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A FATAL PAST,
By DORA RUSSELL.
Author of “Footprints in the Snow,” “Thk Broken Seal.” The “Track of the
Storm,” “A Bitter Birthright,” Etc., Etc.
, [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED .]
CHAPTER XXXI.
HELEN’S SECRET.
They met, these two who loved each other,
with unmutakaDle agitation. Both were
very pale, and Helen was trembling visibly.
Francis Roche was standing on the steps
which led into the gallery when Helen’s cab
drove up, and he ran down and handed her
out, and then side by side they proceeded
together through the silent rooms, for only
very few people were present, and these
were far apart in little scattered groups.
Then in one gallery they found themselves
absolutely alone, and Francis led Helen to a
seat. She looked at him very wistfully as
be did this, as if mutely asking him to
spare her some great pain; but be felt that
he could no longer endure his own torturing
anxiety, and at once asked her to tell her
pitiful story.
* "Tell me now, Helen,” he said in an agi
tated voice; "don’t keep anything back—l
wi3h to know the worst.”
She drew a long, shuddering breath, and
did not answer him at onco.
“Whatever it is,” urged Francis, “I would
rather know, do tell me, Helen.”
She looked at him again; her lips quivered,
and then in broken and trembling words
she began a sad and tragic tale ot days long
past.
"You remember when you came to Scot
land, Frank,” she said, “and when we met
on the bills, that 1 told you I believed there
was some mystery attached to my father's
name 1”
“I remember you saying something of the
sort, Helen, and that I told you I did not
care.”
“Yes; well, the night I returned to Ard-
Jeigh I asked Aunt Margarat if there vas
anything, and she answered in an agitated
manner that he had been an unfortunate
man, but she would say nothing more. She
was also very much agitated when she heard
your name: so much go that I asked her if she
had ever known any one of the name ot
Roche, and she said yes, in her youth she
had known someone. We can understand
this now, Frank.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then von came to Scotland, but I did not
tell Aunt Margaret this, lest she should
write to Lady Ennismore; Lut one day
when I went back to the house she asked me
who 1 had been walking with. We were
engaged then, Frank, so 1 told her, and
Aunt Margaret could not conceal her emo
tion at the news. Then you remember the
last day you were there —when we met each
other twice?”
“I shall never forget that day, Helen.”
“When l went home after we parted in
the afternoon 1 found La ly Ennisrnore sit
ting in the parlor, and 1 knew then that
Aunt Margaret must have written to her
about you. Lady EnDismore also questioned
me about you, and I told her the truth—
that were engaged, and she said it could
never, never be—taat I must give you up.
Frank, 1 refused, aud Aunt Margaret
stopped Lady Ennismore saying anything
more that night, but the next morning she
came to my room, and again urged me to
break off our engagement. I still refused—
I felt very strong, Frank—l believed you
cared for me, and I knew what I felt, and 1
thought nothing could part us!”
“1 feel that still,” said Francis Roche,
takiug one of her trembling hands in his.
“Wait till you hear what I have got to
tell you. For Lady Ennisrnore, finding all
her arguments and entreaties were in vain,
suddenly turned to me aud began such a
talo of shame, sorrow and crime, that my
heart seemed to die within me—that I felt I
had no choice—that I knew in honor I could
never be vour wife.”
“What did she say?” asked Francis Roche,
hoarsely.
“What do you think I am, Frank?” an
swered Helen Drummond, rising in her
overwhelming emotion, and standing be
fore him. “A base-born child—a child of
sm and shame—born in secrecy and bitter
sorrow. My mother was Nora Drum
mond, Aunt Margaret’s sister—and my
father-—”
“Well?”
“it’s a tprrible story, Frank—terrible for
me to tell and you to listen to—my father
was Norman Malden, Lady Ennismore’s
only brother, and he was murdered for his
sin 1”
‘ 'My God 1” exclaimed Francis Roche hor
ror-stricken.
“Did I not tell you it was best untold?”
went on Helen, passionately. “This dark
tala of Biu and shame! Normau Malde i
had promised to marry my unfortunate
mother, but he had made this promisi
secretly, as his o ■■ n mother was a pnud aud
ambitious woman, and there was a Lady
Cecial Hay, it was said, she wished him to
make ms wife. At all events he refused to
fulfill his promise to my poor mother,
though her own family knew of it. and
then, in her sudden anguish, she confessed
to her sister—to Aunt Margaret—the dread
ful truth. She was about to become a
mother, and wli6n Aunt Margaret heard
this she wrote to Norman Malden and im
plored him to do her young sister justice."
“Ho was a cur!” said Fraucis Roche,
sternly, as Helou paused in her soil story,
‘ It was a cruel action,” went o 1 Helen;
“but he still refused, ana then Aunt Marga
ret told her brother, Ja nes Drummond, who
was a young man of 1!>, just about to sta t
for Canada. He was naturally most indig
nant at the treatment his beautiful young
sister had received, and ha also wrote to
Norman Malden. Rut no answer came to
his letter, aud this almost maddened Janies
Drumond. So one dreadful day he met
Norman Malden alone upon the moors, and
insisted that he should marry his s.iter, be
fore he himself started for Canada, Both
men were carrying their guus, and up >n
Norman Malden again refusing to fulfill his
Eromi.-e, in a fury James Drummond shot
im in the throat, aud left him lving dead
amid the heather.”
“And quite right, too; he thoroughly de
served his fate.”
“But it was a dreadful fate, Frank, and
broke his mother’s heart, and after James
Drummond saw what he had done, he too
was filled with horror and remorse. Then
he hurried home and told his sister—Aunt
Margaret—and she at once saw the dread
ful consequences if this were known. Bbe
went to Lady Eunismore and told her all,
and Lady Ennismoro pitied James Drum
mond, and gave his sister money to get him
quickly and quietly away. He had been
known to be about to aiart for Canada,and
he left t e very day of Norman Malden’s
death, and before his blood-s ained body had
been discovered and carried home. James
Drummond is still alive, Frank, so you un
derstand?”
“The motive for keening this secret?”
“Yes; only Lady Ennismore and Aunt
Margaret knew the dreadful truth. But the
saddest part Is yet to come—about my poor
poor—mother.”
“It broke her heart, I suppose?”
“They kept Norman Malden’s death a
secret from her at first, and Aunt Margaret
U>ok her to a distant town where they were
amts straogers. Lady Eunitinuru gave
Aunt Maigeret tlie iii inry to and this also,
and here they wateb'-d her day and night -
Aunt Margaret end her old eervisnt, Eliza
beth May -and the most terrible part of it
was ttiet the un appy girl wa always writ
ing to herdeait lover, and imploring him to
Pi'll- fretting and wasting be
c“e fceTle*er camr! At last on# day
/ un. Maigsiet found her lying in a faint
‘ * fit, and boar bar uu ibe floor was a
newspaper. They bad kept all newspapers
ont of her way, and this was an old one that
had come into tue house wrapped round
some pareeL With sudden fear and dread
Aunt Margaret glance lat it—it contained
the adjourned inquest on Norinan Malden’s
death, and bis long silence was thus ex
plained to the miserable girl. I was born
that night—and just before her dea'h my
dying mother to k her sister’s hand. ‘Be
kind to the child,’she whispered, and God
knows,” added Helen, bursting into sudden
tears, “that dear Aunt Margaret fulfilled
tba last request.”
‘"My dear Helen!” said Francis Roche,
much moved, “this is indeed a sad story;’’
nd he took both her bands.
“I—will get calmer in a few moments,”
sobbed Helen. “Just think what poor Aunt
Margaret must have gone through, and the
long misery and anxiey other life! Her
father, who was the vicar of Braekenford,
was a very old man. and he knew nothing
of the dam tragedy that had gone on un
der his root. He died the same vear as his
young daughter, and then Aunt Margaret
went to live iu Scotland, and Elizabeth
May. with whom I had been left, brought
me to her there.”
“And you lived there always after that?”
“Yes, except when I went to Bracken
ford. I used to go there everv year from
the time 1 was about 10 years old 1 think,
and Lady Ennisrnore was always very kind
to me until ”
“Until she told you a story you never
should have known, Helen.”
“Aunt Margaret never meant me know
it, nor did Lady Ennisrnore—but for your
sake— and we oau understand her conduct
now, Frank—it was only right to tell me
then.”
"1 don’t think so, Helen; it was no fault
of your’s, the sin of her brother.”
“But you see we were -”
“First cousins! Do you know I never
thought of this till now, Helen?”
"I thought of it last night when you told
me of Lady Ennlsmore’s first marriage with
your father, and it —gave me anew feeling
toward you, somehow I thought we c iuld
t>e —nothing else, we were still rela
tions, and near ones, though other people
may not kuow it. Lady Ennismore, of
course, is my aunt ”
“And my mother! Really, Helen, this is
very wonderful."
\ es, very, very strange. lam glad you
are my cousin, Frank, I shall not feel so
quite alone in the world now.”
She put her band into his timidly as she
spoke, and Fraucis Roohe held it fast, and
was silent for a moment or two. Then he
looked at her and began speaking very
earnestly.
“You have told me this story, Helen; the
story which induced you, from a teeling of
honor, to break off your engagement. It is
a sad and terrible story, but i.ot a shade
of shame or blame or in my eves rests
on you. Not ono shade, Helen! You are
dearer, if possible, to me how than you
were before—dearer and nearer—and I’m
not going to take any answer but one.”
“Oh, Frank, this is folly.”
“No, it ib not; the one living person to
blame connected with it—and 1 scarcely like
to say it—is Lady Enrismore.”
.**■Bjß’ Frank, don’t you see, my uncle
killed her only brother—it was but natural
she should wish to part us—and you her
sou 1”
\ es, a son she disowned; a son she never
saw till ho was a grown man, and of who e
birth even her own mother never knew
Her life has certainly been a tangled web.”
"Then your father must have died almost
immediately after her first marriage?” said
Helen, innocently.
Fi ancis Roche gave rather a hitler laugh
"Bhe beiieved him dead—yes, that’s
true.”
“Believed him dead!" repeated Helen ”
“Yes, dear; yours is a wonderful story,
but mine it about a ; rtrange. Lady Ennis
more secretly married my father when she
was almost a child, and than my father
who is a younger brother of Col. Roche,’
whom you saw last night, got into some
trouble—some very disgraceful trouble, too
—and he had to fly the country, and was
supposed to be lost at sea.”
“Yes, Frank.”
“The ship went down, at ail events, that
he sailed in, and he was never heard of
more; his name, indeed, appeared among
the list of toe lost passengers and crew and
ray uucle—then Capt. Roche— went to
Brackenford to tell the news. No one knew
that Kaiherine Malden had been married
to (ioorge Roche but her maid, but it was
known that the/ bad been lovers, I believe
and her mother, Mrs. Muldeu. was bitterly
opposed to the idea. Besides, my father had
disgraced himself, so I suppose his name was
never mentioned. But when my mother
heard her young husband was dead, and she
herself was almost a child, she utterly
broke down, and my uncle gathered from
her lips enough of the truth to know sho
was better an ay from home, and out of her
mother’s sight. He persuaded Mrs. .Mal
den to allow her to go to Paris for a change,
and she went, accompanied by your aunt'
Miss Margaret Drummond, and tier maid’
Lorimer.”
“By Aunt Margaret? They were indeed
bound t gether then.”
“Teat no doubt was the reason that when
her dreadful trouble came about her brother
and sister that Miss Drummond confided in
Lady Enmsmore. Mss Drummond had
been a most faithful friend to Lady Ennis
mo.e, and Lady Euuismore, in her turn,
proved a friend to your au.it. You under
stand now, don’t you, Helen? Your
aunt was with my mother when I was born
in Pans, aud neither Mrs. Maiden nor the
unfortunate Norman Malden ever knew
tlmt I was born, aud a year later Lady Kj
msmore married Lord Euuismore.”
“It is all so wonderfu',” said Helen, clasp
ing her her bauds together.
“I will tell you the strange sequel to the
‘trange story some day.” smiled Francis,
t’but not to-day. We have talked enough
to-day of the past, and it has brought us
trouble enough, and n w 1 want to tain of
she future. Helen, you did care for mo
once a little hit, didn’t you?”
“No, not a little bit,” said Helen, and for
the first time during the conversation she
smiled.
“A great big bit, then,” said Francis
Roche. “Arid now, my darling, I am not
going to let any nonsensical scruples, nor
sins nor sorrows of other people come be
tween us. Will you be ray wife, Helen,
and lot us leave all these troubles behind’
us ?’’
“But we cannot, we cannot, Franx 1 We
cannot und i what was done, or bring back
the dead—but there is one thing we can he
—we are cousins, and lot us remain
friends?”
“Very fast friends, then. Helen. Have I
to be c .intent with this to-day? hut, mind, 1
warn you I shall not always be content.” '
And these words were very sweot t > the
girl’s ears.
They walked together through the galler
ies after this, and stood before the works
of the great masters, and taUed of them,
though lu their hearts ibey beedi and them
not.
A subtle sweetness had stolen back to their
lives aud the know log.- of each other's love
shone on them like me suu. They forgot
the past lu that guidon bane.
< 'll APTKR~X X XII,
WAT'HIS'i.
And now let us go back to llrzckenford,
and to Inn s>cs Lelif the woomdej lord,
and io< k the face of the woman alio
WSI/ihi-d (Pe e day and night.
Could this be Lady with Uta
TIIE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, MAY 10, 1890.™ TWELVE PAGES.
white drawn features and the look of terror
and anguish in the once beaut ful eyes?
Yes, this chauge had come to her, as it
were, in a night; had come in that dreadful
hour when she knew that her sin had fallen
on her own head, and that she had stained
her hand with her husband’s blood.
With this terrible knowledge ever rank
ling in her breast Lady Ennisrnore had
taken her wifely place by her husband’s
sickbed, and noted every change, watched
every symptom with absolute torture in her
oul.
Truly had she loved this man, whose
sweet, unselfish nature had never seemed so
beautiful in her eves. All Lord Ennis
more’s anxiety,indeed, seemed for his wife,
and he bore hisowu weakness and pain with
absolute cheerfulness. He loved to have his
boy near him also, and the sight of the
child only increased the anguish of the
wretched mother. But she never flinched.
Day after day, hour after hour, she kept
her watch, and in her household it was said
tbeir lady would kill herself, for she took
no rest.
Lord Ennismore’s condition varied. One
bullet which had lodged above the shoulder
bone had been extracted, and no danger was
apprehended from the wound. But the
second bnllet had taken effect lower down,
and it was feared had touched the left lung,
aud was embedded so near the spine that it
was impossible, without great danger, to
effect its removal. Then fever set in, and
the sick man wandered som.times and talked
in his restless sleep.
And of what? Always of the wife and
children be loved so well. It was ever
“Katie, Katie,” or “Little Pat.” There
were no sad shadows from the oast haunting
the couch of this kindly gentleman.
For more than twenty years he had been
the faithful and devoted husband of the
white-faced, haggard-eyed woman who
was watcoing him, and he had esteemed
none like her, and loved her with an abiding
love.
Face with her then for a moment the long
anguish that she now endured! Gray
streaks came in the soft brown hair Lord
Ennisrnore deemed so beautiful, and the de
stroying hand of age seemed suddenly to
have touched her lovely face. Ah, it was
terrible—terrible—the long, dark silent
nights—the long, dark dreary days—and
hope and fear, hope and fear ever trembling
in the balance.
But there was one friend who often shared
her vigil, and in whose conversation and
presence Lord Ennisrnore seemed to find
pleasure and comfort. This was the rector,
who went each day to Brackenford, and eat
by the sick bed there, as he sat by many
others. The Rev. Peler had his own pri
vate griefs and struggles as we know, bit
he was ever ready to assist in bearing those
of his neighbors. And Lord Ennisrnore
talked more openly to him of his own con
di ion than he dare do to his wife. And one
day, when at his absolute entreaty. Lady
Ennismore had laid down to rest for an
hour, and the reetpr had taken her place,
Ennismore suddenly said:
“Do you know? I sometimes fancy, Pres
cott, that I won’t get well?”
“Nay, my dear lord, you must not talk
thus,” answered the gentle rector, though
of late sad doubts had sometimes crept un
hidden into his own mind on tnis very ques
tion.
“If it wasn't for my wife and children I
should not worry about it,” went on Lord
Ennismore with a restless sigh. “But per
haps I love them too well."
“We nil make earthly idols, I fear,” said
the rector with si echoing sigh; "but
Lady Ennismore is worth of all your devo
tion.”
“There is no woman I ever saw like her,
Prescott; she’s just a perfect woman, I
think, and we’ve never had a secret between
us all these years.”
"I can quite understand that,” answered
the rector.
“And to leave her and the little lad would
be a great wrench, I admit—still, if it’s
God’s will ”
“And we know that will is ever for the
best; but I pray and trust you may live for
many years, Lord Eunisinore.”
“Still I may not—and there is one thing
I want to say to you, Prescott—if there Is
any change—if the doctors think I won’t
pull through, I want you to tell me in
time!”
The rector bowed his head with much so
lemnity.
"I will,”be said; and he held out his lean,
brown hand to the wounded man, who
grasped it warmly.
“Tuen that’s off my mind." said Ennis
more, quite cheerily; “but I want to know
mind I depend on you, Prescott.”
And this compact, unknown to any
other, bound these two men in closer friend
ship, and wai regarded by the rector as a
sacred duty.
In the meantime we must not suppose
that the Rev. Peter’s constant visits to
Brackenford escaped the notice of Miss
Sinclair’s acute eyes. During the stony
grief, indeed, which had fa ien on Lady
Eu ismore dace her husband's illness, Miss
Sinclair had had pretty much her own wuy
at tue hull.
Lady Enuismore seemed to see or hear
not.ling beyond the sick room, and thus the
governess did just as she pleased. When
Lord Ennismore was first carried in
wounded, young Curzon was still at Br ck
entord, but he left on tiie following day.
After he was gone Miss Sinclair again ex
clusively devoted herself to the rector, and
tho good man rarely went or came on his
visits to Lord Ennismore, without encoun
tering this handsome woman in one of the
co ridors or in me grounds.
It was ouly natural she should like to hear
of Lord En umore’s progress, she said, and
Lady Enuismore she never saw. And it
must be admitted the Rev. Peter liked these
little in mgs, and the friendly press ire of
the soft, white band, which was wont to
linger in his own loan fingers. But still the
words she w ished to hear w as never spoken,
though only the roc’or knew with what an
effort he held them back.
He used to sigh so dolefully somet mos
when ho returned to the rectory, that Dot o
thy Prescott insisted his digestion was out
of order, aud forced many a pill down his
unwilling throat. But .Miss Sinclair felt
that ultimately she would triumph. The
poor man was iu lovo with her she knew,
and therefore she was do ermrned to win.
But Lynwood was unfortunately not far
from Bruckenford, and ab out n fortnight
after Lotd Ennismoro’s mischance, Mr.
Curzon again returned to Brackenford un
der the pretence of inouirmg after Lord
Ennismoro, but in reality with the idea of
secretly wooing fair Julia Bingham. Miss
Sinclair, however, bolieved that she was the
attraction, and she could not resist the
pleaiuro and amusement of flirting with
him. Young Curzon hims.-lf wentou play
ing tho double game which he had carried
on before, and his few days' visit ended very
disastrously for Miss Sinclair.
It happened that one dark afternoon
when the rector, as usual, arrived at Brack
euford, that Lord Ennismore was asleep,
and the rector hearing this said he would
go down to the library and wait there until
he awoke. He therefore went, and taking
a book from one of the shelves he retired to
a window to get what light he could to read
with from tho outside gloom. The heavy
velvet curtains completely hid his slender
figure, and the Rev. Peter soon became com
p.etely immersed in his book until he was
suddenly startled by an uuusal sound in the
room beyond.
“You should not do that,” said Miss Sin
clair's voice the next moment, though not
in t uies of stropg pruteii; “indeed you
should not
“But how can you expect a fellow not,
when a pretty woman ask him to meet her
in the dark,' answered Curzon; and again
the peculiar sound fell on the rector’s star
tled ears.
“O! Mr. Curz <d
The wtir positively shivered. What
should bed' f Wbat.iu hon r, ought lis to
do? lie asked himself in his misery. What
he did, at ad events, was t<> make himself
smaller, if possible, ant remain utterly un
set' i behind Pis curiam.
Then one of tn iwi in the room sitrred
the fire, and ibo follow mg couversati n took
place b*t ** -n tbein;
"But 1 he leve you are a little humbug,
d’ye ku iwr, ( aroliiist”
“ A by do you say ttiatf repined Mu* flin
clan s vouis tu a i aggiesslie to ue.
“Because you pretend to like me a bit,
but I believe yon flirt desperately with the
old parson who oomes about here."
“Mr. Prescott? >V nat nonsense—what
folly! How could you think I should like
such a man, or flirt with him either, as vou
call it?”
“He seems to be a very decent sort of
man t I think, and he’s well off, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” aud Miss Sinclair sighed; “he’s
very well off, and I believe he’s a good man,
though he is so stupid, and ugly, and old—
but if you wifi not mention it, I’ll tell you
something.”
“Of course I’ll not mention it if you wish
me not to do so.”
“Well, then, the truth is, he wants to
marry me very badly; he has asked me
again and again, but I cannot make up my
mind to do so. No. I cannot—l cannot!”
There was a little pause, and then young
Curzon said in a more serious tone than he
had yet spoken in:
“But why, Caroline?”
“How can you ask? You must know,”
replied Miss Sinclair, tremulously.
Again there was a little pause, and then
Curzon said, still seriously:
“ D’ye know I think it would be a very
good thing. You see, Caroline, it's no good
you and me think.ng of each other seri
ously. We haven’t got any money between
us, and money is essential nowadavs; and if
this old parson really likes you it‘would be
a comfortable home for you, and I hope you
won’t cut your old friend when you’re yon
rector’s wife.”
And Curzon laughed.
"And you can laugh?” said Miss Sinclair,
indignantly. “You would condemn me to
be the wife of a man old enough to be my
father, and make a jest of It; and yet you
pretend you care for me.”
“My dear girl, I do care for you,” and
the peculiar sound was again here repeated;
it’s because I care for you and am not so
beastly selfish as some fellows, that I snould
like to know you had a decent home of your
own; and therefore I recommend you to
marry the parso I—and1 —and not cut me.”
"Oh! it would be such a dreadful
wrenob!”
“We are forced in life, my pretty Caro
line, ofteu to make such ‘wrenches Of
oourse, it’s a bit hard at first, and before I
give my consent to it you must promise not
to show me the cold shoulder."
*‘l shall never do t at—never, never 1"
“Then that’s all right, inv dear girl; and
now tell me what you really thiuk about
poor Ennismore? Do you think ho will pull
through?” v
“I don’t know; I believe Lady Ennis
more thinks he will die, she looks so dread
ful.”
"’Poor woman, it’s a very sad. Ennismore
is very rich, isn’t he?”
“Immensely rich, I believe;of course, the
money came from her.”
“But she isn’t likely to marry again, if
she’s so desperately cut up about Ennis
more. Your young pupils will be little
heiresses, Caroli a."
“Yes, some day, I suppose, poor chil
dren.”
“You must do me a good turn some day.
then,” laughed Curzon, “when you are Mrs
rector.”
“That would be asking too much of me,
lam afraid. lam not strong enough for
that.”
Tney talked in this strain a little longer,
and then left the room together, and the
rector continued to sit behind his curtain as
if turned to stone!
That this woman, whom he bad believed
to be so good and pure, should have fallen
so low as this. It was her tone, her want
of moral rectitude, that horrified bim so
completely, not that she who had flattered
him eo often should have eallel him to this
young man ugly aud old.
“I am old enough, I dare say, to be her
rather,” ruefully thought the poor rector
but Indeed he was not. He might be t6n
yours her senior, but that was the utmost.
And he remembered at this moment ho wshe
had held his hand, how she had said his
words were such a comfort and help to her
amid the trials of life, and vet all the while
she must have been laughing at him.
“I’ve had a great deliverance,” murmured
poor Peter piously, and no doubt he had. A
deliverance from a scheming, low-minded
woman,though these were too hard words
for the gentle parson even in thought to
use.
He got up after awhile, and tried to pull
himself together, and smiled feebly at nis
own folly.
“I have been an old fool,” he thought, “to
think any woman could care for m.t;” and
than he remembered Dorothy Prescott’s
opinion of Hiss Sinclair, and her warning
to himself.
“Poor Dorothy has not been far wrong, I
fear. Ah, well, it’s very sad.”
He meant sad that any woman should so
stain her womanhood as to listen to such
words as young Curzon h;d spoken that
night. The Rev. Peter was pure-minded
aud high-minded, and his ideal esti nate of
women was a very lofty one. He was tender
and gentle even to the rough-tongued
Dorothy, and treated his two elderly sisters
with the greatest resuect and kindness.
Fcr their sakeshe had restrained his feelings
as regards Mm Sinclair, and now he was
rsaping the reward.
Presently a servant came and told hi n
that Lord Ennismore was a wane and would
be pleased to see him, and so Peter arose
and weut up to the sick room, and in one of
the dim corridors where he very often en
countered her, ho met Caroline Sin lair,
but hurried pa t her with a cold and dis
tant bow.
He found Lord Ennismore looking better
than usual, and w hen he told Lady Ennis
more this, the eager anxiety in her expres
sion as she answered him touched his kindlv
heart.
“Do you think so—really think so?” she
said.
“Yes, I really think so; but I wish you
would take more care of yourself. Lady
Ennismore.”
The two were standing together in the
dressing-room when these few words wore
exebaugod, as the doctors were changing
the dro-'Siugs on Lord Ennismore’s wound,,
and the feverish look of anxiety on Lady
Ennismore s face struck the rector very
forcibly.
“What matter am I,” she answered, al
most passionately, “if only he gets well?”
“Still, for your children’s sake ”
“O! don’t speak thus,” she cried, inter
rupting hi in. “The children have their
father—their dear, dear father—they have
their father still!”
“I pray he may long be spared to them.”
“O, Mr. Prescott, do you ever pray for
him?” went on Lady Ennismore, excitedly;
“your prayers might be heard aud an
swered—will you pray every day for him
now?”
“All sincere prayers are heard, my dear
lady,” answered the gentle voice of the
rector.
“But not answered!” continued Lady
Ennismore, yet more excitedly; "and some
people dare not pray—dare not, lest as a
judgment upon them their prayers should
be denied.”
“Let us hope none are in so sad a Btrait;
we know that the just aid the uujust alike
are permitted to call to God.”
Stie made no answer; she stood'there
looking at the rector’s benign face, for the
man’s pure soul shone through his rugged
features, and lit his somber eyes with a light
which was not in hers. Ni wrong had his
hand done to a living soul, nor his tongue
either. She was envying him; envying
this quiet country parson, whose unstained
and uneventful life was such a contrast to
her own. But suddenly she storied.
“Hush, I bear Kniiistnore’s voice," she
said ; “I must go to hira-bnt do not forget
what I have asked—the request 1 have
made."
*'l will not forget," said the rector, and
then they both icturi.ed to the luvaliu’*
bed side.
Lird Enuismore was very cheerful that
evening. w and the rector sat a id talked with
bin reuriy an hour. Then her. * and bedo
bnn Kood-I,l*h. after promuiiig to ee him 1
on th morrow . aid as the recu r Dft the i
room he was confronted outside by Ml Kin- i
Ciatr
“I have waited to •** you, ’ • a said
In a low lone,
’* Vou uius* •< (;se me,” answered Ilia poor I
lactor, wfiv bad aooolutaljr grown pale at j
the sight of her, “I am ia a great hurry to
night.”
"Still I must have a few words with you.
Will you come into the morning-room, I will
speak to yon there?”
“I am afraid 1 cannot. Miss Sinclair.”
on must; 1 must speak to you,” urged
the gov err ess; and after a moment’s hesita
tion the rector bowed his head and followed
her to the room she had named.
TO BE CONTINUED.
NOTED W JMS:?.
A Few Notes About the Personal Ap
pearance of tons of Them.
Brooklyn, N. Y., May 9.— lt has been
the aim of your correspondent to avoid as
far as possible personalities, and sometimes a
deaf ear has been turned to such questions as
“How does the look!” “Is she beloved, as
well as popular!” and the rest of the queries
regarding personal appearance, style, good
breeding, social privileges, etc., etc., of our
noted women.
One fact might as well be stated first as
last. The writer takes more note of mental
and spiritual adornments than of those con
nected with the merely physical and exter
nal. A graceful woman, with a pleasant
voice and sweet manner, is a handsome
woman. She may have a muddy com
plexion, a pug or a red nose. Her best
gown may be of calico, but these are the
merest trifles in my summing up. On the
contrary a woman with a Juno face and
figure, who is awkward tn movement,
harsh in voioe, coarse of manner, is not
beautiful or even tolerable, except on the
principle of human love and sympathy,
which makes allowance for tne slow growth
of the graces.
"Please describe to me Mrs. Frank Les
lie, ’ one southern reader requests. “Ia she
so and so?” “I* she considered so and so?”
and “Do you think so and so?”
Bucb inquiries seem very strange, for
certainly no woman connected with tne
literature of this or any other countrv has
ever figured so conspicuously in public
print. Her face has been before the world
m almost every newspaper in the land. Her
business career has been recorded, her
smartness, her indusiry and her ability to
rescue a great estate from the clutches of
debt and misfortune. A similar, careful
and painstaking account of her love affairs
has been regularly furnished ;and certainly,
“he who runs may read.”
We are told that when Mr. Leslie died
his last words to his wife were: “You are
beautiful, and I love you.” This must be
true, because the valuable item of news was
furnished by Mrs. Leslie herself.
Could the most eloquent pen add any
thing to such a history? What could one
who regards such personalities as—well,
unpleasant, to say the least—hope to add to
this nnte-uiortem, post-mortem and gener
ally vivisectic record? Nothing.
“Will you kindly give me a littie idea of
the personai appearance of Mrs. Jennie
June Crolv?”
With pleasure. At the last meeting of
the Woman's Press club I made a very care
ful study of Mrs. Croly’s appearance in
order to give the desired information.
Mrs. Crolv is—is—both slight and small—
I believe. She is light of complexion, and
her hair is biown—perhaps, with a little
white mixed in. When she talks she looks
you in the eye, and she speaks slowly,
distinctly and with the greatest ease. Some
times hon she is greatly interested in her
subject she repeats her words, but this is
only an added fascination,for it proves that
she is not only spoaking from her heart, but
that she is talking without previous prepara
tion.
Mrs. Croly’s countenance expresses
amiability, force, refinement, great native
ability and discretion. She never raises her
voice, but no gavel in the hand of mascu
line club president, or grand master Mason,
ever came down with more firmness than
the gavel in the bands of the President of
the Woman’s Press Club when necessity de
mands it. A woman may be garrulous and
quarrelsome, but she can' be neither in any
organization presided over by this manager
and parliamentiar;a r '.
It is a shame that I have forgotten utterly
the kind and style of dress worn by t:.is
lady. If it wasn’t silk it was wool, an! if it
wasn't wool, it was laco. lam pretty sure
it was black with some dainty, graceful
fixings that appeared to have arranged
themselves without the slightest care or fuss
on the part of the wearer.
It does not seem to me that Mrs. Croly
could ever be made hapoy or miserable by
ciothes. She appears to breathe from the
bottom of her lungs and that is more than
the majority of women do, and sue cer
tainly belongs to the ranks of tbo3o who
work and think.
“Is it true,” a correspondent inquires,
"that one-seventh of the humam family
annually fall victims to bronchial and pul
monary troubles?”
This is statistically true and is certainly
an awful showing. Miss Caroline B. La
Row, author of “English as she is Taught,”
gives the following sensible advice:
To prevent the man or woman from
drifting into a superficial and injurious
way of breathing, a habit which develops
weakness and disease of the lungs, it is only
necessary that the physical development of
the child shall be properly attended to. The
children trained from the beginning of
their school course to sit and stand erect, to
breathe vigorously and to use the few sim
ple exercises necessary f.r strengthen
ing the respiratory muscles, will reach
youth, middle age and old a:e without,
perhaps, being even aware of the fact that
human beings can exist by bre ithing only
from the top of their lungs; without any
suspicion that the one-seventh of the race
who annually fall victims to bronchial and
pulmonary troubles could have saved health
and life by proper care of thoir respiratory
organs.” J
Science has made another grand discov
ery. It has found that the pure juice of the
pineapple will digest raw beef. Ten pounds
of chopped beef can be. pre-digested by the
j lice o i one pineapple. The substance
produced by this chemical change is called
mosquera. a beef meal, and can be made
into a number of palatable dishes, anv of
which can be managed by the weakest
stomach, as there is no demand upon the
digestive organs. The process of converting
the meat into this meal does not detract in
the least from the nourishing qualities of
the meat. Out of this won
derful discovery _ has come o help
to all dyspeptics. Nervous dyspepsia, the
most aggravating of all diseases which have
tueir origin in impaired digadion wilt find a
panacea in what is known as celery cream.
Wash and cut half a bunch of celery into
small pieces. Pour a quart of boiling milk,
or milk ami water, over three-quarters of a
cup ot Mosquorn’s beef tnea! and add to the
celery. Halt to taste. Let simmer sloly
until the celery is soft, then strain through
a coarse sieve and tnicken slightly with
flour. Put 1 ack on thestova for a few min
utes. This should be cooked in a doub e
iron agateware boiler to prevent all danger
of burning. Eleanor Kirk.
MEDICAL.
JAPANESE
A gtiaranteed ( uro for Piles of whatever
kln<l or degree External, Internal, Wind or
Bleeding, Itching, Chronic, Recent or Heredi
tary. SI.OO a box; 0 boxes, 35.00. Kent by
mail, prepaid. on receipt of price. We guar
antee to cure any case of Hies. Guaranteed
and sold ofily by
Tilt. ItEIHT DIiUQ OO , .Savaiiuslj, Ha
A f KHI HaNTH. uioofactur*r>. merimu<a.
JO ™r|iruiuj. and abaters m UMd ul
I r.i.Hn*, jU,o*raWUßs. ao.i lUt U..A* t*a
Uk-tr orders iioinuuy ti. 1,4 at tuodar*>
nUMUW
MEDICAL.
The Portrait of a Lady
Painted on paper by the pen of such a novelist as Henry James will
do very well, but the real portrait of a real lady is a very different
affair. Has she pimples on her face, or blotches? Is her complex
ion sallow? If so, the conscientious artist in this realistic a-e will
have to put them all down. The lady’s remedy for her pimples
blotches and sallowness i> the great vegetable rem
edy for the blood. There can be no beauty where
there is no health, whereas the most commonplace
features are rendered piquant and interesting by a beautiful com
pleXi°n jSKjfcfll restores strength and vigor to the system, gives tone
to the HTWYT/f digestive organs, and cures all nervous disorders.
Ihe potency of this wonderful blood medicine is unquestionable
and yet, powerful as it is, it may be taken by the feeblest child and’
by the most delicate female. It has no rival in the wide field which
it covers. Treatise on Blood and Skin Disease* .Mailed Free.
__ JSWIFT SPECIFIC CO.. Atlanta. Ca.
CHICHESTER’S ENGLISH. RED CROBS DIAMOND BRAND A '
renwßQNiUi *P\ii\isA
t Tn C or, GINAL AND GENUINE. The only Safe, %ire, and reliable Pill for sale
Ladle*, a*k Druggist for Chichester * English Inamond Brand in Red and Gold meta’ i * \
slthTL, ribbon. Take no other Lind. Refute <nw V
All pills in pnaiebonrt bote,, pink wrm|.pere, ere danemm counter f, ItA. At Dro
fons?y’ P ;. tor . trdmoni.U, end "Kfllef for l.ndlee,” in later, bin-turn W n
10.000 Testimonials. Some Paper. CHICHESTER CHEMICAL Cos \T* U, ir
*o!d b, .11 Loe.l OrusglM. eillLAnCulSlA^P^
P„ P s Pimples
PRICKLY ASH, POKE ROOT Blotches
AND POTASSIUM “
Makes ™
.. , . Old Sores
Marvelous Cures
1 Prickly Ash, Poke Root and Potassium,
a __ _ m the greatest blood purifier on earth.
h | COO POISOn tl^b'^rofma^bloodfKusonf’inereurial
£33 wiwtlU 8 UI&Usl -poison, and all other impurities of the
Blood are cured by P. P. p.
Randall Pope, the retired druggist of
* Madison, Fla., say s : P. P. P. is the best
fOS3!ImDTiCm alterative and blood medicine on the
aGlSU'lliaQllvEll market. He being a druggist and hav
ing sold all kinds of medicine, his un
mm. mm ..mm., inn. solicited testimonial is of great impor
tance to the sick and suffering.
and Scrofula
great pleasure in testifying to the effl
for eruptions of known as
p v> o .. . . ... P I’- P. (Prickly Ash,Poke Root and
F. T. P. purifies the blood, builds up Potassium.! I suffered for several
the weakaud debilitated,givesßtrength years with an unsightly and disagre
to weakened nerves expels diseases, eable eruption on my face, and tried
giving the patient health and happiness various remedies to remove it, none of
where sickness, gloomy feeling-s and which accomplished the object, until
lassitude first prevailed. this valuable preparation was resorted
In blood poison, mercurial poison, to. After taking three bottles, in ac
malaria, dyspepsia and in all blood and cordance with directions, lam now en
skin diseases,Hike blotches, pimples, tirely cured. J. I). JOHNSTON,
old chronic ulcers, tetter, ecaldhead. Of the firm of Johnston & Douglas
we may say without fear of contra- Savannah c.'n
diction that P. P. P. is the best blood , c Wvannah Ga.
purifier intho world. „ Henry Winter, Superintendent of the
, . . , . Savannah Brewery, says: he has had
Laaie3 whose systems are poisoned rheumatism of the heart for several
and whose blood is in an impure con- years,often unabletowalkhispain was
dition, due to menstrual irregularities, sointense; lie had professors in Phila
a-ro peculiarly benefited by the won- delphiabut received do relief until he
derful tonic and blood cleansing pro- came to Savannah and tried P. p. p.
perties of P. P. P., Prickly Ash, Poke Two bottles made him a well man and
Root and t otassium. he renders thanks to P. P, P.
All druggists sell it.
LIPPMAN BROS, Proprietors,
Lippman’s Block, Savannah, Ga.
MEDICAL.
ISOTHiNG SUCCEEDS
LIKE SUCCESS.
§WM, RADAM'S
RiIDHOBE
KILLER
MOST TfIULY AND CORRECTLY CALLED
Hie Greatest Medicina in the World
A WONDERFUL TONIC
MP BLOOD PURIFIER
AL’iOS? MIRACULOUS CU2ES
Of hopeless and apparently Incurable diseases
are constantly being made. It is expected to
perform the impossible, by curing cases given
up by physicians, and it
DOES NOT DISAPPOINT EZPPOTATTON3.
More people are being cured by Microbe
KUler than by all other medicines combined. '
vve request a thorough investigation. r*
History of the Microbe Killer free >*■ '
BUTLLR’S i ‘HARii .M:V. Sole Agent, van n
nah. Do.
'ABBOTT’S >,
iip t
crystal lenses.
PERFECTED
CRYSTAL LENSES
'iX TRADE MARK.
, u Quality First and always.
O. M. ILK II) CO. Druggistc,
Have exclusive sma of these celebrate,l classes
in : .avanuau, tin FAULKNER. KELLAL &
’b > jitl', tb" only Manufacturing Opticians m
tile South, Atlanta. ta Ividiurs nrj not sup
plied wit- i liteae famous c'asv*s.
PLC M BCR,
InM )•: i.ink or
GAS FlXTtiiliS AND GLOBES
U A. MCCARTHY'S,
4*< DRAYTON T.
COTTON COMPRESs.
MORSE COTTON COMPRESi
The most powerful and effective in the world,
exerts a pressure on tne bale of s,o<>Vl
pounds. Eighty-four of them now in use, which
are compressing: two-thirds the American crop.
Several of these first en-cred have press'd on*
and a quarter million bales without defect or
appreciable wear. Their immense weipnt and
strength l ave rendered them the only dnrabl*
compress in use. It is surpassed by none in
quality of work —Irman & Cos.
Have had no repairs to make since its erection
ten years ago—Rome Compress Cos.
We pressed 457 bales in 3 hours and 3 mi
utes—Viorwsburgr Compress Cos.
Sole owners and patentees.
S. B. STEERS & C 0„
Cotton Exchange. NewOrleans. ?- n
PLUM I<ER AND GA* FITTER.
ESTABLISHED 1853.
JOHN NICOLSON,
30 AND 82 DRAYTON STREET.
Practical Plumber, Steam
and Gasfitter.
All sizes of
IRON and lead and other pipes and
COCKS.
A full line of Valves and Fittings, from 's M
6 inches. Everything nec ssary to fit up Steam.
Hydraulic and Wind mill power.
Civil and Steam Engiueers will find it to their
advantage to call.
BATH TUBS,
WATER CLOSETS and
WASH BASIN'S
CHANDELIERS. GLASS GLOBES.
And other articles appertaining to n. hf ’ 1 c^as *
honest establishment always in stock.
MEDICAL
i CURE FITS!
Wh?n I pay cure I do not mean merely t<bt< P
for a time and then have them return o£*iu. 1 -j.
a radical cure. I have matin the di* ase <’• * ‘‘
KPrLKrsY nr FALLING ahf<• ’
etudy. I warrant remedy to cure the w< ret <a * •
RecauMS other* hftve failed mno renaon for uyi #
r***uirinjr a cure. B*.?n<i t •<’ for * treati*** ■* , ;
fren f,o*tle ot .nv infallible remedy. live
and Pot Office aildrene. . • y.
11. g. kINII. l ... !:t Pearl at.,
Vkm *o• „rr .t- i I v SsiitatlndT <W/PJi/y
without tno.,uv,iuM. J\
