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VOLUME XLW-NUMBER FORTY'SIX.
Atlanta, Go., Week Ending January 26, 1907.
SINGLE COPY 5c.
• ••• • • ■•■••••••!
• #••’#•••#•••(
A Trade in Hearts;
A »Story ojf the Mardi Gras
!:' -:
* . .
1 ' j; Hr •*'*£
By S. T. DALSHEJMER.
Written for The SUNNY SOUTH.
HOPE you have found
this ball free from the
monotony of which yon
were complaining the last
time f met you, for T had
almost begun to fear you
were growing cynical
said Harold Armstrong as
he finally succeeded in
reaching the side of he
beautiful Aliss Alaitlnnd,
of New York, who was on -
joying her first glimpse
of a New Orleans carni-
“Cynieal indeed." she exclaimed—"otie
migi.: he tin; in New York, where all
tilings are so much alike, hut. I can never
again associate balls with ennui-this is
so different from any one 7 have ever
seen before that T am dazed by the glit
ter of it. Tim exquisite tableaux, the
gorgeous costumes of t he maskers, (lie
tier on tier of brilliantly gowned women
all combine to give me an impression of
fairy land, rather than of actual social
hie. If r ever thought a ball tiresome.
I never wili again—at least not this sort
or a. ball."
"Hut do you know." said her com
panion. "'this is brilliant but fatiguing,
and T hav e come to make you rest a
little—let us sit awhile In one of these
quiet, boxes—where the real music lovers
go to hear the operas, and not to l>e
themselves a part of the show." and be
fore the girl was able to reply Arm
strong was deftly leading her to 'he se-
elusiotl of the loge which hr had so well
described.
The giv! gave a little sign of comfort
as she sank back into the low cushioned
seat. "This is nice." sh< said, “and I
believe 1 do need re :. T have dance 1
everything since 10 o’clock, and now it Is
long after midnight. Have you just
conic, Air. Armstrong?”
0—9--9:-9-—9:-9-*9:-9 9•
"I have been iiere some little time, but
have only just been able to find you.
was tin reply, for such small prevarica
tions as ibis arc n. part of the game at
carnival balls, where the identity of
the masked hosts is always shrouded in
mystery. Of course, Aliss Maitland <iid
not understand all this, at . she had fel
a trifle chagrined, that during the en
tire evening Harold Armstrong had no
once appeared. Yei he had told her so
much of these bails and bad promised
her so much enjoyment at this particular
one. that his apparent desertion of iter
annoyed her mor> than she would con
fess. Hut any New Orleans girl could
have whispered o her that the quaint and
anonoymous "call out" cards which had
reached her at intervals during the past
week, might have been attributed to
Harold Armstrong's influence. "Might
have he.-n, mind you. for nobody could
be sure of these matters."
Nothing loth to change the subject of
his apparent defection. Armstrong now
leaned toward the girl and remarked:
“What a glorious collection of souve
nirs you have surely your masked part
ners were even more than usually gen
erous:"
"Indeed they won--too generous, and
there were s<i many of them. I had
only invitations in advance from four
lie regular number of dances, you know.
!>u>t once on the floor 1 had to divide
each dance, and 1 have a glittering re
minder of each partne r."
“Suppose you call them trophies. for
each one means a captured heart yon
know," laughingly suggested her com
panion.
“Oh: no they don't—possibly just a
captured fancy, but even that is pleas-
aii't, I think. Sec this urious carved
dead in (black- ft wits given me by a same
prince. I wonder if I am to remember him
by the color of Ills souvenir? Hut there are
lots of others where that plan would not
work. Here is a silver elephant, and here
a cluster of enameled pansies, with
lots of other pins and bracelets All of
them are. of course, just sot with mock
gems, except this one. T.ook at. it M r.
Armstrong i : i a . k train
you? I know real jewels are seldom
given, and T have horn worried about
this one ever since T took it. an
Clarice held toward the v.-iing man a
dainty moonstone heart set round with
sparkling stones of suspicious bril
liancy.
■9 — 9:-9-*-9-'-9:-9:‘9-.-9
If he handsome face bent down to
take the pin flushed a little, the loge
was too faintly lighted to make it no
ne,.at,),.. and after a hasty glance Har
old returned the pretty trifle to its own
er with an air of assumed carelessness
as ho said: "I am no judg ( , of such
tilings, hut what does it matter any
way? It is all right at a Alardi Gras
null.”
No. it isn’t—T do not like to take val
uable jewels even anonymously, atifl l
do wonder who gave me this? It is
lovely. 1 confess, but " “Now, .Miss
Maitland, surely you are not going to let
tliis simil your pleasure—that would lie
too bad, and you must enter into the
spirit of (Ids give and take happy-go-
lucky affair—every body does, you
k now."
"The girl- here have t.,1,1 me that real
jewels ..re only given by real lovers, and
I haven’t any idea who gave u o tills
but lie was an interesting fellow. He
said —and as she paused, Armstrong
bent toward her o •< e u ore and inter
rupted her "Well, what did he say—woo
be different from the others in inj way?”
A es, he was different—lie was less
ready to say pretty meaningless things,
and vet it.- seemed desperately in earn
est—somehow, I cannot explain, but the
whole atmisphere here was different with
1 in." said <'I n ice, in a meditative voice.
"How ’different'—what did he say—do
t<‘il me?" questioned Armstrong.
“Oh: no l ifon't tell—under the mask
nothing said ever means anything, and
liow could much he said or meant Seri-
0, sly. in the glare of a thousand lights
and in the blaze of twice is many eyes?
Took, here comes the queen; isn't she
lovely?” and both young people leaned
over the box rail to watch tile stately
procession wind its way up the broad
aisle which bad speedily been made by
the persons on the floor of the opeia
house or ball room, as it was on this oc
casion.
A silence followed the appearance *f
the queen, for I'larioo seemed realty tired
and the young man hes'de her seemed
struggling with some speech he foopr, t
hard to make. At length the girl sighed
as site murmured: "Well, this is the end
of the season; Lent begins tomorrow and
1 mi going home the day after. This
, sji has all been so pleasant—so charm
ingly unique that New York will seem
dull enough.”
"Will you really he sorry to go? M ill
m
-T
ACgiiv- St-
pS.Sii?
A Typical Scene at New Orleans During Carnival Time.
v<*i: mis? your lirionds here as they v.ill
T< 11 me Miss ^Iaitland, Clar-
r-e, will you miss any one in particular?’*
and Harold Armstrong 1 could scarcely
nonreal the impatience with which he
wailed for the gjiTs reply.
At length she said: “Of course I will
ad s you all. Aunt May lias been f*o
£•» i t<> me, and- U i.- foolish, hut I shall
hate to go without ever knowing more
• <ut the masker who gave me the* love-
oarM A man 1 am never to know,
into • ' •. . lot hoi I.
iny fancy, anyhow.”
“Not exa tly that he and all those fel-
Jov.> were men who have met and who
know you, and whatever he said he
meant. T am sure. Tie will say it again,
too, and in his own proper person/*
said Harold, with conviction.
“I wonder if he will?’* the girl said soft
ly. “Would you like, to hear him—have
you really no idea who he is?” questioned
her companion.
“Of eourse not; have you?” and then a.
light suddenly dawned on Tier—
“Mr. Armstrong,” she said, “tell me
who that masker was—you must know—
do tell me/*
“Why?” he demanded.
“So that T may return the heart to him *
T cannot take, it. much as 1 hate to part
with ;i/‘ she inswa »;d s-tca HI • “Vm
you know the man who gave it to me?”
*‘J know one man who would give you
1 heart—who has been anxious to give
you one ever since he first saw you—I
can tell you who ho Is; shall T?” But
this question was put so tenderly that
the girl was eager to lead the talk into a
safer channel. In her haste 5 hc said:
“1 wish l could give something in ex
change for the jewel—I'd feel better
then."
With a happy little laugh t;:* man ex
claimed: “Oh! you can. t’laricc, my dar
ling; you an give vour own—will you?**
The light in the loge seemed 1
for n moment—the music sound
away and the ball room flom
most deserf- d when Miss Mcitla
companion hid not noted t
time, for on the faces of be
look of complete forgetful!
roundings which the experieiu
at once; while mingled in th
the girl’s fair neck glowed the
jewels around a crystal heart.
The l^ich Mans Answer
C6
By ANNE ONNE.
)I' see. ' said the black
mailer decidedly. “I have
you in my power."
The rich man shifted tin-
easily in bis seat, so that
1i;p fare was thrown into
deeper shadow, but he
made no reply.
"Yes." continued the
the blackmailer, "it just
amounts to this. You come
iiere. as if you had never
seen .the place before, fig
uring as Air. 'Robert W.
Harrison, the great Americon million
aire; you buy Irvingstonc park, and
think you're a county gentleman, and
your gild comes over from her Paris
school and appears as Aliss Harrison, of
tiio park, the great American million
aire's daughter."
"\\ ho says T am not a millionaire?"
interposed the rich man. His face was
still in he shade.
"Oh. no. Mr.—er—Harrison: No one
says you are not that. 1 took care to
make sure of that before r came here.'
“Then what do you want?”
"Merely a little share of vour property
Air. Hob Wilde."
He who was known as Robert Harri
son started violently; for a moment his
face came into the bright glare of the
reading lamp on his study table, and
there was on it a look of unmitigate l
astonishment.
“You know that:" he cried. Then in
another voice: “Well, what of It? T
took Harrison for business purposes, and
it is legally my own now.”
“Well,” pursued the blackmailer in
smooth tones, helping himself from a
box of cigars on .the table as ho spoke,
"call It business purposes if you like.
For the present, we can drop Mr. Hob
Wiide, but"—drawing his chair nearer
and speaking in an Impressive whisper—
“what about that robbery in the hank
at Carberton, on November 15. some
thirty years ago?”
"You know that, 'too? Yon know—
that?”
"T know you are (he man who ab
sconded with three hundred pounds of
the hank funds that night, and that it's
not too late now to tell the whole story
;o tiio police, or for you to be arrested
for it.”
"Don't—don’t be liar 7 on me." pleaded
the rich man in a faltering voice.
"Hard on you!”—with o confident
laugh—"T like that. Now. T look upon
you as my little bank, and X intend you
to help me.”
"And if I refuse?”
"T’ben goodby to Mr. Robert Harrison,
of the park, and enter Air. Bob Wilde,
the bank thief.”
"Have you no mercy?” pleaded Afr.
Harrison pathetically. "Who are you?
ITow d'T you find all this out? T have
never seen you before.”
“You’d have seen me dozens of times
before If you had kcp‘ your «*'os open.
You sec. T work at Williams' tlie sad
dler’s in the Highstreeb Carberton. I've
b< on there a good many years now. slav
ing away at a miserable two pounds a
week; but. naturally. I've always been
°n the lookout for something he ter.
Weil, in >the attic at tile top of the house
there's a lot or old boxes, been there
goodness knows how many years. I soon
found keys to tit. and after going through
a lot of musty old clothes and hooks, i
came <>n a bundle of ancient letters from
old Wiliiam's brother in Americ a. Well,
of course. 1 sat down 'to rea l them.”
"Of course," murmured the millionaire
faintly.
"In the very first letter T opened I
lead, I do believe I saw Bob Wilde, who
robbed Hie Carberton bank, in the
streets iiere last week.’ Further on. in
another letter—but iiere. 1 needn’t tell
yon how I ferreted it all out; but in the
end I made out that Hob Wilde and
Robert Harrison are the same person,
and you’ve owned it now.”
"Well, if I give you five hundred
pounds—”
The man burst into a loud, rough
laugh, which he instantly sniothere
"Five hundred!" lie said scornfully, "I
want five thousand.”
"Impossible."
“Oil. is it? Just think it over, Rob, my
friend. What about your daughter?"
“All!" burst from behind Robert Har
rison's hands, in a sudden groan.
"Ah: I thought ‘that would rouse you.
Here's Aliss Molly, you see. engaged :o
the son of Sir John Brandon. Whit
about that engagement if 1 go and tell
Sir John who Air. Robert Harrison is?
“Enough!” cried the millionaire.
“Enough: I give in. But I can’t give
you the money now. Come tomorrow
night, or stay—I've a dinner party, to
morrow—say the night after."
"No, I won't. I'll say tomorrow, it
suits tno bet ter."
IT.
People were always willing to come
to one of Air. Robert Harrison’s dinners.
This evening’s party had been no excep
tion to the rule. .No one was anxious to
shorten the evening, but at last one or
•two prepared to say goodby.
"I want to lteg you all to stay a little
longer.” said the host. "1 have a little
surprise, a—a—kind of entertainment.
Will you all follow me?"
They all trooped after him to the mil
lionaire’s study. Folding doors, covered
on the study side by thick curtains, sep
arated the room from another. These
doors had been opened tonight, but the
curtains still draped the opening, and
opposite to them chairs had been placed.
Smiling rather oddly, the host disap
peared into the study, and carefully drew
the curtains together behind him.
Then the door into the study from the
outside was heard to open, and a man's
voice said jauntily, “Well, Bo >. Here
T am, you see. Now then, where’s the
tin ?”
Was that Robert Harrison’s voice that
answefTd ij a cringing, wheedling man
ner. “Certainly. Mr. Gregson—of course
—only, won't you reconsider it? Do—do
let me off.” whined the rich man's voice,
and the other took up the strains mock
ingly. “Let you off? Oil. yes, T* 11 lc;
you off—when I've done with you. Pay
up or take the consequences."
“Is your mind quite made up?" ATr.
Harrison seemed *• > lie walking about
the room as lie said this.
"Quite, you thief, you miserable rob
ber: Pay me my X!5,..uO or I'll tell the
whole neighborhood that you are the man
who robbed the Carberton bank t.nrty
years ago."
"Then tell them now!" rang' out in he
millionaire's deepest tones as lie dashed
the curtains back, revealing "ail iite
neighborhood’’ in various attitudes of
astonishment.
The blackmailer stood holding to die
hack of bis chair, the picture of bewil
dered rage.
"It's just this!" panted the blackmailer.
“He's a thief! He left Carberton thirty
years ago.”
"Quite true!" said Air. Harrison
smoothly, taking up the tale. “1 left
Carberton thirty years ago—ran away,
in l'cet. At .the same time £300 of tHe
hank money disappeared. T did not know
i* at the time. T heard of it more than
a. year afterward The fellow clerk who
was tlie tiiief knew himself to lie dying
of consumption, and he wrote to me and
confessed what lie had done and how e
had always allowed me to lie blamed for
tile theft. The money had been gam
bled away almost at once. He told me
:o show the letter, if I must, after lie
was dead, hut begged me, if 1 could, to
lie generous for the sake of the young
wife lie was leaving. I destroyed the
letter and simply adopted the name of
Harrison. I had run away simply be
cause 1 was tired of my life in tlie hank
and longed for wider fields. This is my
story. T can only ask you to believe it:
I cannot prove it.”
“Rut T can!” said a voice from the
l.i a* ''ground.
All turned in astonishment. It was
Mrs. Cartwright. Deadly pale, and
trembling very much, slio stood facing
•them all. “The thief." she said slowly,
"was my first husband, James Trevor!”
".Mrs. Trevor! Ts it possible? And 1
did not recognize you!”
"1 did not recognize you. Robert, you
have changed so much, or T should not
have kept 11 ic secret as I have done. It
lias weighed on my mind all these years;
but you hod disappeared, and I thought
it could not matter. Before James died
Tie wrote on* a full confession and signed
it 'before witnesses. 'Tf ever Robert iff
in trouble for want of it you car; pro
duce it then.' he told me. T have kept it
ever since. Forgive me—I—"
Every one began shaking hands at tills
point, ox or tv. to the general surprise.
Sir John Brandon. He stood immova
ble all this time, with his eyes fixed on
the features of Robert Harrison, and an
unreadable, somewhat nu-zled expression
on his own face. Albert Gregson. still
holding to the back of a chair, had been
almost forgotten, but he had one. more
earl left.
“Sir John!" lie cried in a high, sharp
voice. "Sir John Brandon! You don’t
know who this man is whose daugh’er
your son is going to marry. You don’t
know. T say. Why. you knew liim well
as a boy—lie’s just Bob Wilde, the son
of your father’s keeper!"
The rich man turned and faced “the
•proudest man in the county” with a
Sanctuary
99
By EDITH BVEEE.
T is not so very long since
lloiyrond abbey precincts
wore deprived of their an
cient privilege of sanctuary.
In the twentieth century
people yet live who have
themselves sought refuge
from creditors withn the
magic circle surrounding
the grim old Scottish pai-
Also, people yet remem
ber the fuss caused by the
death of the childless earl
of Glen Luce. No less titan five claim
ants contested the succession; public in
terest ran high.
More than one of the litigants was
ruined. There was Sir John Rutherford,
who claimed through the marriage of
the. first, earl; Major Griffith, wiio de
scended from the Lady Atargaret’s ill-
advised match—both tiiese were reduced
to their Inst penny.
rt was sir John Rutherford whose
chance seemed to be gaining as time
passed on. An old Indian K, (?. B., he
was too well used to ttie buffetings of
fortune to talk much about the matter;
but his daughter. Marcia, saw that lie
snapped her up less viciously when he
overheard her discussing the Glen Luce
claim with her brother. He had played
the game pluckly. Could he last out to
the end?
"It is either Glen Luce or Holyrood."
his son Ned remarked, in a jocular tone.
Marcia, whose sporting instinct was un
developed, looked gravely at him, and
then turned to Ids friend, Captain Chris
topher Haig, who was spending a short
leave in their home in Edinburgh.
“I wish.” said she. “that the old earl
had never died at all. We were quite
happy before this terrible fuss burst
over us!”
"Nonsense!” her brother cried. “You’ll
be as proud as punch when the pater
takes his place among the bigwigs, and
you go sweeping to the top of a room
in the wake of the countess of Glen
Luce!”
Captain Haig, with a folly lie himself
condemned, lingered long in Edinburgh—
singeing liis wings, until lie was actually
losing the power to fly away. He
smile that lit tip his plain, strong face.
“Master John?” he said softly.
"Old Boh!" shouted Sir John, dashing
at him and overturning two chairs, "it
is! It is! Aly dear, dear old Bob!”—he
was shaking both hands at onee now—
“to 'think I never knew you all this
time’ Oh, Bob! liow often I’ve wonder
ed about, you! The times we had when
we were boys!—and you never told your
oldest friend! Here, where’s that black
mailing scoundrel Gregson? I’m a mag
istrate. I'll ileal with him: ’
“Why, lie’s gone!” said a chorus of
voices.
And he had. ltecer to be heard of
again.
thought Marcia adorable. Had it not been
for that hideous earldom business lie
would have proposed to her weeks ago.
lie had pretty fair prospects- -a decent
little place of his own in Berwickshire,
an ancient name, and a clear record to
lay at her feet. Enough, perhaps, for
Sir John Rutherford, but ridiculous to
mention to the earl of Glen Luce! Chris
topher Haig grew more and more down
hearted as the legal horizon seemed
gradually to clear.
Long before August came It seemed
pretty certain who would have the right
of shooting the Glen Luce moors.
“You will be back with us for the
twelfth old man?" Edward Rutherford
said to his friend some time in June.
“I think not—no!” Haig answered
gloomily.
“The fact is. Ned, I’ve stayed here too
long!"
"Marcia ?”
Haig shrank from the rough touch on
the raw wound. “Say rather my own
laziness,” he said, lightly. "I've not had
much of a home, as you know, Ned; and
T’ve stayed in yours till it is a wrench to
he off and away. Sure sign I've been here
tno long. T must go on Monday!”
Go lie did. But when he saw iti the
papers the conclusion of the Glen Luce
affair It startled him strangely. The
Morning Post announced that the earl
and countess of Glen Luce and Lady
Marcia Rutherford had left Edinburgh
for Uielr house In 'Hill street. The Times
had a leading article on the great ease,
in which it recalled the facts of many
other ‘causes celebres.” Society rang
with the story.
Captain Haig’s congratulations went by
the next post. An<L once more he said
how sorry he w4s that lie was prevented
from running down to Scotland'.
Edward was piqued. “I can’t think
what has happened to the fellow’!" lie
said to his sister. “If he thinks the title
and the few acres of country are are go
ing to change us all—rot. I call it!"
Marcia made no answer. But iter
brother had quick eyes.
"Marcia! You don’t mean to tell me
he has said anything to you?"
“No. no! What nonsense, Ned! Oh,
Ned. he never will say anything—now!"
The cry came from her heart. And Ed
ward. though young and inexperienced
as to the ways of women, could not but
recognize the pain in it.
“Tell me. dear—”
“There is nothing to tell. Nothing!
There never will he anything, it seems.
Ned, his name Is In the Gazette today.
He has exchanged to the Rifles and is
off to the front!”
Yes, here it was in black and white.
Haig had exchanged into a regiment
bound for the Indian frontier, where one
of our “little wars” was then in full fury.
The affair was beyond Edward’s wits
to disentangle.
He ran down to Aldershot to see his old
comrade, but by tacit consent neither
man mentioned Marcia. Lady Glen Luce
ha«l written the kindliest of farewells.
course, made
I low
Marcia,
could she?
And so Captain Ilni'-r and Edward part-
el—the former to sail for Tndia in a week
or so, the latter to return tm his new
position.
It was ail very delightful. The shoot
ing parties were voted great successes—
good sport, well-chosen company, and tlie
added interest over the Glen Luce folk,
who were celebrities in their way. All
Britain had been interested in the claims,
ail Britain was prepared to be gracious
to the successful ones.
It. was close on Christmas when the
bolt fell from the blue. The- Lo.Y m
house had been refurnished: its now own
ers were planning for a season in town.
The dear old Edinburgh home already
seemed shrunk and shabby to eyes that
had opened on the magnificence of Glen
Luce.
A vague rumor, too insignificant to
cause serious concern, suddenly became
fact. A Scotch marriagf—one of those
elusive apparitions that still flit over the
legal horizon—bad been proved. A raw
lad 'front Australia arrive,i in London.
He had been born and bred on a sheep-
run; lie had the physique of a prize
fighter and the education of a plowman.
But he was the true and undoubted Earl
of Glen Luce!
Sir John Rutherford. K. C. B., was
only Sir John then, after all! There was
no countess, no Lady Alarcia; and as
for Edward—could he afford to keep his
commission. Debts, whole battalions of
them, seemed to the Rutherfords the
only abiding remains of the earldom of
Glen Luce.
There was Sir John’s pension; there
were his savings, and the little invest
ments he had made for his wife ami
Alarcia. He totaled them up. and tried
to balartce debts. Time—would they only-
give him time!
He would seek lodging In Holyrood. Liv
ing there safe from fear of arrest, he
would work, if work could he found, and
save up every farthing to pay off those
debts. Edward would find some post or
other and back him up in the battle. No
shilly-shally bankruptcy, and wriggling
out of liabilities by raying so many shil
ling's in tlie pound, ’rite debts were just
debts, an,] .should be justly paid—every’
single penny.
And so it came to pass that the Ruth
erfords found themselves in rooms in the
mean little streets that were the actual
nineteenth century rendering of the pic
turesque old right of sanctuary of the
precincts of tlie Abbey of Holyrood. Ed
ward sent in his papers and accepted a
berth in a city counting house. Sir John
had tried to retain a few favorite pos
sessions for his wife and daughter, but
they insisted on sharing his struggle and
making sacrifice of all, even as he had
done.
Alarcia had determined to turn her
talent for drawing to account. She had
found a market Tor little water color
Continued on Last Page.
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