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rART TWO.
IE GREAT HILL STREET MYSTERY.
By SERH-Tn a ispp_
Author of “Jacobi’s Wife,” “Rot’s Rephntanc*,” "Devxril's Diamond ” “Usdkr
False Pretences,’’ Etc.
IALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
I CHAPTER XLV.
fl SYBIL’S FAREWELL.
■ Kustwood spent a sleepless night at Hex
|ta ii Court, and was at the Orphanage next
Bmortiing as soon as he thought there was
■ any chance of gaining admittance. Lady
(Htsiiarn came out to him, with pale cheeks
Bar.l reddened eyelids; he thought that there
■ ins a difference in her manner to him —a
■ difference which he was too dejected to re
■ Sho seemed colder, more distant than
I usual: and yet she spoke gently. It struck
Ibira that this lonely night with Jess had
■ prejudiced her against him and that she
l vas trying to hide her increasing aversion
Ito his presence. Belonged to ask if Jess
■ bad spoken of him—what she had said to
■ biir.g the gravo look into Diana’s eyes and
■ thecompression to her lips; but he dared
■ not inquire. He felt almost as if he were a
■criminal, with Diana for his judge; and yet
■be told himself repeatedly that he had not
I been to blame. If she believed his poor
I wife’s vagaries to be bis fault, she
■ ebowed the injustice of her sex, and that
■ was all.
I "You can do no good here,” she said to
Ibim, gravely and coldly; “your wife is
■ leriously ill, and you cannot visit her at
■ present 1 will let you know when she is
I able to see you.”
I "I must stay near her,” George an
■ looking away from his cousin’s sori
■ cus face.
I Lady Hexham hesitated for a moment,
■ then took her resolution.
I "Yes, Wychford is too far. You must
■ stay at the Court, and then you will be al-
Iwavs at hand.”
1 "Hu: I shall be troubling you—you do not
■ want uie—•”
■ "We are cousins, George; if kinsfolk can
■f nelp each other, who can!” she said,
•P,th a kindling light in her grave eyes.
■“1 am willing to do ail that is in my power
I for her welfare and for yours. Stay at the
■ Court, and when she is well enough to be
liuovedshe shall stay there, too, uutil you
■decide on your future mode of action.”
I “You think she will get well then?” said
llGeorge, quickly.
“I cannot say. Wa must hope for the
best.”
He did not find her words very reassur
ing, but she returned to the house as she
bade him, and abandoned himself to very
melancholy reflections. He could not settle
to any occupations not even to smoking a
cigar or reading a newspaper; he wandered
up and down the library,or in and out of the
conservatory, as if his anxiety would not
let him rest. He breakfasted with Tom,
arid wondered vaguely what had become of
Sybil; but did notask any question about
Lor. His whole mind was engrossed with
with the thought of Jess.
T"iu, glancing at him from time to time
witli hostile intent, was gradually puzzled
by his evident distress and anxiety. The
situation was so utterly unlmaglnabWto
him—as it would be to any man of frank
and loyal nature—that he felt it impossible
to judge the actions of those persons who
had brought It about. At the same time he
was disposed, like all other young persons,
to condemn conduct which he could not
understand, and to despise motives of which
he knew nothing. He had lately developed
a line contempt for George Eastwood’s
character—of which, of course, he really'
was quite ignorant; and it did not fit in
with his ideas of the man to find him look
ing melancholy and careworn. He began
the meal by behaving somewhat brus
quely; but before it was over he had insen
sibly Boftened his tone. George, absorbed
in painful thought, did not observe the
change, just as he had not noticed anything
amiss at an earlier stage.
After breakfast they' separated. George
went back to the library, where he felt
himself most at home, and Tom was stand
ing in the hail whistling to his dog, when
a side-door opened to admit Lady Hex-
Lam. •
Tom came forward at once to meet her.
He had not seen her since the previous
night.
"How is she?” he asked, thinking at once
of the woman whom he had rescued.
“No worse.”
"You’ve been up all night, I suppose,
Aunt Diana. You look awfully fagged.”
"I am a little tired, but I shall rest by
and by. Tom, I want you to do something
fur me.”
"Anything, Aunt Diana.”
"I want you to take Sybil away. Take
:er to her grandmother’s. I will write a
ll) te to Airs. Lorimer.”
Tom opened his eyes.
"This is sudden, isn’t it?”
"Rather sudden, but unavoidable. I mean
remain at the Orphanage uutil Mrs.
Eastwood can bo removed; and my cousin
J| -orgu is to stay here. I cannot leave Sybil
alone; she had better go to her grand
mother’s for a few days.”
“It sounds odd to hear of ‘Mrs. East-
does it not?” said Tom, a very faint
curving his lips. “You have no doubt,
men ?—you know all about it—”
"Yes, yes, I know everything,” said
Diana, with somo impatience. “Ask me no
I'-iostions, dear Tom. There has been great
►now, great folly, and perhaps great
wrong-doings; but less wrong-doings than
*0 have thought. At any rate, this poor
*>fe of George’s has come back at last,
*nd she is to be under my care for the fu
lure.”
Tom’s face expressed a rather shocked
Wiazemont.
‘‘This is the woman who —who was in
>riso D , is it not?" he said, in a lowered
’oic.’.
Liana smiled strangely.
Roor soul I yes,” she answered. Then
turned away with a forbidding gesture,
don’t judge by appearances, Tom. Per
taps you may know more by and by—per
ia l not. Don’t speak of the matter to
’>Ttl ; that is all.”
hen will she be ready?”
T am going to her now; I suppose she is
“*! iu her own room. There is a train at
“All right; I’Jl order the carriage.”
. And Tom went down to the stables, while
Dady Hexham mounted the stairs to Sybil’s
™>tn.
The girl was breakfasting upstairs. She
jad returned at a very late hour from the
a, 'ce, nnd bod previously been advised by
Lady Hexham not to lise until she was
ahed. Diana expected to find her utterly
gnorant of the.incidents of the night; but
lS soon as she entered the room and glanced
*- Sybil’s face, she saw that knowledge of
wnie kind was written there. The girl was
Pale ,; she sat biting her lip anil turning
eyes toward the door, and when she
Lady Hexham enter she sprang up and
[an toward her with flushing cheeks and
“ended hands.
e "Oh, auutia. what does it mean! Ellis is
so mysterious this morning ! Sbe won't tell
me anything definite, and I know that
something has happened.”
“Ellis has nothing to tell,” said Lady
Hexham.
“Oh, yes, auntie. For she says that a
woman tried to drown herself in the Mere
last night, and that Tom saved her, and
that you have been nursing her back to
life—”
“She seems to have told you a great
deal!” said Diana, with a touch of displeas
ure. Sbe herself was always reserved with
servants, and did not care to think that
George’s affairs were discussed between
Sybil and her maid.
"But I asked her so many questions,
Aunt Diana; sho really could not help her
self. You must not be vexed with poor old
Ellis. And do tell me who—who —”
She stopped short, with her eyes fixed
anxiously on Diana’s face.
“Did Ellis know or think sho knew—who
it was?” Diana asked, slowly.
"Not exactly, auntie. She said it was—
sbe seemed to think it was—somebody that
Mr. Eastwood knew— ’’
A flush dyed her fair cheeks, and she
looked embarrassed. Lady Hexham
sighed.
[‘lt is sure to be known, 1 suppose,” she
said, wearily. “Sooner or later the whole
neighborhood will ring with it. There is
no use in my hiding it from you, child. The
woman whom George Eastwood saved—
not Tom—was George Eastwood’s wife.”
Sybil was silent for a moment or two,
Then she spoke steadily, although with a
visible effort.
“Tell me about her, Aunt Diana. I felt
that it was so when Ellis spoke. 1 want to
know all that you can tell me—Mr. East
wood has been such a friend of ours,” said
the girl, with maidenly shrinking from the
implication of any especial Interest in him,
which Diana saw and respected.
"Of course, dear,” she said, cordially.
‘‘We are all interested in my poor oousln,
who has had a good deal to bear, although
he has not been blameless,” her sense of jus
tice prompted her to add. And then she
told as much of Jess’ story as she deemed it
necessary for Sybil to hear, averting her
eyes meanwhile from the scared and
shocked expression of the girl’s face.
“But, Aunt Diana," Sybil said, at last;
“I can’t understand it. I thought that Mr.
Eastwood was different. Oh, I know I
can’t express myself properly, but I
thought that he would, at least, be true and
loyal and loving.”
“It is a combination of qualities that one
■ seldom meets with in men,” said Diana, a
little bitterly.
The girl was kneeling beside her, with
her arms on Lady Hexham’s knees; she
looked up wistfully.
"Mr. Eastwood seemed so good and nice.
Are all men like him? Do they tire of the
women who love them bo very quickly?”
“I do not think that he tired of Jess, ex
actly,” said Lady Hexham. “There is more
in the story than I can tell you, ray darling;
you must be content with half-truths for
the present. Oh, yes, fome men are faith
ful and true. I know a few such, and so do
you."
“Do 1?"
"Your cousin Tom, dear. I believe that
he is of a very constant and loyal nature.
You will value him more as you grow
older.”
Sybil was silent, and Diana thought it
better not to enlarge upon this theme. She
proceed to sketch out her plans for the noxt
few days, and reminded the girl that there
was little time for her packing, and that
she must set to work at once.
“Yes, Aunt Diana,” said Sybil, obe
diently—so obediently that Lady Hexham
was rather startled by this prompt submis
sion. She looked with some anxiety at the
girl’s face —it was very pale, and had dark
shadows about the eyes.
"You must have a nice long rest at your
grandmother’s, dariing,” said Diana, ten
derly. “You have been up late and you
are tired.”
“I thiuk 1 am tired of living,” said Sybil,
abruptly, as she turned away. And Lady
Hexham contented herself with kissing the
girl’s forehead and attempting no consola
tion in words. She knew by experience
bow bitter is the first awakening from the
sweet illusions of youth.
There was, as she had said, little time left
for preparations, and Sybil had too much
to do for the next hour to be ablo to In
dulge in the luxury of regret. Lady Hex
ham had committed Jess to Alice’s care,
and dot intend to return to the Orphanage
until Sybil and Tom were gone. She sin
cerely noped that George would keep out of
the way; she was not sure of Sybil’s self
control, aud thought it better that the two
should not meet.
But well as she believed that she know
Svbil, she did not know her t horoughly
yet. The girl had depth of feeling which
Diana had not fathomed.
The carriage was at the door, and the
boxes wore being placed in it, when Sybil
came down the grand staircase into the
central hall of the fine old place, with
rather a queenly air. Lady Hexham was
talking to Tom iu the embrasure of a bow
window, and several servants were standing
in the hall. To one of these Sybil quietly
addressed herself.
“Is Mr. Eastwood in the library?” she
askod.
“X believe so, ma’am. He was there a
little while ago."
Lady Hexham and Tom did mot hear.
They were so busy that they did not even
see her move toward the library door. But
when sbe had entered the room and half
closed the door behind her, they came into
the hall, ad after a moment’s further con
versation looked round for Sybil.
“We shall be late for the train,” said
Tom. , , .
“1 thought she was ready; where can she
be*” exclaimed Lady Hexham.
Whereupon, the old butler, wifcn an
apologetic bow, explained the situation.
“Miss Lorimer is iu the library with Mr.
Eastwood, my lady," he said.
Lady Hexham turned hot ana cold by
turns. What was Sybil doing? She
glanced at Tom, and found, however, that
be looked perfectly calm and not in the
least disconcerted. He even smiled into
her face as she shot an inquiry toward him
from her anxious eyes.
“It’s all right," be said in an undertone.
“I am sure we may trust Sybil.’
Diana assented with a little sigh of relief,
but she was delighted to see that Sybil was
at that moment issuing from tbo library
door, and that, although her face was
flushed, it wns not discomposed. Her heart
sank a little, however, when sbe met
George Eastwood’s eyes a moment later;
tor. even if Sybil were calm, he seemed to
be suffering from extreme agitation. But
what had passed between the two, Diana
did not learn for some time afterward.
Sybil had walked straight into the liorary
SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, JUNE 22, 1890.
without pause or hesitation—rather as if
she were carrying out a long-formed reso
tion. She found Eastwood in an arm chair
by the window. His elbows were resting
ou his knees, his cbin on his hand*. Hi
eyes were fixed on the glimpse afforded by
an avenue cf trees of the Orphanage
where bis wife lay on her sick bed. His
brow was sombre, his mouth tense; he
looked as if ten years had passed over his
head sinoe Sybil saw him last. She paused
for a moment now, and he on seeing her
sprang to his feet and stood regarding her
in a sort of stupefaction and surprise.
“I come to say good-by to you, Mr.
Eastwood,” said she in her clear young
voioe, the tones of which were accen
tuated by a touch of scorn—“l am goiDg to
London."
Eastwood muttered something about a
pleasant journey, but he could neither
think nor speak plainly, and Sybil took
little notice of his words.
“Tom is going to take me to grandmam
ma’s,” she went on, ‘ ‘but I did not wish to
to without telling you that I hope Mrs.
lostwood will soon bo better, and that I am
sorry she is so ill."
The two looked straight into each other’s
facea Then Eastwood bit bis lip and
shrank back.
“You mean—you think I ought to have
told you?" he said, hoarsely.
“You might have told me—certainly—
that your wife was living,” said the girl in
the same cool, high voioe, “I should have
bees interested to hear of her—but of
course I had no right to know any of your
secrets.”
“I wish to God it had never been a
secret!" he broke out, passionately. “I
was a coward—now you know it—tnat is
all.”
“No, that Is not all,” said Sybil, quickly.
And then, in spite of her, her lips began to
quiver and her eyes to fill with tears. “I
did thiuk more highly of you, I confess,"
she hurried on. “I did think that you
would have had a little confidence in Aunt
Diana and myself. * * * * And I
can’t bear to think that you were cruel and
unkind to any onel”
“Do you mean that you think I was crixsl
and unkind to her —to my wife?” said
George, in a changed tone.
“I thought so,” she answered, simply.
"And I was sorry. Won’t you try to love
her? if sbe loves you—and Aunt Diana
says sho does—and make her happy again.
Do try! Don’t let me think you—un
worthy !”
“Unworthy!” he stammered. "Of what?
Of your friendship?”
"Ob, mine will be of little use to you,"
she said, looking at him with such innocent
03'esthat his momentary suspicion that she
loved him was instantly dispelled. “1 meant
unworthy of your wife’s love.’’
Then she turned and left him, meeting
Lady Hexham and her cousin almost at the
door. And George Eastwood, startled by
her words, went back to his arm chair and
tried to puzzle out her meaning. What sho
had said, fie thought, must have been
prompted by the way in which Diana had
told bis story. Did Diana also thiuk, then,
that he was unworthy of bis wile’s love?
Even when he had cared most for Jess, he
had always looked down on her a little.
How strangely women conceived of things.
Unworthy of Jess’ love? The words set
him thinking deeply, but he could oorne
to do conclusion respecting himself or her.
He felt fome sort of resentment against
Diana for her harsh opinion of him. He
thought little about Sybil. She had passed
out of his life forever.
CHAPTER XLVI.
DIANA’S DISCOVERY.
“Where am I!” said Jess.
Sbe lay iu an upper room of the quaint
little house that Lady Hexham called her
orphanage. The orphans bail all been ban
ished to the seaside, and little Meenia was
sharing the small Lord Hexham’s nursery;
so that quiet reigned supreme in the pleas
ant, ivy-mantleil building. Alice was down
stairs, engaged in household duties, and
Lady Hexham sat beside Joss’ bed.
"You are with friends, dear,”said Diana.
"Friends!” The girl raised her head
from the pillow and looked into her face,
then sank back with a heavy sigh. “I
don’t know you,” she said. “I have no
friends."
“I am George's cousin,” said Lady Hex
ham, gently. "His cousin Diana. You
have seen me before, I think.”
“Yes—in the picture gallery. Years
ago. I remember you."
“And you will l ve me?” said Diana.
Sho did not know until this moment
how her heart was thirsting for this
woman’s love.
Jess’ inournfnl eyes filled with tears.
“Love you?” sbe stammered. “Nobody
cares for my love now.”
“Yes, George cares.”
“George!” The tone was unutterably
sad, but a light crept into the moist eyes
and a slight color into the white cheeks, as
Jess Bpoke. “Ha is not here.”
“No, but he is close by. Would you like
to see him F’
“Not yet.” She turned on her pillow
and hid her face. “Not yet. I can’t bear
it yet.”
It was all that she would say. She was
very weak, and had uot been thoroughly
conscious before But when Alice presented
herself, tho cry of delight with which Jess
greeted her showed that emotion was not
so dead within her as she would have had it
seem. She flung her wasted arms round
Alice’s neck and cried upon her shoulder
for very joy. Diana stole away in the
midst of tnis manifestation of feeling. She
was woman enougu t > feel unreasonably
hurt that Jess did not greet her with more
warmth. Yet how was Joss to know that
she, Diana, Lady Hexham, was the one
person in the world who appraised her at
hor true worth, and believed in her with all
her heart and soul? Such a view would
have seemed impossible to Jess.
For several days she entered into no sus
tained conversation with any of her friends.
Lady Hexham sat beside ber now less con
stantly, thinking it bettor to leave her
sometimes to the care of Alice Drew, with
whom Jess seemod more at home than with
herself; but she visited her regularly twice
a day, and brought her choicest flowers
and ripest fruit to please tho invalid. Jess
was still so weak that it was not thought
advisable to admit George to her room;
but Meenie was brought for five minutes
every day, and the child’s visits always
seemed to do the mother good.
But one day, when Ladv Hexham came
in, and noted the wistful look in Jess’ eyes
as the child was led away, she said:
“Would you not like to have her with
you always?”
“Oh, yes—yes!” Jess breathed, the color
suddenly flushing her pale cheeks.
“Tho doctor says that you may be
moved now. You might come to the house
where Meenie lives.”
A look of fear came into Jess’ eyes.
“Where?” she asked.
“For the present she is living in my
house," said Lady Hexham. “It is close
by, and you could now easily be carried
there."
The look of shrinking was so marked ou
poor Jess’ face that Lady Hexham felt that
she must continue, in order to moderate, if
possible, her distaste for the proposition.
"It would be a great pleasure to me if
you would come. You could then have
Meenie with you as long as you pleased.
You could have a room opening out of
hers, so that she would be always near you.
And we could take care of you there and
nurse you, until you were well and strong
aeain”
It flashed across her mind that it was odd
to find herself pleading with a flower girl
from Whitechapel, ex-convict, the woman
who was said to tiave ruined George East
wood’s life, to stay with her at Hexham
Court.
And perhaps this thought occurred to
Jess also, for she interposed rather hur
riedly:
“Oh, my lady, don’t ask me. I’d rather
not. You’d never want me to come to your
grand house if you knew all tha: I'd done
and whero I've been. It’s because you
don’t know that you ask me— *
And the sentence ended in a sob.
“But I do know,” said Diana, steadily.
“I know the whole history of your life, I
believe, Joss, as far as any one can know it.
I have heard of you from Alice Drew, from
your husband, from —yourself."
“From myself?”
“Yes, dear, when you were so ill. You
did not know what you were saying. You
remember,” Diana added, with considerable
significance in her tone, "that people often
do not know what they say or do when they
are ill—when they are delirious—”
Sbe stopped short, for Jess eyes were
fixed upon her with au expression of
alarm.
“Did I talk about myself? Did I tell you
things!”
“Yea”
“Without knowing?” Jess’ tone was some
what bewildered. "How could I tell you—
when I don’t remember what I said or any*
thing?”
“Don’t you know,” said Diana, "that
when we are in very high fever, we lose all
knowledge of what we say or do, and that
we do not remember it afterward.”
A curious light seemed to break on Jess’
face.
“Don’t we?” she said, humbly and wist
fully.
“Did you think you knew what you were
doing or saying all the time*”
“No, I didn’t think that,” said Jess, with
some hesitation. “I knew people went off
their beads when they were ill, but I did
not think they forgot all that they said aud
did. Do thqy quite forget? Does it go right
out of their heads?”
“Quite, mv dear.”
“Just as I have forgotten what I said
when I was ill, so other people forget—”
“They forget entirely what they havo
done in the madness of delirium,” said
Lady Hexham, gravely, “They are not re
sponsible for it; nobody blames them for it.
A person is insane wheu he is delirious, and
we do not blame or punish the insane.
There was once a good and loving woman
who caught up a knife and stabbed her
mother to the heart in a fit of madness;
but nobody blamed her; people pitied her
only for having unconsciously done so ter
rible a thing.”
“They did not hang her?” said Jess, in a
whisper, fixing her eyes on Diana’s face.
“No, ray dear; no. People are not pun
ished for what they do when they are mad
or delirious."
“Was she shut up! They snufc up mad
people, I know.”
“For a time she lived in an asylum.
Then her brother took charge of her and
she lived at home with him. But sick peo
ple who become delirious for a time only are
not put under restraint at all when they are
belter.”
She spoke with steady purpose, and Jess
began to tremble.
“You know what I mean,” she murx
mured at length, in a stifled voice.
Diana knelt beside the bed and took the
wasted hand in hers.
“Yes, 1 know what you mean. You told
It to me yourself in your delirium. It made
everything clear to me.”
“And it was all no use then,” said Jess,
hoarsely. “If 1 had acted differently we
might have been hiyipy now. And George
would not have thought what he does thins
of me, what he cau never forgive me for!
I am a miserable woman—l’ve done noth
ing but bring sarrow on the man I loved
besl, and all because I loved him 1 I wish I
had died when I was ill!”
And Jess burst into tears, and, turning
her face to tho wall, wept so bitterly that
Diana’s heart bled for her.
To make a great sacrifice and then to find
that the world would have beeu better
without it, is surely one of the greatest
mortillcations that can assail the heart of
mail. Diana saw distinctly that she had
given Jess great pain by her words, yet she
did not take them back.
“My dear,” she said, after a pause, “you
must not wish that you had died. You
must not die before the wrong has been put
rignt George loves you—yes, lam sure he
loves you, with his whole heart—but he
must honor you as well.”
Jess gasped, and stayed hor sobs to listen.
"He must know,” pursued Diana, “what
a noble, devoted, self-sacrificing woman his
wife has been, and how she bore sorrow and
shame and danger out of her love for him.
He must understand what his neglect and
his suspicions laid upon your shoulders;
and”—her voice took a passionate ring—“he
mst humble himself to the dust before you
for your forgivenss. Then you will have a
chance of Happiness, my poor Jess; and not
before then."
"1 shall have a chance of happiness,” Joss
repeated, dreamily. “But what abouthim?
Will he be happy, too?”
“Does lie deserve to be happy!” Diana
asked.
Jess paused before she replied. Her face
was still wet with tears;she put up her thin
hand and tried to bru->h them away.
"You are very good and kind tq me,” sho
said, simply, “and your goodness makes
you unkind to him. You want to make
him unhappy that I may be happier. Do
you think it would make me feel better to
see him humbling himseif as you say?”
“It would be only right; and right must
be done,” said Diana. “I cannot let this
state of things go ou.”
Jess looked so white and weak that it
seemed as if Diana’s stately beauty and
imperious, if kiudly manner, must overawe
her and subdue her will. But Jess’ will was
very strong, as others had fouDd out long
ago, in spite of the frailty of her appear
ance and the gentleness of her manner. As
she heard Diana speak anew look of reso
lution came into her hitherto languid eyes.
“There is nothing for you to do, inv
lady,” she said, dropping into the old re
spe tful form of address, which Diana had
several times begged her not to use. “You
fancy from sometning said when I was bad
with fever tnat you have fonnd out what
really happened on that dreadful night. *
* * But you don’t know—you never can
know, unless I tell you. And 1 have told
all I had to toll. I suffered the punishment
for it, too. And neither you nor any tody”
with a sort of defiant strength—“shall rob
me of my reward.”
“Your reward, my dear Jess; and what is
that? 1 ’ said Lady Hexham, sorrowfully.
Jess looked at her earnestly.
"Do you need to ask!” she said.
"Would’t you do as much as you could to
keep up the peace and happiness of the man
you loved? Don’t you see that he would
never forgive himself if bo knew—if he
thought, I mean—”
“Men forgive themselves very easily,”
said Diana.
“But he would not. You know him bet
ter than that. It ia because you are* so
sorry for him —sorry that he has uot al
ways been right—that you are a little bard.
Aud you want to be hard on me now. You
want to make all that I have suffered of no
use to any otiei”
Diana shrank back. Bhe bad not ex
pected so much discernment from George’s
wife. Hbeans wared rather uncertainly.
“Is it any use that we should believe a
lie!”
“You don't know that he does believe a
He. Forgive me for speaking out so bold
and free, my lady—”
"Call me .Diaua —not that!” cried Lady
Hexham.
"George’s cousin Diana,” said Jess, softly.
“I’ll ask you theu if you o ire for him, if
you love him —and mo, too, a little, maybe,
not to open Old wounds and make him sore
and miserable again. I don’t want to talk
about the old tunes any more, and if ever
be comes to see me and speaks of them I
shall tell him so. They’re all post and
doue with, and It is no use remembering
them.”
"But how," said Lady Hexham, hesitat
ing, “how can you hope to live happily
with him when this shadow is between
youF’
Jess smiled.
"Do you think lam going to live!” she
asked.
"Yes—yes—certainly."
“And that he will ever want me to live
with him!”
“1 am sure of it."
Jess shook her head.
“It will never be,” she said, quietly. “No,
we could not live happily togetuer with this
shadow between us, as you say, anil it it a
shadow that will never be lifted off. Until
I die, perhaps."
"And dying may be many years hence,
dear.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think I shall
live very long."
'“You will not try—again—”
“To shorten my life! No. I'm sorry I
did that now. Alice has talked to me about
it. It was wicked of me, I know, and silly
too. But I was nearly mazed with trouble,
and my one thought was to get away. I
had a kind of notion that the people run
ning after ine wauted to put me into prison
again.” She shuddered iuvoluntarily.
“No; I shall not try to kill myself. But I
don’t think it would lie necessary. I feel—
a sort of broken feeling. My life’s all gone
wrong, and I haven’t got the strength to
putlt right. I’m broken in two.”
“Strength will come back,” said Diana,
with starting tears.
Jess smiled aud shook her head again.
“Strength is no use wheu a bone Is
snapped,"she said.
“Bones grow together again, dear.”
“Yes; but some bones don’t. That’s
what 1 mean. If one’s back is broken it
doesn’t mend; you get paralyzed and die
after a time, don’t you? Well, 1 thiuk that
Is what’s wrong with me. My back
broken, and I can't bear anymore burdens;
that’s all."
"Her heart is broken, that is how wo
should express It,” said Diana, to herself, us
she gazed at Jess’ white, suuken face “Her
simile is a better one, I believe.”
Aloud she said, caressingly:
“You must not think of things in that
away. You will be better byand by.”
“You are very kind to me,” said Jess,
"but I shan’t get better. And when I am
gone I hope George will be happy—happior
than he has been with me. And—promise
me, please, that you will not say a word to
him about —what you think I nioaut iu my
mad fits. You must not speak!”
“I cannot .promise absolutely,” said
Diana; “but I will wait a little while. I
cannot help hoping that you will tell him
all the truth yourself before very long.”
“Never," said Joss, almost below her
breath. She could not control the ejacula
tion, hut she would havo g vou words to
recall it as soon as uttered, for by it she
acknowledged that there was yet something
to tell.
“For Meenie’s sake will younotteli himF’
Jess shook her head.
“I would rather go away as I did before,
and never see her face again. Do you think
I would leave him with—with—an ever
lasting regret?”
Diana sighed. The spirit of this low
born, uneducated woman was loftier than
her own. For a moment or two she could
not speak.
"At any rate,” she said, as sho rose from
her kneeling posture, "you must coino to
the court instead of staving here. I cannot
see so much of you as I should like. Don’t
refuse me, dear. You will be nearer
Meenie, and you shall do exactly as you like
in everything. Let me feel that in some
small thing at least I can serve my cousin's
wife.”
AB Jess did not refuse.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
THUNDERING SPRING.
One of the Wonders of the State and
Its Indian Legend.
From the Flowery Branch 1,0a.) Journal.
In the county of Upson, fourteen miles
west of Thomaston, three miles from Flint
river, among the bills of the Pine moun
tain, is a most remarkable spring, known as
the “Thundering Spring” forty to fifty
yoars ago. I was familiar with all the sur
roundings of that locality, and as I have
never seen a description of the spring, and
(so far as I know) it is not mentioned in any
history, I propose to give a brief outline of
the spring as 1 saw it forty-two years ago.
At the foot of a steep hill, some two or
three hundred yards from the publio road,
it bursts out of the ground in a volume suf
ficient to drive a mill. The spring is about
four feet across, constantly boiling up fine
sand, which is thrown off every way, form
ing a dark circular ring the size of the aper
ture. The most remarkable thing about it
is that the sand ail stops about sixteen
inches below the surface of the wafer. The
water for sixteen Inches is as clear as glass,
below that dark as a soap pot boiling, which
it very much resembles when at rest.
Occasionally a large bubble bursts at the
surface, stirring up tho sand, which soon
settles back to the same position. The
depth of the spring is unknown. The
bubbles make a peculiar rumbling sound
before reaching the surface, herioe its name.
The water is said to be efficacious in the
cure of many diseases, and a great many
people resorted thither iu the summer time
to bathe. The force of the water upward
was so great that one could not sink deeper
than to the arm-pits, even by jumping in
feot foremost. It took some practice to
stand erect in the spring. I will close this
description by relating a legend about the
the spring, as handed down by the Indiana.
On the top of the hill, and near the public
road, is a hole in the ground some fifteen
feet deep and ten feet across, the banks
overgrown with trees. This was once the
“Thundering” spring. Home white man put
up a doggery where he sold “fire water” to
tho Indians. One day the chief of the tribe
Sot drunk, mounted his pony, and seemed
> want to ride over everything and every
body he saw. He had rode his pony into
the doggery, much to the consternation of
its keeper and the delight of the
Indians. After tiring of this kind of
sport he concluded to ride into the spring.
His friends tried to dissuade him. but he,
with a great oath (for the whites had
learned him to curse), said: "I will ride my
ponv Into that spring if I sink to in a
minute." Oh! what an awful imprecation.
Hu friends, his wife and children among
them, ceased their efforts to prevent him,
and in he plunged. As the pony struck the
water it ceased to boil upward, and weut
down in a whirlpool, Indian, pony and all
out of sight
The water burst out in a short time at
the foot of the hill where it now is, but the
Indian cor his pony were ever heard of af
ter warde, C X
IAKBN IN HER GRAY TIGHTS.
A Stolen View of Marlon Manola by
Flash Light.
FVom the Aetc York Sun.
Manager Ben Stevens of the Broadway
theater is ahead, up to date, in his contest
with Marion Manola, the prima donna of his
company. She said she wouldn’t be photo
graphed in tights. He uid the would. Sbe
has been. It was done last night by flash
light during the performance of “Castles in
the Air,” and it was the only part of the
entertainment that the audience hissed.
Miss Manola, in “Castles in the Air,”
wears gray silk tights. The rest of the cos
tume is gray-striped trunks, a gray bodice
and a loose gray cavalier’s cloak fastened
to thu shoulder. The grays are all of one
shade except the dark stripe in the trunks
and the lining of the cloak. Wheu Miss
Manola in tho duet in the second act stands
at the front with her cloak falling loosely
behind her, the light lining of the cloak
forms a background against which are out
lined beautifully the not too slender, not
too plump, graceful and shapely contents of
the darker gray tights.
Usually in this duet Miss Manola stands
most of the time with her heels together,
her legs straight aud firm, her hands on
her hips, and her arms a-kimbo, while,
with her bosom swelling and her bead and
body swaying gently like a tree in a gentle
wind, she pours forth the song. The specta
cle, against tho lighter gray liiiiug of
the cloak, is very beautiful. Last
night sne was different, and she
held the odge of the cloak daintily in her
right hand, and os sbe sung she toyed
with it. Sometimes she pulled itarouud
until It draped her right side to the ankle;
then sho fluug it back loosely and turned to
the left baud boxes aud sung, and wbou sbe
thought the part of the audience on tho left
hand had got the worth of thoir money she
turned toward the boxes on tho right, and,
sweeping the cloak aroutid before her, made
ducks and bows which seemed specially
directed to tho rear upper boxes on that
side. Manager Stevens, watching her from
the front, bit his lips and murmured:
"She’s onto it."
He referred to a camera concoaled behind
the heavy plush curtains of the particular
box to which Miss Manola sang, and there
was reason for his bitterness, in spite of
all Manager Stevens’ pains to keop it secret
the singer had learned, by au anonymous
note sent to her dressing room Just before
the performance, that au attempt was to be
made to photograph hor tights by flash
light. Only the three or four persons in the
audience who were in the secret noticed it,
but never during the singing of that duet
did Miss Manola exhibit toward tho right
side of the theater more ttian a fleeting
glimpse of her beautiful gray logs, while she
drove the photographer nearly wild by the
freedom and grace with which she danced
whenever her back was toward him. Never
was a Spanish woman’s fan manipulated
with greater dexterity than was the singer’s
long gray cloak iu disappointing the glass
eye of tho camera.
It was decided to make another attempt
when, later In the same act, Miss Manola
has to come to the front aud sing afe w
Hues alone. YVbon, ns “Bui Bui,” she said,
“O, I can sing so well that if I had cared
anything for position 1 would have gono on
the stage,” Mr. Seabrooke, as "Cab.ilas
tro,” walked up to her, aud in a stage
wh spe:-, interpolated:
“Don’t yer do it; don’t you goon the
stage; you might he photographed in
tights.”
The audiunee, which had evidoutly read
the story of the refusal of Miss Manola to
bo put on exhibition pictorlally in that
costume, laughed, although they had no
idou of the imminent appositeness of the
joke. Miss Manola herself was broken up
by tho unexpected gag, and If the audience
had not laughed long enough to give her a
chance to recover, there would have beeu
an awkward break in the performance.
She had wit enough in a moment to make
a retort to the effect that she thought she
could avoid the danger.
“Well, you’ll have to be pretty quick
about it,” exclaimed Beabrooko, and the
audience laughed again, this time, too,
without appreciating the full significance
of tho joke. Miss Manola was sharper
witted, aud at Seabrooke’s romark, which
she suspected rightly to be a signal to the
photographer, she shied like a frightened
colt and swept her cloak around her ia
time.
A consultation between the manager arid
the photographer resulted in a desperate de
termination to risk all on one moment, when
the singer would probably be off her guard.
The time chosen was near the end of the
act, when Miss Manola has to run on the
stage from a door at the side directly facing
tho box where tho camera was concealed.
Sbe comes on like a flash and runs into the
arms of Hopper, who stands not over ten
feet from the door. She had to be caught
on the instant iu which she was covering
that dlstanoo. The photographer sat
with one hand on the bulb of the camera,
and held the curtaiu In the other
hand. An assistant slipped into the
next box and had the flash-light ready.
Both stood ready when they heard
the liars of tho musio preliminary to Miss
Manola’s appearance. The door opened
and a vision of gray tights, extended arms,
and floating cloak appeared, darting toward
Hopper. At tho same instant there was a
flash and a cloud of smoke from the upper
box. Miss Manola’s long cloak flashed
about her figure and she ga vo a scream and
dashed off the stage. The audience was
startled for a moment, but quickly under
stood what had been done. Many hissed,
none applauded. De Wolf Hopper, left
alone ou tho stage, was embarrassed for a
moment and called after Miss Manola to
come back; that it was all right. Ho re
covered his head in a m >ment and avoided
a bad break in the performance by laugh
ing and speaking impromptu lines uutil Miss
Manola came back. She was breathless
aud evidently very much excited, but she
went ou with her part.
Manager Stevens went behind tho scenes
as soon as she left the stage again. He got
a lively reception. He was called a brute
and a villain in all the languages at Miss
Manola’s command. When he reminded
her that sbe ha l defied him to do it, and he
had done it, she told him sbe didn't believe
he had caught her, and that if he bad she
would leave the company if he made any
use of tho pictures. She had not recovered
her composure after the performance.
“It is an outrage,” she said. “I do not
believe they got a picture of me, but if they
have I shall get an injunction to prevent
them from using it. I have said that I
would not allow them to parade me in that
style in every window on Broadway, where
my child would have to see me every time
we walked along f the street, and I mean
what I say, they shantt do it If it takes all
my salary to keep them from it.”
Miss Manola received yesterday a number
of letters from women, inclosing the
article from yesterday’s Sun, com
mending her for the stand she bad taken,
anil telling her to stick to it.
Manager Stevens has had much trouble
over getting his pictures of his company.
Miss O’Keefe had not yet boon taken in
tights. One of the most conspicuous of the
onorus girls also made a fuss about being
taken as one of a group in tights.
“Even when we got the group arranged
before the camera,” said Photographer
Meyer last night, “sho beggrd with tears
streaming down her face to ■* let out. I
wanted to let her go, hut titeveus wouldn’t,
so we took her weeping."
TAGES 9 TO 12.
NEW YORK FASHION NOTES.
From the Chicago Neva.
For ladies’ underwear vests come In rib
bed lisles, which are the cheapest. Next in
cost are the gossamers, a little more than
double the price of the lisle. Swiss ribbed
lisle and balbriggan are about the same in
price, but are more substantial than the
gossamer. Swiss ribbed silk vests are
sleeveless and low-necked. They oome in
all colors. In tights Swiss ribbed black and
gray cashmere aud Swiss ribbed black silk
come in all sizes, ankle lengths, the silk
costing a little more than twice as much as
the cashmere. Swiss ribbed black silk, with
feet, are most costly. A good article can
be obtained for $7 SO. The demand is largo,
indicating that many ladies wear them.
The demand has doubled within a year.
Dust cloaks for cars and steamers are
assuming some fanciful and striking styles,
although most of them are quiet in tone,
color and shape. One of the gayest is
almost as brilliant as an opera cloak. The
wearer of it is the most conspicuous object
in the station and the car. Indeed, its most
fitting accompanknent is a private car. Ik
is of richest poppy red in soft surah silk.
The cloak is gathered at the yoke, in which
stripes of gold mid passementerie alternate.
The shoulder frills are of black satin trim
med with gold and lined with rod.
A variety of flowers are now beginning
to appear on large bats. The flowers have
hitherto been numerous, and the conserva
tories and fields have been exhausted for
copies for the deft lingers of manufacturers.
But there has been but one variety on each
hat. One lady would have all pansies, an
other displayed lilies of the valley, and a
third roses. Now the roses, lilies of the val
ley and pansies are found together on soma
fow hats worn by ladies who have heard of
the Parisian fashion and have followed it.
In parasols black and plaid designs are
carried with all costumes, but the most
stylish ladies have their parasols match
their gowns in shade as do their hats. If
their hair matches also it is all the better.
White and gold parasols are the most ele
gant. Those in black mounting on red
crepe are also striking. Tho parasols are
very large this season, and many larger
than umbrellas. Lace is much used on
them arid the contrast is attractive, such os
black lace on yellow or white lace on pink-
AII summer goods have boon so greatly
reduced iu price that the late buyer Is able
to select a handsome toilet out of a shop
window for a very small sum of moony.
Henriettas have dropped one-fourth, snt
toens have tumbled one-half, and India
silks about tho same. All wool yacig
cloths are very cheap, aud lailios are buying
them as additions to a wardrobe already
complete, just because they can be bad so
cheau.
Ladies’ smoking jackets are in different
shades, black, blue and gray. The linings
are in strong contrast, the lining of the
navy blue being in orange. A scarlet lin
ing sets off the black, while heliotrope looks
well with gray. Tho jackets are mostly
used in bllliuriu, but somo ladies in good
oirclos smoko with their husbands, not
oftou, howovor, with would-bo husbands.
Iu outing cloths there are all manner of
fanciful designs that are effectively used for
toa gowns, blazers and seashore attire.
They come in stripes, polka dots and Per
sian effects. The colorings are exquisite.
All the delicate shades of blue are given
and all the brilliant tints up to brilliant
combinations iu black and scarlet.
Gentlemen's negligee shirts come in
cheviots, Madras, French flannel, and pure
silks. Tho cheviots are gonuiue Hootch and
oome in small checks aud fine stripes.
These are cool ifnd very cheap. The Madras
are os line as India silk. Tho finish is
superior. Of Fronch flannels, the variety
offered is very largo.
A handsome summer dress was of rod
crepon, with polonaise aud basque front.
The cuffs and vest were of striped louisine
with flowerß ou a white ground and pink
stripes. The trimming was of narrow
ribbon velvet of a darker shade of Bresii
red. The front of the skirt was slightly
draped.
The colors of scarfs are exquisite and ao-
Suire an added beauty in the soft material.
omo have long silk fringes at tho end.
Others are in large squares of India silk
crepe, embroidered and fringed. These are
folded and wore in Quaker style.
Cream-colored beugaline makes a pretty
summer dross. The trimming is of velvet
ribbon sowed with over-lapping edges. Tha
front is embroidered in sunflowers of a
darker shade aud thu back is of plain cream
bengaline.
For yachting, boating, mountain climb
ing, or walking in the country, a pretty
costume is of white flannel with blue, with
shot border, cuffs, collar, binding, ami sash,
ending with woolen balls of blue flannel.
Suede and dogskin gloves oome once mors
with gauntlet cuff*. Those are very handy
in riding, yachting or tennis, as the cuffs
protect the sleeves. These gloves stand
Washing, lining made of leather that does
not shrink.
Large laco hats are trimmed with natural
flowers, the choicest of the conservatory.
The hats are left free of artificial flowers in
order that place may be found for the
natural buds and blossoms.
Dainty scurfs are draped on the shoulders
and carried below the waist, crossing over
the breast. The prettiest aud most elegant
are in very fine orepe de chine.
“Chic.*
BERK FOB A PRIZE.
A Gold Watch For Any One Who
Consumes 000 Bottles Over the Bor.
From the Washington Star.
Anew method of buying a watch has just
been introduced in Washington. You can
get a real gold one at no other expense thau
the consumption of 000 bottles of beer. It
must be a particular kind of beer, which
the manufacturer is anxious to introduce.
With each bottle tiiat you drink you get a
yellow ticket, and when you have accumu
lated 600 tickets the bartender will give you
tho watch in exchange for them. You are
at liberty to go on, if you like, consuming
the same kind of beer, thus obtaining more
watohes. One can easily conceive the
passionate interest with which the beer
drinker, looking forward to tho acqui
sition of a timepiece, would pursue a course
of progressive stimulation, realizing how
every bottle swallowed brings him nearer
the prize. The latter is hung ud over the
bar, with a sign attached to it saying that
it cost *25 wholesale. When the time ar
rives for its delivery to him who has earned
it another just like it is hung up in its place.
Tnis idea is anew one and will doubtless
become popular as an advertising scheme.
It is an adaptation of the practice so long
popular iu Sunday schools of giving the
pupils, whenever they are good, merit
cards, a certain number of which accumu
lated entitles the pious scholar to a reward.
Of courso, many customers will not have
the fortitude to hold out to the extent of
60) bottles, and thus the brewer will not be
obliged to pay for so many watches. Men
will carry around their tickets with the
name of the brand of beer on thorn and
show them to their friends.
Tns daily business of tbd Standard Oil Trust
amounts to $ 100,000, or 8146,000,000 a year. The
total value of its plant added to the individual
wealth of its members is believed to be qutte
modestly estimated at 8730,000,000, of which
total John Rockefeller's fortune alone figures at
5130,000,1X10. The original cash capital of this
colossal trust, twentv-six years ago, when it
was founded, was but $75,000,000.
