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BY THE GATE OF THE SEA.
A NOVEL. By TWWJD CHRISTIE MURRAT. [CONTINUED CHAPTER VIII. Lorrimer, leaving Mrs. Tregarthen, felt like an emperor who has reconquered a re bellious province. He was one of those people who love success and hate failure apart from consequences. He wanted what he wanted—exactly that or nothing—and if he had dug for water and struck gold, like the famous Mr. Dow, he would have felt aggrieved. He had gone out to secure Miss Churchill, and the difficulties which had been cast in his way only made her services the more valuable to hope for, and more precious when socured. “The boys,” he said to himself, rubbing his hands with vivacity, “will be at the Rabbit Hutch. They shall have the nows at once to begin with.” When he alighted in the Strand and dis charged tho coachman that person was as tonished at the liberality of the payment Lorrimer tendered. The manager swag gered into the little room, beaming all over; but tliero was no one to meet him except the poet, who sat dejected, with his folded arms upon the table. “I’ve seen her, Marsh,” cried Lorrimer extending both hands. “And what’s more, my boy, she has consented to appear again.” “That is good news,” said the poet, mournfully. “I congratulate you. Have you made any definite arrangement with her. Have you—helped her J" “ To everthing the heart can wish for !” said Lorrimer. “Delicacies, wino, money, credit, and a coral for the baby. It was tho coral that did tho trick, my boy.” “The—the baby!” said Marsh, with a bewildered air. “ Ye-es,”said Lorrimer, rubbing his chin with tho palm of his hand and regarding the poet with a half-reflection of his look. “A baby. I suppose it’s all right. To tell you the truth, Marsh, I don’t inquire into those matters. It’s a question of IliVijLilV M1UU JlliOi The poet stretched out a hand and struck down heavily on the gong which stood be fore him, and, on the appearance of the waiter, demanded brandy in a manner al most tragic. “What’s the matter?” asked Lorimer. “You are out of sorts, dear boy.” “I am hipped,” said the poet, with a sigh. “I am tired of the whole show, Lor rimer, and I wish that the drum would bang and the fiddles squeak no more. I should like to see the curtain ring down on the silly figures in the middle of the piece, but I must sit it out, I suppose, like the rest of us, though -I am sick of it, and bored to death.” w Ah !” said Lorrimer, “ you’re young, dear boy, and that’s why you feel like that. When I was your age I felt older than Methusalem. By-and-by you’ll begin to want to stick, and you’ll get to like the piece very well.” There are few things more offensive to a young man than to be reminded of his youth by a senior. And for a poet and a man of fashion, who had just expressed the yearnings of his soul (with what he felt to be a very pretty conversational style), to find himself compared with this florid vul garian, who called Methuselah Methusalem, was more than commonly galling. Lorrimer had never felt what he felt. The thing was impossible, but it was useless to argue, and the young man sat in a mournful and dignified silence, and sipped his brandy and water, until the other members of the conclave dropped in one by one, and Lorrimer began to expatiate upon his own good fortune and the great things he was going to do for Miss Churchill. lt Look here,” said the manager, poking at the rotund figure of the man of the cor ner with his walking-cane. “Here’s a chance for you. You used to want to write a poetical comedy, you know.” “ I trust,” said the man in the corner, “that wo are not about to enter on a course of recrimination. Why should I be re minded of the follies of the past? I have heard it whispered that a middle aged, florid, fat man, who shall be nameless, had once a desire to play Romeo.” “No more of that, Hal, and thou lovest me,” sain Lorrimer. “But if you can write a poetical comedy, my boy, here’s the women to write up to.” “Sir,” said the man in the corner, “I can write a poetical comedy as well as any whale in Arctic waters can dance a sara band.” vv en, cried Liormner, “the man who writes a iirst-rute poetical comedy for Miss Churchill has made his fortune. I know that much." “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said the poet, rising wearily. There was some protest against his going, but he pleaded a non-existent engagement and got away. He turned disconsolately out of the Strand into Catherine street, and after many in determinate windings, found himself at the head of the dismal thoroughfare in which Mrs. Tregarthen had lodgings. lie stood a full minute in hesitation, and one or two hurrying passengers hustled him. At last he pulled his hat over his eyes, sighed, cast out both hands with a little gesture of surrender, and walked home. On the afternoon of the day on which Mrs. Tregarthen entered her now abode ljorrimer called, and showed her two or thfee newspaper paragraphs. " The game is afoot already, madam,” lie said; “ and, much as I was disappointed at the moment, upon my word I’m begin ning to be glad that you throw me ovor last time. It has excited a certain curiosity and interest, don’t you see. Only—you mustn’t do it again, you know. My credit and reputation are at stake. ” Sho told him wearily that he might rely upon her, but sho took no interest in the preliminary puffs of Which Lorriiner was so proud. She glanced at them and put them aside with so much languor that the manager took fright a little. “Upon my word,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re not well. Or else,” ho added, si lently, “you’re anything but swoet upon the business.” “I am very well,” sho answered. “Be candid with me,” urged the mana ger. “I may rely upon you? Now, may I, really ?” “You may rely upon me,” she said; add ing, with more vivacity, “I could not re pay your kindness so poorly as to disap point you a second time.” “There are managers,” said Lorrimer, who in a case like this would take advan tage of youth und inexperience. But I know better; for my own sake I know better. I offer you such terms, to begin with, that you can’t improve your condi t ion by running to anybody else. Before now, madam, I have galvanized the town into the temporary acceptance of a Duffer, BHstriorric genius, wit IT Ixtrrfrarf behind it, is guaranteed success. We shall take up a permanent residenoe on the grounds of Thomas Tiddler, madam, and shall pick up gold and silver. But—will you forgive me for hinting at it i—you must study, you must work—there is nothing to be dione without it" “You shall not have season to find fault with me in that respect,” said Mrs. Tre garthen. “I shall be willingt» rehearse as much as you please. ” The prospect inspired her with inward reluctance. There is a charm in the life of a successful actress which any woman can recognize for herself, even without the aid of experience. But Miss Churchill had her experience already, and a stage career no longer showed all rose-color to her. The stage-door haunter, the green room haunter, the insolent puppy In the stage-box or the dress-circle, the coarse tongued stage-manager, the Banished Duke, who, when on country tour con trived to smell of onions, gin, and stale tobacco all at once; the tattle-tattle and scandal and envy of the women, $nd the lidless dragon eye of professional jealousy among the men, had all combined to dismay and disgust her. She knew that many of the miseries that she had endured aforetime would be modified. Lorrimer was an amazing improvement on the traveling manager, for instance. She oould rely upon him, not merely for the payment of her dues, but for manly protection if she needed it; but at its best the inner life of a theater was not her taste, and she looked forward to a resumption of her old pur suit with enthusiasm. Arthur would know of It, too, hut there was nothing in the world which could increase the distance between herself and him. She even thought, as she looked everywhere for excuses, that her resumption of her old life might help to bring peace to him by completing their estrangement. He would be able to despise her so heartily that he would cease to regret her. There was no form of mental self-torture which she ne glected, and none seemed to afford her much relief. When she had been in her new quarters a. duv nr two. ami had nmvirlod Korcalf with a promising nurse for the baby, she sat down and wrote a letter, which had for its effect the return of her younger sister. The sensible child had been sent away to a small country boarding-school, and the poor lady had expended almost her last jewel in providing her with that tem porary refugo from those stern ills of life which had faced them both in their latest lodging. She had hoped to make some sort of refugo permanent for her, and to that end she had written a novel, and had sent it to two or three publishers, only to find it rejected by them all. “Oh!"cried the sensible child, behold ing the baby for the first time, “what a beauty! Oh, Clara, whose is it?” “ It is mine, my dear,” said the mother, smiling sadly as she bent over the infant. “Isn’t it Arthur’s as well?” asked the sensible child. “ Yes, answered the wretched runaway. “ It is Arthur's and mine! ” A tear fell on the dimpled hand her own supported, and she wiped it furtively away. “ She is like Arthur,” said the child, ex- ! amining the baby with the look of a con- 1 noisseur. “ Her eyes are like Arthur’s. Clara, what makes children li\te their fathers and mothers? Am I like p apa? ” “Yes, dear,” said the mother, bending over the child and feigning to arrange somo trifle of its dress to hide her eyes, “you ore very like him.” t “ Clara, the child asked, suddenly, “didn’t you like <}orjbay bettur tnau Lon don? ” i “ Yes, dear much better.” “I didn’t like the last place,” said the child. “ It was very nasty, and the old woman was nasty. This is better; but I like Gorbay better, and Tregarthen is lovely. Shall we go back to Tregarthen? Why do the peoplo call Arthur the same I name as the Island? Her sister had not the heart to forbid her these painful themes, but allowed her to 1 ramble on, and answered her when she | could. In the midst of the child’s ehaltor < Lorrimer was announced. 1 “I have brought an agreement, ma dam,” he said, after a fatherly saluta tion. “ I have had it drawn up by a 1 lawyer, and before you sign it I should ad- ] vise you to consult a legal adviser on your i own side. There’s nothing like having this 1 sort of matter fairly understood at the be- 1 ginning, and this little document binds us ] both for three years. So, you see, it’s a i question of somo importance, and you’d j better be sure that your interests are prop erly looked after. It’s in duplicate, you 1 observe; and all that is to be done is for i mo to sign your copy and you to sign i mine. Now, when can you see your law- t yer?” ] “ Let me see the document, Mr. e Lorrimer,” she answered: and he handiner t it to her, she read it through. “I j s think I understand it well enough," she 1 said then; “ and I am sure I can trust you, ' sir." j < “ Madame,” said Lorrimer, with the con- i fidentinl family-adviser manner strongly ! marked, “trust nobody. Nobody. I i know no more fatal habit than that of 1 confidence.” i Mrs. Tregarthen smiled quite cheerfully i —the first time for many a day. 1 “ I quite undcrstad the agreement,” she i said; “and I am willing to bind myself I by it. I think the terms you offer very i favorable, sir, and I hope you will not have ( cause to repent them.” i “ I have but seen you in throe charac- i ters, madam,” returned the manager, i approaching her, pen in hand; “but ] there are not many men in the world who i know their business better than George i Augustus Lorrimer; and X am pretty suro ] of my ground, madam—pretty sure of my i ground.” ( At the close of this speoch ho handed her 1 the pen with a bow, and she signed her 1 name to the document which lay before her. 1 Lorrimer drew up a chair to the table, seated himself, and assuming a pair of i gold-rimmed eye-glasses, which were of no I service to him, signed the duplicate like a i stage emperor signing away a province. t “There, madam!”he said, as he rose; i “ we are now bound for a term of three 1 years, and nothing but death or mutual t consent can separato us for that space of i time.” f Miss Lina, the sensible child, had ob- e served all this with open eyes. I “ Clara,” she said, in a whisper at her < Bister’s ear, “ you haven’t married this s gentleman, have you?” ] “No,” answered Mrs. Tregarthen, aloud; < “ this is a matter of business which you > can not understand. ” i The child caught her sister’s tone, and ( spoke aloud also; | l “ But you’re not goingto marry him, are < you Clara?” ] In spite of herself Mrs. Tregarthen < blushed scarlet: but Lorrimer, with an > unctuous, stagey chuckle, stooped and pat- e ted the child’s head. “ No, my dear” he said, with a grand- 1 fatherly intonation. There is no intention 1 of t}iat_sort_ in your sisterfs _mind, I am It sure. And for my part,” continued Lorri mer, suddenly quitting the grandfatherly attitude and manner, and bowing jauntily at Mrs. Tregarthen, “I am quite a resolved old bachelor, and not even Miss Churchill’s inestimable charms could persuade me to the sacrifice of liberty.” He saw vaguely that this style of waggery was scarcely suited to the lady’s taste, and became dis concerted. “Though I am sure,” he added, by way of atonement for a possible blunder, “ that if any charms could pierce a thrice-armed heart Miss Churchill owns them.” This being no better received than the former compliment, Lorrimer became al most sheepish for a moment, but speedily recovering himself, departed, with the stately grace and cordiality of a beau of the old school, returning immediately, with a legal air, to secure the document signed by Mrs. Tregarthen, the which he folded and pocketed, with a business-like frown, and then relapsing into smiles again bowed himself away finally. “ That is a very funny gentlemen,” said Miss Lina gravely. “ He is a very good man, my darling,” returned her sister, “and has been very kind to both of us.” She was so unworldly that no touch of suspicion was in her mind when she thought of Lorrimer and the baby’s coral. It is probable that she would have conceived that device to be no less than diabolical if she had pierced its meaning, but the man ager was blown out with pride at his own knowledge of human nature whenever he remembered the expedient. “ Lorrimer,” he would say, wagging his jovial head, “ you know your way about, dear boy. It was tho coral that did the trick. You are a bachelor, Lorrimer, but you are not unacquainted with feminine human nature.” But, after all, there had been much genuine kindness mixed un with hi. ness motives, and a woman might be trusted to find out os much and to be grateful for it. When he had Miss Churchill’s signature at the foot of his agreement, and the docu ment was once in his pocket, Lorrimer ex ulted and beamed. He went about all day to places where he was likely to meet the men he wanted—shady old public houses which have outlived their reputa tion, now, and no longer give shelter to dramatic critics—and, drawing one of them aside when found, would hum a secret in his ear, a secret confided as a particular favor to him alone, and would then hie away to an other, with unfailing industrious men dacity, liming his twigs for the British public. Next morning, by the separate influences of the gentlemen whom Mr. Lorrimer had primed, the whole world was made aware of the facts that an en gagement had been entered into by the Miss Churchill, who had once disappointed London playgoers, to appear at the Mirror Theater, and that she had entered into a three years’ contract with the manager of that favorite house. But Lorrimer did more than this, for he was a master in his way, and could pull as well as any man alive. Artful paragraphs went down to the provincial papers (which were not so well oft for London news as :hey are now. when every one of them is evel with the great journals of the capi ;al), and these paragraphs were artfully iransplanted to the columns of the metro politan organs, until the bruit of Miss Churchill’s coming was in all men’s ears. Lorrimer kept her constantly supplied with the news of his achievements in this way, and frightened her more than he guessed. Every one of the manager’s pre immary bangs at the drum sent a nervous 'ear through her heart, and she had a pre nonition of failure and disaster. She had 10 stage passion to buoy up her sinking ipirits, and the memory of her husband’s icorn for the business upon which she had t second time embarked would have made ler run away from the enterprise alto gether but for her own native loyalty and he thought of her child and sister. It vas to be all so different, too, from ler actual experiences of the stage. She vould no longer contrast with the failures if the provincial theaters, but would have 0 move side by side with the best actors of .jondon and one of its best actresses. For .orrimer, in his own phrase, was ‘ ’going 'or the gloves,” and was getting together a licked company. He meant to have such 1 glare anil blare of triumph in London hat when the time came for the provinces ilaygoers should bo on the tiptoe of ex lectation there, and then, with his one star •nd a cheap scratch company, he would gather in money by the hatful. The company being once got together, rere rehearsed severely. The pale gentle roman, young and sad, did not promise ■ ell for the ideal Rosaiind of any one of hem when she first came among them. !ut the spirit of the scene began to lift her, «u. wutjii wnanuu, even in nis irocK eoa& nd tall hat—most un-Orlando like—was upposed to have overthrown tho boastful .Testier. and she dropped the meaning rords, ‘“You have wrestled well, and verthrown more than your own ene aies,’ ” the sweet voice and perfect in onation lingered on the player’s ears like nusie, her figure grew all grace, and her ace all sympathy. Rosalind trod the tage in Victorian attire, and the brightest md tenderest of Shakespeare’s conceptions ook concrete form for all who heard and aw. This triumph was achieved at the irst rehearsal, and the report of it raised ixpectation high among those who inter isted themselves in the matter. Actors are i jealous race, and as a consequence there 8 no class of people who praise one another o unreservedly; for jealousy is not a iretty passion, and its owner will geucr ■Uy go out of his way to hide it. !o when Mrs. Tregarthen’s com leers had once made up their finds that she would inevitably outshine hem all, they gave her the most unstinted nidation everywhere, and the whole heatrical world got into a ferment about lor. In the earlier rehearsals the old stagers rent through their work anyhow, mum ling inarticulately, and cutting down the tmnortal sentences without remorse in heir hurry for tho cue, but Rosalind would ot mutilate her lines, and could not, for er life, speak them at all without speaking liem as they ought to be spoken. It came bout, therefore, that from the central iguro of the pioce a gentle inspiration hone out to all the rest, until hey began to reflect; and the dull st old stager began to work with omething of his youthful spirit. Lorri ner saw this and exulted. He worked as nly a theatrical manager has to work, ntreating, arguing, persuading, command ng—employing sweetest suasive art on lelia' with more than Chesterfield’s polite less begging leave to differ with old Adam r Touchstone on some point of detail; or louring fourth wild streams of passionate bjurgation upon the carpenters. Ho was ibiquitous, and seemed, like Ariel in the tonn, to divide and burn in many places. But all things have an end, and at I'ligth the final rehearsal was over, the ist note of tho music arranged and prac icod, the last costume perfected, the last stroke of the paint-brush dry, and even the clumsiest super had learned his final lesson. The great night was upon London, and only a million or two of its inhabitants were altogether un moved and apathetic. The house was crowded. The destiny of the pit was not yet decreed, and the most sympathetic and most experienced of play-goers and truest of play-lovers were not scornod. The old sters were there, grave, almost severo, pre pared to utter judgment. The professional critics were in the dress-circle, where they could really see the piece and were not half brained by the cymbals and the cornet in the enlr'act, as they are in these advanced days. Beauty, wit, fashion, and old experience filled the house, and Miss Churchill, who had long since been dressed, and eager in her nervous terror to face them all and get the ordeal over, was led by the triumphant yet anxious Lorrimer to take a peep at the crowded benches and tho wide sweep of the glittering circles. She went back to her own room quaking, and when she tried to think of her part she discovered that she had forgotten her first words. She re ferred to them, and they looked at her un familiary from the manuscript. "I show more mirth than I am mistress of.” Great heavens! She had to be mirthful, and in the presence of that terrible crowd. She had heard of this swift and sudden disease many a time, and knew it by the name of stage fright; but sho had never guessed what it might mean until now. It numbed every faculty of the mind. She could think of nothing, and remember nothing. It left her physically helpless, too, and reduced her to a very statue of cowardice. The orchestra was industriously scraping and blowing its way to the final musical spasm of tho overture, and she felt that tho time of disgrace and despair was near. The music ceased, the liouso applauded, a bell rang thrice, the house applauded anew, and the time of disgrace and des pair was nearer still. In a little time there came a tap at her door, and the call-boy demanded Miss Churchill. She must needs ■ go—there was no help for it &he took a nasty sip of water, and walked like an automaton to her place in the wings. Celia was there already, and slipped an unsympathetic arm about her waist, in readiness for the business of the stage, for they went on twined together like two of the three Graces. The band finished its little intermediate flourish, and somehow Rosalind was on the stage, with a sound like the noise of the sea coming into her ears, and she was ready to sink and die. Celia spoke: “I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry 1” The two women melted apart from their embrace at this point, and Rosalind stood alone. There was a pause. It came out afterward that it was no longer than it well might have been, but to Miss Church ill’s heart it was quite a gulf of time. Then—but how it came about she never knew—she found courage and memory to speak, and before the first little speech was over her stage flight had flown at the re assuring sound of her own voice, and she knew by an instinct which is common to actors of both sexes that the house had settled down with that new resolve to listen, which is the re sult or a first favorable impression. Be fore she had taken the chain from her own neck to give it to Orlando she had won every heart in the house. Lorrimer stood at the wing to welcome her with rubicund smile and outstretched hands, and the house thundered behind her. It was a night of triumph, and the triumph mount ed in n ctpndy crescendo. The actress cour tesied her acknowledgments again and again before the curtain, and then went home and cried bitterly, with fame and fortune at her feet. While she cried half a score of practiced pens were running nimbly in her praise, and half a score of critical intelligences were doing their best not to be run away with, and some of them were not succeeding, as the result of the next day declared. Miss Churchill’s name was newly blown abroad — Miss Churchill’s fame was established and her fortune made. But Mrs. Tregarthen had defied her hus band, and now began to see all manner of possibilities which might have come about to reconcile him, if she had not made this fatal step. A day before all these possi bilities had been impossible, but now she believed in them. She was unstrung by the night’s excitement, and had real cause for sorrow and self-blame enough. To shine in the eyes of the world, to charm, to dazzle, to be applauded by listening crowds, to have her comings and goings chronicled in the public prints as if she were a queen—what was all this Itmrlum oVtn Tsnrl lrve*- A nthnnl Curious that any one human being should mean so much to any other, and yet be no wiser, no handsomer, no more loyal, val iant, tender, than a round million of his fellowmen! CHAPTER IX. It becamo known that there was some sort of secret understanding afoot between the poet and the man of the corner. They were found together in the small chamber in the Strand holding earnest converse, which was sus pended on the arrival of any chance new comer. Callers upon the man of the cor ner found the poet in his chambers, and callers upon the poet, in his more artistic ally furnished apartments in tho West, met there the man of the corner. They sat together on a summer’s day, with the mellow sunshine struggling through cobwebbed windows, and showing tho dust upon the threadbare carpet and tho battered furniture. There were foils and singlesticks, and boxing-gloves upon the walls, and a gun and a fishing rod or two in the corners of the room. The man of tho corner lounged collarless in slippers and dressing-gown, and the poet sat at the table, pen in hand, with a pile of manu script before him. “1 think it will do, Smith,” said the poet, doubtfully. “ My bard.” said the slippered lounger, “it will do. It is not Shakespearean, but it will do. We are humbler than we were a year ago, Marsh, and the reviewers did us good. They humbled us, and chastened our style a bit, and we know how many poetic beans make five. We used to think it took fifty, didn’t we?” “ I fear I did,” said the poet with a blush. “Youv’e been very kind to me, Smith, and I’m immensely obliged to you.” “Tho wounded is the feeling heart,” re turned the other. “I will tell you a se cret. I, William John Smith, writer of melodrama and wholesale merchant in mur der, was Horace Montmorenci. ” “ You? ” cried the poet. “ I. None other. It was this hand that wrote 1 The Demogorgon. ’ It was upon this head tho scalping-knife of the review er fell. I suffered before you. I roastod at the fire of public scorn and laughter for a year. When I saw you scalped and bleeding at the stake 1 felt for you, and , as each red reviewer buried his tomahawk one heart was moved to pity. It was mine.” The poet arose and shook hands. “Wo are brethren In misfortune,” he said, with a somewhat ghastly smile. “ Respect my awful secret,” said his companion. “Let us change the theme. Can we brighten the last act with a mur der! I have never made so long a literary journey without blood. Let us sacrifice a victim to propitiate the gods. ” “Well,” said the poet, “ I'm afraid wo must leave the gods unpropitiated. A murder would be a little out of place in a political comedy—wouldn’t it? Eh?” “A suicide? a divorce? a bigamy? a forgery? I pine for my accustomed diet. I will have a fuller-flavored villain than common in my next.” “Upon my word, Smith,” cried the poet, earnestly, “ I wouldn’t do that sort of work if I were you. There is not a lovely fancy or a graceful line here,” laying his hand upon the manuscript, “that isn’t yours. There is not a subtle touch of observation or of human nature that isn’t yours. I brought you a feeble, rickety child, and you have tended it and nurtured it, and you give me back a beautiful woman. Why should a man like you waste himself on melo drama?” “I get an honest living,” said the lounger. “I reward virtue and I lash vice. I never leave an unrepentant vil lain happy or a good man in adversity. And I am at home in [my work, and I can do it. As for what you are pleased to say about my share in this work, let me tell you the truth. I am an old literary crafts man, and a pretty good one. You are a young literary craftsman, and your hand is not yet firm. But if you will be humble about it, and will not take pride in your self, and will not think that genius is everything and patient labor nothing, you will do work I cannot do and never could have done, and you will give harmless delight to many people, and be remembered for a generation or two, Only—labor, pa tience, humility—humility, patience labor. These, my poet, make talent pass for gen ius very often, but they make genius re splendent. The poet sat silent for awhile. “And you think,” he said, after this tiqiica << thnt wa ltnrl hpftor conrl it tn rimer?" “ Certainly. With the stipulation that vve depend, not upon his judgment, but upon that of Miss Churchill. I have written a good deal for Lorrimer, and I respect his judgment on my own wares. He has a rare palate for a murder, but the flavors of this work are too delicate for him. I shall tell him so.” “ If she will but undertake the part,” cried the poet, “what a creation she will make of it!” “ She is a great actress,” said the other, “and her style grows riper. But have you noticed, Marsh i I meet her here and there on Sunday evenings. She is success ful, but she is not a happy women. Her sorrows are not querulous, but resigned. ” “I have not noticed it,” said Marsh. I only see her upon the stage. ” “ Do you know, ” said the writer of melodrama, “I admire her infinitely. Her blameless private life, her charity_ she has an ill word for nobody, not even for the fools who pester her because she is an actress. I have felt once or twice an electric sensation in the right foot, indi cative as I believe, of a desire to boot a noble swell or two who hover in her train. But to give way to that desire would only cre ate a scandal, and the snobs must bo al lowed to flutter until she moets some good fellow who will marry her and take her away from the theater.” “ That would bo a loss to the theater,” said Marsh. “And again to her,” returned his com panion. '* No woman can live In art and be happy. Her place is by the hearth. She must have a man to waste her affec tions on, and children to suffer for bofore she can really be at peace.” “ Shall I send on the play to Lorrimer, or will you? ” asked the poet, after a min ute’s pause. “ I will,” said the playwright. “ It is so much more your work than mino that I can praise it with the better face.” “And I shall hear the verdict from you ?” “ Just so. Are you going ? Lorrimer shall have it at once. Good-by.” “I am going down into Berkshire,” said the poet, shaking hands and taking up his sombrero; “but my letters will be for warded. Good-by.” William John Smith, being left alone, lit a pipe, and took a tumbled heap of papers from a drawer. Then he selected a pen, sat down at the table with the tumbled papers before him, and tried to think about work. But the day was languid, and he wa3 lazy, and in a minute or two he threw down the pen and re signed himself to his fancies. ' Ronald Marsh came uppermost. nuiiara doun, saia tne idler, staring abstractedly out of file window, “ you have done that young man a power of good. The sentiments you so eloquently express in conversation and so per sistently ignore in private life are telling on him. And ho wanted that hiding from the reviwers. It did him good, and helped to drive out of him the most intolerable puppyism with which any man of my time has been af flicted. There are the makings of a good fellow in him, and they will not be wasted.” Unconscious of this criticism, the poet went down to Berkshire, leaving the dusky whirl of London fashion behind him, and awaited (with what patience he could find) Miss Churchill’s judgment on the poetical comedy. It fell upon a day that he set out, long-cloakod, long-haired, and som breroed, for a country walk, and being athirst and weary, stepped into an inviting little roadside inn and asked for sherry and soda. Tho room in which he sat was com fortably shaded and prettily dappled by a tew stray flecks of sunlight. There were roses at the diamonded casement, the win low was open, birds twittered about the Helds outsido, a hostler in the yard to the right made a soothing noise of hiss ing and splashing as he washed tho legs of a farmer's cob, and it was difficult to believe that there were griefs, or heart burnings, or jealousies, or troubles of any sort upon the surface of a planet which cwried so peaceful and quiet a heaven of rest as this. “Hostler I” said a voice outside, “see that their hoddity in the cloak and wide iwako goin’ in just now ?” “I seo him, sir,” replied the hostler. “ It’s my lady’s brother-in-law from Lon don, sir.” “ My eye !” said the first speaker, “he’s a caution, ain’t he? What’s he wear his bair that long for? Like a gell’s, ain’t it?” “Well, you see, sir,” said tho hostler, in i philosophic and reflective tone, “ there’s x sort as would sooner bo stared at and ■ laughed at than not stared at all.” “That’s a rare good by-word, hostler ” I ’aid the other. “You shall have a pint for that, anyway.” f Tote continued next week.] FARMERS' SONSStfflPSSS ustze^at FLOUHAND FEED STORE! White & Moore, Are now ready to supply the public with the best the market will afford, wholesale and re tail, such as Flour, Patent, 1-8, 1-4 or cwt. “ Best Red Wheat, “ GRAHAM FLOUR. Corn, Oats,Corn and Oats, Fine Meal, Fine Shorts, Coarse Bran, Buck Bran, Fine Bran, Screenings. Our motto is to “Live and let live.” All we ask is a trial to convince you. We have also opened a OO-A-Xj YARD, . On Atlantic Street., And are prepared to furnish the best LEHIGH COAL. We superintend the screening and picking our selves, and guarantee entire satisfaction and full weight. WOOD! WOOD! J. T. WHITE. J. F. MOORE. Cor. Broad and Atlantic Sts.. BHIDGETON, N. J. J. P SHARPLESS' PHILADELPHIA CANDY MANUFACTORY Wholesale and Retail. Sunday Schools and storekeepers will save money by buying* their candies where they are made. Greatest variety of FINE AND PLAIN CANDY In South Jersey, fresh, pure andfeheap. Mixtures, per lb., 13; 2 lbs- for 25 cts. Caramels, all flavors, 25 cents. Molasses Candy, all flavors, 15 cents. Gum Drops, 15 cents. Japanese Cocoanut Strips, 15 cents. Try our celebrated COUGH DROPS. No. 11 North Laurel St., Bridgeton. Philadelphia & Reading R. R., New Jersey Southern Division. Commencing October 28th. 1883. For Bridgeton Vineland intermediate stations. Leave New York, footof Liberty St., 1.30 p. m. LEAVE BRIDGETON. 7.39 a. m for New York, Newark, Elizabeth, South A mboy,Long Branch,Red Bank. Farmingdale, Toms River, Waretown Barnegat, Whitings, Atsion, Winslow. \ moland, &c. 7.39 a. m., 2.05 p. m. for Vineland, Winslow Junction, Atsion. 9.o« a. m. 0.54 p. m. for Bay Side and intermedi ate stations. FOR PHILADELPHIA. Leave Rridgcton 7.39 a. m., LEAVE PHILADELPHIA. (Vine Street Wharf.) For Bridgeton and way stations, 4:30 p. m. Above trains connect to and from Atlantic City and all points on the Camden and Atlantic K- “• „ „ C. Cl. HANCOCK, It. BLODGET?.e§^r-a"dTl0l£0t Agent _J- E, WOOTTEN.Gcn. Manager. WEST JERSEY RAILROAD^ On and after October 1,1883. Trains leave Bridgeton as follows: „n*;,°firi?“ladclphi;a, and Way Stations, at 7.00, anrl 8.10 a. in., and 3.10 p. in. For Salem Brunch 8.10 a. m. and 3.10 p m and oJoTm " id dpN^V Y°,k via Camden- *-00 For Sea Isle City, 8.10 a. m. and 3.10 p m and°3.10pfm CC‘ty and Cape M‘iy, 8.10 tl. n.„ ItETURNINQ, Leave Philadelphia 8.00a. m„ 3.30 and 5.40 p m Leave Salem 7.40 a. in. and 2.25 p. m. 1 Leave Sea Isle City, 0.55 a. m. and 4.20 p. m. Connecting Railroads. i Trains leave Vineland for Millville. 0.43 and 10.06, a. in., 4.40 and 7.08 p.m., and on Sunday 9.20 a. m. For Cape May leave Vineland, 10.06 a. m 4 40 P. III. On Sunday, 9.29 a. m JOS. CKAWFOUD, Supt. J. H. WOOD, Gen’! Pass. Agent. 001 n ta® weirkingClass. Send 10 cents JiV aTnvoi po!?ta»f‘-. »"d we will mall you that’win aluabb’ box of sample goods the way of making more n!«simnn,ia loWi ' ays 11,11,1 you ever tlumght huslness. Capital not required. nrliTilllyou’ . You can work all the time time only. The work is universally ac,aPteil to both soxes, young and old. You Pab t-a81 ly earn lrom 50 cents to $5 every even ing. i pat Jill who want work may tost tne bus iness, wo make this unparalled offer: to all who are not well satisfied, we will send $2 to pay for the trouble of writing us. Full particulars, di rections, &cM sent free. Fortunes will be made by those who give their whole tjme to the work. Oreat success absolutely stfro. Don’t delay. ®*art now. Addre*ss Stinson & Co., Portland, Maine. dec 27-tf Wmn 4NIA Lending London Phya* ilBIllllil iciau CMtabliNlics au HL“ ■ ■■■m* Olllce in New York IP I 1 m lor tbo Cure of \l f" j ! gjl EPILEPTIC FITS. ■■ ■■ Aw From Am. Journal of Medicine. Dr. Ab. Meserole(lateof London),who mnkos a spec ialty of Epilepsy, has without doubt treated and cured more cases than any other living physic iau. His success haa simply been astonishing; we nave heard of cases of over 20 years’ standing, successfully cured by him. Ho has published a work on this disease, which he sends with a large bottle of his wonderful cure freo to any sufferer who may send their express and P.O. address We advise any ono wishing a euro to address Dr. AB. MESEROLE, No. yo Julia (5t.» New York, jan 2i-4t ■