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NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.
THAT HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY,
Bu MRS, OLIPHANT,
Author of- The Son of His Father. ‘ The Sorceress." Within the Precincts,”
“Young Musgrave,” “Oliver's Bride ” “A Rose in June," Etc.
COPYRIGHTED, 193. BY THE AI "THOR.
CHAPTER XIX.
The little, old gentleman had with
drawn from the apartment of the Man
nerings very quietly, leaving all that ex
citement and commotion behind him : but
he did l not leave in this wav the house in
Bloomsbury. He went down stairs cau
tiously and quietly, though whyheshould
have done so he could not himself have
told, since, had he made all the noise in
the world, it could have had no effect
upon the matter in hand in either case.
Then he knocked at Miss Bethuhe's door.
When he was bidden to enter, he opened
the door gently, with great precaution,
and going in, closed it with equal care tie
hind him.
“I am speaking, I think, to Mrs. Gordon
Grant!'’ he said.
Miss Betbune was alone. She had
many things to think of. and very likely
the book which she seemed to be reading
was not much more than a pretence to
conceal her thoughts. It fell down upon
her lap at these words, and she looked at
her questioner with a gasp, unable to
makh any reply.
••Mrs."Gordon Grant, I believe!” he
said, again, then made a step farther
into the room. '-Pardon me for startling
you. there is no one here. lain a solici
tor, John Templar, of Gray's Inn. Pre
cautions taken with other persons need
not apply to me You are Mrs. Gordon
Grant, 1 know.”
“I have never borne that name,” she
said, very pale. “Janet Bethune, that is
my name.'’ .
“Not as signed to a document which is
in my possession. You will pardon me
but this is no doing of mine. You wit
nessed Mrs. Bristowe’s will?”
She gave a slight nod with her head in
aoquiescense.
“And then, to my great surprise, I
found this name, which I have been in
•earch of for so long.
“You have been in search of it?”
“Yes. for many years.” Tne skill with
which you have concealed it is wonderful.
I have advertised, even. 1 have sought
the help of old friends, who you must see
often, who come to you here even, I know.
But I never found the name I was in
search of. never till the other day at the
signing of Mrs. Bristowc's will, which,
hv the way,” he said, "the young fellow
might have signed safely enough, for he
has no share in it.”
“Do vou mean to say that she has left
him nothing-nothing. Mr. Templar’ The
boy that was like her son!”
••Not a penny," said the old gentle
man—"not a penny. Everything has
gone the one way—perhaps it was not
wonderful —to her own child.”
“1 could not have done that!” cried the
lady. “Oh, 1 could not have clone it! I
would have felt it would bring a curse
upon my own child.”
“Perhaps, madam, you never had a
child of your own, which would make all
the difference,” he said.
She looked at him again, silent, with
her lips pressed very closely together,
and a kind of defiance in her eves.
“But this.” he said, again softly, “is no
answer to m.v question. You were a wit
ness of Mrs. Bristowe’s will, and you
signed a certain name to it. You cannot
have done so hoping to vitiate the docu
ment by a feigned name. It would have
been perfectly futile to begin with, and
no woman could have thought of such a
thing: That was, I presume, your lawful
name; •
'•lt is a name I have never borne; that
you will very easily ascertain.”
"Still, it is your name, or why should
you have signed it—in inadvertence, I
suppose?”
"Not, certainly, in inadvertence. Has
anything ever made, it familiar to me? If
.you will know. I had my reasons. 1
thought the sight of it might put things
in a lawyer’s hands, would maybe guide
inquiries, would make easier an object of
my own.”
“That object,” said Mr. Templar, “was
to discover your husband !”
She half rose to her feet, flushed and
angry.
“Who said I had a husband, or that to
find him or lose him was anything to
mo!” Then with a strong effort she
reseated herself in her chair. “That was
a bold guess,” sbe said, “Mr. Templar,
not to say a little insulting, don’t you
think? to a respectable single lady that
has never had a finger lifted upon her. I
am of a well-known race enough. I have
never concealed myself. There are plenty
of people in Scotland who will give you
full details of me and all my ways, it is
not like a lawyer—a cautious man, bound
by his profession to be carpful—to make
auch a strange attempt upon me.”
“I make no attempt. I only ask a ques
tion, and one surely most justifiable. You
did not sign a name to which you had no
right on so important a document as a
will; therefore you are Mrs. Gordon
Grant. and a person to whom for mauy
years 1 have had a statement to make.”
She looked at him again with a dumb
rigidity’ ol aspect, but said not a word
•The communication I had to make to
you,” he said, “was of a death—not one,
so far as I know, that could bring you
any advantage, or harm either, I suppose.
1 must say that it took place years ago. I
have no reason, either to suppose that it
would be the cause of any deep sorrow.”
"Sorrow!” she said, but her lips were
dry. and could articulate no more.
“I have nothing to do with your rea
sons for having kept your marriage so
profound a secret, he said. "The result
has naturally been the long delay of a
niece of information which perhaps would
have been welcome to you. Mrs. Grant,
your husband, George Gordon Grant, died
nearly twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years ago”’ she cried, with a
start, “twenty years;” Then she raised
her voice suddenly and cried, “‘Gil
christ.” She was very pale, and her
excitement great, her eyes gleaming, her
nerves quivering. She paid no attention
to the little lawyer, who on his side ob
served her so closely. “Gilchrist,” she
said, when the maid came in hurriedly
from the inner room in which she had
been, “we have often wondered why there
was no sign of him when I came into my
fortune. The reason is, he was dead be
fore my uncle died."
“Dead?” said Gilchrist, and put up at
once her apron to her eyes, “dead; Ob,
mem. that bonnie young man 1”
“Yes,” said Miss Bethune. She rose
up and began to move about the room in
great excitement. "Yes, he would still
be a bonnie young man then—oh. a bonuie
young man. as bis son is now. 1 won
dered how it was he made no sign. Be
fore it was natural, but when m.v uuele
was dead—when I had come into mv for
tune! That explains it—that explains it
nil He was dead before the day he had
reckoned on came.”
“Oh, dinna say that now!” cried Gil
christ. “How can we tell if it was the
day he had reckoned on? Why might it
no’ be your comfort he was aye thinking
*>f that jou might lose nothing, that
your uncle might keep his faith in you.
that your fortune might ho safe!”
! /'Ay, that my fortune might lie safe,
that was the one thing. What did it
n atter about m<-; Only a woman that
was so silly as to believe in hint -and be-
iieved in him. God help me, long after he
had proved what he was. Gilchrist, go
down on your knees and thank God that
he did not live to cheat us more, to come
when you and me made sure he would
come, and fleece us with his fair face and
his fair ways, till he had got what
he wanted, the filthy money which was
the end of all "
“Oh, mem.” cried Gilchrist, again j
weeping, “dinna say that now. Even if
it were true, which the Lord forbid,
dinna say it now !“
But her mistress was not to be con
trolled. The stream of recollection of |
pent-up feeling, the brooding of a life- I
time, set free by this sudden discovery of [
her story, which was like the breaking
down of a dyke to a river, rushed forth
like that river in flood. “I have thought
many a time.” she cried—“when my heart
was sick of the silence, when 1 still trem
bled that be would come, and wished that
lie would come for all that I knew . like a
fool woman that I was, as all women are
—that maybe his not coming was a sign
of grace, that he had may be forgotten,
maybe been untrue, but that it was not
at least the money, the money aud noth
ing more. To know that I had that ac
cursed siller and not to come for it was a
sign of grace. I was a kind of glad. But
it was not that!” she cried, pacing to and
fro like a wild creature—"it was not that!
He would have come. oh. aud explained
everything, made everything clear, and
told me to m.v face it was for my sake, if
It. had not been that death stepped in and
disappointed him. as he had disappointed
me!”
Miss Bethune ended with a harsh laugh,
and after a moment seated herself again
In her chair. The tempest of personal
feeling had carried her away, quenching
even the other and yet stronger sentiment,
which for so many years had been the
passion of her life. She had been sud
denly, strangely driven back to a period
which even now, in her sober middle age.
it was a kind of madness to think of —the
years which she had lived through in
awful silence, a wife yet no wife, a mother
yet no mother, cut off from everything
but the monotonous, prolonged, unending
formula of a girlhood out of date, the life
without individuality, without meaning,
and without hope, of a large-minded and
active woman, kept to the role of a child,
in a house where there was not even af
fection to sweeten it.
The recollection of those terrible, end
less, changeless days, running into
years as undistinguishable. the
falsehood of every circumstance and
appearance, the secret existence
of love aud sacrifice, of dread and
disenchantment, of strained hope and
failing illusion, and final and awful de
spair, of which Gilchrist alone knew any
thing—Gilchrist, the faithful servant, the
sole companion of he heart—came back
upon her with all that horrible sense of
the intolerable which such martyrdom
brings. She had borne it in its day—how
had she borne it? Was it possible that a
woman could go through that and live?
Her heart torn from her Iwsom, her baby
torn from her side, and no one, no one but
Gilchrist, to keep a little life alive in her
heart. And it had lasted for years—
many, many, many years—all the years
of her life, except those first twenty which
tell fftr so little. In that rush of passion
she did not know how time passed,
whether it was live minutes or an hour
that she sut under the inspection of the
old lawyer, whom this puzzle of human
ity filled with a sort of professional inter
est, and who did not t hink it necessary to
withdraw, or had any feeling of iutrusiou
upon the sufferer. It was not really a
long time, though it might have been a
year, when she roused herself and took
hold of her forces, and the dread pano
rama rolled away.
Gradually the familiar things around
her came hack. She remembered herself,
no despairing girl, no soul in bondage, but
a sober woman, disenchanted iu many
ways, but never yet cured of those hopes
and that faith which hold the ardent
spirit of life. Her countenance changed
with her thoughts, her eyes reused to be
abstracted and visionary, her color came
back. She turned to the old gentleman
with a look which for the first
time disturbed and bewildered that
old and hardened spectator of the
vicissitudes of life. Her eyes filled
with a curious liquid light, an expres
sion wistful, flattering, entreating. She
looked at him ns a child looks
who lias a favour to ask, her head
a little on one side, her lips quivering
with a smile. There name into the law
yer's mind, he eould not tell how. a
ridiculous sense of being a superior being,
a kind of god, able to confer untold ad
vantages and favours. What did the
woman want of him! What—it did not
matter what she wanted—could he do
for her! Nothing that he was aware,
and a sense of the danger of being cajoled
came into his mind, but ulong with that,
which was ridiculous, thougli he could
not help it, a sense of being really a
superior being, able to grant favours, and
benignant, as he had never quite known
himself to be.
“Mr. Templar," she said, “now all is
over there is not another word to say, and
now the boy—m.v boy ”
“The boy?” he repeated, with a sur
prised air.
"My child that was taken from me as
soon as he way born, m.v little helpless
bairn that never knew his mother—my
son, my son! Give me a right to him,
aud there can he no more doubt about it
that nobotlv may say it is not mine.''
The old lawyer was more confused than
words could say. The very sense she had
managed to convey to his mind of being a
superior being, full of graces and gifts to
confer, made his downfall the more
ludicrous to himself. He seem to tumble
down from an altitude quite visionary,
yet very real, as if h.v some neglect or ill
will of liis own. He felt himself hu
miliated, a culprit before her. “My dear
lady," he said, “you are going too fast
and (oo far for me. I did not even know
there was any— Stop! I think I begin
to remember.”
“Yes,” she said, breathless. —“yes!”
looking at him with supplicating eyes.
“Now it comes back to me,” lie said.
“I—l —am afraid 1 give it no importance.
There was a baby—yes, a little thing a
few weeks, or a few months old- that
died.”
She sprang up again once more to her
feet, menacing, terrible. She was big
ger, stronger, far more full of life, than
lie was. She towered over to him, her
face full of tragic passion. "It is not
true it is not true!” she cried.
"M.v dear lady, how can I know? What
can Ido ? I can but toll you the instruc
tions given to me: it had slipped out of
my mind, it seemed of little importance
in comparison. A baby that was too del
icatc to bear the separation from its
mother, 1 remember it ail now. lam very
sorry, very sorry, if I have conveyed any
false hopes to your mind. The baby died
not long after it was taken away.”
“It is not true.” Miss Bethune said,
with a hoarse and harsh voice. After the
excitement and passion, she stood like a
figure cut out of stone. This statement,
so calm and steady, struck her like a
blow. Her lips denied, but her heart rc
ceived the cruel news. It may be neces
sary to explain good fortune, but misery
comes with its own guarantee. It struck
THE MORNING NEWS: SEN DAY, DECEMBER 17, 1893.
I her like a sword, like a scythe, shearing
down her hopes. She rose into a brief
blaze of fury, denying it. “Oh, you think
1 will believe that?" she criPd—“me that
have followed him in my thoughts
through every stage, have seen him grow
and blossom, and come to be a man! Do
you think there would have been no angel
to stop me in m.v vain imaginations, no
kind creature in heaven or earth that
would have breathed into my heait and
said, '(jo on no more, hope no more'’ Oh
no—oh no! Heaven is not like that, nor
earth! Fain comes and trouble, but not
cruel fate. No, Ido not believe it—l will
not believe it! It is not true.'’
“My dear lady.” said the old gentleman,
distressed.
“I am no dear lady to you. I am noth
ing to you. lam a pour, deserted, heart
broken woman, that have lived false,
false, but never meant it: that have had
no one to stand by me. to help me out of
it. And now you sit there calm, and look
me in the face, and take away my son.
My baby first was taken from me. forced
out of m.v arms new-born, and now you
take the boy I've followed with my heart
those long, long years, the bonnie lad. the
young man I've seen. 1 tell you I’ve seen
him, then How can a mother he de
ceived' We’ve seen him, both Gilchrist
and me. Ask her, if you doubt my word.
We have seen him, can any lie stand J
against that? And my. heart has spoken,
and his heart lias spoken : we have sought ,
each other in the dark, and taken hands.
I know him by his bonnie eyes, and a
trick in liis mouth that is Just my father
over again, and he knows me by nature,
and the touch of kiudty blood."
"O, mem." Gilchrist cried. “I warned
ye—l warned ye! What is a likeness to
lippeu to? And I never saw it.” the woman
said, with tears
"And who asked ye to see it. or thought
ye could see it, a serving woman, not a
drop's blood to him or to me! It would
be a bourne thing." said Miss Bethune,
pausing, looking round as if to appeal to
an unseen audience, with an almost smile
of scorn, ‘‘if my hired woman's word was
to be taken instead of his mother's. Did
she bear him in pain and anguish ? Did
she wait for him. lying dreaming, month
after month, that he was to cure all! She
got him in her arms when he was born,
but he had been in mine for long before;
be had grown a man in my heart before
ever he saw- the light of day. O. ask her,
and there is many a fable she will tell ye.
But me!”—she calmed down again, a
smile came upon her face—'T have seen
my son. Now, as I have nobody but him,
be has nobody but me, and I mean from
this day to take him home and acknowl
edge him before all the world.”
Mr. Templar had risen, aud stood with
his hand on the back of bis chair. “I
have nothing more to say,'’ he said. “If
I can be of au.v use to you in any way.
command me, madam. It is no wish of
mine to take any comfort from you, or
even to dispel any pleasing illusion.”
"As if you could!” she said, rising
again, proud and smiling. “As if any old
lawyer’s words, as dry as dust, could
shake m.v conviction, or persuade me out
of what is a certainty. It is a certainty.
Seeing is believing, the very vulgar say.
And I have seen him—do you think you
could make me believe after that that
there is no one to see?”
He shook his head and turned away.
“Good morning to you, ma’am,” he said
“1 have told you the truth, but I cannot
make you believe it. and why should I
try! It may be happier for you the other
way.”
“Happier?"’ she said with a laugh.
“Ay, because it's true. Falsehood has
been my fate too long—l am happy be
cause it is true.”
Miss Bethune sat. down again, when her
visitor closed the door behind him. The
triumph and brightness gradually died
out of her face. “What are you greetin’
therefor, you fool!” she said, “aud me
the happiest woman, aud the proudest
mother! Gilchrist,” she cried, suddenly
turning round upon the maid, "the woman
that is dead was a weak creature, bound
hand and foot all her life. She meant no
harm, poor thing, I will allow, but yet
she broke one man's life in pieces, aud it
must have been a poor kind of happiness
she gave the other, with her heart always
straying after another man's bairn. And
I've done nothing, nothing to injure any
mortal. I was true till 1 could be true no
longer, till lie showed all he was: and
true I have been in spite of that all my
life, and endured and never said a word.
Do you think it's possible, possible that
yon woman should be rewarded with her
child in her arms, and her soul satisfied,
and me left desolate, with my very imagi
nations torn from me, torn out of me, and
my heart left bleeding, and all my
thoughts turned into lies, like myself,
that have been no better than a lie!—
turned into lies?”
“Oh. mem!” cried Gilchrist—“oil, my
dear ledd.v, that lias been more to. me
than a' this world! Is it for me to say
that it's no justice we have to expect, for
we deserve nothing; and that the Lord
knows his uin reasons; and that the time
will come when we’ll get it all back—you
your bairn, the Lord bless him! and‘me
to see yp as happy as the angels, which is
all I ever wanted or thought to get either
here or otherwhere!“
CHAPTER XX.
There was nothing more said to Mi - .
Manueriug on the subject of Mr. Tem
plar's mission, neither did lie himself say
anything, either to sanction or prevent
his child from carrying out the strange
desire of her mother —lier mother! Dora
did not accept the thought. She made a
struggle within herself to keep up the fic
tion that it was not her mother’s sister—
a relation, something near, yet ever in
ferior to tile vision of a benignant, melan
choly being, unknowfi, which a dead
mother so often is to an imaginative girl
It pleases her to find, as she said to her
self, “no likeness” to the suffering and
hysterical woman she had seen in that
calm, pensive portrait, which she in
stantly secured and took possession of
the little picture which had lain jto long
buried with its face downward in the se
cret drawer. She gazed at it for an hour
together, and found nothing -nothing, she
declared to herself with iudiguaut satis
faction, to remind her of the other facte
flushed, weeping, middle-aged which
had so implored her affection.
Had it been her mother, was it possible
that it should have required an effort to
give that affectiou.' No! Dora at sixteen
believed very fully in the voice of nature.
It would have been impossible, her heart
at once would have sjiokeu, she would
have known by some infallible instinct.
She put the picture up iu her
own room and filled her heart
with the luxury, the melancholy, the sad
ness, and pleasure of this [Kissexsion —her
mother’s )>ortrait. more touching to the
imagination than any other image could
he. But then there began to steal a little
shadow over Dora’s thoughts. She would
not give up her determined resistance to
the idea that this face and the other face,
living and dying, which she had seen,
were one: but when she raised her eyes
suddenly to Her mother’s picture, a con
sciousness wonld steal over her, an invol
untarily glance of recognition.
What more likely than that should be
a resemblance, faint and far away, be
tween sister and sister ! And then there
came to be a gleam of .reproach to Dora
in those eyes, and then the girl began to
feel as if there was an irrev
erence. want oi feeling. in
turning that long recluse
and covered face to the light of day, and
carrying on ail the affairs of life under it,
as if it were a common thing. Finally
she arranged over it a little piece of drap
ery. a morsel of faded embroidered silk
which was among her treasures, soft and
faint in its colors—a veil which she could
draw in her moments of thinking and
quiet, those moments which it would not
be irreverent an longer to call a dead
mother or an angelic presence to hallow
and to share.
But she said nothing when she was
called to Miss Bethune's room, and clad
in mourning, recognizing with a thrill,
half of horror, half of pride, the crape
upon her dress which proved her right to
that new exaltation among human crea
tures —that position of a mourner which
is in its way a step in life. Dora did not
ask where she was going when she fol
lowed Miss Bethune also in black from
head to foot, to the plain little brougham
which had been ordered to do lit and
solemn honor to the occasion: the great
white wreath and basket of flowers,
which filled up the space, called no ob
servation from her.
They drove in silence to the great cem
etery. with all its gay flowers and elabor
ate aspect of cheerfulness. It was a fine
but cloudy day, warn) and soft, yet with
out sunshine: and Dora had a curious
sense of importance, of meaning, as if she
had attained an advanced stage of being.
Already an experience had fallen to her
share, more than one experience. She
had knelt, troubled and awe-stricken, by
a death-bed; she was going now to stand
by a grave. Even where real sorrow ex
ists. this curious, sorrowful elation of
sentiment is apt to come into the mind of
the very young. Dora was deeply im
pressed bv the “ireimstances and the po
sition.but >i w.m> impossible that she could
fed any real grief.
Tears caaie to her eyes as she dropped
the shower of dowers, white aud lovely, !
into the darkness of that last abode. Her
face was full of awe and pity, but her :
breast of that vague, inexpiainable ex
pansion and growth, as of a creature en
tered into the larger developments and
knowledge of life. There were very few
other mourners. Mr. Temular, the law
yer, with his keen but veiled observation
of everything, serious aud business-like:
the doctor, with professional gravity and
iudifference; Miss Bethuue. with almost
stern seriousness, standing like a statue
in her black dress and with her pale face.
Why should any of these spectators care!
The woman was far the most moved,
thinking of the likeness and difference of
her own fate, of the failure of that life
which was now over, and of her own, a ■
deeper failure still, without any fault of j
hers. Aud Dora, wondering, developing,
her eyes full of abstract tears, and her 1
mind of awe.
Only one mourner stood pale with 1
watching and thought beside the open 1
grave, his heart aching with loneliness
and a profound natural vacancy and pain.
He knew that she had neglected him, al- j
most wronged him at the last, cut him ;
off. taking no thought of what was to be- '
come of him. He felt even that in so do
ing this woman was unfaithful to her
trust, and had done what she ought not
to have done. But all that mattered
nothing in face of natural sorrow, natural ]
love. She had been a mother to him. and
she was gone. The ear always open to
his boyish talk and confidence, always
ready to listen, could hear him talk no
more: and, always more poignant, his
care of her was over, there was nothing
more to do for her, none of the hundred
commissions that used to send him flying,
the hundred things that had to be done.
His occupation in life seemed to be over,
his home, his natural place. It had not,
perhaps, ever been a natural place, but he
had not felt that. She had been his
mother, though no drop of her blood ran
in his veins; and now lie was nobody's
son, belonging to no family.
The other people round looked like
ghosts to Harry Gordon. They were
part of the strange cutting off. ihe sev
erance he already felt; none of them had
anything to do with her, and yet it was
he who was pushed out and put aside as
if he had nothing to do with her, the
only mother he had ever known! The
little sharp old lawyer was her repre
sentative now. not he who liad been her
son. He stood languid, in a moment of
utter depression, collapse of soul and
body, by the grave. When all was over,
aud the solemn voice which sounds as no
other voice ever does, falling calm
through the still air, bidding earth return
to earth, and dust to dust, had ceased, he
still stood..-pi it unable to comprehend that
all was over—no one to bid him come
away, no other place to go to, not think
ing of moving. His brain was not re
lieved by tears, or his miud set in activity
by anything to do. He stood there half
stupefied, left behind in that condition
where simply to remain as we are seems
the only thing possible to us.
Miss Bethune had placed Dora in the
little brougham, in vigorous fulfilment of
her duty to the enild. Mr. Templar and
the doctor had both departed, the two
other women, Mrs. Bristowe's maid and
the nurse who accompanied her, had
driven away, aud still the young man
stood, not paying any attention. Miss
Bethune waited for a little by the carriage
door. She did not answer the appeal of
the coachman, asking if he was to drive
away: she said nothing to Dora, whose
eyes endeavored iu vain to read the
changes in her friend's face; but, after
standing there for a few minutes quite
silent, suddenly turned and went back to
the cemetery. It was strange to her to
hesitate in any thing she did, and from
the moment she left the carriage door all
uncertainty was over. She went back
with a quick step, treading her way
among the graves, aud put her hand upon
young Gordon's arm.
"You arc coining home with me,” she
said.
The new. keen voice, irregular and full
of life, so unlike the measured toues to
which he had been listening, struck the
young man uneasily in the midst of his
melaueholy reverie, which was half
trance, half exhaustion. He moved a
step away, as if to shake off the inter
ruption. scarcely conscious what, and not
at all who it was.
"My dear young man, you must come
with me," she said again.
He looked at lier with consciousness re
awakening. and attempted to smile, with
his natural ready response to every
kindness. “It is you,” he said, and then,
"1 might have known it could only be
you.”
What did that mean ? Nothing at all.
Merely liis sense that the one person who
had spoken kindly to him. looked tenderly
at him (though lie had never known why,
and huu been both amused aud embar
rassed by consciousness), was the most
likely among all the strangers by whom
he was surrounded to be kind to him now.
But it produced an effect upon Miss
Bethune which was far beyond any mean
ing it bore.
A great light seemed suddenly to blaze
over her face, her eyes which hail been so
veiled and stern awoke, every line of a
face which could be harsh and almost
rigid in repose, began to melt and soften,
her composure, which had been almost
solemn, failed, her lip began to quiver,
tears came dropping upon liis arm, which
she suddenly clasped with both her hands,
dinging to it. "You say right,” she cried,
"my dear, my dear!—more right than all
the reasons. It is you and nature that
makes everything clear. You are just
coming homo with me."
"1 don't seem." lie said, "to know wliat
the word means.”
"But you will soon learn again. God
bless the good woman that cherished you
and loved you, my bonnie lioy. I'll no'
say a word against her—oh. no. no! God's
blessing u|xm her where she lies there. 1
will never grudge a good word you say of
her. never a regret. But now”- she put
her arm within his with a proud aud
tender movement , which so far penetrated
liis langour as to revive the bewilderment
which he had felt before—“now you are
coming home with me."
He did not resist; lie allowed himself to
be led to the little carriage and packed
into it, which was not quite, an easy tiling
to do. On another occasion he would
have laughed and protested, but on this
he submitted gravely to whatever was re
quired of him. thankful, in the failure of
all motive, to have someone to tell him
what to do, to move him as if he were an
automaton. He sat bundled up on "the
little front scat, with Dora’s wondering
countenance opposite to him, aud that
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system.
RADWAY’S PILLS
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AXD
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other inexplicable feee, inspired aud
lightened up with tenderness.
He had not strength enough to inquire
why this stranger took possession of him
so. neither could Dora tell, who sat oppo
site to him. her mind awakened, her
thoughts busy. This was the almost son
of the woman who they said was Dora's
mother. What was he to Dora! Was he
t lie nearer to her or the farther from her,
for that relationship! Did she like him
better or worse for having done every
thing that it ought, they said, never have
been her part to do.
□These questions were all confused in
Dora's mind, but they were not favorable
to this new interloper into her life—he
who had known about her for years while
she had never heard of him. She sat
very upright, reluctant to make room for
him. yet scrupulously doing so, and a lit
tle indignant that he should thus be
brought in to interfere with her own
claims to the first place.
The drive to Bloomsbury seemed very
long in these circumstances, and it was a
long drive. They all came back into the
streets after the long suburban road with
a sense almost of relief in the growing
noise, the rattle of the causeway, and
sound of the carts and carriages, which
made it unnecessary, as it had been im
possible. for them to say anything
to each other, and brought back
the affairs of common life to dispel the
influence of so different a kind which
filled the brain and imagination, if only
in one case, the heart of the solemn little
party.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
LEMON ELIXIR.
A Pleasant Lemon Tonic.
For Biliousness, Constipation, Malaria,
Colds aud the Grip.
For Indigestion, Sick and Nervous
Headache.
For Sleeplessness, Nervousness and
Heart Disease.
For Fever, Chills. Debility and Kidney
Disease, take Lemon Elixir.
Ladies, for natural and thorough or
ganic regulation, take Lemon Elixir.
Dr. Mozley's Lemon Elixir is prepared
from the fresh juice of lemons, combined
with other vegetable liver tonics, and will
not fail you in any of the above named
diseases. 50c. and $1 bottles at druggists.
Prepared only by Dr. H. Mozley, At
lanta, Ga.
At the Capitol.
I have just taken the last of two bottles
of Dr. H. Mozley’s Lemon Elixir for ner
vous headache, indigestion, with dis
eased liver and kidneys. The Elixir cured
me. I found it the greatest medicine I
ever used.
J. H. Mexnich, Attorney,
1235 F Street, Washington, D. C.
From a Prominent Lady.
1 have not been able in two years to
walk or stand without suffering great
pain. Since taking Dr.*Mozley’s Lemon
Elixir I can walk half a mile without suf
fering the least inconvenience.
Mrs. R. H. Bloodworth.
—ad. Griffin, Ga.
MISTAKEN FOR A CRANK.
A Yale Professor’s Kindly Treatment
by the Indians Who Killed Custer.
From the Washington Post.
‘One peculiar characteristic of the ln
diau.” said Maj. Barbour, a former
plainsman now metamorphosed into a
clubman and raconteur, “is his reverence,
amounting to almost fear in many in
stances, of an insane person. They never
harm one whom they believe to be men
tally afflicted. I remember one striking
instance which will illustrate. 1, was a
member of the expedition headed by
Gen. Custer that made a tour through the
Yellowstone valley and that section of
the country the year before the Custer
massacre. It was put on foot in the inter
est of science, and we had a lot of fellows
from the Smithsonian Institute and about
a dozen Yale professors.
"It was a bfo party, comprising two or
three companies of cavalry, one of in
fantry and some artillery, so the Sioux,
who at that time simply swarmed over
that country, were afraid to tackle us.
But they hung around us all the time,
and Gen, Custer gave orders, after two
men who were hunting had beeD killed,
that do one should leave camp without
permission.
“Those Yale professors just worried
the life out of the soldiers. Every pro
fessor had a detail of five men who had
to watch him. They would go around
picking up bugs and chasing butterflies
all over the prairie, and would break up
rocks and pow-wow over them with mag
nifying glasses until the soldiers swore
that every man of them was a howling
idiot.
"One day the worst old fellow in the
crowd, who wore two pair of glasses, one
red and one green, managed iri some wav
er other to get out of the sight of his
detail and wandered two or three miles
away. He ran plump into a gang of
Sioux. He walked up to them and of
fered to shake hands. They grabbed
him, aud the first thing they did was to
dive down into a big green baize bag he
carried. They pulled out lizards and
Pieces of clay and bits of rock and bugs
and the worst assortment of truck
imaginable. Just about this time the old
professor caught sight of a peculiar look
ing bug. He caught it. pulled out his
glass, and began to study it. That set
tled it. An Indian took him by the hand,
led him to a hill close by. and, |x)inting
to the army below, said, -Go.'
“He came back and said that the
soldiers totally misunderstood the In
dians. 'Why. I found them the most
liolite and courteous of people.’ said he
to Gen. Custer. But an old chief after
ward told me that they wouldn’t have
had nun stay in that country for any
thing on earth.”
He—You wish to be adored? (Earnestly )
.Show me the way to adore. J *
a he Fl '' r ' ric button)—Peter#,
show Mi b. the door.—Detroit Tribune.
RAILHOADS.
Florida Central and Peninsular Railroad
FLORIDA TRUNK LINK SHORT LINE TO TAMPA. TIME CARD IN EFFF.4T r,**"•
GOlfrO SOUTH-RE AD DOWN GOING NORffirgiFTK
i CALLAHAN
J Daily. Daily. ' *^ L *"* 1 ' to Daily. Daily.
Change Going South
; 8 38am Lv Savannah T~Ar 32pnT 12Mn n
, 112 45n'n ;Lv....Callahan...Ar 305 pm 7 30am
♦8 50pm 1 12j0n'n Lv.Jacksonvillei Ar! 306 pm *6 20mm
*l22onht 344 pm Ar Hawthorne..Lv, 1155 am *24lam
4 50pm ArSilverSprings.Lv .
*2 06am 501 pm Ar Ocala. .Lv 10 37am *I2 53am
•332 am 6 08pm Ar Wildwood . Lv 0 3flam *ll3sam
•5 07am 7 1()pm Ar. Lacoochee . . Lvs 8 22am i *94lp:n
•5 29am 7 20pm Ar.. Dade City .. Lv 147 am |*o 19pm
•652 am 8 34pm Ar Plant City Lv 652 am S 10pm
•755 am I 9 25pm , Ar— Tampa -. Lvi 660 am ;*7 05pm
•4 00am 6 15pm Lv Wildwood. . .Arl 920 am :*lO 55pm
*6 2lam 7 07pm Ar... Tavares .. .Lvi 8 25am *s 40pm
•900 am • 8 00pm Ar....Apopka.. Lvj 7 33am *ss3pm
,•10 15am | 8 35pm |Ar... Orlando .Lv! 7 00am j*s 00pm
;*5 40am 715 pm J Lv.. Lacoochee .. Arl J*B 3(lpm
•7 58am 9 30pm j Ar. Tarpon Sp'gs.Lvl ;*7 22pin
•815 am 946 pm ,Ar. Sutherland .Lv ; *7o6pm
*9 32am j 11 OOnm jAr St Petersburg T.v I *5 40pm
•9 27am *si)spm Ar. Dunnellon .Lv 8 Nlam I• 4 35pm
I *0 35pm 'Ar. Homosassa .Lvi *7 10am i
j 353 pm Ar.. Gainesville. Lv! 1128 am
1 7 35pm |Ar..Cedar Key. Lv 7 45am j
SAVANNAH AND FERNANDINA.
conation is meifOiisier siaiion iof qii points insomr
Fiofitia reached Dy me F. c. s p. and its connections
! 3Bam ; Lv. Savannah .. Ar 8 32pm I 6 20am ' ■—•
4 14pm I Ar.Fernandina.Lv II 35am | 4 30pm
•Daily except Sunday. +Meals. only. ~
Solid trains Callahan to Tampa and Orlando. Close connection at Tampa with npi
R. K. for Port Tampa Key West and Havana. Close connection at Owensboro with Sn Pi
H. R. for Lakeland and Bartow. Close connection at Tavares with J.. T. and K W w/i
Sanford and Titusville. Pullman Buffet Sleeping Cars on night trains. Through short ii
Jacksonville to New Orleans. Jacksonville to Thomasville. Lake Citv. Macon Atlanta ,
tanooga. Nashville. St. I.ouis. Chicago, etc. Tickets sold and baggage checked through m i
points in the United States. Canadu and Mexico. Send for best map of Florida nnhii.ki
and for anv information desired, to 1 ashed,
D. E. MAXWELL, G. M. A. O. MAC DONELL. G. P. A., Jacksonville
= THE TROPICAL TRUNK LINE. =
Jacksonville, Tampa and Key West Railway,
Joseph H. Durkee, Receiver.
THE FLORIDA SOUTHERN RAILROAD CO.. I
INDIAN RIVER STEAMBOAT COMPANY. '• R. B. CABLE, r,mr.i
JUPITER AND LAKE WORTH RAILWAY: j Oenen.l Manage.
-SOUTH- I -NORThI
NO. 15. No. 35. I NO. 28. ; Ti “- T '>le In Effect Dec. 3> ’ 93
Ex. Sun. Dally. | Dally. J Dally J Dad?.' Ex'
toiv! l ’ m 522 pm ,3 l 0 amiLv Jacksonville.. Ar, 690 am . 3 OOpm - ! TSTnm
10 00 pm -o3pm 10 14 am Ar ... .Green Cove Springs. . Lvi 515am1IMpm t s iq nm
P“ **®P m 11 07 am Ar Palatka Lv 420amj1 05 pm
**2£ if* P“ Jf*J pm Ar Seville Lv; 303 am HI sam 5
138 am 512 pm 12 55 pm Ar DeLeon Springs Lv 223 am 1120 am 2:* Sin
i&opm iswpSilvV."} DeLand ••■)::::!\r: " JSS®
j 32 am ji 30 pm 130 pn. Ar Orange City Junction.... Lv iBO am 1045 am ipS
l2# 2 tig pnAr. Enterprise Lv .7i7~ tioo6"am l TT*
t2spm i tS3t> pm lAt Titusville Lv . +7 45 am. n JJ,
330 am 515 pm J 215 pm!Ar Sanford. LvjTiSam~ ‘Tol(Tasn
pta i Ar Tavares Lv. +8 50 am, P
sllpm (s 12SI pin Ar Hawthorne ..’Lv! 1140 am
B5S| ijg
JSS j38J8 S ,!SS
llO 05pm -*6 0.) pm Ar Pem.erton Lv 16 46 nm fiinam
• ilOJftpm 55 pm Ar Brooksville Lv §6OO am: S^Jm
if* * m I*® P m i P m !Ar-..: .Orlando. .........Lv fiTopm #OO am ~
oia am <5O pm 353 pm Ar Kissimmee Lv|io4s run ?22 air*
615 am i 845 pm 448 pm.Ar Bartow Junction Lv| 3O rim 725 am
820 am |1036 pm I
'll **“ | Ev j 740 pm* 615 am
l+lossam Ar _ Ponta Gorda. Lv.+| to pm .......
+Daily except Sunday. ISnnday only. ~
Trains 23 and 14 carry through Pullman Buffet Sleepers dally between New York and Pott
Tampa connecting at Port Tampa Mondays. Thursdays auu eiuruavs for Key West and
Havana, i rains oo and 7e shoo carry through Pullman sleeping cars l*twecn .v York and
Port Tampa.
Trains 15 sod 14 rarrv throovh Pullman sleeping cars between r’i ne j nn ati and Fort Tampa
INDIAN RIVER STEAMERS are appointed to perform the following service
Leave Titusville dally, except Sunday, at 5 30 a. m , for Rockledge, Melbourne and wav
landings: returning leave Melbourne 12:00 noon.
Leave Titusville for Jupiter Mondays and Thursdays at 9: 0 p. m.: due Jupiter 7 00 p m,
following dav. connecting with Jupiter and Lake Worth Railway for points on Lake Worth
Returning leave Jupiter Tuesdays and Fridays at 10 p. m.. due Titusville following evening.
G. D. ACKERLY Gene.ral Passenger Agent. Jacksonville. Flu
MEDICAL.
Pi p Pimples, Blotches
I—U—Li and Old Sores ,
-and potassium Catarfh, Malaria
Makes and Kidney Troubles;
Marvelous Cures
nmnviiMUQ —Prickly Ash. Poke Root and Potas
• . , alum, the greatest blood purifier on
in Blood Poison
Messrs Lippman Bros. , 6avinn:in,
r%i , • Ga.: Dear Sirs—l bought a bottle oj
Rheumatism emuas ssnsaa
- months treatment at the Hot Springs.
Send three bottles C. O. D.
and Scrofula
Aberdeen, Brown County, O.
P. P. P. purifies the blood, builds up \ Copt. J. IK Johnston,
the weak and debilitated, gives - . t bare
st rength to weakened nerves, expels . rtl ithom ii n'mnerties
diseases,giving tho patient health and *>7 of the skin I
happiness where sickness, gloomy <*tP. p - p * for £wfrV*n un
feelings aad lassitude Brat prevailed!
Fnr primary .secondary and tertiary rf/Jut Tn viin'mitll'p *?°wsusedl
syphilis, for blood poisoning, mercu- ar,d am £ow entire -’ cnr'ed.
rial poison, malaria, dyspepsia, and JOHNSTOtf,
in all blood and skin diseases, like (Signed by) J. D. jou* a•
blotches, pimples, old chronic ulcers, ** osve ,
tetter, scald head, boils, erysipelas. Sk!n Cancer Cored,
eczema-we may say, without fear or
contradiction,that P. P. P. Is the best Tettimony fromlhe Mayor of Sequin.TCU
blood purifier in the world,and makes
positive, speody and permanent cures Sequin, Tex., January 14,
In all cases. Messrs. Lippman Bros., Savannah,
Qa . (i en tifmen— l have tried your P.
Ladles whose systems are poisoned p * p * a disease of tbeßSUfi!?
and whose blood is in an impure condi- known as skin cancer,of
tion. due to menstrual irregularities, standing, and found great relief, it
are peculiarly benefited by the won- purifies the blood and amoves all ip*
derul tonic and blood cleansing prop- rltation from the seat of the disease
erties of P. P. P. Prickly Ash, Poke prevents any spreading of the
Root and Potassium. *• J hare taken five or Ms: bottles
I, 1,, and feel confident that another course
Springfield. Mo., Aug. 14th. 1893. ° *mi°ltomlSh
-1 can speak in the highest terms of 22C125 and Btom
your medicine from my own personal irouuiea* xonra truiv. nrrflT
knowledge. I wat? affected with heart CAPT. W. M. •
disease, pleurisy aud rheumatism for Attorney at •
35 years, was treated by the very best
SKI! of^yourV! a p. e ALL DRUGGISTS SELL IT.
cheerfully say tc has doue me more - inn.a m.. m
good than anything I have ever taken. L. i if* Jim £\ Itl U r(U9>
I can recommend your medicine to all * * “ * a By ® “
sufferers of the above diseases. PROPRIETORS,
MRS. M. M. YEARY, _ . -
Springfield, Green County, Mo. Uppmaa’, Block,s>Tanuon,
LIV NGSTON S^PHARIVIACY.
PRETTY - CHRISTMAS - ROODS.
Gold and Silver Trimmed Pocket Books,
Fine Cut Glass Cologne Bottles,
Extra Pretty Ladies’ and Gents’ Toilet Cases,
Elegant Variety of Imported Colognes,
Cologne Atomizers in all Shades,
Manicure Sets.
Livingston's Pharmacy.
1 deplume 2!):*. Bull and Congress
MEDICAL.
'ft CHICHESTER'S ENOIiSH. HEO CROSS T"\ DIAMOND BRAND A
* VUiViS §
■ Wjjj, ™t O"l0H**l and GENUINE Th* onl; Safe, Rare. rrUaiU Pill for >• \>
/ nr '+*>'•• “* Drorit lr • f.ncjlu I'winani )*4 In K*d and Gold W 11 1?,... \
L. f* w, iWrtbbM. Take no other kind. JtyNaa .SuLlUuhoiu aa£ ,*,4 >
— k *myanSiiaaaK- CH,cMtsTt "
mm is me iimiersiom for on munis in souii i
Fioridortted oymer. c. $ p. and iis connections.