New York dispatch. [volume], October 02, 1887, Image 1

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

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PUBLISHED BL A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS.
VOL. X 1.11.-50. 51.
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
THE HENV YORK DISPATCH,
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PLAYS ANELPLAYERS.
LANGTRY—BRONSON HOWARD.
Another Dark Secret—** As in a Looking-
Glass ’’-Why Was it Written ?-Tlie
Apotheosis of Vice-Mrs. Langtry
as the Adventuress—Mr. Bron
son Howard’s Latest Work—
** The Henrietta ”—A Gen
uine Comedy—From the
Malarial Fog Into
Sunlight, etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
A Dark Secret other than that which now is
nightly revealed upon the stage ot the Academy of
Music.
That bright and lively example of aqueous real
ism is a dark secret only in name; its water is so
clear that you can see through it to the end of the
story—as if it were a mirror.
And this reminds me of another work—which ifl
not a mirror so perfect in its reflection.
It beAfs the title of “As in a Looking-Glass.”
It is in some sort the distraught transcript of a
distortion in the form of.a novel, the author where
of is one Phillips.
It is a dark secret as to why such a story was
■written, and a still darker secret why it should ever
have been put into dramatic shape and paraded
upon an English-speaking stage.
The novel Is the alleged diary of aa adventuress
who has been two or three times married and is the
willing accomplice and unblushing mistress of a
person who, in this country, would be called a con
fidence operator and a hardened and heartless
swindler, with not one redeeming virtue in his en
tire mental make-up.
This adventuress, Lena Despard, a veritable image
<of the Strange Woman, arrayed "in purple and scarlet
color, and decked with gold and precious stones and
pearls,” is the central figure of a series of unsavory
Incidents, which might well find fitting and appro
priate place in the autobiography of a Cora Pearl.
Around her move,
AS IN A SENSUOUS DREAM OF CARNALIIW.
figures like hers, which become vague and inconse
quent whenever they assume even the pretense of
virtuous inclining, or of having something of moral
purpose to account for thehFexistence.
So it is that the Beatrice Vyse, being a virtuous
love-stricken Innocent, is a mere lay figure, with a
feeble showing of vitality and vacuous of interest,
eave as a foil to make more conspicuous the auda
cious vices of the adventuress and her pal, Captain
Fortinbras.
Lord Udolpho Daysey is a man about town who
has but one—and that the vilest—idea of woman’s
nature. There is Count Dromlroff, the Russian,
who certainly is not troubled with an oyer-ballast
Of conscientious scruples; Sir Thomai Gage, an old
lecher, who is ready to abandon wife, family, and
wallow in disgrace for the gratification of his pas
sions; and there is Lord Algernon Balfour, who is a
good-natured, social ass.
You have, too, a French lady’s maid, who is well
fitted in laxity of integrity to be the confidante of a
mistress like Lena Despard.
As for the other men and women who complete
the group, they are colorless and vapid; mere apol
ogies—scraps of characters—who move about and
answer as filling.
They are little else than shadows,
In all this dramatic exposition of splendid and
brazen human Infamy, the intrigues and machina
tions of Mrs. Despard and Captain Jack, in her de
ception of the vacuous Miss Vyse, in order that the
adventuress may capture iato her own arms—not
for love, but for his money and position—the plia
ble donkey, Algernon Balfour, and up to the close
of the story, there is
NOT ONE GLEAM OF HONEST SINCERITY,
not one ennobling trait of pure and unselfish hu
manity to recommend it sweetly to the moral
tense of an audience.
All the magnificence of drAaia: disnlav “sola
and precious stones and pearls;” all of decorative
art and splendor of scenic surroundings and costly
appointments with which such a vision of human
ly vice can be made attractive to the eye and add to
its sensuous interest, can not give it pleasant wel
come to the decent mind.
It is of that class of dramatic work which illus
trates only the worst and more disgusting phases of
social life; it inculcates no moral nor does it adorn
the literature of the time. There may be pecuniary
profit in such productions, but there are other and
DObler purposes which are to be considered.
So far as Mrs. Langtry's performance of Mrs.
Despard is concerned, she is easy and gracious
well, let me say “at home at all times”—in the
drawing-room and in such of the associations of the
play as make no demand for intensity of passion,
for emotional force and the expression of the sub
tler elements of woman’s nature.
She in no instance is dramatic in her portraiture
of Lena Despard; her expression of the varying
passions which compose the vitality of the charac
ter is a cold and transparent simulation; there is no
more depth in it than there is in the cheap walnut
Stain on a pine coffin. You are never led away by
the impression that she feels what she utters, and
you remember her as you would the echo of some
familiar sound.
Her acting reminds me of a half-dollar I had the
Other day. I didn't receive it at the ticket office of
a circus. The coin was bright and shining, perfect
and new—evidently not many weeks from the
Mint. Somehow it seemed to me to be too bright
to be genuine, I scraped a bit of its surface, ap
plied a drop of acid, and lo!
IT WAS BRASS—
pure, cold brass. Or a composite of that material
and lead.
A rank, thinly disguised counterfeit. Without
that drop of acid upon its flimsy wash of silver, it
would have readily have passed the scrutiny of
your ordinary tradesman.
The truth is acid—when it drops upon the coun
terfeit of acting.
And as in coin, so in the work of the stage; there
is a great deal more of this “ shoving of the queer "
zipon the public than the ordinary observer dreams
of.
We accept it-,not as one does the small change
banded him by the horse-car conductor—but rather
aa the matter-of-course-return from the pretty,
•mllipg cashier of a restaurant We don’t want to
Jinauit her beauty and change her smiles by show
tag any suspicion of her honesty*
Mrs. Langtry is a handsome woman, and has a
keener appreciation of the financial end of her pro
fessional task than of its art. Her beauty is pro
fessional, her dressing faultless, 4 her bearing the
glory of a drawing-room reception, and her acting—
as far as depth of feeling, sincerity and force are
concerned—is—to put it mildly—the half-dollar
Which will not bear the acid.
when with it—we must accept such email
and mutilated change as this “Asln a Looking
Glass”—the outcome of a novel which should never
have been written—which no reputable published
ought to have placed before the public one won
ders how far beyond Niniche and Camille one must
go in the acceptance of the later offerings of the
theatre and the more or less leading representatives
of dramatic art.
That an article is in demand and yields a hand
some and constantly increasing profit to the seller,
is by no means an endorsement of its purity or the
actual need of it.
There is no pound of sugar nowadays that hath
not its share of sand.
And a little of the sand goes a great way—for tho
grocer’s profit.
From this As In a Looking Glass ” let me turn
the leaf in the book of the fortnight’s productions
upon our stage and fall to something of more wel
come method. Welcome because it is the outcome
of
A HEALTHFUL, CLEANLY STUDY OF HUMANITY,
and of a happier and more palatable view of the
lives that are lived in this, our present time.
To Bronson Howard the stage is indebted for
• Saratoga,” “ Old Love Letters,” “ Our Girls ” and
“ Met By Chance.” Also for •• Green-room Fun,”
“Baron Rudolph ” and “The Banker’s Daughter.”
It will be remembered that among these contri
butions to the stage there were two or three which
were written to order, with a fit guaranteed to the
stars for whom the leading roles were measured.
The most successful were “The Banker’s Daught
ter,” produced by Messrs. Shook & Palmer, and
“Saratoga,” by Mr. Daly, in the first year of his
management of a theatre.
I suppose that “Met by Chance” ought not to be
counted. It is not necessary here to say why it so
signally failed when brought out by Miss Dauvray
at the Lyceum.
That it did fail, and that “Our Girls,” which pre
ceded it on that same stage was not a brilliant and
abiding triumph for the author, is no evidence that
Mr. Howard was at fault.
Again Mr. Howard has come forward, and “The
Henrietta” had its primal representation upon the
stage of the Union Square Theatre, on Monday
night last.
In this work, Bronson Howard has given to the
stage the most perfect of all his efforts as a drama
tist, and
THE MOST PERFECT COMEDY
yet written by an American author. The subject is
American, and its coloring brilliant with the hues
of the life of to-day. The text is as clear and direct
in diction as ever oame from the pen of the elder
dramatist; the wit and badinage is as incisive and
bright as the satire is sharp and effective in its pur
pose.
There is no mistaking the motive, and there is no
room left for questioning the use of such an offer
ing. Every character is a transcript of a class, and
each one bears the impresss of a strong and unmis
takable individually, and has a distinct and clearly
defined purpose to accomplish.
There is in it the same elements which have
for a hundred years retained upon the stage
and given an enduring fame to the comedies of Sheri
dan and Goldsmith. And Ido not doubt that when
this age shall have passed away, and Wall street and
the fierce struggles in its Stock Exchange; for
wealth; its tricks and desperate devices, and de
feats; its ruin of men’s honor, its financial crimes
and its triumphs exist only in history—this comedy
will have a place in standard dramatic literature —
as a picture of our life and times and battles for
wealth and position, even as now “ The School for
Scandal” is an inustration of the era of one hun
dred years Ago, when suenaau giuriuou avogv
and England with his genius.
As there is In “ The School for Scandal** evidence
that Sheridan in the formation of the plot had
something of reference to Wycherly’s “Plain
Dealer” and to Congreve in the sharpness of his dia
logue—so in Mr. Howard’s splendid comedy there
is a vague suggestion that he has availed himself of
hints from other sources.
And as, when Sheridan's comedy was produced,
there came the envious scandal that its argument
and portions of the dialogue were taken from a
manuscript which had previously been delivered at
Drury Lane Theatre by a young lady, the daughter
of a merchant in Thames street, so no doubt there
will come the inevitable carpers who will try to
show that—really after all, the excellence of “ The
Henrietta” is attributable to other sources than the
author’s Imagination.
And, aa following Sheridan's comedy, there came
successively no less than five other comedies, each
bearing the title, “The School for Scandal,” and
which were abortive imitations and catchpennies,
so there will doubtless come other comedies and
plays having for their subject the financial and so
cial lives of the bulls and bears of the Stock Ex
change—and in a little while be heard of no more.
I do not remember ever seeing an audience on the
first night of a new work, so thoroughly held to its
seats and so entirely Interested in the progress of
the business of the stage, iu the movements of the
characters and in the story of the play, as this one
was on Monday night last in this comedy of
“THE HENRIETTA.”
There was sincerity on the stage and in tne trout
of *it: it was nn inncar the experimental trial of a
first performance at the close of the first act; it
was as if the great .throng of spectators had been
witnessing the revival of some work with which
they had been familiar for years.
And they were familiar with it; they knew old
Nick Vanalstyne, the millionaire broker, well; the
Dr. Murray Hilton—why they had met him in their
parlors and heard his soft and oleaginous voice
how often they knew not—in his pulpit; the hard
money maker, Flint; the Bertie Vanalstyne—and
the young Lord Arthur—why—they were familiar,
but they had never seen these real life worthies
upon the stage before.
They had merely stepped upon the stage from the
wild tumult of the stock exchange, from the draw
ingrooms away up in the avenue, or from the
street. There they were Imitating themselves—or
rather forming the persona of a comedy
which in itself was but the transcript and repeti
tion of their own everyday lives, of their conflicts,
their disappointments and loves, and their home
intercourse and without “ make up " or the trick
ery and devices of stage effect.
It is such comedies, of which this of Mr. Bronson
Howard's is a memorable example, that should hold
place and will hold place—when they come—upon
our stage and in the admiration and favor of the
truer friends of the drama.
Criticism upon the acting and consideration of
the nature and argument of the comedy will be
found in another column. I have only to say that
I was templed to briefly allude to its merits in a
literary regard, and to the purity of its diction
and purpose, the perfection of its construction, as
matters of contrast with the play in which Mrs.
Langtry—her personality and dresses being its
chiefest and in fact only attraction—is now spear
ing at the Fifth Avenue.
From “As in a Looking-glass *• to “The Henriet
ta,” is like coming up out of a malarial fog into the
bright and healthful light of the noonday sun.
Or as supplementing a chapter of Zola with a
page of Thackeray.
I prefer Bronson Howard’s mirror to Mr. Philips’s
•Looking-glass.” I see in the mirror something of
reflection that makes life worth the living; some
thing that reminds one that a first night’s perform
ance is not to be always in vain or a labor, and that
in the travail of the season there may come at least
one relief to its monotony and weary round.
I think the “Coming Dramatist ” has come.
GovebNor Sewabd used to tell a story
about Governor Draper, who was dining one day at
Congress Hall Hotel, where the butter happened to
be particularly rank. “Here, John,” said Draper,
to a favorite waiter, who was standing behind him,
“John, take this butter away; some people like
their butter stronger than others.” John took the
plate, held it up to his nose a moment with the air
of a connoisseur, then put it back again in its place,
and observed, in a firm voice: “Misther Draper,
that is the strongest butter in the house.’*
NEW YORK, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 2. ISS7.
SOUIRE BOUfIHTOS’S PLOT.
*
The Career of a Rich Man’s
Only Child.
The Associate of a London Gang
of Thieves.
How the Robbery of Bough Hall
Was Planned,
A Horrible Crime Which was Quickly
Avenged.
Among some old newspapers in the of
the writer is one printed in 1793, containing an ac
( count of a most remarkable case. The story, con
densed, is told here:
Squire Boughton, of Bough Hall, in the County
of Kent, England, died in January, 1789. To his
, only child, James Boughton, he left an income of
. £2OO a year.- James, who was then in his twenty
fifth year, had led a wild and dissipated life, and his
father, worn out by his son’s dissipation and ex
( cesses, had resolved to disinherit him. The squire
had a niece, Jsne Shapsley, two years older than his
son, a woman of great courage and resolution, who
had lived with him for many years. To her he left
j all his estate, provided she married his son. If she
failed to do so within a given time, she was to re
( ceive £4OO yearly as a charge on the estate, and the
> property was to revert to a distant relative. The
squire’s hope was that Jane, who had always pos
sessed great influence over his son, would be able
to reform him and make a man of him.
James was living a reckless and almost criminal
life in Loudon. When he learned of the disposition
made of hia lather’s estate he said nothing. For
t some time after the funeral he remained at Bough
Hall, and finally made up his mind to marry his
, cousin. He went away for a time, and on hia re
turn appeared sedate and inclined to spend his IftiS
j ure in a quiet and proper way. Jane seemed to
exert a good influence over him, and they got on
very pleasantly together.
AFTER CARRIAGE.
s As soon as a twelvemonth had passed after Squire
s Boughton's death, James and his cousin were mar
t ried. They resided, of course, at the Hall, and were
- well received by their neighbors. James passed his
time shooting, fishing and hunting, and it seemed
‘ for a year as if ho was going to settle down to the
- life of a reputable country squire. A son was born,
and there was great rejoicing, but soon after this
James grew reckless, and paid his first visit to Lon-
} don since his marriage.
There he met with some of his old acquaintances,
1 and as he had procured from his wife a supply
of money, he indulged in most of his former ex
' cesses. His old habits of dissipation revived, and
- he returned home only to endeavor to get a further
sum of money from Jane. Bhe resisted his impor
tunities, and he seemed to acquiesce in her better
e judgment. But the fires were burning within, and,
e though he managed to smother them for a time, as
[. soon as he procured funds, he again went to Lon
don, and renewed his wild and disorderly living.
THE OLD EVIL CAREER.
Broken in health and penniless, he once more
r sought refuge at Bough Hall and pretended to be
i- penitent and promised to reform. His wife treated
6 him with great forbearance and affection, but was
nevertheless firmly resolved to Intrust him no more
? with the means of riotous indulgence. Within six
months, however, an aunt left him £3,000, and, aa
, r soon as it came into his hands, he went to London
and outdid bis former career. By this time he was
r even more demoralized than when his father died,
i- and was firmly resolved to continue his life in Lon
v xxvm arvmm ur uthcr.
He sank lower and lower, until he became the
associate of gamblers of the worst order. Among
e these was a man named Blakeman, who did nothing
d and bad no property, but was nevertheless always
provided with money. This man introduced James
Boughton to a circle of acquaintances, some of
whom were evidently of a very low grade though
e they dressed well and spent money freely. They
. f met at a house near St. Paul’s churchyard and often
spoke together in a lingo which was unintelligible
Boughton. Occasionally some of them would dis
, appear from their usual haunts for many days
» together. On their return there would be much
private talk and whispering, and on more than one
a occasion members of the club, as it was called,
t disappeared altogether.
r FALLEN AMONG THIEVES.
e Things had reached a very low ebb with Bough
_ ton, when Blakeman took him aside and enlight
ened him as to the character of the men with whom
e he was associated. It must be observed that, when
e Boughton drifted away from the better class of
young men with whom he had been friendly, he
dropped his own name and assumed that of Jen
-0 nings, and by that name only he was known to
i Blakeman and his companions. Who he was or
j whence he came, or who werejhls connections, his
later associates did not know.
> “I don’t know who you are,” said Blakeman;
I “ but I know that when you have money you spend
. it like a prince. I know, too, that you are good
company, and I think you possess qualities which
would make you shine in our profession. For, un
derstand, we are not idlers, though we may seem so
Q to you.”
Then Blakeman informed Boughton that the club
8 consisted of men who were expert footpads and
f housebreakers, and that in that way they made
a their living.
8 “I WILL BE ONE OF YOU.”
“As for myself,” said Blakeman, “sometimes I
take to the highway and sometimes I break into a
house, though latterly I have been captain of the
club and have devoted most of my time to planning
6 business for tho others. Now, if you wish to join
i us, say so. You will be heartily welcome. If you
t do not wish to take a hand in, why you needn’t.
We will trust to your honor as a man never to be
-1 tray us.”
i Boughton was startled at this information, but he
did not show his surprise. He was a man of nerve
and resource, and, grasping Blakeman’s hand he
1 replied:
e “My dear fellow, it will suit me exactly. But to
. tell you the truth, I must be absent for a month or
so on very particular business, and on my return I
* will be one of you.”
1 Boughton had, in reality, made up his mind to
1 quit his associates. What to do he didn’t know
The thought that he might have been arrested as
’ one of the gang and been subjected to a disgraceful
s punishment, had a very startling effect upon him-
so much so, that he resolved to go back home, con
fess his faults to his wife, implore forgiveness and
B ever afterward lead a new life.
Ho carried out this resolution. His wife received
j him without upbraiding, and did all that a wise
, and compassionate woman could do to foster the
good resolutions which her husband professed. A
r month passed away, and the old fever for London
. and its fast life returned. Boughton resisted in
vain, and at length his moral strength gave way,
’ and he began to scheme hard to procure the means
a to indulge his passion for dissipation.
BACK IN LONDON.
All this time, however, his wife was satisfied of
i the genuineness of his reformation, and when he
, asked for a sum of money to go to London to make
certain purchases of clothing, she gave him it with
i out any fear of the consequences.
, He reached London on October 7, 1792 and the
same evening visited his friends at the club. He
spent his money freely, but not lavishly, and an
f nounced his intention of joining the club. The
next day he said to Blakeman :
“ I suppose if I were to give you information of
t a good house to break into, you would take it as a
l good piece of work on my part?”
j “ Assuredly we should,” was the reply.
“Well, then,” said Boughton, “let us all ait
’ down, and over the wine I will say what I have to
say.”
Nine of the gang sat down, and the wine went
round.
“ Our new member, Mr. Jennings, has something
to communicate,” said Blakeman, “which is of im
portance, and will interest us all.”
“Gentlemen,” said Boughton, “having joined
the club, it behooves me to do what I can to ad
vance its interests. I know a country house, about
forty miles from here, which offers a fine field for
our enterprise. I know it well, having had the
honor on more than one occasion to dine there.”
“Ho, ho ! hear him,” cried a member. “To dine
there ? Just so—in the kitchen.”
A PLACE TO PLUNDER.
“Never mind where,my friends,” was Boughton’s
. answer; “I acquired a certain knowledge of the
’ place and, let me say, a familiarity with a charming
; young lady there which I think we may now turn
to good account. In the pantry is a lot of valuable
silver, worth a good many thousand pounds. In
my lady's chamber is a jewel case, with valuables
in it worth a good many thousand pounds more
Nowaks job is a comparatively easy one. Here is
a key —”
“Ah, a key !” exclaimed several voices. ’‘That
looks like business.”
Here is a key,” continued Boughton, holding
up the article mentioned, “which will unlock aside
door leading into the garden. The pantry door can
be easily fodree. On the night on which you fix the
job, the door of my lady’s dressing-room will be
open, and you can enter by that room into her
sleeping apartment. But it must be understood
that there is to be no violence to her.”
Boughton then described with great particularity
the v rious localities in the house and produced a
paper with a diagram on which they were marked.
anti gnhjrnhnt.
HIS OWN HOME.
“ Now for the place—where is the place ?” some
one asked.
“I am coming to that,” said Boughton. “It is,
as I have already said, about forty miles from here.
You will go through Gravesend and the place is a
little beyond Rochester. It is known as Bough
Hall, and is the residence of’Squire Boughton, who
is at present away from home.”
After further talk and after many questions had
been satisfactorily answered by Boughton, it was
decided that the place should be robbed at half an
hour after midnight of October 20. Boughton de
livered up the key, with the understanding that
when the thieves quitted the Hall, they should see
that the key was placed inside the door.
“You have no need of fear,” he said, “for there
will be only half a dozen women in the house.”
The next day he visited the club again, and ex
plained that he must leave London on very import
ant business connected with a small legacy which
he had received, and would not return until the job
was over.
PREPARING FOR THE DEED,
Boughton immediately returned home, and his
wife was delighted with his conduct. He bore him
self with manly courtesy and affection toward her.
On the afternoon of October 20 he left on horseback
to drive with a friend, at Canterbury, saying that he
might not return before the morning. He quitted
his friend’s bouse early in the night, and reached
the village of Boughton about eleven o’clock. He
went to the inn there and said that, as he did not
wish to rouse the people at the hall, he would stay
until morning.
“ I will use the small bedroom over the garden,
he said, “ and if you will give me some wine, I
shall be content.”
When the inn was quiet he descended to the gar
den and crossed the fields toward the hall, which he
entered by the conservatory. The strong double
oaken door between it and the hall he opened with
the key which he had brought away with him. All
was still within. Ascending to his wife’s apart
ments, he opened the dressing-room door with the
key which he had also taken with him, on the pleft
that if he should by any chance return home that
night he could retire without disturbing his wife,
THE DEED IS DONE.
Mrs. Boughton lay in bed, fast asleep. Her hus
band stood in the doorway between the two rooms,
gazing at her as she lay. The night light, which
was burning on a side table, fully disclosed the
situation. Drawing a dagger from his garments,
he stealthily approached the sleeper. The bed
clothes covered her to the throat. That w%s as he
desired. Rapidly and with tremendous force be
plunged the dagger intj she heart of his wife.
There was np apirtifig of blood—the bed-clothes
prevented that, The wretched woman opened her
and Struggled to rise. The blow was repeated,
And she was a corpse. Then, wiping the dagger,
Boughton withdrew. He quitted the house as he
entered it, and went back to the inn.
A few minutes after he had done the deed of
blood, Blakeman and four others of his gang
opened the side-door leading into the garden.
Thanks to a close study of the diagram furnished
by Boughton, they had no difficulty in fixing locali
ties. NVhile three of the robbers went to the pan
try, Blakeman ascended to Mrs. Boughton’s apart
ments.
WHAT THE ROBBER SAW.
He found the dressing-room open, as Jennings—
that is, Boughton—had said. He passed within,
and entered the bedroom. The sleeper did not
move. He went to the bureau where he was to find
the jewel-case, and turned all out, but it was not
there. He looked around. His eye was riveted
upon the bed. There was no blood upon it. He
drew near.
The face upon which he gazed was horrible. His
flesh began to creep. He drew down the olothes.
They were saturated with blood. Almost over
come, he hurriedly left the room and found his
companions below in whispered consultation. As
he drew near, one of them said:
“There is not so much silver in the pantry as we
expected.”
•• Come away,” he said; “ the job is a failure. A
woman up stairs has been murdered.”
Silently and swiftly they quitted the place, and
made the best of their way back tc London.
THE THEORY OF THE lOLICE.
Next morning it was found by tie servants, very
early, that the pantry had been iroken open and
the silver stolen. Then Mrs. Boughton’s maid dis
covered her murdered mistress. The contents of
the bureau were scattered around and there was no
doubt that Mrs. Boughton had been assassinated
by the robbers. The ueighborkood was speedily
aroused, and when James Boughton reached the
Hall he found everything iu confusion and every
body in the wildest state of excitement. As for
him, he assumed an air of unutterable grief, and
thoroughly imposed upon all who saw him mani
fest such apparently heartfelt sorrow. He consult
ed with the magistrates, and measures were at once
taken to traci and secure the thieves and murder
ers. Officers came down from London and exam
ined the premises, and were of opinion that some
one person had perpetrated the crime.
It wss supposed that this person had been watch
ing the promises for some time and had at length
found the side door open. The impression was
that, when he was ransacking the bureau, Mrs.
Boughton had madesome movement, which had
excited the thief's fears and induced him to kill
her.
The property went to Mrs. Boughton’s only child,
whose guardian James became. In the entire es
tate he had a courtesy title for life, and was thus
at length possessed of an enormous Income. The
child was placed in the custody of an experienced
nurse, and James went to the Continent for change
of scene.
THE TRUNK.
When Blakeman and his assistants reached Lon
don after the burglary at Bough Hall, they thought
it best to separate for a time. Blakeman went Into
hiding at Rotherhite and remained there for some
days. But funds began to fail-and it was necessary
to dispose of the stolen property. Blakeman ar
raged that two of the gang, disguised as watermen,
were to carry the silverware in a trunk, to a certain
place in Southwark, where a noted receiver of stolen
goods was to call for it and leave behind the sum he
was willing to pay.
The trunk was safely shipped on board the boat,
and the supposed waterman started with it up the
river. Blakeman, who half mistrusted the men,
secretly followed them in a wherry. No sooner had
the men landed with the trunk, than they were
seized by the watch who were looking out for sus
picious characters. As soon as Blakeman saw this
he was panic-stricken, and directed the wherry to
be rowed back. He discharged the waterman, and
going lower down, hired a boat and started alone
down the river. At dusk he reached Filbury Fort
and went on board a lugger, to the captain of which
be was well known. The lugger dropped down
with the tide and Blakeman made his escape to
France.
THE SQUIRE FAILS TO APPEAR.
In the meantime the men with the trunk were de
tained and on the contents of the trunk being exam
ined, it was found to consist of the silverware stolen
from Bough Hall. He even admitted that they be
longed to the gang who had been implicated in that
robbery, though they denied their own participa-,
tion in it. Through them the police obtained Infor
mation which led within two months to the capture
of all connected tfith the dreadful crime, except
Blakeman.
Squire Boughton paid no heed to a notification
that his presence would be necessary to identify the
property, and so the butler and a servant had to give
testimony before the grand jury. When tho time
for the trial approached, a special mandate of the
court was served upon the squire in Paris, requiring
his presence at a certain time, under pain of out
lawry and forfeiture of his property. Dreading
identification as Jennings, he disguised himself as
thoroughly as possible with the aid of cosmetics
and a wig, and, as he had grown very stout, hoped
to escape being recognized by his former associates.
AN UNEXPECTED WITNESS.
In the meantime, however, a witness against him
had appeared in the person of Clay, who kept the
inn at Boughton, where the squire had stayed on
the night of the murder. It appeared that Clay’s
curiosity had been excited at the squire’s putting
up there for the night and selecting the room over
the garden; so Clay watched him, imagining that
he had an amour with some woman in the village.
When the squire dropped from the window of his
bedroom into the garden, and, scaling the wall,
started in the direction of the Hall, Clay followed at
a safe distance. He saw the squire enter the con
servatory, and, after a short time, return. But, in
stead of taking the road by which he had gone to
the Hall, he walked toward a pond at the eastera
corner of the park, into which he threw something.
Then he directed bis steps toward the inn, followed
by Clay.
After the funeral of Mrs. Boughton, Clay called
on the squire and told him what he had seen. The
squire frowned and was very indignant, but finally
said that he suspected his wife ot infidelity with a
servant, and had visited the Hall in order to set at
rest his suspicions. He gave Clay five pounds and
promised a hundred pounds more in a month, if he
would say nothing of the matter. When the squire
quitted the Hall and went to the continent without
performing his promise, and several months elapsed,
Clay began to throw out hints as to what he saw on
the night of Mrs. Boughton’s murder. These things
oame to the ears of a neighboring magistrate, who
sent for Clay and questioned him. Then the story,
as just told, came out.
THE SQUIRE IDENTIFIED.
The magistrate, after consultation, made known
to the authorities the statement made by Clay and
the mandate already referred to was issued in order
to secure Squire Boughton’s presence in England.
His early career and the fact that his wife's death
would enrich him, were motives which, it was
thought, might have induced him to become an
accessory at least to the crime of murder.
Wh.n the members of the gang already indicted
were conironted with Boughton, they immediately
identified him as Jennings, and related all the facts
of his connection with the burglary at Bough Hall.
The pond into which Clay said he saw Boughton
throw something was dragged and a dagger was
found, which was identified as one that had long
hung in the library at the Hall. Squire Boughton
was indicted as an accessory to the crime of burglary
and murder, and convicted along with the gang.
Before the sentence of death was executed, he made
a confession, involving all the facts contained in
this narrative.
CRYPTOGRAPHY.
The Sign Language of Conspiracies,
Political Intrigues, Army Combi
nations and Business Ventures.
THE TILDEN TELEGRAMS.
Peculiarities of the Several Cipher Codes of
Ancient and Modern Times.
GENERAL STAGER'S MILITARY TELEGRAPH CORPS.
Cryptography, or the art of concealment in writ
ing, is derived from analagons terms in Greek and
Arabic, signifying to hide or vail in words. It is an
art that has prevailed from the earliest times, and
the extent ef its use has never been greater than at
the present. The governments of all civilized
lands, persons engaged in commerce, and all in
dividuals who patronize the telegraph make lavish
use of cryptography, having each a specially con
structed cipher code. The origin of cryptography
is as old as traditional history, as ancient, perhaps,
as the inherent human trait which inclines man
kind to secrecy. In the sign characters and
hieroglyphs of certain stones and parchments dis
covered amid the hoary relics of extinct racks in
Assyria and the East, there are evidences of a mean
ing concealed beneath the transactions which are
piafle by antiquarians. The early Egyptians were
familiar with cryptography aii<J k a .Y® i jawke of
this knowledge in the shape Of cryptograms khd oqu
combinations of hieroglyphs upon pyramids, the
meaning of which baffied the numerous savants
who have studied those wonderful structures. The
Jewish rabbis made an abundant use of the art of
concealiug 4heir meaning under a mask of harm
less words. It was favored even by the sacred
writers, at least one instance of its use being found
in the Bible.
More definite evidence of cryptography’s use in
later times are abundant. It has ever been the
written language in which governments have com
municated with their agents. Especially has this
been the case in times ol war. Among the early
Britons three arrows brought to the king signified
that his general had gained a victory. The Laceda
monians transposed letters so as to form combina
tions of words not understood by any save those
persons to whom they were dispatched. The Spar
tans had also a large cipher code by means of which
their Ephos conveyed tidings to their generals in
the field.
THE MESSAGE
was written on narrow strips of parchment, in char
acters that were meaningless to a person not pos
sessed ot their key. Wound around a staff of a cer
tain size, previously agreed upon, the particular
sized staff being in itself the key, the edges of the
parchment met in a certain way and the message
read clearly. This cipher code of remote antiquity
has descended into India, where it is still used by
the priests in communicating with each other.
Lines from the sacred books of Vishnu are carved
according to the system of this code in the lacquer
work of scent boxes and on finger rings.
Julius Caesar made a large use of ciphers in his
campaigns. His favorite code was the transposi
tion of letters, the simplest and indeed the only
code in the infancy of letters. Michianelli, for three
centuries known to the world as the infamous em
bodiment of cruelty and moral turpitude, until Ma
caulay's celebrated essay went far to redeem his
memory, was accustomed to transmit his orders to
burn, murder, pillage and destroy, to bis emissaries,
vailed in characters and letters that were meaning
less to the uniniated. The Duke de Richelieu was
prone to surround his movements with mystery,
and his correspondence was largely in cipher. As
in everything else, this extraordinary man was orig
inal in his systems of crytograpby. Often docu
ments came from his cabinet bearing on their face
a clear meaning, but, read according to their key,
carrying orders fraught with the direst conse
quences.
A CURIOUS INSTANCE
of the Cardinal Duke's cipher cod? is preserved in a
letter of introduction which he gave a French no
bleman, addressed to a church dignitary at Rome.
The lines read from side to side, commended the
bearer to the good offices of the ecclesiastical as a
worthy person. But read from the right of an im
aginary line, drawn down the middle of the page,
the letter warns the priest that the bearer is a dan
gerous plotter and recommends that he be disposed
of.
John Trithemus, the Abbot of Spanheim, was the
first writer on cryptography. At the command of
the Duke of Bavaria he enlarged and elaborated the
codes in use at the time. John Baptist Porta, a
Neapolitan mathematician, was the first to draw
attention to the numberless combinations possible
in transposing the letters of the Roman alphabet
lhe mathematical phase «of the subject engaged
Francis Bacon, the great English statesman, essay
ist and philosopher.
“ A cipher,” said Bacon, •• should not be labor
ious to read and write, impossible to decipher, and
in some cases, be above suspicion.”
He was the first writer to suggest that words
might be employed in codes, instead of letters or
figures. The mathematical cipher, which is an Im
proved and modernized form, is the most secret of
codes, and was probably Bacon's invention. Lord
Verulam was a copious writer on the subject. On
the trial of Earl Somerset for treason, Verulam incon
sistently urged as a ground for his conviction that
the earl had
CIPHERS AND JARGONS
for king, queen and great men —things seldom used
by either princes or their ambassadors.
But though by the law of some countries in certain
imes forbidden, cryptography in its use has never
been restricted to “princesand their ambassadors.”
It has always been the language of conspiracy and
treason. In the sixteenth century the art had be
come so common that not only were important
state papers vailed in jargons, but private individu
als, merchants and money changers communicated
between themselves in cipher. In the two or three
centuries preceding the dawn of later civilization,
society was disturbed by constant wars, and life
and property were insecure. Written communica
tioa between commercial men, an institution at
that time in its infancy, was difficult, often dan
gerous. Under these conditions, cryptography was
very generally used, and the art in consequence,
improved. Codes multiplied in number, and many
curious kinds were invented. Among them was
the string cipher, an Italian invention, deriving its
name from the resemblance between a tangled string
and the message when turned into the code. An
other was the concentric code, the words following
in a gradually widening spiral. These and nearly
all-others of the time were comparatively simple
and ’
THEIR KEYS
were readily found by any careful investigator. All
the systems in use at the time were well under
stood, and it is remarkable that such should have
been the case, when the momentous events then
transpiring on the stage of Europe are considered.
The blaze of Napoleon's conquests illuminated the
continent; trade was unsettled; means of communi
cation were uncertain; yet it is said that,in common
with weaker concerns, the greatest money power of
the time, the Rothschilds, disdained to vail their in
structions to their agents in jargons. When, there
fore, the head of their London house died abroad,
the line “Il est mort,” tied to the wing of a carrier
pigeon, snot by a farmer’s boy in Surrey, was for
warded to London, the Stock Exchange plunged in
to a tremendous panic at the news of Nathan Meyer
Rothschild's death, to which the words referred.
The adoption of the telegraph and the civil war
in America operated as great incentives to the ad
vancement and improvement of cryptography. As
the telegraph came into use, the necessity af sec
recy became apparent to those persons who bur
dened the wires with messages of import. Inven
tion supplied codes, consisting of letters trans
posed, of figures substituted for letters, of a pecu
liar arrangement of words, and the like. Gradually
the art progressed, until, in the early days of the
rebellion, was invented one of the best—possibly
the very best—cipher codes ever built. Its author
was Gen. Anson Stager, assisted by Col. Lynch and
several of his aids. This code was very flexible—
that is, its capacities of expression covered a wide
range; its principles once understood, it was com
paratively simple, and without the key a message
written in it was an impenetrable secret. It was
the first code in whieh phrases were determined by
a single word, and from this peculiarity it was
called by its inventors an arbitrary cipher.
Thus the expression “Hood is coming North”
was indicated by the word “Brute;” “Animals in
poor condition” by “Adam.” Every phrase and
sentence describing the condition of field and camp,
the state of the army, movements of the enemy;
every event and incident likely to occur was de
scribed by
A SINGLE ARBITRARY WORD.
Names ot places, states, counties, townships; the
names of all prominent individuals in civil and
military life in the country were all filled with code
words. This, of itself, constituted a cipher prac
tically impossible to read. But, not content with
one band of secrecy, the inventors provided two.
A system of arranging the message, after it had
been turned into cipher, was included in the code.
The arrangement was in a square, divided by verti
cal and parallel lines, called respectively routes and
lines, into smaller squares. In every separate in
stance the arrangement varied, and its peculiarity
was that until the last word of the message was
translated, the key word did not appear, and the
proper arrangement was not manifest. This won
derful code was known and understood by not over
two hundred persons. The cipher operators of the
United States Military Telegraph Corps were its
custodians. One of them was attached to the staff
of each division commander, but even the com
manding general of the army was as ignorant of the
code as the veriest shoulder-strapper. To guard
against the contingencies of an operator's capture,
or of a copy of the code being secured, the code was
divided into twelve books, each set numbered and
being made up of
OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST.
A TOTALLY DIFFERENT SET OF WORDS.
Book No. 2 was dropped in a Southern river, and
book No. 9 was captured, with its custodian, an
operator named Mcßeynolds. He chewed and swal
lowed six leaves of it before the rebels seized and
wrested it from his grasp. Their capture was of
small advantage of them, however. An arrange
ment was in force which made the disappearance of
an operation known immediately by General Stager,
and within twelve hours after Mcßeynolds’s cap
ture, book No. 9 was abandoned by the army.
At the close of the war the army cipher, minus
the arrangement of routes and lines, which is mani
festly too complicated for ordinary uses, came into
wide service among merchants and individuals who
patronize the telegraph. With scarcely an excep
tion every commercial and governmental cipher is
now built on the arbitrary plan. There are a vast
number in use, each fitting one particular kind of
business and none other. Their present object Is
less to Insure secrecy than to serve the purposes of
economy. A message oi perhaps sixty words may be
condensed by means of an ordinarily copious cipher
into ten. It is for this reason that telegraph com
panies do not regard them with a lasting love and
control their use by rules which limit the length of
code words and also force their selection from
Webster’s or other equally well-known dictionaries.
The most copious cipher codes of the present day
are the English cable ciphers. They are extraor
dinary structures, one of them composing 30,000
words. Others are made up of syllables selected
from living and dead languages, combined so as to
make euphony. These express nearly everything,
and beside effectually serve the purposes of abso
lutely inviolable secrecy.
All of these ciphers are constructed by persons
who study the business to which they are adapted,
from a scientific standpoint, and also from actual
experience. Their labors are generally well repaid,
a copious cipher for a firm's exclusive use being
considered worth from SSOO to SI,OOO. The inventor
of one code largely used in the grain business in
this city has acquired a comfortable competence
from its sale. Several cipher makers in this city do
a flourishing business, and there are dealers in
nineteenth century jargons in New Orleans who
ibriveffoin their works
It has been said that no ciphe? was ever invented
which would not yield to patient study.
Such statements are rarely confirmed. There is,
in fact, no well established instance of any arbi
trary word-cipher having been deciphered without
a key. Granted a familiarity with its probable
meaning, it is hard to see bow, out of the immense
range of commercial expressions, the proper words
and sentences may be discovered in half a dozen
disconnected, meaningless words.
THE CELEBRATED CIPHER TELEGRAMS
which were transmitted from Gramercy Park in
1876 were in a code long since abandoned as too easy
to decipher. It is known as the dictionary code,
from the fact that a dictionary is its basis and key.
In writing a message in this code the proper word
is first found in the dictionary agreed on, and its
cipher synonym is the word on the same line from
the top on the fourth preceding page. With some
familiarity with cryptograhy and a keen wit to aid
him, it is not remarkable that the clever journalist
who gave the hidden meaning of the telegrams to
the world had little difficulty in finding their import.
Had they been couched in an arbitrary code it is
more than probable that their contents would have
remained a mystery to the crack of doom.
Bradford’s Saloon.
A CASE THATINTERESTS WHITES
AS WELL AS BLACKS.
Winfield Bradford, colored, was charged with
keeping a gambling establishment, at No. 492
Seventh avenue. Letters had been received by Capt.
Carpenter, of the Twentieth Precinct, and he gave
the case to Officer Evanboe to work up. After a close
watch on the place for several nights, finding what
he supposed evidences of gambling, he returned to
the station-house, got a squad of men, and raided
the place, Twenty-seven negroes, with the boss,
Bradford, were arrested. The negroes found in the
place were discharged, but Bradford was held to
answer.
He keeps a small liquor saloon, and an apartment
in the rear.
Evanhoe on being sworn, said on the 21st ult., he
arrested the defendant. The crowd in the back
room were playing cards, and throwing dice on the
billiard table. This was about ten o’clock at night.
The prisoner stood at the box with the chips aqd
dice, and took the chips off the table. He saw no
money change hands, and no money on the table,
only chips, when the raid was made. Half an hour
before that he saw money on the table from where
he stood in the rear, looking through the window
shutter. He then saw each man chuck down five
cents, the dice were thrown, and some one scooped
up the pot. Prisoner threw the dice.
Cross-examined: He saw the dice thrown on the
table, and the crowd around it were engaged in the
play.
•* Do you know whether that money was put up
as a bet, or a wager ?” asked counsel.
“ No.”
“ You can’t say that it was a game of chanoe ?”
remarked Justice Patterson.
“ No; but I considered it was, when they were
playing with chips.”
“You saw money some time during the eve
ning ?” continued Patterson; “ money on the table,
dice throwing and money picked up ?”
“Yes, sir.”
•’Do you mean to say that that money was played
in a game of chance ?” asked counsel.
“I would consider that that was a game of
chance,” replied the officer. “They passed the
money up and threw the dice.”
“Do you know whether it was put there for any
gaming purpose?” continued counsel,
•'No.”
“You heard no remarks ?”
•'No; I was ten feet off, outsido, looking through
the blinds.”
“This was a public room?” asked Justice Ford.
“Yes, sir; back of the bar. You entered from the
street.”
“Anybody could get iu ?” said counsel.
“Yes, sir.”
Counsel said there was no evidence that they
were there for gambling purposes. They might
have been throwing for drinks, and on that evidence
they could raid every drinking saloon in the city.
“Was there any other game going on?” asked
Justice Ford.
“They were playing cards,” replied the officer.
“Did any money change hands?” asked the Jus
tice.
“No; they had chips.”
“What do you mean by chips?” asked Justice
Power.
“Little bits of celluloid.”
“These men had no money ? ’ said Justice Ford.
“No; they had chips.”
“Any other witnesses?”
“ No.”
The defendant, Bradford, took the stand and
swore that he didn’t keep a gambling-house. They
were only playing “seven up;” no money passed.
It was impossible to see that from the outside. He
knew of no dice playing for money; he allowed
nothing but billiards and pool.
“That can be gambling?” remarked Justice Pat
terson.
Counsel said it wasn't.
In answer to counsel, defendant said* there was no
game of chance played in his place.
The Court said there was a doubt, and discharged
the accused.
Christianizing a Mistress.
ISAAC’S OPINION OF BIS RIGHTS.
Isaac Putnam and Martha Cross lived together as
man and wife. They had a “little difference,” and
she being mistress only, he boss, he thought he had
the right to bring her to his way of thinking, and
that he did by knocking her down, and when she
got up he ordered her on her knees, drew a knife,
and flourishing it over her head, commanded her to
swear eternal fealty to him.
“She had been out all night with two men,” said
Isaac. “She was drunk and I chastised her.”
“What right had you to do that?” asked the
Court.
“We had lived as man and wife for a year,” said
Isaac.
“Suppose you had; what right had you to as
sault the woman ?” asked the Court
“I was out of my mind for the hour,” replied
Isaac, very sheepishly. “When I argued with her
very peaceably, I couldn’t keep her hand from my
throat, when I said she should behave herself, o,
how I tried to win that woman’s love and get her
back to the paths of righteousness,” said Isaac,
clasping his hands.
“It was with hard blows he tried to evangelize,”
said the woman.
“She deliberately struck me In the mouth when
I tried to lure her back to virtue. She stabbed m®
and struck me in the eye when I was trying to
christianize her.”
“ Where’s the scar of a stab ?” said the woman.
“Ihain’t got it now,” said Isaac. “All things
in time, heal.”
“If I cut him, the Court can see it was with the
back of the knife,” said the woman with a laugh.
“It’s nothing to smile at,” said Isaac. “ After she
ran out four officers came in when I was in bed.
‘ Where art thou, Isaac,’ said one of the officers.
‘ Here I is,’ I said. • Get up,’ said another officer,
• this is the day of judgment.’ Then Martha came
in and they said, • Is that the man ?’ She said • yea.’
And they yanked me out of bed quicker’n light
ning. She had no cause for this persecution,” said
“ What do you say to that, Martha ?” asked the
Court.
“Mr. Jones had a grandson, and became in to
see about a shirt. It wasn't done. I said wait, it
ain’t done. He went out for a pint of beer, and I
Isaac got jealous.’’
Have you been supporting him ?” asked the 1
Court.
•'Not ’zactly. When I didn’t give him money, he
pawned my clothes, and that supported him. He
hasn’t worked in six years.”
“ Three month’s.” said the Court.
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
SPOKEN AFTER SORROW.
BY JULIET C. MARSH.
I know of something sweeter than the chime
Of fairy-bells that run
Down mellow winds. O I fairer than the time
You sing about in happy broken rhyme,
Of butterflies and sun.
But O ! as many fabled leagues away
As to-morrow when the east breaks gray—
Is this which lies somewhere most still and far,
Between the sunset and the dawn’s last star,
And known as yesterday.
I know of something better, dearer, too,
Than the first rose you hold;
All sweet with June and dainty with the dew,
The Summer’s perfect promise breathing through
Its white leaves’ tender fold.
O 1 better, when the late winds gathering slow
Behind the night and moaning sad and low
Across the world, shall make its music dumb,
Oh I dearer than this earliest rose to come
Will be the last to go.
I know of something sadder than this nest
Of broken eggs you bring,
With such sweet trouble stirring at your b east.
For love undone—the mother bird’s unrest
That yesterday could sing.
My little child, too, grieved to want my kiss,
Du forget the sweetness they will miss
Who built the home ? My heart with yours mal
moan.
But, O ! that nest, from which the birds have flo’W
Is sadder far than this.
aaggniimim pmaaimreraaa
[This story was begun in No. 47 of the Dispatc
Back numbers can be obtained at the Dispatch of
fice, or from any newsdealer.]
(foitin# Storn.
A WOMAN’S HATE.
BY A WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR.
CHAPTER XV.
“ WHATEVER TRIALS AND MISFORTUNES COME UPON
US, YOU AND I ARE ONE.”
Five days after Lord Glenroyal’s receipt ol
the anonymous letter, at about five o’clock in
the afternoon, Harriet Crane stands in her lis
ter's boudoir, anxiously waiting for some one.
“They have been in the house more than an
hour,” she cries, with a frowning glance at the
pretty painted clock. “ How stupid, how tire
some Ethelind is ! She might know I wanted
to speak to her, though I fervently hope she
does not guess what I want to find out.”
She listens eagerly as the rustle of a dress
sounds in the corridor, but it passes on, the
door does not open, and she bites her thin lip
savagely.
“Thia waiting is intolerable I What does it
mean? Nothing has been said, nothing done.
Marcella looks insolently happy, Fergus is here
in dutiful attendance still, and yet Lord Glen
royal had my letter nearly a week ago. Is it
possible that he has consented to swallow his
pride, and hopes to hush up the whole matter
That he shall never do—he will have me to
reckon with there I But that can hardly be—
the man’s pride is like a rock. He is fond ot
Marcella, I know, but affection with him would
count for nothing in such a case as this—nay,
he would be more ready to make ,the sacrifice,
because it cost him keen personal pain. No;
there is some mystery. 1 shall go mad, I think,
if Linda does not come soon.”
This catastrophe at least is averted, for at
that moment Lady Rushton opens the door.
Smiling, sweet-tempered, radiant, she forms a
complete contract to her feverishly-excited sis
ter.
“ Well, Hattie,” she says, kissing the thin
sallow cheek, and wondering a little at its
feverish heat, “are you not pleased to have us
home again? lam glad to be back, 1 assure
you.”
“ I am tired of waiting,” is the brusque an
swer. “ What made you dawdle about so long,
Ethelind?” “
Lady Rushton opens her innocent eyes.
“We could not come sooner; slight as his
injuries were, Doctor Craven did not think it
well to move James until to-day.”
“I was not thinking of Sir James, his injuries,
or your stay in town,” Harriet breaks in with a
hysterical laugh. “Why did you keep me wait
ing so long? lam dying to talk things over.”
Lady Rushton is more and more puzzled.
“My dear Hattie, I told you everything in
my letters, though, of course, a nice cosy chat
is always pleasant. But there really is nc
news; Sir James, as you can see, is almost him
self again.”
There are tears of irritation and helpless
anger in Harriet’s strangely-shining eyes as she
says, with a passionate stamp of her foot:
“ Always Sir James 1 You are like a girl with
her first lover, Linda. Sir James has been all
important ior nearly a week. For Heaven’s
sake think and speak of something else now 1
I beg your pardon. I should not have said that,
but, of course, 1 knew all cause for anxiety was
past. lam worried, and not very well, I think,
to-day.”
Harriot does indeed look worn, ill, haggard;
more than that, she looks like a person de
voured by a consuming anxiety. As Lady
Rushton notices these things, she at once for
gives her sister.
“My dear Hattie, I was quite as short-tem
pered as you,” she says, with her pretty coax
ing smile. “ And, as I am neither troubled
nor ill now, lam the more to blame. But what
worries you ?—not Mr. Turberville, I hope ?”
“Mr. Turberville I” Harriet echoes contemptu
ously. “ No; he is in very good training, I
assure you. By-the-way, what of that other
pair of lovers, Linda ? Did you and Marcella
see much of Mr. Glenroy while you were in
town ?”
If Lady Rushton were not the most unsus
picious of women, she must needs be struck
with the abrupt change ot subject, tne exag
gerated carelessness of tone, but she only thinks
that Harriet has dropped her uncomfortable
manner, and grown sociable.
"Only every day, and all day long,” she says,
smiling pleasantly, and never dreaming of the
barbed arrows she sends home with every jest
ing word., “ Fergus is a most devoted lover.
If he is only as good a husband, Marcella will
indeed be a lucky girl—a happy wife.”
Miss Crane grinds her teeth savagely, and
with a strong effort keeps back the words of
cruel scorn and bitter hate that straggle to her
lips. So far, at least, she knows that she has
failed. Fergus Glenroy knows all -he must
know all—and yet he is true to his promise still;
he has never given Marcella a hint of the terri
ble discovery he has made. Only one of two
things, then, is possible—either he proudly dis
believes the story, or, believing it, is still ready
to give the shelter of his honored name to
Kathleen Carroll’s child.
“Butthat he shall never do. I will save
him, in spite of himself,” she says inwardly.
“If he disbelieves, I will prove my story—no
matter what it costs me. It he chooses to dis
regard it, I will fight him with another wjapon.