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NOW FIItST PUBLISHED.
THAT HOUSE EX BLOOMSBURY,
Bu MRS, OUPHANT,
Author of “The Son of His Father,” “The Sorceress,” Within the Precincts,”
“Young Musgrave,” “Oliver's Bride,” “A Bose in June,” Etc.
COPYRIGHTED, 1893, BY THE .AUTHOR.
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.
Chapters I and ll.—Mr. Mannering and his
daughter. Dora, live alone together in a Utile
house in Bloomsbury. He is a hard-working
hut not very successful clerk at the British
museum, iiora makes the acquaintance of
Mr. and Mrs. Hesketh. lodgers at the same
house and an intimacy springs up between
Mrs. Hesketh and Dora. The latter discovers
in one of her father's secret drawers a minia
ture of a lady, young and interesting looking,
and she wonders whether it is that of her
mother, hut has rot the courage to ask her
father.
i hapters 111 and IV.— Dora Mannering has
been in the hahit of receiving periodically hut
at uncertain intervals a box containing
clothes and other things suited to her age.
The donor is unknown and this is another
mystery to Dora, her father refusing to tell
her anything about it. She consults a Miss
Bethune and her maid. Gilchrist, who are
also ignorant, and as they are considering
the subject Dr. Roland enters, and at their
suggestion he tells them to sit down and learn
the story of poor Mannering.
CHAPTER - IV.
There is nothing more usual than to say
that could we but know the life history
of the first half-dozen persons we meet
with on any road, we should find tragic
details and unexpected lights and shadows
far beyond the reach of fiction, which no
doubt is sometimes true, though some
times the first half-dozen might be found
to gash, like the knife-grinder, with a
‘‘Story? I surd bless you! I havo none
to tell, sir.” This to besure, wou?d be no
argument, for our histories are not fre
quently unknown to, or at least unappre
ciated by ourselves, and the common hu
man sense is against any accumulation of
wonders in a small space. lam almost
ashamed to say that the t,wo people who
have inhabited one above the other two
separate floors of my house in Blooms
bury, had a certain singularity and unus
ualness in their lives, that they were not
as other men or women are, or to speak
more clearly, that being as other men
and women are, the circumstances of
their lives created round them an atmos
phere which was not exactly that of com
mon day.
When Dr. Roland recounted to Miss
Bethume the story of Mr. Mannering,
that lady shut her lips tight in tho par
tial shadow of the screen, to restrain the
almost irrepressible murmurs of a revela
tion equally out of the common which be
longed to herself. That is, she was
tempted to utter aloud what she said in
her soul. “Oh, but that is like me!”
“Oh, but I would never have done that !”
—comparing the secret in her own life,
which nobody in this place, suspected,
with the secret in her neighbor's which,
at least to some few persons, was known.
Poor Mr. Mannering! there was a
strange kind of sujieriorlty and sage sat
isfaction in pitying his fate, in learning
all the particulars of it, in assuring her
self that Dora was quite ignorant, and
nobody in the house had tho least suspi
cions, while at the same time secure iu
the consciousness that she herself was
wrapped in impenetrable darkness, and
that not even this gossip of a doctor could
divine her. There is an elation in know
ing that you too have a story, that your
own experiences are still more profound
than those of the others whom you arc
called upon to pity, and wonderover, that
did they but know ! which, perhaps, is
not like the more ordinary elation of con
scious superiority, but yet has its sweet
ness.
There was a certain dignity swelling in
Miss Bethune's figure as she rosetoshakc
hands with the doctor, as if she had
wrapped a tragic mantle round her, as if
she dismissed him like a queen on the
edge of ground too sacred to he trodden by
any vulgar feet. He was conscious of it,
vaguely, though not of what it was. He
gave her a very keen glunco in the shad
ow of that screen a keener observer
than Dr. Roland was not easily to be met
with—but then his observations were gen
erally turned in one particular way, and
tho phenomena which lie glimpsed on
this occasion did not come within the
special field of his inquiries. He
perceived them, DUt he could not classify
them, in the scientific narrowness of liis
gaze.
Miss Bethune waited until the well
known sound of the closing of Dr. Ro
land's door downstairs met her ear, and
then site rang violently, eagerly for her
maid. What an evening this was, among
all the quiet evenings on which nothing
happened an evening full of incidents,
of mysteries, and disclosures. The sound
of the licll was such that the person sum
moned came hurrying from her room,
well aware that there must be something
to be told, and already breathless with
interest. She found her mistress, walk
ing up and down the room, the screen
discarded, the fan thrown down, the very
shade on the lamp pushed up so that it
had the tipsy air of a hat placed on one
side of the head. “Oh, Gilchrist!” Miss
Bethune cried.
Dr. Roland went as he always went,
briskly but deliberately down stairs, if
he had ever run up and down at any pe
riod of his life, taking two steps at a
time, as young men do. lie did it no lon
ger. He was a litttle short-sighted, and
wore a "pincenez,” and was never sure
that between his natural eyes, with
which he looked straight down at his
feet, and his artificial ones which had a
wider circle, he might not miss a step,
which accounted for the careful, yet rap
id character of his movements. The
door which Miss Bethune waited to hear
him close was exactly below her own.
and filled in l)r. Roland’s life theconjoint
positions of waiting room, dining room
and library. His consulting room was
formed of the other half looking to the
back, and shut off from this by folding
doors and closely drawn curtains.
All the piles of Illustrated News.
Graphic, and other picture papers, along
with various well-thumbed pictorial \o
umes, the natural embellishments of the
waiting-room, were carefully cleared
away, and the room, with Dr. Roland’s
chair drawn near a cheerfully blazing fire,
his reading-lamp, his book, and his even
ing paper on his table, looked comfortable
enough. It was quite an ordinary room in
Bloomsbury, and he was quite an ordinary
wan. Nothing remarkable [the reader
will be glad to hear] had ever happened
to him. He had gout* through the
usual studies, he had knocked about the
world for a number of .years, lie had seen
life ad many incidents in other people's
stories both at home anil abroad. But
nothing particular had ever happened to
hin self Ho had lived, but it lie had
loved, nobody knew anything about that.
He had settled in Bloomsbury some four
or five years before, and lit* had grown
Into u steady not too overwhelming prac
tice. His specialty was the treatment of
dyspepsia mid other evils of a sedentary
life: anti his patients were chiefly ineu.
the men of offices and museums, among
whom he had a great reputation This
was his official eharacter. not nint h of a
family adviser, but strong to rout the
ln*u fiend and the* demons of indigestion
wherever eucounLertxi But in his pri
vate * ; npm lty Dr, Roland s character was
very remarkable, and his scientific enthu
siasm great.
He was a sort of medical detective,
working all for love and nothing for re
ward. without fee, and in many cases
without even the high pleasure of c arry
ing out his view. He had the eye of a
hawk for anything wrong in the complex
ion or aspect of those who fell under his
observation. The very postman at the
door, whom Dr. Roland had met two or
three times as he went out for his consti
tutional in the morning, had been divined
and cut open, as it were, by his lancet of
a glance, and saved from a bad illness by
the peremptory directions given to him,
which the man had the sense (and the
prudence, for it was near Christmas) to
obey. In that case the gratuity passed
from doctor to patient, not from patient
to doctor, but was not perhaps less satis
factory on that account. Then Dr. Ro
land would seize Janey or Molly by the
shoulders when they timidly brought a
message ora letter into his room, look
into the blue of their eyes for a moment,
and order a dose on tho spot—a practice
which made these innocent victims trem
ble even to pass his door.
“Oh, granny, I can’t, I can’t take it up
to the doctor,” they would say, even
when it was a telegram that had come—
little selfish things, not thinking what
poor sick person might be sending for the
doctor! nor how good it was to be able to
get a dose for nothing every time you
wanted it!
But the most of the people whom he
met were less easily manageable than the
postman and the landlady's little grand
daughters. Dr. Roland regarded every
one he saw from this same medical point
of View, and had made up his mind about
Miss Bethune, and also about Mr. Man
nering, before he had been a week in the
house. Unfortunately, he could do noth
ing to impress his opinion upon them, but
he kept his eyes very wide open, and took
notes attending the moment when per
haps his opportunity might occur. As
for Dora, he had nothing but contempt
for her from the first moment he had
seen her. Hers was a ease of inveterate
good hchlth, and wholly without interest.
That girl, he declared to himself scorn
fully, would be well anywhere. Blooms
bury had no effect upon her. She was
neither anaemic nor dyspeptic, though
the little thimrsjjdownstairs were both.
But her father was a different matter.
Half a dozen playful demons were skirm
ishing around that careful, temperate,
well-living man. and Dr. Roland topk the
greatest interest in their advances and
withdrawals, expecting the day when one
or other would seize the patient and lay
him low. Miss Bethune, too, had her
little band of assailants, who were equally
interesting to Dr. Roland, but not equally
clear, since he was as yet quite in the
dark as to the moral side of the question
in her case.
He knew what would happen to these
two, and calculated their chances with
great precision, taking into account all
the circumstances that might defer or ac
celerate the catastrophe. These observa
tions interested him like a play. It was a
kind of second sight that he possessed,
but reaching much further than the
vision of any Highland seer, who sees the
winding-sheet only when it is very near
mounting in a day or two from the knees
to the waist, and hence to the head. But
Dr. Roland saw its shadow long be
fore it could have been visible to
any person gifted with the sec
ond sight. Sometimes he was
wrong —he had acknowledged as much
to himself in one or two instances; but
it was very seldom that this occurred.
Those who take a pessimistic view either
of the body or soul are bound to be right
in many, if not in most eases, wo are
bound to allow.
And it was not with tho design of hunt
ing down patients that Dr. Roland maae
these investigations; his interest in the
persons ho saw around him was purely
scientific. It diverted him greatly, if
such a word may be used, to see how they
met their particular dangers, whether
they instinctively avoided or rushed to
encounter them, both which methods
they constantly employed iu their uncon
sciousness. lie liked to note the acci
dents (so called) that came in to shave
off or to hurry on the approaching trou
ble.
The persons to whom these occurred
had often no knowledge of them, but Dr.
Roland noted everything and forgot noth
ing. He had a wonderful memory, as
well as such excessively clear sight" and
he carried on. as circumstances permit
ted, a sort of oversight of the case, even
if it might be in somebody else's hands.
Sometimes his interest in these outlying
patients who were not his interfered
with the concentration of his attention
on those who were—who were chiefly, as
has been said, dyspeptics and the "like,
affording no exciting variety of symptoms
to his keen intellectual and professional
curiosity. And these peculiarities made
him a vory serviceable neighbor. He
never objected to be called in in haste,
because he was the nearest doctor, or to
give a flying piece of advice to anyone
who might be attacked by sudden pain or
uneasiness; indeed, he might be said to
like these unintentional interferences
with other people’s work, which afforded
him increased means of observation, and
the privilege of launching anew prescrip
tion at a patient’s head by way of experi
ment, or confidential counsel at the pro
fessional brother whom he was thus acci
dentally called upon to aid.
On the particular evening which he
occupied by telling Miss Bethune the
story of the Mannerings—not without an
object in so doing, for he had a strong de
sire to put that lady herself under his
microscope and find out how certain
things affected her he had scarcely got
himself comfortably established by his
own fireside, put on a piece of wood to
make a blaze, felt for his cigar-case upon
the mantelpiece, and taken up his paper,
when a knock at his door roused him iu
the midst of his preparations for com
fort. The doctor lifted his head quickly,
and cocked one line ear like a dog, and
with something of the thrill of listening
with which a dog is roused to listen. That
lie lot the knock be repeated was by no
means to say that he had not heard the
first time. A knock at his door was some
thing like a first statement of symptoms
to the doctor. He liked to understand
and make certain what it meant.
“Come in." he said quickly, after the
second knock, which had a little hurry
and temerity in it after tho tremulous
sound of the first.
The door opened and there appeared at
ii. flushed with fright and alarm, yet pal
lid underneath the flush,the young and
eoir.cl.v countenance of Mrs. Hesketh. Do
ra’s friend on the attic floor
"Oh”' Dr Roland said, taking in this
unexpected appeurnuce, and all her cir
cumstances. physical and mental, at a
glance. He had met her also more than
once at the door or on the stairs. Ho
asked kindly wliat was the little fool
frightened aliout. as he rose up quickly
and with unconscious use aud wont placed
a chair in the best light, where he should
lie able to read the simple little alphabet
of her constitution and thoughts
"Oh. doctor, sir! I ho|ie you don’t mind
me coming to disturb you. though I know
us it's late uud past hours.”
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY OCTOBER 22, 1893.
“A doctor has no hours. Come in,” he
said.
Then there was a pause. The agitated
young face disappeared, leaving Dr. Ro
land only a side view of her shoulder and
figure in profile, and a whispering ensued.
“I cannot —I cannot! I ain’t fit,” in a
hoarse tone, and then the young woman's
eager pleading. * "Oh, Alfred dear, for
Dl.v sake!”
“Come in, whoever it is.” said Dr.
Rowland, with authority. “A doctor has
no hours, but other people in the house
have, and you mustn’t stuyoutside.”
Then there was a little dragging on the
part of the wife, a little assistance on the
part of the husband, and finally Mrs.
Hesketh appeared, more flushed than
ever, grasping the sleeve of a rather un
wholesome-looking young man, very pink
all over and moist, with furtive eyes and
hair standing on end. He had a fluttered,
clandestine look, as if afraid to be seen, as
lie came into the full light of tho lamp,
and looked suspiciously round him, as if to
find out whether anything dahgerous was
there
“It is my 'usb and. sir,” said Mrs. Iles
keth. "It's Alfred. He's been off his
food and off his sleep for I don’t know
how long, and I'm not happy about him.
1 thought perhaps you might give him a
something that would put him all
straight.”
"Off his food and off his sleep ? Perhaps
he hasn't been off his drink albo!” said
the doctor, giving a touch to tho shade of
the lamp.
“I knew,” said the young man, in the
same partially hoarse voice, "as that is
what would be said.”
“And a gentleman like you ought to
know better,” said the indignant wife.
"Drink is what he never touches, if it
isn’t a ’alf pint to his supper, and that
only to please me.”
"Then it’s something else, and not
drink,” said the doctor. “Sit down and
let me have a look at you.” He took into
his cool grasp a somewhat tremulous
damp hand, which had been hanging
down by the patient's side, limp yet agi
tated, like a thing he had no use for.
“Tell me something about him,” said Dr.
Roland. “In a shop? Baxter's —yes, I
know the place. What you call shopman,
no, assistant, young gentleman at the
counter?”
"Oh, no,” said Mrs. Hesketh, with
pride; “book-keeper, sir—sits up in his
desk in the middle of the costume depart
ment and ”
"Ah. I see," said the doctor, quickly.
He gave the limp wrist, in which the
pulse had suddenly given a great Jump, a
grip with his cool hand. “Control your
self,” lie said, quietly. “Nerves all in a
whirl, system breaking down—can you
take a holiday?”
"Oh, yes,” said th young man in a sort
of bravado, “of course I can take a holi
uay, and a express ticket for the work
house after it. How are we to live if Igo
taking holidays? We caD't afford no holi
days,” he said in his gruff voice.
“There are worse places than the work
house," said the doctor with meaning.
“Take the day to-morrow; I’ll give you a
note to send to your master. Tho first
t,hing you want is a good night’s sleep.”
“Oh, that is the truth, however you
know it,” cried Mrs. Hesketh. “He
hasn’t had a night's sleep, nor me neither,
not fora month back.”
“I ll see that he has one to-night," said
Dr. Roland, drawing back the curtain of
his surgery and opening the folding-doors.
■T won’t take no opiates, doctor,” said
the young man, with dumb defiance iu his
sleepy eyes.
• You won’t take any opiates? And
why, if I may ask?” the doctor said, se
lecting a bottle from the shelf.
“Not a drop of your pasty sleepy stuff,
that makes fellows dream and talk non
sense in their sleep—oh. not for me!”
“You are afraid, then, of talking non
sense in your sleep? Wo must get rid of
the nonsense, not of the sleep,” said tho
doctor. “I don't say that this is an
opiate, but you havo to swallow it, iuy
fine fellow, whether or not.”
"No,” said the young man, sotting his
lips firmly together.
"Drink!” cried Dr. Roland, fully
roused. “Come, I’ll have no ehildisli,
wry faces. YVhy, you’re a man—with a
wife—and not a naughty boy!”
"It's not my doing coming here. She
brought me, and I'll see her far enough.”
"Hold your tongue, you young ass, and
take your physic! She’s a capital woman,
and has done exactly as she ought to
have done. No nonsense, I tell you!
Sleep to-night, and then to-morrow you’ll
go and set yourself right with the shop.”
"Sir!” cried the young man, with a
gasp. His pulse gave a jump under the
strong, cool grip in which Dr. Roland had
again taken it, and he fixed a frightened,
imploring gaze on the doctor's face.
"Oh, doctor!” cried the poor wife,
“there’s nothing to set right with the
shop. They think ail the world of Alfred
there.”
"They'll think all the more of him,”
said Dr. Roland, “after he has had a
good night’s sleep. There, take him off
to bed; and at 10 o’clock to-morrow morn
ing 1 expect to see him here.”
"Oh, doctor, is it anything bad? Oh,
sir, can’t you make him all right!” she
cried, standing with clasped hands, lis
tening to the hurried yet wavering stop
with which her husband went up stairs.
"I’ll tell you to-morrow morning,” Dr.
Roland said.
When the door was closed, he went and
sat down again by his lire, but the calm
of his mind, the pleasure of his cigar, the
excitement of his newspaper, had gone.
Truth to tell, the excitement of this new
question pleased him more than all these
things together. “Has he done it, or is
he only going to do it !" he asked himself.
Could the thing bo set right, or could it
never be set right! He sat there for per
haps an hour, working out the
question in both directions, considering
the case in every light. It was a long
time since he had met with anything so
interesting. He only came to himself
when lie became conscious that tho fire
was burning very low, and the chill of
the night creeping into the air. Then Dr.
Roland rose again, compounded a drink
for himself of a different quality from
that which he had given to his patient,
and selected out of his bookcase a yellow
novel. But after a while he pitched the
book from him. and pushed away the
glass, and resumed his meditation. What
was grog, and what was Gaboriau. in
comparison with a problem like this!
CHAPTER VI.
The house in Bloomsbury was. how
ever. much more deeply troubled and ex
cited than it would have been by anything
affecting Alfred Hesketh, when it was
known next morning tnat Mr. Mannering
bad been taken iil in the night, and was
now unable to leave his bed. The doctor
had been sent for early—alas! it was not
Dr. Roland - aud tho whole household was
disturbed. Such a thing had not been,
known for nearly a dozen years past, as
that Mr. Mannering should not walk
downstairs exactly at a quarter before
ten, aud close the door behind him.
forming a sort of fourth chime to the
three-quarters as they sounded from
the church clock. The house \vus
put out for the day by this failure
in the regularity of its "life and move
ment, and it was very soon known that
this prop of the establishment was very
ill. that "the fever" ran very high, an.l
that even his life was iu danger.
Nobody made much remark in these
• ireuir.staaces upon the disappearance of
the humble iittle people on the upper
tiotii, vho. after much coming ami going
between their habitation and that of Dr.
Roland downstairs, made a hurried de
parture, providentially. Mrs Kitncox said,
thus leaving a little available room for
the nurse, who. by this time han in o n
possession of the Mannering establish
ment, reducing Dora to the position
'tiich she had never on upied. of a child,
and taking the management of every
thing l'so of these lees ms. indeed,
had been ordered in by tho doctor -
a nurse for the day. and a nurse for
the night, who filed the house with that
air of redundant health and cheerfulness
which seem to belong to nurses, one or
other of them being always met on the
stairs going out for her constitutional,
going down for her meals, taking care of
herself in some methodical way or other, ac
cording to prescription, that she might oe
lit for her work, and no doubt they were
very tit for their work, and amply re
sponded to the confidence placed in them,
which was only not shared by Dora,
banished by them out of her father's
room, and Miss Bethune, a woman full of
prejudices, and Gilchrist, whose soft
heart could not resist the cheerful looks
of the too fresh young women, thongh
their light-hearted ness shocked her a
little, and the wrongs of Dora filled
her heart with sympathy.
Alas! Dora was not yet sixteen—there
was no possibility, however carefully you
counted the months, and showed her
birthday to be approaching, to get over
that fact. And what were her love and
anxious desire to be of service and devo
tion to her father in comparison with
these few years and the superior training
of the women who knew almost as much
as the doctor knew himself? “Not saying
much, that!” Dr. Kolaud grumbled un
der his breath as he joined the anxious
circle of malcontents in Miss Beth une's
apartment, where Dora came, trying
proudly to restrain her tears, and telling
how she had been shut out of Mr. Man
nering’s room—“my own father's room!”
the girl cried in her indignation, two big
drops like raindrops falling in spite of her
upon her dress.
•It’S better for you, my bonnie dear,—
oh, it’s better for you.” Gilchrist whis
pered, standing behind her, and drying
her own flowing eyes with her apron.
“Dora, my darling.” said Miss Beth
une, moved to a warmth of spirit quite
unusual to her, “it is quite true what
Gilchrist says, i am not fond of these
women myself. They shall never nurse
me. If I cannot have a hand that cares
for me to smooth my pillow, it shall be
left unsmoothed, and nono of these good
looking hussies shall smile over me when
I'm dying—no, no! But itis different;
you're far too young to have that on your
head. I would not permit it. Gilchrist
and me would have taken it and done
every justice to your poor papa, I make
no doubt, and been all the better for the
work, two idle women as we are—but not
you. You should have come and gone,
and sat by his bedside and cheered him
with the sight of you: but to nurse him
was beyond your power. Ask the doctor,
and he will tell you that as well as me.”
"I have always taken care of my father
before," said Dora. “When he has had
his colds, and when he had rheumatism,
and when—that time, Dr. lioiand, you
know.”
“That was the time," said the doctor,
“when you ran down to me in the middle
of the night and burst into my room, like
a wise little girl. We had him in our own
hands then, and we knew what to do
with him, Dora. Bnt here’s Vereker,
he’s a great swell, and neither you nor I
can interfere.”
It comforted Dora a little to have Dr.
Roland placed with hersalf among the
outsiders who could not interfere, espe
cially when Miss Bethune added, “That
is just the grievance, we would all like to
have a finger in the pie. Why should a
man be taken out of the care of his nat
ural friends and given into the charge of
these women, that never saw him in their
lives before, nor care whether he lives or
dies!”
“Oh, they care—for their own reputa
tion. There is nothing to be said against
the women; they'lljdo their duty,” said
the doctor. “But there's Vereker, that
has never studied his constitution—that
sees just the present symptoms, and no
more. Take out the child for a walk,
Miss Bethune, and let’s have her frosh
and fair for him, at least, if”—the doctor
pulled himself up hastily and coughed to
swallow the last alarming syllable,—
"fresh and fair,” he added hastily, “when
he gets better, which is a period with
which no nurses can interfere.”
A colloquy which was silent yet full of
eager interest and feeling sprang up be
tween two pairs of eyes at this moment
that if most alarming of conjectures was
uttered. Miss Bethune questioned; tho
doctor replied. Then he said in an under
tone, “A constitution never very strong,
exhausting work, exhausting emotions,
unnatural peace in tho later life."
Dora was being led away by Gilchrist
to get her hat for the proposed walk, and
Dr. ltoland ended in his ordinary voice.
“Do you call that unnatural peace, with
all the right circumstances of his life
round him, and—and full possession of
his bonnie girl, that has never been parted
from him? 1 don't call that unnatural.”
“You would if you were aware of the
other side of it lopped off—one half of
him, as it were, paralyzed.”
“Doctor,” said Miss Bethune, with a
curious stnile, "I ought to take that as a
compliment to my sex, as the fools say, if
1 cared a button for my sex or any such
nonsense. But there is vourself, now,
gets on very well, so far as I can see, witli
that side, as you call it, just as much
lopped off.”
"How do you know?” said the doctor.
“I may be letting concealment, like a
worm in the bud, feed on my damask
cheek. But I allow,” he said, with a
laugh. “Ido get on very well, and so, if
you will permit me to say it, do you, Miss
Bethune? But then, you see, we have
never known anything else.”
Something leaped up in Miss Bcthune's
eye—a strange light which the doctor
could not interpret, though it did not
escape his observation. “To be sure,”
she said, nodding her head, “we have
never known anything else. And that
changes the case altogether.”
“That changes the ease. I say nothing
against a celibate life. I have always
preferred it -it suits me better. I never
cared,” he added, with again a laugh, "to
have too much baggage to move about.”
“Do not be uncivil, doctor, after being
more civil than was necessary.”
"But it’s altogether a different case
with poor Mannering. It is not even as if
his wife had betrayed nim—in the ordi
nary way. The poor thing meant no
harm.
“Oh, do not speak to me!” cried Miss
Bethune, throwing up her hands.
"X know; it is woil known you ladies
arc always more severe; but. anyhow,
that side was wrenched away in a mo
ment, and then there followed long years
of unnatural calm.”
“I do not agree with you, doctor,” she
said, shaking her head. “The wretch
was defeenitive.” Miss Bethuue’s nation
ality betrayed itself in a great breadth
of vowels, iis well as in here and there a
word or two. “It was a cut like death,
and you do not call calm unnatural that
conies after death, after long years!”
"It s different—it’s different," the doc
tor said.
"Ay, so it is,” she said, answering as it
were her own question.
And there was a pause. When two
persons of middle age discuss such ques
tions, there is a world lying behind each
full of experiences, which they recog
nize instinctively, however completely
unaware they may he of each other's
cast 1 .
“But here is Dora ready for her walk,
and me doing nothing but haver,” cried
Miss Bethune, disappearing into the next
room.
They might huve been mother and
daughter going out together in the gentle
tranquillity of use aud wont, so common
a thing: and yet if the two had been
mother and daughter, what a revolution
in how many lives would have been
made! -how different would the world
have been for an entire circle of human
souls’ They were, hi fact, uothiug to
each other brought together, as we say,
by chance, and a* likely to l whirled
apart again by these giddy combinations
and dissolutions w hich the head goes
round only to think of For the present
they walked dozily together side by side,
and talked of one subject which engross
ed all their thoughts.
-What does the doctor think? Oh, tell
me, please, what the doctor thinks?”
“How can he think anything, Dora, my
dear? He has never seen your father
since he was taken ill.”
“Oh, Miss Bethune, but he knew him
so well before. And I don't ask you what
he knows. He must think something. He
must have an opinion. He always has
an opinion, whatever case it may be.”
“He thinks, my dear, that the fever
must run its course. Now- another week's
begun, we must just wait for the next
reetical moment. That is all, Dora, my
arliug, that is all that any man can say.”
"Oh. that it would only come!” cried
Dora, passionately. “There is nothing so
dreadful as waiting—nothing’ However
bad a thing is. if you only know it, not
hanging always in suspense.”
-Suspense means hope; it means possi
bility and life and ail that makes life
sweet. Be patient, be patient, my bonnie
dear.”
Dora looked up into her Mend's face.
“Were you ever as miserable as I am?”
she said. Miss Bethune was thought
grim by her acquaintances, and there was
a hardness in her, as those who knew her
best were well aware, but at this ques
tion something ineffable came into her
face. Her eyes filled with tears, her lips
quivered with a smile. “My little child!”
she said.
Dora did not ask any more. Her soul
was silenced in spite of herself, and just
then there arose anew interest, which is
always so good a thing for everybody,
especially, at sixteen. “There,” she
cried, in spite of herself, though she had
thought she was incapable of any other
thought, “is poor Mrs. Hesketh hurrying
along on the other side of the street.”
They had got into a side street, along
one end of which was a little row of trees.
“Oh, run and speak to her, Dora. ”
Mrs. Hesketh seemed to feel that she
was pursued. She quickened her step
almost into a run, bnt she was breathless
and agitated and laden with a bundle,
and in no way capable of outstripping
Dora. She paused with a gasp, when the
girl laid a hand on her arm.
“Didn’t you hear me call you? You
surely could never, never mean to run
away from me?”
“Miss Dora, you were always so kind,
but I didn’t know- who it might be.”
“Oh, Mrs. Hesketh, you can’t know
how ill my father is, or you would have
wanted to ask for him. He has been ill a
month, and I am not allowed to nurse
him. lam only allowed to go in and peep
at him twice a day. lam not allowed to
speak to him, or to do anything for him,
or to know —”
Dora paused, choked by the quick-com
ing tears.
"I am so sorry, miss. I thought as you
were happy at least, but there's nothing,
nothing but trouble in this world,” cried
Mrs. Hesketh, breaking into a fitful kind
of crying. Her face was flushed and
heated, the bundle impeding all her move
ments. She looked round in alarm at
every step, and when she saw Miss
Bethune,’s tall figure approaching, ut
tered a faint cry of alarm “Oh, Miss
Dora, I can’t stay, and I can’t do you any
good even if I could; I’m wanted so bad
at home.”
“Where are you going with that big
bundie? Yon are not fit to be carrying
it about the streets.” said Miss Ber
thune, suddenly standing like a lion in
the way.
The poor little woman leant against a
tree, supporting her burden. “Oh,
please!” she said, imploring; and then,
with some attempt at self-defence, “I am
going nowhere but about my own busi
ness. I have got nothing bnt what be
longs to me. Bet me go.”
"You must not go any further than this
spot,” said Miss Bethune. “Dora, go to
the end of tho road and get a cab. What
ever you would ha,ve got for that where
you were going 1 will give it yon, and you
can keep you poor bits of things. What
lias happened to you? Quick, tell me,
while the child’s away.”
The poor young woman let her bundle
fall at her feet. “My husband’s ill, and
lie's lost his situation,” she said, with
piteous brevity and sobbed, leaning
against the tree.
“And therefore you thought that was
a fine time to run away and hido your
self among strangers, out of the reach of
them that knew you! There was the
doctor, and there was me. Did you think
we would let harm happen to you? You
poor, reckless little thing!”
“The doctor! It was. the.doctor that
lost Allred his place,” cried the young
woman angrily, drying her eyes. "Bet
me go—oh, let me go! I don’t want no
charity,” she said.
“And what would you have got for all
that?”
“Perhaps ten shillings—perhaps only
six. Oh, lady, you don't know us except
just to see us on the stairs. I’m in great
trouble, and he’s heart-broken, and wait
ing for me at ’ome. Bcavo me alone and
let me go.”
"If you had put them away for ten shill
ings they would have been of no further
use to you. Now, here’s ten shillings,
and you’ll take these things back; but
you’ll mind that they’re mine, though I
give you the use of them, and you’ll
promise to come to me, or to send for me,
and to take no other way. What is the
matter with your husband? Bet him
come to the doctor, and you to me.”
“Oh, never, never, to that doctor!”
Mrs. Hesketh cried.
“The doctor's a good man, and every
body’s friend, but he may have a rough
tongue, I would not say. But come you
to me. We’ll get him another place, and
all will go well. You silly little thing,
the first time trouble comes in your way,
to fall into despair! Oh, this is you,
Dora, with tho cab. Put in the bundle.
And now, here’s the money, and if you
do not come to me, mind you will have
broken your word. ”
“Oh. ma’am! Oh, Miss Dora!” was
all the poor little woman could say.
“Now, Dora,” said Miss Bethune, cheer
fuljy,-there’s something for .you to do—
Gilchrist and you. You'll give an ac
count to me of that poor and if .you
let her slip through your fingers I'll never
forgive you. There's something wrong.
Perhaps he drinks, or perhaps he does
something worse—if there's anything
worse, but whatever it is it is your re
sponsibility. I'm an idle, idle person;
I’m good for nothing. But you're young,
and Gilchrist’s a tower of strength, and
you’ll just give an account of that poor
bit creature, soul and body, to me.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Snapping Fingers for a Stake.
From the Haltimore American.
Frank Sidney of England, said to be the
world's champion finger snapper, last
night met Ben.,amin V. Skinner, colored,
in a contest for a purse of $25, at the
Windsor Athletic Club rooms, Govans
towu. After practicing their peculiar ex
ercise for two hours the match was de
clared a draw. It was announced after
ward that a similar contest would take
place within two months. This is said to
have been the first finger snapping ex
hibition to take place hero.
No one can tell exactly who made the first
piano for tho reason that it has gradually
“evolved''from an instrument as much un
like itself as one could well imagine. In the
twelfth century it appeurx to have been a gi
gantic dulcimer, win h was merely an oblong
box holding a series of strings arranged in
triangular form across its center In the
thirteenth and fourteenth centuries the
• clavichord, another musical monstrosity
had developed from It aid was used well lip
In the eighteenth century About 1711 Chrlie
tofall of Padua invented a real piano but It
is said to remind one of a coal nox when com
pared with the elegant and perfect toned in
strument of to-day.
Grace What that piece of string on your
finger for:-
Ethel oh. that a to remember I'm engaged
Frank gone to New York to get u, O r | og
and I don t want to forget It while he • away
1 - Uurper s linear
A FEMININE CRUSOE.
Siic Lived Seventeen Years Alone on
an island.
Rescued to Die the Sooner—A
Strange Story of “Juana Maria Bet
ter-Than-Nothing’s” Adventures on
a Desert Island.
From the New York Recorder.
One of the strange true tales of modern
life is that of the woman Robinson Cru
soe. the “Wild Woman,” as she was lo
cally but improperly called, who lived
alone for 17 years on San Nicolas Isl
and, a small and rocky hit of land just off
the California coast, near Los Angeles.
The California Magazine In its October
number prints some particulars never be
fore made known of this woman’s lonely
life, and of these, by the courtesy of the
eastern agents of the Californian, the
Recorder presents a condensed account:
If we could form a mental picture of
San Nicolas Island as it appeared a half
century ago, we should find its physical
features the same as those which it pre
sents to-day—a rocky, wave-beaten
finger-tip of nature peeping above the
surface of the Pacific nearly due south
west of Los Angeles, moss-carpeted
where the brushwood has found no soil
wherein to take root, and rising in the
center so as to form a hill with somewhat
steep declivities. We should perceive at
the base of this eminence springs of fresh
water which would supply the unfor
tunate mariner who might have the ill
luck to be oast away on that uninviting
shore. Wild dogs would be seen roaming
about or stealthily creeping up to
the seals that lay basking
in the sun and slumbering
on tho craggy rocks and beach, while
shags perched on peaks and slabs plume
their oily feathers in the warm rays.
The twittering of small birds in the
brush might also form part of this men
tal impression. A close scrutiny would
reveal on the mainland side of the hill
three small brushwood huts, with frame
works of the bones of the whale, and a
low brush fence before them as a wind
break. In front of one of these lowly
huts would be seen a woman squatted oil
the ground engaged in weaving a water
vessel or bottle, her textile material being
grass liber, of which she has had an
abundance at hand, collected from the
margins of springs and the moist,
swampy patches, which occupy the
nooks and recesses of the island.
The story of the Wild Woman of San
Nicolas island is a singular one. Outlines
and summaries of it have been published
from time to time, but a full account has
never been given, nor has any part of it
been presented as related by the princi
pal actors engaged in her rescue after she
had lived in solitude for seventeen years
on that lonely isle. That it can lie so
given now is due to the zeal and thought
fulness of D. W. Thompson, one of the
fathers of the City of Flowers, and to
him we are indebted for a decidedly curi
ous page of history. In 1882 Mr. Thomp
son, accompanied by a shorthand re
porter, sought out those principal actors
—the venerable pioneers. George Nidever
and Charles Brown—and by elaborate
questioning obtained full particulars
connected with the unfortunate woman’s
career.
It is conjectured by those pioneers that
all the Santa Barbara Islands were set
tled by Indians, who, according to Brown,
were much molested by the tribes from
the northwest. These warlike savages
would cross the channel in their eanoes,
and hunt and shoot the poor islanders
“just for mischief.” Whatever may have
been the reason for adopting such a meas
ure, the Mexican government, Nidever in
forms us, decided to remove the Indians
dwelling on the island to the mainland
and distribute them among tho mis
sions.
The small schooner sent by the author
ities to bring off the last family, which
consisted of seven or eight members, was
called Better-Than-Nothing and was in
command of an old sea otter hunter
named Sparks. They succeeded in get
ting all on board except two children aud
the woman who, though brought down to
the beach, was so distracted at her two
children having been -left behind that
they let her go back and sailed away.
It is not difficult to picture to one's self
the condition and miseries of this lonely
woman, separated from her husband and
family and dependent on herself for every
necessity of life. We can see her day by
day gazing seaward, on the watch for the
boat. The days summed up into months
and months grew into years, but no
schooner returned. Her children mean
while had been devoured by wild dogs.
She saw ships going by, this way and
that, hut nobody came for her. Her cry
of “Manequauna!” was unheeded, and
as time lapsed she became adapted to cir
cumstances and her surroundings. With
dqft fingers she wove blankets and water
tight vessels, smearing the latter with
melted asphaltum; she twisted the
sinews of seals, which she caught
while sleeping, into fishing lines;
she dug up the succulent roots of
plants and roasted them over fire ob
tained by rubbing two sticks together;
and clothed herself in sea bird skins,
which she sewed together with fine sinew
with the aid of needles made of bone. As
the .years passed by she became contented
with her lot; time dulled her grief, and
she accepted the situation with the stoical
resignation of her race. Fish, seal flesh
and roots formed her diet; pure spring
water was her only beverage. Once she
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sCfI&S T\ CHicHtsrerrs Emtuto, Hro Chou W*hohd b * a " d £,
*r\M%W
"!n MS. sBJ , **e ccnpinc t>.. „„i, r. ■,. " 4 ill.’ v
—y ch.c-s.ts.
fell deadly sick Ivin"
ground for days before she ~ °" the
Pioneer Brown savs “She mTi o '^” 1 *
that she had been sick, Sl f ns
■lor days. She could not more all aio‘ r ‘
she was down sick and got well'-’ ° ne >
But the day arrived when the who
man again interfered with the pL hu<>
her life, and with fatal result tR, of
came at last when she was to leave h 9
island home. It seems to have W , ‘ er
liected, if not confidently understoo ,w
a wild woman was living on San Vi 1
Island, for Padre Gonzales of Santa nir*
bara requested Nidever to search for
“I went over three times,” he savs kE
fore 1 found her,” sd -' s ‘ W
Brow n is more circumstantial in his ao.
count. He says:
“I went round the head of the islma
and found tracks of the woman- ,
back and told the old gentleman tha Ufa
woman was alive. He said it must u
some of our Indians. I said: -Our TANARUS„
dlans have got bigger tracks than th-it"
He said: ‘Well, if you think she is ahva
let us hunt for her, and take all the ml
ashore.' Wo went up to the head of th
island. There was a kind of hill in >h?
middle. I put my Indians a couple
hundred yards apart. 1 did not know
what kind ol woman she was; thought
might bite or scratch. We went fm™
one side of the islaud to the other ana
could not sec the hill, and she was sitting
on the side of the hill watching us When
we got across to the Indians I sa id
‘There’s nothing here; let’s go hack'
There was a basket with some leathers
She caught shags and had a coat mads
without sleeves, nicely covered with seal
skin. I said to the Indians: ‘You got*
the hill and scatter the feathers acit
things in the basket, and if she* is a i
she will find them.’ The same day w !
found them all gathered up again and nut
in the basket.” 1 *
On the following morning Brown ner.
sistentl.y continued the hunt. Toiling™
the hill, when he was about half wavua
he caught sight of her. She was carry,
ing something heavy and rested at inter,
vals as she ascended. Presently he cama
in sight of -three huts” made out of
whalebone. Here he expected to find her
but, peering in, found that she was not
there. Presently he espied ‘’something
like a crow sitting on a whalebone," and
perceiving that it was the woman he was
in search oil he raised his gun with his
hat on it as a signal to the Indians, whom
he hastily summoned, as he did not know
if she would-bite or scratch.” He thus
continues the narration:
“She had a brush fence about two feet
high to break the wind, and right in front
of me she sat, facing me. The sun was
coming in her face. She was skinning a
seal before I came up to her. The dog
when he noticed me, began to growl
Thinking she might run I stepped round
her, and she bowed as if she knew m
before, and when the Indians came up
they all kneeled.' 1 The poor creature
when she saw beings of her own colorand
race, “held out someof her food" to them.
She exhibited no fear, and at a sign went
without demur with her captors. Brown
and his followers carried away with them
all her primitive belongings. -I took
everything she had,” he says, -and she
took a big seal head in her basket, and
that was all. We all had something to
carry.” Arriving at a watering place
-she washed herself over. Her hair was
all rotting away, and kind of bleached by
the sun.” When they reached the vessel
she kneeled and crawled to the stove
which was on deck. Brown gave her
some biscuit, which she enjoyed, and
made petticoats and skirts for heroin of
bedticking and sailors’ clothes.
When the Wild Woman reached Santa
Barbara all her family were dead. They
had been taken to San Pedro, where they
pined and died. The priests tried hard ta
get her life’s story from her, but her gib
berish was unintelligible. Indians were
brought to her from Ventura, Santa Bar
ba-a and other places, but they could only
understand a,few words spoken by her.
Finally an old woman who had been
reared on one of the islands was found
who could understand what she said to a
limited extent.
At the Mission of Santa Barbara the
Wild Woman was baptized under tiie
Christian name of Juana Maria, as Brown
thinks, though not feeling certain on that
point. From one of the men who had
sailed in the little schooner Better-Than*
Nothing, she received the name of that
vessel.
Says Nidever: “She would go round to
different homes and dance Indian dances.
She went all over town and the mission al
ways a party of twenty or thirty Indian!
and Mexicans with her.” Brown cor
roborates this testimony as to iier con
tentment: “Happy as a lady. Sho
would dance when anyone came in.”
Clothes were her especial delight. Tha
woman was a great curiosity, and Niu
ever, who had taken her into his house,
was offered $l,OOO to part with her, the
object of the would-be purchaser being to
exiiibit her. To his lasting honor lie re
fufed to make such a bargain, because
“it did not look right to me to sell a per
son.”
But the end was drawing near. Changa
of diet cut short the life of the luckless
Juana Maria, who would doubtless havo
lived many years longer had she been al
lowed to remain in her island home, or
even if duo caution haa been taken with
regard to what she ate. "If." says
Brown, “they had worked it right and
kept her on her food, she might have
been alive yet. She was about 450r00
when we found her.” But she was sup
plied to her heart’s content with green
corn, melons, pumpkins and squash, and
after the brief enjoyment of a new,
strange life to her for a month orh' 9
weeks she sickened and died.
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1 91*7 A After more than a year of painstaking a* °
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IQO Z 6.000 machines were sold this year. I
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l \j 7\J annum. , fl y
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