Indiana State Sentinel, Volume 34, Number 50, Indianapolis, Marion County, 16 January 1889 — Page 1

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VOL. XXXIV NO. 50. INDIANAPOLIS, WEDNESDAY. JANUARY 16, 1889. ONE DOLLAR PER YEAR.

GU ILDEROY

BY Author of "Under Two FlajrV "Two little Wooden Shoe," "Chandos," "Don GesuaMo," Ktc. No-. fiitt pub'.üheJ. A 1 right reered. CHAPTER XXXVII. Two days later", Lady Sunbury ai rived lit Ivdysrocy!, unannounced, bringing her j-oungst daughter t. it h. lu-r; a girl not ot ia the Torld. '.My .dear," sb a said affectionately, "I nw in the paper.- that my brother baa one out of.tniand; it is unpardonable of him to hare left jcvi alone at euch a lime, as youug as you are and the "world f-o unpleasant as it is. I have brought Constance to stay with you, and I will May mygclt as long as I can. I suppose Evelyn will not be many weeks away. "Where has he pone? Gladys answered htr with what composure and cporent carelessness she ould. The presence of her sister-in-law was very painful to her. She could not forget that what Hilda Suabury had told her in the elm-walk on the day of her father's death had brought about the scene, with tiui'deroy which had separated them more hopelessly than they had ever been separated before. Lady Sunbury was at this moment moved by the mot excellent motives, and actuated by a sense of Kdf-blame which was almost remorse. It would have been remorse in a character less certain of its own perfections than was hers. &he knew that she had pained and distressed John Vernon needlessly in the last hours rf hi3 life, and she heard often iu memory those farewell words of his, "Be kind to her." She was conscious that she had not been kind to her brother's wife. She knew that eh had worried, annoyed and wounded her many a time, and that . in what she had revealed to her concerning the Duchess Soria, she had been mainly instrumental in bringing about what her own penetration suspected to be the cause of Guilderoy '3 sudden departure from England. She was an admirably conscientious woman, though like so many conscientious persons she was wholly ignorant that she was often intensely disagreeable, and even at times very dangerous, from the unwise and irritating things which her conscienc impelled her to say and do. In coming to Ladyprood she was sincerely desirous to. put the acyi of her own presence there, and that of her younj daughter, between Gladys and tfie evil comments of the world. It had been inconvenient to her to leave her own great house of lllington at that m iment, and to sacrifice many important social engagements; but she had made the eacrilico with the moFt admirable intentions, and with that great regard for the reputation rf the head of her family which Guilderoy had so often and so hardly tried. But all the purity and integrity of her intentions cou.d not make her presence otherwise than an intense irritation and oppression to her brother's wife. All wounded animals long to be alone; and sohtude would have been the only possible balm to the wounds of Gladys, Hung to the quick as she was by pain, and missing, as she did every hour of her life, the sense of the near presence of her fath.-r's wise and gentle influence. The constant sound of Lady Sunbury's voice, reiterating as it did all maxims of worldly wisdom, and shrewd, cold, common sense, lecame to her a positive torture which intensified all other euüering in her. The presence even of the young urirl, who was impatient ot the dullness of Igt lysrood. and full of all those artificial and worldly longings which fill the breasts of debutantes, was an additional trial to her. Sorrow is bad enough at any time to bear; tmt its bitterness U tenfold when we cannot shut ourselves up with it in peace, but must at every moment listen to a never-ending Ptream of commonplace remarks, and atfect sympathy vith commonplace desires and regrets. The curiosity jfLady Sunbury, moreover, was keen; ind without descending absolutely to the loarseness of questioning, she endeavored, y every indirect means in her power, to iiscover what had passed between Guilderoy and his wife on tho subject of Beatrice Soria. But Gladys told her nothing; and the ong, ouiet days of the fading summer passea in infinite ennui to the guests, and .n intolerable weariness of soul to the mistress of Ladysrood. The only peaceful moments which 6he knew were when she sat alone by the crave of her father on the thyrne-grown cliiTs above the sea at Christ lea. She felt ,60 utterly alone. Whilst he had lived she had thought herself wretched indeed; but now it seemed to her that no hopeless sorrow could ever have touched her so Ions as his noble intelligence and wise affection bad been there to shield her from her own passions, and console her for their disappointment. She had not answered the letter which Gnilderoy had left for her on the evening cf his departure. At least she had sent no answer. She had written scores of sheets to him. but had burned them all, dissatisfied with their utter inadequacy to describe her own emotions. And titer all what was there to say? He had married her believing that he would care for her; and he had found himself anable to do bo; either from his fault or hers, or neither, or both. What matter which? What words could alter that? What reproach could change, or what entreaty could regain, his heart? In truth it bad never been hers. She suflercd all the tortures which wring the inmost eoul of a woman who loves what has been hers, and knows that all its charm, its sens'?, its time, its emotions, are given to others, and can never be recalled to her. Men can so e.mly console themselves for lost passions; even where their hearts ache, their physical pleasures can to easily be gratified by those who do not touch their hearts, that they cannot understand the wholly irreparable loss that '.he desertion of her lover is to a woman who can only receive happiness through ane alone. "Messalina can vary her caprices at will, but the woman who loves vith all her ser.es and her soul can never and any me.ras to fill up the blank made in her whole life by abandonment. To the mind of Lady Sunbury the lot of her sister-in-law still seemed perfectly enviable ; a great position,- unlimited command of money, and the power to do

whatever sho liked unmolested, constituted a fate which to Hilda Sunbury, as to the world, appeared one which it was

hypercriticism and ingratitude indeed not ) t'. be content. Well regulated minds, like Iidy Sunbury's, cannot conceive why any woman requires more than the tranquil monotony of a blameless life, large houses tu rule over, and purse always filled. To these excellent minds the senses are sins, the passions are follies, and the beoin d'aimer is wholly unmentionable. Such gross things are lelieved in and alluded to by poets, they know; but they think poets mad, and at all events poeU are no rule for women who respect themselves. This opinion, either insinuated or more fully expressed, was the burden of all Iad'y Sunbury's conversation during her stay at ladysrood, at all such times a. her daughter was not in her presence. She believed, and many virtuous women believe with her, that virtue is like a nail ; only hammer at it often enough and long enough and you must end in driving it info any substance whatever. She "knew the world too well not to know all the temptations and dangers which must surround in it such a woman as Gladys when left alone in the midst of its risks and its seductions; and on these she dwelt, and on the duties of all wjomen to resist them them she was so persistently eloquent, that she raised in the breast of her hearer a passion ite longing to Hing duty to the winds, and drove her more nearly from patience and' self-control than "any injury could have done; made her long as she hail never longed for that vengeance of which she had becun of late to dream. While every fiber of her heart was aching, and every "pulse of "ner existence seemed throbbing with pain, she had to endure as best 6he could the platitudes and etitf sonorous phrases with which her guest proclaimed the allsuilieing beauties of virtue and selfesteem. "If she would but leave me alone!" she thought; but this is just what women of Lady Sunbury's typo never do. The days and weeks passed and she heard nothing directly from Guilderoy, although he wrote to his steward. Ills sister came and went, but she left Lady Constance there always, and the discontent oi the girl, impatient of her exile from the guy gatherings of the autumn parties at lllington, mingled with her premature worldliness and undisguised selfishness, were, almost as trying to Gladys in one way as the companionship pf the mother in another. The routine of the tedous days became almost unendurable to her; the monotonous repetition of commonplace observations seemed to her like that torture in which a drop of water was let fall on a prisoner's head every second, until he went mad or died of it. Lady Sunbury was of too keen an observation not to be well aware of the torment her presence was, but in the cause of duty she never wavered, and she considered it her duty not to leave so young a woman a3 her brother's wife alone; and 6he sacrificed herself or her daughter to that conviction with that resolution which made her bo trying and eo unsympathetic to thoso whom she benelited. At such timers as Gladys could get away from her, she passed her hours at Christslea, or shut up in the library writincr, and then destroying, hundreds of letters to her husband. Perhaps if all of them could have been sent to him, and ho had had the patience to read them, he would have reached more comprehension of her character than he had ever attained. All her aching, wounded rebellious heart was uttered in them; knowingnoother confidant possible she made a confessor of the reams of paper which she spoiled. But she sent nothing of what she wrote. When read over to herself, they all seemed too tender or too violent, to assert too vehemently or to entreat too piteously. She had great prida in her, and she could not bring herself to send to him anything which looked like an appeal of the afl'ections. He did not care whether she loved him or not. Why should she tell him that she did ? At times she remembered that he had reproached her with never seeking to win las afl'ections. Was it true that shyness in the first months of her life with him, and pride and jealousy afterward, had frozen in her warmth which might have won his confidence? She remembered that her father even had charged her with seeming cold. She was very young still, and she was utterly solitary, and she passed many hours in misery recalling every incident oi the past four years, and torturing herself with those" vain and cruel wishes which cry out to the past to come back, that we may undo, and unsay, all that ha3 been done and been said in it. At last she wroto one which satisfied her in so far as it seemed to her to ex press her sense of indignity and wronjr without descending to appeal. It was worded thus: "After what passed between us on tho last day that you were here, it is impossible lor me to believe, or for you to pretend, that I am in any kind of way necessary to, or desired in, your life. You have told me, in the most undisguised terms, that you regret that I ever had any associatl n with your life whatever. You cannot regret it more than I do. A3 I ventured to remind you once before, the act was yours, nut mine. The ouly way iu which the mistake of it can be in any way rectified, is for me to leave you. The little fortune which was left to my father on the day of death is mine, and is more than enough for all my wants. I only await your permission, which I cannot believe will be refused, to leave Ladysrood, and seek some solitude where, under my maiden name, I may en J. avor to forget that I ever had tho misfortune to become your wife." She read this awin and again, scanning; it carefully and critically, to makesure that it contained no word which could flatter him, or imply in her any infirmity of purpose, or yearning of affection. Her future was wholly obscure to her; she did not dare to drag consideration of it into the clear light of reason and actuality. All she felt was a violent longing to cease to bo his wife in name, eince she had never been so in heart, and to eat his bread and rule hia house and spend his gold no more. Other women might bo content with that purely conventional position; she was not; he had made life intolerable to her; let the world know that he had done so. She was no mere meek, blind puppet, to gratify him by appearing at his side at court, arid bearing children to his name, whilst all the joys and interests and passions of his life were found elsewhere. No doubt be would prefer that she should b one of those patient, passionless, eightlees women who would go through all tho ceremonies of society beside him, and leave him free, without the world's censure, to find pleasure and sentiment in the arms of others. But she was none of thcxM and all that even her father had asked of her was to forbear from avengin? desertion by dishonor. She read tho letter again and again, and

could find no flaw in it. It asserted only what it was her pvrfect right to claim. He could not compel her to stay on in his houses only that by her presence there he, might have more facility for inviting under his roof all those on whom his caprice fastened for the hour. She signed it "Gladys Vernon," and sealed the envelope of it with her father's arms. Then a remembrance came to her of such humiliation that her white cheeks grew red with the shame of it, where 6he sat in solitude. She did not know where to address him ; sho would have to inquire of his land agent where he was. As she paused, looking at the undirected envelope, meditating whether, to avoid such confession of ignorance, she should address it to the English embassy in Paris, and let it take its chance, the groom of the chambers entered the library, "Lord Aubrey has arrived, my lady," said the man, "and asks if you will receive him."

CHAPTER XXXVIIL "My dear Gladys, 1 had no time to let you know," said Aubrey a moment after, "for I was uncertain myself until last night that I should be able "to accept the invitation of your county to their banquet. I have only two " hours to spend with vou; but that is letter than nothing. You fook ill, dear. But that is natural. So irreparable a calamity as yours cannot be !orne without tmuering, which is in itself an illness." She was glad to Fee hini ; the frank, warm sympathy of his words, the grasp of his hands, thesense of kindly and stanch sincerity were always precious to her. After tho platitudes of Hilda Sunbury,. they seemed like a fresh sea-wind niter the dull, close air of some shut chamber. Yet a certain uneasiness which she had never felt before made her constrained and troubled under the searching and earnest gaze of his eves. She knew that she had done what he would blame; she knew she had written what ho would blame still more. "It must be a consolation to you to be absorbed in "public life?" she "said wistfully. "It takes one out of oneself," he replied. "All work does so; but national work most of all." "You have so much to think of," she said evasively, "you could not be unhappy." Aubrey was silent. "I have nothing to think of," the added, "except my father." "Ah, dear! Why did I tell you? There is no irremediable sorrow except death." They were alone in the girdens into which they had strolled. Lady Sunbury was away for a few days, the girl had gone out riding on the moors; there had been rain in the morning, but the early afternoon was fine though sunless. There was the warm glow of autumnal flowers everywhere. "Why is Evelyn away?" he asked. "Have you done that which I besought you to do? I hoped to find you drawn nearer to him. He was sincerely afflicted at the loss you sustained." "Yes. lie wa,i fond of my father." Her voice trembled; the tears rose to her eyes. "Well, sorely that common sorrow 6houId have united you." "He does not even write to me!" she said with indignation. 'He only writes to Ward and Brunton.'" They were his land agent and his housesteward. "He probably does not know what to say to you," replied Aubrey. "When men are in false positions they generally avoid writing. o are all moral cowards, I assure you. He is not more so than the rest of us. We dislike to give pain, and our dislike to doing so usually brings about more pain in the end than if we had frankly grasped the truth at the first " "He is your cousin; it is natural that you shou'.d take hi part." "I have not deserved that rebuko from you, Gladys." There was the scent of wet grass and fallen leaves, and the sound of the fountains came through the perfect silence, monotonous and melodious. "Did you ever lose any one you loved greatly?" she asked him. "Yes," he replied. "I lost one whom I loved immensely; yet for whose loss I was thankful, since her life would have been a greater torture to me than her death was." "That must have been terrible!" "There is nothing so terrible." She did not ask more. She was absorbed in that selfishness which is begotten in the most generous natures bv the eu Hering of the affections. She could not rouse herself from it to enter into the life of another. Aubrey saw that her thoughts were not with him, and the impulse of confidence which had momentarily moved him was checked. "Did you know that lie. loved tho Duchess Soria ?" she asked abruptly. The question troubled and embarrassed her companion; he answered with hesitation: "Who could be infamous enough to tell you that! It was before his marriage." "It might be before. But he loves her still, now; he has never really loved any other woman ; he has toid me so." "A boutade," said Aubrey angrily. One of his innumerable boutades. He "is like Horace's wayward child: Porrigii irato puero qiium no main, recusat; Üiune, cat lie; in-gat. Si noa des, oplat "That is why he adores her; she is withdrawn from him." "I have never found the fruit that he would court, given or withdrawn," said Gladys bitterly. Sh was thinking of her husband's easy acquiesenco in her own vvithdrawal from him. "Pardon me, dear," said Aubrey tenderly; "but I think you have never endeavored to understand his character enough to soothe or inllaence him. You have loved him no doubt; but you have given to your love that apre and exacting complexion which alienates any man, and, most of all, a man a9 eelf-indulgent and as universally caressed as he. Forgive mo if I seem to blame you. I know ho has mad life difficult for you." "Will you read what I have written to him?" She took a letter from her pocket and held it out to him. "I have written many others and destroyed them. They seemed too insolent. Bead this!" It was the letter which she had written that morning. Aubrey sat down on a bench under one of the cedars, and read. She could tell nothing from the expression of his countenance. Ho folded it up, and gave it back to her. "If your father were living, he would not let you send it." She colored; sh knew that already. "Tosend it will be to sover your life forever from Guilderoy'. Anger is a bad counseUor. You will live on tho excitation of anger for a few months; it is like a drug; it supplies all the natural forces of lifo for a time, only to leave them utterly prostrato when its effects hare paadud.

You are just now in that state of intense pain ami violent indignation in which a woman has before now murdered the man who loved and wronged her. But when the heat and wrath of this hour pats, as they will pass, you will regret it to the last day ot your life if, of your own will and accord, you break the bonds of yo ir affections, and make it utterly impossible for them ever to be reunited.'' She was silent. She was seated beside him on the bench. Her head was turned away, but he could see her emotion in the strong throbbing of the vein of her throat. "You write and you speak." continued Aubrey, "as if he had left you forever; he has gone away for a few weeks, as he has often done before, and you have then thought nothing of it. When he returns, receive him as usual. Be sure that he will appreciate your forbearance and your kindness. Men often seem ungrateful, but I do not think they are often so for real tenderness." "Deceive him when he comes from her!" "From 'her' or any other 'her.' Why do you take for granted that he is now the lover of the Duchess Soria? Myseif, I do not believe that he is. She is a" very proud woman, and his rupture with her was public and sudden the kind of offense which a proud woman never forgives; for she had done nothing to bring it about or to merit it.""And I am to bo grateful if sho now refuses his homage!"' "You are perverse, my dear," said Aubrey, sadly. "I do not tell you to be pratVul; 1 tell you to be generous. They aro very diil'erent things. And at the risk of wounding you, Gladys, I must confess that what you feel now is much more irritated self-love than it is love at all." She arose impetuously, and walked with quick, uneven steps to and fro upon the grass; her somber dress enhanced the fairness of her face, the golden glow of her hair, the darkness of her eyes and lashes, as the full light poured down on her through the branches of the trees. She did not look a woman to share the fate of Ariadne. Aubrfy looked at her and his vision was troubled, and his calm wisdom and unselfishness were disturbed in their balance. Did (lis cousin deserve that he should plead thus for him? Did the wanderer, who shinned no Ogygia wherein white arms beckoned to him, merit so much fidelity, ?o much forbearance ? 1 And yet she loved kim. What hope was there for her except in such patience and such pardon as might in time bring her reward? "May I tear the letter up?" he asked her. "If you wish," she said, reluctantly. "And will vou promise me not to write any other like it r "I cannot promise that." "And yet, dear, I ask the promise more for your sake than his. If you leave him vou can wound his pride certainly, and humble him before the world, but that

will be all, for he will seek and find consolation. But if vou, of your own act, sever the tie which unites you, you will be forever miserable, for you will never forgive 3-ourself." She was silent; herVyts watched the shadows of the leaves swaying ujon the grass; she was unconvinced, angered, mortified, almost sullen. It seemed to her that her wrongs were wide as the universe, and no one pitied them. At that moment Lady Constance ran down the terrace steps coming from her ride; she was calling uproariously to the dogs who had been with her; she brought a boisterous rush of youthful energy and spirits; Gladys felt very old beside her. They were no more alone, and in half an hour he had to take leave of her, for his presence was expected that evening at a political banquet iu tho country town some fifty miles away. "Promise me, for your father's sake," he murmured as he bade her adieu. Sh sighed, and her mouth trembled, but siie did not promise. She lcoked at the fragments of the torn letter lying on the ground ; she knew every phrase of it by heart; she could write it again in ten minutes. After he had left her she walked to and fro restlessly and wearily in the gray, soft, autumnal afternoon. The silence was unbroken, except now and then by the caw of a rook; the great facade of the house stretched before her. stately and noble, with the greatness on it of a perished time; the solemn stillness of tho woods and moors enveloped it; there was that in its very beauty and majesty which hurt her more than any unloveliness would have done. She remembered the day when she had come thither first, with all" a child's eager curiosity, a child's ardent imagination. It was not so very long ago in years; and vet how old 6he felt! What was he doing now! That was the thought which tortured her every hour of the day and night. In absence and uncertainty, distance seems to grow up like the wall of a great prison between us, and the one whose face we can not see, whose voice we can not hear, and whosa time and whose thoughts are given we know not where, only are not, wo do know, given to us. She was jealous of other women of any woman, of all women with a passionate physical jealousy which was intolerable pain and as intolerable a humiliation. Ho had thought her cold because the first weeks of his early love for her had left with her such "ineffable, such undying remembrance, that the mere caresses of habit were unendurable to her after them. She know all that ecstasy, ardor, and tho might of a master passion could give; and she had been utterly unable to resign herself to the mere occasional formality of a joyless embrace. With all the intensity of life in her which youth, and strength and perfect health could give to her, she had been utt'rlyunable to enduro that passionless position of the mere possible mother of his childrcn, to which he had relegated her. It was because such warmth and force of passion were in her that she had seemed fiassionless to him, because the had reused to take from habit what love denied her. And now all that passion in her felt was the most cruel, the most torturing, of all pain; the pain of a totally impotent jealousy; a jealousy which hides itself from public eyes through pride, but makes wretched every single thought of the brain and impulse of the heart, robs night of sleep, and rendcts daylight hateful. .Men are intolerant of the jealousy of women, but they might be more indulgent to it than they are if they remembered its excuse. Stennahl has justly said that the pain of jealously is so intolerable, to a woman because it is so wholly impossible for her to follow in absence the life of the roan sho loves; so wholly, impossible for her to measure his sincerity, or to be sure of his truth in anyway. The man can watch the woman, can test her in a thousand ways, can haunt her steps and prove her fidelity; but sho can do nothing of this in return. If he choose to lie to her she must be deceived ; and the more loyal, the more delicate, the" more generous her nature, -tho more &re all means oi k-arning

the truth of his words and the facts of his actions forbidden to her. "Tou jours les delicats souffrent!" And this is as true of love as of life.

CHAPTER XXXIX. The afternoon was crowing dark, and the low red sun was glowing behind dark clouds as she turned to ascend the terrace steps. The young Constance was sitting disconsolate all alone with tho dogs about her. "I am afraid you are very dull here," said Gladys, as she saw the girl's attitude. "It is as dull as death!" said the girl pettishly.Glady's face changed, and the look of momentary sympathy passed out of it. "I will beg your mother to let you go home," she answered. "It is very painful to me to feel you are here against your will, and I shall do perfectly well alone." "Why do you not go abroad?" asked the girl. "You might enjoy yourself endlessly. Oh, I know you are in mourning just now ; but it was just the same w hen vou were not. Y'ou never enjoyed anvthing." "Perhaps not," said Gladys, thinking of the days when ehe had enjoyed every hour of her existence, on the moors and by the sea; when to feel her boat lound w ith the tide, and hear the lark king abovo the gaze, and watch a nest of young chaffinches in the orchard boughs, or the play of young rabbits on the moorland turf, had been happiness enough for her such simple, natural, country-born happiness as the girl had never known. "He is enjoying himself; why should not you? Nobody wears deep mourning Jong now, and nobody makes any difference for it while they do," said Lady Constance, holding up one of the newspapers which lay in her lap, and pointing with her finger to a paragraph in one cf them. Gladys looked involuntary where she pointed. It was a description of an autumnal party then assembled at one of the great chateaux of France; and amongst the names of the guests were printed those of Guilderoy and the Duchess Soria. "Always tho-e journals!" said Gladys, as she motioned it aside in disgust. . "They are very indiscreet, sometimes," said the girl cruelly, with a malicious smile. Gladys said nothing, but passed by her tormentor and went indoors. "What a fool she is to care!" thought Lady Constance. In the morning, very early, a mounted messenger brought a letter from Aubrey, which he had written over night before leaving the town. "It is impossible for rne to see you yet again, my dear Gladys," he wrote, "though I will endeavor to do so next month. Meanwhile I once more entreat you to do nothing rashly. The onlv possible conso lation for us in sorrow is when we are able to feel that we have done nothing to deserve or hasten it. Perfect patience with those we love gives us this solace if it give no other. Very likely your wrongs are less than you think; but even if they are morn so, still do nothing rashly. "You have a high sense of honor, and having this you must feel that as vou accepted the charge of your husband's good name you must, in honor, do nothing to imperil it. And torsive me, dear, if I add that in all your expressions, whether written or spoken, 1 found much more of the evidence of a sense of injury than I found of the unselfishness which is the burliest note of love. "I am a man, as you know, in whoso harrassed and busied life neither poetry nor love have any place, but I remember reading, 1 fonret where or how, some lines which have haunted my memory ever since. They are these: Though you forget, Ko 'word ot 1'iiue shall mar your pleaure. 1 hmigh von formet Von fdl'ii my barreu life with treasure; You may withdraw the pii't you cave, You Hill are queen, 1 tili am stare, Though you forgot. "Now, it is the heart which says as much as this, even when forsaken, which to my thinking loves ; and no heart which says ks3 than this does love. It may throb with rage, fret with jealousy, smart with pain, but it dots not love. What, after all, dear, is any human life, that it should exact as its rights remembrance and devotion from another? "Whether we have that rieht or not, we are only either wise or tender when wc waive it wholly and are content to give ourselves without seeking or asking for any recompense whatever. If you give such as this to Evelyn now, some day or other be sure that you wili have your reward. "Whether he deserves it or not is wholly beside tho question. It is our own life, our own character, which should determine the measure and standard of what we jäve not those of the person to whom we eive it. "Pardon me this homily, dear, which I write when I am very fatigued, at long after midnight I endeavor to say to you what I believe your father would say to you if he were now livinjr. Who knows that he may not stand behind me as I write this, thouch my gross senses cannot ferceive his presence? We know little of ife, nothing whatever of death. All thin.es are possible. The only thing which always seems to ine utterly impossible is that a great man can ever die. I am aliectionately yours, Francis." (Contimifd nrxt week.) rtonOcld and the Chicago "Times." To tub Editor Sir: Your editorial ia this morning's Sentinel, on "Uonfield and the Chicago 'J iiies" has the true rinj?. .1 fully acree with THE Sextixel that Dontield, in his light with the Tivir, has at last "tackled the wronir customer." He could lord it over a few friendlens foreieners, but to imprison Messrs. West and Dunlop, of the Times, as he lias done, he will find, to his sorrow, rather an uphill business. Uonfield is a most contemptible coward, an assassin of human rights, who shields himfctlf behind law and order to carry out the more iHiecenafuily his nefarious desiirus. lie has no higher conception of what are the real rights of a citizen than a Fiji Islander. Uonfield could conspire with Piukerton's thugs and thieves against the Chicago anarchists, and even deny Mrs. Parsons the right of free speech guaranteed to all under the consti-( tution, but in his fight with the Chicago Timt he is going to find a foe with weapons too strong for him to overcome. I. tor one, think it about time that such brutes as Uonfield were invited to step down and out. There are surely enough honest men in Chicago who would til his place with credit to the city. Chicago has been disgraced lonir enough by him. Hit presence as an oiticial in that city is a public shame and scandal. W. II. Lamastee. Indianapolis, Jan. 7. Care Himself Away. N. Y. Sun.l Prim Spinster "Well, if you say, Mr. TVnthprwm" that th rtnrrot luiji been well brought up' and is perfectly strong, 1 think I may its well take him. l arrot (who knows life and is somewhat schat at his future prospecu) "1 say, boss, ain't it about time I took my medicine?" And then ho coughed till the tears ran down his face. Recognize I IIliu fX. Y. Weekly. Mrs. Westend "You .appear to recognize that gentleman?" Mrs. Lakeside (of Chicago) "Yes, we used to be quite intimate. He was one of iny earlier hUibttudi."

A TERRIBLE LOSS OF LIFE.

THE FEARFUL WORK OF A CYCLONE. Itendlni;, P., Wt-. silk Mill Destroyed and Hundreds of ilrl Burled in tlie ltiiins Horriblo IMtntter nt IMtUtur. READING, Ta., Jan. 9. This was the !i.lt night ia the history of Reading. A d, ath-!ike pall bans;s npon the city as the result of the most horrible disaster in its history. A hundred households are in mourning as the result of one of the greatest calamities in Fcnus'ylTania. A cyclone sweyt prer the northern section of the city this afternoon aul laiJ waste everything within it rwich and with a terrible loss of life. The lives that.have Wen sacrificed and the number that have been injured can only be estimated. The most reliable computation at 10 o'clock to-nighi Is that n.t less than sixty persons have been killed outright and 100 injured. How this terrible calaiuity occurred is about us follows: It vsj raining very hard all rooming. Toward noon it ce;ied almost entirely, aivl ly 4 o'clock there Mas every indication that there would be an entire cessation of the rainstorm. Half an hour afterward the bri-rht huushiue made every effort to penetrate the eloinis. The tints of a rainbow were seen in the eastern tky. There was a clear sky overhead. This continued for half an hor.r longer. Then the K'-cne changed with a suddenness thst was appalling. The l3eey clouds cave way to the ominous signs of a coming storm. Dark, heavy banks of clouds marshalled themselves toward the town, and soon a gloom seemed to have settled over the city. There was a ftiUrcss ominous of coming danger. Then the wind whistled, roared and tore in mad confusion. The Storni clouds grew heavier still and louder roared the wind. In the western sky the storm was seen approaching with a thundering noice. The s? aih it cut was narrow but its tiTect was terrible. Persons residing along the track of the t-t'mn say that they Eaw the first signs of danger in a funnel-shaped maelstrom which aeemed to gather up everything within it reach and cat it right and left. Out in the country houses and barns were unroofed, farm out-buildings were turned, crops rooted up and destruction spread in every direction. The track of the deetructive element was not more than 2 feet wide and it is lucky that it only touched the suburbs of the city. It came from the weit, but passed along the northern border of Reading. First it touched the Mount Pennsylvania btove-works. Here the corner of the building was struck and a portion of the roof was cut off as nicely as if done by a pair of scissors. Then the storm-cloud scurried across seme fields, took off a portion of the roof of J. II. Sternberger's rolliug-mill, and a number of dwellings were unroofed ss readily as if their tin roofs were paper. The storm then hurried across the property of the Reading railroad company and crossed to the railroad. Here a pas?enger-car was standing. This was turned over as quickly as if it had been a toy, and its splinters scattered in every direction. Meanwhile the rain poured down ia torrents. The atmosphere became havy aud oppressive audit was almost as dark as nijjht. Directly on one side tho track of the Reading railroad was situated the paint shops of the company. It was a one-story building about sixty by fifteen feet in size. Here about thirty men were employed in painting passenger cars. There Mere eight or nine of these cars in the building. They bad been built at the company's shops in this city at a cost of $6,.0 each. The building was struck squarely in the middle and the bricks scattered about as if they were playthings. The cars were turned topy turvy, while the men were buried under the debris. Some of the bricks were carried away. The chamber of each of the passengercars was already filled with gas, as they were ready to be taken out on the road in a few days. These exploded, one after another, with the fearful bang of a cannon. Rang, bailor, bang, they resounded over the city, causing the people to run out of their house?, thinking it was the sound of an earthquake. The: was a considerable quantity of gasoline iu the building and this added fuel to the flames. A theet of flame shot upward with the roar of musketry. Some twenty of the men had a chance to crawl oat of the debris, but four of their companions were enveloped in the embrace of the flames. Their cries were heard for a moment by the terrified workmen, and then the ir voices were hushed forever. They were quickly roasted to death. Fire from the nine passenger-cars lit up the heavens for miles around. It was a beautiful sight and could have been enjoyed but for the awful calamity which accompanied it. In the meantime the fire department was called out bat its services were unavailing. The building and cars were consumed in fifteen minutes and nothing left but blackened, smoky ruins under which lay four human beings burned to a crisp. Their names are: ALBERT LANPBERGER. SHERIDAN JONES. GEORGE SCIIAITER, JOHN KALLER. It was rumored that several others had been killed, but these are the only one known to have lost their lives. Aaron De Walt, another employe in the paint shop, had his arm broken and George Knnbb was injured internally, probably fatally. The Iocs to the railroad company is fully $7 V While this was going on the storm was traveling forward with fearful rapidity. It must have traveled at the rate of one hundred miles an hour. It struck some more private houses and unroofed a dozen private residences. The huge sheets of tin were carried half a square away and deposited in a lot. Then the storm proceeded in its full fury. Directly in its path, at the corner of Twelfth and Marion-s ts., nood the Reading silk mill, one of the indur-trics oi the city, in which the citizens took the greatest pride. Here about one linndred and seventyfive happy girls were working. The building was ft huge structure, most substantially built, four stories in hight, aud had a basement besides. It occupied an entire block of ground. j The size of the building itself was nearly three I hundred feet In length and about one hundred 1 and fifty in width. It was surmounted by a ! massive tower fully 100 feet from tne ground, The funnel-shaped storm-cloud struck the building directly in the center on us broadest ride, which faced the west. It fell to pieces as if composed of so many building-blocks. Nearly two hundred human beings went down with the wreck. Human tongue can never tell the terrible scenes of that hour. The walls gave way, the floors fell down, one a top oi the other, and carried their great

mass of human beings to the bottom. Tb bricks were p.lnl up ;n the greatest confusion while amid the hurricane end whisding, rushing, roaring wind, ternMe cries for succor wer sent up to heaven. It wr a moment that tried men's souls, and almost Muuitaneous with thfl fail of the budding came the awful cries for relief. tiirU. with hlackt-ued f;ices, bruised anl broken Ilm1, thtir ch'thin? ut:ered end torn, dragged themselves fn-in tv e ruins. So probr.bly sevriity-ti v- to one l.nndred eared or were dragged out by their friends. Thse, of course, uorke 1 on the upper tioors an 1 were thrown near the toj of the debris. At soma P aces the bricks were piled up twenty fee4 deep an l underneath are i ing to-n'uLt human bodies by the score. About two hundred and tfy girls and younj women are uuai!y employed in the uiiil, but at 4 o'clock about eighty were relieved from duty for the day. They returned to their homes bfore the storm came. The most reliable estimate of to-night places the number In Vam building when it went down in the neighborhood of one hundred and seventy-five, and ss before stated I'.' hundred of the-e were rescued by friends or dra?g?d themselves out immediately after the accident. The alarm for relief was sent out and in a short dice thousands of citizen arrived to help out the dead snd dying. The scene wa.i a horrible one and. beggars description. The mill is ruurued at the foot of Mount Penn, a high mountain overlooking the citv. Ilute bon-lircs were built, as thr city in total darkness, which lent a dismal appe3ranto the scer.e. Ti e firemen h !t the burning; paint shop and agisted in the rescuing of th deud and ciin!j. '1 he po'.ice torce was railed out, the anilml.inee and a r i i corps und & thousand people v.-ere at the debris carrying out bricks, pulling away timber arid as-t.na wherever they could all at the ame time. Rut their work was slow compared with b demand for the rccue of the victim. Her? t young woman w.i taken out nil brs'ised i !, sutlering with cuts and bruises. u body, noticed as it v:i drag-zed out, had its head eu? o!ll Others were in various pastures, the living ah Mi'lcring from the most t-rnbie woujt1 and some aluic-st eared to death. The A?s--ciated Press representative entered what w;H once the basement of ti.e building, and griping his way through the debris, noticed five bodiof young girls lying cloe together. He tried to pu'l them out. but ihey ere pinred down end it uas impossible to extricate theta. They were tie;;d aud beyond all human aid. b p to 10:.''0 o'clock to-night probably tin bodies of a doz:ii dead have been taken out, while the greater portion of the remainder were slid tinder the ruins. The work of reset will be pushed ad nigh', but it may le far icf to-iuorriiw before all the bodies ate taken onu The rescuers- stiil have hopes that tome of those inside are still .".live, and there is every reaon for s.-yitig that in tiiis the persons wh believe t!;.it way, urn righj. All is chaos ami confn-ioii around the mill. The mmagers ar

Mi in: and the correct number of dead an-t rnising is entirely gr.ess work. It may not b over forty, but a: this hour it looks as if it "would reach sixty or eighty. The silk mid was built about four years agei. The builders were Reading c.-.j.italists, and th cost of putting it up was o.? ti. The milt waa leased to Grimshaw Rn.6. of Paterson, N. where they also opt rate similar mills, and .hey have been running it ever since. The machinery they put in the mill cost ? 10,000. This is total lon.s. When the Asociated Press reporter visitM the scene of the wreck at 11 o'clock last night he found everything in the greatest confusion. At that time about a dozen dead bodies had been taken out. AmoDg those who are deal are the following: HENRY CROCKER, foreman of the silk mill and married, twenty-three yea re old, head crushed in, tuck -and arm broken, Iron New London, Conn. LAURA KKARSnNER. EVA LEEDS. LIEME GKOW. KATIE ROW MAN. KATIE LEAS. AMELIA CiiP.ISTMAN. SOPHIE WINKLEMAN. ELLA I.OXO. WILLIE SNYDER. WILLIAM ROI'.ESON. REBECCA UOl'sE. KATE RIEDEANUER ROSE CLEM M ER. JOHN REEBER. engineer of the filfc mill His head was cut otf clean as if with a sword. Thee are all the dead who have been taken out. Clerk At.lenhack stated at midnight tria4 he believed fully eightv bodies were in the ruins under the three floors. His list of employes i lost, and owing to the confusion ia taking out the irjwed he was unable to furnish a list of the killed. But eighty is & conservative estimate of those who lost tbeit lives. Among the wounded are: GtHALPINi: GLAZir.E. Av nie Leads. Reuth a Krscn. Ei.i.a Lamm, Emma R atexsaiix, GnoqE Nfimax, Ei.i.a Kahl, Minnie Merket, Sau.ie Hassos, Lizzie Ü en, Bkktiia Herman, Maky Melon, Ellie Salmon, Ellie Pflum, Kate IIktlek, Maey Ce Nxirs, Maky Evans, Effie EnuciiT. Howard Ükickee, Anvie Brickeb, Annie Fky. There are many others whse names cannei be ascertained in the confusion to-night. Among the killed taken out of the ruins lt last nicht are: CHARLES REITBAUER, HARRY CRON1ER.S. SALLIE HICK EL. HARRY JONES. JOHN FOREMAN. JANE SLTLHEIXEIL Anion; the injured are: Kate Kef-pi-ek. Mary Evans. Mary Hartman. Kate Almach. Matilda Taylok. Sauaii Shape. Kate Sim i van. Annik Krick. Frank sen Ar.FFF.rt. Lizzie Rf.rrein. N. Defle :. Miss Lizzie Taylor Charles Lct io. Cecelia Clftchek. William Sxvpe :. Albert Rfrkhart. Jane Thompson. Mary Rottam. Many of these are seriously hurt and fcavt broken limbs and several internal injuries. Augustus E. Rosen p, residing at &3 N. Tentb-et.. was the foreman of the first and (-ec ond floors of the silk-noil. A reporter interviewed him. and his statement is as follows: "t was about twenty minutes past ö o'clock wheo I went to the second story to turn ou the clec. trie lights. After I had done this. I stood looking about the room for r. bout ten minutes. Suddenly I heard a Enid, rushing noijie, which I thought was the cyclone. The building then hook. 1 was standing in the southern end of the room, and, beo-re I could look cut of the windw, 1 felt the building fink. Quick as lightning the portion of the room that j 1 was in went down, lhe girls rushed about I me crying and screaming end calling for help. I They did not realise what was taking place. It l seemed t me ns if the center of the building was struck ürst. I can not describe the scene. It wasawful. I could not do anything, and couli not think of what I should do. Our end of th building went down first and while the floor was sinking it seemed to me as if the girls ia the other part of the room were ou tot of a hill ; that was the way it impressed me. While we were going down I saw the other portions of ' the floor fall. In a minute fill was over. Tb screamin-g of the girls was heurtrendiu-g. I was knocked down under heavy timber and held fast bv my foot. I could movi every other part of my body excepting my les. I reached down with my knit and cut the shoe ofi my foot. In this way 1 lecame loosened and managed to arise. Ami-I the screams of the girls and failing beams and bricks 1 succeeded in escaping. I got out of the ruins on the eastern side of the buiidicj, but how, I don't know. I celled to the girls loudly as I could. They were all terriblr e.ited and 1 never wi:nescd anything ao awful in all my life. Many of them he&rüi me ajid worked themsdvea tonaxi toe, li