Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 10, Number 45, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 8 May 1880 — Page 6
THE MAIL
A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.
THE THIN OS IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER.
There ate whips, and to pa, and pieces of strings,
There are ahoea which no little feet wear, There are bits of rfbbon and broken Tings Aud tres*es of golden hair. There are liUle dresses folded away. Out of the lightof the snnny day.
There are dainty jackets that never are worn, There are tons and models of ships, There are books and pictures all laded and torn,
And marked by the finger tips Of dimpled fingers that have fallen to dnst, Yet 1 strive to think that the Lord is Jiut.
Bat a feeling of bitterness fills my soul Sometimes, when I try to pray, That the reaper has spared so many flowers
And taken mine away. And I almost donbt if the Lord can know That a mother's heart can love them so.
Then I think of the many weary ones Who are waiting and watching to-night For the slow return of faltering feet
That have strayed from the paths of
WhorfravV darkened their lives by shame and sin, Whom the snares of the tempter have gathered in.
They wander far in distant climes, They perish by Are and flood, And tneir hands are black with the direst crimes
That kindles the wrath of God. Yet a mother's song has soothed them to
She hath lolled them to slumber npon her breast. And then I think of my ehllaren three,
watching
My babes that never grow old, Ana know they are waitiug ana forme in the city with the streets of gold. Safe, safe from the c-renof the weary years,
From sorrow and sin and war, And I thank my God with falling tears For the things in the bottom drawer.
UNBELIEF.
There is no unbelief: Whoever plants a seed beneath tho sod And waits t» see it push an ay the clod, 'i rusts in Uotl.
Whoever say*, when clouds are in the sky. "Be patient, heart! light breake'.h by and by,"
TrttsJtsthe Most High.
Whoever men, 'neath Winter'sHeld of snow, The silent harvett ef Iht future grow, Uod's power must know. **,&•?
Whoever lies down on his couch tosleep, Content to lock each sense In slumber deep, Knows God will keep.
Whoever says, "To-morrow,' "The Unknown," r"The Future," trusts tliut power alone,f
He dares disown.
Tho heart that looks on When ^ellds close, And dares to live when life has only woes, God's comfort knows.
There Is no unbelief! And day by day. and night unconsciously, The heart lives bv that lalth the lips deny
Uod no wet h. why.
i. —The Watchman.
A FATAL MISTAKE
UY HAHRETT 8Y1VVESTER,:
Author of "Fettered, Yet Free," "Clouds And .Sunshine," "J£»tell«s Error," •Valse I'riae," "Htrnpken
Dumb," Etc.. Kte. ,,..
CHAPTER I.
THE HOUSK IN THK KKAR.
A wild night—tt rain boating upon the earth in torrents, and flooding the stroots and sewers. No moon, no stars not a sign of the planetary lights. The equinox was on. Dull, dreary weather, with scarcely auy cessation ot the pour log element.
In an upper room of a neat frame bouse, on oueof the suburban sheets of Brooklyn, sut a number of men and two women*. The men were fashionably dressed and lit company for their companions ot the opposite sex. Four of tbem well known throughout the eoun try, the others known to certain public officials only.
One of tho women, fair to look upon, seemed atrmigaly out of place and ill at ease, but tho other had a bold face aud a reckless air.
All were at a sumptuously spread t»ble, eating and drinking. Now aud then a hurst of laughter ascended to the irescoed ceiling.
Jolly parties frequently gathered here, whose hilarity caused 110 comment when its sounds reached without, for the house stood some distance in from the street and was surrounded by a well kept gar den. the shrubbery of which almost hid the lower portion of it.
To the lelt was a summer house of quaiut design, over which clambered vines and dowers Opposite the house stood a Utile wooden church, in the mid*t of a large uncultivated Held, Few houses there were in the vicinity, and the street was never lighted save by tho moon, f«r tho city authorities seemed yet to bo blind to the interests of the suburban inhabitants and allowed
110
lamps. In this upper room sat the gay party for several hours, talking, eating ana driuklng, when one of the four men, putting down his wt 110glass, aud wiping his lips, asked: "Kicker, what uewa have you received from tho country to day?"
The mau addressed as Rieker—short, •tout, and bUxe—tossFd off his glass of Mutnin before answering. "None—a fact for which I cannot account." "Oh, H'a nothimt to be alarmed about, my dear George!"' cried the bold faced woman. "There is nodauger. The men in that section are secure enough. Tbey are able to take care of themselves. We must be cautious here." "1 believe Jess ts right," said another of the four. "While we have here a pretty sure retreat, we have the disadvantage of a near police station. We are enjoying ourselves and making eonsiderable noise, totally regardless of consequences," "Not so," said Ricker. "Our very hilarity disarms suspicion."
A colored servant entered. He stood •till near the door and, without ottering a word, placed his finger upon his lips.
In an iestant the lights were out and the houte was enveloped in darkness. The mats Ricker caught the fair, timid woman by toe ham) *u1 silently drew hftr Into the hall and down one "flight of stairs into a small room, where a wax taper afforded adim light, "I'm afraid!" shivered the woman. "What is wrongf" "Nothing, I think,1' whispered Ricker. «Tbe signal given was one of warning only, we are obliged to be careful. Bftmain here till my return."
He left her seated on a luxurious set. tae, trembling and sick. In a few minutes he returned, a pleased look on his oountsnance. After lighting the lamp, betook a seat beside her. "Everything la well, 017 good girl. Sam saw aa officer stop in front of the
r4
±JlixvxvJaj
gate and gave the notification which we require in any such event." The young woman was sobbing violently, snd paid little attention to what was being said. "Ob, George Ricker," she moaned, ••wby do you not forsake this villainous course of living and be honest? Here you are in constant danger of being arrested and sent to prison, perhaps for life, while, if you were honest, there would be no need for secrecy, and you could mingle with the world unsuspicious ot any. I have come here at great peril, purposely to ask yon to stop where you are—to lesve this place and become a man. Will you not do so?"
Tbe man laughed lightly and gave her a quizzical look. "Came here for that, eh? Well, Sis, I don't care to quarrel, but I must say I doa't believe you. You came here for advice. You area timid bird sometimes but you'd never hesitate to hsve your own wsy wben it eame to the pineh. There's something on your mind. If nay parent hadn't reprobated me, you would not be forced to come so far to seek counsel which I am quite ready to give. Don't let scruples stand in the way. B« willing to dare and to do. But bow did you succeed in getting here?" "Father thinks I have gone to visit a friend," said the weman. "Then there is no danger of bis seeking you?" "He would not think of it. I told him I should return in the morning." "And don't ever come here again, I beg," replied Ricker. "I'm bad because there's wicked blood in me, bnt I don't want you to be what I am. Yet as to prosperity, you must be rich, and, if your father can't supply your cultured tastes, wby, the next best step is— I'll close the door, that tbe whole house may not bear my plans for your future welfare."
Then followed a well ooncoctod plan, the details at times sending a shudder through tbe listener but she made little objection. A man's advice to a weak woman, who was already following in bis own sinful footsteps. Tbe recording angel in Heaven must have written dire condemnation against bis name, and be would surely have paused could be have comprehended tbe enormity of bis sin and its results but bis heart was calloused and his vision obscured.
Tbe house was still there was no one awake—the hilarious men and tbe woman of bold address had retired each to their several apartments—but hours passed before tbe man Ricker and bis female companion separated.
A dark night, indeed
In a studio on one of tbe small thoroughfares of New York an artist sat at bis easel. He was young and handsome, but there was a look of discontent in his face, a shadow of care upon bis brow, which gave an unnaturally grave expression to bis countenance.
It was the face of a man who suffers, and suffers inteneely. Tbe picture on his easel was a small miniature portrait—tbe portrait of a woman beautiful as a dream—beautiful as an angel or a fairy—with that pure and enchanting loveliness which seems to speak of tbe »kies—almost too beautiful for this common earth and the creatures who dwell upon its surfsoe.
Tbe eyes were blue, large, bright and limpid. Tbe small nose was of tbe purest form of Grecian the lips of the bright crimson of a newly ripened cherry, were Blightly parted, disclosing teetb'which glittered like pearls. The face was framed, in floating tresses of hair, of that shining, golden hue which is so often described by poets, yet so rarely seen in life.
The artist worked with the energy of a man who has but one objeot in life— tbe completion of bis task. His head was bent over his easel his band trembled with a convulsive and nervous movement as he clutched his brushes and mixed his colors upon the palette.
He seemed like a man possessed with a demon.A young girl, seated at a window at the opposite end of the studio, looked up every now and then from her work, and fixed her dark, watchful eyes upon tbe artist.
Each time she did so, her gaze litigered longer upon bis countenance, till at last she dropped her hands—her work lay neglected in her lap, and her eyes remained fixed upon the toiler.
This girl was not beautiful, yet there was something in her face whiob, when once seen, remains forever graven upon the memory of tbe beholder.
She was very pale—so pale that, in the dim light of tbe October afternoon, her lace seemed colorless as that of a marble statue. Her eyes were black—of that profound black which has light in its depths—eyes which had something strange in their aspect, and which reminded tr*v trho looked into them of an open —a fathomless abyss.
These dark eyes, lookiug out ot a colorless lace, were mysterious in their gazs ar„d, in the days of witchcraft would have struck terror to tbe hearts of tbe ignorant.
The artist did not see the earnest gaze fixed upon him. He never raised his eyes from the miniature. Now and then he sighed heavily as be paused for a moment from bis labor. He seemed wrapt in some mournful dream, and utterly nuconscioua of all that was passing around him.
At last the young girl addressed him. "Clarenoe," she said, "why do you work so bara?"
He laughed bitterly, but did not raise bis head. "Because I love my art," be answered, "and love little else." "Is that so, Clarence?" said tbe girl with an earnestness which was not unmixed with scorn. "Is that so?" she repeated, pointing to a pile of unfinished paintings leaning against tbe wall of tbe studio. "If it is your art which you love, wby are your great pictures all cast aaide, neglected, forgotten, for tbe portrait which you have there, la it not?"
A dark and angry expression obscured tbe face of tbe artist as be answered this question. "It Is," be said. s*4H bending over tbe easel, and never once looking at his questioner.. "T »e portrait of Mist Ovington?" "Tbe portrait of Mis* Maud Ovington," answered tbe artist, in a defiant tone.
Tbe girl laughed—a barab and mocking laugk, which had nothing womanly in its tone. "It wilt he a charming ornament for tbe lady's boudoir," she said "and she will, doubtless, value it aa much as
She paused, looking with a malicious, an almost demoniac smile at the artist, who had now raised bis bead from the fuel,
Tbe eyes of tbe two met, "As much as what be asked. "As much as she values the heart of the artist wben it ia cast beneath her feet. Nay, more, lor when die is tired of the picture she will only throw It
aside, or give it to her waiting maid. She will not trample upon it she has trampled upon the artistes heart."
The young man rose his from his seat with an exclamation of rage, then, restraining himself by a powerful effort, be sank again into his chair, and, clasping bis bands before his face, wept aloud. "Clarice! cousin Clariee!" he exclaimed, when the storm of grief had passed, "you are my father's brother's only daughter—you are my sole surviving female relative, and I have loved you as a sister. Why—why, then, do yom torture me thns? You have discovered my secret you know that I have loved —that I do love Maud Ovington—deeply, devotedly—wildly, foolishly, if you will. You know also that I am loved in return." "I do not know that," interposed the girl, coldly. "You do not know? Merciful Heaven! If there is truth in woman, I am loved, and loved as truly as my devotion deserves. Why, then, do you torture me, Clarice?" "Because I despise you, cousin!" "Despise me!" exclaimed tbe young man. "Yes, Clarence Suydam, I despise you. I have something of my mother's blood In my veins. I came 01 a prouder family than yours, as you well know, and 1 despise tbe man wbo loves, as weakly as you do, this blue eyed coquette "Coqette, Clarice?" "Aye! and so finished a coquette that she has power to blind and delude yoa, as she would a child, with the promise of a plaything. Love, Cousin! Bah! Maud Ovington knows not tfcfe meaning of tbe word. Power, pomp, wealth, admiration—these are the things that she loves, but not you, Clarence Suy^ dam!" "It is false, Clarice!" exclaimed the artist. "Were you a man, I would wring the lie from your throat!" "You think that
Bbe
will marry you?"
said Clarice, with a mocking smile— "that she will descend from her throne —that she will abandon ber place as the lovely queen of fashion, to become the wife of a struggling artist?" "I do!" cried Clarence Suydam. "True I am poor, unknown, unnoticed but what of that? Blest by ber love, I shall have power to light life's mighty battle For ber
Bake,
1
CHAPTER II. DANGER AHEAD,
It was four o'clock upon a dull afternoon in October. Tbe up town avenues were vlmost entirely deserted except by a lew solitary foot passengers, who looked as lively as travelers in a desert.
how gladly will I labor!
Trust me, cousin, tbe world shall hear of the husband of Maud Ovington, and art and beauty shall go hand in band. Ah, Clarice, it is you who know not how to love!"
Tbe girl recoiled with a brief shudder as her cousin uttered these stinging words. "You are doubtless right," she said, slowly, and with a strange emphasis. "It is I who know not bow to love." "Clarice," exclaimed tbe young man, after a pause, "give me some proof of what you say—give me proof of the false hood of her I love."
Tbe girl rose from her chair and then walked a few paces toward a table on the other aide of the room, covered with books and papers. "Shall I?" she said, pausing midway between ber chair and this table, and looking earnestly at her cousin. "Yes—yes!" "But you will hate me ever after ward—as we hate those who destroy our brightest and most cherished dreams." "No, Clarice prove to me that she is false, and I shall hate myself for my mad folly." "And you will be cured?" "Yes—forever!" "It Is for your own bappiwws, Clar ence, that I torture you," wnswefftd Clarice, selectiug a newspaper from those which were scattered upon the table.
She handed this paper to her cousin, and then resumed her seat, watching furtively from under the shadow of her long eyelashes.
He read tbe paragraph to which she had pointed, and tbe newspaper dropped from bis hand. He sat, silent and mo tionless, staring into vaoancy.
The paragraph which be had read was worded thus: "MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.—We
Un
derstand that General Dumont, of the United States Army, is about to lead tbe beautiful Miss Maud Ovington, only daughter of Honorable James Ovington, to tbe bymenial altar. The General is one of tbe wealthiest residents of this city." "Well, cousin," said Clarice, after a long pause, "are you satisfied of her falsehood?" "No!" cried the artist, passionately— "no! only from her own lips will I condemn her. Tbis may be only tbe idle gossip of tbe hangers-on of tbe fosbionable world. My dariing!" he exclaimed, addressing tbe picture upon tbe easel, "how can I doubt you? Truth looks from those radiant eyes love breathes from those rosy lips, and no words but your own will convince me of your falsehood."
At tbis moment a carriage suddenly stopped in the street below and a fashionable footman's rap resounded from tbe door. "Perhaps you may hear these words ere long," said Clarice, looking from the window, "for Miss Ovington is here It must be something extraordinary which can Have brought the queen of fashion to tbe artist's bumble studio." "Maud here!" cried Clarence Suydam. "You are dreaming, Clarice!" "Convince yourself then, cousin. There is tbe lady's carriage, and there is tbe lady herself," added Clarice', as an elegantly dressed woman descended from the vehicle.
Tbe artist's careworn face grew pale as be recognized the original o( tbemia iature. "Maud at my studio!" he muttered "something strange must have happen ed! Leave me, Clarice—leave me!" be added, with nervous impatience "I must see her alone."
The young girl retired ailently into an adjoining apartraftnt, wbich was diyided from tbe artist's studio by heavy curtains of damask.
Clarence Suydam listened to her re treating footsteps, and then, going to tbe curtains,'parted tbem and looked into tbe apartment wltbin.
It was empty. His cousin Clarice bad lelt it by a door opposite tbe curtained archway—a door which led to the «tber part of the bouse. "All is s*'*," said Clarence, as be closed tbe curtains. "We must have no listener. I scarcely know wby, but there is something in Clarice's manner wbich inspires me with fear. What terrible hatred she betrays toward tbe woman I love!"
Ho was silent, his heart beating violently, as be listened to a light footstep npon tbe staircase without. "It is she!" he exclaimed—"it is Maud!"
The door opened, and tbe original of tbe miniature entered tbe room. Miss Ovington was paler than tbe artist himself. Her large bine eyes were surrounded by purple circles, which told of sleepless nights, harawed by anxious tboagbta. The band which she extended to the artist trembled aa bo grasped it in his own. "Yon here, Maud!"be exclaimed. "Yea," ate answered, withdrawing
ber band "I come alone, unannounced, at the risk of my reputation, because life and death are in the errand." "Life and deatbl" "Yes, Clarence, my life or my death. I came to demand of you a sacrifice." "A sacrifice!" repeated the artist, trembling. "A sacrifioe, Clarence," said Miud Ovington—"you must release me from tbe vows which bind us." "Release you, Maud? Never!" "You must, I tell you, Clarence," she said, her large eyes dilating with a glare of feverish brightness. "I told you but a moment ago that I came upon an errand of life and death I spoke tbe truth when I said so. I can never be your wife!"
As Maud Ovington uttered these words a singular change came over tbe face of the artist. Until that moment, his gaze had been fixed, with earnest adoration, upon the countenance of the woman beloved, but as tbeee words were spoken bis brow contracted, tbe light in his eyes slowly faded, and the lines about his mouth assumed tbe rigidity of iron.
It was as if In that one moment his feelings toward Maud Ovington bad been transformed from love to hate. "I understand you, Miss Ovington," be said. "It is an old story. The artist who painted your portrait and who fell wildly in love with tbe original, was, no doubt, amusing—for a time. But, ridiculous as tbe man's folly has been, you have at last grown weary of it, and come to-day to tell him so." "Clarence, you are mocking me!" "Not so it is you who have mocked me it is you who have sported with the heart of the struggling artist it is you who have led him on with dreams of elysium, and who now casts him back upon tbe realities of boll. Do not fear me, Maud Ovington I release you from the vows which you breathed a few brief months ago. Tbe woman I loved was all truth and constancy, but I discover to-day that she was but a creature of the artist'? fancy—she was never Maud Ovington. I have read of your intended marriage in the Herald, madam. I know all." "But you do not know the motives for that marriage, Clarence."
:i .=«
"I do not seek to know them." "You do not know that my father is a ruined man that this marriage alone can save me from abject poverty—the most abject, the most terrible poverty— the poverty of the great, who dare not confess that tbey are poor." "I would have worked for you, Maud," said the artist, reproaohfully. "Yes, and at best your work would have given me—bread!" answered Miss Ovington, with a bitter laugh. "It was a bright dream, Clarenoe do not be angry with me, it I am tbe first to awaken from that dream. You could never have given me wealth and splendor, and these are as necessary to me as the air I breathe. The General can give me these, and he can save my father from ruin I have therefore accepted him." "So be it, madam. And you have come to bid me farewell. I do not complain. Shall I conduct you to your carriage?" "Not yet, Clarence I have a favor to aek of you." "A favor?" "Yes. In the old, happy time, while our brief dream of love lasted, I wrote you several letters—letters iu wbich I poured out my soul to the man I loved. You have tbem still?" "I have them still. Ay, Maud Ovington, I have kept them as a miser would keep tbe rarest jewels from a monarch's crown. There are thirteen of those dear letters—thirteen letters filled with vows of love and constancy, which I, poor fool, believed!" "You must return me those letters, Clarence," said Maud Ovington. "Return tbem! Why, madam?" "Because General Dumont is a proud man. When he made me the offer of bis hand, be extorted from me an oath that I had never loved before." "And you took that false oath, Maud Ovington?" "I did, Clarence I was mad, perhaps, but I took tbe oatb. Now, listen to me. Should those letters ever, by any chance fall into the hands of the General, all will be discovered, aud he will fling me from him with scorn and loathing. You must give me those letters, Clarence, that I may burn them with my own hands." "I comprohend, Miss "Ovington. You wish General Dumont to remain under the delusion that be is tbe first love of your virgin heart?"
1
"I do, Clarence." "I refuse you," said the artist, with calm determination. "You refuse?" "Yes, I refuse to see an honorable man become tbe dupe of a heartless woman. You thought to make me a victim, Miss Ovington, but you have raised a demon in tbe breast of the man you have deceived and, instead of a victim, you shall find an avenger. General Dumont shall not go blindfold to tbe altar. Before midday to-morrow those thirteen letters shall be in bis hands!"
There was a pause—a pause of terrible silence. The interview had not taken place without a listener. Tbe pale face and black eyes of Clarice Suydam appeared between tbe folds of tbe eurtalns. "Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Maud Ovington after that ominous pause, "you cannot mean tbis, Clarence—yon cannot mean to be so cruel?" "As there is light in tbe sky, I will do what I have said," be answered, with icy coldness. "And you will have no mercy?" "None whatever! You were merciless to me and you shall find me mere! less." "You will not send tbe letter to tbe General to-nlgbt, Clarence?" said Miss Ovington. "Perhaps to-nlgbt, madam—perhaps to-morrow." "Grant me one mercy—promise not to send them till to-morrow." "So be it I promise. And now, madam let me escort you to your carriage. We can have nothing more to say to each other." "Do not touch me!" she exclaimed, as tbe artist extended his band in order to conduct ber to (be staircase,
Sbe waived bim aside and left the room then, hurrying down the stairs, sbe spranglightly into her carriage and drove away.
Tbe lamps were lighted in tbe street below the windows, and tbe artist's studio waa half in shadow wben
Alias
Ovington left tbe bouse. An hour later Clarenoe Suydam and his cousin Clarice were seated at their aimple meal in tbe apartment adjoining the studio.
The artist pushed aaide his untouched plate, and, with Ida bead resting on his hand, abandoned himself to bitter reflection.
Clarice Suydam never removed her eyes from the face of ber cousin, but she kept silence and did not attempt to diatorb bis reverie.
Tbey bad aat for nearly an boar over their untasted food, whan the servant of the bouae entered and handed Clarence a letter.
Tbe young man opened it mechanic
ally and ahrugged his shoulders, with an impatient gesture ss be read the brief contents of tbe epistle. "How provoking!" he .said "a commission to-night above all other nights!" "A commission!" exclaimed Clarice— "from whom?" "From a stranger. Listen, Clarice: 'Mr. Spencer, having beard of tbe rising genius of Mr. Clarence Suydam, is anxious to treat with him for a picture to add to Mr. Spencer's collection of modern paintings. As Mr. Spencer's stay in New York will be very short, be will feel obliged if Mr. Suydam will call upon him this evening, at 8)4, at the Metropolitan Hotel.' "You will not go, Clarence, will you?" said Clarice, "you have suffered so much to-day, and you are worn out with all you have endured. You surely will not go?" "Not go, cousin Clsrice?" exolaimed tbe young man "you must indeed think me weak if you can imagine that the loss of a false woman can affect me! No, no! Art shall console me. A glorious future shall wipe out the past! I will show this woman that the artist in bis greatness may be worthy the love of an Empress!"
Clarence Suydam rose and looked at his watch. "Eight o'clock," be said "plenty of time. Good-nigbt, Claric$." "When will you return?" „asked, bis cousin. "By eleven, at the latest." "Cousin Clarence," said Clarice, earnestly, "do not go to tbis place to-night. There is something at my heart that tells me that barm to yourself will result from this meeting. If tbis Mr. Spencer desires to patronize you, let him come here—or let him wait till to-morrow." "Impossible, Clarice. I may lose a valuable patron if I fail to keep tbis appointment." "Stay, Clarence there is danger before you!" "Danger?" "Ay, danger. I feel it—I kndfr it." "Pshaw, my poor little cousin, mis is folly!" said tbe young man. "You need fear no danger, ana at eleven o'clock you shall see me Bale at home." "You promise, Clarence?" "I will return at eleven." "Swear it, cousin," said Clarence, solemnly. "Iswear."
The artist seized Clarice's hand and pressed it in his own then, hurrying down stairs, left tho house and walked slowly along the street.
Clarice sat pale and motionless before the deserted supper table. For two hours sbe sat in tbe same attitude, immovable as a statute, but wben the dock upon the chimneypiece struck eleven she rose from her seat and walked to the window. "Eleven o'clock," murmured Clarice "tbe hour has struck, and be has not yet returned. Clarence Suydam never yet broke bis oatb. My cousin is dead!"
Twelve, then one—two—three—four o'clock struck from the turrets of tbe neighboring church but still she waited. "I am waiting for his corpse," she murmured, as tbe long night wore away. "I am waiting to receive hie corpse for be never will return alive,"
CHAPTER III. "I AM SAFE NOW!"
Miss Maud Ovington had returned at half past one o'clock from a ball given by one of the leaders of fashion, and wore her ball dress of floating azure gauze, looped here and there with water lilies and diamonds.
This pale and cloud-like dress gave her the appearance of seme beautiful water nymph newly emerged from her crystal fountain.
Her long yellow hair had fallen loosely over her shoulders and bung about her waist like a shower of golden rain. Her large blue eyes were unnaturally dilated, and
tshown
with fever
ish light. Semetimes she clasped her small, jewelled hands and lifted them wildly above he* head. "Will he never come?" sbe cried again and again. "Is this suspense to last forever?"
At last, exactly as the bands of tbe time piece pointed to ten minutes before five, a cautious knock sounded upon tbe panel of tbe gilded door. "At last!" sbe exclaimed—"at last!"
Sbe sprang toward tbe door and unlocked it almost noiselessly then, opening it with tbe same caution, she admitted a man wrapped in a heavy great coat, and with bis cbin muffled in a cashmere shawl.
Cold as the night was, heavy drops of perspiration rolled down bis swarthy face, and his breath oame short and bis breath came short and quick, as if be bad been running. "Well!" exclaimed Miss Ovington— "well!"
Tbe man hesitated for some moments, twisting' the brim of his bat round and round in bis trembling bands, and staring vacantly straight before him.
Then, with visible effort, and without looking at MissOvington be said, slowly: "I've done everything, madam, according as was arranged."
Miss Maud Ovington drew herself up to ber fullest height, and a glance of mingled joy and triumph shot across ber expressive countenance. "I am very glad!"
Bbe
Tbere was something almost, terrible in the slow, deliberation with sbe pronounced these few words. "You have done me a great service," sbe added after a long pause, during which she bad seated herself in atbougbtful attitude before tbe eostly toilet table—"you have done me a great service, and I will not forget my promise."
Sbe unlocked her dressing case, which was a mafsive casket of ebony inlaid with gold. Sbe pressed a spring in tbe inner part of the casket, and a secret drawer flew out, disclosing a few neatly fold papers and a roll of bask notes.
Miss Ovington took out tbe roll of notes and handed to tbe man. "Take this," sbe said. "It waa to have paid for my wedding drfesses, but Stewart must give me credit for those. Who would imagine, to look at tbis room, that there is no one in tbis great city more Indeed of money than tbe Honorable James Ovington? Bat what of that?" abe added, with a sudden change of tone. "Give me tbe packet, William—the packet!"
The man recoiled a few paces. "I'm very sorry, madam," be answered, looking down, aa if afraid to meet tbe eyea of tbe beautiful creature before him—"I'm very sorry, but I couldn't get that." "You have not brought me tbe packet?" "No. madam." "He hadn't It about him, tben "No, madam." "And yet you "I did as yon directed, madam," replied tbe man, "because, by his words and bis manner, I fancied he bad the packet that yon wanted about bim, and I offered him what you told me if he'd veitup, but he wouldn't eo I told Jm what yon said, and there waa only one course left, ana then——"
She stopped him with an imperious gesture of her aaall hand. Cbn&nved oh Sewmth Page.
CATARRH
IS IT CURABLE
fTtBOSE \rho havo rafTewd from tho various and JL complicated forma of disease assumed by Catarrh. and have tried many phyaiclans and remedies -without relief or on re, await tho answer to tUls qnesUon with considerable anxiety. And well they may for no disease that can be mentioned Is so universally prevalent and ro destructive to health as Catarrh. Bronchitis, Asthma, Coughs, and serious and frequently fatal affections of the lungs follow. In many Instances, a caso of simple hut neglected Catarrh. Ottiar sympathetic affections such as deafness, impaired eyesight, and loss cf sense ot ssieU. may be referred to aa minor bnt nevertheless,,, serious results of neglected Catarrh, bad enough* in themselves, bnt as nothing compared with tn& dangerous affections of the throat and longs Ukoiy to follow.
IT CAN BE CURED,
ITimmediate
can be cured. There Is no donbt about it.* relief afforded by SAUFORD'S RADI-Tha
OAL
Cvkx von CATARRH is but a slight evldenoe ot what may follow a. persistent use of this remedy. The hard, in crusted matter that has lodged in tho nasal .passages is removed with a few applications •. the ulceration and inflammation subdued an4 healed the entire membranous linings of the heal are cleansed and purified. Constitutionally its action is that of a powerful purifying agent, destroying in its course through tho system the acM powon, the destructive agent in catarrhal diseases,1
A COMPLICATED CASE,
Gentlemen,—My case is briefly as follows 11 have had Catarrh for ten years, cach year with increasing severity For nine years I had not breathed through one nostril. 1 hod droppings in the throat,/ averybad cough, asthma so bad aa to bo obliged to take a remedy for it at night beforo being able to lie down and sleep, and a constant dull pain in my bead. My head was at times eo fall of catarrhal, matter as to injure my sensa of hearing and compel' me to get up sevoral times in the night to clear it and my throat before I could sleep. Bvory one of these distressing symptoms has disappeared tho use not quite three bottles of SANTORD'Sunder RADIOMofUBIC. My hearing is fully rostored. I have no asthmatic symptoms, no cough, no droppings in tho throat, no linadache, and in every way better than I have for years. 1 could feel tha effects of tho CCRKbeen
on my appetite, on mykldneys,
and, In fact, every part of my system, what has been dono in my case la wholly the effect of the LAWRENCE
RATICAI CVR*." Very respectfully, i'lTCIUJUBU, Oct. 11. c. 11.
^Indorsed by a Prominent Druggist. I hereby certify Mr. Lawronco purchased tho liADiaAL OCKKthatme,
of and from tlmo to time
made luo f&mlllar with his case. 1 believe his statement to be trwe in every particular. FiTCUBCBQ, Oct. 14. A3. P. DERBY.
Each package contains Dr. Sanford's Improved Inhaling Tub«. and lull directions for its u&c in all cases. Price, $1. For sale by all wholesale and
'J*« INDORSED BY
1
COLLINS'
VOLTAIC PLASTER
An Eloctro-Oalvanio Battery combined with a highly Medicated Strengthening Plaster, forming tho best 1'lastor for pains and itches iu the World of Medicine.
REFERENCES.
Dr.E, M. Biker, Montgomery, O. ,» \*s' Mrs. Frances Harrlmnn.Orlantl, MO. Huskell Lewis, Esq., Mllford, Del. Mrs. Ulchard Gorman, Lynchburg, Vtt.
J.
B. Sammls, Esq., Winona, Minn.
Mrs. J. M. Itobinson, E. Orrlngton, Mo. ft. Shlverlck, Esq.," Independent' Oflloo, K.T« Mrs. KUza J. Duffleld, Hnmo, 111. Geo. (J ray, Esq., Montlcello. Minn. Mrs. Chna. Uounds, Woodhul), 111. W. H. H.McKinney, Morrow, O. Mrs. R. L. Stevens, Fort Wayne, Ind "Win. 8. Bimins, Madtsonvllle, Ky. -•rs.li.llrodcll.8t. Louis, Mo. ortliner Lyon, Esq., Snn Francisco, Col.
ft
aid hundreds of others.
COLLINS* VOLTAIC PLA8TER8 Core when all other remedies fall. Copies of lefrJ ters detailing somo astonishing cures when all other remedies had been tried without sucoess. will be mailed free, so tbat correspondence may. be had If desired. For the cure of Lame weaknesses peculiar to females, COLLINS'Back
PLASTERS nro superior to
VOLTana.AID/
all
other
external
remedies. Be careful to call for Coxxnrs' VOLTAICPtr.<p></p>LASTSB•»*rk'• lest you got some worthless imitation. Bold by all wholesale and retail druggists throughout the United States and Canada*, and by POTTER, Proprietors, Boston, Mass.
PRICE. 20 CENT8.
PHYSICIANS, CLEROYMEN AND wTHE AFFLICTED EVERYWHERE.
THE 8REATEST MEDICAL TRIUMPH OF THE ABE. TUTTS' PILLS
DB. TUTT has MO. ceeded in combining in these pills the heretofore antagonistic qualities Of a STIUEN0THIKO, PDBOATIVB,and Fu«. BirttNO TONIC.a
CURE SICK HEADACHE.
TUTT'S PILLS
CURE DYSPEPSIA.
Their first apparent effect is to increase the appetite by causing the food to properly assimilate. Tbaa tho system Is nourished, and 1 by their tonic action on the digestive oreana, regular and healthy 0» vocoatlona are produced.
TUTT'S PILLS
CURE CONSTIPATION.
TUTT'S PILLS
CURE PILES.
TUTT'S PILLS
Tbe rapidity with which PERSONS TAKE ON FLESH wnile under tM influence of these tills, indicates their ftJaptahilily to nourish the body, cnco their efficacy in curing nervous debility, tnelancholy, dyspepeda, vroatIng of tho uiusclcB,s1uggishness of tho liver, chronic constipation, and imparting health strength to the system. Sold everywhere.
CURE FEVER AND AGUE.
TUTT'S PILLS
CURE IILIGUS COLIC.
TUTT'S PILLS
said 5 k-
Cure KIDNEY Complaint
TUTTSPILLS
CURE TORPID LIVER,
TUTT'S FILLS
Price 25 centa. Office
03 Murray RtrcoC# «KW V0C.IL
MPART APPETITE,
HUNT'S REMEDY
THE CHEAT
Kidney and Liver Medicine,
CI'IlKM nil Dlwawi of the Kidneys# liver, IJiiMlilf-r, nnd Urinary Ore»nat DroT*y. Grav«-I. DinhfU a, ({right's
Pain* In Ihi? lisrk,
5? or Sl!-* It.'-M-ritlon or *•. ..•rctvntl'tn of I'rliw, hum l'cmaie
W' :."•'!»»«•, Kxcwww-a, Jaundice. Ilwwlarh#, 14ttnr Stom .i,
I
Oyitpiwiftt CAnMlpMon & I'll*?*,
Cl'nns W7IEX ALL OTffKIl MEDICINES i'.. it mi directly a.ii al oa«e on the tthi .i r*t lAvt-r,
a*xl floweln. restoring them
to It silthy action. HITSTS KKMKftY a •afc, •'••ro *iuj Miivly cure, and hundreds b«v« it* by It when physicians and friends l: 1 ilmm np die. I* not delay, try at
HUXTS REMEDY. 5 1 for pamphlet to V/ 'I. E. CLABKB, Providence, K. I. PHmi, 73 «*nt« and tl.21. Large size tit" rVapw*. your druggist tot HUNTS RKHEOf. Take
00
otber.
$66
ft week in your own town. Terra* 'v and 96 outfit free. Addre« M.HAkUCrr A 00.. Peruana Maine.