The morning news. (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, February 01, 1891, Image 9

The morning news., February 01, 1891, Image 9

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Newspaper Page Textpart two. A FATAL PAST, By DORA RUSSELL author of “Footprints in the Snow,” "The Broken Seal,” The “Track or the Storii,” “A Bitter Etc., Etc. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. Chapters l and IL—Lieut. Francis Roche, roor and to a certain extent, dependent, re- Sive'sA mysterious communication by means ,fa Mr 'lwiss, an old lawyers clerk. The missive is handed to him in Twist’ rooms, and is ti the effect that he will in future receive yearly the sura of ±ISOO, that amount wring en dowed m bank notes. As he receives the letter h„ movements are watched by a lady *8 an inner apartment. After her departure Mrs. T*iss communicates to her hu-batul a story concerning the lady which she had no right to ~n all j Twiss considers how he can best make me’of the story for his own ad van'age. Lord and Lady Ennismore a few evenings afterward are in a box at the theater, and Roche and a friend of his, llr. Arthur Curzon, are introduced to them When Lord and lady Ennismore go home they take a look at their infant boy as he is sleeping in his cot. “God keep him. whia re-reJ the mother, little guessing of the sus pended sword which hung over the child 8 bright head. CHAPTER 111. AMONG THE HILLS. The next day Lord and Lady Ennismore left town and returned to Brackenford —to Brackenford, lying amid the wildest of the Northumbrian hills, whose gray, cold peaks stood up dark and sombre against the sky, and on -whoso rugged sides the purple heather grew thick and strong, and the red grouse throve and flourish. It was a wild spot to be the favorite home of a beautiful and admired woman like Lady Ennismore. Yet there was no place she liked so well. Here she had spent her early girlhood, and the fine bloom that yet lingered oa her smooth che9ks told of the healthful breezes forever stealing over these northern hills. The house at Brackenford had been built, as she had told Roche, by her father. Mr. Malden had been a very wealthy man of good family, but he had married a lady of lower social position that his own. To hide this (perhaps she imagined) from the worid, Mrs. Malden had been one of the proudest and haughtiest of women. She had one son and one daughter—this daugh ter now being Lady Ennismore. Lady En nismore nad married young—when she was about 18—and she had been married now for nearly nineteen years. Lord Ennis more had fallen in love with her, it was said, at a country hall; and it was said also that the proud mother had insisted on the match, and that Katherine Malden was not a very willing bride. However this might be at the time of her marriage, during the long years of her wedded life, Lady Ennismore had learned to love her husband with an abiding love. How could she, indeed, have lived with this man without loving him? Ha was so un selfish and generous that the heart must have been cold and hard that gave him no return for his warm and faithful affection. Loid Ennismore thought that there was not another woman in the world like his Katherine. He believed in her, admired her, and boasted of her, with unchanging fidelity. He was certainly one of the hap piest of men, proud of his wife and children —proudest, perhaps, of all of the beauti ful boy who was born to inherit his old name. And Lady Ennismore? She looked very happy, too. this handsome lady, whose life teemed to be so sheltered and secure. Yet at times there was a shadow on the thought ful face, and a sad look in the eyes that men called so beautiful. But she was gentle and pitiful, and maybe only the "sorrows of others” troubled her, for as far as the world could see she had neither care nor troubles of hdr own. She lived a very quiet life at Bracken ford. When she was in town she was one of the leaders of society, and a favored friend of some of the highest personages iu the land. But at Brackenford she rarely received guests, and lived in as simple a manner as it was possible for a woman of her rank to do. This was partly to please her husband, for Lord Ennismore, though a very genial man, hated all sorts of fash ionable entertainments. He was an enthu siastic sportsman, aud an enthusiastic far iner. At Brackenford he was in the midst of his red grouse and black game, of his fat cattle and black-faced sheep, and there fore he was happiest at Brackenford. It was indeed au agreement between the hus band and wife tbat thov were to leave the world behind them when they went to their wild home among the hills. They had a country place in Essex, and Lady Ennis more occasionally entertained her friends there, and during the season the house lu bresvenor place was frequently thrown ®P® n - Hut it was only very chosen friends inat Lady Ennismore invited to Bracken , ~ Lord Ennismore asked men there, as be had asked young Curzon and Roche, but ue only asked men who cared for sport, ms own place in Ireland (for he was an rish peer) he rarely visited. Sometimes he K.f.L - ov . er f°r snipe shooting and hunting, out bis heart was really in his English osne. Like his wife, he cared for no place u much as Brackenford, but Lady Ennis more was too much a woman of the world there ' 7 mlO P® r P®ttially bury himself D r U!t think of our girls,” she told end tbe boy.” i" ™ tor the sake of these girls and for ~t? ooy,” Lady Ennismore took her place n, w °Hd, and lived when she was in it thergieat ladies do. Her wealth and sairi Cy gave h Ol- consequence, and if it were that Lord Ennismore had cried beneath him, this was never said to Lady Ennismore. She was in -1 a favorite in society, and held her own with a smiling stately grace that it ii not to admire. - ,„ er Gldest daughter wa9 16, and her w ®*jest 12. These two girls and her boy ford j CoD,tant companions at Bracken ’ ® nrl she had also one great friend who 7® and Ver y frequently there. I)r„ j 8 Was 0 8 Helen Drummond. Miss , ”“ ODd lived iu Scotland with a rela- Wn h "F < t, a h° was a Miss Drummond, and en f ® tat her had been the vicar of Brack red 8 fh® old man died, and his unmar- went to live in Scotland, and chiM Drummond was her adopted con '. , d y Ennismore’s family bad, of tn-.-.J’ * now n the Drummond family for (ITj ~ y oar< - From her early childhood e ,, was now 18) Helen Drummond had w-f a nd, occ asionally at Brackenford. She hadv p ndsome ’ c * oVer Kin. and devoted to her‘.(.htmismore, who sincerely returned had i Y ot when Lord Ennismore w a7 . said to his Katherine in his kindly in t?^ Ue don’t you give Helen a season b;she’s handsome enough, by Jove.” She JHofninjj ffetotf. Lady Ennismore had nipped the project in the bud. “No, dear, it would notdo,” sheanswered, and she sighed, for she knew a great deal more about Helen Drummond’s history than her husband did. But though she would not give Helen a season in town, she was always very glad to have the girl at Brackenford. The elder Miss Drummond, who was a sad and quiet woman, seldom came, yet she and Lady En nismore corresponded ever since Helen could remember; almost ever since Lady Enmsmore’s own marriage; a year after which event hed occurred the melanoholy trazedy of her brother’s death. Norman Malden’s death was supposed to be ‘'accidental.’’ Suoh at least was the ver diot which was returned by the jury on the young man’s body, after he was found among the heather with a gunshot wound through his throat. He had gone out with out a keeper, and he uever returned. His gun had been caught by some twig, it was said, and the young owner of Brackenford had fallen and died without witness or help. Bo the jury decided, but there were ugly whispers in the sparsley peopled neighbor hood about the fate of Norman Malden. But nothing furthur was ever known. It, however, broke hi3 mother’s proud heart, and three months after they bad carred the young man stiff and cold back to bis home, Mrs. Maiden, stiff and cold also, was borne to the lonely churchyard among the hills, and left there to sleep by the side of her young son. Thus Lady Ennismore at once became possessor of Brackenford, and of tbe large fortune which had belonged to her father and brother. This, of course, placed her self and Lord Ennismore in a very different position. The poor Irish peer became a rich man, and the handsome Lady Ennismore au established beauty and favorite of so- ciety. Eighteen years had passed since then. Lady Ennismore was now in her 37th year, but was as handsome (some thought hand somer) than when as a girl-bride she had first been presented. Yet her daughter was growing up to womanhood, and the pretty, rosy child, Helen Drummond (who had stayed oc< asionally with her through all these years at Brackenford), already was a woman. Helen was staying at Brackenford when Lord and Lady'Ennismore had made the acquaintance of Francis Roche in the Lon don theater. She was staying there when they returned, and she ran down with their own two daughters to receive them, and came in for her share of tender kisses and presents almost equally with the other girls. CHAPTER IV. HELLEN DRUMMOND. The next few days passed away very quietly aud pleasantly at Brackenford. It was tine weather in the early part of No vember,*- aud my lord spent most of his time out on the misty hills, or in solemn conclave with his steward about the relative merits of his home-bred stock; while my lady and Helen Drummond amused them selves at home. Hut no one was ever dull with Lady En nismore. Her charming manner, her tact, and her rare mental gifts were exerted as freely to please this young girl as they would have been in a London drawing room. . “Helen is growing very handsome,” she said to her husband one morning after their return. “Remarkably fine girl!” answered mv lord in his jovial way. “You must be look ing out for a good husband for her, Katie.” Lady Ennismore answered with a sigh: "Good husbands are not so easily got, my dear,” she said. Lord Ennismore laughed. “That's ungrateful, Katie, when you’ve got suoh a pattern one,” he said. "I have been very lucky,” replied Lady Enuismore, quietly, and sbe put her hand softly into her husband’s big, strong palm, who kissed her sweet face as warmly as he had kissed it eighteen years ago. “Talking of luck,” he said, “I’m the luckiest fellow in the world. But, Katie, I forgot to tell you,” he continued, "I had a letter this morning from Arthur Curzon, and he and that other young fellow we saw at the Gaiety are coming here to-morrow. D’ye know, 1 forgot all about them—but I’m awfully glad to have Arthur Curzon— and the other young fellow, too —what was bis name? I forget.” “It was Roche, I think," answered Lady Ennismore, and the bloomed deepened on her cheeks as sbe spoke. “To be sure—yes, it was Roche. Well, they’ll help to amuse you and Helen.” I lady Ennismore did not speak. Then after a moment’s silence she asked quiety at what time the young men would arrive at Brackenford, and my lord got out his guide book and began scanning the trains that ran between Lynewood and Mortonbury, which was the railway station nearest to Brackenford. After he bad found out all about the trains. Lord Ennismore started on his usual morning inspection of his fat cattle. He had the greatest interest in these overfed creatures, aud would gaze at them with un failing admiration. Lady Ennismore some times went with him to see them, and no thing gratified him so much as when she did this, for we may be sure s .e admired them when she knew bow much it would please him. But she did not go this morning. She went to her bedroom after her husband had left her, and having unlocked a desk in which there was a secret drawer, she drew out a slightly soiled glove, aud looked at it very tenderly. "Poor fellow,” she half whispered, and then she kissed tbe glove, and carried it in her band to the window, where she stood for a long while looking out silently at the misty hills. Tbe shaaow which sometimes passed over her face was there when sbe turned away. She had been thinking of the past; thinking of the days when she had been Katherine Malden, and when a groat sorrow hail come to her. Long years had passed since then—sbe had been almost a child then—yet the memory of these days could never fade. Athwart her path their shadows still fell, though to all seeming that path was now so fair aud smooth. ***** * * While the soiled glove was yet la her hand a rap cams to the door of the room, and a moment later the bright, sunny young face of Helen Drummond appeared. There was a joyousness about this girl which was almost infeotious. Slim and lithe of form, her face was charming with youth, health and good nature. "Lady Ennismore,” she said, “may Judy and I ride into Mortonbury F’ “Yes, dear," answered Lady Ennismore, “but you must take Cox with you—and SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1891. perhaps you bad better ask Miss Sinclair to go also.’’ Miss Sinclair was the governess and Cox the head groom at Brackenford. The young girl good-naturedly shrugged her shoulders at Lady Enuismore’s sugges tion. “Ohl Miss Sinclair is such a bother!” she said. "She can’t ride, and she w alks so slowly, and really no’bing can bappou—l’m sure we don’t want Cox, either.” “My dear, consider propriety!” said Lady Ennismorre. smiling. "But there’s no one to see propriety,” laughed Helen. ‘‘No one but the grouse and the blackcocks. Just for once let us leave propriety behind.” Lady Ennismore shook her head. “What do you want in Mortonbury?’ she asked. “Shoestrings,” answered Helen, "blue shoestrings to wear to my blue stockings! You see, Lady Ennismore, 1 want to look very smart—as Mr. Curzon and Mr. Roche are coming!” “Mr. Curzon —and Mr. Roche?” repeated Lady Ennismore. “My dear, who told you Mr. Curzon and Mr. Roche were com ing?” “Lord Ennismore,” said Helen with her frank, glad laugh. “I met my lord half au hour ago, on his road to admire his fat ani mals, aud he stopped to tell me that two handsome young men were ooming to-day, so I instantly was struck with the idea of possessing the blue shoestrings, and 1 per suaded Judy to ride with me to Mortonbury —that is, if you will give us leave to go?” For a moment Lady Ennismore looked grave. “My dear.” she said, gently, “do not put nonsense into Julia’s head about young men. She’s too young—and you are too young, Helen—to think of them.” Helen gave a comical look with her bright eyes, and a little shrug of her pretty shoulders. “I am 18,” she said. Lady Ennismore suppressed a sigh, and then she smiled kindly and laid her hand on the youug girl’s. “Eighteen—quite an old woman, Helen 1” she said. She was thinking of the days when she was 18—of the days when she waa a girl wife —perhaps even of days which had pro ceeded her 18th year. "As I’m an old woman then,” said Helen, brightly, “may I act propriety to Julia this morning, aud dispeuse with Miss Sin clair ?’ “Very wall,” smiled Lady Ennismore, “but not without Cox, please, Helen. It’s not safe for girls to ride alone, so take him with you.” “Yes,” answered Helen, and then she went up to Lady Ennismore, and kissed her cheek. "Kiss mo, please,” she said, in her pretty way. “Kiss Madame Propriety.” “You foolish child.” said Lady Ennis more, giving Helen a little playful shake. ‘But,” sbe added more seriously, “take oare of the child, Helen—of Julia.” “Of course,” replied Helen, and ten min utes later the Hon. Julia Bingham, Lord Ennismore’B eldest daughter, and Miss Helen Drummond were ridiDg along the narrow winding pathways of the heather clad hills which entirely surrounded the house at Brackenford. Let us watch the two young girls for a moment, mounted on their handsomb dun ponies. The chill, misty air of November had deepened the bloom on Helen Drum mond’s smooth, riffsad oheeks, and these two girls made a pretty pair. Julia Bingham was the prettiest, Derhaos the fairest, and with the most regular features, but she was not so handsomo as Helen Drummond, This girl was a type of bright young wom anhood. Her frank eyes met yours with out fear, and you saw at a glance she was pure of soul and free of care. There was no shadow on her face, for in the past only lay her childhood’s years. “Your mother was so amused, Judy, about the blue shoestrings,” she was saying, "i think she thought I was joking. 1 won der if there is a bit of blue ribbon to be had iu Mortonbury?” “Oh, I should think so, but, of course, it will be oommon,” answered Julia. Julia was quite different iu her manner to Helen, though they were constantly to gether. There was a touch of shyness, per haps of pride, about Julia. Mias Sinclair, ber governess, w ho considered herself ala ly of good family, had somehow impressed her young pupil with the idea that she had a lofty position in the worid. But, on the other band, her homely father and her charming mother always discouraged pride or vanity of any kind. But Julia’s failing was perhaps rather a shy sensitiveness than pride. But this made her seem more reserved and colder than her friend Helen. But the girls were foud of each other. Their little disagreements were only very slight and brief, and the stronger minded Helen influenced Julia in almost everything. Along the uneven country roads they went laughing and talking. Helen sat on her pony erect and strong, while Julia’s slender form had a slight droop in it —a faint indication that the young girl was not gifted with a very robust constitution. But She was very pretty. The color came and went in her delicate skiu, and she had in herited her father’s Irish blue eyes. As they rode into tbe little primitive town, or rather village of Mortonbury, every one they met, of course, turned round to look at them. Two pretty young ladies, mountod ou two handsome dun po nies, were not to be seen every day. Indeed, very little was to be seen. Tho great hills, grand and beautiful at one side of the vil lage (beyond which lay Brackenford) were the one feature of Mmtonbury worth look ing at. All the rest was oommon place and uninteresting, unless you chanced to be an inhabitant of the place, when no doubt small interests, perhaps large ones, would become connected with it. But to a stranger there was nothing to see and nothing to do. You could go away amoug the hills, to be sure, and watch the sunset on their bare peaks and heathery sides, and if you got leave from Lord Ennis more you could fish in tbe winding stream that crept sluggishly on ordinary occasions through the town, bat which sometimes flooded the low-lying meadows near, and swept sheep and cornricks away in the swollen waters from tho hills. These periodical floods made a little ex citement in Mortonbury. The inhabitants stood on the bridge, and contemplatively looked at the stream, and talked of the last flood, and how high it rose. There was nothing else to talk about. The struggle and stir of life, the rumors of wars, and the fall of cabinets, made no differenc3 to Mor tonbury. Tbe people lived, however, to a great age, for there was nothing to hurry them into their graves. The old women had cheeks like autumn pippins, and the young woman were robust aud wholesome, if not particularly handsome. The men drank a great deal of whisky, but the hill air seemed to destroy its ill effects. At all events no one thought of dying, but very old people indeed, and a funeral was quite an oveut in the town. There was a draper’s shop, a butcher's shop, and two taverns in the main street. The housewives were standing before the butchers, the idlers before the taverns. Both housewives and idiers turned remind to look at the party from Brackenford. “That pretty lass is Lord Ennismore’s daughter, isn’t she?’ said one of the hoase wives to the other. “Ay—l mind her mother, Mias Katherine Malden, prettier than sbe is! 1 hat's eighteen years and more ago now though, and they said her mother, old Mrs. Malden, of the Hab, had trouble, both with her daughter and her son. I mind tbe poor lad’s death too — young Malden—my po >r man was one of the jury that sat upon him after they found him lyiug dead among tbe hills." “There were queer stories about that, wasn’t there?’ sail the other. “Ay,” answered the first; “some said he was shot there for his sin; others that his gun caught in some twig. However, there he lay—a great wound in his throat, my poor man said—and his mother never lifted cer bead from that day. I mind her well; she was a noble-looking woman, but not sweet-spoken like Lady Ennismore." “Well, these great folks have troubles as well as us, it seems,” a.id the other woman, and the idea was no doubt cousol ing. The idlers before the taverns were also making their comments ou Lord Ennis more's family, but principally about hil dun ponies. “I have it from Cox himself that his lordship gave three hundred guineas for the pair,” said one man. "They’re not worth it,” said another. “That may be your opinion, but it wasn’t his,” replied the first man, snappishly, for he had had just enough whisky to make him disagreeable. "However, it doesn’t matter any one’s opinions—he gave the money—that’s what I know.” “Very well, he got young Malden’s to give them," said the otner man. “He was poor enough himself, I’m told. Lord Ennis more, with haidly a sixpence to bless him self with. But the poor young fellow who was shot on the hills left a great fortune. I’m told Lady Ennismore came in to be tween thirty and forty thousand a yoar. It wns a lucky shot for Lord Ennismore. Whoever fired it?’ “Yes,” said the man who had had enough whisky, “whoever fired it? Uan you tell me that, sir? Can you explain bettor than tho jury who sat on the young man's body explained? They said a twig fired it. Perhaps you have some private informa tion?’ “I only know what folks said,” answered the mau who was sober. “What folks said?” rotorted the other. “Yes, folks say a great many things, but I go by faots—the jury went by facts—the Jury said it was a twig—l say it was a twig." . “ Well, let it be a twig, then," said the sober man. and he strolled away, and went to have a word with Cox, who was holding the heads of tho dun ponies from Bracken- 1 ford, t efore the draper’s door. Cox was the head groom, and Cox was well known in Mortonbury. He was a sour man this, a widower, but whether soured by his late wile, or by having lost her, was not generally known. But Cox was known to be a sour man, and a close one also, but he was respected in Mortonbury, for ho bad saved money, and bought two houses there, and was therefore regarded with respect in the place. “Well, Cox,” said the sober man from the tavern, "so you’ve come In with the young ladies this morning? And how is my lord? Looking after his prize beasts os usual, eh?’ “As usual," answered Cox. “He’s a great farmer,” said the man with a sort of laugh. “He thinks so,” replied Cox; but before any furthur conversation could be carried on about “ray lord” tho two young ladies oame out of the draper’s shop. “Cox,” said Helen Drummond, “isn’t there a irain comes in at 12 o’clock?" "Yes, miss, I think so,” answered Cox, touching his hat. “I told you so, Judy,” said Helen, now turning to Julia Biugham. “Do lot us ride up to tbe station. There can be no harm in that surely,” she added, iu a lower tone. “Perhaps my mother " hesitated Julia. “Nonsense,” said Helen, "what harm can there be? No one will gat out. I day say,” she continued, with a little shrug, and if anvone does—writ, so much the better.” Julia laughed, aud showed her small, white teeth. “What matter could it make to us?” she said. “Give us something to talk about,” an wered Helen, also with a little laugh. “Come along, my doar, there is no saying, we may chance to see some adventurous person who bos a fancy to come and be buried hero." The two girls rode on, with Cox behind them. Cox looked at his sober fneud, aud shruggod his shoulders slightly as he did so, to denote that he considered tbe idea of rid ing up to the station to see the train oorne in, very absurd. Cox, Indeed, was one of those people who are very apt to consider their own ideas wise and other people's foolish. But he, of course, followed his young ladies to the station. The station was a lit tle way out of the town, and like the town, of an extremely primitive description. Tbe girls got off tboir ponies and went on the platform with the air of business. "Let us look as if we expected someone,” said Helen. They accordingly stood quite boldly, and watebod the train come puffing into the station. The train oame in, and half a dozon pas sengers gout out of it. Four of the half dozen looked as if they belonged to Morton bury. They had the moss-grown and un disturbed air peculiar to the place. The other two were tall, g'>od-loolcing young men—they were, in fact, Francis Roche and Walter Curzon, of the 107th Regiment, and they had arrived at Mortonbury on their road to Brackenford. The two young men looked at the two pretty girls, but the two pretty girls appar ently did not notice the young men. Francis Roche, glancing from Helen Drummoud'a blooming, healthful face to Julia Bingham’s lovely one, was wondering if many such hedge roses were to be found in the neighborhood; while Walter Curzon, looking at the girls also, was thinking vaguely where he had seen Julia’s face be fore. The next minute Roohe addressed tho por ter at the station, and Helen heard what he said. “Is there a trap of any sort to be bad in the village?” he asked. "Wo want to go to Brackeuford, Lord Eanismore’s placa.” The porter touched his cap. "There is a kind of a trap, sir,” he said, “at the Red Lion, but Lord Ennismore’s servant is outside the statiou, and perhaps my lord has sent a carnage for you. Cox will he able to tell you—he’s head groom at Brackenford.” “Thank you,” said Roohe, in reply, and he put some money in tbe man’s hand, and followed by Curzon left the platform and went through tbe station to speak to the head groom from Lord Ennismore’s. Then the girls glanced at each other. “Helen,” whispered Julia, “i remember one of the e gentlemen,-Walter Curzon, he stayed with us two years ago in Essex. I remember him—of course i was not grown up then, but we thought him very nice.” “They both look very nice,” decided Helen. “We may as well inountagain now, I think, Judy.” And slim and liths, her blue habit drawn over her arm, Helen also walked through the station, and as she ex pected, outside she found Francis Roche and Walter Curzon talking to Cox. As soon as tbe two girls appeared, Walter Curzon advanced to them smiling and hold ing out his hand. “I thought I could not be mistaken,” he said, addressing July. “My old friend Judy is indeed transformed into a grown up young lady, but still I remember the face. Do you remember me?' he continued, “I am Walter Curz n, your old play-fellow. I hope dear little Punch is well also?” Julia Biugham blushed all over her deli- I cate skin. “I—i—thought I recollected you," she ' said. “Helen—this is Mr. Curzon—l knew j him long ago, and he always called Maud anil myself Punch and Judy,” Aud the young girl laughed. “They still keep their namos, Mr. Curzon,” said Helen Drummond in her frank way. “X always call Judy hero Judy, and Maud is Punch to every one, I think, but Lady Ennismore and Miss Sinclair." “Miss Sinclair is the handsome governess, isn’t she?” said Curzon. "She may have been handsome," answered Helen, with the condescension with which the very young speak of the personal attractions of those who have lived a little longer in the world. "May have been 1” echoed Curzon with a laugh. “I assure you I thought her very handsome two years ago. But—l beg your pardon —I forgot the two years—Miss Bing ham, allow me to present to you my friend, Mr. Roche. We are on our road to Bracken ford, aud your servant here tells us that Lord Enuismore did not expect us until tho afternoon train. Perhaps you will allow us to walk so far with you across the hills? I never was at Brackenford. you know, and we might lose our way.” And again Curxon laughed. “My father will be so sorry," hesitated Julia. “Of course, you can walk with us,” said Helen. “How lucky it was we came up to the station—we rather expected something by the train." “How lucky for us, indeed?” said Curzon. “I hope what you oame to look for has arrived safely?” Julia blushed painfully at this question, which was made in all good faith by the young man. But Helen answered him with an arch bright laugh. “No, indeed,” she said, “our expectations have been disappointed; but (and she gave a pretty little shrug) we must e’en try to bear it.” “At all events, we have been the gainers," said Roohe gallantly- and he looked at Helen with his bright dark eyes. Five minutes later Roche vva9 walking by the side of Helen’s pony, through the town of Mortonbury. The gossips looked after them, speculating aud talking; looked after them as they quitted the town and began to ascend the winding paths toward Brack enford. But the four young people never noticed the gossips. They were at that happy ago when enjoyment it so easily at tainable. The future was before them, aud the past cast uo shadows across It. Francis Roche was thinking what a charming, hand some girl Miss Drummond was, ana Helen was chinking that it was very agreeable to have a good-looking young mau to talk to. Unconscious of any coming trouble they rode on. They woro young, they were happy, and yet an evil fate walked behlud them and followed them unseen over the misty hills. Suddenly Helen’s glad voice stopped in the middle of a sentence, and an exclama tion escaped from her pretty lips. “What’s tho matter?” asked Roohe. “Look,” said Helen, pointing with her riding whip to a figure now visible in the distance, “do you see that lady aud two obildren just at the turn of tne path there? That is Lady Ennismore and Punch and Pat—perhaps she will soold us for having made your aoqualntance.” “But Curzon is an old friend of Miss Bingham’s, you know," answered Roohe, smiling. “To be sure. I forgot that 1” said Helen, “Besides, lsdy Ennismore never scolds us. She is tho dearest woman In the whole world I” “That is great praise,” answered Roche, “but Icanalmoit believe it to be true. I have seen Lady Ennismore and admire her immensely." “Every one must admire her,” said Rolen, with enthusiasm. “She is good, she is beautiful; a sweeter woman never lived than Lady Ennismore.” In the meanwhile the woman Helen Drummond called so good and beautiful had in her turn recognized the figures approach ing her. And rs sbe did so she became visi bly aud painfully agitated. Her color came and went, her lips quivered, and with great difficulty she at last mastered some almost overpowering emotion, before she met Helen and Roche, who were in advance of the others. (TO BE CONTINUED.) A TEXAB ID YU Wrinkle In Maverick Branding That Made Trouble. Red Blanket, Uvalde County, Texas, Jaffi 29.—1n my journeyings up and down this groat empire of a state, during my sojournings at its frontier towns or lonoly and remote ranches, always seeking, con sciously or unconsciously, for the typical and characteristic. I have met with some tragedies, some curious aud pnthetio life histories and a great many funny and exciting adventures incident to far western life. But my latest experience is to bo caught in the delicate filaments of a Texas idyl, enmeshed aud, as it were, foroihly detained, in tbe character of ohorus—or, more offen sively, gooseberry. However, I did not mind the position, and I like the little story. To me it breathes of the great prairies, rushing winds, vast herds and flocks, stirring rides, hearty laughter, and ail the breezy moving life that I love so much. I hoard of my heroine long before I saw her, as undisputed belle of the whole Dry Fork country, where she held regal state, like the cruel princess iu the fairy tale, send ing away suitor after suitor, and champion after champion despoiled, not of his head, but his heart, and with several inches taken off the stature of his conceit. Tho family name was Drake; Teenio was affectionately known among her admirers as “the duck;” the ranch was the "duck pond,” and whenever another unfortunate went down to worship at her shrine he was facetiously referred to as having gone duok hunting. She was, ns a rule, engaged to three or four of the best-looking aud most promising young sheepmen of tbe region, and carried things in general with a high nand. All this had predisposed me to think slightly of the girl as a poor, shallow creature, trifling with aud rejecting men who wer6 too good for her, only to gratify her vanity and love of conquest. But perhaps the thing that prejudiced me most against her was ner failure to fall a victim to the charms of Johnnie Sherwood. Johnnie and I are great friends. I met him at balls, where he was tbe best dancer, at roundups, wnere he was the finest rider, aud he camped with our party many a night. A handsome, black-eyed boy of 24, just six feet, with flue square shoulders and well knit figure,beautiful 'lack hair .curling flat against his round, comely head, glowing eyes, a satiny cheek, fresh and warm; a nice, well out chin, with a dimple set a little to one side of it; a good mouth, with a youthful mustache above it, and the finest white teeth possible. Face and figure were quite handsome or dinarily; but when the eyes shone the dim ple deepened and the white teeth flashed in the bubbling, mellow, spontaneous laugh that came so naturally from the fine deep chest, you hastily laid. aside all judgment and surrendered yoar heart. A I never heard so captivating a lalgb. There was virtue, there we* piety In it. It wo* sweeter t:\an reason, better then wisdom. You felt a sente of personal and affectionate gratitude to him. as though he had made you a special gift of it. And those two were sweetheart* once; in deed. Johnute had been engaged to Teenie. “all by himself,” when no one else was and the matter was regarded as quite serious. There was, as might have been expected between two such heart breakers, a smash; mutual recriminations were indulged in. At the hottest of the quarrel, smarting be neath a sense of injustice, tingling at re membrance of the affronts she had nut upon him, Johnnie came one day upon a maver ick, an 1 made so innocent a thing as a year ling calf the vehicle of ills resentment. It was a delicate bit of cowboy repartee, an example of purs Texas wit, to catch it un, brand it all over its helpless bovine side in great sprawling letter*— DUCK When the capering bon mot presented it self before Teenie’s indignant eves she waxed very wroth indeed, and told her big brothers; but, ou their ready offer to “wipe ud the ground” with the author, she weak ened, and udvisod the whole family that they treat him with silent contempt—whioh thev were doing whea I went thero. When 1 oame to srnd a week at the Three Cedars ranch and see her dally with her mother and her little brothers and sis ters, I found her quite different from what I had imagined, and was constrained to like the girl despite my disapproval of some of her methods. She was a good daughter, a kind sister, and the blithest, most irrepres sibly joyous creature, with a frank, engag ing boyishness of manner that I never found in any other girl; and I soon came to the conclusion that if sho was vain and tickle it was the fault .of the foolish men who bung about her and ministered to her vanity. Hho rode finely, and was as passionately fond of it a* I. She appeared unaware of the six or eight years difference in our ages, the wide dis similarity of our history, training, environ ments and probable aims and ambitious, and made of me a regular ohum and oonfl dance, seaming to think it no fault of mine that I had been city born and brad; that at heart, and givsn a fair show, I was ‘ 'as good a man” as herself. 1 used to talk to Teenie a good deal about Johnnie, dwelling warmly on his good qual ities and his winning ways. Hbe was always ready argue with me on the subject, professlug to find him the most hideous aud disagreeable of mortals. When 1 ceased she would go on at acme length herself, applying to him all her small feminine epitheta of derogation, sneering especially at his conceit. Perhaps a mere masculine bat might have been deceived by the apnearauoe of frank sincerity with which, site “slanged” him, but, ns Sister Peacock says, I am a female myself, and will at the proper time, ac knowledge it; and it convinced me—if it convinced me of anything—that Teenie was no more indifferent to Johnnie than he was to her: that indeed, she carried as sore a heart as he did. “Let’s go and get some of those rosurrec tion plants you want. Miss Alice,” she said to me one day. “I know where it, grows by the bushel, over on the Esoondido Arroyo, near the Pecos.” Two of her slaves were about the house at the time. They Immediately rushed out, soddlod our ponies, and humbly peti tioned to l>e allowed to “go along;” but she refused with tbs utmost asperity, and we went alone. “I just despise ’em all sometimes,’’.said she, as we cantered westward. “I like to play ’em awhile just for fun, but when they get so they hung around all the time there’s no more fun in ’em. Now aint this a heap nicer, just us girls, than to have a lot of fool follows togglu’ along in the way P’ I assured her it was, and we rode ahead, whistling and slngiug by turns, for very lightness of heart. She began whistling an air and I struck in with the alto. Hbe stopped, dissatisfied with my performance, “No, you lead. I’ll trail,” and when I took the air she made of it a mere frame, upon which she hung and draped the most beautiful and fanciful minor accompaniment, then turned to mo and said: “Pretty, aiu’t itl I wouldn’t have a fellow that couldn’t whistle uioj and ride anything that goes—would you!" She bad a rich, pathptic contralto, with a note of hoarse tenderness in it that went right to your heart, aud so flexible that she could follo-v freely any air I sang, with her owu irregular, sobbing alto. After we had ridden for ten or twelve miles, across divides and through draws and hollows that ail looked exactly alike to ray eyes, she turned abruptly to me, on the heels of a closing minor cadence, checked her pony, pur.hed back her hat aud ex claimed: “By George, I’m lost!’’ Here was u bad state of affairs. I was utterly helpless, and she bad only been over to the placo on the Escondido Arroyo once before, sbe admitted. But it was only 3 o’clock by my watch; our ponies were good ones, and we were not more than two or three hours from the ranch; so we kept moving ahead, she scan ning tha surrounding country anxiously from the top of|every divide. Suddenly, as we wsrc loping across a level, she laughed out loud and pointed in front of us. "Why, here’s the Arroyo; we’ve come to it further north than I was before. All we’ve got to do is to follow down.” We followed down, got our saddle pookets full of resurrection plauts, and then started homeward. “We can cross Turkey Roost and go down Lost Mule, and it’ll only be eighteeu miles,” said Teenie. “It's a sort of blind trail, but I can find it; and we want to get mighty near home before dark.” It was 4:30, there remained but an honr of daylight, and our ponies had already come some twenty-four or five miles at a brisk gait, since noon. We went ahead at an easy lope, checking up every mile or so to walk for a breathing space. As the sun declined, I saw Teenie look anxious. Finally she said: “We crossed Turkey Roost all right, and I was sure we struck into Lost Mule on this side, but I declare it don’t look like it, now.” Wo rode up on to the divide beside which we had been traveling, and looked around. “Good Lord I” said Teenie, “I dou’t see a thing I kuow. We’re lost sure enough this time—and night coming. We’ll freera." W hila we looked aud hesitated the day visibly withdrew, and night dropped down upon us like a presen**. All landmarks by which to steer our course were obliterated, but we pushed ahead with feverish haste. On and on we sped through the darkness, while over us wheeled the constellations. Presently Teenie pulled up and said: “It’s no use, we're like as not going away from home instead of toward it.” We got d>wn, staked the ponies, wrapped ourselves as best we could, and sat down to face tbe situation. Have you never been alone on tbo prairie at night) Then you have never known how small a mote you are. As wo sat hushed under tbe great bright stars, amid the boundless darknoss, I fancied we could bear tbe moving of the vast machinery of the universe, tbe hum of the planets as they spun through the Void, and the creaking of the earth as it turned on its axis and shot forward into vacancy. PAGES 9 TO 12. All surroundings were obliterated; noth ing was present but a great, soft darkness, and an immorsity of star-gemmed space. And we ourselves—infinity of little-ess, amid this tpaoious gloom—we seemed but unrememcered atoms. I had resolved myself to my original com ponents. doffed this gross corporeal body and was wandering about in my spirit, seeking to Llend once more with the over soul ; too ignorant and inexperienced to r<at iz any danger in our position, I reveled only in its beauty and strangeness. Suddenly tbs little prefatory whimper tag giggle of a coyote sounded out of tue night, and Teenie, who had been huddled beside me in a dismayed heap, clutched my arm. “O, Miss AUc6! Can’t you holler) Listen to the ooyote 1 There's timber wolves and panthers oat here, too. We ain’t got a match nor a thing to shoot with. I never wanted to see a man so bad in my life—do holler!" I took one moment to say, "Would yon even like to see Johnnie Hherwood,” and then gathered up my forces and sent forth a powerful soprano yell that was the effort of my life. But no answer oame back, and then An sued a bad quarter of an hour for Teenie and me. The coyotes snickered on the hill side and howled fearfully in the nearer val ley All at once our ponies neighed out joy fully. I gave a last scream, there was an answering shout, a clatter of hoofs, and somebody rode down the slope and almost over us. How should I know it was Johnny Sher wood I But Teenie rose up, and orying, “Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie, Johnnie!" cast her self at him anyway as he jumped off his horse. I could see nothing of them but two mov ing shadows—then one, stationary; but presently a big voice that tried to whis per, murmured in an abandon of tender ness: "I’ll shoot that fool calf, darling, quick as I can find him!" Auct MaoGowax. UNCLE BATSMAN’S AGE AND STORY He is 108 Years Old and Tails a Vivid Tale of tbe Battle of Ban Jacinto. From the JVew York l imet. ■ Ban Antonio, Tex., Jan. 20.—Probably the oldest living citizen of Texas is 81 Bate man, a colored man, whose age, as shown by written reoords, in the way of bills of sale, is 106. Old Si, as be is called, lived for many years at Waco, this state, and only recently came to Han Antonio to live with a widowed sister, who is now in her KSth year, she being the youngest of fifteen childreb. His step is light and elastic, his form straight, bis memory clear, aud his eyesight unaffected. In general appear ance he does not look to be over 75 years old. One day recently Old 81 walked into tbe county oourt house here, and, approaohing Judge McAllister, inquired: “u dere any work ’bout heah dat you ken gi’ me to do, cap’n I” “Why, Uncle Hi," kindly replied the , “you are too old to work. What you doP’ “Ise got lots of strengf yet, an’ thought I mought ret some light work, for I doan like die loafin’ rotiu'." The Judge promised to look up a job for him, and the old black face beamed with happiness. “There ain’t much to tell,” said Old Hi in response to a request for a history of bis life, “I was born,’ he began, “in North Oar’liny. Doan’ ’member what year it was. but I 'member dat Marso Bateman, tbe old un who owned me, went down to Orleans, when I was a strappin’ man, to fight with old Jackson. Maybe you think dero wasn’t carrying-on among old missus an’ ail of us when old Marse went to dat battle. He wasn’t gone a great while when bock he comes and tells us dat old Jackson whipped. Arter a while old Marse died, an’ 1 was brought to Texas by young Marse Simeon Bateman. We went to Gtonzales, but dere was no town dir* then. In a little while old Btephen Austin an’ Green De Witt moved there with their families. A big fort was built to keep off tbe Indians and big wild varmints." “Where were you during the Mexican warp* “ W’y, I was right here in Texas. Only a week befo’ Santa Anna took de Alamo, old Uncle Ham Houston sent me to Ban An tonio from Gonzales to haul two cannon from da Alamo to Gonzales. CoL Wail was with me, an’ just as soon os we got de big guns to Gonzales, Uncle Sam—dat’s Uncle Ham Houston come ‘roun’ an* tells de white men dat they will go out an' fight Santa Anna, as they hear dat ha is cornin' up to burn Gonzales. Well, de men got together, an’ they an’ Unole Sana started out, leavin’ us niggers to take keer of de women an’ children. We marched ’bout a day behin’ de soldiers, an* all of us carried sticks like guns to frighten the Injuns away. Uncle Ham sent us word de day befo’ de big battle at San Jacinto was fought that it was a oomln’ off, an’ he told us oat he would send a runner as soon as it wae over to let us know which army whipped. "I’ll never forget dat day. The women just set aroun’ an’ cry and it just 'peared dat we’d all go crazy from wattin’. ’Long 'bout sundown I was standin’ in de middle of de narrow road, lookin’ for dat rnnner when I see ’way off a little black speck. I watched dat speck, an’ purty soon I seen it was a man on horseback ridin’ at fall speed. 1 called to de people to come an’ hear de news, but dey was feared it was bad news, an’ de niggers an’ women all began cryin’. Purty soon de runner got within bailin’ dis tance, an' pullin’ offeu’ bis bat he shouted: “ ‘Houston’s whipped Santa Anna. He’e got him down an’ derss four guards standin' ober hint to keep de soldiers from killin' him.’ “My, but I wish you’d a seed dem niggers and women. I shouted for a little and brought out my fiddle, and we all began a dance which lasted all dat evenin’, dat night and all next day. It took place ap oaten in de prairie, and de tall grass was trampled outin sight befo’ it was ober. “Arter Marse Bateman died I was made free, but I sold myself agin to eld Tommy Bureu. I went from Gonzales to Waco. Thar I lived a long time. I doan feel very old, bat I knows as 1 hasn’t many more years to live,” and a regretful sigh escaped the old man. He produced the bills of sale, showing his age at the time he came to Texas to be 30 years. Thus he has lived in the state nearly eighty years. A Devoted son-ln-Law. Count de Vermicelli, an Italian nobleman now in New York, says the Texas Siftings, is en gaged to be married to Misi Maud Bnobberly on Fifth avenue. One of the guests at a recent social gathering at tbe Snobberly mansion asked old Mrs. Snob berly—she used to be a servant girl—how she liked her prospective son-in-law. • ’Me and Mr. Snobberly are both tickled to death with Count de VermicilU, aud tbe way he is stuck on Maud is a sin. You cun’t have any idea of how the count dotes on the girl. Every thing in the world that he imagines she wants be makes us buy for her.” Fibht Club Man—You should respect my gray hair, and not use suoh language to m& Second Club Mau—But, my dear sir. you are excited. You forget you are bald-headed. First Club Man—That makes no difference. You should respect the gray hair I should have had if 1 had remained single.— Duetu Sifting a.