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J acquisition IX.
My jea I>V- McCurn at once took fire.
At Sir *nt the old fierce,
resentful anger ;\ve re.Yorke seized me.
The latter s silen.r pgravated my feel¬
ings against him. * not write to him;
I could not, even “et, v 1 ' felt so inclined.
Of what use wouk r,ve been, since he
bad and I left my last t r fitters unanswered
did not eveR at v Ids address?
A week later D ’d I and the nurse,
with Sir Ralph r?.£ a hairier, started for
Nice. There Sir KfUfm rented a pretty
▼ilia for us, while he took up his quar¬
ters at tho neighboring hotel. There wo
remained for weeks and months, while
Darby grew well and strong again.
And all this while I did not hear a word
from Y'orke. One summer day Sir Ralph
took ns all out for a sail and while we
were drifting along over the blue waters
of the Mediterranean confessed his love
for me and asked me whether I could not
return it. 11 is manner in making the pro¬
posal was so delicate, so gentle, I fairly
began to long that I could find it in my
heart to respond in the way he desired.
But I could do no more than be silent, and
he rightly interpreted that to mean that I
had no love to give him.
“I might have known it,” he said bit¬
terly. “I never meant to tell you; only
just now the feeling grew too strong for
me. Do not think of it any more. Let
ns at least be friends.”
“l r es,” I said eagerly, and finding voice
at the same moment as I found relief.
“We can always be that. I should bo so
—so sorry if we could not.” After that
Sir Ralph busied himself in the manage¬
ment of the boat. Suddenly a storm bore
down upon us, one of those fierce, sudden
squalls which spring up on the Mediter¬
ranean, and I firmly believe but for Sir
Ralph’s able seamanship the vessel would
have foundered and we should have all
been drowned. As it was we weathered
the storm, though vve landed in a drenched
condition.
Sir Ralph hurried us to the villa, while
he went to the hotel to change his drip¬
ping garments. When we had changed
our clothing and I had found, to 1113' great
Joy, that Darby had suffered no harm
from the exposure to the storm, I went
down to the parlor, where, to my surprise,
I found my father, who had just arrived.
He hud time not only to pay us a visit,
but <0 inform me that Sir Ralph had taken
up all his dt'bts, and that it was Sir
Ralph s money which had enabled us to
go to Nice, which kept us there, which
had been the means of restoring Darby’s
health.
“It is his money,” said my father, “and
I never knew it—as there is a heaven
above me, I never knew it, till—a week
ago.”
1 rose from my chair, pale as a culprit,
frightened, trembling, heart-sick.
“Perhaps," I said in an odd, suffocated
voice, after the silence had lasted some
sixty or seventy seconds, “perhaps you
can pay back the money soon?”
Ho looked at me with a sort of pitying
compassion for nn - ignorance.
“I never can,” he said. “I should be
ruined, or Moorlands would have to bo
sold.”
1 felt as if all the blood In 1113- reins had
turned to ice. Ruin! The full sense
and misery of the word could only reach
me in a dim and far-off way; but still the
horror of it seemed about me even then
as I looked on the bright scene beyond the
villa windows- as 1 saw the luxuries aud
comforts of the pret(3 r , dainty room.
Across tuy confused and tangled
thoughts my father's voice broke again:
“There is one way—but one—by which
all these troubles might be averted; one
way by which Sir Ralph might become
ruy debtor instead of uiy being his. Ho
—he spoke to me of it long ago, before
you came here at all. I left it to him and
to your—well, to your own good se»se,
Joan.”
I looked at him in a sort of stupor. My
heart began to beat slowly, painfully,
nervously. I know what was coming now.
I waited for the next words as I might
have waited for the executioner’s ax.
“I—I suppose he has not spoken yet?”
my father continued. “He is diffident,
because he thinks you are so much young¬
er than himself. But lie is a man worth
tifty of the young, foolish dandies of the
present day. And he loves you with all
his great, honest, generous heart. Look
at all he has done for your sake! I—I
don’t want to force your inclinations.
Joan, but I should like to know what you
think of the subject. Give it due con¬
sideration. and then—then tell me what
your answer would be if‘Ferrers asked
you to be his wife.”
“Would,be?" 1 cried bitterly. “There is
no chance of what it would be now. Ke
has asked me. Oh, if 1 had oul\- known
all this yesterday—this morning—a little
sooner! Now—it is too late!”
“Too late?” echoed my father, stopping
his pacing backward and forward, aud
coming to a halt iu front of me. “What
do yon mean? Has he asked you al¬
ready ?”
“Yes.”
“And yon-’
“1 refused him,” I answered slowly.
He turned verv pale. lie dropped into
« cha;r, and. leaning his arms on the ta¬
ble. bent liis face down on them, and
groaned aloud.
There came a slight sound at the door.
A little white figure stood there—a golden
halo of damp and tumbled curls about her
face. She came straight into the room,
and. with unerring instinct, went up to
him. and laid her hand upon his knee.
“Papa.” she said softly, “is it you.
papa ?”
The hands dropped from his face. The
child climbed up on his knee without fur¬
ther wor<l. and leaned her soft cheek
against his own.
I stole out of the room.
The child, perhaps, might comfort him.
I coulu not.
CHAPTER X.
K, xr - room and shut
n ou my knees
beside the bed and gave myself up to
lutter despair. For once I put my ill-fated
love aside, and looked life and its attend-
ant circumstances fully in the face.
When I rose from my knees that day I
said in my heart: “I will marry Sir Ralph
Ferrers to-morrow if only he will ask me
again”—and I meant it.
Tfce events of the day had unsettled Lisd
disturbed me. and every time 1 thought of
the generosity smd kindness I bad so ill
+ Notice. *v
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requited I grew hot with shame and dis¬
may. Sir Ralph was just the same as
ever, to all appearances—courteous, frank*
genial—so true a gentleman, so kind a
friend. I said this to myself again and
again as the meal went on; as I watched
the looks, or beard the tones I knew so
well, and had valued so little. Some stu¬
pid constraint had fallen upon me, and I
was very taciturn; but Sir Ralph and
father did not appear to notice it.
V\ hen dinner was over I left them, and
went out into the grounds. The night was
dark with shadows here in the quiet walks
l paced; the stars glittered in myriads over
the violet waters, and everywhere came
the scents of roses and orange blossoms,
steeping the air with languid, dreamy
odors.
It seemed to me as if I had never been
so keenly conscious of the beauty of the
scene before. The very breath of the
wind, the sway of the leaves, and murmur
of the sea, touched me in a way altogether
new and strange. I felt as if they were
parts of a dream, not actual realities.
Presently a figure stole out from among
the shadows, paused, then came toward
me.
“Is the child asleep?” he said abruptly.
“I wished to bid her good-bye, for I must
be off early in the morning.”
I turned my face to his. I saw how
pale he was, and what a harassed look
the kind gray eyes held in their depths.
“You are going—to-morrow?” I echoed
Stupidly. “Why?”
“It is better I should be,” he answered
slowly. “Your father’s affairs—I must
see to them. They—they can’t be as bad
as he says, and he must not be allowed to
sell Moorlands—he must not!”
My lips began to quiver. I looked up
»t him.
“Oh, Sir Ralph,” I cried, “how good you
have been! How much you have done for
as! Father only told me to-day about—
about Darby.”
“I did nothing—nothing,” he said impa¬
tiently. “What is the use of money if
one can’t help a friend who’s in a scrape?
And what’s the use of my money to me?
It can't buy ine the affection of a single
creature—it can’t give me a home-”
Ilis voice ceased abruptly, then grew gen¬
tler. “Forgive me, Joan,” he said; “I
did not mean to reproach 30U.”
“But I am fond of you,” I burst forth
with sudden courage—“and grateful. Oh,
you don’t know how grateful I am! Your
generosity shames me. I seem to have
been so selfish, so exacting-”
“Hush!” he said. “If I have been of
any use or comfox*t to you, that is all I
want. 1 am a lonely man. I wanted
something to occupy my thoughts and af¬
fection. I found it. If there is a little
pain behind, that is only my fault; you
are not to blame—or—or the child.”
“The child?” I faltered. “Yes, I know
it was for her sake. And she loves you
so. Don’t say there is no one-”
“Did I say that?” he asked gently. “It
was wrong and ungrateful, was it not?
Perhaps I should have said-”
“No, do not say it,” I cried eagerly. “I
know what you mean. Oh, if I had only
known it before!”
“Do you think I wanted to buy your
love?” he said sternly. “Oh, Joan, how
little you know me! You would make any
saeritice for their sakes. I am sure of it,
child; but l don’t want a sacrifice. Since
you have learnt the truth, I must leave
you; for—for my own sake, perhaps, as
well as yours. I know it is hopeless to
expect you to love me—even a little—and
I am foolish enough to care only for your
love.”
“But I don’t know that it is—hopeless.”
I cried suddenly, with a courage born of
desperation, I fear, for 1 could not bear
the idea of losing him out of my life now.
He seized my hands and drew me out
of the shadows into the pale, sweet glow
of moonlight, and looked down at my face
with earnest, searching eyes.
“Child,” he said, “if I know you at all,
I know you would not trifle with any
man’s honest love. Do you know what
your words imply? If it is not folly to
you, Is it—anything else?”
“Yes,” I said, gravely, “a great and
noble gift, of which I am not worthy.”
“But which you will accept; is that it,
Joan?”
“Yes,” I answered, lifting my eyes to
tiis. and wondering not a little at the rap¬
ture and the joy that lit his face, and
swept away every line of age by the
magic of happiness, “and value as I have
never valued anything in all my life be¬
fore.”
“May heaven bless you for those
words.” he said, and bent and kissed my
brow with reverent and most tender
touch. “And the love—will that come,
too?”
“If I were not sure of that I would
never be your wife,” I answered.
"I believe you,” he said. “And remem¬
ber, Joan.” lie added, solemnly, "I trust
you with all mv heart—with all my soul.”
“I will remember,” I said.
Aud afar off, like a sob, the waters
seemed to echo my words, as they rose
snd fell in the quiet night, against the
juiet shore.
A month later we were married.
CHAPTER XI.
“I never saw anything so lovely in the
vhole course of my life!”
“You have made that remark a good
many times, my dear,” says my husband’s
foiee. “But I pardon its repetition here.
This place is an earthly paradise.”
I am standing, or rather we are both
standing, on the platform of the railway
station at Salzburg. There is a pile of
aaggage beside us; there are polite offi-
rials suggesting the various excellences of
ffieir respective hotels: there is my par-
lieuiar maid a little distance off. and there
s Darby, with meek and wondering face.
listening to my rnptu.es. For Darby, who
could not bear to be separated from me,
had at my husband’s own request, accom¬
panied us.
Presently we were at the hotel, and I
am shown into a room all white lace, and
dainty furniture, aud with a balcony be-
youd the window, from which I behold a
perfect panorama of loveliness. The sun
is just sinking behind the highest of the
mountain peaks—it is the Gaisberg, 1
learn afterwards. The rich, soft air seems
like a breath of purer life, and as I stand
and gaze, the river and valley fade into
paler tints, and the trees stand black as
shadows against the rose hues of the sk;
“One is glad of life at such a time, l
say at last, and I draw the child closer t
my side, and tell her iu low. hushed tor s
j 1 of those of wonderful that heights far, with tL
crowns snow reach far ur >
■ heaven, of how tho clear
stars leap .. j
j the violet dusk of the sky, of the waters
! that grow so dark as the spoil of right
creeps onward, and how one by one the
distant lamps gleam out through trees
I and avenues, and shine down into the
j j river, "I it all." the child, I
can see says as
1 cease speaking. “How beautiful it must
he, Jo! I can hear the river quite dis-
{ tinctiy about the whole place.”
“It seems the only thing that hn* life or
motion,” I answer dreamily ._ “There is
fhl rt as it. w. . ’
had toUnuf^ iere in this faint a
voice remeriX;ered as only pain remem-
bers; and cold, and sick, and trembling, I
turn, and Inside me, on the adjoining bal-
cony, I see—Yorke Ferrers. For a mo-
ment I do not speak. No word—not even
the commonest form of greeting will m.v
Ups frame. I only stand as if turned to
*tone, and gaze at the face before me
with eyes that must surely speak the ter-
ror of my heart.
He bends a little nearer. I have some
dim. confused idea that he puts out his
hand, but I do not touch it. I draw fur-
ther and further away—a sort of horror
seizes me. I feel as if I hated him—hated
bim because he stands there, calm, smil-
ing, composed; and I—what agony has me
in its grip as I lean against the cold stone
balustrade, tongue-tied, paralyzed, by the
shock of this strange meeting!
Darby's voice rouses me. Darby it is
who runs forward and clasps the hands
that to me are as the hands of a mur-
derer.
“It is Y'orke,” she cries gladly. “It is
Yorke, and here, too! How funny! Did
you know we were here?”
“No,” he says; “I did not know.”
“Why don’t you speak to him, Joan?”
the child goes on. "Are you not glad to
see him? You were so fond of him once.
Was she not, Y’orke?”
“Yes,” he says, in an odd, cold voice;
“I think she was fond of me once. But
that was a long time ago, Darby—a long
time ago!”
Then something gives me strength, and
I stand up calm and straight, though pain
seetns draining the very life-blood from
toy heart.
“I was too surprised to speak to you,”
I say in a voice that is no more like my
own than these falling evening shadows
are like the radiant sunset I have watch¬
ed. “How—how did you come here?”
“By train, from Vienna,” he answ r er3.
“May I ask the same question of you?
Or shall I waive ceremony, and say at
once, why have you never answered my
letters?”
“Your letters? I gasp. “What letters?”
“Those I wrote before leaving London,
and again from Boulogne,” he says. “I
grew- sick of it at last. A one-sided cor-'
respondence has few charms at the best
of times. It certainly possessed none for
me.”
“Y'our—letters?” I repeat. “Why, I
never had one after last July. Never, i
though I wrote to you again and again,
though I begged and prayed for one word'
to say you had not forgotten.”
“I forget,” he in the i
never says same,
, hard, , strange .. _ It . mis-, . ,
v.ay—- never. ib my
fortune to have a fatal memory. There
is something odd about this. I cant un-
tt.
But I can, I cry with a sudden pas-
sion of wrath and indignation. “Yon are
not telling me the truth you can t be.
W hy did you go away with that woman.
If if you had loved me as you said, you
eould never have done that—never! And
as for letters, I had none. And all these
months I have waited and waited in vain!
Oh,” I cry in sudden despair, as I wring
my hands together, “what does it all
mean?**
Earth, sky, the very stars and moon are
whirling madly about me. With a last
effort at self-command I seize Darby.
“Go in, child,” I cry, hurriedly; go in
and wait. I will be there in a moment.
I forget Sir Ralph. I forget everything.;
I only remember that I am here face to.
face with my false and perjured lover,
aud that I will have the truth from him.
at any cost. Darby obeys. I go close to ;
the little stone bar that separates the two
balconies
“Now,” I say, looking at the face that
is as white as my own, “tell me why you
have deceived me so.”
His eyes meet mine. Oh, the sweetness
and the misery of that remembered look!
The hands of time go back. W e are boy
and girl once more lovers, loving and
beloved. We are in the school room at
home. My heart leaps in mad and fierce
lefiance of the present and the future,
claiming once again the old rapture and
the old belief.
Then I hear his voice, and grow calm,
[is with the icy chill of death.
“I never deceived you,” he sa3’s, and
his face does not blanch nor his e3 T es sink.i
There is no guilt or shame in the eyes that
meet m3 r own, but they are stormy with
sudden, anger, and that ver3' anger seems
to claim kinship with all ray memories of
him. “A woman has always the right
to insult a man if she chooses,” he says;
‘I thought the right to reproach lay on
my side. Heaven knows I have raged at
pou, stormed at you, hated 3-ou at times;
but-”
“But she?” I persist. “Where is she—
that woman who stole you from me—■
that woman who stands between us?”
“Be silent!” he cries in a sullen, stormy
way. “Don’t take her name on your lips.
How you have heard of her at all passes
my comprehension. It is a short story^
enough if 3-ou care to hear. You know
where I lodged. There were only I and
another fellow in the house, and the—
lady—who kept it represented herself as
a widow. I told you that long ago, when
I first went there—did I not?”
“Yes, I say stonily.
“She—she was only an adventuress,”
he goes on. a sudden streak of crimson
showing itself on his cheek, “and she
too': a—a sort of fancy to me.
a Traieauce at last, and I left. Then she
followed me to Boulogne. That is all—
the plain facts as they stand. Of course
you’ll sa>- I’m not blameless; a fellow
never is blameless when a woman throws
herself at his head; but I give you my
word of honor I never encouraged her—
in fact, I disliked her rather than other-
wise.”
"knd have you—married her' J ” I ask
abruptly
"Married her! Great heavens—no! Do
you take me for a fool, Joan?”
Then I turn sick and dizzy; I see be-
f >re me shipwreck, sorrow, desolation—
r-r.ly these; and a few moments before life
1 ad looked so fair and full of peace. A
lew moments! Why, it seemed as if years
* ,au ad passed passed since since I 1 had naa stepped s.eppeo out out on on
that balcony, and gazed with raptured
vision on the white snows and gleaming
; waters.
j “So that is—all,” I say brokenly, find¬
i ing voice at last. “Then she must have
stopped your letters and mine. She took
| VO u from me, whether with your will or
‘ Qt Absence is hard I thought
n . a test.
( it too hard for you. I—oh, Yorke—Yorke,
: wbat you baTe cost me!”
! “Do not say that!” he cries with the
j 0 i d passion in his voice. “Remember I,
1 too< haTe su ff eT ed thinking you changed,
j f or _oh. Joan, how can I explain to you?
j folly like that does not change a man’s
be axt—nay, rather it sickens and disgusts
him, and makes him turn with deeper
j longing to the pure love of a pure woman,
And so I turned to you and prayed to you,
and you gave me only silence. But now
Fare has been kind—kinder than I de-
serve. I- or you look , , at.me w:tn ... remem-
bermg eyes, ana I-I think I never loved
you so well as now. Dear, look at me as
t0 J °°k 5,011 ior = 1Te me
“Oh, hush-hush!” I cry bitterly. “Is it
possible you don’t know-that yon have
not heard
“Heard what?” he says, and his Ups
grow white, his face changes back to the
wrathful, storm-iit face I know so weil.
“That I am—married.”
at,x
maJeoYijand^jowerba jear— 4 * 4 I
very terror, and long to hide myself from
s ig b t of men —from every sound and sign
0 f human life.
There comes a step on the bare waxed
floor 0 f tbe inner room—a step and a
c heery voice that rings out in frank and
kindly accents;
“Why, Joan—Joan, my dear—where are
you? Star-gazing still? Don’t you know
dinner is waiting?”
My hands drop; I look up at Yorke’s
face; I see the lurid flash that leaps into
his eyes, and a worse terror seizes me
than ever thrilled my heart In all the pangs
and fears of its beating life,
“So it is my uncle!” he says in a voice
low and deep as thunder. “Curse him!”
Then stars and moon faded suddenly
from my sight, and amidst an awful dark-
ness I felt myself falling—falling—falling
—whither, I neither knew nor cared,
CHAPTER XII.
When I wake up I find myself lying
dressed in bed. Only my bodice has been
removed and rests in a chair. It is evex-
ing, and through the open window I catch
a glimpse of waving trees in the bright
moonlight.
As soon as my maid sees that I am
awake she comes to my bedside, and in
answer to my questions tells me that I
had fainted, that I was alone when Rir
Ralph, terribly frightened, appeared on
the scene, and had me brought into the
room. He had remained with me until I
had come out of my swoon only to fall into
a deep sleep, and then had gone into the
garden for a smoke.
At this moment I catch sounds of fa-
miliar voices from the garden below, and
springing out of bed, I rush to the win-
flow. Yes, they are the voices of Sir
Ralph and Y'orke. They are talking in
quiet, friendly fashion, there is no faint¬
est trace of anger or resentment in either
voice, and I tremble, and draw back and
ask myself, “What can it mean?” In
spite of my maid’s remonstrance, I order
her to help me put on my bodice, and
snatching up a shawl, rush down into the
garden. ■
My appearance causes my husband great
alarm; but I tell him that I feel better
now, although my ghastly face belles the
fact. He asks me why I fainted, and I
answer that I was fatigued and giddy.
He then turns to Yorke and introduces
me to him as the latter’s new aunt. Yorke
acknowledges the introduction, meant
»nly for my ear. ne has, then, not told
his uncle that he had met me before. I
tremble as I think what his purpose may
be by this concealment, and his assumed
friendliness for the man whom, only a
few hours ago, he had told me he hated,
Sir. Ralph tells me that Y’orke had in¬
formed him that he did not get my hus-
band’s letter announcing our marriage,
and that his meeting us here in Salzburg
was pure ] y accidental,
l can bear it no longer> j falter ont
that I am tired—that I would like to go
indoors, and Sir Ralph turns his back on
£ be garden, and the starlight, and the at-
tractions of the nocturnal cigar, and ac J
companies me.
At the portal we pause for a moment
He turns to his nephew.
“Are you coming in also?” he asks.
“I!” and Yorke laughs a short, mirth-
| osg laugh. “Oh, no, I am not so fond of
my p in ow as all that. I’m going for a
walk; it’s a glorious night. I mean to
ge £ to tbe to p + be Qaisberg,” pointing
£ 0 erea t peak with its cap of snow.
He 1}fts hie hat wit h all courtesy, but,
ob>! the mock i ng smi i e) the look of hate
and fury in the brief g] ance tbat meeta
mv own. Then he is gone. He has not
of f ered to take Sir Ralph’s hand or mine,
an( j we go ; n t 0 the hotel and up to our
rooms in silence.
“Yorke is very much changed,” says
gj r j> a ] p h, as ke moves to and fro in the
room in restless man-fashion; “very much
changed; but I think he seems inclined to
be bet ter friends with me than of old,
an( j be certainly took the news of my
marriage in very good part.”
“In ver3r good part!” I echo the words
in a vague, frightened way—echo them,
and hear them multiplied and repeated
by voices of fear and shame, till they lose
sense and meaning in the baffled fury of
a curse that has struck to the very roots
of my life.
The next morning I woke up refreshed
by sleep—for, strange to say, I did sleep
—and nerved by resolution. I knew what
lay before me. There could be no question
of divided duty, of right or wrong. Hard
as was the task, it must be performed at
the cost of everything, even life itself.
Sir Ralph came in to announce that
breakfast was ready, and that after that
meal he had arranged for a trip to Co-
nigssee, a wonderful inland lake in the
vicinity. Yorke and a German friend of
his was to b© of the party, I would
rather only Darby and I went with my
husband, but I could offer no reasonable
objection. After breakfast was over the
carriage came around and we were off
for our trip. On our arrival at the lake,
which we reached about noon, we had
luncheon, and then some of our party, L
believe it was the German friend, pro¬
posed a row on the waters. We were
bundled into two boats, our party being
too large for one—I, Darbs r and Yorke in
the first and larger, Sir Ralph and the
German in the other. A stalwart peasant
girl takes her seat in the bow, an equally
stalwart peasant youth takes his seat in
t be stern.
“Are the others coming?” I cry out,
paling with sudden terror, for a few
rapid strokes carry us right away into a
solitude, vast, gloomy, awe-inspiring, the
like of which I had never imagined or be-
held.
“Yes,” Yorke answers curtly.
“Oh, I don’t like it. It is horrible!” I
cry, and cover my face with my hands.
“Tell them to turn back! I cant bear it
-it makes me ill; it is like the Styx, or
whatever that awful place was. Do—do
tell them to turn back.
“Unfortunately, says o o.e, ui w
looks like grim enjoyment o my error,
* t P e ^ * ^ or 0 erman. ^
s
® , Th® «»“ ^ the our ®{J«i 1 /
back! 1 must g0 back , ! > 1 , Aie ot
ne ver saw such , an awful , place ,
life. 7
in my
It is good place other , to
as a as any ___
die in,” says Yorke, coolly, “if—as yon
said just now—you are inclined to do that.
I am sorry I can’t assist you. The other
boat isn’t even in sight; I fancy they
can’t get a rower.”
I drop my hands. I look at him with
a sort of horror. He faces the shore; I
have my back to it.
“Is it true?” I cry. “Are we the only
people on the lake? Isn’t Sir Ralph be¬
hind us?”
“No,” he ?a3"s with a sneer, “We are
quite alone.”
My eyes turn from his face to the deep,
still water. Oh, the awful silence and
gloom of this place! I feel as if I were
in a new world. The waving branches of
! the trees below seem like beckoning arms
I j that would fain draw me down, down to
; se uufa thomab !e depths. I seem to
V without looking, that Yorke
^ dra iE „ nearer to me. Mirrored in that
glassy surface I see his face, bending
' knouT” own.
he whispers, in a
hllsky< stitled voice-“do you know that
^ ere j a k e j s g j x hundred feet deep?
Six hundred feet! What is there to pre¬
vent my taking you in my arms and
plunging into this—Styx—as you called
It? *Twould be an e asy death, Joan, and
*T 0 yX%
Xadonly very 7 %^ ,,,*Tnd met
tis eyes, but all ieur u«.*u lei . iue. Yorke's
eyes burned with fierce, unholy flame, and
t looked back to them cold, still, ur.fear¬
ing. Teen a flash of sunlight shot across
our path. The lake waters shimmered
under its golden touch; the drops from
the lifted oars fell like jewel-flames across
its still and rippleless surface, and sud¬
denly. without word or warning, a long,
reverberating echo shook the silence as
with thunder. Darby’s cry of terror echo¬
ed my own. Y'orke half sprang to his
feet, but the rowing girl pushed him back
to his place.
"Pistol!” she said, with a broad grin.
“Only pistol. People shoot him.” And
Btraightwav from under the seat she pro¬
duced an old rusty looking blunderbuss,
and began to jabber away in her uncouth
dialect with the greatest fluency. 1 un¬
derstood afterwards that it was the cus¬
tom to let off a pistol at this spot.
The child was trembling in my arms.
Her fears helped to subdue my own. I
soothed her, and held her closely to my
side while still the boat glided on, and
finally shot up to a little promontory on
the east shore, and there stopped. Oh, the
delight of touching land again: i sprang
out and gazed around, but I was trembling
still. Then 1 turned to Y'orke, my face
and eyes one blaze of indignation.
“How dared you speak so to me?” I
cried, passionately. “It was cruel, cow¬
ardly, brutal'”
"Yes,” he said, “it was. But I don’t
think you would have minded if 1 had
carried out my threat.”
“You must not be cruel to Jo," said
Darby, lifting up that pure, calm face of
hen rebukingly. “Jo is very good, and
you are not. And you made her cry last
night, and she was very ill. I do not
like her to cry, and I will tell Sir Ralph
if yon vex her.”
Yorke’s brow grew very black.
“Leave the child here for a moment,”
he eaid, “and walk on with me. We are
bound to have it out sooner or later. The
'present time is as good as any. Do not be
alarmed. I shall not hurt you. The—
the murder mood has passed.”
“I am not afraid of you or anything
you can do,” I answered, quietly, as 1
unlinked the child’s hands from mine and
led her to a seat beneath the trees. "But
you are right; I must know why you have
behaved like this—why you have forced
me into such a position. Your presence
here is an insult to your uucle, and your
pretended friendliness a disgrace to both.
It is unmanly and cowardly to revenge
yourself on me by acting as you have
chosen to act.”
We moved on, just near enough to keep
the child in sight, but far enough to be out
of hearing.
“If you had only waited,” began Yorke
—“if you had only trusted, or if I had
not let my brutal temper get the better
of me! Joan, why did you marry my
uncle?”
“He was so good,” I cried faintly; “so
unselfish, and he helped us in such sore
straits. He saved Darby’s life—he has
rescued father from ruin, and—and he
loved me.”
“Yes,” answered Y'orke gloomily; “I al¬
ways told you that, and I always knew I
should have no chance against him In the
Jong run. You women want so much—
an ideal so spotless, a physical man with
the soul and nature of an angel. Ah! if
you only knew our trials, and snares, and
temptations! We fail you in a weak mo¬
ment, and then you are relentless. Joan,'
would you have married had you not:
ceased to believe in me?”
“No,” I said brokenly; “you know that.”
“Well,” said Yorke, “I wonder who has
been most to blame—you or I? Not that*
It matters much now. The mischief’s
done—irreparably done. Joan, I wonder
If you believed I loved you?”
“Yes,” I answered unsteadily; “I did.
That made it all the wors-\”
“And now?” he said, and that old hate¬
ful sneer was on his lips. “Now, of’
course, we are to be virtuous and good—
to go away, to turn our backs on each
other, and on all that makes life worth
living. Is that to be the program? Play
fit friendship and decorum in appropriate
fashion; lock up memory Rnd its treasures
like an emptied box that one tosses into
a lumber room. Do you think that’s an
adequate description, Joan?”
“It will do,” I said, trembling like a
leaf.
I turned back; I went down the rough
path; I took the child’.? hand in mine, and
stumbled like a blind thing down to the
water’s edge.
“Take me home!” I cried wildly to Sir
Ralph as we met face to face. “Oh, take
me home! This place is horrible. It ter¬
rifies me. I can’t bear any more of it—
I can’t indeed!”
And he humored me.
He said no word, asked no questions,
but I heard his calm and cheery voice
talking to Darby, and its tones insensibly
soothed my jarred and trembling nerves,
and the wild, hysterical terror subsided.
Swiftly and surely the boat glided on
amidst the golden warmth and color of
the day, but I—I sat there with hidden
face and trembling limbs, deaf and blind
to the beauty, and the stillness, and tho
peace, only praying over and over again
in some drear, hopeless way.
“Help me to bear it, O Heaven! Help
me—oh, help me to bear it!”
‘To be_continuedJ
LIE VrE N A NT HOBSON.
As Lieutenant Hobson grew to be
a lad, and was in the Naval Academy
at Annapolis, his moral courage and
his physical courage proved to be
well matched. Y'ou have read “Tom
Brown at Rugby”? You remember
the gentle little Arthur and the rough-
and-ready, rugged Tom ? Young
Richmond had the fin© qualities of
both.
One day young Hobson, with the
rest of his class, was at the swim¬
ming lesson. He was far out along
the rope in the breakers. It would
be almost sure drowning to lose hold
of the rope. But it happened by
some mischance that, as Hobson
pressed still further out, he met a
classmate coming in, clinging for life
to the rope. They two were alone
out there in the breakers.
The two lads looked into each
other’s eyes. It was a hard moment
for the youngsters. Safe passage
along the rope for both was nearly
an impossibility.
Hobson gave way to his classmate,
keeping the merest touch on the rope.
But, somehow, at the moment of the
boy’s passing him, even this slight
hold gave way, and he sank into the
breakers.
The boy left on the rope got in,
and sent aid. Hobson was brought
to shore. All supposed he was dead,
but he revived finai:y.
I “Nobody could have come out of .t
alive but Hobson,” was the general
i cry. “He is a tough fellow to stand
j that !” And, from that day, he Ams
known among his classmates as
“Parson Tough.”
You can see, even from this brief
account, h-^w all along, from a child
qp f Richmond Hobson ha3 been grow¬
ing to be a hero.
* *C MMitJlte: it mil ’n? ^ A *
Toinlressing Meadows,
It is always best if manure is to be
put on grass land to do it in the fall.
Both the leaves and roots of the grass
keep the manure from being washed
away and wasted. There is, as ex¬
periment has shown, very little leach¬
ing of manure through the soil, as its
fertility is held iu the first few inches
near the surface. Besides, if the top-
dressing is applied now the benefit
from the manure can be greatly in¬
creased by passing a heavy drag over
the surface; displacing each particle
of manure and carrying it into contact
with a part of the soil it has not be¬
fore reached.
Threshing Buckwheat.
Owing to the great amount of sap
its thick stalk contains, buckwheat
cannot well be piled up iu stacks or
put in mows. We have known it to
be threshed by machine, but it took
so much more power to thresh the
buckwheat by threshing machine that
the experiment was not profitable. It
is extremely easy with a little beating
of the head to dislodge every grain of
buckwheat. But when stalks and all
were put in it had to be done very
slowly, else the green buckwheat
stalks would clog the cylinders and
stop the machine, It takes much
more coal to thresh buckwheat with a
steam thresher than it does to thresh
grain whose straw is dry.
Marketing Honey. *"
Grade the honey in as many differ¬
ent classes as you have honey. Class¬
ify everything. Don’t put a second
or third grade honey, be it ever so
little, in a first-class lot, thinking you
will get a first-class price for it. The
consequences are you will get a third-
class price for your first-class honey
when you do it.
Parties that handle honey by the
<Juaintity, from all parts of the coun¬
try, are better judges of honey than
you are, as this does not require them
to be students of apiaculture.
Never use seoond-hand packages;
many have been brought to grief by
doing this.
Have your comb honey stored in
the best white polished sections,
W«aned thoroughly, and packed in
the best shipping cases. Put your
name and address on every package
Also sent out as producer of said honey.
give tho source from which it
was gathered. One or more varieties
as the case may be.
Perhaps the best shipping package
for extracted honey is the sixty-pound
square tin can with a three-inch screw
cap. These cans are furnished by the
manufacturers in pairs, with"wooden
cases, two cans in a box, and usually
sold at seventy-five cents per pair.
Last, but not least, do not consign
your honey to strangers that you
know nothing about. Quite a few
bogus honey commission firms bob up
every year and somebody gets in the
trap.—Farm, Field and Fireside.
A Comfortable Fruit Ladder#
Upon the ordinary fruit ladder one
must stand for a long time and en¬
dure the strain and the cutting into
the feet of a small round. A fairly
broad, flat step gives firm and com¬
fortable support to tho feet. The
ladder can be made light, too, as tho
one shown in the illustration. Make
one in the winter according to this
pattern, while you have plenty of
time, and it will be ready for next
season’s fruit picking. The top of
u j fiiy it t , ggflfi M By in
c-
CC J ftp' ^ 1 . I s .
0 \
/ CO
1
u
A CONVENIENT STEP FOP. FBEIT PICKERS.
such a ladder can narrow to a point
if desired. The main piece must be
of some light material free from knots
and other imperfections. Dress all
the material before putting together,
then paint. If kept under shelter
when not in use it will last many
years.—Orange Judd Farmer,
Improving Pastures.
If there is any one part of the farm
that is neglected it is the pasture
fields. While there may be some lit-
tie excuse for this on large grain
farms, it can be hardly overlooked on
a dairy farm, where grass a?id green
pasture are the chief dependencies for
success. The improvement of pasture
fields is a crying need on many old
places. As a rule, the roughest and
most sterile fields are given over to
pastures, and it is not giving a cow a
fair show to make her pick up a living
on land that would not produce any-
thing else. This is often the case,
however, and then we blame the cow
for not giving more milk. Half the
fault against onr dairy cows can be
traced to improper feeding. Because
a cow has a large field or meadow to
graze iff it does not follow that she
ought to give a large flow of milk. A
much smaller piece of laud would pro-
duce much better results if the pas-
ture was rich aud well cared for.
It is all right to gives the cows for
pasture the roughest and rockiest part
of the farm, for naturally one does not
select that portion for plowing under
crops. But it is the part of wisdom
to bestow a little care upon such fields,
to improve them each year. A few
days’ labor devoted to the pasture
fields every season will surprise the
owner in the results five years later,
First, there are rocks and stones that
can be gradually carried off the field
and piled up. Clearing the pasture field
in this leisurely way will yield its re-
ward some day when it i3 found de-
eirable to cultivate the meadows or
hillside for orchard or field crops.
Along with this work should go that
of clearing the land of wild berry
bushes, brush, roots and weeds. The
roots once taken up will kill the
bushes aud trees for good, and so with
the weeds. See that they are rooted
Up, and not simply cut off. Noxious
m&fc- *. yfrass plants from grow-
J i^?g'oi^;raIly they harbor para*, may
rusts of grain, which
spread to the cultivated fields any day
and do a great amount of damage^.
This work of clearing the pastures of
foreign growths is important at thitf
seasou of the year, when weeds are
about to produce their seeds. One
plant destroyed, root and branch, now
may prevent the growth of fifty next
summer. So it is wise to begin at
once, for every year that the work is
postponed the pasture field degen¬
erates much more.
While engaged in this work of de¬
struction it might be well to recon¬
struct, too. Plant a few shade trees
in the most convenient part of the
field, and if necessary for their protec¬
tion fence them in until they attain a
good growth. Years later they will be'
appreciated by both man and beast.
When the weeds are are pretty welf
rooted out it will pay to sow the fiel<i
in the fall with grass seed, spreading
it thinly around, to reinforce the old
grass.—Indiana Farmer.
The Self-Sucking Cow.
Of all the nuisances on the farm
a self-sucking cow is by far the most
despicable. Consequently, the best
way to serve such an animal is to dis¬
pose of her to the best advantage pos¬
sible, and the sooner the better, for
once this bad habit is acquired it caa
rarely, if ever, be cured.
Still, if the cow is an especially val¬
uable one, it is a pity to dispose of
her, nor is there any need of it. Why?
Because by simply usiuga milk muz¬
zle on her, such as is represented itt
7
l I? —jfi
S3 » *
Si ••
?■ <
o' _
•» ,» !
IL 1*
t » A
A MILK MUZZLE.
the accompanying cut, she may
prevented from “draining” herself/
and that in such a way as to causd
her To very make little this inconvenience. |
muzzle take a piece of
board (soft wood) about five by six
inches and hollow the upper part oufe
as shown, leaving the opening b* m
tween the two o tongues tongues about about half bait
inch wide. Round off these tongues
nicely, cow/ so that they will not hurt the a?a
for these are the parts that
to be inserted into her nose; then/
having driven four wire nails into then
wood (indicated by the dotted lines) to
prevent splitting, hook one of the
tongues into the animal's nostrils and;
work the muzzle edgewise through
the space, so that the opposite tongue
comes into the other nostril like a nosh
ring. What are the results? Why,
in this position the board hangs down
in front of the cow’s mouth, aud while
it does not prevent her eating, and
eating freely, the moment she at¬
tempts her efforts to “bait” frustrated. where she ought Thus it notj is
are
that many regard this as the most prac¬
tical way of muzzling a self sucking
cow.—Now York Tribune.
Coal Ashes For Potatoes.
We liavo heard of some farmers
who applied a small handful of coal
ashes in the hill before planting their
seed potatoes, taking care to let the
seed come in contact with tho ashes.'
Their potatoes thus treated were free
from rot and scab, while others in the
neighborhood were very badly affected
by disease. The farmer who tried
this is enthusiastic over hi3 success,
and proposes to apply coal ashes ini
the hill to as many potatoes as he can
secure the ashes for. But one experi¬
ment, even though so satisfactory as
this, is not conclusive. There mayj
have been a difference in time of,
planting or of soil which would hay I
saved these potatoes from rotting afij^
way. It would have been more satisfy
factory if a group of four or eight
hills were ashed, aud some adjoining
them were at the same time planted'
without the ashes.
As we have often explained, there
is very little if any manurial value in
coal ashes. So far as increasing the
potato crop is concerned coal ashes,
are useless. But the very fact that
the coal ashes have no manurial value
may be an advantage in growing pota¬
toes free from rot. In contact with
this material, free from manures, if
there were germs on the seed potato
that might extend and cause rot they
would be isolated, and thus the new
crop could be grown free from rot. All
farmers know that to put stable man-
ure in contact with the potato would
either make the soil around the seed
too dry, or in a rainy season it would
furnish the best breeding place for
the rot fungus. In fact, stable man-
ure plowed under the same season i3
not now considered a safe practice
among farmers who are experienced
in growing potatoes. It is much bet-
ter to mauure the ground a year or
two before, and so give the manure
time to ferment and disappear, leav-
ing only its condensed nitrogenous
and mineral fertility iu the soil,
In one way we think that in a wet
season, as it was while the potato crop
was growing thi3 past summer, the
coal ashes may prove a benefit. They
help to dry out the hill. So too wilf
superphosphate of lime, especially
that made with a little excess of
sulphuric acid, as most of it is. We
have known farmers to use a very
little phosphate in the hill with
potato seed, but in this case taking
care not to have it come in contact
with the cut surface, which it would
soon eat into and destroy. Potatoes
thus treated were free from rot, while
those beside them not phosphated itt
the hill wer6 half rotten. In this
case we attributed the good effect to
the drying of the soil in the hill. Wa
can imagine that coal ashes being
inert themselves must have operated
to make the soil more dry inside the
bill during the very wet weather early
in the season. Even when the dry
weather came this dryness in the
centre of the hill where the potatoes
form is an advantage, for most of the
potato roots that supply moisture have
by this time extended to the middle
of-ilje rows.—Amervcan Cultivator. ^