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FART TWO.
THE- GREAT 111 STRUT MYSTERY.
J3-y ADELIISTE SKEiG-E^AISrT.
Author of "Jacobi’s W if*,” ’‘Hoy's Repentance," “Deveril’s Diamond," "Undkr
Fame Pretences," Etc.
tALL BIGHTS RESERVED.}
CHAPTER XLL
GEORGE’S STORY.
Tom Lorimer possessed a very reasonable
amount of what is usually termed “knowl
edge of the world;” so, when he heard Sybil
launch out, a few days later, Into some allu
sions to the little scene at the orphanage
gate, and at the same time remarking on
the length of Eastwood’s absence from
Hexham Court, he felt vaguely uncomforta
ble and wondered whether there was any
6tory which it behooved himself to know.
Judging from Lady Hexham’s face, he
thought there was. She looked for one in
stant dismayed and even confused; and then
she seemed to calm herself as she replied
quietly:
“My dear Sybil, he takes an interest in
the poor, and no doubt wished to inform
himself as to the rules and conditions of an
orphanage. I heard him say only the
other day that he would like to build one. ”
“Oh, that explains it, then,” said Sybil.
“I like a man to be fond of little children,
auntie. Mr. Eastwood did not seem able to
take his eyes oil Meenie Armstrong.”
Again that indefinable shock of some
thing like dismay was visible on Lady
Hexham’s face, and once again she con
trolled it.
“Sybil, dear, will you do the flowers this
morning! The vases do not look quite fresh,
and I know you like the work.”
“Ob, yes, I do. May Tom come with me,
to carry the basket and reach the high
branches?”
“If be likes. You do not ask him, I ob
serve,” said Diana, smiling.
“He does not need to be asked. He is de
lighted to come,” said Sybil with a little
innocent sauciness.
And then she ran away for her bat, aud
Tom rose to his full hight with the pleased
air of a man who has received a compli
ment. He strolled about the room for a
minute or two in silence, and then said,
with apparent carelessness:
“Mr. Eastwood looked awfully taken
aback that day. Aunt Diana. As if he had
suddenly seen somebody he never expected
to meet. Could it be Miss Drew ?”
“Miss Drew, Tom 1 How absurd!”
"Whv absurd?” asked Tom, doggedly.
“Well, perhaps not absurd in the sense
that he might have seen her before; but in
the senso of being startled by the sight."
“He was startled by something or other;
he was as white as a tablecloth.”
Lady Hexham put her work down and
looked troubled for a moment.
“I think I must toll you, Tom,” she said
at last, “that I know why Mr. Eastwood
may have looked startled, and that I shall
perhaps speak to him about it; but that I
must beg of you to ask me no questions at
present. And above all, do not talk to Sybil
about it.”
“Certainly not.” Then, after a pause:
"Do you consider, Aunt Diana, that Mr.
Eastwood is a suitable person to make
Sybil a good husband?”
Diana gave a little start.
"Mv dear Tom,” she said, “I thought
that there was a family arrangement—”
“Family arrangements go for nothing in
these degenerate days,” said Tom. imper
turbably. “If Sybil refuses me, she can’t
be made to marry me against her will; aud
Eastwood has been paying her a good deal
of attention.”
"Impossible, Toml”
“I can’t quite Bee the impossibility,” said
Tom.
Diana rose and looked out of the window.
Perhaps she did not want her nephew to see
her face. It was in a rather oddly muffled
tone that she said at last:
“I think it is quite possible that my
cousin is married already, Tom. I have
some reason to think so; and if the matter
be as you suggest. I shall ask him plainly
whether he is a married man or not.”
"Married already? That’s the best news
I’ve beard for many a day. May I tell
Sybil?”
"No, most assuredly not. I will tell her
if necessary. And take her out by the side
door; I hear her on the stairs, and Mr.
Eastwood himself is coming up the av
enue.”
Tom obeyed with a chuckle which was not
altogether of an amiable nature. His tem
per had been much tried of late by the
friendliness subsisting between Sybil and
George Eastwood; and to bear that East
wood was already married at first made him
laugh with joy, and then frown with hon
est disapproval; for ho considered, rightly
enough, that tbo squire of Wychford had
no business to pass himself off as a single
man when he was already married. Think
ing of these things, ha excited Sybil’s won
der not a little by appearing somewhat ab
sent-minded when she spoke to him; and it
was only by n severe effort of will that he
succeeded finally in ceasing to wonder what
his Aunt. Diana would say to her visitor,
and in giving himself steadily to the work
in hand.
If he could have looked into Diana's
morning room at that moment, he would
have seen its mistress standing face to face
with George Eastwood and looking straight
into his eyes.
She had asked a question and was waiting
in breathless anxiety for the reply, not be
cause she did not know —or think she knew
—the truth, but because she was desperately
afraid that Georgs would lie to her. Hhe
knew that he had not always spoken the
truth when questioned about Jess Arm
strong; and she felt that her estimate of his
whole character hung in the balance. If
he lied to her now, she said to herself, she
could never speak to him again.
He looked at her, too, in silence, for a
minute or two, and then his eyes fell. He
had not seated himself since his entrance,
his hat was still in his hand; for one mo
ment he was conscious of a wild desire to
ay from Diana’s questions and Diana’s
earnest eyes. The habit of reticence had
grown upon him insidiously, so that he now
felt almost a physical difficulty in acknowl
cuging the truth. But at last he spoke—
truly—though hoarsely and with evident
reluctance.
|Yes,” he said, “Meenie is mv child."
And her mother P’ Diana began, trem
ulously.
w “Her mother —Jess Armstrong—is my
Diana uttered a little cry; then she sud
denly held out her haud to him, and her
beautiful dark eyes filled with tears.
'Your wife, George? Ob, George, that
"’oman—your wife?”
He had to put his hat down —these absurd
interruptions aro apt to occur in the
midst of the most tragic or sorrowful
cfes— before be could clasp her hand; and
men he gave it oly a sharp, short squeeze
Hlj£ itiornina
and walked away to the window to recover
himself.
“You have not heard the story,” he said
at last. “You don’t know whether you
ought to give me your hand or not. I know
—and I ought not to have touched it. lam
unutterably below you in everything. You
can never forgive—or respect—a coward;
and that is what I have been, Diana—a
coward from beginning to end.”
"You do not think that I shall believe
you ?” she said, gently.
"Yes, I do. I must make you believe
me. I will tell you the story, as I have told
it to no one else, and afterward I will go
awav and never trouble you again."
“Tell me the story,”' she said, softly.
"Perhaps I may be able to help you.”
George raised his eyes lu momentiry
amaze.
"Are you not very angry with me.
Diana ? I know that I ought to have told
you before—”
She bent her head.
“Yee, you ought to have told mo before.
But that is nothing—that is a trifle. Tell
me the whole story, dear George, and lot us
see what we can do."
It was strangely pleasant to him to hear
her identify his interests with her own in
this way. A sensation of relief and hope
crept over him. There might be help and
comfort for him yet, if a strong, brave
woman like Diana did not despair. And so
—for the first time, as he had said —he
poured forth his story.
His story. Not Jess’ story. For that he
did not know—perhaps would never know
in its entirety, on this side of the grave.
Lady Hexham listened with growing
wonder, with even gathering dismay. One
or two points in the story perplexed her
deeply.
“But George—George,” she stammered,
“you were really married, then, when we
saw you in Bond Street Gallery?”
"Yes.”
“And that lovely girl—you painted her as
Elaine—”
“She was my wife.”
"But she was not—she could not surely
be—”
“Need you pain me by so many ques
tions? I know what you mean. Yes, yes,
yes! She was Jess Armstrong, afterward
convicted of murder or manslaughter
and condemned to three years penal servi
tude.”
“Then —where iashe now? Pardon me,
George, but 1 must ask these questions. Is
she dead?”
George drew his breath in quickly.
“I wish 1 knew," he said. “She has dis
appeared,"
And then he told her of his unavailing
search.
“Ob, but she will come back! She will
come back for ber child!”
"You think so, Diana?”
“If she has any womanly feeling in her,
she will. But then”—and Diaua’s voice
choked—“has she any womanly feeling
left? To push that man down—even to cut
his fingers with a knife” —3he shuddered in
voluntarily. “It has a terrible sound I”
“I cannot bear to think of it,” said
George, in a low voice. “There is still the
dazed feeling in my brain that I was re
sponsible in some way—that I did it my
self—”
“Oh, no, no, George, no! You were ill,
remember; you would not have been able.
Besides, why should she sav that she had
done it if sho were innocent ?”
"I know; I have said to myself a thou
sand times; and yet I find it difficult to be
lieve. She was the gentlest creature.”
“She told you herself, however, you
say?”
“Yos, and she did not seem abashed or
afraid. It was true, of course, as she said,
that perhaps she saved my life by it.”
“The man was so violent.”
“I presume so. My memories are con
fused.”
Diana was silent for a few moments.
“If she did it for love of you, George,”
she said, softly, “there is no neel to feel
ashamed. It was perhaps a horrible neces
sity. Surely, in old days, we should have
called a woman who acted in that way—for
her husband’s sake —a heroine, not a mur
deress.”
“Perhaps so,” George answered, gloomily.
“I can only say for myself that her con
fession sickened me. 1 would rather she
had let the man kill me than hack his
fingers and help to push the poor w retch
down. Diana, I may be squeamish and
fanciful, hut the notion maddens me. It
was, as you said, unwomanly; It was cruel,
and cruelty—ever for my own sake—how
can I forgive?”
“Did you say all this to your wife,
George?”
“I hope not. Ido not know what I said.
I left her soon afterward, went to anew
lodging, and told her to wait for Field—as I
explained just now—and when he wont
back, she was gone. She had a most re
markable faculty for running away—for
disappearing when she was wanted most.”
"It sooms to me, George, as if you had
been cruel too.”
“I —cruel, Diana?’
"in your treatment of your wife—cruel
and unjust. But leave that just now. Ex
plain the rest to me. After a few weeks,
you, you say, she went to Francis and gave
herself up. I remember reading of the
case; your name was scaroely mentioned.
How was that?”
“She suppressedjmy name, apparently.”
“Ah, yes I She put a slur on herself and
let it be thought that she was with another
man —all for the sake of saving you!
George, this woman loved you very
dearly r
He winced; the reflection was not one that
pleased him.
“And where were you? Why were you
not by her side? What power in earth or
heaven or hell could keep you from your
wife when she was in'such extremity?”
“You forget,” said George, so reluctantly
that his voice sounded almost sullen; “let
ters and newspapers do not penetrate to the
remote parts of Europe and Asia where I
was traveling.”
“And what business had you to be trav
ing there?” said Diana, passionately. Her
eyes flashed indignation upon him as she
spoke. “What business had you to leave
England before you knew that she was
found and provided for! Poor soul! No
doubt she was driven to despair! No doubt
she was driven by her conscience—which
you ought to have soothed and quieted, iu
common gratitude, because she had saved
your life! Saved it twice, moreover
saved you from being murdered, saved
you from illness, saved you from—from a
worse fate, perhaps, if you had been hereto
answer for yourself!”
For a minute George did not speak; then
he moved toward the door as he answered
her.
“You are pleased to insult me, Lady
Hexham,” be said, with whitening lips;
♦•w 1 am not obliged to listen to you, and
SAVANNAH, GA.,'SUNDAY, JUNE 8, 1890.
I have the honor to wish you good morn
ing.”
But Diana would not let him leave her
thus.
“Stay." she said, quickly. "Listen,
George, Ido not mean to insult you. I
will n:t say another word that can offend
you. I spoke too hastily, perhaps. And
there is your little daughter to tnink of,
besides ourselves. Will you not speak of
her? 1
He hesitated, and turned back, with some
thing like moisture in hts eyes.
“You think all this evil of me, Diana,”
he said, half reproachfully, “and yet you
promise to help me in my need.”
“Has the one anything to do with the
otherP' she asked with a sorrowful smile.
“You are my cousin and my friend; Burely
I may always help you, although 1 do not
always approve of what you do? Never
mind what I said; tell me of Meenie. What
are you going to do with her?’
“What can I doP’
“You oannot leave ber to be brought up
as she is just now. Alice Drew is most
good and devoted; but Meenie oanuot al
ways live with ber iu an orphanage. 1
thought she was worse than orpuaued when
I took her in; but if ahe is your legitimate
daughter, George, and the heiress of Wych
ford, matters must be altered now.”
"I have no establishment suitable for her.
I want to do what is right, but the way is
very difficult. Help me, Diana!”
“Would you let her come here—to me?”
said Diana, after a pause.
“The very thing of all others that I could
wish for her!”
“But wait—do not let us act hastily.
Leave her with Alice Drew a week or two
longer, and let me put Alice on her guard
If your wife cares to see her child, she will
come there. She would not come to me.
We must watch for her coming—something
tells me that she will come.”
“And then?” said George, bitterly.
“Then? Then —e must see. If she is
what you take her to be, I will do my best
to find a home for her. And if she is wbat
I take her to be —what I fancy she may yet
turn out—”
“ What do you mean?”
She looked at him with her eyes full of
tears.
“Saint, heroine, martyr—that is what I
mean! Then, too, I shall have to find a
home for her, and you will help me,
George?”
“You are incomprehensible,” said
George, sighing, and shaking his head.
“But if you will help nle, I will ask for
nothing more."
CHAPTER XLII.
“ONLY A CHILD.”
"But I have still another thing to ask of
you," said Diana, with some emphasis.
“You have let the world think too long that
you were not married, George. Don’t you
think it is time that we put an end to this
silence and secreoy?’
He turned round upon her angrily.
“Would you blazon my shame abroad?”
he asked.
“I would blazon nothing,” said Diana,
with her customary steadiness. “But I
want your authority" to do as I see fit as re
gards speaking or keeping silence. There
are some few people to whom I ought to be
able to say 'George Eastwood Is a married
man.’ I shall not go into details.”
“You mean—is it possible that you
mean—”
He stopped short rather suddenly, and
changed color. But his eyes fell at that
moment on a slim gray glove that lay on a
table beside him—tell and lingered there,
as it sometuiDg charmed him iu the sight of
Sybil’s glove.
“You need be under no apprehension,”
said Lady Hexham with decided coldness.
"You are thinking of Miss Lorimer; I un
derstand—”
“Only as one of the most charming girls
I ever met," interrupted George rather
hotly; “and infinitely superior to myself.”
Lady Hexham smiled a little.
“It would have been out of the question
in any case, you know,” she said, without
particularizing what she meant. “Sybil is
practically engaged to Tom Lorimer, and
you, of course, have a wife already.”
“Tom Lorimer! That lout!”
“Not so much of a lout as he seems; and
good and honest and true enough to make a
husband worthy even of Sybil.”
George sighed and looked dreamily out of
the window. Diana said to herself that she
had spoken none too soon. Too late, per
haps, so far as George’s peace of mind was
concerned; she could only hope that she
was not too late to save Sybil from a simi
lar fate.
She did not try to detain her cousin, now
that all had been said that needed saying;
and not ten minutes after his departure Tom
entered tho room iu a curious and eager
frame of miud. She was sorry to see him
quite so soon; a little rest and reflection
would have been, she thought, of use to her
just then. But Diana never wanted for
promptness of judgment, aud her judgment
was generally sound.
“Well?" said the young fellow, quickly.
“What did he say?”
“Mr. Eastwood? It is as I thought; his
wife is living.”
‘‘Where is she, then*’’ asked Tom, star
ing.
“We do not know. She has disappeared
—and —”
Diana hesitated, scarcely able to decide
how much or how little of George’s story
to divulge.
“Why," said Tom, sharply, “he can get
a—a —divorce, I suppose, if she has left
him —”
“You are very harsh, Tom. No, she
has not—as far as we know—left him in
that way. He is seeking for her every
where.”
“Seeking for her,” said Tom, reflectively.
“Yes, it looks like it, doesn’t it? Until the
last few dayß he has been riding with Sybil,
driving, walking, botanizing, sketching
with Sybil all day long! It looks like
searching everywhere—for a wife—does it
not?’
“I have been rather a heedless chaperon,
I fear,” said Diana, remorsefully. “I
thought of Sybil as such a ohild —and a
child belonging to another generation.
Still, I don’t believe any harm has been
done, Tom.”
“And is he going on with this kind of
search?’
“aly dear boy, don’t be sarcastic; it does
not suit you. A man does not roam about
the world searching with his own eyes and
hands. The proper people for such a search
are now engaged in it."
“Detectives, you mean If I had a wife,
and cared for her," said Torn, emphatically,
“I would —first, not lose her: and, secondly,
would find her for myself.”
Diana laughed—a little against her will.
“It is no use saying what you would do.
You are never likely to be lu similar cir
cumstances.”
“May I ask what circumstances?"
“No, dear boy; that is exactly what I
cannot quite well tell you. 1 want to ask
you not even to mention wbat I have said
to any one, and to ask me nothing more.”
“What! Not to Sybil?”
“Certainly not to Sybil. I shall take an
early opp irtnuity of telllug Sybil myself
that Mr. Eastwood is married. My dear
Tom, you don’t suppose that she will
care!"
Tom shrugged his shoulders, and men
tally accused his aunt of some insmoerity in
this remark. Possibly his silence seemed
significant to ber, for she spoke again in
very earnest tones.
“Indeed, Tom, 1 do not think that she
will care. Her vanity may be hurt at find
ing that she has been excluded from a
secret; but I do not think at nil that her
heart is touched. She is a child still, and
does not know her own mind. ”
Tom uttered k quaint little groan.
“I hope you may be right. Aunt Diana,”
he replied. “I suppose Sybil seems more of
a child to you than she does to me. I can’t
see anything childish about her now. But
I promise to say nothing to herabout East
wood. lam going up to town to-morrow
for a day or two; perhaps you will got the
communication over while I am away P’
“I hope so. Thank you, dear boy."
She had not beard before of this proposed
visit to London, and the truth struck her at
once—that Tom was delicate enough to feel
that he had better be out of the way when
•he told Sybil about George Eastwood’s
wife. If she cared—if she was unable to
mask Ler feelings by indifference of man
ner—it would indeed be better for him to bo
away.
Sybil made no comment on his going.
She seemed thoughtful and silent, dis
posed to dream r ither than to talk. Diana
looked at her with growing uneasiness,
recognizing the fact that she had to deal
now with no child in the nursery, but with
a woman growu. All Sybil’s looks and ac
tions marked a change, she was staider,
graver, more gently dignified than of yore.
Diana shivered a little as she glanced at
her, and oonoeived the possibility of ber
having already bestowed her heart upon
George Eastwood.
The two ladies were sitting quietly in
Diana’s favorite little morning room on the
day after Tom’s departura Sybil was em
broidering; Diana held a book in her hand.
For some time neither bad spoken. At last
a restless sigh from Sybil attracted Lady
Hexham’s attention; and she looked up to
see the girl with hands laid idly on the
pretty silks in her lap, and eyes turned
expectantly and anxiously toward the
avenue whioh led to the park gates, and
which was just visible from the wiudow
beside which she sat.
“Are you looking for anyone? Is baby
there 1” asked Lady Hexham.
“Oh, no,” Sybil answered, coloring. “It
was nothing. I was only thinking.”
“We miss Tom a good deal,” said Diana,
closing her book.
“Yes —and—we have not had .so many
visitors as usual lately, have we?”
“We do not have very many visitors, os
a rule.”
“Mr. Eastwood has been so often —until
lately" murmured Sybil. “I do not know
wby he stays away now. Perhaps”—with a
little impatient sign—“we have offended
him."
“Oh, no, I do not think so,” said Lady
Hexham, calmly. “He was here for a long
time the day before yesterday.”
“And I never saw him!”
"You were out with Tom, dear. Besides,
he wanted to speak to me.”
Sybil’s face flushed hotly, and then turned
rather palo. She took up her needlework,
apd began to handle it with trembling, un
certain Angers. Diana watched these signs
of maideuly consciousness with dismay.
She knew that she must say now what she
had to say; there would be danger in con
tinued silence.
“Sybil,” she said, “did you notico any
thing strange in George Eastwood’s manner
when he met you at the orphanage gate the
other day!"
“When I was there with Tom* Yes,
Aunt Diana, I did think there was some
thing a little strauge about him that day.”
“Nothing occurred to you as a reason for
it?”
“No. Tom and I thought afterward that
he perhaps wanted to speak to Alioe Drew
about some little orphan that ho knew of,
and we were rather in the way.”
“Well, to a certain extent that was true,”
said Lady Hexham, with a slight smile.
“He did want to speak about a child—and
you were a little in his way, you young peo
ple—but the child was his own."
“His own! 1 did not know he had ever
been married!’’ exclaimed Hybil, with flush
ing cheens.
“Oh, yes, he is married,” said Lady Hex
ham, calmly.
She purposely varied the the tense.
“Is married?" Sybil repeated.
“Is married; yes, dear. I think it wrong
of George to have kept silence so long oil
that point, and it was on that account—
partly—that I had such a lengthy conversa
tion with him the day before yestesday.
There w ere some painful circumstances con
nected with the marriage, and for reasons
which I don’t wish to go into just now, he
has been living apart from his wife for
some time. He does not even know at
present where sbeiß; but he is having a
rigorous search made for her. And in the
meantime he has found his little daughter
in my orphanage, under the name of Meeuie
Armstrong.”
Lady Hexham had made her speech as
long as it could be made, so as to give Sybil
a chance of recovering herself if necessary.
She did not look up wheu she had finished,
and a moment of silence intervened before
Sybil spoke again.
“lleenie Armstrong!” she repeated, in
wnat Lady Hexham thought to be a slightly
strained and unnatural tone, “Is she Mr.
Eastwood’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he leave her with Alice
Drew?"
“His wife did that. He did not know
what had become of either his wife or
child.”
Sybil drooped her embroidery and stood
up.
“Then did he not care for them?" she
asked, a touch of indignation in her fresh
young voice.
“Jly dear, I hardly know. He did care
for his wife once—when he married her, I
believe. He has scarcely ever had the
chance of caring for his child.”
"Then”—almost in a whisper—“she
was a wicked woman, I suppose? I have
read of them—she liked sogio one else—’’
“No, Sybil, no. We have no reason to
conclude that she was anything but pure
and good. She may have been foolish, but
—she loved him.”
Diana ventured to look up now. Sybil’*
face was very pale; but it' bore a look of
horror and indignation rather than of pain.
Her hands hung tightly clasped before her;
she moved them up and down a little as she
spoke, almost as if she could have wrung
them but for some strong effort of self
control.
“And all this time,” she broke out, “he
has been loitering here, singing and riding
and sketching, as if he hail not a single care
upon his mind? Why did he come here?
Why was he not away, looking for his wife
and child? Are all men so heartless? Oris
he only just like other men?”
N “Like many other men, I am afraid.”
“Then I hate them all 1 I hate them,”
said Sybil with sudden vehemence. “I shall
think moanly of them all from this day for
ward. He seemed so good, so nice. Aunt
Diana; and all the time he had this terrible
secret in his mind. If you knew—if you
knew” her voice quivering—“you might
have told me sooner!”
“I knew the truth only the day before
yesterday, Sybil I suspected it before, but
was not certain. However,” said Diana
with emphasis, “there is no harm done at
present. It is nothing to you Sybil, noth
ing to me, how George Eastwood conducts
his domestic affairs. Ido not expeot to see
him here again just yet.”
Sybil ws silent for a short time, and
Lady Hexham felt that the storm .which
she bad anticipated was averted. Her oalm,
cold tones had caused the girl to control
herself. When she spoke it was in ave y
quiet and equable way.
“Aunt Diana—l would rather not see
him if be cornea—not yet, at any rate. I
don’t feel—exactly— In charity with him.”
"Very well, my dear ohild, do Just as you
like,” said Lady Hexman, serenely.
She was not sur prised to see Sybil leave
the room a few minutes later, with step and
aspect carefully subdued to quietness; and
she would not have been surprised If she
had seen the girl a few minutes later —sob-
bing ber heart oat on her bed, with face
downwards and hands clutching
the bed clothes as if to hide
her convulsed features and shaken
frame. But this she did not see; she
imagined it only when Sybil came down
stairs again, with pale face aud slightly
reddened eyelids, and complained of a slight
headache, which would keep her indoors for
the rest of the day. Lady Hexham com
miserated the headache and offered her eau
de cologne and sal volatile, but she did not
breathe a word respecting the fall of Sybil's
ideal —which was, indeed, the cause aud
effect of this same headache. She was a
proud woman, and she treated Sybil Lori
mer as she herself would have liked to be
treated, without any sympathy for a hidden
woe. It was much better for Sybil to get
over her trouble—if she had any—ln
silence; to offer her sympathy was to humil
iate and not to comfort her.
Certainly, during the next few days,
Sybil showed no especial sign of trouble.
She was pale and rather spiritless, but she
went about her affairs in her customary
way, and did not neglect any of her usual
occupations. She was not a very amusing
companion, however, aud Diana was not
sorry when Tom returned after a week’s
absence in London.
He came to her boudoir soon after his re
turn with a rather downoast countenance.
“Aunt Diana, I want to snoak to you.”
“Yes, Tom. What ia it!"
“I’m afraid I’ve done what you did not
want. I’ve got to know all the details of
George Eastwood’s marriage—aud that
murder—and everything.”
“1 did not intend you to hear of them so
soon, but I am not sorry. How was it,
Tom?”
“Well, you see,” said Tom, “I was at the
club, talking to a fellow, and we happened
to mention Wychford. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that’s
the place Eastwood lives at, isn’t it) Queer
story that of his.’ And then he told me a
long rigmarole about him and a girl—Jess
Armstrong, who was afterwards con
demned for murder —and ho says—only it
can’t be true, I suppose—that this “girl
was his wife.”
“Quite true, Tom. I suppose you must
hear the whole story,” said Lady Hexham,
with a sigh.
She looked for an outburst of indignation,
but sho did not get one, when she had told
the story. Tom looked troubled and un
certain.
"It’s an awful tangle,” he said at last.
“It is, indeed.”
“Well, I’m rather sorry for Eastwood,”
Tom observed, walking up and down the
room. “He’s made an awful muddle of his
life 'that’s certain; and his wife ”
“His wife. Nobody knows whether she
is alive or dead.”
"No, but I fancy we soon shall know.
Aunt Diana, one of the keepers told me that
last night a woman was seen ‘prowling’
round the orphanage, as he says—trying to
look in at the windows. Couid this be tbo
chilli’s mother! If so, she may come
again.”
“We had better keep watch, Tom.
“We will keep watch—to-night" said
Tom.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
SUGGESTIONS FOR WOMEN.
Too Much Worry Makes Them Think
Life Not Worth Living.
Brooklyn, N. Y., June 7. —My readers
will understand my reason for quoting so
often from private letters. Such corre
spondence touches the keynote of a vast
number of experiences, and the woman who
reads that another woman is passing
through the same perplexities and trials
that make her life, if not unendurable, at
least very hard, finds comfort in spite of
herself. This satisfaction is not necessarily
the outgrowth of selfishness. We are
all apt to feel that our cross Is heavier, and
made from a different design to our neigh
bors, aud when we discover that the evil
which we have been deploriug, the sin
which we are all the time repenting of, but
is ever present with us, is influencing
another life, we aro a little comforted. As
I look over the pages which have made my
heart ache, in the endeavor to select the
paragraphs which will be most useful, I find
myself wondering how many of my friends
will recognize their own experiences.
“I am very unhappy,” says my corre
spondent, “because I have at last reached
the conclusion that 1 do not love my chil
dren. I have six—five boys and one girl—
the oldest 14, the youngest 15 months. My
husband is a merchant whose rule of life it
is to save one-third of his profits every
year. Besides this bo carries a large
amount of insurance, so that m oaso of his
death his family will be well provided for.
1 have one servant and a large house to
take care of. I give you this circumstantial
account In order that you may fully under
stand the situation. My husband is a kind
man, as well as a prudent one. W hen I
married at eighteen, there was not a
healthier nor a happier girl to be found in
South Carolina. I had never been ill a
single day. I was a true lover of
children, and babies I adored. After the
birth of my fourth child, I found that this
love bad diminished. My happiest moments
were when the children were out of my
sight. The baby came to be simply an
other care. I have fought against this with
all the force and courage that I could sum
mon to my aid, but I have grown worse
instead of better, and the natural duties
which were once so delightful
are now not only wearisome
but obnoxious. Do not infer that
l am cross, cruel or neglectful; I force my
self to all my responsibilities, but Igo to
them without heart and with only odb wish,
that it might be the last time. This confes
sion I have never made before, and now,
that it is written, I feel as I should think a
murderer might who bad come to his senses
after the awful deed had been perpetrated.
But what can 1 dof’
The writer evidently supposes that she is
the only mother in the world who was over
wicked enough t > feel in this wav, but she
is very much mistaken, and I hope she will
bo able to draw some consolation from this
fact. Some of the loveliest wives and
mothers of my acquaintance have suffered
in the same way. The very first thing to
do in a case of this kind is to stop
striving. In this instance the con
science does not need stimulating.
It is morbidly sensitive already. The
cause is physical, and does not proceed
from a vicious mental twist for which the
poor woman u herself responsible. Six
obildren in fourteen years tells its own
story, to begin with. My friend is worn
out and her nervous system shattered, if
not beyond help, at least very soriously.
Bhe is simply ill, and needs rest and careful
treatment. Her husband should send her
away to some good sanitarium, or insist
upon a visit abroad. What she needs is to
get at once out of the domestic rut.
She should leave her children at home under
good care and remain a way until she has
recovered. I have seeu this experiment
tried with the greatest saocnss scores of
times. Itis pleasant to-thluk that my cor*
respondent has faith in her husband’s finan- ,
cial management To me it is all wrong.
Ev-ry man should carry a
sufficient amount of tinuranoo on his
life, but to sacrifice the present health and
well being of his family to a large insur
ance, and to lguore the present need by put
ting away a fixed amount every year for a
prosi ective rainy day is the hight of folly
and wicked note. The mother of this brood
should have had a good capable nuree for
her children, and some leisure to read
and visit and think her own thoughts. An
awful responsibility rests upon the father
of this family, aud to persist in saving the
original amount in such a crisis it simply
criminal. The rest and health and oomfort
that may come from a wise expenditure of
money now cannot be estimated. A mother
may be saved for her children, a faithful
wife to her loviug husband. But if Judi
cious treatment is not resorted to at onoe,
the esse may develop into an incurable
chronic or acute disease. Medicine ie not
needed. Rest and change are the great
panaceas.
Many women of great capabilities are
very cruel in their treatment of themselves.
They seem to think that they are called
upon to bear and perform the impossible.
Kind-hearted and naturally considerate
men, on this aooount, often grow very care
less of their wives. They see them for
years performing the same tasks, amd they
come to regard them in the light of ma
chines. But in suoh oases the fault is more
with the woman thau the man. A kind
husband will not wish his wife to overwork,
but if she insists that she ia not doing too
much, as so many ambitious women ao, be
is not to blame for not coming to the resone
when the strain and the monotony begin to
tell on her. These things ought to be frankly
talked out between husbands and wives,
aud arrange menu entered Into for mutual
help. Eleanor Kirk.
SMALL LIBRARY BUILDING.
By R. W. Shopped, Architect.
(Copyright by the Author.)
The managomeut of a library, Includ
ing the selection of books, is of muoh
greater importance than the building. The
librarian should be a man of liberal educa
tion, enthusiastic in his work. He should
have such genuine sympathy for good
literature as to create a taste for it among
his patrons. The desultory reader who
inquires for “something interesting” (there
are many suoh) should be provided with a
fascinating book o * history, biography,
travel, or of one of the trades on useful
arts, so nioely suited tb bit taste as to
inspire him with a desire for careful and
methodical reading.
Light and trashy fiction should bo ex
cluded. The habitual novel reader would
be disappointed not to find the opium-drug
of literature m the library, but a librarian
of tact may induce him to try solid reading
and thus reclaim him.
This building was designed for a retired
merchant, who is erecting it for presentation
to his native town. Following will be found
a somewhat detailed description;
PROSPECTIVE.
General Dimensions—Width, 17 feet 4
inches; depth, including porch, 41 feet 4
inches. Hight of story, 17 feet.
Exterior Materials—Foundation, all walls
and gables, brick; pressed brick and stone
trimmings; roof, tin.
Interior Finish—Yellow pine flooring
with underflooring and felt between. White
pine trim, gallery and steps. Outside doors,
oak. All wood-work finished with hard oil.
Hand finish tinted plaster walls and ceil
ings. Stained glass in all windows and
doors.
Colors—All brick and atone work cleaned
down at completion; pressed brick and
stonework left uatural color; the body
brickwork noatly repainted and evenly
stained red. Outside doors and frame fin
ished with hard oil, natural color. Trim,
casings, cornices, bands, sashes, and rain
conductors, dark green. Tin roof painted
dark red.
t , Gali£ry Aqove
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, i £/THRA‘F*Y?T <q Ci
1 g fe I
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$ TlisrarlaW i '■s
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FbRCH.
c_ ir
FLOOR PLAN.
Accommodations—One large room with
a gallery 8 feet above floor; staircase lead
ing to gallery. All of the spaoe on the
main floor (except that marked public) and
iu galleries is intended for bookcases. It is
intended to heat the building by a stove set
about the middle of the main floor, the
pipe to descend into a sunken brick flue
leading to the ohimney, thus avoiding an
unsightly stove pipe.
Cost—sl,6oo, not including heating apv
ratus. The estimate is based on New York
prices for materials and labor, Iu many
rAGES 9 TO 12.
sections of the country the cost should b* .
lees.
Feasible Modifications—Hight of story,
general dimensions, materials and cellars
may be changed. Cellar may be placed
under a part or whole of the building.
Main floor may be ooncrete, with remov
able teotional top floor.
RKDFBRN’H LATEST.
A Golf Costume—A Bailor Hat — Thai
Transatlantic Ulster.
New York, June A—From its prevalence
all over the land, and from the unbounded
enthusiasm of its devotees, it baa seenihd
as though teanis were destined to an indefi
nite lease of lite, but uow in this year of
grace. 1800. arises a powerful rival whioh
has already gained many adherents among
the seekers of novelty. Not anew game,
either, but onijr an atlaptmg to feminine
uso of the old Sootch game of golf, as
played throughout the length and breadth
of Scotland wherver suitable ground can
be found. As it necessitates a goodly
amount of air and exercise, it is to be
recommended to all the girls who incline to
outdoor sports.
A DOLE COSTUME.
It is of Scotch homespun, woven by the
cottagers in the Highlands, who may be
seen in pleasant weather sitting at their
doors with their looms; the fabric they pro
duce is warranted not to fade, and to be
weatherproof, and therefore extremely
desirable for suoh an outdoor costume. In
the illustration it is a pla and formed of clfua
ed stripes of greu and brown upon a fawn
colored ground. Three rows of tailor
stitching border tho skirt and appear upon
the patch pocket, and the pleats of the
belted Norfolk jacket, which is worn with
striped linen collar and cuffs. A worsted
Tam O’Sbanter Is the correct hoadcoveriog^
L
THE SAILOR HAT,
whioh is always a favorite for summer
wear, is trimmed in a variety of ways, but,
you will say, “it has only a ribbon band.
Just so; but the bands are ornamonted (as
shown in the sketch above) with the yacht’s
name, club or vaoht pennant, national flag,
or anchor aud ropes painted in gold and
colors.
THE “ULSTER."
After the bat, the wrap, which is called
the “trans-Atlantic ulster." It is of rough
English tweed in a plaid of dark blue and
tan, is doubtebreasted, with wide, rolled
collar and lapels, and has an odd cape at
tachment, short on the left arm, but com
ing down to the cufT on the other side,
with sufticeut fullness to allow the corner’s
being draped on the opposite shoulder to
protect the chest, or in milder w eather, to
be caught on the left hip. The jaunty
traveling cap, with rolled brim, is mads of
material like the cloak.
