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Courier Democrat. (Langdon, N.D.) 1891-1920, July 11, 1901, Image 6

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn88076432/1901-07-11/ed-1/seq-6/

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IN THE WEB OF
A SPIDER.
CHAPTER. XXXVII—(Continued.)
And she swept along: the broad halls
and down the broad stairway, lie fol
lowing. half-stupefied, half-fearful that
yet, in the moment of his victory, it
might be snatched from him.
A vision of loveliness, she entered the
room, where all had gathered, to await
her coming-.
"Oh, Beatrice!" whispered Cora,
Springing to her side. "Don't marry
lilm, dear, don't! I once loved him, too
—child as I am. But now—"
She shuddered as conclution to her
sentence.
"Fear nothing, dear," whispered Be
•atrice in return.
And, wouderingly, Cora resumed her
•seat.
Only one was absent. Allen's place
"Was vacant. As her eyes swept the lit
tle group, he entered and took his place
-among- them.
The clergyman from the village
•church was also present in his robes.
Taking the hand of Beatrice in his,
•itandolph advanced into the room.
"Before the ceremony takes place,"
lie said, "I wish to t?ll you all that I
am about to be united with one who is
inheritor alike to her father's name and
fortune. The cruel mistake regarding
her birth has been rectified, and our
•wedding trip is to the land where we
may gather the proof of the statement
which I have just made. Mists which
liave clouded her reason have cleared,
.and to-night she comes to me—my
'bride—my wife!"
The thrill of an irrepressible triumph
•was in his voice his eyes dwelt upon
the anticipated pride of possession, on
her exquisite loveliness.
He made a movement toward the
ttiinister, when she checked him.
"One word!" she said. "You, as mas
ter of Grey Oaks, gave to your friends
••a surprise. Is it not fitting that I should
•clo likewise? It is only to tell them that
to obtain proof of which you just have
Spoken, our contemplated trip will not
he necessary. My claim to my name
and inheritance already is made good!
I, Beatrice Markham, to-night am mis
•tress of Grey Oaks, and the papers to
prove it are already mine! Let him
•dare dispute it who will!"
"Beatrice?" pleaded Chester, "calm
yourself! If this be true, it can in no
way affect our present course. Remem
ber, your lover's fate hangs on the next
"half hour!" he whispered, so that she
alone might hear.
"My lovers rate!" she said, aloud.
"Yes, you are right! All is ready for a
wedding, is it not? It were fitting, then,
that there should be no disappointment.
There shall be none. "What does a
•change in bridegrooms matter? Ah,
Randolph Chester, you believe that I
have, indeed, gone mad? Not so! Cow
ard! Villain! Perjurer! To-night you
:shall take my rightful lover's place, as
he shall step into yours—but yours in
•outward semblance only! Where I
yield him honor, I yield you contempt!
"Where I give him my worship, I give
you disdain! Where to him I proffer
love, honor and all wifely obedience, to
you I throw the scorn which you so fit
tingly deserve! Men, do your duty!"
As she uttered the last command, her
•voice rose higher.
The doors leading to the library were
thrown open, and four officers of the
law entered and stepped to Mr. Ches
ter's side.
Behind them stood Tyrrell, and still
behind them, alone and unfettered, Ber
tram Talbot.
"With one glad cry of rapture, unheed
ing all the rest, Beatrice hastened to
ward him, felt his dear arms close about
her, while her tired head rested on his
breast.
Forked lightning flashed from Ran
dolph Chester's eyes as he glanced from
one to the other of those who had so
lately been his guests.
"What does this farce mean?" hfc
•questioned, finding voice at last, but in
stinctinctively conscious, light as was
the detaining grasp upon his sleeve, that
it soon would tighten into force should
he strive to break free from it.
"You wish to know what it means,
Randolph Chester?" replied Bertram
Talbot, while his arm held Beatrice
more closely to him. "It means that
-you called checkmate too soon! It
means that defeat, instead of victory, is
the issue of your bitter war against
honor and truth! It means that as you
'have dealt to others, so shall measure
he meted out to you—perjurer and false
-witness! You shall stand in the box to
•which you condemned me. You shall
occupy to-night 'the cell which I have
left vacant! You shall wear the con
vict's garb with which you, so merci
lessly, would have dishonored me!"
"You can prove nothing!" said Ches
ter.
"We can prove all!" reported Talbot.
"Must you see the papers to believe?
Mr. Ley ton, show them to him!"
Allen drew from his breast pocket a
•packet and slowly unfolded it. One pa
per was plainly marked as Donald
Markham's will, with date affixed. The
certificates, too, were easily scanned.
Chester laughed, sardonically.
"All this proves nothing against me,"
he said. "I did not know that this was
true."
"'And this man's testimony—think you
It will also prove nothing?" asked Tal
'bot, and, pointing to Tyrrell, who, cow
Bering behind the rest, had hitherto been
•unseen by his late master.
"So you've brought him, too?" sneered
Chester. "And the game is up, eh?
Well, I made a good fight, and it was
•lor the sake of a woman's face. Aye,
Beatrice Markham, remember it always,
•when you revel in the calm,even current
such men as you call love, that you
throw away the mad torrent worthier
the name. Yes you have won, and 1
have lost. A traitor has betrayed me!
One day earlier, and the game would
"have been mine—one little day, that all
•eternity cannot restore, the eternity to
-which in this moment, I consign my
••wretched soul!"
As he Bpoke, with the swiftness of
«$?
k••••••••
BY.,
LILLIAN
GILLIN.
thought he wrenched, one arm free from
the grasp of the man who held it, and
drew from his breast pocket the tiny
pistol .with which he had threatened
Talbot that morning in the cell, and
held it against his temple but ere he
could pull the trigger Layton had
seized his hand. He was overpowered,
and they wrested it from his nerveless
hand.
"You must come with us, Mr. Ches
ter," said one of the men.
But Beatrice, lifting her head from its
shelter, advanced to their side.
"No." she answered. "He has- sinned
only against me and the man I love. He
can do us 110 further harm. His con
science shall be his sole accuser and sole
judge in one. There can bo no charge if
we prefer none. Let him go free!"
"Beatrice?" pleaded Bertie, with a
glanctt of pleading love.
She silenced him.
"It is my wish." she said, "and our
noblest revenge. It is Christmas night,
dear. Don't let us forget that."
An hour later, and in the gloomy sol
itude of his own rooms, the false and
perjured master of Grey Oaks sat alone.
Though he had not been present at the
ceremony, he knew that already the sa
cred vows had been spoken which had
made Bertram Talbot and Beatrice
Markham one—knew that, except to de
stroy human life, he could harm neither
more.
Black as the night was his own soul,
which his surging passions tossed to
and fro upon the rocks where it had
met its shipwreck.
Suddenly a knock sounded low on his
door. He rose and opened it. To his
surprise, Edith Lorrimer stood before
him.
"Our schemes have failed," she said,
in a low, earnest, thrilling whisper.
"You have lost the woman and I the
matt we love. Take me away with you
—anywhere, anywhere, so that I may
never see their faces more."
"You mean to go with me as my
wife?"
"Yes, if you will have it so. We are
fitted 'only for one another."
"So be it," he replied.
And thus the loveless contract was
sealed between them. The morning dis
covered both missing.
For Allen she had left only these few
hurried words:
"I give you back your freedom as my
best Christmas gift."
'She has resignet my fortune," he
said to himself, and guessed not yet the
mad love which had made such pitiful
ruin of its .own hopes.
But here was no more for him to do
at Grey Oaks. Together with his moth
er and sister, he bade it adieu.
"Promise that you will return in the
summer?" peleaded Beatrice. "Promise
that you will let us welcome you then?"
He smiled sadly.
"For mother and for Cora I will prom
ise you," he answered "but for my
self"—his voice sank to a whisper—"I
daxe not come!" he said.
And something in his tone, rather
than in the words themselves, silenced
her further.
In the evening's gloaming of another
day she and Bertie, alone at Grey Oaks,
stood silently beside one of the windows
of the room which had been to them so
memorable. Her head was on his heart,
his arm about her slender waist. Each
had listened to all that had happened to
the other during these long and weary
months of suffering.
"Poor little fly!" he said, after a few
minutes' silence. "He boasted truly.
Another day and your fluttering wings
would have been beyond our rescue!"
She shuddered and lifted up her lips
for his caress. Thus she might banish
thought and memory. The sweetness
of the present wiped out the cruel past.
Her happiness was worth the price paid
for its possession.
Alone in the lodge sat Tyrrell, but he
gazed only into the fire, and the steam
ing jug, for once, was absent.
"I can't understand it," he muttered
to himself. "It's all as peaceful as a
May morning, and the staring eyes are
gone. I can slape and drame without
their disturbing me. But Miss Beatrice
is safe—thank God! and Tyrrell O'Byrne
helped to make her so. Thank God, too,
for that! Tyrrell O'Byrne she's prom
ised to keep in her service so long as a
drop of the cratur don't pass his lips
and sliure he's taken the oath agin it
for good. But shure and I wish it had
been the other chap as she married."
And so, with one backward glance and
Tyrrell's one regret, we leave them all—
the spider and the would-be victims.
The web he had so carefully woven Is
shattered. The prisoners so nearly fet
tered, freed. The spider—homeless, a
wanderer, an unloved wife and an ac
cusing conscience his companions for
ever more.
But Beatrice and Bertram frogot the
revenge already wreaked, in their own
happy lives, and in the consciousness
that no more webs could sully their
beautiful home, and that henceforth
Grey Oaks may boast no mystery.
THE END.
Gerome tlie Great.
The career of Gerome, the famous
French painter, has been one long tri
umph early in life he made fame, very
soon riches began to follow for many
years he has been probably the wealth
iest artist in the world. He is old now,
but none the less, he has still the lithe,
active figure of a boy.
He has the artist's direct, searching
gaze, but the brow and jaw of a sol
dier—of Kitchener, to speak in the
terms of the day, or of Napoleon, whom
he has made his hero and celebrated
over and over again in picture and stat
ue. He speaks most often with the
terse force of a general at a critical
moment of the battle, and makes vio
lent gestures.
M. Gerome still lives in his palatial
home near Montmatre, which was built'
twenty years ago.—Chicago News.
:,
MONKEY A PRACTICAL. JOKER.
81m'* Fan Coat Hia Owner Hon*/ and
Brlc-a-Brac.
There is today in Baltimore a family
'tthich Is bemoaning th% destruction of
some valued chinaware and bric-a-brac,
total value, $26.20, and there is a small
simian of the ring-tail Bpecies with an
abnormally developed sense of humor
who is directly responsible for the mis
chief, yet who wonders daily at the
sudden coolness which has sprung up
Between his master and himself. Ac
cording to the story told by the ag
grieved owner, he bought young
simian as a pet for his cihldren, and
for a few weeks the relations between
all parties were amicable. Then, as the
spring drew nigh, the family moved to
their country home, taking Sim with
them. About a week ago the family
came into town to spend Sunday, and
then the question as to what disposi
tion to make of the monkey during
their absence came up. It was finally
decided to tether him to his box in the
kitchen, and leave him with enough
food and water to last until their re
turn. Monday morning the family ar
rived, and went to see how Sim had
fared. It did not take them long to
find out. The dining room looked like
it had been the scene of a bull-fight.
A sofa had all the stuffing pulled out
of it and arranged in tasteful bunches
about the room, china pitchers and
plates lay smashed on the floor, and
the small bronze clock on the mantel
was upside down in the fireplace. Ruin
greeted the explorers on every hand,
but the greatest chaos was found in
the kitchen. Sim had piled everything
portable up in a heap in the center of
the room, dusted the whole copiously
with salt and flour, and after pouring a
kettle of water on to finish the job, sat
on top of the pile and greeted the
master's family with squeaks of sim
ian pride. It was later discovered
that he had gnawed the string that
kept Him near his box, and had im
proved the shining hours not only in
accomplishing the ruin told above, but
a great deal more besides. As has been
hinted, he is not in favor these days.
Hs is bound with a chain, and a good
monkey with a keen sense of and skill
*n practical joking is for sale.
WHEN SMOKING WAS A CRIME
Colonial Legislature Was Severe on tbe
Users of Tobacco.
It is one of the curiosities of old
/ime legislation that the use of tobac
co was in early colonial days regarded
as far more injurious, degrading, and
sinful than intoxicating liquors. Bott
the use and the planting of the weed
were forbidden, the cultivation of it
being permitted only in small quanti
ties, "for mere necessitie, for phisick,
for preservation of the health, and
that the same be taken privately by
anncient men." But the "creature call
ed tobacco" seemed to have an in
destructible life. Landlords were order
ed not to "suffer any tobacco to be
taken into their houses" on penalty of
a fine to the "victualler" and another
to "the party that takes it." The laws
were constantly altered and enforced,
and still tobacco was grown and was
smoked.,No one could take it "public
quely" nor in his own house or any
where else before strangers. Two men
were forbidden to smoke together. NO
one could smoke within two miles of
the meeting house on the Sabbath day.
There were wicked backsliders who
were caught smoking around the cor
ner of the meeting house and others on
the street, and they were fined and set
in the stocks and in cages. Until with
in few years there were New England
towns where tobacco smoking in the
Streets was prohibited, a!nd innocent
cigarette loving travelers were aston
ished at being requested to cease smok
ing. Mr. Drake wrote in 1886 that he
knew men, then living, who had had
to plead guilty or not guilty in a Bos
ton police court for smoking in the
streets of Boston. In Connecticut in
early days a great indulgence was per
mitted to travelers—a man could
smoke once during a journey of 10
miles.
The Bad Man as a Hero.
Homer sang the ruffian Achilles into
thirty centuries of renown. The deeds
of many frontiersmen excel the
Greek's. David did his own singing,
and came out with a great reputation,
"iet I doubt not the McKandals gang
would have made Goliath look like an
amateur. Ivanhoe, in his iron kettle
with his long lance killing the neigh
bors for love of God and lady, never
surpassed in courage and sacrifice Wild
Bill and his comrades. But the dime
novelist has been their biographer,
and cheap notoriety is their reward.
They deserve a statelier history and
a sweeter requiem. With all their
faults they were brave and gallant
gentlemen, who made it possible for
quiet men to bring decent women and
establish American homes on the
plains and in the mountains. Wild Bill
Hickok's adventurous career should
have come to the knowledge of that
fine old Scotchman, who delighted in
the blare of bugles, the clash of arms,
the tale of chivalry. Walter Scott
would have made this great scout and
peace officer a hero of romance and a
prince of the border.E. C. Little in
Everybody's Magalzne.
Horse Famine In Kansas.
Central Kansas is complaining of a
horse famine. The farmers have been
too ready to sell their horses to Eng
lish army purchasing agents, and now
the farmers are compelled to pay from
$125 to $140 for animals that a year
and a half ago found no purchasers
at $75.
"And she actually fell in love with
he first baseman. Why?" "I really
couldn't say. He certainly didn't seem
a load
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The police of Paris are likely to be
kept busy if they attempt to arrest
every "cabby" in the gay city who ut
ters an oath or who talks insultingly
to his fare. The myriad "cabbies" of
Paris are in a class by themselves. As
a rule they hire their cabs and horses
by the day from one of the great com
panies which control the business, pay
inga fixed sum as rental, and making
all they take in above that figure. Most
of them wear the livery of the com
pany from which they'rent, and their
vehicles are painted to correspond.
These liveries are most often light in
color, and the cabs of the City Cab
company, the largest in Paris, are
painted in imitation of wicker work.
The cabby wears a high hat, made of
rubber composition, and a sort of cross
between sabots and shoes, with tfooden
soles and leather uppers. In his hat
the smart Paris cabby wears a cockade
of some bright colors.
The regular fare in Paris is a franc
A PARIS COCHERE.
—20 cents—for a course, about a mile.
By the hour a Paris cab costs fifty
cents. In addition to this fare it is the
custom to pay the drivers a tip of one
sou—which equals a cent—on each
franc of his legal fare. If he has earn
ed a fare of five francs, for instance,
he expects a tip of five sous in addi
tion.
If the Paris cabby has an idea that
his fare is an American he does his
best to get more. When offered his
regular fare, with the customary tip
added, he is likely to throw it on the
ground and spit on it, at the same
time rolling off a string of expletives
which would warrant his arrest on
suspicion.
Before a man is allowed to drive a
cab in Paris he is supposed to pass an
examination conducted by the munici
pal authorities. At the same time it is
a fact that few Parisian cab drivers
know anything about driving. Their
vehicles are not cabs at all, but little
victorias drawn by one horse and, as
the streets of Paris are wet all the
time—they are washed several times
a day—and it is unlawful to drive a
horse which is "rough shod," a Paris
cab horse rarely goes more than a few
blocks without sitting down on his
haunches. The difficulty is heightened
by the presence of the huge omnibuses,
which, outside of the cabs, are still the
only practical means of transportation
in the French capital. Each of these
omnibuses is drawn by three big stal
lions and is heavy enough to run over
the ordinary cab without making a
ENGLISH CABBIES,
jar. The omnibus drivers are usually
good drivers, and they go sailing down
the Paris streets, as though they be
longed to them. When they approach
a section which is at all crowded they
blow a shrill horn and the cabbies,
warned by previous experiences, scurry
to the curb or to the "islands" in the
middle of the new boulevards to get
out of the way. It is then that the
cab horses sit down on the wet pave
ments, and that the interlocking of
.:.
S\*-
1
cab wheels brings forth a flood of
fluent French profanity.
Outside the fortifications of Paris
the legal rates do not apply, and the
cabby is allowed to collect as much as
he Can get. There are one or two in
teresting suburbs just beyond the lim
its, and the Paris cabby likes nothing
better than to get an American fare
"^f
A RUSSIAN DROSKY.
to one of these points, where he is free
to exert all his powers of blasphemy.
So rare is a decent driver among the
cabmen of Paris that when an even
average reinsman is found his fortu
nate employer is likely to take him
with him wherever he goes. Thus the
great actor, Coquelin, brought his
French coachman with him to Chica
go, and boasted that he was a wonder
because he had not had his wheel
taken off more than once or twice in
a year or two.
In Vienna the conditions are practi
cally the same as in Paris, with the
difference that no man who can pos
sibly afford it will take a cab in the
Austrian capital unless it is drawn by
two horses.
In London the cabby is again multi
tudinous and necessary. But for the
great buses, the few tramways and
electrics in the suburbs and the more
recent "tuppeny tube" the Londoner
depends chiefly on the "keb," and to
A JAPANESE JINRIKISHA.
walk for any distance in the English
metropolis is a confession of bad form.
For two miles the fare for either a
"keb" or a four-wheeler is a shilling—
25 cents—or "two and six pence an
hour. With a shilling fare the London
cabby expects a tip of "tuppence" or,
with two and six, a tip of sixpence.
If his passenger hands out the legal
fare, with the regular tip added, the
cabby will take it for granted that his
fare "knows the ropes," and will touch
his hat with a polite thank you, sir."
But if he is overpaid by a single "penny
he at once jumps to the conclusion
that he has been driving an American
millionaire, and will immediately de
mand a still larger sum.
In St. Petersburg the droskies are
usually driven by peasants, who
come in with their speedy little horses
from the surrounding country and rent
their vehicles and harnesses by the day
Often the same drosky will be under
lease to two men at the same time, one
of them running it at night and the
other in the day time. A Russian cab
by will charge as much for a drive as
he thinks he ca-n get, but he is usually
good natured and rarely abusive. He
is also usually kind to his horse.
Sometimes he sleeps in his drosky at
night, thus saving the expense of other
lodging, and picks up his meals along
the streets. In Japan and along the
Chinese coast the jinrikisha takes the
place of the civilized cabby. With the
jinrikisha the owner and proprietor
acts at the same time as horse, and
pulls the light two-wheeled cart along
the narrow streets at a rate which is
sufficiently fast for the comfort of the
passenger. A jinrikisha, man and all,
.-
r'-'l
may be hired for a few cents an hour,'
the exact amount depending upon the
familiarity of the jinrikisha man with
the ways of civilisation.
Holland Glrli.
Girls in Holland liave a great deal
of liberty. They pay calls, shop and
go to parties at the houses of friends
without a chaperon, walk and travel
alone, cycle and have tennis and
wheeling clubs in company with young
men. They enjoy their fun and free
dom, and are in no hurry to marry.
Social distinctions are, however, rath
er marked. The bourgeoisie is divided
into numerous and carefully observed
strata. Marriages are not arranged,
and the. parents' consent is only asked
after a proposal is made and accepted.
It is not the custom to give a dowry.
The girl only provides her own outfit
and the household linen. Rich people
sometimes give the daughter a portion,
but no father would dream of cutting
off his own comforts in order to pro
vide one. An engagement of four or
five years is not uncommon, and one is
seldom broken off. A girl takes her
fiance round to introduce him to all
her friends, and is then free to go
about with him unchaperoned to public
restaurants an4 evening parties, to
which one would never be asked with
out the other.
CHAIR OR HAMMOCK.
Below is to be seen a novelty in a
combination chair and hammock
which, being capable of numerous ad
justments to suit the desire of the oc
cupant, should prove itself a very com
fortable piece of furniture for the
porch or lawn. The ordinary ham
mock has to be suspended from treas
or the side of a building, and this
sometimes prevents its use, but the
new arrangement needs no hooks or
other attachments, being complete in
itself. For those to whom the swing
ing motion of the hammock gives a
feeling of nausea it may be that the
different direction of the movement
of this new invention will be found
more comfortable. When it is desired
to use the device as a chair the sup
ports at the center are loosened to
allow the four end braces to tilt nearer
together at the top, when the slack in
the fabric can be drawn toward one
FOLDING HAMMOCK AND ROCK
ING CHAIR.
end. As a person sits down the chair
will tilt into it3 proper position and
provide a comfortable seat.
The Petticoat for Slenderness.
In these days it is the ambition of
most women to look as slight as pos
sible. A great help to this end is a
petticoat of silk stockinet, which fits
the figure like a skin from waist to
knee. These skirts are furnished with
detachable frills of silk, which button
on the stockinet portion, and give
from knee to ankle the fussy, frilly ef
fect demanded by fashion. Many wo
men who pride themselves on their
slim figures decline to be bftrdened
with superfluous skirts, and with satin
knickerbockers no other petticoat is
needed but the loose silk lining which!
is a feature of the ordinary skirt. Nev
ertheless, two smart models for petti
coats are very alluring. One for even
ing wear is of white glace silk, edged
with three pinked-out'frills, and drap
ed with a deep flounce of ecru point
d'esprit net, run with satin ribbon and
tied at intervals with rosettes of the
same. For morning wear with tailor
gowns a petticoat of glace silk, bor
dered with one deep godet flounce and
strapped with silk to match, is quite
the right thing.
New York a Financial Center.
The concentaration of banking capi
tal partially explains the amazing rec
ord made by the New York clearing
house recently in comparison with rect
ords made elsewhere in the United
States. As, for instance, in one finan
cial center, one of .the most important
outside of New York, the clearings for
the month of April .aggregated $230,
000,000, and this was looked upon as
a wonderful record, and so it is, stand
ing by itself, and yet the clearings of
the associated banks of New York have
been averaging as much as this every
day for the past three or four months,
and some days have been twice as
much.—Holland in Philadelphia Press
Two Lives Compared.
A curious fact is revealed by the
Peerage with regard to the earl of
Leicester. He and his father married,
and exactly 100 years lie between the
dates of the two ceremonies. Each
man had two wives, and the present
earl is a son of his father's second
marriage.
Wife Was a "Buffalo."
When asked by his wife for money
to buy some flour, a resident of a
western town handed her a $10 bill.
She refused to give him any change,
saying that she was a member of the
Buffaloes. The husband had her ar
rested, but the local justice dismissed
the case.
He .that is rich need not live sparing,
ly, and he that can live sparingly need
not be rich.
Grief tor a dead wife and a trouble,
some guest continue to the threshold,
and there are at rest.
t.,#K
t-V
-f*
1

xml | txt