Indiana State Sentinel, Volume 35, Number 7, Indianapolis, Marion County, 20 March 1889 — Page 1

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VOL. XXXV-NO. 7. INDIANAPOLIS. WEDNESDAY. MARCH 20. 1889. ONE DOLLAR PER YEAR.

GU ILDEROY

BYOUIDÄ Author of "Under Two Hags," "Two Little Wooden Shoes," "Chandos," "Don Gesualdo," Etc. Sow first pnbliihed. All rights reserved. CHATTER LVIII. That niht Guilderoy was in his houso in Faris, the prey to many conflicting feelings which banished the carelessness and case with which his nature had hitherto met the complexities of human life. He was not sure whether ha most wished or most feared his wife's acceptance of his offer, lie had been entirely honest in all that he had written to her und to his cousin ; but he dreaded the retalts of it with that ehrinking from all pain and all obligation which had always I een so strong in him. lie could not dismiss the anxiety which governed him ; he could not eat or sleep, r seek his usual distractions in this city which was so familiar and so pleasant to him. He was restless under the Fense which haunted him of the inevitable Prora with which Aubrey would regard his vacillations and his confidence, and lie already repented the imuulse which liad made him select his cousin as his interressor. He wished that he had pone himself w ithout any preparation or meditation to C'hristslea as the day and the night wore onward and each succeeding hour might bring hm a message from Aubrey. His heart ached for the -first time in his 1 iie under a wound which could not bo closed or Ftilled by any anodyne of pleasure. The humiliation with which the dismissal by the woman he loved had tilled him would not pass away for many a year; perhaps never. He was conscious that fhe had weired him in the scales of her fine intelligence und found him wanting; he knew that he had failed to respond to her imagination ; he knew, too, that what she had ceased t give to him she might give to others. He had been weary, dissatisfied and haunted by remorse when with her, but without her his existence was a blank and Iiis soul torn by a vague but intolerable jealousy. lie who had never before known that J assion which is the companion of un;appy loye was now, if it be possible to be po, jealous at once of two women whom he had possessed utterly, and yet whom ho had both, through his own inconstancy find vacillation, lost; and for the first time in his whole life neither his careless philosophy nor his swiftly changing caprices rould solace him or build up anew the c loud-palace of armorous content. He was dissatisfied with himself. All that wan lest and most spiritual in him condemned hiia in hi3 own eyes. He could have defended his conduct easily to others, but he could not defend it to himself. It was dawn in the streets of Taris, and birds were twittering in the lime-trees beneath his window when his servant brought him the telegram he was expecting from his cousin. He tore it open nervously. "I have done what you asked," paid Aubrey, in it. "I have no mandate from her, but I ludieve it will be as you wish. io vourself." AVas he glad or not. He could not tell. lie was conscious of a weight ot duties and obligations which rolled back like a htone over his life, and he was also conscious of that relief which comes from a choice tinally resolved and a conscience quieted and appeased. Amidst all the chaos of his thoughts he was touched to admiration of Aubrey's generosity and loyalty. Not one man in ten million would have accepted euch a task, or, accepting it, would have executed it to the end with Jrfect 6elf-abnegation. He could -jt mve reached euch stoical nobility 1 'inself, but he recognized the greatness of it. "1 shall go to England this morning," he said to his people; and as he Epoke, the door of his room opened and his sister entered. he hail arrived that moment ia Paris, and had come there without changing her clothes, taking an hour's tleep or breaking her fast. He saw her with displeasure. They had not met since the late summer which had followed John Vernon's death; and the remembrance of her letters which he had read in Venice was fresh and hateful to him. She seemed ever to him like a bird of evil omen, watching and waiting till the corpse of some dead human happiness fell to her. And yet 6he was what the world called a good woman pious, chaste, virtuous and wise. "Why are you here?" he paid, with impatience and discourtesy, making no affectation of a welcome which he could not pive, or of a pleasure which he could not feel. "Is that all the greeting you give me after all these months?" "I can not pretend what I do not feel," he gaid irritably. "I am butq that you would not come to me thus, unannounced, tineummoned, unless you had some bad news to bring or some cruel suspicion to eugeeet." "You are unjust" her voice was broken, her lips quivered; she was tired, cold and unnerved. In her own way she loved him, and ehe felt that even such affection as he had ever felt for her was pone. "I am not unjust," he answered coldly. "You have never ceased to irritate and alienate me. You mean well, perhaps, but if you have the intentions of a eaint, you have the insinuations of a fiend. I received all your letters in Italy. I never answered them because they offended and disgusted me. You always hated my wife. "You recognized the fineness of her nature, but you never ceased to be pittilens to her. 1 do not know it, but I am aa certain as that we stand here that it was you who informed her of my relations, before my marriage, with the only woman I ever loved." "I thouzht it right that she should know of them," replied his fiistor, who was never without courage. "And those name relations renewed after marriage have been made public to everyone by yourself." "What is that to you?" fiaid Guilderoy, white with ill-controlled passion. "You are not my keeper. It is nothing to you what I do. You are a good woman oh yes! and you make your virtues into a sheaf of poisoned arrows with which you slay the lives of ethers. What did you write what did you dare to write to me in Venice and elsewhere? You slandered Aubrey, whom the whole country respecta ; you slandered my wife, whose first and etancheet friend you ought to have been ; and you insinuated to me suspicions which might very easily, had I leea either more credulous or more hottempered, have ended in bloodshed lx twfcfcii, xnjecuaia and rajaelf.er at tho

best in a public quarrel which would have disgraced us both. That is what you call goodness sincerity affection! God deliver me from them and send me sinners; sinners of every Bin under Heaven, but with sympathy in them, and generosity and mercy!" .She was silent for a moment. She had never 6een him so fully roused, so reckless in denunciation; 6he loved him greatly, and she felt in every word the severance, one by one, of the ties of consanguinity and habit which had bound them together. Eutshe was a woman who was pitiless in pursuit of her purpose, unchangeable in her opinions and her conduct, unrelenting in her tyranny and curiosity and meddlesome inquisition into the live3 and thoughts of others. "I pas3 over your insults and 3-our ingratitude," she said, with difficulty controlling the rage she felt. "I wish only to ask you one question. I have come from England to ask it. I heard by chance that you were in Paris. Is it true that you intend to eliect a reconciliation with your wife?" "Who told you that I do so?" "Xo one told me. Eut I heard its possibility discussed, vaguely, in societv." "Well, what then?" "You cannot mean it! You could not drag your name in the dust! Your severance "from her was bad enough; but your reconciliation to her would be worse ten million times worse. It is not to be thought of; not to b dreamed of for one instant! You owe it to vour whole family!" "What do I owe to my family ?"' He had grown quite calm. His voice had spent itself, but she, who had known him from his earliest years, knew that his tranquility had more real menace and hterner meaning in it. Eut sho had never quailed before ths fury of any of the men related to her whom she had tortured, fatigued and injured for their good as their good was seen by her. "You owe it to your family," she replied, "to your family and to yourself, not to take into your life before the world a woman who has lived as your wife has done in your absence." "How lias she lived?" "liow? As no woman in her senses could have lived. "Withdrawn from every one ; herself a mark for the most odious suspicions; receiving no visits save from one man whose name already had often been connected with hers. You used to be proud, you used to care beyond all things for your name what will the whole world say of you if, after more than a year ami a half of such a life as that, lady Guilderoy is once more admitted into your house and your heart?" Guilderoy looked ut her, ami, bold woman though she was, ßhe was afraid of the eflectF of her words. He smiled slightly. His smile was very bitter and very c ontemptuous. '"If you only" came here to say this," ho paid, "it was a pity you did not remain in England. I should then at least have "been able to forget all that you wrote to me in Italy. You are a virtuous woman, but you are a cruel woman. If you had any mercy in you, you would have been ttirred to compassion for Gladys; you would have trone to her, you would have counselled her, yon would have set the shield of your unblemished position between the" world and her. Even if you had hated her, still you should have done so for my sake. Aubrey alone did what he could. I am grateful to him. Whoever hints a word against him is my enemy. The mistake made by Gladys was the mistake of an imaginative, unworldly, and over-sensitive nature; but it was a noble mi-take one which none but an icnoble nattim could possibly misjudge. I am blamable in much, but I am not utterly vile. I otl'endedher. and, if life permits it to me. I will atone to her. It never occurred to me aa possible that the world could blame hr for my fault. Possibly it never would have dared to do so had not vou been the first to cast a stone at her." "Are you the dupe of your wife, as you have been of others?" "I am no one's dupe, except my own sometimes. And now you will pardon me if I leave you. The house, of course, is yours to st:iy in if you choose. Eut I am about to leave for England, and you w ill pardon me it 1 say that 1 wish to go alone, hort as the journey is.it would bo too long for mo to make in the society of ( no who is the unkindest enemy of mvself and of those who are dear to me." '"What? Hoes the devotion of a lifetime count for nothing? Aro those dear to you whom you forsook, and by whom you have leen bet rayed ? Io you utterly lorgct all my afTection, all my forgiveness, all my defense of your errors in the world for sake of a woman whom you are tired of one day and idolize the next, only because she no longer cares what you do?" "My good sister," said Guilderoy, with something of his old manner, "I told you long ago that you were equally discontented with me whether I took the paths of vice or the paths of virtue, to use the jargon of the world's very arbitrary and rather senseless classifications. You were indicnant when I left my wife. You are indignant now that it is possible I may return to her. I do not see that in cither case you have any title to bo my judge, and i regret to feel that you have forfeited the power to be my friend." With that he left her ; and ehe, mortified, worsted, and made impotent as an arbiter of fa'-e, broke down into a fit of womanlike and heartbroken weeping. bhe recalled the voice of John Vernon Baying in the summer stillness of his garden, "lie kind to her." She knew that ehe had been more than not kind; that sfie had been cruel, that ehe had deserted her, and been the first to lead the world to seo harm and disgrace in the solitude cf that simple life at Christlea. Fool that she had been to let her prejudice and jealousy warp her judgment so utterly. Eool that she had been not to have had sense and penetration enough to foreseo that the time would come when her brother would resent as a dishonor done to hirrself all slur and suspicion cast through her upon the innocence of his wife ! Her pride at last realized that ßhe had no influence over those ehe strove to move, no wisdom in her interference, no place in the hearts of those she loved; she saw at last her own soul as it truly was, with curiosity in the guise of friendship, harshness in the mask of justice, meddlesome and vexatious authority in the form of afTection, unconscious jealousy and malignity in the golden robes of virtue.

CHAPTER EIX. A whole day and yet another sleepless night had passed with Gladys in that wretchedness of uncertainty in which the soul is like a house divided against itself. All that was noblest in her urged her to do what Aubrey had begged of her; all that was human, weak, passionate and selfish refused to do it Sr8 understood why marriage, which is so burdensome and so unrecompenscd to tlio mau4 ia tg the ttouus, bo great ia

emancipation and enrichment. Yet were she only free now ! only a child as she had been when Guilderoy had found her on the moors! And she remembered bitterly that, even if she were so, the world would only 6ee in her feeling for Aubrey ambition "and acquisitiveness, as it had seen it in her marriage; and the voice of her father peemed to rebuke her, saying, as he had often said, in the words of Socrates to Crito, "Is it worth while to think so much of the opinion of others?" Xo, it was not worth while; all the natural nobility of her nature recognized the nobility of Aubrey's words and acts; but, womanlike, their austerity, commanding her admiration, left her "heart cold; womanlike, she would have fain had him think less of honor, more of her. An infinite regret, which she knew would abide with her so long as ever 6he would have life, weighed on her for the pain which she had brought on him through her unthinking acceptance of his devotion and her too selfish appeals to him. And yet it seemed to her that after all he loved her but little! Women can never accept or understand the farewell of Montrose. It oniy hurts them. "With the contradiction of human wishes, the simple secluded life of Christslea, which had seemed hardly better than a living death, grew dear to her. The even and monotonous time, the empty house, the homely ways, seemed eafe and peaceful. Besides the troubled course of passions, of pleasures, and of pains, which make up the life of the world, her residence in this little seaside hamlet appeared serene and secure; as the haven of a religious house appeared to those who, after the deceptions of love and the temptations of power, withdrew themselves to Port Royal or La Trappe. Its dreariness, its vacancy, the despair before it which had often seized her in its long moonless winter nights when the silence of snow was all around, and in the gray melancholy summer evenings when the hoot ot the owl alone answered the lapping of the waves all these passed away from her mind ; she only remembered that here she had known that freedom from fresh and poignant pangs which seemed to her the. nearest approach to happiness that fate would ever give to her. She shrank from all which return to her life with her husband must mean for her. Sue was wholly honest; and, accepting what he o He red, she knew that she must fulfill all her obligations to him. Some women might have made a feint of forgiveness only to acquire the means to wound, to irritate, to chastise, to mortify him; but any such treachery as that was impossible to the daughter of John Vernon. Returning to her life at Ladysrood must, she knew, mean for her the resumption of all those tics from which she had for nearly two years looked upon herself as freed. She could do nothing meanly. As her severance from him had been complete and uncompromising, so she knew that her reunion with him must be entire, and her acceptance of him faithful in the spirit as well as in the letter. Only a year ago it would have made her so happy to have given that which ho sought! Though she had scorued the sueirestion of reconciliation with her lips, she had often yearned for it in her heart; but now now it was. too late to givi her any possible joy ; eheThrank from its necessity with both her bo lv and her mind. "What am I to do? What shall I choose?" she asked herself, with passionate anxiety to make tho choice which should be ricrht in her father's sight and Aubrey's. The one was dead, the other client, but both seemed very close to her through all these hours; both seemed at once her counsellors and her judges. At times she remembered Guilderoy as lie had been in the first weeks of their life together, and then a shudder passed over her, thinking that all of those ect-ta-f-ics, those adorations, those entreaties lavished on her then, had ail been given 6ince to others. And at such moments the quiet chamber, the unbroken solitude oi this little cott.ige seemed to her the "haven under the hill," like that which sheltered the 8torm-tossed fisher-boats of Christslea where the dill's curved inward faring the setting sun. vhe passed the chief portion of the day pacing to and fro under tho willows and yews where the marble column said of him whose mortal frame lay underneath it, shut within the earth, that death comes kindly to him by whom death had never been desired. The swallows flew in and out of the quiet place, building their nests in the eaves and gables of the church. The soft, pale sunbeams fell through tho dark shadows of the yew-trees and the gray plumes of the willows. Xow and then some cry of a fisherman to another from the 6hore cauio faintlv on the airi and the broad white wing oi a curlew brushed the topmost boughs of the church-yard trees. When she left her father's grave it was again evening; calm and colorless and sad as English evenings are, it seemed like the reflection of her own soul. Her choice was made. It was late in the afternoon of the third day when she entered the woods of Ladysrood. They were in all the delicate and lovely greenery of their first foliage. Tho bracken and ferns were waving breast high, and the birds were singing in the brushwood of the undergrowth and in the branches of elm, oak and beech. The ground was blue in many a nook with pimpernel and wild hyacinth. Across the grassy drives ever and again a deer bounded or a hare scudded, lie had never cared for eport as other men care, and his woods and torests were for the most part the peaceful haunts of unmolested woodland creatures. She thought dreamily of the old story of Griseldis; had Griseldis, when her triumph came, lost tho love out of her heart which had borne her through all her trials? Had she, when bidden to return to her kinardom, lost all wish for it, and only felt the heaviness of the burden ehe was summoned to take up the weight and imprisonment of the reunion? Likely enough; likely enough that Griseldis had been a happier woman in her misery, when hope and love had Ptill been with her, than in her return to her palace and her pomp. She parsed through all the sunshine and stillness and fragrance of the dewy glades, and entered the great gardens of the southwest, where the rose-walk was where her father had bade her have patience, and Aubrey bad said the same words to her words which had seemed to her then so cold, so commonplace, so barren. She saw the stately evergreen gardens, the long aisles of the berceaux, the wide stone flights of the terrace eteps, and the western front of the house its buttresses and casements hung and garlanded with pink and golden banksia in full flower and for a little while she could not see them for the tears which blinded her eyes. There her lather had stood with her in the summer night and eaid to her: "It lies with you to retain the angels which 6tand about the throne of life honor, unselfishness an 1 sympathy." The men at work as she passed and the two servants who were idling on the terraco jecpjiked fcer nd saluted her

humbly, and were startled and afraid to eee her there. She bade them send the housekeeper to her. "My lord returns to-morrow. Prepare everything," she said briefly." The old woman kissed her hand and murmured tremblingly, "The Lord be thanked!" Gladvs looked at her with a 6trange look. " Will it be well or ill ?" she though t, and eaid no more ; but entered the house where she was mistress, and uncovered her head and sat down by one of the great windows and gazed out at the gardens smiling in the western sun. An infinite peace seemed to lie like a benediction on the great house in its silence and fragrance and majesty. But there was no peace in her heart. "My father will be content, if he knows," she thought. She could not think of his soul as dead, as ignorant or as careless of her fate. She arose after awhile and went up the staircase to her own apartments, Kenneth! and the other dogs following her with soft, noiseless tread; they knew the place again, but the change to it troubled them. She let the women take off the rough serge gown sho wore, symbol of the wisdom and the solitude she relinquished, and clothe her in one of tho many gowns ehe had left there a gown of pale blue velvet, embroidered with Bilver threads, with old laces at the throat and arms. As she looked at the worn folds of the serge skirt, with all its stains of sea-sand and of wet grasses, she sighed as Griseldis might, despite all, when sho put oil" her peasant's kirtal for the regal robe once more. With the old worn gown she put away from her forever liberty of the affections, liberty of the actions, liberty even of the thoughts; for she was very loyal giving herself onco more she gave her undivided allegiance. She clasped a necklace about her throat, a necklace of old Venetian gold-work which he had given her in the early days of their stay in Venice, and turned" from the mirror, feeling as though a score of years had gone since she had last stood before it there. Then sho descended the 6tairs, where tho afternoon sun still streamed through the painted windows across the broad steps and the oaken balustrade. She went slowly, feeling as though she dragged a dead body with her, the amber glow of the late afternoon shining on the silvery softness of the velvet and the gold chainwork of the necklace as she moved. The house was Hooded with that rich light that evening splendor that fragrance from blossoming gardens and from dewey woodlands; it seemed to make a festival with its beauty and its odors and its color for her as she moved. Eut her face was white, her step was reluctant, her heart sick. For she knew that he was on his way thither, and would Foon rejoin her. Even her return to Ladysrood 'would be attributed by the world to coarse and selfish reasons; and tho remembrance of the imputation of low motives which tho world is sure to cast on high emotions must ever be to the nature which is above the herd a loathsome and galling remembrance. he looked at a portrait, by Watts, of Aubrey which burg iu-the picture-gallery. It seemed to gaze at her with eyes which had life in them, and its lips seemed to utter an eternal farewell. They would meet as friends and relatives; they would meet perforce und continually, but the oh! sweet intimacy was over for ever. It left an immense loss, an immenso void in her life, which 6he had no belief that tho future could ever fill. She wandered through the long succession of rooms and galleries, and halls and corridors; the places were all so familiar, yet so strange to her. Like tho dogs, she was troubled by a divided sense of exile and return. After the little lowly chambers and lonely shorc3 of Christslea, Ladysrood seemed a palace for a queen. Her husband had driven all to her; ho had found her poor and obscure and had enriched her with all he possessed. Sho had never cared for these things indeed, in any vulgar or avaricious sense, but absence from them had taught her to measure their value in the eyes of others, and to understand why her father, least worldly of all men, had said to her that tho greatness of Guilderoy's gifts demanded from her gratitude and fealty. She entered the drawing-rooms of the western wing, where the last glow of sunset was lighting up with crimson reflections all the beauty and luxury of the apartments. She walked to and fro them in their solitude, bidding the pervants leave the windows open to the evening air, which came in cool and damp and full of the fragrance of spring flowers and spring woodlands. It was the last breath of the life which ßhe had given up and left forever. Henceforward 6he would live in the world for the world of the world; Guilderoy, she knew, would never lead any other existence. The burden of its artificiality, the cruelty of its crowds, tho sameness of its pleasures, eeemed to weigh on her already with that monotony and that irritation which she had always found in them. The hours passed on ; the day altered into night ; the servants came and lighted all the waxlights in tho sconces and chandeliers of the suite of rooms. She stood by one of the etill open windows, looking out at the shadows of the west garden, listening to the peaceful splashing of the fountains falling in the fishponds under the trees, he could hear her own heart beat in the stillness. She knew that he had returned, and must soon come to her. Tenderness and bitterness strove together in her soul ; she remembered her father's words spoken in that chamber, and she acknowledged their nobility and beauty; but she also remembered the words with which Guilderoy had there declared to her that he had never loved her and loved another woman. "Why drag the chain between us when it i3 pain to us both?" she thought; and her memory went to Aubrey. Tho evening became night; the curfewbell, which was still rung at Ladysrood, wiled from the clock tower, the air grew colder and had the sweet breath of million of primroses and hyacinths in it. In the stillness and sweetness of it Guilderoy stood before her. He looked older, paler, more weary than he had done when he had left her there eighteen months before. He had suffered both in his passions and in his pride; he bad judged himself, and the world had judged him, and he and they had alike condemned him. Would this other woman, whom he did not love, but in whose hands the conventional honor of his name was placed by the conventional laws of the world, condemn him also? She looked at him and made no gesture or movement which could assist him ; her face was cold, and her eyes were passionless. He crossed the room and kissed her hand with his accustomed grace and with a ceremonious and serious courtesy. His lips were as cold as the hand which they touched. "I thank you," he eaid simply. The worda cost ftupgacb to utter; be felt the

unresponding and fixed gaze of her eyes upon him, and tho warmer impulses, the more tender repentance, with which he had entered her presence froze under them. "You have nothing to thank mo for," she said coldly. "You have asked me to return to vou for the world's sake, and for the worldr8 sake I have accepted. "Only for that?" he said, with hesitation, perplexed and troubled. "Eor that, and for my promise to my father. I eaid that I would never bring evil repute upon his name and yours, and I will not." "But have you no other feeling? Xone for me?" The words escaped him almost unconsciously, and there was an accent of emotion, almost of entreaty in them. "Xo; none now." The answer was sad and immutable as death. His face flushed as he heard it. "Had you ever any?" he asked her. "Oh, yes;" she sighed as she epoke, and her eyes softened and darkened with many memories. "I loved you greatly; I have suffered greatly ; but I do not love you now, nor have you power to pain me. I was a child when I loved you; lam a woman now. I will be honest with you. I do not carb I shall never care ; but I will be to you what you wish; and the world the world of which you think so much shall never know that it is so, and your honor shall be as dear to me as ihough you were dear." He beard her with profound humiliation, with unspeakable pain. He had believed her cold, but he had thought that, so far as she had loved at all, her heart had been always with him. He had come to her in repentance, in wistful desire for peace, in a vague hope of he knew not what new kind of happiness, and he found the chambers of her soul closed to him, and occupied possibly bv another. He had nerved himself to bend to what was an ?ct of humiliation and supplication; and, unknown to himself, he had looked in return for the tenderness and sweetness of reconciliation, even of welcome. "I know," he murmered wearily, "that my offenses against you have been many and great." "It is not that. I have learned to know that they were natural enough. I was nothing to you; others were much. In the beginning I did not understand you; I did not know an j thing of men's natures or of their passions. I must have fatigued you, been insufficient for you; that I can understand. My father always told me I was to blame, that I had not indulgence." "Your father was merciful as a god, always and to all. He would tell you to be indulgent now." "Yes; I know that be would. I know that he would condemn me more than he would you." He gazed at her in silence : ehe was still fo young that even suffering had had no rower to mar her great personal beauty, ler face M as colorless and calm, her eyes full of unspeakable sadness, her attitude unconsciously one of dignity and rebuke. Vaguely he felt that it was possible he should some day love this woman hopelessly since she no more loved him. "If you have ceased tt care for me," he paid almost inaudibly, T can not complain; 1 have only caused you suffering and mortification. I have told you that I will endeavor to atone in the future; but there is no reason why you should believe me." 4T believe that you mean it now." "But you have no faith in my constancy of purpose? Whv should you have any ? Yet I am sincere.'' Her eves rested on him musingly, and Fofteneci as they gazed. "I do believe you, but I can not give you the welcome you wished," she said wearily. "I can nöt I can not lie. If you had come back to me a year ago I f-hould have rejoiced ; I loved you then ah! why can I not now? Where is it nil gone? Why did you leave me alone?" "You were not alone! You had Aubrey! And what vou deny to me you give to him!" She shrank from tho name as if ho had stabbed her with it. "That is ungenerous," she murmured. "He has been loyalty itself to you; only a day ago ho pleaded for you with all his might and blamed me ; neither my life nor yours is worth one hour of his !" Violent words rose to Guilderoy's lips, but he repressed them with great effort; the justness and the generosity which were in his nature beneath a'l the egotism of long self-indulgence conquered tiie passion of jealousy and of offense which stirred his life to its very center. After all, w hat right had he to blame or to judge? What title had he left to speak of his right to her affections? "The fault of all is mine," he said with great emotion. "I left you in a position of tho greatest peril; if you had injured mo in auy way I should but have had what I merited. Forgive me, dear. I led you into the captivity of marriage when you were too young to know what you did with vour life ; and I was too careless and too selfish to be your guardian in it. It is the crudest folly of all on earth that binding of two lives together like two corpses from which the life has fled. "We are not the first victims to it by many tens of thousands, and in all ages every greater and higher soul has poured forth its eternal protest against it. If you lovo me no more, how dare I blame you ? I, who so soon ceased to love you ? My poor child, believe me at least in this from my heart I beseech you to pardon me the mad capica in which I bound your fate to mine. I thought that you would be content, like so many women, with all the material pleasures of the world, of rank and of wealth ; I forgot that you were your father's daughter, and that those could have no power to console you when your heart was seared and your pride was wounded. Forgive me, dear!" He knelt at her feet as he epoke, and he kissed the hem of her skirts. She passed her hand over his hair with the same gesture, half of tenderness half of pity, which Beatrice Soria had used. A sigh which came trom her Foul's depths breathed over him where he knelt. "I forgive you, I hope, and you must forgive me," she said gently. " "Do not ask more of me yet." "I will ask you nothing," bo answered, touched to the heart "For I have long ceased to deserve anything." A few months later the country learned that Lord Aubrey, his party having returned to power, had accented a distant and arduous viceroyalty, and, in its coarse foolishness, it envied him his greatness. The Exd. JllsShtngle Hill. Washington Critic "Good morning, Mrs. Plashler," aaid Jones, cautiously approaching his landlady, "will you give me my shingle bill for the last ten days?" 'Excuse me, Mr. Jones," replied Mrs. II., looking him over suspiciously; 1 don't understand you." "Why, that's plain enough. I want to pay for what I've got here for the last ten days," "Oh, ye, I see; you mean your board bill. What a funny man you are, Mr. Jones," and the landlady lauehed half hysterically. "No, 1 don't, either," he said in a heartless tone ; "1 mean just what I said. It's too darned taiatocaüitbowd,"

TIIE MURDER OF DAWSOX

A MOST BRUTAL AND ATROCIOUS ONE. Startling Discoveries Made hj tho Officers at the Scene of the Crime Evidences That the Murderer I'.mleRTorrti To Iiury His Victim. Chaklestok, S. C, March 1.1. The murder of Capt. Dawson was the most hrutal and atrocious ever committed in Charleston. The popular indignation is intense. All classes of the community stand aghast at the assassination and would lynch the murderer if they could get him out of jail. Capt. Dawson's assassin and murderer was called upon last night in jail and asked to explain the circumstances of the tragedy, lie at first declined to make any statement, but eventually said: "Here it is in a nutshell. Capt. Dawson en tered my office; used abusive language, and knocked me down with Lis enne. I got up and he was about to strike me again, when I shot him." Dr. McDow then went on to say that ( apt. Dawson was not killed instantly; that he remained alive for half or three-quarters of an hour, during which time he (McDow) remained in the room with the man whose life was fa4 ebbing away, making up hi mind what to do. Eut there is the jtrotigc.t and most convincing proof that Dr. McDow remained m the room at least an hour after the death of Capt. Dawon, planning how he might dispose of the body. At a distance of a few feet from the back door of the oüice. at the end of a passage way, is a hall-door opening into a recess under the stairway which leads to the second story. As was natural, nnd to be expected from the coroner and his jury, a thorough examination of the premises was mado with a view of the full pnt investigation. It is the belief that Lieut. I'ordham made a startling discovery while this examination was in progress. On the half-door above referred to. there was noticed some spots of treh blood; this was of course an incentive to further inquiry, and examination was extended to all parts of the closet. Drops of blood were found on the floor up to a space where the flooring terminated and theeart'i of the foundation was exposed. llere another horrible and startling revelation was made. The earth was noticed to be freshly turned up and' to a depth which was only limited by a quantity of bricks and oilier impassable material to the spade or whatever instrument was used in the attempt to dig a crave. Such, certainly, is the conviction of nil those who saw the upturned earth and the blood spots on the lloor and the door. This closet door was found nailed up last night, although it had evidently formerly been laid up against the opening into the clot. It is therefore almost absolutely certain that the assassin endeavored, during his long occupancy of the room with the murdered man, to dig his grave and thus forever bury all proof of his crime with his victim. Certain it is, however, that Dr. McDow, after finding his efforts futile on account of the soil just noted, determined to pet up the plea of self-detente and went out and delivered himself to Private Gordon. It was stated that before beintr taken to the Central station, he was permitted to visit one or two lawyers. Dr. McDow aid that he was standing up when h tired the fatal skot nnd Capt. Dawson was about to strike him a second time with his cane. Three things arc, therefr re, mite remarkable: (l)that Capt. Dawson could have been shot in the boot where the bullet entered; (-'1 that if Dr. Mo Dow had been knocked down he can exhibit no marks of such implied violence, and (3) if it were self-defense, why t he tell-tale grave beneath the stairs? Dr. McDow reached the Central station at 6. l j p. m. and surrendered to Lieut. Heidt. The coroner's jury will not meet until 11 o'clock to-morrow, when a thorough investigation of the crime will be made. The jury is composed of prominent men. After the murder was committed, McDow's wife, with whom he had a serious quarrel on the day of the tragedy, lied from the house, taking her baby with tier. The police have positive proof of McPow's illicit connection with Capt. Dawson's maid, lie and she were traced by a detective to an assignation house, where they remained for an hour or two. The maid is still in Capt Dawson's family. Her mistress is not inclined to believe her guilty as charged. Messages of sympathy have been pouring in to Mrs. Dawson to-day from all parts of the country. Kx-President Cleveland telegraphs: "I am shocked by the death of your husband nnd I sadly tender you my heartfelt sympathy and condolence." The funeral this afternoon was attended by an immense crowd, representing all classes of the community. It took place at the cathedral chaj el. The services were conducted by Hishop Northrop of the diocese of Charleston, who was assisted by hishop John Moore of the diocese of St. Augustine. Fla. All the eatholio clergy of the diocese were in the sanctuary. The sisters of mercy, the ladies of the convent of our lady of mercy, and the orphans under their charge attended the funeral. Bishop Northrop delivered the eulogy. A pitiless rain fell the whole day. The f.ngs 11 over the city were displayed at half-must, and business was partly suspended in the principal streets. The members of the editorial, reportorial and business start's of the Ai- and Courier acted as pall-bearers. ON TASCOTT'S TRAIL. Chicago Ietectivea Said To I'.e On the Track of the Murderer. Chicago, March 13. It is stated that the clew which led Mr. A. J. Stone, son-in-law of the murdered millionaire Suell, to join actively in the search for Tascott, was obtained from a criminal who had known the fugitive in the Kentucky penitentiary, and who claimed the missing man was in the employ of a railroad contractor near Rat Tortage, Manitoba. Other proofs were brought so convincing that Mr. Stone at once sLarted for Hat Portage accompanied by two detectives and a friend intimately acquainted with Tascott. They left Chicago two weeks aro Sunday, but on arriving at flat Portage, which is l.r0 miles east of Winnipeg on the line of the Canadian Pacific railway, they discovered that the object of their search had suddenly disappeared a few days before. No one knew the direction he had taken, but a few days later the detectives struck his trail, which led up into the interior of Canada in the direction of Hudson bny, and Mr. Stone and his party again started in pursuit, after telegraphing Mrs. Snell that he had great hopes of the clew turnout to be a good one. Ten days have elapsed since Mrs. Snell received this dispatch, and thu baa not since heard from Mr. Stone. His long silence only strengthens her hopes, for she believes that the searching party is in c'ose pursuit and so far away from a telceraph station that Mr. Stone cannot communicate with her. She is hourly expecting word that Tascott has been captured. A Lost Opportunity. (Terre Haute Express. Jiggers "Darn an ignoramus, anyhow." Wiggers "What's the matter now?" Jiggers "I was calling on little Miss Fertly last night, and ehe asked what the phrase 'Indulging in osculatory exercise' meant. Said Bhe found it in a novel." AVigeers "Well, did you tell her?" Jiggers "I didn't know what it meant until I looked through the dictionary this morning." A I'ftternnl Wnrntnc. Omaha Republican. Jakey "I vas goin to tell you a.shoke, fader. Der vas " Mr. Oppenheimer (excitedly) "Don't tell me no 6hokes here, Jakey. Dere vos two gustomers in de store, and if dey laugh de new suits vont last till dey get to de door." Henpecklng Going; On. Epoch. Mother "Bobby, yoa shouldn't speak so crossly to your father. You nerer heard him speak crossly to me." Hobby "Lie dassent, ma; he's just like xue, he dasseut,"

GOV. PORTER'S PLANS.

lie mil Start I'or Home in About Thirty Days His History of Indiana. Daily Sentinel, March IV A reporter called upon ex-Gov. Torter, the new minister to Italy, lnt eveninc, and in the course of a conversation asked the governor if he had completed his arrangements pre par tory to departure. "Well, hardly yet," said the governor, smilingly. "My commission hasn't arrived yet, though I expect it on Monday. I have thirty days after taking the oath of ofiice to make all necessary arrangements. I think I can dispose of my business by that time, but there is a good deal look after. I have to find an occupant for this immense residence or dis pose of it in some way satisfactory. My booke will have to be packed, as I intend to take th most of them with me, and this is no small work. Yts, there is a hundred things to attend to. And you know," said tha governor, with a twinkle in bis eye, "I'll have to pay of' my debts before I leave, as I would dislike to be seized by a co?itabl just as I was getting ou the traiu. So you can ee I will have my hands full for the rexl thirty days. No, I haven't determined upon the exact date of my departure." ' Will your daughter and son George accompany you. governor?" "Ves, but I wish you would correct a litt! error that has crept into the papers about my son George. ieorLre will accompany me m the capacity of a companion and not as th secretary of the h -ation. He will probably remain with me for two or three months and maybe longer, but George has no intention o giving up his law practice. A minister has nt the power to r.. point the secretary of a legation. This is done by the stato department and the becretary is often retained for a Ion? time." "Have you completed your history of Indiana yet?'' "No; I hare not. but I try t" work on it a little every day. 1 have given up right work, anil that makes niy proer ss abtileslow. I intend to take, all my iimterial to Kurope, and. imagine that it will be the source of some pleasure to me. Still, I intend to travel a little, if I find that I can sparo the time. I will nni make any researches into Italian literature, with, the idea of writing a book oranythiug ofthat kind, but do so from a natural desire to study the history and customs of a land that has played such an important part in the world's history." A POLITICAL ADVENTURER. The Woula-Ue Dirtatnr nflndiana and III Oueer Hecord. ITi.vil!f Courier. Terhaps Gov. llovey's extraordinary exhibition of senile race is due to the fact that bhad counted largely on the patronage of th governor's ollice to get a seat in the V. S. senate, and finding his plans interfered with, hs proposes to revolutionize things. The governor has always been a mere adventurer in politics, with his trunk always packed and his headquarters in the saddle. lie began his carper, it is said, by turning from whij to democrat because this part of Indiana was strongly democratic when he located in Mt. Vernon. He sicnali.ed his entrance into the democratic party by running for otiice, and as long as th democrats accepted him as a candidate, be ws a radical democrat. When Judge Niblarlc beat hi in in a democratic convention iq however, he bolted and ran independent, being snufied out at the polls. It is said he hesitated whether to move his political headquarters south of the Ohio river in lol or camp with the Unionists, but finally rat h lot, which took the form of a colonel's font, mission, with the I'nion. After the war bm went to Peru, and the story goes yiat be left there because his constitutional inability t make up his mind which side he wa on led him, in that case, to try and represent thp IT. f. government and some jintro speculators at 011 and the 6arae time. After his return from, l'erti he rested in sullen repose, quarreling wish all par.ies, and especially with his own, distinguishing himself in only one particular be was a most violent frn trader. When an opportunity presentel itself to emerge from political obscurity, he promptly recanted his only political Jvrinciple and became a violent protectionist, lis entire political career stamps him a a vain, weak man, utterly reckless of responsibility t the people, and ready at all times to turn everything in politics to bis own acconnt, no matter how often he may have to turn his coat. His latest ambition is to go to the I". S. senate, and very likely he finds his plans to secur that prize by distributing the patronage of the executive department, thwarted by the legislature, lie now threatens to plunge the etat into anarchy. Hut he will not travel further on this road than is consistent with his per Eonal Eafety. AFTER THE BEEF TRUST. The Indiana IeIegatton Highly HonoredWork of the Convention. The legislative committee which attended ths) anti-beef trust convention at St. Louis has re turned. The convention was composed of eight members each from the states of Indiana, Uli nois, Colorado, Texas, Kansas, Nebraska, Min ncsota, Iowa and Missouri. Mr. Curtis, who was a member from Indiana, reports a lively convention. They were in ses pion for two days and did not complete their labor till 1 a. m. yesterday. The first day each state introduced a bi.I which was relcrrel to a committee. Indiana introduced the beef inspection till passed last week. The committee reported a bill, copied after the Indiana bill, which wa adopted after fourteen hours of discussion. Illinois and Texas opposed the bill. All th legislatures of the states represented are still in session, and Mr. Gurtis says that the Indian beef inspection bill will pa before adjournment, with the exception of Illinois, whirl seems to be under the thumb of Fhil Armour. The "Hie Four" had a big lobhr to defeat the object of the convention, but failed. The Lie 1 our are Phil Armour, Swift. Fowler and Cudaby, the men who control thm beef trade of the WeL The convention also adopted the Texas bill defining trusts, and a resolution demanding congress to appropriate money for a deep bar borat Galveston or at other points on th Texas coast If this was done, it would gi" Texas and the mountain country a ne market for beef. The Indiana delegation consisted of Speaker Nillark, lp. resentatives Curtis, Nolan, Hrownlee ani Fields and President Chase and Senators Byrt and Harlan. The Indiana members took a promin ent part in the discussion, and won at victory when the Kidson beef inspection bill wasadopi?d as the model bill to be placed upon the statute book of the western states. HER RASCAL HUSBAND. After Sedncine Her Thirteen -Year - Old) Iaiig;hter, He Heserted Her. Srr.lxonF.LP, O., March 11 Special. To day a letter was received by the police authori tics from Mrs. Fad ie Hyron of Cleveland, inquiring the whereabouts of her husband. ?bt states that he skipped a few weeks ago und left her in total darkness as to his whereabouts. Since then she has learned that she is the third wife Mr. Hy ron has living. His other wivee reside in Greenville and Canton. Hie further states that before Hyron took bis departure, bei seduced her thirteen-year-old daughter, who ia now in a delicate condition. The last she heart about her rascal husband was that he was living with a woman in Urban. Khe baa notified, the police anthorities throughout the country and is bound to bring Hyron to iustice. The police here have been notified and will keep a close lookout for him. Byron has figured in several disgraceful scrapes here, having bee o fired out of the I. O. O. F. order and rotten-eggc-d. Rivals MeeU 1 Tuck. Mr. Cole Darke (wrathfullyV-"V.TiaffW to' tell Miss Yallerby dnt I was in financial difficulties, Winfield: Is dat de way to cut a feller on7" Mr. W. Scott Cluflf "Keen cool, cLde; yo' might bust de buttons od n dat swell ober coat, an' let de whole street 6ee yo Cardigao jacket:" j