Rensselaer Republican, Volume 14, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 January 1882 — THE RED FLAG AT NO. 64. [ARTICLE]

THE RED FLAG AT NO. 64.

Cousin Ned, from California, Nevada, New Mexico, and all other places beyond the Eocby Mountains, has been paying us a visit. You know what a jolly good soul Ned always wds and he is just as jolly now—as why should he not be, with an income of six or seven thousand a year? Beside that, my Roor George’s eighteen hundred hides its diminished head. He is handsomer than ever, too —the same merry brown eyes and chestnut hair; but, in addition an appearance, an air so altogether distingue, iha%our neighbors all go to their windows to gaze after him. Well, do you know, the moment he appeared I set my heart on him for our dear old friend Adelaide, who shall not waste her sweetness on the desert air if I can help it. You know I always had a fancy for making matches, though to confess the truth, I have never yet scored a success in that line; my two prede3tihed affinities always fly v off at a tangent just as I flatter myself matters are progressing beautifully..

But Adelaide and Ned have been corresponding a year or two; he speaks of her with great respect—as how could he otherwise, of course?—and I have fondtiy hoped that his mission to the east may nave more relation to the affairs of Ihe heart than to mining stock as he pretends. Well, soon after his arrival, three weeks ago, Ned and I were sitting in the dining room alone; the children had started for school, and George had kissed me and gone down town, after an hours’ talk about ranches, burros, gulches, and canyons. Now that I was alone with our visitor, the conversation took a confidential turn, bordering on the sentimental, and in pursuance of the idea, uppermost in my mind I told him I thought it mysterious,providential,that he had not fallen a victim to some bonanza princess, or some bewitching senorita with no dowry but her beauty. v* “And by the way,” Iwenton, “wMt was ever the trouble between you and the captain’s daughter, Ned?” You remember, of course Julia, how much we heard at that time about that affair —how duriug the war I used to read to you, even during study hours, the letters 1 bad received from brother Jim, statiomd at Fortress Monroe.giving the details in Jim’s rather satirical style, of the serious flirtation in progress between Lieut. Ned, of Company C, and Captain Carrington’s pretty daughter, ot the regulars? And afterward, how some way a shadow came between them—nobody could tell bow, only that Ned was hasty, and had exaggerated ideas of a man’s prerogatives perhaps, and Miss Darlington was prouct and shy. So it was forgotten. And now this same lieutenant, after hair-breadth escapes from shot and shell, and scalping Apaches, sat there iu an easy chair by my Baltimore heater, and actually turned pale because I mentioned the captain’s daughter! He had nothing to communicate, however; bade me consider that we were always great fools at 21, and likely at that time to get caught in a trap, or, on the other hand, to throw our chances of happiness away, just as it chanced to be; be became silent, and I had not the heart to jiiliy him as he sat there watching th# floating smoke of his cigar with a far off look in his eyes—knowing as Ijdid that he had gone back fifteen years, and that he was walking the mood-light beach with pretty Lottie Darlington, while he band of the regiment played in the distance. From the sublime to the ridiculous—it is always my fate. fiear Julia. Barney, the factotum of the neighborhood, tapped at the window, and as I raised the sash, said: “A foiue morning, mum; there’s a red flag out an number 64, and I thought I’d be afteir coming to tell ye. *Tis a foine house, and ioine leddy, more’s the pity.” You see Barney! knows my weakness, and he had keen me a few days before an animated bidder at an auction in the neighborhood. “Thank you Barney, I think I’ll be op band,” 1 replied, closing the window. “A foine leddy,” to be sure; I had often met her—a fair-faced woman, plainly and tastefully dressed, walking with two„children. Her house seemed the abode of peace and comfort, so far as the passer-by cohid judge, and what could have compelled the breaking up of so flue an establishment? At all events I would not stop to speculate—it was possible here was my opportunity to secure a handsome sideboard at a bargain. As I wished to be on band m time to look through the house before the sate begun, I asked Ned to have the goodness to excuse me lor an hour or so. * will’. go with you, Mrs. loonies, be said, quite gayly, an (Iran up-stairs /or bis bat add cane. So off we went to 64, where the flaming flag announced the desecration of household goods. We were admitted by the men in charge of the sale; and such a charming abode! Not a down-right curiosity shop, the effect of decorative art run ip ad, but such teste Mid ingenuity [every where visible. People with shrewd, hard fades, boarding-house keepers, “second-hand men,” eying the engravings and prettv water-colors on the parlor walk running their greasy fingers over the keys of the piano, turning chairs topeyturvey, and shaking tables to seefeow firm on their legs tnev might, be. Sitting by a window ! discovered old Mrs. «*T- - .vJT i.-.l f

Wiggan, with whom 'I had a little acquaintance. '•mrrammtm “Such a charming house!” said I. “Is it not a pity to break np this charming nest. Do ,you . know the. family?” ‘‘Poor Mrs. Graham! „ She lived her*, with her children so comfortably and happily, two or three lodgdra on her upper floor, until a few ludnths ago she lost everything by the iailure*df ia banking-house. She'had uo relatives in the city; has struggled on, tried so get boarders, but the location is too remote; she sees uo way but to give it -up, place her children with friends in the country,' and tty to earn ft livelihood bv painting.” j C My eyes were dim,and I \fould gladly at that moment have relinquished the best bargain in sideboards. Ned.; too, looked awful sorry, as 1 he gazed meditatively out of the window where the bright-eyed little girl and boy were loading dirt into a tiny cart' with a miniature shovel; From the floor above came the sharp ring of the auctioneer’s voice. , “How much—how much? Six dollars—did you say s7—gone at $7!” , The auctioneer descended with his followers into the front chamber* Before I knew it Ned was there, and, in his impetuous way, was bidding in a fashion to astonish the “second-hand men.” “Was there insanity in his family?” I asked myself. He made a brave stand for the sideboard, but it was of no avail. Every article from the second floor down was purchased that morning by the distinguished stranger. All had gdne but Ned, myself, and the auctioneer. The latter knocked at the door ;of the back parlor.“ Come in,” said a voice, and the. burly man swung the doors aside. The mother was making an effort to rise, but the little boy was clinging so closely about her neck that she could not readily free herself. As she arose and came forward we saw the traces of tears, the paleness Of her face, the tremulousness of her whole form.

From Ned, who was standing just behind me, I suddenly heard the words: . 1 “My God! is it possible!” Turning, I saw him with a face taost indescribable in expression. Of course there was no doubt about his being out of his mind—too much auction had made him mad. The auctioneer, after opening the doors,had been called suddenly away, and we three noyy stood there—those two gazing at each other, and I at both. “Edwin!” at last said Mrs. Graham;. “Edwin!” with a voice and smile so sweet and sad that I did.not wonder at what followed. Ned’s ashen face suddenly flushed all over. “Lottie!” he cried, stretching his arms toward her. “Lottie, my beloved, have I found you again and he clasped her to his heart. The queerest termination to an auction! I have seen many in my capacity as housewife, but never one like .this. Mrs. Graham was the “captain’s daughter,” and the generous impulse of the honest Californian had restored his old sweetheart her home—yes, and the heart of her faithiul lover. “Mamma,” said the little fellow, shyly, “is this gentleman the .auctioneer, and will he take away all our pretty things?” “No, my darling,” said Ned, lifting tbe child Jar above his head, and then bringing tbe round cheek to a level with his own lips, “all your pretty things will remain—you and mamma, too.” “And you, too?” said Bertie, cordially. “Hike you.” i 1 And so these two, after years of separation were brought together again. And in such an odl manner, too! I couldn’t help thinking how differently I should have managed it, had I been writing a story instead of acting a part in real Urn. 1 should have found Mrs. Graham first, and sympathizingly got her to tel) me the history of' her troubles. Of course she would have mentioned Ned, and of course I should have seen at a glance that she loved him still. And then I should have seen the good angel to bring them together, and merit and receive their life-long thanks; but instead of that, here was Barney acting the part of the angel without knowing it, and my one chance for a romantic adventure spoiled for ever. It is shatheful, abominable! And then my plans for Adelaide, a nd Ned—of course it was clear they never could succeed now. And yet I felt delighted. I went home, leaving Ned at No. 54. Wha,t a heavenly change for Mrs. Graham! How dffferent from that of the morning looked the sunlight of this afternoon! Her home intact —her little ones safely near—the pros Dec t of the lonely garret faded away ’ like a frightful dream. And Ned was as happy as a clam for having remembered the widow and th« fatherles3s, I had them all to dinner that night. Mrs. Graham is charming; I will say it, even if Adelaide dies an old maid. There will be a wedding soon at No. 54. I have already received as a present a sideboard much handsomer than Mrs. Graham’s. Barney will be provided for, and we shall all bless the day that Cousin Ned went to the au<w tion and bought upthe entire establish-ment-including a widow and two children not on-the list. It Is time, my deal 4 Julia, for me to look after the dinner; but I thought I must write to you this little romance of my humdrum life. „