About The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907 | View Entire Issue (Jan. 29, 1887)
k NTA, THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY MORNING. JANUARY 29, 1887. THE GROSS AND RING. BY MRS. E. WARREN ERDELMYER. CHAPTER X. In the deepest agitation the countess narrat ed to Arniaml the story of her n.arriage with Bert- hut she withheld the treacherous part ■be had played, the abjminable skill with which she had fascinated ano entrapped him, and her final betiayal of her husband s trust. She explained their separation as being a matter of expediency only, as both were poor. She told him that, with an honest belief in Adalbert’s death—that was true—she had married the Karl of Castlemore. She spoke rapidly, in a pathetic earnestness and with a great show of suffering, amt re morse for the mad deed she had committed, which wholly disarimd Armand. And the reeulsion of feeling in him towards Adalbert for basely deceiving Estelle was a powerful help to the Countess’ pathetic story. She saw the effect she had produced and again an exultant triumph beat in her breast. Suppressing the exultation she brought to Boar a ij the force of her beauty and distress, and, still kneeling abjectly at his feet, she im plored his mercy in a successfully tragic ef- fp^i. Arinand was moved, deeply agitated, at the thought of his position. \V hy had the awful responsibility of this matter fallen upon him alone? He oegaii to regret the persistency with which he had traced the crime. He stooped and raised ihe Countess from her knees and seausl her again in the arm-chair. Toe touch ot her hand, a single lightning flash from her eyes, momentarily unguarded, sent a fresh chill through him, and with it the horror of her crime returned. He instantly realized what a consummate actress she was. A wou an guilty of murder? Horrors ! And even with the confession of that hide ous crime she was on the eve of arousing his compassion ani even admiration 1 He shud dered ! “Madam,” he said sternly, “this matter has become a fearful resiwiisibility to me, and—1 cannot condone a crime.” Her face grew ghastly white. “You will denounce me!” she said in a low desperate tone. Arinand was silent. Spare the good old earl. tion. He was a student of rare parts and dil- ligent application. Too proud to go home to face the reproaches of his family, he left his native land in com pany with two adventurers and landed in France. For a short while he led a reckless life, but kept aloof from lower crimes than drinking courts and gambling. His companions failing to make a tool of him for evil purposes abandoned him. Alone and friendless, Adalbert was in a des titute condition, when chance threw him in the way of a benevolent man, Mr. Creynard, a bank cashier. He also bad been wild in his youth, and knew the horrors of it after he was, by loving hands, lifted out of the depths of disnipatiou. By reason of his own early transgitssions he was always affected witli a tender compassion for a young man within the down-dragging clutches of tlie tyrant, drink. He at once conceived a great fancy for Adal bert, his protege, and took him into his life and loved him as a son. He trained him to work under himself in the bauk where beheld a position of great trust. Adalbert was proud of this trust and affec tionately grateful for the love and interest of his aged friend; and, for two years he was s rong against all temptation and faithful to that trust. But, alas! he once more fell un der the merciless influence of that inexorable thirst. At first it was of rare occurrence and was successfully concealed from his kind and unsuspecting her efactjr. It was live years ago that Adalbert Rosse- bernc had taken lodgings in the Kilt' Grange, l’aris. The exterior of the house wins of a re spectable apj>earance. There were family rooms, single apartments and offices all thronged together on the lirst and second floors. The third story was the dwelling of one family; the fourth and tilth cut up into small rooms, were occupied by poor ten tuts, clerks and working women who left at sun rise to return after night fall. The current which had driven Adalbert to these quarters was the irresistible charm of a beautiful face. That face had appeared one memorable day at the bank. She came to cash a check. The amazing beauty of it be wildered the boy and left sensations of over- helming passions which sometimes become men than the “Spare me that! . your uncle’s valued In -no t )li spare him a | t!lc lloolI1 ot oM( .,. aml strol public exposure—anything but tliiit 1, | bov of twenty-two. “Be silent, woman. Let im- llnnk. , this woman understood but too weil the Covering 1,'ls faefwiUi Ids'Lnds'l.e remained I pmV " r " f ,1Pr b au! - v and use ‘‘ il r * morselessl silent for some It seemed an i waited bruit hit | pow ! Adalbert wn uuiiite-*. ini, but wi 1 lfenuinaMe time to her who I Wrlj j, irou , r | si> u» htar her doom from his j betray a! of t lips. “Are you sure Bert did not escape death after ad?’’ he asktd, without uncovering his fac~. 44 IIow can I bo sure?” “He is a good swimmer,” Arinand continued in a tone par: ly unconscious ot speak ins aloud, “and the wound from that boy instrument could not have disabled him, much less prove fatal.” Her heart, leaped with new hope. She knew he was try ing to persuade his conscince to let her go free. “Perhaps he escaped,” she said in eager trenmlousness. “If so, what then?” adding ina measured, search ng tone: “Yo twill keep my secret and not betray me? What is it to you?” His hands dropped from his face. It was pale and haggard from all he had gone through. With a look of unutterable disgust he an swered : “You shall no longer deceive the honorable old man who believes you to be his wife. I will not keep that secret.” “Listen to me,” lie continued, after another long pause of dread silence. “I have conceived a plan. God knows whether I am right or wrong, but 1 will, on my own responsibility, carry out the plan if it is possible to accom plish it I can imagine how wicked your past life has been. You shall not be free to ruin other lives. I consider you a dangerous woman at Urge.” “I will not as yet, if ever, divulge the secret of Adalbert Hosseoerne’s disappearance, lie may be alive—1 think he is; if not perhaps he deserved his fate. 1 am not his iudge nor ” yours, save to "keep you fronl further ’ *.»*«**. hnd wickedness if it lies in my power. V OIU ; r you tiiis compromise: Tliat you shall a+ once confess to the Earl the fact of a former trial n- age, and that the husband of the lirst marri age was living when you contracted the sec ond. After which confession you shall go in to a nunnery to expiate your sins, ii God will mercifully hear you ami absolve you from the crimes of which you have Ix-en guilty. “If you accept this compromise and consent to go into a convent at once, I will make all necessary arrangements for your reception in to the sanctuary, and will, myself, be the bearer of a letter from you to Lord Castlemere, telling him that you are not his wife—that your legal husband is living or was when you mar ried the Earl. 1 will i ot require you to con fess more than that.” The Countess’ face was a study while he was speaking. If Arinand could have divined her thoughts as they flashed lightning like through her sub tle brain he would have known how strangely well his plan .suited her. “I accept the compromise on the condition of inviolate secrecy on your part conct ruing last night’s affair, and also seen cy to the out side world confeming ail else, including the fact of my marriage with Adalbert llossen- bemt—my lord will never tell it. It will be a blow to him, personally, for he love. me. He ■will be bitterly grieved and will never see me again; hut he will never let the public know why 1 left him.” ‘•I agree, and will abide hy my parted tha con tract between us. The Ursuline convent is within an hour’s ride from this place. With out a moment’s delay I will go there to pre pare for your reception. Mark me though, if you try to play me false 1 will hand you over to the civil authorities. You cannot— shall not—escape me!” “I will not endeavor to elude you. Believe me, I am glad to go into a convent. For how long?” “One year or more, as I shall determine la ter; but one year positively.” “Ten thousand times would I live out my life in a nunnery rather than the exposure you threaten, even in the event of Adalbert’s es cape from death—which f deem almost certain since you suggested it—in which case there could be no graver charge against me than bigamy, and tliat, in intent, could not be sub stantiated since 1 can prove that 1 believed Adalbert to be dead when I married again.” ArmaLd had undertaken a most difficult task. He could not pursuadc himself to be the sole accostr of this wretched woman and denounce her for a crime of which there wis a doubt of its taving been accomplished in the death of her victim, nor could he satisfy himself to keep her secret and leave her free in a false life. It was a strange plan tliat had presented it self so suddenly. A Providential help to him in his dilemma, lie somehow thought. To force her into the retirement of a nunnery would be a light punishment compared to the other al ternative, and yet severe enough to a woman of her nature—and it might effect a reform. “An extremely difficult matter,” Arinand muttered, pacing his room in pctplcxity while wailing for his horse to be btought out. He*nmst guard this secret from the whole household. He dreaded Estelle’s honest, lienetrating eyes. And then, how mrch must he tell to the Mother Superior, and on what plea could he gain admit .aticc for this woman into the con vent? Difficult, very difficult questions, yet he pur sued liiB ride to the convent, and by the time he had arrived he had decided upon the nature of the conversation to be held between the Mother Superior and himself. He simply told the mother that, the countess, believing herself free to wid, had married the Earl of Castle- mere, but a recent event proved her error—the husband of a fotmer secret marriage was alive, and the unhappy woman desired to retire from the world and had selected the Ursuline Con vent because slie did not wish to return to her own country; tliat if she could liecome a true, pious religieuse she would, at the expiration of one year, take the vows for life. On these terms the Mother Superior agreed to receive her. CHAPTER XL We will go back to a retrospective chapter in AdaBert Rosseberne’s life. At nineteen he was expelled from college because of a drunken frolic. But at that time no one could have charged him with diesipo- mill neither ri iiinable ingenuity site saw the Ii sir* mi a lit weave the woof, by means o: this victim to her charms, and thus obtain access to the vaults containing millions. She saw at once the impression her beauty had made on the young t usceptible heart, and she conceive I a plan to entrap hip. She learned his dinner hour and for s tveral day* in succession she passed by the bank at that time of the day. At first she only glanced into his face carelessly; then, in recognition of his ill-suppressed admiration, .she smiled as ( her eyes of mesmeric power met bis. She knew he would fall on that smile. Thus lie became a tenant of one of the single apart ments over the third floor, where she lived in company with a man and woman claiming to be her near relatives aud guardians. I i a day Adalbert and this beauty became acquainted, and morning and evening met, by accident, on the stairs. The result, simple anil not uncommon, a few compliments interchanged, then longer talks, then visits l« her apartments, where foaming, heading, glistening wines were served freely. Then the man, her kinsman, demanded Adal bert’s intentions. The simple-hearted boy had not thought about marriage, and was amazed when the hand of this lovely woman, older than himself, was offered to him. A voice within warned him not to accept the proffered honor. But while he stood speech less in confusion and coi flirting emotions of passion and disl rust, the fascinating object her self, Coralie Bruyerre, made her appearance as by accident He felt her eyes upon him, those strangely cultivated art with me. I have no further uaa for yon. You shad never discover the faintest cine to my life as It will be in the future. I am rich, very rich—my luck was marvellous. I go to enter into a new and grand career. You know I am equal to it I am dead to you. In the new field I am bound for I will lose all identity with your wife. Do not torment your self with efforts to And me. It will be utterly v tin to discover a trace of me. Hide yourself for awhile; the Paris police are difficult to elude. You can reform and lead a new life, and I say do it. Corai.ie. Thus terminated Adalbert’s mad career in France three years before he entered Estelle DeRive’s chamber as a midnight burglar. CHAPTER XII. Arinand, on his return from the convent, found Mr. DeRtve at borne. He had come back alone The Earl, lie said, had decided to remain in the city to dine with a friend, and would drive out after night as there would be a full moon and the evening promised to be cloudless. Arinand again sought and obtained a private interview with the Countess. She expressel herself satislied with the ar- rangt meuls he had made and even thanked him for it. She assumed a sad, contrite face and man ner. She would be glad to hide herself in a con vent, she said tearfully. She had always been a Catholic in belief, and the prayers of the good nuns, with the holy influences of the sanctuary, might bring to her the consolation of true repentance and absolution—if so, she believed she could em brace that life and it’s work joyfully. Arinand smiled curiously. He wuuld, he told her, be ready to accompany her to the convent immediately after dinner, which hour was usually four o’clock and it was then two. There was no necessity for delay, he said, and he was urgently anxious to get over with it. He could explain that tlie Countess desired him to drive her into the city for an hour or two, ami then, on his return alone, he could bring a message from her that she had con clude 1 not to re urn—a sick headache or a trivial excuse could lie devised to account for her stay in the city—and he could state that they had missed the Earl, to account for his returning, as expected, without knowing of her trip. “A secret always involves a succession of untruths,” lie said with a hitter smile. She offered no opposition to his plans, only requesting that the Earl might be surely al lowed to return to Mr. DeKive’s that night, in orcer to afford an opportunity to have her trunks sent from the hotel, in the oily, to the convent, which she begged Arinand to attend to himself after leaving her at. the convent. Had Arinand lookril back as lie left her room he would have detected the contemptu ous smile ami il .sit of triumph in her eyes. She clinchcqjier hands, muttering: “llotv I hate him! What a dupe!—a soft case, surely.: Ah. my revenge will come soon er or later—f can Wait for it. He shall suffer yet, as he.hopes to make me suffer—ha! hat lie does not, dream of the power of my will, nor the mercilessness of my vengeance.” “I am stilling in tiiis house,” she muttered still. “A half-hour of fresh air in the grounds will recover al! my strength for the role so suddenly and pitilessly thrust upon me.” me, the coward l and then he ran away to avoid a duel—the aatiafac ion I demand.” She paled and said nervously: "Had your challenge been accepted by him?* “Yes. To-day was the time Hied. At ten o’clock this morning we were to have met to settle the difficulty with short swords. He was told that I was a good swordsman, and his heart failed him. The dastard! to sneak off in the night.” Estelle’s head drooped on her bosom. She felt the shame of such conduct. Woman as she was she could not help but admit the jus tice of Charley’s condemnation. It was a bitter thought; yet, she knew that he was not a coward in the sense of Desberne’s accusation. It was another kind of coward ice—a fear of himself, a fear of a woman. She walked aw»y in the direction of the house, Charley followed a few paces behind her, with a bitter desire for vengeance on Bert for having won her love, of which he now felt satisfied. Within a few yards of where they had been sitting a man was passing behind the hedge. Ilis steps were arrested at the sound ot her voice and the mention of his own mi ne. He heard the conversation while his dark eyes flashed with anger. He had heard only tlie latter part of their talk—the accusations against himself. Fifteen minutes afterwards as Charley Des- berne was mounting his horse to leave the “Lodge,” a little negro urchin handed a note to him. Desberne started, as he read the lines: “Meet me beneath the double oak at the end of the W cut lane at six o'clock this evening.” Adalbert Rosseiieiixe. While Armand and the Countess, in utter silence, were driving rapidly toward the ‘Ur- suline Convent,’ Charley Desberne was riding down tlie West lane to answer the summons from Adalbert Rosseberne, w licit he knew meant to cross swords in a deadly combat with ltis enemy, and he was prefared for it. [to be continued.] MISCHIEVOUS HAL. By Ceorge Percy Dean. Henry Nelson was coisidered a very un common boy—or rather, an uncommonly bad one. Was an orchard robbed, a melon patch plundered, or a gate dethroned from its hin ges. all eyes turned suspiciously towards Hal. lie yas the terror of the village school teach er. \\ hen the stove pipe smoked there was no doubt that it was Hid who had dropped in the bricks, ,,r placed some other obstruction in the chimney.’ Most of the torn books, cracked Slates and broken windows were charged ti him. Ilis character as a f le to peace and order was as bad at his home as it was throughout the entire.village. Ilis grandfather and sister (his only living relatives) cimsi'lcreil hint tie exponent of a power of mischief whose quail- lily was constantly less unknown and more dreaded. l’erhaps llie boy’s faults might have been attributed ;«> i ie fact that his old grandfather had paid so lit tie attention to his early train ing. Since babyhood lie had had his own v,, v, that “way” that is so sure to prove a child’s ruin. The result was that old Hr. ”1 will be equal to it. All, self-appointed | ^’eison was beginning to grow apprehensively a 1 mo..,. : i ~.oi :.i. I ;u t i 1(1 f u t ure suggested by tlie conduct of ins fourteen year old grandson, whose name lie pronounced wulTan intonation that brought to luind thoughts of the lower region. While he had no manner of patience with Hal, and mingled no el money or charity with liis censure of his misuiedetneanors, his opin ion of Irene, the boy’s sister, was quite tlie contrary, and ltis course in regard to her fully L 0 n ... as perilous. She was a quiet, sweet disposed a curving path that was hedged on either side ] !?j rl sixteen, though site was spoiled by ill judge and jailor in one, 1 will meet you with intrigue such as your slow brain could never conceive the tenth part of. My plan Use a flash came to my rescue—and ho! for the near day of my judgment and inexorable verdict toward a doom of cruelty of which he—tlie silly, good boy—could have hut a faint dream.” By chance Arm mil had walked out to the same part of the garden. He was standin; hy a thick growth of ‘I.oria Mundi,’ tall enough to conceal a man. He saw the Countess coming with bent head, covered with a broad sun hat. Unob served he secreted himself at the end of the walk to watch her, murmuring: “I will try my detective qualieties.” As she approached nearer he liearda startled exclamation from her and a rustling of leaves, and peering through a vine behinl which he was hidden, he saw a man leap over a low place in the hedge near her. ‘I have startled my fair countess. Recover sublime eyes; they forced upward bis lowered your nerves, my sweetheart; I am no appari- by lids, and a rapturous look entered bis soul. Tlie work was done. Dazzled, enchanted, bewitched; he knelt and kissed her hand il.uiiy ‘.i-rti i laii,. n,rMr„,,r. - * ‘ Day by day he lived in a state of feverish, intoxic ited bliss. lie drifted away from the few friends who hail constituted the circle of his associates in the better and sober life he had led under the c tre of his good friend, the cashier, lie now preferred the society of his wife’s friends to the high-bred companions in troduced to him by his benefactor. The rcc. tying rooms of this third in or were visited at all hours by a class of young men who came u iceremoniously, without even be ing announced. Liquors and cigars were liberally provided ■ the host and hostess, Coralie’s relatives, and Coralie herself, though a bride, was tlie chief attra :tion. Site reveled, undisguised, in the admiration she excited, and with all the arts of a iinished and shameless coquette, she aroused the wil lest passions of the gayest ami richest of these young men visitors. Adalbert soon fell into the habits of this new set. He learned to drink mixed liquors and absynthe, to boast of his strong head and abil ity to hold a steady hand at the card table, to bet high—and he was wonderfully successful, winning large sums of money, not knowing he was hut a tool in the cunning hands of his wife, who was always present to bewilder aud confuse the parties with whom lie played. The cashier began to watch his young friend and protege with anxious affection. The change in him was unaccountable to the old gentleman, who knew nothing of Adalbert’s marriage, of which he had, purposely, been kept in ignorance through tlie request of Cora lie. She had reasons for keeping their union a secret from the cashier aud Adalbert’s pre vious friends. Ilis delinquencies ill business hours only met with a mild reproof from his indulgent patron. Then the old man ventured to gently lecture him upon ins degenerating business habits, and hint that the cause was late hours and perhaps a little too much wine. He urged upon him the necessity of persevering energy and sobriety, saying tliat be knew Adalbert would win a fortune in time, if true to him self. Adalbert was fond of bis old friend, and re ceived this lecture in respectful silence. But a few hours later, when in a state i f idiotic de light—half drunk with wine and wholly intox icated with the mad, fatal passion for the wo man who was seeking his ruin—he said to her: “Fortune! Why should I work to acquire money tliat comes slowly? One grows old ac cumulating moderate wealth. My luck is my estate—I want no better. I always win—never lose. As long as we can live in tiiis state of bliss I care for no fortune but the night’s win nings and your love.” “And when that fails,” (the winnings, i mean—my love will never fail you) she said, “when luck is running against you, you have the bank vaults.” She looked into his eyes with charming roguishness, and she was so beautiful, and site kissed liis lips with sucli fervor that his whole being throbbed with the fire of love and drink mixed. ... Yet lie drew back involuntarily and shud dered as tlie echo of her words in liis own brain aud dazed se jses caught the implied meaning. “The vaults!” “Yes, you darling idiot, with millions at our linger ends.” _ “Hush, you fairy jester! Tliat is treason. But 1 know my pet is only indulging in a little raillery. Two days later the bank was robbed and Adalbert Rosseberne had disappeared from Paris. At Homburg Adalbert Roseebeme lay ill with brain fever. . , The fast life he had led for three months had brought him down, at one fell blow, to the verge of the grave. In the raving of fever he was at times delir ious with joy, gesticulating like a madman; then, groaning in agony, he would cry out for help against the .aimed men dragging him, lie said, to the scaffold, while the woman, his wife, was leading a mad life—spending the days and nights at the gaming table, breath lessly lighting the bank with wonaerful skill and indescribable coolness. She succeeded in breaking the bank and de parted alone, leaving the following letter for Adalbert, who still raved in the delirium of “When you read this I shall be far away. Poor Bert, I never loved you, and your love for me was but the infatuation of maddened passions. I now release you from tlie witchery that bfr* enthralled you, and which is only a tion of a spirit, but a real blood and flesh creature—though you believed me to be in IIad „ es u a J, and that tall,powerful frame of matchless sym metry and grace was unmistakable; there was no need to see the face which was turned from him; Armand knew it was Adalbert Rosseberne, and he trembled with indignant rage, as he listened for tlie Countess’ answer. “Why need you startle me at all?” she said. “There was no necessity for this abrupt reap pearance among the living,” and she laughed musically. “Must you and I forever play hide and seek, with death as a blind, one to the other. But the timely resurrection now is a most wonderful opportune delivery to me. It tits in the last link to a good game.” “Hey, what’s up!” “1 want your help—bold, unflinching help.” “Will it pay me?” “Marvelously well!” They walke on together, and Armand lost the animated conversation, save in the excited sounds—though sub filed—of their voices. They had paused in their walk just far enough from him to prevent his distinguishing the words. But tlie couple, on retracing their steps passed slowly by Armand’s hiding place and he heard the man say: “He will be in an open buggy, you say, and accompanied only by a servant?” “Yes. They will probably leave the city as the moon rises.” “And will, you think, pass through the ‘English Turn’ at about eleven to-night? I will he on hand.” “Do not hurt tlie old man if you can possi bly avoid it,” she said. “If he is plucky and shows fight I’ll have to stun him a little in order to find the belt. Does be wear it beneath his shirt?” “Yes but one rip with your dirk will answer without a scratch on his flesh: the buckle is easy to unclasp.” “Are you sure it contains the large sum you mentioned?” "Have I not seen its contents? Did I not tell you that I fastened it around his waist my self this morning.” Again they were out of hearing, and in a few minutes more Aruiaud saw the man disappear through the hedge. “Aha! my Countess,” thought ArmaDd. “Your gams is no doubt a fine one: but chance has throwu into my hands the key to it. We will see who will he the winner. 1’oor, delud ed, old Earl! He shall not pass through the ‘English Turn’ to night, but I will—the villain! Oh, Bert, Bert! who would have believed it?’ In another part of the garden Estelle and Charley Desberne were together. lie had found her there alone, sitting on a rustic bench. once more he begged her to listen to his pe tition for a renewal of their betrothal. “My answer will always be the same,” she said, kindly but firmly. “You broke your pledge of temperance which was the condition of our engagemeut. And, besides I have since discovered that I was too hasty in entering into the betrothal, for I never have loved you, Charley. I know it now; but in the pleasant associations of that period I fancied that I cared for you as a lover. Yes, if you had been true to the conditions, I would have kept my troth at whatever cost to me, even after re alizing my mistake. Perhaps, had you been true to your honor in keepiug that promise— the faithlessness to which released me entirely —1 would never have known that my fancy was not real love. Whereas the shock to my affectionate friendship for you, which I imag ined to be love, and to my trust in you, broke the dream even of a nearer and dearer tie. I have spoken thus frankly, though painful to me. to show you how vain it will be for you to renew your offer at any time in the future. A long silence ensued. ... Desberne looked not only pained but angry. “Did you know of Adalbert Rosseberne’s intention of leaving so abruptly? he asked with a contemptuous bittern* ss. She did not answer at c nee. After a moment’s effort, she said, compos edly: “Yes. He told me good-bye.” “Will he return?” with marked emphasis. “Why should it concern you?” she said, ImDatiently, “Y'ou do not like him. “It does concern me. Perhaps I should not tell you* but, since he has taken French leave it does not matter. There was an affair of honor between us, which, if he were a gentle man I would not betray to a lady. She flashed an indignant glance at him. As vou are in an insulting frame of mind I will bid yon goo 1-day,’’ she said haughtily, rising to leave him. , , » “I beg pardon. I do not consider ahat I have said to be an insult to you. He insulted directed praise and over in tulgenco, aud had not even the wisdom or prudence that should be expected from one of her age. She could not endure study’ at school, and had no taste for boons out of it, except silly, trashy novels. These caused her to dream of love, and to pine for beaux before her mind had been fortified by the necessary discipline that makes a girt a capable judge or a safe re cipient of these too evidently woman’s pos sessions. Irene was rather pretty, and the flattery of those who looked upon her as Dr. Nelson’s favorite and heir, caused her to believe her self quite a beattty. Ajbqjtt tiiis tiJL a young i. an came to tlie vilage wlc'j »j27^iv ie*nie at. the hotel as Uob- ratine <oii-t It that he Ua.:\. fiLiViiiably attired young person, who lived expensively, while his means of doing so was one of the mysterious secrets of modern young men. It did not take him long to form the ac quaintance of Irene Nelson. She conceived the idea that he was iter beau idea!—the realization of tlie one she had formed from Iter novel read ing. He soon discovered that she would be an easy and (as he thought) an important stake to vin in the game of matrimony. Consequently by the time they had known each o: her a fortnight they were “engaged,” with the understanding that Dr. Nelson must not be informed, for Irene knew her grandfa ther disapproved strongly of young men of Mr. Avant’s type and would not tolerate him as Iter lover. For a few days the novelty of the secret en gage nent was sufficient to render her wonder fully happy. She imagined herself a real live beroiue, quite as noted and important as those in her standard of novels; and when Mr. liob ert Avant became impatient for its culmina tion, and urged an elopement, she was easily persuaded to complete the romance. But she had her own ideas of the manner in which it must be done—midnight; a rope ladder ami a carriage at tlie back gate with her lover await ing her at the railway depot. Meantime Hal had used his eyes and ears to some purpose. He had watched over a few stolen interviews, had eavesdropped some dis cussions of plans and had made some of liis own. One of his greatest delights was to tease and aggravate hi > sister, and he decided that now was a fine opp irtunity. No thought for her welfare entei ed into his calculations. It was purely to gratify his love of mischief that he determined to thwart her. On the night set apart for the elopement, as Irene sat in her room waiting anxiously for the hour for proceedings to arrive, Ilal came in dragging after him a long rope ladder. “Irene, do you think this thing will hold your weight?” he asked composedly. “Hal, where ou earth did you find tha.!” she gasped in dismay and astonishment. “In the hall where yoa had it put this morn ing. I wouldn’t have bothered it, only to be sure that it was strong enough to hold you. Aud rtally uow I am afraid it isn’t.” “Oli! Hal, how can you be so cruel?” moan ed Irene, aud she began to weep as she real ized that her holies were blighted for this time at least. “Don't cry about it,” coaxed Hal hypocriti cally. “I can soon make it safe if you will let me carry it to my room. It will not do to risk it to-night, but I'll keep dark about it and have it ready for you to-morrow night.” Irene was not|deceived. She knew Hal, and was convinced that her rope ladder scheme was a failure. However, she consented to his arrangement with apparent cheerfulness. If he would keep his promise of secrecy she hoped to effect btr object in some less loman- tic way, and at another time. But her tears flowed afresh as she thought of “Dear Rob erts” disappointment because she could not meet him at the depot that night. Hal hastened away with the contrivance, which he had no intention of allowing her to see again. He knew Irene expected him to report the affair to their grandfather, and that she would make no attempt to join Avant that night. But instead, when the hour of midnight drew near, he sent a servant to Dr. Nelson with a message to the effect that a man at the depot was badly wounded, and that he wished him to come to him, with all possible speed. As the sleepy old Doctor came out of his bedroom, this same servant met him with the information that the carriage, which had been sent for him, was at the hack gate, as that road was nearer the depot. He followed the man unsuspectingly, and made no comment as he took his seat, though ha may liave wondered a little at the strange proceedings. It seemed the driver was not well posted in regard to the person for whom he was sent; or else he was bribed by the stra- getic Hal, for he made no d splay of surprise as he closed the door, and drove with more ra pidity than caution to the depot. Mr. Avant stood on the platform on the alert. He sprang down the steps, as the pant ing horses were stopped, and threw open the carriage door: “Oh! my darling—mine only now forever! I have been wishing for wings that I might fly to meet thee—dearest Irene!” “What lunatic are you?” roared Dr. Nel-on, as his?grey head came in contact with the ele gant Mr. Avant’s, and two moustached mouths collided. “Wbat do you mean by this insult ing stuff sir?" demanded the Doctor, aghast with indignation, as he disengaged himself from the hastily bestowed embracer. “Ah!—ah! yes—I think 1 comprehend,” he ejaculated slowly, as he descended the car riage steps with more haste than grace. The tableau that filhd the next half minute is in describable. Both men were sold, and stood looking at each'other in mute amazement as a full realization of their situations dawned up on them. The enraged old gentleman ended the si lence by a muttered oath, aud raised his cane threateningly. But Mr. Avant put a stop to the evident intent by saying defiantly: “You had better keep this little affair as quiet as possible, Dr. Nelson. I leave here on the train that I see coming. I shall never re turn, and I think you might imagine that it is more important to you and your granddaugh ter, than to me, that there is no row; for it would entail exposure.” This argument closed the melo-dramatic in terview. A moment later the disappointed lover was aboard tlie flying train; and Dr. Nelson has tened home to investigate matters there. lie soon came to the truth, and Hal rose in his estimation to the saute unjust degree that Irene lost favor. But it was a fortunate change for both. Irene was banished to the seclusion of a distant school for three years, where there were no disturbing novels, or lovers, and she gradually developed into a rather sensible wo man. Hal’s character improved very pecepti- bly. He was made to feel that his grandfather trusted and respected him, and he left off his mischievous habits that he might feel himself worthy of confidence. A lens that enlarges is sometimes safe: than one witich diminishes. I’ive years later when Irene accepted an un pretending man’s lmnest love, she related the episode of her first fancy. “But I do not think 1 was very much in love with Mr. Avant,” she added, “for I have nev er thought of his kissing Grandpa for me, without laughing. I laughed that very night when i heard of it. ft was such a ridiculous ending for my romance. Not at all similar to those I had read.” THE NEW SOUTH. Facts Versus Fancy. Editor Sunny South : It is a license of poets to say things that are not literally true. (irators, who make it their aim to please rather than persuade have to a large extent the same privilege. Writers and speakers have aforetime from malice done our South land much injustice by portraying her all too dark. It is now tiie craze of some of a poeti cal learning to g > to tiie other exteme and de pict our section in colors much too bright. It is continuously being said by some that tin “New South” is entering upon a period of splendid prosperity and di-vi lopment. We wish we could see this. To onr view howev er. the outlook is altogether the opposite. SVe do inaeed see railroads building up, and ex tending new lines. We see cities growing, and hamlets expanding to the proportions of towns. But we also see agriculture in a lan guishing condition, and we cannot therefore regard this growth of cities and railroads as an indication of healthful growth. Almost all of our great railroa 1 lines have passed into the hands of Northern Capitalists, and we can no longer regard them with pride as imlira- ions of the wealth of our section. The same may he said of the manufacturing and mining enterprises that are being undertaken here and there. Day by day our farmers are pledging their lands for a third or fourth of its value and agreeing t > pay an outragious rate of interest for a little money to buy the means of subsisting for a few years longer. In a short time the bulk of Southern lands will be owned by Northern capitalists and tlie people who once owned them will be virtually serfs. These are painful facts, but none the less facts because they are painful. To one who looks them squarely in the face, the talk about the cheering outlook and the opening era of prosperity. Sounds very absurb. We can see nothing cheer ing in the outlook. The fact that our people feel discouraged cannot be concealed. They were not discouraged twenty-two years ago, when the bulk of their accumulated capital was swient r re--- 1 ’ ‘■(.the we> Tt.-,„ yt building their fortunes. A lew have succeeded in gaining wealth in new forms, and we will no* say tliat many more might have succeeded. But by far the greater number have failed to grapple successfully with the difficulties of their chinged environments, and, having failed, have grown discouraged. Few of our young men a r e entering upon life careers with the determination to succeed. Young white boys are, as a general thing, fleeing tlie field, and many of them adopting mere temporary makeshifts. The colored youth—who are tak ing the places of their fathers, who in their newly acquired freedom did not wholly forget the habits of steady devotion to labor acquired under the discipline of slavery—are more worthless than the whites whom they are am bitious to imitate. Thus comes it to pass that by neither race is agriculture pursued with an energy that would render it assuredly prosper ous, and as a consequence that upon which all else depends is languishing. It may do no good to say all this unless a candid view of our situation would incite a determination to bring about a better state of things. But we are at as much loss to see how ro se-tinted pictures of “the new South” and a telling about her what is untrue is likely to better her condition. We need capital put into farming to make it a thriving business. We want this capital from abroad, for we see not how otherwise it can be forthcoming. But Rhodomoutade on the part of orators about our thrift, when we notorious ly are not thriving, will not induce capitalists to liberal terms. Observer. THE(0lfNTFflr PHILOSOPHER ‘Sneeze twice before breakfast and then be sure You have at your supper one less or one more.” Mrs. Arp knows all the signs. She does not believe in them, of course, for they have fooled her too of tea; but somehow when the sign be tokens good it seems to cheer her up, and she sings around more happily. I sneezed this morning most heartily, and she said: “There, now, there is a conjunction of signs. My nose itches, and the £auie ro >ster crowed awhile auo on tlie front steps. Somehow I caa't help looking for one of tlie boys. I wouldn’t be suprised if we have one of them to supper to night/’ and she has been flying around all day fixing up things a little better. 1‘oor woman ! I am sorry for her, and sorry for myself, too. Her older boys are scattered now, and some of them we rarely see. It costs money to come, and time is precious, and business is exacting, and so we have to take comfort with their hit ters and try to be content. It is hard on the mothers, very h ro: and there should be a Heaven for the re union of fuinili* s ii for noth ing more But all signs fail in dry weather, and wet weather, too, a:*l my opinion is that t :<• no e knows nothing about it, nor tlie roos'er either, for the boy didtnt come, ami Mr>. A.d has what a man is or a woman sither. Bill Ramsey used to say, “You can’t tell anything about a woman until you see her walk,” but to my mind the human face is the high est and best evidence of human character. The eye, the forehead, the nose, the mouth, the lips, the chin will hardly dective you. Lines will c >me there too sooner or later. Lines of thought, of will, of purpose and lines of care and trouble and sor row. They too tell their own tale and mark the man. It is not the lines in the hand that make the man or determine his destiny, but it is the man who makes the lines. One time there was a shrewd old doctor called in to see a patient who had been long sick and nobody could tell wbat was the matter with him. He had no appetite and what food he eat did not agree with him and so the old doctor called for an ax and a gimlet and he bored a bole in the ax handle and poured a few drops of very precious oil in the hole and plugged it up tight and told his patient 'hat the oil would be ab sorbed into the wood and would go from the wood into the palms of his hands, aud from there into his system and cure him if be would chop wood for half an hour three times a day. He did so and got well. Just so when a bad boy is very bad aud the indulgent mother says he is sick and must have some medicine, the best way to administer is to pour it in the hand and spank it in. And just so if a young man wants the lines of good fortune to come in his hand, the best way is to work them in. I have never known it to fail. MARY ANN. Dickens is dead. I'm sorry for that—so ^ because he never knew “Mary Ann.” “Little Nell,” “Florence Dombey/’ “Liz,” the “Marchioness” were each characters in their way—but Mary Ann, as old Mrs. Smith said herself—was a “curosity.” Old Mrs. Smith was not her god-mother, nor step-mother, nor mother—but her mother-in-the-law—for she was bound by the law to her till she should reach her twentieth year, which event seemed a long way off, as Mary Ann, judging from her siz-, seemed to be growing backwards. * I say I am sorry Dickens is dead, because I would so have iiked for him to see Mary Ann, as I have seen her a hundred times. Of a I Dickens’ characters, I think she most resem bled “Smike.” Her lank, bare legs—protect ed by a single, frazzled out garni ir, that left off just above her bony little knees—hung down like the. handies of an inverted mop, the worn sleeves Hying like penons from a inast, gave one the ideaof astraided ship.and if ever a vessel was straided, 1 think Mary Ann was. Her face was lean and yellow, and swathy from uncleanness, and her great h. llow,hrown eyes had a wild, hungry look in them. But it was only a momentary expression, ft r she would si.*rr. on the slightest provocation, anil throw h r o lg. lean hand to her head, in a ashed'tie ill.' i : : • it on her. titions do 1> that.: idren j The Horsford Almanac and Cook Book mailed free on application to the Kuniford Oiemieal Works, Providence, U. I. Cochrane. Gen. John Cochrane, of New York, who re turned to the Democrats after a Republican ex perience of some twenty-three years, is a ne phew of the late Garrett Smith, the famous ab olitionist, and has now boxed the political com pass. Before the war he was a roaring Demo crat, though on good terms with his grand uncle, of whom he always spoke witli admira tion and respect. When the war opened he “flopped.” as so many others did, and his re turn to the “grand old party” has probably cost him no serious sacrilice of conscience. He is a sonorous and plausible speaker—or was in his younger days—but is now too old to be of much use to any party, especially after so many changes. Perhaps no local d sease has puzzled and baf fled the medical profession more than nasal ca tarrh. While not immediately fatal it is among the most distressing, nauseous and disgusting ills the flesh is heir to, and the records show very few or no cases of radical cures of chron ic catarrh by any of the multitude of modes of treatment until the introduction of Ely’s cream Balm a few years ago. The success of this preparation has been most gratifying atd sur prising. Ben Jonson. Ben Jonson, though egotistical, was noted for his social habits and tlie ease and grace with which he could accommodate himself to his company. An instance of this is related, when he happened to be drinking with a few friends in one of bis favorite resorts. It ap peared Ben had run up a score vi ith the land lord which the latter asked him to settle. Knowing the talents of his guest, he said he would forgive the debt if Ben would tell him in four lines what would please God, please the .devil, please the company present, and please himself. Ben hesitated but a moment and then addressed his host: “God is pleased when we depart from sin. The devil’s pleased when we pertist therein ; Your con pany’s plesed when you do draw good wine, And thou’d be pleased, if I would pay the thine.” The landlord immediately wiped out the score, giving Ben a clean slate for future oper ations. Important to all Who Work for a living. Write to Ilallett&Co., Portland, Maine, and they will send you full informa tion, free, showing yon how you can make from £5 to $25 and upwards a day and live at home, wherever you are located. Some have made over $50 in a day. All ages; both sexes. All is new. Gi« at incomes sure from the start. For tunes await ail workers who begin at oice. iishes. I don’t b* 1 i altogether out of hope yet, lor a I;: ag » she said “hush” o the ehiidrt si ai her ear towards the front gat • as if t- could go when she plea* and take me al mg to \v How these little supe ns. When I was a boy gan to notice the girls on the sly I v> Miaded to go out in the country a little wav and see an old w >inan who was a fortune tel- 1*T. She was a clever old crone and lived in a hut all alone. Fortune tel ing was le r living, for she had in her yo idi lived with the gypsies and learned their mysterious arts. She was very old and very smart, and always gave the }oung people good fortunes—sonii good and some better, but none very bad. She had a pack of old gypsy cards that had no jack nor queen nor king, but in their places were cards with spots eleven, twelve and thirteen. With these the pack numbered spots, and she count ed the ace of spades as 2, so as to make :U»5, which correspond with the number of days in the year. All cards were spotted this way for a long time after they were invented, for their use at first was to tell fortunes. The Brah mins of India invented them, and when they came to be used for sport and games, and be came popular in other countries. King Henry the 7th prohibited their importation and li censed his own people to make them, and he had the pictures put on three cards or* each suit, aud had the ace of spades stamped with a revenue mark of two shillings. He sold these aces to the dealers, one for each pack, and in that way made money for the govern ment. That is why the ace of spades has somethin on it tli^xt looks like a revenue garet, King Henry’s daughter, they played “ecarte,” arid the stake was her hand and heart, and he won. So t ie old woman put on her spectacles and made me kneel by her side and give her my left hand, and she looked at it long and care fully, and then shufibd the old greasy deck and said: “Your birthday, my child: tell me the day and the month and the year.” When 1 answered she said: “Good, my ch Id; June is a lucky month, and the fifteenth day is tiie middle of it.” Then she select* d some cards and counted their spots, and looked sii the palm of my hand again and muttered over the names of the planets, and stopped at Venus and said, “You will marry dark eyes and darker hair.” Then she poured some coffee in a saucer and watched it settle. “I see, said she, “some chiliren playing round. You will live to be old, very old, but your wife will outlive you. I see a widow in mourning. I see grand-chil dren and great grand-children no-v.” Then she named over the planets again and stopped at Mars. “You will see a war, my child, a ter rible war, for I see a field of blood.’’ Then she examined my linger nails and found some small white spots, and said: “Sweethearts, three sweethearts; blit the last is the best. You will marry her and be happy.” When she seemed to be through I ventured to ask her about riches—would I be rich. She shook her head vigorously and said, “No, cot rich, but you will have enough if you work for it. You must work for it, my child.” I gave her a silver quarter and we left her alone in her hermitage. We laughed at her predictions and made light of them, but they left their mark, and the shadow of it is still over me at times, for she guessed well. Fortune telling has passed away now. I do not know a professor of the hidden art nor even an amateur professor. The Gypsies come along sometimes, but nobody cares and but few go to them. The time was when it was held in great esteem. Chiromancy or the art of divining destiny by the lines in the hand had believers and followers among the great and the learned. Roger Bacon, the most emi nent philosopher of his time, was profoundly absorbei in it. Aristotle and Pythagoras wrote learned treatises upon it and gave it dig nity and importance. There are four princi pal lines—the line of life, of health, of fortune and happiness. There are many others that cross these at various angles and all have their significance. There are seven mountains on the palm and they are named for the seven planets. These so-called mountains are the elevations at tiie base of the thumb and fingers and lower side of tlie hand. Not two palms are alike in their lines. In most of them there is an M plainly visible. The line of life be gins near the base of the forefinger and circles round the base of the thumb, the Ime of health begins at the same point, and goes across the center of the hand. The line of fortune is nearly parallel to that, but nearer the fingers. The line of happiness is the fold that goes from the second finger to the wrist. These lines may be clear and deep, and unbroken, and indicate a perfect character, or they may be faint or crook'd, or tangled up with cross lines, and forebode evil. Every intervening line has a meaning. The ancients believed that all actions, passions and thoughts have their traces on the hand, and from its shape, furrows, folds, colors, veins, and finger nails can be told the person’s habits, and the ten dencies of his nature. They said the band was the most cuining and the best finished work of the Creator. The more perfect and beauti ful the hand the more refined and angelic the mind and heart of the owner. It is sufficient, however, to tell the young folks that if there is no short line between 1 be base of the little finger aud the lower end of line of fortune they will never get married. If there are more than oue of these they will be married more than once. There is but one in mine, and the old fortune-teller knew it, and so I am content. But the young folks need not be alarmed,for these signs are just about as good aud as true as throwing the apple peel over the left shoul der for your sweetheart’s name. If you want the lines of your hand to be deep and strong you must work for it. It is work that furrows the palm and deepens the lines, and so it is work that brings health and fortune and con tent. I had rather shake a working hand, however rough, than a soft, velvety one, how ever hands jme. Well, of course, that depends upon the sex—of course it does. Judge Wright grows eloquent over the “horny-handed sons of toil,” but I never heard him say an) thing about the horny-handed daughters of toil. It takes something more than the hand to tell : lived 1 rard off i'ii — h with nii.i. diftVi old Mrs. Smith to The change of seasons » Mary Ann. She was a her first cruise, with no a; o remodelli g. “It ruins paupuses to ss eni up,” old Mrs. Smith had reiiterated in and again, “they gets above tliereselves jod over I terectly.” Asu rule, I think they do, for b l ind be- | n,;Ui nature is “unco weak,” and women, eve l as pur- | the poorest, are filled with the var : ‘ : “s of the i flesh, they love this “outward adoi g,” that ! so troubl' d the old l’rophet in Israel. But I think I can safely say that Mary Ann was an exception to that rule. She had known for ten years .hat lire, food and clothes, were luxu ries poor children had no right to expect. Wasn’t her mother-in-the-law always teding her how it was when she was young? “Why l ne7er knowed what a fire was; and as fur sup per and drinkin’ coffee, we nuver dreamed of such a thing, .and childun in them days was healthy—they was perfect little Sallymandys.” Mary Ann didn’t know what a Sal am and a was, but she looked at her oony, cold hands and then at the third cup of hot coffee Mrs. Smith was gobbling down and wondered if there was a iuture in her hard life. Wiping her mouth on the corner of her apron, she fin ished with the bold assertion that “childun was just killed with kindness these days.” From Mary Ann’s standpoint a quixotic statement, but to me the farcical shadow of a tragedy. Old Mrs. Smith had a history; but when it was known that she had sent her own mother, in her last imbecile years, to the poor house to die, people lost interest in it. And Providence, not slack in this case to avenge, laid up;n her au incurable disease that neither converted her into a Mrs. Job nar improved a disposition that was never the sweetest^ And as £iine sometimes uuipitoa—coOX Hui wc<m> ol'' her appetite nor the consciousness of her un swerving duty to Betsey Sales’ orphan child, Mary Ann. I’m not a stickler on religious points myself, but I never dripped a i>en *y into the foreign mission box that l did not feel a twinge of con science for the heathen at my door, for that Mary Ann had never been inside of a church I we.l knew. Once I had timidly—in hunting up Sunday school scholars—broached the sub ject to old Mrs. Smith and got for reply, “She's nuver fitten to go to chuich nor nowhere else; she don’t take keer of nuthin’.” “Would you liketogojto Sunday tcho. 1, Mary Ann?’’ “I reckon I would. I haint never been thar, but 1 can't git ter gj nowtieres. Miss Smith never did when she was young.” I turned a vay hopelessly. It was near Christmas, and every child in the laud would have visions of Sant 'laus, and Xmas trees, and holiday goods. I had asked Mary Ann if Santa Claus ever brought her anything sometime before. “No’me” she said, with a hardened look on her young face, “he doan know m«! Miss Smith says he (loan want to. He brung Mis* Smith’s granchiiiun things last Xmas, dolls, and candies, and oranges, and the like o’ that, and onct he brung me a rag dollie from souu- wheres. I’ze got it yit up in the garrit—good as new.” I had no doubt that it was as good as new, and likely to remain so, for Mrs. Smith “never knew what a doll was when she was young;” hence Mary Ann’s doll was con signed to oblivion and the rats. But as I have just said, Xmas was near at hand, and as I sat before my cozy fire and finished up little odds and ends of presents for my own dear ones, I could not get that yearning expression on Ma ry Anns’ face out of my mind. Do what I would, she was before me, swarthy, hungry, cold. “Why cant the law do something for her,” I said, rousing suddenly from my rev erie. “For ter! what her” replied my hus band looking at me, as if be thought I was talking in my s.eep. “Mary Ann,” I an swer id, 4 ‘can nothing be done to get that child out of the clutches of that old Vampire? think of it. Mary Ann is fifteen aud she dont look a day over eight in size, while her face looks like an old wornau.” I know my husband is a good man aud a Christian, but I think he had long ago scored Mary Ai n’s case among thecaevitables—there was no hope for her—as I have told you, she was stranded and long before she could reach the year of her freedom I really and truly hoped that she would die. The only question now was to get her ready. So many years she had toiled, hopeless and hungry, without mor-' - al or spiritual training, that she had lost the lines, if thtre ever had been a boundary be tween right and wrong. Nothing she could have done would have surprised me. Why should it? She had no incentive to do right, she knew no more about God than % heathen in the heart of Africa. So i was not surprised when old Mrs. Smith sent a messenger tiving, for me to come up as quickly as I could Christ mas morning. “Thar’s your Sunday School scholar,” she said, pointing in wrath to the figure of poor Mary Ann crouching in the corner where she had been driven by the blows of old Mrs. Smith—her face was white as death, except a purple line across one cheek, her bony fingers clutched a small stick, and her eyes had the look of a maniac. “I didn’t do it, Miss Royal,” she muttered sullenly between her clinched teeth. “I’ve starved, and froze, and worked hard, always a hopin’ some of my people would come ami take me away. God knows I’ve been hungry enough, but I nuver stole a bite ter eat in my life. I aint got no larnin’—I aint got no re ligion, 1 got nuthin’ but I aint a child no longer. Hit seems like I’m a old woman, an’ thar aint n > fear in me no more. I’d kill my self—mebbe I’d kill you,” her eyes glaring at Mrs. Smith, “before I’d let you beat meagen.” She was trembling from head to foot—white with sudden wrath. “Come with me,” I said, laying my hand on her arm. Old Mrs. Smith was stupified—the humble brow-beaten child had suddenly de veloped into a tigress, and might prove a dan gerous enemy. She was glad to be rid of her on such easy terms. From that day Mary Ann was a woman, she is happy and good now, but she never refers to the past without a shudder, for she whispered to me once, while she held my hand tightly clasped in hers: 44 If you had not come that Xmas morn I’m afraid I would have killed her.” W. W.
