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THE
OLD TABBY HOUSE.
BY GARNETT MclVOR.
CHAPTER VII.—Struggling into Liberty.
In the center of the Old Tabby House rose a
kind of turret, eight or ten feet square, and the
height of a single story above the roof. This
formed a very comfortable observatory, for those
who were fond of star-gazing, and at one time,
many years ago, a small telescope was mounted
there, but lrom disuse and neglect, the instru
ment had oeased to be of service. Of pleasant
evenings the ladies of the family were accus
tomed to occupy this room, where the cool sea-
breeze was almost always blowing fresh and in
vigorating. The entrance to this tower opened
only upon two rooms in the house, and one of
these was the apartment occupied by Ethel.
Her disease had never manifested itself in the
form of violent derangement, but a settled mel
ancholy which could never be aroused or amus
ed in any vi y* For hours together she sat alone
gazing at a figure on the carpet or at some point
of the wall, or upon a book whose pages she nev
er turned. In her room were pens, ink, paper,
books of poetry, works of art, little objects of cu-
rious workmanship, and several musical instru-
ments. In vain was every effort to interest or
excite her attention. She became nervously ex
cited when one of her sisters attempted to play
upon the piano—and conversation seemed to ir-
ritate and disturb her. Latterly, she remained
alone in her room, and seemed to regard the
presence of any one as an intrusion.
Wonderful, beyond all other things in nature,
are the phenomena of the human mind ! How
it is possible for the godlike gifts ot reason to be
overthrown whether there be a true lesion of
the brain—what subtle ties unites thought to
the grey matter which forms the throne ol intel-
lect—who can tell? Strangely the balance which
preserves reason upon that throne is lost, or re
stored. The influences which human philoso
phy declare potent are often proven otherwise,
and accident or chance, sometimes accomplish
es more than all the skill of human wisdom.
Perhaps, like many other occult causes of dis
turbance in the human organism, the disease
may run its course and the oscillating pendu
lum returns to its rest from mere exhaustion of
its momentum. That there are modes of treat
ment more or less favorable to recovery is doubt
less true—that science has dispelled the hide
ous errors of former times which regarded in
sanity as an excuse for cruelty and ferocity, no
one can hesitate to affirm. But, as society mul
tiplies its luxuries and wants, with equal pro
gress. mental diseases in aggravated forms accu
mulate, setting at defiance the skill of the facul
ty of medicine, and perplexing mankind with
multitudes of unsolved problems. Here and
there a patient blunders into sanity again, with
out establishing a specific for the disease, or
contributing ought to our knowledge of either
cause or cure.
All the night long was the light burning in
Ethel’s room. Near by her sisters slept, and
every want was supplied by their p itient, sis
terly hands. The door communicating between
their bedrooms was usually left ajar, _ although,
now and then, Ethel persisted in having it lock
ed, and not unfrequently, in her days of deep
est melancholy, she kept the key in her own
possession. At first, this maneuver was dis
pleasing to her sisters, but, as no inconvenience
came of it, they at last made no objection, fhey
knew that, on such occasions it was her custom
to ascend into what she called her “star cham
ber,” and sometimes they heard her singing in a
low, sweet voice, some of the songs of her hap
pier years. This they were advised by the phy
sician to encourage, rather than otherwise, and
so it happened, that the sorrowful one spent
many hours gazing upon the stars, and talking
in whispers to her unseen, and perhaps, unreal
companions.
The night of the great storm was one of her
nights spent in the “star chamber.” Her usually
calm and serene spirit seemed to rise with the
increasing fury of the storm. Wrapt in her cloak
she paced the room, and gazed through the glass
windows at the progress of the tempest. Aw the
lightning glared from the heavens above, in
blinding fury, she threw up her hands in child
ish glee, and saluted the hollow murmurs of the
wind as voices speaking to her soul. Her raven
hair falling looselv over her fair white shoulders
—her eyes gleaming with a strange unnatural
fire—she laughed and sang, and clapped her
hands and danced merrily, till some ponderous
thunderbolt shook the foundations of the build
ing,and then she fell upon her knees,and bowed
her head as if in prayer. Rising in a few mo
ments, she resumed her frantic exercises, till
exhausted and out of breath, she sank upon the
floor. At last, sleep—the balm for all human
woes—the Lethean stream that brings forgetful
ness of sorrow, pain, humiliation and regret—
came to seal her eyelids once more, and for the
last time, as it proved, in her world of fancy and
disorded imagination.
When at dawn her sisters sought her, and
found her not in her chamber, they went up to
the observatory, and found her lying asleep, a
secret smile playing upon her countenance. The
spray from the crevices of the window had be
dewed her locks, and her hands were lying fold
ed upon her breast, the picture of the sleep of
death. But the warm color had resumed its place
upon her cheeks,and there was more of intelli
gent expression upon her face than they had
known for many years. Gently they sat down by
her side, and, fearing to awake her, looked in si
lence upon the wreck of the once beautiful and
accomplished young girl. As the morning sun
began to gild the tret-tops, Ethel sighed heavily,
and opened her eyes.
•Dear Ethel,’ said Mary, ‘you have had a sweet
sleep, but why did you not return to your room
my dear?” _ . ,
‘I do not know—Mary, Lucy, mv sisters,
where am I? This is a strange place, and on the
floor—what does it mean ?’ She looked around
her with a puzzled air, mixed with a slight
^Oniy a little walking in your sleep, dear, that
is all. Come, let us go down to your chamber.
Take my arm, dearest, you are weak and ill you
kn ‘IH?no, no, Mary-I am well, quite well-but
this place—where is it? what is it ? who brought
me here ? when did I come? Just now I was on
board the ship, and he was talking to me, as he
stood on the deck, and saw the white waves
creeping up to kiss the stars. Where, wh
be, M<n-y ? Tell me quick—is he—no 1 am wan-
de ‘D n eSriiitor,; said Mary, as the affectionate
tears glowed with a hope born and crus
thousand times, ‘let us go down to you*
ber, and there we can talk, and I will tell you
** She placed her thin, blue-veined hand u]»n
the arm of her sister, and slowly, unsteadily, de
scended the stairway. Every object she met,
seemed to be strange and unknown to her. Ar
rived at her chamber, she looked around with
astonishment. , .
‘This,’ she exclaimed, ‘is not my state-room on
the ship—no, there is a piano—and pictures,
whose are they ?’
‘Your own, my dear sister—all these are yours.
Do you not remember the snowstorm m the
Alps—your own sketch? See, there is the canon
of the Rocky Mountains—the copy which you
made—’ . ,
‘Yesterday, Mary?’she asked, with the sim-
t plicity of a child, to whose untaught fancy all
jj past time is but a day.
Yes, a long yesterday, Ethel! but come, you
must have a cup of coffee, or of chocolate; you
are hungry, are you not?’
‘No—yes, I believe so,’ she answered, sinking
into a chair, and covering her face with her thin
hands.
‘Here, I have brought yon some tea and cof
fee, and there is a cup of chocolate Lucy made
for you. Which will you have, Ethel ?’
‘Anything, dear Mary — choose for me, I can
not.’
‘My dear, dear little sister!’ exclaimed Mary,
throwing her arms around her, and indulging
in the sweet luxury of grateful tears, T am so
glad to see you better—to hear you speak again.
You have been very ill a long, long time, Ethel,
and now you are so much better. God be prais
ed, you are so much better, and can speak to me
again, as you used to do. Oh ! Ethel! you have
been very, very ill 1’
‘Have I, then ? How long? I do not remem
ber it. Yes, it seems to me like a dream—• and,
Mary, my baby ! my baby! where is it ?’
She rose to her feet—the strange fire returned
to her eyes—her lips were livid and compressed
—her bosom rose and the color faded from her
cheeks.
‘Be quiet, dear Ethel,’said Mary, ‘you have
been too ill to see any one, and you cannot yet
awhile—but dear little Ellen is well.’
‘Ellen ! Ellen ?’ she said, again calming down
and resuming her chair, whilst her face recover
ed its wistful, puzzled look. ‘Ellen ! yes I think
that is her name. Tell me—does she look like
him—’
‘Dear sister, I will tell you everything after a
little, but first drink this cup of tea — your
nerves are weak, and you must not be too eager
to speak now.’ She placed the cup in her hand,
and Ethel raised it mechanically to her lips.
Slowly she seemed to return again to conscious
ness of her surroundings. One by one, the
shadows about her assumed reality, and her
mind, still oscillating back and forth, gradually
reached its center of rest. But yesterday, she
had only monosyllables for answer to any ques
tion. Never before, during the many months
and years of her stay in that apartment, had she
expressed curiosity, or shown interest in any
thing. As helpless as a child, she seemed even
now returning to childhood again. But there
was hope in the dawn of this new day. A lucid
hour had come- strangely, mysteriously, but it
had come. Motherly instinct was around.
Memory re-asserted her power. There was the
glow of thought looking out of those calm,
bright eyes where unnatural fires had burned so
long.
But here arose the fabric of another problem
as profound as that which seemed to have solv
ed itself. How was it possible to bring the
mother and the child together, without the risk
of overthrow to reason to the one, or both? Ellen
believed her mother dead—had mourned for her
—and frequently expressed, the evening before,
whilst yet the storm was rallying its forces, the
wish to visit her grave. So profound was her
conviction, that a rude shock, even of joyful
surprise, might seriously involve her own rea
son. The mother’s recollection was of her child,
a baby—but able to walk and lisp her name.
How could she be brought to realize that this
fair, beautiful young woman was that child?
Is there such a thing as intuitive knowledge of
offspring, even in a mother ? To the daughter,
how could explanation be made ? Of her father,
she knew nothing—and of him she made no en
quiry. No child memories of his tenderness
and love were planted in her soul. No recol
lections of sweet affection felt or expressed for
her, were in the heart or mind of Ellen. Why,
she never enquired. Who, or what her father
was, she had never been informed, nor of her
mother’s living death. Tenderness, perhaps,
had kept the truth from her ears — or perhaps
another motive not so noble. At all events,
there was the living mother, raised from the
tomb of reason, and the daughter in a few steps
of her living mother, and both utterly ignorant
of their near neighborhood.
Ellen had a keener relish for her breakfast
that morning than usual. She ate heartily, and
after her solitary breakfast, took up a book, an
old volume of Bulwer’s works, and became at
once absorbed in it. The breakfast in the din
ing hall was over. Major Barton and Miss Ma
ry were in the Blue Parlor, discoursing upon
the midnight adventure of the Major in his fly
ing cot. Ellen had wandered into the opposite
parlor, known as the Red Room, and sat down
to the piano. She was a good performer, and
understood what few performers do, the power
of musical expression. She began to play those
simple, old-fashioned tunes which, in our day,
it is heresy to admire, although they stir the
depths of the soul, not by their recollections,
merely, but by their truth to nature—their real
ity in art. Her fingers glided over the keys,
and she sang one of those simple, but imperish
able airs in the opera of La Norma. The whole
building seemed to echo with the music. So
long had those halls remained in silent awe and
undisturbed dreaminess, that music seemed im
possible in the old Tabby House. But a sweet,
buoyant, restive young spirit was there, that
nothing but physical force could silence. The
tones of the piano came swelling up the stair
way, and jarred upon the door of Ethel’s room.
The sound filled her with electric power. She
dropped her book and stole softly to the door.
With her hand shading her eyes, she cautiously
crept onward to the head of the stairs, and lean
ing upon the railing, she seemed to drink in ev
ery note as a cordial which exhilerated and re
newed her nature. Song after song followed,
and still Ethel remained at the head of the
stairs, and narrowly escaped the eye of the ven
erable butler whose nerves were as much shock
ed, as hers were stimulated, by the musical in
trusion. But the butler only shook his head
and retired, as fcis younger mistress, Lucy, re
called him to his duties.
Tears, bright, beautiful tears eoursed down
the wan cheeks of the invalid. The notes of
the piano were cutting the leaves of memory’s
book—long, long sealed up—and she was read
ing again her girlhood's happy lessons. Fig
ures of the long ago came rounding into shape,
and sounds of merry voices rang out in the
notes of music—faces of friends shaped them
selves into likenesses, and names long forgot
ten seemed spoken to the soul of the poor suf
ferer, as though she saw, and heard, and lived
over again the by-gone days and scenes. It was
not fancy, now, but memory, that brought back
the white locks on her father’s head, and the
deep furrows in her mother’s cheek. It was not
imagination, but recollection, that peopled this
house with old-timed friends, until the dry
laugh from Major Barton through the closed
door of the Blue Parlor seemed the echo from
a well-conceived toast drank by the gentlemen
in their wine-supper, and relished by a peal of
hearty laughter.
They were coming from all quarters. Faces
of young school-mates, glossy ringlets innocent
of curling tongs—lips of rosy youth dewy with
the grace and gentleness of innocent young
maidenhood—hands of shapely cunning weav
ing bouquets to telegraph the language of young
hearts through the alphabet of flowers—eyes of
sparkling energy, blazing with frank and girlish
sentiment, coquetting with the fairy forms re-
fl oted in the morning dew-drops. Feet of mod
est beauties twinkling like stars beneath the
snowy skirts not made for exhibition—necks of
rounded symmetry over which long flowing
locks lay hiding the alabaster tints from the too
glaring sunlight—and hearts beating high with
holy hop 8, that form the poetry and glamour
of innocent young girlhood. They were com
ing, coming still, faster and faster. Drawn in
the chariot at that sweet music's will— dancing
on the waves of merry roundelays, joys which
time can neither destroy nor restore. Flowers
of spring-time, breathing sweet perfumes, re
viving mystic covenants between earnest souls,
vows of eternal fealty, broken but not forgot
ten. Grief that died on the bosom of a new
joy, and sorrows that were coffined only in a
surprise of pleasure. Halls where merry feet
chased time away, and the full heart sighed from
very exuberance of happiness. Autumn strolls
in woods embrowned by the ardent sun of sum
mer, printing his burning kiss into the cheek
of nature, and leaving her face sallow and care
worn by the excess of his consuming love.
Winter evenings of song and story, with their
tales of fairy land, and long, but well-rewarded
trials of prince and princess whose meridian
sun at last broae from the clouds of adverse
fortune, and sent the glowing beams of deserv
ed prosperity to gladden and inspire the world
of childhood.
Still they were coming faster, thronging upon
each other’s steps. The first kindling blush
startling the young blood to cheek and brow, at
the first spoken compliment from lips that fan
cy painted with the eloquence of inspiration.
The first glance of awakened interest which con
veys meaning higher, deeper, broader than the
realm of language. Words that carried proph
ecies of grander mission than the fate of em
pires, or the fall of kings and coronets. Dreams
that fancy wove into garlands, and crowned the
fair young brow with tLe wreathes of priceless
victories. Hopes that painted the horizon of
the future with golden images of beauty, and
raised ethereal palaces of pleasures unalloyed.
And Ethel was standing at the head of the stair
way, looking, but seeing only the faces, forms
and shadows of the past—hearing, but only the
voices that had been hushed in weary silence
those long long years—a lifetime of bitter pain
and suffering. Her heart was beating with a
strange unwonted thrill. Her eyes were pour
ing forth drops of tears that were renewing,
not exhausting, the stream of tenderness. She
was transported backward, into memory’s pat hs
again to find her long lost self, and as the
music ceased, she felt the doors of the sealed
chamber in her heart opned once more to the
light of a new day of consciousness and reason.
CHAPTER VIII. —THE BEGINING OF THE END.
‘I have made one child happy to-day !’
It was the voice of Major Barton, talking to him
self. He had made his final preparations for depar
ture to the Queen of the Antilles. His passage was
secured in the steamship for Havana—his ward
robe was complete, and waited the calling of the
vessel in the afternoon. He had a few hours
of leisure, after he hadbidden his friends adieu.
Strolling without purpose or aim through the
street, he saw a little girl peering through the
glass of a shop window. She was not a very
beautiful child, and the Major might have
shown more taste and sentiment, but he did not.
He became interested in that little girl, with dry,
tangled, flaxen hair, and bare feet and calico
gown, much the worse for ware, but clean and
neat, nevertheless. She might have combed her
head with more care, but her locks were long,
and somehow these needed some one to infuse a
little pride into the homely face and heart of
the little girl. But sometimes we find little
maidens who have no mothers, and some that
seem from their appearance to be motherless,
who only need a mothers attention and thought
ful care. This little girl was standing in the
street, gazing at the window, wherein the large
blue eyes, and flaxen hair, and rosy cheeks, and
dumpy hands, of a smartly dressed doll stood
vis-a-vis to the little flesh and blood girl without.
The Major stopped, and spoke kindly to the
child. She looked wistfully into his face, and
read, and most chi!d*a*J^feirn to read faces before
they know anything of books—excepting always
the species of children represented by Lord
MaCaulay for they play wijh Greek grammars, and
criticize Bion and Moschus before they leave the
cradle—well, this little girl saw at a glance that
the soul of gentleness and goodnes stood before
her. The only thing a child can do under such
circumstances is to cry—and the little girl cried.
A tew questions in a kindly voice loosed the
child’s tongue.
She had no mother living—that head of hair
said as much to the Major. Her father—well,
he was like many other lathers, he worked hard,
drank a great deal of strong liquor, treated his
children either with indifference, which was his
common custom, or punished them for his own
faults, which was his drinking custom. So the
Major learned from somebody else, not from the
little girl. She would not tell that. But she
had never owned a pretty doll, she had made
some out of rags and bits of calico, and the like,
—but a real good doll she never owned. The
little eyes told how much the young heart was
filled with a desire for that doll, and the Major
bought it, and gave it to her. Not a word did
she say, but the big tears looked her thanks as
she took the great doll in her own chubby arms,
and her little bare feet pattered away on the
pavement down the street, then stopped; she
turned around, held up her prize, and bounc
ed away again.
“One child made happy to-day.”
Yes, dear Major, and if there be virtue in
prayer the angels of God will watch over thee,
and guard thee in thy journey. The stormy
petrel will not pilot the ship into the fierce tem
pest of the tropics, albeit this is the season for
sudden and terrible cyclones in those waters.
The night will never come down with twinkling
star-eyes looking out from the deep concave of
the sky, without summoning the angel-guardi
ans to keep watch for thee! The sleep that
comes henceforth to those eyes of thine, will
bring sweeter rest to thy wearied limbs, because
of a thoughtful kindness to that little child,
But the Major thought only of her pleasures
not of any benefit to himself, unless charity is
the minister of self-love, as some have vainly
imagined, and it is impossible to do a truely
disinterested act. The Major thought it possi
ble—tried to do one on ^this occasion—and—he
succeeded.
Ten days have elapsed in the order of this
history, and must be accounted for ere we can
permit Major Barton to depart in peace. Her
bert Gordon visited Howard Hall, read the will
in the presence of the Doctor and Miss Howard
the elder, and was busy among his books, read
ing up all available law upon the subject in
hand. Bertrand Montmollin had left the city
to spend the summer at a famous watering-
place, whither the Belle of Brookline had pre
ceded him three or four days. The black-eyed
beauty remained at home to concert measures
for a similar disposition of herself during the
summer months, and Holland House was aban
doned by the family to the care of a housekeep
er. Gordon belonging to the Can’t-get-away
Club, was content to spend his time in attend
ing to business.
At Howard Hall, Ellen was perfectly content
ed and happy. She had been told that there
was a sick lady in the house, too feeble at pres
ent to see company, and the kind-hearted young
lady was very careful to act accordingly. She
was informed, also, that her music was very
grateful to the patient, and sne enjoyed the
practice of her old pieces the more, on that ac
count She could not wish for gay and noisy
company, if any one could be discommoded by
theirmirth and frivolity. So the days passed
much after the old fashion, except that the door
was often opened and Ellen was seen walking
in the garden, and now and then the young
lawyer might be seen picking flowers with her,
and talking—of law, and deeds, and industries,
perhaps; but most likely of pofetry, and flowers,
and travels, by land and sea.
Thus the ten days passed without any notable
event until Major Barton departed, and asj two
days on the ocean are just long enough to get
the shady life of sea travel well worked into the
constitution of a landsman, we shall have noth
ing to say concerning him until he ■ assed
inspection with all his baggage at the custom
house in Havana.
There were not many objects of interest to the
Major in this ancient city of the ‘ ever faithful
isle.’ If there had been, he was now too much
absorbed in the purpose of his expedition to en
gage his attention in subjects of mere curiosity.
The places he thought most likely tp be the
haunts of Henry Gaston he visited, and made
enquiry day after day for several weeks. In
vain were all his efforts, however, for he could
only find two Americans upon the island who
had ever seen Gaston, and neither of these knew
anything of his present whereabouts. A simi
lar search in Matanzas. Cardmas and other prin
cipal cities, was attended with no bettersuccess.
Discouraged, and almost ready to despair, Major
Barton returned to Havana.
One evening, whilst the band of the Captain
General was performing its not very delightful
music in front of the Palace, the Major entered
the plaza, and sat down upon one of the stone
seats. The roar of the volantes passing over
the narrow streets, and the constant hum of
conversation from the crowds in the promenade,
mingled with the noisy efforts of the royal mu
sicians, afforded the Major sufficient themes for
contemplation, if he had no other to amuse his
thoughts. He fell into a deep reverie, from
which he was aroused suddenly, by a stranger at
his side. He was a dark, swarthy Creole, whose
countenance was by no means preposessing.
Touching the arm of Major Barton, he requested
him to withdraw a few paces, to the shadow of a
tree not far from the spot celebrated as the place
in which the first mass had been said or sung
on the island. Naturally unsuspicious in his
disposition, the Major could not help feeling j
some slight question of his new acquaintance,
but the hope of obtaining some intelligence of
Gaston overcame his momentary fear, and he
complied by following the Creole.
‘ Senor Barton is seeking an American called
Gaston?’ asked the Creole in a low whisper.
‘Yes, senor,’ replied Barton, ‘do you know
him?’
‘I do, senor,’ said the Creole. ‘Perhaps the
Senor Barton may not like to tell the reason of
his search. This Senor Gaston nas not been
guilty of any crime?’
‘No, I am not seeking him on that account,’
replied Barton, ‘I have a particular matter of
business with him, but of such a nature as can
best be told to himself.’
‘ And will the Senor Barton pledge himself
that no harm shall happen to the Captain Gas
ton ?’ asked the Creole.
‘Certainly I will. It is only a matter of busi
ness with Captain Gaston, as you call him. An
hour, or half an hour will be sufficient, it I
could see him.’
‘Captain Gaston has not injured Senor Bar
ton ?’
‘No, by no means. I owe him no ill-will.’
‘ And you do not wish to give him into the
hands of the rulers of this island ?’ continued
the Creole.
‘I do not—why should I? I know of no rea
son why he should be given up. What has he
done ?’
‘No matter, senor. I do not say, anything.
And if I have the honor to procure an interview
between Senor Barton and Captain Gaston, what
will be my reward for the service ?’
‘If you will tell me where I can find him, I
will give you two hundred pesos, senor,’ replied
Barton.
‘It is agreed, Senor Barton,’ said the Creole.
‘Perhaps the senor will not object to witness
his promise by the cross?’ asked the Creole.
‘ I will swear that I mean to do Gaston no
harm, that I will not betray him to his ene
mies ’
• And that you, Senor Barton,’ interrupted the
Creole, ‘will keep to yourself whatever you see
or hear, that does not concern you, and that the
senor will not reveal by what means he finds
himself in the company of Captain Gaston.’
‘I will,’ said the Major.
‘ Then let this be the witness,’ said the Creole,
extending a small crucifix to Major Barton,
whose Protestant scruples did not at all inter
fere with the ceremony of kissing the image.
‘And now, senor,’ said Barton, who remem
bered that possibly he might be embarking upon
a dangerous adventure, and his companion was
bound by no obligation whatever, ‘ perhaps you
will not object to swear that you will conduct
me safely to the place of Captain Gaston’s resi
dence, and see me safely back to this spot, or to
the walls of Havana?’
‘I will swear it,’ said the Creole, devoutly
touching the little crucifix with his lips.
‘When shall we depart?’ asked Barton.
‘ To-morrow, senor, at the tenth hour, you will
leave the gate Monserrate; on the Grav Paseo I
will meet you. At the Monserrate gate you will
find a volante in waiting—enter, and drive up
the paseo in the direction of the Campo de Marte
I will recognize you, and join you, for further
directions. Remember, senor, silence and obe
dience to instructions. Adios.'
The Creole vanished before Major Barton had
time to express his assent. A ray of hope had
crossed his pathway at last. He returned to his
hotel, and retired to think over his plans. There
was no room to question the fact that the Creole
knew both the occupation and the residence of
Gaston. But among a people proverbially
treacherous, might there not be a plan to entrap
the Major in a dangerous, or at least an unpleas
ant position ? But what object could the Creole
have? The Major had been cautious in the ex
penditure of money—he had never been given
to boasting at any time, and, knowing himself
to be surrounded at all times by spies, he had
been particularly careful in Havana. He had
confided in no man. The reason for desiring to
find Gaston was only a business one, involving
nobody else, and there could scarcely be a mo
tive for capturing or betraying him in any way.
Still, to a temperment not given to romance, or
fond of hair-breadth escapes, a pardonable un
easiness appeared very natural.
When the mornrng arrived, however, the
Major found himself pretty well prepared for
the journey. Conscious of the rectitude of his
intentions, and animated by the recollection
that he was about to perform an act of essential
service to a worthy family he set out at the ap
pointed time, found the volante at the place in
dicated, entered it and at the Camps de Marte,
his friend the Creole entered the carriage, and
seated himself beside him.
‘The Calesero is a friend of mine, Senor,’ said
the Creole, and we can talk at liberty, now. You
are very sure, Senor, that you intend no injury
to Capt. Gaston ?’
•Most assuredly I do not intend to harm him,
Senor—what shall I call you, for I am at a dis
advantage for a name ?’asked the Major, taking
leisurely survey of his companion.
•Ah, yes, Senor—call me Francisco Lebon—
that is my name replied the Creole, with a smile
that seemed to say, ‘or one of my names.’
‘Well, then Senor Lebon,’ said the Major, ‘I
have told you the exact truth. I desire to see
Capt Gaston on a matter of business that inter
ests no living man in Cuba but myself and him.
It is not necessary to say what that business is.’
‘No, Senor Barton, replied the Creole, ‘I do
not ask it But this Captain Gaston is a rare,
brave fellow. I know him well, and I should
be sorry if anything should happen to him.
Though, to say truly, two hundred pesos are
not to be picked up on the street every day—
and besides—well, no matter, I owe the captain
no ill will, andsif he never wears an iron collar
until I buy it for him, he will flourish a long
time, yet.’
The Creole seemed to be in an exceedingly
good humor with himself and everybody else.
He laughed, sang snatchas of songs, told merry
tales of noted characters in Cuba, and evidently
had no intention to play a trick upon bis sober
fellow traveler, Major Barton. For all that, the
Major did not feel wholly at ease. He had no
high opinion of the Spanish character. The
Cuban Creole he regarded as men more treach
erous and unreliable than the Castilian. For
the hope of reward, he believed any man among
them capable of delivering him up to captivity
or death, without so much as makings wrv face
or feeling a single scruple of conscience. But
wicked men act from motives—and what motive
could this Creole have for leading him into a
snare of any kind. He was not rich—he had no
wealthy friends—he had no reputation for wealth
or influence: why should any evil minded rob
ber. cut-purse, or brigand of any sort or degree,
wish to capture a man who had neither wealth
of his own, nor influential friends to redeem
him from captivity?
So the Major reflected, as the Creole sang, and
joked, and smoked his tobaccos by his side. The
broad highway was becoming narrower; the
houses became by degrees, farther and farther
apart; the dense forests of the tropics appeared
in view, and still the ambling pony in the vo
lante, kept up his steady pace. Two hours had
passed away—they had left the main thorough-
tare, and following a gradually diminishing
road, which 3eemed utterly neglected, and was
broken up by the summer torrents into a rough
and almost impassable route, when the driver
suddenly halted.
“We can go no further, Senor,’ said the dri
ver, touching his hat, and addressing the Creo e.
‘Very good—we have no further use for you
! now,’ said the Creole, as he stepped out of the
i carriage. ‘Here are the pesos, Don Carlos,’ and
the Major heard the rattling of coins, as the Cre
ole touched the hand of the Calesero.
* Remember,’ continued the Creole, ‘ silence—
and meet me here this day week, Don Carlos.’
‘Good, Senor Francisco,’ replied the Calesero,
‘ I will come.’
The Creole spoke to Major Barton, and the two
soon disappeared in the depths of the forest. A
I walk of three hours more brought them to the
bank of a stream. The Creole had been silent
for some time, and Major Barton was not in a
talkative mood. The fact is, he had a great
dread of venomous reptiles, and could not be
1 induced to regard the numerous snakes, lizards,
i and other denizens of the wood in the same
light as his companion. It might be true that
! no poisonous serpent is found in Cuba—it might
■ be true that the scorpion rarely becomes an ob-
; ject of dread to the native—Major Barton could
not resist the impression of terror at the sight
of the huge serpents, and the lounging lizard
species, many of which seemed capable of dis
patching human life without great effort.
At last, they stopped. A stream of sluggish
water, flowing inland, arrested their steps.
‘This is not the place,’ said the Creole, mus
ing, and speaking to himself. ‘ The boat must
not be far off, though. Ah ! bravo ! I have it!
This way, Senor Barton,’and he led the Major
through the dense undergrowth a few rods above
the place where they first saw the river. Stoop
ing down, and examining closely the bank of
the stream, the Creole continued:
‘ In half an hour, Senor Barton, the tide will
turn. This boat is not*very large, you see, but
it is an excellent one, and you Lave only to stir
the water a little with the oar, and she runs like
a steamer. You will get in this boat, Senor,
keep to the right bank, and follow the tide. I
shall expect you, and will meet you at the land
ing on your arrival. Adios.'
In an instant the Creole disappeared in the
forest.
If Major Barton’s feelings had been uncom
fortable before, they were now decidedly miser
able. Alone, in the depth of a forest sorround-
ed by the myriad forms of tropical life—insects,
crawling, flying, leaping-serpents of many hues
lifting their heads, and darting their forked
tongues at him on every side—the drowsy hum
of birds and creatures which he could not see—
the sense of loneliness, of danger, mystery in
the conduct of his guide—the possibility that,
after all, he might be the victim of a fearful
tragedy, and that Gaston had a reason for pro
curing his destruction, for he did not doubt that
the Creole was acting under the orders of the
man he was seeking, All these influences pro
duced in Major Barton a sense of fear and ter
ror, that for a considerable period seemed to
paralyze him. But what could he do? A thous
and times he cursed his folly in attempting this
Quixotic enterprise, and as often his good sense
assured him that courage and determination
were his only possible means of extrication from
his embarassing surroundings. To go forward,
appeared dangerous—to return impossible. He
knew not the direction from which he had come.
The tortuous pathway through the forest, he
could not follow, if he tried. To be lost in the
depth of a tropical wilderness of trees, and
vine, peopled with a multitude of hideous rep
tiles—he shuddered at the thought. Night would
soon approach. He must go on, and risk the
consequences.
The tide had set outward nearly an hour be
fore the Major pushed the little boat from its
moorings,and committed himself to his fortune.
Down the stream he glided, among the long
branches trailing in the water, between the
banks of a stream garlanded with flowers. Two
hours passed away, and the great sun was going
down upon the waters of the Gulf.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Novelties in Jewelry.
Gold filagree bouquet holders, studded with
turquoises are among the latest novelties.
Gold bugs and butterflies, studded with jew
els are worn in the hair instead of ribbons or
flowers.
Springfield girls ask their gentlemen friends
to give them ten cent pieces, which they adorn
with monograms. These coins the fair ones
wear about their necks, the one with the largest
string being an object of congratulation.
Bangle finger rings are the latest agony, and
they give promise of becoming favorites in the
beau monde.
It has been the fashion for three or four years
past to engrave the word “ Mizpah” upon look-
ets for presentation by young gentlemen to their
sweethearts. Some of them desire to know the
meaning of the mystical word. And well they
might.. The answer usually given to the in
quiry is that the word means “ The Lord watch
over thee when we are absent, one from an
other.” This is certainly a liberal amount of
English translation for one Hebrew word. If
you look it out in a Hebrew dictionary you will
find its meaning given as simply a watch-tower,
and nothing more. And if you look into the
Book of Geneses you will find no very happy or
affectionate associations attaching to the use of
the word as a proper name in the 31st chapter.
After Laban and Jacob had cheated each other,
and could trust each other no longer, they made
a oovenant, in token of which Jacob set up a
heap of stones, which was called “Mizpah,” be
cause Laban said: “The Lord watch between
me and thee when we are absent, one from an
other. The Lord judge betwixt us.” Absence
was not to make the heart grow fonder, but
more suspicious; and the watchfulness of
Heaven was invoked against some dishonest
trickery which each feared that the other would
be guilty of. A pretty sentiment, this, for
young lovers in the nineteenth century to ex
press towards each other! 1