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VOL. XIX.
THE STONE BOUQUET;
—OR-
llio Consequences of a I.ovo That Was
Stronger Than Reason.
F W. Robinson in Harpers.
CHAPTER I.
EVERYBODY said it was not likely to
turn out well—butthen everybody is so
wise. And what everybody says must
be true, especially when it is upon a
subject which nobody understands and nobody
takes to heart but the. one poor biped whois
principally concerned. Was everybody right
in my case—and was Iso egregiously wrong?
So blind, so shallow, so vain? He who reads
these lines shall judge for hhnsslf.
I married Cicely Grey when I was 4Oyears of
age and she was a girl of 10. An ill-matched
pair, an ill-assorted couple, the beginning of
the old story, May and December almost; the
impulse of youth on one side, the glamour of
the “well-off man’’on the other. That iswliat
tho world said. My pretty little world I Yes, I
was well-to-do. That is, I had attained a cer
tain position in my profession, had made my
mark as an engineer, had been successful in
one or two important schemes, was spoken of
a little—at home and abroad as a clever and
rising man. Almost a genius.
I had studied hard all my life, it was asserted.
I had sacrificed everything to the pursuit of
fame or money. I was a close, keen man of
business and had let nothing stand between me
and my profession. And then Cicely Grey
stood between—took mo into another world,
Changed tho whole current of my life, made
me a passionate lover in my middle age.
I met and loved her—loved her all the more
passionately because I had not had the time to
love before—had laughed at the romance of
youth from the grim seclusion of my study
wherein I had immured my better self. When
the time came—when I was almost famous—
when people pointed me out as Haviland the
engineer, I found that I could love as deeply
as other men, and be as great a fool in my own
way.
She was not then 20 years of age—“old
enough to be my daughter,” people said, of
course. They always say that. And that was
terribly near the truth. But Iwas not quite
like other men, and this was my first love. I
had had none other. It was a new life to me.
Cicely Grey had been brought up in seclusion;
she was the daughter of one of my own craft—
an engineer who bad been knighted by his sov
eign. She had been left motherless at an early
age. and girls who have grown up to woman
hood without their mothers are to themselves
and to other fo’ks three parts a mystery. They
are not always to blame, these motherless girls.
Was Cicely Grey to blame for marrying me,
for not telling all the truth, for disguising
from me the oneromanceof her life in which no
one had shared but the man who was the hero
of it ? The man of whose existence I had not
dreamed and whose name had not passed her
lips ? Was her father to blame, who had some
hazy notions of the truth and the mysery of a
mesalliance, and had trusted to time and
travel, and me—his old friend—to sink a past
folly wholly out of her remembrance? I can not
say. days it was intimated to me that
the father had left it to the daughter to
explain.
We were married in the early summer and
went away for a long tour through the most
picturesque portion of our native land.
It was a honeymoon that presaged much of
happiness for us both —all was so fair—life had
changed for both of us so much, and all about
our now world was fresh and bright. After
our marriage in town we started from the
church doors for the country.
“I shall be always very obedient, Llric,” she
said to me, laughing, “and my clever old hus
band will always have his own way.”
I laughed too, but the word “old” jarred a
little ft was not pleasant for me to consider
myself old, or getting old, yet awhile, when 1
was beginning my real life. It was more un
pleasant still that she should think so even in
Jest.
There was sight-seeing in the little town into
which we first tookrefuge. Though we had not
bargained !■ >r or thought of, it was a -how place
in its way. I will call it Hcathercombe tor a rea
son that I have. Here we were to spend a quiet,
halcyon week, surrounded by all the beauties
of hill and dale, of forest and field, and in
tensely restful in our own society.
“1 am sure I shall be very happy all my life,”
she had confessed to me, “for I know how well
1 can trust you.”
She had. put her hands into mine in saying
this and looked at me unflinchingly and with
all the clear depths which her great, gray. lucid
eyes could express.
'The emphasis struck me even then.
“Have you ever trusted in vain?” I asked,
laughingly. For it did not seem possible that
one could do anything to deceive her by word
or deed.
“1 have been too imaginative, that is all,”
she answered, “too sanguine, impulsive, hope
ful."
“Good faults, one might call them all."
“I have expected too much—set my friends
on too high pedestals,” she said; "young peo
ple always do.”
'■ “And some of the idols have been top-heavy
and tilted over,” was my rejoinder. “Ah!
never mind, child: they were not worth the
trouble of putting back in their places. ”
“They were not,” she said. ,
Wo were wandering in the gardens of this
little town. It was our wedding eve. J have
said Hcathercombe was, to a certain extent,
a show place,and in these gardens wa > one ot
tlio wonders of the country. It boasted a rocky
mound over which trickled nnd spluttered a
stream of water with properties of turning
' into stone anything exposed to its action for a
certain period of months. Such wells are not
uncommon in England or abroad, 1 believe,
. but it was a novelty to both of ns, and there was
. a pleasant jesting over it and over the various
a 1 tick's winch the preceding sightseers had left
to bo petrified—glove;, feathers, hats, and all
. kinds of O'ld tokens, suspended in such a man
ner from tiie rock as to tiring them in contact
w oli the stream.
"I know!” cried Ch elv, clappinthei hands
“Wait f >r me, Clrie : 1 shall not be a minute.”
B t a minute out of sight then wns an hour
of S ivpense to a lovc-i k man. Where an she
ha ■ gone, what can have happened, I was
wm deling five minutes afterward. Yes. she
. was impulsive at all events, and fuilof strange,
odd< o:i .fits. I’r- ■ t.tlv-he retiirm-u fro:,.'l. •
hotel with her wedding bouquet that she had
bio ,gl,t ; o,n Lond.i.n that i had sent to her
ear.' !■'. ■; :;iom:n\ ap< f in in fair-. liite u*u.-
al w ~
“Lov t iimd to a ■ i. I .red. a lit
tle i. •• ’ . a
4 nai’ ’Ahrt’l h.-sE.”
H wwa -tru..” rvi-K, L.-r I bad non
J
H v bvuquet way left with the cu.'Goyi au ot
the dripping well, and no more was thought of
it for a while.
That is the prologue to my story.
CHAPTER 11.
They were twelve months of happiness which
followed. There was not a cloud in our heaven ;
I studied every wish, and she was grateful for
it. At times there came a faint, far-away
doubt if site were as happy as myself—might
be only happy in the second degree, taking her
life and lightness from me—content and at
peace, seeing that I was content, but not the
life and light natural to her young self.
There came no child to hallow our union,
and we both regretted it. There was never a
child to complete the links in the home chain :
surely it would have been so different had it
been God’s will to bless us thus. I think I see
this now: I feci it more acutely every day be
tween this and the end of it.
A little more than twelve months after this
I was compelled to leave England ag tin. The
opportunity was too great and grand fora man
of my profession to miss: it was the talk of tho
world at that time, and 1 was congratulated on
my good fortune at every turn. But my mis
sion for some three years lay in a far-away
wild quarter of tho world, where a woman’s
health, perhaps her life, would be necessarily
in jeopardy. There was rough work, if great
work, even for men : so I was to go my way
alone for awhile, and it was arranged that
Cicely was to return to her father’s home nnd
keep house for him, as in the old days, until I
came back again.
The last night I spent in England was at a
ball given by an aristocratic friend. I bad not
intend that it slioulded be spent in this fashion.
I had thought there was a clear week longer
for me at home, when a telegram arrived
urging the necessity of my immediate de
part ure.
It was a great ball in its way—that is, there
were many guests, and the rooms were crowded
with men and women of rank and distinction.
After our first dance together Cicely was lost to
mo amid a host of partners, and 1 was left to
discuss commonplaces with middle-aged con
temporaries, to receive various congratulations
on my appointment, to talk right and left of
the very subject which I was trying hard to
avoid.
Presently I found myself watching Cicely
from the door of the ballroom ; my eyes had
wandered in search of her for some time in
vain, and then I found her sitting on the recess
of a window, whose heavy curtains almost con
cealed her from view. It was only by the fan.
a large and heavy fan of ostrich feathers
quaintly grouped together that 1 knew it was
she. She was sitting with her back toward me.
half bidden in the recess—it was only a half
outline of her graceful figure that I saw there,
but I was sure it was Cicely.
That was the first heart-stab which I had
ever had. On that night there seemed to onen
out to me by slow and sure degrees tho con
sciousness that I might not have won the love
of my wile so wholly and completely as to ren
der us safe together or apart. My trust in her.
my own self-esteem, had received no shock till
that hour, but here was struck the first jaring
note of a whole soul’s discord. I woke as from
a dream, and I was none the better’for the
waking. There came even then to me the con
sciousness that I might be a very ‘•Othello” in
my jealousy,lf eftxt sß* willed that an angel
should prove false. My suspicion came from
the man with whom she was conversing. I
could see hint plainly from my post of observa
tion -a tell, dark man of three or four and
twenty years of age, with a handsome and im
passioned face amt black eyes, which seemed
to flash like diamonds with the torrent of
words which he was pouring forth to her.
My heart sank like a plummet in the sea. I
was aware of danger to me, to Cicely—l hated
him already. A friendly hand fell upon my
shoulder and startled me. It was my host,
Lord Sandbouine, who stood laughing at my
surprise.
“Who is the good-looking young fellow talk
ing to my wife?” I asked, very lightly—too
lightly to be natural; but Lord Sandbourne
was not. critical. He put up his eye-glass and
stared in my direction.
“Gad, I don’t know; I never saw him be
fore,” he said. “Lady Standbourne sows her
invitations broadcast, and I leave the crop to
her. This sort yf thing is woman’s business,
yon see.”
I walked away from him. I made my wav
! quietly and almost steadily toward the recess.
I I felt like a man playing the spy.
When i was close to them,the truth was close
I too. Neither had heard me approach; the
whirl of the dancers past, the braying of a
I waltz from the orchestra, the place in which
■ they were seems security itself, and these two
I did not take heed of mo in their self-absorp-
I tion.
"Why did you marry then ? Why could you
; not wait and believe in me?” were the words
i which this indiscreet raver uttered to my wife,
; who was shrinking back from him and trem
; bling and flushing, whose eyes were swimming
in hot tears.
"Cicely,” I said, with suppressed coolness, as
1 stood before them, “I have been wondering
what had become of you.”
My wife rose and put her hand on my arm.
“1 am glad you have come, t Iric. I have
been waiting for you,” she exclaimed. “Take
me home. I am tired of this,” she added,
I speaking very rapidly.
"Who is this gentieman?” I asked in a low
I voice.
i ".Madame Haviland will introduce me to her
| husband,” said the man before me, in a foreign
i accent, and Cicely said, still hurriedly and like
I a woman under a spell:
“This is my old friend. Monsieur Danano,
, whom 1 knew once in Faris.”
I “O, indeed.”
“.Monsieur Danano—now of the French op
| era—of whom you have probably heard,
I L’lric.”
I The name was not known to me.
" Yes. I have heard of Monsieur Danano.”
“As I, sir, have heard of the name of Mr.
1 Haviland, the famous engineer,” he said, with
I a low bow and a smile which 1 did not return.
I He had recovered from the surprise of my ap
pearance, the excitement of his own avowal:
whether I had heard any pa;l of hit conver a
! tion to my wife, or not did not appear to matter
I to him. With perfect ease and self-confidence,
I ho said:
“ You have probably been familiar with my
name, Mr. Haviland, before the Parisian
; world thought it worth mentioning above a
I whisper.”
“No. sir.”
“I was an old friend of madame’s-almost
an old schoolfellow —very nearly what you
English call ‘an old flame.’ 1 was saying. ’ ho
added, as lie looked keenly and yet laughingly
at us both, “whin you did me tiie honor to ar
rive, that Madame Haviland might liaio
wailed a little longer for me. But lam van
quished," hoie he bowed again —“and you, sir,
are the victor.”
One could but try to smile at this bold, but
■ good-humored explanation, and then, with a
light word or two, I bore my wife away from
him. She was anxious to get home, she said,
and J took her at ’her word. Why should J
doubt it yet ?
That ride home was very silent, an I almost
solemn.
Suddenly, and when we were within a street
in two of home, f said.
• You never mentioned this Monsieur Danano
to me. Cicely.”
.here, ■•• she ri p - atr d, almost eva :-. edv.
“Never. ’ 1 repeated.
' H t : had heard from father that—”
I 1 m'lu a* J an;, thing from yout father.
V.'lia’ , • ' I e to tell me?”
“N’othbu:.” ihe ‘■aid. in a low voice.
Th- Mi the conversation between us,
ue '. V .■ -f;.J U," tl. ■ servant id gon£
I having u;>t placed on a side tabla a bulkv
ATLANTA. GA., Tl ESDAY, MARCH 13. 1888.
packet that had been left at the house during
our absence that evening. 1 rose and stood by
the side table while 1 cut tho strings of the
parcel, which was heavy and unshapely, I re
fnemiior. This gave me an opportunity of
speaking in an unconcerned manner, which I
thought might deceive her. As if she did not
know my heart better than I did hers.
"Did ho speak the truth tonight, that
man?” Tasked.
“The truth,” she repeated, slowly.
“He said you were an old flame of his.”
“I supposed he liked me a littte at one
time.”
“You thought lie did?”
“Yes. I thought so,” was the naive con
fession.
“And he told you so?”
She looked al me steadily for a while. I v .rs
sure that she was looking very intently at me,
as 1 went on with mv task.
"Yes. But—”
“And you loved him." 1 said, turning round
and lacing her with a duiker face than she had
seen before; “why didn’t you tell me all tho
truth? It is not too late to own it. I shall
only be sorry that you kept it back from me all
this while.”
"I Iric, don’t ask me any questions. Can
not the past remain the past between you and
me?" she. urged. “YYhy do you torture me
like this?”
“My tlod! Is it torture to speak of this
man ?’■’
“I do not want to speak of him.”
“Did you love him? Why don’t you own it
frank?”
"Yes, I'did,” she confessed, “be and I—not
much more than boy and girl—would have
been man and wife, had not my father sepa
rated us. O,yes! 1 loved him, as young girls
love the first man who speaks to them as wo
men and talks of his devotion. But it is all
gone. O, don’t you hear urn tell you so?”
“Cicely, he loves you still.”
“Oh!”
“And he has told you so tonight. He has
reproached you for deceiving him, and you
have listened to him. You, my wife—do you
hear?”
I had raised my voice now—what denton I
looked like then, God knows—but she was
huddled in the chair away from me, with her
jeweled fingers held before her eyes. I had
frightened her—as well I might have done—in
my excitement. She could not answer me, and
I went on.
“And you love him still. You would have
hissed at him with scorn had the Frenchman
been as far away from your heart as 1 am. I
understand it all.”
“No—no. You understand nothing; you are
not fair to me. Llric. Why do you make a
grievance of all this at last.” she cried, “when
you are going away from me! when you are
leaving me alone!”
“That will be no grievance, only a relief,”
was my bitter answer, and she sprang up before
me then, with her hands drawn from her face
and clinched together, with her eyes blazing
with contempt for me, almost with hate.
“You coward!” she cried ; then there was a
pause, a sudden change of feature, and she. fell
back in her chair and gas e way to a torrent of
tears, of passionate sobs, of strange, wild wail
ings that brought me to my kees and at her
sidy in pity for her and the grief 1 bad CO
“Forgive me. Cicely: thiuk no more of it,”
T implored. “ I was ma<l or jealous: 1 will ask
no further qut. lions. It is all past—vanished
—dead!” And you are my wife ”
She was moved at last, pacified by degrees:
but she remained very white and sad. The look
in her eyes haunted me for months, as she
rested her thin, hot hands upon my head.
“My j»oor, foolish old l’lric,” she murmured
in a lew tone, “who would have thought my
strong, stern husband would have given wav
like this.”
“Who would have thought—”
Then 1 paused—l was silent, f stooped and
kissed her. 1 bad no more to say. The grave,
gray husband was almost himself again.
“There, there, compose yourself, Cicely; 1
will not say another word. This is our last
night together for ever and ever so long; wo
must not look back upon it through our tears.”
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
“O!—I must go. It is for the best,” I an
swered. “it is too late to break my promise.”
She did not speak again. Mechanically I
turned to the parcel to give, her time to recover
from her sorrow, opened it and drew forth a
dark, reddish, heavy mass of stone, at which I
looked in amazement for an instant.
• It is the bouquet, “I said at last. “See, it
lias come back—a peace offering, Cicely. We
will take it as an omen.”
Cicely glanced at it wonderingly, then shud
dered.
A stone bouquet ’ lis flowers roughly defined
still but with all the poetry gone from it, a
hard unmalleablo, angular. Yes, it was an
omen.
CHAPTER in.
When 1 was awav from her, when we had
said good-bye, when thousands of miles
stretched betw< < n my wife and me, I thought
of the last night that miserable hour of our
parting, that first sharp quarrel between us. 1
could remember too much, so much that was
terrible and sad —and her troubled face was al
ways before me. There were so many questions
which 1 should have liked to ask her now, and
her past was,after all, so unguessed a story. 1
was ignorant, of it.
Lvery letter that 1 received from her became
a study, an effort to detect a difference tiie
coldness born of our separation from each other,
and of his proximity to her. lie would be al
ways near her, the young impassioned, hand
some suitor—the first Jove from which they
tore her away- and I, old, ami gray, and de
fenseless, was in the far-away country whither
my ambition had home me.
There were several French newspapers that
rea' hcd the South American quarter wherein
J was prosecuting my work ; many of my co
adjutors were French, who-e friends had not
forgotten them and sent them news. Ji was
strange how the one subject engrossed rm; eve n
in this particular. With every mail I pored
over the ad vertisements in the French jour
nals, and when 1 saw Danano'.s name, which
was very frequentJy,it was an intense relief to
me. He was singing in Paris at such and such
a time, and here was my wife's last letter of
ihe same day, with the London postmark and
dated from her father's hmise. They could not
be togfUifer; it was all well then.
W iien Danano was not singing at the opera,
I beg m to fancy there < amc. no home letters to
me. This was pure fancy, dissipated very often
bv a missive from her,but it was a new toriure
w I i >■ it lasted,and I grew more crazed epon it.
Thinking it ail over now in this seciusion
where Ji<> lace J love can look at me, unless it
is down from heaven in pity ami forgiveness
and my mother s face, not hers 1 feel mre
that J was mad. After a sunstroke that I bad
hau and recove:cd fn-m, I was completely but
quietly ami unobtrusively mad. keeping iny
madness s(» completely to myself that those
ao'-ut ine Gid not' \on drcam that Ifa\jiandL
brain was flawed by one idea, I was all busi
ness to them w hen business bad grown a horror
to me.
There wamh red into oiij < h mping-grouml a
new recruit a man with high < r(’dem al.sfrom
fits government a friend of Dana.no, the tor.
II was this fr;t mLhip between him and my
wife’s o.d frieml that arrested my
attention although that friendsojp bad mil e--
♦ended between them to implicit confidence.
This was all the better, oi all th< wor-,e,for me
I know not win h but it fixed nty resolution
to be gone.
Dauauo was th© prince of good feliows.this
man implied, a great g»-nii;M as» i xof in
finite jest and infinite sentiment. lie was the
idol of the Parisian world, favored iiythc.iri
tor-racy, flattered by tho women, ' her
admirable.
“And so hit head i’ turned by all th >ad a-
tion?” 1 inquired, after he bad come to the
end of his own encomiums. “A Frenchman’s
head w hirls round very quickly with the breath
of praise.”
“Ah,but Tdo not believe that. Danano is a
man of tho world, a sensible being, far-seeing ■
and acute. Ife keeps out of mischief," added
the new comer, wdth a laugh, “but then there
is a reason for it.”
“Ay. Indeed.”
“A gnuidc ttashion which a melancholy Eng
lishman would call an unfortunate attach
ment. A first love even, about which he raves
—well, like a genius, possibly. That is his one ■
weakness,” adoed his friend, “but it keeps
him steady and quiet and out of what yon cull
the hurly-burly, it has that effect w ith great
men sometimes.”
“lie is a sentimentalist.“
“Yes, if you care to call him so.”
“Anu a sorry one. And the lady’s name?"
“O, Ido not know," was the reply: “and,
bad 1 tho honor of being a< quainted\vith it, I
should not have considered it my duty to com
municate it to inons’.cur," he replied, with a '
low’ bow.
•‘No, no.of course yon w’ould not. And. of. ;
course.” i added, with a laugh, “tho lady is .
married.”
“<)! that is the rule all over the world. One
of the two is sure to be mairiol. or where,”
shrugging his shoulders, “wouid b- the inter
est of the story ?”
“To a vile Frenchman,” 1 answered, sharp- |
ly: then 1 left )Um amazed and indignant and ,
thinking of pistols.
That evening 1 was on my way to England,
and soon I w’as in London again, and no one i
aware of my return. That was the grim humor j
of it. I caught myself laughing at. the idea
more than once in my room at the Grosvenor, .
but it was a laugh that told me 1 was unsafe, i
there w’:\s so wild a ring in ir.
For days I watched the house of my father- !
in-law and paid others to watch, picking my j
spica up from tho street and rewarding them 1
handsomely for any scraps of news they gave
me, and they were not scraps which contained
any news of her. She was aw’ay —or-she was !
ill. A doctor’s carriage at the door one morn
ing sot all my plots and plans Hying"'to the
winds. 1 rushed info the house, announced
J myself, strode past the servant into (he draw
ing-room and when he had followed me would
have caught him by tho throat and squeezed
the information from him had he not backed
to the door in his alarm.
“Who is ill—is it Mrs. Haviland ?—w hy
don’t you tell me? Don’t you know who I
am
“It. is—Mr. Haviland—is it not?” gasped
forth the old servant.
“Yes—yes—who Is ill, I ask?”
“My master, sir.”
“I'hat’s well. lam glad of that,”! said, to '
the man’s further amazement. “She is 1
safe. thou. Mrs. ilaviland is well, I mean?
Quite well?"
“I- I don’t know, sir.”
“Where is she ?”
“I can not say, Mr. Haviland, really. She
is not staying here now."
1 did not answer. Half stunned as Iwas
by tho information, I had expected it. I sat
down.
“When the doctor has gone, tell Sir Wil
liam 1 shall by glad to see him tor a few
ni(/monts.' ” ♦
“Yes, sir,"
But when the doctor had departed, when ho
was descending the steps to tho carriago, and
tlie footman was holding the open door and
looking after him. 1 stole from tiie drawing
room and went w ith swift steps upstairs. The
house was familiar to me, and 1 knew my
father-in-law s room. In another instant I had
entered unceremoniously and was standing by
the sick man’s bedside. Sir William stared at
me as at an apparition. He was twenty years
older than when 1 left him.
“Great heaven. Haviland ! Is it you?” he
cried ; “what has happened ? What is it ?’’
He was very old and feeble, but 1 did not ,
snare him. 1 bad grown merciless.
“ You can guess,” 1 said.
“Cicely! My God not Cicely. She—”
1I<; stopped and waited for me to explain.
And I was ballled.
“I have come to you to know w hat has ban- ,
pened, Sir William,” 1 said; “it is 1 who ’
should hear the news.”
“Yes—but-
“Where is my wife?”
“At her own borne your home for what I
know to the contrary. Haviland, have you i
not heard I have been seriously ill that 1
am only just recovering? How strange you
are.”
“Did she leave you because of your illness?”
I asked bitterly. He looked at me now in grave
perplexity of mind. Did he see I was not as ;
sane as when 1 had bidden him good-bye? !
“Where is my wife?” I repeated, “why does
she keep away from me?”
“She left here for the country a few weeks |
ago ”
“You said she was in her own home!” I
shouted now.
“She will return tonight to It. That is, I
•understand she will,"
“You do not kno" for c<;rtain?”
“Not for certain. U ric How should T know
anything lying hfue How inconsiderate you
are! ’ ’
“Yes. I am. Forgive me," I replied. “Yon
area sick old man and I have forgotten that.
In what part ot the country Is she
“Folkestone.”
“ Folkestone. That is handy for France, Sir j
William.’
“What do you mean?”
“Is she going on tho Continent?”
“I believe not. Ido not even know for cer
tain that she is in Folkestone.”
“ You do not correspond ?”
“N no, ( Iric. Not just at present.”
“Has she written to you?” ,
“Not since hbe has left this house?”
“I Iric,” pleaded the old man, “I am not
strong enough to talk to yon to answer all
your questions. < i'‘(Jy and I have not agreed ;
very well together of late we have had a few
words not man>, ’ was the simple correction
proffered here., “don't think, I Iric, it wa* any
thing iik<-a (iuari( 1 between us. God forbid
that. But she was unhappy hero; she had ;
grown ii (• to a home of h<-r own, to friends of
her own, she said, since het marriage. She has 1
outgrown my v.ays a little, that is all. And ,
she thought it would be better--and that we j
should ( lash 1< ■ if she r< turned to her ow n
(•htaldisbmenl
1 could have shrieked to him a thousand 1
questions now. but 1 would not put one more :
to him. 1 had become full of a most merciful ;
consideration for tins father lying here sick
unto death. The old man was my friend; I
had always respedud him,honored him. And
j >nw he was in trouble.
“I will find Cicely,” I said, calmly, “in a
dav or two, at any rate. Good-bye, Bir Wil- I
Jiam, and better health to yon.”
I.’HAI’TEK IV.
It was night when I went to my own home. I 1
Tin s< r ant who admitted me was the man I |
bad hit in cliarg(. it was his turn to be sur- ■
prised.
“Mr. Ha Hand! ’ be exclaimed.
'A( s. I have come l ack
He look’d out into the wet Hirer t Iri mem
ber it wka raining Lard fm a cab heajad up 1
with
turn, nnd th< nat me, standing then- in (-even- ’
»ng dr« II 1 ‘‘i him ami hi nt into my own , 1
“ Iteji (fee* v oui in i' i ■> t<»mc back from I f
Folk* dune ' ! nquir’d. : <
“W< <*xp(;( ! her back by a Jatu train, sir,” I 1
he rep. * d “die (nt a tei( ;;i<m to thtt I(UUS6- »
Re* per this morning ” I 1
UiK.a.ruisurprlM-her, Robert.” I | i
us’d, with n pleasant, hearty laugh not one ot I I
the new la -4! vliieh made people turn white :
to listen to me ’ "till, must be a secret be-[ 1
tween you nnd mo, nnd tho housekeeper,if you
will. No one else.’’
"Does not mistress know that —”
"I am supposed to bo in South America,” I
interrupted, “so this will be an agreeable sur-
• prise for her. 1 rely on your confidence. Don't
forget. I shall reward you presently and
handsomely. ”
The man chuckled nt my littlo plan. He
was a dull fellow, without a grain of intelli
gence. On that night 1 was a hotter actor than
Danano.
"Where shall I go?” I said, half thouglit
j fully.
‘ ‘ \ ouvown study will bo best, sir," suggested
tho man.
“Yes, capital.”
“Mistress never goes into it,” ho explained.
“I don't think the room has been opened for
three months, sir. 1 had better light a fire.”
“No. Briiw me a lamp,and leave it as it is.
And take no I art her thought of me under any’
circumstances. You understand?”
“Vos, sir; I understand.”
I passed up stairs into my old study, ft was
I thick with die t. No one bad thought of it or
attended to it of late days, fl was like a dead
room. Weil. I was dead to her, and not ex-
I pectml back any more. And (lie servants had
neglected it in tho mistress’ absence, and like
the mistress. On the mantel piece was tho
stone bouquet. It was a lifting’ emblem after
; all. 1 look it up and poised it in my hand. How
I heavy it seemed to have grown, or had I bo
, vomo weaker? It was like an ugly iron orna-
I im’nt rusting away, and felt like iron to my
touch. When the servant had brought (he
lamp I locked myself in. I would not bo sur
, prised.
I’reseptly two hours afterward, It might bo
. there was a knocking and a ringing at tho
• onlordoor. I unlocked my study and listened,
i There was voices talking in the half down
stairs men voices.
‘ “She has not reached home yet?” 1 heard
1 some one inquire.
“No, sir, not yet."
I knew the voice, ami I came out on the
1 landing place and craned my face over the
balusters to look at him. Had he glanced up
a face grinning out of a coffin would have dis
mayed him loss.
“I will wait.”
“But ”
“No—l will write a note. Please see that
madam has it iinme<liateiy upon her arrival.”
I hoard inoir y clink in the servant’s palm as
Monsieur Danano wasshown inloa little room
on tho right of the door. I wont back to the
I study and waited very patiently. 1 could be
very patient when I chose. “Everything
j comes to him who waits." 'i he lino runs in
that fashion somewhat.
Presently I heard the street door close after
I Monsieur Danano, and the servant stood in the
hall as if he were thinking, and with his finger
nails pressed to his lips. When he went away
I stole down stairs into the room wherein Da
nano had been shown. It was a favorite little
roorti of my wife’s, looking on the square. Tho
gas was burning there. On the desk in the
corner was a sealed letter. I dashed at it, tore
it open, and read amid many wild words of af
fectton ami fool’s rhapsody theso words of
warning:
“Yon must hesitate no longer. I will come
at 12 for you, my belied. It is too late for
further deli by rai ion Wcjjuxst fly. Your hus
band is in London, ami dangerous.”
Dangerous! How did he know that I was
dangerous?
I put tho envelope in another envelope,
sealed it and left it on the davenport whence I
had picked it up. It might bo as well to see
the end of this, the very, very end. I went up
to my study again, and sat there with the stone
bouquet clutched in my hands, as if some meed
of comfort, or of self-restraint, might come
from its cold touch.
1 There came another knocking and ringing at
the door. It was she. She had come home at
j last. God! I could hear her voice in the ball.
, 1 stole out on to tho landing again. I had
iI he stone bouquet still in my band, and that
| was very strange. The servant was speaking
to her, telling her of the lust visitor who had
Culled.
“Where is his letter?” I heard her ask.
i ”In the morning room, madam.”
She passed in. and the servant lingered in
I Ilie ball. Once he looked tip the well-sfair-
I case, but did not see me watching. I hud low
i med the gas outside the study door, ami was
I standing somewhat back, wondering myself
| w hat I was going to do next.
Her voice in the hall once more recalled mo
from my half -stupor.
“Don't remove the boxes from the cab.” she
was saying hurriedly ; “leave all as It is. Rob
ert tell the man to wait. 1 lam called away
again—at once.”
She was coming up stairs towards me On
the second stair she paused and looked back at
the servant.
“I have written a letter give it to Monsieur
Danano when he returns. lie will under
stand.”
No he will never understand in this world,
neither will Cicely Haviland, nor her mad
husband. 11 is al I left for tho next. As she
(Lime ir> stairs, I sprang forward and strm k at
her from the darkness of my lair, ami she fell
back, with one little cry, a dead woman, on
the marble pavement ol Ihe hall.
I had killed her with the stone bouquet.
They do not know at the asylum that I am
writing this. They will see it presently, and
it may amuse thorn or it may hang me; it
, matters not which. I suppose lam mad how
\erymad. But if was not Cicely’s death
that turned my brain, or wholly wrecked it.
That seemed ju t enough till I read the letter
>i*c bad i' ll foi Danano, and which i had
thought was her mstrnctiojis where to meet
I him. It wa i that letter which drove me rav- i
ing »nad. Only ten Urns, ami yet to bring mu
to this. They are scared into my soul till the I
judgment day.
I will not see you. Have I been hiding I
from yon all this while and for so poor a sc- ’
(pitd ? Jgo away again to escape you townit
leai I’ ssly for mv husband ami to confess the :
truth to him. To confess that I whs a weak,
vain woman, yes: one who loved you, yes; but
y iii’tly, no (r. And so God will forgive us both
in his good dine, perhaps, and ns my husband
will. I will may for it very hard. Farewell, |
Louis, and forever. 1 begin my new life my
bettor life from this night."
She was right. Before flip Ink was hardly
dry she had begun life anew.
Whitehall Times: Whisky lowers the man i
and raiscb ti.e devil.
*
Mir; orrosi i> im: mjulf:
I rom the <'hi<*agu Mail.
The great strike on the “(/’ road reminds '
ni*: of ii r -intince. In one of the town-, on the wnlu j
line lives a man who for year"! has been hi the era- ■
ploy of the coi |»oration »vl ich Is now having trouble. 1
I rom tippiciith e Loy in the workshop he, worked
hi -. ■. ny up until h< became an engineer. One night ,
he was calle*! up and sent on an < x’ra. He had not
gone far on hisiun when something darned betorc
the glare oi Li•> h« adl ght, and as quickly did be r<_
verae the engine. Leaving the pilot he walked
down the track an*l found a child neatly i
wrapped and wi*b* H .vake. Jfe took it Lack to th--
pilot, inade a cot for It, and proceeded on his run.
On his ieL.ru home the waif of the road taken •
to L u honic, adopted, reared and * ducatcd,
bbe He uno one of th*: beftiitlea of the httk* town
rmd grew into worra-nhood. The engineer, allhuuph
neaily thirty nve >ears older than tiie pretty in <1
creature, loved her. ami tm*y w< t< married. The
other day when there were tunriri of a strike the
old engineer a| j< a led to bin » hibl wife for a I vice,
and she Legge 1 him to remain with the company
nnd not drsert the road on which he found her and 1
from which )>«■ rrvued her. He consented, and (
there In one of the old engineers who Im true to the
throttle. I have lids littlo story from a gentleman ,
u no llv es iu tow n w here the uld tug n.cr makes his .
homo.
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
“ULD POP.”
The yankees were coining!
It was about daylight when tho news reaoh
ed F . It had been expected and dreaded
for over a week, and most of the stock had,
been carried to tho swamps, and most of the
gold and silver was buried; but there was a 10l
loft undone that morning in June, and groat
was the consternation int lie sleepy little town.
But old Pomp? There was a sort of proverb
in F , that old Pomp couldn’t be excited,
and in support of that idea the younger people
told ol the time when the earthquake came,
and old Pomp was more immovable that the
old red hills around him. while tho older peo
ple talked of the great “nigger rising,”of 1820,
ami reinonibored Hie fact that Pomp was tiie
only slave for miles around who had not gone
to the swamps.
It had been a proverb for forty years before
the yankees came. It had stood many tests,
ami stood them well. But somehow' or pther
it was different when tho yankees came. I
don’t suppose old Pomp himself could toll why
the yankees were more to be dreaded tjian the
earthquake or tho nigger rising, but as a {mat
ter of fact old Pomp was excited.
11l spite of all that though, it was old Pomp
who gathered all tho valuables left in tho
house and buried them; it was Pomp who
gave orders about the hogs ami the gram and
the cuttle, while everyone else on the place
was too frightened to think for themselves.
But before the horses could be driven oil old
man (’raft s Hezekiah camo by at a gallop ou
tho big gray mare that everybody iu F
know and had known for years.
lie didn’t stop.
“For God’s sake, Miss Em'lv, you better bo
quick. De yankees is at de bridge!”
And then be was gone.
“Pomp, what can I do?”
“.les be easy. Miss Em’ly. Dey can’t stay
always. I’ll carry de horses off and be back
in time doy gets l>e,ro.”
“Pomp, call Bull to help yon, or you won’t
have lime.”
Old Pomp’s face clouded.
"Don’ trits’ dat nigger, please, Missis.”
“Nonsense, Pomp, lie’s been with us too
long for that.”
The faithful old darky moved off without
another word, and went to the stables. Bull
was waiting.
Pomp glanced nt the bridle in Bull’s hand,
mid then at Bull’s face.
“Dat’s de black pony’s bridle, Bull.”
“I knows it, I Hole Pomp ’’
“1 takes ilo black pony," interrupted Pomp,
savagely. Andas they were ready to-start,
i’onip camo back through tho house, and from
over the door he unslung the little black rifle
with the silver eagle on the stock.
Pomp kept his word, for as the yankees drove
up to the gate from one side, lie came up from
the other.
"Whare’ve you been, old man?” said an of
ficer in blue.
“Been to see es I could see you from de
yutber way, Marster,” said old Pomp, meekly.
, “Take that gun, Hendrix,” said tiie officer
to n private who stood near him. Ami the
trusty old rifle, whwl Ji fid !;> Mmst,
Hcjqsv’-.' tf* “>■. qood
ser,i< e against, the u.t'ttshers iu two wm,., wm
thrown carelessly into a high wagon that was
painted blue and filled with tacks mid Iffgs.
TltcoUicer laughed al Pom p's indignant face,
and passed through the gate. It wasn't long
before the yard was full of yankees. 'lhe
house, too, was full, and Pomp stoml at ths
front gate iu a dazed, helpless, bewildered
fashion and watched the sacrilege.
The bee hives overturned and the honey
trailed over the yards and through tlio house,
the smokehouse robbed, the beds ripped open
in search of treasure, ami the quilts and
blankets tossed whole into tho big blue wagon,
or cut into saddle blankets.
And for two days it lasted. The people
got used to it, and after tiie wave of
resentment passed off it didn’t seam
quite so diabolical somehow or oilier. Every
one had expected tiie negroes to go, or most of
them, But nobody had expoctedJHeniy Lown's
negro bull to go. That was a day of surprises
| though, and while it was occasionally men
tioned, there were more important tilings to
! talk about until it was remembered that Bull
knew whore the horses were hid.
A hundred horses is a big loss even in war
times, and people in tin midst of their own
trouble would stop to wonder if Bull would
tell whore the horses were hid.
Pomp said he would. "And missis,” con
tinued the old darky, “hit’s a mighty good
thing I hid tho little black pony all by myself.
They won't fin’ her.”
“What makes you think Bull will tell
though, Pomp?”
“Well, Miss Em’ly I never did tins’dat
nigger, an’ w’ats more’n that, when dey passed
by de hill I was iu do woods an' seed 'om
pass. Dat nigger Bull had Marse Henry's
black rifle ami was riding biggoty jes' like it
b'longed to him. Yes, missy, he had Mars
11 i nry's long rifle, w’a tlie|was so proud of, an'
w'at I'so kep’bright an'tidy for nigh seventy
years."
And Pomp was troubled.
It was nearly two weeks after that when tlia
' battle was fought, and the yaukeo- ame back.
I They didn't past; through F , but so near
that tho firing could be plainly heard, and
■ that night old Pomp was gone.
I Even in those days of treachery nobody sus
j pected that Pomp had joined the yankees.
I But. where was he?
'f he question was left unsettled that long
; m.oimllght night, and just before day ths
wal hers at the big white house on the bill
j fell asleep.
j That morning old Pomp was at Ids little
I cabin next to the big bouse. The troubled
look was gone, and old I'omp was himself
again.
Over tho door his "ole missis" found her htis
i band’s rifle. It was brighter than ever, as it
j old I'omp bail made a special job of it.
I And at, tho shallow ford across Morning
crc< k. where the yankees hud crossed the
; night before, with the great staring eyes turned
! upward, ami a look of mortal terror pictured iu
I tho drawn face and parted Ups, was found tho
I body of the runaway Bull.
Thoblooil bad oozed mid Clotted from a
ghastly wound in tho breast, and had stained
i the homespun shirt and ground where he foil.
Yon know how people talk. It was never
I known really how Bull was killed, but two
years ago, when old I'omp was laid to rest, I
i was told the story I have given you. It is only
known that Pomp's lips were forever sealed
! upon that subject, and that when he was
i burled, as Im ,o often wished, nt Hie feet ot
bis “ole mis.is," the long black rille was
’ buried with him. G. W.
»
A SVlitte House Incident.
Hpocjid b patch to the Globe-Peniocrat
Mi . Cleveland is not standing the strain ot
the-oi-lal season so well this yeur. Possibly the
novcl'.y l:n< worn oft. mid tho duties call for mole
; effort than they did. Certain It fs, tho mistress of
th a bite l.ia a • locks a little worn, end It takes
sometlilru out of the usual run tohtiiig to her bice
• lliul ehiinning > xpn .slon which was there constant
ly u i n allHiia ru«h of entertaining wax new. Vis
it© al the y aturday rceeptlou had at one time In
>' v aifiTiioon im i p ortunlty to see Mrs. Cleveland
at her I -t. It was wl, u the little five-yoarold
da ighti'i of' '•ngrer«innn Johnstone, ofNoittit'aro
linn, stopi i I »,,»ie yln fio it of the president's
wife a-the loiter was receiving, mid looking tip
i i.'.midy mid eai.'vtsily, said with childish eta-
I “I want t> see your dog Hector nnd your parrot
' and your kilty.”
'I i e !• o» v. h'i h came over Mrs. Cleveland's fire*
, as th. eul dewu aud took the Little oue a haul,
i was a Hub of uature iu the lulls! of the artUic ai.
