The morning news. (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, May 25, 1890, Image 9

The morning news., May 25, 1890, Image 9

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Newspaper Page TextrART TWO. THE CKHT HILL STREET MYSTERY, -iAIDIELIISriEI SERGEANT. Author of ‘ Jacobi s W ife,” “Rot’s Repentance,” “Dkveril’s Diamond,” “Ukdeii False Pretences," Etc. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ,J CHAPTER XXXVII. | THE TRIAL. Francis Helmont was a kind and merciful man. It did not appear to him, when he had heard Jess’ story, that she ought rightly to esteem herself a murderess, and he some what doubted the necessity for a public confession of her action. But he would not dissuade her from the course that she had marked out for herself; it did not lie within his province to do so. All that was possible to him was to smooth her way, to make thinks as little painful to her as possible. No doubt of her story ever crossed his mind. He went with her to the nearest magi strate, befcre whom she made her state ment. And then he said good-by to her, kindly and pityingly, promising to do all in his power for her welfare. Before night Joss was lodged in a prison cell, and the newsboys were crying sensational accounts of her story. "The Mill Street Mystery cleared up! Remorse of the murderess! Full confes sion!” Among the persons who heard the news; boys’ cry and stopped to buy the latest edi tion of an evening paper, Dr. Price was numbered. ‘•What does this mean!” he said. And when had perused the account, his brow grew black as night. “What on earth does it mean?” he repeated. “I’ll go down to Alice Drew to-morrow morning and in quire. My patients may hang themselves for aught I care.” He was as good as bis word. Before nine o’clock next morning be met Alice Drew, with Meenie in her arms in the little garden before the cottage door. “Bo it is true?” he began by brusquely exclaiming, as he looked at her pale face and swollen eyes. “I see that I needn’t ask. What do you mean by it, that’s all I” “Mean by what, doctor?” said Alice, ner vously. “By letting that poor child give herself up for what she never did!” "I don’t understand you, sir,” returned Alice, her lips quivering. “She has told the truth, 1 believe; that is ail.” "Do you really think that Bbe was telling the truth when sho said 1 hat she pushed Stephen away from the window? Well, I don’t believe it. I don’t believe she had either the physical strength or the nerve for it. And if you do, I tell you plainly that you’re a f„ol!” “Why, doctor,” said Alice, much taken aback by this change of front, “it was you that first pnt the idea into my head.” “Then l was a fool!” said the doctor. “Then why should she confess it if she hadn’t done it#" "To screen somebody else, of course; a baby could tell you that,” replied Dr. Price, irritably. “You’d do it yourself for a man you loved —” “What! Tell a lie? Accuse myself of murder? No!” “Then you’re no true woman!” roared the doctor, “and l despise you as heartily as I esteem Jess Armsirong—which is say ing a good deal. Good morning, Miss Drew.” He strode away to the gate, and opened it; but instead of passing out, banged it close again and retraced his steps. Alice stood motionless, just where he had left her, but the tears were flowing slowly over her pale cheeks. “I’m a brute,” he said, suddenly. “I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I’m only expressing what I feel toward myself. I’m a dolt and an idiot, and it is my fault that she’s flung herself into the lion’s den in this way—all because of a few idle words of mine that frightened her for that precious lover of hers!” Alice shook her head. “I wish I could think her innocent; but after what she said to me I can’t. My poor Jess! her repentance is very bitter.” “You think so, do you?" said the doctor, eyeing her curiously. “Women ought to uu derstand women—and yet!—Well, I sup pose I shall have to give evidence at tne trial; and I shall say what I can for Jess.” It was easy for the doctor to say so, but it was difficult for him to carry out all his intentions. He was not a rich man, and could afford neither time nor money for Jess' defense. He oalied on Francis Hel mont, hut received so complete and crush ing an assurance that Eastwood had been abroad at the time of Stephen Eyre’s mur der that he was almost shaken in bis con viction that Jess was trying to shield her former lover. He wrote two or three letters to the news papers, but what were these In comparison with Jess’ own confession ? The declaration “I did it; I killed him,” could not be ignored or explained away. Search was made for the man with whom Jess re; resented herself as associating on t::e night of Stephen’s death; but noonean sweringvto her description of him could be found. A mystery seemed to envelope his fate—a mystery us profound as that which had formerly enwrapped the fate of Stephen Eyre.* Jess professed herself un able to say what had become of him; she thought— vaguely—that he had gone abroad. And she would say nothing more, except that shi and she only had been to blame. It was a curious case—curious in its very simplicity. The bare avowal of guilt made by Jess Armstrong dia not impri ss the pub lic quite us much as she expected it to do. The conclusion drawn the world at large was that a man was mixed up in the matter and that she was endeavoring to screen him. Even the judge was haunted by this view of the case, although, as he told himself, such consideration could not possibly affect the course of justice. Justice Armstrong tried the case. He was an old white-haired mau, with a re fined, severe cast of features, but gentle and kindly eyes. He took an unusual inter est in the prisoner. He did not know why; but he felt drawn toward her as if by some close link of kinship or affection. There "as a look in her face which reminded him of one who had been very dear to him. The pathetic sweetness of her eyes puzzled and ; dis orifcerted him. Sho was a poor, lost, f Hen creature, he said to himself —and yet i —strange how these likenesses occur!—she w as strangely like his dead wife, the wife he had lost in his youth; strangely, too, like the handsome son who had refused to be l bound by his father’s wishes, and had mar- I tied a girl out of a Whitechapel slum! Well, he was dead now—poor Gerald! — and his wife too. As for the child—for he 1 knew that there bad been a child—was she hot dead too? Was it within the bounds of Possibilty that this poor lost girl, this mur deress, who called herself Jess Armstrong. Clj u!d be the grandchild for whom he had Jearued so often, as later years brought Übe Iftxtfningi ftas. the softening influences of regret to btar upon the old lawyer’s case-hardened mind? No, it was a wild fancy; and he dis missed it as soon as it occurred to him. Even if it could be true, it were best to for get it. For what could he do now with her and for her? He could not claim her as his own in this moment of her disgrace. And —he summed up the matter in his own mind—it was a fancy without foundation; there was absolutely no reason for conject uring that this girl was his grand daughter. Armsirong was not an uuc nn mon name, and he could not occupy him self with the fortunes of all the Armstrongs in England. It will be seen from this sketch of Justice Armstrong’s state of ndnd that his con science troubled him from time to time with respect to his son’s offspring. He had repented his harshness to the dead man, and had thought many times about the old woman and child who had once made their wav to bis house; but his first impression —that his granddaughter was dead and that old Mrs. Flint was an impostor, trying to extort money—remained strong upon him, and caused him sternly to bauish any notion of finding or helping tho child of whom he had heard. ness was not all altogether unfriended, however, in her trouble. Dr. Price came to see her several times. Mr. Helmont also visited her. But Mr. Helmout’s visits were full of pain to Jess. He wanted to know so much 1 He did not seem able to refrain from questions about her past life, about Eastwood, and about her child. And Jess was determined that nothing more than what was absolutely necessary should pass her lips. Hence she seemed, both to Helmont and to the chaplain of the prison a somewhat unsatisfactory penitent. She was docile euough, but she was reticent. And reti cence meant—in the chaplain’s opinion at least —obstinacy and impenitence. Mr. Helmont was gentle, but Jess felt that she was a problem even to him. “Where is your little girl, Jess?” he asked her. “Alice Drew has her, sir.” “Alice Drew? The young woman— who—” “Who used to go about with Stephen and me? Yes, that’s the one, sir. She loved him dear; but she's forgiven me for his sake. And she taker care of the child. ” “Has she means of her own? How does sho support it?” “She goes out nursing.” “In London?” "No, sir, down at a place called Hexham —in Kent. A little country village—may be vou know it—” “Yes, I know it very well,” said Mr. Hel mont. “Have you not heard of Lord and Lady Hexham down there?” he said, after a moment’s pause, “Lady Hexham is my sister." Jess moved aside a little as if she had forgotten that he was blind and could not see her face. “I know,” she said in a low voice. “I heard of her.” Helmont said nothing more just then, but he took an opportunity some days later of mentioning the matter to Diana. “What do you want me to do?” Diana said, when he had finished his story. “For I know you want me to do some thing.” She was looking gravely handsome and stately, but there was a want of brightness on her face, and in her quiet, kindly tones. Helmont noted tho fatigue apparent in her voice, and remarked on it. “Oh, it is nothing; I have been too much in town. I must take a few weeks in the country,” sho answered, quic.Oy. “And then, as I shall be at Hex!.am, I can do anything that you wish, Frank. Is this poor girl’s child to remain there?’ “It seems so. Can you do anything?” “I will go to see her. I will try. Alice Drew is at Mrs. Bennett’s you say? Mrs. Bennett is the infant schoolmistress at Hex ham. I know the cottage,” “That is right, Diana I felt sure that you would not s.irink from the task.” “Shrink? Why should I shrink?” And then a wave of crimson flooded her pale cheeks and brow. “You mean—that this child —” “I believe,” said Helmont, gravely, “that it is George Eastwood’s chili” There was a moment’s pause. Then Diana I iroke out with only half-suppressod vehemence. “Oh,.how can men be so base, so selfish, so vile! I thought better things of him— once.” “It may be that he regrets his error,” said Helmont, picking his words with some difficulty. “We do not know all the cir cumstances, and —we cannot be sure.” “No," said Diana, with a long-drawn sigh. “We cannot be sure.” But in her heart she thought that if she once looked into the face of Jess Arm strong’s child she would know whether it belonged to George or not. She kept her word and went to Mrs. Ben nett’s cottage. But she was received by Alice Drew with a grave courtesy which, although homely, could bear to bo con trasted even with Lady Hexham’s polish of manner and dignity of bearing. For she bad the natural calm and stateliness which come of the suppression of self and the constant yearning toward a great ideal. Lady Hexhim recognized the rare quali ties beneath the plain exterior of this woman of the people, and she tried hard to find out some way of benefiting Alice and her charge without seeming either to patronize or to interfere. But it was diffi cult to do anything for Alice She shook her head when Diana suggested an orphan age for Meenie. “I have one mvself—close to my park gates,” Lady Hexham explained. “I could watch over her." “Thank you. my lady,” Alice answered, quietly, “but Jess’ baby girl will always have a home with me.” Lady Hexham was foiled, but only for the moment. She had looked at Meenie’s innocent face when she entered the room and been struck at once by the likeness to the Eastwoods—not to George alone, but to other members of the family. There was no room for doubt in her mind that this child belonged to George; and for that rea son she became at once hotly, unreasonably anxious to befriend it. Legitimate or ille gitimate, what did it matter? George’s child could never be without a claim on her; for nltuough she had once refused him so lightly and planned so resolutely to marry another man, there was nobody in the whole wide world whom she would ever love as she had loved George Eastwood. In a short time, too, another plan oc curred to her. The matron of her tiny orphangc was leaving to be married; she offered the post to Alice Drew. And to her great joy, almost to her surprise, Alice ac i cepted the situation. She was to keep SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, MAY 25, 1890. Meenie with her, and Meenie would grow up with other little orphaned children to whom Alice would be as a mother. The ophange was, as Ladv Hexham had said, justou'side her husband’s park gates, amt it would be easy for her to see tne child ! from time to time and secretly to'Watch 1 over its growth. To the childless Lady I Hexham it seemed a boon to have even George Eastwood’s unacknowledged daugh ter so nearly beneath her roof. Meanwhile the days of suspense grew to an end. The trial, with all its ghastly de tail and terrible significance took place;and halt England hung with intense eagerness over the papers to learn w hat Jess Arm strong’s ultimate fate was about to he. The verdict was a merciful one. The jurymen were, perhaps, influenced a little by the sight of her pal**, patient face, her sweet, modest eyes, and her softly curling hair. She put for ar.l no defe ise. They brought it iu “Manslaughter,” with a recommendation to mercy on account of her youth and the circumstances of the case. Aid Justice Armstrong sentenced his granddaughter to three years’ penal servitude. 1 CHAPTER XXXVIII. after three years. To the traveler whose eve is sated with the glow and color of the fervid east, the soft green meaiowg, the gray skies, and placid streams of an English landscape, are npt to seem at times too pale and monoton ous, and at times indescribably refreshing. The last sentiment was uppermost in George Eastwood’s mind, as he walked along the country road between Wichford and Hexham, a few days after his return from foreign lands, an absence which hod lasted fully three years. For, after his sojourn in the Black Forest, he had trav eled eastward and south again; and he had rested little until his arrival in Bombay, where for the first time during many months he had an opportunity of seeing an English newspaper. He was not very anxious to see the news papers. He had avoided letters on his jour ney, and had lost many by not giving his address. His friend, the banker, had kept him amply supplied with money, and had maintained a discreet reserve on the subject of Jess and her child. Hence it had come to pass that Eastwood had not learned Jess’ fate, until he saw a mention of it in a paper in a Bombay club. It was a terri ble shock to him. At first, he did not know what to believe. She had been condemned —so much lie saw at the first glanoe—but to what? The paper contained merely a passing reference to the event; it snoered a little at some evident miscarriage of jus tice. George felt that he could not rest un til he knew all. It was easy enough to obtain a full ac count of the proceedings, which were al ready man? months old. Jess Armstrong, as she called herself, had given herself up for the murder of Stephen Eyra It was a nice point as to whether she had really killed him or not: for, supposing that he fell accidentally out of the window, was it at all possible that he could have got back again without the help of several strong men? The jury were rather disposed to believe that the unknown party of men in the room were guilty of the murder, and a cold sweat broke out upon Eastwood’s forehead as he realized the danger that he had run. But he soon perceived that Jess had been faith ful. She had bean obliged to acknowledge him os her lover, but she had said nothiug about the marriage, or his presenoe in Num ber Twenty, Mill street. Taere was nothing to implicate him—his name was barely mentioned. He drew on involuntary breath of relief when he found that this was the ca6e. “Manslaughter” was the verdict. Tho jury could hardly convict of murder undor the circumstances. And tliesentence—three years’ imprisonment, with hard labor. Not a very hard sentence as sentences go. There was some talk ab ut her probable admission into a penitentiary at the end of three years. Tho penitentiary was evi dently thought suitable for a woman who seemed never to have denied that she had led an evil life. One or two kindly dispose i persons wrote letters to the newspapers to say that they would look after the girl when she came out of prison, and would help her to lead a decent and honest life, by procuring some sort of situation for her. And thence sprang a long series of letters about the treatment of women criminals, all ba-od upon that trial of Jess Arm strong, and her unexpectedly lenient sen tence. The life of women in prisons and pen item iaries was described inother letters, and a discussion on the rules and manage ment of such places, Ailed up the columns of severul papers, at a time when London was empty, and in want of anew sensa tion. By the time that George Eastwood had read all that he could find, he was in an utterly dazed condition. The facts that he had read seemed to stun him. Could it ba that Jem—the beautiful creature in white, with the long golden hair, whom he had painted and caressed and admired—was now one of those fallen women for whose benefit prisons and penitentiaries had been built? He shut bis eye and saw her as such women were described in the letter that he had read, with hair cut short under a close cap, with coarse gown and apron, and bauds stained or reddened by manual labor of various kinds; above all with that vacuous or vicious look which one writer declared to be stamped upon the face3 of nil who became inmates of those dreary walls. VVus it possible that JesJ sweat face could be branded with that look of guilt and shame? He had no doubt concerning her guilt. Had she not herself avowed to him that she had pushed Stepheu Eyre from his hold upon the rotten window sill? Some of the details given in the papers sho ked and sickened him. They brought back to h!m his own vague remembrance of the scene— and also a faint, vague consciousness, which he could never understand, of his own share in It. This consciousness was not suf ficiently clear to be of any determining value; but it serve 1 to deepen the sense of horror ar.d revolt with which he regarded Jess’ crime. It seemed to him now almost impossible that he should ever have loved a woman of her tvpe! And yet—was there anything that he could do for her? When the shock of his discovery died away he began to think— hopelessly and helple sly—of the possibili ties of the future. He could not get a di vorce from her. He must be separated from her —yes; bus he was separated al ready. He hated to think of publicity and scandal. Surely, as he and his wife, tho wife of whom he was so thoroughly ashamed, and for whom no spark of love now lingered in his breast, as he and his wife were already so far apart, there was no need to let the world know that they had been so near. She hod not betrayed bis secret; he would not 'betray hers. Strangers they must ever b, one to the other, and no one should ever guess the link between them. There was Meenie, however, to be ac counted for; what had become of Meenie? She wi uld have to be found and provided for. Consulting the papers again, the only mention of Meenie was contained in Jess’ voluntary statement that her child was “with friends in the country.” Jess had no friends in the country. So what did that mean? The first thing to be done, apparently, was to write a furious letter to Mr. Field, the banker, a-kiug why he had been left to learn these heart-rending details from a common newspaper. He did not find out the reason far same weeks, when Ms letter was returned to him with the words “dead —heart disease,” written across tho en- I ▼elope. The epistle had been glanced at by j a clerk, and re-enclosed to Bombay. The only thing that George Eastwood could think i.f was to go to England nt once, look for bis child, and wait till Jess came out of the prison. But a letter from Francis Helmont arrested him. Helmont gave him a few details about Jess’ trial anti imprisonment, and added that tho child was with friends in the country—probably with Alice Drew. He had been told so, and be had no reasou to doubt the accuracy of his information. He told the news gravely and sadly, for he had a strong con viction that Eastwood was very much to blame for the tragedy of Jess Armstrong’s life. But he aided no word of comment or reproach, for be wrote by a secretary’s hand and did not wish to to pain his friend unucessanly. He inserted merely a few words in his own uncertain h mdwriting, as a postcript, mentioning the oxact date on which Jess Armstrong would bo set from prison. And that was all. Eastwood did not go to England just them. There was nothing to go for, ha told himself. But the expiration of three years found him treading the green lanes between Hexham and Wychford, with a look of dark discouragemo it upon his face. He had missed Jess. How lie scarcely knew. He must have made some mistake in the date. He had gone to the prison on what he thought to be the appointed day, and he h"d waited while the prisoners were released, but Jess was not amongst the lit tle crowd. After a time he sought out a benevolent-locking lady, la black, who was mixing with theexconvicts and asking them to breakfast; and doffing his hat politely, he asked her if she had seen or beard anything of a woman named Jess Armstrong. “The woman who gave herself up for killing poor Eyre—oh, that was a very sad case,” said tho lady. “She came out six months ago on tlcket-of-leave.” “Six months ago!” said Eastwood, stut tering in his.amaze and eagerness. “So long!” “Her behaviour was so good, you see,” said the lady in aa explanatory tone. "They let herout rather unusually soon. I saw her here and talked to her myself.” A flash shot from Eastwood’s eyes. “What has she done with herself?” “Pardon me—you are not going to harm her?” “I—certainly not. I wished to help her —lf possible, to provide for her future.” The lady shook her head. "She was not an easy person to assist. She would not cone to breakfast with the other convict women”—how George writhed at the word! “She refused money ami she refused work. Avery bad sign, that, iam afraid!” “ Where did she go?” “To London, I believe. But not to stay. She told me that. She said that she should prefer the country.” “Did you not proceed further? Did you offer her no more substantial assistance?" said George. It was odd that while his love had grown cold his sense of possession made him ex ceedingly angry with the woman who had not assisted bis wife in suitable ways. The lady in black bridled a little. “I did what I could, sir, for the unfortu nate girl,” she said. “You must remember that we see agreat number of oon victs in the course of tho year. If she would have come to breakfast and stayed for tho prayers and scripture reading which we have afterward, I would have given her work had she required it—list slippers to make, or something of that kind. Wo al ways give them coffee and butter, it heart ens them, poor things, for the day’s experi ence. But the woman, Armstrong, would accept no help, spiritual or material. She gave me to understand that she was going to friend'.” “Friends! What friends had Jess?” Eastwood stood silent for a moment and considered. “It is possible,” he said at last, deliber ately, “that she may come back to you hero for help.” “Possible, but not likely, unless she is commited for another crime!” “May I trouble you with this card?” said Eastwood, formally. “My name and ad dress are upon it. If you see her, perhaps you will be so kind as to toll her that I have come home, and should like her to commu nicate with me.” The lady looked confused, embarrassed, distressed. It was evident that some re membrance of Eastwood’s name was float ing in ber mind, and that she could not ex actly define it. George thought it better to leave her before full remembrance dawned upon her mind. He rasiod his hat, thanked her formally, and turned away. She stood still as if reflecting on the matter. Just as he reached the corner of the street, ho ;aw her make a frantic dash after him. and, wondering whether she had any further information to give, be stopped and waited her approach. She caine up, panting, with one hand upon her heart.” “Oh, 1 quite forgot,” she said, “who you were; oh, I do hope that you have seen the —the—error of your ways 1” “I have seen them very often,” said East wood, grimly. “Then, will you—will you—do me the honor of accepting this little tract. I bavo known it to do good to so many—mauy— hardened and impenitent sinners!” “I may be hardened,” said George, with the faintest possible smile, “but not, I am sure, impenitent." He took the tract from her hand, glanced at it, and then put it into his pocket. It was entitled, “Words of Warning,” and he did not feel as if he wanted any warning at that moment. But he would not wonud the feelings of a lady by telling her so. He raised his hat once more, and was allowed to depart. He went straight to Frank Helmont. But the blind clergyman— rector now of the parish where ho had so long been curate— was unable to tell him anything. Jess had not been to see him. Then he went to Whitechapel, and sc urged the back streets and lanes which Joss used formerly to fre quent, but ho heard nothing of her. Her name was unknown, save in connection with the ghastly Mill street tragedy, of which George heard until he cared to hear no more. Jess bad passed cut of the sight and ken of Mill street folk. Meenie? Nobody knew anything of Meeuie. Some said that she was dead: others that she had been taken away by Ali e Drew. The name struck dull on George’s oar; he thought he had heard it be fore, but did not know how or where. Dr. Pric.s could tell him more, the people said. But he remembered Dr. Price, and shrank from meeting him again. “Put the matter into a detective’s hand, if you waut to find Jess Armstrong,” Hel mont said to him. George shivered a little at the words. “No, no," te said hurriedly, “I can’t do that. I’ll look about u little longer—l may find her still.” “Do you want to find tfaer I” asked the parson. “1 don’t want to look upon her face again. But I do waut to know that she is not starv ing. Frank, I—l loved her once." “I know,” said Helmont pitifully, and then there was silence between them for a time. But when Eastwood had been a few days in England, a desire came upon him to re visit the old house at Wyctiford, which was now his own. ltwas not let at present, aid the howekeepir a id the servants took a de light in letting their master see how bright and pleasant a place it looked. He was in terested in it at first, and then he wear.od of his loneliness. Tue house was full of ghosts—ghosts of the joys that might have been, ghosts of the joys that he had slain. “I will go ana see Diana,” he said te him self. He had, as yet, hardly realised the fact that Diana was now a widow. Lord Hex ham's neck had t eeo brokeu In the hunting field, and Diana’s boy had succeeded to the title. She lived with her son at the great old hostse, where the Hexham's hod always lived, and win ro she was reputed to spend a useful, charitable, laborious, and not un happy life. But George knew little of what had hap pened in his absoence, a id thought of Diana still as he had seen her last, brilliant, glow ing with life and beauty,gorgeous in array. It was no wonder, thei efore, that he hardiy recognized her, when, after he had eutered the great park gates, he made his way up the avenue towords the house, and encount ered two ladies iu bis walk.' Two; one was tall and stately, dressed in rich black robes that rustled a little t.s she passed ou. Tho signs of her widowhood were few, a little rim of white in her black bonnet was the only token of it that a man would be likely to observe, George glanced at her and did not glance again. He looked, instead, at her compan ion, a young aud graceful girl, not very tall; a girl with tender earnest eyes, with soft brown hair, and a sweet radiant face. She was drts ed in something light aud airy—Eastwood did not know its name — aud sho wore a very becomiug straw hat upon her head. It was her dress rather than her face that recalled to George East wood the place aud time where lie had seen her last. He stopped Involuntarily, a quick light coming into his dark eyes. He had chanced upon Lady Hexham and her young relation, Sybil Lorimar. TO BE CONTINUED. SUGGESTIONS FOB WOMEN. Too Much Worry and Work Are De structive of Beauty. Brooklyn, N. Y., May 84. —The quick returns which follow certain paragraphs in my nowspapor correspondence are of the greatest possible value, because such results are proof positive that an occasional word of mine strikes home. I rejoice even when I leceive pretty severe critical castigation for the same reason. The idea that stirs to auger or brisk argument wakes up the in tellectual faculties, and, though there may be a vast disagreement on the subject be tween writers and critics, tbero can never tie the saute indifference to it on tho part of the latter. My letter of list week, which advocated the putting off till to-morrow the tasks which seem too hard and too heavy for to day, has brought me some sharp raps from housekeepers, and in two or three instances has inspired the editorial quill “to go for me.” To make up for auy possible hurt from such sources, I have a few private let ters which comfort rae exceedingly. One correspondent can “not understand how an American born citizen can recommend a housekeeper to Hweep in the evening.” Now that woman has certainly misconceived the purport and temper of my advice. .She has made another egregious mistake also. I am not an American citizen, and this I trust she will nmke a note of. Ac cording to law I have not the first claim to citizenship. Neither has any other woman. Wo can pay taxes, or be sued for them. We can be imprisoned and tried like citizens if we have money to pay for it, but we are not citizens because we cannot vote, it is, indeed, very aggravating to be called a citizen, and especially by a woman, for I am anxious to have women undersi and what the word citizen means. Another lady In a prettily written letter draws a fine analogy from the promptitude of the seasons. “Spring and summer, and fall and winter, ” she says, “are always on hand and never ask to be excuse 1 for their tardiness.” This writer has not been a close observer. Nature always takes her own time. Sometimes the dear old dame seems exceedingly lazy, but I approve of her. She knows her own bust nes , too, and is perfectly unmovedjby tho world’s great army of growlers. I would have women imitate nature more, in this us well as iu other respects. The woman who wich a lame back and bursting bead rushes her clothes on to the line of a Monday morning for fear of what her neighbors will say, or because she always lias and consequently always must, beat Mrs. Smith, next door, is doing herself an irrep arable physical, mental and moral injury. In commenting upon theelderly appearance of middlo-aged women in some of the eastern states, end the way in whioli many of them succumb to disease, an observant physician told me that the reason was to be found in “domestic competition.” “You have no conception," ho said, "of the nerve force expended iu running these great kitchens, and tho waste of muscular strength that goes on in the constant com petitive struggle between ueigobors. “It is getting a little different uow,” he added, “but I can remember the time when the housekeeper who did not have all her clothes scalded and in the rinse before breakfast was considered a disgrace to the neighbor hood." There is altogether too much of this domestic competition going on now, as well as a most demoralizing spirit of rivalry iu dress. Mauy women work themselves almost to death to make something for themselves or their children to wear which shall outshine the costumes of their neigh bors. Now, I am an ardent advocate for good health and good looks. No woman can look w ell who is ill, and no one who is in sound ; hysical health can ever be very ugly. I believo that half the stitcaes taken in this world have been enteroly unnecessary stitches. The same can be said of the pies that iiave been mode and the cake that has been baked, and the enormous amount of sweeping and cleaning. It is tragically true that a largo proportion of our American housekeepers are by the ciroura Tance3 of their environ ment strained and overtaxed. There are some duties they cannot relegate t > others, some that are imp ssilile to ignore. And yet I sincerely think that in the ma jority of instauces there might be some sensible compromise effected between the work that kills and that which is endurable. A woman should conscientiously study herself and ber relations to what she con siders her responsibilities. I insist in de claring that a woman is a criminal who, because it is Friday, turns her house upside down in tho process of sweeping when she is not in the proper physical condition t > do such work, Then look at the mult plicity of dishes which housekeepers are in the habit of preparing. Fully half of these, in many cases, could ba dispensed with to the great and immediate benefit of all con cerned. Wby inay we not have more fruit, more cereals, more good bread, more easily prepared vegetables, anil leas of hard-to make, hard-to-digest and generally pois onous pastry aud other conglomerations? Think of the books waiting to bo read, the delightful questions te be considered and discussed in this wide awake age. Think of the great beautiful “out doors” waiting to welcome, and strengthen, and inspire us. Think of the dear friends who, with their words of sym pathy and encouragement, could help us te live if we only gave them the chance. Then consider the amount of unnecessary drudg ery that keeps us from this education, this enjoyment of nature, this acquirement of physical and spiritual poise. And so I say unto you all, make an inventory of yo ir duties, and, when this is done, lessen each one as far as possible, and then decide to skip a duty occadonally if you are not well enough to do it. In that case it is not a duty. Of course this counsel ds not I have reforeuoe to cases of illness that can- | not be neglected, but to the various daily ■ details which have been 1 ng regarded in j the light of unpoatpouable crucifixions. I have known the task which teemed unen durable one day to be a real delight the day after. This was simply because the work was left, and rest was the result. I have sometimes totally Ignored the duties of two consecutive days, and on the third day have easily performed the labor of both, and more too. “It is very easy to preach,” says one, “but not so easy to practice.” I can do the last better than the fli-st Ei.ea.nok Kibke. REDFKRN FASHIONS. Some Suitable for the Leafy Month of June. New York, May 23.—Juno’s balmy breezes, in our tickle climate, are not always of constant and unvarying warmth, and there is often a fresh coolness aftor sunset which makes some kind of a light wrap a welcome, aud indeed, a necessary adjunct to the wardrobe. For driving, too, even on the sunniest unys, it is prudent to mako some slight addition to the ordinary walk ing costume, for it is sultry weather, indeed, when no breeze is to be found, whea one is in rapid motion. In recognition of this fact every little while there is issued some new design for the cape-wrap, which has become such a favorite. In the accompanying figure is presented n graceful and charming varia tion of this little garment. A BL’MMER WRAP. It is pointed front and back and extends a little below tno waist line. Tho material is mainly crepe do ohene of a rather light shade of cadet blue, and is embroidered all over with little s ml figures done in silver tinsel. Hands of darker blue cloth meet down the fr nt and pass diagonally from shoulder to waist, and > those latter the cape rufilo is plea'ed, in two sections, which open in a double jabot over tho arm. The vory stylish gown which is the sub ject of the second illustration is composed of dove grey serge, laid in wide pleats across the front, and witu an appllqued panel upon the right side, whicii is braided, in blick and silver in a design which simulates some of the heavier laces. The same in miniature is carried around the bott m of the sleeves and basque, and outlines a pointed yoke, low on the breast, above wbioh is a full guimpe of old rose silk embroidered with silver dots. The large, picturesque hat whose brim turns up sharply at the back is of grey chip, with zigzag raws of silver braid on the facing, and the trimming is a bunch of old rose loops, massed on the crown, and black ostrich tipi nodding over front and bock. Too Previous with His Tongue. The district messenger boy, says the St. Paul Pioneer Pi e, may be slow in action, but at times he is too previous with his tongue. One of the guild was recently waiting in the ladi-s’ ordinary of a St. Paul h tel for no ostensible reason, but just simply waiting. A lady for whom he had done an errand left the room. “She has b-autiful teeth," exclaimed an elderly lady near the piano. "I wonder if they are her own." “I guess not," volunteered the messenger. “The dentist just told me he wouldn't receipt the bill until she sent oil the money," PAGES 9 TO 12. SUICIDE AMONO ANCIENTS. How Belf-Murder was Regarded ia the Days of Old. From the Chicago Tribune. “There is no passion in the mind of man,” says Lord Bacon, “so weak but it mates and masters the fear of death.” Realizing this, a man must put aside first of ell the idea of anything noble in suicide. He is not facing bis enemy in dying; he U flying to what he supposes to be a refuge. The truth enun ciated by the philosopher also explains how suicide is looked upon with such apparent indifference by the Orientals. In the n the fear of death is apparently mastered by every other passion. For many centuries suicide has been a fine art in China and Jafen. A mandarin in China, if guilty of misconduct, is politely requested to dispatch himself. If he be of a rank which entitles him to the peacock father he is privileged to choke himself to death with gold leaf. This is supposed in those ports to be a particular luxurious form of death. If thema .dartn be entitled to wear only the red button he must be contented with strangling him'elf with a silken cord. This is hard, but the regulations of casta are inexorable. | |Bimtlar procev.es existed in Japan from time immemorial, but that country is to day genuinely pr gressive and frowns down the notions that aro not in harmony with western civilization. The Orientals take to death like ducks to water. They seem to be as sure of paradise as our own repentant murderers. There is historical truth in the conception of Moore’s “Voiled Prophet," who couid command bis followers to dash themselves to death and find them only too delighted to obey. Far different was the temper of the Roman soldiers, who when hemmed in would die on their own swords—whose gen erals alwaysohoeo death in preference to gracing an enemy’s triumph. They died in grim despair. During the roign of Tiberius a law was passed permitting criminals who committed suicide to dispose of their property. If the state was put to the expense of killing them it seiz and their possessions. This was cer tainly putting a premium on self-destruc tion. The Athenians at the hight of their civil ization discouraged suicide, although not severely. The offending hand was buried apart from the body. What said the great thinkers of Athens and Rome on the subject? Zeno, tho founder of the Stoics, set his followers a preci -us example. At the age of 98 he fell and put his thumb out of joint. This was a hint to him that he boil lived long enough, so be weut home and hanged himself. Aristotle, Epictetus, nnd Zoroaster are great names ranged against suicide. The rst finely said: “Courage is the mean between fear and rashness; suicide is the sura of both.” Epictetus: “Act well your part; It is not for you to choose it.” Zoroas ter: “Tbe soldier must not desert his post. Life is the post of man.” Pliny thought that pains ia the head and stomach should excuse suicide. Homer is said to have banged himself be cause he could not solve the “fisherman’s riddle.” Cato and Lucretius scabbed them selves. Terence drowned himself because he lost 108 translated comedies. Tbe writings of Labienu* were burned, and Labieuu* took tbe fire route for his own exit from tbe earth. The wife of Brutus, the well-beloved Portia, swallowed burn ing coals. Herennius, tbe Sicilian, beet out his brains, and lived long enough to salute them, if his biographers tell tbe truth. Empedocles plunged into a crater. (He had an imitator in this century, by the way, iu tbe person of an English uobleman.) Nero cut bis throat. Petronius Arbiter opened his veins because be hud displeased Nero. Damocles scalded himsolf to death. Two Romans killed themselves tcescape tbe eloquent invective of Cicero. There are those who claim and appar ently with justice, that the e--senes of ancient thought on this subject lies in this saying of He.ieca, himself a suicide: “The wise man lives as loug os he ought, not as long as he can.” SHE WON THE GLOVE3. How a Northwestern Widow Cons vlnced a Man of His Error. In one of St. Paul’s palatial apartment bouses lives a young widow—one of those willowy blondos, with brown eyes wap ranted to kill at 100 yards. The next time she has occasion to appear in full dress she will probably woar a pair of full gloves which she won from a well-known gentle man who hat apartrn mts on the same floor. This is how it happened, says the St. Paul Pioneer-freet: Tho g-ntieman came home one afternoon, and as be passed along the hall to his rooms ho saw through tho half-opened door of the fair one’s room a sight that caused him to stop and exclaim: •‘What on earth are you doing?” The lady stepped to the door and ex plained that a a-,w dress hal jus: been sent homo, and that she bod placed her mirror down on the floor so that she could soe bow the dres3 looked as she walked past. “Looks all right "said he. “That all you know about it,” said the widow. “In tbe first place it doesn’t hang well behind; there is a certain satisfaction and peace of mind to a woman who knows that her dress hangs well behind that the comforts of religion do not give. But the greater fault with it is that it is so short that I am almost ashamed to wear it.” “That’s so, it is awfully short,” he said, looking down at the widow’s graceful ankles as sho moved around behind a chair. “But 1 always did admire those embroidered lisle thread —” “You don’t know what you are talking about; they're not lisle thread, and you have nothing to base an opinion on except your too fertile imagination.” “Well, I never worked in a drygoods store, but I’ll just bet you a pair of gloves that lam right, and that they are lisle thread.” “Ai.d you won’t even tell a living soul If I show you that you are wrong?" “Never! upon my honor.” “Well, come In and close the door, but remember that I trust you to be honora ble iu this and never breathe a word of it. And if I satisfy you that you are wrong I am to have a pair of eight-button white gloves.” “Yes, yes, that’s all right," he answered, impatiently, thiukiug it would be a good bet if he lost. Walking demurely to a dressing case, she opened tho upper drawer and said; "I bought thr. e pairs yesterday; here are the other two, and you see they are silk, not lisle thread, aud they have just a little line up tbe side instead of embroidery.” “But I thought you were going to—’’ “Sir! There are some subjects upon which you have no right to think. Never mind what you thought," she con tinued, as she held the door open for hei caller’s exit. “Just utilize your thinker is remembering that you owe me a pair oi gloves.” Tnz most expensive thermometer In thil country Is in use at the Johns Hopkins univer sity. It is known as Prof. Bowland's thermom eter, and is valued at SIO,OOO. It is an abso lutely perfect instrument, and the graduation! on the are so fine that it is necessary t< use a microscope to read them.