Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 12, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 March 1896 — TUMBLE-DOWN FARM ALAN-MUIR [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TUMBLE-DOWN FARM ALAN-MUIR

CHAPTER VII. ■Willie's behaTior after this last interview puzafled me. From being communicative he suddenly grew reserved. He would tell me nothing; and when I asked liim a few questions about Miss anity. lie fenced and parried in a way that was surprising, considering his frank, easy •character. One hot afternoon I strolled np the old road, and. rambling into one of the fields adjacent to Tumbledown Farm. I eat down under a hedge. How easily one drops asleep in warm weather, and how narrow the space seems that divides sleep-, lag from waking! I must have slept an txrar. when I found myself listening to a conversation which was being held on the other side of the hedge. "How long must this waiting go on?" A man's voice, harsh and bitter, echoed Ike question. Then —"As long as I choose; as long as need be." Just like an old door grinding rusty hinges. “Anyway, waiting on here, is dreary." I heard a woman say. sighing as she spoke -—“dreary as death." “Dreary as death!" the other retorted, in a note of odious mimicry. “Well, dreary or cheery, here we stay until " “Until when?" she asked eagerly. “Until we are signaled that the line is dear." “I wish it had never been done!" the ] woman said. “Or that it oonid be undone. Can it be undone?” “What?” cried the other; the word j leaped ont like a sudden snarl from the ! month of a dog. “I mean—l mean- —” “I mean,” broke in the man's voice, "that this kind of talk won't da D'ye j tear? Remember, once in your life you vexed me before. You know what followed; or perhaps you forget?” “As you please, then,” the woman replied. “Remember, I say we ought to 1 leave England.” “We can't leave England.” “We might if we tried. I know what i will happen if we stay on here. Some day—by accident—somebody will catch eight of ”

“Catch sight of what?” the other demanded impatiently. “Of Joseph Bamitt.” This she accompanied with a sort of deadly laugh, half-hate, half-terror. “Joseph Barnitt is not careful,” she continued, in a timid, hesitating way. He drinks too freely ” Here she was interrupted by an imprecation, but whether it was meant for her•elf, or for Joseph Barnitt, I could not tell. “He does, father; he drinks madly. Some day he will be found out. And if !>eople begin to ask questions about Joseph Barnitt, how long will it be before they ask questions about Mr. Hardware? Sometimes after supper Joseph Barnitt •ings very loud; and he swears, if he is out of temper; and he forgets what at other times he knows is matter of life and death. And—now, father, don’t be angry!” “Tell you what,” he growled, “I have *ny suspicions about you. I don’t care for this kind of talk about Joseph Barnitt and Mr. Hardware”—with a furious emphasis on “Mr.” “Why can’t you speak plainly? Oh, turning pale, are we? Are you hiding anything from me? Let’s look at your face.” I suppose during the silence he searched her with his eyes. He soon spoke again, and in a less uneasy tone. ”No; t you wouldn’t dare. You know Joseph Barnitt too well. You know what the cold muzzle of a revolver feels like put against the temple. You know what the sharp point of a knife feels like held against the breast.” She said nothing. “Joseph Barnitt”—that horrid laugh

•gain!—“has schooled yon well. No; we need not be afraid. You are too careful of your delicate skin. But let me tell you, my moping lady, when Joseph Barnitt cannot look after you, old Mr. Hardware can. There is life in the old dog yet. No more of it!” he cried fiercely "What I have said, I have said. Let us go home.” The voices ceased. When I peeped through the hedge I saw old Hardware hobbling across the field with his daughter at his side. "Who this Joseph Barnitt can be is a puzzle,” thought I. “Not her husband, I should say—certainly naf her husband. He and the old man are in a hand; when one does not look after her, the other will! “And so, ma’am"—l was thinking of Miss Axford now—“you were wrong after •1L The gin was not for the old man. ■But what a puzzle the thiig; is! One thing is dear,” said I, “Willie must know all this. The woman is no fit wife for him. Accordingly when we met I told Willie. My story made ‘an impression on him, as his blanched cheeks plainly showed. Depend upon it,” said I, summing uay •tory up, “this is a black secret —a black aecret, Will.” “The Hardwares have something to conceal,” he replied pettishly. “Some “family disgrace, debt, a drunken son.” The talk of these two did not square with debt,” said I. “Nor with drunken «ons, either. However, the worst I wish Will, that I may be wrong—and you right" "Thank you, doctor,” cried Will, kind and frank as ever. “1 shall remember all yon have said, and be prudent. Only do sne this kindness; never breathe a syllable about Miss Hardware and her father, and this odd conversation. If you promise to keep all this secret, I shall promise to take no decisive steps without conaulting you.” “Bargain’s struck, then.” And we shook hands and parted. CHAPTER VIII. A morning or two later a letter came to Willie Snow. The hand was strange, and Willie’s mind was full of his sweetdiearfc 4 * With trembling fingers he drew forth a little pink sheet, then read the abort, sweet note; "If you like to meet me this evening, one iMur earlier than usual, you may. Of «ourse this is private. Don’t come unless yon really wish.—Yours, S. H.” Poor Willie had no head for business that day. His brain was swarming with a multitude of delightful ideas. Fuji of lmpes and dreams, he walked up to their meeting place. Vanity stood waiting at the gate as ••■at, and he remarked that she was dMftimi with particular care. They shook atnoMly. WUlia, ia dread of the I ‘gw’*- - : Maw®!®® ’ '■ '

I opening of the conversation, put a ques--1 tion with an air of gayety. “Why does Miss Vanity Hardware sign ! her notes S. H. ?” “Because Miss Vanity is not Miss Vani ity; Miss Vanity is Miss Susan.” This ! odd answer she made pretty and witty. “Then,” said Willie, “why did she ever ■ get such a name?” “Well', you see,” replied Susan Harts- ! ware, “she was so good, sir, and so demure. and so unconscious of her own merits, and blushed so. sir. when spoken to. that at first they called her Miss Modesty.” “Ah.” said Willie, “that was a pretty name!” “Quite so. sir. But, as time went on. the young thing liked pretty gowns and Paris gloves and ribbons, and she looked people straight in the face; then they called her Vanity.” She smiled, then put the matter aside, and spoke seriously. “I sent for you because I have a great deal to say. I have been thinking over our last conversation. Do you really love me?” "I do." Willie replied, speaking with a seriousness like her own. “Do you really believe that you love me enough to marry me. and iive with me all your life long?" “I do.” Willie said, as a man says "I will” in the marriage service. “And you consider me the woman that would make you happiest?" "Happier!” Willie answered, with a deep expressive sigh—“happier than tongue can tell.” “Take me, Willie,” she said. “I am yours; yours this hour and ever more.” “O, \ anity!” he cried, in an almost girlish ecstasy, “how happy you have made me!” He tried to take her hand, but — “Don't,” she said, putting him back. “We are not making love. We are talking about something that will affect otir whole lives. I will change the whole course of mine for you. Can you do so much for me? Can you give up your country, and all your prospects in England, all for me?” “If necessary, I can; but will that be npeded?” The lad spoke with his own frank-spirited air. “Judge for yourself. If we marry, we must leave England. You must begin life in America or one of the colonies. You will have to break with all your friends, and come away—with me only.” “I can give up home and country and prospects for you,” he said, “but may I not know why?” “Not now. Not until all hag been done." she replied. “Remember, Willie, you ask me to marry you. 1 tell you what our marriage will involve. If you ask me to explain myself, I cannot explain. But see, you can go your way, and I shall go mine.” He said nothing. “More than this,” she said, regarding him with a resolute and searching look, “you must keep the face of our engagement a profound secret. No one must know why you are leaving England. We must be married privately, and we must leave England that day.” “But, A anity ”he said, “your father —are you going to leave him?” .“I am.” , “Secretly?” “Yes.”

“Have you no scruples in leaving him in this way?” Willie ventured to ask. “None.” Willie stood and pondered. “I have just one word more,” continued Vanity. “There must be no delay. If we marry, it must not be later than a month from this day.” She had said her say. He still remained silent, trying to review the strange and disordered succession of thoughts that passed through his mind. Vanity’s face was a little turned aside. She thought he had given her up, and he saw a quiet tear fall from her cheek into the grass. Her whole look and attitude were sad, and her sadness conquered him. “Vanity, living or dying, I am yours forever and ever!” he cried. “And until we meet, you will think no evil of me?” “None,” he cried fervently. Then for an instant the vision changed. The menacing, resolute woman, imperious in her beauty, vanished; love trembled on Vanity’s parted lips, and she assumed an air of most languishing softness. A dying look—a playful look—a coquettish 100k —which was it she gave? He could not tell, so quickly had she flown away.

CHAPTER IX. After his last parting with Vanity, Willie Snow spent a sleepless night, it was no easy matter to comply with Vanity’s demands, and, at the same time, maintain in the eyes of the world the appearance of a rational being. There lived at this time in Hampton a man named Clock. You call that an odd name, perhaps; but behold, his other name was Gracious, the whole amounting, as I am a baptized Christian, to Gracious Clock. His father, who was a brewer’s drayman, loved liquor better than his life, drank strong ale morning, noon and night, took to French brandy and drank himself to death in no time. He used to call his son “my Gracious,” and at other times “Gracious me.” The last name stuck. Gracious Me was a little man, with one even and one limping leg. His daily dress was a show for shabbiness, his red eyes and red nose made him the picture of a dingy drunkard. He was a man-of-all-work in a furniture shop. I never found out why Nancy Steele suspected, at this particular time, that something very important was going forward between Willie Snow and Miss Hardware. Knowing that mystery hung around the Hardwares, she resolved to set a watch upon the house. But who was to keep the watch? “Gracious Me,” said Nancy to herself the instant that question presented itself. A rat is happier in a sewer than he would be in any clear daisy-bordered brook; and Gracious Me, who would have felt excessively uncomfortable if Nancy had sent him on any mission of charity or mercy, relished this undertaking beyond measure. All Gracious Mp saw and heard, and his adventures at Tumbledown Farm came to my ears after a time. His instructions were to keep himself out of sight of the Hardwares, and for several days he skulked behind hedges or lounged in the fields in the neighborhood of the farm. About 10 o’clock one night he crept slowly into the farm garden, with a lie in his

month, ready Tn case he should he surprised. The parlor window was close beside the front door, ami as Gracious stood on the step, he heard a great voice inside roaring a aomg drnnkcnly. At last, pulling his hat over eyes, he knocked at the door. A woman's voice cried “Hush,” and all was silent. Next he heard a bustling in the passage, the light withiu was extinguished and the door was opened. “Who are you?" inquired a woman's voice. Even in the darkness Gracious recognized Miss Hardware. “Is this the road to Hampton?” asked G racion*. "Don s the hill—straight as you can go.” replied Vanity, speaking impatiently, but more from fear than haste, and Gracious returned to the village pleased that he had anything to tell. Nancy listened to his report with great interest, and praised his sagacity and diligence. Next night found Gracious Me prowling about the farm once more. It was cloudy and dark, and heavy rain began to fall; so that after shivering up and down the road for half an hour rhe little man resolved to break off his watch for that time. Just as he turned for home, a beam of light fell across his path; he looked up and saw that it shone through the Hardwares' parlor window. Stealthily he crept into the garden and up the walk, and falling on his hancs and knees the reptile crawled forward and slowly raised his head to bring his eyes up to the line of view. One flap of the shntter had fallen open, and the greater part of the room lay exposed to view. No person was to be seen, and the old man's long blue cloak hung against the door. Two lighted candles stood on the table, and beside these a huge gin bottle, with a tumbler half filled close to it. While Gracious was making these observations he heard a shout, and immediately the parlor door was flung open and a man staggered in. He wassail and ot powerful build, decidedly handsome, with an appearance of intelligence and even of good breeding. He reeled into a chair, and snatching up the tumbler drank its contents greedily and filled the glass again. Then he threw himself back and sung something in a foreign language— French, Gracious thought it must be—and at last called out in a loud angry voice: "Vanity!" ‘‘Yes," was replied from another room, and Vanity entered. “Where have you been this half hour?” asked the stranger ferociously. "Sitting in my room.” Vanity replied, “listening to the rain.” “O—for company?" cried the other with thick pausing speech. “That’s—that's flattering to me. Anything but my company—anything but my company now. Hail, rain, snow, thunder or lightning—anything but me! What's made the change, I say? What's made the change?" Vanity stepped to his side as he spoke, cast her arm round his neck, and then seated herself on his knee. “Don't be cross,” she said. “Put that bottle away for to-night, and go to bed. What was the song I heard you sing just now ?” “It was—it was—your song—and mine. Suppose we call it our song, and sing it together as we used to do.” He commenced again in a loud voice and shouted out a few words. “Hush, hush,” Vanity said, raising her head tearfully, “you will be heard outside if you sing like that; softly—softly—listen.”

,Thec in a low, clear roice she began to •dug herself. Gracious could not understand a word, for the language was strange. But the air caught his untutored ear, and he mentally contrasted the low, rich, ringing notes and the graceful music with those pot-house strains which formed his experience of vocal harmony. Gracious could hardly believe his eyes that this gay young ■woman, seated caressingly on the Granger’s knee, with one foot daintily beating time to the tune, was the same who entered the room so pensively a moment ago. And when the endcof the song came she gave her companion a light kiss. The stranger appeared somewhat mollified. “That’s better,” he said, patting her on the back. “More like that and we shall be good friehds again. But your moping and musing, and sitting alone won’t do; it’s as bad as praying.” He laughed uproariously during this speech, but his voice thickened at the latter words with drunken indistinctness, and he thrust out his hand aimlessly at the gin bottle. Just then Vanity noticed that the shutter was lying open. She started to her feet. “Who opened the window?” she cried. “I did—l,” he answered tipsily. “I was like you, listening to the rain.” Meanwhile Vanity, who had half sprung across the room to the window, caught sight of the retreating face of Gracious Me. “There is a man looking,” she shrieked out. “A man watching us! Be quick! We are lost.” The shutters fell wide open and she raised her hand, and Gracious, even in the terror of his flight, saw the tall man start from his chair and snatch up the gin bottle. Gracious, making madly for the garden gate in the thick darkness, went head foremost into a gooseberry bush, and had not recovered his legs before he saw the gigantic figure of the drunken man wildly gesticulating around him. Little Gracious leaped up, and.ran from one bush to another in the extremity of fear, the tall man flying after him. The chase was short, the bottle fell on his head with a crash, and he dropped on the ground insensible. When the spy recovered his senses he found himself stretched on a sofa in a room which he soon recognized as the parlor into which he had peeped. Beside him sat Vanity, but the fatal stranger was gone. Gracious started and groaned. “How are you now?” asked Vanity in a low voice. “Better, miss, thank you,” he replied, as submissively as if he had been in hospital. “You had better have a cup of tea before you leave,” said Vanity. “Then you hhall see how you are, and I dare say you can walk home. Do you live far from here?”

“Not very, miss; a good bit, though,” replied Gracious. He had wit enough to admit as little as possible. Vanity brought him a cup of strong tea, and a plate of bread and butter, which he devoured with great rapidity, and, after a second cup, he declared he felt well enough to walk home. “What brought you here?” asked Vanity. Gracious saw that she trembled. “The singing, miss,” he replied. “I heard it from the road, and came into the garden to listen. Is a man to be chivied up and down for that, and have his brains knocked out of him with a bottle?” “Listen, my good fellow,” said Vanity, laying her hand on his arm, and seeming more at ease. “That gentlem'an you saw was a friend of my father, who had been spending the evening with us. He is very excitable at all times; and to-night, being tired I suppose, he drank a little freely, and did not quite know what he Was about. He mistook you for a burglar. He felt very sorry when he saw how much you were hurt. He had to hurry away to catch the midnight train, but he left these for you.” She held out in her hand three sovereigns. “One thing you have to promise,” Vanity said. “You must not say a word about what happened here to any one. Do you promise me that? and will you be careful to keep your word ? If you do, the money is yours.” The wretch steadied his villainous faculties for one lie more. “I shall never speak of it while I live—never,” he replied. Vanity gave him the money. He left the house, and she closed the door upon him. The next morning, when the woman with whom he lodged was bathing his head, she remarked with great surprise that it had been bound up with a lady’s pocket handkerchief of fine quality. When she was gone away, Gracious looked at the handkerchief, and, noticing that in pse corner there was marked “S. Barnitt,” he put it carefully aside, as something that might turn out valuable. CHAPTER X. The next afternoon Nancy Steele stepped into my shop. “I have something very particular to tell you, doctor,” she said. “There is no use in keeping up any affectation, for real difficulties have to be met. I shall speak to you quite freely, even if you should think me wanting in modesty.” “No fear of that, Miss Nancy,” I said, wishing to help her out. “You are Willie Snow’s most intimate friend, I think?” inquired she, looking me straight in the face. “Did it ever •trike you that he had—a liking ter me?" “Ever strike me?” cried L *T know •11 about it.” “He never told me,” rejoined Nancy. “I guessed it, though.” And she hung her head a little lower* and blushed quietly out of Bight. “Miss Nancy,” cried i, “this world would go on better than It does if women would only speak thej $ minds, and not say no when they mean yes. A girl ought to be proud at winning such a young man’s heart.” “I have not won it,” she said, shaking her head. “He has fallen in love with a young woman wh® lives in that horrid old farm up the hill.*’ “Has he indeed?” said I, feeling in honor bound to know nothing. “Yes,” she proceeded deliberately; “and be Is going to marry her.” “Whewl” I exclaimed, raising'my eyebrows. “How do you know that?” “I guess it,” she replied, “and I am in a most difficult position. I have found out something abouf Miss Hardware—if that is the odious woman’s name—which Willie ought to know. And yet, if I tell him, he will think me jealous. Pei*-

haps I am jealous,” she whimpered; and when I encouraged her to speak on, she told me the whole story about Gracious Me. Then we talked things over for an hour or more, and I resolved to lay the discovery before Will in a complete and convincing form. “I doubt if Hardware is her real name,” she remarked. “I forgot to mention that the wound on Clock's head was bound up with a lady’s pocket handkerchief with a name in the corner —S. Barnitt.” “Barnitt?” I cried, recollecting all of a sudden that this name had occurred in the conversation which I had overheard between Vanity and her father. “Her handkerchief—with the name Barnitt upon it —O, there is some deep, deep villainy here!” I wrote a line to Will, asking him to come over and see me in the evening, and I also made another arrangement, which will discover itself as I proceed. Then I carefully thought the whole matter over, and felt myself ready. When Will appeared we stepped into my little parlor, where I asked him to sit down. “For, mark what I say, Will,” cried I. “Before you rise from that chair you will hear something to make your ears tingle; something to surprise you, Will —to alarm you; something to make you thankful that other people are wide awake, while you are dreaming in Delilah’s lap—Delilah's lap, Will. What do you say to that?” He showed less astonishment than 1 expected, but he read my meaning. Hereupon I related the whole story of Gracious Me’s adventures, withholding the facts which connected Nancy with the affair. He listened attentively, his countenance fell visibly; and when I described Vanity perched on the stranger’s knee, singing the French song, and kissing him, Will winced like a man cut with a knife, “Where is this man—this Clock? A drunken scoundrel, I daresay!” he cried. “Can I speak to him myself?” “That you can,” I replied; “here and now.”

Gracious Me was sitting in my kitchen at this time by arrangement, and when I called at the top of the stairs he came shuffling up. I must say, when he entered the parlor, I felt ashamed of him; he looked the very image of low villainy. And then Gracious Me told the whole story, as only such a human toa'd as he could tell it; and poor 'Willie! his face was painful to me. We dismissed Gracious Me. It was wonderful what a change this short interview had worked in Willie. He looked so downcast that I heartily wished we could both part without another word. “Doctor,” he said, rising from his seat, “doctor—l—l loved her! Oh, how I loved her!” “Not her, dear boy,” cried I. “Something you thought she was; her you could not love. Willie, this girl is either married or not married. In either case she is wicked.” “You cannot be sure of that,” burst out Willie. “She told me there was a dark mystery in her life. This man may be a brother, or a relative.” “He is her husband, Will; she is'gqing to run away from him with you. Let us see,” said I, crossing over to a little chest of drawers. “One link in the chain is missing. What is this young woman’s real Christian name? Not Vanity, I suppose?” “No; Susan.” “Then,” said I, opening the drawer, “the link we wanted is found. Here is the pocket handkerchief with which she bound up Clock’s head, and her name is in the corner.” Holding the handkerchief in his trembling fingers, Willie searched out the particular comer and read her name. “Will,” I said, “when I overheard that long talk between her and her father she spoke of two persons—Charles Hardware and Joseph Barnitt. Of both these men,” I continued, “she spoke in almost equal terms of intimacy. Both were said to watch her. She feared both.” Willie sank into a chair quite overcome. “I could have sworn—l could hare sworn —she was true,” said he, in a low, intense tone. “That she was in trouble I knew, but not this —nothing like this.” “xou believe with me she is a married woman?” “I do.” “And from this night you have done with her?” “From this night I have done with her.” I said no more. The lad’s honorable spirit I well knew, and was sure he would never do wrong willfully, and with his eyes open. I don’t deny that I felt some pity even for the young woman, wicked as I knew her to be. I fancied her tears and despair when she found herself discovered. But I had done my duty. I felt that then; and I feel it now, although, to be sure, we were wrong in thinking her a married woman. CHAPTER XI. By this time Willie Snow was fully persuaded that his late sweetheart had been laying a snare for him, and meanwhile Nancy’s turn came sooner than she could have expected. He called upon her at her own home one evening, and was pleased to find she was alone. Yet Willie felt chilled when he entered the parlor, and even Nancy looked confused. He threw an eye round the room, with its signs of order and comfort on every side. Did any thought of Vanity cross his mind, looping the wild roses around her lovely head, and laughing out of her reckless beautiful eyes? Perhaps so, but the contrast only confirmed his present resolution, for it is a weak, changing world; what we glory in one day we despise the next —the only thing we are constant to, you observe, being our own dear selves. “Nancy,” said Willie, in a grave voice, so that the word sounded like a minutegun. “I am listening,” replied Nancy calmly; but her heart began to beat. “Would you—would you marry me if I asked you?” “You had better ask me and see,” replied Nancy, laughing with a sprightly air. “Will you marry me, then?” he asked, obedient to her direction. “x will,” replied Nancy; “I like you.” Somehow Willie felt a little dashed by her cool ways, and hardly thought her an object for caresses, though she was a fine young woman, you observe. So he pursued the business vein. “There is a matter I have to mention to you,” said Willie, after a pause during which both looked awkward. “A young lady lives up the hill at the old farm wh<e-» —"

“Do yon mean « person who goes by the as me of Hardware?*’ asked Nancy, in a cold, stem voice. “Yes,” replied Willie. “She and I ” “I never wish to hear that woman’s name mentioned,” Nancy said, in the same freezing way. "Say nothing to me about her.” Willie was speechless, and before he could collect himself Nancy rose and left the room. In a moment or two the door opened and Nancy re-entered, leading her aunt by the hand. This old lady advanced to Willie with a gratified air. “I have heard all about it,” she said, “and lam very much pleased. My niece will make a good wife, she is an excellent girl.” “I hope I was not too hasty,” said Nancy, interposing with no bad grace. "I could not help running to tell aunt. I like to tell her everything, especially when I am happy.” She let this last word slip bashfully, and by that stroke somewhat revived Willie's spirits. These had in truth begun to sink; for a sudden suspicion had darted across his mind that Nancy, the better to fix him to his proposal, had drawn her aunt in as a witness. Nancy showed him out. The front hall was narrow and screened from observation by a cross door, but the seclusion of the place did not suggest anything particular to Willie. Nancy slowly opened the street door. “Good-by. Willie,” she said, rather disappointed, I suppose. “Good-by, Nancy,” he replied, in no brighter voice. An hour later Willie called on me. “1 have followed your advice, doctor,” ht said. “I have asked Nancy to marry me.” “Well,” said I, “I think I should have told the other first. It does not matter much, I suppose. Still, you can only mar ry one woman. Will—at a time, I mean Seems to me you are engaged to two.” "I wish I was engaged to neither,” said Willie, in very bad humor; “nothing 1 do is right.” “You will write to Miss Hardware, I daresay,” I remarked. "No; I must see her,” said Willie nervously; “we arranged a signal which w t could use in case we wanted to meet at any time.” As I looked at him the thought struck ■me that if before they met some stray hint of the matter were to reach Vanity’s ears, he would not be altogether displeased! (To ba continued.)