Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 1, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 1 July 1882 — Page 3

THE MAIL

/A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

Erica's Sacrifice.

Continuedfrom Sceond Page.

moved Ty something, and bending down laid his hand on her shoulder with a touch that thrilled her through with self-reproach. "What is it. my child—has anything startled you?" he said, gently, and she pressed her hand to her heart for a second before she answered him. "Nothing —no, there is nothing.—

I ring for lights. Philip?" She rose up as she spoke, and laid her hand on the bell. You cannot see to read your hitters."

She turned then and went out of the room, and I'hilip half sighed as the door closed on h«*r. He seemed, after all to have but half her confidence. Yet it was nothing—nothing. He could not expect to know, to share, all that troubled her.

Alone in her dressing-room. Erica St. John read the letter, the writing of which had

lw*en

ever a harbinger of

sorrow and anxiety. And her lips grew white and her eyes burned as she read. "So you've got to Grayle House.*' Arnold Xiurray wrote. '"My poor Erica! You will be awfully dull there with only your husband for a companion. It makes rne mad to think of it, Erica. Ah, why could you not have chosen differently? hut "I'll say no more. You will only be angry. I am corning down —perdu, of course—and will hang alxuit for a chance of seeing you to-morrow night." "To-morrow! Oh, Heaven! Tonight!"

The girl hardly breathed, and looked back in feverish haste to the date. Yes, there was no mistake. "To-night. That would be Let me read on and see." "I am in trouble, of course. I always am. And you will be an angel of goodness and help me, won't you. Erica? Try and come down to the south gate somehow. 1 don't know how I shall tide 011 if you can't help me."

She let the letter drop from her hands and stood for many moments motionless, her eyes gazing out straight before her. her lips set.

What miserable burden of sorrow had been cruelly laid on this young life! She. had need, indeed, to remind herself of the sanctity of her oath, a sanctity she deemed inviolate—need, indeed, to look around this room and picture to herself again the form, the face of the dying woman who had left her this legacy of woe. "Oil, 1'hilip. I'hilip!" she murmured, pressing her liands to her forehead, "I am doing you bitter wrong. I dare not think of the end of all. Must it come some day?"

Erica "took the letter again, and setting light to the naper, watched it consume away until but black ashes remained, and even of those she removed all trace. Then she went downstairs again, entering the library with a light, soit step. "Well," .-he said, coming to Hiilip's side as lie stood reading by the mantelpiece, "what does Walter say?"

I'hilip laughed: yet she fancied he looked a little troubled too. "1'oor lad," he said, "one of the burdens of his letter is )money.' I am afraid 1 shall have to hint to liini that there is a limit to my purse. He confesses, with a penitence which is amusing, that he has been 'doing the swell'a little too much with the fellows of his regiment. 'Champagne breakfasts and dinners at Richmond,' he says, naively, •do walk into a lot of money, Philip, and you know all the fellows do it., and it looks so mean not to go in for the same st vie." "Is that the height of his offences?" said Erica, with a smile that was full of nain. "You cannot refuse him, Philip the lad has temptations. doubt, and the lancers are expensive. "Too expensive," said St. John "and 1 scarcely

Know

rle.

how to refuse him. I

suppose 1 shall have to run up to town and look into it. Perhaps he does not tell nie all." "Oh, Philip, you are so cynical." "And you, niv dear child," and St John smiled half sadly, "you are so innocent. Do you think younger brothers always make father confessors of their elders?" "I trow not they are young men still." "lint mere money sending or wasting." lie added, alter a pause, "does not trouble me. You can't make a prave man out of a lad of twenty. If Halter keeps clear of anything unpentlemanly I shall not look too closely into his accounts." "And what is your estimate of 'nngentleinanly?'" Erica said, listening eagerly for the answer she knew it could only crush her with pain. "A difficult question to answer. Betting and gambling, though not generally counted as degrading for a gentleman, in niv code of honor are wrong, and there are other ways of staining honor, to which I don't think Walter Vould lie tempted, for, whatever his failings, he is a St. John. He speaks in his letter," Philip added, glancing at the letter, "of a young fellow he seems to lie a gotnl deal with. He says: 'I've lately cottoned with a fellow, who's really awfully nice, but awfully fast not one of your sort. Philip—not that I accuse you of being anything so dreadful as straight-laced—but he bets and play» like "one o'ciock." and gtos ahead generally. He's got. some monev, but not enough for all he does, and the devil knows how he lives. Hut 1 tell you he goes the pace, and I don't know how it is one gets drawn on with him. He's so confoundedly jolly and winning, you know.'" "His name—he doesn't say his name." said Erica, and all her control could not

irevcnt her voice from trembling a titfor her heart seemed to lie crying out but one name—a name she dreaded to hear. "No, he does not mention his name he says he has come down to Itington, where there are races coming off.— Kingto is not far from here, is it?" "No, not far." the girl said, mechanically—"not far."

And then Philip turned again to hi» writing, elancing at her from under his long. larK eyelashes.

She nutxled bitn a little to-night she was clearly not herself. Perhaps she was oppressed with the nervousness that must come about her these first days at the old house of her childhood, I or "she was not well, or mayhap—that dark cloud of thought would sweep up —she was beginning to tind her life with him dull and dreary. I

The minutes slipped by fast to him: slowly, each one laden with anxious

thought, to her, till act length he rose, having finished the work he had to do. "Eleven o'clock," he said, looking at his watch. "I am going to take this up to the postoffice. You will not mind being alone for a little time, Erica, will you?'

He half smiled as he said it, for she had a fearless spirit and was used to being alone. ,.

So he went out, and she heard his light step on the gravel-path, stood listening to the receding sound till it ceased altogether and she knew he had passed out into the road that led down the cliff-side into the High-street. The postoffice was quite at the other end of tJrayle. and some twenty minutes must e! »pse before he could return.

Then Erica stood up, pale and anxious. yet resolute. For a moment she paused, and a sigh of utter despair and anguish escaped her. "Shall I go." she murmured.

Then as the remembrance of her oath, sworn by the bedside of her dying mother, recurred to her, she shuddered and clasped her hands together piteously. "I must. I must," she whispered to herself with white lips, and pushing her hand through her hair, she threw a light shawl over her shoulders and stepped out of the window into the soft chill air.

She hurried on with' every sense on the alert to catch the faintest sound. She sped down the damp walks across the lawn, behind a belt of thick trees that shut out the view of the house, then stopped, her heart throbbing, wildly, heavily, at the little white gate that gave access to an unfrequented road winding drearily over the hills inland, paused as a man's figure came to the gate, and swinging it open, stood before her and clasped her hands in his.

She trembled as she felt the clasp that closed round her nerveless fingers —trembled with a vague sense of rear she could not control.

CHAPTER IV.

"FOR OUR MOTHER'S SAKE." "You are come, then," he said, in a low voice. "How good you are, Erica. How did you manage?" "It matters not for you to ask," the girl said, quickly, and with a flash of naughtiness in her tone. It chafed her, and was a bitter humiliation to her spirit, this enforced deception, this stolen interview. "You must tell me quickly what trouble you are in, and what you want now, for I have but little time." "The old story. Erica," answered Arnold Murray, with a half laugh and a half sigh. "Money, always that confounded money. You wouldn't believe what a lot of money a fellow can run through in London. "I can quite," she answered, briefly, "when I know how yours goes." "Women don't know anything about how our money goes," said the young man, good-humoredlv. "I've got rid of a heap. I know, and X'm awfully in debt. I've sold one of my horses, but that won't do quite." "I don't know what you have to do with" horses at all with your income," said Erica. "It is a needless extravagance." "It's a good stock in trade, dear coz," replied Arnold, laughing. "Whv, Helle won me enough money at the Aylesbury Steeplechase last June to keep me going for a month. I haven't sold her—it's the park hack that went to Tattersail's." "And how long. Arnold," said the girl, leaning her hands heavily on the gate, "is this to go on? There must come an end some time. Do you ever think of it?" "Ah. now don't preach, sweet cousin," said Arnold, entreatingly, and still jestingly, though he bit his lip, and in the darkness she did not see the flash in his eves. "I really mean to do better, and turn over a new leaf." "You always mean to do so much, Arnold," Erica said, sadly "is that why you accomplish so little? "'Poll my word. Erica, I half think you arc getting spoilt by Philip St. John's notions," said Arnold, a little impatiently. "What do von know of my husband?" she said. "You cannot even comprehend his code of honor—you cannot understand him." "I don't pretend to." said her cousin, dryly. "I wouldn't be cramped up to his notions for something, what the deuce does he mean by banning your friends and being too haughty to look at a fellow. A Murray's as good as a St. John!" "Hush! Oh. Arnold, for pity's sake, hush!" The girl laid her hand on his in an agony of tear, for he had raised his voice in his anger, and what if he should be heanl? "I have not told him even of your existence lie does not know your name he has not harmed you. Hut tell me," she whispered, looking round, "is it you who have been one of Walter's companions? Tell me the truth, Ar­

He paused before he replied. He had not meant her to know that he was acquainted with Philip's brother, and had even asked Walter to say nothing of him in his letter. But he saw it was useless to deny it. "1 know him yes. a young fool," he said, contemptuously. "He not a bad fellow, but a perfect apron-string.— 'Philip' here and 'Philip* there." "Arnold," she said, eagerly, "dont tempt him to do wrong, to do—ay you do. Oh. for my sake. Arnold. I bear so much, you can never know how much, for you." Her voice faltered, and for a moment she bowed her head on his arm, but almost instantly recovering herself she went on hurriedly: "And. Arnold, he will tell Philip about you, and he might find out that you are my cousin, and I'hilip would forbid me to*see or help you again. For our mother's sake. Arnold, for she was your mother in all but blood, drop this friendship it will work dire woe.

Looking back afterwards both remembered those words, which neither knew then as a prophecy.

Arnold, whose impressionable nature was easily touched, was moved and greatly troubled by the girl's sorrowful appeal he loved his cousin, and depended upon her in a certain fashion, though he never by any chance deferred to her wishes or attended to her advice. He knew quite well that she spoke no less than truth, and it was a fresh count against I'hilip St John. Yet he had no intention of giving up the acquaintance of the young officer who seemed to have plenty of money at his command, and through whom he could wound Philip St. John. "Arnold." the girl said slowly, and when she spoke so be knew that he could not openly resist her will, "do you hesitate? Remember that I have power in mv hands, and I will do no more for you if you refuse to attend to the one request I have made of you fflr years-,''

"Don't get angry, deaf coz," he said, lightly, seeing he must yield, outwardly, at least. "I won't drag him down to destruction it's a wonder, in fact, you accuse me of will enough to lead anyone. But now. Erica," he added, "you will help me this once more 'pon my word I don't know where to turn for a hundred pounds, and I'll sleep in prison next week if you're hard-hearted." "A hundred pounds, Arnold!^ The girl paused, listening, the color coming and going on her cheek then she said, hurriedly, "You shall have it. I will send a cheque to you. But you must go up to London and get the money from the bank, not from anyone in Kington. But, remember. Arnold, she said, and again laid her hand on his arm, "this cannot, must not, go on. I have paid your debts over and over again, and tne fund that I have drawn on for that—bv the power left me in my mother's will—cannot last for ever, though you seem to think it can.' "And when that fails. I'll emigrate," said Arnold, lightly. "I should do capitally as a sheep-farmer, or something. It's a good thing vour husband has no control over that cash. Erica, and never asks what you do with it, else poor Arnold Murray would have gone to the dogs long since." "Where shall I send?" said the girl, briefly, without answering his last words. "I'm at the Crown Hotel send up Poynter, he won't split to a soul. You are going? Thanks, dear Erica, you are mv tower of strength," he said, with a"softened tenderness in his voice that moved her to a strange emotion.

She did not trust herself to answer, but only gave him her hand with a ouiet "Good-night." and then, after watching his form till it disappeared over the hillpath, turned back to the house, scarce seeing her way for the blinding tears that rose to her eyes, and that she strove in vain for a moment to check.

She must be calm, at least outwardly, whatever misery she endured, for Philip must not see a trace of emotion and he was so quick and lirm, she feared to meet his eyes until she had mastered herself.

Almost as she stepped once more through the window of the library, Philip came up the pathway, and the girl paused. "You should not have gone out in this chill night air, child," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder, and drawing her into the room "and you are trembling and white. Erica. You foolish child, you must not play with yourself so I could not spare you now, dear one."

The soft tone, the tender caress, so rare from him, were too much for nerves already over-strained and excited by all that had happened that evening, and she suddenly threw herself on his breast and burst into such bitter weeping as startled him, and struck a shock of pain to his very heart.

Was this Erica, so brave-spirited, so firm, so little given to tears, so utterly free from even those weaknesses that endear women to most men, weeping so, and apparently without cause?

Was it ins fault? And even while he held her to him, and strove to soothe her, he felt—ah, with that sure keenness that was anguish, that she shrank from him, while even she sought this shelter. And he remembered these things afterwards.

She grew quiet after a little while, making a terrible effort, and so gaining back her self-control, and, lifting her head, tried to draw herself away, but this he did not suffer. "You are unstrung to-night. Erica," he said, with grave, naif-sorrowful tenderness "is it my fault? You have forgiven me my stern, cold words today, my poor child but they still wound your sensitive spirit. Tell me that is all. Erica?" "No, no—oh, Philip, no! It is not that. I never thought again of them, indeed, Philip. I shall be better in the morning. It is nothing."

She stood twisting her wedding-ring round and round her finger, silent for a moment, and then said, falteringly: "I suppose I am nervous and foolish to-night. Philip, and coming back to the old house

She stopped, and St. John asked no more, but bent and gently kissed her brow, holding her again for a moment to his heart, and then he released her. "(io to your rest, dear child," he said. "Don't wait for me I have a letter to write."

And, glad to be alone, Erica glided away, and Philip sat down to write again but lie could not command his thoughts somehow to-night, even for a simple letter, and the pen dropped idlv from his lingers, for he could not lull into peace the restless, anxious heart that craved so for trust, and yet felt, or fancied, in his almost morbid sensitiveness, that trust was denied liiin.

Some weight lav on Erica's spirit, the cause of which slie withheld from liira. The reason she had given him was not all that accounted for the change which had passed over her.

In the fierce light that flashed on him later, under its scatliing heat all that perplexed him now seemed clear and distinct. Now it was but vague conjecture. [To be Continued.]

Queen Victoria Amazed.

During the marriage ceremony (that of the Duke of Albany) the Queen happened to look up at the Knights' banners, and. to her amazement and indignation. she discovered half a dozen opera glasses peering from behind them, all pointed straight at her own face. An inquiry was speedily made, when it turned out that a permanent official at Windsor, at the last moment, had secretly constructed a small private gallery up behind the carving at the top of the Knights' stalls, from which, after reaching it by the aid of a perpendicular ladder, his friends had an excellent view, perched up like owls in an ivy bush. The Lord Chamberlain and the Lord Steward, supported by a posse of their subordinates, summoned the erring official before them, and, not content with administering the qtiestion.ordinary and extraordinary, ordered him to come up for sentence at the London office of the Board of Works. But before being again racked, he is understood to have gone down on his knees to John Brown to induce him to "represent the thing properly." So he got off with a tremendous wigging. -Q elegan itches and pains is St. Jacobs Oil, says Dr. J. Turner, of ShirreH's Ford, N. G. in the Raveaswood, W. Va., News.

LMk Well th« 5«MC The only Genuine German Hop Bitters have the word "German" blown in the bottle. (2m)

TEKRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL,

Why She Wants Her Marriage Annulled. It is seldom that a bill introduced into the legislature has within it the key to a romance, but such a one is that presented by Assemblyman Farrar, of Onondaga, providing that the marriage of Daniel Walrath to Emma A. Sawyer be declared null and void. The story of the marriage which is thus sought to be set aside is a strange one. Mrs. Walrath lived at Cliittenango, and she and the man to whom she is wedded were schoolmates and playfellows. As they grew older, they kept company with each other to some extent, although Mrs. Sawyer objected to her daughter seeing much of Walrath. One evening he called upon the girl when she was alone, and without any preamble invited her to walk to Minister Irwin's house to be married. Miss Sawyer demurred at first, but, pleased with the romantic aspect of the affair, at length consented, and the marriage was solemnized a few minutes afterward. On the return from the minister's house Walrath related his plans for the future to his wife, and when the couple had reached the gate of the bride's home he bade her good-by, after telling her that she had better not say anything about the affair for awhile, and that he would not be able to see her again for a few days, as he was going to Syracuse. From that day to this she has never seen her husband nor heard from him directly. Walrath was a man of quiet, studious habits, while his wife is an attractive but retiring woman of 21 or'22years of age, who now lives at West Troy. The truthfulness of her story can not be doubted. She can not obtain a full and complete divorce in the courts because of a lack of grounds on which to base an action, and so she appeals to the legislature. —AIbantj Argus.

Drinking Preachers.

A New England congregation has just been so horrified by a report that its pastor had been seen the worse for liquor that it removed itself from the charge of the offending divine, with whom no other fault was found. There was a time, however, and within the memory of many men still alive, when intoxicated preachers were not rare, and* when their influence was not considered very bad.

Fifty years ago a Yankee parson who made the customary round of pastoral visits had so much rum, gin, brandy, and wine pressed upon him by the godly members of his flock that he sometimes had to break the day in two by a long nap yet, strange to say, New England now moans for just the class of preachers that made pulpits lively in those days.

Everywhere but in the United States the drinking habit is as common among pastors as parishioners. Probably every one who drinks would be better off if he were to restrict his potations to clear water but the preacher who hfts no fault but that of occasionally drinking too much of stronger fluids may deserve better treatment than to be dismissed. Perhaps if the New England congregation alluded to had paid its minister a good salary, paid promptly, and not dumped all their petty troubles into his ears, or expected him to compose too long and too many sermons every week, the unfortunate man would not have been compelled to ask help of a bottle.—N. Y. Herald.

PERFECTLY AMAZED. In the San Francisco Evening Bulletin, we observe that Mr. Rosenthal, of the well-known printing firm, Rosen thai & Rosch, 538 California street, that city, said to one of their reporters: "We all know of St. Jacobs Oil, and are perfectly amazed at the suddenness of the relief it affords. If you know of any one who is guttering with rheumatism, bruise or sprain, tell them to use St. Jacobs Oil.

A CELEBRATED preacher makes the recommendation of Ayer's Pills a matter of religious duty. When people are billions and dyspeptic, what they need is the Gospel of Health. In such cases, the best creed to swallow consists of the thirty sugar-coaled articles in a pill-box.

THE term hydra may be used to represent any manifold evil. If yon would battle successfully with this many-headed monster of diseases you will "find it expedient to keep Mrs. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound always at hand.—Dr. Banning.

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A Itnppjr Wife.

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OTICE,

THE

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Has been changed to

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It is Warranted.

It is the most complete, desirable machine ever offered to the public. Being the latest, it has the advantage of having very desirable and new improvements.

Dont buy until yon see it Harry Metxeker, late solicitor for the White, will be glad to see his old customers.

Office, 117 South Third street, seoond door north of Fonts, Hunter 4 Co' Livery Stable.

W. H. FISK, Agent.

S

HERIFFS SALE.

By virtue of a copy of decree of Foreclosure issued from the Vigo Cricuit Court, to me directed and delivered, in favor of Isaac N. Phelps, and against Mary E. Cory, George W. Cory, John wTCory. Him eon Cory, Bell Cory, Sarah A. Coo-, Martha E. Walmsley. Manile A. Cory, Ed wan! Cory, Josephine Cory and Wilbur Cory, I am ordered to sell, the folSowing dcacrit&ri Real Hstate, ritufttcd in Vigo County, Indiana, to-wit:

Part of in lots number fifteen (lo) and sixteen (16) in the ity of Terre Haute, described as follows: vie Commencing twenty-one (21) feet West of the Northeast corner of in lot number sixteen (16). running thence South, seventy-four arid Mx-twelftn (74 ft-12) feet, thence East twenty-one feet (21) feet, thence South fwenty-five (Tj feet to a twelve (12) foot alley, thence West forty-one (41) feet, thence ?«orth to North line or In lot number Sixteen (16). thence East twenty '20') feet to ptaoe of beginning, In told County and State and on SATCIDAT, 8tb «ay of Jaly 1893. Between the boon of 10 o'clock A. M. and 4 P. M. of same day, at the Court House door In Terre Haute, I will offer the rents and profits of the above described Real Estate, together with all privileges and appurtenance* to the same belonging, for a term not exceeding 7 yean, to the highest bidder for cash, and on failure to realize a stun sufficient to satisfy mid copy of decree and cortx, I will then and there offer the fee mpie, ln and to said Real Estate, to the highest bidder for ca*h to satisfy the same.

This 17th day of June, 1WC. JACKHOS HTEFP, Sheriff. Allen A Mack, attorney*. Printer fee»jOO.

O•* t/vftOAper day at borne. Sample* *0 I" vrWorUi fc free. Addreai Wineon A Co^ Fwliand, Maine.

MAIL,

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WHERE IT IS SOLD.

ie Opera

S. R. Baker P. O, I1bby Grove Craft Terre Haute House Richard O'Brien Walsh & Smith 1 MaiIn street Alonto Freeland...Cor. 4tb and L,a«ayett«st Mrs. Elizabeth McCutclu on. 1134 h. 1 opliir it witfA Kly 141"1*'

uii

W Smith.. H.8\ tnoheart A. C. *tes John '.Hanna J. K. Lai *dos T. M. Robertson A Co..... Foster M. Maris Joseph Somes Chas. Lee Dennie Chew M. Connoway Wrn. Hunt Andrew B. Cooper A. Vancoyk W. C. Pennell Frank A. Gwln C. C. Wilson Charley Hutchinson John Laverty John W. Minnick Elmer Hitch..

Marshall, tll£)

Bui 11 van Ind Clinton, Ind

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Brazil, Ind

Annapolis lnd

.... Knlghtsvillelnd Charleston, Ills Kandford, Ind

Eugene, lnd

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...New Goshen. I nd Ferrell,

ttiiner 'TIlls„.i James Boswell Bloomlngdale, I nd Jos. A. Wright....- atlin, Ind Grant Btile*i ViV H. A. Pratt Ind W Bucher .•^•Koaedftle, Ind I. E.Sinks Ecrrym ni» J. W. Boyer Vermillion, Ilia Frank Bond Oaktown. Ind Johnnie Delashmutt Shelburno, lnd T. Jones Pralrieton, Ind Wm. J. Dure* Bridgeton, lnd Hanry ft. Plnkley Bowling Green, lnd Ernest JL Owen ?H 'ni2 Contlus Ishler Martinsville,111* Wm Nichele Dennison. Ills John A. Clark UvinKHtjo*!. JIlj J. S. Bryan Centerville. Ind Harvey Stubbe XbrluMtan. Illy 9. A. Buchanan R. Mcllroy— H. C. Dlckeroon JoeT. McCostoey Henry Jackson Owen Kissnc^r E. Davis RC Jaekman...

„Maxvllle. Ind Seeleyvllle, Ind Youngstown, In

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SATURDAY,

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Taking Horace Greeley's estimate of the number of readers to a family—on average—every issue of the SATURDAY EVENING MAIL in perused by over Twenty Thousand Peep J*.