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rART TWO.
IE CHEAT 111 MET MOTE
adeliite serg-eakt.
Author of “Jacobi’s Wife,” “Roy’s Repentance,” “Deveril’s Diamond,” “Under
False Pretences,” Etc.
LALL RIGHTS RESERVED .]
CHAPTER XXIX.
DR. price’s suspicions.
The relapse -was averted, and George
Eastwood began slowly, but surely, to re
cover strength. Jess nursed him as assidu
ously as ever, but she soon found that the
magic of her touch, the charm of her gen
tleness, had lost its power. He shrank from
taking anything from her hand, he turned
away his face when she came near. So ex
traordinary a distaste for her company
seemed to have developed itself, that even
the doctor noticed and remarked upon it.
‘‘What have you been doing to him!" he
asked Jess bluntly enough oue day, with a
nod in the direction of his patient.
‘‘Nothing,” said Jess, with a scarlet flush
upon her face, and a perceptible shrinking
from his gaze.
“Notaing? Why, you drive him into a
frenzy every time you come near him. We
shall have to get another nurse.”
‘‘Do you think he hates me, then?” Jes3
asked, slowly.
‘‘Hate3 you? No,” said Dr. Prico in a
kinder tone, ‘‘but I think that he has taken
one of those unaccountable fancies agaiust
you, which patients do sometimes conceive
agaiust their nurses. No doubt when he is
better it will pass.”
“I don’t think it ever will,” Jess mur
mured, meekiy.
“Then somebody else nad better nurse
him, if you mean him to recover,” Dr.
Price replied. “Has he no friends? He is
a gentleman—one can see that. Hasn’t
he any money? He must have some money,
or you wouldn’t be able to get the things
you do.”
“It is nearly all spent,” said Jess.
“Then I had bett r ask him where his
friends live, and what we are to do in the
event of a—-a —a relapse,” said the doctor,
hesitating a little before he said the last
word.
Jess looked a little frightened, but said
nothing; and the doctor, therefore, spoke
out boldly to George Eastwood.
“My friends! my address!” said the sick
man, irritably. “What do you want them
for? Am I going to die?”
“Not at all,” said the doctor, “just yet, at
any rate; but you will make vpry little
progress toward recovery in this miserable
place.”
“I had better die here, like a rat in a
hole,” George answered, bitterly.
“Why so? Have you no friends?”
There was a short pause before George
replied:
“Plenty of friends, if they know where I
was.”
“Well, ought they not to know?”
“When I tell them,” said George, rather
savagely, “and not before.”
Then he was ashamed of his ill-temper
and npologized.
“It’s lying here so long that makes me
irritable, I suppose,” he said.
“You ought to be removed. Will you go
to the hospital?”
“No. But,” George said, almost as if he
wpre ashamed to bring out the words, “I
should not mind a hospital nurse.”
The doctor’s eye fell upon Jess. She was
sitting in a low chair in a corner, in a
crouching attitude. Her white face was
bent, her hands were clasped beneath her
chin. She looked listless, tired, and unhap
py, and the doctor felt sorry for her. He
bent over his patient, and spoke in a lower
key.
“That young woman has nursed you with
great care and skill .so far; are you tired of
her ?”
“I never wish to see her again,” George
answered, closing his eyes.
“She seems very much attached to you.”
“You’ll do me the greatest service in the
world, doctor, if you can get me away from
her—or her away from me.”
Tho doctor shrugged his shoulders, and
glanced at Jess, wondering if she had
heard. She had covered her face with her
hands.
“Money will do anything,” he said, dryly.
“You need be under no concern about
that. I’ve plentjt=-when 1 have time to get
hold of it. I’ll write to my bankers.”
Dr. Price opened hi3 eyes. A man lying
in this miserable hole, and tended only by
a woman of the people; friendless appar
ently, and miserably ill, to talk of his
bankers! Either he was romancing, or he
was different even from what he seemed,
and even from what Dr. Price had sus
pected him of toeing. Penniless gentleman
in trouble, and in hiding, he had often seen
before; but men with money at their com
mand do not usually lie ill for weeks to
gether in a Whitechapel slum.
"Find out a quiet lodging for me, if you
can,” said George, almost imperiously,
“some place to which I can be easily re
moved in a carriage; sond me there with a
nurse—Hampstead or Wimbledon will do—
and I shall got better fast enough.”
“Of course the expense will be considera
ble,” said the doctor.
“I tell you I don’t mind the expense. Get
me away from here, for heaven’s sake, or I
shall die in good earnest. It is a place
where I have had horrible dreams.”
And then he turned his face to the wall
and would say no more. The doctor went
away in a somewhat doubtful mood. He
told himself that he was a fool to believe a
man who had nothing but his word to offer
as a guarantee for his solvency; and at the
same time he knew in his own heart that he
did believe him, and was ready to make all
necessary arrangements on bis behalf —fully
trusting that payment would be forthcom
ing when required.
“Wood,” he said to himself thinking of
the name that Jess had given him. “Wood.
It tells nothing—a coin non name like that.
I don’t suppose it’s his true name at all. It’s
an odd thing altogether, and it’s my belief
that tho-e two had something to do with the
Mill Street Mystery. I must look into it.
That woman, Black Sal, might tell mo
something. I had better do nothing
about those lodgings until I have seen
Black Sal.”
He wont forthwith to the two placos in
which Black Sal made her home, but he
was unfortunate in his quest.
Black Sal had been taken up for brawling
in tho street, and had obtained a fortnight's
imprisonment with hard labor. The doctor
came away disappoint'd. At the door of
the lodging house in Buck street he passed
a young woman in the coal-scuttle banuet
and straight jacket peculiar to members of
the Salvation Army; he looked at her and
stopped short.
“Havo you been ill, Alice Drew?” he
asked, sharply.
“No, sir.”
“ IVhat’s the matter then? 1 ’
‘‘Trouble, sir,” she said. *
And then she burst into tears. ,
He looked at her keeuly. He had known
Alice Dre tv in days of old, and had highly
approved of her wholesome, kindly, pleas
ant face and her grave sensible ways. And
here she was white, wasted, with dark
rings round her eyes, and reddened eyelids
that told of much weeping and sleepless
night=. Trouble, certainly! nothing bat
trouble could have changed her so much,
but what had the trouble been ?
“Your own trouble, Alice?” said the doc
tor kindly.
She wiped her eyes before replying.
“Not only mine, doctor. It’s trouble to a
good many people, I think.”
“Ah, I remember. The Eyres were
friends of yours—is that it*’’
“Yes, sir. Great friends of mine. I
kept house for them and old Mother Flint
for many a month. And I’m sorry—sorry
they’re gone.”
The words were simple, but the tone
spoke more than the words. Dr. Price
nodded two or three times.
“Of course, of couse,” he said. “Poor
things! It was a sudden end.”
“But he was prepared if ever a man
was,” said Alice, almost indignantly.
“Of course. We are all prepared,” said
the doctor, with a skeptical but kindly
smile. “We can’t be anything but pre
pared for what happens to us in the course
of nature. However, I won’t perp.ex your
head with that. You are the very person I
want to see, Alice Dre w. Will vou come to
the surgery at 7 to-night? I want a word
with you.”
“It is important? Because I’m very busy,
sir.”
“It has to do with the Eyres and their
death. I don’t know whether you call
that important or not,” said the doctor,
carelessly.
“O, yes, yes! I will come.”
“I am iucli .ed to think that I might find
out something about, it—with a little assist
ance. Don’t forget to come; and don’t say
anything to any one.”
Alice promised. She went through her
day’s work with a feverish eagerness for
night. She was willing to do anything that
lay within her power to discover how Stephen
met his end. She was at the surgery door
just as the clock struck 7. But for that
night at least she had to wait in vain. Dr.
Price had been summoned to the bedside of
a sick woman, and was unable to get away.
Meanwhile, George Eastwood, with the
impatience and fretfulness of a convales
cent patient, after lying silent for some
time, summoned Jess to his bedside and
spoke.
“I want you to go somewhere for me,” he
said. “I am sorry to trouble you, but I
cannot do without a msssenger.”
“It’s no troube.” said Jess, trembling,
“for me to and > anything for you, George.”
His brow co itracted, he moved his thin
fingers impatiently.
“I shall have to write a letter. Can you
get me some paper and a pen and inn?”
“I’ll go out and buy them. I have none
here.”
“Don’t be long. I want them as soon as
possible.”
Jess turned away and hurried on her
bonnet an J shawl. If her heart were burst
ing George did not know it, for she showed
no sign of emotion, and listened calmy
while he gave iier some instructions as to
kind of paper she was to buy.
She did her errand very expeditiously,
and watched him furtively from her corner
while he wrote.
“Have you a stamp?” he said at last.
No, she had forgotten the stamp.
He leaned back and groaned with vexa
tion. Having set his heart upon do ng a
certain thing, he could not bear any delay.
“Shall I take it out and gat a stamp for
you?”
“No,” he answered. “I think I*kuow a
bettor vvay. You have money?”
“I have a little. It is yam’s —what I took
out of your purse,” she said, hum dy. “I
have eight or nine shillings still.”
“That will be enough; we—l shall have
plenty after to-day. You had bettar go
out, take a hansom, and drive to this ad
dress. You see where it is—King street,
Covent Garden. Ask to see this gentleman;
Mr. Field. Give him this letter, and bring
him back wi h you if possible. You need
not mention your name —or mine. Do you
understand?”
“O, George, George, what are you going
to do?” said Jess, clasping her hands and
looking at him with wildly dilated eyes.
“Nothing—nothing. You will know soon
enough,” said George, irritably. “You
need not be afrail—you will always be pro
vided for.”
“O—it is not that I was thinking of,”
said Jess, with a little moan of pain.
“I cannot di-cuss anything now. I want
to see Mr. Field before I decide what wa
are to do. Go quickly, I want to see him at
once.”
“Ought I to leave you alone for so long?”
“1 shall do perfectly well. Put that beef
tea beside me and go.”
Ho sank back again in hi3 pillow a3 if
exhausted, and Jess hastened to obey his
behests, although with a heart that was
wrung by many doub sand fears.
She took a hansom, as he had directed
her to do. although it seemed to her a piece
of terrible extravagance, and drove to the
address which he had given. Here she
paid the cabman and mounted some s'nun
steps leading to the glass door of a large
room which Jess’ experience did not cause
her to recognize as the office of a bank. She
saw a counter before her and a young clerk
behind it; and of this clerk she inquired
verv timidly for Air. Field.
“Mr. Field?” said the young man, with a
surprised air. “Yes, he Is in, but he is—
occupied.”
Certainly Jo3s did not look like a person
to whom the managing partner was bound
to show any special attention.
“Can you give me a message for him ?”
said the young man.
“I have a letter,” faltered Jess. “But I
believe that I ought to give it into his own
hands. ”
The young man hesitated for a moment,
and then went to an inner room as if to
speak to somebody in authority. He came
bac ; accompanied by an elderly responsi
ble-looking man, with gray whiskers and
slightly stooping shoulders —a mau whom
Jess felt instiuctively inclined to trust.
“I am Mr. Field,” he said, looking
gravely at Jess. “Have you anything for
me?”
Jess handed him the letter.
He gave her another curious glance, and
then opened the envelope. He read the let
ter rapidly, uttered a low exclamation, and
then looked at Jess again.
“Coma in here,” ho said, leading the way
into a little private sanctum of his own,
whither Jess followed him obediently.
“Now ” he co itiuued, looking at her
keenly “tell me who gave you that lettar?”
“I was not to tell vou anything,” said
Jess. “I was to take you back if you would
g °“The address given hare is ‘Mill Street*
I Is not that the street in which that murder
SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, APRIL 27. 1890.
was c immitted a few weeks ago—Stephen
Eyre’s murder f
Jess winced and answered almost inaudi*
bly:
“Yes, sir, it is.”
"What is your name, young woman!”
asked Mr. Field, with almost a magisterial
air.
“Please sir, I was not ts tell you any
thing,” said Jess, and she bit her lip to re
strain the rising tears.
She thought that Mr. Field looked at her
very strangely, but she was too weary aud
miserable to care.
“You can tell me nothing about this gen
tleman then?” he said.
“No, sir. lam only bis—his messenger,”
said Jess.
Mr. Field rung the bell and ordered a
cab. It came after a very short delay, and
then he motioned to Jess to go forward.
But Jess drew back.
"I bad better go by omuibus perhaps,”
she said, humbly.
"O, no, you know the place, do you not?
I shall want you to guide me. We had bet
ter go at ouce," said Mr. Field.
So ho and Jess drove away to White
chapel. Je3s sat huddled up ia one cor
ner, her great eyes staring straight before
her in a melancholy, hopeless way. Mr.
Field looked before him also, with a puzzled
frown upon his brow.
When they reached Mill street Jess silent
ly guided her visitor up to George's room.
She noted Mr. Field’s start of horror wheu
his eyes fell upon tin bare and poverty
stricken little place; she heard too disgust
and compassion in his tones as he at once ex
claimed :
“George, my dear boy, how on earth have
you come to this?”
George, sittiug up in bed, unshorn, hag
gard, guastiy, as if he were at the very point
of death, signed to him imperiously to be
silent.
“One moment,” he said. "Jess, go out of
the room aud shut the door behind you.”
Jess meekly obeyed. Than, sitting down
on the topmost step of the crazy stairs, she
covered her faea with her hands and burst
into an agony of tears.
CHAPTER XXX.
GEORGE EASTWOOD’S DECISION.
An hour must have passed before Mr.
Field issued from the room. He halted at
sight of Jess, sitting crushed up in a sort of
heap on the topmost step ot the stair3, and
surveyed her compassionately.
“Come,” he said, “my girl, you must not
give way like this. Go back to —to —him,
to tho gentleman in there,” (he seemed to
have a difficulty in giving George a name),
“aud do your best for him until he leaves
the place.”
Joss’ hands tell, she turned a white and
troubled face upward to his gaze.
“Is he going—away?” she breathed.
“When he is well enough of course he
will go away. You could not expect him to
stay always in this place. You should go to
him now, he needs food. I hope you give
him anything he fancies.”
“He never fancies anything,”said Jess, in
a low tone.
“Ah that’s a bad hearing. But he will
soon pick up his strength in a healtnier
place—l never heard of such a ridiculous
fad in all my life,” the elderly gentleman
muttered to himself as he went down stairs.
“For George Eastwood to commit social
suicide iu this way is perfectly absurd!”
jess drew a long breath when he had
gone. Thou she nerved herself to re-enter
the room from which she had been excluded,
although, woman-like, she felt a proud dis
like to go thither without further invita
tion. She found George looking exceed
ingly white and exaaustid but perfectly
calm, and she busied herself at once in pre
paring for him the meal of which she felt
sure that he must stand greatly iu need. He
took the food from her hand without show
ing tho repugnance that he sometimes
evinced, but she noticed that he wascareful
to avoid meeting her eye, and that he was
even more silent and thoughtful than
usual.
When the meal was over, ho lay silent for
a time, but while dusk was gathering in the
littll dimly lighted room, he roused himself
and said:
“Jess, I want to speak to you.”
She knew at once that her sentence was
about to be pronounced. Her heart gave a
great leap of horror; she stood still for a
moment in order to let it grow quiet once
again; then she came slowly to George’s
side.
“Sit down,” he said, with strange mixture
of coldness and kindness in his voice. “I
cannot speak if you are standing.”
“Shall I light a candle?”
“No. We can speak just as well iu the
twilight. Sit down.”
She sat down quietly and crossed her
hands in her lap. George gave her a hasty,
questioning look, as if he half misdoubted
tnis unexpected quietness, and then began
to speak.
“1 suppose you know,” he said, “why 1
sent for Mr. Field.”
Jess shook her head.
“He is an old friend and I felt that I
could trust him. Partially, at any rate. I
have— naturally—not told niin everything.
But I havo told him a good deal; and he has
promised to guard my secret.”
“What secret?” said Jess in a rather
startled voice.
“The secret of my presence here, of
course. Do you think I want all the world
to know where 1 have been during the past
few weeks? Do you think I want to be
mixed up with ‘The Mill Street Mystery?*
I have not even told him that I was in that
empty house when Eyre fell from the win
dow. He thinks that I have been here ail
the time —here, with you; that I was taken
ill here and have remained here ever since.
If he questions you, Jes3, you will have to
stick to tho same story. Do you un
derstand? It is your best chanceot safety.”
“I understand,” she answered, iu a dull,
unmeaning way.
“That is well. If ever ho questions you,
remember that you have never been with
ine in any house in Mid street but this one.
You can guard my reputation as well as
your own, iu this way. Remember—we
had nothing to do with the mystery of
Stephen Eyre’s sudden death.”
“I will remember.”
“Good, And now for practical matters.
I cannot refrain from saying that you nave
acted very foolishly if you nad any regard
for my welfare. Surely you might have
managed to get me away from Wmtechapel
before this! Don’t you know that staying
hero has half killed me?”
A little color crept into Jess’ cheeks.
“The doctor says I helped to save your
life —by nursing you,” she murmured.
“Ah —well 1 lam not ungrateful I hope,”
said George, “but that is scarcely the
point The bo3t nursing in the world would
not have availed much longer if I had been
kept here. If I had been stronger, I should
have taken matters into my own ha ids be
fore now; but it is only during the lost day
or two that I have felt able to think matters
over. And, as Price says, the sooner I go
the better.”
“Where will you go?” Jeas asked in a
whisper.
She felt as if she could not bear the sound
of her own voice.
“I do not know exaetly.” His face hard
ened as he replied: “I have not decided. I
shall go abroad as soon as I am strong
enough."
There was a long pause. Then Jess
whispered two words. It was a short
speech but a suggestive one.
“And I? —’’ she said—and stopped.
“You,” said George. “You—”
And then he turned away his head and
kept silence ior a time.
“It’s no use beating about the bush,
Jess,” he said at last, in unsteady tones; “I
can’t bear it no longer. You and I must
part.”
“Part?” she re-echoed, as if she scarcely
understood the word “Part!”
“Yes. You must try to understand,
without forcing me to explain every detail
to you. G)d knows that I am sorry
enough to have to say these words to you,
Jes. But it cannot be helped. We cannot
live together, and we had bet|pr separate at
o.ice.”
“George! George! Why? What have I
done to make you hate me?”
The bitter agony of her cry went to his
heart. Aud yet he could not yield. He
dared nit look at her, lest he should bo
moved too much. He tried to spoak
calmly,and calmness meant at that moment
an apparent coldness which terrified Jes 9
into silence.
"It is not a question of hatred. Did we
not prove in the old days that we could not
live togetiier! I feel it more than 1 did
then, we are not suited to each other.”
“If that is all, George," sail Jess, “you
don’t know how hard I would try to learn
what you like and do as other ladies do.”
“It is impossiole, people can never learn
these things,” ho said, impatiently, feeling
all the time that he was insincere; for he
did not believe that Jess could “never
learn,” if she chose to try.
“P’raps they can’t if they are real poor
people,” said Joss, eagerly, "but I’ve found
something about mysolf, George—Granny
told me; my father was a real grand gen
tleman, and ho and my mother was mar
ried at St. Pancras, aud so I’m a lady born,
Granny said, and not so unfit as you
thought mo to ba your wife.”
George caught his breath and then
laughed bitterly.
“What difference do you thiuk that
makes?” he said.
“I thought it would.” said Jess, mourn
fully.
George lay silent, and Jess sat silent also,
though the tears coursed down her pale
cheeks, and her whole frame was shaken
now and then by a great convulsive sob.
“There’s baby, too,” she went on af ler a
time, still weeping, but trying to control
her voice. "She is so young, she could be
taught anything. She would never be a
disgrace t > you. And she is so pretty, so
quick and noticing. Do you want to send
her away too, George? What has she
done?”
“You will drive me mad with this sort
of talk!” cried George, passionately. “I
did not say that she had done anything, or
you either, although—well let that pass.
Of course I shall provide for you both.
I shall see that sho is properly
educated, and so forth. When she is older
I shall hope to see her. But you would not
like to part with her now, I suppose; aud I
cannot take her with mo without separating
her fro n you.”
“Because —you mean—that you do not
mean to live with me again?”
“Don’t let us put it so harshly,” said
George, in a lower tone. “Don’t make
things seam worse than they are, Jess. All
that I wish to say just how is that we had
better live apart—for a time, at any rate. I
must get out of this miserable hole as soon
as possible, and I shall probably go abroad
next week. I can’t take you with me. I
have asked Field to look opt for a nice little
house in the country for ydu, where you
can live with tho child and enjov yourself
in your own way. You can call yourself
Mrs. Wood, if you like—l would rather
that you did not use my name. Field will
pay you a regular income—three hundred a
year will be sufficient, I dare say. And
wheu I come back to England, I will see
you again, if necessary, aud we can talk
over any other arrangements that have to
be made.”
“And when shall you oome back to Eng
land?” said Jess, in so low and calm a tone
that he replied with more confidence.
“In a year or two. Derhap3. Perhaps
longer. I hardly know.’*
There was a long silence. George turned
bis head at last aud tried to see her face.
But the room had grown very dark, and he
could see nothing but her drooping figure
and the pose of her bending head.
“You wiil be perfectly comfortable,” he
said, uneasily. “All that I ask you to do,
is to stay here until Mr. Field tells you that
he has secured a house for you. That will
bo iu the course of one or two days only.
You will have only about four-and-twenty
hours by yourself—only just time in which
to get yourself and the child ready. You
will have to buy things for her, no
doubt—”
“Are you going to leave me hero, then
alone?”
“I am going away to-morrow morning
with Mr. Field. He will come with a car
riage for me. You are no: going to be de
serted or neglected even —you will have
every care and every attention—”
But Jess’ composure had at last aban
doned her.
“O, George, George, don’t leave me hero
alouel” she implored him, sobbing. “I
cannot bear t> be here without you. You
don’t know how dreadful it is to me! Tuke
me with you. George, until you find the
litlie house! I’ll be no trouble. I'll goes
your servaut, not as—us—your wife. Only
let me go wi.h you. and don’t leave mo in
this miserable place alone!”
“You will have tho child. You will he
hero for one day only. I will tell Field to
make 1 aste about it.”
“But 1 want to go with you! O, George,
don’t give mo up! I have a right to be with
you—l am your wife. You don’t treat me
like a wife—you never have done—but I am
your true wife for nil that. O, why did
you make ma love you if you meant to ba so
cruel 1"
“I am not cruel,” said George, steadily.
“I am acting for the happiness of b >tb of
us. You will acknowledge this in days lo
come, when you look at the matter coolly.
It is not my fault that we cannot live to
gether. Our lives will bo happier apart,”
“Not niinel” Jess moaned. “Not mine!”
“I can’t argue with you; I am not strong
enough at nresent,” said her husband. “I
havo told you what I intend to do, and I
intend you to do. You had bette make the
best of it. You should be grateful that I
trust you with the care of my daughter.”
Jess look'd up startled by a now sternness
in the words.
"The case of—Meenie?” she said. “My
own little girl?”
“You forget,” said George, in a whisper,
“what I saw—what I remember —. Is it so
easy to forget? Your hands were covered
with blood—when—”
It was a memory that always unnerved
him. He uttered a low, shuddoring cry,
and then lay very still. Jess sprang up in
horror and" alarm. She thought that he
had fainted. But in a few moments he had
recovered himself, and pushed away the
hand that held a cordial to his lips.
Then Jess sank on her knees by the bed.
“Tell me true, George.” she said. “Is it
because I’m ignorant and yon can’t get on
with ine that you leave me* or is it because
of that other thing—that you spoke of—
that night in the other house—?”
"I suppose 1 had better tell you the
truth. It is the latter thing, Jess. I cannot
get over it.”
“It was done for —for —love of you,” she
murmured. “If you had done it for me—
I would have blessed you for your love of
me, George.”
‘‘if I had done it for you— ye3, a man is
bound to protect a woman M any oost; but
for a woman to push a man down to his
death—good heavens, I dare not spoak of itl
It is too horrible!”
“You—you are not grateful, George.”
“No, I mu not,” he said, with sudden pas
sion. “What am I that youshould commit
a crime for me? for it was a crime to force
a helpless man to his death in that brutal,
awful way I You were not bound to kill
bim;help was close at hand! My God! I
suppose tho world would say that I should
thank you for that deed, and I would if i
could —but I can’t—l can’t! Night and
day 1 see that mau’s face; I see it asleep and
awake; and I cannot conquer the feeling
that it was not you who hacked at his
finger* with that murderous knife, but I—l
—1! His blood seems to cling to my fingers;
it was I who seem to myself to have pushed
him down—and when I feel this I feel aim
that I shbuld kill myself if it were true; I
could not hold up my head again amongst
my fellow-inon, if I had done this thing!”
A flame leaped up from the tiro and
illumined Jess’ face. It was w ite as death
but it was raised with a strange look of
pride, a look as of spiritual exaltation fed
from some secret source of jov.
“But it was not you," she murmured, al
most w ith a smile. “It was me that did it,
George—not you, my dear, mv dear!"
“1 suppose it was,” he answered, wearily.
“And perhaps that is almost worse. But,
at any rate, it is this memory that rises up
between us and make it imp >ssible for mo
to lire with you just yet. Perhaps by and
by—in after years—then, perhaps, my
poor Jess, I shall be able to forget the hor
ror of that scene, and remember only that
you did it for my sake. But let us part
now—for a time at least, and wheu I am
stronger, I promise you that I will come
back.”
“Yes, George,” she said, softly. “I un
derstand better now. I will not say another
word.”
But whether there was more of. heart
break or of submission In her voice, it
would hnve beep hard for a hearer to de
cide.
[TO BE CONTINUED!.
THE CONSTELLATIONS.
Origin of tho Figures which Appear In
Stellar Maps.
Prom the Rochester Democrat.
Prof. Edward 8. Holden of tho Lick ob
servatory in a recent contribution to tho
Astronomical Society of tho Pacific, stated
the origin of tho constellation figures which
appear in the modern star maps. These
figures are familiar to almost every student
of astronomy through the well-known maps
of Burritt. Tno figures in the Burritt maps
are usually printed iu tints. 1 The outlines
of tho figures resemble in some respects the
fine illustrations of Homer by Flaxman.
Prof. Holden says the figures of tho con
stellations were by Albert Dnrer, tho great
German painter. The fact is not stated by
the painter’s biographers, and the identity
of the artist who drew the figures is not
generally known to students of astronomy.
These figures will have greater interest for
students from this time forward. Some of
the figures of tho constellations are of very
remote antiquity, several constellations
being mentioned in the early Hebrew
scriptures.
Figures were added from time to time by
different astronomers up to tho tims of the
invention of tho telescope, which is now
amoug tho constellations. One of tho Ptol
emies added Berenice’s Hair to tho list.
Berenice was a common name for the wives
and sisters of the Ptolemies. Hipparchus
had arranged many of tho figures of c >n
stellation 127 years B. C. Claudius Ptolemy,
the grout astronomer of Alexandria in the
second century of tho Christian era, contin
ued the work of Hipparchus, and prepared
celestial globes with the figures of an
cient times in their proper places. The
globes of Ptolemy were lost when the great
institutions of learning in Alexandria w ere
destroyed. The Arabian astronomers alone
preserved the groupings of Ptolemy’s fig
ures and handed them down from genera
tion to generation. Some of the Arabian
copies dating back to the thirteenth century
are still in existence. Ptolemy describes
forty-eight constellations in distinction
from such constellations as the telescope
and other modern devices have revealed.
In 1515, according to Lelande, Albert
Durer published at Nuremberg two star
maps with figures drawn by himself and
engraved on wood. The maps represented
the two hemispheres of the heavens, aud
the stars were located by Heiufogel, a
mathematician of Nuremberg. Durer was
himse If a geometrician aud greatly inter
ested in scientific r search, having written
n treatise on geometry and fortification.
The figures drawn by Durer have not been
changed to any great extent in all the
copies that havo been made. Those figures
appear in Argelander’s star maps of 184 H,
and iu the star alias, by Heis, of 1872.
Several American star maps copy theie
figures with slight changes. Some en
gravers, however, have made the figures
more elaborate than the original”. In some
maps tho figures are quite graceful, with an
expression of animation.
A few modern map-makere have dis
pensed with the figures altogether, giving
merely the boundaries of the conscellati ms.
This neglect of the classical figures is to bo
regretted, especially iu elementary works
on astronomy. Working a tronomers do
not care much for the figures, although
they help a teacher somewhat m locating
stars. Tho sentiment connected with these
figures in classical story should not be al
lowed to die. Let the student continue to
soo Oassiopa, Andromeda. Orion and Bootes
among the stars. The classic tl stories of
the old astronomy books are also worthy of
preservation, and should not be omitted
from the new text books. Those stories are
part of the history of astronomy, and give
ini i lea of tho po itic fancies of the oast be
fore authentic history began. The authors
of these beautiful myths are unkn iwc. The
s ories of Arcturus and Orion were doubt
less old in the time of Job. These myths
survived, although the hlstorios of the peo
ple who invented them were lost.
SUFFERING IN CHINA.
The Province ot Shantung Decimated
by Flood and Pestilence.
Chicago, 111., April 17. —11. B. Barclay,
an explorer at Canton, who is at the Le
land, tells of a horrible state of affairs in
tho Chinese province of Shantung: “I
don’t believe,” said Mr. Barclay, “that any
community ia the world ever suffer >d so
much as the province of Sbantuug. Fear
ful as were the disasters there last year, the
peoplo of the central provinces received all
the attention.
“Although nearly all of the breaks in the
Yellow river nave been closed up now, the
country flo >ded is coverod with a deposit of
sand, rendering cultivation impossible. No
crops can be raised this spring, and unless
relief is afforded the people must go else
where or die.
“While ‘la grippe’ was raging in this
country a foarful epidemic killed thousands
in Shantung. Twenty died there to one
here, but no word of the disease ever
reached the English or American pres',. In
one of the biggest towns a fifth of its inhab
itants were carried away. Proclamations
were issued calling for the assistance of
physicians, sorcerers, or any one who c mid
prescribe a remedy for the plague. Fabu
lous rewards were offered, yet no one could
find a cure. To make matters worse the
Chinese government did not, and does not
seem anxious to alleviate the suffering* of
the northern provinces.”
LABOR’S MAYDAY BATTLE
PRESIDENT GOMPEBS ON TUB
COMING EIGHT HOUR FIGHT.
How the Lon? Campaign of Agitation
and Preparation Has Been Con
ducted—The Federation Confident
of Winning.
( Copyright , 1690.)
New York, April 26.—Fublic interest
all over the union is awakened to the im
portance of the great movement now in
progress for an eight-hour work-day. At
its convention held in St. Louts in Decem
ber, 1888, the American Federation of La
bor, representing a membership of over
500,000 workers, decided to take the initia
tive in inaugurating this movement of the
working people of the United States on May
1, 1890. It was directed by tho convention
that books, pamphlets, circulars, papers and
other documents should be printed and dis
tributed throughout the country to en
lighten the public mind upon this question
and to prepare the way for the general
adoption of the movement.
A consensus of opinion was obtained from
the leading minds and tho business men of
the country upon the advisability and prac
ticability of enforcing the eight-hour work
day by agreement with tie employers. A
great majority of the gentlemen responded
and extracts from their replies were pub
lished in the daily newspapers at the time.
The next step iu the agitation was a series
of simultaneous mass meetings throughout
the country. Those wore held ou Feb. 22,
July 4 and Labor day, 1889.
The convention of the federation held in
Boston last December ratified the decision
of tho Bt. Louis convention as to the plan
of action, and instruc ed and authorized the
executive council of tho federation to select
a t rade to make tho domand on Mny 1, 1890,
for tho enforcement of the eight-hour day.
The last of the series of simultaneous mam
meetings, held o i Feb. 22, 1890, practically
closed the agitation. There have been other
meetings held since then, and meetings will
continue to be hold from now until May 1,
but these are more preparatory than (imita
tive. Tho next step was the selection by the
executive council, in accordance with tho
instructions of tho Boston convention, of
a trade to make the demand, and after
some consultation the United Brotherhood
of Carpenters and Joiners of America were
chosen. It was also decided that as soon
ns the movement in that trade for the eiglit
hour day was concluded the United
Mine Workers of America should
be the second trade to make
the demand, and so on, taking
each trade in succession until the movement
embraced the entire industrial Held. Trades
wore selected in order according to their
degree of preparation. In each instance the
injunction was to concentrate the united
efforts of all with a view lo socuring a vic
tory for the trudo which should at that time
be the only actively engaged in the move
ment.
The entire staff of vice presidents of tho
United Brotherhood of Oarpouters and
Joiners have boon selected to visit the
principal cities and towns of tho country
which are oxpoctod to m ike the eight-hour
demand. In addition to tnesu men George
E. McNeill, of Bo .ton; P. J. .Maguire, secre
tary of the Uuited Brotherhood of Car
penters and Joiners, of Philadelphia; Henry
Lloyd, of Toronto; Henry Emrich, of New
York; William J. Dillon, of Pittsburg;
John Mcßride, of Massilon, O.; David
Ross of Ogl'mby, III.; Frank K. Foster,
of Beaton; F. C. Kilgallon, of Millwood,
Pa.; F. M. Hhafor, of McKeesport, Pa.;
William H. Kliber, of Grand Crossing, 111.;
P. T. Fitzpatrick, of Cincinnati, O.; John 8.
Kirchner, of Philadelphia; Edward L.
Daley, of Lynn, Muss.; J. H. Burt, of
Wheeling, W. Va.; Paul Grottkau, of Mil
waukee, Wis • H. J. Bkitflngton, of Charles
town, Mass.; George Gu itotl, of Now York;
J. H. Bates, of Duluth, Minn., and myself
will take the field iu the same line of pre
paratory addresses at various meetings
until the day for the movement has arrived.
Last week I spoke at meetings—on April 15
at Pittsburg, 16lb at Columbus, 17th
at Cincinnati, 19th at Indianapolis, 20th at
Chicago; and during the coming week I
will have meetings in Milwaukee on the
21st, again at Chicago on the 22d, when a
large moss meeting will be held; Detroit on
the 23d, Cleveland on the 24th, Buffalo on
the 25th, Syracuse on tho 26;,h, Yonkors on
the 27th, and Louisville on May 1. I men
tion these matters to illustrate the energy
and thoroughness with which the work of
agitation and preparation for tho culmina
tion of this great movement has necessarily
been conducted.
Gianciog over the field, I think the move
ment thus far, comes up to my expecta
tions. We nave not indulged in idle boasts.
Our course has been open and above board.
We have endeavored to enlighten the pub
lic mind and have frankly and honestly
stated our intention t > inaugurate the eight
hour movement on May 1. We propo e,
in our own way, to secure success without
buncombe. I feel greatly encour
aged by the general tenor of the cor
respondence received and the promises
of aid from the organizations towards help
ing those trades that have been selected to
act as the vanguard, to substantial success.
I am in receipt of communications from all
over the country foreshadowing succe-s for
the eight hour movement. Mr. Menche. a
leading member of tho federation of labor
in Denver, writes me that has never yet
seen, in the history of the movement, such
enthusiasm anti spirit as now prevail. This
is the feeling I find everywhere.
The strike in Chicago is directly in line
of our movement and so is that of the car
penters and joiners in New York. This
was tbetrado selected to take the initiatory
step. When the question of accepting the
task was submitted to the carpenters and
joiners, they voted upon it and practically
voted unanimously. At their recent meet
ing, when the final vote was taken, there
was asmall minority against it; hut, find
ing the question overwhelmingly decided in
favor of eight hours, they agreed to
make the resolution to take the step unan
imous.
The United Brotherhood of Carpenters
and Joiners has a membership of 75.000.
In all likelihood, many of the kindred trades
will be affected by the action of this union,
but how many it is impossiule to tell at
pres ,nt. There is a number of other trades
that will make the eight-hour demand for
the purpose of aiding the selected trades.
There are others that since the Boston con
vention, nave already succeeded In estab
lishing the eight-hour day, the arrange
ment being that it will take effect on
May 1. Among those who have
done so aro the plasterers, the
cigarmakers and the German printers, be
sides a few others. Iu all pro ability the
movement will reach the English oorupos
itors of the International Typographical
J.iion. I have reason to believe that some
newspaper establishments in New York
city will adopt the new work day on M iy 1,
and that several papers will put .the eight
hour rule into effect in their mechanical
departments on that date. These indica
tions are eucouraging.but they are no m >re
so than many received from other points
remote from New York.
American workingmen have regarded
the international labor confei ence in Eu
rope witu considerable iu tore it. It is
merely an advisory conference, yet it can
PAGES 9 TO 12.
scarcely have anything else than a benefi
cial effect, since the different countries bar#
voted in favor of the propositions for ths
improvement of the condition of labor
doubtless mean to enforce them in their
own territoi y. Should t ley fail to do so,
the wage-workers would be driven
to agitate and demand their en
forcement. It is highly desira
ble that the condition of European
labor should be improved, as any step la
that direction would have an indirect effect
on the condition of the wageworker here.
It would tend to keep the European labor
ers in their own country, and thus give the
American worker a better opportunity to
grapple with the economic and social condi
tion-, demanding his attention at home, and
the adjustme itof which are so necessary to
his interest and advancement.
Samuel Gompkrs.
SOME HEALTH SUGGESTIONS.
Points About Lapped Ribs and Mas
sage lreatment.
Brooklyn, N. Y., April 26.—As I step*
ped into the hot roim of the Turkish bath a
day or two ago my attention was attracted
to a young and very pretty woman who
seemed to experience a great deal of diffi
culty in breathing the breath of life. As I
am especially interested in this respiratory
subject, 1 decided to get into conversation
with her if possible. The unusual tempera
ture seemed to produce upon her the effect
of a slight asphyxiation, and as I supposed,
she soon began to show signs of hysteria.
“Oh, I must get out of this,” she gasped.
“It is stilling here. How can you stand
it?”
I rang the bell for a glass of cold water,
and telling her to sip it slowly, finally in
duced her to sit down again.
“You will feel better when you begin to
porspire freely,” I told her, “but have you
never taken a Turkish bath before?”
“Only once or twice, a long time ago,’*
she replied, “and then it didn’t seem as hot
as this. But you soe my massage treater
ordered mo to oomo here every other day,
and I suppose 1 shall have to do it if id
kills me.”
“Have you weak lungs?” 1 asked.
“O, no, I guoss not; though ma lame say*
I only breathe with my neck. You see I
am having my waist treated. I am only
eightoen inches, and in order to be stylish I
must measure twonty-four inches, at least.
I have grown three-quarters of an inoh iu
two months, but that is awfully slow, you
know; so I am going to have Turkish baths,
and waist treatment here os well as at
home.”
“Suppose the fashion changes in a year or
or two, and eighteen inch wasts are ia
voguo again. What will you do thca?" I
asked.
"I suppose then there will be some way of
shrinking,” she laughed, “but my doctor
and my massage treater both say that thia
fashion will never change, bocause it is ac
cording to beauty and ootnmon sense. But
mercy I how it does hurt to have one’s riba
pinched and poked and lifted, and ones
fiesh pinched and rubbed an hour or two
every day."
“Have you been in the habit of wearing
corsets?” I inquired, bent upon getting the
whole story.
“Have I ? Well, I should smile. My
maid used to sav that it made her ill whea
■he dressed me for a party, because, you
see, I would not allow a wrinkle anywhere,
and it did seem sometimes as if my breath
would stop entirely. Many a time I couldn’t
waltz more than once round the room, but
it gave me a lovely color. One thing I ail
sure of, and that is, that tight lacing is good
for tho complexion. Don’t you think so?”
I was glad that the time hod arrived for
my hath, for surely words were useless in
such a case as this. A little later I hoard
her giving directions to the bath girl. “Vou
are to spend most of the time on my waist,”
she said, “and if you know how to manipu
late the ribs then you can give me ray
alcohol bath, but If you don’t then I must
have the regular mas age treater."
“I think it is bad enough,” said my rosy
cheoked, bright-eyed, generous-chested and
waisted attendant, “for fashion to change
so often in dress, but when it comes to
human bodies I think it is wicked. I’m
glad Maggie has got that young lady to rub
instead of me.”
“Such cases as these are exceptional?” I
remarked.
“Yes. but wo have a great deal of waist
rubbing to do, though the bathers do not
often toll us why they want so much treat
ment there. Between the ladies who wish
to increase their size, and tho ladies who
are anxious to reduce themselves, the bath
ers are kopt busy, and it is a relief whea
somebixly comes in who seems satisfied with
tho way she is made.”
In aii interview with a professional
massagist I was informed that the demand
for just such treatment as the above is so
much in excess of the supply that classes
are constantly being formed by the masters
of the trade, and that it bids fair to be a
splendidly compensated Industry for thosa
who engage in it.
"I suppose you have frequently heard of
lapped ribs,” suid this intelligent and wide
awako woman, “but have you ever seen
lapped ribs?” I confessed that I had nob
oxcopt iu one case where the sudden death
of a young girl from alleged heart disease
made it necessary for me to assist in soma
of the subsequent preparations.
“Well," said my companion, “I have
three cases of lapped ribs among my seven
teen patients, and I am so furious every
time I go to treat them that I can scarcely
control mysolf. Two of them are married,
and the other is a young girl of eighteen.
The most astonishing thing about it is that
they are all lovely characters. They do not
seem vain or conceited, and they are truly
refined and very considerate of me. How
to reconcile such qualities with these poor
bones that have been pulled together until
they have passed each other I do not know,
but such are the facts.”
“Do you mean to tell mo that massage
treatment will really brine these ribs back
to their proper places?” I asked.
“It will greatly help to do so,” she
answered. “This, in connection with proper
breathing exercises, gentle gymnastics, and
the total absence of any external pressure
will ultimately and > the work, but it is neces
sarily tedious, and where ueuralgia has
bean induced by tight lacmg, the process ia
very slow. ”
These are sad and tragic facts, and the
only c insolation is that fashion for once is
on the side of health and decency.
To those who have asked me about the
quickest and surest way of developing the
waist, I can give no better hints than are
contained in the above scenes from life.
Where massage treatment is not procur
able, and the work must Ije done exclusively
by the patient, dip the hands in ale >hol and
water equal parts, and rub from the front
to the buck taking care to stand upon the
halls of the feet, the abdomen pressed in
ward, the shoulders and head thrown back
ward, and the chin well down. Vary this
rubbing with the breathing exercises pre
viously given, and I can safely promise that
the results will be excellent. But, there
must be no subsequent palling of corset
strings. The same breathing and gyranastio
exercises, the same care in standing and
walking, will, strange as it may seem, re
duo ) superfluous adipose tissue, and it will
do it more safely and more expeditiously
thaa any other process.
ELKAXOB XlBfE.
