People's Pilot, Volume 4, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 September 1894 — Page 7

PROVIDENCE? the waTM wsre blue and the gun wan bright. As the waves and the sun quite often are. And little birds sang with all their might As I sailed merrily over the bar. My little canoe fairly danced with glee As the light breeze gently caressed the sheet And bore her along toward the open sea, ■ Where the sky and the water seemed to meet My craft was a sentimental one, For ’twould never trim except with two, So I put in the bottom a heavy stone, And sighed to myself that it needs must da Cut there came before me a phantom face As I gazed at the stone with a dreamy stare, For it couldn’t in any way take the place Of certain live ballast I wished were there. Shen I sighed and thought what a happy lot Would be mine if that soulless stone were out And she in its place—but she was not— So I sighed again and came about. But alas I for the vision of my adored, I was rudely waked from my semi-sleep By spars changing place witn centerboard, While I found myself in the briny deepi Oh, tho sun was bright and the waves were blue, But I’ll thank the gods until I’m gray That I took for ballast in my canoe A stone, instead of a girl, that day. •-George L. Bultrick, in Detroit Free Presa

THE OLD MILL MYSTERY

By Arthur W. Marchmont, B. A.

Author of “Miser Iloadley’s Secret,” “Madeline , Power,” “By Whose Hand,” “Isa,” &c„ £c. [Copyright, 1893, by the Author.] CHAPTER XXVII. *TOU SHALL HOT LIVE TO BELONG TO ANOTHER MAN.” For a moment he made no attempt to go near her. “Why do you madden me in this way, Mary?” he asked. “Am I so hateful to you that,when I seek thus to be alone with you, your only feeling is loathing? Is it so unpardonable a crime that my love should urge me to bring you here? All my wrong is that I love you." “Love! What can you know of love, when you seek to force it with an iron padlock? Love trusts and does not threaten. You know nothing of love.” “Trusts,” he returned, impatiently. “And have I not trusted? I have ‘trusted’ too long, and nothing has come of it. Now I will act.” “Why have you changed like this to me?” asked Mary, with more gentleness. “You said that it would make you happy to see me happy, and you promised to help to prove Tom’s innocence. What have I done to change you or to anger you?” “You have done nothing. Nothing yon could do would anger me. But the time has come when I must act. You could not understand if I told you. Mary, I swear to- you I love you with all my soul. There is not a wish nor a thought, however light, however wild, I will not try to satisfy, if you will only be my wife. Will you not listen to me? Ido not ask you to love me at first. I know that may be hard —perhaps impossible. But while love Is love, such a passion as mine must make an echo in time. Will you trust me?”

He spoke with eager, earnest pleading, and made as though to take her in his arms. “Keep away from me! You forget I am the plighted wife of another man.” He stopped, let fall the hands which he had held toward her, and stared at her with love, disappointment and rage battling together for mastery in his gaze. Slowly the color ebbed away from his cheeks, and he grew deadly, dangerously white and stern. “Is that your final answer?” he asked, his lips moving at first with no .sound issuing from them; while his voice at length sounded hoars® and deep, hollow and nerveful. “If it were my last moment on earth I would say the same,” ariswered the girl, with compressed passion. “I loathe the very sight of you.” He made no reply to this, but continued to gaze at the girl. An expression of sadness dimmed the fiercer light of his eyes, but he went whiter zven than before. Then a great sigh, almost a sob, burst from him, shaking his broad frame and making him quiver like a struck woman. “Then may God have mercy on m®, for you shall not live to belong to another man.” The awful stillness in the room, the man’s moving agitation, his solemn earnestness and the despairing determination in his voice showed Mary that the danger which threatened her was real enough, and that if she was to escape her wits must be quick in finding a plan. After he had spoken the man leant hack against the wall, folded his arms across his chest and gloomily looked at the girl. Mary moved away, and by slight and almost imperceptible degrees placed as great a distance as possible between them, watching him all the time like one watches a dangerpus animal. It was a time of fearsome suspense, hut the girl forced herself to keep up her courage and tried to think how she could possibly escape. She ran her eye quickly but stealthily over the two doors to the room. There was one behind her, but this she felt sure he had locked before he had trapped her in •ihe office. The other he had locked when first he had thrown the mask off hi’s conduct, but the key remained in the door. Could she reach it? If she could do that and then get out of the room her ■jhances of ultimate escape in the large fooms of the mill would be much greater. But Gorringe stood right in the path, blocking the way completely, and she could think of no plan to lure him away. He himself removed part of the difficulty With another deep-drawn sigh he moved from where he stood with his back to the wall, and tho sound of the slight movement sent a thrill of cold to the girl’s heart. Then suddenly a plan, fully formed, rushed into aer mind. Close behind her were several packets of cotton, and near to it a large bundle of waste. Towards this she moved, as if scared toy him: and when he opened p drawer

of the table and bent over it in search, as Mary supposed, of a weapon, the girl seized some large handfuls of the waste and the cotton and heaped them on the standard gas lamp which lighted the room, thus shattering the globe and extinguishing the light. She rushed to the opposite side of the room, and, throwing a couple of the packets of cotton where she had been standing, so as to make Reuben Gorringe think she was hiding on that side, she ran quickly and softly to the door from the side where he would not expect her. To her intense relief she found the key without difficulty and had turned it and opened the door before Gorringe had reached her. Just as she was rushing out of the room she felt his hand on her arm. But she tore it away from him, and, pulling the door after her with all her strength, crushed his arm and caused the hand to relax its hold. Then she fled rapidly through the next room, which was the outer and larger office, and sped out into the darkness of the mill. She had formed a plan in thought; namely, to try and make her way to a window overlooking the lane which ran along one end of the mill —one of those by which Tom had been accused of breaking into the place. To reach this, however, she would have to pass through a long room filled with spinning machines, down a flight of stone steps, through the blowing-room and across one of the smaller weaving sheds which was close to that. Another plan she had was to rush away to the top of the building and hide where she could till morning came. Her anxiety to get away from the place, however, made her prefer the former. But the chance of carrying out any definite plan seemed very remote, for the girl heard Reuben Gorringe hurrying after her. She determined to hide, therefore. She ran on as fast as possible, stopping an instant to tear off her boots with nervous haste, and then with noiseless tread crossed the first of the work-rooms. Remembering that in the second there was a heap of baskets, she rushed to the spot and crouched down beside them. She could hear Gorringe moving, and once or twice his voice, calling her by name, reached her ear. She could teil by the sound that he was at the far end of the first room; and she held her breath to listen for what he was doing and in what direction he was moving. It was a brilliant night, and the rays of the full, moon flooded through the many windows of the place, bathing the whole in a white light. But this light made her escape much more perilous, and she was afraid to move lest she should be found.

The latter fear prevailed; and finding, after some minutes of absolutely intolerable suspense, that the sounds of Gorringe’s movements came no nearer, she rose and moved as silently as a ghost across the forest of machinery in the direction where she judged Gorringe must be. Just when she was reaching the division between the two rooms, some weighty thing fell with a huge clattering noise, close to the spot where she stood. It raised such a clang in the weird stillness of the night that she started violently and could scarce refrain from screaming out. She checked herself with a great effort, and in her panic tried to dart back to her hiding place by the baskets. She had scarcely moved three paces, however, before she heard the rush of footsteps through the room adjoining, and Reuben Gorringe stood by her side with the light of a brilliant lantern turned full upon her white, terrorstricken face. “You cannot escape me,” he said. “It is useless to try.” He laid a hand on her arm and held the girl in a firm grasp, and led her back to the office. “What do you wish me to do?” she said, in a faltering tone. “It’s too late to think of that now,” his voice was sad and low; “yon gave me your answer. If we cannot live together, at least we can die together. In death you cannot hate me, as in life you cannot love;me.” “Do you mean to murder me?” cried the girl. “I could not bear to see you another’s wife,” he answered, in the same calm, despairing monotone. Then after a moment’s pause he flashed out into sudden passion. “By Heaven, the mere thought of it is a hell to me. To know that another would have the right to take you in his arms, to press your heart to his, to shower his kisses upon your cheeks, your hair, your lips, and to feel your caresses answering to his own? By , I would lcill you a hundred times first! But come, it is no time for talk. Come.”

He checked the outburst of feeling and led the way in the direction of the office. , “Have you no mercy?” asked the girl when they reached the room, pleading with him. “WiU nothing move you?” “Yes, it is mercy that makes me act thus,” he answered, with a grim, short laugh. “Mercy for myself—aye, and mercy for you. You cannot be afraid to die. You have wronged no one in the world; your life has been full of goodness and kindness. You will but be in Heaven a finger’s length before your time.” “You forget, ls I die you will condemn an innocent man to a shameful death, for I alone can prove Tom’s innocence.” “That is a curious plea to put to me,” answered Gorringe, frowning. “But even that is nothing. I will tell you now, he is innocent, and his innocence can be proved without you. You may be easy on that score,” he said, with a sneer. “Thank God! thank God for that!" cried the girl, joyously, while the tears of gladness rushed into her eyes. But the sight of her joy ano the glad look on her face inflamed all the man’s wild jealousy. “By Heaven, hiss, do you want to drive me mad even now?” he cried. Springing forward, he threw his arms round her and. despite her florae a* rug

glss, he held her to his heart end printed hot, burning kisses of desperate and despairing passion on her face and lips. “My God, how I love you,” he cried passionately. “It is good to die like this.” Mary struggled with him, and would have screamed out in disgust and loathing and fear of him, but he smothered her screams with his kisses. “Kiss me once, Mary, just once,” he pleaded; but she struggled the more desperately to break away from him. He held her firmly until, releasing her from his arms, he gripped her wrist and dragged her toward the drawer in which lay the revolver. This he took out and then closed the drawer. “One last kiss, my darling,” ho cried. “ ’TwiU be the last my lips will ever give or yours receive.” TheD he wound his arms around her, and for an instant renewed his madly passionate kisses. “Good-by, my darling,” he exclaimed, after a minute, and, moving back from where they had stood, he freed his tight hand, in which he held the revolver. Mary closed her eyes, knowing what was coming. At that instant a slight sound broke the deathly silence of the place, and the man paused. The girl opened her eyes, and, seeing his hesitation, broke away from him by a sudden and violent endeavor. Ilis hesitation passed as quickly, and he rushed after her with the revolver pointed at her, and when Mary saw him approaching she cowered in a corner and screamed and covered her eyes, and waited for the death that seemed so close. Then came the sound of feet moving rapidly across the room, a slight struggle and a heavy fall. “You villain! You lying, luring, cheating villain! Is this your love for me?” It was Savannah Morbyn’s voice, and when Mary opened her eyes she saw the man lying on the floor, bleeding from a fearful wound in the back, while Savannah, her face blazing with a light of mad rage, was standing over him, holding aloft the long bloodstained dagger with which she had struck him down. Then in an instant her face changed and she began to laugh. Almost as suddenly, another change showed, and throwing the dagger away to the end of the room, Savannah burst into a storm of tears and threw herself beside the prostrate, wounded man, moaning and shuddering, and sobbing, and calling upon his name with many terms of caressing endearment. Then Mary stole away quietly from the place to go, for assistance, only half comprehending the meaning of the scene.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED THAT NIGHT IK THB HILL Faint and trembling with fright, Mary hesitated in doubt for a moment how to get out of the mill. Knowing that both the doors and gates were locked, she thought of the small windows through one of which she had before intended to try and escape. Her limbs were shaking so violently that she scarce keep her feet, but she made a great effort to regain self-com-mand, and reflecting that perhaps the issue of life and death depended upon her speed, she ran through the long work-rooms and down the narrow staircase to the corner, where the two or three windows were which overlooked Wateroourse lane. They were closed and fastened, but after a little delay she succeeded in opening one, through which she was able to escape. The rush of the cold night air restored her somewhat. Without thinking to whom she should go—for she was still too dazed and frightened to think correctly—she ran instinctively in the direction of her own cottage. When she reached it there was a surprise in store for her. Gibeon Prawle stood by the door. At the sight of him the girl’s intense excitement broke her down. She burst into tears and stood clinging to his arm, sobbing hysterically, unable to speak a word and gasping, as if for air. “What’s the matter, Mary?” he asked, wondering and alarmed. “Has anything happened? What is it?” Then she managed to tell him something of what had occurred and to urge him to go for assistance. “Reuben Gorringe stabbed by Savannah!” he cried, in intense excitement. “How came you all there?” “Don’t stay to ask now,” she said, hurriedly. “Go for help. Go at once. I cannot move another step.” “She’s mad,” he cried, breathlessly. “I’ve traced her. I came back to tell you;” and with this he ran off at top speed for a doctor and the police. The girl looked for a moment after him as he disappeared in the darkness, then tottered into the cottage and, feeling utterly prostrated and weak, had only strength to drag herself to her bed and sink down upon it exhausted, calling in a feeble voice to her mother to come and help her. When the latter came the girl had fainted.

Early the next morning Gibeon was at the cottage asking for her, and, although she was still faint and weak and ill, she dressed herself and went to him. “You are ill,” he said, when he saw the pale wan look on her face. “Can you bear to hear news?” “I have come to hear it,” she answered. “I can bear anything better than suspense. What happened last night?” “I only know a little about that. I have other news—good news it should be for you. Can you bear to hear that? I was‘waiting last night to tell you when you found me here.” “What is it? About Tom?” As she asked this a light pink flush just tinged her cheeks, and; her eyes brightened. “Yes,” he answered. “I have determined to tell the truth and risk all consequences.” “The truth?” cried Mary; and her old suspicions concerning him flashed upon her; and showed in <ihn look she b«i>t upon him.

■'Tea, tbs truth, flat H m not wut you suspected when I was laut here,” he answered, observing her look “Yon were on the wrefng track then, Mary, and I was a fool to be angry instead of just telling you the whole truth. But ! was afraid; and the very readiness with which I saw you suspected me, increased my fear of speaking. I wanted to clear Tom in some other way, and without my telling everything. That's why I've been hunting down that girl. Savannah; so as yon might have a handle over her to make her speak the truth and bear out Tom’s story. But when I got away I began turning things over and I couldn't help remembering that you didn’t stop'at a risk to save me that night in the barn; and then I grew wild with myself and soft like at thinking of what 3 T ou must be suffering with suspense. So I just finished the inquiries I wanted to make about Savannah, and then came back to clear Tom." “You can clear him?” broke in Mary, eagerly. “Yes, I can do <hat. This ain’t been a murder at all. Old Coode didn’t die a violent death; he just died suddenly —heart disease, or apoplexy, or something of that sort. Anj'ways, it wasn't murder.” “Not murder!’’ exclaimed Mary, her face alight with wonderment. “Why, how do you know? How can you know?” “I was in the mill that night.” “What!” cried the girl, all her suspicions reawakened with redoubled force at these words. [to BE COXTINTED.j

A POSSIBLE FUTURE.

Admiral Farragut’* Excellent Flan—One Well Worth Imitating. Admiral Farragut acted always on the principle that any knowledge might at some time become useful, and he never lost an opportunity of learning something, from everybody, wherever he happened to be, especially if it were in a line with his own peculiai talents. Detailed for service at Now Haven, when a young man, he improved the occasion to attend the Yale lectures, and twenty-five years later, when called to Washington to draw up a book of regulations for the navy, he regularly attended the lectures at Smithsonian institution. “You will never come away,” he declared, “with l out being wiser than when you went in.” In the same way, when at Vera Cruz, though ho did not at the time look forward to n war with Mexico, he closely examined every point of interest; “for,” said he, “I have made it a rule of my life to note these things with a view to the possible future.” Even after tho war, when his reputation was at its height, in visiting European ports he never, for a moment, lost sight of this duty of professional acquirement. Not a harbor was visited that he did not observe critically its chances for defense by land or sea. “Who knows,” he would ask, “but my services may be needed her* some day?” His latest biographer cites in comparison the reply of the earl of St. Vincent, formerly known as Capt. Jervis, to his secretary, when the earl was planning an attack upon Brest: “Ah, Mr. Tucker, had Capt Jervis surveyed Brest when he visited it in 1774, in 1800 Lord St. Vincent would not have been in want of information.”—American Agriculturist.

RECONSIDERED THE QUESTION.

Is Greater Pleasure Derived from Anticipation Than from Realization? That Long Islanders are not wholly devoid of humor, which has been charged against them, is clearly demonstrated by a recent occurrence a i Riverhead, the Suffolk county-seat. It seems that the local debating society had under consideration the old topic: “Whether there is greater pleasure derived from anticipation than from realization?” This weighty subject was discussed at length, and was finally carried in favor of anticipation by a heavy majority. Now, it happened that a favorite dish of Riverheadcrs is rabbit stew, and that one of the losing faction, Nate Downs, is esteemed as the best concooter of rabbit stew on the eastern end of Long Island. Not long after the famous debate Nate invited the whole company to visit his house and partake of the favorite dish. Anticipation ran high, and at the appointed hour the club assembled en masse, but, alas for realization, there was no rabbit stew, only the usual paraphernalia of serving it—dishes, knives, etc. Nate had sought by this practical method to force the society to reconsider its hasty decision, and was eminently successful. The company left, very angry, but with the settled conviction that so far as rabbit stew was concerned realization would be morn satisfactory than anticipation.

Little People in Other Lands.

If you were a German child of four years, you would know how to weed your mother’s garden without ever pulling up a flower or a vegetable, and you would do it, too, for little German boys and girls are taught to work in the fields almost as soon as they can walk. By the time you were twelve years old you would be quite an experienced farmer. If you remained in Germany the law would require you to go to school ten months out of every year until you were sixteen years old, but during the vacations and holidays your parents would train you to work out of doors, only there would not have to be any force about it, for work would have become a habit to you, and you would enjoy it. A Japanese baby never learns how to if there is any truth in the old ridage that you must “creep before you walk,” it is no wonder that they are not very graceful walkers. The poor, tiny tots are taught to begin walking on their hands and «oles of their feet, and when they sit they squat on the soles of the feet. —American Agriculturist. Colorado Sprctos contains the reaA deuces of twenty-one millionaire*. 4

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McCLURE’S MAGAZINE For 1894. Th*j editors of McClure’s Mag*, «ine aim to publish the Best Literature ...AND THB... Most Interesting Knowledge tnd to make every line in the m&f»» tine both instructive and entee* taining. 100 fIBN AND WOrtEN FAMOUS Ilf UTBRATURB AND ACHIEVEMENT will b* rsprsssntsd In McClur*'g Magazine, slthaF M authors ol article* *r a* participants to dialogue* and interviews, tr m subjects 3 irtlcUi. Stevenson’s New Novel. A ROMANCE OP THO . •OUTH SEAS, by Robert /K&V Loala Stevenson and Lloyd T Osbourne, will run through four jgm ■umbers, beginning with Jao- Jm v ■ary. Thi* story is one of thrill- JeT Ing adventure and myateriouo happenings, reminding one of £ TY/fL i “ Treasure Island,” and of ** Tho , Wrecker.” f William Dean Howells i §Wlll contribute a aerial tteijfi to run through three more especially for younger reader*, and, like all hi* storieC for young people, It will be joafij M interesting to their elders. Short Stories wsvmr will be contributed by Well-known writers, among othesu i Bret Harte, Joel Chandler Harris. Conan Doyle, Frank R. Stockton, Harriet Preneett Spofford, ~Q ** Clark Russell, Rudyard KlpUng, Octave Thanot, and I. Zangwill. Real Conversations. Intervlawa, Intlmata Personal Skatchaa, anC Studies of Oreat Han In Actlen, will contlan* to be marked features of coming Issue*. Uadw thi* heading are announced the following i D. L. nOODY, the Han and his work, by PROFESSOR HENRY DRUriTIONDw This Is the first complete etudy *f Mr. Moody’s career which XjjJ.Ds has ever been prepared. Gladstone, As a Lsadcr of Men, f/ ff y\f By HAROLD FREDERIC. / Philip D. Armour. By ARTHUR WARREN. Mr. Armour to pmbebly the greatest merchant In the history of the world. He t* also a great philanthropist. TMn article will present the many sidea of hi* aetow kies, and will be fully Illustrated. Bismarck, w At his Oreateet, ARCHIBALD PORBBSs Ruskin at Home* f— - By fl. H. fPIBLHANk Pierre Loti, A A personal sketch, by V-t'CvR. riADAiIB ADAH. (a YffY fUphonse Daudet, . Jules Verne, | Bardou, 1 Andrew Carnegie Archdeacon Farrar, *mm s —n. Dumas, the Younger. « T\ Camlla Flamarlon, CHARLES A. DANA MtYxtni’ik are Ax subjects of articles If the form of Interviews, In which Bfc. tjJHw* the matter is mainly sutobte* graphical. These articles in many lißy cases give full length portrait* of their subjects, the stories el aJs their lives, struggles, schlevm menu and succssass. These articles will be fufly ttust rated. Famous Contributors. In addition to the special announcements abovut Important contributions, some of which are unlqng are in preparation byt Prof. Henry Drummond, Herbert D. Ward. William Dean Howells, Bret Harte, H. Beyesen, ft. do Biowltz, Thomas Nslson Page, Frank R. Stocktem. W. B. Henley, Andrew Long, Margaret Deland, Archdeacon Farm*, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles A. Dana, floerge W. Cable. Ollbert Parker, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. Edge of the Future. Articles under this head will deal with the Mam Vela of Science, and Interesting subjects in the fioldfi ts Railroading, Electricity, Ships, Arts Relating tg the Prolongation of Life, Bzplorations, etc. NOTABLB FEATURES of the Magazine; Timely articles/Papers of Adventure, Progressive Portrait are, Stranger than Fiction, which have proved an popular, will continue to characterize coming iivuam The regular price of McClure’s rUgazlun is 15 cents a Copy. $1.50 a Yeaaw Hnw to Get this Magazine. We Have Made Special Arrangements With the Publishers, S. S. McCLURE, Limited, OF 743 AND 743 BROADWAY, NEW YORK* Whereby We Can Offer the People's Pilot AND McCLURE’S MAGAZIRI la Combination for Only $2.25 a Year, Payable In Advance B/ Subscribing for the People's Pilot You Cstj Have this Splendid Magazine ter Only a Year, or 104 Cents a Copy. Address PILOT PUBLISHING CO, M N&SELAES. INS,