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i’ARf TWO.
A HIDDEN FOE.
A STORY OF LOVE AND MYSTERY.
By G. A. HEITTY,
Author of “THE CURSE OF CARNK’S HOLD,” “GABRIEL ALLEN, M. P." ETC., ETC.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.}
[SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.]
", Tn the month of November, 2,
Cui !, ,h .r.v a lady of fashion, at Bath, hears
. MrS . h Ci H™t umr from her broth-r, Mr. Alger
(orthe ( * orb oourt< of the lather’s
. marriane eighteen years before to the
•“**?' master. (me child had been
daughter of a ! 8 but the mother had
the iseue of the marnage.r nuptlalg Tho
died brought up aud educated
daU^,v new. causes Mrs.
chagrin and annoyance, chiefly on
Clitheroe * consequent disinheritance of her
whohadleen looking forward to suc
ceedin’ to the estates of Corbyn. After Mr.
*®*J!?* had informed his sister, he decides to
trie naDers of his marriage and the birth
Ks TaSer in the hands of the family
Sdirftor Mr Ferris, and then pay a visit to his
daughter at St Main lledrives with Brandon his
servant! to the station, but the horse stumbles
over some stones, and both are thrown out into
II.- Mr. Corbyn, after being picked
un is found to be in a dying condition and
death soon puts an end to his sufferings. The
tZ isTkem to the house of Mrs Chtheroe.
When alone with the dead man she searches his
Dockets and discovers the documents relate
Lf to his marriage and the birth of his daugh
ter She resolves to destroy the papers and to
secure to her son the inheritance of Corbyn
Court. In seeking for papers Philip Chtheroe
and the family lawyer discover letters from the
daughter of Mr. Corbyn to her father, thus in
dicating that he (Philip) was not the absolute
he r The lawyer and himself, however, are un
able to say whether the child is legitimate or
otherwise. _ , _ ,
Chaptor ill.—Mr. Ferris, the lawyer, pay as
visit to St. Malo to inquire into the question of
the legitimacy of Constance Corbyn. M. and
Madame Duport. with whom the daughter of
Algernon Corbyn had lived since her birth, and
who had come to look upon tier almost a* their
own. do not know positively that Mr. Algernon
Corbyn was martin to the child's mother, be
yond the fact that he is stated to be so on the
certificate of the child's birth. They promise
to make all necessary inquiries, and Mr. Ferris
takes his leave.
Chapter iv.—' The information as to the death
of her fattier aud the visit of Mr. Ferris is
broken to Constance CorDyu. Next day Mr.
Ferris again visits the home of the imports and
has an interview with Constance. Fte relates
to her the ciroumstances of the cases, and tell
her his belief that there has been no marriage.
She declares her intention of searching every
parish ngistry in Fiugland rather than her dead
mother's honor should be impugned.
Chapter V. Madame Duport aud Mies Cor
byn put their case in the hands of Mr. Harbut,
the lawyer to whom Mr. Ferris recommended
them. He takes up their cause energetically
and Constance begins to have some hopes of
success. They commence by making Inquiries
In the neighborhood of Bath.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SEARCH BEGINS.
The next morning at the appointed hour
Constance Corbyn and Madame Duport
were on the platform at Paddington, and
were joined two minutes later bv Robert
Harbut.
“I congratulate you on your punctuality,"
he said as he joined them. “That is a
hopeful sign. You know the motto, ‘Punc
tnality, security and dispatch.’ No? It is
that of the London Parcels Delivery, and
upon the whole they act to it. Now, then,
let us see about our places first. You have
got tickets; that is right. Ah, here is an
empty carriage. If you place your rugs on
this seat, one each side of that window, I
"ill pul my bag next to them. That is it;
tow we have got possession of the seats.
Where is your luggage! Is it all con
tained in that bag!”
“Our portmanteau is labeled and put in
tho van,” Madame Duport said. - “I am ac
customed to traveling in England and seeing
after luggage.”
Capital, then 1 have only to jump out
and get two o: three papers, so that I can
read when my converution becomes insup -
portable.”
“He is funny," Constance said as Robert
Harbut leaped from the carriage, “he is
quite unlike Frenchmen. One minute I
think him a clever man and the next an ab
surd boy.”
“They are like that, these English,” Mad
ame Duport said. “They are much younger
than Frenchmen. The first desire of the
rench boy is to be thought a man, but these
young Englishmen seem to like to remain
oys for ever so long, and yet they are full
at sense."
It was a pleasant journey down.
After earning for a bit, Robert Harbut
tedP ‘ Perßt ° hiSCOm -
U'Waxr for E,ig, “ u
lpriv. , ‘alTi l ,; ,okt ' d,lt , hlm with ™ch sur-
I “Excuse m ega vi rt!a u ln,t ’ fini * tbl “ n said:
h'^d fe^; a(^;.. Hart -.I thought
I Sf - v Ull barrister laughed
I Miss Corby n n °lt S,e “V s<) ihum a ß ait b
I forgotte U them 11 because I had
“ Wl * that T°u
I excellent but von V f aCt u ’ m F 61 *ht is
I s of’ my - 1 am Painfully eou-
I wear those iLI? l , hf 1 a PP®w a nce, and I
|uf grav.tvand W oiT ßeSt °i g ! Vome an air
hPpearanLut^eZave." 0
I ‘ , Heal;y'wUen tr iW a S' on,a, laughed.
I Strang, W 1“ ~ saw you with that
I Elyses, yoi S remi’r,eH Dd t ! JUHe reat r °unU
I 'Thavovll n ! a nd.‘ Deof an owl"
I **>( 1 have b'a'noMM, J' eße, J lbl ance myself
I B'nug i Mo court lnto tle 8 la “ s hefore
I rt l;utati on f„ r wisdom.” *** tbe owl haß a
I those gi^ 66 yo^ oo *' much wiser without
I Uve a reputation f Harbut - The owl may
lis also laiiDasstunn W^*dom ’ but 1 tb ”> k
I 5 ‘r s.ii, o lUpIJ as ““ owl.’ Yousee
|;‘ on Itesiimi those*!!? 110 have any axpivs-
l U ‘ri' Uk Jh l® glasses; they look— well
I' 'Ugh now that cii * Co s. seo sharply
I T i thing „var fhem naturally."
I Miss Corbyn ”j, e i . wbat Fou have said
Ir “ 8 -n, ms gravely, “It would
|^ t ''hri.tl,..v a off now,
I ff, '°t, fill if beginning to have m
I“‘'e 1 “‘' e bßd l "“ hriefs thlsTst six
nsieq!"!had bettor go to a
I Hath A tU! ask *Jasth e train
feti Btr ?r
■:' 1 1 1 dg," g ' n^ f ' ult y >n getting 0 ' 1 *
K : l '• W Ih. hou*. in liiti,
■t; ,ur ' ■mgH 1,,,;;'' w ° t th oro
■h . i ai.d then wh 18 cll,akr, *oni and
l„. * “ '-ui* you Z " h "“ >uu ilml some-
Ip., ,r Tour X&£*&** to the
■ h rt l ' ' u a ht q 1,; oourso, 1 el ia n
f r Wae 85?
I ‘ Uf tor you to gw.
fhe Hbfnine ffrtoA
your name to the landlady. There will be
no occasion to mention Miss Corbyn’g name,
as it will be naturally assumed she is your
daughter. You see tbe name of Corbyn is
very well known in Bath, and as the names
of visitors are published in the local papers
it would be just as well that it should not
appear.”
“But Mr. Clitheroe knows that we are
going to search,” Constauce said. “Of
course, Mr. Perris will have told him. Mr.
Ferris said that Mr. Clitheroe was onlv
anxious that the truth should be discov
ered.”
“Yes, no doubt. Miss Corbyn. Still you
see they are, in fact, our opponents, and in
matters of this sort it is always as well to
keep one’s opponent in the dark as far as
one can as to what you are doing. It is
never any use giving away a ehauce.”
“At any rate,” Madame Duport said,
“we will do as you suggest, Mr. Harbut;
there is not the least occasion for giving
her name, of course she will be taken for
my daughter.”
An hour after their arrival in Bath,
Madame Duport and Constance were in
stalled in lodgings near the station, and
Robert Harbut had taken a room at the
York Hotel.
His first step was to go down to tbe coffee
room and to look through the town direc
tory. There was no such name as Purcell;
then he examined a county directory, but
again without s iccess. He was soarcely dis
appointed ; unless the Purcells were In trade,
or were people of some note or importance
they would hardly be down in a county
directory. Then he went down to the police
station and inquired for the inspector.
“This is my card, inspector,” he said; “1
belong, us you see, to the Middle Temple,
aud am desirious of fiuding out sixne people
whom I have reason to believe resided at
one time somewhere in the neighborhood of
Bath; perhaps in the town itself, perhaps
ten or twelve miles off.”
“What is the name, sir T'
“Purcell.”
“I do not know the name,” the inspector
eoid; “do £'ou know what condition of life
they were inf’
“I should say that they did not belong to
tbe upper class, certainly not to any
county family; but ou the other haud I do
not think that they were of the laboring
class. They lu iy have been small farmers
or shopkeepers ”
“I will inquire among the men,” the in
spector said; “they almost all belong to the
country; it is likely enough one or other of
them might know the t ame. How long is
it since they were living here?”
“About eighteen years ago.”
The inspector wrote upon a piece of paper,
“Information required respecting a family
named Purcell, living in the neighborhood
of Bath eighteen years ago.” This he stuck
upon the notice board.
“The men always glance at this as they
come in,” ho said. “If you come to-mor
row at 10 o’clock I shall be able to tell you
if any of the force here know anything
about it, if not I can send notices to all the
county stations.”
Robert Harbut returned the next day at
noon; he had been to take Mndame Duport
and Constance for a walk, and had left them
at the pump room while he went to the po
lice station.
“I have found some Purcells,” the inspec
tor said as he entered. “At least I have
found where a family of that name lived
some years ago. One of my men, who
comes from a little village named Alnwick,
about ten miles to tbo northwest, tells mo
that when he was a boy the village school
master was named Purcell. He weut to the
school himself. He tells me that it was gen
erally supposed tbe Purcells iiad seen better
days. They are both dead now; they left
no children. The man tells me that he re
members there was a great sensation in the
village just as he left school, which is
eighteeen years ago now. There was a
daughter who was suddenly missing.
Every one turned out to search for her,
but she was not found. He does not remem
ber more about it, but the search was
given up, and he believes, though he is not
sure, that it was 9aid that Purcell had re
ceived a letter from her, saying that she
had gone away to be married. Purcell and
his wife both died some years ago, within a
few days of each other. Do you think it is
likely that those are the people for whom
you are in search!"
“I have no doubt whatever about it,”
Robert Harbut said, “aud I am extremely
obliged to you for the trouble you have
taken tn the matter. I believe that tbe
young lady for whom I am acting is tbe
daughter of the girl yon speak of. It Is
very unfortunate that the grandfather and
grandmother are both dead, as they might
have supplied some information I am desi
rous of obtaining. However, it is satisfac
tory to have the point as to where they re
sided cleared up.”
Robert Harbut went to tie pump room.
Constance was watching t'le door, and in
obedience to hiß sign she and Annette hur
ried out.
“You have news,” she said. “I saw it in
your face.”
“It’s very annoying that you should say
so, Miss Corbyn. A barrister's face ought
to be impassive. Yes, I Have knew*; partly
good and partly bad. I have found where
your grandfather ana grandmother lived.
He was a schoolmaster, but I am sorry to
say that both he and his wife are dead.”
Constance uttered au exclamation of dis
may.
“It seems to me that is all bad news, Mr.
Harbut. It makes no difference as to what
village they lived In; what we wanted was
information; and now there is no chance of
getting it. That seemed to be the only clew
we had, and now it is lost. ”
“I should not quite say that. Miss Cor
byn; not vet. It is possible that they may
have oonflded in someone in the village all
they knew about the disappearance of your
mother. The man who gave tho inspector
information about it, ami who was at school
under your grandfather, said it was gener
ally believed that he bad been in much bet
ter circumstances at one time. It is proba
ble that your mother wrote to him at times
(luring her year of married llfp. Ido not
know whether your father ever acquainted
them with her death, as likely as not he may
not have done so; in that case, when her
letters ceased, they may have guessed that
she was dead, but may have still hoped on
tliat she might some day return. Iu that
ouse, they may possibly have left a letter or
some communication with someone,
probably with the clergyman, to be given
to her should she ever return. At any rate,
it Is worth seeing whether this is tho oaee.
Don't you think so?"
certainly,” Constauce exclaimed.
u “°* fortunate you oaina down with us,
Mr. Harbut. I should never hare thought
of that, anl if I had found, as you havo
done, that they were dead, I should hare
SAVANNAH, C.A., SUNDAY, AUGUST 17. 1890.
given up the search in this direction alt >-
gather. Yvhea snail wo go? i, more time
to-day?”
“Oh, yes. I think so. We will go into a
pastry cook’s and get some lunch, and then
will be off.”
Half an hour later they had arranged
with the driver of a carriage to take them
to Alnwick. It as a long journey, for the
roads were hilly, and the Bath drivers do
not hurry their horses. Robert Harbut
chatted with Madame Duport, for Con
stance was too excited and anxious to join
in the conversation.
“This is Alnwick," the driver said, turn
ing round on his box as they entered a vil
lage. “Where shall I take you, sir?”
“To the Rectory.”
As they drove up to the door, Robert
Harbut said:
“I think I had better do the talking. Miss
Corbyn.”
Constance nodded. Bhe was too anxious
to speak. The barrister handed his card to
the servant, and said he wished for a few
minutes’ conversation with the rector.
They were shown into the drawing-room,
and a minute later the rector entered, and
Robert Harbut saw with satisfaction that
he was a man of some 65 years old.
“We have called, sir," he began, “to ask
you if you can give us any information
about about a Mr. and Mrs. Pur
cell. He was, I believe, schoolmaster
here. ”
"He was,” the rector replied. “He and
his wife both died some eigiit years ago.”
As he spoke he glanced earnestly at the
two ladies.
“We have reason to believe," Mr. Harbut
weut on, “that this young lady is their
granddaughter. ”
“Is her mother dead?” the clergyman
asked quickly.
“She died some seventeen years ago, after
giving birth to her child.”
“I was afraid so. Her last
letter to her mother said that
she was expecting to be confined
shortly, and that she hoped that ere very
long she should return with her husband
and child. They never heard from her
again, and their belief, os well as my own,
was that she must have died about that
time. I was very much interested,” he went
on, turning to Constance, “in your mother's
fate. She was my principal assistant in the
Sundaj’ sch 01, and was a girl of excellent
principles and disposition. I was so con
vinced of this that I was able to agree oor
diaily with hor parents in their belief in the
statements in her letters, that she was mar
ried. Of course she was sadly, terribly to
blame iu leaving home iu the way she did,
aud in suffering herself to bo persuaded by
some—” and then remembering that the
man of whom he was about to speak harshly
was the father of the girl to wiiom he was
speaking, he stopped.
“Do you know who my father was, sir?”
Constance askod a low voice.
“Do you not know!” the clergyman an
swered in surprise. “No. Your grand
father and grandmother had no idea what
ever. They were inclined to believe at first
that it must be somebody that she met in
London when she wa- staying there with au
aunt some time before. But it came out
afterward that some of the village boys
had once or twice seen her iu the evenings,
walking with a geutDman in a quiet lane,
half a mile away. Still, of course, she may
have made his acquaintance in towu. He
may have followed her here, but more than
that we never ascertained.
“I may tell you your grandfather and
grandmother always lived in hopes that
your father would some day bring you
back to them. It was possible, of course,
that the child might have died as well as its
mother, but they felt sure that if it lived
sooner or later they would hear of it. They
never did hear, but upon his deathbed your
grandfather, who survived his wife but a
few days, gave me a packet which he
begged me to deliver to his daughter’s
child, should she ever return. I suppose,
sir,” he said, turning to Mr. Harbut, “you
can assure me that this young lady is really
the child of Constance Purcell. ”
“I can assure you of that, sir,” Madame
Duport said. “Bhe died in my house. I
took the child from her arms, and have
brought her up ever since.”
“Then I will give you the packet,” the
clergyman said, and, leaving the room, he
returned in a minute or two with a bulky
envelope, which he placed in Constance’s
hands. “lain pleased iudeed,” he said,
“that I am able to carry out the last wishes
of my friend Purcell. Your grandfather
was a mau of good education. He was the
son, he told me, of a city merchant, and
was educated at Oxford. His father died
just as he left the university. He took to
the business, for which he was altogether
unfitted, and two or three years later failed.
He had married the daughter of a clergy
man, and after years of struggle he at last
accepted the mastership of this village
school. Tbe stipend was a very small one,
but there was a comfortable cottage, and a
good garden attached to it, aud he told me
that he had been perfectly contented and
happy until the flight of his daughter broke
up their home.”
Constance was palo and trembling.
“I thank you very much for what you
have told me,” she said, “and for keeping
these papers for me.”
Then she glanced at Robert Harbut, who
understood what she would say.
“Thank you very much, sir. Now we
will take our leave; the young lady will, of
course, be anxious to read these papers in
private. Should she find the clew to the
place of her parents’ marriage, you will cer
tainly hear of her again.”
For some little time after taking their
seats in the carriage again, few words were
spoken.
Constance Corbyn was greatly moved,
and as she sat with her head bent down
Robert Harbut saw several tears fall on the
packet which she clasped in her hands.
“I think. Miss Corbyn," he said at last,
“that I may congratulate you on the result
of your visit. We may not perhaps have
gained any material clew which would be
of assistance to us, but it cannot but be
gratifying for you to know the high estima
tion iu which your mother was regarded by
tbe clergyman of the village, and it is pleas
ing no doubt to he aware that her father
and mother were persons of good family
and education. It is a weakness, perhaps,
but it is human nature.”
4 •! am glad,” she said. “I had hardly
hoped to get so much news of my mother.
I am very glad that I came.”
“So am I, Miss Corbyn; it is most satis
factory to me. You see, before 1 had really
nothing but Madame Duport’s conviction,
that your mother was sp-aking the truth
when she said that a marriage had taken
place, to go upon. Now at least, though
legal proof may still be wantmg, I have
heard what may be considered as perfect
unprejudiced testimony os to the character
she bore as a girl, and that the clergyman
of the place as well as her father aud
mother believed that she was married. I
fear that we shall not obtain any further
clew from those papers, whatever they may
be, as it is clear that neither the old people
nor the rector had the least idea as to whom
it wa* she had eloped with. Of course, if
we can glean nothing there we shall have to
stare on some entirely fresh line.”
Half au hour later the driver checked his
horso.
“There, sir,” he said, pointing with bis
whip, "that is one of the oldest county
places about Bath. Borne family lias lived
there hundreds and hundreds of years they
sav. Corbyn Court, that is what it is
called. The late Mr. Corbyn was killed, he
was, a short tunc back; throwu out of a
dog-cart going down into Bath. Killed
stone dead, thev say. A nephew of his has
got it now; nice young chap he is. Hi is
not a Corbyn though, but I expect like
enough he will take his uncle's name.”
The three occupants of the carriage had
been gazing intently at the house as he
spoke. Madaine Duport had stood up the
better to examine it.
“It is a grand place,” she said, as she sat
down, “and to think that it ought to be
yours, la petite."
Constance shivered.
“It is too large and too lonely,” she said,
"1 don’t want It; I only want to clear her
name: when that is done I shall he quite
con’out with enough for us to live quietly
and happily at St. Male.”
Robert Harbut bad turned round and
was leaning forward against tho driver’s
seat.
“What sort of a man wa the late Mr.
Corbyn? I have heard his name bofore.”
“He was very much respected, sir; I heard
that he was a good landlord and was thought
a great deal of down in Bath."
"And his nephew succeeds him, you say.
What's his name?"
“Clitheroe. It is a lucky windfall for
him. His own place is over the other wav,
aud they say was mortgaged pretty heavily
in his father’s time. If it had not been for
that slippery bit of hill he might have had
to wait a long time before he came in for
the Court, for Mr. Corbyn was not more
than 42 and might have lived to 80.”
Mr. Harbut continued to chat to the
coachman on the subject of tbe Corbvus for
some time, but gained no information of
any importance. On arriving at the lodg
ings he said to Constauce:
■‘l will come iu at 8 o’clock to hear
whether you have gathered any news from
those papers.”
When Robert Harbut called in the even
ing at the lodgiags he was recoiled by
M idame Duport.
“She has gone to lie down,” she said.
“Poor child, she has gone through the
packet containing the letters of her mother
to her parents; there are ten of them. She
wrote once a month. Here they are. Con
stance wished you to read them, but we fear
that they will not help Us. She tells about
her home, and how she longs to Ste them
aeaiu, but nothing that we can see that will
help us at all. She never mentions tbe name
of tho place she writes from, aud only puts
Italy, or Switzerland, or Germany."
•‘Perhaps 1 had better read them," Robert
Harbutsaul; “some ohanoe word may give
us a clew.”
The letters were all iu the envelopes in
which they had l een received, and were
numbered one to ten; the first he road care
fully and laid aside, the others he merely
glanced through. Tho writer always spoke
of herself as well and happy always said
that her husband was very kind, and that
she was enjoying the sight of the foreign
countries she had read about. The greater
part of each letter was devoted to her old
home, to her longings to see her father aud
mother again, to her regret at the pain she
must have caused them, and to her hope
that she should some day be able to atouo
for it aud to have them near her in com
fort.
They were natural, loving letters, and as
he put them down Robert Harbut said to
himself, “There is no doubt whatever that
the poor little girl thought herself married,
though, of course, the blackguard may
have deceived her by a false marriage.”
All these nine letters bore the London
postmark; it was evident that in order to
prevent any clew as to their place of resi
dence being obtained, Algernon Corbyn had
sent them under cover to London, to be
posted there. The first letter was written
in pencil, evidently iu great haste, and, the
barrister thought, without the knowledge of
her husband.
It was as follows:
“Dearest Father and Mother—l
have been awfully wicked in running away
from you without telling you where I was
going, but I hope some day you will forgive
me, when you know all. You will see that
it was necessary to be secret. I love him so.
We were married this morning. I hope soon
to be able to tell you all. I should be the
happiest woman in the world if my heart
did not seem breaking at the thought of the
trouble I have caused you. Pray forgive
me, and think as kindly as you can of your
loving daughter Constance.”
The letter itself gave no clew, but the
envelope did, for it bore the postmark
Folkestone.
“Well, monsieur?” Madame Duport asked
as Robert Harbut laid the letters aside and
turned his chair from the table at which he
bad been reading them.
“It is well, Mudarae Duport. This fir9t
letter gives us the clew we want; it uposted
at Folkestone, there is the postmark on the
envelope. There uno doubt Mrs. Corbyn
scribbled that letter and posted it without
her husband’s knowledge. She knew she
pain her parents were suffering, and could
not delay writing to assure them that she
was married. Of course, it is just possible
that the marriage took place in London,
and that they went down to Folkestone im
mediately after the ceremony, and that she
uropped the letter in a poetoflloe that even
ing, and went on board the steamer at
Dover next day, for I do not think the
boats run from Folkeeb me then. However,
it is evident that Folkestone is the next
plaoe to try at; if we do not find the mar
riage registered there, it is almost oertaiu to
have been either in London or at Canter
bury, so that in any cose a great step bos
been made. I say honestly, that when I
started from London yesterday morning, I
had only tho very faintest !ioi>e wo should
ever succeed. Now I really think we shall
do so. I consider that our success so far has
bee* quite remarkable. There is nothing
more for us to do here now; I think that
we may as well go up to town in the mern
ing.”
Two days later Robert Harbut, with his
two clients, arrived at Folkestone, and at
once proceeded to the parisli church. They
had no difficulty in finding tbe residence
of the clerk; ho was a man of about 35 years
old.
Mr. Harbut said:
‘‘l want to search the register for a record
of marriage."
“Very well, sir,” the man said, taking
down a key, “the registers are in a safe in
the vestry. What year was it inf’
“Somewhere about the end of 1849, I be
lieve. Was your present vicar here at that
time?”
“Oh, no, sir; he has only been here seven
or eight years, tho old vicar died in 1859. Ho
and my father, who was clerk before mo,
died within throe days of each other. There,
sir, these are the registers; let me see, 1849.
Yes, they end with this vulume, the next
begins 1850.”
The marriage should have taken plaoe on
Nov. 21, for that was the date of the post
mark of the Folkestone letter and Robert
Harbut ran his eye rapidly down the en
tries.
“It is not there,” be said, in a tone of
great disappointment, “there is no entry
between the 12th and 20tb. There are five
marriages between the Ist and 12tb, and two
at the end of the month, that is curious,
too. He took up the book by both sides aud
bent them back. "There has been foul
play here,” be said, “It locks us if a page
has been out out. There is the edge of it.”
“So it Is,” tbe clerk said, examining the
book, “sure enough a leaf has been cut out
there, that is very extraordinary, 1 never
noticed it before."
“You would not have noticed it unless
your attention bad been called to it by au
eulry on that page being asked tor. This is
I most unfortunate. Is there anv one alive
who would have beeu hkelv to tie prreent at
weddings about that timer’
"I don’t think so,” the clerk said, “beyond
the vicar and my father aud the pew
opener, and of course the friends of the
married couple, no one would be likely to lie
there, uuioss the parties were known about
here. The ; opener who was here then
died fifteen or sixteen years ago.”
“Well, I think, at any rate,” RobertJHar
but said, “you had bet-er come across with
me at once with this book to the rector
that he may see that this leaf has been cut
out. It is a very serious business, most
serious. Will you Slav iu the churchyard,
Miss Corbyn, until I return. There will be
no occasion fer you to oome in with me.”
Not a word was spoken between Con
stance and Annette Duport until Rotiert
Harbut returned. Constance looked at him
inquiringly; he shrugged his shoulders.
‘•The vicar is greatly distressed and an
noyed. It is of course entirely new to him.
He says that no doubt it took plaoe long be
fore his time, but of course that may or
may not be. You see there were in that
book two weddings on the page, and I can
not say with auv certainty whether
it was abstracted by somebody
desirious of destroying the record of
the other marriage. At any rate I
am afraid for the present we are completely
stumped. 1 mean,” ho went on, iu answer
to Constance’s look of interrogation, “that
we are for the present brought to a full stop
by an impassable obstacle.”
“But is there no other way, Mr. Harbut?
We have been so wonderfully successful up
to now. Surely we cannot bo altogether
defeated by the lots of this register; there
must be some other way of proving the
marriage. ”
“No doubt, no doubt," Robert Harbut
agreed, speaking in a hopeful tone, it is only
that wo are brought up so suddenly on this
Particular line. We followed the scent
otly, and have met with, what thoy call iu
hunting, a cheek, aud then the only thing is
to make a cast In a fresh direction until we
get on the scent again. At present the re
sult is so unexpected, and I confess that the
disappointment is ho keen that one cannot
pull oneself together all at once. But when
we have time to think the mattei* over
again some fresh light may occur pi us.”
“I think you only say so, Mr. Harbut,”
Constance said, quietly, “to relieve ray dis
appointment; but I always like to kuow the
truth, anil would rather that you told me
frankly if you thought that all was lost."
“Indeed, I do not think so, Miss Corbyn.
I do not disguise from you that the abstrac
tion of this leaf from the register onorm
ously adds to our difficulties, and that at
present I do not in the slightest degree see iu
what direction we must search for collateral
evidence of the marriage. Still you see
things tiave up till now presented them
selves in a most unexpected way. and we
have succeeded in a marvelous manner in
ascertaining a number of particulars. We
have learnt your mother’s birthplace and
parentage, have received the clergyman’s
testimony as to her character, and your
grandfather’s last letter to hor and her let
ters to him. We caunot absolutely say that
wo have disooverei for certain that they
married in this town, for whatever our
ideas on the subject may be, there is no
shadow of proof that the missing page con
tained the register of that marriage. We
have assumed that it took place here, but
your mother’s letter did not say that it did
so; all that wo know is that tile letter was
posted here, but they may have been mar
r ed in London before leaving town, or at
Canterbury or some other place on the
road. We may have to grope in the dark
for a bit, but I trust that wo 'nay come
across a clew again. Yon see, Miss Cor
byn, I have engaged iu this matter ns a
sort of amateur private detective, and con
sider that my honor is at stake in ferret
ing out the matter if it be possible to do
so.”
“You are very kind and good,” Con
stance said, gratefully. "I suppose we may
as well go back to to wn at onco; it will bo
of no use searching the registers at other
churches, I suppose.”
“I should hardly think so,” he said, “it
was sure to have been the Parish Church if
anywhere, at least 1 should think so; how
ever, it is of no use throwing away a
chance, and now we are here it D better to
decide the question. I will invest at once in
a sixpenny guidebook,” and ho ran into a
stationer’s shop.
“Now, here are the churches aud the
dates of their building. You see there was
only one other at the time. It is not worth
while for you to trouble about it. I will go
and havo a look at the registers.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Experiments to Find “Mrs. Astor.”
From the Philadelphia Press.
John Eglantine, having noticed with in
terest the controversy as to which member
of the New York family is entitled to be
called “Mrs. Astor,” and having read the
statement of Postmaster Van Cott that
any letter received at tho New York Post
Office directed to “Mrs. Astor” would he
■seut to tbe Dead Letter Office on July 31,
mailed four letters directed to that estima
ble lady of uncertain identity. Hu enclosed
one letter in a Colonnade Hotel envelope to
“Mrs. Astor, Newport, R. L,” registering it
as well as another in a similar envelope
bearing the same name, but with New
Yoi k city as tho point of destination. The
other two communications addressed by Mr.
Eglantine to “Mrs. Astor" were in hotel en
velopes, one being directed to Newport and
the other to Now York.
Several days after Mr. Eglantine received
the registry return receipt from New York,
“Mrs. Astor” having signed it. This is the
only indication he has had su far of the dispo
sition by the postoffice authorities of his four
letters to Mrs. Astor, but he assured a re
porter yesterday that the return of the re
ceipt was pro it [xjsitive to him that any let
ter addressed to “Mrs. Astor” in New York
would be delivered to someone of the
ladies bearing the name, though which one
he could not specify. Mr. Eglantine says his
experiencs has satisfied him that Postmaster
Van Cott will not put his threat to send any
letters directed to plain Mrs. Astor to the
dead letter office into practice.
Who Mrs. Astor is is as yet unknown, but
the New York postoffieo authorities are able
to deliver letters to some lady who is willing
to be responsible for resigning hor name
that way. Which Mrs. Astor Is it?
Ministerial Hospitality.
A Clergyman in the Chicago Advance.
Clerical hospitality Is declining. The minis
ter’s bouse is no longer the stopping place
of all ministers who pass his way. Possibly
the change to both host and guest Is In some
respects desirable, yet in otner respects it is
undesirable. The virtue of bospiiaiity may
sometimes be a hard drain upon the narrow
larder of the parsonage, but it does tend to
promote that hearty fellowship which min
isters need and which they are glad to give
and receive. Every one iu Massachusetts
knows the Rev. Daniel Butler, tbe agent of
tho Massachusetts Bible B>jciety, a man
with such a reputation for wit that it must
indeed be no small strain even for one who
has mj much ability to sustaiu tbe reputa
tion Mr. Butler tells me that fifty Vears
ago there was hardly a parsonage in Mass a
ohueetta that he would uot feel rree to eater
as an invited guest, but that now there is
hardly a pareoLutge into which he would
feel free to go without a special invitation.
I c/iif' -s that I rather mourn the old days
of clerical tiMpltAUtj.
THE NEW LONit BRANCH.
NOT 80 GRAND A8 THE LONG
BRANCH OP OLD.
•
Everythin* Left to the Cows Between
Monmouth Beach and West End.
The Fashionable Set at Elberon—The
Old Lon* Branch is But a Memory.
(Copyrighted.)
Lono Branch, N. J., Aug. 16.—Long
Branch comes in sections this summer. Tbe
olii Br inch that our fattier* and fore-father*
knew so well, mid which was the national
summer capital when Graut was President
and sojourned here, is only a relic. It live*
in memory and must be observed through
recollection. Tbe Long Branch of
to-day stretches up and down tbe
coast for several mile*. That which
formerly constituted the resort of
fashion and frivolity consists now of a
broken bluff, a shattered boulevard and a
lot of unoccupied cottage*, with broken
fences and the remnants of lawns ou which
vagrant cows graze. In the midst of this
desolation, in painful loneliness, stand sev
eral hostelries that a score of years ago
counted on their registers the names of tbe
nation’s celebrities and of society's favor
ite <l.
To-day one must go up to Monmouth
Beach or down to tbe W est End, Holly
wood or Ellieron to ascertain just what tbe
modern Long Branch is. By shutting your
eyes to the bleak hill that intervenes be
tween Monmouth on tho north and the
West End on the south, you got a good
glimpse of the successor to the ancient capi
tal and learn wnat tho celebrities In society,
finance and politics are doing in theso more
modern times. Tnere is no mistaking the
beauty, natural and artificial, human
and rural, that pervade the territory
embraced by the Wost End and Elberon.
Here are tbe cottages where wealth and
fashion pass the heated term. On the
piazzas of the West End, Hollywood and
Elberon hotels gather the legitimate sue
ce*sors of tue generation that made tbe
original l,ong Branch famous. Yet it mu*t
be'adinitted that much is lacking. Just as
much money us ever is lost over roulette
and faro at Pnil Daly’s club house and just as
many people drive regularly to the Mo i
mouth Park race*. The cottages are even
more handsome than were those erstwhile
lined the old Ocean avenue, and luwu tennis
acts as a satisfactory substitute to tbe
played out croquet ground. But the glitter
and tbe glory of the equipages ami the
dress and Btyle of tbe occupants of the
turnouts that u ed to crowd the ocean drive
along the bluff every afternoon are goue.
There is no disguising that fact The old
viator at the Branch misses the excitement
that made one of the old-time afternoons a
picture of beauty, wealth and fashion.
And the former faces have likewise
departed. They are not dead, nud many of
them are just as pretty and piquant as ever,
but Newport. Ha atoga aud tbe Catskills
claim them, or if they do occasionally sniff
the salt air of the Jersey shore it is for
some point much farther down tbe coast.
Long Branch is no longer the summer
canter of fashion. The faithful chronicler
must print the cold fact, unpleasant as tbe
narration may ba, that the products of
Worth and Redforn and the results of tbe
skill of tbe English tailor are not to bo
fouud to any noticeable extent down here.
The young portion of society souk some
other sojourning place in order to exhibit
tho latest fads for which they are responsi
ble. The change may be accounted for in
several ways, but it is always a thankless
task to explain such transitions. The
wrecked avenue and broken bluff cut some
figure iu the calculation, but whatever the
causes are, the result is certain. Long
Branch has lost its popularity. Fashion and
frivolity have tuken other quarters.
Yet it must not be taken for granted that
there is nothing left. Tho new Long
Branch has a great deal to commend it*elf
to tho sensible seekor after recreation, oven
if society does not consider the swim to bo
in this vicinity. There is something de
cidedly substantial about Holly Wood and
Elberon, and the cottages wear a quiet air
of elegance that speak for themselves. The
cottager, as the successor to the summer
capital, cau produce a purse as plethoric
as any that Newport and Saratoga can turn
out, but ho prefers expending his overplus
of cash on extra |aks and gables and addi
tional trimmings to his cottage rathor than
upon gorgeous equipageß or dresses that
cost a fortune apiece. When one glances
at the seaside homos of George M. Pullman,
George W. Childs and Anthony J. Droxel,
be recognizes that some of the nation’s
men of fame and fortune still
congregate hereabouts. Philadelphia
predominates at the new Long
Branch, and the Quaker City never did set
itself up as a fashion plate or a carriage
exhibition. The very mention of the names,
in addition to those of Childs aud Drexel,
of Mayor Fitlor, Jam'* McMatio*, Thomas
McManee, Thomas McKean, Rudolph Ellis,
Alfred G. Baker and Thomas B. Wana
maker, bespeaks the flavor of the city that
William Penn established betwixt the l>el-
aware and Schuylkill rivers.
Of course there is fashion at the new
Branch. The substantial summer residents
represent the very best sooiely, Hebrew
and (inutile, in the cities from which they
come, even though they make mighty little
fuss over it. Tnere is nothing between this
substantial element, however, that adorns
itself elegantly but unobtrusively, aud the
loudly decked rowdies who frequent the
race tracks have a wardrobe most character
istically their own. There are diamonds
galore, but they glitter most conspicuously
on the shirt fronts of the gambler and on the
fingers of the women who dress in bo
close an imitation of masculine attire that
it requires study to discern whioh sex is
looming up before you. The semi-male
costume of the females are to be observed
as frequently here as at any of the large
resorts this season.
But there are a few noteworthy society
people—Robert L. Cutting of New York
probably comas as near falling heir to the
fame acquired of Berry Wail
aud Robert Hilliard as any
one. Ho appear* on the West Eail
piazza, as do some of his less celebrated
associates, in the various suits appropriate
to the various hours of the day. There are
light suits and belts at breakfast, lawn
tenuis blazers later on, blue cheviot outfits
at lunch, and the neat cutaway coat, the
variegated vest and the light mixed cloth
trousers at dinner. When there are hops the
proverbial dress suit with silk lupels is
worn. Then there is the Baroness Blanc,
who also is a guest at the West
Knd. She is fond of driving and
handles the reins while the old Baron sits
beside her and lifts his hat right and left as
he passes the carriiges that lino the Boule
vard to Elboron on the road to Ite<l Bank
on clear afternoons. The baroness dresses
all in white who i she drives, but in the
evenings she may be seen in the parlors iu
crea my costumes that are full dross, as
fasti fun considers drone* that are leant
around Che neck and a' the shoulders.
Perhaps at Elberou, Mrs Claus Hpreckels,
the wife of the sugar king, who has a fin •
cottage, mar be set down us the leader of
whatever fashion still cllngi to the plaoo.
Mr. Sprockets dresses very eb-gatiUy, but
she Is oeteituae by Miss Overs of Han rrau
cleno, who is her guest for the mmuuar.
Miss Overs is rtrj pretty, decidedly viva-
PAGES 9 TO 12.
: ciou* and i* a clever performer on tha
bap jo. Mhe handles tho reiu* with all tha
skill aud abandon of a western stage driver,
and liko Baroness Blanc, dresses all ia
j white while driving. Her costume#
are very numerous and very ex
| pensive. But they are stylish with*
I out being at all loud. Mrs. George W.
I Childs wears handsome dresses that have
that quiet air of elegance already referred
to. The pink costume she wears o’ morn
ings on the veranda attracts a good deal of
attention. Miss Florence Panooast, a
Philadelphia society bud, has a pretty girl
ish figure and dresses in extremely good
taste. Miss Parish of Now York, whose
parents rented the Sam Sloan cottage fur
the season, is also the possessor of an ele
gant wardrobe. She drives a gray and bay
before a graceful Viotoria nearly every
afternoon.
A paragraph is always in order about tho
prevailing bathing suit at Long Branch, as
any big seaside resort. Thi-re is no bathing
at the old Long Branch, because there is
no beach. Neptune surges right up to the
bluff and all the surf he carries dashes itself
into foam high up on the cliff. But at tha
West End and Elberon tbe bathing is un
usually good. Ti e popular bathing suit
that tho ladies wear is made of jersey cloth,
cut high iu the neok and with short sleeves.
Tho skirt Is short, and reaches a trifle be
low t e knees. Most of them are made of
blue cloth, with stockings to match. Bme
of the younger girls, who would rather get
lull 11C1 1 and take their chances of freckles,
have their bathing suits low m the neck.
It would be a serious blunder to end a
letter of a gossipy nature about Long
Branch, new and old, without referring to a
branon of society tnat has been ono of the
most prominent and permanent in its fidel
ity to tills resort. The theatrical profession
has formed a part and parcel of Long
Branch In all its stages of renown and de
cline for over a quarter of a century. No
other summer homo has harbored so many
of themeu and women whose lives are spent
in amusing aud e ter tabling the pub
lic. A list of the sojourners here
in tho years gone by would include
nearly every actor aud actress of noto since
tho close of the civil war. Many of them
have occupied cottages, and all of them
have been familiar figures on the drives aud
promenades. Lester Wnllack was one of
the Thespian pioneers of the Branch, and
his picturesque cottage, whioh he called
“The Hut,” still stands near the West End
hotel, half hidden by the trues, is an object
of lutorest because of the dramatic associa
tions that cluster around it.
Along with all the other phases of society
the theatrical profession has fallen off in its
patronage of this resort, but this year finds
a goodly number of footlight favorites so
journing here. Miss Julia Marlowe is ono
of tho observed of all observers. She has a
cottage here with her aunt, Mrs. Currier of
New York, aud tho young actress, whose
future is believed to be so bright, can he
seen on the drive daily. She is studying
hard but is growing stronger constantly
and developing into a haudsomo and finely
formed woman.
Neil Burgess and his family have a cot
tage at the upper end of the old Branch,
and Nellie McHenry and her husband, Nat
Saulsbury and Oliver Dowd Byron have
the cottages they have occupied for a num
ber of years. Mrs. Byron is asi tor of Ada
Rehan, tho star of Daly’s company, now
playing iu London.
The most interesting thatrical personality
at the Branch, however, is Maggie Mitchell.
She came here first about tho time Wallack
built his cottage and has never missed a
season. She is as small as ever, and her
age is telling ou her. But tho suit air and
her habit of taking tho part of a child in
“Fauchon the Cricket” for so long, keeps
her bright and livoly, and she flutters
around tho West End piazzas during tha
morning concerts wilh as much vivacity as
ever. Her grandaughter, Fauchon, always
accompanies her.
As for theatrical managers, they come
here iu such numbers that is is hard to keep
track of them. They have not deserted the
ancient resort and declare they never will,
although some of their cottage* stand in
tho almost deserted part of the Branch.
Tho most prominent of theso promoters of
public pleasures who long ago he ame
habitues of the place are R. M. Hooley of
Chicago, J. H. McVickor, the veteran west
ern manager and father-in-law of Edwia
Booth; W. H. Nixon of Philadelphia, John
A. Albaugb of Baltimore, Albert Hayman
of San Francisco, Frank Hunger of tha
Broadway theater. New York; Henry
Fronoh of the Grand Opera house, H. C.
Miller, owner of half a dozen theaters, and
Charles Krobman, who was so long asso
ciated with the Madison Hquaro theater in
New York.
Despite its damaged condition and tha
loss of so much of its old fashion and fame,
there is lots of life left in Long Branch yet,
Lawrence 8. Mott.
Uncle Billy Green's Stories of Lincoln.
“Uncle Billy” Green, says a special from
Tallula, 111., to tho Chicago News, is one of
the most interesting of the historical
characters of Illinois. He was borne in
Tennessee in 1812, In what was then Over
ton county. He came to Illinois In 1800
with his parents, who settled near old
Halem, iu (Menard) county. He met
Abraham Lincoln soon after that awkward
young man landed from the fiatboat which
floated down the Sangamon to Halem on the
high water following the doep snow” of
1831. He was intimately associated with
Linclon ever afterward. He says of him:
“I thought the first time I ever met Abe
Lincoln that he was the greatest man liv
ing, and 1 am thankful I lived long enough
to know 1 was right,”
He was Lincoln's partner in the grocery
at Halem, and at night, when customers
wore few, ho held the grammar while
Lincoln recited his lessons. To his sympa
thetic ear Lincoln told the story of bis love
for sweet Ann Rutiidge. He saw the happy
pair strolling througa tho woods about old
Halem, or boating on the river, or lingering
lyng over the bucket of water which Lin
coln drew from tho well for Ann. He offered
what comfort he could to his friend when
poor Auu died, aud Lincoln’s great heart
nearly broke.
“After Ann died," says Uncle Billy, “on
stormy nights when the wind blew the rain
against the roof, Abe would sot thar in the
grocery, his elb >ws on his knees, bis face in
his hands, an’ tears ruunin’ through his
Angers. I hated to see him look so bad, an’
I’d say. ‘Abe, don’t cry;’ an’ he’d look up an'
sav: ‘I can’t help it. Bill; the rams a failin’
on her.’ ”
Croon saw his friend rise in groatnasi and
favor with the people until he was elected
President of the nation. At Lincoln's first
inaugural banquet (ire in sat at, the table on
the President’s left, with the digmflol Sec
retary Seward on his right. Lincoln pre
sented the two men to each ether, saying
“Secretary Seward, this is Mr. Uroe iof
Illinois.” Seward l owed stifly, when Lin
coln exclaimed: “O. get up, Seward, and
shake hands with (irseo. He's the man
that taught me my grammar.”
A cmuocs and uusatls’aetory state of things'
has been brought about by recent changes m
the mail service in the northern part of Horn
enut county, Maine As the service 1* now
arrangd, any person at ths forks wishing in
send a letter to Jackman or Mooae river, twelve
or fifteen mfina away, must have It carried forty
miles by stag * and Ju t lilies by rad, so that it
traverses four optimise la ba roundabout joint
aey.
