
ally worn out in mind and body, retires to his
home in search of repose. Does he sleep? He
tries, but he cannot close his eyes. His mind is
with his patient; he hears every ootstep upou the
pavement under his window, and is in momen
tary expectation of the ringing of the night bell.
He is disturbed by the wildest fancies, he sees
the most terrible objects, and, as he rises early
in the morning to hasten to his patient’s cham
ber, he feels that he has been cheated of the
rest of which he stood so much iu need. Is
this picture overdrawn? I have sat for it a
thousand times, and there is not an educated,
conscientious surgeon that will not certify to
its accuracy.
METALLICJI()NEY.
THE TREASURIES OF FOUR GREAT
NATIONS COMPARED.
The latest returns from the great reservoirs
of metallic money afford an illustration of the
prodigious growth of the United States in the
financial transactions ot the world. The United
States treasury possesses $250,000,000 of silver
and $283,000,000 of gold ; the Bank o' France
$241,000,000 of gold and $236,000,000 of silver;
the Bank of England $121,000,000 of gold, re
porting no silver; the Imperial Bank of Ger
many $100,000,000 in gold and $40,000,000 in sil
ver. It will thus be perceived that the United
States treasury holds $02,000,000 of gold more
than the Bank of England and the Imperial Bank
of Germany, the two" great reservoirs ol the pre
cious metals in those powerful nations.
The figures look astounding to an American
who remembers that in the days ot the Van
Buren and Harrison administrations, forty-five
years ago, $5,000,000 or $6,000,000 in gold and
silver was as much as our national treasury
could scrape together.
It should be understood that no small por
tion of the gold and silver in the United States
treasury is not owned by the government, but
is placed there by depositors who have implicit
faith in the integrity and fidelity ot the govern -
dm tit. At bait fM.QW.OW W lu circulation in
the form of gold certificates, and $144,000,000 in
the form of silver certificates, thus showing the
confidence of the people in the government as a
sacred trustee ol their most valued wealth.
It will be remembered that while Charles 11.
was king ot England, when his financial neces
sities were great, he did not hesitate to take the
gold and silver deposited by the people in the
exchequer for the uses of his government.
Though the act was accompanied by a promise
to repay the same, historians have denomin t
ed it robbing the exchequer. If in our country
an individual should present his gold certifi
cate at the treasury and find that therb was no
gold there, he would be shocked beyond imag
ination, so trustful was his faith in'the fidelity
of the government. That very fidelity has
brought untold millions into circulation from
the hoards of the avaricious, who are slow to
have faith; but when placed it is implicit.
Fifty years ago, when Silas Wright, the great
Senator Irom New York, suggested the indepen
dent treasury plan, it was scouted and derided
by the merchants and bankers of that day as
injurious to the development and prosperity of
the country. Yet experience has shown that it
was one of the wisest and most statesmanlike
acts ever passed by the American Congress. It
has given an independence and a strength to
our national finances which a national bank
could not have secured.
Had an individual in 1847 stood on the stops
of the government custom house in Wall street
and proclaimed to a gathering crowd that the
United States would, in forty years, hold in its
treasury more than twice the amount of gold
that the Bank of England ever held, and $250,-
000,000 of silver in addition, the person so speak
ing would have been hustled out of the street
by the congregated brokers and bankers as a
lunatic in need of a straight jacket.
THE GIRL'HOODLUM.
A MODERN ' PRODUCT EbSEN
TIALLT_OFFENSIVE.
(From the St. Louis Republican.)
At this time, when so much is being written
and said about the “enlargement of woman’s
sphere,” it is well enough to consider the re
sults of the movement and to be warned against
some of the lines along which it has a tendency
to extend. There are plenty of examples before
the eyes of every observing man and woman to
emphasize the warning. Let the reader go to
the church, the theatre, the race-track, the
parks, the social gatherings of all grades ; let
him observe alike the belles of the upper ten
dom on the promenade and the factory girls on
their way home after work, and he will see, if he
is not already aware, how abundantly hoodlum
ism is scattered among the rising generation of
American women. The girl hoodlum is a mod
ern product, yet few people will fail to under
stand the term. It is not necessary to explain
it further than to say that it stands for a type of
feminine rowdyism which is vicious in its exam
ple, and essentially offensive to all well-bred
and well-meaning persons. No accessories of
wealth can make it respectable, no arts of dress
or adornment can disguise it, no depth of
poverty excuse it in any one of intelligence and
proper home teaching.
Many causes have been assigned for the
growth of this unsightly excrescence on our so
cial life—among them the influence of the com
mon schools. To all who have been inclined
to believe in this idea we would simply recom
mend a thorough investigation of methods and
customs prevailing in those fashionable private
inst tutions of learning which the sweet girl
graduates are wont to call Fem. Sems. The
common schools have their faults, but, all
things considered, they will not suffer by the
comparison in this respect. The rich are too
prone to rear their daughters in a belief that
there is some kind of degradation in the ac
quaintance with the details of housekeeping and
home duties. The poor man’s daughter catches
the infection, and shuns the useful knowledge
from the time she oan find other wage-produc
jng work. Let they all expect to marry, and
the poor girl no more desires her husband to do
the housework than the nob girl desires to be
at the mercy of her servants.
The “enlargement of woman’s sphere” is in
itseli a blessing to thousands, but it should not
be allowed to result in the abandonment by
masses oi women oi the field in which lias their
advantage and supreme authority. Neither
should the movement lor woman’s rights teach
the neglect of woman’s duties. It is the women
who arc interested in these points more than
the men. The growth ol hoodlumiam among
girls is a bad sign in our social life. We have
sufficiently indicated that this peculiar femi
nine development is not confined to any station
or class. !t prevails among rich and poor alike.
Neither is the girl hoodlum anj' worse in fact
than the boy hoodlum, though she seems worse
probably on account of the higher plane woman
occupies in the popular estimation. In conclu
sion, the Republioan disclaims any intention to
chnrge that hoodlumism is sweeping over thq
country like a tidal wave to ingulf American
womanhood. It is already too prevalent aud is
apparently increasing, but it lies in the power
of the sensible women in this country to stay its
progress, and the effort is worth making. Let
every woman teach her daughter that no higher
comp?iment can ever be paid her than the sim
ple words, “She is a perfect lady,” addressed
to other ears than her own.
FREDERICK THEGREAT.
A New Story of How He Fully Ko
warded Presence of Mind.
(From the London Telegraph.)
The days of the historical “long bridge” lead
ing from Berlin to Potsdam are numbered a
bridge which played an important part in the
career of Frederick the Great. In the days ol
that king all travelers between the two cities
were compelled to pass over the bridge, and
few escaped the monarch’s notice while sitting
in the study or his neighboring palace. But he,
ot course, did not wish to be observed, so be
placed a mirror in the room, which accurately
reflected what occurred upon the bridge. Ona
day, in the evening of which a mas juerade was
to take place in Berlin, he sat as usual at his
desk, when, glancing in the mirror, he saw a
cavalry captain in the act oi crossing. He con
cluded at once that the object of his ride was
the m eked ball, which his majesty also intend
ed to visit, but had forbidden his officers.
A few hours later the king started lor Berlin
and appeared iu the opera-house at the proper
time. His sharp eye soon recognized the sinner
in the mask of a noble Venetian, and he lol
lowed him step by step until he was thoroughly
convinced that he had made no mistake. Step
ping in front of the culprit and gazing at him
with a transfixing glance, he thundered:
“Mask, I know you !”
The officer, who immediately recognized the
tones of his king, was frightened lor a moment.
He knew that a heavy punishment, possibly dis
missal, would be meted out to him. But he
recollected himself and replied:
“Mask, ; do not know you.”
“ Mask, you are Cavalry Captain .”
With a resolution of despair the officer an
swered:
“ Yes, but I am here without leave of absence,
He is a scoundrel who betrays me.”
The king bit his lips. The answer was unex
pectedly collected and impudent. But present
ly he said:
“ upon my word it remains our secret.”
The officer left the masquerade, hurried to
bis hotel, sprang upon his horse and galloped
back to Potsdam. On the following morning at
eight o’clock he appeared punctually for duty
in the Lustgarten, whither his regiment had
been commanded.
The king soon began the review, staring
strongly at the captain as he passed down the
file. {Suddenly he halted at the centre.
“Cavalry Captain I” resounded his sten-
torian tone.
The officer, now certain of his dismissal or
long arrest, rode forward in strictest military
fashion, saluting the king, as he thought, for
the last time.
“Nearer,” commanded his ma esty, as the
captain stopped at the customary distance. Ha
obeyed. “Mask, you are a major, but he is a
scoundrel who betrays it.”
“Upon my word, your majesty, it remains
our secret,” answered the officer, relieved now
of his heavy heart.
A year went by, and the promotion remained
an unrevealed secret,’the captain doing his
duty as hitherto. On the anniversary of the
event, when again presenting his regiment to
the king in the Lustgrrten, the following parole
orders were read:
“Cavalry Captain is promoted to the
rank of major, his patent dating irom a year
ago to-day, and has four weeks’ leave of ab
sence lor the carnival in Berlin.”
“keeKcool.
Examples of Celebrated Men who Fol
lowed this Maxim with Profit.
(From the Cincinnati Enquirer.)
Junot was so cool when, in the presence of
Napoleon, the cannon ball threw the sand over
his letter, that he subsequently camo to bo
Duke D Abrantes,
Napoleon was tolerably cool during the
march through Egypt, and it is proved as well
as anything can be that his pulse at the end ot
the battle oi Austerlitz was several beats slower
than when he went into it.
There was a very cool boy of some twelve
years at the Lane & Bodley shops a few days
ago. He walked in with some playmates to
look at the machinery. Tapping with his
knuckles a quiet buzz-saw, he gently remarked:
“I had an old man ripped to pieces with one of
them the o her day.”
The captain of the “ Orinoco” was cool, when
he amused himself by winding up his watch as
his sinking boat carried them down to the bot
tom of the sea.
The “ Kid-Gloved Brigade ’’—the Gants
Glaces—-were very cool. They had been a butt
for the ridicule of the whole army because oi
the foppery of their dress. There was a fort to
be carried by assault, and regiment alter regi
ment of picked troops had been driven back,
bleeding and decimated, the Kid Gloves mean
while laughing derisively. Then their turn
came. They took the fort and died there. Ten
of them lived, but none of the enemy.
There was another boy, a Covingtonian, who
was quite cool. His father died last week from
sunstroke, and, after the funeral, he was ob
served to be quite solemn. Believing his heart
bowed down with weight of woe, his mothet
sought conversation with him.
“ What are you thinking of, Charley ?”
“I was thinkin’ whether I could have dad’s
fishin' pole now.”
Perh&ps this was even a trifl§ frigid than
the performance ol Matt Duryea, hanged, toL
gether with a pal, in London. As the two were
on the scaffold two wild bulls broke loose from
a drove and wreaked havoc on the edge of the
vast crowd of spectators. “ It’s mighty lucky,
Jim,” said Matt, “that we ain’t down there.”
In his younger days, before he lost his hold
on good society, the poet Swinburne was once
very cool. He was at a garden party at Windsor
and strolled off into the shrubbery with the
Princess Beatrice. He talked so sweetly that
they stayed ion", until searched lor by the court
officers. Beatrice was overwhelmed with the
danger ot disgrace, when he pityingly remarked:
“it is too bad that I should have kept you here
alone so long, but I don’t mind proposing, if
that will help it any.”
A Minister’s Perquisites. —Says the
Lewiston (Mo.) Journal: The perquisites of a
minister’s lie arc as a general thing overesti
mated. An old clergyman firmly believed this,
who had received a call to a small church in the
eastern part of this State, from bis much larger
parish in Massachusetts. A delegation from the
church was sent to urge him to accept the call.
He asked them what the salary was. They re
plied that it was about S6OO per year, but' that
the people were very generous and were contin
ually bringing in things to the minister. “Well,”
said he, “I don’t wish to offend you, but I must
positively decline. And now let me give you a
bit of my experience: In my younger days 1 re
ceived a call to a small parish where, as in the
case with your people, they were very liberal.
It was their custom to always give the minister
a ball of butter when they churned, and a quar
ter of veal when they slaughtered. I accepted
the call. Things went along as they represented
during the firat year. After that there began to
be a falling off in their donations, until soon I
received hardly anything. I began to make in
liriries. One ot my parishioners told me I gave
perfect satisfaction, but the people had begun
to ‘raise their calves.’ And it has been my ex
perience,” continued the old minister, “that
donating parishioners soon begin to 'raise their
calves.’ ”
An Interesting Journal. —A. Bron
son Alcott has kept a journal ever since he was
a bov, and, as be was born iu 1797, aud has
known ntimately nearly every man of distinc
tion in New England irom that time to the pres
ent, it ought to be entertaining reading. This
journal fills sixty volumes of neatly written
manuscript, which will be given to the world
after his death. Mr. Alcott is still a helpless in
valid, and spends most of his time on a couch
asleep or looking over his books.
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