Rensselaer Republican, Volume 27, Number 22, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 January 1896 — DAFT BET. [ARTICLE]

DAFT BET.

“Mlnehstedde, faniotnr for ye flo wre gardens; infamous for ye fayrc." That fa how an old chronicler sums tip the character of the village. The flower gardens remain unto this day; so does the fair. But the fame of the one and the Infamy of the other have long been, merged In a decent-obscurity. Minch atead has, Indeed, shared the fate of a hundred other villages. It has succumbed to an age of railways. Formerly, Londoners used to visit Miueh•tead for change of air. They then took as long reaching it by coach or by post dhaise as they now take over a railway journey to St. Leonards or Eastbourne, Bath chairs and donkey chaises were quite abundant on Miueh3:ead common then. Children ami urses thronged it It was a popular saying in the place that "“seven airs met there’’—meaning thereby seven distinct characters of atmosphere. How that number was arrived at is scarcely obvious. But, at any rate, the common was,, and Is.jpartieularly bracing, and a day spent upon it cannot fail to invigthe spender. Now, however, Ichabod! No one is to be met there save the übiquitous golfer, the loafer, who lives upon his lost balls, and the dingiest sheep and most odoriferous goats that are to be found within the twelve-mile nidi us. The fair, as we have said, still-re-mains. It Is held at Bartlemvtide on the old village green. There is an okl and there Is a new green at Mfnch•tead. The latter deserves the name, for It has a fine expanse of turf; with the former It Is otherwise. Every Made of grass liaslongdisappearod from ft It Is a bare, worn space of gravel «.nd sand, trodden to the consistency of a road by playing children and loafing men and women. It is here that the denizens, whose houses lie around the green, are full of cursing and bitterness for three whole days in every August. The strident music of the merry-go-sounds, the nauseous odors of their oilfed engines, the oaths of drunken men. the shrieks of drunken women, the general rowdyism and disorders which are rampant after dark may serve as some excuse even for cursing and bitterness. .Many Minchsteadites have tried to get the nuisance put down, but without avail. The fair is held by royal charter. An act of Parliament alone can abolish it And Parliament has its Stands too full already to be passing acts *- for the abatement of mere local nuisances. The fair, therefore, continues. In the daytime It is quite respectable; it Is even aristocratic, as aristocracy In Minelistead goes. Ladles—no mere lydles—have been seen in the swinging boats before dusk; gentlemen—wnd those not simply gents—stroll up there to while away an hour of the afternoon In cpcoaaut skies and rifle shooting. Thera Is a famous shooting range, kept fay one Amos Dunkley. which has graced Miuclistead fair regularly since the early QO’s. You do not simply shoot down a tube at glass bottles, but you faave a sort of miniature jungle wherein to practice your markmanshlp—a Jungle full of moving rabbits and Hying birds for ,the experts, of stationary r targets and bottles for the Inexperienced. To those Minchsteadites who used to patronize this gallery a few years ago •ue figure must have been very familiar. It was that of a middle-aged woman, belonging evidently to the poorer dosses, who used to stand Just at the entrance of Dunkley’s gallery all * through the three days of the fair. She went by the name of “Daft Bet.” Pass era-by would nod to her in a pitying •art of way, and give her coppers or ■mall silver coins. She d # id not, however. pay much heed to any of them, or •rep seem to care whether they gave faer money or not. Her eyes were all «be whilo fixed upon the entrance of dhe mooting gallery, with a set, eager impression, as though she were anxioush watching for some one to come out.

So rt)e was. So she bad been no 'fr for [ thirty years. When eleven struck, and. i)unl|ley came to Hie door to close his gallery for the night, she would ask him, eagerly: ' * “How about Tom? Will he be coming home to-night?’' And Dunkley would say, with a kindly gravity that «lld credit to his feiings: “No, lass, no! ' Torn must stay tonight to take care of the show,” “But you'll not keep, him to-morrow night, Mr. Duukley, sip—you’ll not keep to-morrow Y’ , «T “Nay, lass! I’ll not keep him to-mor-row." ; For thirty years, had this same,-dia-logue taken place on each of the three nights of Minchstead Bartlemy fair. Daft Bet’s story was a sufficiently sad one. In the year 1855, a bride of six weeks’ standing, she had lost her husband In the following tragic way: Dunkley, one,of whose assistants had been unexpectedly laid up, haWengaged Tom Pilcher, a resident of Minchstead, to help him with hfs shootiug gallery during the three days of the fair. Toward evening, on the last of the three days, something went wrong with one of the running rabbits, and Tom crept Into the jungle to put the thing in older. The shooting was stopped while he did so, but the gallery was very full Just then; there was great confusion and crowding among the would be marksmen, and somehow one of the attendants did not observe that Torn Pilcher was in the jungle, for he was stooping very low and was bidden by the artificial grass and rushes. The nttendant lia tided a loaded gun lon gentleman who stretched out his hand for it. The latter, also never seeing Tom, took aim at one of the rabbits in the grass, and—before be could be stopped—fired. There came a sharp cry from the jungle, followed by an ominous groan. Dunkley sprang over the barrier and rushed forward, lie found poor Tom PUclier huddled upon the ground, just breathing his last. An ugly wound in the forehead showed where the ball bad penetrated. Everybody present was horror-strick-en by this tragical accident. The gentleman who had tired the shot, especially, was In a perfect agony of distress. But the affair was rendered sadder still by what followed. Tom’s young wife, who had come there to walk home with him, was actually waiting for him at tbd entrance at the time when the accident occurred. Some exeited and thoughtless withess of the catastrophe went out and told her—never attempting to break It gently, or in any way to prepare the poor girl for the shock. She ran wildly in. She forced her way through the crowd to her dead husband. She threw herself upon his body, with a terrible wail. When she at length raised her eyes from the dead they were fixed and strange. The light of reason was gone from them. It never returned.

This is how it was that ever afterward, during the Minelistead Bartlemy fair, you would find her at the door of Dnnkley’s gallery Waiting for Tom; never quitting her post, never growing weary, always receiving with patient acquiescence Dunkley’s intimation that Tom could not be spared from the show that night, and buoying herself up with the promise that ho would sm-ely be allowed to come with her tomorrow. The gentleman who had fired the fatal shot made what amends were possible to this afflicted creature, lie called upon the vicar of the parish and arranged to pay the widow, through him, a sufficient weekly allowance to keep her in comfort for her life, oresupposing such a course should be held necessary—to defray the cost of her maintenance in a good private asylum. The former course was adopted, for the doctors pronounced her quite harmless, and declared that there was no reason for shutting her up. And so poor Daft Bet lived on in Minchstcad for thirty years, pitied and kludly used by all; not unhappy, never complaining, but supported from first to last by her merciful delusion, and always confident that she should see her Tom—io-ruor-row. fclt was exactly thirty years after the fatal accident—ln the August of ISSS - that a party of young fellows who had come over with a cricket team to play a mateh.against the famous Minelistead Club strolled down to the fair in the evening on the lookout for a little amusement. Some betook themselves to one show, some to another. Three or four went into Dunkley's world-re-nowned shooting gallery. One of them, a good-looking, merry young fellow of about 20, seemed to attract Daft Bet's attention as he went by. for she sudden-

ly fixed her great, hollow eyes upon him and followed him into the gallery with an eager glance. By and by she went up to the doorkeeper. “Just let me 111. I want to speak to Tom,” she said, eoaxingl.v. “Xay, Bet,” said the man,.with more kindness than might have been expected from his rough appearance. “You cannot come in nowv'lass. Tom's busy. He has no time to be speaking to you." ‘Do let mV In, therc ; s a dear.'k she persisted, earnestly. j. doorkeeper shook his head. “I mussen, lass,” he said decidedly. “Oh, there is Mr. > Dunkley!” she cried. “Let me ask Mr. Dunkley. Mr. Dunkley, sir!” Amos was standing near the entrance. He turned* round at the sound bf his name, and Bet preferred her request to llilU. 0 “Mr. Dunkley, sir; let me come In for a minute to speak to Tom,” she pleaded. “Tom’s busy, lass," said Amo?, Using the same excuse as the doorkeeper hod done. “He can* be spared from bis work at present.?' “Biit let me just come la and wait inside till he Is ready to speak to me.” cHod Bet, claspiug her hands. “Oh, do let me, Mr. Dunkley, sir!” . Amos Dunkley was a soft-hearted man. He had always been very kind

to Bet, and It went against him to jml fuse her this small and easily granted favor, by which, moreoyer, the poor, mad creature seemed to set such store. “Well, lass, if you do come inside,” he said, “you must just stand still and wait patiently. We cannot have business Interfered with, you know," “Oh, Mr. Dunkley. sir, i’ll be as good gold. I’ll stand inside and never move or speak till Tom is ready. Maybe I shall see Tom when I’m IntHde?” she added with half wistful inquiry to her tone.,, “No, no, lass; you’ll not; see him. He’s busy at the back,” said Amos Dnnkley. . —L. —_■ “But I’ll see him when lie’s done, Mr. ~Dunkley. Mr?” ! “Oh, yes. Bet You ? H see him -when he’s done.” She came Inside the gallery and stood quietly in a corner. Her eyes roamed about the tent until they fell upon the young man Already mentioned, and on, him they remained fixed. She followed all his movements eagerly. Never jfor a second did she allow her gaze t 6 wander frojm him. Now she seemed to be growing agitated. She could not stand still. She was twisting both her hands in a comer of her apron, then untwisting them, aud so on, rapidly. Iler feet shuffled and fidgeted on the ground. No one, how T ever, observed her. The place was full. Amos and his assistants were all busy. At last Daft Bet could remain In her place no longer. She glided swiftly forward and mingled with the throng. Soon she was close to the barrier where the marksmen stood and was almost rubbing shoulders with the young man, oh whom her eyes had been neverceasiugly fixed. They were glittering now with a peculiar light. She lifted her hand and plucked the young man by the sleeve. “Ililloa, mojherl What Is it?" he said, turning round and regarding her good-naturedly. “Where is Tom?” she asked, almost In a whisper. “My good woman, really I cannot tell you,” was the laughing rejoinder. “Ydu know where he is—you do know where he is,” she persisted, with a certain fierceness in her tone. “I assure you you are quite mistaken,” said the young man, still laughing, for ho supposed that it was some kind of joke. “I know nothing aboyt hlm. u“You shall tell ino!” she cried, passionately. “You shall tell me where he is!”' = -O' -

At this point one of the assistants, who was standing at the barrier loading rifles for use. turned round and saw Daft Bet clutching the young man’s arm. “Now then, lass,” he said, sharply, “none of that. You've no business here annoying our customers. Come, clear out of it!” The woman’s eyes blazed. With incredible swiftness, and before ho could prevent her, she reached forward and caijght up one of the weapons which he had just loaded. She pointed it straight* at the young man's forehead. She pulled the trigger. It was all the work of a second, Crack! flash! smoke! a heavy thud; and then a moment's awful silence. In that moment, while dismay still held every onlooker paralyzed, Bet threw down the discharged gun and snatched up another—loaded, ready for use. She held the muzzle against her own forehead and, crying, “HeVibeir know—he does; he- shall take me ter my Tom!” so fired, and fell. * • * * •/ * • “Good God!” said Amos Dunkley a few minutes later, to one of the dead man’s companions.. “Good God! Then that explains it.” “How? What do you mean?” exclaimed the other, who was nearly beside himself with mingled grief and horror. “I mean, young man.” answered Amos very solemnly, “that the hand of fate is clearly present in this dreadful thing. Thirty years ago her husband was accidentally shot in my gallery on this very green. The one as shot him was your poor friend’s father.”—London Truth.