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THE MARCHIONESS
OF THE FOUR CORNERS.
A CANADIAN STORY. •
Bv C. B. BURCIN.
Author of "Hi* Lordship.* "A otwker Girl." "Bread of Tears," £tc.
Copyright. 18!® bjrtj. B. Burgle.
CHAPTER I.
"The Marchioness' of the Four Corner*
was aroused from deep -lumber by a loud
drumming on the gaol door. Her link
room opened upon the gaol kitchen, Sh<
found it hardy, not only for the rakt
of the additional warmth of the huge
Move, but as being further away from
the gaol Itself, of which she had a whole
some terror ever since a countryme.n of
hers ("The Marchioness" had first se<n
the light in Middlesex, England) died sud
denly on a somewhat rough scaffold In
the gaol yard. The countryman In ques
tton. after killing three men with an ax,
and burning two women to death with j
the powerful aid of a kerosene lamp, \
pleaded hereditary insanity when brought
to trial.
In anew country like Canada such plea*
are looked upon with marked disfavor;
consequently the Englishman in question
had paid the penalty of his erlm- s. In his
last moments, however, having heard that
"The Marchioness' was tt countrywoman
of his, and that she it was who prepared
the delicate meals which softened his
captivity, the murderer had requested tie
pleasure of her company at his obsequies.
••The Marchioness,’ not daring to refuse
this delicate mark of appreciation, but
trembling with terror, had stood beside
the freshly-dug grave in one corner of
the gaol yard, holding a dog'.’-e-tred pray
er-book in one hand, borrow ed for Ihe oc
casion. and a black-bordered handker
chief In the other, thu adequately evin
cing her respect for "the deceased," as
she ever afterwards called her country
man.
Up to the time of that memorable ex
perience, "The Marchioness," slab-footed,
angular, with watery grey eyes, narrow,
eloping shoulders, and scanty wisps of
hay-rolored hair, had never known an
clement of romance in the twenty-one
(years of her life. She had been picked up
by a philanthropic society and shipped to
Canada in the hope that there would be
a place for her In that generous, ample
bosomed country. When she reached the
Four Corners, however, the general opin
ion was that Canada had no loom for
so "wiMess a crlttur." "The Marehlon
rss" sat on ber box at the end oT the
wharf. "Oh. If you pleas", take me to th
gaol," was all she answered in reply to
the questioning < rowd. When II was
Jound that she had arrived at the Four
Corners in a semi-public rapacity, as it
were t. e.. factotum anl "hired girl."
to cook for the gaol staff and prisoners,
general commiseration was felt for the
gaolers and their lambs. “It's sorter
playin' It low down on the pris'n rs. \N hy
the sight of that scrawny, tallow-faced,
ongainly female oughter take away what
little appetite the’ve got left." said Abe
Millar as he watched "The Marchioness
disappear within the frowning gates of
the gaol. „.k.i
me gaoi.
"The Marchioness’ " apparent insensibil
ity at the funeral of her erring country
man (In reality she had been almost be
Hide herself with fright) tended ntlll less
to win for her the llWiner of Four Corners
folks. She was not sociable; she kept
herself to herself; and, crowing sin of all.
never grot any fatter on all the good fond
which she ate. During her brief holi
day "The Marchioness" always strolled
away into the Bush In preference to
mingling; with the giddy crowd, although
it was popularly rumored that no mos
quito would touch her, no horse-fly east
a passing glance in her direction. She
had no friends, no alms, no ambitions,
no desires save to do her work and to be
left alone. She was always grimy, lienee
her soubriquet of "The Marchioness" by
a facetious fellow-countryman who once
stayed with the rresbyterian minister,
end went away deeply depressed by the
sight of her unparalleled ugliness. Folk
from the Back Settlements had a lurking
idea that she was an English lady of high
degree who was allowed to keep her title
when banished lo Canada by tie English
government on account of her "homely”
appoaranco.
“Th* Marchioness” Rencrally kept her
temper. She lost it once, however, when
a denizen of the Bush, wishing to ally
himself with the English aristocracy, had
proposed to her to share his
frame house and generally de
sirable, if somewhat primitive. lot.
After a brief cyclonic interval
of Impassioned reproaches from the lady,
he found himself fleeing for dear life, hot
jy pursued by "The. Marchioness with a
chopper. When railed upon for an ex
planation of this Berseker fury "The
Marchioness" had no explanation to offer,
A blush of virgin modesty suffused her
thin, sallow cheeks, and she continued
chopping suet with the weapon which had
eo aiTrighted her simple wooer. The gen
eral opinion was that Zeke Ferguson had
been too precipitate and that "The March
ioness" had upheld the honor of her an
cient lineage in a highly becoming, if
fomewha.t eccentric, manner. For the
brief space of a week there was a rev ul-
Elon of public opinion in her favor, and it
was during that sunny interval of popu
lar esteem that the Four Corners "News"
alluded to her as “The fall- denizen of a
sunless plime who now dwelt In unob
trusive perennial usefulness within our
walls." “The Marchioness," indifferent
to this delicate compliment, however, re
fused to subertbe to the paper, and pub
lic opinion once veered round and left her
gs before—“ Remote, unfriended, melan
choly, slow. - '
Raising herself on one elbow “The Mar
chioness” earne baek to mundane things
•with a horrid prevision that something
•unusual was about to happen. The noise
continued. And above the hammering at
the door she recognized the deputy sher
iffs stentorian tones.
Hastily slipping on her gown, and tying
up her scanty locks with a piece of tape,
“The Marchioness” entered the hall. The
iron doors clanged open as Gaoler Grange
<ame into the corridor from the gaol,
■which crossed the house in the shape of
the letter T. ‘.’What is it. Marchioness?”
he asked, not unkindly. "You git back to
bed agin, or there won’t be any breakfast
to-morrow.”
“The Marchioness” nodded inexpressive
ly. “It’s the deputy sheriff,” she said,
“There’s somebody a-groanln’ and a’moan
in* ’nough to give you the ehills. I think
there’s been a light!”
“Oh, you think thar’s been a fight. We’ll
soon see about that. Sure the sheriff’s
thar.”
”Yes.” said “The Marchioness” simply.
“Can’t you hear him swear?"
This was conclusive testimony. Grange
drew his revolver. “Hold the. light,
Marchioness. Maybe it’s a plant to rescue
Tim Flannigan before he goes to Kingston
penitentiary. Are you game to open the
door?”
“Yes,” said “The Marchioness,” “they
won’t hurt me."
She unbarred the heavy iron door as she
spoke.
"Who’s thar?” demanded the gaoler.
“Me,” said the sheriff. Then, with a
touch of professional pride, “and Slim
Pete."
"The Marchioness" nearly dropped her
light as she peered out into the darkness
of the spring night. "They’ve got him,”
the said to the gaoler.
“Yes, we’ve gut him,” answered the
■hcrlff from the darkness.
A thrill of excitement ran through “The
Marchioness’ ” passive nature. She peered
Into th** darkness again. Three or four
men stood round a prostrate figure, which
they essayed to lift, but which slipped
j from their grasp and rolled limply back
j on the grass, where it lay quite still.
| A meek white moon struggled faintly
| over the tops of the trees, and cast a
flickering, uncertain light on the group.
“I’ll lift his head,” said the sheriff; “you
take his heels, Wright; Jim Cass, you run
over to git Doc. Dickinson.”
The men bore their limp burden into
the hall, ami let it slip in the same ex
pressionless way on the floor. Blood ran
from a wound In the man’s side. His
handsome face was sickly white, the long
black curls which hung round making
it paler than It really was. And still
that thin red stream welled up from the
wound and ran across the floor.
“The Marchioness” put down the can
dle. “Lift him on that sofy,” she com
manded authoritatively.
She left the hall, and speedily returned
with water and some linen bandages.
One of the men undid Slim Pete’s white
shirt. “The Marchioness’ gave a little
gasp as she saw the gaping wound caused
by the sheriff's bowie. “Don’t touch
him,” she said almost fiercely, as that
worthy approached to survey his work
with mournful, albeit professional, pride.
“Heave him to me.”
Slim Pete opened his eyes, and faintly
raised himself on one elbow. A shade of
disappointment swept over his face, as
he saw the limp, lean Marchioness.
“Well, sheriff,” he said, good-humoredly.
“(Jot me at last? It wasn’t a fair fight
in the dark.”
“You’re so slippery,” the sheriff said,
apologetically, to his prisoner. “I had to
knife you, Pete, or you'd have gone off
again.”
The prisoner made a sign to every one
except the sheriff and “The Marchioness”
to retire. ‘Vome here,” he said, faintly,
to the former. “Sheriff, there’s no rail
to to mention names In this little scrim
mage. If I peg out it’s all right; if I
don’t, you can prove you c aught me round
the settlement, and arrested me for shoot
ing Timber Jake last year on sight.”
“Hut,” said the sheriff, confusedly,
“how about the girl? She sent me word
you was to meet her at Stinson’s bush,
and I ’lowed to catch you thar.”
Slim Pete looked at the sheriff with
a hazy scorn in his handsome eyes.
“You're dreaming. sheriff. ’* he
“Dreaming. There’s no girl In
iness, so none of your darned foolish
ness. A nice thing it would be for any
girl afterwards if it was known she had
given me into your bloodthirsty hands.”
A dawn of comprehension shown in the
sheriff's face. He and Slim Pete had beyn
old friends before one became sheriff
and the other shot Timber Jake. He
nodded. “All right. Pete,” he said.
“Thar warn’t no girl there.”
The other gripped his wrist. “For sure,
old man,” he said, anxiously.
“For sure,” answered the sheriff, fol
lowing up his cue. “ ’Twhh such a dark
night it mout ha’ been a ghost or a dead
tree 1 took for Stim—”
"Shut up.” said Slim Pete. “This lady
here doesn't want to hear any more of
your lies.”
“The. Marchioness’* nodded affirmative
ly. and motioned the sheriff to leave the
room. As the doctor did not come, she
made her patient comfortable with pil
lows. gave him something cooling to
drink, shaded the light, and told him to
go to sleep.
“What’s your name?” asked the captive,
with u. groan.
“The Marchioness” struggled to remem
ber. “Ellen Waters.” she. said at last.
“They call me “The Marchioness.”
“Permit me to thank you. Miss Waters,
for your exertions on ray behalf. Is
there a watch in my waistcoat? Bring
It here.’’
“The Marchioness” brought it to him,
after fumbling about among his clothes
in the semi-darkness. “Here it is,” she
said, wonderlngly.
“Come a little nearer.” said Slim Pete.
“The Marchioness” obeyed.
Slim Pete threw the long chain of the
watch over her scraggy neck. “That’s
for you.” he said, and sank back uncon
scious.
“The Marchioness” felt a s-trange thrill
of pleasure at the touch of the gold
chain on her neck as she hastened to re
vive her eccentric charge. Then, she
shaded the light again, and laid down on
the floor beside her patient, and went to
sleep.
CHAPTER II
Public opinion was strongly in favor
of “The Marchioness’s - ' course of action
as time wont on. Her unwearying care
of Slim Pete grew to be looked upon by
the Inhabitants of the Four Comers as a
delicate recognition of a diffident sense
of Indebtedness to Canada and Canadians
generally. In reply to the gaoler’s offer
to procure him a hired nurse. Slim Pete
had somewhat roughly refused to allow
anyone else to minister to his wants. The
handsome desperado remarked, with a
touch of Irony, that no scandal could
possibly arise under the circumstances,
owing to "The Marchioness’s" lack of
personal charm and beauty; and also
that as this wes pi-obably the last time
which anyone could have a chance of
criticising 'him, he preferred to give
friends and foes alike as little opportuni
ty as possible.
The sheriff, who was sitting In the
room at the time, nodded a cordial ac
quiescence In his private capacity he
mourned over Pete’s approaching exit
from this world with a Very real sense of
grief; as sheriff, he felt that ho deserved
well of the state; but these feelings were
rather conflicting at times, and led him to
wish that Pete had escaped altogether.
As he crossed the creek on the way home
after his customary chat with Slim Pete
one afternoon, he was aware of a fem
inine figure slowly preceding him in the
direction of Stimson’s pasture.
The sheriff frowned and followed the
ladylike figure in front as it daintily
strolled along, a parasol shading Miss
Stimson’s delicate complexion from the
heat of the spring sun.
The lady, with an affectation of indiff
erence, almost allowed him to pass her.
Then she turned her flashing dark eyes on
him, and bowed.
The sheriff, mindful of past encounters
with this handsome coquette, was about
to stroll by, but she stayed him with a
light touch of her gloved hand. "How Is
your interesting patient?” she asked, In
tones which she strove to render icily
chill.
The sheriff turned on her fiercely. "You
ought to know,” he said. “It’s your doing
h’.s life’s nearly ended. All you women are
alike. Doves one moment, and catamounts
the next. You’ve ruined him. That fight
with Timber Jake was all along of you;
and then because you heard those lies
about Pete and that widow at the springs,
you set mo on his track. I wish I’d put
a bullet through myself."
She pointed to a log. "Sit down,” she
said, imperiously, and the sheriff, unable
to meet her eyes, meekly did so.
“You’ve had the impertinence to criti
cise me.” sill- said. “Did you know 1 was
engaged to him?”
THE MORNING NEWS: SEN DAY. MARCH 3, 1895.
The sheriff started. “You’ve been en
gaged to haif-a-doxen other fools who be
lieved you,” he said, bitterly.
“Weren’t you one of the fools yourself?”
she a.sked with an affectation of endeavor
ing to remember which made him flinch.
“Likely enough,” he said, sullenly.
“That’s no reason I should knife Pete.”
“I had Indisputable proof he was en
gaged to a woman at the Back Settle
ments. Now. do you wonder why I lured
him down here and told you of our meet
ing-plac**: I wanted to we him Jailed—to
repay *corn for scorn—to make him suf
fer as I’ve suffered.”
The sheriff surveyed her with a curios
smile, as she sat on the log. idly tracing
a pattern in the soft moss with the point
of her parasol. “So that was it,” he said,
quietly. Well, it's a lie. I’ve known
Pete since he was a boy; and he never
lied to a friend or forgave an enemy.
Your name was on his lips when I knifed
him; and now he’s dying you ought to be
the miserablest woman in the Four Cor
ners. for it's all your work.
Her cheeks blanched slightly as she
realized the evil her ungovernable temper
and mischief had brought to Slim Pete.
But, with feminine inconsistency, there
was a glad light in her eyes also. He had
not been untrue to her after all. “Are
you sure he’ll die?” she asked.
The sheriff roughly shook off her en
treating touch.
“If he don’t die at my hands, he dies
at the hands of the law for killing Tim
ber Jak? last year. You know w hose work
that was! Doc. Dickinson says he can’t
la*t more'n a couple of days.” He looked
at her savagely again, and then glanced
despairingly round on the soft beauty of
the scene. “To think he’s got to leave
all this through you and me!” he said,
slowly, his stolid nature stirred to depths
of bitterest grief. “All through you and
me. The cleverest little cuss In the world,
settled by his best friend and his best
girl.”
She did not notice his vehemence, but
slowly sat down again as if thinking out
the situation in all Its hideous reality.
“Will you take him a message from
me?” she asked. “Say I’ll come to him to
morrow evening. I’d come to-night, on
ly he must be prepared for what I’m
going to do. She scribbled a few lines on
a slip of paper and handed it to the
sheriff, “(rive him that;” and tefore the
sheriff could protest she had glided away
into the cool depths of the Bush.
That evening Slim Pete lay languidly
watching “The Marchioness.” who sat at
a little table by his bedside. Something
tickled him hugely as he crumpled up Miss
Stimson’s note, and took a cooling drink
from “The Marchioness.” He was too
weak to lift it to his lips, but she quietly
supported him, watching his every move
ment, her own poor expressionless eyes
somewhat inflamed through want of
sleep and unremitting exertion on behalf
of this handsome scapegrace.
“Go to sleep,” she said, her task accom
plished, and speaking in her customary
woodeny, expressionless voice. “(Jo to
sleep, or you’ll get wand’rln again, and
callin’ me Sempronia.”
“Turn tip the lamp a little.” Imperiously
said Slim Pete. “I’m not sleepy to-night.
Marchioness, suppose wo talk about—oh,
about Sempronia, commonly known as
Miss Stimson.”
“The Marchioness” made a gesture of
dissent, but Slim Pete smiled at her elo
quently, and she turned tip the lamp.
“ ’Twon’t make any difference,” he said,
“I’ve only a few more hours to live. Old
Doc. Dickinson told me so to-day. Mar
chioness.”
Again she shook her head.
“Oh, it's true. Bring your chair up and
listen.”
“The Marchioness” brought her chair
nearer to the bed.
“When a man’s going home.” said Pete,
“he’s got a lot of things to think of. I’m
going home, Marchioness—home to the
graveyard beside the creek there. Going
to lie in the eternal silence till I’m called
to judgment, and take my chances with
worse men than I’ve been. I killed Tim
ber Jake, who once whs a friend of mine,
through a row about her, and he’d sworn
to kill me on sight. They call it a mur
der down here.”
“I’ve heard it was a fair fight,” said
“The Marchioness” soothingly.
“I never yet went hack on a friend, nor
broke my word to a woman,” Slim Pete
declared, staring straight up at tlie ceil
ing as if tracing his past life on its white
surface. “I s’pose that’s the reason my
own friend's killed me, helped hy the wo
man who swore she loved me. I don’t
blame the sheriff; he couldn't helf him
self; she could, or why did she tell me he
was out of the way, and then let him set
a trap for me. 1 could have got away if
her arms hadn’t clung to my neck. What
would you do to such a woman. Mar
chioness?” He laughed, but there was a
terrible expression of hatred and re
venge in his burning eyes.
“The Marchioness” showed little emo
tion. “I knew she was a bad ’un,” she
said, briefly.
“Precisely. Matvhioness,” returned the
Invalid, still seeing patterns on the ceil
ing. “You have summed up the situa
tion with characteristic truth. What
made you look after me so carefully?”
“The Marchioness” paused a moment.
“You’re a had ’un too.”
Slim Pete’s eyes came down from the
ceiling and he laughed. "I’ve been more
sinned against than sinning; but that’s
what everyone says on a death-bed. Arc
you aware. Marchioness, that when a
man has been tricked, be naturally de
sires to get even with the person who
tricked him?"
“The Marchioness’’ thought of the chop
per episode, and nodded affirmatively.
“I’ve been tricked by 011 c woman, and
yet I trust you. Marchioness." His eyes
blazed angrily at her. “Will you do what
1 want?”
’’Yes,” said “The Marchioness," in her
customary wooden way. "If 1 says it I
does it.”
"Can you write?"
"A little,” replied "The Marrhioness,”
doubtfully.
“And spell?”
”1 like to spell my own way,” reluct
antly admitted Miss Waters.
“Very well, then. (Jet some paper and
ink. Where’s Miss Stimson's letter?”
"Here,” said "The Marchioness,” tak
ing it front the bed. as a faint flush of
color rose in her sallow checks.
"Read it,” said the invalid, restlessly.
CHAPTER 111.
“The Marchioness" took the little scent
ed tried to decipher an Impas
sioned plea for forgiveness. The widow's
name was freely used by Miss Stlmson
as an excuse for her premeditated treach
ery. "I have been made” read "The
Marchioness.” "No. It isn't ’made,’ its
‘mad.’ I have been mad, but to prove my
love for you I will marry you on your
death-bed if you send me one word of
forgivenesss and consent."
When "The Marchioness” came to this
part of Miss Stimson's appeal she looked
up for a moment, the curious little flush
on her sallow cheeks deepening still more.
Slim Pete watched her intently.
“Marchioness," he said, “before I seek
the happy hunting grounds, isn't there
anything I can do for you?”
"The Marchioness" made no answer,
but approached Slim Pete to rearrange his
pillows. The shade of the lamp hid her
face, but it could not conceal her sham
bling gate and awkward movements, her
large red hands, her wide mouth and
uneven. discolored teeth. Slim Pete
reached up his thin white hand and held
her huge lingers for one moment in his
feeble “Marchioness,” he said,
with a boyish smile on his face, "you’ve
been a good chum to me. Now you shall
see the fun.”
"The Marchioness" coughed in an em
barrassed way and looked for a moment
at the hand which he had touched. It
seikncd rougher, redder, coarse r than
ever. Then she went back to the table.
“What shall I aay?"
“Better not write,” he said. “Just go
round to Stimson's and ask for her. Say I
expect her here at 7 to-morrow night and
will make all the n*-* ef-sary arrange
ments. As you go out send In Lawyer
Johnson.”
“The Marchioness ’ made her self-willed
charge comfortable, an*! slowly decked
herself in her one attempt at coherent
costume—a huge red shawl, the joy of
her uneventful life. A straw hat with
gT€*en ribbons afforded a chaste but
pleasing contrast to the shawl. After
surv<*ying herself in the same dull im
personal way at the glass, she made an
excuse to re-enter Slim Pete's room, with
a faint desire in her heart that he should
see his ambassadress to Miss Stimson
so regally attired. Fortunately for Slim
Pete's peace of mind, (he had a pretty
taste in dress and ornaments, as Miss
Stimson very well knew) that worthy
again slept soft’y. “The Marchioness’*
had never kissed a man in her life* As
she watched the thin handsome boyish
face before her. and saw one weak white
hand upon the coverlet, a strange sudden
feeing stirred in her heart. She put her
large hand to her breast as if to still some
unlooked for pain, then, bending over
Slim Pete, touched his forehead with her
clumsy lips.
Slim Pete stirred and muttered that
feminine name which “The Marchioness”
had learnt to recognize as pertaining to
Miss Stimson. She hesitated no longer,
but shuffle and off along the sidewalk upon
he r errand.
The next evening it was manifest to the
most inexperienced eye that Slim Pete’s
race was nearly run. The sheriff's prac
ticed bowie had penetrated too far and
deep for nature to tolerate such an out
rage. Slim Pete was by far the most un
conceraed of the little group.Now’ and then
he raised himself on his elbow and looked
inquiringly at the clock, but the effort ex
hausted him, and he sank hack again.
At half past six he made a sign to “The
Marchioness” to lift him up in bed.
Doctor Dickinson and Lawyer Johnson
talked In whispers at the other end of the
room with little Mr. Phipps, the Presby
terian minister. At a sign from the in
valid they all came forward, the sheriff,
half hidden behind the curtains, sorrow
fully waiting for the end
“Gentlemen,” said Slim Pete, In weak
tones, “l’rn going home. As you all
know, I’ve some little property still left.
Those skunks of relations mine, who
haven’t been near me. will do their best
to get it when I’m dead. One woman be
trayed me; another woman did ber best
to save me. The woman who betrayed
me’ft rich and beautiful, courted ant!
admired; the woman who nursed me.
who’s never left me night and day, is
poor and neglected, a stranger. She’d no
call to look after me, and I don’t lay
tip anything against the sheriff. He did
his duty. She’s more'n done hers. And
I want to make her somp amends. Now
I'm going to marry her, and I charge you,
gentlemen, to see she isn't robbed when
I'm gone."
The. sheriff came from behind the cur
tains and knelt down by the side of the
dying man. "Pete, Pete, don't take on
about her." he said; "I'll see jUßtlce
done. Couldn’t you sav a word to make
things easier for me'.’ I'm main sorry,
rete.'*
The Invalid looked at him with an
amused smile, in which boyish tenderness
struggled against a sense or recent
wrong. “You alters was a soft-hearted
old fool, Jim,” he said, relapsing into
dialect. "We’re about square now.”
At a sign from the lying man, Mr.
Phipps drew near, and the ceremony pro
ceeded which was to transform “The
Marchioness” into Mrs. Pete Lorlllard.
Half stupefied at this turn of events, but
wholly unresisting, "The Marchioness”
clad In her red shawl, allowed herself to
be placed at the dying man's bedside.
When the brief oertmmy was over, Pete
gave a little gasp of satisfaction, and
his thin fingers, guided by the law yer, pro
ceeded to sign a will hy whleh he be
queathed all his "real and personal estate
whatsoever and wheresoever the same
might be or consist of unto and to the use
of his wife.”
This ceremony over, the invalid lay back
with half-closed eyes as if waiting for
something to happen.
Someone knocked at the door, and the
knock seemed to recall Slim Pete’s spirit
from the borderland of death. "Let her
in." he whispered. "Let her In."
“The .Marchioness’’ opened the door.
Miss Stimson walked in, and flung herself
weeping at the side of the bed. Slim
Pete surveyed her with a somewhat
amused smile.
As the doctor turned the lamp wick
higher. Slim Pete's smile became more
pronounced. "Gentlemen, you see this
lady?” he asked.
They nodded assent.
"Ask her. Jim." said Pete, weakly—
very weakly—"ask—her—if—she's ready to
—mar—ry me?"
The sheriff gravely advanced, and put
the question to Miss Stimson. who dried
her tears, and also relapsed into the dialect
of her childhood when she, the sheriff,
and Slim Pete, had run about bare-footed
little children through the village. “Quit
this fooling," she said, with asperity.
Then her eyes softened, as she turned
towards the bed. “Pete," she said, “Pete,
you know my mad, hitter temper. I he
trayed you to that brute there (she pointed
to the sheriff with a gesture of loathing.)
to that brute who stabbed you in the dark;
but 1 shall repent it in sackcloth and ashes
to my last day. I will be yours in death if
not in life.” and she looked round as if
expecting Mr. Phipps to begin.
Ppte laughed long and low—laughter
horrible to w-itness. With an expiring ef
fort, he once more raised himself. "Yon
are too late. Miss Stimson. Too late!
Allow me to introduce you to—my wife!"
and fell back—dead.
When Miss Stimson recovered from her
bewilderment she dashed aside a sheeted
rain of tears and moved slowly toward
the bed. as if to kiss the dead man there.
But-" ’’the Marchioness” seizin a knife
from the table and sprang before her like
a lioness at bay. "He's mine," she said,
pointing to the door.
**•**•••
They buried the handsome desperado in
the court yard of the gaol, beside “the
Marchioness' ” peccant countryman. When
the mourners withdrew, and the little
narrow heap of fresh flung its frag
rance upward to the sky, “the Marchion
ess” tock her place beside it, her solitary
attempt at mourning, a piece of rusty
crape bound round one arm. The next
day she went about her work as usual,
and ignorcfl the past.
But there is one woman who. tall, proud,
Imperious, and yet sad-eyed withal, some
times creeps humbly toward the goal yard
under the cover of r.ight, toward the
grave of the man whom her mad jealousy
betrayefl. Y’et ever as she nears the grave
to east upon it her burden of tears and
unavailing regret, there comes swiftly
between it and her a shambling figure,
with terrible eyes, a long knife glitter
ing in its hand.
Then "the? Marchioness’ once more
watches by the side of the man who
used her to insure his vengeance on a
faithless love.
(The End.)
After the fall of the Roman Empire, says
1 , . ..CO .- -, ... , - .
in the matter of clothes. Our Teutonic
anc-stors adopted a costume which wa*
almost the same for meet and women, and
eonsited of two main garments, the Ro
man tunica and toga. The tunica was vir
tually a shirt with long sleeves, and was
buckled at the waist. The men wore it
reaching to their knees, and the women to
the ankles. In colder northern latitudes
the men, as a great innovation, added
truo-sers, but these were looked upon in
the light of a distinct extra, and were
not considered obligatory in hot weather.
There seems to be no doubt that the
blouse of the modern peasant is a direct
descendant of the tunica.
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS.
_________
.NOTES FROM THE XEW ESGI.AM)
COXSEBVATOIY OF Ml SIC.
Grnnl (lp. ru in ffo.tna—The Operatic
>tn r. That Are AllrarliDE Atten
tion There—Something Abont a
Minter Who Wa. a ’Cellist—The
Greatest Piano Teacher Other
Matter* Worth Sotlclnx.
-V E. Conservatory. Boston, Mass., Feb.
22.—1 had forgotten the honorable birth
day of the father of his country until late
last afternoon when I beheld his counter
feit presentment "done in oils” and draped
in the star-spangled, large as life and
almost as majestic, welcoming with out
stretched hand visitors to a polo rink!
It was an Impressive sight, and would
have gladdened his eyes if he could have
seen it. It seems to be one of the penal
ties of greatness in America to be com
pelled to literally lend a countenance to
patent medicines or to masquerade In
sign painters’ colors on holidays. Then a
dismal bell began to strike the hour of
the general’s birth (1 suppose) this morn
ing—and then the number of years he
lived and the number of those since his
translation, for the edification of sleepy
headed patriots. I think we all got up in
despair and mentally consigned bell ring
ing to the limbos fo Germelhausen. Some
of the "outside students” with an eye
to festive gayeties howled because the
22d is not on N. E. C. holiday. But those
of us inside are very glad, for we have
reached that point of application where
holidays arc* a snare and a delusion and
a hard “dig” more to be desired than
much merry-making. Besides a holiday
isn't a holiday when It is given to you.
There is a pure delight in deliberately
sneaking out of work and recklessly tak
ing no thought for the morrow that no
“legal” day of idleness can "possibly be
stow. And X rerkon the most of us pre
fer it.
Grand opera next week, and much con
sulting of programme as to which opera
Is really the best to set- and will give
the largest returns for the expenditure.
Of course, everybody wants to go the
opening night to the Huguenots, for the
cast ts dazzling; Nordics. Melba, Schalchi,
the de Reszkes, F-lancon and Ancona. No
other such constellation in the opera sky
for the whole week, though there are
Karnes (or Melba) Maurel and Tamagno
in Othello, and Melba and Jean Dt* Reszke
in Romeo and Juliet, and Sybil Sanderson
In all her glory as a bright particular
star in "Mazion."
Mr. Els on kindly interrupted his course
of lectures yesterday afternoon to give
us the salient points of the operas, and a
little critique of the various artists.
The last Musical Courier says a lot of
clever thing apropos de l’opera. Here
are some; “I think that Joe Green, other
wise Gutseiipe Verdi, should be called the
greatest boy composer that ever lived.
Ho is so old that like Bundelcund, he has
become a ehlld again. Heavens! what may
ho not compose when he grows up and is
about ilO years old"
Then;
“Les Huguenots always gives m" the.
impression of having been written by a
syndicate.”
Its vast volume, amorphous in struct
ure, its solemn tunes, its turgid orchestra
tion and vocal frivolity seem itoo much
for tho imagination of any one tnan to
have compassed and composed. Meyber
bc< r was more than a host; he was a
syndicate.”
Again—
”\Ve should have had ’Falstaff’ at the
beginning of the season. Its beauties
would have become patent to the opera
going public and the work a favorite.
‘Apres moi, le deluge.’ said the Wagner
ttes of the Great Richard. ’After Wagner,
Verdi,’ we can now truthfully exclaim.”
Speaking of the baritone, Campanari.
the Musical Courier remarks:
"At least one of ihe slnger3 in the
company doo3 not want to sing In Bos
ton. This is Campanari, who was for
several years a 'cellist in the Boston
Symphony Orchestra. He was born in
Venice and learned to play the ’cello an t
became a. member of the orchestra at Da
Scala. While playing there he discovered
he had a voice, and he says the only in
struction he has ever had In singing
was in watching singers and following
the advice they gave him. He sang suc
cessfully in his own country and in Spain
before coming to the United States. He
settled In Boston, but never could per
suade tho Boston critics that he could
sing. They would only accept him as a
’cellist, and when he first began to sing
in opera in New York he says they de
clared he would never rise out of cheap
English opera!”
So much for Boston's critics. To-day the
musical papers write rapturously of Cam
panai’s "grand opera manner," his "noble
voice” and his “musicianship," and quote
Tamagno’s hearty commendation of his
fellow singer: "Mais e’est une belle voix;
bravo, bravo, bien chante,” after the big
scene in Falstaff.
The conservatory management have
bought a lot of tickets for the girls In the
home department, who desired seats for
the opera, saving them the time and loss
of temper suffered by those who had to
"stand In line” before the box office. We
had one of the most charming and inter
esting recitals of the year last evening In
Sleeper hall. A chamber music programme
given by the N. E. C. String Quartet, Emil
Mahr, (head of the violin school), first
violin; Charles McLaughlin, second violin;
Daniel Kuntz, viola, and Leo Schulz,
'cello. They were assisted by Emil Golde,
double bass, and Mrs. Louis Maas at the
piano forte. The auditorium and balcony
were filled to overflowing, even the door
ways were crammed with people. The
stage always looks interesting when it is
“set” for the tiny orchestra with the four
music stands hobnobbing sociably to
gether, tho rug for Mr. Schulz’s lovely
’cello, that he delights to wring our
hearts with (the 'cello I mean), and the
handsome, gold-colored Miller concert
grand with its genial rows of keys and sug
gestions of delight in its shining length.
There were only two numbers on
last evening's programme, but
each was a cluster of gems of purest ray
serene. The first was Aus Meinem Leben
(From My Life), by the Bohemian, Sme
tana, who lived to- be deaf, and who died
blit a few years ago In an insane asy
lum. His music, however, was written be
fore the approach of madness, and in the
E minor string quartette the scenes from
his life arc "appassionato. "Allegro ala
Polka,” ending with the gayest “Vivace,”
with no intimation of the future doom.
The second number was the Hummel D
minor quintette for piano-forte and string
quartette. This was originaly a septette
for strings, flute, oboe and horn, but the
piano-forte takes the place of the wind
instrument most acceptably. The stage,
piano-forte takes the place of the wind
during the performance of this, would
have made a lovely composition for a
painting. Tho first violin and cello In the
foreground, the viola and double-bass
nearer the organ, which forms the back
ground of the platform, Mr. Golde stand
ing beside his rich, dark instrument—all
Intent with tho music pages; Mrs. Maas
ait the piano. I can best describe her in
Hands' words: "She is fair, with brown
red hair. She Is serene, with one of those
quiet, equable temperaments whose privi
lege It Is to blend others into harmony by
yielding to each new wave of thought
and feeling as it rises, with that sort of
simple, unaffected pleasure, the very sight
of which makes others happy. The play
ing of that night remains With me. We
seemed alive—sensitively alive to every
vibration. Her fingers caressed the cool.
Ivory keys lovingly, the Stradivarius spoke
rapturously, to the lightest touch of the
bow, the full-toned viollncello gave out
the deep, but tender notes like the voice
of the sea in enchanted caves.
How clear and "seizing." as the
French say. was her render
ing of the opening movement. How won
derfully woven-in were the parts. Be
tween the movements we spoke not. I
marked the flush upon her cheek, the
bright light in her eyes. * • • And as the
evening wore away and we took no acorn.:
of the hours.”
Mrs. Maas' playing evoked the greatest
enthusiasm. Half of the students in the
t-aleony stood up to obtain a better view
of her at the piano, ar.d she was recalled
again and again at the close of the pro
gramme. She has studied with Leechetiz
sky In Vienna, who is conceded to be
"the greatest teacher of piano of the
day,” and under whom the finest artists
consider it a distinction to have studied.
His method of playing ia natuarl simpllcity
itseif when fully understood, and pro
ductive of the most finished tone-quality
and shading. In a word it is IntellectusU
—not mechanical, ar.d gives one a "grip”
and power on the keys that is simply start
ling. With the Leschetizsky school tech
nic is the means to the greater end of truly
artistic and emotional playing.
Mrs. Maas is an artist in more than a
musical sense, also; she fully understands
the secret of effective stage-appearance.
Her dress was a lovely combination of
dark prune-colored velvet ten train from
the shoulders), and pearl brocade, made
In Empire style, though not too pro
nounced. Large puffs of the velvet cov
ered with lace formed the short sleeves,
and the low waist displayed the soft
lines of her shoulders and neck and the
delicate poise of her small piquant head.
She came upon the stage holding a great
handfull of Jaquetninot roses against her
breast, and I think everybody in the house
fell in love on the spot. If they did not
they were blind, and in that case the
music probably finished them. C. M. G.
THE MAX WITHOIT HUMOR.
He Is the Cams of It In Others When
lie Turns Critic.
From the Springfield (Mass.) Republican.
They have some severe and uncompro
mising critics of literature out In Chicago.
An indignant parent recently wrote to one
of the papers to say that he believed at
tention had not been called to the inju
dicious character of a song which he had
found In a book ujaed by the primary
teachers In the schools, part of which ran
as follows:
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail.
And pour the waters of the Nile
O’er every golden scale.
How cheerfully he seems to grin.
How neatly spreads his daws.
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling Jaws.
“My recollection of the habits of the
crocodile,” this indignant critic of nature
study in the school goes on to say, "is that
he doesn't live on fish at all, although
he Is said to catch birds In the way de
scribed. That a little child’s attention
should be called to either fact, however,
in a civiltznd sehot>l-room. qeems In
credible; and to give it a humorous turn,
as the author of these lines seems to
have tried to do, Is simply monstrous.”
This is quite as funny as anything in
"Alice in Wonderland," but Mr. Carroll
docs not suffer alone In being made tho
victim of such ruthless analysis. There
is a class of intellect that Is congenitally
impervious to poetry, and by one of na
tures kindly compensations is made equal
ly insensillve to humor, a feeling for
which might raise disturbing doubts.
Like the Scotchman so well known to
lame, they "Joke wt dceflculty," and also
hold I hat "these poets say many things
that they can’t substantiate.” There is
Dr. Alexander Bain, for example, a beau
tiful specimen of the class to which the
Chicago critic belongs. His works
on logic command our admira
tion, but when he ventures in
to the field of poetic ciritetsm it.
reminds one of a bull in a china shop. In
his "Poetics" he quotes from "Paradise
Lost":
—The broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the moon,
and comments with much acumen that
"anything comparable to the moon could
not be supposed to lie on the back of any
imaginable figure.” And in treating of the
familiar lines by Dryden:
I rom harmony, from heavenly harmonv,
This universal frame began—
he says: "Dryden has probably been
caught by the double meaning of har
mony, namely, as a musical quality and
as an orderly arrangement opposed to
chaos. At all events, as regards the
first two lines he has made the mistake
of referring, without any authority, the
origin of the world to music.” It is when
he essays Shelly, however, that he shows
to most brilliant advantage. Such men
always do for some mysterious reason
devote themselves to this most etheral of
poets. He quotes the dazzling lines
from "The Skylark”:
In tho golden lighting
Of the sunken sun
and then remarks with the utmost grav
ity that ” ’the golden lightning' seems a
doubtful conjunction. The epithet is
r.ot applicable to lightning. The meaning
is made more clear if wc read 'lighten
ing,' an emendation actually adopted
by Chambers 'Sunken sun’ scarcely con
tributes to a picture of glorification; the
word ’sunken’ Is associated with de
pression and pathos. No doubt the poet
sought to vary the common designation
of ‘the setting sun.’ " It is needless to
say that when Dr. Bain passes on to the
line "Thou dost float and run,” he finds
it impossible to see how there can be
such a thing as running without the use
of legs.
It may not be true that science and poe
try are Incompatible, but it sometimes
happens that the scientific spirit is cul
tivated to the detriment of the esthetic
sense as well as that of humor. The Chi
cago critic is enrolled In a goodly compa
ny, which includes the learned German
savant whom Richard Grant White cites
as advocating the reading in Hamlet:
He smote the sledded pole-ax on the ice
—instead of Polaoks, a mistake which no
one with even rudimentary sense of hu
mor could have perpetrated. But, indeed,
when we enter the vast field of Shakes
pearean commentaries, we pick up such
curious nuggets of stupidity at every oth
er step. Perhaps the most glaring in
stance was that where Mr. Collier's MS.
corrector undertook to improve upon that
affecting touch in Airs. Quickly’s account
of Falstaff's death. “And his nose was as
sharp as a pen. and a’ babbled of greet:
fields," by substituting, “And his nose was
as sharp as a pen on a table of green
frieze.” This was actually hailed in some
of the English review as a most fortunate
emendation.
At the recent sale of the library of Ed
mund Y'ates. the writing desk ‘used by-
Charles Dickens when he died, and pre
sented to Y’ates by the family, was sold
for $525. The original letters of Dickens to
Yates brought $450, and Yates’ collections
of autographs SS2S.
August Strindberg, the well known
Swedish novelist, while engaged in mak
ing some chemical experiments, burned
his hands frightfully. It is feared that he
may die from blood poisoning.
EMPEROR MAKES THEM FIGHT.
German Officer* Most Become Duel.
I*l* or Be Disgraced,
From the Boston Globe.
German* is full of people who beiey,
that militarism is responsible for every
evil from souring the milk to enlarging
the emperor’s head, and their arguments
are taken generally with several grains of
salt.
However, as repards dueling, they seem
to have a fairly strong case. They have
shown that the spread of dueling has fob
lowed the growth of standing armies; that
it is most prevalent in France, Italy, Ger
many, Austria and Russia, the five great
military powers, while) in England, and
even in hot-blooded Spain it has fallen
into disrepute.
That since the armies began to grow
in 1871, the annual number of duels in E c
rope has increased from about 7u> u>
1,350 or l,l!)p; and that, with every man
trained to bg a soldier and to cling to
the army traditions of swords or pis
tols for two. the challenges and meet
ings will multiply so fast that only burg
lars, tramps and saloon brawlers will he
left to give the criminal courts an excuse
for existence.
That a German officer who declines to
fight when insulted will be forced out of
the army at once is known to all.
That the emperor thinks this encour
agement to break the law against duel
ing just and necqssary is known to all
who know him.
That the war mnister has declared re
peatedly that the courts are not able to
protect a soldier's honor has been pub
lished fifty times In the last week.
Under these circumstances, which are
duplicated in Russia. Austria, Frame
and Italy, the laws enacted by the live
big military powers against dueling ran
be only as useless as the laws against
Sunday opening in American cities.
A year or more ago all the English
men and Americans and Dutchmen wh*
wished to spill blood according to Ihe
code had a habit of doing it on Belgian
soil. The Belgians themselves are not
especially phlegmatic in affairs of honor,
and so it came that In this do-t of a land
some 150 duels were fought every year.
King Leopold and his lawmakers rr.
garded the figure as somewhat beyond
Belguim's size, so last summer they put
in effect a draconic affairx
r" honor. Not only wefei all principal*,
* conds and sp’j tatiirs condemned to
long terms of Imprisonment, but also
editors publishing any reference to duels,
men carrying any messages connected
with th* negotiations and all persona
passing uncomplimentary or slurring re
marks on refusals to fight.
Even the man who advised another to
fight was designated for a six-month term
at least and a five-year term at most.
The effect of this law was magical.
But there duels have taken place in Bel
gium since, yet it is said that there are
as many gentlemen and good soldiers in
Brussels. Antwerp and Liege as there
were in the days of 130 meetings a year.
The Duke of Norfolk has paid upward of
jnn.noo for anew staircase at Arundel
Castle, constructed of the finest marbK
and which has taken eight months to
erect.
M. Andre Lebon, the new French minis
ter of commerce. Is only 35 years of age.
In the study of political science he spent
two years In England. He succeeded St.
Boutmy, director of the School of Political
Sciences In Taris, in the chair of parlia
mentary history.
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SUBURBAN RAILWAYS.
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isieoi Hone. Montgomery and mi may Slaw
Owl ft DAY TlfiAE.
CABS RUN AS FOLLOWS:
Leave Dolton street 9:07 a. m.; leave Isle of
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Cars from Thunderbolt to Isle of Hope every
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Leave Montgomery 3:15, 11 a. m., 2 and 6 p.
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Leave Isle of Hope for Thunderbolt at 2 30
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