The Hood River glacier., June 22, 1889, Image 4

About The Hood River glacier. (Hood River, Or.) 1889-1933

Image provided by: University of Oregon Libraries; Eugene, OR

                
o
3food Iiver Slacier.
HOOD RIVER, OR., JUNE 22, 1889.
The Enforced Sobriety at Seattle Con
tinue!. Seattle, June 10. One thousand
laborers were" paid off at, the Armory
to-day by Captain Carr, as head of the
labor bureau, for work done in behalf
of the city. The men were given suing
from $6 each down for work done dur
ing the past three days. Some had
worked since Thursday and others less
time down to half a day. Each was
paid at the rate of $2 per day, and the
total amount disbursed was over $4000.
From each man's wages was deducted
fifteen cents for every meal eaten by
him at the Armory or relief tent, but
nevertheless the balance was satisfac
tory to all.
The saloons are closed yet and these
men will doubtless be able to place to
good advantage the money obtained by
toil. There have been many abstainers
in Seattle during the past ten days
and a consequent absence of drunken
ness. Many worshippers at Bacchus'
shrine, however, have found a paradise
of gin near the race track outside the
city limits and weary pilgramages that
are daily made thither, haye rendered
the road leading over the Grant street
bridge a drunk and dusty monument to
thirsty devotion. There are three
saloons there, arid they do a smashing
business. One man from each is kept
buy s continually hauling beer on a
wheelbarrow from the adjoining brew
ery, and still they have a hard time
filling the demand. The race track is
also the rendezvous of a great many
prostitutes, who were rendered home
less by the fire, and the houses are
crowded to accommodate them. A
community of vice and sin has sprung
up and flourishes there, and the inhab
itants do not always dwell in harmony.
Rows are frqeuent and one of them
once gave occasion to a report that a
riot had occurred and several ha 1 been
killed. Officers were dispatched to the
scene, but they found everything reason
ably quiet and that the report af a fatal
turbulence had been greatly exaggera
ted. A petition is now being circulated in
Seattle asking the council to keep the
saloons shut up for the ensuing three
months. Among the reasons recited
for this prohibition is one that the
earnings of thousands of laborers now
employed here will be devoted to a
rightful purpose and the community
will thereby legitimately benefit by
their expenditure.
Saloons are still forced to submit to
the proclamation of the mayor suspend
ing their licenses, and they are growing
restive under the restraint. One or two
have attempted to engage in the traffic
secretly, but they have not been fairly
started before they are discovered and
their liquors confiscated. The summary
examples that have been made of these
violators of the emergency law, is ef
fectiAe in preventing others from
opening up inside the city limimits.
The militia is still under strict dis
cipline, and few ,or no acts of vandal
ism, occur in the burnt district. I
is now felt, however, that a sufficient
number of men under police control
-could maintain public peace as effect
ively as the militia, and it is altogether
likely that the guardsmen will "be re
lieved from duty and allowed to return
home. A band from Franklin has been
in the city for several days, and daily
gives a concert at the armory, which is
listened to with pleasure by hundreds
of people who are otherwise utterly de
prived of all sorts of amusement or
entertainment. -
Cleared at Last.
Johnstown, June 15. The opening of
the wedge-like raft above the stone
bridge today was an engineering feat.
For ten days several hundred men have
been at work upon the hetero-geneous
mass, but only about sixty feet of the
channel had been cleared, when on
Wednesday William Phillips, of Lewis
ton, and his force of dynamiters were
put at work.
Six acres of solidly packed wreckage.
wedged between the river banks by a
hydraulic force that cannot be estimted,
have in three days melted away. Large
frame houses, hundreds of logs and
monster trees were tangled up and
bound together with the wire and iron
bars brought down with the flood.
The scene this afternoon, when the
great mass moved down the river, was a
remarkable one. The crowds that lined
the shores and the now famous stone
bridge raised a shout that was heard the
length and breadth of the valley.
The west bank of the Conemaugh is
again a mass of fire. Tonight the wreck
age torn up by the dynamite today was
piled up and the torch applied. The
whole valley is illuminated.
Measles are yery prevalent among the
children. The Bedford street hospital
has two cases of pneumonia. Bronchitis
and diarrluea are very general among
the workmen. There is no sickness of
consequence among the military.
From the most authentic records ob
tainable the number of bodies recovered
so tar is 1533. P'ourteen bodies were
taken out today.
, Dr. Free, of tho state board of health,
inspected the river towns as tar down
as Sang Hollow today. The 'worst dis
covery made was a large number of
dead persons and cows floating in the
river. The dynamite explosions have
brought the .carcasses to the surface.
They are in a bad state of decomposition.
Plight carloads of lumber arrived, to
day.. Rough sheds are already being
erected in the heart of the city, to be
used as sheds. -
Oouiteil Out Ills Tyea.
Milks City, June 16. Private Fitz
simm'oriH, of Company F, Fifth cavalry,
stationed at Fort Keogh, vent insane
three weeks ago. Several days since he
was removed to the guard house to pie
vent him using violence to those about
him, and today he gouged out both his
eyes with his thumbs. One eye he
pulled out and threw on the floor, and
tho o'her hung on his cheek and was
removed. Dr. Harvey, the post physi
cian, says the disease of his brain is
such as renders him insensible to pain,
and he appears to suffer none, though
he will probably die. lie enlisted at
Columbus, 0. He bore a good record
as a soldier.
. 4
Her RivalVfalentine.
It was a wonderful exhibition of speaking
under extreme difficulties. So intense was
the pain the effort cost her that she could
barely keep from crying out.
"Basil Is not to blame," said Rutli with a
flash from her blue eyes.
"Oh, Ruth," exclaimed Vida, forcing a
laugh, "how can you look at me so fero
ciously? I believe that you are at heart a per
fect vixen."
They all laughed at this remark; the idea
of Ruth's being a vixen was so very absurd.
Mr. Moore put a finishing touch to the
U1CIT1II1BUU j
"Ruth is like you, Vida. Under a placid
exterior she conceals a most fiery nature, j
She is like some of ttiose faraway countries
where the land is only a thin crust that cov
ers a volcano. You are terrible creatures."
The dinner was over, and Ruth, with ears
upon-the stretch, had listened in vain for
the sounds of her coming lover.
After a time she began to show signs of
irritation when a suggestion was made to
account for his absence, and they soon ceas
ed to speak of him.
In the drawing-room Vida played and
sang never more brilliantly, Mr. Moore
said and Ruth joined her in a duet.
But what a bitter mockery it was !
A dark cloud lay upon them, and Vida
alone knew what lay behind it.
The first shock of the crime had passed
away, and she was beginning to look things
In the face.
It angered her to see Ruth pale and dis
traught, simply" because Basil was away,
while she Vida loving him more fiercely,
and "knowing he was dead, dared not give
vent to one word or look that expressed her
love.
"It is hard to bear," she thought, "but it
Is better than to have to look on at their
wooing. That must have driven me mad."
And then she sang another song "The
Sands of Dee" one of Mr. Moore's favor
ites. "Sweet music," he said, "but rather mel
ancholy. That poor girl being lost on the
sands "
"Can Basil be lost?" said Ruth suddenly.
"Lost, my dear child nonsense."
. "But he is," said Ruth, rising and holding
out her trembling hands. "I have feared it,
and I know it now. Something has happen
ed to him ; he is dead he "
And then she fell forward fainting In her
father's arms.
Mrs. Moore and Vida came to her assist
ance, and the bell was rung for Phoebe, her
maid.
A little cold water and some kindly care
restored Ruth to consciousness.
"How foolish of me!" she said. "But I
was always a weak silly child."
"I should recommend a little sleep," said
Mr. Moore. "It is ten o'clock, and Basil
will not be here till to-morrow."
Ruth assented, and retired to her room,
accompanied by Mrs. Moore and Vida.
Then a curious feeling of distaste for her
cousin's society came over her. It was most
unaccountable, she thought, and pained her,
but she could act resist its influence.
"T do not think I will trouble vmi tore
main witn me, v uia," sue said.
"It is no trouble," was the reply.
"But do not remain, I beg of you. Mother
will keep with me."
Vida did not Insist upon remaining.
She was growing weary of playing a part
that required so much concentration, and
stooping down, she kissed Ruth and bade
her good-nioht.
Her salute was not returned.
"Can she suspect me?" she thought, and
then she bade Mrs. Moore good-night, and
went wondering to her room. '
Phoebe followed, and asked if she could
be of any service. Vida,with some curtness,
bade her go, but the girl still remained.
"Are you sure I cannot do anything for
yon, miss?" she asked.
"Quite sure," replied Vida.
"You do look so pale and tired, miss, Just
at If yon lmd been out for a long walk and
hurried lumie."
Vida turned upon her quickly, almost
fiercely.:
"What did you say?" she demanded.
Phoebe was a simple-looking country lass,
and stared at her in innocent surprise.
. "Why nothing, miss," she said; "I only
said you looked as if you were tired."
"The observation was needless," return
ed Vida; "I am not very tired, and I do not
need any help."
"Very well, miss."
With a courtesy Phoobe retired, and Vida
was left alone. She went to the window,
pushed aside the curtain, and looked out
"Moonlight," she murmured, "and the
low-lying mists flying before the wind. The
fleecy masses look like hurrying spirits of
the dead. Perhaps they are so," she added,
shuddering; "if so, Basil's spirit may be
among them."
. She had never been superstitious, and a
week before would have laughed at the idea
of seeing a ghost, but now it seemed to her
as if indeed the spectre of Basil Brandreth
was floating about in the mists of the night.
She sat down by the fire, and immediate
ly it seemed as if lie had entered the room,
and was standing.behind her chair, with his
sad reproachful eyes bent upon her.
It required an effort for her to look round,
and of course she saw nothing.
"Pshaw 1" she exclaimed, "I am a child."
Here the voice of a stable-boy outside, call
ing to another, broke the stillness, and she
started as if a voice of thunder had de
nounced her as a murderess. "I am worse
than a child."
She walked to tho toilet-table, and open
ed a box filled with small cut-glass bottles.
Selecting one, she put it to her lips, and
drank some of its colorless contents.
"It is the fool's refuge," she murmured,
'but 1 must drown cowardice until all dan
ger is past. Now I will go to sleep, and for
get that there is a morrow to come, and with
it a murderer for a lover."
chapter r.
THE VALEXTIXB.
The morning of the 14th of February
broke cold and clear, a slight rime frost lay
upon the grass, but was turned to moisture
by the first rays of the sun. The birds chirp
ed in the wood, the lark sang In the mead
ows, and the cow-boy whistled cheerily as
he plodded across the park.
"A bright, a beautiful morning to make
one glad," thought Ruth, as she opened her
window and looked forth ; "but Basil is
away, and there is no sunshine for me."
His absence and his silence were to her
Incomprehensible. If detained at home
there were messengers to send. If detain
ed farther away was there not the wondrous
telegraph-wire to bring a few words to her?
Why should he be silent? Why should he
be away?
She did not doubt him; her thoughts never
leaned in that direction. He was her af
fianced husband, and she believed him to be
the soul of honor and truth only accident
or death could have stopped his coming or
sending a message.
The delay of the post experienced in towns
on St. Valentine's morning was not known
at Gordonfells. Mr. Moore had a letter-bag
which was always first attended to at the
post-office, and one of his grooms fetched it
on horseback.
As Ruth was looking out of her window
with aching heart and dim eyes this man
came riding up.
Ruth heard the thud of the horse's hoofs
on the greensward, and hastened down to
the hall where Barker was waiting with the
key ready to open the bag and sort the do
mestics' letters from those tf the family.
In the dark shade of the staircase several
of the younger serving-maids were waiting
In giggling expectation of valentines from
certain rustic lovers.
As Ruth appeared they drew back and
were silent.
"Anything for me, Barker?" she said with
a sadness in her tone that touched the
listeners' hearts.
"One letter, miss," replied Barker de
ferentially as he solemnly put an envelope
on a salver and handed it to her with a pro
found obeisance.
Ruth glanced at it and saw that it was
Basil's handwriting. The woman-forger,
Vida Moore, had done her work too well,
and even the eyes of love were deceived.
"All is well," thought Ruth, and over her
face there came a light that was like the
rays of a July sun breaking from behind a
cloud. .
Too impatient to go upstairs, she stole In
to a morning-room and closed the door.
First she kissed the envelope and then
opened it
One glance was sufficient to scatter her
joy to the far corners of the earth and to
bianch the cheeks that for a brief time were
like the sweet blusli rose. The forged words
went home to her heart like a dagger.
But she did not scream or moan or fall
standing erect she read the cruel letter
through:
"My Dear Miss Moore, It is not with
out much reflection that I have decided not
to come to (ionhnfells airain. I have strug
gled against a warning love, and the victory
has not been with my desire to be faithful.
It is better for you and for me that we
should not meet nuain. Forcive and forget
nie, I shall be away for some months, and
v.'hen I return I hope to find it possible for
us to meet as friends.
Yours ever sincerely,
"Basil Brandreth."
"False to me 1 Basil false to me !" was
all sue said, and if ever a heart was really
on the point of breaking Ruth's was then.
But tears, that flow from the safely-valve o
sorrow, saved her, and she sank upon her
knees by a chair sobbing like a child.
She had been there for a minute or so
when the door opened and Vida came In.
No signs of sorrow or repentance there.
The morning's light had brought with It a
hardness of heart, and her hatred of her
cousin was as strong as ever.
Drawing up quietly, she stood by the back
of the chair, looking down upon Ruth with
anger and bitter contempt in her dark.hand
some face. She wa3 jealous even of the sor-.
row of the poor girl.
"I see I have not done yet" she thought
"I must rend his very image from her heart
and leave her soul a desert.
"Ruth!"
"Who's there?" cried the startled girl,
hurriedly raising her head. "Oh, Vida
Vida, is it you?"
"It is me," replied Vida. "What has set
you to weeping? Basil may come to-day."
"No; he is false to me, and cruel," sobbed
Ruth. Then in a moment she was defend
ing him : "No, he is not cruel. He has been
blinded and lured away from me."
"Douot forget that he is a man," said
Vida ; "and it is the nature of men to be
false."
"Not Basil he was true."
"May I read that letter?"
.; Ruth gave it to her, and she scanned her
own writing wLh a grim smile." As "she
handed it back she laughed bitterly. . :
"Ruth, is that the man to weep for?" she
asked. .
"Ilovedhim-I love him still," pleaded
Ruth.
"Even now that he is false to you?"
"Yes; I can never forget or cease to love
him."
"What a little fool you are I" said Vida.
And for a moment the mask had fallen, and
Ruth saw the blacker side of her nature.
She stared at her In dismay.
"You must not be angry with him, Vida,"
she said; "he has not wrcnged you."
"He has wronged us all," Vida answered.
"You must loam to despise him, as I do."
But she lied. She had never loved him
more than she did at that moment, and her
dread secret made her burden very heavy to
bear.
"Ruth," Vida continued, "you must go to
your mother at once and tell her of the In
sult that has been offered you."
"I will not do that," replied Ruth.
"Give nio the .letter, then, and let me do
it"
"No, I will not part with it; it is tho last
thine: 1 have from him. It is like a eift from
tne aying; ana yet ne can never oe ueau
me."
"now can you be so weak?" said Vida
harshly. "I say that you must forget or
learn to despise him."
"And I tell you," replied Ruth with unex
pected spirit "that I can do neither. It is
no affair of yours, Vida. Let me alone."
."No affair of mine!" thought Vida, and
she stind a groan that rose to her lips. "But,
Ruth," she said aloud, "my uncle must know
the truth; it cannot be ket from him."
"Let him guess it," returned Ruth. "I
have nothing to say. It was wrong of me
ever to show you the letter Basil has writ
ten. 1 have Deen unjust."
Vida was furious, but she dared say no
more. Eveu the gentle Ruth had a spirit
that roused, was apt to be dangerous.
The only thing that wisdom would allow
her to do was to keep silent and let events
take their course."
"Well, Birdie," she said, assuming her old
manner, "I see yoa are willful and will say
nothing."
"You have no right to say anything," was
the cold reply, and the breakfast-gong at
that moment sounding, she walked out of
the room with marvellous composure.
"And I looked upon her love as weak,"
thought Vida as she followed ; "it is the bet
ter and stronger love of the two, and it gives
me further right to hate her. Though she
die of grief, what matters she- knows no
shame, while I "
It would not bear thinking of, and she
hastened to the breakfast-room, where Mr.
and Mrs. Moore were waiting.
Ruth was not absolutely merry, but she
was amiable and talked a great deal. Tho
cloud of the previous night seemed to have
entirely disappeared.
But Vida's spirit was wrapped in gloom,
and no effort that she made raised her from
the slough of despond into which she had
fallen.
After breakfast Mr. Moore went out to
have his morning cigar in the park, and ere
he had enjoyed a dozen whiffs, he saw a
horseman approaching.
As he drew nearer he saw that it was Mr.
Hugh Brandreth, Basil's father.
He galloped up, reined his horse in with
a practised hand, and disregarding fifty-five
years and fourteen-stone weight dropped
lightly from the saddle.
"Good-morning, Mr. Moore," he said. "I
told Basil I would ride over if I could. I
hope you have not allowed him to bore you.
Traveling has set his tongue going, and the
yarns he spins are of abominable length."
"Do I understand," said Mr. Moore coldly,
"that you suppose Basil to be here?"
"Why, where the deuce should he be?"
said Mr. Brandreth, raising his eyebrows;
"he rode over last night "
"We have not seen him," said Mr. Moore
"Not seen him I"
"No, Brandreth. Poor Ruth was watch
ing'for him all last evening, and not a
glimpse of Basil did we get."
"Come," said Hugh Brandreth, paling a
little, "don't jest with me. You know how
dear to me Basil is "
"Brandreth, on my word ot honor he has
not been near Gordonfells," said Mr. Moore
earnestly.
"He left Briarwood about five o'clock,
and ought to have been hereby six," said
Mr. Brandreth; "on my word I don't under
stand it."
"No more do I. But we won't alarm our
selves Just yet Brandreth. Come intoth
library,, and we will, see what we can make
of it"
They could make nothing of it, and in a
few minutes, Mr.. Brandreth with a color
less face was riding for the police to come
and see what they could do.
Ere h.e came back ail at Gordonfells knew
that Basil was missing; but Ruth still held
her letter close, and Vida dared not speak
ofit
"Better that they should think that ho is
dead," thouetyt Ruth, "than know that he is
false. Oh, Basil Basil ! cruel as you have
been, your honor is safo with mo."
All day long the police, accompanied by
Mr. Moore and Mr. Brandreth, went about
making inquiries, and obtained no clue.
Some of the villagers had heard a horso go
through the village about half-past five
o'clock, but none had looked out to see who
the rider was. He was as clean gone as if
he had been spirited awray.
"What is your opinion?" asked Mr. Moore
of the inspector who had charge of the in
quiries. "I think the young gentleman Is alive
somewhere," was the reply.
"Ye s, and you think something more."
"I do not believe that he came near Gor
donfells." "Ju.st my opinion," said Mr. Moore. "I
think, Brandreth, that Basil is playingsome
youthful prank."
"No, no," replied the sorrowing father;
"Basil was not such a fool. Foul play has
take my lioblo boy from me."
The inspector shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't wish to disagree with you, Mr.
Brandreth," he said, "but men In our line
come across many mysterious disappear
ances that are not at all mysterious."
"What do you mean?"
"Young gentlemen get into debt "
'My son does not owe a shilling."
"Or they fall in love with parties that
their friends object to, and steal off with
them " .
"Enough!" said Mt. Brandreth. "I'll hear
no more. You take a professional view of
my son's disappearance; but I have a fath
er's instinct to guide nie, which is some
thing better and surer than your experience.
My son has met with foul play, I tell you,
and I will fathom it. Woe to them who have
injured him; and should he be dead, by
( Continued next veek. )
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