New York dispatch. [volume], September 25, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
2
She does not find much oomfort in that weak
device. Marcella’s face grows very pale as she
roads, and it is with an effort she steadies her
jjroice to say:
“ This is from Fergus. There has been an
accident, and—do not be frightened, Ethelind
dear—napa is very slightly hurt.”
She draws the little trembling figure to her:
but Ethelind is frightened out of all sense and
reason, and can listen to neither now. She
tries to break from Marcella’s clasp, crying:
“Oh, they are deceiving us 1 He is dead—l
Itnow—l am sure of it 1 Oh, James—let me go
io him, Ella I”
She escapes from Marcella’s arms, and takes
a step or two across the room, but only to stag
ger and fall a helpless heap upon the carpet be
fore she has reached the door.
It is a relief to them all when the poor, weak,
tender-hearted little creature is left in her sis
ter’s care, when Marcella and her lover’s father
and sister are able to discuss and arrange mat
ters without fear of an hysterical outbreak from
■her.
“I too have a telegram, my dear,” Lord
Glenroyal says kindly, feeling his liking and
admiration for the girl increase as he looks at
her white face, and sees how bravely and quiet
ly she bears her anxious pain. “It confirms
yours. Sir James is in no danger, but he must
be kept absolutely quiet ior a few days.”
Marcella shivers, but only asks in a low
tone:
“What was the accident? And whore is ho
now ?”
“Ho was thrown against a curb-stone when
f otting out of hansom in which he and Fergus
ad driven to the station, and now lies at the
Bailway Hotel.”
“ You will go to him, I suppose, my dear—l
Jnean without waiting for yonder poor helpless
?hild to get her wits back again ?” Miss Glenroy
asks with a little nod in the direction of the
doorway through which Lady Rushton has been
carried. Her tone is contemptuous, but it is a
good-natured, half-pitiful scorn, that Marcella
does not feel bound to resent.
“Oh, yes; 1 must go at once, please!” she
answers nervously, and Lord Glenroyal an
nounces his intention to go with her, while, a
little to the surprise of both, Miss Glenroy de
cides to remain where she is.
“I may be wanted, in case Lady Rushton
Should come to her senses and wish to join you,
or stay out of them and be really ill,” she says
in her queer matter-of-fact manner. “Miss
Crane is too tragic and poetical to be trusted
With any of the every-day duties of existence.”
The suggestion relieves Marcella’s mind, in
so far as it can be relived by anything short of
the assurance of her father’s safety. Kho thanks
Muriel warmly, and hastens away to change
her dress, while Lord Glenroyal snatches a
hurried morsel of dinner under his daughter’s
presiding care.
Marcella will never forget the long hour of
inaction and suspense that foflows, will never
forget, though she hardly seems to notice it
(then, her companion’s tender and thoughtful
care. Lord Glenroyal and she learn to under
stand each other curiously well as the train
drags its slow way through the summer night,
and he is conscious of an ever-increasing satis
faction with his sou’s choice.
“She is as good and brave as she is beauti
ful," he thinks, watching her from hie corner of
the carriage, as the wavering light of the lamp
falls upon the pale, sorrowful face that yet is so
resolutely calm, upon the small hands that can
not tremble, they are locked in so close a clasp.
“ She can think of others in her fiercest pain.
She is suffering an agony of suspense now, but
she does not betray it by a word or cry. What
martyr or heroine could do more? She will be
an honor to us.”
Fergus is at the station. Marcella catches
eight of the tall familiar figure as the train
eteams in, and her heart gives a glad leap as
the lamplight flashes upon the frank face that
has few secrets Irom the world, and none from •
her. It looks a little anxious, but it is not the
face of the bearer of tidings of irreparable woe. 1
“ Sir James is better—much better,” he says
eagerly, answering her eyes before her lips !
have time to speak. “Shaken terribly, of :
course, and a little confused, but on the whole 1
doing wonderfully well.” ,
Marcella turns her head aside. Her lips will
quiver, and her eyes will fill, m the intensity of
her relief. Fergus draws her hand withiu his '
arm, and says cheerily as he walks off with her
in the direction of the hotel:
“ Come, Ella, we must not have you break :
down now.” 1
Lord Glenroyal answers for her at once, and
with an air of proud and pleased proprietorship ’
that makes his son smile.
“Not much fear of her breaking down, Fer- '
gus. She has been good and brave all along.” !
“ You have quite won the chief’s heart now,
Ella,” her lover whispers, with irrepressible de
light, as they hurry through the hotel corridor
Dh their way to Sir James’s room. “To call any *
one brave and good is the highest praise he oan
give to man or woman.”
Ella nods. She cannot answer at the moment, .
her heart is too full, but long after, the words 1
come back to her with a strange and sad signifl- ,
cance, helping to nerve and strengthen her in
an hour of bitter trial.
In the corridor they meet the doctor coming '
from the sick man’s room. He quite confirms ‘
Mr. Glenroy’s cheering statement, but decided- 1
ly does not approve of any excitement for his I
patient that night.
“ Sir James may see Miss Rushton? Ob, yes, ,
Certainly 1” he says, after a thoughtful pause. ,
“But there must be no conversation—or as little .
as possible. In fact, ho must be kept extremely ,
quiet tor some Cme.” 1
“Is ha •” Marcella stops, biting her under
lip, then says anxiously, “1 mean, do you fear
any injury to the brain?”
“No!” The doctor’s answer is prompt and 1
decisive. “ But there has been a severe shock, !
and in these cases people cannot be too carelul.
You will find Sir James perhaps a little wander
ing and confused, but remember my warning
and show no surprise.”
Marcella promises with a heavy heart, and
the next moment she is in the sick-room, bend- 1
Ing over the pillow on which the bandaged head
rests, almost fearing to breathe lest she should
.break what seems to be a placid sleep. <
She watches there half an hour at least before
the invalid stirs; then he turns restlessly on the ,
pillow, opens his eyes, and lets them rest on her
face with a confused, questioning stare that
tnakes the girl’s heart throb.
“You are better now,” she says, cheerfully, ,
•* dear papa ? lam so glad 1”
She stoops to touch his face with her fresh
lips, but, to her surprise, he who has never
once been angry with her turns away now as
though the gesture offended him, and says in a
bard, displeased tone:
“ You 1 Are you here now ?”
The emphasis on the word “you” is signifl- .
Cant and unmistakable. For the first time Mar- .
cells experiences a sharp pang of jealousy. She
thinks, and thinks naturally, that he misses
Ethelind, and, resenting his young wile’s ab
sence, has no welcome for the daughter who
takes her place.
It is a bitter cup of sorrow to drink, for Mar
cella has been spoiled and petted all her life,
and dearly loves Sir James, but she remembers
the doctor’s warning, and tries to forget her
disappointment.
“You expected Ethel, of course? ’ she says,
Without a particle of resentment in her tone.
“She will be here early to-morrow; but you
know how nervous she is. The telegram upset
her.”
She breaks off there, for the keen eyes rest
Sternly on her face, the lips curve in a bitter
and sarcastic smile.
“You run on about strangers, people in
Whom I take no interest,” her father says, with
ever-increasing severity, “ and all the time you
leave my question unanswered.”
“ Your question ?”
“ Yes. I did not ask tor news of Ethelind. I
asked what brings you here, Kathleen ? ’
For a few moments Marcella stands helpless
ly silent, the strange name, the stranger ques
tion, filling her with confusion and alarm. She
feels a touch upon her arm and hears the doc
tor's warning tones.
“It is a mere passing fancy. Answer and
humor it. He will remember by-and-by.”
With a great effort Marcella does answer, and
Without any sign of surprise.
“I am here because you wanted me.”
Sir James looks at her long and earnestly,
then passes his hand across his eyes, sighs
heavily, and says in a changed and feebler
tone:
“ I see you are Marcella. I think I have been
dreaming, but I know you now, my dear.”
CHAPTER XIII.
“I AM IN A TERRIBLE DILEMMA.”
An early morning train brings Lady Rushton
and Miss Glenroy, and Marcella’s watch is re
lieved. Poor little Ethelind is still in a pitiable
State o! nervous tremor and distress.
“How good and strong and clear-headed you
are, Ella, darling 1’ she cries, clinging to her
tall step-daughter's arm, and looking up at her
with more than the ordinary amount of admira
tion in the pretty blue eyes that are very red
rimmed and woebegone this morning. “If it
had not been for you, poor darling, James
•would have been quite alone, for they tell me I
have only gone from one fainting fit to another
all night.”
“Ido not think he would have missed us,
dear,” Marcella answers quietly. “ His head
was not quite clear the first part of the night,
but toward morning be slept very well.”
Ethelind’s eyes open wide in dismay.
“His head not quite clear? Oh, Ella, do you
mean that he is delirious—that he will not know
me ? lam sure I shall run away or burst out
crying, if he takes me for any one else.”
“You must not do that in any case,” Miss Rush
ton answers gravely. Her step-mother’s child
ish ways have seemed only pretty and diverting
hitherto, but she finds them a little trying now.
“ You must control yourself, Ethel, however
much the effort costs you, for my father s
sake 1”
She has taken the right tone; Ethelind is
subdued at once, and murmurs meekly :
“ I will try, Ella, dear—indeed I will; but, if
he should not know me ?”
“I do not think you need be afraid—he is not
delirious, you know, only just a trills confused.
And Doctor Craven says that will soon pass
sway. He is asleep now, and will probably
awake quite bright and elear.”
“ Heaven grant it!” Lady Rushton murmurs,
drying her eyes ; then she returns to the ono
idea that seems to haunt her, and asks, anxious
ly : “Did he know you, Marcella—last night, I
moan?”
“ Not just at first,” the girl answers, as she
sinks into a chair with, a tired little sigh, and
reels her chin in the hollow of her hand, while
4ier dark eyes wander reflectively round the
: room; “he called ma 'Kathleen' and seemed
j quite vexed to see me there 1”
. “Kathleen I Who is Kathleen—some one he
’ knew ?”
“I never heard the name from his lips before
1 —not to remember it, I mean,” Marcella says
[ slowly; then she remembers her role of con
soler, and adds in a brisker tone: “ But it was
. only for a few seconds the delusion lasted—in
j deed I fancy he was only half awake at the time.
, Ido not think you need fear the same sort of
reception.”
■ “ Oh, I hope not I” the little lady answers,
' with a shudder; and her hope is fulfilled.
Sir James awakes quite calm and sensible,
, and reassures his young wife with all the olc
. protecting fondness.
“ There is no harm done, dear—really none!”
he says, patting the small, plump hands, and
smiling at the tear-stained face. “Doctor Cra
ven will tell you that I have been let off lightly
with a mere scalp-wound, when I expectec
broken arms and legs at least, if not a broken
neck.”
. “ Oh, James, how ean you joke, when you
frightened me nearly out of my life, too?”
Sir James smiles.
“ Not your life, only your wits, Ethel. Is not
that nearer the truth ?”
“Perhaps it is,” Lady Rushton admits, with a
blush and a pout. As her fears pass away her
spirits rise, and she becomes once more her
pretty, coquettish self. “But every one cannot
be as brave and clear-headed as Marcella I”
“Marcella came to me at once, I remember,"
Sir James says slowly; and her ladyship laughs,
with a tinge of malice in her tone—it is her turn
to triumph now.
“I am glad you do remember, dear. At first
you took her for some one else, and startled the
poor girl very much.”
“Ethel 1” Marcella says warnlngly. And Mu
riel Glenroy, an admirable and ever-observant
sick nurse, is struck with the curious flush that
suddenly overspreads the patient’s face.
“For some ono else—tor whom?” he asks,
with what seems like disproportionate eager
ness. “No, do not mind Ella’s signals, Ethel.
It I—l made a stupid blunder, it will do mo no
harm to know it.”
“Of course not,” Lady Rushton answers
quickly. She is accustomed to take her clever
husband’s word as absolutely the last ono to be
spoken on any subject, and does not doubt its
justice now. “You called her ‘Kathleen,’ James.
Now, as you never had a sister, I think it is for
me to ask who this mysterious ‘Kathleen’ was,
or is ?”
There is no answer. Sir James's head falls
back upon the pillow, the flush fades away, and
is replaced by such a livid pallor that Marcella
runs to her father’s side in quick alarm, and
Miss Glenroy says with the sternness of au
thority, and with a grim look, before which poor
little Ethelind instantly quails :
“ I think we had better come away, Lady
Rushton ; Sir James is evidently in no state to
bear excitement now.”
Lady Rushton meekly obeys, and follows the
authoritative Muriel from the room. She is at
once frightened and abashed, thinking of the
mischief she may have done. But, despite her
affectionate alarm and conscience-stricken
pangs, she brightens visibly when she sees
Fergus Glenroy standing by the sitting-room
window.
“Fergus will understand,” she thinks, with
the pretty woman’s intense, though half-uncon
scious, conviction that any man will champion
her against the injustice of her own sex, and to
Fergus she at once makes appeal.
“He is not better—he is worse again,” she
cries, dolefully, the tears welling up in her eyes ;
“ and your sister thinks that I have done him
harm.”
Fergus smiles in spite of his anxiety, she
looks so charming in her childish grief.
“Muriel is a very Draco in the sick-room, I
know,” he says, in kindly, reassuring tones.
“I am sorry Sir James is worse; but how are
you responsible for the change, Lady Rush
ton ? Doctor Craven thought he was getting on
so well.”
“So he was—and I thought to raise his spir
its, and just ventured on a little joke. Now,
Fergus, would you think a little harmless teas
ing could hurt any one ?”
“Not very easily; but what form did the
teasing take ?”
“ Oh, it was the silliest thing in the world—l
can see that now 1 Of course he did not care to
to be reminded that he was very ill—clever men
are like that, you know,” Ethelind goes on, with
a charm ng forgetfulness that her hearer may
himself claim to rank among clever men. “But
Marcella had just told me that he had failed to
recognize her the night before-called her
‘Kathleen’—so, for a joke, I pretended to be
jealous—and that is all. Only he grew so pale,
and seemed so ill, Miss Glenroy thought we had
better come away.”
Fergus glances interrogatively at his sister,
who responds by a nod, curt, and significantly
grim. To Miss Glenroy, Ethelind’s baby prat
tle seems insufferable imbecility ; but because
it is uttered by such pretty lips, and seconded
by such piteous glances from sweet blue eyes,
it is naturally judged less harshly by the man.
“ I dare say your words did no harm, Lady
Rushton, and we are making mountains out of
mole-hills, as usual,” he says, pleasantly, and
then he turns the conversation to other themes,
and forgets its very subject soon, though it is
destined to come back to his memory with
cruel and crushing force, and that before very i
long.
In a little time Marcella joins them with news 1
that her father is better—news that Doctor Cra- '
ven officially confirms, adding the cheering in
formation that in a few days Sir James will be
able to bear the removal borne.
“ But,” he adds in his most professional man
ner, “1 cannot too strongly impress upon your
minds the necessity of keeping my patient per
fectly calm. He has, I fancy, been overworked '
or harassed lately, so the shock to the system
has come at a critical time." i
“ Do yon think there is danger then to mind
or body still ?” Ethelind asks tremulously, and 1
the blue eyes have their effect upon the doctor
too. He answers instantly, and with more re- :
assurance than he actually feels:
“Noneat all, my dear lady. The wound is 1
nothing. Sir James fell like a professional i
gymnast. Avoid excitement, and all will be i
well 1”
“Itis a curious case,” Fergus says thought- i
fully, as he and Muriel walk back to the hotel
at which Lord Glenroyal is staying. “There
seems to be no reason to fear any awkward con
sequences now. Yet Doctor Craven certainly
knows his business, and he lays such stress on
the importance of keeping him calm I”
“ Perhaps it is only as a warning to that ex
citable baby wife of his,” Muriel answers with :
good-tempered scorn—but Fergus shakes his ■
bead.
“No, the warning was given before she came
—given to me and to Marcella, who is not at all
likely to endanger her patient’s salety by any
weakihysterical display.”
“No!” Miss Glenry answers with a prompti
tude that delights her brother, who knows how
unemotional, nnenthusiastic, and absolutely
truthful she is. “Marcella is a girl alter my
own heart, Fergus; she has brains as well as
beauty, tact and self-control as well as pretty
ways If ever you and your wilo fall out, I shall
be inclined to think the fault is yours, so do not
come to me for sympathy.”
“I will not,” Fergus promises, with a happy
laugh. The idea of any quarrel between him
and Marcella seems too.absurd to the young lov
er, and her praises are the sweetest music in
bis ears. “ Very well, Muriel; I will tell Mar
cella whenever she finds herself in any strait to
go to you. No, I cannot come in. Tell the
chief I will see him some time to-night. Good
by 1”
He goes off then—handsome, smiling, happy,
the very personification of a young and lucky
lover. Yet Muriel sighs, and the bright look
fades from her honest face.
“ If I were a romantic schoolgirl now, or s
pretty silly creature like Lady Rushton, I
should say 1 had a presentiment of harm,” she
mutters thoughtfully as she passes into the sit
ting-room and finds-as she expects -her father
there.
Lord Glenroyal is standing by the window,
staring out into the busy road, his back toward
her. He does not move at her entrance, and
she thinks he does not hear her.
“ Well, father,” she says cheerily, going up
to him and laying her hand upon his arm.
He turns then, and Miss Glenroy knows at
once that something is wrong. The fine aristo
cratic face she serntinizes with alarm looks ten
years older than it did last night. The keen
eyes are dim and red-rimmed; Lord Glenroyal
has unmistakably passed through some sharp
crisis, and is hardly yet able to bear up against
the shook.
“ You are ill,” she begins, but he shakes his
gray head with an irritable impatience that is
very unusual in the gracious-mannered, sweet
tempered old man. “ Then what is it, air ?—
for there is something wrong.”
“ Something wrong? Yes.”
Lord Glenroyal echoes the phrase vaguely,
then suddenly sinks into a chair and passes a
handkerchiel across his face.
“ How is Sir James Rushton now ?”
Muriel is a little astonished at this abrupt
change of subject, but she does not easily lose
her selt-coutrol, and answers instantly:
“He is doing very well, only the doctor
seems to be a little uneasy about his head, and
peremptorily prohibits all excitement or head
work lor the present.”
Quick-eared as she is, she cannot catch the
purport of her fathers fiercely-muttered
phrase; but it sounds more like a malediction
than anything she has yet heard escape from
his gentle lips. The thought does not quiet her
alarm; she bends across the table, and, looking
full in her lather’s face, says, with impressive
calmness:
“Why do you fence with me, father? You
have always trusted me be'ore when anything
vexed or pained you. What have I done to for
feit that trust ?”
“ Nothing— nothing,” the old chief answers,
faintly. “ Give me a little time, Muriel, that is
all. lamina terrible dilemma—l do not know
what to say or how to act.”
Her mind busy with a hundred painful con
jectures, her heart throbbing with excitement,
Muriel Glenroy yet contrives to stifle all show
of impatience, and to sit waiting her father's
pleasure with apparent calm. It is a long wait
in reality, ior he is silent for fully ten minutes;
but it seems to her a much longer time before
he speaks again, and even then his words are
wildly wide of the mark.
“Muriel, you thoroughly like and respect
Marcella Rushton, do you not?”
“ I thoroughly like and respect her—yes,”
Muriel echoes, in a bewildered way; “ but
what ”
“Wait!” Lord Glenroyal frowns at the in
terruption. “ Answer my questions first. You
think that Fergus has chosen wisely and
well ?”
“I think he could find no bettor wi e,” is the
NEW YORK DISPATCH, SEPTEMBER 25, 1887.
. blunt answer; “Marcella is an honest, high
minded gentlewoman.”
1 “A gentlewoman!”
Lord Glenroyal repeats the last word with
I grim emphasis. Muriel stares. He certainly
I found no fault with Marcella last night; why
should he depreciate her now ? Is it possible
I that, turning the matter over in his mind, he
■ has decided, a little late in the day, that the
niece of a successful lawyer, the daughter of an
I obscure farmer, is no fitting match tor a Glen
roy ?
The idea shocks and pains Miss Glenroy—it
seems to lower the chivalrous old chieftain in
, her eyes. In the pride of the Glenroys, intense
and exacting as it is, there has always been a
certain strain of lofty generosity, and Muriel
' feels that to desert the girl they have so frank
ly adopted would be worse than ungenerous
now.
Her large eyes are very bright—her cheeks
flush as she says, in a troubled tone:
“If you mean that the Rushtons cannot rank
with us, that they are not ‘born,’ as the Ger
mans say, we knew that from the first, sir. Mar
cella’s father was a farmer, I believe; but we
cannot make that an objection.”
She pauses, more and more troubled by the
anguish of her father’s look, by the cry with
which he turns upon her.
“If that were all, or if Marcella were not
what she is ! But I cannot keep the secret to
myself, Muriel; I must trust you and act upon
your advice. Read that, and tell me whether I
ought to trust the evidence of my own senses
and a girl who looks and speaks like truth
itself, or that anonymous slander.”
And with a gesture of passionate disgust he
thrusts Harriet Crane’s letter into his daugh
ter’s hand.
CHAPTER XIV.
“sub shall not be made to suffeb fob an
other’s SIN.”
“An anonymous letter !” Miss Glenroy says,
touching the sheet of note-paper with her fin
ger-tips and surveying it with inexpressible
disgust and dislike. “Do you think I had bet
ter read it? Are we expected to take the word
of a person who dares not sign his name?”
“Head it,” Lord Glenroyal says, with an irri
table peremptoriness that shows how unnerved
and shaken he is. “ I think as you do of such
persons, but I have read this story, and you
must.”
Thus urged, M bs Glenroy suppresses her
scruples, and reads through the letter that La
dy Rushton’s sister has concocted with such
malicious care.
It is not a lengthy epistle, and it runs as fol
lows:
“Mr Loup; As one who admires your per
sonal character and honors your noble race, I
write to warn you of a threatening disgrace.
You have been pleased to overlook what you
must consider Marcella Rushton’s compara
tively humble birth and social standing, and to
sanction your son’s engagement with Sir James
Rushton’s niece. I imagine that concession
was not made without a pang, my lord; ior all
the world knows how lofty, stubborn and un
yielding is your pride; but, like many proud
men, you can be royally gracious when you do
unbend. You took the farmer’s daughter not
only to your arms, but to your heart, and it will
cost you another and a keener pang to put her
thence to-day. Nevertheless, that pang must
be endured, the banishment made, or you, the
head and chief of the'Glenroys, will bo false to
all the traditions of his race. King Cophetua
himself married a ‘beggar maid.’ but not the
child of a convicted criminal, and there have
been few Cophetuas of your house.”
“This is sheer madness,” Muriel breaks off,
indignantly. “‘A convicted criminal’ and ‘King
Cophetua’ I I never read such rambling non
sense in my lite.”
She is about to throw the paper disdainfully
from her, but Lord Glenroyal stays her with a
gesture, saying hurriedly:
“ No, no, road on; it grows only too definite
soon.”
Thus urged, Miss Glenroy reads on.
“ The pride of the Glenroys has always been
even more a pride of honor than of birth. Love
with them might perhaps ‘ lay the shepherd’s
crook beside the sceptre.’ It could never en
dure the prison taint; and that is what Marcel
la Rushton would bring as her dower to Glen
royal. Marcella Rushton ! Why do I give her
the name to which she has no shadow of a
claim—the name of a long lino of honest yeo
men, which their last descendant has lifted into
deserved honor ? They would repudiate al
most as fiercely as the proud Glenroys any
mixture of such blood as runs in her veins.
She is not Sir James’s neice, not a Rushton at
all—she is the daughter of a drunken Irish
laborer named Carroll, who was in the year
18— murdered by his wife, Kathleen.”
The paper falls from Miss Glenroy’s hands,
her face grows pale ; there is the horror of full
conviction in her eyes. The last word, the
name so lately and so strangely heard from
Marcella’s own lips, seems to give the cruel and
shameful story the stamp of truth.
“ Kathleen,” she cries, with quivering lips.
“He called her Kathleen last night; betook <
her in his wandering tor some one else. Oh,
father, this is bard to bear.” <
The tears are running down her cheeks, her
speech is broken by a low sob, and Lord Glen- ■
royal cannot remember ever having seen his :
eldest daughter cry. The sight rouses him at
once.
“Control yourself, Muriel. If—if this is true, <
there is a painful, a terrible task before us; we
must think well before we act.”
Miss Glenroy conquers her weakness, dries
her eyes, and answers, quietly :
“Yes, we must think, and first of all we must
consult Fergus.”
Lord Qeuroyal winces visibly at this sugges
tion.
“Fergus," he repeats, in an expostulatory
tone. “It will be almost a death-blow to him.
Do you think Fergus need be told at once, be
fore any inquiry has been made ?”
Muriel’s heart aches, as she hears the tremu
lous tonas in which the question is put. It is
so utterly unlike the stout old chieftain to sug
gest any timid or temporizing measures. She
stoops and kieses him, but answers with un
shaken firmness :
“Fergus must know at once, before a step is
taken or a word said. Thank Heaven ! he will
be here soon." } ,
Lord Glenroyal does not answer. He admits
the force and justice of fits daughter’s words ;
but he shrinks, with a weakness of which be is
heartily ashamed, from the scene to come. Of
all his boys perhaps Fergus is dearest to the
old man's heart, and he has Deemed so proud
and happy of late.
Of Marcella herself ho literally does not dare
to think. It seems almost impossible that in so
short a time the girl should have won her
way into her heart as she has dona. Her
face seems to float before his dim eyes,
now radiant and animated as it was when she
talked with a girlish enthusiasm of Glenroyal
and the Glenroys, then pale with patient pain
and keen anxiety, as he had seen it when under
his care she traveled to her father’s side.
“ Her father,” he thinks, correcting himself
with a sharp pang of remembrance. “ Why
should a man like Sir James Rushton play so
cruel a farce before the world ? Why should a
proud man stoop so low? All the evidence of
probability is against this monstrous story. I
refuse to believe it until it is fully confirmed.”
But he gains ftttle comfort from the resolution,
and the time creeps slowly by, until he hears
Fergus speaking cheerily outside the door, and
then the knowledge that the hour he longed for
has come fills him with sudden childish terror;
he grows very pale, and says:
“ Suppose you tell him, Muriel; I—l will leave
you two alone I”
But before Muriel can answer Fergus himself
is in the room.
“A little late, am I not? But I thought I
would call In on the Rushtons and give you the
latest news,” he begins gayly, then pauses,
struck, as the most careless observer must
needs be, by the singular agitation of Lord
Glenroyal’s face
He looks quickly at his sister, and then he
knows that something is wrong. Muriel’s face
is less tell-tale than the chief’s, but there is no
misreading its forced and rigid calm, the min
gled anguish and compassion of the glance that
answers his.
“Are you both pitying me ?” he asks, with a
nervous laugh. “ You look as though I had in
some way come to grief. Please tell mo how.”
“Tell him, Muriel,” Lord Glenroyal says
hoarsely, and without any explanatory word,
thinking it best and most merciful to strike the
blow at once.
Muriel places the letter in his hand.
He reads it through—not as Mies Glenroy had
done, brokenly and with spasmodic interjec
tions of pain end indignation and incredulity,
but steadily from beginning to end.
Muriel watches him in painful suspense. At
last he looks up, and their eyes meet.
“ Well?” she asks in a husky whisper, and he
answers calmly:
“ A lie, patent and palpable; but we shall find
some difficulty in proving that just now.”
Lord Glenroyal raises the gray head that has
been half hidden in his hands. The scorn in
his son’s quiet voice is the finest and best of
tonics—it braces and strengthens his fervent de
sire to disbelieve.
“ You think that, Fergus ?” he asks eagerly.
“You—you are not blinded by your passion, my
dear boy—you think this is a base and slander
ous invention ?”
“ I am sure of it 1” Fergus cries, with a look
of loving faith beaming irom his blue eyes.
“ The story is palpably false, whoever has been
base enough to invent it.”
“As to the authorship of the letter, I think I
can make a pretty good guess,” Miss Glenroy
puts in, dryly; “but that is not what we have
to consider at present, and mine is but a guess
at best. The question is, what will you do.”
“Go to Marcella at once,” Lord Glenroyal
says proudly. “She will not deceive you—l
am sure of that at least.”
“You have forgotten, or have not read the
letter through, sir."
Fergus points to the last page of the paper,
and, tremblingly adjusting his glass, Lord
Glenroyal reads :
“In justice to the girl in whom you have
been so shamefully deceived, I should add that
she herself is innocent of all complicity in the
plot. From her very babyhood she has been
brought up to believe herself B,ir James Rush
ton’s neice ; therefore, it would be useless to
question her, and you can, if you choose, find
some kindlier pretext for breaking off the mar
riage. To lose her lover and her place in the
world at once would be too hard a punishment
for the wretched girl, whose low birth is her
misfortune, not her crime.”
“An appeal to Marcella would prove nothing,
then,” Fergus goes on, as clearly and calmly as
though he were arguing a client’s cause and
not his own. “ And of course, in the circum
stances, I cannot go to Sir James, whose word
i would set the matter at rest.”
“ Stay, Fergus,” says Lord Genroyal, looking
up quickly at the sound of the sick man’s
1 name. “ what was that Muriel told me, that
Sir James, not knowing his daughter last night,
1 addressed her as Kathleen ? This—this letter”
—looking at the potent piece of paper with a
curious mixture of dread and abhorrence—
“speaks of her as Kathleen Carroll’s child.”
1 Fergus does not speak ; but Muriel suddenly
grows pale, and she knows his pride is wound
ed and his very heart wrung by the remem
brance these words evoke. Slowly there begins
to dawn upon his mind the horror of his first
doubt, his first suspicion that this wild story
may be true.
“No, do not speak to me—let me think,” he
says, with passionate brevity.
But thought soon becomes torture, as his
trained, logical mind ranges a long array of
facts all tending to prove the truth of the story
he would give life itself to disbelieve. He breaks
out again into fierce, impatient epoch.
“Lou say y° u guess the slanderer’s name,
Muriel. Let me have it at once. I must trace
this horrible story to its source.”
Muriel hesitates. In her own mind she has
not the shadow of a doubt that the anonymous
mischief maker is Harriet Crane. Who else
has any cause to hate the bright, sweet-tem
pered girl, who seemed to have made no ene
mies, who could turn her stepmother into a
warmly admiring friend, and, on the other
hand, who is so well able to discover the skele
tons bidden in Sir James Rushton’s cupboards
as the sister-in-law who had easy access to his
private papers and the run of his house ? But,
though the facts are absolutely clear to her,
Miss Glenroy is by no means sure that she oan
make them so to her brother—-indeed, she is
not sure that she even wishes to make them so
at present—so she wisely determines to keep
her shrewd suspicion to herself.
“I know nothing,” she says evasively, and
Fergus frowns.
“But you suspect?”
“ And if I do, why should I worry you with
what are but fancies and suspicions at best ?
No, Fergus, I will not speak until I know some
thing more.”
“ Very well”—his lips are firmly compressed,
his face is pale—“then I must work alone, and,
sooner or later, I will find out the truth.”
“ And if—-as I hope and pray and firmly be
lieve you will—you find that this is a base and
cruel lie,” Lord Glenroyal puts in, with kindling
eyes—“if you find that Marcella is just what we
have always thought her, Sir James Rushton’s
nieoo, why, then we shall love the dear girl bet
ter than ever, because she has been so nearly
lost to us."
“Lost to us 1” Fergus echoes slowly. Then a
curiously painful smile parts bis lips; he drops
his father’s hand and stands thinking intently
for a tow moments, then says, with such ex
treme calmness that both his hearers look won
deringly into his face, “ And if, on the other
hand, I find that this story is true—that Mar
cella, the girl I lovo, the girl you have taken as
another daughter to your heart—herself un
changed, honest and true and beautiful as ever
—to indeed a convict’s child, what shall you—
what am I to do then, sir ?”
Lord Genroyal s forehead is bedewed with
perspiration, although the room is cool; his
heart throbs violently; he feels that he cannot
answer the question quietly. Respectful though
his son’s manner is, there is something in it
that suggests a coming rebellion, and between
the old chief and bis favorite boy there has
never yet passed an unkind word.
“How am 1 to answer such a question, Fer
gus ?” he says at last, with a forlorn attempt to
keep up the tone of dignified command he can
assume so easily at times; but his voice is
hoarse and broken, his agitation painfully per
ceptible now. He is no stage father, with easy
threats of disinheritance and malediction trip
ping glibly from his tongue. In all sincerity
and earnestness, he would rather cut off his
own right hand than help to thwart the boy he
loves. But he is a man who has throughout
life sternly set duty before all things, and he
feels that his supreme duty now to to save the
honor of his house. “How am Ito answer you,
my boy?" he goes on, with a keen ring ol an
guish in his tone. “In that case you and I must
do our duty, though both our hearts should
break. Heaven knows how gladly I would wel
come Marcella Rushton as your wife; but Kath
leen Carroll’s child, the daughter of a murder
ess, and ”
"Father,” Muriel breaks in imploringly, for
the color departs from the old man’s lips as the
odious syllables pass them; there is something
in his face that frighten’s her, and she is not re
assured by the hard, unyielding look in her
brother’s eyes—“ father, let the matter rest for
to-night. Wo know nothing yet—we cannot de
cide anything now. ”
But her wild, frightened appeal meets with no
response from either man. Lord Glenroyal im
patiently releases his arm Irom her clasp. Fer
gus did not seem to have heard; he stands with
folded arms and a slight irown on his brow,
listening while his lather ends his speech.
“ The daughter of a murderess and a drunk
en laborer ! Fergus, you are my son; you know
that you could not bring such a wife home to
Glenroyal.”
All the pride, all the agony that thrills the
old chief’s heart seems to concentrate and throw
itself into that one word. He dwells upon it
with a loving, lingering emphasis, as though he
wished to call the vision up before his son’s
eyes. Glenroyal, the home and cradle of their
race, the symbol in his eyes of all that is dear
and sacred and honorable—better surely that a
heart or two should break than that a shadow
of disgrace should touch Glenroyal. He looks
wistfully into the young man’s face—surely he
must yield to such an argument as that I—but
Fergus only answers, coldly:
“ In that case, then, I must be banished from
Glenroyal. Marcella is innocent whichever way
we read the story—she shall not be made to
suffer for another’s sin.”
And, not trusting himself to meet the de
spairing horror of his father’s eves, not trust
ing himself to speak another word, Fergus hur
ries from the room.
(To be Continual.)
BRAVE GIRLS.
They Subdued the Unbroken Prairie
and Secured a Comfortable Home,
(From the Indianapolis Hews.)
A gentleman who had just returned from a
land-inspecting tour in the northwest, in speak
ing of hto experience a tow evenings ago,related
a etory, which shall be given here in hie own
words.
Said he: We-there was a party of four-had
reached the limit ot the stage-line at a little
Irontier-town named Broken Bow, butourdesti
nation was the valley of the Middle Loup river,
a hundred and fifty miles farther into the un
settled prairie, where the only thing to attract
the eye irom the monotony ot the endless
succession of hills and valleys was an oc
casional flock of prairie chickens or a
deer, which, startled from bis couch in the
grass, after a moment ot wifd curiosity would
bound gracefully away over the crest of the near
est rising ground.
The day we left Broken Bow, after several
hours of travel, we passed a neat white school
house, where some half-dozen sturdy children
were gazing out of the open door unrebuked,
for a passing vehicle was a subject of much
comment and conjecture in that sparse settle
ment, and could not go unheeded. Behind the
children, and scarcely less interested than
they, stood their teacher, a blooming, healtby
looking girl of about twenty-two years, I judged,
and there was something in her easy manner
and refined face that was in striking contrast to
the rude surroundings and unbroken prairie.
The presence of the pupils could be accounted
for by recalling two or three sod huts within a
tow miles, but we couldn’t be satisfied with con
signing this fair girl to such an origin.
At last we appealed to our driver, who had
not heeded our conversation, for some solution
to the mystery, thinking that, as a resident of
Broken Bow, he might be acquainted with the
circumstances, and we were not mistaken. It
was learned from him that several years ago
two plucky girls came to the “ Bow,” as Broken
Bow to usually called, which was at that time
composed of but two or three houses, and was
the extreme limit of habitation. They came
from far Vermont, but with undaunted resolu
tion, they expended their small supply ot cash
in exploring the wilderness and in securing the
necessary homestead papers and erecting a sod
hut. Then they began housekeeping and the
rigors of the long bitter Winter came on. How
they struggled and the privations they endured
will never be known, and, through all, those
bravo girls kept a cheerlul hopefulness that was
positively heroic.
The following Summer a few other settlers
ventured to take claims in the region, and with
true American instinct, their first care alter
building shelter lor their families was the erec
tion of a tiny school house, with sod walls four
feet thick. The natural drift of circumstances
led to one ot the pioneer girls being chosen as
the first teacher, and thus their almost ex
hausted purse was replenished. By means ot
hard labor, they had, during this first Summer,
raised enough food-stuffs to last, with close
economy, until the following Spring, and then
with the money earned in teaching,a small team
ot bronchos and some farming implements were
purchased, and prosperity began to seem a
thing of the near future and to no longer be a
creation of their brave hopes.
Years hurried on, and the little school-house
of sod gave place to a more imposing structure
of wood, but the girl from Vermont, with her
stern New England training, still led the chil
dren through the winding labyrinths of frac
tions and across the chaotic wilderness of or
thography.
The farm began to have a value, and an occa
sional speculator would survey the 320 tortile
acres, tor each girl took a claim, and propose to
pay a sum for it that would make the eyes ot
the owners sparkle, but all inducements were
in vain, and this Summer when we passed the
school-house and heard the history of the cour
ageous girls from the lips of the prosaic guide,
that farm would have sold fer enough cash to
have taken the sisters back to the old Green
Mountain State and have bought them beside a
neat little home among their childhood friends.
But they have no inclination to retui® to the
rocks and barren fields of New England, except
for an occasional visit, and propose to broaden
and improve their possessions until wealth
brings them comfort and leisure and the coun
try about them is filled with an intelligent and
industrious population. In all my trip I heard
no more cheery, brave, inspiriting story than
that told by our guide while the little white
school-house was in view.
THE MODERN MB. FANG.
1 SCENES IN A LONDON POLICE
COURT.
• (From the Youth's Companion.')
Readers of Dickem will undoubtedly remem
ber the character of Mr. Fang, the magistrate.
We should be sorry to say that Mr. Fang is
typical ol the men who sit on the benches ot the
London police courts, for some of them are hu
mane and courteous gentlemen; but one ot
them might certainly have been directly under
the eye of the great novelist when he drew the
portrait of Mr. Fang.
It does not seem to be his Intention to sift the
evidence that comes before him. On the con
trary, he listens with the greatest impatience
and scowls at the witnesses with a terrifying
eye, interrupting them in the middle of their
testimony, and often ordering them out of the
box before they have had time to finish.
The court room is a little, dingy, dusty apart
ment, with the yellow and inadequate daylight
of London struggling in through dusty, small
paned windows on which the last rains have
made streaks and channels. The pomp and
ceremony ol the higher courts, the barristers in
gowns and little wigs, the solemn-looking
judges in gowns and big wigs, are not visible
here; but on the bench at one end ot the room,
on a dais with a desk in front ot him, sits the
aw'ul Mr. Fang, the autocrat of the place and
the proceedings—a heavy, red-faced man, with
an apoplectic neck, dressed without any ot the
fastidious neatness that is characteristic of the
official Englishman.
The inferior lawyers, who attend such courts,
and two or three shabby-genteel reporters, are
pent up in front ot the desk, and huddled to
gether at one side are the witnesses, watched
over by the policemen, who nudge them and
admonish them without any other purpose ap
parently than to have the magistrate observe
that, like Yum-yum and the moon, they are
very wide-awake. There is one glory that the
British policeman loves above all others. It is
to be called in the newspapers “the active
and efficient B 29,” or whatever his number
may be.
As soon as he has taken his sßat, Mr. Fang
begins proceedings by a comprehensive scowl,
which, after taking in lawyers, reporters, po
licemen and spectators, and yielding him a sat
isfactory measure of displeasure, narrows itself
upon the witnesses.
Instantly “ the active and efficient ” bestir
themselves and separate from the others the
complainant whose case is at the head of the
docket.
It is a careworn and nervous woman in
shabby black, not tidy nor interesting, but piti
able enough. She is pushed forward by the
policemen, and her confusion increases when
she finds herself in the witness-box, face to
face with the frowning magistrate, who at once
demands, in a peevish voice, which still more
confuses her:
“ Well, now, what is it ?”
“ It you please, sir,” she begins.
“ Yes, yes, yes. Come, out with it—out with
it.”
His manner seems to stupify her, and she
tries to speak, but can only stammer.
“ Now then, are you going to speak, or are
you going to keep me here all day ? What do
you want ? Out with it.”
She looks as If she would faint, but controls
herself, and makes another attempt.
“ If you please, sir, it’s my husband,”
“ Well, what have I got to do with your hus
band?”
“If you please, sir, he hasn’t given me a
penny for weeks, and leaves me to support the
children, and comes home nearly every night
drunk, and smashes the furniture.”
“It is his own furniture, I suppose. And
he hasn’t deserted you, nor assaulted you, has
he
For a wonder the woman is able to say :
“No, he hasn't done that: but I’m afraid of
him.”
“ Well, what do you want me to do
“I—l—l don’t know, sir,” she cries, in de
spair, bewildered out of her senses.
“Of course you don’t know. I can’t keep the
man out of his own house. I don’t believe in
you women who are always complaining against
your husbands. You don’t know what you
want”
“Butif you please, sir——”
The magistrate makes a gesture of impa
tience and irritation.
“Take her down,” he says, to the policeman.
And she is quickly hustled out of sight.
It this magistrate is the dread of witnesses,
he is also the terror ot criminals, however, and
he administers the heaviest penalties the law
allows, accompanying his sentences with such
denunciations as make even hardened evil
doers wince. A quiet satisfaction is visible,
and he slightly relaxes his severity of demean
or, as he adds the words, “with hard labor,” to
the penalty he imposes.
It is not like a police court in an American
city—New York or Boston, lor instance. The
individuality of the officials and the witnesses
and the spectators is much more pronounced,
and complaints which are never heard ot in
America come up for disposal.
A bullet headed, rat-eyed fellow, who at once
reminds us ol Bill Sykos, is put into the dock,
and a police Inspector charges him with having
failed “to report himself.” This means that at
some previous time he has been sentenced to
imprisonment and “ pohce supervision" on bis
release.
Under the Engl’sh law, a person regarded as
an habitual criminal is required, after the ex
piration of his sentence, to present himself at
stated intervals to the police, and to keep them
informed of his address. Whether he intends
to reform or to hatch new plans ot crime, such
a regulation is obviously irksome, and as often
as possible it is evaded. It is a hardship to tlie
man who is trying to reform, but it is useful in
keeping under control professional thieves,
who have no intention ot altering their careers,
and such a thief it was who now stood m tho
dock. -<•
The magistrate gave him an interrogative
scowl.
“I was going- to America, your wash-up,”
Mr. Bill Sykes begins— he pronounces “ wor
ship” “ wash-up”—“ I was going to America,
your wash-up, s’help, I was, an’ I missed the
steamer at Liverpool. Then I stopped with a
few friends, not being in good 'ealth since I
served five years, an’ just as soon as I got back
to London I was go;n‘ to report myself, when
up comes the policeman an’ nabs me. It’s ’ard,
your wash-up—l calls it ’ard.”
“ Fiddlesticks! You are telling a parcel of
lies,” cries the magistrate, with more justice in
this case than in others ; and he sentences the
burly, dangerous looking fellow to three
months’ imprisonment.
A large proportion of the oases spring, in one
way or another, out of the commonest ot all
English vices—drink. There are complaints of
wives against busbands, and husbands against
wives: of policemen against publicans, and of
publicans against customers.
The supervision of the weights and measures
used by tradesmen is close in England, and a
frequent complaint is against beer sellers and
spirit sellers for using undersized measures.
One publican is summoned, however, on the
ground that he has given over-measure—that
when a pint of beer was called for, he gave a
pint and a halt—and he is fined for the trans
gression, tho magistrate bolding that too much
is as great a violation ot the law as too little,
and that the exactness to which Shylock was
held by tho “ wise young doctor,” in taking the
“ pound of tlesh,” to which his bond entitled
him, is applicable to tho dealings of tradesmen
at the present time.
The next case is one of larceny, and among
tho witnesses is a bright-eyed little girl, who is
in the employ of a publican. Various ques
tions are asked her as to what she does, and
her answers are not very satisfactory. The
magistrate orders her down, but just as she is
leaving the witness-box she turns back, remem
bering a part of her occupation which she has
not mentioned.
“I draw,” she announces, gravely.
The shabby gen.teel reporters sharpen their
pencils and their ears. Hero is something un
usual, and they start a fresh paragraph, head
ed, “ A Young Artist in Court.”
“Well, what do you draw!” growls Mr.
Fang.
“Beer, sir,” she replies, with delicious
naivete.
There is a roar of laughter in the court, and
the clerk cries, “Silence I” looking apprehen
sively at Mr. Fang. But the purple grows
deeper in the magistrate’s face, and it seems
possible that there is a ripple of mirth even in
him.
We grow rather sorry for him, as we watch
the dreary procession of squalid poverty and
petty crimes which he is compelled to witness
from day to day ; and we have to confess, as we
leave the unpleasant atmosphere, that though
it is his business to try, he, himself is very
oiten tried.
FISHING FOR AN ALLIGATOR.
AN ENGLISH OFFICIAL’S RUSE.
(From the Youth’s Companion.)
Au alligator usually avoids human beings,
but if it happens to get a taste ot human flesh,
it becomes a man-eater. One evening an Eng
lish official, while sitting in his tent near an
East Indian village, was saluted by an old na
tive, with dust upon his head and his clothing
rent.
“Protector of the poor,”he cried, prostrating
himself at the official’s feet, “ help thy wretched
slave. An evil-minded alligator has this day
devoured my little daughter. She went down
to the river to fill her earthen jar with water,
and the evil one dragged her into the stream
and devoured her. Alas I she had on her gold
bangles. Great is my misfortune.”
Dismissing the suppliant, the Englishman be
gan thinking out a plan for catching the cun
ning saurian. He decided upon a floating bait,
and ordered the village blacksmith to make
him two strong fish hooks.
Early the next morning the Englishman, fol
lowed by the villagers, stole down to the bank
of the river. A live, fat duck, with a fish hook
fastened under each wing, was the floating
bait. Each hook was attached by a strong cord
to a stout line, buoyed at regular distances by
net floats.
The struggling duck was carefully put in the
river, and went sailing down the current,
flapping and quacking until it floated near the
hole in which the alligator lurked.
Suddenly, the long waves parted in the dark
current before a snouted head. There was a
splash and a swirl; the duck disappeared, and
the line began to run out swiftly. Its shore
end had been fastened to a tree stump, and,
amid yells and execrations, the villagers tugged
at tho rope, now paying out and then pulling in.
At last he was drawn into shallow water,
where ho lashed and circled with his mighty
tail, until shot in the head.
On cutting him open the gold bangles wore
fotin’l in his stomach, and their recovery
afforded consolation to the bereaved parents.
VALLEY.
BY M.JJUAD.
Wo crept on hands and knees through the
tangled underbrush and vines to the edge of
the cliff and looked over. We were fifty feet
above a valley—a little paradise in which the
flowers blossomed, the sweet grass grew knee
high, and the ground birds built their nests
without fear of an enemy.
Each man of us feasted his eyes in silence. It
seemed as if a word spoken aloud would shat
ter the picture which Nature had painted solely
for herself.
There was a long five minutes before any of
us looked straight down, and then we saw a
sight to make our blood tingle. An Indian
warrior, evidently shot through the hips and
his lower limbs paralyzed, had dragged himself
along the base of a cliff to a spring just under
our faces. We looked to the right and followed
his trail to where a point of thicket ran into the
valley. He had come inch by inch, leaving his
life-blood to crimson the white-faced flowers
and dye the grass a dull red.
“Shi”
We bend over to note the last few feet of his
progress. He is a representative warrior - tall,
strong and full of such courage as Nature gives
only to her children of the mountain and prai
rie. He draws himself along as if he were a
log. Every movement must cost him terrible
pain, but even here, alone as he believes him
self. he will not cry out.
He reaches the water and laps it like a dog.
It seems as if he could never cirink enough.
He has been hours crawling this half mile, and
all the time a horrible fever has been schorching :
every vein and parching his tongue.
He finally turns from the water, pulls himself
about with a heroic effort, and now he rests on
his side and faces the valley. It is as if he felt
his last moment approaching, and meant to die
with his face to the beautiful picture. He must
have been armed, but in that terrible struggle
to reach the spring he has lightened himself of
everything which could make the jodrney last a
second longer.
Cry out and encourage him ? Seek a place
and descend and succor him ? He is an Apache.
Let that be the excuse for making no move
ment. He was born to hate the white man.
Such a feeling of gratitude never entered his
heart. In his dying hour he would slay tho
man who bent over him with water to quench
his fever. Implacable—bloodthirsty to the
last—heartless and cruel by nature and culti
vation-leave him to die as he has lived. Were
the film of death already covering his orbs, he
would concentrate his last strength into one yell
of alarm to bring his fellows upon us.
Look 1
The great cat of the mountains—the puma of
South America, the panther of the deep wilder
ness of the North—has crept out of the thicket,
and is sniffing at the bloody trail. The soft
breeze bore the scent to her lair as she slept,
and she awoke to show her yellow fangs ami
lick her blood-red lips. Never had she sniffed
at such a trail. Never did drops of blood lead
so surely to a victim.
Ah! Her tongue has licked the blood from
the daisies, and she arches her back, shoots fire
from her eyes and tears at the grass with her
long claws. Ten drops of human blood have
aroused all her ferocity. Her long tail sweeps
the ground, her lips fall away from the cruel
fangs, and she crouches down to follow the
bloody trail. The lion or tiger would have taken
it with a rush. The great cat worms herself
along like a snake. The trail is zigzag. She
follows every curve.
We can see her, even to the flash of her eyee
—the working of her muscles—the quiver of
impatience that runs through her now and
then. She must pass around a large rock which
has fallen from the cliff into the valley before
she can see her victim, or before the warrior
can see her.
Three white men with hearts which know pity
—three rifles which carry to the death. Bhall
we shoot ?
No I The sound of a rifle might bring a score
of Apache devils hunting lor us. The cat
might lay dead before their eyes—the wounded
warrior might owe us his life, but we should
go to the stake for all that—to the torture by fire
and knile and tomahawk. They could not for
give us for being white men.
Ugh I The cat halts now and then to lick at a
larger spot of blood—a place where the warrior,
overcome by pain, had to take a longer rest. It
makes the flesh creep to see the glare in her
eyes and to hear the deep growl she utters in
ferocious satisfaction.
Now she slowly and carefully creeps around
the rock, hugging the ground until one stand
ing beside the spring could hardly have made
her out. She is in full sight of the warrior,who
lies only 200 feet away. He must also see her,
for his eyes are turned that way.
Ah I Did you notice his start of surprise ? It
was not tear. The Apache warrior fears noth
ing which inhabits the earth or the waters
thereof. He is wounded and defenceless, but
he does not fear. He can die, and die bravelv.
Not another movement—not even a lifting of the
proud head.
Watch, now I You will never see such an
other spectacle, although you a live a thousand
years. The shadow of death and the footsteps
of Fate are imaginary. Here is the reality.
Here is the shadow, but there are no footsteps.
In place of them is a creep, creep, creep, that
makes our hearts rise up until we can hardly
breathe.
And such a shadow! And such merciless
Fate 1 With eyes which seem to be red balls ol
fire—with claws which dig deep into the soil —
with teeth uncovered until every one can be
counted-the great oat creeps on and on
nearer and nearer.
The warrior has her full before his eyes.. We
look square down upon him. We can count hie
respirations. There is no tremble—he breathes
as evenly as one asleep. Such nerve
such courage to face sure and awful death,
must be born with the child.
Creeping—crawling—nearer—no rer! Welook
into each other’s faces. Our hearts beat liko
trip-hammers. The stone upon which I clench
my fingers would scare the cat away if hurled to
the grass in front of her. I lilt it—l I
No ! He is an Apache. They never spare a
prisoner. They burn and torture with devilish
malignity. They spare neither old nor young.
It is coming! The great cat is within twenty
feet. She scents the hot blood as it oozes from
the wound. Settling flat down on her stomach,
she gathers her feet under her, lashes her tail
in fury, and we see a yellow ball sail- through
space, hear a scream ot rage, followed by the
clear, loud war-whoop of the Indian warrior,
and the chapter is closed. We draw silently
back, afraid to witness more.
A LITTLEBo'Y’S'WORDS.
THE BELL’S BURNING WORDS.
(From the Arkansaw Traveller.)
The front door of a magnificent residence
closed with a violent slam. Anthony Jenlo,
muttering angrily, came down the steps. The
door opened and a little boy, bright-eyed and
full ot mischief, came up.
“ Won’t you bring me something ?” the child
called.
“ No, 1 won’t,” the man harshly replied.
“You are so mean that I ought never to give
you anything.”
“ I didn’t mean to be bad.”
“ Yes, you did. You are getting so that there
is no living in the house with you.”
“ You don’t love me then, do you?”
“ Nobody can love you when you are so bad.”
“ Won’t you let mo kiss you?”
“No, 1 won’t. Go back Into the house.”
Jenlo hurried away. He was going to a dis
tant part of the State to be gone several davs.
“ I ought not to have spoken to the little fellow
that wav,” he mused when he had boarded the
train. He took a newspaper from his pocket,
gtanced at the headline of a fearful calamity and
his eyes fell upon an item headed, “ A little
boy’s sudden death.” He turned the paper
over, and the first thing he saw was “ A child
drowned I”
“I ought to have kissed him,” he mnsed.
“But 1 was fretted,” he said, in apology to him
self. “ A man that's worried over business as
much as I am don’t know what he's saying half
the time.”
The first thing he heard upon stepping off the
train at the end of bis journey was the shriek
of a child. He shuddered, and a little face,
dearer to him than his own lite, suddenly arose
before him. Even while engaged in the trans
action ot his business, he constantly heard, in
the sweet but troubled accents ol a child, the
words, “ You don't love me, then, do you ? ’
At night he went to a theatre. A little bov
ran out on the stage. Jenlo went to his hotel.
He tried to read. “You don’t love me, then, do
you?”
He went to bed, but could not sleep. He toss
ed, cold, and then feverish. A midnight bell
rang out the words: “ You do not love me, then,
do you?” At last ho slept. He saw several
men carrying something, covered with a black
shawl, on a litter. When the men saw him they
put down their burden and hid tbeir faces. He
fitted the black covering and saw the mangled
body of his boy. With a groan he awoke. “I
must go home,” he said. “ I will not wait until
morning.” He went to the station. A train was
just starting. He would not suffer himself to
doze. It was evening when he reached home.
As he neared his house he heard a man, in
speaking to a companion, say that the body of
the boy had not been recovered.
“ The little fellow’s father, they say, is away
from home.”
“ Yes, so I understand.”
Jenlo hurried along the street.
“My God!” he said, “is that a hearse in
front of my house ? No, it’s a carriage further
down.”
Everything about the house was still. He
shuddered as he opened the front door and en
tered the hall. Then there came a loud yell of
delight, and his boy bounded down the stairs.
"Thank God!” exclaimed Jenlo, catching
him in his arms—" thank God !”
“ What did you bring me?”
“ I didn't bring you anything, precious: but
to-morrow you may have anything you want.”
“ I’ve had lots of fun since you’ve’ been gone,”
said the boy, while the lather, in prayerful hap
piness, still pressed him to his bosom. “ I got
an old cat up on the fence and throwed stones at
her, aud she spit at me and said, ‘Wow-ow,’
and Willie Babcock punched her with a stick,
and she spit at him and said, ‘Wow-cut er
row.’ ”
The quiet sleep of a thankful heart visited
the father that night. No midnight bell rano
out burning words. A curly head rested on
his arm; a face ot sweet mischief in repose nos
tied close to bis bosom.
GUERRILLA QUANTRELL.
A Fond Mother Still Waiting for the
Long Dead Desperado.
(Canal Dover (0.) Cor. Philadelphia Press.)
, J n , ar ? ?* unl ble cottage on a side street of thia
old-fashioned Ohio village lives a widow, who
is waiting with weary eyes and an aching heart
for the return ol her long lost son. She has not
seen him since 1857, nor has she read a letter
from ma hand since early in 1860, but, despite
all discouragements, this old widow is sustained
day by day with the hope that her son will yet
return and clear himself of tho crimes which
have been imputed to him. This faithful and
loving woman is tho mother ot William Clark
Quan troll, whoso fame as a guerrilla and bordoi
bandit equals in horror the tales of atrocity re
lated of tho James and Younger brothers.
Quan troll’s career has become a part of
American history, especially of tho history
which refers to the early troubles on the Kansas
frontier. There has always been a mystery
about his identity. Ho has been confused with
onQ relatives, who figured more as a
villain in social life than a desperado of the
wild West. It is difficult to believe that the
young Quantrell who lived in Canal Dover thirty
ye ire ago—a smooth-faced, light-haired boy—
could be guilty of the crimes and atrocities
charged to Quantrell the guerrilla, after he
organized bis band of border bandits on the
Western prairies.
There is no career in American history, nor
in the fiction of the world, which has about it
so much that is striking in comparison or so
vivid and thrilling in interest. To curious vis
itors who call upon the mother in her little cot
tage she shows the old family Bible, which re
j cords that her son was born in this village July
■ ’l, 1831, and as the mother tells it, his youth
was devoid of any particular interest, and es
pecially barren ot any incidents which would
indicate such a future career of crime and des
peration. His father was a tinner of Hagers
town, Md. He belonged to the large family ot
Quantrells which branched out from that old
town, and some members of which have been
described as the original guerrilla.
HOW HE GRADUATED INTO CRIME.
The elder Quantrell married a Miss Clark,
and removed to Dover, where he followed his
trade for a time, but soon found that in thia
\\ estern country his education fitted him for
something higher. He became a teacher in the
public schools and {Superintendent, in which
position he died in 1854. The son had grown
up, inheriting his father’; aptitude for learning,
and so marked was hit success as a pupil that,
at the age of sixteen, he was appointed a teach
er in one of the lower departments.
Alter his father’s death, young Quantrell
went West, joining m the epidemic of emigra
tion so prevalent at that time. In 1857 ho
oined some Canal Dover business men on a
large Kansae farm and settled down to agricul
ture. Later on, Quantrell became a school
teacher, but not until he had made a trip to the
gold region and had come back from Utah al
most the sole survivor ot a large party, the
most of whom had either been starved, frozen to
death or killed. He became a teacher near
Olathe, Kan., and this seems to have been the
most tranquil season of his life.
In his letters home he constantly regretted
the mistake he had made in leading a roving,
reckless life, and promised to settle down. He
maintained throughout his career a remarkable
regard for his mother, and h:s letters to her,
which she has preserved faithfully through
these many years, indicate a remarkable depth
of poetic feeling, which seems incompatible with
Ins subsequent career va a robber and slayer of
innocent men. In one of his letters he indulges
in the following dash of poetic prose: “ The
weather has changed, and ever and anon- the
sun bursts through the clouds, melting the
snow on the roof and causing the ice-clad for
ests to sparkle and shine like silver. The storm
is gradually passing away, and it seems to havs
been only a frown which has passed over tho
heavens, which are now being lit up with glad
smiles.”
In this same letter he makes an extensive ref
erence to-the political troubles which preceded
the most stirring events ot the war, and writes:
“Undoubtedly you have heard of the wrongs
committed in this Territory by the Southern
people, or pro-slavery party, but when one
once knows the facts they can easily see that
tlie opposite party has been the main mover in
the troubles, and by far the most lawless set of
people in tlie country. They all sympathize
with old J. Brown, who should have been hung
years ago—indeed, hanging was too good for
him. A murderer, a robber, made a martyr of;
just think of it.” These letters were written a
year before Quantrell became the scourge of tho
Western plains. He seemed to have a presenti
ment of what his future would be, yet there is
no indication in his letters that he expected to
lead such a lite of crime ; in fact all his later
letters home contained the oft-repeated promiso
to sow his wild oats and settle down as a good
citizen ; but the most notable instance ot tho
presentiment referred to is in his last lettei to
his mother, in which he says :
“ There is no news nere, but hard times, and
harder still coming, for I see their shadows,
and ‘coming events cast their shadows before*
is an old proverb; but I do not feel that my des
tiny is fixed in this country, nor do I wish to
stay in it longer than possible, for the devil has
got illimitable sway over this territory, and will
hold it until we have a better set of men aud
society generally.”
HIS BLOODY CAREER IN KANSAS.
This was the last news of her son which tho
old lady had ever received directly. Years and
years passed jy-years full of the momentous
and terrible deeds of the war, but no word
came to the little home in Canal Dover from the
missing son. and the mother mourned him as
one who had given np his life lor his country.
She would not believe, as the papers often re
peated, that he had jo;ned the Confederacy, be
cause, as a young man at home and an early
settler in Kansas, he had been a strong advo
c te of the Union and a devoted hater ol human
slavery.
Shortly after the writing of this letter Quan
trell commenced his career of crime. He seems
to have been caught np in a whirlwind of ex
excited political feeling which swept over Kan
sas in the early days of the war, and because of
his education, his daring and his great natural
intelligence, he at once became a leader. In
the Spring of 1860 he became identified with a
conspiracy, in which, with three companions,
ho planned to rob a rich farmer, named Mor
gan Walker, living near Independence, Mo.
Quantrell sent word to Walker of the proposed
att ick, aud gave instructions as to the deiense.
As a result, Walker turned his house into a
fort, and when the party name up all but Quan
trell were shot dead from their horses. This
was glaring treachery, but Quantrell defended
Ids conduct with the claim that he was doing
the public a service, which was undoubtedly
true.
When the war broke out, Quantrell offered
his services to Governor Price, and was elected
captain of a guerrilla squad comprising about
100 men, among them the James and Younger
brothers. Then began the career of Quantrell,
as he is best Known to American history. He
burned and sacked the young villages, and
spared neither men, women or children, unless
to gratify his whim. The massacre of 180 peo
ple at Lawrence, Kan., wis the most fiendish
act of the war. He took the town by surprise
and murdered every man he could find in it,
save a party ot strangers who were stopping at
the hotel. And these were saved only by the
intercession of R. A. Stevens, then a Kansas
lawyer, later a Congressman from Attica. N. Y.
Stevens had been Quantrell s lawyer and friend,
and his request for protection was granted. In
defense of this terrible outrage, Quantrell said
to a Southern woman:
“ I wanted to kill Jim Lane, who lived there,
and as I hadn't the honor of his acquaintance,
I killed every man I could see to shoot at 1”
WHEN HE WAS KILLED.
Well, Quantrell met his fate. He was on his
way to join the army of Lee, in Virginia, and in
the latter days of the war was surprised by
Capt. Clark and a band of Union soldiers in
Kentucky, south of Louisville. He was in a barn
with his band of raiders, and refusing to sur
render, was shot and fatally wounded. He died
in the Louisville hospital, and is buried in the
cemetery near it. But for all, this good old wo
man, living here in Canal Dover, believes that
he, the infamous Quantrell, was not her son,
but another of the same name.
“ Some day,” she says, “ William will come
back. He was not a bad boy. I shall see him
yet, and close my eyes in peace.”
An English “ Relic.”— Chief among
the “relics” of England must be reckoned
Charles Shaw-Lefevre, Lord Eversley. At
ninety-four years old he is still a sprightly and
active man, in body and mind. He is as close a
student of current politics as when he was
speaker ot the house, thirty odd years ago, and
as keen a sportsman as ever, as may be inferred
from the fact that he has just been purchasing
a brace of breech-loading guns containing all
the modern improvements invented by men
born since he passed the meridian of life.
S Cuticura
a Positive Cure
for foriT] of
Skin and Blood
—SS-from -~—
■’iniples to Scrofula.
CKTN TORTURES f)F A LIFETIME INSTANTLY RE.
LIEVED by a warm bath with Cuticura Soap, a real
Skin Beautifier, and a single application of Cuticura,
the great Skin Cure.
This, repeated daily, with two or three doses of Cuu
duHA Resolvent, the New Blond Purifier, to keep the
blood cool, the perspiration pure and unirritating, the
bowels open, the liver and kidneys active, will speedily
cure.
Eczema, tetter, ringworm, psoriasis, lichen, pruritus,
scall head, dandruff and every species of torturing, dis
figuring, itching, scaly and pimply diseases of the skin
and scalp, with loss of hair, when physicians and all
known remedies fail.
Sold everywhere. Price, Cuticura, 50c.; Soap, 25c. ;
Resolvent, sl. Prepared by the Potter Drug anb
Chemical Co., Boston, Mass.
bend for “ How to Cure Skin Diseases”
DIMPLES, blackheads, chapped and oily skin prevented
rilYi by Cuticura medicated Scat.