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’IN LUCK AT LAST.
BY WALTER BESANT.
CHAPTER - VIII.
< THE DISCOVERY.
' At nine o’clock that evening Mr. Emblem
looked up from the chess board.
“Where is Mr. Arbuthnot this evening,
my dear?” ho asked.
It would be significant in some houses when
a young man is expected every evening. Iris
blushed, and Said that perhaps he was not
coming. But he was, and his step was on
the stair as she spoke.
“You are late, Mr. Arbuthnot,” said Mr.
Emblem reproachfully; “you are late, sir,
and somehow we get no music now until you
come. Play us something, Iris. It is my
move, Lala —”
Iris opened the piano and Arnold sat down
beside her, and their eyes met. There was
in each the consciousness of what had passed.
“I shall speak to him tonight, Iris,” Ar
nold whispered. “I have already written to
my cousin. Do not be hurt if she does not
call upon you.”
“Nothing of that sort will hurt me,” Iris
s6id, being Ignorant of social ways and
without the least ambition to rise In the
world. “If your cousin does not call upon
me I shall not be disappointed. Why should
she want to know met But I am sorry, Ar
nold, that she is angry with you."
Lala Roy just then found himself in pres
ence of a most beautiful problem—white to
move and checkmate in three moves. Mr.
Emblem found the meshes of fate closing
round him earlier than usual, and both bent
their heads closely over the table.
“Checkmate I” said Lala Roy. “My friend
you have played badly this evening.”
“I have played badly,” Mr. Emblem re
plied, “because to-morrow will be an im
portant day for Iris and for myself. A day,
Iris, that I have been looking forward to for
eighteen years, ever since I got your father’s
last letter, written upon his deathbed. It
seems a long time, but like a lifetime,” said
the old man of seventy-five, “it Is as nothing
when it is gone. Eighteen years, and you
were a little thing of three, child."
“What is going to happen to me, grand
father, except that I shall be twenty-one!"
“We shall see to-morrow. Patience, my
dear—patience.”
He spread out his hands and laughed.
What was going to happen to himself was a
small thing compared with the restoration
of Iris to her own.
“Mr. Emblem,” said Arnold, “I also have
something of importance to say.”
“ You, too, Mr. Arbuthnot! Cannot
yours wait also until to-morrow!”
“No; it is too important. It cannot wait
an hour.”
“Well, sir”—Mr. Emblem pushed up his
spectacles and leaned back in his chair—
“well, Mr. Arbuthnot, let us have it."
"I think you may guess what I have to
say, Mr. Emblem. lam sure that Lala
Roy has already guessed it.”
The Philosopher inclined his head in
assent.
“It is that I have this afternoon asked Iris
to marry me, Mr. Emblem. And she has
consented.”
“Have you consented, Iris, my dear?”
said her grandfather.
She placed her hand in Arnold’s for reply.
“Do you think you know him well enough,
my dear?” Mr. Emblem asked gravely, look
ing at her lover. “Marriage is a serious
thing; it is a partnership for life. Children,
think well before you venture on the happi
ness or ruin of your whole lives. And you
are so young. What a pity—what a thou
sand pities that people wero not ordained
to marry at seventy or sol”
“We have thought well,” said Arnold.
“Iris has faith in me."
“Then, young man, I have nothing to
say. Iris will marry io please herself, and
I pray that she may be happy. As for you,
I like your face and your manner’s, but I d<
not know who you are, nor what your mean:
may be. Remember that I am poor—l an
so poor—l can tell you all now, that to
morrow we shall—well, patience—to-mor
row I shall most likely have my very stock
seized and sold. ”
“Your stock sold? Oh, grandfather!’
cried Iris; “and you did not tell me! And
I have been so happy.”
“Friend,” said Lala, “was it well to hide
this from me!”
“Foolish people,” Mr. Emblem went on,
“have spread reports that lam rich, and
have saved money for Iris. It is not true,
Mr. Arbuthnot I am not rich. Iris will
come to you empty handed.”
“And as for me, I have nothing,” said
Arnold, “except a pair of hands and all the
time there is. So we have all to gain and
nothing to lose.”
“You have your profession,” said Iris,
“and I have mine. Grandfather, do not
fear, even though we shall all four become
poor together.”
It seemed natural to include Lala Roy,
who had been included with them for
twenty years.
“As for Iris being empty handed,” said
Arnold, “how can that ever be! Why, she
carries in her hands an inexhaustible cornu
copia, full of precious things."
“My dear,” said the old man, holding out
his arms to her, ‘‘l could not keep you al
ways. Some day I knew you would leave
me; it is well that you should leave me
when I am no longer able to keep a roof
over your head.”
“But we shall find a roof for you, grand
father, somewhere. We shall never part.”
I “The best of girls always,” said Mr. Em
blem; “the best of girls. Mr. Arbuthnot,
s you are a happy man.”
Then the sage lifted up his voice and said
■ solemnly:
“On her tongue dwelleth music; the sweet-
I ness of honey floweth from her lips; humility
is like a crown of glory about her head; her
I eye speaketh softness and love; her husband
' putteth his heart in her bosom and findeth
! joy.”
“Oh, you are all too good to me," mur
rtiured Iris.”
1“A friend of mine,” said Mr. Emblem,
“now, like nearly all my friends, beneath
. the sod, used to say that a good marriage
I was a happy blending of the finest Wallsend
| with the most delicate Silkstone. But he
was in the coal trade. For my own part, I
! have always thought that it is like the bind
ing of two scarce volumes into one.”
“Oh, not second-hand volumes, grand
father,” said Iris.
“I don’t know. Certainly not new ones,
i Not volumes under one and-twenty, if you
j please. Mr. Arbuthnot, lam glad; you
i will know why very soon. lam very glad
I that Iris made her choice before her twenty
! first birthday. Whatever may happen now,
I no one can say that either of you were in
; fluenced by any expectations. You both
i think yourselves paupers; well, I say
i nothing, because I know nothing. But,
| children, if a great thing happen to you,
and that before four and-twenty hours have
| passed, be prepared—be prepared, I say— ti
' receive it with moderate; rejoicing."
THE SAVANNAH DAILY TIMES, SUNDAY, JANUARY 25, 1885.
“To-morrow?” Iris asked. “Why to-mor
row! Why not to-night, if you have a secret
to toll us?”
“Your father enjoined in his last letter to
wait till you were twenty-one. The eve of
your birthday, however, is the same thing as
your birthday. We will open the papers to
night. What I have to tell you, Iris, shall
be told in the presence of your lover, what
ever it is—good or bad.”
He led the way <iown stairs into the back
shop. Hern he lit the gas, and began to
open his case, slowly and cautiously.
“Eighteen years ago, Iris, my child, I re
ceived your father’s last letter, written on
his death-bed. This I have already told you.
He sot down, in that letter, several things
which surprised me very much. We shall
come to these things presently. He also laid
down certain instructions for your bringing
up, my dear. I was, first of all, to give you
as good an education as I could afford; I
was to keep you as much as possible sepa
rated from companions who might not be
thought afterwards fit to be the friends of a
young lady. You have had as good an edu
cation as Lala Roy and I could devise be
tween us. From him you have learned
mathematics, so as to steady j our mind and
make you exact: and you have learned the
science of heraldry from me, so that you
may at once step into your own place in the
polite world, where, no doubt, it is a familiar
and a necessary study. You have also
learned music, because that is an accom
plishment which every one should possess.
What more can any girl want for any
station? My dear, lam happy to think that
a gentleman is your lover. Let him tell us,
now—Lala Roy and me—to our very faces,
if he thinks we have, between us, made you
a lady.”
Arnold stooped and kissed her hand.
“There is no more perfect lady,” he said,
“in all the land.”
“Iris’s father, Mr. Arbuthnot, was a gen
tleman of honorable and ancient family,
and I will tell you, presently, as soon as I
find it out myself, his real name. As for his
coat-of-arms, he bore Quarterly, first and
fourth, two roses and a boar’s head erect;
second and third, gules and fesse between—
strange, now, that I have forgotten What
was between. Everybody calls himself a
gentleman nowadays; even Mr. Chalker,
who is going to sell me up, I suppose; but
everybody, if you please, is not armiger.
Iris, your father was armiger. I suppose I
am a gentleman on Bundays, when I go to
church with Iris, and wear a black coat,
but your father, my dear, though he mar
ried my daughter, was a gentleman by birth.
And one who knows heraldry respects a gen
tleman by birth.” He laid his hand now on
the handle of the safe, as if the time were
nearly come for opening it, but not quite.
“He sent me, with this last letter, a small
parcel for you. my dear, not to be opened
until you reached the age of twenty-one. As
for the person who had succeeded
to his inheritance, she was to be left
in peaceable possession for a reason
which he gave—quite a romantio story, which
I will tell you presently—until you came of
age. He was very urgent on this point If,
however, any disaster of sickness or misfor
tune fell upon me, I was to act in your in
terests at once, without waiting for time.
Children,” the old man added solemnly, “by
the blessing of heaven—l cannot take it as
anything less —I have been spared in health
and fortune until this day. Now let me de
part in peace, for my trust is expired, and
my child is safe, her inheritance secured,
with a younger and better protector.” He
placed the key in the door of the safe. “I
do not know, mind,” he said, still hesitating
to take the final step; “I do not know the
nature of the inheritance; it may be little or
may be great. The letter does not inform
me on this point. Ido not even know the
name of the testator, my son-in-law’s father.
Nor do I know the name of my daughter’s
husband. Ido not know even your true
name, Iris, my child. But it is not Aglen.”
“Then, have I been going under a false
name all my life?”
“It was the name your father chose to
bear for reasons which seemed good and
sufficient to him, and these are part of the
story which I shall have to tsll you. Wil)
you have this story first, or shall we open
the safe and read the contents of the parcel?’'
“First,” said Arnold, “let us sit down
and look in each other’s faces.”
It was a practical suggeetion. But, as it
proved, it was an unlucky one, because it
deprived them of the story.
“Iris,” he said, while they waited, “this
is truly wonderiull”
“Oh, Arnold! What am Ito do with an
inheritance!”
“That depends on what it is. Perhaps
it is a landed estate; in which case we
shall not be much better off, and can go on
with our work; perhaps there will be
houses; perhaps it will be thousands of
pounds, and perhaps hundreds. Shall we
build a castle in the aia to suit our inheri
tance!”
“Yes; let us pretend. Oh, grandfather,
stop one moment! Our castle, Arnold, shall
be, first of all, the most beautiful studio in
the world for you. You shall have tapestry,
blue china, armor, lovely glass, soft car
pets, carved doors and painted panels, a tall
mantelshelf, old wooden cabinets, silver
cups, and everything else what one ought to
like, and you shall choose everything for
yourself, and never get tired of it But you
must go on painting; you must never stop
working, because we must be proud of you
as well that you like. Oh, but I have not
done yet My grandfather is to have two
rooms for himself, which he can fill with
the books he will spend his time in collect
ing; Lala Roy will have two more rooms,
quite separate, where he Can sit by himself
whenever he does not choose to sit with me;
I shall have my own study to myself, where
I shall go on reading mathematics; and we
shall all have, between us, the most beauti
ful dining-room and drawing-room that you
over saw; and a garden and a fountain; and
—yes—money to give to people who are
not so fortunate as ourselves. Will that do,
Arnold?’
“Yes, but you have almost forgotten your
self, dear. There must be carriages for
you, and jewels, and dainty things all your
own, and a boudoir, and nobody shall think
of doing oi - saying anything in the house at
all, except for your pleasure; will that do,
Iris?”
“I suppose we shall have to give parties
of some kind, and to go to them Perhaps
one may get to like society. You will teach
me lawn-tennis, Arnold; and I should like, I
think, to learn dai icing. I suppose I must
leave off making my own dresses, though 1
know that I never shall be so well dressed
if I do. And about the cakes and pud
dings—but, oh, there is enough pretend
ing."
“It is difficult,” said Lala Roy, “to bear
adversity. But to be temperate in prosper
ity is the height of wisdom.”
“And now suppose, Iris,” said Arnold,
“that the inheritance, instead of being thou
sands a year, is only a few hundreds.”
“Ah, then, Arnold, it will be ever so
much simpler. We shall have something to
live upon until you begin to make money
for us all.”
“Yes; that is very simple. But suppose,
again, that the inheritance is nothing but a
small sum of money."
“Why, then.” said Iris, “we will give it <
all to grandfather, wlo will pay off his i
creditor, and we will go on as if nothing
had happened." I
“Child!” said Mr. Emblem, “do you think I
that I would take youi - little all?”
“And suppose, again,” Arnold went on, >
“that the inheritance turns out a delusion,
and that there is nothing at all I" I
“That cannot be supposed,” said Mr. Em
blem quickly; “that is absurd!"
“If it were,” said Iris, “we shall only be, >
to-morrow, just exactly what we are to-day.
I am a teacher by correspondence, with five
pupds. Arnold is looking for art-work which
will pay; and between us, my dear grand
father and Lala Roy, we are going to see
that you want nothing.”
Always Lain Roy with her grandfather,
as if their interests were identical, and, in
deed, he had lived so long with them that
Iris could not separate the two old men.
“We will all live together,” Iris continued, I
“and when our fortune is made we will all
live in a palace. And now, grandfather,
that we have relieved our feelings, shall we
have the story and the opening of the papers 1
in the safe?”
“Which will you have first?" Mr. Emblem 1
asked again.
“Oh, the safe,” said Arnold. “The story
can wait. Let us examine the contents of
the saf
“The story,” said Mr. Emblem, “is nearly
all told in your father’s letter, my dear. But
there is a little that I would tell you first,
before I read that letter. You know, Iris,
that I have never been rich; my shop has
kept me up till now, but I have never been 1
able to put by money. Well—my daughter
Alice, your poor mother, my dear, who was
as good and clever as you are, was de
termined to earn her own living, and so she
went out as a governess. And one day she
came home with her husband; she had been
married the day before, and she told me
they had very little money, and her hus
band was a scholar and a gentleman, and
wanted to get work by writing. He got
some, but not enough, and they were always
in a poor way, until one day he got a letter
from America—it was while the civil war
was raging—from an old Oxford friend, in
viting him to emigrate and try fortune as
a journalist out there. He went, and his
wife was to join him. But she died, my
dear; your mother died, and a year later I
had your father’s last letter, which I am
now going to read to you."
"One moment, sir,” said Arnold. “Before
you open the sale and take out the papers,
remember that Iris and I can take nothing—
nothing at all for ourselves until all your
troubles are tided over.”
“Children—children,” cried Mr. Emblem.
“Go, my son, to the desert,” observed the
sage, standing solemnly upright like a pro
phet of Israel. “Observe the young stork of
the wilderness, how he beareth on his wings
his aged sire and supplieth him with food.
The piety of a child is sweeter than the
incense of Persia offered to the sun; yea,
more delicious is it than the odors from a
field of Arabian spice.”
“Thank you, Lala,” said Mr. Emblem.
“And now, children, we will discover the
mystery.”
He unlocked the safe and threw it open
with somewhat of a theatrical air. “The
roll of papers.” He took it out. “ ‘For
Iris, to be opened on her twenty-first birth
day.’ And this is the eve of it. But where
is the letter? I tied the letter around it with
a piece of tape. Very strange. lam sure I
tied the letter with a piece of tape. Perhaps
it was— Where is the letter?”
He peered about in the safe; there was
nothing else in it except a few old account
books; but he could not find the letter!
Where could it be!
“I remember,” he said—“most distinctly
I remember tying up the letter with the par- -
ceh Where can it be gone to!”
“A feeling of trouble to come seized him.
He was perfectly sure he had tied up the let
ter with the parcel, and here was the parcel
without the letter, and no one had opened
the safe except himself.
“Never mind about the letter, grandfath
er,” said Iris, “we shall find that after
wards. ■’
“Well, then, let us open the parcel.”
It was a packet about the size of a crown
octavo volume, in brown paper, carefully
fastened up with gum, and on the face of
it was a white label inscribed: “For Iris, to
be opened on her twenty-first birth-lay.”
Everybody in turn took it, weighed it, so to
speak, looked at it curiously, and read the i
legend. Then they returned it to Mr. Em- ;
blem. who laid it before him and produced
a penknife. With this, as carefully and sol
emnly as if he were offering up a sacrifice oi i
performing a religious function, he cut th»
parcel straight through.
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“Z remember ft/inp up the letter with the
parcel, where can it be gone to I"' ;
“After eighteen year’s," he said, “after ,
eighteen years. The ink will be faded and (
the papers yellow. But we shall see the t
certificates of the marriage and of your bap
tism, Iris; there will also be letters to dif
ferent people, and a true account of the (
rupture with his father, and the cause, of j
which his letter spoke. And of course we
shall find out what was his real name and ,
what is the kind of inheritance which has (
been waiting for you so long, my dear.
Now then." j
The covering in case of the packet was a (
kind of stiff cardboard or millboard, within (
brown paper. Mr. Emblem laid it open. j
It was full of folded papers. He took up
the first and opened it. The paper was
blank. The next, it was blank; the third, it (
was blank; the fourth, and fifth, and sixth, (
and so on throughout. The case, which had
been waiting so long, waiting for eighteen
years, to be opened on Iris’s twenty-first j
birthday was full of blank papers. They j
were all half sheets of notepaper.
Mr. Emblem looked surprised at the first _
two or three papers; then he turned pale; ‘
then he rushed at the rest. When he had
opened all, he stared about him with be
wilderment. |
“Where is the letter ?” he asked again.
Then he began with trembling bands to tear
out the contents of the safe and spread them
upon the table. The letter was nowhere.
“I am certain," he said, for the tenth
time, “I am quite certain that I tied up
the letter with red tape, outside the packet.
And no one has been at the safe except
me.”
“Tell us,” said Arnold, “the contents of
the letter as well as you remember them.
Your son-in-law was known to you under
the name of Aglen, which was not his real
name. Did he tell you his real name!”
“No.”
“What did he tell you! Do you remember
the letter!"
“I remember every word of the letter.”
“If you dictate it, I will write it down.
That may be a help.”
Mr. Emblem began quickly, and as if he
was afraid of forgetting:
“When you read these lines, I shall be in
the Silent Land, whither Alice, my wife,
has gone before me.”
1 Tuen Mr. Emblem began to stammer,
“ ‘ln one small thing we deceived you,
Alice and I. My name is not Aglen’—is
not Aglen ”
And here a strange thing happened. His
memory failed him at this point.
“Take time,” said Arnold; “there is no
hurry.”
Mr. Emblem shook his head.
“I shall remember the rest to-morrow,
perhaps,” he said.
“Is there anything else you have to help
us!” asked Arnold; “never mind the letter,
Mr. Emblem. No doubt that will come
back presently. You ’ see we want to find
out, first, who Iris’s father really was, and
what is her real name. There was his coat
of arms. That will connect her with some
family, though it may be a family with
many branches.”
“Yes—oh yes! his coat of arms. I have
seen his signet ring a dozen times. Yes, his
coat; yes, first and fourth, two roses and a
boar’s head erect; second and third—l
forget.”
"Humph! Was there any one who knew
him before he was married!”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Emblem sat up eagerly.
“Yes, there is—there is; he is my oldest cus
tomer. But I forget his name. I have for
gotten everything. Perhaps I shall get
back my memory to-morrow. But lam
old. Perhaps it will never get back.”
He leaned his head upon his hands, and
stared about him with bewildered eyes.
“I do not know, young man,” he said
presently, addressing Arnold, “who you
are. If you come from Mr. Chalker, let me
tell you it is a day too soon. To-morrow we
will speak of business.” Then he sprang to
his fret suddenly, struck with a thought
which pierced him like a dagger. “To-mor
row! It is the day when they will come to
sell me up. Oh, Iris! what did that matter
when you were safe? Now we are all pau
pers together—ail paupers.”
He fell back in his chair white and trem
bling; Iris soothed him; kissed his cheek
and pressed his hand; but the terror and
despair of bankruptcy were upon him. This
is an awful spectre, which is ever ready to
appear before the man who has embarked
his all in one venture. A disastrous sea
son, two or three unlucky ventures, a suc
cession of bad debts, and the grisly spectre
stands before them. He had no terror for
the old man so long as he thought that Iris
was safe. But now
“Idle talk, Iris—idle talk, child,” he said,
when they tried to comfort him. “How
can a girl make money by teaching? Idle
talk, young man. How can money be made
by painting! It’s as bad a trade as writing.
How can money be made anyhow but in an
honest shop? And to-morrow I shall have
no shop, and we shall all go into the street
together!”
Presently, when lamentations had yielded
.to despair, they persuaded him to go to bed.
It was past midnight. Iris went up stairs
with him, while Lala Roy and Arnold
waited down below. And then Arnold made
a great discovery. He began to examine
the folded papers which were in the packet.
I think he had some kind of a vague idea
that they might contain secret and invisible
writing. They were all sheets of notepaper,
of the same size, folded in the same way—
namely, doubled as if for a square envelope.
On holding one to the light, he read the
water mark:
HIEROGLYPHICA.
A Vegetable Vellum.
M. S. & Co.
They all had the same water-mark. He
showed the thing to the Hindoo, who did
not understand what it meant.
Then Iris came down again. Her grand
father was sleeping. Like a child, he fell
asleep the moment his head fell upon the
pillow.
“Iris," he said, “this is no delusion of your
grand father’s. The parcel has been robbed."
“How do you know, Arnold?”
“The stupid fellow who stole and opened
the packet no doubt thought he was won
derfully clever to fill it up again with paper.
But he forgot that the'packet has been lying
for eighteen years in the safe, and that this
notepaper was made the day before yester
day.”
“How do you know that?’
“You can tell by the look and feel of the
paper; they did not make paper like this
twenty years ago; besides, look at the water
mark;” he held it to the light, and Iris read
the mystic words. “That is the fashion of
to-day. One house issues a new kind of
paper, with a fancy name, and another
imitates them. To-morrow I will ascertain
exactly when this paper w'as made. ”
“But who would steal it, Arnold! Who
could steal it?”
“It would not probably be of the least use
to anyone. But it might be stolen in order
to sell it back. We may see an advertise
ment carefully worded, guarded, or per
haps Iris, who had access to the place
when your grandfather was out?”
"No one but James, the shopman. He has
been here five-and-twenty years. He would
not, surely, rob his old master. No one else
comes here except the customers and Cousin
Joe.”
“Joe is not, I believe, quite ”
“Joe is a very bad man. He has done
dreadful things. But then, even if Joo were
bad enough to rob the safe, how could he
get at it ? My grandfather never leaves it
unlocked. Oh, Arnold, Arnold, that all
this should fall upon us on the very day ”
"My dear, is it not better that it should
fall upon you when I am here, one more
added to your advisers ? If you have lost a
fortune I have found one. Think that you
have given it to me.”
“Oh, the fortune may go,” she said. “The
future is ours, and we are young. But who
shall console my grandfather in his old age
for his bankruptcy ?’
“As the stream,” said Lala Roy, "which
passeth from the mountains to the ocean,
kisseth every meadow on its way, yet tarries
not in any place, so Fortune visits the sons
of men; she is unstable as the wind; who
shall hold her? Let not adversity tear off the
wings of hope.”
They could do nothing more. Arnold re
placed the paper in the packet and gave it
to Iris; they put back the and ac-
count books in the safe and locked it up, and
then they went upstairs. ’
“You shall go to bed, Iris,” said Arnold,
“and you, too, Lala Roy. I shall stay here
in case Mr. Emblem should—should want
anything."
He was, in reality, afraid that “something
would happen” to the old man. His sudden
loss of memory, his loss of self-control when
he spoke of his bankruptcy, the confusion of
his words, told clearly of a mind unhinged.
He could not go away and leave Iris with no
better protection than one other weak old
man.
He remained, but Iris sat with him, and
in the silent watches of the night they talked
about the future.
Under every roof are those who talk about
the future, and those who think about the
past; so the shadow of death is always with
us and the sunshine of life. Not without
reason in the Roman Catholic altar incom
plete without a bone of some dead man. As
for the thing which had been stolen, that
affected them but little. What does it
matter—the loss of what was promised but
five minutes since?
It was one o’clock iij the morning when
Lala Roy left them. They sat at the win
dow, hand-in-hand, and talked. The street
below them was very quiet; now and then
a late cab broke the silence, or the tramp of
a policeman, but there were no other sounds.
They sat in darkness because they wanted no
light. The hours sped too swiftly for them.
At five the day began to dawn.
“Iris,” said Arnold, "leave me now, and
try to sleep a little. Shall we ever forget
this night of sweet and tender talk!"
When she was gone he began to be aware
of footsteps overhead in the old man’s room.
What was he going to do? Arnorld waited
at the door. Presently the door opened,
and he heard careful steps upon the stairs.
They were the steps of Mr. Emblem himself.
He was fully dressed, with his usual care
and neatness, his black silk stock buckled
behind, and his white hair brushed.
5“Ah, Mr. Arbuthnot,” he said, cheer
fully, “you are early this morning!" as if
it was quite a usual thing for his friends to
look in at six in the morning.
“You are going down to the shop, Mr.
Emblem!”
“Yes, certainly—to the shop. Pray ccrno
with me.”
Arnold followed him.
“I have just remembered,” said the old
man, “that last night we did not look on
the floor. I will have one more search for
the letter, and then, if I cannot find it, I
will write it all out—every word. There is
not much, to be sure, but the story is told
without the names.”
“Tell me the story, Mr. Emblem, while
you remember it.”
“All in good time, young man. Youth is
impatient.”
He drew up ths blind and let in the
morning light; then ha began his search
for the letter on the floor, going on his
hands and knees, and peering under the
table and chairs with a candle. At length
he desisted.
“I tied it up," he said, “with the parcel
with red tape. Very well—we must do with
out it. Now, Mr. Arbuthnot, my plan is
this. First, I will dictate the letter. This
will give you the outlines of the story. Next,
I will send you to—to my old customer, who
can tell you my son-in-law’s real name.
And then I will describe his coat of arms.
My memory was never so clear and good as
I feel it to-day. Strange that last night I
seemed, for the moment, to forget every
thing! Ha, ha! Ridiculous, wasn’t it! 1
suppose But there is no accounting for
these queer things. Perhaps I was disap
pointed to find nothing in the packet. Do
you think, Mr. Arbuthnot, that I " Here
he began to tremble. “Do you think that
I dreamed it all? Old men think strange
things. Perhaps——”
“Let us try to remember Jthe letter, Mr.
Emblem."
“Yes, yes—certainly—the letter. Why it
went —ahem!—as follows ”
Arnold laid down the pen in despair. The
poor old man was mad. He had poured out
the wildest farrago without sense, coherence,
or story.
“So much for the letter, Mr. Arbuthnot”
He was mad without doubt, yet he knew
Arnold, and knew, too, why he was in the
house. “Ah, I knew it would come back to
me. Strange if it did not. Why, I read
that letter once every quarter or so for
eighteen years. It is a part of myself. I
could not forget it."
“And the name of your son-in-law’s old
friend!”
“Oh, yes, the name!”
He gave some name, which might have
been the lost name, but as Mr. Emblem
changed It the next moment, and forgot it
the moment after, it was doubtful; certain
ly not much to build upon.
“And the coat of arms!”
“We are getting on famously, are we not!
The coat, sir, was as follows."
He proceed to describe an Impossible coat
—a coat which might have been drawn by a
man absolutely ignorant of science.
All this took a couple of hours. It was
now eight o’clock.
“Thank you, Mr. Emblem,” said Arnold.
“I have no doubt now that we shall some
how bring Iris to her own again, in spite of
your loss. Shall ve go upstair • and have
some breakfast;”
“It is all right, Iris,” cried the old man,
gleefully. “It is all right I have re
membered everything, and Mr. Arbuthnot
will go out presently and secure your in
heritance.”
Iris looked at Arnold.
“Yes, dear,” she said. “You shall have
your breakfast. And then you shall tell me
all about it when Arnold goes; and you will
take a holiday, won’t you—because I am
twenty-one to-day!”
“Aha!” He was quite cheerful and mirth
ful, because he had recovered his memory.
“Aha, my dear, all is well! You are twenty
one, and I am seventy-five; and Mr. Arbuth
not will go and bring home the—the inher
itance. And I shall sit here all day long. It
was a good dream that came to me this
morning, was it not! Quito a voice from
Heaven, which said: 1161 up and write
down the letter while you remember it.’ I
got up; I found by the—by the merest ac
cident, Mr. Arbuthnot on the stairs, and
we have arranged everything for you—
everything. ”
[TO BE CONTINUED.?
Clean teeth, healthy gums, a pure breath,by
using Holmes’ Wash aud Dentifrice.
PILES 1 PILES II PILES 11!
!SBure cure for blind, bleeding and itching
piles. One box has cured the worst cases of
twenty years’ standing. No need to suffer
five minutes after using Williams’ Indian
Pile Ointment. It absorbs tumors, allays
Itchings, acts as poultice, gives instant relief.
Prepared only for piles, itching of the pri
vate parts, nothing else. Hon. J. M. Coflen
oury, of Cleveland, says: “I have used scores
of pile cures, and it affords me pleasure to
say that 1 have never found anything which
gives such Immediate and permanent relief
is Dr. Williams' Indian Pile Ointment.” Sold
oy druggists and mailed on receipt of price,
11. Sola wholesale aud retail by O. Butler,
Savannah, Lippman Bros., wholesale and re
iftll druggists.
DRUGS AND MEDICINES.
Shuptrine’s
New Pharmacy,
Bolton and Montgomery streets,
L’URE DRUGS
Dispensed by Careful and Expe
rienced Druggists.
DARK AHOY:
Not that barque which spreads Its saft
the favoring gale and with every catt .
drawing taut, sails the sea, a thing of life Ahd
beauty, but that bark which comes from a
cold and hastens the traveler to that port
from whence there is no return. For thia
bark use
“COUGH AND LUNG BALSAM.”
It is the best medicine ever presented for
coughs, colds and hoarseness, and for four
seasons has given entire satisfaction. Price
25 cents. Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
J. C. c.
Japanese hug Creao
CLEANS CLOTHES,
Removes all Grease, Paints, Oils, Varnish
Tar, Dirt or Soils from any fabric
without injury.
FOB SALE BY
J. R. Haltiwang-er,
Cor Broughton and Drayton streets.
Also sold by L. C. Strong and E. A. Knapp
To Clean Your Last Winter’s Suit or
Anything Else Use
“Household Cleaning Fluid.”
It removes grease spots, stains, dirt, etc.,
from woolen, cotton, silk and laces, without
Injuring the most delicate fabric.
Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
and giucry
REMOVED?
I have removed my entire livery establish
ment from York street to the
Pulaski House Stables
where I may hereafter be found. All orders
for carriages and buggies promptly attended
to Flue Saddle Horses for hire,
E. C. GLEASON,
Proprietor Pulaski House Stables.
Savannah Club, Livery & Soard Stables
Corner Drayton, McDonough and Hull Sts.
A. W. HARMON, Prop’r.
Headquarters for fine Turn-Outs. Personal
attention given to Boarding Horses. Tele
phone No, 205,
LUMBER AND TIMBER.
BACON, JOHNSON & CO.
PLANING MILL,
LUMBER
AND
WOOL) YARD.
large;stock of
DRESSED AND ROUGH LUMBER
AT LOW PRICES!
«S*Good Lot of Wood Just Received. "Ct
J. J. McDonough. T. B. Thompson.
Ed. Bubdett.
McDonough & co.,
Office : 1164 Bryan street.
Yellow Pine Lumber.
Lumber Yard and Planing Mill: Opposite
8., F. & W. Railway Depot,
Savannah, Ga.
Saw Mills: Surrency. Ga., No. 6, Macon and
Brunswick Bailroad.
D. C. Bacon, Wm. B. Stillwell.
H. P. Smakt.
D. c. RACON & co
PITCH PINE
-AND—
Cypress Lumber & Timber
BY THE CAEGO.
Savannah and Brunswick, Ga.j
P. O. SAVANNAH, GA.
PANSY PLANTS.
50 CENTS PER DOZEN.
VIOLET PLANTS, 25c. per dozen.
CHRYSANTHEMUM PLANTS, 81 per dozen.
VERBENA PLANTS, 75c. per dozen.
LILY’, STAR OF BETHLEHEM, 25c. per doz.
LILY, EASTER PLANTS. 81 per dozen.
CUT AND DESIGNS.
At Wagner’s Nursery,
.Thunderbolt Road, or
<35- A R D NE R ’ S ,
30% Bull Street.
This Idea of Going West
to Colorado or New Mexico for pure air to re
lieve Consumption, is all a mistake. Any
reasonable man would use Dr. Bosanko’s
Cough and Lung Syrup for Consumption In
all its first stages. It never fails to give re
lief in all cases of Coughs, Colds, Bronchitis,
Pains n the Chest ana all affections that are
considered primary to Consumption. Price,
5n cents and 81. Sold by Oceola Butler aud
E. J. Kieffer.
Overcoats, nobby and resonable In price, for
children from 2k up, can be found in large
variety at B. H. Levy & Bro.'s.
7