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\ 5Pman$£ &2 r i’i'XSS 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, , |.i j ‘K’-'i ir <•: . > |C. W /}. j\/l It 4 ' 1 "' 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 o