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THE SUNNY SOUTH
ARCHIE BERTON:
— OR THE-
TREASURY CLERK-
By Harriet E. S- Cre»*j.
CHAPTER VII.—Continued.
“You do not ai-k a word about Louise,”
-said Arcbieof ber husband after he had been
home a number of hours. “You know she is
teaching in Liverton.”
‘•Yes, I know you wrote me she was, how
does she like it?”
“I don’t think she ever was happier, but
how she can endure such a kind of life is a
marvel to me.”
“Archie,” he replied very seriously, “that
is the kind of life that brings the greatest
happiness in the end. There is no joy like
that of knowing that we are doing good to
our fellow creatures. I know by sad experi
ence there is no pleasure in wrong doing,
and I would that the balance of my days
might be spent for the good of others.”
“That is why you have been promising me
all the nice things I have asked you for, you
good James.”
“Ob, Archie, why will you trifle so? What
I meant was 1 wished to make restitution to
those whom I have ever wronged.”
“I have no idea you ever wronged any one
intentionally so don’t let us talk on this dole
ful theme.”
“Well, supposing you were to hear I had,
would you overlook it and still stand by and
befriend me, or leave me a prey to my own
guilt and remorse?”
“Ah, I would 'not think much about it if
you would continue to get me everything
beautiful and nice,” replied Archie with a
careless laugh.
“You vain, lovely creature,” said Welby,
rather fondly, “> ou shall have what you
ask for. After all, Archie how unsatifying
to the soul are all these baubles you so much
crave,”
“Why, James you really alarm me, I be
lieve you too, are getting to be a Methodist
like Louise.”
Here the tete a tate was interrupted by the
appearance of Mrs. Burton who entered the
room looking aDxious and excited with an
open letter in her hand which was from
Maud's husband, stating that she was danger
ously ill, and wished her mother to come to
her as soon as it was possible for her to get
there.
“I must go on the evening train,” she said,
setting herself immediately about the pre
parations for her journey, “and without see
ing Louise.”
Louise came to the Palms the following
day greatly disappointed at not seeing her
mother, and too aeyout in mind to listen
without pain to Archie’s talk about the covet
«d gems ber husband had promised her, and
her intended trip to Newport.
“But what if Maud should die we would
all be thrown into mourning, and all the
gems and vain pleasures you speak of would
seem a mockery ?”
“Though I might mourn deeply at the loss
of any of my friends,” replied Archie, “1
never should go into black although some
think the color becoming to me. 1 think it
foolish for any one to do it.”
“Well, I suppose you would not want to
come out in all the gay frippery and jewels
about which you talk so much, even if you
were not to put on deep mourning?” asked
Louise.
“At such a distance as we live from Maud,
and no one knowing her here, it might not
be inappropriate.”
“My dear sister,” said Louise, “have you
no respect for yourself, nor no fear of God?”
Upon this, Archie indignantly left the
room, saying little more to ber sister through
the day, ana Welby from the guilty feeling
that she must be acquainted with the circum
stances of bis former relations with Martha,
rather avoided ber, but to tell the truth he
longed for het gentle companionship and ad
.11 M at
her character, although she returned to
Liverton convinced in her own mind that
such was not the case, and that her presence
at the Palms was not desired either by Welby
or Archie. Laboring under these impressions,
her little journey over in the cars was some
what gloomy, but she little dreamed of the
scene waiting her when she reached her des
tination. In those days border ruffianism
prevailed largely in some parts of Texas, and
she had already been a witness to many pain
ful scenes, but none so harrowing as the one
following.
She had alighted from the cars and was on
ber way to Martha’s house when she met a
posse of men engaged in the fiercest quarrel
with pistols and bowie knives in active use
accompanied by the most fearful impreca
tions and indiscribable y ellings. Near them
stood a mild-mannered, soft-toned man who
in the most persuasive voice urged them to
desist from their quarrel, but instead of heed
ing him one of the ruffians pointed his re
volver at the young man and fired. The
ball took effect, and the victim fell wounded
to the ground. Louise, who was on the op
posite side of the street ran with a number
of others to the young man’s assistance, who,
before many moments was on his feet while
the ruffianly gang had disbanded and were
scattering in all directions. The fracas bav
ing occurred directly in front of Judge Ed
monds’ house the wounded man was carried
in there, and the wound examined and dress
ed by a competent surgeon, who pronounced
it severe but not fatal
On the evening of the same day, Louise
and Martha called at the Judge’s house to
inquire after the injured man, finding him
in much pain buv uncomplaining. They also
learned he was a newly fledged Methodist
preacher who had supplied the pulpit the
day previous in that town, at the church
generally attended by them. But neither of
them were present on that occasion as Louise
was at the Palms, and Martha suffering from
the effects of a cold which prevented her
from going. But they were told they would
doubtless find plenty of opportunities to bear
him as there was great talk of settling him
over their parish. Having been told this, the
two ladies felt extremely interested in the
young man’s case. And a couple of days
later they were informed of his promising
recovery. Two weeks later they saw him
mount the pulpit stairs as their settled pastor
and as he proved very eloquent, and devoted
to Hie cause he had espoused, he commanded
their greatest respect and admiration.
' “Just now we are having our Indian sum
mer; the hazy glow which encircles every ob
ject completely entrances the senses, and
» ere it not for the dreadful realities of life
which at times look down so sternly upon us,
one might sit amid such a scene as this and
dream his life away. It seems as if there
little but disappointment and misery for the
best of us. And now I must tell you what
a disappointed couple are Will and Maud.
They cad every reason for supposing that
as he was an only child, that all the
property left by his mother would be his,
and we had moved here and got settled be
fore we learned ought to the contrary. Then
a will was produced, which to ns, seems
cruel and unjust, but to those who are to
benefit by it, appears in another light. To
this and that favorite she willed either a
thousand or a few thousands each; to the
irust society ten ihoosand dollars, to a couple
of faithful servants a few hundreds each,
and so on; besides, the estate is considerably
encumbered with debt, the old lady having
lived extravagantly since her husband’s
death. So the place will have to he sold to
pay off heirs and debts. Will is brave, and
says he can in time accumulate another for
tune in the practice of his profession, which
wili be mastered in a ouple of years. But
Maud is completely uish> artened. She had
thought so much of having this beautiful
place for their own. She has not been
well since her severe illness is the summer,
and fears she never will be again; so 1 sup
pose she cannot bear t his new trouble as well
as she otherwise could. Louise would not
consider this a matter of this kind a trouble,
but a dispensation of Providence designed for
the good of her soul. She writes me she is
soon to be married to a Methodist preacher
by the name of George Dwight. Do you
know anything about him? He came near
being killed by a gang of ruffians last spring
when trying to quell them in a fight, but
escaped with slight wounds, and has since
been a pastor of the Methodist Church in
Liverton. This kind of a match is what we
have all predicted for Louise. If she is sat
isfied I suppose the rest of us should be; but
I think she will find it rather unpleasant to
be trapesing around every other year from
one point to another, as Methodist ministers
generally have to do. Stili, I presume she
will look at it in the light of a pleasant duty.
“If you accompany James to Wastiirgton
on his return to Congress, we would all
like to have you both come to see us and spend
the holidays with us. Will will most likely
be home then; but now he goes and returns
every day to Paisely to attend medical lec
tures. We shall remain at Riverside through
the winter, at least, not expecting of course,
it to be as pleasant here after cold weather
sets in as it is now. But 1 am told that it is
not very gloomy even then. Hoping to hear
from you soon, I remain your devoted moth
er, J. B.”
“Of course I can write that we will spend
the holidays with her. James,” said Archie
before she had hardly raised her eyes from
the letter.
“Then you are expecting to go to Wash
ington with me, dear?” was the response.
“Why, yes, of course. You do not think
I could stay here alone with only the ser
vants, do yon?”
“Well, maybe you would find it pleasanter
Archie, to go directly from here to River
side and spend the winter there with your
relatives. Mapes and Ellen both want to go
North, and are going to be married, I sup
pose. Tom, Bernis and Rem pis alone would
be left here to see to things.”
Archie had been growing very angry dar
ing this speech, and as soon as he had finished
she said:
“I would like to know the reason yon do
not want me to go to Washington! Never
since we were married have you seemed to
want me to go there.”
*T thought it would be a more quiet place
for you at Riverside, and then you could be
with your mother and sister,” replied Welby
in e quiet tone.
“You need not evade me that way, James.
Don’t yon think I can see that you are op
posed to my going to Washington, and now
tell me why it is!”
' do tfrtkl f-bpnght &L
CHAPTER VI1L
But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?
The torrent s smooth less ere it dash below.
—Campbell.
On the last day of the following October,
Welby and Mr. Rayner both sat on the ve
randah at the Palms conversing in a neigh
borly way, while Archie sat inside the draw-
mg-room windows perusing a letter just re
ceived from her mother and wishing every
moment the man would leave, as she wanted
to read the letter to her husband. But the
man kept staying, the conversation shifting
from one subject to another until they en
tered upon the never-ending theme of slave
ry the justness or nu justness of the late
rebellioD, Archie little caring which so the
man would say all he wanted to and take his
departure. But the verbose fellow oncestait-
ed on so speculative a tide of thought, had
no notion of hauling in his sails until he had
seen them flop awhile; and Archie could wait
no longer.
She stepped to the door and asked Welby
if he could come in a moment and hear her
read her mother’s letter. At this hint the
man left and Archie sat down besiae her
husband and read:
“Dear Archie:—Yon will see from this
that 1 am at present at Riverside Old Mrs.
Shaw having died. Will and his family, of
which I am present a member, moved direct
ly here. I have before spoken to you of the
beauties and grandeur of the place, which ex
ceeds everything, unless it is the Palms.—
There the tropical foliage and landscape may
present a lovelier aspect; but oh, the inde
scribable lookout here upon the far-famed
Hudson, on whose glassy bosom one may see
almost any time boats, from the picturesque
teamer to the tiniest sail, gliding gracefully
0 s *
_ ts that may dissuade
her from going,” so he said:
“Archie, you are very dear to me, and
1 fear by remarks I have heard made by
some in that place, rou. my dear wife, will
be subjected to slights which might grieve
me, perhaps, even more than yon.”
There! he had said it. and the words could
never be unsaid. Alas I that words like those
must ever be spoken between hnsband and
wife. And there he sat looking far more
pained than Archie, bat not half so angry,
for the deepest crimson mounted her cheek
and her eyes flashed fire as she replied:
“It is false! a story of yonr own manufac
ture to prevent my going with von.”
“You shall go with me, dear,” he answered
“and learn for yourself that 1 have manu
factured nothing, and perhaps, after all,
nothing will be said or done to injure your
feelings. If there is I will stand by you
with an upraised sword to protect you, if
necessary, from insult.
“Your words are strong yet I cannot fath
om their import”’ said Archie, “bat I think
the insults you fear so much, if any
there are, will be due to my once haviBgbeen
a clerk in the Treasury Department. But 1
do not think it was known to but few besides
the employees.
Well, Archie, let us say no more about it,
but if you are really to accompany me it is
time we were beginning to make prepara
tions.
So through the greater part of November
little was talked of or thought of by Archie
but new dresses, new bonnets, etc., having
nearly forgotten her husband’s warning about
slights and insults, But the old pain, caused
by his youthful indiscretion, culminating in
falsehood and sin grew deeper and more
galling as the days were nearing when his
young wife would learn of his past folly.
Quite sure he was her conduct had not
pleased him at all times since they were mar
ried. Her flirtation with Fitznoodle while
they were at Newport the summer previous,
as well as on the other occasion when they
were on their wedding tour, angered him
greatly, and then to think of this fellow com
ing to the Palms to spend so many weeks in
his absence. He thought it preposterous, for
he had heard of it, though Archie had not
meant he ever should. But ia an encounter
he had with Fitznoodle at Newport he pre
vious summer he warned him never to court
the hospitality of his household again. He
had, therefore, no fear of his coming there
the following winter.
“But,” he argued,“if I cannot countenance
all her proceedings, she is my wife and I
most forbear and forgive, and more willing
ly, too, cn account of my own sin. ’
After their arrival at the Capital, Archie
feared for the first few days that her hus
band’s prediction wonld prove true, for
many of her former acquaintances passed
her without recognition, and she had not re
ceived a single call from any one. But she
had plenty of places to go to, and did not al
low herself to worry over the matter to any
great extent. Her husband often accom
panied her to places of amusement and pub
lic receptions, and at all times her beauty
attracted much attention. The expensive
ness of her toilet and the brilliancy of her
jewels were extensively commented npon by
the press writers. With a certain class at
the Capital this item had weight; and ignor
ing the fact that she was occupying the af
fection of a hnsband rightfully belonging to
another, they came thronging around her
until she almost wished she could be left more
by herself. Nor did they whisper a word in
to her ear npon the subject Welby had so
feared they-would.
Thus at the beginning of the holidays they
both set out with light hearts for Riverside.
The day after they reached that place
Charlie Berton arrived. Archie had not seen
him since she left Edge wood for Washing
ton two years before, and he bad changed so
greatly in appearance she hardly knew him
at first. He had grown much taller, bat very
stout or bloated, his eyes having that bleary
look and his complexion that ashen hue
which betokens dissipation. And ohl what
a pity it seemed, for he had been such a
bright boy and his mother had expected so
much of him, but now at sight of him she
was grieved beyond endurance, and declared
there never was another who had so much
trouble as she.
Welby pitied her sorely, and gave the
young man the test advice, promising to
assist him in any way if he would try to over
come his ruinous habits. Charley promised,
and his mother grew hopeful of him - Will's
trouble, too, was weighing heavily on qjpr
mind, but Welby effered to pay all claims
against the estate, with Will’s note without
interest, for security. This relieved the
young man’s mind, at least for the time, ani
made him hopeful he would some day become
the sole owner of the home he so much
prized,
This matter arranged, and while all were
in pretty good spirits a letter arrived for Mrs.
Berton from Louise, stating that she was to
he married Thursday of the coming week to
George Dwight, the Methodist clergyman.
Then followed a statement of the amount of
good that had been done among the illitera e
and vicious of Liverton since Mr. Dwight’s
pastorate in that place. Perhaps she might
with propriety have said since her own re
moval there, for she and Mrs. James, with a
few other workers, were far advanced in the
good work which the clergyman had culmin
ated. Liverton with its once ruffianly inhab
itants had become almost as orderly as a New
England village. “Bat a great deal remains
to be done, and we mean to keep along in the
wa v we have begun,” wrote Louise.
Welby said he was glad to hear of the
change, and made out checks for a thousand
each to Louise and Mrs. James, whicli were
forwarded to them by the first outgoing mail.
He did not write to either, or even sign the
name of the donor, but when they received
the money they well knew who bestowed it,
and the use for which it was designed, and It'
was used accordingly.
After doing an act of this ki id, Welby al
ways felt a little repose of conscience for
some time. And then he would repent anew
over the wrong he had done the woman apd
child whose claims were so strong upon him.
Both mother and boy, he inwardly felt, were
still very dear to him.
Archie did not know of the contribution
made by her hus band, and would doubtless
have disapproved of it if she had, although
she knew money was flowing into their cof
fers in a way that they hardly knew what to
do with it, although;Archie was of the opin
ion that some of it invested in afdiamond
necklace for herself would be quite the thing.
Welby thought she had plenty of jewels al
ready, still be did not refuse to negotiate for
more if she was set upon having them. It so
happened she was and he promised to pur
chase them in New York, when they reached
that city en ;oite to Washington, and ac
cordingly did.
They left Rivei side a little before close of
the holidays that he might have a couple of
days to visit his oil wells before Congress re
sumed duties. After their return and he had
seen Archie reinstated in their hotel at the
Capital, Welby took the earliest train for the
petroleum region. He bad scarcely left the
hotel when Archie opened her writing desk,
and wrote the following note to her old admir
er, Fitznoodle:
“Learning by your last favo. (received the
day before 1 left this city to visit my sistery
that you wonld be here the last week in the
month, I write to inform yon that I am back
again, though my husband has gone to Oil
City for two or three days. If you are in
Washington yon will of course come to this
hotel to see me so soon as you receive this
note. I shall expect yon this afternoon. I
will meet yon in my private room, No, ai,
second floor.”
At three o’clock of that day Fitznoodle put
in his appearance at the hotel. He had al
ready been in the city a we.'k anxiously ex
pecting the very^note that caused his heart to
palpitate so strangely, and once received he
was. not long in answering it After the first
greetings and a volume of compliments ut
tered by the admiring coxcomb, Archie
said;
“Only that James was obliged to be away
just at this time, Bert, I might have had a
Terypoor opportunity of seeing you.”
“Well, it would have been all the same to
yon, perhaps,” he replied in a kind of pa
thetic whisper, dropping his eyes, till their
long lashes fell on his cheek.
. Ja a—- r 1 ” 1 .
that; for the pleasure of seeing yon exceeds
everything,” and her tones were evidently
sincere.
He took courage and drawing his chair
near her, he took her hand and said earn
estly:
“Archie, I felt it my duty to come to yon
this time. I heard things since I came to this
city which yon really ought to know. I am
pretty sure yon never have been told the sto
ries afloat, or yon wonld have mentioned it
to me.”
“What are they? Something about me or
James? Oh, it must be dr eadful, or you would
not look so serious! And now I remember
my husband did not waht me to come here
this winter. Oh, what can it be?” exclaimed
Archie in excited tones.
“I am afraid I had better not tell you, af
ter all, for it will only make yon miserable,
my poor Archie, and it would be better for
me to die than to do that.”
“Miserable or not, I insist on knowing,”
said Archie.
“Then, it is this, dearest of women: Welby
has another living wife!”
Archie gave a scream.
“And a little boy besides,” continued the
And even after all the arrangements had
been made, and she was attired in her trav
elling suit, and was about to step into the
carriage that was to convey ber to the depot,
she feic some misgivings and had Fitznoodle
only left her alone to nfl ct a few moments
>he would have given up the project. Or had
her mother or one of her sisters been near to
whisker one warning word, she would have
retracted and allowed the tempter to have
gone his way. But she was wholly within
his power
The quizz’ng hotel keeper and his clerk, and
the looks exchanged between some of the
servants, as they saw her making such hasty
preparations fo r departure, efeer coming
there only a few hours ago with the intention
of staying, caused her to think she was act
ing strangely, and after she got fairly out of
the house, she felt a little relieved, in some
respects. But there was another ordeal to
encounter. While Fitznoodle was ordering
the baggage checked, and procuring the tick
ets, who should stumble directly into her
path but Weston. She could not help but
speak to him, and she thought he appeared
glad of the opportunity to speak with her.
But almost the first words he said were,
“Where are you going. Archie, with that
miserable fellow ?”
“What do you mean by asking me such a
question ?’’ she asked quite sternly.
“1 meant what I said, that he is a misera
ble fellow, having seen him arrested the oth
er day for picking a man’s pocket. He was
at tne same time dragged quite against his
will to the station house, but afterwards
bailed out by a ruffian, one Jack Ruggles,
who, it seem s does some of the rough work,
• n fViio srnrtr rrontlomanl »7 fixllrktxr’a nrnfacaifiTl ”
“Oh, Bert, I cannot believe it. It must be
false.”
“Aud they were at the church at the time
yo» were married; the woman screamed at
the time.”
“1 heard her; I saw her and the child. I
thought very srange of her conduct then.—
Afterwards I saw her in Liverton with the
boy. Oh! it must be on account of this my
husband was averse to my coming here. I
see through it all”
“That you.may know for a certainty it is
so, read this,” he said, producing a paper he
had picked up since his stay in Washington
published the morning after the marriage a
year and a half previous.
“This confirms it,” groaned Archie. “And
now what shall I do? Of course I will live
with him no longer.”
“I am ready to go with you to any part of
the earth. You know well that no one loves
you as I do; so let us start this very night.”
‘It will be serving him right, the wretch,
and I cannot stay here and face this dis
grace.”
“And we will be married jnst ns soon as
you say, Archie, for you are not Welby’s le
gal wife, and he has no claim on you, sweet
est, most wronged and beautiful of all mor
tals.”
“But,” suggested Archie, “the paper says
his marriage with that woman was a mock
marriage, so why would that interfere with
the legality of mine.”
“Oh, that is only a newspaper story,
have seen that woman’s brother here in
Washington no longer ago than yesterday,
and he says the first marriage ceremony was
performed by a regular minister, and Welby
is her husband according to the statutes and
tue law, and only that he and his sister have
been given such a large sum of money to
keep quiet in the matter, Welby would be
compelled to acknowledge her; as it is he
supports both her and her boy.”
“Then I might be arrested any time for
living with another woman’s husband?”
“Certainly; and I would rather the whole
universe would go to destruction than such
a woman as yon should come to a trouble
like that.” a
To what part of the world shall we go
first?” tremblingly asked Archie.
“To New York by the evening train, there
be married, and then take the first steamer
for Europe.”
Archie pulled the bell cord; her maid soon
appeared, and was ordered to pack her
trunks. Archie’s next act was to draw npon
her husband’s bankers for fifty thousand dol
lars, he having given her leave to do that
only the day before. This amount, with the
jewels she possessed, would keep them a long
time, she thought, and then, perhaps, Bert
would get into some very profitable busine s,
at least he promised to, but as it was some
thing he never had done, she need not have
been very hopeful of that; bat she did not
stop to consider. She believed that she loved
the fellow better than she ever loved Wellby,
for he appreciated and flattered her; still sne
did not think she ever would havo consented
to the step she was about to take, unless she
bad been made aware of Wellby’s perfidy.
in this very gentlemanly fellow’s profession
At this moment Fitznoodle was about to
come to Archie with the tickets, but on see
ing her in conversation with the person who
be knew witnessed his arrest, he motioned
her to step into the car near which she was
standing, while he jumped aboard the rear
car. The train was on the point of starting,
and this little moneuvre on his part did not
strike Archie as being much out of place.
Perhaps he was afraid he would be left, un
less he got aboard that instant. Weston un
derstood the case, however, and he said to
Archie as he was assisting ber into the car:
“isn’t it bast to put the detectives on that
fellow’s track; perhaps he is going to jump
his bail.”
“Oh, no, no !'’ implored Archie, “my name
mignt get mixed in the matter. You do not
wish any harm to come to me, Weston ?”
“indeed I do not; so I would say beware of
that rascal”
He had no time to say more, for the train
moved along.
This, Archie’s second wedding trip—for it
was such, since she had agreed to be married
to Fi'zuooclle after they reached New York,
was not one of unalloyed happiness, any
more than the first. To be sure she was go
ing to Europe, a thing she had missed before
and which was such a grievance to her. But
with whom was she going? Why, a pick
pocket, a jail-bird, she had just been told.
Still, could it be possible that her Bert, who
bad so won her heart by flattery and atten
tion, could be a felon! She half-feared the
truth of the report, so she appeared very cold
and constrained toward him as he came and
took his seat by her side in the car. Fitz
noodle, well knowing the cause of the change
in ber conduct, asked:
“Did that fellow you were talking to say
anything about me, that causes you to act
so differently?”
“Yes,” Archie replied; “be said you were
arrested for a pickpocket the other day.”
“Well, I can tell you how that was, my
dear. Some fellow resembling me somewhat,
picked some one’s pocket, and an officer mis
taking me for the rogue on account of the
resemblance, had the impudence to arrest
me; but I assure he let me go pretty quick
when he found ont who 1 was.”
“But he said you were let off on bail,” said
Archie.
“On bail.” sneered Fitznoodle; “I’d like to
know who knows me well enough in Wash
ington to go bail for mt I’
“Sure enough, Bert, come to think of it 1
do not believe it could be.”
w-I aaa -jy «tr« ng» -*bm,
dear.”
“Yes, and those people who told yon about
Welby’s affairs were, I suppose, no acquain
tances of yours—you only beard them talk
ing about the matter among themselves?”
“Of coarse, my love; and that brother of
hers 1 only accidentally overheard telling a
man what I related to you this afternoon.”
Archie seeing no reason why she should
not believe her lover, ‘and feeling that she
would be the most unhappy of mortals unless
she did, replied:
“Well, Bert, as we have so much else to
think of we will let this matter drop.”
Fitznoodle, raising her hand to his lips,
declared she was the most generous of human
kind, while he was inwardly chuckling over
bis own ingenuity in conjuring up lies where
with to deceive her; for every word he had
told her was an untruth, inasmuch as he had
picked a man’s pocket in Washington, been
arrested and bailed out by Jack Ruggles—
one following his own profession. He had
known Jack but three days, but rogues are
sometimes more ready to help each other
than godly people are to help their kind; or
Jack might have been when called upon, in
that bewhiskeyed condition that causes men
to lightly estimate the value of money. But
if Jack could have awakened to his senses
soon enough to have arrested the flight of his
biped he might have been less generous with
him another time; but not until late the fol
lowing day did he learn of his departure, and
by that time Fiznoodle and his bride were on
board a steamer, many leagues from land.
(TO BE CONTINUED )
cimfiiifDim.
A WILD RIDE.
warmly. The door was thrown open, the
driver mounted his seat, the iron box was
stowed beneath his feet, the single passenger,
an old woman to be left at the first station,
got in, the whip cracked, the horses pluagel,
tbe coach lurched heavily forward, and amid
a shower of mud disappeared down the
mountain road.
S ion station two was reached, where horses
were changed and where Poole dined. As he
mounted tbe box and prepared to depart the
keeper of the station slipped from his dug out
and drew near.
“There’s an old pard down the road apiece’U
want a ride. He war here ’bout two hours
ago. He’ll bear watchin’.”
And the rough frontiersman touched the
pistol butt whici. protruded from his open
shirt front to emphasize his warning.
Jake nodded.
“Thanks. Tom, I’ll keep my eyes open. Go
long.”
The fresh steeds in harness sprang quickly
forward and the empty coach whirled away.
Some five minutes passed, when in the
shadow of a great pine which grew near the
trail Jack espied his prospective passenger,
prone upon the ground at the foot of the
tree, apparently resting As the rattling
coach drew near the man bestirred himself
and slowly rose.
"HhIIo, driver! Kin ye favor an old beg
gar with a lift? I’m played, fur I’m too old
to tramp as I used to an’ too poor to pay fur
a ride. Kin ye give me one?”
He stepped forward as he spoke. Poor he
was, if tattered garments betokened poverty,
for his clothing was but a single patched rag
from head to foot. Old he surely, was, for
his withered skin and scanty gray locks, the
claw-like bands end sunken eyes could not
be well disguised.
Jake drew his reins and replied to his peti
tioner:
“Yes; be lively and climb up here. I’m
behind time now:
The old man answered, as he struggled to a
seat at the driver’s side:
“Dickson.”
Tne grade vM sharply descending now and
the road rocky and rough. A mile more and
the pass would be reached. The coach fairly
swayed under its rapid motion.
Old Jim was forced to cling to the seat
with both hands in order to avoid being hurled
to the ground. This was as Poole desired and
he smiled grimly as he noticed the other’s ac
tion.
“Yer—a-driven —purty—fast!” screamed
the gray-haired desperado, tbe words fairly
jerked from him as the coach sprang for
ward, rocking from side to side. “Ye’ll—
hev—to—hold—up—at—the—pass—I —reck
onl”
The granite walls of the pass were now just
before them and the roadway, descending
and steep, ran in the shadow of the coming
night and the gloom of the grave-like open
ing, a narrow path, but little wider than the
coach itself.
“1 won’t hold up.” And with these words
the driver struck his horses sharply, and,
snorting,they sprang forward into the Devil’s
Pass.
At the same instant, half-way through the
terrible gorge, standing motionless in the
centre of the roadway,a beetling wall of rock
upon one hand, a chasm of unknown depth
upon the other, was seen a man.
“Copper Tom” was awaiting his quarry,
The eld man at Poole’s side uttered a cry
and loosening his grasp on the seat with one
hand he would have thrust it into bis bosom,
but the other leaned suddenly towards him,
and, pressing a revolver against his forehead,
whispered hoarsely:
“Down with yer hand 1 If yer stir ag’in I’ll
kill ye. I know ye, old Jim, an’ ye can’t
catch Jake Poole nor his load this time.
Down with yer hand I”
The shuddering rascal’s hand fell at his
side, his face grew ashen-hned and his eyes
stared before him. They were rapidly ap
proaching “Copper Tom.”
For an instant, as they drew near, that
worthy stood facing them; through the fad
ing light he saw the position of his pal, upon
whom he had depended, he saw the stern, set
face of the driver, he raw the furious horses
plunging down upow hfan and a terror-
stricken cry he turned and fled.
Could he bat reach the lower end of the
causeway he might escape, could he bat find
a single spot to turn aside he wonld be safe;
bat it was not to be.
Nearer and nearer thundered the iron-shod
hoofs behind him, narrower and narrower
grew the fatal road, until there rang a terri
ble, despairing cry mingled with the fright
ened snort of the horses, a dark something
went down before the plunging steeds, rolled
an instant before their grinding, and then,
spurned by the flying wheels, was hurled, an
indistinguishable mass, into the canon beneath
and the coach sped on.
Half an bour later Jake Poole pulled into
the corral at Dickson’s ranch, tumbling • a
half fainting man from the seat at his side
into the arms of the astounded hostlers and
said:
“Bind that man and give him to the sheriff.
It’s Old Jim, the road agent. His pard’s at
the bottom of the gulch in the pass: this one
ought to stretch hemp when the officers get
him, and I’ve driven my last run from Galla
tin. There’s too much risk about the business
for me. ”
And Jake kept his word. He no longer
coaches it,bat keeps a public house in Helena.
HOW IGOT~HARRIED,
ed on it. I was young and shy, and my tb
surd position was no joke to me. As soon as
I could find breath, 1 essayed to explain ma-
ters to the frightened and irate old lady. I
apologiz 'd for my intrusion, explaining my
mistake; but my efforts were ill-received. I
found an ally, however, in the shape of the
sweet-looking girl, who endeavored to molli
fy the old lady’s wiath, accepted my apolo
gies smilingly, and joined me in every possi
ble wav in trying to soothe her angry rela
tive.
“ It’s all a mistake auntie,” she whispered.
“ D >n’t you see it’s Mr. M*»rley, the curate ?”
“And more shame for him to play such a
vultar, ungentlemanly trick!” retorted the
old dame, not to be so easily mollified.
“ Madam, you cannot think I intended to
harm yon thus,’' wishing I could sink intq the
floor. “ I unfortnuately mistook the house;
1 intended to make a little diversion for my
nephews and nieces.”
“Is there not a number on my door, sir ?
Could you not have ascertained that you had
entered the right house before commencing
this buffoonery ? Very unbecoming in a cler
gyman in any case, in my judgment.”
“O, auntie!” whispered the young lady, her
face flushing. Then, turning to me, she said,
gently, “My aunt is not strong, and this has
startled her; but I am sure the mistake was
quire accidental*on y*our part.”
How grateful I felt to her for those kind
words!
k* r >” said the old lady, eyeing me severe
ly through her spectacles, “as my niece ap
pears to know you, and states that you are
the curate of this parish, 1 suppose I am
bound to acquit you of intention of robbery,
which j our extraordinary conduct at first
suggested. At the^ame time, it is difficult to
understand any gentleman in vour position
exhibiting himself, even.to juvenile relatives,
in the foolish, undignified manner which you
entered this room. I should have imagined
that Mr. Gray would have selected an assis-
tanl of less levity of character. My nerves
have received a severe shock, and as you are
now aware that this is not the house you in
tended to visit, perhaps you will now leave
us.”
I blundered through a few more apologies,
and went out terribly crestfallen, though the
young lady bowed and smiled as we parted.
Evidently she was not offended.
Helen received the news of my adventure
with peals of laughter.
“Charlie, Charlie! that you should have
selected old Mrs. Piggot of all people to play
this trick upon I You are an unlucky fellow I”
“Do you know the old lady, then !”
“Only by repute. She comes here every
year, and has often lodged with my landlady.
She is really a kind-hearted old soul, I be
lieve, but has a very crusty old temper.”
“I can vouch for that,” I answered, rue-
full v.
“O, if I had only been there,” cried Helen,
going off into fresh peals of laughter. “Poor,
deal Charlie crawling in, and old Mrs Pig-
got’s wrath—what an introduction to one of
your parishoners! I wonder if the old lady
will ever forgive you.”
She did one day. Probably the reader has
guessed the sequel of my story. I made Helen
call on the offended dame next day. and she
succeeded in making my peace so well that I
was allowed to present my apologies in per
son afterwards.
Then 1 called occasionally; of course on
each occasion seeing Miss Rose, the old lady’s
niece. Then, as fate willed it, Mrs. Piggot
fell ill, and took a fancy to winter at Martin-
on-Sands. Of course Rose and I met fre
quently during these months. A friendship
grew up between us; friendship often ripens
into deeper feelings. Just a year after my
abrupt entrance into Mrs. Piggot’s drawing
room, 1 married my Rose. The old lady
agreed at last—I think she had her doubts
about my steadiness of conduct, but although
only a curate, I had a comfortable private
income to offer Roee, who had hitherto been
a pensioner on her aunt, and this circum
stance may have weighed in my favor:
It is a long time since our wedding day;
but as I look back I feel grateful to the acci
dent which was so instrumental in bestowing
upon me the sweetest and. rtnant ■If* that
ever blest - a man’s home.
In ’67 Jake Pool was staging the ronte
from Gallatin to Helena, in Montana, driv
ing a four-horse coach in summer and a
‘jerky’ in winter seventy miles a day through
the wildest region and over one of the most
dangerous routes in the United States. The
country through which the trail ran—for it
was little else than a trail—was totally unin
habited but for three stations where horses
were changed and which were dug outs or
log huts twenty miles apart.
One muggy morning in early May. as Jake
hauled np in front of the stage office and
prepared to receive the mails, express and
messenger, and passengers if there should be
any for Helena, the Wells, Fargo agent called
to him from within. Throwing the reins
over the foot-brake, Poole descended from
his perch and entered the office.
Tue agent shut the door behind him, then
drawing near he said in a half whisper:
“There’s fifteen thousand in currency in
the safe to take over to-day.”
“All light,” responded Jake ; ‘Tve carried
more before now, and carried it safely.”
“But,” said the agent, “Dick’s sick and
there is no messenger.”
“Ah,” said the driver,, meditatively; then,
touching the revolver which hung at his
belt, “111 be messenger and coachman both,
then.”
“But,” still continued the other, “there’s
one thing more,” and he leaned forward so
that his lips touched his companion’s ear,
“ ‘Copper Tom’ and his pal,‘Old Jim,” are on
the road. A man from Cross Trees was
robbed by them last night”
Poole whistled longhand low and hia hand
fell from his pistol butt “Copper Tom” was
the worst road agent in Montana, a despera
do with both courage and brains.
“Don’t send the rags.”
_ “1 must,” said the expressman, anxiously.
“Tne order is peremptory; the money must
go to-day, messenger or no messenger. Now
will yon take it and carry it throngh?”
Jake laughed.
“Ill take it: that’s part of my business.
Throw the safe under the seat and give me
your pistol; I may want two.” And he took
tbe other’s revolver from the desk where it
lay and thrust it into his boot top. “As to
carrying it through, that’s another matter,
with thoee fellows to stop it But I’ll prom
ise yon this—If I go through the safe shall”
Tne agent grasped his hand and shook it
I was a young clergyman in a dull, respec
table little watering-place, with no amuse
ments, no diversion—nothing but my routine
of ministerial visits. And I was a joyous,
fun-loving fellow. It cost me a good deal to
repress r y animal spirits and be sufficiently
d guified and ministerial to suit my position.
1 -ailed with delight the coming of my pretty
sister Helen and her two rosy-cheeked chil
dren. The season had just begun, and she
came for the benefit of the springs as well as
to see me—her favorite brother. When I had
the three domiciled in my tiny little parson
age, I felt at home for the first time. We had
rare frolics when 1 came home sometimes.
One gloomy, dffrk looking evening, I had
started out later than usual—a visit to a sick
man detained me—but 1 was anxious not to
omit my sunal call, as Helen was to return
to London the next day. I hurried along the
neat row of houses which formed the aristo
cratic quarter of the town, and rapped at the
well-known door. “ You need not announce
me,” 1 said, passing the neat maid-servant;
“I am expected;” and I hurried up stairs.
Just outside the drawing-room door lay a
large black fur rug, which I had never ob
served before. As I looked at it the idea
struck me that I might make a brilliant en
trance into that room on this farewell visit.
It was past seven o’clock; the children would
be assembled in the drawing-room at their
tea. I would enter in the character of a
bear. Wrapping myself in the rug, I opened
tbe door, and crawled in on all-fours, emit
ting sundry growling sounds, A scream
greeted me—that was to be expected, but in
place of laughter that ought to have fol
lowed it, I was terrified to hear a shrill fe
male voice, certainly not Helen’s, exclaiming
Thieves! Murder 1 Ruse! Maria! help!
help!”
Stunned tor a moment, 1 hastily began to
disengage the bear-dress; and when I got the
length of my knees with my.hand free, 1, to
my dismay, found myself in a strange room,
with two strange ladies standing opposite,
one young, and very pretty,the other an older
one, who stood intrenched behind a chair, in
which she had doubtless been peacefully dez
ing until disturbed by my abrupt entry. It
must baye been a shock to her to be awoke
from tranquil repose by the sight of a strange
animal crawling in at the door, nor was tne
discovery that the animal was a strange man
likely to reassure her. As for myself—a
German author has noted in his diary that at
a certain date he “behaved as a fool ”—1 cer
tainly passed a similar mental verdict upon
myself. 1 had evidently entered a wrong
house by mistake, and played what looked
like a practical joke on an entire stranger.
It was a pleasant and dignified position for
tbe curate of the parish to find himself in 1
If the story spread to the rector’s earsl Mr.
Gray was a starched specimen of the old
school of frigid politeness, who abominated
levity of demeanor, and I am sure would not
have crawled on all fours had his life depend.
At the same time, I would not advise my
readers to enter strange houses wrapped in
rugs, on the chance of finding another Bose.
Not My Business.
A wealthy man in St. Louis was asked to
aid in a series of temperance meetings, bnt
he scornfully refused. After being further
pressed, he said:
“Gentlemen, it is not my business.”
A few days after his wife and two daugh
ters were coming home in a lightning ex
press. In his grand carriage, with liveried
attendants, he rode to the depot, thinking of
his splendid business, and planning for the
morrow. Hark! did some one say “Acci
dent?” There are many railroads centering
in St. Louis. If there has been any accident
it is not likely it has happened on the
arid Mississippi Railroad. Yet it troublee
him. “It is his business” now. The horses
are stopped on the instant, and npon inquir
ing he finds it has occurred twenty-five miles
distant on the and Mississippi He
telegraphs to the superintendent:
“1 will give you five hundred dollars for
an extra engine.”
“The answer flashes back: ‘ No,’ ”
“I will give you one thousand dollars for
an engine.’
“A train with surgeons and nurses has al
ready gone forward, and we have no other.”
With white face and anxious brow, the
man r aced the station to and fro. It is his
business now. In half an hour, perhaps,
which seemed to him half a century, the
train arrived. He hurried towards it, and
in tne tender found the mangled and lifeless
remains of his wife and one of his daughters.
In the car following lay his other daughter,
with her dainty rite crushed in, and her pre
cious life oozing slowly away. .
A quart of whisky which was drank fifty
miles away, by a railroad employe, was the
cause of the catastrophe.-
Who dares to say of this tremendous ques
tion, “It is not my business!”—U. W. A.
Black dresses, which have always been
more popular in London than here, will be
worn this winter in ball-rooms. Some will
be worked in gold or silver, and even in sub
dued colors, The old and inconvenient style
of laciDg waists, either in front ot in the
back, will be again in use. To arrive at the
requisite amount of thinness in vogue for the
moment, lacing, and very tight lacing, will
be indispensable. Pale cheeks and red noses
may be an accompaniment to this renewa! of
an obsolete and ungraceful fashion, but that
is a detail unworthy of consideration so long
as tbe regulation hour-glass waist is attained.
Colors remain much the same as ever. A
few eccentricities in tint, such as copper-col
or and Pompeian red, are worn by brunettes,
but for blondes they are less becoming. Gold
serpents with diamond eyes, or the entire
head of diamonds with ruby eyes, may be
worn either as a necklace or as a bracelet.
Glove buttons of mother of pearl and in va
rious designs are fastened to bits of silk and
inserted in the glove, as the button would
speedily wear out the kid were it used other
wise. Morning slippers of velvet are lined
with orange-colored plush and trimmed with
a frill of lace aroand the edges, surmounted
by a huge beetle in variegated beads. The
magnificent brocades, forming endless gar
lands of flowers, which are among the nov
elties of the season, must be made np with
infinite skill, otherwise the most stately wo
men are almost crashed under their stately
granedur. The design may be simplified by
tho introduction of frills and folds in some
plain color of silk or satin, and the uphol
stery effect, which is always difficult to
avoid, may thus b9 done away with.
It is a curious fact that the incidents of
President Garfield’s assassination have al
ready been embodied in a tragedy, which a
company of travelirg actors advertised to
play at Madison, Ohio, last week. The pub
lic mind is not j et prepared to see the har
rowing story rehearsed npon the stage, and
the fact that Madison is the late President’s
home district accounts sor the instant em
phatic expression of public indignation which
decided tbe ambitious tragedians to move on
without submitting the merits of their piece
to the criticism of the Madison play goers.