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r / / , VoaBOB 'v-r SKM»^<»03aaagaaBCTaaaB{S{3^-eo«KaaaaK»r8acg: VOLUME XLWN UMBER S. EEN. Atlanta, Ga., Week Ending June 30, 1906. 50c PER YEAR—SINGLE COPY 5c. Che Town Gossip By HILTON CASTLE, Written for The SUN MY SOUTH ft *.ft«.ft«.ft. *.ft... ft ^.ft-*. ft... ft ft ft ft «.ft.«.0 ...ft... ft ft ...ft-*, ft ft ... ft... ft... ft ... ft...! |.-ft...ft-^ft^ ft.ft...ft '.'ft ft... ft -.. ft... ft ft ft ■». ft ft... ft... ft ... ft ■*. ft ...ft*., ft .■ ft ■*. ft - i ft" -• • •■. a > .•.•-•.•.ft.»ft-..ft.i ILLICENT GRiAiNT sat on her tiny front porch in dustriously mending her week's wash. Now and then she peered through the moon-tlower vine at some passerby, always ac- companylngr the act with a long-drawn sigh. Anss Milicent was the last o£ her race. She lived In a a little white cottage with green trim, all alone save for old black Sicily, who of the *time laid up with was most ol rheumatism. Second to the great grip she had borne in losing both parents in a railroad wreck, was t>he sorrow she was enduring now. Her long thick lashes closed tightly over a pair of large Celtic eyes as she bit her thread with an emphasis. A tell-tale tear was about to steal down her pale cheek who nthe click the front sate rounded, and Miss Delia Tuty.-iier, the town gossip, walked se renely up the path. "Why, Millieent,’ ’exclaimed that lady ftffusively, * you are. as white os a dozen stiffs. I thought you had more character that* to let a man's perfidy make you ill. For goodness sake, child, don't let him know you feel It so." “Indeed.” "Oh. don't try to hide your feelings from me, Mtlioent," interrupted (Miss Tutwiler; ”1 can read you like a book, lien never was a favorite of mine any- way, but to see him carrying on with that strange girl is sufficient to make you hate him. I saw them out buggy riding Just now. and she looked as beau tlful as a La France rose. That's the name the boy? ha.ve dubbed her, hut to tell the truth, Ben has never given anyone chance to speak of her.” "Why, Miss Delia,” Millieent at last succeeded in saying. “I can't see why Mr. Barnes shouldn’t enjoy the society of a ItA'ely young girl. He certainly has my permission to do as be pleases." "What nonsense, Millieent; he has only known her 11t-ee days, and they are to gether morning, noon, and night, and everybody thought he was engaged to her. To be sure, you are getting on in years. Millieent, you must be thirty now, and that girl he is carrying on with is scarcely out of her teens. Hasn't he called on you since she came? No? If that fc-n't an example of man’s treach ery! But beauty is a jjower, isn't it? You should have seen her last night, dressed In a white French organdie, with Ills flowers, La France roses, at her waist. She looked like a dream. She must have money, for without it she could ft trig up as she does. You hadn't seen theai together yet? No? Well, upon my word, that's a pleasure In store for you—though it can’t be much of a pleas ure to have another woman cut you out. Why, how long is it, Millieent, that ho has been devoted to jou? Goodness gra cious! Sister Sarah says that as you were ijot at t-he meeting last night It was a sure sign all was up between you.” Millieent moved uneasily in her seat, and cogitated how she might escape. "I must realy go and give Aunt Sicily her medicine,” she said. "Excuse me for a moment.” "All right, dear, and while you are gone I'll sit here and watch. Oh, did I tell you Milicent, thar, she is stopping at the hotel, and alone? Sister Sarah says there'll be a scandal yet, for Bessie Bur roughs told her she was sure she saw him kiss her last night. Bessie says lie twitted her under the chin and called her his little girl. Millieent, those La France roses are perfectly beautiful. You should always keep them on hand—to remind you of Ben's disloyalty.” Miss Tutiwller's voice had grown louder and louder as MllHcent’s footsteps re ceded. Suddenly she changed her seat, and peered through the vines a.t a little cloud of dust in the distance. In a mo ment her manner was all animation. "Millieent, oh, Millieent,” sihe screamed, as she recognized the two beings she Lad been discussing, coming down the road behind a handsome gray mare. “Quick, here they are, and she has on tl at lovely French organdie, and tue La France roses. Quick, quick.” Millieent was but a woman. With as much indifference as she could assume, she hastened to the porch, and en sconced herself 'behind the trusty moon- flower vine. Her heart might break, but she must glimpse this beauty who had charmed her lover away. “Good gracious, Millieent, if they are not stopping! How glad I am I happened in! And don't they make a (handsome couple? How happy they look! I'm sure ti.ey're engaged.” Did you know he had given her a ping pong set! He's tying the horse! They’re coming up the walk—and see how coquettishly she looking into his face.” Millieent felt her heart beating vio lently and her cheeks growing somewhat pale; but by the time her guests had reached the steps there was no visible sign of the white feather. With a sweet dignity site extended her hand to the most charming young girl she thought she had ever seen; tall and graceful, with a face In reality as fresh ami beatiful as a La France rose. There was a twinkle in Ben’s eye as he placed his arm about the waist of the young girl. "Millieent. I told her she couldn't leave until she had met the dearest woman In the world. This is my niece, Caro lyn Searles.” And nobody knew when Miss Tutwiler stole away to tel! sister Sarah all about it. • • ••• • <«•■••• ft ft.< ..ft.•••■•. ft.i ' •»••••• ft »-•••••••• ■•■•■ft • • o ■ •- c ^ Lonely Bettie ^ Ufye Keeper of tine Inn • ft. •• ft. •• ft ••• ft .»-••••#<• ft- ft ♦#••■•••• ft ft-ft-*, ft.ft.••••». 4 ftftft ftft••• ft.1 ft — ft ••• ft •». ftft -a. ft... ft ... ft., I ftft*, ft ft.».ft ft ft-*, ft ft fti lft.ft., ••• ft ft ft ft .*• ft ft., i i l ■»■•••■ ft m T caused a nine days’ won der among the people of Twallingham when the news got about that Mr. George Bafte.rsley had left h1s wife and daughters so poorly provided iiV>r that they would be obliged to leave t'helr spacious home, and live economically In some small house. For years they hud classed among gentry' of sub stance. Mr. Batters ley was supposed to he a very wealthy man. with an Income derived from ap parently Inexhaustible mines and nour ishing plantations In transatlantic re- Igions. Scarcely anybody- cared for his wife—a dull, anxious-faoed woman, credited with being very "near" In her own expendi ture. Of the daughters, the plain one, Marla, was engaged to a curate whose income would scarcely justny marriage wiilj a penniless girl for years to come; while Alice, so pretty that her many admirers had been all supposed to be thinking less of tha father’s wealth than tile daughter's eyes, was still free when the great change came. The inquiry into Mr. Battersley's af fairs showed that he had. nearly spent the last of heavy legacies from relatives, and that, while denying himself nothing he could fancy, and paying lavishly for outside popularity, he had left to ills family but the few hundreds he did not not live long enough to get rid of in his usual style. As speedily a.» It could be managed, a great sale took place, the stately home passed to a new owner, and the widow, with her daughters, went to live in a roomy cottaige ait the unfashionable end of Twaliingham, taking with them the oldest, plainest part of their furni ture. The two sisters had counted on being able to earn sufficient money to be able to keep their modest household going without touching the little capital which was to be reserved for emergencies. They were now ffm..ng out that nobody wanted their services; that their accom plishments were a drug in the market; that a.ble.r, stronger women, trained to work, mould be preferred before them; and that every advantage would be taken of their Ignorance of the hucks tering world's way*. The cltnlax of their anxieftlos was reached eighteen months after the father's death, for Alice was knocked down and so severely injured by a reck less cyclist that she became a helpless invalid for a while. Maria's curate TO still working for a stingy old rector who begrudged him his very modest stipend, and effected to forget when a became du*. Maria began to look much older end plainer as the m-ork of their smmil home devolved almost entirely upon her; and the pessimistic mother spent most of her time in her bedroom, now shared by the ailing daughter, as it happened to be the largest apartment in the house. “Mother," exclaimed Alice one day, from her little bed, "leave mending that old sheet, and tuflk! There are ghosts in this room, who must be -exorcised by human conversation of a practical turn. 1 have heard them slip and si de when tlie place lias been very quiet. Talk about something, but not about our pov erty. We can do that when 1 get better and And some paying work. J.ook here! You were a baronet's granddaughter, and have never made enough of your an cestry. It ought to help us with rich snobs. Bring dear old Sir James Af- flngton's name more in your discourse with visitors!” "Never, my dear!” replied Mrs. Batter- rley, firmly. "His name would only remind people of that scandalous woman who was his third wife. Before now ill- natuTed persons have said she wn-s my own grandmother—shame on them!—and have made me afraid to talk of relations. She disgraced your great-grandfather's name forever!” "How interesting!” exclaimed tlhe In valid. "Oh, mother, do cheer me up with the awful tale, and so make me forget my aches! She was called Lovely Bet ty, wasn't she, and 'became the most talked-egf woman of her day, the idol of jirlnces. poets anil painters? Began *.te as a tramp's child, did she not, and end ed it as a baronet's wife, after dukes and all sorts bad gone mad over her? How came great-grandfather to marry her, mother?” "Because he was sillier than the rest,” replied Mrs. Battersley, Indignantly. "1 never saw the creature hut once, though I heard all about her. She was getting very stout, losing <her beauty, and taking to drink; and she married a foolish old man to have a home and behave exactly las she liked. Well, she drank more and more, spent nnd gambled, beat him and knocked him about If he expostulated— and then died In a fit one week before he did- There was an Inquest, and scandal without end: and very little of the' Ar lington fortune came to my mother, who was the second wife’s daughter! So unfair, too, that of three wives, the last and worst should make the title of Lady Affington one to be remembered.” The mother quitted the room, and the daughter was left alone. Though free from bodily pain, Alice was still feeble; and she feared that months might pass before sho could get about again. She would have to lie there with dingy wall- re per to look at as she turned to her right, while on the left stood the large old wardrobe which 'had been her moth er’s >so many years. Coming along the narrow garden path were four persons: Mrs. Jay, wife of the chaplain to the county asylum; the chap lain himself; his brother, the naval of ficer who had so admired poor Alice some three years ago; and a young Jay, a youth at home for his holidays. Marla 'had warmly welcomed them, anil insisted they must come in and see her mother. It was worth while, after all, to keep up with nice people who had known them in better days. Mrs. Jay was one of these women who depart slowly, and her leavetaking had not quite finished—her husband, son and brother In law waiting patiently the while—when a loud scream rang through the cottage, followed by calls for ''Moth er!” in Alice’s voice. Mrs. Battersley, Mrs. Jay, and Maria ran up the stairs, and found the ailing girl in a dazed, half-fainting condition, trembling and hardly awake. "Oh. the horrible woman!” sho gasred. "Tho groat, bloated creature who crawl ed out of the wardrobe anil then lay across my chest! Make her go, mother, or I must die!" "A dream,” Mrs. Jay ejaculated; “or perhaps a touch of hysterics! A\ e'll stay with you my dear, and nothing shall hurt you! Plenty of men downstairs to drive anything away. She will be her self soon, though. Mrs. Battersley!” “I am myself now,” sobbed the inva lid, somewhat angrily; “but I know that woman is hiding somewhere, and will come back to me if you go. For days and nights I have heard her rustling and feeling about, counting money, too, over and over again. She's Lovely Betty, I'm sure, and she hides in that wardrobe!' ' "She must be humored, the same as lunatics have to be," whispered Mis. Jay to the mother. ”I/et us open the cupboard, and pretend to search, and then show her nobody is there!" Some dresses and bandboxes were ac cordingly removed from the mysterious piece of furniture and piled on Mrs. Battersley's bed till very little seemed left behind. With a great assumption of cheerfulness, Mrs. Jay affected to listen for possible sounds—when, to her astonishment, and that of Mrs. Batter sley and Maria, a grating noise was plainly heard for a moment or two then a rattle of small metalic objects failing in a shower. “Plaster or mice!” exclaimed the visi tor. somewhat startled at the sounds. “Lovely Befty!” answered Alice, now well awake, and recovered from her pre vious alarm. “You are all here, three of you, and can bear witness to her noSscsl (She began making them as soon as my bed was moved to this cor ner and the wardrobe dragged nearer the door.” “My dear, let Mr. Jay coma up and see you,” asked the chaplain’s wife, soothingly. "His iitxiy office, you know — and then, he Is so against spirit rap ping and such things, and could ex plain away anything queer. And if it is mice, you must have a cat in the room with you!” The Rev. John Jay willingly came at his wife's request, gave Alice a few cheery words, laughed at the iuea of a ghost haunting the premises, tapped the walls, and finally gave the wardrobe a good shake. “Of course, there Is a noise!” he cried. “It is Miss Maria’s black necklace, broken and rattling about the cup board, or the dish running away with the spoons. Any movement in this lit tle old house will help these sounds.” On being assured that no necklace or spoons were responsible for the stir. Mr. Jay gave a few more raps and thumps, and then asked if his brother and son would be allowed upstairs for a minute. The Chaplin, the captain and the school boy 1 aving piiUtvl t:he old wardrobe closer to the window, Mr. Jay announced that, from the inside, part of the back seemed to Ibe sliding down, revealing a gap be hind, which was apparently filled with rags. A roll of these rags being pulled cut by the school boy’s daring hand proved to be an ancient and much dis colored pair of corsets, of very large size and extremely heavy; and another pair then followed, much the same in quality, nnd with gold coins escaping from the patches in which they had been sewn. The ladles screamed and shuddered at these objects, and the quest norw became so exciting that the men soon broke down tiie remalnUic-r of tho false back Which hid the rest of the treasure. The famous Lovely Betty's private Liard was laid bare. In three little bags, added to tlie corsets first discovered, were \ery many guineas. A small bundle com posed of a shabby silken skirt contained necklaces, brooches and bracelets, old- 'fasbloneJ, yet of a certain value; and a oeidboard )x>x inclosed t wo splendid dia mond rings. Fitting- closely in the nar row space available was an unframed oil P«;r:ting, which Captain Jay extricated most carefully from its hiding place. This picture represented such a beauti ful young woman, so sweet of aspect and fair of face, tlia't a general cry of admi re lion greeted it when first shown. Two 'miniatures—one evidently of the same girl, the other of a man—next came to light; ar.a, as a finish, several packets of let ters. By HERBERT SHAW. The sale of the notorious Lady A fling- ten's portrait made a gicnt sensation. It bring pronounced by expeits to be the finest ever painted of her as a girl. A millionaire paid a fancy price for it, anil would gladly have seoured other relics of Ix/vv ly Betty at a proportionately high figure 1 . Alice, however, held to the ex quisite miniature of the step-great-grand- 'inotlior whose hoardings hail proved of such benefit in the time of need; and Maria took the best of the Jewelry when she married her curate. Mrs. Battersley burned the letters, act ing on the advice of the Rev. John Jay, Lo w horn they had been entrusted for pe rusal. When Alice had recovered htr strength .and could walk again, more than one •match was arranged for her by Twalling- lmm gossips, and the first favorite with them seemed to be Captain Jay; yet Mrs. Battersley would sometimes say that she found it a great trial to meet him. as he must remember what dreadful tilings he had handed her fro.n her very cwn wardrobe. HEN Harold McKergow was tweniy-thice he came into money—not much—anil for a year or so he went a lit tle wild. The technical term that young bloods use in conversation afterwards, when talking of this part of their existence, is “Years a.go, you know, old chap, when I was flying. • • *” But McKergow was of stronger s'.uff than tho average young blood, al though that Is going too far In front. Hard pressed for money at the end of •Ills brief flight, lie tried—something. It faded, of course. It was an incident, a.nd no more, which was known only by hift mother and two men. It failed* and he went abroad. He worked like ithe very deuce. He returned, after weary years, with money, which was good, and a knowledge, of the proper value of money, which was better. Also he was a strong man who was still a toy at heart, and he had cleared the rust. And he mot Erica Marsden and loved her. as others dkl or had done. It was not Erica Marsden's fault (and certainly not hor desire) t.ha.t her name had been coupled at tiroes with different men, more especially with Marker, once a man about town (with a strange repu tation) and now a wanderer, whom Mc Kergow had known. On a night McKergow went to her, told htr, and asked her a quesition. AicKer- gow, who knew a little about women by now. told himself that no woman had a r.'ght to hesitate to the point of inde cision inecau.se a man went straightfor ward to her. Or rather, his thoughts went on, no man had a right to marry a woman who did hesitate because— “Erica,” said he, “I love you. But I am going away because you arc not cer tain of yourself.” She did not think these words strange, because she also knew him a little. “I have had a better training than yen,” lie went on. "God knows I love you, Erica, but there can be no love tiiat shall be love with one alone. One mo- m'c-nt; as it is now, you have all the will in the world to love me. The next you are not quite certain of yourself.” "Where are you going?” she asked him. "I shall 'be away six months. But I will leave you an address and se.nd to you as I change it. If at any time you cere to write, expect me home the next day, or the next. Goodby,” he said, and shook bands gravely. He went first to Dieppe. Drawn by Mont St. Michel Rock, whose memory he loved, he came slowly down the coast. Two months of the time had gone when came to Avranches; three when be reach ed the Hotel de 1'Europe in Pontorson, and settled there, an Englishman by him- sell, but far from lonely. He was very fond of Pontorson—the long straggling street; at the bottom of Hit brioge over the leaden water where the women beat out their clothes of c\ei:ings, the Lombardy poplars s.re tell ing out to Dol lroin Where Pontorson» houses endeu; and, six inlies away, on another road, the wondertul, oeaumfui lies. No man, they say, horn witnin sight of C’hanoionbury Ring, la Sussex, ever leaves his cOUii'-'y lor long. The Scvuie roust be true ol ihe people in tne country round fit. Michel, or x u»e lo ue- lu vo mat it is true-. /ii'ier a sturdy walk back along Hie road prom 'the rock, McKergow swung into tue courtyard one ivcin.g as -vio..- s.tur cituvuiu was pulling uic tui lope lor dinner, in tue Iiaci ue • am. ape one L. n rope lianas u-niy uuvtii the wail. r. is a small, quiet piacc, with tew visitors ai iii.s season, and AieKiUgow lian never trouoieu to get home in proper time for mi i.er. A! sieu Bouvurd was all smiles. "Th’tre is an Englishman here," said he. "Indet'd,” said McKergow. "He caime just after you had gone,” s^iii Bouvard. "Oh.” said McKergow, and went into the house. Directly he was over the threshold liis mlr.d ran queerly. What a nuisance that fctli was, clanging like that; it was ex actly like * * * a tolling bell. Al'sieu Bouvard had not brought In the lamps. The room was dim. McKergow said “Good eventing,” and sat down, feel ing awkward. Presently M’steu Bouvard tnc.ught In the lamps and placed them on the table. As ho was shifting them to his liking McKergow found his eyes after the time in the black dark. "Harker!” he cried. "Hullo!” said the other. "Why, It's McKergow. A funny meeting. If you like.” The door h.al shut behind M'sJeu Bou- vsrd. "It is rather," laughed McKer gow, mamer-of-faot once more. "Where l.ave you been';” “Everywhere, I fancy—anywhere and everywhere. But I’ve alway had a liking fur this place, and I thought 1 would put in a fortnight before 1 went home." AlcKergow, who had never liked Harker even in the old days, was conscious of Belief at this. “You're going back soon, then?” said lie. "I am. And you? I haven't seen you for years. Not since—” Just then Msieu Bouvard came in, fol lowed by his daughter* Cm.-iluc, who was carrying dishes. Somehow it interrupted the conversa tion. In the week that followed, McKergow's dislike of his companion remained at a fixed point. At least it never lessened. Marker's presence irritated him. It may- have been that he did not care for any man or shadow to blur his thinking of Her. He had made up liis mind for loneliness, and Marker's coining had spoiled it. He never showed this, of course. They went long walks together, and they cycled on rickety _machir.es procured from the local store. They loafed in the village during all one market day, and Marker made little sketches. Certainly, Marker should not have' worried iMcKergow very- much, for lie talked hut seldom. McKer gow's great comfort at this time consisted of this, that lie was quite confident of his own end in the matter of Erica, waiting in England. He knew that she would send for him. A big comfort tills, too, so straight and white he pictured her always—as, indeed, she was. When he had written to her he had only sent his change of address, as he told her. He had not needed to do even that now for a long time. One morning Harker happened to come down before McKergow, which was out of the usual run of things. This made all the difference In the world, for the letter lay beside McKergow's plate, if he had come down first he wouid have pocketed it at once, although he would have known what was in it. As It was, he came down to breakfast late, said "Good morning" to Harker, and took up the letter carefully. Harker looked at him queerly. At breakfast, ‘T seemed to know that writing, McKer gow,” said Harker. McKergow of the singing heart said curtly, "Indeed!" Har ker, no way- put out, said; "Yes. Do you mind telling me if I am wrong? it was Erica Marsden's writing?” “It was." McKergow was quite calm against the overwhelming sense that something was going to happen. "I am going home today to marry her, as soon as possible.” "Do you know,” said Harker, "I was going home for that?" His voice was level, but McKergow could stand It no longer. He rapped out, "By , Harker, she's mine!" and they faced each other squarely. They- finished breakfast without any thing further. It was a strange meal. Of course. McKergow did not go home that day. or the next. Instead, oppressed by a great fear, he wrote a letter to her. 'T know you will understand my writ ing to you like this. Was there anything between you and Roland Harker years ago While he waited for an answer to this he suffered. Harker and he avoided each other; they had their meals at different times. One would wait in his room up stairs till he had heard the other go to out. M’sieu Bouvard did not seem notice anything strange In this. Only once, when Harker, just going out, turn ed on the threshold for something, he found the landlord grinning openly- at what should have been his back. It was an ugly- grin, and Harker, on the point of angry- speech, stared at ‘M'sieu Bou vard. M'sieu Bouvard stared back, with interest. Marker's eyes dropped first, and he went out puzzled. "Now where on earth." said Harker to himself, "have I seen that face before I came here?” If Harker had looked back he would have seen that M’sieu Bouvard had ad vanced to the doorway- and stood watch ing his going. “There was nothing whatever; I do not want to see him again. And when may 1 expect you here?” Two lines from the letter in reply. It came In the morning, and McKergow, once more at peace, finished his break fast and waited deliberately. Harker, tired of waiting upstairs to hear him go out, came down at last. ''Harker,' 1 said AlcKergow, “I'm going hontft first thing tomorrow. I waited, be cause I thought you might have a claim upon her of which I did not know. You haven't. I’m going home. I am not sure, if her answer had been different, that I would have let her be married to a swftgp like you." "Oh, that's your opinion, is it?” said Harker. "It has been my opinion,” said Me- ivergow, "for about thirteen years. Marker's face was not nice at this moment. Rage took him, and at first he gulped rather than spoke. "I think I can hit back,” he said "It's just about thirteen years—since there was a certain business with a check. You had to go abroad afterward." "Well,” said AlcKergow, "I don't de fend myself to you, but I've always been straight with women. And I’ve worked the other out. There wasn't much in it, after all. It's not going to hurt me now.” "I shall write and tell her—that's all,’ said Harker. At this McKergow’s mind was a mill- race of swift, clear thinking. He would not have her know this .this old trans gression against the code. He had fought that fairly down, and he would not have her think differently of him now, as such a woman was bound to do—if she knew. When he spoke his voice rose a little, lft.it it was not In temper, for he was holding himself splendidly. "Before God, Harker,” he cried, "if you tell her I will kill you.” At a slight noise both men looked up. It was M'sieu Bouvard who stood in the open doorway, bringing in Harker's chocolate. * * * McKergow sat long, thinking, at the foot of the great gilt cross upon the rock. The bright early morning had changed, and the afternoon wa s of thin. Insistent rain. He went down the steps and leaned his elbows on the wall, look ing far below him and around at the sullfn sands and sea. At a time of any moment McKergow was all for smoking, and he had smoked incessantly since the encounter with Harker in the morning, lie had been to Poulard’s for lunch, but h ( . had eaten nothing. Presently he was swinging back in the dusk along the de serted, rain-swept road with the same drumming thought. She should know nothing to lessen her idea of him. In the 'black passage to the common room he bumped against a man. "Oh, is that you, McKergow?” said the sne ring voice, and on the answer came the challenge: "I shant be long. I'm just going out to post a letter.” “Come in here,” said McKergow at once, and ffIt his way into the room. It was quite dark, but neither troubled about a light. "You’re writing to Erica?” McKer gow was strung to the topmost pitch, but perfectly resolute. "I am.” “The letter you spoke of?" "Yes.” * “You're not to send that letter." “On the contrary,” said Harker. "I'm Continued on Last Page. boobta awappaactsa f fen 5}