Newspaper Page Text
2
But with your marriage, daughter Eliza,
} hail bee in the golden age. I will give
■fetes, and the world shall wonder before
my splendor as it has before my renoun.
This old Frankish building shall put on a
festival dress, and gleam w ith gay pictuics
as for a carnival. Cremato comes again,
and his brush shall prove worthy of my
generosity.”
•ii Cremato I” repeated the Queen, woti
derimdy ; “ Cremato,” cried the Princesses
to aether, as tlley recalled the wonderful,
sprightly Italian, who had many times
appeared at the court like a dying sha
dow, and as quickly disappeared; and who
did not fear to express the strongest criti
cisms on the drawings of toe royal chil
dren, but from whom the little students
learned more in a quarter of an hour—-
when he sometimes condescended to in
struct—than from their well-paid court
teacher in months. The Queen thought
proper to send the curious Princesses to
their apartments, a command that \>as
quietly obeyed.
“ What will Cremato here ?” she asked
her husband, who, sunken in plans for the
brilliant future, walked silently back and
forward. “11 is name wakes only sorrow
ful recollections. Is there anew con
spiracy to denounce ? Shall blood flow
again ? Shall the innocent again wander
in misery? Speak, my husband! "Why
shall the terrible accuser, who has the
misery of thousands on his soul, return .
“ Woman condemns as quickly and as
thoughtlessly as she excuses,” replied the
King, earnestly. “ Cremato, having by
accident become acquainted with the first
threads of the conspiracy, fulfilled the duty
of a brave citizen in disclosing them.
Cremato owed this service to the land
and the prince who then gave him protec
tion and security. The most indifferent
stranger would have been to that extent
under moral obligations. Cremato res
cued thy throne through his denuncia
tion. Neither for this favor nor the dis
interestedness which refused every re
ward does he deserve the unthankfulncss
which thy mouth has spoken against him.
It is true that many persons fell, but the
pressure of necessity absolutely demanded
them. Therefore, no word more about
it! For all 1 have done—except one—l
will answer before Him who judges the
most powerful.”
“ And must this one example of ven
geance work on forever ? Thy suspicious
jealousy drove poor x\lbo to a certain
death ; and still, after my innocence was
manilest, must make his family the offer
ing of an ever insatiate revenge. (To
mato’s accusation—”
“ Not so,” replied the king, with vexa
tion. “ The guilt of the women came to
my ear from another source. A report
was spread that Albo was sacrificed ...
enough; the mother breathed vengeance,
and for this the law demanded her life. I
was gracious still!”
“ Fearful grace,” cried the queen,
‘•'which drove the unfortunate from their
home and the graves of their dead, to
wander in poverty and misery in a strange
land. That was not what 1 asked when
I prayed for mercy for the innocent;
that was not what they expected when
when they sent petitions to thy throne to
recall the sentence, and to allow them to
return to their native land, even if it
must be in poverty and want.”
“ A ruler does not play with law and
verdict like the conjuror with a snake,’’
spoke the King, sharply. “ The women
who were thirsting for revenge could not
be allowed to come back at that time;
they cannot now ; nevermore. And you,
madanic, might better let the dead rest.
Your 'codings lead you to | false conclu
sion. The gift of a few flowers caused
die death of the thoughtless Albo. Your
tears for that are shed in vain. The
youth’s destiny and my passion bear all
the blame. You arc free from all re
sponsibly. Do not disturb yourself
longer with frightful fancies. Leave the
burden to my conscience. Admonishing
to repentence is of no use, and only em
bitters. Such attempts it was, madamc,
that drove from my side the painter Cre
mato, to whom I had given my confi
dence. He did not accuse Albo’s family,
as you falsely believe ; he defended them
only too boldly. He took the liberty to
speak to my conscience—to play the
Massillon to me. lam tolerant only to a
certain extent, and for nine years he lias
avoided the court, at which he so often
appeared and went like a bird of passage .”
*■ I did not know the man as you have
painted him to me, sire,” said the Queen,
only half convinced. “My heart shud
ders bet re extreme punishment and se
\ ere reti ibution; therefore I trembled be
fore the informer who called forth both
at that t uio. You say he comes a min ?
Where has he lived, and how, until now ?”
“I must explain,” replied the Kins,
“ that 1 have no correct account of this
man’s residence for some time. He was
a person worthy to be the friend of a
King. I am not a chief of police. I
need to know of nothing more. Ilad lie
any settled dwelling-place? I do not
know. In my dominions he has only
wandered back and forth since that time.
But, so much as I desired to see him
again, I do not know whether I should
not rather dread the meeting, as for
many years I preserve his remembrance
in fear.”
“ Fear!” asked the Queen, with won
dering eves: “ does the hero, my hus
band, know the possibility of fear ?”
“The heart of iron trembles before the
Eternal Judge, even when he speaks
through the fearless tongue of a human
being,” answered the King, with anxiety
depicted on his countenance. “ Cremato’s
last words might convince thee, my guile
less wife! He pleaded with impetuous
eloquence for Albo’s sentenced family ;
painted their suffering, that they must
die far from the land that bore them, and
asked their recall in the name of humani
ty. I refused.
*/ *
“ ‘ Well!” spoke then the peculiar man,
coldly and threateningly to me; ‘I desist
from further attempts to move the cold
heart of the conqueror. Fortune’s son
no longer recognizes the unfortunate.
But, from now on, another shall speak to
him in my stead. Albo’s fall, and the
accompanying circumstances, are no se
cret, and my brush shall immortalize
the unfortunate. His picture, in the
pale mask of death —his picture—the
herald of bloody tyranny, be my rest
work, and the recollection that I leave to
you, sire. Take it as my legacy ; and as
often as injustice or cruelty comes into
your soul, or on your lips, so often may
this pale face, swaying on black ground,
stand before your eyes. May it serve to
moderate your vengenco ; may it be to
presumption a reminder of annihilation;
may it sharpen the penitence ot your
conscience.’ He went, but the sting ot
his words remained with me from that
hour. My self-consciousness turned, thou
sands and thousands of times, back to the
terrible picture which be had leiL to tor
ture me. Many times, as my dreaming
thoughts wandered over my battle-fields,
arose, from all (he bodies only this one
giant countenance, ghost-like, before me.
Often, when overcome by the weariness
of business, I rested upon a chair, 1 have
seen on the wall the promised picture—
like to the old countenances ot Christ,
which swung on a black ground, without
neck or robe —frightfully and threaten
ingly coining nearer, as a phantasmagoric
imaged’
“ Stop!” cried the Queen, in terror, for,
in addition to the shock which the refer
ence to Albo had given her, the counte
nance of her hand had, while lie had
been speaking, become like that of a
ghost, and his voice had sunk to a hoarse
whisper. “ The dreadful Cremato,” con
tinued she, “has he kept his word ?
How long has the unholy gift been in
your hands? and have you destroyed
it ?”
The King shook his head. “1 have
never seen the painting,” lie answered.
“ Cremato has not kept his word ; but I
feel —I know certainly—that the picture
is ended; that it exists; and that, it it
came into my hands, the strength to de
stroy it would fail me; but look upon it I
could not, for my fancy has already crea
ted it to break my heart. Countless sen
tences has it, mitigated, countless misfor
tunes arrested; for, whenever I have
taken the pen or opened the mouth to
decide over the life, happiness, or honor
of any subject, 1 saw him—l saw Cre
in a to’s dreadful work opposite me.”
The King stopped suddenly, took a tew
thoughtful steps through the room, and
went out; but the overpowering feeling
which the disclosure of the long-kept
secret had aroused in him, prevented the
monarch’s enjoying his rest. He left his
couch, opened the window, and looked
out into the still, cool summer night.
The trees of the grove whispered, while
here and there a drop, condensed from
the moist air, fell, sounding from leaf
to leaf, and from the distance came an
indistinct harmony, disturbing the song
of the nightingale. As the listener’s ear
became accustomed to the rustling of the
forest, the distant sounds became more
distinct and figured themselves into a
song that the King recognized, while it
recalled a sweet tide of youthful recollec
tions. The past, lying far back behind
the confusion of endless wars, behind the
tumultuous years of ambition and seek
ing for glory, worked its nameless magic
on his soul. He saw himself again a boy
on the rocks of the Mediterranean sea ; he
heard again as then —with never-ending
satisfaction, the melodious song ot the
fishermen, as they rowed out in the golden
gleaming of the morning red, or in the
rosy shimmer of evening, when returning
into secure harbors and the peace ot their
homes.
O sauctissima,
O piissima
Dulcis Virgo Maria!
Mater amata,
Intemerata.
Ora pro nobis!
[to BE CONTINUED. 1 !
Jerome Fenwick’s Cure.
“Don’t go out to-night, Jerome—stay
with me! Oh, Jerome! It is so lonely
when you are away!” The little kitchen
had been swept and scoured until every
board glistened like polished ivory—the
red moreen curtains were drawn over the
tiny paned window, and the great chcsnut
logs in the fire-place were singing, and
simmering, and bursting into scarlet sheets
of flame, with capricious alternations. A
little Christmas cross of hemlock sprigs
and black ivy yet hung between the two
windows, while Rosa Fenwick’s monthly
roses and scented geraniums tossed their
delicate blossoms among the red peppers
and bunches of pennyroyal and catnip on
the smoke-hiowned mantle above the
chimney. Rosa, our heroine, was nothing
more dignified than a farmer’s wife.
Jerome Fenwick, a tall, stalwart young
fellow of some seven or eight and twenty,
bit bis lip, as Rosa still kept urging.
“Stay with me this evening—only this
once !”
“Nonsense, Rosa ; how ridiculous you
are. A man can’t stay at home forever.”
“But you were out last night and the
night before.”
“Well, what then ? Now, my love,
don’t you see how very absurd it is to
expect mo to be always dangling at your
apron strings; I tell you I’m going down
to the Columbian to look at the papers
and talk over the news.”
“To the Columbian!” echoed Aunt
Tryphosa Fenwick, suddenly appearing
out of the subterranean depths of a trap
door, very much ala ghost upon the
stags, only that she bore a pan of glossy
red apples in one hand and brandished a
formidable knife in the other.
“Ah-h-h! you’re going to the Colum
bian, be ye, Jerome Fenwick ?
“Yes, I am—and what then?” return
ed the young man, a spice of sullen de
fiance beginning to mingle with the play
ful tone lie had assumed towards his ]
wife.
“And I s’pose you’re coming back j
stunicler nor a fool, as you came last night !
—or perhaps you’re cornin’ with Peter
Stryker at your head and Sam Gerney at
your heels, as you came last week ; pretty
doiri’s these, for a feller that hain’t been
marri(M a year yet !”
“Dear Jerome,” pleaded Rosa, looking
up through sparkling tears, “please do
not go out to-night.”
“What d’ye s’pose you’re coming to ?*’
went on Aunt Tryphose, digging away
at the apples as spitefully as if every
one had been a modern Marsyas, and i
she a spectacled Apollo ; p’raps you have ;
forgot how Pilkinham froze to death, a j
year ago come February, down by the !
hemlock holler, with the snow two feet
deep on the ground. He’d read the pa
pers and talked over the news ! He’d
been to the Columbian, too! And mebbe
you don’t remember how Josiah Hopkins
went off in the delirium tremens last
June, all along o’ that same Columbian.
He hadn’t no pretty young wife at home
to cry her eyes out arter his good-fur
nothin’ bones, though, Josiah Hopkins
hadn’t. Oh!” ejaculated Aunt Tryphosa,
emphatically, “I wish the Maine law was
enforced. Better stay at home, Jerome
Fenwick, afore bad comes to worse !”
Jerome Fenwick’s brow Hushed and his j
face became crimson.
“I shall do precisely as 1 please, Aunt
Tryphosa. Where’s my hat?”
“Tain’t for myself I’m speak’mV went
on the wrathful old lady, suspending her
knife in mid-air, “tho’ you he my broth
er’s son. It’s for Rosa ! Do you s’pose
she ain’t got no feelins, when you come
home night after night as intoxicated as
a fool ? Good land o’ Goshen! if l was
Rosa I’d go down to the Columbian too,
and drink ’long with you. She’s got just
as good a right to be a fool as von have !
flow’d you like that, Jerome Fenwick?’*
He went out, giving the unconscious
door a bang that made the cat start in
her cozy corner of the real brick hearth,
and brought a fresh torrent of tears to
Rosa’s blue eyes.
“Oh, Aunt Tryphosa,” she sobbed,
hiding her flushed lace among the apples
in the good spinster’s lap, “what shall we
do ? He is being ruined —and I—l have
no power to hold him back.
“Sarve him right! an obstinate fool b
muttered the irate old lady, '"t ot, even
while the words were on her lips, the
bony fingers caressed Rosa a hair witn a
strangely loving touch.
“For your sake, Rosa ! I’m vexed, tor
your sake, my pretty one !
“If I had but known—yet he was so
different in the days when we used to
take those twilight walks, in the days
before we were married. My husband a
drunkard! O, Aunt Tryphosa! I would
sooner we were both in our graves 1
“Don’t talk so, pet,” murmured Aunt
Tryphosa, taking oft her dim spectacles.
“The Lord knows what’s for us all,
but—”
\ “Hush!” ejaculated Rosa, springing to
her feet. “I hear the gate click! Aunt
Tryphosa he has thought better of it !
he has come back !”
No; the slightly fair, almost girlish
ooking young fellow, in the lieutenant’s
uniform, was not Jerome Fenwick—and
there was a touch of bitterness even in
the welcoming tears that Rosa poured out
on the breast of the soldier brother she
had not seen for three long years.”
“Hallo!” exclaimed Charley Warner.
“Why, I thought you were so happy,
Rosa. And where’s my new brother-m
--aw ?”
“ He—isn’t at home,” sobbed out
Rosa, “0, Charlie. I am very, very mis
erable.”
“Well, this is a queer welcome,” quoth
the lieutenant, sitting down in front of
the blazing chesnut logs, and drawing
Rosa upon his knee, “now, puss, tell me
all about it—and somebody hold my
hands tight, for I feci very much like
giving my unknown brother-in-law a
thrashing before I know anything of the
merits of the case.”
“Well, 1 reckon it’s about time for me
to be moving.”
Now, Jerome Fenwick was none the
worse for the frequent libations in which
he had indulged ; at least not in his own
estimation. For he had firmly resolved,
on entering the green baize doors of
the Columbian Hotel, not to drink too
much, and lie fancied lie had kept the
resolution. Only—to be sure the sanded
floor did sir ge to and fro a little-- and
the great logs in the chimney seemed to
change places with tho floor in a most
unaccountable manner, and the voices
around him now sounded close to his ear,
now far away, as if the speakers were re
ceding into dim distance, Yet, Jerome
Fenwick, with very wide open eyes, and
a turbid amiability upon his features, re
iterated to himself “that he was all right
—as right as a trivet.”
“Because you see,” soliloquised Jerome,
aloud. “I’m a married man —and—and
—duties I owe to society. I can’t be
druuk, because”—
He caught at the arm of his chair as it
seemed to give a sudden lurch ceiling
ward.
“I guess I'll go back to Rosa!”
In the same moment a sudden electric
thrill seemed to send the hot blood back
to his heart. Rosa! yes, it washer voice,
speaking in the bar-room beyond ! Iler
voice, and in what words !
“A glass of gin-sling—and be quick
about it. Pshaw! none of your dish
water compounds! make it hot and strong,
man!”
“Mrs. Fenwick!” ejaculated mine host,
in dismay.
“Yes, Mrs. Fenwick—what are you
staring at ? My husband is here, isn’t
he ? and I’ve come to keep him company.
I’m tired of staying at home by myself.
If he’s going to make a regular practice
of getting drunk here, why, he may as
well do it in his wife’s company, and I’ll
be drunk, too!’’
“Rosa !”
“Yes, my dear. Good evening to you.
gentlemen,” she said, nodding to the
staring assemblage, and taking a long
draught. “ Upon my word, this feels
warming after the night air. You are
right—it is better than crouching over
the tire at home. You’re right, my dear
—you’re always right, and hereafter I’m
going to follow your example.”
“Rosa, are you mad? Come home.
4/
child,” whispered Jerome, in an agony of
mortification.
“'Another glass, landlord,” ejaculated
the Amazon, giving Jerome a push with
her elbow. “I didn't know it was so
good. Try a taste of it, Jerome ”
“Rosa, [ command von to come
away.”
“What for ? Haven’t las much right
here as any one ? You said you didn’t
care whether I came or not—and here j
am !’
Jerome wiped the drops of perspiration
from his brow and upper lip.
“Do not mortify me thus, Rosa,” he
whispered. “Remember these specta
tors.”
“Well, you have mortified me enough
times ; and it’s a poor rule that won't
work both ways. Landlord—l think—
I’ll—take—” ‘
She paused abruptly, the two glasses of
fiery liquid apparently beginning to tell
on her female brain. Her head fell on
her breast, the blue eyes stared stonily
into space, and the arms fell heavily at
her side.
“She’s gone!” exclaimed Joe Ilyde,
who had watched the crisis with interest.
“I will trouble you to mind your own
business, sir. if you please,” returned Jo
romc Fenwick, haughtily. Ah, his pride
was touched to the quick now. “Clark
Tiffany, will you help me carry my—my
wife home ? She is quite unable to walk.
Good heavens, that 1 should have lived
to sec this day!”
Clark Tiffany advanced, with a subdued
grin upon his face, to assist his boon com
panion. But it was no easy tasu that
they had undertaken. Never was so total
ly limp and helpless a burden before :
from the tip of the pink worsted hood to
the fur-edged moccasin there was no spark
of elasticity or animation, as the two men
dragged their slow way over the hard
frozen ground.
“Abomination! disgraceful!” muttered
Fenwick, wiping his streaming forehead.
“Just what you have done yourself a
dozen times,” remarked Tiffany, changing
the arm that supported the leaden shoul
ders. “Jupiter! who would have supposed
a woman could he so heavy!”
“Myself! Os course I have—more
shame to 111 c!” retorted Fenwick. “But
a woman, and my wife!”
“I don't know that it’s any worse for a
woman than a man,” said Tiffany, “only
it’s not customary.”
“One thing is certain,” resumed Fen
wick, after a moment’s silence, and In’s
tone was full of deep, passionate earnest
ness, “after this night’s work, I will cut
off my right hand before I will re-enter
that accursed bar-room ! I’ve drank my
last liquor.”
“That—that’s not fair,” sleepily mut
tered the burden. “Just when I've
begun to enjoy myself!—it —it,l say, it’s
not fair.”
A smothered groan escaped from Fen
wick's lips.
“Before heaven I register the vow :”
he exclaimed. “From this hour I will
never touch intoxicating draughts more,
so help me, God!”
As lie spoke, the red, flickering stream
of light from the moreen-curtained window
glanced athwart their path.
“Home at last!” he exclaimed, with an
accent of relief, as Aunt Tryphosa flung ,
open the door.
The fire was blazing brightly, the cat
was purring contentedly on the burnished
bricks of the old-fashioned hearth, and,
wonder of wonder ! Rosa sat by the table
in tiie dark brown calico and coquettish
silk apron, stitching at a narrow strip of
linen.
“Rosa!” gasped Jerome, in open
mouthed astonishment. “You here ?”
“Where else should I be, Jerome ?”
demanded Mrs. Fenwick, with exemplary
calmness.
“Do we live in the age of witchcraft ?
Am I dreaming, or am 1 wide awake,
and in full possession of my ordinary
senses?” exclaimed Fenwick, turning to
the limp figure on the kitchen settee.
No longer limp, however. It had sud
denly risen up, straight and vigorous a<
a young pine, and throwing back the
gingham draperies and worsted hood,
stood before them in the uniform of a
lieutenant.
“At vour service, Mr. Fenwick,” said
•/
Charley Warner, with dancing eyes and
defiant brow.
“Ilosft,” said Jerome, still bewildered,
“who is this ?”
“It is my brother. Jerome—my brother
Charley ” faltered Rosa; “don't be angry,
please—indeed I couldn’t stop him—he
would go, and Aunt Tryphosa encouraged
him ”
“Well, I’m heartily' glad it’s not my
wife,” said Jerome, extending his hand.
“Welcome home from the wars, brother
in-law; but I question whether any vic
tory in which 3*oll have been concerned
during* the tlire years of your absence can
equal the victory you have this night
gained.”
“Jerome!” exclaimed Rosa, “surely
you have not—”
“But he has though,” interposed Lieu
tenant Charley, leisurely lighting a cigar
among the smouldering chestnut. “I
bear witness that lie lias this night sol
emnly pledged himself to abstain forever
more from the Columbian, and all that
pertains thereto. Isn't it so, my friend,
that so kindly held up my head ?”
“Well, I thought you were rather
heavy,” acknowledged Clark Tiffany'.
“But no offence, sir; I really don’t see
how your head stands those two glasses of
gin.”
“Ah, that’s because I’ve been in the
army,” responded Lieutenant Warner,
with charming frankness. “What, little
Rosa, crying again
“Don’t mind me, Charley, it’s only be
cause I’m so happy.”
“Happy, eh ? Well, it isn’t my way
of expressing happiness,” observed War
ner “And Aunt Tryphosa is crying,
too. W ell, I’ve read a good manv ouz
zles in my day, but a woman is the most
unaccountable of ’em all."
Lieutenant Warner did not know that
upon that bright flood of tears all Rosa
Fenwick’s doubts, fears, and inward dis
tresses were swept away into the past.
She was erving only because she was
happy.
Signor Verdi is in Paris to superintend
the bringing out, at the Italian Opera, of
his “ Giovanna d’Areo,” which has never
1 been performed there.