The morning news. (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, April 06, 1890, Image 9

The morning news., April 06, 1890, Image 9

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Newspaper Page TextI'ART TWO. HU GKEAT MILL STREET lIVSTERV. By sergeant. Authored “Jacobi’s Win," “Rot’s Repentance,” ' Devkril’s Diamond,” “Under False Pretences,” Etc. . * [ALL FIGHTS RESERVED.] PART L CHAPTER XXIII. JESS’ PARENTS. Granny’s days were numbered. She had lons been cripj.led with rheumatism, and she had had two paralytic seizures; be - ength was evidently failing, and the doc tor had given it as his opinion that she would not la3t much longer. She was still housed in Stephen Eyre’s rooms in Beaumont buildings, but she was no longer nursed ex clusively by Alice Drew. Jess now did her full share of household work, and Alice was to a great extent mistress of her own time. She worked hard in a factory during the day time, therefore, and devoted her even ings to “doing good,” as she expressed it, amongst the poor. It was perhaps an ad ditional incentive to her in this work, that Stephen was also engaged in it, and that he had of late gone back to his old friends, the Salvation Army people. But for his ties to Je a and her grandmother, he would have given his whole life to work on Sal vationist lines; but at present it behoved him to provide for his household, and amongst the members of his household there was not only a helpless old woman, but an equally helpless baby. And it was Jess’ baby that had worked the greatest pos sible revolution in the house. To begin with, it was the baby’s existence which had at first caused Jess to submit un conditionally to all Stephen Eyre’s restric tions and demands. The baby required fresh air, for instance. Jess must give it fresh air, even at the cost of a promise that fhe wou Id speak to nobody if she wont out side the door. Then the responsibilities of the baby’s mentnl and spiritual develop ment began to weigh upon Jess’ mind. Stephen said that she was not good; how could she bring up her baby properly if she was herself bail She came very soon to believe, humbly and meekly, that her faith in George Eastwood had been a mistaken one; and that she had committed some vazue, alarming sin in believing his protes tations. She was very easy to convince, to ileiude. Stephen had little real difficulty its convicting her of utter wickedness and then in leading her to find consolation in tns peculiar way. Thus he had at last b.ought her to the point of helping him to pieach, and giving her personal ex periences to the world; and he hoped that great results would follow from the public <■ ufession that sue was to make on the night < f Eastwood’s disastrous reappearance. If Eastwood had not reappeared, ho felt almost certain tbathecould have ultimately persuaded Jess to be his wife. Hhe was on :he point of yielding, as she had yielded so many times before. But her glimpse of George made every thing different. Steuben felttnat his cLance was now reduced to a minimum. lie did not think that he was doing wrong in asking her to marry him. He fully be lieved, and he bad led her to believe, that she had never been a wedded wife. He loved her with the whole force of her na ture, and he loved her child as well. It was his affection for the baby that gave him influence with Jess. She, wrapt up in her child, was apt to gauge the worth and vir tue of her acquaintances by their liking for her little girl; and the babe seemed likely to be a largely determining factor in the scheme of Jess'future life. For tbe child’s sake she might perhaps have some day mar ried Stephen, as, for the child’s sakesbe hid adopter, some of Uis religious views. But with her glimpse of George, with the sound of his passionate reproaches in her ears, all that possibility came to an end. Not even “lor baby’s sake” could she consent to bo the wife of Stephen Eyre. Upon another member of the household the child exerted a potent influence. Strange to say, she developed a great fond ness for Uranny, and this fondness was re ciprocated by the old woman. Nothing made the baby so happy as to be laid to rest on Granny’s bed; and old Sirs. Flint softened her tongue and twisted her care worn features into wreatheu smile# to please the child. Indeed, the tiny delicate child —Mee lie, as she very early dubbed it '(-! f, instead of the statelier Georgina—was a bond of u-ion between all the strangely assorted characters that met beneath ■Stephen's roof; and even his brother Dick, w hose moral nature was in some respects as distorted as his body, c me under the small princess’ sway. Meenie was a remarkably lovely and intelligent child; fair, like her mother, but with a dash of brown rather hnu red in her golden hair, eyes that re called George Eastwood’s eyes, and a brow in w hich there w as soma odd and inexplica ble likeuoss to Diana holuiont. It w. s she wiio practically ruled the house. It was site who had brought Jess meekly t> Stephen’s feet; and it was she who softened tbe heart of old Harah Flint toward the girl whom she had brought up, but never thought worthy of anything hut abuse. One night, shortly after Jess- first and only experience as a speaker in public, Mrs. Flint seemed unusually wakeful and rest h'Sß Alice was away for the uight, nursing a sick woman in another block of the model dwellings and Jess was therefore alone with her grandmother aud her child. “Can Ido anything for you, Grauny?” sne asked, when the old w oman at last began to moan a little as well as to move from side to side. Gimme the child,” said Granny. Jess brought It with some ini-giving. If ' eenie were to wake up, she would certainl v ' ly, aud ttie neighbors might be disturbed. >t always seemed to poor Jess that she and leenie ought to keep themselves in the background us much as possible. They had ! ? right to expect indulgence at the bands 0; their fellow-e.eatures. And some of the '■eighbors had expressed themselves strongly respecting "that squalling brat,” us they had dubbed the oft-times ailing cuild. 'Jut ot this occasion, although Meenie sqtl.ed and moaned a little in her sleep at being disturbed, she did not wake, and Jess ept a watchful eye upon her as the old uratidmother patted the tiny mottled arms with her wrinkled hand. ' I’ve summat to tell you,” said the old oman at last, in an unusually gentle voice, fou sit here on the bed where 1 can see you. Now, tell me true, did Eastwood marry you or uotr Jess, hesitated for a moment. ' thought lie did,” she said at last, ■ ery meekly, ‘‘but Steve savs 1 was mis taken.” „ Stephens mistaken," said Mrs. ••nt. He wants to marry you hisself, and i 0 w °b 1 iet nothing—God nor devil, nor the •aw of the laud—stand In his way when be auto a thing. Don’t you let yourself be gOfre JUdfning trod underfoot, girl. The reason why Mr. Eastwood never looked for you was because he was ill, not because he didn’t care. I’ve made tbat out through Dick. He’s a sharp boy, and I’ve give him one o’ your rings to bring me news now and then.” I think he’d do more for you if we tried. Don’t you give up so easy; who knows? you may be a fine lady yet, and riding in your carriage every day!” But Jess’ face had grown sad. “It’s no use. Granny,” she said, “I don’t care to be a fine lai%, if George doesn’t love me. And if he had loved me, ho would have found me before now. He’s had plenty of time. He hasn’t been ill ail these long, dreary months—it’s no good telliug me that. ” “But it would be good for baby if you were rich, mv dear,” argued Mrs. Flint, with extraordinary mildness. “Not if I was miserable,” Jess answored, with a touch of her old spirit; and then, in a lower toue; “I should be very miserable it I had to live w ith George aud he didn’t love me. I couldn’t bear it. I’m far bap pier now, as I am, w ith nobody but baby. I don’t care for anybody else.” “But if you could be rich with baby, and without George, my dear? If you could take baby into the country aud show her the pretty trees, and get nice thiugs for her, and never have to do any work—what then f” “Ah, that would be just like heaven!” said Joss, with a deep sign of longing. “But I shall never be able to do all that." “You may if you like,” said the old wo man, in a whisper. "What, Granny?” “If I tell you something, Je3s, will yon promise me not t > go for to bear inaiiee and put me in prison or ret Stephen to send me to the workhouse? For I alius meant well by you, Jess, though 1 may have hit a bit hard now and then; but it was not my meaning to do so, and l know you’re a good girl to your Granny. So promise me, my dear, as you won’t do me no harm, and theu I’ll tell you a great big secret, and you will be a rich lady one of these days, mavbe.” “I’ll never do anything to harm you, Granny.” “On ver oath and word of bonc^?” “Yes.” “Say it,” urged Granny, feverishly. “Say, on my word and honor I’ll not hurt you nor punish you if you’ve done me any wrong, so help me God!” Jess repeated the formula rather lan guidly. She had no faith m the import ance of Granny’s revelations. But Granny looked excited, her eves began to gleam, and she raised herself a little on one elbow as she spoke. * “You’re a gentleman’s daughter, Jess. You’re a real lady born.” “A real lady born*” replied Jess. "But I’m—l’m—your granddaughter, Uranny?” “Well, so you may t>e, and yet a gentle man’s daughter,” said Mrs. Flint, triumph antly. “You’re a lady born on your father’s side, and he v. as a capting in the army.” “The Salvation?” asked Jess. “No, you little fool. Thera weren’t no Salvations in them days. I tell you he was a captain iu the army, the real British army, and maybe a general after that, if he’d lived long enough, but he died while you were a babe inarms! Yes, that was your father, and a very fine gentleman he was. I can tell yon. You’re like him your self in some ways.” “But —hut —” The color surged hotly into Jess’ pale face; there was a question iu her eves which she did not dare to put. Mrs. Flint answered it unconsciously in her next sen tence. “I saw ’em married with my own eyes in Saint Pnnkrklge’scaurcb, I did. Ay daugh ter Mary—a beauty she was too! —and ("act. Gerald Armstrong. That was your father’s name, my dear, and you've no call to he ashamed of it.” “O, Granny, tell me all about it,” said Jess, eagerly. "There ain’t sj much to toil, said Granny, rather crossly, “and if it weren’t for thisble sod limb, I’d not bother my head about it. But it’s a shame to keep her out of her rights, the precious, and when you’re rich and a line lady, Jess, you can 4oap your fingers at Mr. Eastwood and Stephen, too, and bring up your own little girl in your own way.” “Was my father rich, then?” said .Test “Welt, not when I know him. But his father was, and all his family. Mary was not fine e jough for the likes o’ them; they wouldn’t h ive nought to say to her. And for fear of offending his father, the caDtiug wouldn’t say nought about her to him.” “Just like me and George,” escaped from Jess’ lips. * “Ay, so I thought. These things often runs in fam'lie ,” su'd Mrs. Flint, in a satis fied tone. “Wny, I myself had off>rs by the dozen when I was a gal, from gentlemen as good as your George Eastwood, or Capt. Armstrong either. But I always ’eld my ’ead igh, and wouldn’t listen to them. And glad 1 am as I done it, for neither you nor Mary’s come to good through listening to flue gentlemen.” “What became of my mother?” asked the girl, breathlessly. “After they was married," Mrs. Flint went on narratively {‘‘which i saw with my own eyes at St. Fankridge church, and there can’t, therefore, be my mistake about it), Mr. Armstrong took Mary away to the country, and there she wrote me that they had a sweet little cottage, all overgrowin’ with roses, which I r-hould think very un’- ealthv myself, and apt to breed fevers and earwig;. Hoae/er, she seemed really to like it. And you wai born there, Jess, at a little village near Sevenoaks in Keut. I don't rightly mind the name, but there was a‘river’ in'it, and if you went down you could easy fled out. Your father’s people lived in the north, and that was why he went and lived in ihe south. Then a war began, away in Indy or somewhere, and he went out to it and got killed there. And when Mary heard the news, she took to her bed and never got up again. She died in a week, aud t ere I was left with you on mv 'ands, aud not sixpence to bring you up with.” “You were very good to be bothered with me, Grauny,” said Jess, gently. “I was nigh sandin’ you to the work house,” replied Granny, in a truculent manner, “and I a’most wish I had. But I thought your father's folks ’ud take you in. Bo I tramped away wi’ you to Yorkshire, where they lived, and then I askeo to see the old gent, which lie was Mr. Gerald's father and some sort of a lawyer, I believe. Well I saw him, und ho wouldn’t listen to me. 'He said I was trying to extort money on false pretenses, and that his son was not married; and that it I didn’t get out of the house, he’d lock me up in prison for six mouths as a tramp and a vagabond. And he could ha’ done it, for he was a great gen SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, APRIL (>, 1890. t'eman in that part o’ the world, and much respected. So I ups and goes, and I’ve never set eyes on any of ’em from that day to this.” "Then there’s not much chance of them doing anything for my poor baby,” said Jess, wistfully. “Ah. but I think there is, my dear. The old gentleman's dead, no douDl; but there’s plenty more of thefam’ly. And be wouldn’t look at the papers; but I’ve got ’em all here, safe and sound. There’s tue marriage lines, and your ’stifficate of birth, and all sorts of thiugs; and I’ve kept ’em for years, alters thinxiu’ as I’d get some clever man to look at ’em, aud get you back your rights, but 1 got so dazed wi’ drink that I never thought of ’em for manv a long day. But lying here quiet, and looking at Meenie, it all came back to me, and I said to myself I’d do what I could.’’ “O, Granny, Granny,” said Jess, re ?roachfully, “if you’d only told me before! might have told George—it might have made a difference!” She covered her face with her hands, and the teats began to ooz.i through her Anvers —a sight which always irritated Mrs. Flint. “I don’t see what you need go crying about,” she said, fretfully. "Haven’t I told yon now, at any rate? If you whimper like that, l’il tear up all the papers, every one, see if I don’t.” “I won’t cry, Granny. It was only for a minute.” “And very ungrateful of you to cry at all, when yon have just been told such a piace o’ good fortune. W liy, you can go straight tj them grand people and say, “Look here, I’m nntoneo’ your sorts; you give me my father’s money and things, and then I’ll go away with my baby aud not trouble you no more.’ Why, law bless you, thev’d pay double the money to get quit o’ ye.” But this view of the subject did not please Jess exactly. “I’d rather they’d love me a little, and not pay me any money.” she said. “You always were a fool and a silly un grateful hussy,” said Mrs. Flint, angrily, “aud if you go on in this way, 1 won’t tell you no more. Bat you may take the pa pers. I keep them iu an old packet here under my piller. I fought tooth and nail with Stephen once when he wanted to take ’em away. You take ’em and keep ’em safe, for the babv’s sake. ” Jess felt under the pillow, and extracted thence a very dirty little p acker, which she placed carefully in her own pocket. But the movement of her hands had disturbed Miss Meenie, who burst into a fretful wail and bad to be taken up and soothed and fed; and while she was crying further conversa tion was impossible. When at last Jess put her down, sue saw that her grandmother had fallen into an attitude of repose aud she did not like to disturb her. She herself, however, could not sleep. The strange news which Mrs. Flint had given her was far too surprising to be easily forgotten. A few faintly rose-tinted vis ions rose up before Jess’ dreamy eyes. E veil although George had abandoned her, she would not be left desolate, so long as Meenie was left. And if she had money she could clothe and feed and educate the child like other iittle girls—ladies’ children whom she had sometimes envied in the parks. Life might be bright for her and Meenie s ill. In the early morning, she wont over to Granny’s bed and put one hand on the old woman’s arm. “Granny,” she said, softly, “Granny, will you tell me where niy fa her’s people live?” Bat Granny did not answer. ’She had to’d her,story none t o soon. She would never have another chance of discovering the truth to her granddaughter. Granny was dead. CHAPTER XXIV. “YOU LEFT ME!” Granny’s death made some difference in Stephen" Eyre’s arrangements. He had ceased to have any fear that Jess would run away from him, and he exercised only a slight surveillance over her move ments. He saw that her whole sou! was absorbed in her child, and that it would be lost labor to restrain the actions of one who was so meekly and raildiy disposed. There was, therefore, little reason why he should remain iu Beaumont buildings, when nis heart yearned-after the familiar Whitechapel scenes amongst which he had lived so long; and not long after Mrs. Flint’s funeral, he proposed to Alice that they should all return to the vicinity of Bald win’s court. Alice looked at him in some amaze. “Aren’t you afraid?” she said, simply. “Afraid of what? No, I’m not afraid of anything, man nor devii.” “I mean about Jess,” she said. This conversation took place when Jess had gone out with little Moeuie for a walk. “And what abiut Jess! She cares for nothing but the child.” "I’m not so sure of that,” said Alice. “You remember her seeing him in Mill street t'ue other night. What had he come there for if not to look for her? He’ll cone there again.” “Lot him come,” said Stephen, with a sort of lofty dryness, which had au awe-iuspir ing effect on Alice’s mi-.ri. “He’ll never believe iu her again. He thinks she left him for some other man.” “O, Stephen!” cried the girl, “D m’t yon think it’s wicked to make people believe what isn’t true. and come between true lov ers in that way ?” "What do you know about true lovers’” said Stephen, with a sneer. “Have you been reading those penny dreadfuls again, I wonder? It’s always right, Alice Drew, to put a stop to sin and wicked lies;. Fair means or foul, it’s al' the same. Jess will never go back to East wo >d. ” “You’re wrong! you’re wrong I” said Alice, almost passio lately. “She worships the very memory of him still. She'll never forget. If he lifted up his little fin ger, she would go back.” "But he never will lift up his little finger—remember that. He thinks her wicko 1.” And a grim smile rose to Stephen’s face. “You’ll never get any advantage out of that,” said Aiice. "She will never marry you.” “Well! if she won’t, she won’t,” said Stephen, quietly. He looked down for a minute or t.vo aud then raised his eyes with a flash kindling in their sombre depths. “If she don’t marry me she shall never marry any other man.” Alic 6 suppressed a sigh. She understood Jess better than Stephen understood her; and she was perfectly certain of the sub dued, and g-like fidelity which was the very groundwork of Jess’ character. “We won’t talk no more about ft," Stephen said, more gently. “We shall know before long how tilings are g >ing to turnout. We’ll move next week, Alice, if it’s convenient to you. And as we’re going back Whitechapel way, I think- we’d better part forces a bit. I’m going wi’ Dick to the house in Baldwin’s court again, and you and Jess and the child had better go some where else.” Alice’s face fell! She felt as though a lump of ioe nad fallen upon her heart. But she only said: “Very well, Stephen,’’and the man never noticod that anything was amiss. “I’ve bespoke rooms in Buck street for you,” bo said. Buck street crossed Mill street at right angles, but was a more re spectable pi ice than the Baldwin court locality. “And of course it’s me that goes on paying the rent and helping you along. I want you to promise th.n \ ,unl stick o Jess, Alice. Don’t forsake her—whatever happens.” “If she’ll let me stay with her I always will.” “Thankee, Alice. You’ve been a good friend to me. And wo’re like sister and brother, aren’t we?” “There’s many a brother not been half so good to bis sisters as you to me,” said Alice, the tears rising to her sad eyes. "I don’t know about that,” answered Stephen, who nevertheless though: that w,,at she said was true. "But I know you’ve been very good to her; mid I shall always care for you because of that.” Only because of that! Atioe felt a little sick as she turned a wav. She could not speak. It was s > painfully plain to her that Stephen’s interest in her depended wholly and solely upon her interest iu Jess. It was enough to throw some wo men into an agony of jealous anger a-.J pain. But Alice, although sne loved Stephen, was not the sort of woman who grudged him his right of choice. It seemed to her quite natural tbat he should prefer Joss’ pale, sweet face audauerole of golden hair to ha own homely, pleasant features and whole some look of health and hop - anil earnest ness. She had no charm with which to compete against Jess for his favor. And, like many other brave and good women, she tried to put her pain aside and taka retuge in doing good to others —the strongest and surest anodyne for sorrow that can any where be found. Jess received the news of the coming re moval with great apparent tranquillity,but sho bent over too baby in order to conceal tbe flush upon her cheek, and the sudden shortening of her breath. Quick as light ning the thought occurred to her that if she went back to Mill street, George might ye. be found; that if Stephen and Dick did not live in the same house with her, she might even one day find her way to him; and al though she said to herself that nothing would now make her live with him again, she could not think even of an interview with him without a throbbing of her pulses a glow of heat upon her face. An inexpre si hie longing had again ri e 1 up in her heart—a longing for his words of lore, for his kisses, for his embrace—and even while she said to herself that she was very wicked to long for those things again, the desire would not be utterly suporessid. She had tried to tell Stephen alxmt her grandmother’s disclosure, but he had cut tier short rather roughly by saying that old Mrs. Flint’s lies ware never to be believed. She was silent then, aud felt glad that she had not spokoa of the papers which she car ried about in tier pocket. She looked at them, but they tld her very little. The reading of manuscript was not easy to her, and Capt. Armstrong’s letters to his wife were written ill a hand which Joss found almost undeciphearble. She was obliged to put them away with a sigh, and a convic tion that someone else must road the n be fore she found out whether or no they would ever be of use to her. And she knew nobody who would be able or willing to read them ; and again the desire for George E is .wood’s help rose up like a flimo witlu.i her. So well, however, did she conceal her feel ing, that Stephen feit quite reaasurod de cerning her. She had torgoetftg George, lie was sure; and By and by she would love him as she had never loved Eastwood a* all. Stephen's conviction on this p >int amounted al nosS to mania. He was perfectly sure that she would yet become his wife, and when the idea crossed his tiliud as it occa sionally did, tnat she might forsake hi n for some other man, it seemed to him as if red and lurid vLions of murder beckoned him along a highroad of destruction. For if Jes3 abandoned him, die said to him self, everything good within his 'soul would die. In duo time tha move from the Model Dwellings to Buck st reet was made. The one room which Alico and Jess and the baby were now to s i are betwoe i them was not large, but it was comparatively clean and airy. To Jess it was a great relief that she did not see muc i of Stephen; an 1 Dick’s absenej was a thing for which she was grateful every day. She did not like Dick; and Dick hated her. Not even his interest in little Meeuie had made him civil to Je3s. It was delightful to her, therefore, to get away from the brothers, and to leal that she was to some extent her own mistress. She did not find out for some time that a syste n of constant espionage was kept up by Dick Eyre upon all her movements; that she seldom wont out witaout his fol lowing her, and that he often slept upon the landing outside her do ;r. When t ese facts began to dawn upon her, she was at tacked by a sudden fear. For all her w alks abroad of late had had one end; she had hoped to see Deorge again, and she had wandered in the direction in wi ich she fancied that he might be. Had Dick toll Stephen of n 11 her doings? and would Stephen suspect her and shut her up agai ( Jess shrank with horror from the notion of a second imprisonment such as she had sus tained lief ore her baby’s birth. She began to wonder whether si.e could not escape from Stephen after all. Could she ever he safe from the gaze of Dick’s prying, peering eyed A woman whom she had known in previ ous days came to her assistance at this junc ture. “Black Hal,” as her swarthy com plexion caused her to ba named, was not a very reputable character, but sho had a kind heart and a warm love for chil dren. Her tenderne.s to Meenie when tho child was ill won Jess'gratitude aud affec tion, and emboldened tho girl one night to tell her a large part of her story, including her nervous fear of the Eyres—a fear in which Alice was to some extent included. “Don’t you be afraid any more then, honey,” said Black Hal. “You trust to lue and i’il help yer. If I don’t see you any where for a tea- days I’ll hunt you up. And I’ll tell you what —you might give Alice Drew and Dick Eyre tho slip one fine day and come up to my attic in Mill street.” “I thougnt you lived in this bouse, here, in Buck street?” asked Jess, rather doubt fully. “Bo I do when I’m at ’ome,” laughed Black Sal. “But I’ve got auotber hole, too. li’s convenient sometimes. Do you know them three houses in Mill street where the folks were ail turned out a little tii eago? If you go to the third one, you’ll always find it open aud empty—except when a tramp gets in now and then. Aud there’s stairs aud a trap-door into the next house, which makes it a good place to go to when p’bcce has their eye on you. I’d show you the whole place some day if you'll come along o’ me; and it’s a handy spot to know of, specially if you wants to get awav from anybody. You goes up tha stairs of one 'ouse, you know, and the p’lies follows you. But they can’t find you—for why? Because you've got into tne next house through tho door in the roof. Anil the peo ple in the lodgings alw’ays covers up tuo door with coats and things ands iears that nobody’s been there, so you soa you’re safe, for the p’llce don’t know of that little door. You come up there if you are in a mess any time.” “Thank you, Sal,” said Jess. “I don’t think I shall ever want it.” "You never knows.’ replies the more sagacious SaL “It’s allers well to look out for squall*.” Jejs agreed? although with a very vague notion of what sbj meant. But the infor mation which she hail received was des tined to be of usn to her. She was passing down Mill street one night in January—it was a cold night and t! ere was snow in the air—when she caught s.gut of a l gu.e that she knew well. It was that of George Eastwood, muffl.xi and enfolded iu great coat and scarf, with his hat pressed down over his eves so that his face was scarcely recognizable—but Je.-s could not be mistaken! It was George Eastw .od, surely; her l'vor, her Husband, tbe father of her child! And be was lingering at tbe doorway of tbe house in which she used to live’ Could it be possi ble, then, that he lovod her still? “George! George!” sho cried, and run ning after the cloaked figure, she laid her hand upon its arm. The man turned, looked hor in tho face, and threw her baud away. “You false woman! how dure you speak to me ?” he said. It was George Eastwood indeed, but never had George Eastwood looked at Jess with a face so full of rage aud fury as he looked at her now. “George, don’t be angry with me!” sho pleaded. Hhe never knew the most effect ive thing to say. “Why should I nor lie angry with you, you vile creature? Have you not wrecked my life as well as vour owui Your shame less couduct has brought misery on my head, and will bring misery on your own. Perhaps it was brought misery on you already—l oould almost say that I hops to God it has!” “Yes, lam very miserable,” sobbed Joss, “especially when you talk to me like that. What have I done, George? On, you don’t know—you don’t understand .’’ “I understand that you left me—left me for another man!” “Another!—O, no, George, not in tbat way—not as you think. 1 was obliged to go; I was trapped like a wild beast—l was taken prisoner aud kept away from you. I could not help it—indeed I could not. It was not my fault.” “Not your fault?” said Eastwood, grip ping her fiercely by the arm. and turn ing her tear-stained face toward the light of the lamp. "What do you mean by that?” “It’s true, George. I was kept away from y. u by force.” “Who kept you? That accursed ruffian Eyre?” The look of fury iu his face suddenly struck Jess dumb. Hhe was afraid. What was she doing after all? Dared she tell George quite the whole story ? He would kill Stephen, or Htephen would kill him; and Htephen had done what he thought wa< right. A sickening fear took possession of liar and sealed her lips, and George East wood, looking down into her fair fright ened face, swore that never wa3 woman so false and frail as she. “Speak!’’ he said, sternly. "Tell me tho whole story, that 1 may punish that ruffian if ho is to blame.” “I can’t tell you, George.” “Can’t tell me! My God! is it so black a story ?” “It was not my fault,” said Jess, cower ing and hiding hqj face in her hands. “No, perhaps tfnvas not your fault at tho beginning,” said George, bitterly, “but it has beeu your fault ever since. Wby. if you are blamele.-s, could you not have come ba-k to me? Your actions condemn you, while you try to excuse yourself. Don’t t mull me! 1 loathe you; you are a wicked woman, and you have no claim on me, 1 loved you, Jess—once; now cou.d you do this thing?” “ldove you still!” she cried, clinging to the arm with which he trlel to push her awav. " "Your love is worth very little,” he said, in bitterest scorn, “when it does not save you from ihese unimaginable depths of shame. Jess! Jess! you nave broken my heart and ruined your own life! What can there be between us now?” Hhe stood sobbing, but holding up her hands to him imploringly. “I will tell you,” she said, in despair. “I will tell you everything—if you will listen.” "Ido not want to hear,” he answered, trying to recover his composure, aud avert ing his eyes from her pleading face. “It i< all too black—too bid—too awful. But I will help you; J will do my best for you, if you want to lead a better life. Do you need money? I can give you as much as you want noiv.” “I don’t want money—l have—plenty,” said Jess, with Quivering lips. “Ah, you are kept well supplied, I sup pose,” said George, regardless of the start of paiu with which she received his taunt. I have nothing more to offer. Bat—ui memory of our old love for one another, Jess, will you not come away with me und let me piace y m whore you will be cared for and protected? I will lake care that you have all you want. 1 cannot forgive you—but I will never let you know hunger or cold or discomfort any more. You look pjor; you must want many things that 1 can supply; come with me, and you shall have tiiem all.” "1 want o ily one thing, George,” said Jew, softly, “and that is your love.” “Yon have forfeited teat,” said the young man, growing rather white about the lips, “and you cannot except to get i‘ back. Will you come with ms or not? L will take you to a lady who will be kind and good to you—if you will come now—to night.” “Not to-night,” she said, shrinking back. “Why not?” She thought of her child and made no nnswer. George knew nothing of the baby girl whom sho had called after him. “Come now, Jess—to-night.” "If you will come here t i-morrow night,” sho faltered, “I will come with you then. And theu I will tell you nil." But Ge >rge, w ith a stern and angry look upon his faci, shook bis head anti turned awav. Her hesitation was inexplicable to him, and he was too sore and slot at heart to be patieut. Ho, with a bitter feeling that she was lost to him for ever, and oould never be reclaimed, he turned away into the night, TO BE CONTINUED. McGinty’s Demise. In one of the larger southern cities not long ago, says the Cnicago Herald , resided a wealthy contractor who legitimately bore the name of McGinty, which has re e tly been celebrated in song a.d story. He was taken sick and died. In the south it is necessary to notify the undertaker as soon as possible, and o son of the deceased hastened to the nearest telephone after the old gentleman had expired, and called up a down town undertaker. "Mr. McGinty is dead,” he called, but be fore he could give the address the under taker’s man called back: “O, tbat McGiuty gag is getting old—gi:e us a ne w ong.- 2 "* The young man was mad. There were tears In his voice as he gave the ad Ire3S. “Who are you*” nska l tho undertaker. “My father died an hour ago,” he replied, “and my name is McGinty.” But the undertake- said "Rats" and rang off. Then the young man called up another undertaker, but when he mentioned tbe name of McGinty he was cut off short. Finally he had to present himself to an un dertaking establishment before he could convince the undertakers that there really was a man named McGinty who bad died. Taken for Granted.— Hullo. Squoggs! What are you doing on the street without your uni form?” ‘■l’m not on the force now, Blim. Quit It yes terday.” ‘Where lire you going to start your saloon?" —CAic.ioo Tribore. GIDDY MARRIED WOMEN. WARD M’ALLISTER GIVES THE LAW AS TO FLIRTING. The Attentions a Married Lady May Receive from Younar Men—Society Does Not Show Its Disapproval Until the Husband Objects—How Will a Gentleman Prooaed When Some Other bellow Is Over-Atten tive to His Wife? (Coni/right.i New Yoiik, April s.—" What attentions may a married wo nan legitimately accept at the hands of her young men acquaint ances?” This was the question I asked Ward McAllister the other day, and it was prompted by the stories that have secured circulation in the clubs of itte connecting the names of young married women in a very unpleasant way with the names of men who were supposed not only to be friends of the family to which the woman in question belong, but tried friends of the women’s husbands. The stories concern people who are of considerable consequence in the social world of New York, and are there fore peculiarly interesting. The sentimental relations which may bo established between men and women in the lower ranks of life, when the men and women are bound by dom'stio ties incompatible with the new relations they seek to form, oftentimes bring about picturesque and dramatic scones, but the probio ns involved are settled either through flstdcnffs on the side wulk or through the gentle ministrations of the police justice, and are interesting, therefore, only to the shop girl and dis t ict messenger boy readers of sensa tional dailv papers. When people aro mov ing in the higher circles, however, a pugi listic solution cannAt be employed and the p dice court is of noservioe whatever. The complications, therefore, which arise from young and ’rolicsomo society matrons ac cepting atte itinns from rock l osi young bachelors, which they very frequently do, offer a more delicate and more tedious problem for the address and diplomacy of tlioie immediately interested and the solu tion of it or the attemps at solution tuuv legitimately command the attention of all students of humau nature and soci il phil osophy. "Ace irdmg to the bast social usage,” re plied Ward McAllister frankly ‘‘a young married woman may accept any attentions from a friend of her husband which she might have accepted before hor marriage, so long as those attentions are offered pub licly, and offered without auy attempt whatever of concealment. She may fredy accept from bachelor fnonds invitations to the the iter, to the opera, or t> balls. She may accept escorts of this kind to supper, and may accept at the hands of gentlemen, fl men and other trifling presents, which simplv denote the friendship and esteem of him who makes such offerings. On the other hand the wife may invite such friends to dinner at her home as frequently as she care i to do so or her husband cares to have them there, and she may do so without incurring any com ment or any criticism. It is generally agreed, however, that one inflexible rule must be observed, and that is that no at tentions which are paid by him or acc>ptel by her shall be of a clandestine character. Just a< soon as there is anything secret about such intimacy it contributes an unfortunute and undesirable color which condemns it at once. There is no impropriety whatever in a married lady walking in the streets with a friend of her husband so Img as the street Is oue of the principal thoroughfares of the town. In other words, she may properly walk along Fifth avenue or Broadway, or any of the streets connecting such avenues, but if she is seen walking in Sixth avenue or Soventh avenue so accompanied, or up in Harlem, or on Battery Bark, where a modern novel ist, I believe, has one of his women walk with an admirer, the mere fact of their ap pearance at these places is suggestive of crit icism.” “Do you mean that all theso attentions may be paid by one man to a married wo man without legitimately exciting remark ?’ “No, I don’t mean that. I mean that the sentiment of society people is that any of these attentions singly, or taken together in moderation, may bo offered and accepted without any impropriety. Good tasto must govern a woman in this, as in everything else. Of course, if a man pays ail tuese at tentions to a married woman, ft Is bound to provoke the comment of the woman’s friends, or so-called friends, and no woman must do anything which will provoke comment. Just as soon as gossip is ex cited over wli.it she is doing she must call a halt. The friendship between a ma i and a woman may be perfectly proper. That has nothing to do with the ca3e. She must avoid the very appearance of ov.L If she is wise, as most American women are, mat ters will never reach the point where any comment is suggested, but if they do roach that point, the whole thing necessarily must bo dropped. Gossip is vital and permeating, and there is no arguing it down except by removing the excuse for it.” There is one branch of this subj *ct on which Mr. McAllister naturally did not care to talk, and that was the brauca wbica deals with the po sible action of the hus band, when matters o one to a critical point so far as the atteutio .s of some mail or other to his wife are concerned, and reach a stage where silence is no longer possible. Some club meu say that, in a case like th s, the only thing to do is to thrash the inter loper. Another class of mon who may or may not have had experience to guide them say that the very best thing 1 1 do is to go to the gallant knight who in sists on paying attentions to a giddy and thoughtless matron and tell him that if he does not withdraw his attentions a very prompt resort will be had to firearms. The only trouble witb this scheme is that a very few men who hold any kind of a position care to use such explosive measures, and a threat of this sort is taken as at empty threat. Another clasi of authorities on this delicate point think that the wife alone should bo dealt with and instructed to inform her admirer that his attentions must bo dropped and his visits to the hus band’* house must cease. There is one trouble, however, with this method. It is not always efficacious. There are cases in society to-day where men who are not per mitted to visit the house of the lovely matrons they a linire do not hesitate to a.k them to dance in a ball room, or request permission to take them down to supper, although the husbands who have forbidden them the house may be in the immediate neighborhood at the time, and witness this curious renewal of the companionship and association. A number of cases are to be found in society to-day where young and attractive married women are accept ng the atten tions of unmarried men, accepting them constantly ar,d without any particular dis gttise. And each of these cases are marked y the clandestine charac.er to it which Ward McAllister, in vo.cing the sentimeut of society, declares cannot exist without suggesting impropriety. In two cases the women are wives of millionaires, nnd in an o .her case, the wutnan is a society woman PAGES 0 TO 12. of magnificent fnco and figure, who il In clude 1 iu Ward McAilistor’s celebrated 100 beauties, with a husband, however, who treats her with persistent and systematic neg lect. There are other cases besides these and tiiere have been dozens of them in tba re cent history of social New York. The young married women belonging to what is known as the Hempstead Hunting Bst are exceedingly frank, according to all ac counts, in their acceptance of tua compli ments and attentions of their blithe young bachelor friends, and a well-known club man the other day said that it was no un usual thing for the bolder among these courageous knights o offer ligntning salutes to the objects of their admi ration and to have such warm a.d par.iou lar attentions accepted without question. As may easily be imagined, no affairs of this kind are carried on to any extent with out attracting the interest ’d and studious attention of the dowagers, the old bachelors . nnd other people who, by reason of c rcum- 4 stances, aro spectators rather than partici pants in the game of social life and they are" talking like mad all the time about the cases j I have mentioned and several others of? which it would perhaps be wise not to make ; mention at the present time. “When does society take cognizance of the fact that married women are accepting attentions from men other than their hus bands. I don’t mean by gossiping of such attentions, but by indicating in soma positive social wav their disapprobation of such proceedings?” “The rule of society,” sai l Mr. M 'Allis ter, “is that society has no business to rec oguizs anything of the kind until the hus band does. Ho long as a husband exnre-se* no disapprobation of what his wife is doing, her conduct is regarded as something witb which nobody else has any concern.” The rule here formulated by Mr. McAl lister is the one generally recognized, and has been expressed in various ways at other times by women who are high in social position; but, as a matter of fact, it is a rule so liberal that society only adheres to it in a modified form. Numbers of society women in New York, who possess such hampering adjuncts as husbands and children, and who have accepted senti mental attentions from admirers, have found that the kindness of their husbands did not protect them in a social way. In several cases such women have been left out in the"distribution of invitations for loading social affairs, whore t ie affairs have beeu given by recognized society leaders, and wnon they have concluded to behave more sensibly nnd have brought their every day life more into aoc irdanca with con vention il notions, their names have been replaced on the list of guests for suoh enter tainments. Of course, when society is moved to act in such cases, it is influenced to a great extent by the position which the husband holds. If the husband’s pout ion is powerful, and he expresses no public disap probation of his wife’s eccentricitiea, society is very slow to criticize in a practical and direct way. If the husband’s social or business position Is of little account, society is apt to shove him to one side aud act for itself. An Englishman who lived for a year in New York, and who saw a great deal of society here, and saw a groat deal of society women, declared just baf ire returning home that there was more flirting and more sen timental nonsense in New York amoag married women than in any social center where he had ever been. He added, how ever, that there was really lee of the sort of thing of which a divorce court can take cognizance than there is in London or in con tluouiai capitals. Asa matter of faot, there have been very fewdivorces in the history of New York society where they grew out of the attentions accepted by married women, and there has been only one duel. People who know the history of society in London and Paris declare that this is au ex ceedingly good record. H. 8. Hewitt. ORCHESTRAS OF WOMEN. A Now and Popular Departure in In*' etrumental Music. Philadelphia Inquirer's Hew York Letter. A peculiar feature of amusement life in New York is the growth of the women or chestras. Women now furnish all the in strumental music ia the immense Atlantic Uaruen on the Bowery, in the Volks and Gander’s gardens, and in more than one dozen smaller places on the east side. Ex perience has taught the managers of such establishments that the women play as well as the average man instrumentalist, that they aro reliable as to hours, that they never get drunk, and that they never go on a strike and with all these excellent qualities they cost much less money than the mala performers. They reoeive from $lO to ISO? a week for seven nights and three day per formances, for whioh a man, according to the oomunands of the musical unioD, would be obliged to demand and receive either $5 or for each of the ten performances. Other cities have inaugurated this change to a slight degree and this new condition of things is growing so rapidly that already the demand for women musicians is far in excess of the supply. The girls come mainly from Vienna, Berlin. Leipsic and Buda pest!). lam told by the head of a German amusement agency, which does a brokerage business in this class of public entertainers, that they have now on hand fourteen u ifulfllled contracts for orchestras of this kind, and that the necessary number of women players have started or are about starting from the other side of the ocean. It is a somewhat unexpected peculiarity that these blooming foreigners do not lose their heads and fall victims to the wiles of that unmitigated and pestiferous nuistnee the American “Johnnie.” For instance, Frau Holler and Fraulein K cci have been installed us aueens in the Atlantic Garden for a 1 ng time, whore their music has fract ured many hearts. They are remarkably beautiful women. Nightly scores of adorer? worship at their feet, bnt they go on wield ing their bows just as though a man had never existed, and no one yet has been able to bnast that be his brought an encouraging smile to their laces. Which goes to show that they have better heads on tneir shoulders than their Ameri can sisters. Where Modesty's a Virtue. A thin, careworn-looking man, having a pencil and tablet in bis hand, says the De troit Press Press, called at a house on Sec - ond avenue the other and >y, and said to tbs lady as she opened the door: “Madam, I a;n canvassing for subscrip tions for apr family. Will you put your name down for a small sum?’ "Is it a worthy family ?” “Yes, indeed.” “Do you know them personally?” “I do, ma’am.” "And they are really in need?” “They certainly are." “Very well—l’ll give you a quarter.” She put her name down and handed him the money, and he had reached the gate when she called him back and said: "It has just occurred to me that this might be your own family.” "Exactly, ma’am. It is my family, but modesty forbade me to say so. I am not one who seeks to push himself forward, though I would doubtless get along better if I was. Tnauk you, ma’am, I know the family, and I assure you it’s all right—all right.” Mas. Rose Terry Cooke is greatly regaining hor health.