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VOL. VI J. H. &W. B. SEA Li } .'KoT’RjItoRS.
ATLANTA, HA., DECEMBER 11. 1SS0.
ierns in Advance:
f Uno Tear, 93.50,
l Sli. Copy, 5c.
X0. 279
A Working Girl’s Life.
‘‘There, thon, whote love and life together
fled.
Have left me here to love and live in vam—
Twii ed with my heart, and can 1 deem thee
dead
When busy memory flashes on my brain?'’
—Byron.
Myrtle Vandivere gazed thoughtfully fr-om
the windows as if the little, narrow panes of
glass that disclosed the scene below—a pano
rama of chimneys, housetops and streets,
with hero and there a pedestrian—couid re
veal the mystery of her future which rose
before her like the blank waste of a desert.
The meanly furnished room in the big and
dreary tenement house, cheerless at all times,
was doubly so now’ in the shadows of a weird
September day, and with the ceaseless drizzle
of an autumn rain beating fitfully against
the windows. The pale face of tne young
girl looked al -iost ghastly in the subdued
light. But it w as a sw eet face despite the
pallor and the look of anxiety, a face perfect
as to physical beauty, and lighted with soui-
ful, earnest brown ey es which gave it an ex
pression one finds on the faces of the old time
painters’ Madonnas. Her attitude, a slender
figure, the rare face, framed in a wealth of
flowing hair, her uplifted eyes, msde up a
singular picture. She was an orphan, very-
poor, and utterly alone in the world. One
mouth ago her mother had died in her arms
—died jnurmuring blessings upon the fair
haired, gentle g ri who had been her stay and
support for years past and who had soothed
her pathway to the tomb—died bitterly re
gretting that her wealthy brother, Stephen
Kirkham, had not forgiven the thoughts ss,
runaway marriage, and out of his ample
means at least uided them to keep poverty
at bay-. Yes, it had been a hard struggle;
but the girl had tendei ly- shielded her beloved
mother ti om the rough winds of adversity,
an l the hr oken-hearted, disappointed woman
had passed away, knowing they were very
poor, but without realizing any of the pitia
ble humiliations endured by her child and
mercifully kept from her. The girl was
thinking of her mother now very mournfully
and tenderly. The rain w hich beat fretfully
against the windows likewise fell upon her
grave in an obscure corner of the c.ty ceme
tery. She was at rest; all her troubles w-ere
forever ended. But the girl sighed deeply
as she recalled what her mother had told ner
about her rich uncle whom she had never
mer, but whose portrait hung on the dingy
mantel piece and seemed to glorify the shab
by room with its adornment of gold and eb
ony. It was not an unp easant face. The
features were classic; but there was a tender
expression upon the eyes and bps, an expres
sion that betokened a man neitner selfish or
hard-hearted. Yet, his sister, when she lay
upon her death-bed, had sent message after
message to him, begging him to forgive her
and to come to her and asking him to guard
l er only child, but to all these he made no re
sponse. He i:either came or sent, or ac
knowledged by the slightest sign that he rec
ognized the sister who had so deeply’offended
him by marrying a handsome spendthrift
vears before. The man who had caused Jane
Kirkham to desert friends 3nd home and defy
the social world that worshipped her was
quietly sleeping in his grave; but even at her
death her brother had shown no signs of re
lenting: and, indeed, since a stern and brief
interview one morning twenty-two years
ago when she had boldly proclaimed her in
tention to marry the man she loved, she had
never looked on her brother’s face or heard
from him only thiough common report.
But notwithstanding his neglect and silence,
MARTHA WAS MAG TON’S BIHISE-Ste itli pege.
the mother had long clung to life with the
one hope of meelirg him ard providing for
the future of her darling child. Only at the
last moment had she relinquished this one
object of her b-.ing, and then, in that solemu
tour she transfered it to another. Just be
fore she died, she called her child to her bed
side.
‘•I feel I shall never see your uncle Stephen,
my dear, 1 ' she said, in a weak, wavering
tone: “but I cannot think he has received
my letters. I am sure he has no idea of our
privations, our poverty. O, Myrtie! you
cannot imagine my thoughts at the idea of
never meeting my brother this side of eter
nity, of being unable to hear from his own
lips that he forgives me and the assurance
that he will provide for your future. Fate
has been against me in this respect, my dear;
and so i etimes 1 have been tempted to rebel
against Providence. Yes, my love, my life
is ended—is ended without a realization of
the hope which has sustained me for more
than fifteen years, the tope of effecting a rec
onciliation with him. Fate has been very
unkind to me. You know how hard I have
tried; you know how many letters I have
written and how vain all my efforts were.
But 1 do not blame your uncle Stephen; no,
j no; it is not his fault. He Is nob'e and gen-
| erous. He is kind and forgiving. It Ls a it
j his nature to cherish resentment, but my
half sister Susan has poisoned his mind
against us. Yes. my love, it is all your aunt
| Susan’s fault. She is not only selfish, but
i heartless and mercenary as well When we
j were girls together she 'was jealous of me be
cause I was petted and admired: and all
I these years she has embittered my life by set-
j ting your uncle against me. Since my mar-
j riage she has constantly inflamed his anger,
; kept his indignation at my conduct coniinu-
i ally alive by every device and subtility, and
; since she went to five at Creedmore, you
know how they have treated my messages.
I fear not one of them found their way to
his hand. She has determined to secure his
fortune for ter daughter, Emily—that for-
i rune which by right is yours, my dear, and
j for this reason she has used every means
j to keep my brother and myself apart.
You see he is very aged now, and
ever since he returned from India he has
been an invalid confined to his house and
guarded and watched over by our eremies;
by those who have not one particle of love
for him, but who keep watch and ward solely
with the hope of obtaining his vast wealth.
Do not look so frightened, my dear; yon are
not acquainted with the world, whose bitter
ness both of us have tasted and whose pleas
ures have been sternly denied you: but you
will discover all this in good time. Busan Cro
croft is only my half-sister and she is not
even entitled to yonr uncle’s confidence, to
say nothing of his fortune. But, as I said,
she is scheming and mercenary and is striv
ing to secure it for her child. She is at yonr
poor uncle every day, no doubt, and may
persuade him at last, or she may have per-
persuaded him ever so long ago to make a
will in favor of her child. This must never
be, Myrtie. Emily Crocroft must not in
herit my brother’s estate. No, no, Myrtle,
listen to me: listen to the words of a dying,
disappointed womm. whose chief concern
even now is about your future, Wben I am
goBe you must find means to see Stephen
Kirkham, for my sake, for yonr own sake,
you must see him and demand forgiveness
for me and recognition for yourself. I do
not know that be is aware of your existence,
my love, though when you were born I
bribed one of the servants at Creedmore to
carry your uncle a letter announcing your
birth, but whether he ever received it 1 can
not say. But you must see him, Myrtie, you
| must! yc u must! Promise me that you will
I —; romise me that you will find your way to
j Stephen Kirkham’s presence and demand
I justice for us both. S«e.r it, my dear;
' swear on this little Bible here on my pillow,
swear, solemnly and sacredlv that vou will
make this the main object of your life.”
The girl obeyed the s’ern command of the
dying woman; she swore upon the small mo
rocco bound Bible that she would consecrate
her young life to the purpose which her
mother had failed to accomplish. The sick
woman had talked incessantly of her wealtny
brother, who had accumulated a great for-
tune in India, where hi.s wife and child died,
and whence he returned home a bitter, and
disappointed man. broken in health and spir
its. He was an old man now, an l led a quiet
isolated life at his elegant home Creedmore,a
palace-like house which his taste anrl wealth
had created and embellished, an 1 whose por
tals were jealously guarded by his h ilf-sister,
a widow, who wi;h her only child, Emily,had
taken up her residence with him upon his re
turn. His petted sister Jane had once dwelt
there also; but since her unfortunate marl
riage the doors of her brother’.-* hou-e as wel
as heart, seemed to be effectually closed
against her. Mrs. - Vandivere had left no
“¥eur Heavenly Father Ik no tv-
cth Ye Have Need of All These
Things.”
Oh doth He know that o’er my shrinking soul
The surging waves of aDguish fiercely roll?
Oh doth He know the only need I feel,
Is for quick ooming death my wounds to heal?
Oh how my heart cries ont against this woe
Of living, since I can not help but know
That for all time has ebbed the happy tide
Of life’s wide sea. Oh would that I had died!
♦ • j * * * *
He knoweth thou hast need of all these pains ;
This black despair, these cloudsand beating rains,
This wild unrest, this stretch of barren shore,
This deep disgust of life and all its store.
’Twas only thus He could entice thine eyes
To send one longing glance beyond the skies.
They were so fixed upon these earthly toys,
Thy heart so satisfied with fleeting joys.
For dost thou kuow that neither death nor life,
Nor angels, nor earth's loves nor bitter strife
May separate us from God’s constant care ?
Thy deepest pongs do but His love declare.
N. VV. Rotuerford.
SONNET.
When I Huye Gone.
By Pjiof. W. G. McAdoo.
[Republished by Request.]
When I have gone my way beyond that sky
Whereon thou gazest now, O think of me
As this day In St. Catherines near thee,
We gazed thereon together, and on high
Floated soft clouds of white ethereally,
Melting like me Into e erutty 1
Ah, let some fond regrets like angels be
About thy dear heart ever hovering nigh !
The day goes on—the sky e’en now.ischangiug;
We are not wbat w’e w ere—the Bast hath won
The pearly clouds into its darksome fold;
And mutability through nature ranging,
Allows no pause, and shall not till the sun
Looks down on Earth's full web of life un
rolled 1
St. Catharines, Canada, July 17,1880.
lty Z. T. Hedges.
CHAPTER L
A Pot of Money:
—OB—
n.eaiis untried to see him and beg pardon
for her great offense—the offense of marry
ing a poor man w hom she loved, in opposi
tion to the wishes and contrary to the com
mands of this aristocratic brother. The
widow had visited the house time and again
pleading to be admitted to ber brother if only
f ir a moment; but had always been refused,
sometimes harshly, sometimes cruelly’, by the
servants acting on instructions from Mrs.
Crocroft, and always with the warning that
the dear invalid’s bealih would not permit
him to see visitors. So Jane Vandivere had
gone to her grave without crossing the
thresheld of her girlhood home or effecting a
reconciliation; had gone to the grave com
plaining of the unkindness of fate,and cheer
ed by the thought, perhaps, that her child
would carry out the design she had so long
cherished and so signally failed to execute.
Myrtle Vandivere sighed drearily as she
thought of this, wondering vaguely how she
would carry into effect the solemn pledge she
had given her dying mother. But she was
resolved to do so. Already she had conse
crated her life to fulfilling the promise. But
how? To present herself at Creedmore and
explain all and demand admission would be
simp'y to invite contumely and insult; worse
perhaps, for such a course would put the
widow on her guard, and possibly forever
defeat the end in view’. No, the young girl
felt that she had no easy task to perform.
The widow was crafty and designing, no
doubt, ministering carefully to the rich man’s
wants, yet eagerly noteful of every sign of
i his demy, and willing, nay, anxious to work
upon his burial shroud, if by doing so she
would hasten his end and give her daughter
undisputed possession of his fortune. If an
entrance was effected into that jealously-
ly-guarded mansion, it was evident that it
would not be through fair and open-handed
| means. Here seemed indeed very little
- chance for tne girl to carry out her dead
; mother’s commands.
j But aside from this, even more serious
matters claimed her attention. She was ab-
i solutely penniless. She was also friendless,
j The factory in which sTe had ’ e n employed
at a mi-ecable pittance, had suspended only
the day before, and all the morning she had
walked through the cby searching vainly for
employment, returning home almost crazed
| with despair. The rent on the shabby room
! was overdue thfee monts and the landlady
| was clamorous and insulting. With a ges-
! ture of anguish tin* girl caught up a paper,
which she had found in the corridor leading
to the room, and hastily glanced up and
! down the long, long column of “Wants.”
! The advertisers were mostly those who like
I herself were out of work and without the
means of livelihood, and she shuddered when
she comprehended the pathetic appAls for
employment that would keep body and soul
I together. She was about to fling the paper
i aside with an exclamation of despondency,
when her gaze fell upon the following, print
ed in very fine type and evidently through
some error on the part of the foreman of
the newspaper, crowded into an obscure
corner:
“Wanted, a Governess.—A lady between
twenty-five and thirty years of age wanted
to superintend the education of and be a
companion to a young girl. Must be highly
educated and accomplished, a thorough mu
sician and elocutionist,and have an agreeable
disposition. A good conversationalist pre
ferred. Address, at once, (or call) Mrs. Su
san Crocroft, Creedmore, near Woodhurst.”
Myrtle Vandivere stared at this notice like
one in a dream. It seemed like a caprice of
fate itself. She could not think; she could
only gaze at the printed page blankly, with
pale cheek and quivering nerve. She was
aroused from her abstraction by a rap on the
door, and in answer to her summon, the
landlady came in, a stout, fleshy woman,
wearing an injured expression'upon her
round, red face
CHAPTER II.
“Well, Miss,” said the woman, sternly,
“I must have my rent money afore six
o’clock this evening. I’ve not been hard with
you, cause I seen your mar was sick, but
now it’s high time 1 was gettin’ my money.
You’ve had the best room in the house, too,
and every convenience, and Iv’e treated you
just like as if you was my own child. 1 do
sav you’ve used me bad.”
She closed her mouth grimly, and looked
at the young girl with an air of defiance.
“Mrs. Johnson,” said Myrtle, rising and
glancing nervously at the little clock upon
the mantel piece, I think I've secured a sit
uation; 1 hope so at any rate; and I shall not
intrude upon you any longer; I shall give up
t-iis room to-day. I have’nta cent of money,”
she added, at which announcement the land**
lady’s face, darkened omniously, “but I
have a gold bracelet that belonged to my
mother which I will pawn and thus secure
means to pay you and to take me as far as I
wish to go.”
She produced the article quickly; a heavy
band of gold, clumsy as an ornament, but
very valuable in a pecuniary sense. Mrs.
Johnson examined it critically, balancing it
in her hand, biting it and holding it toward
the light, as if to convince herself of its
purity.
“ft’s alright,” she said, at last; “how much
will you take for it. I might buy it for
Jerusha, and you could redeem it sometime,
you know.”
“But I thought you needed money,” said
Myrtle, with a look of surprise.”
“So I do,” said the landlady, quite una
bashed ; “but you can't understand a moth
er’s feelins,’ Miss, and don’t know the sacri
fices they’ll make for their children.’’
The bargain was speedily concluded; the
woman taking it as security for the unpaid
rent, and advancing a small sum of money
besides. She left the room greatly mollified,
asking numberless questions as to the girl’s
destination and prospective situation, and
promising to send a hack to take her to the
depot in time for the afternoon train. Myr
tie had barely time to pack her belongings in
a well-worn valise, to don hat and gloves
w hen the hack rat: led up. But even in her
shabby attire, she looked very pretty, and
every movement betrayed an inborn grace
and refii ement. She did not linger, but
casting a farewell glance at the shabby room
that had so long been her home, and that
was endeared to her by many tender memo
ries, she descended, entered the carriage, and
was whirled rapidly to the depot through
the drizzling ram. The train was nearly
ready to start; and she had scarcely purchas
ed a ticket, which though costing but little
almost exhausted her slender means, and
taken her seat in the cars, when the signal
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