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VOL. V. J. H. & W B. SEALS,} SSSSi^
ATLANTA, GA., MAY 31, 1879.
Terms in advance:) No. 204.
MY CREEB.
1 hold that Christian grace abounds
Where charity is seen; that when
We climb to heaven, ’tis on the rounds
Of love to men.
I hold all else, named piety,
A selfish scheme, a vain pretense;
Where centre is not, can there be
Circumference?
This I moreover hold, and dare
Affirm wlie'er rnv rhyme may go;
Whatever things be sweet or fair,
Love makes them so.
Whether it be the lullabies
That charm to rest the nursling bird,
Or that sweet confidence of sighs
And blushes made without a word.
Whether thedazzling and the flush
Or softly sumptuous garden bowers,
Or by some cabin door, a bush
Of ragged flowers.
’Tis not the wide phylactery,
Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers,
That make us saints, wejudge the tree
By what it bears.
And when a man can live apart
From works, on theologic trust,
I know the blood about his heart
Is dry as dust.
RALPH MEDWAY;
—OK THOSE—
Queer People at Ivey Hall.
BY MABY E. BKYA.V,
P --O -,, • A ’■ f .us '■
| u miuv air uiowiiig troni trie sea live miles
away, tossing the wet boughs of the shrubbery and
scattering the blossoms on the drenched ground.
“An October day in the middle of May” thought
Vale Medway in some disgust as she stood within
one of the brick arches of the basement of old Ivy
Hall, looking out at the uncheerful prospect, her
brown hair half out of curl, one hand reached up
aud looped in the festoons of the ivy that lined the
arch overhead, the oilier resting on tne shaggy head
of a New Foundland dog, Zach by name, which she
had found the most companionable creature at Ivy
Hall. Indeed, she had nursed Zach when he was a
fuiry ball of a puppy and she a little girl of seven,
who had not yet been sent away to the Convent,
where she had passed the last ten years of her life,
with the exception of two short vacations spent at
her uncle’s Southern home of Ivy Hall. She had
enjoyed these vacations with all tier heart, for they
were in the days when her dear aunt Margaret was
living, and when Ralph, the only son of the family,
was at home But aunt Margaret died and Ralph
went away to the University and Vale came home
at no more vacations. Her unde thought she had
best remain where she was. He wrote to her occa
sionally, and his letters though short, were always
kind, and he kept her well supplied with money.
At last he wrote that he was married again. Vale
wondered that he could so soon forget Ralph's good
and tender mol her, hut he said t hat t lie new Mrs.
Medway was a very accomplished lady—a widow
with one child. After liis marriage, the letters
came more seldom still, and at last they ceased.
The money for Vale’s hoard and tuition ceased
also, and the Lady Superior, after waiting some
time, wrote to intimate that the hills were unpaid.
The letter was not answ ered for two weeks, when
the reply came it was from the lady of Ivy Hall.
Vale’s uncle was dead—had died suddenly three
months ago. His widow said she could no longer
defray Vale’s expenses at the college, and as the
giri was now' nearly grown to womanhood it might
be best for her to come to Ivy Hall for the present;
money was enclosed for her traveling expenses.
She did not say it was best that she should come
home, and altogether there was u tone in the letter
that struck chillingly on the girls warm heart. But
Vale’s was a hopeful, easily satisfied nature, with
many sources of pleasure within itself: glad if the
sun shone and the birds sang and 1 he health}' blood
tingled in her young veins, and those she loved did
not find fault with her. Then she did not realize
her changed position, from the adopted child and
prospective heiress of her uncle, to poverty and
dependance on the bounty of strangers, for Mrs.
Medway wrote that her husband had left nothing
to Vale, but the good education he had given
her, “which was in itself a rich legacy,” said the
lady’s letter.
No, Vale did not realize how bitter it was to be
dependant and without ties of blood. In the con
vent, the sisters had been so kind to her, she had
been such a favorite with her girl companions, that
her life was passed in an atmosphere of peace and
love. She felt sad enough at breaking these ties
and going out from the dear old walls that had
sheltered her so kindly. She dis .-ihuted a good
part of her possessions in gifts to her friends, even
hunting up the stable man and the old gardener
with a pipe for one and a shirt, tucked by her own
hands, for the other, in token of gratitude for
sundry nosegays and for tides on the fat, good-
humored pony that had stood beside hii long-eared
companions in the stone stable of the convent for
twenty years.
When*the good-byes were said, Vale was fairly
sobbing—a rare thing for her—and could hardly
discern through her tears, the old convent with its
advance guard of stately loml-ardy poplars, and
its narrow windows, from which the girls waved
their handkerchiefs as> she drove away to meet the
train. But her tears were presently dried and she
looked with interest from !he windows of the rail
way carriage at the changing landscape and tried
to figure to herself what her life would be at Ivy
Hall apd what manner of woman w as her uncle’s
widow; and why she had made nomention of Ralph
in herTetter. Vale had not heard of him for many
months; was he at Ivy Hall, and would he meet her
w hen she came, with the frank, joyous welcome he
u d to give her?
Nobody met her but a servant. It was disheart
ening after that long fatiguing journey by lailway
and steamer. The old li.imly carriage was at the
station for her, tut the dr.vtr w as not old uncle
>rvry two
Toby, w hose good humored grin she remembered,
but a new man, stately in white gloves and iron
gray mustache. Nobody came out to welcome her
as she descended from the carriage and mounted
the broad, stone steps. Silence reigned about the
place, the leaves of the old oaks hardly stirred in
the April breeze, and not a bir.l whistled a wel
come. But when she reached the door, it opened
as if she had uttered some magic w >rd, and a ne-
gress, black and glum-looking, bade her come in
and carried her upstairs to a little l oom at the hack
of the house, and then left her. It was a rather
dispiriting welcome, hut Vale had not expected a
great deal, so she arranged her toilet by the tall,
old fashioned mirror perched above the spider
legged bureau, and went down s:airs, resolved to
look around and try to feel at home. There seemed
no one about the house and after sitting awhile in
the parlor and walking up and down in the echoing
hall, she went out-doors. The grounds were beau
tiful in spite of the trees and vines having been left
to themselves. The winding walks in the back
yard were overhung with unpruned shrubbery that
rained blossoms on Vale’s head as she went along
in search of a certain old apple tree from a limb of
which she had swung in former days. Before she
reached it, her eye was caught by a distant gronp
of live oaks standing at the farther end of the slo
ping orchard. Through their branch* s she caught
sight of a small, turret-shaped building, and she
stopped short, struck hv a sudden recollection.
That building was her uncle’s tomb ! He had had
it, built for that purpose she remembered, theie in
that group of old oaks. He was peculiar in his
wish as to bis last resting place. He bad a horror
of being buried in the ground. He wanted, he said,
to have sunshine and cheerfulness about tiie final
dwelling place of his body. He approved of the
custom of the ancients who built their tombs to
suit them before their death; and lie took a pensive
pleasure in drawing the plan of his own tomb. It
should he built low hut round like a tower with a
sky light at the top to admit the sun down into the
apartment where his hod}' should lie—an apart
ment that he wished to resemble his favorite room
—to have his favorite picture on the wall and his
bust of Plato on a shelf just above his remains.
Vale wondered if his wish as regarded the interior
of the tomb had been carried out, if her aunt Mar
garet lay there beside the husband she had loved so
well. It was growing late, hut she determined to
walk down to the tomb; it would seem more home
like 1 ban this mansion where no one came to wel
come her. She opened the gate of the neglected,
grassy orchard and was making her way among
the wilderness of fig and quince and nectarine trues
when she heard a sound, half sob, half cry, more
expressive of anger than pain and came in sight of
a little black figure tied up to the old apple tree by
a cord passed under her arms. Her toes barely
touched the ground and she was gyrating in an
amazing way, working arms and legs and tongue at
the same time.
“What are you doing tied up in such a fashion ?”
Vale asked, surprised.
“Killis done it, nobody hut Killis. He’s de deb-
bil’s own son,” cried the little darkey. “Please let
me dowm. De line done cut into my meat under
de arms.”
Vale tried to untie the knot, but it w r as drawn too
tightly, and she cut it with her pocket knife. The
imp uttered a heartv “thankee” and begun to settle
her ruffled attire. Vale watched her much amused.
“Why did Killis tie you up so ?” she asked.
“For nuthiif’ ’tall, ’cept I talked back at him sor
ter, when he made small o’ me. I was runnin’
backwards in de walk dere and run against him es
he come from flsbin’ an’ he pushed ine off like I was
dirt, and say - Git away, you black monkey you,’
and I jesanswer hack, ‘T’unk de Lord, I’d rudder
be a monkey dan a canmiul and tote a hump.”
“A hump ?”
“Yes. he’s got a hump you know, Mars Killis is.
Aint you seen him? When you done come any
way ?”
Before Vale could , ep v *o this unceremonious
question, she heard son.et ody coming and drew
hack behind the >* .-n of a clump of fig bushes.
The imp was tying on her ragged head gear, and
turning round, laced ilie new comer with a
comical look of defiance on her face. He was a
hoy, or rather a man. tor his face proclaimed him
grown up, though his slender body and limbs were
not larger than those of a full sized buy of twelve.
The peculiar way in which his head was sunk be
tween his shoulders showed that he belonged to the
class of unfortunates called humpbacks, l hough, in
his case, the protuberance was small and t lie de
formity consisted more in his under size than in
any eccentricity of shape. His black eyes snapped
viciously as they fell upon the girl.
“Who let you down ?” he asked.
She made no answer, and he repeated his ques
tion, making a movement to seize the small of
fender, who ducked down and skipped nimbi} - off
to a little distance.
Vale stepped out. from the fig tree.
“I cu- her loose,” Stic said.
He stared at her without speaking for a minute;
then he demanded:
“Who are you ?”
“I am Vale Medway. I have come here to live
at Ivy Hall with my uncle’s wife.”
“Oh ! you’ve come have you ! I don’t know why
my mother wanted to bring you here, nor why you
wanted to come.”
“It is the only home I have,” Vale said with
spirit. “It was my uncle’s, my adopted father’s
home. I lived here before you did.” then she added
more quietly, “I came here because I was invited
by my uncle’s w>dow. it was kind of her.”
“Oh ! yes, she s awful kind,” he sneered.
“Are you not her son ?”
“I have that honor. Think how proud she must
be of me—Achilles, namesake of ‘Thetis’ beautiful
hoy.’ It suits finely, doesn't it ?”
“I hope we shall he friends.” ventured Vale, pit
ying the youth with his dwarfed body and his
mouth that seemed warped by bitterness.
“Friends ! I don't want any friends. I don’t be
lieve in friends. You’ve begun by doing me an
injury. "Who told you to let down that impudent
littie wretch and cut my fish line ?”
“1 am sorry I had to cut the line. The knot was
so tight and the child was in pain. I am sure you
didn’t mean to punish her so severely. I will mend
the line as good as new if you will let me. Won't
you forgive me and shake hands ?”
She laid her hand softly upon his slim, childish
fingers. He drew them away, a red flush streaking
his sallow forehead and his thin nostrils quivering.
“What do you want to pretend to he friends
with me for t I don’t want your pity. I hate
pity-” ,
“I don t want to give you pity. I hope you will
let us be friends. We shall be here in this big lone
ly house together, and besides, are we not kin in a
measure ?”
“Kin !” he said, looking at her with an expres
sion she could not interpret. “Do we look like kin?
Do you feel ‘the electric chain wherewith we are
darkly bound’ drawing you to me?” He laughed
shrilly—a laugh unmirthful and derisive that jatred
upon Vale.
“There you have made me talk, and I don’t like
to talk. I never talk and no one ever talks to me.”
“Not your mother ?”
“She does all her talking to the priest. When he
is not here, she pravs. Very devout is my mother,
(another sneer.) You will have a nice lively time
of it. There is everything pleasant here—screech
owls, long moss, tomb6 and—ghosts.”
“Ghosts ?”
“You will be sure to see them. Don’t mind them,
don’t speak to them and they will prove harmless.”
Vale laughed.
“Here comes one now,” she said. “If the Ivy’
Hall ghosts are so graceful, I shall not mind meet
ing them.”
“That is my mother and the inevitable priest.”
“Your mother !” Vale repeated in surprise, for
ns the lady, in her light robes, approached them,
Vale saw that she was handsome and young look
ing. She had opaque white s!(cin, dark agate eyes,
regular features, black, clearly defined brows, a
full, white throat and a rounded, sumptuous figure.
She was walking slowly, her black mantle half
dropping from her shoulders, and speaking now and
then to the priest at her side. She had a calm, re
gal way—a contrast to the nervous priest, who
plucked at the roses he held, tearing open their
hearts with his thin, long fingers. He, too, was
youthful looking, though his features were worn,
his gray-green opalline eyes somewhat hollow and
his long wavy hair streaked with gray. He had
delicate, rather effeminate features, smooth and
pale except for the color in his tremulous, uncer
tain mouth. He held his head dow n as he walked,
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plucking at the roses, only now and then he turned
an<l looked with his large, melancholy eyes at the
graceful figure that moved at his side." She was
first of the two to perceive Vale. She stopped and
her eyes ran over the girl from head to foot. Some
how that look made Vale shiver, yet it was not
actually cold, and there was the very slightest icy
flavor in the smile with which the lady approached
her, holding out her hand and saying:
“This is Vale Medway I suppose.”
“Yes ma’am,” \ ale answered, as the soft, cool
hand dropped against her palm.
I ale’s bright, intelligent, lovely face ought to
have agreebiy surprised her, but the girl fancied
she saw a shade of disapproval in the handsome
eyes that searched her own; it might have been
mere fancy though; one could not read below the
marble surface of that fair face.
“I did not expect to see you so—so womanly,”
was what she said. “I was at my devotions when
you arrived. I thought you were in your room
rest ing after your journey.”
“I was cramped with sitting so long and preferr
ed to walk about the grounds and make acquain
tances,’ Vale leplied with a plaasant glance at
Achilles and another at tlic Newfoundland dog that
had left Mrs. Medway’s side and had come to her
and was rubbing his silky head against her arm.
The lady looked sharply at her son, who was
kicking a grassy clod with his small foot and whist
ling softly.
“Achilles is a poor guide,” she said. “He never
thinks. You had best he careful in wandering
about these old grounds, you might meet with un
pleasant customers.”
“She means the ghosts,” explained the hoy in n
sneering whisper. His mother darted an incisive
look at him out of the corner of her eye. Then
smiling, said,
“You absurd hoy! Ghosts indeed! snakes are
more tangibly disagreeable, and there are plenty
of such ugly creatures hereabouts. The grounds
are sadly grown up. But we have few visitors to
make it worth while to take pains with them: and
I have lost my interest in flowers and shrubbery
since—yo«r uncle’s death. I am afraid you will
find it terribly dull here, my dear, hut I hope you
will he able to endure it for awhile, until you can
make your education available to put you into a
more active and congenial way of life.”
“Which means that you must join the army of
starving schoolmarms !” said Achilles in his scorn
ful aside, and he turned on his heel and walked off
whisthng. His mother colored and looked pained
at his rudeness, and her after remarks to Vale were
spoken in a melancholy kind of way. She intro
duced Father Maurice to Vale as her old friend and
spiritual instructor, and finding out that the girl
had started to walk down to her uncle’s tomb, said,
she had better go back to the house and have some
refreshments first, and visit the tomb another
time. On their way back, Vale asked;
“Shall I see my cousin Ralph here, Mrs. Med
way ? ”
She felt a tremor in the lady’s arm that w as linked
in hers, and the answer caine coldly after an in
stant’s pause.
“No, Mr. Ralph Medway is not here.”
“Can you tell me where he is aud when he will
be at home ?” Vale pursued, wondering at the
shadow that fell on the lady’s face at the mention
of her cousin’s name.
“I have no idea where he is, or when he will re
turn, hut I should say, never.” Then catching
Vale’s surprised look, she added, “It is a painful
subject. We will not speak of it. I cannot speak
of it.”
Her voice sank to a whisper and she glanced
around as if expecting to see some unwelcome
shape start out from the trees, growing dusky with
evening shadows. In another instant, she had re
covered her calmness and begun quietly gathering
some roses for Vale, hut Father Maurice looked
pale and fluttered anil his lips moved once or twice
as though he were muttering prayers. At tea. he
sat opposite Vale at the well appointed little table,
covered with a timed damask cloth and spread with
translucent china, silver and crystal, and she no
ticed more closely the spiritual delicacy of his
niou’h. clnek, chiseled nose and blue-veined brow
—a spiritual ty half contianictcd by the hint of
sensuousne.ss in the red, full-lipped mouth and
swelling throat, that in turn was contradicted by
the melancholy of the large eyes that were some
times crossed w ith a qui-k look of ]>ain, a - incom
prebensible as was his nervous w ay of starting and
changing color when he was spoken to suddenly.
After slipper, Vale went, out on the back veran
da and stood looking over the wide grounds to the
group of live oak trees that marked her uncle's
grave. She was wondering about his son, merry-
hearted, gallant Ralph. Was it not strange that
he seemed to he held in n kind of horror at Ivy
Hall! What did .Mrs. Medway mean by those am
biguous words—“It is a paintul subject?” And
when Vale had asked the old black housekeeper
about him, the woman made a swift sign of the
cross and shook her head, saying shortly that she
knew’ nothing about phe young master. What, did
it mean ? What dreadful thing could Ralph have
done ? she asked herself as she looked out at his
father’s tomb and listened to the shuddering cry of
the screech owl somewhere among the trees. Sud
denly, the cry was answered just behind her.
Startled, she uttered a faint scream and turned
qui'-kly to sec Achilles standing behind her He
laughed at her fright.
" V ou thought it was a grililin,” he said, “and vote
were not far wrong. The cry suits me. I ought to
have no other utterance. You look blue already.
I knew you would soon catch the horrors here.”
“I was thinking about my cousin Ralph. Won’t
you tell me something about him ?”
“Ralph Medway ! whew !
‘No, no, we never mention him.’”
“Why do you nil shun ary mention of him ?”
“Why do you ask about him ? Did you know
him ?”
“Yes, and loved him dearly. It has been long
since I saw him, hut 1 have his picture now. It
can’t he he has ever been guilty of anything dishon
orable. I can see him now, a frank, pohle face, a
straight, proud figure—”
“Straight and handsome, was he?” the dwarf
cried in his sharpest tones. “well, his straight
form will dangle from a rope's end if he is ever
caught, that’s all.”
“What do you mean ?” exclaimed Vale, but he
was sullenly silent, and turned off. She caught
him’by the arm and said sternly: “You must tell
me what you mean. What has Ralph Medway done
to deserve hanging ?
“Oh ! nothing of course. Straight, handsome
men never do wrong in the eyes of the women that
love them. I am crooked and sallow and dwarf
ish." I ought to have been smothered for a monster
at my birth, hut I have never struck down a gray
o' ui t o death ami that tyoii i.-v
T wTT n t-.an, ne jerKPd those rrom her releptri grasp
and went away. She stood where he hud lefi her,
motionless with horror. It. meant this then—that
aversion of the household to the name of Ralph
Medway meant that the o»lv being in who e veins
ran blood akin to hers, was a murderer—a fratri
cide, a fugitive from justice.
Could it mean this? Could the Ralph Meow ly
she remembered—proud, hut gentle hearted—he
guilty of such a crime ! She would not take the
word of that hirier little dwarf. She went into the
drawing-room where Mrs. Medway sat at a centre
table playing a game of chess with Father Maurice.
The lady, with her elbow on the table and her
rounded chin leant upon one hand, glanced up care
lessly from the chess-board where she was about to
move the queen, as Yale came and stood before her.
But her eyes became instantly riveted to the girl's
agitated face. Vale spoke hurriedly.
“Mrs. Medway, pardon me, hut I must know the
truth about my cousin Ralph. What has he done
to make him an outcast from his home ? I have
just heard that he killed my uncle, his own father.
I do not, I cannot believe d. Ralph Medway was
an affectionate son; he belonged to an honorable
and gentle race; he could not have committed such
an act.”
Mrs. Medway’s chin sank a little deeper upon her
soft left palm, the fingers of her right hand strayed
an instant upon the ivory chess queen, then she re
moved her hand and laid it gently upon Vale’s
aim.
“My dear,” she said in her rich contralto, “I am
sorry your visit to Ivy Hall is spoiled by an un
pleasant communication. There was no need you
should hear anything—at least at present—of the
circumstances of your uncle’s death. Since vou
have heard unfortunately. I can only confirm the
intelligence. Ralph Medway did kill his father,
hut it was in the heat of passion. He was all you
say no doubt, hut he had also an ungoverned tem
per, quick and cruel as lightning. Father and son
hail a quarrel about—property. Bitter things were
said upon both sides: at last Ralph struck his father
down with a walking stick he had seized. Mr.
Medway never spoke after the blow.”
“IVho were witnesses to the deed ?” asked Vale's
husky, constrained voice after an interval of si
lence.
“Rev. Mr. Dixon—a Methodist minister of this
neighborhood, Mike Hennessey, the overseer and
myself. The men overheard the angry voices and
hurried into the room too late to prevent the dread
ful act. It is but justice to say that Ralph appear
ed overwhelmed with remorse for the deed. None
who saw him can forget his look, as he threw him
self upon the body, crying, ’Great God ! have I
killed my father ?’’
Her voice broke a little now, and the hand trem
bled slightly as it lay on Vale’s arm. Once more
she said:
“This is a painful subject. Let us not dwell upon
it. Don’t think of it, my dear child, more than
you can help. It is one of those dreadful things
that cannot ha remedied in any way.”
“And my cousin,” Vale asked, “was he arrested?”
“He made his escape before an arrest could be
made. It was as well. The community w r as ex
cited against him. He was not over popular, ow
ing to his reserved, rather haughty disposition.”
“He was not reserved and haughty when I knew
him.”
“Possibly not. He was a mere boy when you
him. Dispositions develop. Father Maurice, wa
will give up this game. It is magnanimous in me,
as I should have checkmated you, 1 think in three
more moves. Come to the study and I will show
you that rare old book I found to-day.”
Father Maurice lifted his face, with its large,
startled looking eyes from his hand that had cov
ered it. It was colorloss, even the full, womanish
lips were pale. He looked distressed at his own
weakness, and answered Mrs. Medway s eyes with
a deprecating look. It was no wonder he was af
fected by the picture of this horrible scene—a
father murdered by his son.
It filled I ale with horror. It was a dreadful
shock to her—the first her innocent young heart
had ever received. She went back to the star-
lighted porch, and sitting down on the steps, buried
her face in her hands, shuddering with dry sobs.
The o il trees whispered together, the screech owl’s
cry came from some leafy distance and the melan
choly spell of the place fell upon light-hearted
Vale.
Something came softly out and sat down by her.
t-d
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