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14
THE GEORGIAN’S NEWS GRIEFS
A Desperate Woman
Thanks to the information I had re
ceived from Mrs. Rolfe’s little chamber
maid, I knew that Roife kept the family
Jewels in the safe of the library and also
knew which were the windows of this
room. The girl had told how cruel
the old miser was to his young wife,
and how he had kept her a virtual
prisoner for four years in the house
where I was about to crack a crib. I
wanted to get hold of the family Jew
els, which were worth at least a half
million.
To break open the shutters and open
the windows was an easy matter, but
Just as I had closed the shutters again
I heard a shot from the next room.
This upset me so that for nearly a min
ute I stood motionless, and Ju3t as I
was about to leave by the way I came
I heard light steps and a woman’s
voice whispered:
“Is it you, Charles? Why didn’t you
knock at the shutter?”
“No, it is not Charles.” I answered,
my courage returning as I reasoned that
the woman, whoever she was, had good
reasons not to alarm the rest of the
house. "But he sent me to tell—”
I got no further, for the electric
light was turned on and I found my
self looking into the barrel of a most
businesslike revolver. The most beau
tiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon
was at the other end of the revolver.
“Who are you, and what do you
want?” she asked. “Hands up!” she
added, as I was too confused to answer
a single word.
“Now, you may take them down
again,” she said, when she had re
lieved me of the gun I carried. “And,
now, sit down!”
“What do you intend to do with me?”
I asked, after obeying her order.
“I have not quite made up my mind
yet,” she said. “I suppose you were
after these old family jewels, which
I am wearing now.”
And she pointed to some costly dia
monds and pearls she was wearing.
“You are quite right,” I said, under
standing no more why she was wear
ing this small fortune on her now than
why she had not rung the bell for the
servants and told them Jp send for the
police.
One thing was clear. She could be
nobody but Rolfe’s beautiful young wife.
The shot I had heard was also a mys
tery to me. She must be the one who
fired, since she was still holding the re
volver in her hand. But at whom had
she fired, and why was everything still
quiet in the house?
“Did you ever kill & human being?”
she suddenly asked.
“No. but I tried once,” I answered.
"I suppose you were sorry you did
not succeed?”
“No; I was glad he escaped, though
I hated him as much as one person
may hate another.”
“But if you had been a woman, and
your father had sold you to a human
beast—sold you to a husband who tor
tured you in the w'orst manner for
four long years, and who discovered
your plan when you had just got enough
courage to run away with the man you
loved and who then gave you the choice
of killing him or retraining * n hell all
the rest of your life? What would you
have thought then? Woud you have
chosen to let him live?”
Before I could think of an answer,
there was a sharp knock at the shut
ters. Charles, w’hoever he was, had
come.
‘’Come in, Charles,” she said, almost
triumphantly. “I thought you were
never going to come,” she added, as a
tall young man entered exactly as 1 had
done.
“Who is that man, Muriel?” he asked.
She did not answer his question, but
said:
“I have killed my husband.”
“Good God! It can’t be true.” he
burst out, throwing himself heavily into
the chair from which I had got up as
he entered
“Go in and look for yourself,” she re
plied, and walking to the other end of
the room she drew a heavy velvet por
tier* aside.
And now I saw a dead man with the
most cruel-looking face I have ever seen
lying on the floor.
"You need not look so worried,
Charles, dear.” she said, drawing the
portiere again. And, pointing to me, she
went on:
“That fellow will have to take the
punishment. He bro\e in here to steal
my jewels just as I fired. I kept him
here, waiting for you to come. Nobody
will ever suspect us.”
“Oh, why did you do this, Muriel?’’
he cried, in despair. “And how can you
think of adding a new murder to the
first?”
“We must act quickly,” she said, and
rang a bell. “You must hurry out the
way you came. I have rung for the
butler, and when he comes I will de
nounce the burglar as the murderer.
Nobody will take his word against mine.
Then we will wait some time and get
married.”
He jumped up and looked at her with
disgust and indignation.
“Never! Never!” he cried. “It is all
over now. I could never marry a mur
deress.”
Never have I seen an expression of de
spair like the one which came into her
face at these words.
I almost felt sorry for her. but I used
the chance to escape through the win
dow. When outside I stood awaiting
what would happen next. I saw an el
derly man enter and heard him say:
“You rang for me, madam?’
“Yes, I did,” she said, calmly. “Your
master has been shot, and there”—
pointing to Charles—“stands his mur
derer. ”
The Judge
K HIRODA. at the fag end of har
youth, woke up one morning to
find that her lover had depart
ed in the night, leaving her destitute.
She found that, in all the 38 years of
her life, she had not even made one
person her own, nor earned the right
even to the corner of a home in whicn
to live and die. She realized that life
had no pity upon her and would relax
none of its claims which must be at
tended to down to the smallest detail,
and she rolled on the floor, beating
Its hardness with her forehead in an
agony of despair.
Evening came and it grew dark.
Klilroda had not the heart to tidy the
room, nor to light the lamp. Her
hungry child cried till it could cry no
longer, and fell asleep. A knock came
to the door and a man’s voice called
out, “Khiro, Khiro.” Khiroda flung
open the door and rushed out at him
who stood there with her broom put
ting the youth to precipitate flight.
Then, convulsively clutching the child
to her bosom, she went out of the
house and jumped into the well.
The splash brought the neighbors
hurrying to the spot and the bodies
were Ashed out. The mother was un-
oonscious, but the child was dead.
Khiroda was brought round in the
hospital and was committed to the
sessions by the magistrates.
II.
Mohtt Datta was the Sessions
Judge. He sentenced, Khiroda to death.
Her advocates tried their utmost to
get some mitigation of the sentence,
but without success.
There was some reason for this se
verity of his attitude toward feminine
frailty, as a glimpse into his earlier
history will disclose.
His Youth.
Mohit in his undergraduate days
lived near the house of an elderly
couple with a young widowed daugh
ter, Sasi. What little of the world
Sasi used to see from behind the bar
rier of her lonely widowhood seemed
to her like some golden land of mys
tery, where happiness stalked abroad.
Unsatisfied longing cramped the beat
ings of her heart.
In the intervals of her domestic du
ties Sasi sat at the window’ watching
the crowd on the public road. She
thought to herself how' happy were
the passersby, how free the tramps,
what gay characters were the hawk
ers in the comedy of life, and morn
ing and evening she saw the w'eli-
groomed Mohit strutting past in the
fullness of his self-conceit. To her
he was a demi-god, far above ths
mortals she saw around her.
Perhaps Sasi could have cheerfully
spent all her life playing with her
demi-god in the heaven of her fancy
had not her evil star made the demi
god smile upon her and materialize
the heaven within her reach. It is
needless to relate at length when
Mohit’s covetous glance first fell upon
6ausl, how he began to write to her
under the false name of Binode, when
the first trembling, ill-spelt reply
reached him; how, at last, the whole
of the poor little widow’s world was
turned topsy-turvy in the whirlwind
of ecstatic surrender.
Late one night Sasi left her father
and mother and got into a carriage
brought by Mohit, alias Binode. When
her demi-god, with all his tinsel
showing, got inside and sat close be
side her, a sudden inrush of remorse
bowed her to the dust. And when the
carriage actually began to move she
fell at his feet, crying. “For pity’s
sake, let me go back home.” But the
carriage rapidly drove away.
To narrate all the episodes of
Mohit’s early career would grow
monotonous. This will serve as a
sample.
To-day there wsls no one to remem
ber the escapades of young “Binode.”
Mohit Datta was quite a reformed
character. His reading of the sacred
books was incessant; he even prac
tised austerities.
A few days after passing sentence
on Khiroda, Mohit happened to be in
the prison garden, with a view to se
curing some nice, fresh vegetables
for his own table. He heard from in
side the jail the sound of high words,
and entering, found Khiroda in the
midst of a vigorous bickering with
the warder. Mohit smiled a superior
smile. This is what woman is! Death
at her door, and yet she must quar
rel. She would dispute, thought he.
amused at his conceit; even with the
doorkeepers of Hades!
As he drew nearer, Khiroda with
clasped hands, addressed him, saying.
“Mr. Judge, for mercy’s sake, tell him
to give me back my ring!”
On inquiry, he found that a ring
had been hidden in the loops of Khi-
roda’s hair, wiiich the warder dis
covering, had appropriated. Mohit
was again amused. This desire for a
bauble on the steps of the gallow’s!
Oh, woman, woman! ,
“Let me see the ring,” said he to
the warder, who handed it over to
him.
Mohit started as if it had been a
piece of live coal. In the ring was
set a miniature portrait on ivory of
gold rim was engraved the name
a young beardless youth. In its
gold rim was engraved the name
"Binoae.” He raised his eyes from
the ring, and for the first time
looked Khiroda keenly in the face.
He seemed to see there the fresh,
fond, tear-bedewed countenance of
twenty-four vears ago. But, ah! and
what a difference.
Items of Interest
The largest proportion of suicides
in European countries Is to be found
in Germany.
There are over 850 licensed employ
ment agencies In London.
There are nine thousand cells in a
square foot of honeycomb.
O H, I tasted of pleasure—and liked It,
For the flavor was sweet to my lip.
“life Is joy,” then I cried, “and my sea’s at full tide;
Life’s a garden—each flower I’ll sip.”
But a sting lurked In every bright flower,
And the waves of Joy’s sea broke in foam,
While the lure of gay Pleasure’s fleet hour
Bore me wandering—far from my home.
Then I tasted of sorrow—’twa’s bitter,
And the talons of pain tore my heart.
“Life is torture,” I cried. “Must I linger and bide
All my losses in Cruelty’s mart?”
But a message was hid in the tangle
Of these noisome and bitter dark weeds;
From the sound of harsh bells all a-jangle
Pealed a chime for the doer of deeds.
“There’s pleasure to taste, and there’s sorrow—
Take from one, from the other you borrow;
Sun to-day may mean storm-clouds to-morrow;
All jour life you must mark the measure
Of sorrow attuned unto pleasure—
The heart that is wise still will treasure
Its joys the more dear, for Its sorrow.
Its pain as a wonderful measure
When joy brighter radiance shall borrow.”
Their Strength
Paul Meran said to Annette:
“To-morrow I will speak to my
lather, I will tell him that I love you.
and that you are willing to share my
life. I will speak to him. I will con
vince him and about 6 o’clock to
morrow night I will come and tell you
what he says. I love you Annette
and you may trust me.”
Standing at the window Annette
saw him crossing the street with the
firm step of an energetic and deter
mined man. He was tall and broad
shouldered while she was little and
frail and as she sat down near the
fireplace she felt that she loved him
even more because of his strength.
Annette had no dowry and she knew
that M. Meran expected his son to
marry a girl with money. The son
of a peasant he had kept some of
the mighty. When, therefore, he had
oppressed, who have too long bent
their shoulders under the blows of
the mighty. When therefore he had
reached a position where he had oth
ers under him he used his authority
• like a vengeance and the power of
money had become his religion. He
was feared for his violent temper and
as Annette knew’ that he was deter
mined to get a rich daughter-in-law
she was awaiting the coming of the
morrow' with anxiety.
The bell rang. She ran out her
self to open the door and turned a
little pale w'hen she found herself
face to face with Mme. Meran.
When they were alone in the room
Mme. Meran was the first to speak:
“I know my son’s feelings for you
my child. I also know that you are
more than worthy of his love and 1
should have liked nothing better than
to have seen you as his wife. But
what can we do when my husband
is against it. Paul is quite crushed.’
Annette buried her face in her
hands and the tears ran out between
her slender fingers.
“Then my heart, my love, my cour
age counts for nothing. I have no
money. Because I am a poor girl
M. Meran parts Paul and me. It is
unjust, terribly unjust!” \ .
And Mme. Meran repeated:
“Yes it is unjust,” and because she
found nothing else to say. she caress
ed Annette’s hair with her hand ai*d
was silent.
“I know that it is hard to make a
living.” Annette went on, “and I
know that Paul is not earning much
money now% but I did not mind that,
he would have got on better later, 1
would have shared his days, and bad
ones with the good, and later on we
should feel we were so much closer,
because w*e had gone through the
struggle together. I would have
been a good helpmate to him. I am
not selfish, Mme. Meran.”
“I know that, my child and I wrnuld
have learned to love you like a moth
er. Don’t cry dear, you will be hap
py. You deserve it. You can get a
better husband than my Paul would
have been to you. Perhaps if you
had married him the day would have
come when you would have regrett
ed it.”
“Never, for I love him, and no
matter what sorrows and trials might
have come to us, they would only
have tied me closer to him. when we
thought of the confidence wfith w’hich
we began our life. Oh Madame
Meran, it is cruel to part us.”
“I feel so sorry for you my dear
child. You speak ju$t as I thought
thirty years ago.”
“And when he thinks of that don’t
you think M. Meran wifi give in?”
“Give in!”
Mmo. Meran spoke these words as
if she did not believe her own ears.
She looked at Annette and her eyes
filled with tears.
“Do you think, dear,” she said sad
ly, “that my husband ever remembers
those days? Do you think he even
thinks of them for a single moment?
Of course, I married him because I
loved him and I loved him because
being timid and frail myself, I need
ed him to protect me. But I also
wanted lo share his life' and his bur
dens. Did I ever share them? I wa»
little, I told you, and I loved him.
Very soon he got into the habit of
saying: ‘I want this,' and ‘I want
that,’ and after a while I was only a
shadow of myself w'hile he seemed to
grow bigger and I trembled at him.
My husband! He very quickly for
got that I had a heart, that I loved
him. He took my feelings for grant
ed, as something that was his by
right. Yesterday he said. ‘No’ and
Paul meekly gave in, as everybody
else does to him.”
‘'Paul! Paul, who is so firm and
so stern, and of whom I have alw'ays
been just a little bit afraid though
I loved him.”
“Paul, firm? Why he is meek,
timid. He has always been weak,
and without any will of his own. 1
have known that ever since he lay
in his cradle.
“He was firm and sometimes even
a little domineering towards me, and
I feared he would make a dreadful
scene and part from you in anger.
“He did nothing of the kind. And,
besides, what could he have done?
He is absolutely dependent on his
father.”
Annette wrung her hands.
“And I who thought him so brave
and strong. Didn’t he say anything
didn’t he put up a fight for me.”
“He could not, dear.”
They were both silent for a while
Then Mme. Meran said as if to her
self:
“Once, thirty years ago, my hus
band had made a scene and treated
me very unjustly. He had left me
sitting at home quite crushed and
scared at his temper. In the even
ing he came back from the office,
all upset, with a face which I hardly
recognized. He had been unjustly
called down by one of his superiors.
I thought he had made a scene and
had lost his position so I asked:
‘And what did you say?’ ‘Nothing
he is stronger than I. isn’t he?’ he
Spiled. Oh Annette that day I knew
w’hat kind of courage he possessed,
and I also knew what a poor com
panion I had been to him. I had al
ways submitted and because I was
weaker he had taken his revenge on
me, w'hen he had been abused by one
stronger than himself When he tyr
annized us it was because he knew
he had nothing to fear from us. And
Paul who loves you Annette would
have tyrannized you. though he has
no courage himself.”
Annette listens no longer, a terri
ble feeling fills her heart, the feeling
that she had come near giving all
that w’as best in her to a man, who
would not have understood to appre
ciate it and who would have loved
her so little as to make her either a
slave or a rebel.
Old Mme. Meran continued talking
of her youth: “He did not even pro
tect me, n?e who did not even dar©
open my heart to him in my dark
est hours.”
Annette is listening no more. She
is crying softly and murmurs: “I had
courage. I was not afraid of life, I
had courage!”
Mme. Meran finishes her thought,
saying: They think they are brave,
because we, who love them, obey
them. They imagine they are strong,
though in reality they are the weak
and we who submit, are the strong
ones.”