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A FATAL PAST,
By DORA RUSSELL.
Author of "Footprints is the Snow,” “The Broken Seal,” The "Track op the
Storm,” “A Bitter Birthrioht,” Etc., Etc.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
CAHPTER XXXV.
A LAST REQUEST.
Yes, the dark ange) tad spread bis black
•rings over the lofty towers of Bracken
ford, and his sable shadow rested on the
•oof.
The change came quite suddenly, for
!iOrd Eunismore had been unusually cheer
ful during the day, but toward evening he
jrew restless, and commerced coughing,
md in a moment his wife saw a crimson
ude rise to his lips, and from that time all
lope died out of her miserable heart.
She called the nurse, and they applied ice,
tnd after awhile the sick man rallied, and
ay still and speechless, with a certain
olemn look in his gray eyes; brave,
iteadfast, and yet solemn, as though he
realized and faced his danger with a valiant
leart.
And ever these gray eyes followed one
form, and rested on one face. On the face
jf Katherine, his wife, and by and by he
oeckoned her to bis side.
Don’t fret, Katie,” he whispered below
sis breath, and drew her band up to hit lips
tnd kissed it.
‘•Hush, Enni&more, you must not speak,”
ihe answered.
And she sat there quite still and made no
tnoan. Sat and watched him, while the
night hours ebbed away. When the dawn
itole in she saw the gray shadows had deep
sned on Ennismore’s face.
But during the day which followed he
'eemed to gain strength, and asked to 6ee
little Pat, and smiled tenderly when the
h uidsome boy went to his bedside.
••Why don’t you talk, father?’ asked the
i-.iild in his outspoken way, and with bis
Might blue eyes fixed woaderingly on his
i ; father’s pallid face.
.. rd Enuismore gently shook his head;
ad Lady EuniMhore laid her hand on the
shoulder of her little son.
“Your father must not speak to-day, Pat,
his throat is too weak,” she said, aud then
turned away with the cold dew breaking
nut on her white face.
“Then I'll talk,’’said Pat, and so the child
went prattling on, tolling anecdotes of his
pony and his dog, and Anally informing
Lord Ennismure of the quarrel between
young Curzon and Miss Sinclair.
“lib you know, father, Mr. Curzon is
gone? He went ’cause he and Miss Sinclair
l,n 1 a great row.”
L vd Enuismore smiled at this piece of
.formation.
• it was Punch told me,” went on Pat.
“Bho said they had a great fight, ’cause he
was laughing at her with Judy, and she
was listening; it was awful mean to listeu,
wasn’t it, father?’
The father gave a little nod.
“So he pacsed off. I’m sorry, ’cause I
think he’s rather a jolly fellow, though
not so jolly as Roche—hut he doesn’t come
now.”
The pale listener at the window clasped
her hands together as the child's innocent
words fell on her ears.
Tbeu presently she went back to the bed
tide.
“You must not tire father to-day, dear,”
Bbe6aid; “you must come and see him to
morrow, and tell him all your news then.”
“Very well, mother; but I mw kiss him
now,mayn’t If’ asked Pat,and as Lis mother
lifted him on the bed. Lord Eumsmore’s
eyes grew dim as his little son’s rosy lips
were pressed on his face.
“God bliss you, my boy, dear little boy,”
be murmured, and then he gave a restle.-s
sigh, aud when Lady Eunismore returned
to him he was evidently still thinking of tho
child.
“You must watch over him, Katie,” he
whispered; "my little heir.”
Aud duiing the t ext few days, when
ever Lord Ennismore was allowed to
speak, he invariably taiked of his son;
the boy whom be believed was destined to
inherit bis old name, aud his mother’s
wea th.
And she who knew that this would not
be; who knew of the suspended sword that
was sure lo fail, bore all this as she bore the
rest, in silent anguish—prayerless, hopeless
anguish, too terrible nlmcst for a human soul
to undergo and live.
And when Lord Ennismore next saw the
rector, he spoke to him also about his son.
“I won’t get well now, Prescott,” he said,
wistfully enough; “and I want you to be a
joint guardian with my wife of the little
lad. Ho will have a long minority, you see,
and I should feel more at ease if l kuew that
someone I can thoroughly depend upon,
like yourself, was looking after him—poor
little chap.”
There was such a choking sensation in the
rector’s throat at this request that he could
make no reply to it.
“The girls, of oourse, are different.” went
on Enuismore, “they will have their mother,
and are sure to marry, but Pat is such a
baby still,” and he sighed.
"God will watch over the child,” said the
rector in falteriugly accents.
“1 hops aud pray so; but there are many
temptations for a youn- lad with money in
the world; therefore, Prescott, I hope you
will not refuse my request?”
“Whatever you wish I will do.”
“That is settled then; I expect Beale, the
lawyer, to-morrow, and then 1 want every
thing arranged. If it were only not for
Katherine and the boy 1 should "be ready
enough to go.”
“Our partings aro but for a time, a brief
time.” s.id tne rector’s trembling voice;
“spent by most of us here struggling in an
adverse sea, where the waves are ever ready
to overwhelm us. But we have a Beacon
Light, on which, if we have but strength to
to fix our eyes, the life on earth dwindles
aud grows small.”
“Yes,” answered Ennismore, half re
luctantly.
For his life had been a truly happy one.
His nature was bright and genial, and for
tune bad smiled on him and no shadow or
cross had hitherto fallen athwart his path.
And of the dark undercurrent that had
drifted so near to chauge all this he was
totally ignorant.
“He will be spared what to him would
have teen worse than death,” Lady Ennis
more thought more than once during these
last days; “spared to know that his children
are nameless, and that I am unworthy to
touch his hand.”
And so ..be last days glided away in great
peace and iu little bodily pain to the dying
lord. He grew weaker, and eaoh recurrent
attack of bleeling from the lung lessened
bis vitality, and he would lie for hours
quite silent, with bis wife's band in his, la a
sort of half sleep, half stupor, from which
it was sometimes difficult to rouse him.
“He is drifting fast away,” the rector
told kis sister one night when he returned
from bis visit to Brackenford to the re
tory.
“It's a terrible thing,” answered Miss
Dorothy. “And to think they have not
even caught the villain* who did it. I should
like to huvs seen them hanged
“1 cannot believe that aor one would
have purposely injured l jot A Ennismore,
Dorothy,” said the gentle reotor; "and
imagine the anguish of the poor eoul now
who madvtmUy fired the fatal shot? The
ourdeo on fete coa <dfeuc* mail L*Alra<*t too
|TM( to boor.”
“Ob, I care seyl These are plenty of
broke* of men, pemr, who have no con
acjjames. and women toe.fosr that mtUer.
• • rector **irlml
“X think I can tell a bad, designing
woman when I see her, though,” went on
Miss Dorothy, who was always uneasy
when the Rev. Peter bad been at Bracken
ford, for he bad given no hint to his sisters
yet that his friendship with Mies Sinclair
was entirely ended. “There’s that gover
ness. now, of Lady Ennismore’s —but you
think her good-looking, don’t you?’
“Yes, I think she is very good-looking,
Dorothy."
“1 don’t, then; and I think, moreover,
she’s one of those hussies who try to make
fools of men by Battering their vanity.
Oh, I see through her I”
Again the rector sighed a little ruefully,
and then he smiled, and looked kindly at
his sister’s visage.
“She has quarreled with me, Dorothy,”
be said.
“Oh, has she? That will just be some of
her tricks I warrant her! Don't you have
anything to say to her, Peter.”
"I never see ner now,” a swered the rec
tor, quietly; aud this reply was a great re
lief to the mind of Dorothy, who went up
stairs to tell her elder sister the news.
“Peter has had the good eense at last, X
am thankful to say, to let that Miss Sin
clair sea tnat he means to have nothing to
do with her," said Miss Dorothy, and
and Miss Prescott, who was ailing,
lifted her head, which was enveloped in
flannels, from the back of her easy chair.
“How do you know ?” she asked.
“Ob, I got it from him by talking about
her. He says she has quarreled with him,
but I doubt that; It’s just like Peter to say
nothing against her. I declare 1 believe he
would say nothing against a black beetle!”
Poor Miss Prescott laughed, but a terrible
pang through her aching jaws soon changed
ner mirth to a moan.
“It’s very well,” she said, and so sank
back again in her chair, thinking more of
her own ailments, poor soul, than of the
kindly brother, who bad supplied her with
every comfort.
***** * •
That night, about 11 o’clock, a summons
came from Brackenford to tho rectory that
Lord Enuismore was dying. The sorrowful
news, though so long expected, came as a
shock still to the rector, who hurried out in
the semi-darkness beneath a starlit sky, to
tho stately home, over which now bung the
dismal shade of death.
He went to th#lighted chamber and stood
by the bed, round which were gathered the
wife and children of the dying man. But
he recognized the rector as be entered the
room, and made a sort of movement as if to
raise his hand in welcome, but all strength
had gone from him. But the rector took
ths chill band, and knelt down by the bed
sido and proved earnestly aud fervently for
the passing soul.
Lady Eunismore did not join in the
solemn words. She stood there, gray and
tearless, as though turned to stone, with her
sunken eyes ever Axed on the changed face
lying on the pillows. The two girls were
crying silently, and little Pat’s hand lay in
his dyiug father’s, and as the rector finished
iiis petitions Lord Ennismore spoke a few
last words in his husky death-stricken
tones.
“Watch over him,” he said to the rector,
looking into the psetty frightened face of
his little boy.
“I will,” answered the rector, fervently.
“And Katherine—” faltered Lord Ennis
more, turning his eyes to where the woman
stood whom he loved so well.
But as he did so the light died ont of
them, and with a faint, struggling sigh Lord
Ennismore’s spirit passed away.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A LAWYER’S VISIT.
The news of Lord Ennisraore’s death was
known in town the next morning, and
Francis Roche heard it with a strange sen
sation in his heart. Col. Roche also was
not unmoved, and George Roche was greatly
excited.
"There’s nothing now to stop us putting in
our just claims,” he said to Francis.
“Yes,”answered Francis, “we must con
sider Lady Ennismore.”
“She’s not Lady Ennismore, mv dear boy,
she’s your mother, Mrs. George Roche,”
said the jubilant man.
"We must consider her before everything
else,” said Francis; “to disturb her in her
present grief would be oontemptlble and
unmanly.”
And had he seen her his pity and consid
eration for her would have been greater
still. When Lord Ennlsmore’s last breath
had passed away, she on whom bis dying
gaze had been fixed, staggered forward and
fell down bv the bed with a moan, as though
she bad been struck by death.
They lifted her up and carried her from
the room, but when tho doctors succeeded
ia restoring her to consciouiness.the Btrange
look of anguish in her eyes was terrible to
behold. In vain the rector spoke to her of
holy peace and hope; in vain i er children
gathered round her, and kissed her and
prayed her to be comforted.
She spoke no word, but lay there still,
with that awful look ever on her face; aud
during the days that followed it was al
ii ays the same. She showed no interest in
any of the sad details that follow the foot
prints of death. When the rector taiked
to her of the funeral she shivered, and that
was all. It was finally deemed best by the
doctors that she should not be disturbed by
these things, and the rector and the family
lawyer, Mr. Bealo, made all the arrange
ments.
But the night before the long proeessson
bore away Lord Ennismore from bis home,
she suddenly roused herself.
“I want to look again upon his face,” she
said in hollow tones, addressing the rector.
“Best not, my dear lady,” answered the
reotor, gently.
“Yes," she went on, trying to raise her
self.
“Dear Lady Ennismore, it is too late,”
said the rector soothingly.
She looked at his face and seemed to un
ders and, and with a moan sank back, and
from that hour spoke not another word until
the funeral was over, and the kindly genial
lord was carried to his grave.
The next day, however, it became abso
lutely necessary that she should make cer
tain arraDgoments, and for tlii- purpose Mr.
Beale, the family lawyer, and the rector
sought an interview with her. She did not
refuse to receive them, and when once or
twice Mr. Beale spoke of the interests of the
“Little Lord,” as he called Pat, so strange
an expression flitted over her white, hag
gard face, th it the-lawyer confided in the
rector's ear. after thev left her, that he
feared her brain was affected.
“The shock, I'm afraid, lias destroyed her
reason to a certain extent,” he said. "Poor
lady! if it is so. it’s a terriDle thing for the
children.”
Aqd during the evening the rector had
reason, be believed, to think that the law
yer’s idea was a right one, for be received a
message that Lady Enu uoors wished to sue
him, aud when bo arrived at the hall he
found her walking up and down her
room, evidently in a state of strong excite
ment.
“1 bare something to tell you,” she said,
addressing the rector without further cere
mony.
“ Yae,” be said, kindly. “Can 1 help you
in any way?’
“No one oan help me 1 am past help,”
•beanswered, “but when Mr. Beele wet
here tnl* morning b spoke ut Uttle Patrick
as Lord Eauisioore."
“That wo* only natural, the little fellow
has, of < ourse, mbenuvi his fetbsr’s name.*'
“N©:” cried Lady Earniam with e 44ts
passive* and emotion, and she (Long up her
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, MAY 24, 1891—TWELVE PAGES.
arms. “He died happy—died believing bli
little son was the heir; but be is not—Patrick
will never be Lord Ennismore!”
“Mv dear lady "
"It will be all known soon,” went on the
unhappy woman, wringing her bands;
“ would have been known even if be baa
lived, so he is better gone I”
"Dear Lady Ennismore. for you children’s
sake try to rouse yourself, and do not give
way to morbid fancies.”
“Fanoie*!” she echoed with a hollow
laugh. “Would to God they were fancies—
wou and to God they were!”
“You sr.ould not excite yourself thus;
your loss has neeu a great and terrible one,
and my heart bleeds for you, but still ”
Then Lady Ennismore suddtnly stopped
in her excited wanderings before the rector.
“Do you know what it has been?” she
said, almost wildly. “You remember me a
happy woman, do you not? Mr. Pres
cott, I was—l was—most happy—until sud
denly a dark shadow from tho past ro : e be
fore me!”
“From the past?’ said the rector, in sur
prise.
“Yes!” and again Lady Ennismore
wrung her bands together, as though the
anguish of her mind was more than she
could bear.
“Do not talk of it, just now; tell me
some other time if it be any comfort to
you.”
“No, I must tell you now; I must tell you
for the cnild’s sake, for he will need a pro
tector, and you promised his father ”
“And God will help me, I pray, to keep
that promise,” said the rector, solemnly, as
Lady Ennismore paused, overcome by the
intensity of her emotion.
"I believe you are a good man—l believe
you will do your best —but it’s a terrible
thing to tell, Mr. Preecott; to tell that in
my childish folly, long ago, for 1 was but
16, that —that I married before I met Lord
Eunismore.”
The rector looked at her with the deepest
pity; he thought her brain had reeled over,
and that tnis was one of her disordered
fancies.
“Do not distress yourself about it now,”
he said, soothingly; “things will be all right
by and by, and I shall do my beet for little
Pat.”
“I married,” went on Lady Ennismore,
as th -ugh she scarcely heard the rector’s
words, “married in haste ad secrecy; and
my mother never knew—Norman never
knew—but still I was married, and after
some months the miserable man who had in
duced me to commit this folly fell into dis
grace and was obliged to fly the country.
He was lost at sea on his voyage out, and
his brother came here to tell me—his death
was in all the papers. I saw it, CoL Roche
saw it—”
“Col. Roohe?" said the rector, quickly.
“Yes, his brother, and he came to tell me
he was dead —that George Roche was dead
a.d*! was not 17, and a child was about to
be bom 1”
“Oh! Lady Ennismore!”
“The child was born,” continued Lady
Eunismore in a hoarse and broken voice;
“born in secret, as my marriage was in
secret; and noi e knew here, only my maid
and Margaret Drummond; and a year later
—I was free to do it, you know—l married
Ennismore."
“Still—even if this were so, it does not
affect the boy—your first husband you say
was dead.” said the rector, nervously, and
with some agitation, for there was some
thing so terribly earnest in Lady Eunis
more's words.
“No, it did not affect the boy; that was
what I always told myself; the boy that
Ennismore almost worshipped. And I was
happy—happy In my husband’s love, and in
the children’s, and I had almost forgotten
the bitter past. Not quite, though—the
other son—the eldest born, lived, and had
grown to man’s estate, and I heard of him
through his uncle, who had adopted him,
and 1 knew all w3 well with him. And—
and so things went on, until one day in
town I received a latter—a letter from the
man 1 believed to have been dead for more
than twenty years!”
“Tli is cannot surely be true, Lady Ennis
more?” cried the rector, horror-stricken.
“Only too true—too miserably true—a
letter from George Roche—from a de
graded, fallen man, to tell me that ho still
lived, and that I was his legal wife—l, the
wife of Ennismore! But he offered to make
a bargain with me; if I would give him a
certain sum a year he would keep this hide
ous secret—Mr. Prescott, I did this."
“But were you sure, quite sure, of the
man’s identity 1”
“I saw him,” continued Lady Ennismore,
with a shudder; “and mv old maid saw
him; we could not bs deceived. Yes, it was
George Roche, risen, as it were, from the
dead: and he asked ine about the child, and
I lied to him—l said he was dead.”
“Lady Ennismore,” said the rector in
great agitation, “I—l cannot credit all
this.”
“You will believe it only too soon.
George Roche I und out his eon lived, and
then be changed his plans; he came here—
he threatened me—he told me I was not
legally the wife of Ennismore, but his wife,
and that his son was the rightful heir of
Brackenford.”
“And do you mean to say —"
‘Ht Is true; he can prove it. Yes, yes,
Ermismore is better dead I"
She burst into passionate sobs as she ut
tered these last words, and the rector felt
utterly unable to tell how to act. He tried
to speak soothingly; he begged her to com
pose herself, aid after a while the wild out
burst died away, and Lady Ennismore was
once more able to speak.
“I have told you,” she said, “so that you
may be prepared; you ere one of the child's
guardians, aud some compromise may l.e
arrauged. But before my marriage witn
Eunismore, Brackenford was settled on ray
eldest son in case my brother died childless
—and you know
She broke off abruptly, aud held out her
hand to the rector in token of farewell; and
he left the house like a man in a dream. He
could scarcely belive tho strange story he
had just listened to. and yet little things
rose m his mind to confirm it as he wulked
home. Even before the fatal injuries had
happened to her husband, he had noticed
that Lady Enuismore seemed greatly
changed. It might have been this secret
burden, this dreadful knowledge preying oa
her mind.
The rector heaved many a distressful
sigh on his way to the rectory, a >d when he
arrived there was so unsettled and restless
that Dorothy Prescott grew exceedingly
uneasy.
“Surely that artful hussy has not got
hold of him again,” thought Dorothy, look
ing distrustfully at hor brother’s face.
“Was there anythiug the matter at
Brackenford that Lady Eunismore sent for
yon?’ she asked.
The reotor’s sallow face flushed, and he
moved his lean bands uncomfortably.
“She’s in great distress. Dorothy, great
and terrible distress,” he answered.
“Poor lady, and no wonder! 1 don’t
think muoh of men, as a rule, but Lord En
nismure was just one in a thousand; always
so kind and pleasant, and to lose him as she
did."
“It was, indeed, a heavy blow."
“Still she has the children, and the little
heir to think of."
The rector gave an audible groan at these
words.
“Are you not well, Peter?’ asked Miss
Dorothy, sharply.
Again the rector groaned.
“Yes, my dear," be sad, meekly; but all
tbs same, Miss Dorothy was certain there
was something wrong with her brother.
And bis restlessness continued during the
next lew days, and then one morning Mr.
Beale, the lawyer, arrived at the rectory,
an l was ushered into the library, where the
Rev. Pe'er was sitting.
Mr. Hiile, a sensible-looking, grave-facet
man, shook hand* with ths rector, aud than
at one* proceeded to state the object ot hi*
visit.
" I have come on * very curious piece of
bu-iness,” lie sail, “end a* you ere the
joint guard.an of taa litiU lord at Bracken
iord,l thought It out right to sae you on
the sub jest*
“ Ye*," answered th* rector, quickly aud
luwrv ufif.
ht-l #n ditfioritiiir)' UGiiloitiofi
[ from a rasp ©table eav-gh Aran of solicitors,
I ei*hhg Ui*i Led/ E niWu >re e* married
before her marriage to Lord Ennismore, and
that her first husband, a Mr. Roche, was
supDOsed to be lost at sea w.thin a year of
the marriage. But mat, after two and
twenty years, this Mr. Roche has reap
peared, and of course n such a case her
mar. iage with Lord Ennismore would be
null and void,”
“Yes,” again faltered the Rector.
“Haveyoa ever heard anything of this
first marriage?* asked Mr. Beale quickly,
for there was something in the rector’s
manner that excited his suspicions.
“I—never saw Lady Ennismore until she
had been married for many years to Lord
Ennismore,” hesitated the Rev. Peter, with
downcast eyee.
"There was some scandal, I remember,
about her when she was quite a girl," said
the lawyer; “something about a love affair
with a young fellow that her mother, Mrs.
Malden, did not approve of. 1 wonder if
this extraordinary application has any
thing to dj with that old story.”
The rector did not speak for a moment;
he w as pondering what he ought to do.
“Do you suppose this—Mr. Rocde means
to bring his claims into the new courts?’
he said at length. ’
“His solictors state that he has a very
strong case, and that Lady Eunismore her
self saw him and admitted his identity dur
ing the life of Lord Ennismore; and his
brother, Col. Roche of the engineers, also
recognized him. And to complicate matters
Lady Ennismore—so the lawversstate—had
a son by this first marriage, who was
brought up by his uucle. Col. Roche, and
who is also in the army.”
“And this sou would be
“ Don’t you see,.my dear air, that if this
first marriage is an absolute fact, and can
be proved, that the poor little fellow up
yonder is illegitimate and no more Lord Ea
nismore than I am! The eldest son by the
first marriage, of course, in such a case
would be the heir to the property, aud not
Lord Ennismore’s child."
The rector rose to his feet and began
walking up and down the room with irreg
ular footsteps, and the lawyer’s keen eyes
followed his lean figure as he did so.
"Pardon me, Mr. Prescott,” he said a mo
ment later, “but may I ask you a plain
question? Have you heard anything of this
before?”
Then the reotor stopped, but still was
silent.
“We must, of course, see Lady Ennis
more at once on the subject,” went on Mr.
Beale "I thought her manner very ex
traordinary the last time I did see her—
perhaps this had something to do with it?”
“I have seen her,” said the rector slowly;
“she told me something of such a story,
but I own I thought her mind was un
hinged.”
“It’s enough to unhinge the mind of any
woman. Fancy what a position to find her
self in, and through no fault of her own,
for no doubt she believed the first husband
to be de id when she married Lord Ennis
more. But there may be some weak spot
in the man’s story, und it is our duty, of
course, to try to detect this, and therefore
I propose that we go at once to Brackenford
and see Lady Ennismore.”
The rector made no objection to this, and
the two theu walked up together to the
bouse beneath the roof-tree of which such
dismal tragedies had been enacted. They
were admitted to Lady Ennismore’s pres
ence, and her manner was now much more
composed than when she had last seen the
rector.
"1 have come from town especially to see
you. Lady Eunismore,” began the lawyer.
“Yes,” she answered, and there was a
strange, hopeless ring in her voice as she
spoke.
“I have received a very extraordinary
communication,” went on Mr. Beale; “a
communication regarding an alleged first
marriage, prior to your union with Lord
Ennismore, and I thought it my duty to see
you at once on the subject.”
A flush dyed Lady Ennismore’s white,
b a Kf?ard face for a moment, and her thin
bands nervously clutched hor black gown.
“Of course, I conclude there is no founda
tion for such a statement?” said Mr. Beale.;
‘ ‘Yes. there is,” she answered in a broken
voice; “I was married before I married
Lord Ennismore—when I was 16.”
"Good heavens! Lady Ennismore, vou
don’t mean to say this is true?” exclaimed
Mr. Beale.
“It is true; I believed George Roche to
be dead—saw his death in the papers—was
assured he was dead before I married Lord
Ennismore, and all the years of my married
life I believed this man to be dead until —a
short time ago.”
“And you have seen him; you are sure of
his identity?” asked Mr. Beale.
“Yes,” added Lady Ennismore briefly.
“And this letter states there is a son by
this first marriage; is this so?”
“Yes,” again said the white-faced woman
he was questioning.
“It is a most unfortunate business, then;
most unfortunate for Lord Enuismore’s lit
tle son!”
She did not speak, but both the rector
and the lawyer saw her clutching hands,
her quivering lips.
“May thero not be some flaw about this
first marriage?” continued Mr. Beale. “You
were so young at the time—a mere child, in
fact—that there may have been some irreg
ularity you were not aware of. Where did
the marriage take place, and who per
formed the ceremony, and by whom was it
witnessed ?”
Then Lady Ennismore repeated the story
we have so often heard. Sue told the date
of her marriage to George Roche, and the
disgraoa that befell him, and how he fled
the country, aud was supposed to be lost at
sea. She spoke all this with the same hope
less ring in her voice with which she had
commenced the conversation, and tho law
yer listening felt oonvinced of the truth of
her words.
“And this other son—he is a young man
now, of course?’ he said, as he paused.
“Yes,” and a faint flush stole again to
her face; “I know him. I think he is
noble-minded. lam sure he will be gener
ous to little Pat.”
“Well, of course, we must do nothing
rashly. Lady Ennismore. I will see this
gentleman’s solicitors, and arrange an in
terview with him—l mean George Roche,
for I presume you would prefer a private
arrangement to the matter going into
court?’
“It would be useless to go into court; Ido
not mean either to disoute or deny my—
miserable fate.”
“W,eli, it will not affect you so muoh per
sonally, us, of course, you hold the property
for life!”
Then for a moment or two Lady Ennis
more broke through the outward calm
which she had hitherto maintained through
out the interview.
"It is more bitter than death!” she cried
suddenly. “Lord Ennismore is better
dead 1"
*‘lt is certainly a very painful affair; but
we must try to make the best of it, and I
am pleased to hear a good account of the
young man whom I suppose—unless, as I
repeat, we can find some flaw—will be the
heir of Brack inford. Good morning, Lady
Ennismore, I wish my visit bad been on
pleasanter business.”
“Was ever a girl’s folly so terribly pun
ished?’ he said as be left the ball with the
rector. “The poor lady is right. I think
Lord Enuismore is better dead, for this af
fair would have just broken his heart, for
be absolutely doted on his little son.”
“He spoke of him with bis last words,”
answered the reotor, who was deeply moved.
“And you think the story of the first mar
riage is actually true?’
“I am certain the story of tho marriage
is true as far as Lady Eunismore it con
cerned. Hut there may have been some
irregularity that may upset it; but such a
scamp as this Riche ar>i>oir to have been
would, I fear, in all UkeUbo id, look sharply
enough after matters when he was marry
ing such a rich girl as Miss Muldeu was
supposed to be."
"Hut it was so •' range tie never made any
claims during all these years?”
“My datr sir, he would have been liable
to have been arrested and eeverely dealt
with had ha made any claims The gaulle
m* is dead wuuee name he forged, you
heard Issdy Koouiaora say, nUwrsiw ba
might Oud hi neeif itt a very awkward p
sUti even uiw Well, it's a t loueaad
pities, hgt I stAii hope there may he rnut
loophole:”* wish whlob we may be sure the
rector cordially echoed.
(to be continued.)
OLD MUSSTNTODCaiT.
Thu Part Played by a Queer Word In
the Life of a Girl Baby.
from the Union Sional.
There was one word the little girl heard
many times a day. The word was Mussen
touch it.
Baby wondered who Musaentouohit could
be. The stranger lived in the bureau draw
era
It lived in the sewing machine.
It lived ia the tail jar that stood on the
little round table.
It certainly lived in the glass globe where
the gold fishes swam.
This went on till baby was 2 years old.
There was no word she heard so often as the
long, queer word, Mussentouchit.
Mussentouchit was everywhere—in the
shioirg books on the parlor table; in the
flower beds; among the roses; even in
mamma’s w..rk basket the strange thing
lived; and if baby but took up a reel of silk
or cotton, there was Mussentouchit.
One day baby found herself by the glass
globe all alone. The family were very
busy, and for a few moments forgot the lit
tle. prying, restless darling. Tnis was her
chance. Up went the chubbv legs into the
chair that stood near the gold-fish globe.
Poised on the rounding cushion, baby
reached far over to touch tho gold-fish. In
reaching she last her balance and fell, drag
ging the globe to the floor. There was a
crash, a scream, a rush, and mamma was
on the spot Baby was picked up, kissed
and scolde 1.
“I dess I tilled ole Mussentouchot’s time?’
she said, shaking herself and walking off.
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TEE THAIN 8-OPP.iD.
Once Was Enough for Two Colored
Excursionists, Hester and Mandy.
From the Courier-Journal.
The other day an excursion train down
south, crowded with darkies, was running
along at the rate of forty miles an hour,
when goiug around a short curve the engine
collided witn a little bull. The engine
turned a somersault over the bull and lit
bottom upward down an embankment. The
tender took after it, but hit a big tree aud
broke in two. Then the cars, one after an
other, reared up, turned oer, jumped on
top of eaob other, and lay in one big pro
miscuous pile, while all space around and
above the wreck was filled with darkies,
women, men, baskets, pieces of cars, and
seats. Remarkable to relate, not a soul
was killed, and only a few of them were
slightly hurt. The little bull was cut to
pieces.
Two old colored women, who had never
been on the cars before, and who were
seated near each other talking about the
“Force bill” when the crash came, went out
through the top of a car and lit in the grass
forty feet from the wreck and about fifteen
feet apart. After looking about them in a
bewildered state of miud they presently sat
up and eyed each other for a minute or tea
Then one of them shoved her bonnet up off
her face, and, looking at the other, who
was trying to get her hat loose from the
back of her neck, said:
“Jzdat. you, Mandy?”
“Vea-as! Wharizwe?”
“Bress de Lawd, honey, don't ax me.”
“Iz dis whar we git off?”
‘‘l spec' it is; I never went to a picnic on
de kyars afo’. One thing sho’, we got off,
an’ nobody didn’t hatter tell us ter git off,
needer.”
“No, dey didn’t.”
“Did yer eber see niggers git off’n do
kyars in sech er hurry—de a’r wuz full ob
’em.”
“Ye—as! Day acted like dey hab no
sense.”
"Look heah! Ef dey gwan to stop dat
suddenter let me off when dey carries u.;
back home, I’se gwanter walk. I don’t
mine gwine fas’ but hi’s stoppin’ so suddin,
an’ fr owing people ’bout loose ’dout eben
sayin’ ‘Look fo’ yo’selves.’ ”
"Dat’s w’at I ’jectsto myself, an ”
“Say, Hester, iz you seed my baskit any
whar sence we lit ?”
“Well, ’Mandy, de las’ I seed ob yo’ baskit
it wuz chasin’ mine froo de a’r to’ard heb
bin, an ; a passel o’ niggabs, sum gwan up
an’ sum cornin’down, er grabbin’ fo ’em.”
“How fur iz we fo’m town?”
“Fo’teen miles.”
“How iz vo’ feet fo’ walkin’ ?”
“Well, dey’s good ez you’rn, I reckon.”
"Den le’s take de pike—no kyars fo’ me.”
“Dat's me,” and the two “old girls”
walked back home in ignorance tbat an ac
cident had occurred to the picnic train.
Snakes Attack a span of Eorses.
From the Indianapolis Journal.
Pendleton, Ind., May 11.-While Frank
Oldham,a young farmer living southeast of
town, was harrowing a piece of new ground
last Saturday he aroused from slumber two
ugly and enormous black snakes, measuring
about twelve feet, that immediately showed
fight. They first made a rus.i at the youag
man and tried to coil themselves around his
legs, but he escaped from their slirav em
brace and made for the fence at a rapid rate,
closely pursued by the serpents. When the
serpeuis saw that Frank was out of their
reach on the fence, they returned to the
horses, which had been left standing still
attached to the harrow. Soon tho horses
were noticed to be rearing aud kicking and
performing acrobatic feats that would sur
pass Barnutn’s trained equines.
The man, mustering up his courage,
armed himself with a fence rail, ana
hastened to the relief of his toam. He found
the reptile coiled around the foreleg of one
horse, and the other snake arouud one of
the hind legs of the other borso. The ser
pents struck the defenseless animals repeat
edly, while the air resouudel with a pecu
liar hissing noise. After a struggle of about
thirty minutes the farmer succeeded in
hearing off the reptiles and releasing the
tcared team. He then mounted the barrow,
and a chase commenced, the horses at full
speed dragging the harrow aud Frank, with
the snako. in close pursuit. The tlwiug
team raised a cio .and < t dust, and when it
reached the opposite side of the field the
auakes were lost to view. A party with
guo> aud clubs was quickly organized to
••arch for tha snakes, but'woe unable to
find them.
"You c* CONS m. ’eaid at. F*ler to the
youag applicant for admission, “but you will
h®* to ItftVt %m*r dUfCUVfI cirnefi (Hilftl’li- "
lor* Utcordtr.
MEDICAL.
How About You HVI other?
Scrofula or Kings Evil is the most stubborn of all Skin
affections. Whether inherited or otherwise, it isa blood dis
ease and cannot be permanently cured by anything but
s. s. s.
A GRATEFUL DAUGHTER.
My mother was sorely afflicted with Scrofula for three years and *
during- that time the glands on her neck burst open in five places
the openings were small and healed right up, but the other o£
an i 52* ope ? aa ? w ’ a^. ut ever 7 two weeks, always causing severe^ 1 *
and often prostration. She was so reduced in strength that
cocoa wines had to be generously used to keer> hpr ali™' ci hmics and
takings. S. S., and improved frdKe ?h£i
appetite and by the time she finished the fourth bottle
She is now entirely well. Mbs. E. J. Rowell, Medford NS P *
BOOK ON BLOOD AND SKIN DISEASES FREE
THE SWIFT SPECIFIC CO., ■ . Atlanta, Ca.
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""" 1 "" " Prickly Ash, Poke Root and Potassium,
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k-JS Capt. J. T. Johnston.
oCrOTIJSo To all whom it may concern:—l take
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In blood poison, mercurial poison, to. After taking three bottles, in ac
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perties of P. P. P„ Prickly Ash, Poke Two bottles made him a well man and
Root and Potassium. he renders thanks to P. P. P.
All druggists sell it. ,
LIPPMAN BROS., Proprietors,
Lippman's Block, Savannah, G-a.
MEDICAL.
NOTHING SUCCEEDS
LIKE SUCCESS.
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lOBOBE
lILLER
MOST TRULY AND CORRECTLY CALLED
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A WONDERFUL TO?f!C
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>Ve request n thorough investigation. _
History of the Microbe Killcriree 1+
UTLER’S PHARMACY, Soj e Agent, van a
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“sss&m |Ss
CRYSTAL LENSES.
or# !m
Have exclusive sale of these oelebrai.it glasses
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* S IT " "
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11. i>. HOOT. ,H. C.. tßaj’vrl Nt„ N.__
f y
In
