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1-ART TWO.
HE GREW HILL STUEET My*.
J3-y SE!E,G-E!^.lSrT.
■Author of "Jaoobi’B Wot," “Roy’s Repektasce,” “DiviaiL’a Diamond,” “Under
False Pretences,” Etc.
lALL BIGHTS RESERVED.]
PART I.
s CHAPTER XV.
gone!
When George Eastwood left Jasmine cot
tage, the little house in Maida Vale, he was
felling considerable irritation against pior
Jess. He had managed to speak softly, be
cau ;e he had learnt by this time that it was
impossible to do anything with her by
harshness; she was so sensitive that a
rough word from him would bring torre :ts
of tears and plunge her into unimaginable
woe. Nevertheless, he had lately begun to
feel it it a great restraint to have always to
speak gently, and to be entirely considerate
of her feelings. He was a selfish naan; he
had been spoiled and petted from his youth
up; and it was not natural to him to deny
himself for others. A woman like Diana,
noble and generous in all her instincts,
might have shamed him into unselfishness;
po r Jess only ministered to her lover’s pas
sions by yielding so completely to his will.
At first !i er submission had bean delightful,
then it pallod a little; now it was beginni ig
to disgust him. Jess might hold Stephen
Eyre captive and bend him to her Will; bu t
she did not know how to bind to her the
man whom she really loved.
He went away from her that night with
the suspicion that' he had made a great
mistake. Jess was not the rare creature he
had thought. She was, after all, common
—commonplace; shr would never rise to his
level—never ho taught to hold her own
among-t the women of his class. It was
almost a pity that ha had taken her away
from her own people. Poor, pretty creature
—she was too frail a fliwor to be trans
planted. The air of the hot-house made her
droop.
Tt.us he went on his way, musing on his
own generosity an i Jess’ many shortcom
ings until he had quite restored himself to
complacency by tue time he reached bis
club, where be was to dine with a friend.
Ho then went to the theater and afterward
to supper at Gaiti’s. He slept at his s:udio,
where he now had a bed kept ready for
him; and be intended to spend the next
day in painting, for, although less resolute
in his intention of becoming an artist than
he used to be, he bad not yet relinquished
it. The chance of life at Wychford had
lately been gaining ground with him. Now
that Diana was out of the way, and his
uncle could not always be urging him to
marry her, Ge irga began to thiuk rather
fond.y of the easy-going luxurious life at
the old country bouse and to wonder
whether, after all, be could not set up bis
easel in one of the many unoccupied rooms,
and combine the profession of artist with
the many enjoyments of a country squire.
But then there was Jos—al.vays Jess to
stand in his way 1
He ha l begun to paint when, about 10
o’clock in the morning, a telegram was
brought to l.is do >r. He opened it with ut
much interest; telegrams were frequent
wiib him, ad he bad no anxiety present to
his mind. But when he had mastered the
words of the message, the color left his
face, and the thin paper fluttered to tue
ground, w hile for a moment he stood posi
tively trembling and completely unnerved.
And yet the words were simple, and would
have told little to a stranger:
“Miss Jessica Strong left here last night
and i.as not returned.”
The messago was from Mrs. Fogg.
“Left—and ha3 not returned!” ejaculated
the young man. “Been away all night!
Why, she has not a friend in London to go
to —"except those wretc.ie i Mill street peo
ple, and she would never be mad enough
to visit them! What upon earth can it
mean?"
He hastily changed liis coat, locked up
his studio, and i ailed a passibg hansom
cab. In the shortest possible time he had
reached the little house in Maida Vale and
was inter ogating Mrs. Fogg.
Mrs. Fogg was some what on the defen
sive. With her was Mihs Vyner, a short,
pale, sandy-haired little woman, who had
been emp! -ye i to teach Jess every morning
in the character of a young lady whose edu
cation had been neglected. Miss Vyner
was tearful and alarmed, while Mrs. Fogg,
who had been strictly forbidden by her
mas' er to met tion Jess’ antecedent history
to the governess, snorted at her prognosti
casious" of evil, and was disposed to snub
her generally for folly and presumption.
“Which it were not me, sir, as sent the
telegraph,” she said to Eastwood as soon as
he appeared, “although my name was put
to it; but it were Miss Vyner here as took
upon herself to tell me my dooty, and made
such a piece of work —”
“You, were quite right, Mrs. Fogg, quite
right, Miss Vyner,” said George, absently
falling to perceive that two women could
not both be light; “and I’m very much
obliged to vou—but do coma to the point at
oncel Jess—Miss Strong—left the house
last night, do you say?— alone?"
“As far as I know it was alone,” Baid
Mrs. Fogg, tartly. "She went soon after
you left, sir, between 5 and 6 o’clock. And
me not knowing where she was off to or
anything, and sitting up till 3 o’clock this
morning, and then falling off to sleep with
all my clothes on—”
“But- but—did she not say where she was
going?” s iid George, stammering helplessly
and looking from one face to the other of
the two women, with such a look of torture
and perplexity in his eye3, that Miss Vyner
fairly burst into tears.
“O, it is terrible?” she sobbed. “Poor
dearJessici! She must have been robbed
and murdered, or trapped into some horri
ble (leu of thieves!’’
“Not she,” said the housekeeper. “She
knew Loud o ways too wll for that. And
no doubt sie ha i her plans.” She looked
significantly at George. “She took a black
Dig w ith her, sir, and that looks as if she
know she win going to spend the night with
friends,”
“ A hag?” Oeorgo repeated.
"Ye i, sir, black bag, just largo enough
to h M whausho wante l for tue night.”
“And didiho take her things too?" aid
Mia i Vyner, crisping hor hands. “O, Mrs.
Fogg, you nurer told me that.”
“1 kept that for Mr. Eastwod’s ear."
said Mrs. Fogg grimly. “Mi s Vynor put
herself ulmit i much when she found that
Miss Htr inj was not here tnot I was forced
to telegra tto you, sir. I told her I was
Mire no liaqu teed happened to the you ■g
lady, ad Mat most likely you Know —lieiug
b>r gsardisu And relative and all that
whole she kid gone; but she got into such a
dreadful stile—which 1 in st say I call re
dick'lous, tint 1 thought I’d bettor let her
send th Mdgraph to you,”
In timkiic this speech, Mrs. Fogg gradu
ally turnedti i' buck on Miss Vyner, snd
MscslsJ s mMss of facial coutot'Uens,
ffje JEflfninij Jfoto#
which at flr.it caused the obtuse George to
wood r whether the woman was going mad.
It occurred to him at last that she wa; sun
pre-sing something because Miss Vyn r
(whom she hated) was present, and that she
wished to speak to him alone. Meanwhile,
Miss Vyner sat and sniffed audibly; her one
idea that Jessica Strong, as she called her,
was r ibbed and murdered, gave her a sense
of • 1 lasurable excitenie it, which she did
not like to relinquish. She was not at all a
bad hearted woman, but to find such a
c unmon-place solution of the my dory as
the one which Mrs. Fogg seemed inclined to
offer was something of a disap
pointment to her. She had not as
yet had the slightest suspicion of
a closer bond existing between Miss Strong
and Mr. Eastwood than that of couismship
or guardian, and ward: and although she
had gathered from Jess’ manner and Mr.
Eastwood’s interest iu her studies that some
warmer feeling existed than was apparent
to the outer world, she had only gained
thereby a romantic liking f r the girl, and
a conviction that she was being educated
for the position of George Eastwood’s wife.
Mrs. Fogg had jealously guarded her mas
ter’s secret; and neither b v word nor deed
had Jes3 betrayed her earlier history.
George hesitated for a moment. Then he
said abruptly:
“Excuse me. Miss Vyner. Como here for
a moment, Mrs. Fogg,” and led the way
into an adjoining room.
Thus left alone, Miss Vyner tossed her
head and pursed up her pale lips indig
nantly.
“There’s something wrong here; I know
there is," she said to herself, in a prophetic
tone. “Now, I would just like to know
what it can be!”
Meanwhile, George and his housekeeper
confronted one another.
“ What does this moan?” he asked impa
tiently.
“Well, s'r, it means,” said Mrs. Fogg,
“that I wasn’t going to say all I thought
before that cat-faced woman. She’s ready
enough to pry and to psep without me
letting her into my opinions. The real
truth is, sir, that I believe you’ve been de
ceived shameful in that girl.”
* ‘ Just be good e lough to remember whom
you’re speaking of, Fogg!"
“On, 1 remember fast enough,” said Mrs.
Fogg, disdainfully. “1 remembsr her
when she came in rags to y ur studic-place,
and! used to dross her up in silks and
satins to please you. And when you came
to me with your st >rv of how you wanted
s imebody to take charge of this house, and
act landlady and care-taker to this girl—
who was to be called Miss Strong for the
present, and when she was eddicated enough
you meant to marry her —and I like a fool
believed you!"
“And may I ask what you don’t be
lieve now?” said George, fiercely; "or what
that has to do with th > matter?”
“ VVeii, sir, it has a gosd deal to do with
the matter, and I think you ha i better
listen to me for a minute r two,” -a and Mrs.
Frgz, crossing her haudiover he waist,
and rega ding the young man with mingled
pity aid severity. “I though it was asilly
sort of business, but that maybe it woul in’t
come to much, and the girl was pretty and
innocent looking—l’ll say that for her—
and I fancied I could take care of her. But
you didn’t bring her here u itil December,
Mr. George, and you never told me wnere
you’d beeu before then. She said to me
she’d ban at school. I’ve thought that
may be you had been her school all that
long time since the spring you painted her
picture 1”
“You’re a fool, Fogg, for your pains.
What does all this tend to? I must find her,
and you are wasting time.”
“No, I’m not, Mr. George,” sai 1 the
housekeeper calmly. “Y u’ll see in a min
ute ort vo that lam helping you. You
told me all along that you meant to marry
her one day. Sue thought so, too, by the
way she went on. Well, sir, maybo you
were married to her already, or msybs
you’d taken advantage of her youth and her
inexperience—”
She paused, and George uttered an angry
sound, which might have been taken oicaer
for denial or iinpatieuoe, and then stood
listening.
“But the truth was, sir, I believe, that
she began to think that she was c iming to
shame, and that as you didn’t seem to care
for her as much as you had done, she would
run a way and hide herself. Tnat’s what I
believe. And as for her black bag, she
didn’t take a night-dress, nor a b ush and
oomb, nor anything but a bottle of brandy
out of the cupboard: and what she meant
to do with that, goodness knows, unless it
was a preseat to the old woman that she
usod to live with in Mill street. And that’s
whore I think she’s gone, and why.”
George Eastwood uad turned deadly pale
during the recital, and when Mrs.’ F gg
had finished he turned upon her so angrily,
that for a momemt she expected him to
strike her to the ground. But she was mis
taken in this; he was of a gentle nature,
and would never have raised his hand
against any woman. But he broke out into
bitter repudiation of her words.
“You are a meddling troublesome fool,
Fogg I What business have you to inquire
into my affairs? Care less for her, did you
say? I cared more and more for her —the
more I knew of her the more I cared I How
on ear,h could she go away for such rea
sons? Shame?—there was no shims to
come upon her. She was my wife—my
wedded wife—and I wou'd not have had
harm come to a hair of her head 1”
Mrs Fogg thre w up her hands.
“Then mav the shame lignt on your head,
Mr. Go irge,” sue said warmly, “for you
may be sure that there’s some coming! The
poor young thing! I misdoubted lately
that there’d been mischief, but never
thought that you’d married her, secret-like,
and never told me a word about It!”
“What was the use of telling you?” said
j George, more asnamed of his silence than
he liked to own.
“There’s always use in telling the truth,”
said Mrs. Fogg, who, although cr Mi
graine! and hard as she some imes ap
peared, ha l not only very clear vie ws of
right an l wrong, but a s ft c irner in her
heart iu which ad the Eastwoods had a
place. "Aud there would have been use in
tel dug me, above all others. You should
Im’ tus o l your old nursery, Master
George, and not let me thmk evil of h r as
was your lawful wife. You’d have save l
yourself this trouble, the i, for 1 wouldn’t
ha’ let her go out without kuowing where
she was going to—not It Aud now she’s
g me—nobody knows where, and maybe to
bar own and *t uoti ml"
“1 told you to look after her,” said the
young man, with whitening lips.
“fo and me! Aye. and h>w did you tell
me? A girl that had been a model, and a
fi iwer-Miir before that, with a druuaen
old grand mother down iu MU street! As
if 1 aver th ’light she was fit to las your
wife | liul if you’ve married her, there’s Ue
SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 1890.
more to be said.” went on Mrs. Fogg,
rather cowed by a sudden flash of
George’s angry’s eyes, “the thing is to get
her back.”
“Yes, indeed! My God, where can she
be?”
"Back in Mill street," said Mrs. Fogg,
decisively; “and that’s why I wanted to
speak to you private, Mr. George, for we
needn’t let that poll parrot of a woman in
tue next room kno w anytuing about it.
You go down to Mill street yourself, and
there you’d find Mrs. George, as sure as
eggs is eggs.”
“Mrs George.” The name fell tripningly
from her tongue, but it sounded strange in
deed to George Eastwood’s ears. Neverthe
less, he ol>eyed Mrs. F gg’s behests im
plicitly. He went back to Miss Vyner, in
formed her that Mrs. Fogg had reminded
him of a visit which Miss Strong had un
dertaken to pay, and whch he had forgot
ten; that he had no doubt but t'.at Miss
Strong was just now sate at her aunt’s
house iu—Bloinisbury; that he was going
thereat once, and would p o'ably bring
her back later in the day—*whe.i y u mud
so dd her for giving us such a fright, Miss
Vyner.”
Tne governess shook her head gloomilv as
she saw him depart. Sae did mot believe
his little storv. He ha l spoken chejrfully
enough, but he had not been able to get the
whiteness out of his lips, or the anxiety out
of his eyes.
“Miss Strong—if her name is Miss Strong
—wilt never coma back to Jasmine Cot
tage,” she said to hersalf, as she trudged
i auk to the rooms where sho aud her wid
owe i mother kept housa together on some
thing under 8J pounds a year. “B.ie’s
gone, and we shill neve? sea her here
again. There was some man mixed up in
it, I daresay. She was an uncommonly
pretty girl.”
“Beauty is a great snare,” said Miss
Vyner’s mamma, 10 whom tha story was
related. “Yon may thank heaveathat you
don’t possess it, Isabella.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said Isa
bella s mppishly. “I am no worse looking
than my neighbors.”
And sha sulked for an hour, but finally
comforted herself with the cheering reflec
tion that Jessica Strong’s beauty had evi
dently been of no value to her, or elSa sha
would have married George Eastwood long
before.
In more than one respect, Miss Vyner was
quite correct, for a man was “mixed up,”
as she said, in the matter of Jess’s disap
pearance; an 1 certainly poor Jess did not
return again to Jastnino Cottage,
that verv secluded retreat in tha shades of
Maida Vale.
CHAPTER XVL
SEARCH.
It was after mid-day when George reached
Mill street. It seemed to him that he had
wasted an infinity of time; but as a matter
of fact, he had been remarkaoly quick iu
getting from place to place, aud few persons
could have done somuci in so short a space.
He easily found the house where Jess’
grandmother used to live, and ha ascended
the narrow, creaking stair with a mixture
of emotions in his reast. Whato i earth
could have induced Jess to return to this
noisome place? For he had quite made up
bis mind that he should find Jess with her
grandmother. There was nowhere else for
her to go—after ail she was not a m ij
woma ;—a id lie had no doubt at all of find
ing her. The terrible fear that was making
his he rt beat wildly from time to time was
crus ied down out of sight. He could not
heir tJ confront it. Jess must be safe I
He reached the door of Mrs. Flint’s room.
It stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open
with an unsteady hand aud itood there
amazid. The room was empty. Swept
ami garnished, clean even aud tresh with
the air from a broke i window, but empty.
An old truckle-be 1 stood in one corner and
a broken down edair iu another. Aud that
was ail.
After tha first moment of startled sur
prise, George thougnt he must have mis
taken the room. He went out on the landi ig
and looked round him. But no; there was
no possibility of error, lie remembered
the la iding periectly, and the half obliter
ated number on the door. In this room he
had found Jess working, wsewing c<a se
sucks, he now remembered—when he had
beuged her to come out with him, and told
her that she must eonseut.to be his wife. No,
there was no mistake.
With a half-smothered ejaculation of dis
may, tie turned once more into the deserted
room, his eyes traveling round it hastily as
if in search of some trace of the missing
girl. And some such trace he found.
A little glitter of light from from the
dusty boards attracted him. A passing
sunbeam had pointed as if it had teen the
veritable finger of God, towards the place
where something glimmered in the everlast
ing dusk of the dimly lighted r-om. He
stooped and picked it up, aud then a sudden
trembling fell up >n him, and he grasped
at the rickety door for support. He hold in
his hand a tiny heart-shaped golden locket
set with brilliants, which Jess always wore
on her chain. He had bought it for
her in Paris, and bad liked her to wear it in
memory of their first days together, al
though it was not of much intrinsic value.
It generally formed one of a little bunch of
charms and ornaments that she was loud of,
and it was a plain proof to him that she
had at any rate been in the vicinity—per
haps in tnis room itself. She might have
dropped it. Sne might have dropped it —or
sue might have beeu robbed of it. She
might perhaps have coma here in search of
her grandmother, and then—the thought
gave hi in fresh hope—have followed the
old woman to some na w lodging. Yes, that
was tha explauati n; sha Uad come t > visit
the disreputable Mrs. Flint and had been
accidentally detained. Ha must of all find
out where Mrs. Flint had gone.
Ha called up the neighbors; he inter
viewed the s.atmrnly woman who kept the
house; nut all in vam. Tney either did not
know or would not say wnere Mrs. Flint
had gone. Daddy Trotter was dead—they
were all sure of that—and some of them
thought that Mrs. Flint was dead too, but
upon this point they were not agreed. Borne
of them suggested that .Stephen Eyre, or
the blind parson might know. But none of
them would give any information. Asa
matter of fact, they suspected Ea-twood’s
intentions, and thought tuat he wanted to
prosecute the old woman for some misde
meanor; aud they were cautious, therefore,
not to betray any knowledge of her wnere
aLouts. By the pro uise of a reward he
persuaded a boy, however, to say some
thing.
“oteveEyre; he’ll kno w all about Mother
Flint.”
“Aud where does he live?’
“O, up Baldwin’s Court. He’3 got her
tbonj
“And her granddaughter ” George
queried breathlessly.
“O, yes, 1 see red-’aired Jess yesterday
afternoon,” said tue urcuiu, shamelessly, in
the uope of a lO.ner half-cro wrn. “.She was
dressed in silks aid saltings, with red
U iwers iu her b muot, and a seal-skin jacket
(low'll 1 1 ner feet, sh> was-so there I”
He conclude 1 defiantly, because East
wood bal turned away in disgust. The
boy’s lies had one unfortunate effect, for
Uoorge did not believe a single word that
had Do in said, and tlieref -re did not pro
ceed at once to Baldwin’s court, whore it
was pusuole that !tu search might have
been more successful.
Inst ud of going there, ho suddenly re
solved to seek out Fra ml* H-linont, whom
tw Dad <tol tut eome iUp.iUi*. lUi
mont would be able to give him informa
tion concerning Mrs. Flint aid Stephen
Eyre—a man again t whom G orge
ch unshed a vague suspicion and a dull re
sentment. which he had never yjc ex
pressed. Had Stephen Eyre—Jess’old lo.or ;
—anything to do with the girl’s disappear- I
anoo? Eastwood found himself breathing
hard aud clenching his fist, without exac.ly
kaowi g why.
He made some further lnquirio3 in the
neighborhood, and then, just as he was go
iig out of .dill street he came q ,ite sud
denly face to faco with Stephan Erro.
The two mea looked atone anot ler. Evre
would have passed on quietly enough, but
George barred his passage aud la.d a de
taining hand upon bis arm.
“I’ve a question to ask you,” he said.
“Where is Mrs. Flint —Jess Armstrong’s
grandmother?”
A carious expression showed itself in
Stephen’s eyes for a moment. It was the
look of one who se s a deal of desperate
daring to be done, and does it without
flinching, but with every sense a vake to
its consequences. To tell ad ‘liberate lie
was, iu Btopiieti’s eyes, to give himself
over to the devil, body aud soul. And yet,
for Jess’ sake, he was prepared to tell tuat
iie.
“Mrs. Flint is dead,” ho answered.
“Dead! Y mare sure?”
“Perfectly sure.”
“Did her granddaughter—Jess—come
here last night, seeking Uer?”
“Bhe did.”
“And you saw her? Where is she nowt
What have you done with her ? Is she with
you?”
Eastwood liu'led the questions at his
hearer with tremendous force, as if they
liad beeu so many stones. The jea’ons sus
picion leaped out of his eyes and made it
se.f fatally clear to Stephen Eyre, who saw
in it a tool wherewith to serve hi; purp se.
He answered slowly and steadily, looking
s.raigbt into Eastwood’s eyes.
“If I knew where sae was, do you think I
would tell you!”
He was ill-udvised to answer in that way.
George E istwood’s fist flow out immediate
ly, a id iu auother moment the two men
were looked in a wre3tle, which seemed to
be for life and death.
But the struggle lasted for a short time
only. A crowd gathered round the com
batants—a police nan was seen iu the dis
tance—and, as if by common consent, t >e
enemies relaxed their hold on each other
and allowed themselves to bo separated.
Stephen Eyre was led away bleeding a id
bruised. George, who was hooted aud
jeered at by the crowd, leaned against a
wall for a few minutes, feeling faint and
sick. But when the policeman arrived on
the scene, and the crowd had—as if by
magic—melted a way, the young man nulled
him elf together ami refused to make any
complaint.
"It’s not a place for a gentleman to be
in,” sai 1 6se policeman indignantly ; “aul
you’d be ter go home, sir. If Iknew whion
it was as assaulted you, sir. I’d run him in.
I’ve seen you here with Mr. Helmont,” he
added, explanatorily.
“Nobody as aulted me. I assaulted him,”
said G orgo, rather grimly.
At which the policeman smiled pitying'y,
as one knowing that parsons and then
friends were ant to tell unlikely tales. Au l
then George poured his story —or patty of
his st ry—into the policeman’s ear, a id ro
ceived tiie ad vies to go at once to Mr. Hel
mont, who would be sure to k low whether
Mrs. Flint were alive or dead, and—
probably—whether her granddaughter ha l
beau seen lately in M il street.
So George tramped off to Heimont’s
lodgings. He was becoming too dazed aul
bewildered to think of saving time, or he
would have take i a cab instead of plung
ing through the dreary East End streets
He found uis cousin at ho ne, however, an 1
ha had not uttered two wordi before Hel
mont, by means of the intution with which
he see ned to have beeu especially gifted,
knew that he was in trouble, aud asked him
what was the matter.
“Tell me first,” siid Enstwuod, in a dull
tone, "is old Sarah Flint—Jess’ grand
mother, you Know —alive or dead?”
“As far as I know she Is alive.”
“And living—where*”
Helmont considered for a moment.
“She has left her old lodgings in Mill
street. O, you know that? I heard that a
woman called Alice Drew was taking care
of her. Alice Drew is a Blum Sister—”
“And Eyre is a Silvationist,” saii
George, strangely. “O, the two are in col
lusion, no doubt.”
And then he sat down and pressed his
hands upon his face.
“My dear fellow, what i3 wrong?” asked
Helmont.
The words seemed so wild that he fancied
George’s mind muse be disordered. Thai,
finding that his cousin did not ans wer, he
we it on tranquilly: ,
“Eyre is not exac ly a Salvationist now,
I believe. He was tried in toe balance and
found wanting,they say. He would not
givo up soma foolish scheme on which he
had set his heart, and his superiors said—
rightly enough—that he could not do their
work until ho had ‘cast out the accursed
thing’—you know their phraseology? So,
although he goes to their meetings, ha is not
a paid agent of theirs; he works os a cabi
net maker still.”
“What was his schemeP’ George asked,
hoarsely.
"I can’t tell you. I heard that it was
some plan of revenge on persons who had
injured him, but though I tackled him
myself about it, I could not get him to
speak.”
“I understand. He thought himself
wronge 1 my me, and this—this is liis ie
veuge!"
And then, almost without knowing why,
almost to hl3 own surprise, George broke
down, and sibbed aloul. In great alarm,
Helmont laid his hand on the young man’s
shoulder.
“George, what is it? What is wrong?
What can you mean?”
Aud as George *as still incapable of an
swering, his mind flaw swiftly back to ihe
scene wtiich only last night Dia ia had de
scribed to him—the meeting of herselt aud
C L Eastwood witn “Miss Jessica Strong”
in the Bmd street picture gallery. Tue iu
cilont ha l greatly startled him; and it was
with positive terror that he now—not
twenty-four hours later —saw George be
fore him apparently prostrate with de
spair.
“George,” he said at last, “is this
trouble of yours concerned with—Jess
Armstrong?”
“Of course it is.” George answered, al
most angrily. “You have known it all
along. 1 love her better than my life, al
though she—poor soul—fa .cieil |>e h ips
ihai I did not care for her so m icti—not
care for her, II” He lifted up his head and
laughed bitterly, but the laugh was sadder
than his tears. “I never loved any other
woman, and she—she has been stolon from
me—nr she has left me. I do not know
which to say. For God’s sake, help me,
Fr ink, if you oan.”
“I will, indeed. But you must tell me all
first.”
Helmont seated himself on the corner of
the heavy oak table, on which G surge’s
elbows were planted, and in this position he
listened to tie young rna 's story. George
t >ld it wt.h a fair auiountof candor, baton
<>ue phut only he ws, reticent. Ha left
Frank Helmont in some doubt as to whether
be nad or had not contracted a legal
marriigs with Je* Armstrong. Tne
rierg • man we* just about to question him
respecting thUomudin, when a knock was
Leu. and at Ute study door.
“Confound it! is anybody coming to in
terrupt us now r’ said George. “I had more
to tell you, Frank— ’’
“Yes, my dear fellow, I know. I had
more to ask you, too,” said Helmont, rather
sit'dflcanily “However, we’ll sue first
who wants me.”
Aud hecalledout, “Comein.”
There entered a while-faced mitshappen
lad, with bright dark eyes and a shrewd,
,impish-looki g face. Eastwood did not
know him, but Mr. Helmont caught the
sound of his uneven footlalis on the stained
fl >or. and said quickly;
“O, Dick, is t .at you?”
“Yes, sir, it’s me. I’ve come with a mes
sage, sir.”
“Yes—what is it? Do you want to see
me aionep’
“I'll go into the next roo m,’’ said George,
stumbling wearily to his feet.
“It don’t matter about your going,” said
the b >y, looking at him >d lly. "It’s Mr. East
wood, ain't l ? It’s j ist ab ut you as I’ve
c ‘me. I’m St Johan E re’s brotner, I am,
You know Stephan. You've given him a
jolly black eye, anyway.”
Georgs started, but for the moment he did
not s;ieik. He did not kmw too la 1 bv
.sight; hut even in the gathering du k lie
could discern a certain likeness iu Dice’s
face to tha of Stephen Eyre.
“Have you a tnesiage for me, Dick Eyre?”
aske i Helmont, rather sternly.
4- It ain’t so much for you, sir, as fir this
gent hare. I was told to eo ne to you, and
you’d p iss it on, but as he’s here, I inigut as
well give it to aim rnvself.’’
“ VVh >’s it fr m?” said George, hoarsoly.
“It’s from Jess.”
“From Jos ! Where is she? Whore?”
The boy laughed insolently.
“That ain’t for me to tell," he said.
"She’-, all right. She’s well looked after.
And I was to tell you that she isn’t comiug
back uo more.”
“No morel” George repeated.
He beg in to feel strangely dizzy, and the
dark little ro ill swam before bis oyos.
“She’s tired of it—sick of it all, she says.
She hates doing lessons and making believe
to be a fine lady. And she savs you don’t
core for her uo more, and she’s found them
as does."
“It’s a lie! An infernallie!"
“It’s no lie, mister. It’s gospel truth. I
see her this morning, down Wiiuecuapel
Roadway. She says it’s no goo 1 for you
t> look for her, ’cause s .o’s gone away
with another man. And she souds you
this.”
“This” was a small gold ring, with a rib
bon attached. George snatched at it eager
ly; his hands were shaking so that he could
hardly hold it to tie light, as lie searched
for an initial wnic’n had hoeu engrave! in
side it. Ha found it at last, however, aud
knew that it was Jes.' ring.
“You have robbed her of it,” he said,
hoarsely. “She never gave you this—she
never sent that message! If she did—if she
did—l’ll kill her and the man that led her
astray! I swear I will.”
A id then his strength fails 1 him sudden
ly. Something seemed to give way within
him—some s.range and violent shock
seemed to have been given to tha delicate
machinery of his brain—perhaps more by
reason of the blow that Stephen Eyre ha l
given him than because of thj violence of
bis e notion—an 1 he fell like a log, helpless
and insensible, at the feet of hisejusin and
of Jess' messenger, Ric mr i Eyre.
fTO BE CONTINUED.]
He Was Waiting Hia Chance.
From the FhiUuielpkia Inquirer.
Among tiie congressmen who visited this
citv last week for me purp >se of l ca ing a
site upon which the gieat memorial arch to
commemorate the first century of inde
pendence and constitutional government is
to lie erected was a verv tall man, wearing
a broad- hr named slouch hat, go-as-you
please clothing, and long, shaggy hair. He
looked like a combination of Mexican
grea er, Texas ranchman and semi-Ameri
can. He was Concrossiian Martin of
Texas, ad he is one of the characters in the
House about whom people like to talk. At
the banquet whioh was served in the Con
tinental on Saturday night a good story was
told on Martin, which is worthy of type and
printers’ ink.
it was during the big row which recently
occurred in the House over the now rules,
and Speaker lteed was holding down the
howling mob of unwashed democracy in a
mamier which showe i that no mistake hau
beeu made when he was put in the chair.
1 iirouguout the whole hub mb Martin sat
quiet ana serene, hut his small black eyes
were flishiug re.tiessiy from one face to
another, as tsough he felt an intuitive sense
of impending danger.
“Look here,” yelled a democratic con
gressman, addressing himself to Martin,
“ain’t you a democrat?”
“Yep.”
"Well, don’t you soo how Reed is
bulldozing the boys? Why don’t you get
up and howl?”
“That’s all right. Reod and all the rest
o’ them cau shoot off their mugs jist as
much as they like. They ain’t a hurtiu’
noboby. But you jist lot someone o’ these
fellers puli a gun, an’ I’ll snow you who’s a
runnin this whole business.”
As Martin spoke be shifted a horse pistol
from liis hip pocket to a place where it
would he more handy, and tli-re was a look
upon his face which plainly indicated that
he would “drop” a dozen men at the first
iudication of personal violence.
A Plucky Editor.
From the Palatka (Fla.) Herald.
Away back in Florida territorial days
Editor Bariett was running a weekly paper
in Tallahassee. Ho was known to be a very
quiet, determined man. He didn’t talk
inu.-h with his best frionds. Newspapers in
thosjdays, numbering not more than three
or four in the state, were of eu put to their
wits to make both ends meet. Printers had
to be paid, and at the close of Saturday
night it was often the case that the typo had
to wait for a good job to come in to get
his wages. Bariett, uowever, always got
through somehow, and in fact he never in
tended to fail or give up. But the time
catna when rents became due and debts m
c eased. Finally he was sued, and the
sheriff was seat to levy on the office. Bar
iett, hearing of it, bought a keg of powder
and unbeaded it, and placet it at the top of
the stairs, the only entrance into the office.
When tie sheriff got to tne head of tne
stajs s be found the editor in a chair smok
ing a cigar dose ti tho keg. The sheriff
stoppd. Biriett said, “You carl take the
chances; if you make another step l’il blow
up the (oacern.” The sheriff did not make
tue levy.
CoL North and the America Cup.
Fr .tn, a New York Letter.
A paragraph which appeared in a con
temporary that Col. Nortu intends to buill
a yacht to compete for the America cup
must bo received with reserve. It still rests
with tho New York Yacht Club if they ac
cept Lord Dunravon’s challenge, which was
sent last year, and if it is accepod be is
prepared to sail the Valtyrie aero s the
Atlantic. At all events, by tha new deed
of gift, Col. North must Gs ie Ins chaiio ige
ten months before theinitc es take p'ace,
so the new yacht, if built, can’t be a com
petitor till next year. An addition to Lord
Dunraven’s fl set a yacht in ths shape of a
cutter is building "in the Messrs. Payne’s
yard at Soutba uptm, from a design of A
E. Payne, for racing in tbs Solent matches.
Lord Duuraven has expressed tue iuleotiou
of early fitting out the Valkyrie for the
racing eeasen.
GOTHAM MID-LENT NOTES
WHAT IT FINDS TO TALK ABOUT
ON THE PENITENTIAL DATE
A Great Pulpit Orator Entrancing
Wall 6treet—The Eerlin Labor Con
ference Dana, Cleveland and Do
pew—Stories About the Aetor Heir—
Manager Comstock’s Day with Bou
langer Chat About Well Known
people.
( Copyright .)
Nf.w York, Much B.—The ea'e with
wh ch the average New Yorker jumpsfrim
the giy t > the serious is astonishing. Only
a f‘W weeks ago we were in the midst of a
wi dly dissipating s oial season. The tna k
bails wore at their bight, there were din
ners galore, dancing until run-up, and card
parties far into the Sunday mnrni >g. Now,
however, th nights are turned in other di
rections, aril during the past ten days New
Yorkers have witnessed scenes which even
to them must teem somewhat surprising.
A famous pulpit i rater has opened one of
tie bigg st churc lei in the city at high
noon en h day a id attracted enormous con
gregations. Tuis would not. be so surpris
ing if the chip c i was situated in the resi
dential part of (he citv,|ior then one might
suppose that ladies and children would be
the chief auditors. But it was no less a
place thun old Trinity that Phillips Brooks,
tiie great Boston preacher, selected as the
pi ice iu winch to deliver a series of noon
sermons to business men. It was an exper
iment that has surprasseu all expectations.
The fat and j >lly broker is not
usually supposed to be a man who
cires much about spiritual affairs,
but In this instance ne has even neglected
his trading iu tha stock exchange, and Tri i
ity churcn has witnessed one of the events
of its Img and us ful life, for it has been
crowded to the do >rs every duy, and bv
such a congregation of wealth and brains
as could nut be gathered together iu any
other city in tho union. Even the aides
were filled with chairs, and on more than
one occasion the steps lauding to the pulpit
were occupied hy those who preferred not
to stand up. Dr. Brooks is in all respects a
finished orator. When he stands up iu his pul
pit and begins his discourse every eye is upon
him. And tnere could bo no better test of his
influence and popularity than the eagerness
displayed by his auditors in following every
word of his discourse. He is a man of over
six ft‘ut in bight, b u-que iu manner, some
wliat cureless in attire, but his cheek glows
with health, his eye is sharp a id dear, and
every word of his sermon is distinctly heard
in all parts of the vast building, ills con
gregation joins fervently in an old-fashioned
tune, and then,'after a prayer, the sermon
is Legu i. During the thirty nun ites tha it
lasts you could hear a pin dr p in any por
tion of the church. Every eye in the va t
assembly is on the preacher. There is
the deepest interest iu every word he utters,
and a remarkable congregation it is, too.
There is Russell Sago, growing older as the
yours go by, a good deni grayor than a
twelve-mont.i ago, listening with ail tho
oirgerm ss of a child lo a story at eventide.
Not far from him is gray-balred Cyrus
Field, and by bis side Dig two brothers,
David Dudley and Henry M. Directly
under the pulpit is soon tue big form of
Addison Cammnck; th ro Dr. N irvin
Green of the Wes'ern Union; Editor
David M. SiO ie, and this young mail,
bulky of frame, clad In somber black,
whose head is honed in his iia M, is none
other than William Waldorf Astor. There
are any number of less notable men and a
fair sprinkling ot preachers of adjoining
cities anxious to hour the great New Eng
land orator. He conclud s his serm >n,
after which thero is a song, and the congre
gation disperses in almost ;he twinkling of
an eyo. If the statistician felt suflic.ont
interest in the matter be could easily reckon
up a i audience that morning representing
over five hundred million in cash.
TUB BERLIN LABOR CONFERENCE.
The representatives of tha various labor
organizations of New York are s nnowhat
disappointed that they have not so far re
ceived an invitation to attend tho Berlin
labor cn fereuce wliioa is to meet in that
city about tho middle of March. Samuel
Gompers, President of the American Feder
ation of Labor, in an interview with the
wriior vosterdav suggested the probable
explanation of this. He said:
"When the Swiss conference, no w given
un, was projected, I wrote to Washington
asking if our government bad been invited
to participate. I was informed that It had
not. I tnon wrote to the secretary of the
Swiss conference asking the reason for this.
He replied in effe :t that the general g <v
ernme it of the United States had no juris
diction over the various 1 ibor bodies of the
country, such ss had the individual states,
and hence tue United States delegates would
not fairly represe t Americau labor.”
He also said: “That should the general
government a liiuie suca jurlsdi'tion, in
vitations to future labor conferences would
be duly extended. I take it that the reason
why tho United States has not been invited
to send delegates to Berlin ii for the reason
outlined above. I may add, however,” said
Mr. Gompers, “that tne American Federa
tion of La nor, while taking no formal ac
tion, favors the conference as promoting
good and certainly doing no harm.”
DEPEW AS A PRESIDENTIAL POSSIBILITY.
Cnauncy M. Depew’s shrewdneis in avoid
ing the entanglement ttiat usually beset
prominent men who are the vie inis of their
political friends has airealy passed into a
proverb. Rarely does any sentence fall
from his lips that the newspapers or bis
p ilitical acquaintances con g asp at as fore
shad -wing ms own poli ical wishes or am
bitious. Just ab >ut this time, when the
great men of both par;ie3 aud the wire
pullers, big and littie, are talking anl
soeculating as to the possibilities for 189 J,
Mr. Depew is doublv careful. He will be
mad > neither a candidate nor a catspaw, if
he knows it, and it will be very frigid
weather indeed when he surrenders his high
independence.
One (l the most ardent political cam
paigners at this early stage of the Presiden
tial seas m is Col. Ellio t F. Shepard, the
editor of the Mail and Express. It is
whispe ed that the colonel, win believes in
surprises, would like amazingly to he tne
first uewspap-r man in the country to fling
to the breeze the banner of Depaw as the
suoceisor of Harrison. However true or
otherwise rumor may be iu this regard.it
is quite certain that Chauucey take
veryf good care that no encouragement
shall be given to the scheme. He even
sii.e> at the approach f the g eat editor.
Tiie other lay wuen the colonel called at
the New York Central offices, Mr. Depew
was cl seted witu one of the Vanderbilts.
Bv and bv ho came out, aud seeing tiie dis
tinguished editor in the ante-room, held up
his hand in a deprecating way, aud said:
“I cannot see you to-day; I have not tho
time.”
But, deipite hi* raodeity, he will prob
ably continue to be regar iel as am mg the
p.,s iu . Siil a in ui’>r pf the Man
hattan Athletic c ub yesterday:
“Dope a and Ingersoli very often drop in
at the club rooms, and wheu they do they
generally manage to find an opportunity
tir a chat. It’s ..ne of toe most entertain
ing thing* in tiie world to bear them.
To.-ir t .Ik takes a wide range sometimes
aud Uis hard to taU wuiuh is ah uad. Occa
PAGES 9 TO 12.
sionally Ingors ill will drop int j a sareastio
vein, especially if religion should ha pen to
be t-uched upon, and it i* astou din; to
hear bow he can q io:e Scripture! Wnea
he is in the mnl-t of hi< mist el qu-nt
tirades, Dcpew will just sit by and listen
with a q dot smiD, put ing in a sentence
no v and then so that Ingirsoll shan’t have
things all his own way. He’s the only man
I ever hoard who could bol l his ow n with
the great infl lei. Ingers ill's torrent of ad
jectives h is no mo: o off ot on him than so
many little puffs of wind. I have een
half a dozen members stand near listening
while Ingersoil was hurling quotition after
quotation at the held of the smiling Depew,
who looked as if lie thought it merely a flue
piece of acting.”
DANA AND CLEVELAND MEET.
There was a rather in’eresting five min
utes on Park Ro v the other alt-r lonrt. It
was just 5 o’clo sk when th ro emerged from
the office of t e Sun a broad-shouldered,
vigorous looking man of about 08, witu hia
overcoat button b snugly around his form.
It wus Charles A. Dana. He stepped into
t ie crowd, and as he did s> nl cost brushed
elbows with a m n of g eat corpulency who
wore a bristling musiache, shiny t-iis hit
and an overcoat fl mping in the breeze. It
was Gr ver Cleveland. A great
many people saw the two men
witnin n few feet of each other and
watched them as th -y climbed the elevated
railroad stops and t'■ k an uptown tr im.
Mr. Dana reached the train 11 st, plumped
himself in a vacant s at and was followed
directly bv Mr. Cleveland, who took the only
other uiioccupijd s-at, which happened to
place the great me i directly opposite one
another. Tney glanced hurriedly at each
otlie , then quickly buried their heads in
their newspapers, and the train went rat
tling on. Thn:e was no comment Not a
word was ftp ikon, and the only variation of
the monotony was by tiie guard whistling
iu a low musical voice, “They never speak
as they pass by.”
STORIES ABOUT THE ASTOR HEIR.
Of course there is no end of storios abmil
tho heir to th i Astor mitlio is. William
Wald rf Astor is very naturally a marked
man now. Ho is not a man about town in
a sense that he is a rounder, but be is fo and
ot society, is a good and generous liver, is
often seen at buuqoeis, drivei out in lbs
park, i* a fair burst back rider, an excelie t
pedestrian, cm handle a rod and reel very
cleverly, and, altogether, he is r. man
wbo extracts a great deal of pleasure
out of life. lie has a h -bby,
however, and that is literature. He has a
splendid library of rare books, and he likes
to write, lie devotes a certain amount of
each day to writing stories, liis two pub
lished i ovels have been very successful, aud
in his little den iu bis Fifth avem.e h use
he ha* 101 or 9K) short sketches aud poems
that have never se >n the light of day.
Some time, perha[i, he may publish them.
So ne ot the stor.es told a e true; soma
are not. But the writer of ttiis was the wit
ness of an episode at a recent La quet that
is worth repeating. It w.s the annual
dinner of the Holland Boci‘y. Mr. Astor,
with C.iauncy M. De|H3 w, Theo Roosevelt,
J. Plerpont Morgin aid a half doze i o(.ber
distinguished men, were Invite I to be the
guests of the Dutch society. They we e
all promptly in their places at tha
appointed hour except Mr. Astor. The
guest table was unusually crowded, and so
it happened whe i he appeared there was
not an inch of space for him to squeese in.
He picked up the diagram of the table,
caretu.ly sea med it, c anted the gentlemen
wno were in their seat , and teen re
marked, In a inthrr brusque tone, “I sea
there is no place for me here. ”
In an instant Mr. Depew, Mr. Morgan
and others we o on their feet pleading witii
Mr. Astir to ac cept th ir seat. He bowed
pi litely, shook his heud positively, aud de
clined a y such arrungeme it. T. e blood
in .unted to his face and he was so ang y
that he cul 1 hardly contain himself. Mr.
Deuew whispered something in his eor, but
it di l not console I im. Then hestraigh ened
himself up, threw back bis shoulders and
sad:
"I shall not stay hero. Gentlemen, good
nieh .” y
Dr. Depew caught his coat tail, t igged at
it vig rously, Mr. Morgan tried to stop his
egress, and a score of other men who saw
what the difficult * was iimdo haste to calm
Ihe heir to <200,000,000, hut it was of no
avail. He sta k-d into the coat room, sl.d
ungracefully into his fur-lined overcoat,,
clapped his hat on his head, and in an in
stant was on the street. F. o n there he
went to the Astor house and had as good a
dinner as money c mild purchase, a.id he ate
it in sileuce.
THE GRANT MONUMENT FUND A FIZZLE.
The effort to raise money enough to go
on with tho Grant monument has proven a
dismal failure. Col. Elliott F. Shepard,
the last man to tackle the j <b, give <10,00(5
of his own money toward the work, and
then called upon his friends to do what they
could in the matter. This was three months
ago, and the total anion it of the subicnp*
tion will not exo ed <15,000. Col. Shepard
is much disgusted and is iikely to give up
the project. Btill, on thj annive aary
of Gen. Grant’s birth In April,
he contemplates giving a big dinner, at
which be expects to have 100 or more of the
most prominent men in the country os his.
guests, and then, when the wine is flowing
and the cigars are sending out their most
delicious aroma, he will ask the n to go
down into thetr pockots and help complete
the monume it. It is not at all likely that
he will succeed to auy extent. The only
New Yorker whoever ilidsucceed in raising
a large sum of money for chancy was
Cyius W. Field. He, it will be remem
bered, obtained something In the
neighborhood of $400,000 for tue idow of
Gen. Garfield, but that was a scheme gotten
up in a hurry aud carried out wi b a rush.
There are no people who show le s poblio
spirit than New Y” rkers, and once a pro
ject has beco ne cool they loose interest in
it. It may be truthfully said that they
care nothing at a.l about Grant or his
monument. Thor resjieo; his memory, if it
dies not cost anythin;, i’he monument is
not l.kely to be completed during the life
time of the p a ent generation.
An Old Sea Dog's Adventurous Career.
From the New London Telearaph.
Capt. Nathaniel Richards of Eist New
Loudon is one of the few living represnta
tives of the sturdy seamen of half a century
ngo. The captain w ill be 93 in April, and
is us hale aid b arty as a tna l of 50. He
followed the sea for 50 years, and com
manded some of the largest merchant ships
of ins time. He was master of ieveral of
8 ephen Girard’s ships and sailed from this
port for Maj. Williams and others of the
old-time ship owners. The ship North
America, of which he was mast -r, was the
first to make a p irt ut the island of Samoa.
His life and adventures at sea are as won
derful aud interesting as Besaut’s novela
He was shipwrecked, ciptured by canni
bals, and pressed into the Spanish army, in
which h * served until an opportunity of
fered to desert. He was once sentence 1 to
be shot by the Mexicans as a su-pec: against
thq government, but escaped from Jail anil
lived for we*k in the woods on roots and
nun, finally inasiug his way to the c >ast
aud joiuiug a vessel. The old gentleman
has several times e .circle i the globe, aud
hi* recollections of the times when coal,
steam, eleoirieity and other necessities of
the present day were uuanowu are amus
ing.