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IN A DARK HOUR.
(iertnule Hall in the Century.
rphose tend *!■ rm> there: When such little things,
Such helpless, fragile little things we are—
How they pray iiou for us I How they make
war
For us with death 1 And spread their mother
wings
About us lull of anxious quiverings.
And spying each least peril from afar.
With then- own arms, thereto made mighty,
bar
The way from harms and smile at adder
stings.
And brave the tigers merciless and wild.
In their deep love for ns: anil by and by.
When we are men. to strive and stand alone.
We clasp our desneruxo. aching heads and moan:
Would God my mother had left me to die!
Would I had died a sinless little child!
MORNING LIBRARY, NO. 47.
five old letters.
by MISS S. LUCY JOYNER.
[Copyrighted, IBS7, by J. H. Estill.]
CHAPTER lll.—Continued.
June 150. —I have made a mistake! I have
been weak and blind! It was only because
my life had grown so barren that I deceived
nivself into believing that I could be hap
pier as Robert’s wife. Now—oh, strange
contradiction in our strange humanity!—it
seems to me it had one blessed joy then
above all others—freedom and a clear con
science! This poor room becomes im
measurably dearer to me as the time to
leave it draws near. I feel as if 1 would
gladly live the old life for years to come
rather than enter upon the one that spreads
out so fair before me. It is a dreary feel
ing; a little sadder, I believe, than any other
heartache; the feeling that my life has been
wasted, that I don’t know what it is. It
must be that I do not love him, and that I
am doing him a wrong in pretending so.
Jeffrey, do you know anything about such
things? Would it be kinder, do you think,
to tell him the truth? When I make up my
mind to do this I feel as if I cannot meet
the reproachful sadness of his eyes.
July 3. —I might have spared myself the
dread' of marrying Robert. He is dead! I
write the words quietly, with a strange and
bitter tumult in my heart. And so my
poor little dream is ended! Does it not
seem an awful thing! This morning he left
me full of hea Ith and hope; and to-night he
is lying over there in his stately home, with
his loyal, loving heart forever still!
O, iny friend! Omy strong heart! Was
it because I valued your love too lightly
that God took it from me? His parting
words have haunted me all day. He had to
take a long drive in the country, and came
to tell me that he might not return until to
morrow.
'•Shall you miss me, Bessie?” he asked.
I said “Yes,” but I do not think he was
satisfied. He took my face in both his
hands.
“Are you happy, child!” he asked again.
I wish to heaven I had answered him dif
ferently! I wish —alas! how fruitlessly!
—that I had said something to drive away
that look of sorrowful yearning in his eyes.
But I did not, for his last words were:
“I trust you have not made a mistake.”
The very words I had written to you! I
think life is full of mistakes!
It must be that God lets us blunder, and
means that we shall —
“Rise oa stepping-stones
Of our dea ‘ selves to higher things.”
I was restless when he had gone. I re
solved that when he returned I would try
harder to make him happy, and that I
would never grieve him by telling him my
fears. As the day wore on he was more and
more in my thoughts. All the brave un
•tlfish things I knew of him, his gentlest
words and lovingest smiles, how they
thronged my brain! Did God ever make a
finer nature? Had mine grown discordant
that it could not harmonize with one so
perfectly attuned to all high and noble im
pulses ?
I picked up a volume of his favorite—
“ Charles Lamb.” On the fly leaf were
these words written with pencil:
“I fancied long "ago that, like
‘the gentle Charles,’ I should lead
a life of single blessedness—or curs
edness mine would be—as bis must
have been, but for its unselfish devotion to
his sister, its brave bearing of a lonely bur
den—that made it blessed and beautiful be
yond all words! But I was wrong in that.
My future now looks so fair and perfect
that I seem half bewildered with too much
joy—and yet there are moments when I doubt
its being anything but a beautiful dream”
—a few more words had been written and
rubbed out.
Tears were in my eyes, as I thought, “The
‘beautiful dream’ shall last. I have prom
ised. and I wi.l be true. God helping me, I
will bear my ‘lonely burden’ to the end!”
Early in the afternoon Biddy O’Flannigan
came up to my room. Nurse followed close
behind her, and my heart tainted within me
as 1 saw her raise the corner of her apron to
her eyes.
"Child,” began Biddy, “let me rest here
jist aminnit.”
She took out a huge red handkerchief and
wiped her face. Then she folded it with
nice precision, and looked sideways at it as
she laid it on her lap. Then she took a note
out of her bosom and eyed that in the same
suspicious way. Then she clutched at her
red face with both red hands, and I fell to
crying, while nurse drew a little nearer
and began to feel iny pulse. Frightened as
1 was, I could not help laughing, as I begged
them to tell me if anything had hap
pened.
“Mtav a bit,” Biddy began again, choking
down her sobs, and applying the big hand
kerchief vigorously. “I must spake to ye
agin ye rude that paper. Do you think,
honey, as ye could i ver make up yer moind
like Moses, or some o’ the blissid Scripter
saints, fur to giv’ up yer one yo lam’ should,
the blissid Faythor ask it of ye?”
“Josie! oil! not that, Biddy!” I gasped.
“Not that, indade, my darlint. Misthress
Josie is well, an’ shure an’ that should be a
cumfit to ye! It’s him—the docthrer —
thro wed by that divilish black baste o’ his
that I niver could abide the looks on. But
doan’t, honey! Don't look like that! Jist
lay yer head down here, my lam’, an’ let the
tears come. They’ll help you, shure an’ they
willl”
pod help us when we shed such tears!
” hen some true heart one has grieved and
wronged can no longer be moved by aught
one can say or do; and one feels that if the
dark curtain that hangs like a pall between
Jife and the mysteries of the beyond might
ne lifted, .nothing could keep back the
tenderness one now wastes on the lifeless
clay!
* * * * * *
I will not say lam lonely. Iso truly de
"iwe to be lonely; so truly deserve to have
lost the friend my way ward heart would
never own for its king.
1 he days come ami go, and Edith and I
sre working and waiting together. Work
*hg that we might live. Waiting because
we cannot choose but wait. One has only
t" look into Edith’s sad face on which there
•pits a look of fixed resolve to see for what
she is waiting. Mho is in the full bloom of
womanhood, being not more than six years
’ey s-nior. Mr. Temple has asked her to
J“m bis regularly organised band of “sis
-1,1 as she already does the work of one
among the poor and rich of Ids parish. But
"he says she is not fit for that; that she
nmst work more humbly. Hhc tells me
that bar one object and hope in life is to
a'one for the mistakes of the* past. I watch
her sometimes bowling all her line |X>wer*
?* mind and person to this one purjwse. I
allow that the work she doe* is not easy for
Edith. Hho is proud and reticent, awl must
•■brink from contact with coarser nature;
1 lliii-d awl sennit! ve, and the sin and mis
ery sin’ strives to lamen must boa dally
slinelt n, her,
i know that she does not ilka to sew, and
i J’ et sews busily on endless ugly little gar-
I ln ents, while Ido what I like best in the
evening.
1 i am not greatly changed. If I have
j learned a tew of life’s saddest lessons, they
| have not yet taught me the lofty self-for
j getfulness that makes Edith’s life so beauti
| nil in my eyes. Perhaps lam a little wiser
: ami graver. Ido not know. I love life,
j Md cling tq it; love my work, my books, the
j room that is yet hallowed by my' darling’s
presence. Love, with a perverse intensity,
this green and gladsome earth, with its
daily unfolding treasures in nature and art.
In the first cruel loss of ray life I wanted
to die. \\ hen the hand of God smites us
heavily in our first youth, that is ever the
cry of the bruised and bleeding heart. No
later draught of sorrow can be quite so bit
ter and unendurable.”
. The clock on the mantle points to 12 as I
finish this letter. I walk to the window
and look out on the moon-bathed garden.
Just beyond the river winds a shining sil
ver girdle between the masses of dark foli
age that form the grand, trailing robe of the
star-crowned night.
• Inly glad and grateful thoughts are in
my heart. Memories of the past have flit
ted from me. lam thinking of my home
and of my wife!
I have only one more letter, and before I
read that a fancy comes to me. I will fill
out the story in my own poor way, the
sweet story of my love. In doing so I must
go back to a period in my life that I never
think of but with bitter pain. Soothed to
the soul by the exquisitely still and solemn
sweetness of the scene before me, I turn
from the window, and drawing a chair
to my writing-desk, take up pen and pa
per.
CHAPTER IV.
Thirty years ago there stood in the most
dismal part of Veniceaji old stone building.
It w as tall, and grim-looking, and blackened
by age and damp. Its upper balcony’, to
which you ascended by steps irregularly
winding from the ground at the water’s
edge, jutted out over the street, giving it a
gloomy and threatening aspect, like some
hideous, black monster brooding over the
dark lagoon. In this house the greater
part of my childhood was passed. My
lather, James Harwood, was a student and
a lover of art, though himself uo artist. He
was a writer of more than ordinary ability,
and a man of profound and varied learn
ing, but of peculiar temper and proud, un
bending will. My mother was a Venetian
She had the rich Italian beauty and the
warm, loving nature of the South. She
loved my father fervently. I do not re
member ever to have heard her say so, or
to have seen her show her love to him. It
w r as when she sat alone in her lofty cham
ber, in the gloomy house, while he wrote in
his study; when she floated down the shad
ow’y streets, w’ith her two children by her
side, while he paced the moonlit piazza with
his head in the clouds; when she came to our
bedside at night, and, kneeling with us,
prayed for our father—-and never without
tears—while he was out dining with his
triends; when she listened patiently to im
patient words, with a look of dumb pain in
her soft eyes. At such times my child
-1 heart told me that she loved him—and that
she was unhappy’. I was afraid of my
father and I thought she was* I was proud
of him, too, but I seldom spoke in his pres
ence. There was but one of us who knew
tho key to his affections; the only being to
whom he was loving and gentle—my
mother’s namesake, our Olive. I remem
ber the fragile lily-face, with its sad gray
eyes, and abundant dark hair. She fell
down the dark steps into the water one day,
and the lifeless form was laid on our own
little bed, nevermore to flit through the si
lent rooms! Then my father forgot his
books. His grief was terrible, but he put
us away from him and bore it alone. I
have often wondefed who suffered more;
he, in his proud isolation, scorning sympa
thy’, or she, my patient mother, yearning
for it with all the strength of her stricken
heart, yet knowing she would never receive
it from him. Mine was a strange and
lonely life for a child, and yet a kind of
charmed life too, I was always delicate,
and often could not leave the house for
weeks. On bright days when the pain was
very bad they would draw my couch to the
window of my mother’s room that looked
out on the sea rolling at the foot of the
stone staii-s: on the grand old palace lifting
its proud head in the distance against the
blue sky; on the tall shins resting on the
bosom of the shining Adriatic; on glittering
church spires pointing heavenward. I
could sec the sunlight dancing on the
waves, could hear the ripple of the water as
the littlo boats glided past the window, and
fragments of boat-songs, and shouts of gay
laughter floated up to my ears. Within the
room were books and pictures and play
things. At my side was my sweet mother.
But a shadow hung over the dark old
dwelling. Nothing could make it cheerful,
in my eyes. Like a wild bird that beats its
head against the bare of its gilded cage, I
fretted and pined for the free air, and water
and sunshine!
But there were glorious days when the
whole wonderful city w'as my own. When
we skimmed over the sparkling watei-s,
past gardens that looked like fairy-land,
past shrines and terraces, and bridges and
churches, and picturesque women, and lazy
men asleep on marble steps in the sunshine,
with the water lapping their feet.
And the pictures in the churches! How
wonderful they seemed in my childish eyes I
Though I did uot always like the ones my
mother said were the best. She was the
patient, unwearying companion of all my
pleasure. She would never let me go out
alone after Olive died. For I missed my
sister, and often sobben myself to sleep in
my mother’s arms; and nestled closer as 1
listened to the plash of the water below;
the ugly, black water that had swallowed
our darling. It always made me shudder
at night. It was one of my fancies that
Olive’s voice spoke to us in its lonely mur
mur. I was not a loveable child. My
mother and the servants gratified my every’
whim, and spoiled ine. I was willful and
passionate, but not unloving, except to my
rather. His indifference stung my sensitive
pride. 1 requited his coldness with cold
ness. I heard him say one day to his
friend for whom I was named:
“The boy has no feeling. He has mind
and will. "By heaven! and temper too; but
he lias no love for any one except his
mother, and that is entirely selfish. He is
totally unlike ray lovely Olive.”
Could he have seen “the boy” a half hour
later, sitting in an old church where there
was a picture of St. Peter, whose strong,
rugged features looked like the father he
loved in spite of his harshness! Could he
have seen the sad little figure crouched be
fore the high altar and shaken with sobs!
the young heart swelling with such cruel
pain as childhood ought nevor to know!
We left Venice after Olive died, and
traveled for two years. One summer we
spent in Switzerland. But my father was
strangely restless away from the place he
loved to call home. 1 afterward learned
tho secret of its terrible fascination for
him. He made frequent lonely visits far
up into the mountains, and my mother and
1 were left to ourselves. That summer in
the little Swiss village is the happiest recol
lection of my early childhood. The
healthy, sun-browned mountain children
came to play with me, and brought me
flowers and fruit. They must have pitied
me very much. I climbed the mountans
with them to the music of the roaring
waterfalls, and drank such bewildering
draughts of tho pure, sweet air that I grew
strong and well. It made my mother very
ta -Tou are growing so strong, Jeffrey, my
darling, and so handsome that your father
will not know you when ho comes," she
said t<* me once.
• ■ Why do vou sjieak to me of him f” I said,
fretfully. “He won’t care! You know he
never can* about me.”
“I am ran) he does. You do not under
stand your father. He has a kind heart,
but”—lt broke off and looked steadily
away from me, but 1 saw the two tears that
fell on her hands.
j low could she justify K* harshness to til*
only son? I threw iuv aim* around her
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1887.
neck, and we both cried. After that day
we did not speak of him.
When we returned home she ltegan to
droop. I did not understand for a long
time. My lather left his books sometimes
and staid with her. He was more gentle in
his manner toward her, but tew words
passed between them. One day he said:
“Olive, I want your forgiveness. It is too
late now to make you happy, if I ever
could. But >’ou have been a true wife, and
I have always loved you. 1 cannot say
more.”
She seemed content with that. She gave
him a look of unutterable love, and the
smile that came into her face never left it.
One day she called me to her, and with in
finite tenderness and pity in her voice told
me she was dying. Ah. me! I saw it then!
Wild with grief, I clung to her breast, and
said she should ni t leave me! 1 would not
let her go! She was mine, and God did not
need her, and He had no right to t ike her.
I remember how beautiful she was in
death, how sweet and restful she looked —
yet I shrank away from her, frightened at
the icy lips I tried to kiss. I think 1 must
have died that night, hidden down in the
bed-clothes, shudderiug in the darkness and
loneliness if my father had not come up to
me. He did not speak to me, but he held
my hand, and did not scold me for crying.
lii my childish misery I vowed that 1 never
would try again to love the God that took
my mother away. I had her intense na
ture and his fierce pride. She had taught
me the love, he the bitterness!
My father’s cousin and nearest relative
was Harold Harwood, of Harwood Place.
Soon after my mother’s death he wrote to
my father and asked him to bring me to
visit my’ cousins. The idea seem to please
him, aiid he took me there. He staid a
nibnth, and when he started on his travels
again I begged him to leave me. He was
not what he had been. Ho seemed broken
and sad. I longed to know if his heart
ached for my mother as mine did, but 1
would not ask him. He left me with the
promise that he would return at the end of
the year and take mo back to Venice. I
was 12 years old. My cousins were girls of
8 and 6 y’ears.
Their bright wavs were like a revelation
to me—a revelation of what childhood con
tains of innocent mirth and free, untroubled
happiness. How different from mine!
They had no mother, but their brother had
so tenderly taken care of them that they
scarcely missed her. They almost wor
shiped him, and were perfectly frank and
free in their manner to uim.
The black nurse, at the head of the well
trained servants, kept them and the house
in perfect order. She was the most capable
black I ever saw. Tall and stately in ap
pearance,scrupulously neat in her dress,with
a kind of motherliness in the homely’ face
(with its wide mouth and great, shining
eyes) that made it good to look at. I had
been an exile from the home of my’ fathers
from my birth, and knew nothing of the
customs of the South. 1 used to wonder
very much when I saw my’ cousins climb
into her lap and cover her tawny cheeks
with kisses.
At first I was proud and shy, but I soon
felt that she gave me sy'mpathy, and my
heart opened.
I shall always remember the astonished
look in Bessie’s eyes when I told her one day
that I did not love God because He was
cruel and took my mother where I could
never see her.
“And where is she?” she asked me.
“In Paradise,” I said.
“And isn’t God there, too?”
“I suppose so,” I answered, doggedly.
“Then X think you ought to love Him,”
she said, “for didn't He take her there, as
He did our mother, beause He loved ner,
and wanted her tj be ever so happy i And
you He wants to stay here with us, and let
us love you and have lots of fun, and after
awhile when you get tired, why He’ll let
you go where she is if you’ll "be a good
boy!”
“But I didn’t know you then, and I had
nobody else but mamma, ami you don’t
know what an ugly old house it was, and
how cold she was!—and I loved her so. ”
Here I broke down, and she put her arms
around my neck and kissed and comforted
me. That was the first lesson she gave me.
My father came for me at the appointed
t time. YVe went back to the dark old house
’upon the waters that he loved. He said he
Was tired, and could rest in no other
place. O, the horror of going back to that
unnatural, sorrow-haunted home! The
sound of my own footsteps, as they echoed
tLrough the gloomy corridors and great,
desolate rooms, made me start with fear.
My father was restless. Some terrible grief
seemed to be gnawing at bis heart. \Y as it
remorse? As each day he looked more
weary and spirit-broken, a great pity for
him sprang up in my heart. I longed to
know his secret, but I dared uot ask.
Again and again I resolved that with my
own hands 1 would break down the barrier
that divided us, that I would make him
love me before it was too late. For with
the quick intuition that sorrow gives a
child, I felt that he would not be with me
long. Yet it was hard to be loving to him
wlio seldom gave me a gentle word.
One night I had a frightful dream. A
shadowy figure with a white, awful face,
Stood beside iny bed. It pointed with its
long, skinny fingers to the door, and in a
hollow voice it cried:
“Your father is a devil!”
Then its face grew suddenly round and
red, and the figure had my mother’s shape,
and it rushed out of the window, and 1
heard it laugh wildly as it fell into the
water and shrieked aloud:
“Heis a devil! a devil!”
I awoke with a stifled scream, cold drops
standing on my forehead, and lay perfectly
still, crouched among the pillows, and
trembling in every limb. YVhen tue first
horror gave place to restlessness I got up
and dressed and crept to the window. It
was a dark night. Only a few pale stars
were out. There was a low moan upon the
sea, and the air was heavy and brooding.
The dark boats, gliding in and out over tho
black water, looked weird and unearthly.
A ghostly horror seemed to shroud tiie
heavens and the earth, and the voices of the
dead spoke to me in the sobbing of the
waves. But listen! Was that a cry borne
out upon the air by the rising wind? It
sounded like the wail of a lost soul!
I went out into the gallery and listened.
The house must surely be haunted, 1
thought. I stood quite still in the dark
ness, my teeth chattering as if an ague-fit
had seized me. A deep groan from my
father’s study!
I advanced a few steps and listened again.
Only the dull sound of his footsteps echoing
through the lonely house as he walked up
and down, up and down. I crept close to
his door. Yv as my father mad ? I beard
strange, wild noises and the words:
“Will it never leave me? Great God!
Must it haunt mv brair. forever? Is the
night full of evil spirits conus to mock me,
and tempt me Us my doom?"
I knocked softly at the door. No an
swer. The walking up and down did not
cease. I knocked louder.
“Who, in heaven’s name, is that? Who
wants me at this hour ?”
“It is I, father; let me come in, please!”
“Go back to bed!” he called out, an
grily.
I turned away as a crash of thimder
pealed through the old house and shook it
to its foundation. My father’s door opened.
“What do you want?” he asked, sternly.
“I cannot sleep. I wanted to ask you to
let me stay with you,” I answered.
I looked straight into his eyes, my new
born resolution making me brave.
“Are you afraid of the thunder? I never
thought a sou of mine would be a cow
ard.
“1 am not a coward,” I answered, “or I
should not be here. Let me come in,
father! I must speak to you.”
He looked at me in amazement, but mo
tamed me to follow as he went back into
the room. He threw biinseif into a chair,
and 1 stood before him.
“Father.” I said, “do not lie angry. I
want to tell vou something, I—"
“ Weil! (to on,” a* 1 paused.
“I—l love you, father!"
He threw Isvk Ills head and laughed.
“Awl you wake iu up in the dead of
mg at to tell in* tin*—you! who have never
disguised that A’ou hated me. You must
have been terribly frightened by the storm.
Even your mother never said that much to
me!”
“I did not wake you. Itieard you walk
ing, and then I heard you groan, and I
thought you might be in pain, and I—1”
kneeiiug’down before hint I hud my head on
his knees—“O, father! Father! I have al
ways loved you, but I was so afraid of you.
but. I guess it was my fault too! I ought to
have thought more of you when mamma
died. I thought you didn’t care much, but
now I know you did. I know you are
grieving for her evorv day. O, please let
me love you! O, don't, send me away
I was sobbing with all the passion of my
nature. He lifted my head from his knees,
but not ungently, and walked to the win
dow. Now thnt the ice was broken 1 poured
out all the grief t hat had been smouldering
in my heart through the sad years of my
lonely life. 1 begged him to forgive me. I
begged him to love me. YY'hen I had
finished and lay back exhausted in his
chair he turned his head a little.
“Did you ever telTyour mother this?"
“Never. Sho knew I felt your—your—'"
“My cruelty! Go on. ”
“But I never talked to her about it.”
“And what did she tell you of me?”
“Nothing that was not good. She said
sometimes that she knew you loved me, but
you did not know how to show it. Then
sho would always cry.”
Ho put his baud up before his eyes, and a
fierce struggle seamed to be going on with
in him. 1 tnought it was grief for her sor
row. and I asked:
“Did you thon love her so much,
father?”
He darted an angry glance at me, and a
dark flush came into his face.
“How dare you ask me such a question?
Is it anything to you:”
“Yes, sir,” 1 answered, steadily. “It is
much to me. She was my mother, the only
being in the world who loved me, and 1
can't help wanting to know why she was
never happy. YVon’t you tell me, father?”
He came over to tho table and stood
where the light shone full on his face. It
was ghastly, and drawn as if with pain. He
pointed to the dainty bronze clock. As 1
looked toward it my eyes Wandered around
the room with its elegant books, its choice
pictures and rare bronzes—its velvet carpet
and luxurious chairs and solas. I could not
help thinking how pitiful our two sad laces
must, look amid all this elegance and
b.'aity!
“It is 3 o’clock,” he said. “Have you been
awake all night?”
“No, sir. I had a bad dream that
awakened me about an hour before I came
to you.”
“What was the dream?”
I hesitated.
“Tell me,” he commanded, and I told
him.
He trod to laugh, but as I looked at him
his knees began to shake, and he sat down
on a chair and let his head drop on the ta
ble.
“You can go,” he said, presently.
I arose and stood by his side.
“Then you send me away from you with
out—”
He pointed to the door, and as I obeyed
the old bitter feeling came back.
“Stay a moment. Jeffrey, come here!”
I went back.
“You said just now that you wanted my
love. lam not quite certain that you do.
Ha! ha! It is loug since any one spoke to
me of love, boy. I have that to toll you
that will make you change your mind.
Come here to-morrow after the breakfast
hour, and I will tell you all you want to
know of your father, and more. YY r e will
wait until that is over before we talk of
love. ”
“But I will love you in spite of what you
tell me.”
“It is a black secret; you cannot!”
“May 1 kiss you good-night, father?”
“Not to-night. Not to-night,” he said, his
features working strangely. "YVait until
you hear what I am. Now go to bed.”
He called to me again as I reached the
door.
“Are you afraid to go alone?”
“No, sir,’ I said, and I went sorrowfully’
back to bed.
I soon fell asleep, and slept soundly until
morning. But I knew my father did not
clbfse his eyes all night. 1 dreaded tho in
terview', yet I felt a kind of pride in the
thought that he would take me into his con
fidence. After that, I thought, we should
understand each other. He did not come to
breakfast, but sent word he was ill. Ho was
lying down, and looking very wan and
tired wheu I went in after my hurried
breakfast.
“Sit down over there,” he said, pointing
to a chair on the opposite side of the room,
“and let us have it over.”
He looked so stem that I did not inter
rupt him, though I felt sure that he was too
weak to talk much.
“I shall toll wlmt I have to tell in as few
words as possible, ns I haven’t much
breath; or tune either, I fancy,” he began.
“You had better make up your mind to be
shocked, Jeffrey. I think you are a pure
hearted boy, and know nothing of the dark
passions that have made your father what
lie is. I was like you once, but tliut was
long ago. I think my nature was first
warped and twisted into such unlovely
shapes by tny stepmother. !She first taught
me to suspect and distrust my fellow-creat
ures. But I will pass over that. I was not
a bad man, Jeffrey, when I first loved your
mother, and she might have made me any
thing she cared to, but for the dark destiny
that always pursued me. I loved her, boy
—loved her! do you hear it? loved her when
I was most harsh, lovod her when
she lay dying in that room yonder! I
would have given the last drop of my blood
to have saved her, though I kuew I was
breaking her heart! You did not know,
you two, when you wept together in that
room that your grief was bliss to the mad
anguish, the torture of my soul, as I saw
her suffer nt my hands and knew a dark
mystery divided us forever! I would have
given worlds to have thrown myself at her
feet and confessed it, but I could not en
dure to see her shrink fro* me in horror.
No; better have the cold, proud silence be
tween us. Your mother had a cousin, Jef
frey, who loved her and wan Us 1 to marry
her. He never told his love until after she
promised to marry me. She never loved
him; that is, not as she did me. I know
that now—knew it long ngo, but would not
say so. But they had been warm friends,
and she trusted him very much.”
He stopped a moment, nnd looked across
me at a picture of my mother on tho wall—
a laughing, girlish face that I scarcely
knew for my sad-eyed mother.
“I am this much changed,” he said,
hoarsely. “I wished sho had loved him and
married him before she ever knew me! I
wish this for her sake, bitterly as I hated
him! He was my equal in all things save
pride an id wickedness—of unsullied name
and sprung from a proud old family. Your
mother’s. I never knew him until, after
iny marriage, 1 came here. He was often
nt the house. I will not go into particular*.
I, in mad my jealousy, believed he loved my
wife, and said cruel, taunting words to her
in his presence. Hhc resented them. Bho
said i hail wronged him os much us 1 hail in
sulted and offended her. Bhe demanded an
apology for herself and for him. Enraged
that she should take his part., 1 ordered him
from my presence and from the house. If
she had lieen less than the angel she was,
she would have fled my presence too after
tho words I hail said. She would have boon
right to have left me. But she only pleaded
with me to be more just to her cousin.
YVhen sho spoke of his high honor, hi* gen
tle, manly character, his chivalrous regard
for all woiunnkind, some demon whispered
to me that she loved hhn hotter than she
know. I never doubted her honor. Thank
Ood, I was not base enough for that! —and
then 1 hated him! The demon haunted me.
The man came to the house one day when
site was out. He was a brave man, or he
would not have conic, knowing iny fierce
toinjier. He asked mo to lie more forbear
ing to hi* cousin. He had come, he said, lie
tore leaving the city to beg me to rruet In
her, and to lift the heavy burden that was
dragging her down. The demon rone up la
iny 111-art ft uuwMenod me, and—l nmr
(iuivi hint re i
Ho sprang up as ho siiid this, anil fixed his
wild eyes on mine. A moment of sicken
ing, horrible despair, and, with aery, I fell
over on the floor. 1 was not unconscious,
but paralyzed with horror, and l could not
speak. I knew that he lifted me and laid
me on a sofa, and bathed my face and
hands. How I shrank from his touch! A
murderer t 0, God! Why did 1 not let
him keep his guilty secret? Better far the
old agony than this!
“Jeffrey!" his voice, unlike 1 had ever
heard it, full of love, and remorse, and en
treaty made me weep.
But I put, my hands before mv eyes that I
might uot see his face—a murderer's face!
—bending over me. He knelt, down and
hid his face on my breast. I tried to shake
him from me, but ho took my hands and
held them.
“I knew it. I knew you would loathe
me. Great heavens! Is this retribution?
that, at the moment I learn that I love my
son, my only son, I see him shudder and
cower away from me! I deserve it! But
let me tell you how it was. 1 did not strike
him dead before me. It, would have been
kinder. I took a more cruel revenge. I
rushed out and said them was a madman in
the house. An officer came in and said he
would take him to prison. The victim re
sisted, and shouted aloud, but was over
powered, 1 went with them to the prison.
But even my heart relented when I saw the
horrible, dark, slimy dungeon where no hu
man being could live a week. 1 told t lie officer
that I would And a more comfortable place
of confinement, as ho was my friend, and
they believed me. The room in which lie
dragged out live miserable years was as
roomy and comfortable as any ffi the
house, but dotachod from the others. You
saw me there yesterday. I cannot keep
away from it. I sit there for hours and
try to wonder what his thoughts were—if
he cursed me in his heart in that slow
agony of torture! He never did with his
li|>s. Ho was mad, sure enough, when he
had been there a year. He saw no one but
me. I took him (lis food, which was often
untasted for days, and I kept, my secret.
You understand that, by slow degrees, 1
killed him. 1 would have released him after
his mind was gone, but remorse had liegim
its work, and I dared not consign him to the
miserable prison. 1 had destroyed his ren
son, and i was not quite vile enough to
finish the black work 1 was too cowardly to
acknowledge. His mother, who was his
only near relative, died a short time after
his imprisonment, so there was no account
to give to his family. Your mother heard
that he had lost his mind, and had been con
veyed from the cit v by iiis friends to es
cape the prison. He died in that, room! It
was his ghost you saw, and no dream! I
took bis Yxxiy myself in the dead of night to
that floating graveyard over there.”
His voice hud sunk to a hoarse whisper.
There was an awful pause. He still knelt
by my sofa. As if the memory of that
fearful night was too much for him, he
crouched down slmdderingly, and a deep
groan burst from him.
Could this lie my proud father? The man
who maintained such rigid self-control at.
all times. The man who was yet courted
and flattered in the literary circles of
Venice; the polished, brilliant man of the
world, here—on his knees at, my feet —
bo well down with remorse and shame!
How many things that I had never un
derstood seemed plain to me in the light of
his awful disclosure! How far more than I
ever dreamed must my mother have suf
fered ! I could understand now why, for so
many years, he never left Venice. What
marvelous powers of endurance he pos
sessed to have kept up his pride and
strength with that dark deed on his soul!
But, I could not s|)eak to him. I felt a
wild desire to rush from the sin-shadowed
house; to run away and hide myself where
this terrible black shame and misery might
never reach me!
His next words made me forget myself in
pity for him.
“This lonely place—this miserable house
have a wild attraction for me. I could no
more resist the impulse that brought roe
back here whoa I hod male up my mind to
die in my native land than I can explain the
strange desire It, was on me wherever I
went. It can 1* but one thing—the linger
of destiny pointing me to the doom I have
dreaded for years—to die by my own hands'
I was very near it last night when you
came, ana you saved me from myself!”
A deep shuddering sigh broke from him,
while a wild look of terror shot into his
face.
I think my mother's great love for him
must have revived in the heart of her child
at this moment. The horror and loathing
were all swept from me in a great, rush of
pity and love. On my knees by his side I
gathered the sunken head in my arms. I
cried over him, and whispered broken
words of love. I was alarmed at the storm
of grief that my tenderness aroused, the
pent-up agony of years of lonely remorse
and pride bursting from his soul at the first
softening touch of love! Great sobs shook
him from head to foot.
When a proud man once humbles himself,
the task of gaining his love and confidence
is comparatively easy. I never knew what
I said to iny father, but I am sure a strength
not my own was lent me, for he soon grew
quiet.
The shock bad been too much for me.
Weeks of fever and delirium followed,during
which time I only knew that an anxious face
watched me with tenderness, and when I
was better the same face looked calmer
than I had ever seen it.
When I recovered I tried to win him from
his purpose of spending his remaining days
in Veniee. 1 knew that, the horrible teini>-
tntion to self-destruction would be so strong
in no other place. But he was firm. He
said he had no right, to be gathered to hie
fathers in the land of his birth, since he had
brought dishonor on the old name. He
begged that there should be no funeral
when he should die. He particularly en
joined that an old servant should take his
body late at night, in a certain black boat
(I kiiew why he said that one) and lower it
into the water. He did not livelong. He
loved the pomp and ceremony of the Church
of Rome, and had its offices in his dying
moments. I think he made deep and hitter
atonement. May Christ have mercy on his
soul!
I never have heard the solemn Miserere
since they chanted it around his dying bed
that the scene has not come back to me,
with a pitiful yearning for the lonely boy
who sat a |>art and wept, and had no share
in the mournful rites, fjis father had told
his secret and his reason for wishing no fu
neral to the priest, so they let me have the
body.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
The Cause of the Siege of Troy, •
From the Lomlon baity News.
An old story, such as has often disturbed
the pears- of the world, comes from Amatia,
in Asia Minor. The inhabitants of this lo
cality are composed of a mixture of Mussul
man Circassians and Armenian Christians.
A friend of the Governor, who was a Mus
Bulinan, foil desperately in love with u
beautiful Armenian girl, and persuaded
that official to lend his assistance to carry
her olf, in order tlmt she might lie converted
to the religion of Islam and married to her
fervent but unscrupulous admirer. The
Governor consented. The girl was borne
off by force, and all was going as merrily as
a marriage bell, when the Armenian popu
lation, objecting to the treatment that one
of their body was receiving, rose in revolt
and attempted to rescue the girl. This
they succeeded in doing, but not before
much blood hail been shod.
Is Consumption Incurable?
Read the following: Mr. C. H. Morris,
Newark, Ark., says: “Was down with
Abscess of Lungs and friends and physicians
pronounced me an Incurable Consumptive,
Began taking Dr. King’s New Discovery for
Consumption, am now on my third bottle
and aide to oversee the work on my farm.
It Is the finest medicine ever made '
.frame Middleware Decatur, ()., says:
"Hail it not tiecn for Dr. King’s New
Dim •o very for Consumption I would
I lave died of Lung Troubles. Was given up
by doctors Am now in beet of health.
'I ry it Htnuplw bottles free at lifppmun
Bros' drug store.
DRY GOODS. ,
EC K S T E IN’S!
A BOLD STATEMENT.
Every one of the prices given below were 10, 15 and in some instances 35 per
cent lower than the same goods can be bought in any other house.
DRESS GOODS.
M inch All Wool LADIES' CLOTH, in the new
shades, 65c.
TRICOTS.
M All Wool, new color, TRICOT CLOTHS,
FLANNELS.
White, Rod and Blue All Wool FLANNELS,
27 inches wide, 36c.; worth 50c.
CANTON FLANNEL.
A few hales of Bleached aud Unbleached at
10c.; worth 12y$c. a yard.
SHEETINGS.
10 4 Unbleached, 19c.; 10-4 Bleached, 19c.;
regular 35c. goods.
DOYLIES.
500 dozen Checked White Damask, Colored
Border aud Turkey Red at sc. each.
TICKS.
A Mattress Tick, 6J4c.; a Feather Tick, 12p£c.
Tlx© Biggest; Bargain of _A.II.
500 dozen GENTS' PURE LINEN HANDKERCHIEFS, Hemmed and Laundried, ready for
use, at 16
ECKSTEI N’S.
Jerseys, Jerseys, Jerseys!
An Entire New Line Just Opened at
GUT MAN’S,
141 BROUGHTON STREET.
LADIES’ PLAIN BLACK ALL WOOL JERSEYS at *l.
LADIES’ BLACK ALL WOOL JERSEYS. Fancy Front, at *1 .50.
LADIES’ BLACK ALL WOOL JERSEYS, Plain Front, at f2.
LADIES’ BLACK ALL WOOL JERSEYS, Fancy Pleated Front, at $2 50.
Also a full line of BRAIDED JERSEYS at #3 .50 and upwards, and
An Entire New Line of Children's Jerseys.
CHILDREN’S BLACK and SOLID COLORED HOSE, full regular made, 5 to
8V) 35c. a pair.
' 25 dozen LADIES’ BALBRIGGAN HOSE, full regular made, only 15c. a pair.
IT. G U T M A IV .
TRUNKS AND SHOES.
Low Quarter Shoes at Cost
In order to make room for our Large Fall Stock, which
will soon be coming in, we have concluded to make a rushing
sale of the balance of our stock of
GENTS’ FINE LOW QUARTER SHOES.
We have sold our stock of these goods down closer this
. eason than we have for years past, and being determined not
to carry any over to next year, we offer to close them out
AT MANUFACTURERS’ COST.
*
Remember the old saying, “the early bird catches the
worm,” so don’t wait until the best lots are gone.
JOS. ROSENHEIM & CO.,
185 BROUGHTON STREET.
IKON WORKS.
KEHOE’S IRON WORKS;
Broughton Street, from Reynolds to Randolph Streets,
- - G-eorgia.
CASTING- OF ALL KINDS AT LOWEST POSSIBLE PRICES.
THE RAPIDLY INCREASING DEMAND FOR OUR
SUGAR MILLS AND PANS
TJ AS induced us to manufneture them on a more extensive scale than
■V XX ever. To that end no pains or expense has been spared to maintain
■■ their HIGH HTANARD OF EXCELLENCE.
■ These Mills am of the BEST MATERIAL AND WORKMANSHIP, with
heavy WROUGHT IRON* SHAFTS (made long to prevent danger to the
B ■ operatori. and rollers of the best charcoal pig iron, all turned up true.
■ B Thi-v are heavy, strong and durable, run light and even, and are guarao
teed capable of grinding the heaviest fully matured
All our Mills are fully wnrrant-d for one year fijfo:
aFpffrf yBHbKkH '*' ;UIS '"-mg casl wilh the bottoms down,
■■■KBBIHH po.-S'-SS MMOolllTies-. ‘I irabdl! V and 11 Illl'i .mill V of
thfcknraw FARSUTERIOR TO THOSE MADE IN
Having unsurpassed facilities,
WE GUARANTEE OUR PRICES TO BE AS LOW AS ANY OFFERED.
A Large Stock Always on Hand for Prompt Delivery.
Win. Kehoe & Cos.
N. B.—The name “ KEHOE’S IKON WORKS.’ is caat on all our Mills and Pans.
SASH, DOORS, BLINDS, ETC.
BAVANNA-U, GA.,
MANUFACTURERS OF AND DEAIERS IN
Mi, Doors, ills, Daniels, Pew Ends,
And Interior Finish of all kinds, Mouldings Balusters, Newel Posts. Estimates, Price lists. Mould
ing Hooks, ami any Information in om line ruriushed uu application Cypress, Voiiotv Plm. Oak;
Ash and Walnut LUMBER un hand aud is any quantity, fuiwshe * promptly
VAI4: ROYAL MANUFACTURING COMPANY, Savamiah,
DRESS GOODS,
27-ineh Wool Filling, Plain, Colored and
Fancy styles, 15c.
SILKS.
A Big Drive in BLACK GROS GRAIN at $1
and Si 25.
BLANKETS.
Rich Fancy Colored and 10 4 WHITE WOOL
BLANKETS at S4 75; worth $7.
TABLE LINEN.
25 pieces Bleached and Unbleached Damask,
new patterns, 45c.; worth Usc.
TOWELS.
2,000 Pure Linen, large size, TOWELS at 15c.;
won h 26c.
SPREADS.
11-4 WHITE SPREADS, very handsome pat.
terns, heavy quality, at 75c.
LACE CURTAINS.
Closing out 125 pieces from $1 a window up.
5