Newspaper Page Text
2 TIMES
■MI """t
WEEK
«
VOL,
Enecks R S
THE LOST RUBENS.
By FLORENCE WARDEN.
Author of “The House on the Marsh.” “A Sensational. Case,” “The Dover Express,”
Etc., Etc.
Copyrighted. 181)5, by Florence Warden.
CHAPTER I.—A CHARMING AC
QUAINTANCE.
Ten nce\O’Carroll was an artist; not one
of those gentlemen of the brush and pal
ette who devote themselves to Art with
a big A, because of the excuses she af
fords her devotees for Idling, but a man
with a genuine love for his profession, and,
what is more to the purpose, a genuine
talent also. He was five and twenty years
old, five feet ten Inches in hlght, was
reckoned handsome, more by reason o,f a
magnificent mustache which girls called
"tawny” and men "carroty” than on ac
count of any surpassing beauty of feat
ure, and might be considered heart-whole,
since he fell in love .with every fresh
pretty face he saw. He had, moreover, a
light purse, a gigantic appetite, an ever
rehdy laugh and the most confiding na
ture in the world.
For a whole year Luck, that hang-dog
sister of Art, had been persistently against
him, His pictures had remained unsold
f<j»- no apparent fault either in them or in
him, with the ugly results Wat his clothes
had grown threadbare, his landlady had
become fidgety, and he had even occasion
ally had to make a pipe do duty for a
meal. Still, as he had no one dependent
upon him to suffer through his misfor
tunes, he never lost heart much; his
laugh came almost as readily as ever,
♦nd he shook his fist at the stingy deal
ers and the great, big, dull public, and
told them (In his studio, of course, and
sot to (heir faces) that they should be
at his feet yet.
Then, in the sarlie capricious manner,
came a sudden burst of sunshine. Two
pictures he sold in the same week; one
of a big barge which had got loose from
its (noonings with the breaking up of
♦he ice on the Thames, and had come
hashing against one of the arches of
London bridge; the other a little London
iltreet scene. He went home with a pock
etful of chinking sovereigns, and. an in
clination to shako hands with every cross
ibg-sweeper. Now he,oould take that trip
io Cornwall, which was to make his for
|une. Now he could get down
to that great sea, which always seemed
to be calling to him to come and paint
her, down to the brown-sailed boats and
lie red-capp d fishermen, that haunted
iim through Hie London fog.
Three days later, in a smart, new suit,
And a picturesque hat, with u, fairly-filled
>iurse. and as light a heart as even a
uyOMJrig irlkfen .»n .< , ~b*w. he strolled
uJU*’..# plaffolin, uljdg..Uv'
th i train which was to take him to Pen
zance, <■’boosing for himself a corner sent
in a third-class compartment, with as
much fastidiousness as if he had been a
director, he stowed away his easel, his
portfolio, und his other very light lug
gage, and then, stood outside the door of
the compartment, smoking his big pipe,
gnd revelling in the fulfillment of a long
ehertsliecl desire.
Ah he watched the moving crowd on the
platform, noting each group, and remark
ing with keen professional eye every small
incident of humorous or pathetic charac
ter, he caught sight of two persons en
gaged in earnest conversation, who en
chained his interest at once. A man and a
woman they were, both young, and their
Interview was evidently a leave-taking.
They were standing away from the main
throng of travelers and their friends, in
one of the big, covered spaces devoted to
passengers’ luggage; and they stood so
far in the shadow that nobody observed
them but the quick-eyed painter, and even
ho saw at first only the figures, not the
fac«*B. Hut, attracted, by some unusual
grace In the woman’s attitude, some
charm tn her slimness and fairness, which
appealed specially to his artist’s nature,
he croseeil the platform in their direc
tion, and morn and more fascinated by
what he saw, stopped to read a bill pasted
on the wall, at ft point whence he could
get a near und full view Os her.
Bhe was quite young about two or three
und-twenty, he supposed, and was the pos
sessor o? no especial beauty of feature,
while the attraction of her figure was the
negative one of extreme slenderness only.
Shi' was, too. so extremely fair, with her
flaxen hair and eyaslashes, and almost im
pcrrepttble eyebrows, that some would
pave considered her opijn to the reproach
of insipidity. The fascinations which more
than counter balanced these disadvant
ages in Terencc e eyes wore the singular
grace of person above-mentioned, and an
expression of'fuce which seemed to him to
betray In every' glance a personality full
of feminine tenderness and sweetness.
Sb'Htrongly did this impression seize him
that he was conxnmtd by jealousy of the
man to whom she was bidding farewell.
From the plaee where he stood Terence
could not ilvo his face, but perceive only
that the fortunate person who was ab
sorbing the girl’s attention was under
th® middle hlght and sparely built, that
he had dark hair, wore, a light tourist's
suit, and curried a gun case In his hafyl
and a sirooting cont over his arm. Quite
unworthy, Terence felt this ordinary-look
ing young man to be. of the tender en
treaties. the pleading glances, the low
words of affection, which the girl was
evidently lavishing upon him.
The young man. who was smoking a
cigar, and occasionally looking at his
watch, evidently felt rather bored than
flattered by the girl's devotion. Was she
his wife? thought Terence with a ri
diculous pang of uneasiness. Ashamed of
of playing the spy, as he begun to think
hr was doing, the artist turned away
and strolled back to his place outside
the comportment where he hud put his
.lug’tnge. Glancing again in the direction
of the IntereatlftK spot, lie saw that the
girl was alone, and that her companion
was sauntering alongside the train us
he himself .had done, in search of a seat
tv his liking. Terence now saw the man’s
face for the first time, an ordinary sort of
counb'iiHnce. without any striking feature,
aud came to the conclusion that he was
about to years of age. So commonplace
wu the face, Indeed, that but for Ter
ence's Interest In the girl who had taken
leave of the stranger, h.« would not have
given him a second glance. As it was,
however, the artist felt Interested In the
other man, who, with a glance at him.
got Into the same compartment and put
up hut gun rate over the corner opposite
to th, one he had appropriated. while a
porter lua tried him in a handsome travel
ing bag.
The auurd was shutting the door* Ter
ence got Lu and rat dow n. He was just a
I to 0 civil) News.
W QE '° R G1 A ~ LI *>*■
*"«"” — NQ NEWS >
i Dec 96" Incorporated ISBB. >
1 Pec a President. f
little surprised to find that the stranger
traveled third-class, like himself. His
clothes were so well cut, his bag was so
handsome, he had such an air of being
used to the best of everything, that the
poor artist would have expected him to
tip the guard liberally to secure a first
class compartment all to himself.
The next little sunwise was to find
the stranger an awfully nice fellow. No
sooner had the train started than he
opened conversation with Terence. Put
ting his hand on the *wlndow-strap, he
said, with a smile:
"Now, is it to be dust and fresh air, or
neither? Os course, if I were only going
two or three stations further, I shouldn’t
ask you, but should bang it up or down
without the slightest consideration for any
body but myself. But as, to judge by our
‘traps,’ we are both going a long way, I
am bound to be civil. You see, I might
find myself without matches, and have
to beg. So, once more, dust and fresh air,
or cleanliness and suffocation?”
“Dust and fresh air, as far as I am con
cerned," answered Terence, laughing.
"Dust and fresh air be it.”
And down came the window.
The Ice having been thus speedily brok
en, it was not long before they were cihat
ting together like old friends, the artist
delighted to find a companion as devoid of
stiffness as himself; the stranger, who
gave his name as Fred Jellett, expressing
himself equally pleased at this chance of
enjoying artistic society.
"I’m a bit of an artist myself, you know;
or at least, I like to think myself so,”
said he. "And I prefer the society of ar
tists, real artists like you, not mere dab
blers like me, to any other.”
"Real artists like me!” echoed Terence,'
laughing. "Then are you contented to
take my talent upon trust, on the strertgth
of my easel and my hat?”
"Not quite. But on the strength of face,
talk, manner. They seem to me to reveal
enough of the personality to decide upon.
You are off on a sketching tour, I sup
pose?”
“Yes. Cornish coast. Ships—cliffs—big
waves—red-checked girls. I am coming
back with a bursting portfolio, sketches
enough to make pictures for a year at
least.”
"Lucky fellow! I wish I could change
places with you!’’ /
Terence laughed, and glanced at him
with merry eyes as he refilled his pipe.
"Oh, the folly of discontented mortals!”
cried he. "If that idle wish were to be
fulfilled straightway, you would be wish
ing yourself back again pretty quickly,
I’m thinking. You see me on the first
day of the first holiday I’ve had for eigh
teen months. Now you look to me as if you
made holiday all the-year round.”
The .other watched the smoke of hfs ci
gar,
“I’m the most Industrious of mortals,”
. said he. 4‘< wouldn’t bj.if. ItwH lie Ip.
it, but cbj’umstknces force iUMpSn nie.
I never move except on business.”
"You’re 'not on Very serious business
now, though, I think.”
And Terence cast a sly glance at the
other man’s gun case.
“Don’t you call grouse-shooting serious
business? I do.”
"Well, it would be serious business to
me, because I don’t think I could carry
a loaded gun a hundred yards without
shooting myself. But to you, who are
mopfe accomplished——”
“It is the most wearisome thing in the
world. I have had so much of it. So,
as there are a few days to spare before
the 12th, I am going two hundred miles
out of my way simply to see a famous
collection of pictures. Now, do you be
lieve in ftiy artistic yearnings?”
"Why, yes,” answered Terence in some 1
surprise, and with redoubled interest tn
an art patron who could afford a freak
like this.
"I suppose you know the collection 1
mean? Lord Copleston’s at Ingatestowe."
“Oh, Lord Copleston! The man who
has just paid such a sensational price for
, the Rubens, from the Villa Alasslo?”
“That’s the man.”
"They’ve made a good sensational para
graph out of tliat in this week’s ‘Pen
and Palette,’ ” said Terence, as he sought
among his papers for the one he wanted.
“I suppose you haven’t seen it,(tor ’Pen
and Pajette’ is rather a ’shoppy’ paper,
not much read outside the studios.”
Mr. Jellett had not seen it. So he lis
tened with much amusement while Ter
, once read the following words:
“It is reported that Mr. Zcnhoven, the
. American millionaire; whose spirited bid
ding did so much to run up the ‘Alassio
Rubens' to the sensational price it
reached at the recent sale, is enraged
, at his defeat, and that he is still re
solved to have the picture ,by any means
and at any price.”
“Ugh!” commented Terence, with dls
k gust, as he refolded his paper. “Isn’t it
enough to make a struggling painter
cut his throat to hear of u couple of old
k lunatics wasting a moderate fortune
( over r few feet of half-mouldy canvas?”
Mr. Jellett burst out laughing.
“Why?” said he. “I should have
thought you would rejoice at such a
healthy stimulus being given to art!”
"Art!” echoed Terence, contemptuous
ly. "Art has nothing to do with it. Os
i these two idiots, one ia too old to see
his pictures without rubbing his nose
i against them, while the other Ooesn't
know an old master from a public house
sign. They are simply bitten by the col
lector’s mania, and they don't care a
straw for any work of art, or any relic
of antiquity until they hear that some
other fool is ready to give for it as many
thousands as it is worth pounds.”
Mr. Jellett enjoyed his indignation im
mensely.
“But. at least.” he said at last, “you
will break your Journey at Ingatestowe
to see. the 'mouldy canvas there has been
such fuss about, won't you?”
"Not L” answered Terence, promptly.
“Why, if this Mr. Zonhoven is |n earn
est, you may never have another
chance.”
"It wouldn’t break my heart if he
were to steal it, and carry it off to the
Rocky mountains.”
Mr. Jellett again laughed heartily, but
he did not desist from his persuasions.
To all suggestions that he should spend
. a couple of days at Igatestowe, sketch
ing the house and grounds, Terence,
however, turned a persistently deaf ear.
i Mr. Jellett seemed unreasonably disap
pointed by his refusal.
"I must fill out the time somehow till the
■ twelfth,” said he; “and it is «> beastly
dull all by one’s self.*’
“Why not come on with me?” suggested
■ Terence. “But. for the matter of that.
. you might find me too much of a bore if
• I you saw more of It. while you. I should
| imagine, can alwaj-s find some one to
amuse you. wherever you arc."
. "That's what my sister says,” said the
other, but in a tone which proved that he
was not yet restored to good humor.
Terence blushed a deep crimson all over
cheeks and forehead. This did not es
cape his companion’s eyes. Terence, how
ever, was looking down. There was some
thing the matter with that pipe of his.
“Your sister,” he' said at last, after clear
ing his throat. “Was that your sister who
—who saw you off at the station?”
Fred Jellett nodded.
"Odd-looking girl she is, with that
light hair,” remarked he. "She can’t go
anywhere without exciting attention.”
“Well,” said Terence, growing a yet
deeper shade of crimson, "a lady, as hand
some as she is, could hardly expect not to
excite attention, whatever the color of
her hair might be.
“I don’t see any remarkable beauty
about her, but she’s a nice girl,” said the
brother, critically. “I think,” he added,
suddenly, after a moment’s pause, “that
I must wire to her to come down here
and spend a couple of days with me, since
you are so immovable.”
Terence said nothing to this; nor did he
make any comment when his companion,
verj' suddenly making up his mind, wrote
out on the spare half-sheet of an old let
ter a telegram, telling his sister to come
down at once to Ingatestowe by the very
next train. This message Jellett gave to
a porter to send off for him when the train
at Reading.
“Your sister will surely never come down
at a moment’s notice like that?” said Ter
ence, in astonishment.
“Indeed she will, though. Bessfie is the
most devoted little girl in the world to
her good-for-nothing brother; and if you
were not so determiend to go on with your
journey yqu would see me meet her at In
gatestowe station to-night.”
Terence w’averqfi. He knew that Fred
Jellett saw that he wavered, and noted tne
fact with interest. He felt, too, what a
strange thing it was that this stranger
should be so very anxious for more of his
society.
“If you'll stay at Ingatestowe to-night,
we'll make it a bet,” continued Jellett.
While feeling puzzled by this persist
ency, Terence was unable to resist the
temptation of an introduction to the girl
whose appearance had made so strong
an impression upon him. He agreed to the
bet, against his better judgment, and whilb
struggling with an involuntary conscious
ness that hia companion was, for some
unknown reason or other, making a fool
of him. However, the two men found so
great an attraction in each other’s socle-*
ty Qiat long before they beached their des
tination for the night, Terence w T as entire
ly reconciled to the change he had made
in his plans.
Ingatestowe was a little wayside sta
tion where very few passengers got in or
out. Looking out of the carnage window,
as the train began to slacken, Terence
remarked to his companion that there
was only one man on the platform. Fred
Jellett laughed, and looked out too. But
in an instant he drew his head in again,
a,nd Terence saw that the expression of his
face had changed,
"By the bye,” said Jellett, laying his
hand on Terence’s arm, as the latter was
hauling down his easel from the rack,
"now, I think of it, our best plan will be
to go on to the next station and put up
there. There is better accommodation.
■ «niu it ! ■■- i! jojU- uian-W* a «mo iurtlier
from the Hall.” '
“But your sister?” suggested Terence,
quickly, “Haven’t you wired to her to
meet you here?” i
“Well,” sard Jellett, "we can walk back
here, when we’ve had our dinner, and
meet her. It will be just a nice evening’s
stroll. Or stay,” he went on, briskly, after
a moment'* pause, during which the train
was drawing close to the station; “sup
posing you get out here and look about;
and* I’ll go on to the next station and
look about. I’ll meet you here to-night at
half-past eight, and we’ll compare notes;
and we’ll settle in which ever place offers
the best prospect of comfort.”
"All right,” said Terence, rather taken
aback by this rapid change of plan.
The train was still moving, but it was
already alongside the platform.
"And will it be troubling you too much
to ask you to take my gun-case, as I
shall have further to walk than you?”
"Not a bit,” said Terence, rather more
puzzled still. “We meet outside the station
here at half-past < )ght then.”
The train had-stopped, and he was strug
gling with a goodly load. But his com
panion did not offer to help him. He had
crossed the compartment, and was look
ing out of the opposite window. He did
not even seem to hear w'hen Terence called
out “Good-bye” as he jumped out.
But the young artist was too much oc
cupied with his luggage to pay much heed
to this circumstance. He landed It all
safely on the platform, and then had his
attention attracted at once by the move
ments of the solitary man he had already
noticed in the station. This persons, a
slim, respectably-dressed youngish man,
who looked like a Londoner, was engaged
In making a rapid inspection of the occu
pants of every compartment In turn. Ter
ence watched him until he had gone the
whole length of the train in this manner,
and he noticed that the guard did not give
the signal to start until the inspection was
over. Then the youngish-looking man
strolled up the platform in his direction,
and took a comprehensive but unostenta
tious survey of the artist and his lug
gage... ”
Terence noted two or three details in
[ return, among others, the fact that the
, man wore policeman’s boots.
"A detective!” thought he. “I wonder
! what on earth he’s doing In a little place
| like this?”
CHAPTER 11.-THE SINGULAR CON
TENTS OF A GUN-CASE.
It was between 3 and 4 o’clock, and the
heat was almost overpowering. Terence,
Kladen with luggage, stepped out of the
; little station Into the dusty road and
started for the village, the straggling cot
tages of which were in sight. He found
two ins; one was a pretentiously pic
turesque, modern building, such as al
ways springs up In the neighborhood of
an important country seat. It is always
kept by an old servant of the family,
always boasts of its connection with the
Hall, or Castle, and is always outrageously
dear. This one was called "The Copleston
Arms."
Luckily for Terence, there was a smal
ler. humbler hostelry at hand, an old
whitewashed house, much older than the
other, devoured by Jealousy of its newer
rival. The artist made straight for the
"Blue Boar” and entered with a friendly
greeting to. the gray-haired, ruddy-cheek
ed landlord, who relieved him of his easel
i with a familiar hand.
| “Lots of you artist gentlemen comes
, here, sir,” he said with a smile.
"Lots of us artist tramps, you mean.”
I said Terence gaily.
i The landlord shook his head deprecat
j ingly.
“They all come here, and they all says
j to m< . etton.' says they, tione of
I your red MsMt and gables for me,’ says
they. \)ive me a good, honest, solid
’ house, that has stood for two hundred
years, and that's game to stand for twq
' hundred more.’ Yes. air; come this way?
I sir. That’s what artist gentlemen always
SAVANNAH, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26 1895.
say to me, sir; and if anybody ought to
know a good thing, sir, why, It’s them,
to be sure?’
Alas! for the by-gone days. Time had
been when Mr; Yetton had looked down
upon artists with their light luggage and
light purses, and had left them to the
attention of the barmaid and the boots.
But now that that mushroom “Copleston
Arms” attracted the wealthier guests,
"The Blue Boar” was laming perforce
to see the merits of comparatively humble
tourists.
Terence ate his dinner in the little cof
ree-room, to an accompaniment of hum
ming of bees in the sweet-scented garden
behind the inn. Then he had a pipe, and
after that, as t*he day was waning, and
the heat growing less, he strolled as far
as z the gates of Ingatestowe park. He
looked through the massive ironwork of
the gates, and seeing an official looking
person eyeing him curiously from the
lodge inside, Terence addressed him, ask
ing whether one could get permission to
go inside. f
“Yes,” replied the man, still examining
him suspiciously, “but you’ve got to leave
your and address in here with me.”
Terence was rather offended by the
man’s tone.
“Thanks,” said he, mockingly. “My
name and address are too important to
be given to the first comer. I think I’ll
stay outside.”
To his great amusement the man’s gaze
became more suspicious than ever, and
when Terence walked away, the lodge
keeper came through the gates to w r atch
him as he disappeared round a bend in
the wall. In spite of his amusement.
Terence was disappointed that he had
not been through the gate. A stroll and a
smoke under those big trees would have
been delightful, and a peep he got through
the trees of the old house itself excited
his curiosity to see more of it. He hung
about the walls for a long time, caught a
glimpse of the detective he had at
the station, and amused himself, idly by
pretending to avoid that intelligent of
ficer, until It was time to return to the
village to meet his new friend, and that
friend’s lovely sister.
The lovely sister had, in truth, been in
Terence’s mind ever since he parted from
her brother. He was in a state of frantic
excitement when his watch told him that
it was half-past eight, while, as yet, there
was no sign of Fred Jellett. He waited
outside the station door, he ventured a
little way along a branch road; which he
supposed led in the direction of the next
town or village, but in vain; the only man
about was again the detective, who was
lurking about the station, awaiting the
arrival of the train from London.
The signals went down; the train was
approaching. Terence’s heart beat high. If
Jellett did not turn up, it was he, Ter
rence, who must meet her, and explain
her brother’s absence. The train slack
ened, stopped. The young artist’s heart
leaped up, for he saw her at once, looking
eagerly but of the window. She stepped
out on to the platform, and looked about,
at first with expectation, afterwards with
disappointment. Terrence approached
her, raising his hat.
“Miss Jellett, I believe?” said he. “Your
brother Intended to meet you; he must
bays been detained. May I help you to get
your lugvage’’” '
He burned this out, not allowing him
self to be cheeked by the lady’s start, or
by the look of surprise, followed* by one
of disgust, which crossed the lady’s face.
“My name is not Jellett,” she said,
shortly.
She turned her back upon him, and
walked up the platform toward the lug
gage van.
Terence turned crimson; he felt that he
wanted to bite some one; and the person
on whom he would best have liked to be
stow this delicate attention was the de
tective, standing in the shadow, under the
station roof, who had noted every detail
of this meeting:
The train went on. The girl remained
standing by her trunk. Terence retreated
to the station door, and remained therb,
glowering.
It seemed to him that he stood there a
long time. At last he heard the sound of
something being drawn along the ground
behind him. He turned, and saw the girl
pulling her trunk under the shelter of
the roof. The solitary porter had long
since disappeared; so had the detective.
These two creatures could see no one but
each other. Terence ran back and seiz
ing the trunk, lifted it from the ground.
“Where will you have it taken?” he
asked, gently.
Loneliness and embarrassment had
dashed the girl’s spirit a little. Still it
was with a touch of haughtiness she an
swered:
“Onty into some corner, thank you,
until my brother comes.”
In a tone which betrayed a. mixture of
abject humility and stiff reserve, Terence
explained again.
“He left me here, and went on him
self to the next station. We were to
meet here at half-past 8 and compare
notes about the accommodation of the
tw’o places. I can’t think how it is he
has not turned up.”
The poor girl looked as If she wanted
to cry. The sight sent the susceptible
Terence almost crazy. As usual, with
a man who is moved to tenderness, which
he must restrain, he found resource in
violent anger, and stamped his foot at
the absent brother.
“I can’t think wffiat he means by doing
such an idiotic thing!” he exclaimed.
“He must have gone to sleep, I should
think. Shall I ask the way to the next
town, and go and look for him, and
hurry him up?”
"Oh. no, don’t! At least, yes. That is
—perhaps you’d better!”
Glad to have something to do, and for
her. Terence dashed off. But he had
not gone a hundred yards when, having
met a woman and asked her the way,
he dashed back again to the station.
"The next town Is Wellscomb, three
miles off. Er—won’t you—er—won’t you
feel lonely waiting here all by yourself?”
She did not answer. She looked around
in a frightened way, and peered out at
the trees to right and left, where the
dusk was beginning to gather.
"Wouldn’t it be better for you to come
and meet him, too? Your tf-unk will be
quite safe here.”
"No, no, no, thank you,” answered
she, quite sharply, dismissing him with
a quick turn of the head, as If resisting
a temptation. "I will wait here."
He raised his hat and went away. But
he had scarcely turned into the quiet
road,towards Wellscomb when he heard
light, rapid steps behind him. and look
ing round, saw the girl in her gray
dress slackening her speed as she came
up with him. The alarm which he at
first noted in her face gave place to sud
den shyness.
"That man!” she exclaimed, in a low
voice. “He frightened me! I—l ”
“The man who was hanging about the
station. Did he annoy you? Impudent ras
cal! But I don’t suppose he meant to.
He’s on the look-out for someone. He's
a detective.”
"A detective! ,
She grew white to the lips, shivered,
and stated at him with a face of solemn
inquiry. He tried gently to laugh her
fears away, adoring her the while, even ,
for her illogical womanish fright.
“Don't be alarmed. Ladies always think
there’s something mysterious and awful
about an emissary from Scotland Yard;
when as a matter of fact, they are the
most common-place men aliye—and the
dullest. Why, this fellow, who is wait
ing for somebody whom he expects here
by train, stands on the platform hoping
for his man to jump into his arms, instead
of hiding himself and his big feet where
he could pounce upon him from some dark
corner. If I were the gentleman he
wants, I should simply walk past him
with my head high ip the air and brazen
it out.”
“No doubt,” said she coldly.
Terence felt himself grow exceedingly
hot and uncomfortable. What did shdf
mean by snubbing him in this outrageous
way? It was almost too much for even his
adoration. He walked on beside her with
out speaking for some moments.
Their road lay between fields bordered
by luxuriant Devonshire hedges. A man
was coming abross these fields, towards
the road, by a path which led to a stile.
“Fred!” exclaimed the girl, stopping
short.
An instant later her brother cama up
with them.
“Well, you have an odd idea of keep
ing an appointment,” began Terence, feel
ing that he had a grievance against both
brother and sister.
“I couldn’t help it, my dear fellow. I’m
out of breath with running as it is. I
knew you w'ould look after Bessie and her
luggage. I’ve had a wire—must go back to
town to-night.”
“Oh, what a pity you sent for me,
Fred.”
"Not a You shan’t be done out of
your holiday. I’ve been to the village, and
have found very nice lodgings. I am going
to take you straight there, and to-morrow
evening I shall be back again.”
"Oh, Fred, no. I’ll go back with you to
night. I can’t stay here all alone.”
“Nonsense. It’s only for twenty-four
hours. Don’t be childish, Bessie!”
He spoke quite harshly, and Terence was
moved to indignation, which betrayed it
self in his looks.
“Come,” Fred went on, seizing his sis
ter’s arm pretty roughly; “I have no time
to lose. I musn’t miss the last train.”
Then turning to Terrence: “I am awfully
sorry you are going on, because I shall
have no chance of seeing you again.”
“Well,” answered Terence. “This place
is so awfully pretty that I think I shall
have to take your advice, and stay ’a
couple of days to take a few sketches. So
if you call at ’The Blue Boar’ on your re
turn to-morrow night, you will be in time
to see me off in my turn.”
This change of plan he made, in impul
sive artist fashion, on the spur of the mo
ment, .ithout an acknowledged reason.
Even as he made it, hejWished he had not
done so. Fred, the next moment, was
heartily congratulating him.
“Oh, by the by,” cried Terence, when he
had shaken hands with Fred and raised
his hat stiffly to the latter’s sister, “I have
your gun case. Will you take it back
with you, or ”
“Keep it till I come back, please,” cried
Fred, as he helped Bessie over the stile
toward the village.
Terence .'•etarnW to IRBte 1
slowly, in a very unusual mood of dis
content and mental disturbance. He was
augry with himself for having altered
his arrangement merely on account of a
girl who had been both cold and rude to
him. For he knew quite well that it was
her presence in the village which kept him
there. Entering the clean, tiled hall of the
inn, through the opposite door of which
a tangle of sw'eet peas, sunflowers and
hollyhocks could still be discerned in the
dusk, he caught up his easel and Fred
Jellett’s gun case, both of which were
lying on the floor, and swung upstairs
with them.
Being angry and. careless, he came to
grief with his load and let the gun case
fall, with a crash, over the topmost ban
nisters into the hall below. The thought
of the damage he had probably done
sobered him, and he hurried down con
trite and alarmed.
The lock of the gun case had been hurts
by the shock, and the case lay open before
him. He went down on his knees to dis
cover the extent of the damage. To hii#
astonishment he found that the case con
tained no gun, but a flattened roll of paint
ed canvas, wrapped round an iron bar.
On further examination, the painted can
vas proved to be a picture, and by tne
dim light Terence was able to make out
that it was a villainously bad copy, prob
ably painted from memory, of the Alassio
Rubens.
CHAPTER HI.—TEMPTED.
The first thing Terenbe O’Carroll did on
discovering that his friend’s case con
tained, not a gun, but a bad picture,
was to burst out into a roar of laughter.
“Oh, these amateurs” said he to him
self, as he took the picture to the garden
door and unrolled it, the better to deride
its imperfections. “How can they have
the heart to spoil good paint and can
vas like this? I must do him the Justice
to say he seems ashamed of hl» crime,
as he never mentioned it and hid it away
so carefully; but he can’t know how deep
his guilt is, or he would never have
the cheek to bring the smudge down
here, to cqmpare It with the original!
Jellett, my dear boy, you’re an awfully
nice fellow, but you’re the most shock
ing bad artist I ever saw.”
As he began to roll It up again he be
came aware for the first time that he
was not alone In the enjoyment of his
great artistic treat. A movement in the
overgrown flower bushes outside, a move
ment which brought suddenly to his nos
trils a delicious whiff of fragranae from
rosebush and sweetbriar, made him look
up from his occupation; only tn time,
however, to see that somebody who had
been watching him had escaped in the
thick overgrowths of the inn garden.
If he had known that the hidden spec
tator of his amusement fcas the detective
he had seen at the station. Terence would
only have laughed the more. For he
could not have guessed that that gen
tleman put an altogether false construc
tion upon his mirth. The young artist
took the fraudulent gun rttse upstairs,
packed it away, and presently forgot all
about its contents in the enjoyment of
a political discussion in the bar-parlor
between the blacksmith and the owner
of the principal village shop.
Next day Terence was haunted by the
remembrance of the fair-haired girl. He
had not lost the impression of feminine
sweetness which she had made upon him
on his first sight of her, little of that
sweetness as she had bestowed upon him
self. Indeed, her ungracious treatment of
him had rather whetted than dulled his
interest in her, since it was strange that
a creature who could waste so much
tenderness upon a brother should t>e
capable of such harshness to a perfectly
courteous and harmless stranger. He
found himself exploring the village and i
its environments, not with the legitimate ;
eye to the picturesque, but in the hope of
discovering by the sheen of her fair hair
at some cottage window, where the dear
Lady Disdain was staying.
He was unsuccessful in his search. It
was not until late in the afternoon, when,
Having overcome his alleged scruples
by writing his name in the lodge visitors’
book, he was sketching in Ingatestowe
park, that he caught a glimpse of pretty
Bessie. She wore a big, shady gray hat,
which matched her dress, and she made
a most charming picture as she strolled
under the trees. Involuntarily Terence
started to his feet. The girl looked up,
without vouchsafing any sort of greeting,
quickened her pace and walked away in
the opposite direction. He was so much
disturbed by this incident that he could
do no more work for.the rest of the day.
He did indeed attempt to go on with his
sketch as if nothing had happened; but
the result pleased him so little that he
presently slashed it from side to side
with his penknife, thus spoiling a nice
piece of canvas and showing how very
much like a grown man can behave
when tiie glamor of a pair of blue eyes is
upon him.
A party of tourists lyere coming up the
drive toward the house More for the
want of something tp do than because he
cared for the regulation scurry through
a show place, Terrence joined them. They
were driven like a flock of sheep through
galleries, halls, rooms, worried by an
elderly upper servant, whose martner was
the orthodox mixture of sycophanlc ven
eration for the family and insolent con
tempt for visitors whose tips he received.
They saw' the wonderful Ingatestowe
pictures, though perhaps Terence was the
only one of the party who saw' in them
anything more than so many dingy can
vasses in so many dingy frames. They
saw the celebrated Alassio Rubens, and
heartily pitied the idiot who had ex
changed so many thousands of bright gold
sovereigns for what they afterwards free
ly described as a picture they wouldn’t
have in the house! As they all stood hud
dled together before it, breathless and
rather scandalized, Terence burst out into
a laugh which shocked them, as he
thought of the appalling copy of the pic
ture which he had seen on the previous
evening. The laugh startled not only the
group of tourists, but a man standing in
a little railed music gallery at the end of
the long room. He looked out from behind
a group of suits of armour, and in his
hasty movement threw a halbred down.
Terence glanced up and saw that the man
in hiding was the detective, whom he had
already seen about the place that morn
ing. The thought involuntarily shot
through the young artist’s mind that it
was he whom the man was dogging. Pre
posterous as the notion seemed Terence
could find no other explanation of his
catching so many glimpses of him, and
of the manner in which the detective
w’ould disappear as soon as he caught
Terence’s eye.
The inspection of the house finished, the
herd of visitors were driven forth into the
grounds again. Terence, who was on the
look-out, soon espied the detective on the
watch at an upper window. On purpose to
discover whether he was really the object
of the man’s suspicions. Terende escaped
from the herd and made his way to the
back of the hall. Here, however, he found
his progress stopped by a barrier which
had been erected by some workmen who
were enlarging the south w'ing of the hall.
He had to retreat, therefore, and left the
park in the rear of the tourist herd.
The rest, of the day wearily for
him. Ho wus-Mving in .i*e hope 61 x<*red
Jellett’s return that night, not so much
for the young fellow’s sake as for that of
his sister. But the evening passed away
and he did not come. Then ensued a
struggle in Terence’s mind.. Should he
go on his way and begin the hard work
which was to bring him fame? Or should
he stay mooning about here, wasting his
time, and suspected of unlawful inten
tions, for the sake of a Chance glimpse
of a girl who would not even give him a
look or a word for his pains?
Common-sense had but one answer to
this question. But to that answer he paid
no heed. He stayed and was punished
for his foolishness by a pouring wet day,
a day to wash away the high spirits of
the most bouyant, a grey day of soaking,
driving rain.
Terence looked out of the window. If
this day was dreary to him, with his thick
boots and his macintosh, his pipe and his
easel, what must it be to a young girl,
imprisoned in a cottage lodging? He had
found out where she lived; it was in a row
of little four-room, butter-colored houses,
not five hundred yards away. He looked
through the books he had brought, chose
the two he thought most likely to please
a girl, and ran down the street to her
lodging. There was no knocker, so he
hammered at the door with his knuckles.
It was opened by the young lady herself,
for there was no passage, «and the front
room was her sitting-i-oom.
Poor girl, she looker# miserable; but on
seeing wfio her visitor was, she grew cold
and stiff at once.
“Good morning,” stammered Terence,
taken aback.
“Good morning," tfhe said, with the
slightest possible bend of the head. "My
brother has not arrived yet.”
“No, I thought not. I fancied perhaps
you might be dull without him on this
wet day, so I broug’ht you some books."
He was speaking with much constraint,
feeling sorry he had come. She glSueed
at the volumes he offered.
“I have read them, thank you," slhe said.
"All right. Good morning,” was Ter
ence’s brief farewell, as he took himself
off, not hiding his mortification.
Before reaching the ipn door, he turned,
however, to tfirow back an angry glance
in the direction of the cottage. And he
saw the girl standing on the step la the
' rain, gazing at him with a half wistful
expression on her pretty, fair face. The
moment he turned she disappeared in
doors.
This visit, the girl’s reception of him, and
that inconsistent aftfer-look, filled his
thoughts for the day. Never before had
a girl taken such a hold upon him as
this gentle creature, w’ho would scarcely
throw him a civil word.
After luncheon, the rain having almost
ceased for a time, he buttoned himself
up in his mackintosh and set out for a
walk.
Though the clouds remained heavy and
lowering, the rain kept off for a couple of
hours, long enough for him to explore a
wild moor in the neighborhood. He was
four or five miles from Ingatestowe when
a storm of rain came on to which the
downfall of the morning was but an April
shower. His outer garments being wea
ther-proof, Terence at first walked stol
idly on his homeward way without a
though of seeking shelter. But he could
not smoke, for the rain put out bis pipe;
and the clayey shil stuck to his boots in
great clods, which made walking hard
work. So that when he reached a tumble
down shed, with a litHe bit of roof and
rafter remaining, he thought he would
wait there until the worst fury of the
storm was over.
As he stepped inside he was confronted
by a young girl in a long black water
proof. It was Fred Jelletts sister.
Terence’s first impulse was to retreat and
go on his way. But there was something
in the girl's face so unutterably sad, so
startlingly forlorn and weary, that his
heart yearned to comfort her. Even at
the risk of another and severer snub, he
felt he must stay. And, after all. he was
quite prepared to take with meakness such
( WEEKLY 2-TIMES-A-WEEK $1 A YEAR )
4 5 CENTS A COPY. t
( DAILY, ?10 A YEAR. f
MONDAYS
AND
THURSDAYS
as he would not have shown to any otheF
woman, whatever treatment this girl, with
her sweet face and pale golden hair, might
mete out to him. Still, there is no denying
that the situation was an awkward one.
He raised his hat apologetically, and, hes
itating on the threshold, said:
“May I wait here a little while, until
the rain is less violent?’’
“Oh, of course,” she answered, stiffen
ing immediiitely, and retreating a step
further into the corner where she was
standing.
The rain poured down through a larga
hole in the middle of the roof. Not dar
ing to approach any nearer to the haughty
lady, Terence remained near the entrance,
enjoying a little shqwer bath through the
lesser imperfections of this end of the
roof, and staring out at the black moors
and the leaden sky. /
Both man and .maid remained as still
as statues for some minutes; but at last
the former heard a little rustling, a little
fidgeting, and then he heard the girl’s
voice, speaking with an evident effort to
combine frigid reserve with common cour*
tesy. , ,
“I am afraid you are getting wet. You
had better stand at this end, where tha
roof is not so full of holes.”
He caught at the offer and came nearer
taking care not to frighten or offend heri
by any appearance of effusive gratitude.
“Thank you,’ ’said he, allowing himself
dne glance at the slender figure in black,
and noting what an adorable frame thq
plain little Puritanical black bonnet mads
to pale face and fair
Dead silence between two people stand*
Ing only three feet apart proved mucH '
more irksome than it hacFbeen when, there
was the length of the shed between them.
It soon became intolerable to the man.
“I believe it has set in for a wet night,’*
he said, abruptly, at last; “so it is not of
the least use to wait here. On the other*
hand”—and he ventured another look at
her, with her little flimsy feminine so
called waterproof cloak her kid boots anti
her already saturated umbrella—"you
can’t tramp five miles through this.”
“Oh, yes, I can. I have my waterprooi
and umbrella.”
“Umbrella! Why that’s only a toy!’*
exclaimed Terence, with masculine con
tempt. A thought struck him, daring,
brilliant. “The only way to get back will
be for me to hire a gig or cart or some
thing at a farm house I passed about half
a mile off, and drive you back to Ingates
towe.” '
Her manner, which had thawed ever so
little, grew icy again immediately.
“1 couldn’t think of troubling you,” she
said, quickly. “I don’t mind the rain; I
can walk back.”
She passed him, shaking her dripping
umbrella, as she tried to open it.
Something had gone wrong with 4t,
however, and she shook and struggled
with it ii» vain.
“Will you allow me?” said Terence.
Crimson with mortification, she yielded
the umbrella to him, and lie affected to
examine h with -grave attention. Still
fumbling, jylth an obstinate rib, and frown
ing in tw intensity of his pre-occupation,
he asked'Tfiiide: i’ y— !(
“Please don’t be offened if I ask you a
question. Why will you not allow me th«
pleasure of. doing you this tfifllipsr wrt.
Vice - *'* '
The girl's manner of receiving this ques
tion, and the words of her answer, struck
Terence dumb With consternation. Her
blue eyes sparkled; she drew herself
erect; her golce betrayed the passion with
which she was suddenly fired.
"Because I am not charitable enough to
forgive men who lead others astray,” she
answered in a tremulous voice.
And seizing from his hands the still un
opened umbrella, she dashed out into the
wet road before he could utter a word, and
setting her face toward Ingatestowe, ran
through the driving rain.
For a few moments Terence watched
her in dumb, idealess bewilderment. Was
she so silly as to be hardly sane? Or
was this only a new and original way of
freeing herself from unwelcome atten
tions? Terence could not decide. He al
lowed a few minutes to elapse, so that the
girl might not think he was pursuing
her, and then he himself set off toward
Ingatestowe, keeping astonished eyes as
he went on the flying figure before him.
They had to pass close under' i-ie park
walls on their way to the village. jThs
girl was crossing a field by a narrow
footway, when Terence, who was in the
high road some distance behind, saw a
man in the dress of a laborer spring up
from the hedge which divided the field
from the next. She uttered a cry, and
the man, by his gestures* seemed to b»
threatening her. With a loud shout, Ter
ence ran across the field toward them;
but before he came up to where the girl
stood motionless as if paralyzed with
fright, the man had disappeared.
“Which—way—did he go?”* asked Ter
ence, almost breathless.
He would have run past her, but to
his astonishment she caught his arm and
held it convulsively with both her hands.
Her face was quivering with excitement!
and fear.
“No, no,” she gasped out, “don’t—don’t
him. He—the man—did not mean to
frighten me. 1 was silly! I did not see—l
did not know that I cried out!”
She was so much distressed, so terribly
tn earnest that Terence had to appear, to
give way. He, however, yielded to her en
treaties that he would not follow the man
in such a manner as to excite her appre
hensions. She looked searchingly Into hla
face, and a little bewildered frown wrink
led her forehead.
“You meup to find him out?” she said,
slowly.
“Yes. A man who will frighten a lady
in a lonely place doesn’t deserve to get off
so easily.”
She drew a long breath.
“Do you really mean that you do not
know who it was?”
A light crossed Terence’s face.
“Was it—your brother?”
But even as he uttered the words, he
laughed Incredulously. She cut him short
with an angry. Impulsive gesture.
“You know it was,” cried she. “Why
must you always pretend, pretend, pre
tend?”
With an indignant stamp of her foot on
the wet ground, she turned quickly and
ran on agaip.
(To be Continued.
A Cheeky Little Lunih.
The Rev. Dr. Meredith, a well-known
clergyman, tries to cultivate friendly rela
tion with the younger members of his
flock, says Pearson’s Weekly. In a recent
talk to his Sunday school he urged the
children to speak to him whenever they
mot.
The next day a dirty-faced urchin, smok
ing a cigarette and having a genera dis
reputable appearance, accosted him in
the street with:
“Hullo, doctor!”
The clergyman stopped and cordially
inquired:
“And who are you, sir?”
"I’m one of your little lambs,” replied
the boy. affably. "Fine day.”
And lilting his hat on his head he swag
gered off, leaving the worthy divine
speechless with amazement.
—“Last night I dreamed that I died.
What do you suppose waked me up?”
"Was it the heat?”—Life.
NO. 75.