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About The Courant-American. (Cartersville, Ga.) 1887-1888 | View Entire Issue (July 12, 1888)
CO U R ANT- A M ERIC A N. Published weekly by Wikik* Wilmworam. Editors and Proprietors. '""offloe .second Poor South of Post Office. .m.iftl OrgaP of Bartow County and the City o CartersTille. TERM" ok SUBSCRIPTION —IN ADVANCE. i Y** r * * " *1 5? a Months * J Souths - 50 rates of advertising,, ■ — mo. I H rniw. | w mos | l year. r > 00 $ 7MI *hTOO T 0 j) 1 i>o I® 00 15 00 llrte Inches, TANARUS, (*0 10 00 12 50 20 00 Hunches, 00 USO 15 oft 25 00 L ur th column, 700 15 00 25 00 40 00 Half column. ! 11 0 20 00 40 00 000 One column, l* r > <o| 85 00 6C 00 100 00 l,eifiil advertisements inserted and charged fo nresrribed by an act of the General Assembly, riie fee bein* du ” Rrt< * r flrßt promptly, we do not guarantee a second inser ? l ocal notices ten cents per line for first inser tion For a ,on * er time> ,ower rates. Advertisements will be run until lorbidden, V HH otherwise marked, and charged for accord on j v All considered due after first insertion. \jl communications intended for publication ‘ , hear th*t name of the writer, not necessarily f! r publication, but as a guarantee of good 1 ith Hh,tll ,Jot in any w,iy be responsible [ - the opinions of contributors. 'Sr)yWll^ by CHARLES J. BELLAMY. Coo* righted by the Author, and published by arrangement with him. Yet it i* l‘t-i'd for a man to understand that his fate may U* pure, unalloyed pain. He is ever smiling through his tears and trying to twakofrom his despair, as if it were but a dream of disordered fancy. So as the next morning came, and Philip Breton threw oj>en his door to genial into the sweet scented Sep teinlier air, he felt happier than for many weeks; the peace that came over him seemed to leave no place for cruel distrust and unre lenting pride. lie even reproached himself for his ungenerousness of yesterday. The world of nature left no unsightlj* wounds and breaks in it* whole dominion. Gaping graves are soon covered with green grass and wild flowers; life springs quickly out of death, and apjiarctit ruin is soon forgotten in renewed magnificence. Why should he, then, let two lives be wrecked for one wrong act in the past—forever past? He swung down his walk in anew buoy ancy. He believed he had passed through the cloud and come out into the clear light of reason. But at his gate a carriage rolled slowly by him, It contained a bridal couple, and he stopped to smile at them. The girl’s face hod no culture in it, but was sweet, and had the innocence of childhood. That ungainly fel low, who now wore his first broadcloth suit, it whom she looked so londly, was the only lover she lmd ever known. She had no se crets from him, no past his jealous eyes might not scan without a pang. Her soul was open to him. No whisper to her shame could ever reach his insulted ears. Her life was com monplace, but no blot was on it, no guilty thought had ever left its trail across her heart. The rough lad, who was bold enough jjSp put his arm about her waist in broad • laylight could pour his foolish love making into her eager ears without stint. There was so theme he must avoid with her, no page in her life he must not cut. Ho loved the soiled lily, loved it more than ill the fresh roses. All other women might 18 w dl never have been born for him; this Roman he would have died for. Could he not protect her from evil tongues? If she Rere trampled, could he not lift her into his bosom f If she were insulted, could he not put his man’s heart and strength between her tod shame ! He would hurry to his darling, throw himself at her feet, her past should be buried, her life should begin with his happi ness to-night. "You want to marry Bertha? I supposed you were acquainted with her past.” H was in Mr. Idlings worth’s room, where he sat in dressing gown and slippers, well buck in his easy chair. He was looking at Philip Breton very curiously. Ho had really fancied he understood human nature before. ( 1 e I am,” answered Philip simply, “ft ell, I know more of it than I wish I did. I,e nui away with a beggar, and she has comeback. I dislike unpleasant memories, *o I avoid unpleasant information. * You know ire r her—her relations with Curran? *w. wdl." and the gentleman shrugged his •light slioulilt?rs, “no doubt you know what yon ar<> doing, you run your own risks.” “Risks r Understand me, I irked but two ques ions—have you left Curran forever? do you Rant to come home? I had heard she had •ever been married. Jane has heard it. I ’Ktfed it. Do you wonder I did not ask, not •toing f>r v. disagreeable certainty. Well, do own questioning. I suppose the fact of keeping her maiden name shows some- I ting.” ft lint if lie should find she was indeed * ftrr h‘d after all, when he had at last de- Jktal he could not live without her; when he * u f last made up his mind that he must kave her if lie took a burden of life long toaine into his soul with her? That would be •Rretehed freak for fortune to play with blm ; but how foolish he was, did not her aail| e prove that she was unmarried? R’it I hate so to harrow up her memo fles ' said Philip, in an unsteady voice; “to ■Hake her confess her shame before me. I tooukl think that would be a father’s iuty.” Pan it le, my dear Philip,” remarked Mr. Ellingsworth, with his own brilliant smile, flint you know me so little as to expect mo tu perform an unpleasant duty? f'here are P®°Pto that love them —that never seem so touch in their element as when engaged in 801 ne act of self sacrifice. You must really •xcu.se me.” _ ,v hen Philip went down into the parlor bertha was sit ! ing there alone, and his fate Reined thrust upon him. Before he had time " ( ' r ead breaking the subject to her he stood Die back of her chair, kxiking down on her un, white lingers moving over her embroid j- r y work. He laid his hand very gently on er shoulder. Ah, it was less round than it UKrx - fo he. She was good enoug hto keep her ' .Yes fixed on her work. There was no shade of heightened color on her cheeks, nor did she ■piickeii her breathing. ® ei “ha,” he began, in a low, sweet voice, N.\ am S°ing to ask you something.” Still she dld not look up. at some time lief ore you died, a man hoiu you liked, came and asked you to hirry him,” he spoke very slowly, “is there Z reas °n why you must say no?” ot one flush or nervous tremor. She Gilded her needle again with the red nrsted “What do you mea;i by reason?” “I mean,” he said, in forced calm, “is there any loirrier which the laws make to prevent you from marrying him?” Sinoe he had be gun to dream of marriage, he had thought only of the barrier of her shame; he had not thought that there might be a barrier more impregnable. But it came over him all the more terribly now. That would explain her lack of shame, her unbroken pride, that would be more consistent with his lifelong idea of her, if she had preserved her honor, and, alas, was already married and cut for ever away from him. That would save her purity which he had thought sullied. No fingers of scorn could ever be pointed at her. No; but she would be lost to him forever. God forgive him, then, if he would rather have her dishonored, insulted, degraded, than lose her. Would she never answer? She laid down her needle and turned her face up to ward him. He trembled like a child as he watched her lips part; in a moment his fate would be decided. It was terrible that his happiness could come only through her shame, and her honor meant a life of despair and loneliness for him, but so it seemed to him now. “There is no barrier,” she replied. “Thank God,” he whispered. The strain was removed. She had established her own disgrace with her own lips, without a droop ing of her eyes, without a quiver of her lips. Ah, but he suffered in his very hope. It wounded him that he must rejoice in her shame, it was almost as if he had caused it. He bent low over her shoulder, in another moment he would have told her of the un changing passion—of his love. All the bounds of his nature were broken down now. His whole soul seemed dissolving in ineffable tenderness for this cold woman, into whose calm, beautiful eyes he looked so hungrily. “Like embroidery, don’t you, Mr. Breton V Mrs. Ellingsworth flashed her small black eyes in delight. Philip started back in ill concealed dismay, but Bertha’s face changed not one shade of expression as she rose mag nificently to her feet and swept from the room. The laxly of the house looked unpleasantly after her. “Isn’t it funny, she don’t seem to like me? Do you suppose it is that Curran scrape that has fmt her so much above me?” Philip glanced savagely at her; he could almost have struck her, without thinking of her womanhood, there was such a snake like look in the glistening black eyes. One might as well reproach a wild creature of the forest for following out its instincts; but altera moment he said: “Mrs. Ellingsworth forgets she is a lady?” But she was beautiful, if not a lady, her hot blood lighting up her round olive checks as if it were liquid fire and her curled lips glowing like a perfect rose just bursting into bloom. No man could look at her now and not feel a mad soulless fascination for her, a fascination the greater because mixed with revulsion. She was a perfect type of the womanhood that can madden a man with passion, without tenderness, that can wreek his life, banish every noble hope or ideal from his soul and feed him nothing but dead pea fruit. “It’s strange what makes a lady,” she answered him in growing excitement. “ Your Bertha is one no matter what vile ness she sinks to, but I can’t whisper one rude word.” She eame close to him and put her burn ing fingers on his hand. “Your horse loves you better than that woman. She will tor ture you to death, let her alone.” Then sho sprang away from him, and walked back ward and forward clasping and unclasping her clinging fingers in her old habit. “Oh, I hate her, I hate her; but what good is it? I would dash myself to pieces to break her, but I could not. She steals my lover and then leaves him. She comas back disgraced in tho eyes of her own father; but she does not feel it. And now comes her lover with his riches, and offers everything to her. She deserves nothing, but gets everything.” She would have raved on, but Philip Breton walked slowly out of the room. Nothing could ever move him now; he preferred the woman she maligned to all the other hopes or possessions in the world. CHAPTER XXIII. NO APPRECIATION OF EMBROIDERY. It was the next afternoon, as Philip Breton was unhitching Joe from the post, that he had occasion to doff his hat to Mrs. Ellings worth, driving by with her husband. They made a very pretty picture of marital bliss; perhaps they, were all the happier because neither of them hail souls. Philip had been intending to go to his factory, there was some business he ought to attend to, but the sudden assurance that Bertha was alone made his heart. give a great bound. What better time than now to tell her of his unal tered love, to win her promise to let him make her happy? So his business was post poned, and he rang the bell at Mr. Ellings worth’s instead. “Not in?” he repeated after the servant in dismay. Would his luck never change? Had sho been frightened at his manner the night before, and gone away to avoid his unpleas ant suit?” “But she isn’t far away,” and the girl smiled at the disappointment that had come over his face. “I guess, now, you will find her in the garden; or I will call her if you say.” “No, don’t call her,” and Philip hurried out to the garden. What more fitting place for what lie had to say if he could find his voice for the great lump in his throat. He must lie very eloquent to persuade her, to answer all her objections, to assure her that it was not pity that moved him, for she would re sent' that, but love —a love that craved her above all the world. She looked up from her embroidery at the sound of his footsteps and smiled. Her beauty might all go, as its first bloom ana freshness had gone, and her cheeks fade like the autumn leaves whose glowing tints they had once worn; her golden hair might whiten with age, he knew it would make no differ ence in his love. She wore the same dress sho had worn in that other garden scene. She had grown thin and gone back to the drosses of her girlhood. It was a light blue silk, ojien low in the neck, filled in with nest ng folds of lace. The sunbeams made their way through the low hanging trees, and with them came the breath of the roses, and the humming of the bees, just as on that other day. Philip seated himself on the bench beside her, and tried to make his voice calm as he said: “Do you remember when you last wore this dress ?” Would she be frightened at the intensity of gentleness in his voice? But she smiled as frankly at him as if he were her brother. “Oh, yes.” He put liis hand on her arm, cool as if love and passion were forever outside her experi ence. “Bertlia, I love you more now than then. I will not frighten you with my ve hemence; I have learned to conquer myself. I will cherish you as a child, but, oh, Bertha, I want to be near you.” The woman did not draw away from him. She was looking ■ with a changed expression at his eager face—the face of the lover whom no coldness could chill; who returned again after her desertion of him; whom no shame could alter. Ho had stirred something.like admiration in her at last. A tinge of delicate color rose from her neck among the folds of lace, and mounted to the roots of her golden hair. It was the first time he ha/1 evertnoved her. “And you love me as much now as that day I fell asleep on vour shoulder—ages ago, it must have been?" Then her great blue eyes drooped under the intensity of love that looked from his face— -a love beyond her power to understand. He gathered her hands in his. “As much and more—a deeper, purer, gentler love that will protect you against its own very vehe mence—that would rather make sacrifices for you than joys for itself.” “Take me, then,” and she let him draw her head on his breast, where she felt the throb bing growing mightier and mightier, though he only pressed his lips upon her cool fore head. Then she drew back. She did not look in his face, which had a great light in it, perhaps she was ashamed that she had noth ing to give him, ashamed that her heart was so cold under the rapture that looked out of his eyes. “But Philip, you must not hurry me too much. lam slow, and this is so sudden, I would as soon have thought of an earth quake.” Then she glanced wonderingly at him as if to make sure. “Ah, Philip, you deserve a better love than mine.” But he caught her hand to his lips, and hold it there while he covered it with kisses, “I would rather the flower you wear in your bosom than any woman in the world besides you. I learned to love with you, Bertha. ” But she took her hand away uneasily. “But you won’t hurry me, will you, Philip?” How could she ask him to wait much longer? “For if you do” “Oh, no—l will give you a whole week.” He laughed, and then grew suddenly very sober. “Haven’t I given you long enough?” “I must take a little journey first,” and her eyes appeared to avoid his. A sudden tide of jealousy swept over him. Had she de served his trust?” “I will go with you. It shall be our wed ding journey.” She flushed nervously—“Oh, no, not yet.” Where could she be going? To one last interview with Curran, perhaps, and he felt that he could not bear one thought of him should ever cross her soul again. How short a time it took to spoil his happiness. The glow had left his heart, the light had gone out of, his eyes, all in a moment. Is misery then the only thing that can last? “Only this once,” she said. “You shall go with me always then.” His mood melted and in a moment he was kneeling before her. “Oh, Bertha, be fair with me—for you hold me in the hollow of your hand. Do not fail me now when you have seemed so near ine.” She put her hand on his bowed head, per haps some sweet word trembled on her lips. He hungered for it, and when she did not speak, he looked up into the face of his bride. She had seemed so far from him, a world could not have parted them more, but he was at her feet, and she had promised to be his wife. “My dear Philip, excuse me, but you are crushing my embroidery. ” So he 'was. He w*as kneeling on it in his fond idolatry, as if a piece bf worsted work was of no account. He found his feet and cast a pathetic glance at the square of canvas before he stooped to pick it up. It was strange, indeed, that he should have been so carried away in his pas sionate ardor as not to notice what he was kneeling on. “I hope I have not ruined your work,” he said, simply. No, he had only rumpled it a little, and he would have been willing to pur chase all the canvas and worsted in two cities, rather than have missed the tender word he thought was on her lips. CHAPTER XXIV. WOMAN’S SYMPATHY. Bertha has returned, never to leave her I'ver again, in safety, and still faithful to him; his fears were unfounded, his suspi cions rebuked. It was only last evening that he had looked into her beautiful eyes once more, and it was to-day she had told him he might come again. It was a great day for Philip for another reason. He was to break ground this morning for anew mill, whose walls and foundations would be laid in love and justice. In the mill yard a hundred la borers waited with their spades over their shoulders, and With them the young mill owner, grasping a spade like the rest. At the contractor’s word the iron glistened in the sunlight, and in an instant more a hundred and one spades struck earth. Ten thousand eager workmen all over the land were wait ing on the undertaking. Each night 10,000 anxious tongues will ask how many feet the new walls have risen that day; will reproach the masons if they are slow, will bless them if they work mightily. The looms in the Breton mills are still to day, the great water wheel is unharnessed from the myriad belts, while the men and women and children gathered around the great parallelogram marked out by the engi neers for the foundation of the new mill It was to be their mill, too, and the face < f the poorest creature of them all rejected a little of the blessed hope which was making life over for them. Not a voice was heard. For the moment all eyes were fixed on the bend ing forms. Philip Breton’s slight form was bent, too, as he drove his spade deep into the stubborn sod. Every laborer stayed his hand until the young master threw up the first earth. Then a cheer broke from each brawny throat, and every spade at once lifted its burden of green turf. The hundred laborers bent again to their task, and the frightened daisies trembled on their green stems, but Philip, spade iu band, had mounted the steps of the nearestMnill, and now looked down kindly on the opera tives who gathez-ed expectantly about him. “I mean that not one injustice shall ever desecrate these new walls. I mean that the mill shall be a temple of co-operation. I be lieve the world is just entering on anew epoch, more glorious than any before, because blessings that have been confined to the few, comforts that have comforted only the few, leisure and amusement, even, that has cheered only the few, shall be universal; that each hazid that tills the earth shall share in its bountiful harvests, which now {jack the storehouses of a few in useless profusion; that each hand that weaves our cloth shall sliai'e in its profits accoixling to his worth. It isn’t because the world is so poor that you have been poor so long; but because its wealth is wasted. Yet be patient. Violence only destroys, it does not build up, and every ar ticle of wealth destroyed leaves so much less of your heritage. We will not work any more today; it shall be a holiday to be kept sacred in our memories, as an inspiration to more faithful labor and more honest, con tented lives. But for a moment no one moved, till he leaned his spade against the wall, and started to come down. Then a murmur lan through the crowd till it swelled to a cheer, and as he made his way out,' he had to clasp a thou sand dingy hands, reached "out to the young master in token of the love and trust of a thousand brightened lives. His destiny that had frowned so long and so teri ibly, smiled at last. As if by a miracle his life, that had seemed so dreary and bar ren, was become a path of flowers. All dangers were averted, all evils turned into blessings, and it was so short a time ago that he saw no spark of joy in life. It had been like a day when the clouds had shut away the sun, and settled gloomily over the earth for a storm. A shadow creep* into every human fac*e, darkness cowers in every home, the birds flutter in terror from tree to tree, or nestle fearfully in their retreats. The very brooks moan instead of babbling. Then suddenly the summer sun burns through the clouds, which scatter to their caves beneath the hills; the rippling rivers glisten and sjmrkle like rarest jewels, and the birds break forth in song as they mount in ecstasy toward the sunlight. Not a human thing but brightens into sudden gladness. So short a time ago he thought life only a dull, cheerless struggle, that he rose in the morn ing heavy and disheartened, that he lay down at night, careless if he slept forever. But suddenly the world looked like an enchanted palace to Philip Breton, and his life seemed as perfect os a day in paradise. It was at 3 o’clock that he was to go to Bertha, and it was only 2 when he was ready and waiting in his study for this last slow hour between him and happiness to slip away. He looked up the street and down again, but the streets were quite deserted; he might have fancied the world all gone to sleep had he not heard the roar of the waters going over the dam. Then he glanced at the clock. If he had not heard its loud ticking he would have been willing to swear the hands must have stopped. He picked up a newspaper and tried to interest himself in it. What a child he was, to be sure, not to know how to wait. Did he imagine there would be nothing more for him to wait for after to day ? His eyes glanced impatiently down the pages. There seemed to lie absolutely nothing in the pajier at all; he must stop his subscrip tion; he might as well write to the publishers now; it would take up a little of his surplus time. But what was this odd looking adver tisement in such very black type: Divorces obtained without trouble or pub licity for any cause desired. Address, in strictest confidence, John T. Giddings, No 4 Errick square, Lockout. “Well, well,” soliloquized Philip, after reading the card a second time, “our corpo ration counsel is come down pretty low, get ting bogus divorces for a livelihood.” Then he glanced at his watch; ho was out of temper w ith the pretty little clock. Per haps allowing fifteen minutes for the distance to Bertha’s house he might not be very much too early. Philip found Bertha standing. She gener ally preferred to sit. And she wore on anxious look be had never seen on her face before. He thought to make her laugh. “I suppose Mrs. Ellingsworth will not miss her chance to spoil our tete-a-tete.” “She is not in town,” and Bertha turned to the window again. “She went yesterday. Do you know whether she has any relatives in—in Vineboro?” “Why that is where you”— Philip bit his lip; “no, I didn't know that she had.” He came up to where she stood, and, when she did not speak again, he tried to take her hand. But she drew away from his touch with a gesture of impatience. “I am in no mood for foolishness.” It seemed foolishness to her. then! There was a pang of pain about his heart, and then a thought struck him. “You are not afraid of her, are you?” She drew herself up to her full height in her old superb arrogance, and her lips curled in scorn. “I will be afraid of no one. If I owe no one a duty I need not be afraid.” She seemed to be gathering force for an instant, while tier cold eyes rested on the face of the man wdo loved her so nobly. “I must take back my promise; I cannot marry you.” “Do you owe me nothing now, then?” he pleaded in a startled voice. “Perhaps so—yes, I think I ought not to make you miserable.” “Then do not leave me; do not kill me, Bertha, after letting me hope.” He had seized her hand again, but she would not let him draw her to him. “But I should make you miserable.” She dropped her eyes before his. “You would not like—like” “I will take all the blame, then.” He put his arm about her, and this time she did not repel him. “I call God to witness yoi fM-1 not be responsible; I will forgive you reffy thing, my darling.” She was in his u!W. but still she held back her face from him. I u/*TflVn “7 will forgive you everything.” “And you won’t blame me, whatever hap pens P “No, oh, never.” The color came back into his face; his triumphant heart sent the hot blood through every vein and artery. “And you will remember I warned you?” “Yes,” he “and will remind you of it when you have made me the hap piest man in the world. But we won’t wait till Jane comes back; we will be married to morrow.” “Oh, no.” Her smile was very beautiful and sweet, but as cold as the river of death. “The day after, then. Say the day after to-morrow, before anything has time to hap pen.” He saw her lips were forming for a “no,” but he kissed it away; and another and another, till she broke away from him with a laugh. “Well, yes, then; but you will be sorry for it to the end of your life.” He made her put on her hat after tea and they went across the fields to the village cemetery. He had stirred her by his enthusiasm to an unwonted pitch, but now she had become colder than ever, and very silent. It seemed as if she were sorry for what she had prom ised, and Philip was afraid each moment that she would open her lips and take it all back. He talked very eagerly to her all the way to take up her mind, telling her all the plans he had made and how gloriously they seemed to be succeeding. She did not make lziuch response to what he sahl, but he was nly too glad that she did zrot repeat the words she had met" him with in the after noon. At last they stood by a massive pillar of granite; not broken to signify an incom plete life work, but perfect in symmetry and fiAished in outline. Bertha could make out in the deepening twilight the name of “Ezekiel Breton” cut deep into the everlast ing stone. *‘l wish my father had seen things a little differently, and could have laid the founda tions of all the mills in justice and charity. He could not see that we are all men together, ami the wants that he had the workmen suf fered too. He did what he thought was right, as do so many thousand men to-day, whose every breath means a harder burden for the poor.” “What is the use of considering the poor; They have no gratitude. And then they are made differently from us; they have their place; let them be content with it. Your father was right.” How cold and hard her voice was, and be had seen her so enthusiastic over the wrongs of the poor. “But they ought to have a chance to enjoy a little more of what they earn, there are so many of them.” But she made no answer, and Philip’s heart sank with the conviction that he mast carry out his great work as he had begun it, alone. He had counted on her sympathy; he had felt sure of it., and he was so lonely among the grand itfeas he had summoned into his soul, but perhaps it was not best for him; a man never knows. It was quite dark when he bade Bertha good night at her gate. He had kept her hand for a moment after she would have gone, in the thrilling indulgence of the sense of possession. His heart was very full, his hope was almost blossoming into reality; at last when it had seemed blighted once into despair. Only two more days, and all the storms that might rage could never separate them, but must only make her dear white arms cling the closer to him. Why had she not said to-morrow ? it was almost too much too hope that God would hold back all his thunderbolts, and all the myriad messen gers of evil for two days. The wonderful fate that had brought her back as from death to him, that had saved her so strangely from another meeting with the man whose voice would melt her will, and madden her brain a second time, made him the more afraid now. The tide might turn, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps to-night, and carry his darling out to sea, away from harm once more and for ever. But how cold and firm her hand was. Ah, how glad he would have been for one little tremor in it. “Bertha?” he said almost piteously, “have you nothing else for me to-night?” “I think it is all j T ou should ask if I don’t take back my promise. ” Then she seemed to be musing for an instant. “I am sorry you like me so much. What is there about me” “How are the mighty fallen.” It was Mr. Ellingsworth’s voice, as that gentleman saun tered toward the two young people. “There is something in this newspaper I have marked for you. One of our old friends has found his level at last—must you go this minute? Well, good night.” It was a long time before Philip could get to sleep that night in his great quiet house. There were so many tender thoughts and memories, now coming out in clear relief in his brtiin, now grouped with others, and again lost in a vague sense of delight. He remembered Bertha’s attitudes and her movements; he imagined how much more kindly she might have meant thah she had said, and hj> blessed her that she had yielded to his prayers when he so nearly had lost her forever. But what could she have been afraid of, how r could Jane Ellingsworth harm her? What was there in her history worse than he knew? Poor little girl, could there be anything more terrible than what he had forgiven? How far she was from knowing how wonderful a thing love can be? Well, he might as well look at Ellingsworth’s newspaper now as any time, he was not able to sleep apparently. Who could it be that had found his level at last? Philip struck a match and lit the gas. Then be fumbled in his pockets and finding the newspaper at last, unfolded it, looking for the marked paragraph. It was not in the editorials, nor in the locals. Philip turned the inner pages out, nor in the political news. It couldn’t be an advertise ment; yes—it was this: Divorces obtained without trouble or pub licity for any cause desired. Address, in strictest confidence, John T. Giddings, No. 4 Errick square, Lockout. “The idea,” laughed Philip to himself, “of my getting up to read his card in another paper. I hope I shall never hear of him again now.” CHAPTER XXV. WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR? The bay span were tossing their heads im patiently at the gate, and still the young bridegroom delayed in his house. It was the evening he was to be married, and when he entered the arched doorway again Bertha would be with him. So he must make one final tour of his home to see if there was any last finishing stroke of work necessary to make it worthy of his beautiful bride. He found all his servants, the new grace ful maid to wait upon the door, the portly butler to wait upon the table, andhll; and in structed them carefully in their duties. The in tricate domestic mechanism must work with not one jar or rattle to disturb the new' mis tress. He went into the drawing room and looked about him. The grand piano that had been closed and locked so long was open, and the music placed on the rack as if it were but yesterday that Bertha had sat before it. He remembered how her round, white arm had outdazzled the ivory keyboard the last time he had seen her here. The chintz covers Ijad been removed from the furniture, whose blue damask upholstery seemed fairly smil ing with delight to have escajied from its mask. In the embrasure of the window look ing out to the street, where the three laborers had stood the evening our story commences, lay a little volume of exquisite engravings, as if some admirer had just put it down Philip glanced at the page where it was open. It was a Magdalene; and a shadow passed over his face at the suggestion. He turned a few leaves and spread the volume open again. This time it was Marguerita. Impatiently he closed the book, which seemed to have no beautiful picture but it would insult his bride. He had not made the slightest change in the study—his father’s room—where he had learned too to fight out his spiritual battles. It would be a profanation to alter one feat ure of the room; it should be always as it was the day Ezekiel Breton died. Philip opened, the door and looked in for a moment, then with a full heart he made his way up the oaken stairs. The room he next entered was furnished in the shade of blue that Bertha loved best, the silk upholstered lounge that made one drowsy to look at it, the sleepy hollow easy chair, the dressing table 'U -d toilet set. Over the windows hung lambrequins of a darker tint, softened again, however, in the flowing curtains below. Even the drop lamp had a blue porcelain shade so that no such thing as white light should ever enter Bertha’s boudoir. Philip imagined her sitting in the easy chaij* lifting her eyes wonderingly to him, her husband, who never grew' tired of telling her she was beautiful; or he pictured her asleep on the lounge one white hand by her side, the other beneath her cheek. How much of his thoughts were vague dreaming? Could it be sno was at last to be his; lighting the glaomy old house with the radiance of h&* presence? All his other life faded in his memory at the brightness of his joy in her. It seemed a smnA thing to him that he had lifted 1,000 lives into anew plane of existence that he had given hope to 1,000 desperate hearts—compared with the hope of making this one woman happy and of living in smiles. But he suddenly started from his fond rev ery, and passed into another room, all as white as some cave in a mountain of snow. The mantel was of marble, the curtains cloud like masses of snowy lace; and even the upholstery of the chairs, and the carpet was white damask. His heart beat fast as he stood for a moment in the chamber, then he went softly out and locked the door behind him, so that no foot should cross its sacred threshold till its mistress came. It was to be a very quiet wedding—no guests, no cards, no banquet. The shortest and simplest form that could make a man and woman one was enough. But the hour was past, and yet there was no wedding; the bride, all dressed, waited to be called from her room; the young bridegroom paced to and fro across the parlor floor. There was no minister. The clock struck the half hour. It was half past eight. Mr. Ellingsworth sat in the parlor reading the evening paper in unbroken tranquility. Philip was wondering where* Jane could be; whether she was indeed pre paring a terrible blow for the white bok>m of his bride. What could she do? “Ah! I think I hear the carriage,” re marked Mr. Ellingsworth, laying aside his paper with a little yawn. “From which direction,” asked Philip, listening eagerly, while the feverish blood rushed into his lace, Mr. Ellingsworth went to the window. “Why, from both directions. It sounds to me like two carriages. I will go out and see.” TO HE CONTINUED. Huniticiit’s Rheumatic Cure Kn dorsed by the Medical Profession. A great blood purifier. Atlanta, Ga., Nov. 4,1887. H R. C. Cos.: Gentlemen—l have used five bottles of your H. R. C., and cheerfully recom mend it as the best blood purifier and tonic I have ever used Since taking yourcuiel have gained twenty pounds in weight. Yours truly, Wm. Turner. AN ATLANTA PHYSICIAN SPEAKS. Atlanta, GA.,Oct 26,1887. H. R.C Cos.: Gentlemen—l have used your Rheu matic Cure in several cases of the worst type, and lam glad to say it had the desired effect in every case. 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