New York dispatch. [volume], October 02, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
and one that will not, I think, brea* ' -
hands.” " . 3
Meanwhile Ethelind ohftUers lnno .
oentiy.
.»>'?° or Siffnroyal is laid up with a bad
";,«uk of gout—of course such a thorough old
aristocrat would not escape that painful but
patrician malady so we did not see much of
him or of Mies Glenroy, who is a very devoted
nurse; but Fergus ” —her ladyship throws up
her pretty hands—" ho really seemed afraid to
lot Marcella out of his sight; I believe he half
resented the time she spent with her father.”
Miss Crane smiles; but even her childish sis
ter thinks it is not a pleasant smile. Ethelind
looks uncomfortable for a few momenta, then
goes blithely on:
“I fancy they will be married very soon.
Something was said about it last night; and Sir
James seemed quite pleased with the idea. He
has the highest opinion of Fergus, you know.”
“So I should imagine, considering the wife
ho means to give him,” Harriet answers, in a
curiously signifloant tone. “ Let us hope Mr.
Glenroy will appreciate the gift, and under
stand its true value.”
Ethelind shrugs her shoulders, and gives up
the attempt to understand her enigmatical sis
ter as an altogether hopeless task.
“ I hope so—indeed I have no doubt upon the
subject,” she returns, rising, and energetically
shaking out her skirts, in which act her irritated
feelings tind some relief. “Fergus is a lucky
man, and he knows it. If Marcella were not
the dearest girl in the world, and he wildly in
love with her, the marriage would be an excel
lent one ‘or him, considering her connections.”
For a second, fiercely possessed as she is with
the one absorbing idea, Harriet Crane is taken
completely by surprise. Is it possible that
Ethelind knows all, and is speaking in bitter
irony; or Then, in a moment, she under-
stands, and smiles grimly over her own blund
der.
“ Qi course you mean Sir James ?”
“Of course,” Ethelind agrees pleasantly.
'• What could any young barrister desire better
than to be closely connected with the most dis
tinguished judge upon the bench ?”
Harriet only nods. She has learned all she
wished to know, and would rather now be left
alone to digest the information and mature her
plane.
Fergus Glenroy dines with them that even
ing, and Miss Crane’s eyes confirm the truth of
Lady Rushton’s report. No one can look at the
lovers and doubt that they are all in all to one
another, that they are absolutely happy in that
fact; though a looker-on, with no clew to what
lies beneath the surface, might well be puzzled
by the widely differing way in which their joy
is shown.
Marcella’s brilliant face is softened by a sweet
expression oi contentment; her dark eyes are
radiant, but she is quieter than usual, and
seems to shrink from any public display of af
fection on her lover’s part; but, although there
is very little alteration in her, there is a notice
able change in Fergus.
Though always a sufficiently ardent and im
passioned iover, Mr. Glenroy has certainly not
been sentimental until to-night. It has always
been possible for him to remember that there
were other women than hie divinity present.
But all this is changed now—Fergus seems
feverishly determined to put his devotion en
evidence to-night. No stage lover could hang
over his mistress’s chair with more effective
persistency, could follow her every movement
with more restless eagerness, than he. His ears
seemed strained to catch her lightest word, his
eyes to anticipate her most trifling want. There
is a strange, feverish restlessness about him,
hanpy lovsr though be is.
The woman who watches them grimly from
her quiet corner understands, or thinks she
understands, it all. But Marcella is pained and
puzzled by the curious change in the man
whose every mood she thought she knew. She
looks once or twice at the handsome lace that
wears a strange, unusual flush, and thinks
there is a touch of fever in the glitter of hie
bright blue eyes, which rest upon hers with a
lingering tenderness that seems akin to pas
sionate pity. , „
“Dear Fergus, you are not well—something
is troubling you,” she says, gently.
“ But he catches at the phrase, and answers,
sharply :
“ Troubling me—when I am with you, Ella ?
What could trouble me here ?”
It is an answer sufficiently ardent and lover
like to satisfy the vainest and moat exacting of
women. Marcella is neither, but she is far
from being satisfied or pleased. She had not
asked tor ardent asseverations of the affection
she does not doubt, but for some assurance
that with Fergus himself all is well—and this
assurance he does not give.
However, she is too w.se to harass him with
lectures or questions; so she smothers her
misgivings, and merely says, with a pleasant
little smile:
“ Thank you for a pretty compliment, Fer
gus ; but I think you have had enough of me
for a little while, at least. Do you know you
have hardly spoken to any one else to-night.”
He mutters some impatient, inaudible an
swer, keeping his eyes still closely fixed upon
her face—which is tinted now with a deep flush
—a perplexing gaze that embarrasses the girl,
but she will not let embarrassment conquer
her.
“ That is not like you, dear,” she goes on,
gravely. “Go now, and talk to Miss Crane ;
she does not look very comfortable in her cor
ner, and she is watching us, I think.”
Fergus frowns, and tugs savagely at his long
mustache. No suggestion could be more un
welcome to him than the one she makes.
“Let her watch,” he says, angrily,. “Why
should we fear Miss Crane, or any one 1 You
and I are prepared to face the world together,
Ella, are we not? ’
" I hope so, dear,” she answers, a little sadly.
His manner grows stranger and stranger, she
thinks ; something of the trouble that hangs so
heavily about his thoughts casts a sympathetic
shadow over her. “But it has been a kind
world to ns. And you speak of facing it as
though it were a foe 1” .
" It is a world of change—kind to-day, cruel
to-morrow,” Fergus mutters; “and the con
trasts make the cruelty. For instance, Ella”—
he looks straight into her eves with even keener
questioning than before—" you would find the
world’s frowns harder to bear, simply because
to you it has always been so lavish of its smiles;
would you not?”
It is a question that is asked quite seriously,
inconsequent and high-flown though it seems.
Marcella looks down in troubled silence for a
moment, then answers, with the bright smile
that makes the simple words eloquent;
“ I should find nothing hard, Fergus, while I
bore it with you, and you would never desert
me, I know.”
He seizes the slender hand and answers with
a fervor that perplexes her then, though after
ward, she understands its meaning only too
well:
“ Heaven knows I would not, my dearest!
Whatever trials and misfortunes come upon us,
you and I are one.”
Something in his manner moves Marcella
more than she cares to confess. Why should
be speak of improbabilities with such impas
sioned earnestness? What danger threatens ?
What cloud hangs over her? She knows of
none. And yet .
“Fergus, what is it?” she asks abruptly.
“ Your dark hints have some meaning, I sup
pose ?”
“They mean that I am in a morbid mood —
that things have conspired to—to pain and
trouble mo, that is all.”
“ You have no bad news of Lord Glenroy
al?”
Fergus winces a little, as though the ques
tion hurt him, but answers instantly:
“ None, thank Heaven ! His gout is trouble
some, but Muriel says that she has seen him
through many a worse attack.”
“Ism sorry 1 did not see Muriel yesterday 1
She and I are real friends, Fergus.”
Again Fergus Gleuroy’s quick movement is
that of a man shrinking from a distasteful
theme.
“ Muriel is ‘real ’ above all things !” he says,
a little bitterly, and not in any way echoing
Miss Rushton’s regret. “Unfortunately, with
all her goodness, she is a little hard and unsym
pathetic at times.”
“Do you mean as a nurse ?” Marcella asks,
wonderingly ; but he answers, with an impa
tient shake of the head:
“As a nurse? Oh, no ; I doubt if you could
wear out her patient sweetness in a sick-room I
For all physical ailments she is full of pity, but
there are phases of suffering she does not un
derstand.”
Marcella thinks that in one point at least she
and Miss Glenroy bear a striking resemblance
to one another, for she certainly fails to under
stand her lover’s evident pain. Had he talked
so wildly a few weeks back, she would at once
have come to the conclusion that his family dis
approved of his proposed marriage, and he had
been driven to the desperate strait of choosing
between them and her. But, remembering
their warmth of welcome—Lord Glenroyal’s al
most fatherly kindness—she cannot believe this
now, and so decides to think as little as possible
about the matter—to let things take their course.
CHAPTER XVI.
“ THE PALE LIPS BBBAK THEIB SILENCE AT LAST.”
In spite of her doughty resolution, and the
fact that the remainder of the evening passes
quietly away, it is in rather a nervous and de
pressed frame of mind that Marcella seeks her
own room that night. She is half angry with
herself for what she regards as senseless weak
ness, for so far as -she knows things are going
well with her in every way.
“ I ought to be rejoicing over the fact that we
have papa safely home again—that the accident
was so much less serious than it might have
been,’ she says, brushing vigorously at the
shining black hair that falls in rippling luxuri
ance below the girdle oi her dark-red dressing
gown, and trying by physical exertion to relieve
the anxiety of her thoughts. “ I ought to be the
happiest girl in the world to night, and the truth
is, 1 feel very much like one who has good rea
son to be miserable. I deserve to be crossed or
disappointed in some way for my ingratitude.
She pauses, her brush suspended in mid-air,
struck with a superstitious fancy that there is
something prophetic in her words, for there
comes a subdued tapping at the door, and she
instantly comes to the conclusion that Sir James
is taken suddenly ill.
“Ethelind 1” she cries anxiously; but it is not
Ethelind who stands in the shadowy darkness
of the corridor—who, without waiting for any
■other invitation than that given by the hurried
opening of the door, walks quietly in—it is Har
riet Crane.
“You are astonished I” she says coolly, as she
acts down her small shaded lamp and stands
on the hearth rug—tall, straight, and weird
“l apologize for the intrusion, of
which <•»
■ dofifsa; but i nave ■Umoiuiua w
important enough to excuse it?’
Marcella is unmistakably astonished. There
has never been the pretence of anything more
than polite acquaintanceship between her and
Lady Rushton’s sister, and aven that conven
tional veneer to their real dislike has worn per
ilously thin at times.
“ Will you not sit down ?” she says, drawing
forward an inviting-looking chair with a hospi
table movement, though in her heart she fer
vently hopes that Miss Crane’s business is brief
enough to be dispatched while she still stands.
In this hope she is doomed to disappointment.
Harriet accepts the chair, and sits silent for a
few moments, the light from the lamp falling
upon her set features and fiercely-shining eyes.
Marcella nervously twists up the long, thick
plaits of her hair, and coils them in coronet
fashion about her head. Something in the ac
tion attracts Miss Crane’s attention. She
watches her rival until the task is completed,
then says, with a curious smile:
“ You do not put off your attractions when
yon retire from public life, Miss Rushton. You
look more like a young queen than ever in those
flowing scarlet draperies and with that crown
upon your head I”
Marcella opens her eyes widely, as well she
may at this amazing speech. Hitherto, Miss
Crane’s remarks have been the reverse of con
ciliatory. Surely it must be some strong motive
that induces her to change her tactics now I
“ You should not apologize for your visit If
you only came to pay me pretty compliments,
Miss Crane I” she says gayly.
Harriet shakes her head.
“If I came forthat purpose only, I should
not offer an apology ; flatterers win their wel
come everywhere I” she says grimly. “ Unfor
tunately 1 have some ugly truths to tell.”
Marcella desperately nerves herself to endure
some crushing blow from her enemy’s hand
wonders what shape it will take ; then she says
coldly and proudly:
“ I prefer truth to compliment always. Please
let me hear your ‘ truths.’"
Harriot laughs; her pale-brown eyes glitter
with scorn and hate.
“You will find them hard to listen to—hard
to believe,” she cries, with undisguised and
coarse exultation, “and yet you must hear
them through, in justice to others—in justice to
the man you profess to love !”
There is something superb in Marcella’s stern
white face and in the steady brightness of her
great eyes as she says :
“I have not refused to listen I But please
tell your story briefly, and, if possible, without
allusion to Mr. Glenroy.”
Harriet chuckles and rubs her slender hands
together with almost fiendish enjoyment. This
is an hour worth living for, she thinks; this
compensates her for a thousand pangs of frantic
jealousy and slighted love. Fergus Glenroy
has preferred this girl to her, and now .
“ Excuse me, Miss Rushton! I really would
oblige yon if I could,” she says half laughingly ;
“ but to tell such a story as mine in a few words
or without allusion to Mr. Glenroy, is quite im
possible I”
“ Tell it how you will, then, but tell it at
once 1”
“Very well! How shall I begin?” The
etrange-iooking eyes gleam under their long,
light lashes, noting the mute pain and terror in
Miss Rushton’s face. “ With the speech you
characterized as a compliment just now ? You
look a queen ; you have been a queen in your
own small circle, with a devout crowd of court
iers at your feet. But queens have fallen ere
now, and when they fall, when the courtiers
drop away and the evil days come, I do not
think the meanest of their subjects need envy
them then.”
She pauses, apparently expecting her victim
to retaliate with an angry answer or to assist
her with a question ; but Marcella does neither,
and her nroud silence redoubles the other’s
rage.
“To drop metaphor and come to the point,
Miss Rushton, I have something very unpleas
ant to tell you—something about yourself 1 Will
you let me ask a question or two at first ? It
will greatly simplify my task.”
After a barely perceptible pause, Marcella
answers quietly:
"Reserving to myself the right to leave un
answered any that I think unnecessary or im
pertinent—yes.”
“ Very well. Then tell me first of all—have
you any recollection of your parents? Sir
James is only your father by adoption, you
know.”
“My uncle by blood; but the only father I
have ever known.”
"You are sure? Think again—think hard.
Ib there nothing in your past life you can call
back—nothing of a time in which you did not
know Sir James ?”
There is something so passionately earnest in
her persistency that Marcella forgets to take of
fense at such impertinent questions. She is for
the moment, in spite of herself, obedient to the
strong, fierce will of Miss Crane.
“No—l remember nothing,” she says dream
ily. “Sometimes I am haunted by a vague,
shadowy recollection of some great trouble —
my father’s or mother’s death, I suppose, for
they both died when I was quite a child."
“ Yes—they both died then; but did you ever
ask yourself—did you ever ask Sir James Rush
ton how and where they died ?”
“ How and where ?” Marcella echoes vaguely;
then her cheeks flush, her eyes brighten, and
she turns with sudden passion on her enemy.
“ Explain that question, if you please.”
“Easily, and with pleasure,” the other an
swers. “It was unnecessary, if not insulting,
I admit, since I could easily have answered it
myself. Whether you ever made affectionate
inquiries of Sir James about your dead-and
gone relations I do not of course know; but, if
you did, I am very sure he never told you the
appalling truth—that your father died by your
mother’s hand, and your mother in a convict
prison 1”
Despite Harriet’s unconcealed malice, there is
something in the ring of the words she pours
forth with such passionate volubility that sends
to the girl’s very soul a sickening conviction of
their truth, monstrous and incredible as the
story is. She finds herself not rejecting it with
proud contempt, but wildly trying to explain, to
understand how this shameful thing could be.
“ My father and mother ’’—the pale Ups break
their silence at last—" Sir James Rushton’s
brother—mnrdered—and by his wife I Oh,
Heaven help me 1 Am I mad, or—are you?”
“Neither,” Harriet answers, with a cruel
laugh; “ though it is hard for you to keep your
senses in the circumstances, I admit. But you
are wrong in one triflng detail of the story.
Your father was killed by his wile’s hand in a
drunken brawl; but he was not Sir James Rush
ton’s brother, he was a father for whom in any
case you would have to blush—a drunken Irish
laborer, named Carroll.”
" Wait!” Marcella raises her tightly-clasped
hands appealingly, less to her gloating foe than to
some unseen, merciful power that may save her
from herself and the horror that palsies speech
and thought. It is another rendering of the old
piteous ory, “Oh, let me not go mad—not mad,
sweet Heaven I”—tor Marcella feels that she
cannot keep her reason and believe.
“ Wait 1 For what ?” Miss Crane echoes
scornfully. “ Will waiting make the truth
easier to bear ? 1 thought you were a brave
woman—brave enough to defy me and to deny
everything, or else to accept th? truth—that
you are Kathleen Carroll’s child.”
“Kathleen !” the name rouses the girl from
her lethargy. Swiftly comes back the vivid re
membrance of Sir James’s greeting, when, still
stunned and stupefied, he called her “ Kath
leen.” “He called me ‘Kathleen.’ He took
me for ”
“Your mother, do doubt,” Harriet finishes,
with a complacent nod, “ Heaven knows what
tie there was between them, but it must have
been a pretty strong one; for Sir James, by no
means a romantis-minded or quixotic individ
ual, took you from your convict mother and
brought you up as his own child! Perhaps—
who knows ?—I may have been wrong when I
told you there was no Rushton blood in your
veins—you may have a greater claim on your
adopted lather than oven adoption gives 1”
The eruel unwomanly words are spoken with
slow deliberate malice; but Marcella utters no
cry of agony. She has suppressed all outward
show of agitation with the supreme effort of her
strong will, and stands before her adversary,
ghastly pale, with a terrible look of anguish in
her eyes, but otherwise absolutely calm. Even
her voice does not tremble as she says:
“ And, supposing this story to be true, how
have you heard it—from Ethelind ?”
Mias Crane laughs.;
“ Not very likely ! My feather-headed sister
would live in a network of mysteries, and never
seek a clew to one; but she and I are made of
different stuff. I found a loose thread, caught
and held it, and by my own unaided ingenuity
unraveled a whole tissue of deceit.”
Something that seemed like a faint shadow of
relief flits across Marcella’s white face, and is
gone. Is it possible that her enemy has made
but a malignant guess, which alter all may be a
mistake ? The hope, faint as it is, gives her
fresh courage, and she says quietly:
“ And you bring me the fruits of your ‘ own
unaided ingenuity,’ and expect me to accept
them as evidence of my ’’—the clear voice fal
ters a little, the proud eyes darken and dilate
—“of my own shame and misery! I am not
quite so easily convinced. I shall ask for fur
ther proof.”
“ Fortunately I have it here. You know Mr.
Turberville’s writing, 1 suppose ?”
“Yes.”
“ You know that he is a friend of many years’
standing, and may be supposed to know some
thing of Sir James Rushton’s inner life. You
will accept him as a creditable witness where
he solemnly pledges his word to the truth of a
story ?”
There is a feverish .pause, then Marcella
forces her pale lips to utter yet another :
“ Yes.”
Miss Crane’s eyes gleam with triumph. She
thrusts a packet into Marcella’s hand.
“Then read that,” she cries, “and banish
your last doubt; and, after that, read the ac
count of Kathleen Carroll’s trial, and see what
sort of parents-in-law you propose to bestow
upon Lord Glenroyal’s son.”
She walks across the room to the door, but
pauses there, reluctant to go and leave her
task incomplete. Marcella has still much to
learn, much to suffer, and she would gladly stay
to gloat over every separate pang; but pru
duence forbids her to drain the cup of ven
geance to the very dregs, and she has more
over a shrewd suspicion that Marcella will de
cline to read the letter while she remains in
the room.
One thing she can and will do, however—
plant Ler last and worst sting before she leaves
her.
“You know, of course,’’ she says, “that
Lord Glenroyal has quarreled with his son ?”
“ With Fergus ? No, it is not true. He would
have told me.”
NEW YORK DISPATCH, OCTOBER 2, 1887.
•• would he ’ How infideent wo are—now
little allowance we make for our young lover’s
ardent chivalry I Suppose the story has reached
bis father’s ears and roused all the old chief
tain s fiery pride? Suppose he sent for Fer
gus, and bade him break with you at all costs—
gently, if possible, for he knew that you too
had been deceived, but break at any rate with
the girl who could bring him only a dowry of
disgrace ? And suppose that Fergus, for the
first time in his life, looked his father in his
face and flatly refused to obey him ?”
There is unutterable anguish in Marcella’s
eyes ; but there is something like rapture in the
cry that breaks unconsciously from her pale
lips:
“Oh, Fergus, my noble love!”
How intensely Harriet Crane hates her for,
and envies her, that one wild gleam of joy that
only seems to throw the blackness of her mis
ery into full relief I She sets her teeth as she
cries, with a mocking laugh :
“Very noble, very generous to break his
proud old father's heart, and to disgrace a
noble name for the sake of a boyish Infatuation!
It is the sort of thing, too, of which he is sure
never to sepent. By the way, did not his man
ner strike you as being very natural and happy
to-night ?”
Marcella does not answer with her lips,
but in her heart their is an instant and ago
nized reply. His feverish unrest, his passion
ate devotion—these are so many confirmations
of Miss Crane’s words. For would not gener
ous, chivalrous Fergus feel called upon to tes
tify in some such extraordinary fashion his un
shaken loyalty to the girl who had so innocently
brought shame and misery upon him?
“ Oh, he will keep his word—he will set you
before all,” the woman continues, tauntingly.
“ You will change your name again, Miss
Carroll, and the convict’s daughter will flaunt
before the world as the Honorable Mrs. Glen
roy. But the wedding will be followed by a
funeral—the gout which so opportunely keeps
Lord Glenroyal a prisoner will take a fatal
turn; the chief of all the Glenroys will not long
survive the stain upon his name. And I leave
you to guess whether Fergus will find his bridal
bliss sweetened by the knowledge that he has
broken his father’s heart. How will he endure
that haunting memory through all the years
that you and he must spend together? You
think, perhaps, the love that leads him to risk
all and defy all for your sake now would stand
the lingering torture of such a test. I tell you
—No 1 It would turn to deadliest hatred be
fore a year had passed.”
She goes then, fearing to weaken the effect of
what she has said. And Marcella is left alone,
with those cruelly convincing words ringing in
her ears and Gustavus Turberville’s letter
clutched in her hand.
CHAPTER XVII.
“abb rias ov thistles ob gbapes of thobns?”
Muriel Glenroy sits at a writing-table in the
window of the hotel sitting-room, busily en
gaged on her daily task of making a report of
her father’s progress to the anxious family at
Glenroyal. Apparently she does not find the
task a particularly easy one, though in a gen
eral way she has the pen of a ready writer, lor
she pauses every now and then, and re-reads
the last completed paragraph with a look of
anxiety ; but it is finished at last. She folds the
letter and directs the envelope, saying, as she
does so, with a nervous smile :
“After all, there is not much use in all this
suporaubtia lonoing. They must know or guess
something—things must come to a oriels soon,
though Heaven knows how it will all end.”
She stares out into the rain-washed street
absently. The day has been hopelessly wet
from the first, and, though it is not later than
four o’clock in the afternoon, and August is
only just coming to an end, the air is chill, and
a premature dusk seems to be settling over
everything. Even the mduntain-born young
lady, accustomed as she is to chill, raw mists
and soaking rain, shivers a little as she turns
from contemplating the dismal scene.
“ What a wretched day,” she says within her
self; “the sort of day to drive unhappy crea
tures who have little hope in or hold upon life, to
suicide ! Heaven forbid that any such should
be abroad to-day 1”
The next moment she finds herself wondering,
with a faint thrill of terror, how that strange
thought entered her head. It is one foreign to
her whole nature.
“ I never felt before that I could understand
the hopeless, desperate pain that cries :
'• Anywhere, any where—out of the world 1’
and makes its wild plunge into eternity; but
somehow, I do to-day,” she thinks, staring at
the cheerful fire that makes a break of bright
ness in the shadow-filled room. “ What has
come to me, I wonder ? What does it all
mean ?”
She marvels over the mystery even more a lit
tle later on; but her musings are suddenly in
terrupted, for Jean Kennedy, the old Scotch
servant who was Miss Glenroy s nurse, and
travels with her now as maid, comes in with
rather a scared face, and says, abruptly:
“ There’s a lady would like to see you, Miss
Muriel—if you are quite alone.”
Muriel looks round, a little surprised, as
much by the woman’s manner as her words.
“ 1 am alone ; but I cannot see any visitors
now, Jean ? Did the lady give no name ?”
Jean Kennedy’s shake of the head is grimly
mysterious. Her voice drops to a whisper, and
she looks anxiously at the door of the inner
room in which Lord Glenroyal sits, as though
fearing her words should penetrate there, as
she answers :
“She did not, Miss Muriel; and she is all
wrapped up, with a thick vail drawn over her
face; but I think I know her ail the same. I
think it is Miss Rushton, ma’am.”
Muriel's attentive face hardens a little, but
there is much more pain than anger in the clear,
full eyes that the old servant regards eagerly.
Muriel is silent for a minute or so, then says,
gravely:
“ I am sorry if your guess is correct, but I
cannot see even Miss Rushton to-day.”
The words are spoken not without effort, but
in a tone most unlikely to be disobeyed, and
Miss Glenroy turns to the fire with an air that
seems to say, “ The matter is closed; say noth
ing more.”
Nevertheless, Jean Kennedy lingers still; her
life-long loyalty and devotion to the Glenroys
have given her privileges. She even ventures
to differ in opinion with her imperious mistress
and nurseling now and then.
“You are wrong. Miss Muriel,” she says,
with a slight tremor in her pleasant voice;
“ and wrong in away it is not like you to be.
You are cruel and hard to the unhappy, and if
ever I saw a broken-hearted look, it is in that
poor young lady’s eyes. Maybe, if you refuse
to see her when she is turning to you in some
great trouble, she will grow desperate, and
then—”
“Jean!” Miss Glenroy interjects, so sharply
and sternly, with so much of the grand air she
can assume at pleasure, that Jean Kennedy
draws back at once, and, with a muttered “ I
beg your pardon, madam,” moves toward the
door. But her mistress’s voice checks her.
“ You are right, Jean. I had better see this
lady. Show her up.”
She speaks quietly, but, when the woman has
gone; looks round with the very last expression
one would ever expect io see oil the fade of the
calm and dignified Muriel Glenroy—the look of
some hunted animal at bay.
’ “ What can this vsit mean? Does she know
nothing ? Has she come, ignorant of any quar
rel, dreaming of nothing wrong? No; Jean’s
story, the whole fashion of her coming, is op
posed to that. Can Fergus have sent her to
plead her own cause ? No; neither he nor she
would stoop so low. If they could, I should
pity them less; as it is, how shall I find strength
to face her, poor, unhappy girl!”
Her strength is soon put to the test, for Mar
cella comes quietly in and stands before her, a
Blender, dark-robed figure, about which there
is an air of almost tragic dignity, though no the
atrical display. She bows as she enters, but
extends no hand of greeting, and presently lilts
the thick vail from a face that is not more color
less than calm. Only in the eyes is to be seen
in the anguish that touched the old servant’s
heart; and conscious, perhaps, that these betray
her, she keeps her eyelids steadily lowered.
“ You are surprised to see me, Miss Glenroy,”
she says quietly; “ but you will listen to me lor
a little while, will you not ?”
“Certainly I will listen, though I am not sure
that it will do much good,” Muriel answers. It
bewilders and half vexes the woman who prides
herself on her powers of self-control to recog
nize the fact that she is far more hurried and
agitated than the girl who stands before her, as
it were, on her trial. “ You have, I fancy,
nothing easy or pleasant to say, Miss Rushton?”
“Easy or pleasant? No; but something that
must be said,” Marcella answers firmly. “ For
tunately you simplify my task. Your manner,
even your speech, tells me that you know
all ”
“My speech 1 I have said nothing 1” Miss
Glenroy exclaims quickly in self-defense; but
she does not deny the knowledge the other im
putes, and she looks as utterly miserable as
though she were herself accused of some
atrocious crime.
“ You have said very little, but that little is
convincing enough. For instance, I was ‘ Mar
cella’ when we last met; you hesitate, and
rightly, even to call me ‘Miss Rushton’ now.”
The arrangement is painfully true, and Muriel
Glenroy is a woman who in the direst emer
gency could hardly persuade herself to quibble
or play with words when the absolute, of un
pleasant, truth sprang spontaneously to her lips.
So she says nothing, only knits her fair brows,
and sighs so miserably that Marcella’s heart
warms to her once more.
“Do not think that I complain,” she says,
with something like her old girlish eagerness.
“You have no hard thoughts. You are sorry
for me, I know. I have come to you, Miss
Glenroy, as Fergus—as Mr. Glenroy told me
half in jest once that I might safely come, asking
you to help me, to be my friend.”
Muriel’s heart, which has been melting with
every word from her visitor’s lips, hardens sud
denly at the mention of her brother’s name. She
raises the clear eyes that have hitherto been
pitifully averted to the girl’s face, and says ac
cusingly:
"Then I am to understand that Fergus sent
you here ?"
“That Fergus ” Marcella breaks off there,
holding her head erect with foreign pride. “If
you think that of me—of him, I had better go.”
She moves toward the door; but Muriel, mov
ing more quickly, intercepts her, looking thor
oughly ashamed, as she says, eagerly:
“ No—forgive me, Marcella I I wronged you
both, I know; but Fergus is so torn and tor
tured between two faiths—so fond of his father,
so determined to be true to you -that I thought
—I feared that when he told you all ”
“Ho has told me nothing. Ho does not im-
aglna that I know; that is why I am here,” the
Sirl interrupts, quietly. "Please lieten, Miss
■lenroy, and I will tell you my plans."
“ Come and sit here, then, by the fire,” Mu
riel cries, bewildered between a strong desire
to take the unhappy girl to her heart and kiss
and ory over her, and a dull, wretched convic
tion that between Lord Glenroyal’e illneee and
y ar ßßs’s infatuation the hard duty of uphold
ing the family dignity now devolves upon her.
makes a sort of compromise by looking
after her visitor’s physical comfort with assidu
ous care, by uttering what she feels to be hard
truths in the softest and most caressing tone.
You must bo cold and wet and miserable,
you poor, sorely-tried child 1 Sit here, and let
Jean fetch you a cup of tea. Oh, do not shake
your head like that, Marcella I”—with a sud
den tremor in the clear voice, a sudden miet of
tears in the kind eyes, which are so cruelly like
her brother’s. “Do not treat me like an ene
my. It—a* I fear ft must be—if we oan be
nothing more, let ns at least be friends.”
Marcella is moved more than she dare show
b .Y this a PP ea ' from so proud a woman as Mu
riel Glenroy. .Sjie has from the first been abso
lutely without hope, so the words that reject
her as a sister do not wound at all. while those
that reveal the real affection she has won give
her a forlorn sense of comfort still.
She refuses the tea, but takes the proffered
chair, and thanks Miss Glenroy with a look be
fore she goes on, hurriedly:
“ You will let me use few words, for you know
my story, and to dwell upon it is unutterable
P‘ lin - I only want you to understand that,
though I am more proud than I can say of Fer
gus e love—that though 1 love him, if possible,
more than ever—l will never marry him unless
this story is disproved.”
“Disproved? Oan it be? Do you doubt it,
Marcella?”
“1 do not know,” the girl says, wearily. “ I
suppose not—the proofs seem conclusively
strong; but how can! think myself the child of
—a drunken laborer—of—a murderess ?”
Looking at her, Muriel thinks it is nothing
less than insanity to impute such a degrading
origin to the imperial young creature, who
moves and speaks more like the descendant of
a line of kings.
“It cannot be! It is impossible ! There must
be some horrible jugglery at work,” she cries,
impulsively— "and yet, Marcella, what shall we
do ? We cannot now appeal to Sir James.”
“No.” Marcella is quick to note the change
in Miss Glenroy’s tone—quick to perceive that
she makes their interests identical once again;
but the alteration, though it comforts her a lit
tle, does not change her steadfast purpose m
the feast, or give her one ray of hope. Her
fate rests, not with Muriel, nor' even with Fer
gus Glenroy, but with herself alone. “ No, we
cannot apeak to Sir James. I will not risk
harming the man who haa been more than a
father to me—whether this story is true or not
—to whom I owe more love and gratitude than
ever if it should be true. Some day, perhaps,
he may be strong again, then I will ask him to
tell me all; but till then ”
“Till then? Muriel echoes in a hushed
whisper, looking with half-reverent wonder at
the beautiful face.
“Till then, Fergus and I must part. I—l
have written to tell him so. No, Muriel—please
hear me out. lam thiuking of him only, not of
you. He is not happy; he never would be hap
py now, though he loves me as well as—no, bet
ter than ever. But he loves you, he loves Lord
Glenroyal, ha loves the old faiths you have
brought him up in, the faiths that seem so beau
tiful to me 1 And do you think, for my sake, I
would let him break with all these ? My crime
would bo my punishment if I did, for my bright,
brave Fergus would go through life a moody,
broken-spirited man.”
Miss Glenroy’s eyes are full of tears. She says
in a tremulous voice:
“ You are an angel, Marcella I In all this, do
you never think of yourself?”
“ Often—always I" the girl answers, with a
faint smile.
“And is the self-sacrifice to be yours?”
Muriel goes on, with increasing agitation and
excitement. “It is not right, it is not fair—Mar
cella it shall not be! lam a proud woman, by
nature and education, but it would be mean
ness, not pride, to take all and give nothing.
Whatever you may be by birth, you are the no
blest girl I have evsr known. We will be sis
ters still, dear.”
Marcella shakes her head, she is for the mo
ment too much moved to speak. She could
have better borne repulse, and even insult, than
this sudden burst of tenderness from the sister
of whom Fergus had always spoken with a sort
of affectionate awe.
"Don't,” she says at last, appealingly. "I
—I know how good and kind you are, but I am
stupid to-day. Please understand, and make
Fergus understand, that all is over between us
by my wish. I have written to him—but he may
not think I mean it, and I could not bear to see
him—just yet.”
" But Marcella ”
"Please let me go I" Marcella cries desper
ately, for her strength is failing fast. “I have
nothing more to say, and only one thing more to
do-let me do it and go. Take this”—she places
Mr. Turberville’s letter on the table—" read,
and then show it to Mr. Glenroy; perhaps ha
will be merciful, and not try to shake my pur
pose then.”
She is gons in an instant, and Muriel feels
that it would be absurd to pursue her through
the corridor with any vain entreaty to return.
Moreover »he is not sorry to be alone for a little
while, freexi think and plan, to try to solve the
sorrowful problem that presents itself.
“ Are figj of thistles, or grapes of thorns ?”
she questime, with an aching heart. " Can
such a girl as that, with her generous nature
and quick, sensitive pride, have sprung from
the populace, from drunkards and criminals ?
If so, birth and blood count indeed for nothing,
and we Glenroys have little to be proud of.”
Mechanically she raises the paper Marcella
has left behind, and, as her eyes rest on the
first line, her frank face expresses mingled tri
umph and disgust.
“Miss Crane, as I thought—Miss Crane, who,
fearing that her anonymous letter has failed to
do its work, has chosen a straighter and a
shorter course—a weapon more murderously
direct I Well, she is a clover woman. She
knew the nature with which she had to deal;
but 1 have a half fancy that she has overreached
herself here.”
Miss Glenroy follows Marcella’s instructions
with a feeling of acute sympathy for the proud
girl, who must have found the task a torture
and a martyrdom. She reads Mr. Turberville’s
story through, and then, drawing pen and pa
per toward her, rapidly writes two letters.
One is to Fergus -an urgent appeal to him to
come at once to the hotel, and hear some im
portant news. The other, which costs her a lit
tle more thought and care, bears the address of
Mr. Gustavus Turberville.
“At least I will see this all-important wit
ness, form some idea as to his trustworthiness,
and lot him know that he, too, has been be
trayed,” she says, as she touches the bell to
summon Jean, and the iaint smile that just
parts her firm lips shows that she feels a grim
satisfaction in this latter thought.
(To ba Oontlnualu
EXAMINING THE EYES,
WHERE IT Is DONE FREE OF
CHARGE.
Says the Boston correspondent of the St.
Louis QM>e-Democrat: Having occasion to
drop in at an optician’s shop this morning, I
asked the proprietor about the sign in his win
dow, which read: “ Examination of the eye
made free of charge.”
“Can it be,” I said, “that you employ an
oculist to prescribe glasses for your custom
ers ?”
“Not at all,” was the reply. “We test the
sight ourselves by means of those cards you
see hung up at the other end of the store, with
letters of different sizes on them.”
“ But is it possible for a person who has not
made ocular science a study, to apply such a
tost with accuracy ?”
“ Well—ahem—that is, no, not quite ; but we
oan do it with certainty enough, I guess. Any
way, we have to, because all the other opticians
advertise free examinations.”
Now, this is true enough, and an outrage it
is that these spectacle makers, who are simply
mechanics, possessing no knowledge beyond
the grinding of tenses and such matters techni
cal, should be permitted to practice by guess
work upon the most delicate and valuable of
human organs. The fitting oi glasses is always
a matter of great difficulty, even to the skilled
oculist who has devoted half his lifetime learn
ing how. The lenses must be adapted with the
utmost exactness to the necessities of the pa
tient, for the slightest variation will cause a
strain that will result sooner or later in damage
to the sight. Almost invariably one eye differs
trom the other in visual power, and one ocular
defect is so readily taken for another that often
only a physician can tell the difference. And
yet people who pretend to have common sense,
go to the optical shopkeeper for glasses, which
in nine cases out of ten, are all wrong, and
which not infrequently ruin the vision irrepar
ably.
In properly conducting an examination of the
eye, it is necessary to inspect the interior of the
optical camera. This is done by the aid of the
ophthalmoscope, a circular mirror with a hole
in the centre. Holding this disk be ore his
eye, tne oculist looks through the hole in its
back, while the face of quicksilvered glass
throws a ray of light, reflected from a gas jet
overhead, into the “ dark chamber.” The ray,
passing through the round hole called the pu
pil, illuminates the nerve screen that lines the
eye, upon which the pictures of objects seen
are formed by a process very similar to that
which we call photography. The interior of the
wonderful organ being thus brightly lighted
up, the observer is able to examine it at leis
ure, and, it any disease exists, to detect its
presence.
The invention of this instrument by Heim
holz, less than forty years ago, first elevated
opthalmology to the status of a science, Up to
tnat time nothing was known of the anatomy
and pathology of the eye, beyond such informa
tion as was obtainable from post-mortem dis
section. Ocular science was in nearly as prim
itive a stage of development as when the an
cient Egyptians treated cataract by pushing the
clouded vitreous lens down into the lower part
of the eye, instead of cutting it out altogether,
or as when the near-sighted Emperor Nero
watched the gladiator shows through a concave
emerald, which he thought, because it helped
his vision, was a magical gem. But now all
ocular complaints are well understood—which
is fortunate, since few have normal eyesight in
these days—and the trouble of those who can
not see as others do is remedied by suitable
spectacles.
ftObbLEKIN S VOW.
Incited by the Havoc Made of His Poem
by the Compositor and Proof Reader.
[FYoni the Boston Courier.'}
He had taken the paper carefully from out of
the wrapper, but his gaze, beaming with pleas
urable anticipation, had scarcely fallen upon
the unfolded sheet when he dashed it to the
floor and ground it savagely under hie heel.
This remarkable proceeding was followed by
his jumping violently to bis feet, kicking a table
half way across the room and sending a chair
spinning after it. The fires of rage flashed in
his eyes, and his excessive energy of manner
imparted a striking and picturesque emphasis
to his actions. Having thus apparently relieved
in eome degree at least his surcharged feelings,
he sank back into his seat again, and for the
space of a few moments glared mutely and
wildly at the wall; then, sitting up and bringing
bls clenched fist down with considerable force
upon the arm of his chair, he exclaimed, sav
agely:
“ No, never, never again, as long as I live,
will I write a word or syllable for any rascally
newspaper. Either the public will think that
the writer is a first class fool, the proof-reader
wofully ignorant of his business, or that the
proverbially intelligent compositor imagines he
knows more than both of them together. And,
worst of all, usually the former.”
His friend, just on the point of lighting a
oigar, startled out of his propriety, had paused
in astonishment, then struck his match, which
he inadvertently put into nis mouth and threw
his cigar in the fire.
“ Why—why, Noddlekins, old fellow, what—
what’s the matter, eh ?” he was at last suffi*
oiently recovered from his bewilderment to ask,
in wondering tones.
“Matter !” cried Noddlekins, “matter enough,
I should think. Just look at that, But stop—l
will read it to you, and then tell me whether I
have cauee for righteous indignation or not ?
Whether, indeed, it would not be justifiable
homicide to flay the scoundrel alive ; to—to—
burn him; to drown him; to—to—ger—rind
him to powder.”
“Has some rascally paragrapher been de
faming you?” asked his friend, sympathet
ically. “ Been filching your good name from
you by accusations of robbery, forgery, embez
zlement, elopement, arson, or murder ?”
“ No, no,” groaned Noddlekins, “ worse, far
woree than all that. Not only is the rising rep
utation of Noddlekins as the great coming poet,
the resplendent literary luminary of the nine
teenth century forever blasted, but my—my
heart’s idol is lost to mo forevermore. I might
have borne the former misfortune—but this,
oh, this is too much.”
" Run off with some other fellow ?” asked his
friend. “ Dead, become a nun, joined the
Shakers, entered the free-love community, or
already married, or—what, my dear fellow,
what ? Tell me the worst at once, that I may
sympathize with your sufferings.”
“ Listen to this,” cried Noddiskins, seizing
the paper from off the floor, and excitedly
smoothing out its torn and crumpled leaves.
“Oh, my dear fellow, my best and most beloved
and cherished of friends, the heart in its loneli
ness and desolation yearns for sympathy and
friendly consolation. To you, my most sympa
thetic of friends, I will unburden my heart's
wretchedness, my bosom’s misery. You shall
be my confidant in this, my dark hour of trial
and anguish. You know how I adore the peer
less Araminta Jenkins; how long I have wor
shipped the very ground that she treads upon.
She loves poetry, and has been graciously pleas
ed to admire mine. She Lae given me some en
couragement to hope for a favorable issue to
my suit. And now—but let me proceed at once
to my agony. To clinch the matter, I wrote
a poem and addressed it to her, describing the
heartaches of the doubting and despondent
lover, with a glowing description of her many
unrivaled charms, and entreating her to have
pity on her devoted slave, her humble and wor
shipful adorer. I sent it to the Squeedunk
Weekly Screamer, and this morning it appeared.
Listen to it. The title was ‘Love’s Heart Aches.’
Beautiful and pathetic, is it not ? It was printed
‘Jove s Hot Cakes.’ ‘To the Idol of my Soul.’
Now what do I care whether Jove eats his cakes
hot or cold; or whether he eats any cakes at all;
or any other darned old heathen divinity. But
hear what follows. My opening lines, which I
wrote thus:
‘Thy lover, with overflowing soul
It Is, in griefs sad plight,
Who puzzles oft bla weary heart
Throughout the day and night.
With anxious doabts—misgivings sore.’
“So pathetically descriptive, you know, of
the lover’s anxious and distracted state of mind,
appear this way:
‘The lover of the flowing bowl,
It is thy chief delight;
Who guzzles often many a quart
Throughout the day and night.
In copious draughts, and asking more.’
“Good gracious 1 The idea of my telling her
that, she so strictly temperate. Nice beginning
for a lover’s declaration, isn’t it ?”
Noddlekms ground hie teeth together and
proceeded to read with his eyes glowing with
freshly kindled ire, and his brow darkening
ominously.
“And this line,” ho continued, “which has
reference to my once saving her from drown
ing, which I wrote:
‘When I pulled thee from the billow,*
is actually perverted into
• When I popped it to the widow.'
“Think of it; proposing to a widow; so
dreadiuily unromantio. And I have told her
she was the only one I ever loved, nut 1 win
be calm, my dear fellow, dreadfully calm,” said
Noddlekins, and he set bis teeth firmly to
gether, as if to suppress the utterance of some
wrathful objurgation and nerved himself for
the ordeal. “ And now,” he continued, speak
ing in tones of slow and forced composure,
“ let us see to what further depths of infamy
this typographer has proceeded. He smoothed
out the paper again and continued : “ The ten
derly expressive lines, so pathetically indica
tive of my heart’s yearning desire,
‘Give me a lass who’s always true,
A heart that’s ever miue,'
This vile wretch—l will be calm—has converted
it into this bibulous nonsense,
‘ Give me a glass of ale or two,
A quart of sherry wine.’
Great Scott I And to think lam an out and out
temperance man. If old Deacon Jenkins, my
girl’s father, sees that, I’ll be turned out of meet
ing, sure. But just listen to this idiotic stuff
which follows. The lines,
‘l'd banish thoughts of worldly gain.
Yea, all for thy sweet sake,'
roads thus:
‘llanguish through the world in pain,
And all for a beefsteak.”
“ Cffisar Augustus I My folks will think that
I’m a fool, or that I was drunk when 1 wrote it.
But hero—just listen to this—this crowning
piece of infamy. For the beautiful line, which
is both touching and religious:
’Ts worldly joy I ne'er will stoop ■
this fiend incarnate has actually the temerity to
print
‘ My eldest boy ill with oroup.'
“ By all the shades of my virtuous ancestors I
Don’t the vile, libelous scoundrel know that I’m
an unmarried man; that cnaetity is one of my
characteristic virtues. Our folks will be natur
ally asking what the duse he means by his
eldest boy. And Araminta—gracious heavens !
I dread to think of it. If that doesn’t effectually
dish me with her, I’m no prophet. Oh 1 my dear
follow, this is really too —too dreadful."
“It does seem to place you in a somewhat
equivocal light,” remarked his friend sympa
thetically.
“Seems to?” cried Noddlekins, now utterly
unable to control himself. “ Thunder and
lightning I She’ll think I’m a wine bibber and
a glutton, a widow hunter and a gay deceiver.
Fire and fury! I’ll shoot the scoundrel on
sight. I’li-ru—.”
“Be calm; restrain yourself, my dear fellow.
I entreat you,” cried his friend. “ Read to the
end before you commit yourself to any rash ac
tion. Remember the poor fellow may have been
a novice in hie business and perhaps could not
read very well.”
“I must admit,” said Noddlekins somewhat
more calmly, “ that my ohirography does look
as it it were intended for a caricature of the late
Horace Greely’s, but then you know it is char
acteristic of allqjeniuseß to write a bad hand.
But I will be calm, my dear fellow. Let us see
how it ends. But 1 will have satisfaction—dire
and—ha Ihal ha 1 hear this; but be calm. Nod
dlekins-vengeance shall be yours—possess
your soul in patience; be brave. Noddlekins.
Know the worst at once, and bear it with Spartan
fortitude. This is the end. Listen, my dear
friend, and then it you don’t with me cry havoc,
and let slip the doge of war, you are less than
human. Hear this vile and gross perversion of
the tender, beautiful and pathetic into the
coarsest and most vulgar ribaldry, and then tell
me if there can be anything human about this
creature who may wear the semblance of a man,
but who has the nature and instincts oi a fiend,
of a—a—vampire. My chaste and touching pero
ration, breathing the very soul of poetry, and of
love’s sublimest exaltation, addressed to the ob
ject of my heart’s adoration, which cost me an in
finite amount of labor to properly express, and
which I wrote,
‘My sweet, thou art the sweetest sweat
And sure I’ll not repine,
Believe thee false, nor cry alas I
If thou swear’st to be mine.
actually appears in this infamous sheet, thus:
“ ‘My sweet, thou hast the biggest feet.
And eure I do opine;
Thy teetlf are falSe, one eye is glass.
Thou wear'st number nine.'
“Ha I ha ! ha 1” roared Noddlekins, in min
gled tones oi anguish and rage, “ the very acme
of infamy; the sublimated quintessence of atro
city 1 Do you suppose any girl could submit to
such a scandalous imputation as that and re
tain her self-respect for an instant ? Listen to
my vow, ye gods, both great and small: Before
this terrestrial sphere completes its next diur
nal revolution there will be murder—bloody
murder done. My friend, when next you be
hold this wretched victim of an infamous ty
pographer, the stain of bloodguiltiness will be
upon his soul—the mark of Cain upon his brow.
Ha 1 Araminta, Araminta ! light of my
guardian angel of my life, lost-lost to thy be
reaved, but adoring Noddlekins forevermore !
But, ah ! a sudden gleam oi' light, a faint, flick
ering r.’.y of hope breaks in on my anguished
soul. Goaded by the fierce and reckless incen
ive of a desperate resolve, upon the wings of
the wind and with the light and airy agility of a
ephyr, 1 will hie me hence and buy up the
I Wholft v • •
I VlTlalfious shee”h»s“**oliano“ ,, to" pollute her
ptiffi and virgin gaze, aye, if even at a premium
that bankrupts me. Achieve but this master
stroke of policy, Noddlekins, my boy, and you
are saved—saved. Ha !hal ha I Adieu, my
fnenjt, adieu I” and with these words the poor
frenzied, half-demented creature seized his hat
and rushed frantically from the room.
PRACTICAL GIRLS,
QUALITIES IN YOUNG WOMEN
WHOM MEN SEEK FOR WIVES.
(From the London Queen.)
Choice girls are those capable creatures who
have what the Americans call “faculty”—that
is, eyes that see; which, by the way, all persons
have not got; who are not blind; and hands that
can do many things and all well.
As daughters in a house where wealth is
wanting and a good appearance has to be main
tained these girls are simply invaluable. They
paint flowers and birds and landscapes on the
plain deal furniture, and so make it beautiful
and artistic in the highest sense. The wooden
chimney board, rough hewn wooden stools,
tables, doors, wardrobes, sideboards, sofas—all
things where wood appears -are treated in the
same way, so that pieces of furniture of the
simplest and cheapest character are made of
real and intrinsic value by the decorative fac
ulty of our clever daughters. Things they can
not paint they carve or embroider. Those
brackets are their work; so are the curtains and
the cushions, the chair covers, the sofa covers,
the tablecloths, the furniture generally. All
have handsome embroidery of fine designs
thrown on poor material, so that not only a
good eflect is got at small original cost, but
hero again a real and intrinsic money value is
given by the industry and cleverness of our
choice girls. We have even known of a valance
to the drawing-room curtains so deftly painted
to resemble the tapestry of the hangings—a
remnant which ran short—that no one not let
into the secret could possibly have told the dif
ference. An opera glass might have found it
out. Nothing short of this could.
Now the application of this talent is quite
worth a year's salary as a governess or a tele
graphist or indeed as anything that an ordi
nary girl can do. The artistic power is not
enough to enable our home decorators to paint
pictures that will sell, but it enables them to
save where they cannot make, and to spare the
parental pride as well as pocket.
Akin to these are those choice girls who have
learned the art and mystery of cooking, so that
they are able at a pinch to take practical com
mand of the kitchen when domestic disappoint
ments and lacuna arise—as they do at times in
the country, with no professed cook on the job
to be had, and friends at the railway station
come straight from a well appointed London
house for a fortnight’s visit.
What is to be done ? Cook has suddenly
struck her tents and marched away—without
the honors of war. Perhaps her mother was
ill; perhaps she had a quarrel with her lover,
gardener, or her fellow servants all round; per
haps she had a whitlow on her finger or a pain
in her temper—no matter what the cause, the
result is the same. Cook has gone, and those
friends are coming in an hour.
Then one ot our choice girls puts on an apron
and goes down into the regions below, able to
supply the missing link, to personate that im
portant functionary, to arrange a charming
little dinner and to cook it to perfection. When
she appears at the table—well, yes, perhaps a
little more flushed than her sisters, say, who
have had less heated work to do, but perfectly
serene and smiling—those friends who enjoy
the fruits of her skill, and haply praise the
cook, do not know who has been the Vatel, the
Francatelli, the Boyer lor the occasion, and un
less they are of the right sort they will never
know. If they are snobs in grain—and some of
our old friends, whom yet we love and keep in
with the charm of ol'd associations, are snobs,
and not to be trusted with a homely truth—it
they are of this superficially veneered kind
they leave as they have come, without the faint
est idea that it is Clara who has been the Vatel
of the establishment for all the time of their
visit If they are ot the right kind they are
told, and they love her and respect her all the
more in consequenoe.
Girls of this kind are sure to be good dress
makers and milliners. We know that the fami
ly is poor, and that it must have enough to do
to make both ends meet over that large amount
of need. Yet the girls are always freshly and
becomingly dressed. Take their material be
tween your finger and thumb—nothing can be
simpler, more inexpensive. But the cut and
the trimmings—the facon, as the French call it
—leave nothing to be desired, and, like that
olever painting in common pine wood, the taste
and skill and ingenuity employed on material
that did not cost sixpence a yard, create a toilet
of supreme elegance and real beauty. Here
again, cleverness of hand and power of manipu
lation have created value, and for the cost of a
few shillings these girls are dressed as well as
if a court milliner had clothed them for as many
pounds. We may smile at the idea that this
kind of skill comes as a merit or a virtue. It is
true, nevertheless. Anything which enables
the daughters of the poor gentry to have money
while keeping up appearances before the world,
and which keeps them safe at home, rather
than let them squander themselves all abroad,
away from home and unprotected, that is a
gain, rightly reckoned as a merit—a faculty
taking rank as a virtue.
HER NAMEWAB SMITH.
Tha Monotony of a Bailway Ride Re-
Mis-a IJJL Li v w 'X'arrv—'/al of.
(From the Buffalo Courier.)
He boarded the train at Rochester and came
to the only vacant seat in the car, beside a
young lady.
“This seat taken, ma’am?”
“ No.”
“ Wall, then, I guess I’ll sat down.”
Two minutes’ silence.
" Have some peanuts, ma’am ?”
“ No, I thank you.”
“Jiminy! don’t you like peanuts ? Just like
my wife. My great holt is peanuts and banan
ere. Perhaps you’d like a bananer, ma’am ?”
“ No, nothing, thank you.”
“ Live up to Buffalo, ma’am ?”
“Yes.”
“P’raps you know my friend Cap’n Jack
Sloan—lives down in Elk street ?”
“ No; I don’t know where Elk street is.”
“By gol I and you liv.o in Buffalo I Why, I’ve
sold butter on Elk street market nigh on to
twenty years! My name’s Johnson. Your
name ain’t Jones, is it?”
“No.”
“ ’Tain’t Williams, or anything of that kind ?”
“No.”
“ That’s what I thought. I don’t s’pose, now,
it’s Browner any o’ them colors ?”
“ No.”
“Been far?”
“Not far.”
“ Syracuse, mebbe; or Albany, eh ?”
“ No.”
“No? Gol! hain’t been to New York ?”
’* Yes.”
“Jiminy! I’ve never been there, though I
saw a pretty slick feller from there once.
Them New Yorkers is regular goers, ain’t they?
Any relations there ?”
“ Fow.”
“Gosh! Wonder if they know my cousin
Jake. He s getting »io a both iv w«iu
around in a store and look slick. Your folks
ever speak of Jake ?”
“No.”
“Jake and me bought some land out West
last year. Ever buy any
“No.”
“Don't. Jake and mo lost SSOO. It was way
at the bottom of a river. Ever been West ?”
“Chicago.”
“Jee!You hev traveled, ain’t you? Father
and mother living ?”
“Father.”
“Live in Buffalo?”
“ No.”
“ Our folks all live together down in Roches
ter. My father and mother have been dead
long time. My wife’s mother lives with us.
Her name's Martin. That ain’t your name,
eb ?”
“No.”
“ I was jest thinking you looked like a man I
know in Buffalo named Waters. He ain’t your
brother ?”
“No.”
“ We must be cornin’ pretty near Buffalo.
That there lot of tracks looks like it, You don’t
happen to live on Main street?”
“ No.”
“Then your name ain’t Robinson?”
“ No.”
“ You must have a curious kind of a name.
Sure it ain’t Sanders ?”
“ Sure.”
“ Wai, hero we be. Can I help you gittin’
off?”
“ No, thank you.”
“Oh, is there a door-plate on your house ?”
“ Yes.”
“Name on it!”
“ Yes.”
“ P’raps you wouldn’t mind’ fellin’ what the
name on the plate is
“ Smith.”
“Gol!”
GENEROUSRIYALRY.
MUSIC A COMMON MEETING
GROUND.
If people diametrically opposed to each other
in opinion are ever to find a common meeting
ground, it may easily be in music. An old
soldier tells, in a Chicago paper, the story of
two musical contests during the war, in which
one side emulated the generosity of the other.
When some of the forces were encamped at
Kenesaw Mountain, the opposing parties were
so near each other that one could hear the
bands of the other almost as plainly as their
own. On the morning of July 4th, the Union
bands played our national airs, while those of
the Confederate army gave “Dixie” and the
“Bonnie Blue Flag.”
For a time, there was a contest as to which
side could make the most noise, and after that
had ended, the Confederates, to the great sur
prise of the Union men, began playing “Hail
Columbia.”
Not to be outdone in courtesy one of the .Union
bands then played “Dixie,” and the interchange
of compliments continued through quite an ex
tended programme. Enthusiasm and generous
feeling was the order of the day, but that night
the very men who had been cheering each other
I were engaged in fierce skirmishing.
P l ® W<J 4fnllßs wera in camp at Ohatta
noo b »; there Were twenty or thirty excellent
bands on each side daily playing their respec
tive airs.
One night, after most of them had retired
from duty, three or four oi the best bands in
each army played for an hour or more, as it in
rivalry.
In the Union camp, after “Hail Columbia” had
been given, there would be cheer on cheer Iroui
ten thousand throats.
“ S lue from tho other side,
would be followed by an equal uproar from its
supporters.
At length, a Union band struck up “ The Gid
I Left Behind Me,” and, fora minute, there was
silence in the other camp, then a Confederate
band caught up the refrain, and the two played
it together to the end. When they had finished,
there came, as if by common impulse, a sucoes
sion of cheers from both camps, and the pickets,
throwing caution to the winds, stood up and
shouted together.
WHITTIERjFYOUTII.
THE BEGINNINGS OF A POET.
Whittier began to rhyme very early and kept
his gift a secret from all, except his oldest sister,
fearing that hia father, who was a prosaic man,
would think that he was wasting time. Ho
wrote under the fence, in the attic, in the barn—
wherever he could escape observation, and as
pen and ink were not always available, he some*
times used chalk, and even charcoal. Great
was the surprise of the family when some ol his
verses were unearthed, literally unearthed,
from urfder a heap of rubbish in a garret, but
his father frowned upon these evidences of tho
bent of his mind, nor out of unkindness, but
because he doubted the sufficiency of the boy’s
education for a literary life, and did not wish to
inspire him with hopes which might never be
fulfilled.
His sister had faith in him, nevertheless, and,
without his knowledge, she sent one of his
poems to the editor of the free Press. a news
paper published in Newburyport. Whittier
was helping his father to repair a stone wall by
the roadsida- when the carrier flung a copy ot
the paper to him, and, unconscious that any
thing of his was in it, he opened it and glanced
up and down tho columns. His eyes fell on
some verses called “ The Exile’s Departure.”’
“Fond scenes, which delighted my youthful exist
ence.
With feelings of sorrow I bid ye adieu—
A lasting adieu; for now, dim in the distance.
The shores of Hibernia recede from my view.
Farewell to the cliffs, tempest-beaten and gray.
Which guard the loved shores of my own na
tive land;
Farewell to tbe village and sail-shadowed bay,
The forest-crowned hill and the water-washed
strand."
His eyes swam; it was his own poenij the first
he ever had in print.
“What is the matter with thee ?” his father
demanded, seeing how dazed he was; but,
though he resumed his work on the wall, ho
could not speak, and he had to steal a glance at
the paper again and again before he could con
vince himself that he was not dreaming.
Sure enough, the poem was there, with hia
initial at the foot of it, “ W., Haverhill, June 1,
1826;” and, better still, this editorial notice:
“If ‘W./ at Haverhill, will continue to favor
us with pieces beautiful as the one inserted in
our poetical department of to-day, we shall es
teem it a favor.’’
The editor thought so much of “ The Exile’s
Departure,” and some other verses which fol
lowed it from the same hand, that he resolved
to make the acquaintance of his new contribu
tor, and he drove over to see him. Whittier,
then a boy of eighteen, was summoned from the
fields where he was working, clad only in shirt,
trousers and straw bat, and having slipped in
at the back door so that he might put his shoes
and coat on, came into the room with “ shrink
ing diffidence, almost unable to speak, and
blushing like a maiden.” The editor was a
young man himself, not more than twenty-two
or twenty-three, and the frienhship that began
with this visit lasted until death ended it.
How etrong and how close it was, and how it
was made to serve the cause of freedom, may
be learned in tbe life of the great abolitionist,
William Lloyd Garrison, which was the editor’s
name.— William H, liideing, in St, Nicholas for
October,
ABSENTMINDED.
HOW SAM BIXBY WAS CURED.
It was no wonder that many people thought
Sam Bixby drank. Some ot his doings were so
eccentric that hie friends would have been justi
fied in reminding him that wine was a mockery.
He acted for all the world as if he was going to
have a gilt-edged attack of delirium tremens.
Why, he actually made his appearance one day
on the streets of the city, wearing a flower-be
spangled slipper on one toot and a square-toed
shoe on the other. He behaved so queer at
times that well-meaning cranks shoved temper
ance tracts into his coat-tail pocket, and yet
there were no more stimulants in Sam than in
ten gallons of boarding-house coffee.
He was absent-minded; that was all. When
ever he had anything on his mind he thought
of nothing else. At such times his train of
thought did not make connection with his mouth
on time, for while Sam was tai king about one
thing be was thinking of another.
He and his wi e had been invited to attend a
social gathering at tbe mansion of Judge
Smythe, and they went. Just before they start
ed Sam said to his wife:
“If I get one of those absent-minded spel!«
just you call my attention to it and perhaps yon
-in nt it. it is very disagreeable to
me to be mistaking one person for another, and
saying things that I should not.”
His wife promised that she would, and sho
kept her word.
There was quite a number of distinguished
persons present at the mansion of Judge
Smythe, and Sam did nothing to mar the har
mony of the occasion until after supper was
over. He felt very tired and wanted to go
home. Miss Tillie Smythe was the belle of tbe
evening, and, in his absent-mindedness. Sam
mistook her lor his wite. The wretched man
with a disgusted yawu, tapped Miss Tillie fa
miliarly on the shoulder and said;
“ Come, darling; you know what a time I have
getting you out of bed in the morning in time
lor bteakfast. Hadn’t wo better be going
home?”
There was a scene. Miss Tillie seemed to
think that she had been insulted. It was with
great difficulty that Judge Smythe was prevent
ed from sending for a policeman.
After Sam Bixby and his wife got homo, he
had no reason to complain of her unwillingness
to assist him in curing himself of those absent
minded spells. There was a sore place on his
head whence she had pulled a superfluous
buuoh of his hair that hurt him for months
a forward.
Bud Smythe, a brother of Mies Tillie, was
also willing and anxious to co-operate with Mrs.
Bixby in curing her husband. It somebody
had not taken the pistol away from him, he
would have permanently cured him, but there
was no occasion for his kindly aid. Bixby never
suffered a relapse that amounted to anything.
Whenever he showed any symptoms, Mrs.
Bixby herself was seized withan absent-minded
spell. On one occasion she mistook him at the
breakfast-table for the slop-bowl—poured a cup
of hot coffee down his back.
Absent-mindedness had become contagious.
Whenever Sam had a spell, Mirandy had
one, too. If he became absent-minded,
she was suoject to eiiuiiar hallucinations ; and
oue day she pounded him for fifteen minutes
with a potato-masher, under the delusion that
he was an Irish potato. Occasonally she mis
took him for a pin-cushion until he howled, and
then his absent-mindedness was gone. Sam
Bixby is no longer absent-minded.
SOMEf|INtLWRONG.
A COUNTRYMAN’S OPINION OF A
GRAMMARIAN.
A morning or two ago a certain grammarian,
of whom it is said that to his refined and sensi
tive ear the braying of a donkey is melody com
pared with the utterance of an uncouth expres
sion, was met on the street corner by a country
man, when the following conversation was com
menced by the latter:
“ Mister, you haven’t seen no stray horse pass
this way within a short time ?”
“You are mistaken, sir; I have.”
“ Which way was he going? ’
“ Which way was who going ?”
“The horse.”
" What horse ?”
“The horse you saw pass here.”
“ 1 have seen no horse pass here.”
“ You just said you had.”
“Well, I say so still.”
“ I asked you aoivil question, I believe,”said
the countryman.
“ You asked me no question at all,” replied
the pedant. “ You accosted me by saying that
I hadn t seen no stray horse, and you must al
low me to persist in my declaration—that I have
seen no stray horse pass this way.”
After scanning the scholastic individual for a
moment with a look that seemed to say “There's
something wrong abont the fellow’s upper
story,” tho rural gentleman walked off to insti
tute further search for the stray animal.
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