Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 2, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 8 July 1882 — Page 2

a

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR TIIE PEOPLE.

TERRK HAUTE, JULY 8, 1882

Erica's Sacrifice.

A

A Question of Forgiveness or Dishonor.

CHAPTER V.

FAILING IN LOVE AND DUTY. Philip St. John did not go to London to see his brother, but sent him a letter and a cheque instead, for he did not care to leave Erica alone at Grayle House, hfhe seemed not at all her usual self, sometimes sitting for hour?, silent and musing, grave and sad. he thought: at other times bright with a sort of feverish excitement of manner that was scarcely natural.

Was it his fancy, too. that she seemed now and then to shrink from him, while leaning upon him more than she used to? Sue had, indeed, been the cause of his remaining at Cirayle instead of eoing to town, for she had seemed to dislike the idea of being left alone, and asked him if it was nocessary for him to go, and yet had disclaimed any exact wisn to keep him from his brother. In truth, she dreaded with a wild fear that Walter should toll Philip the namo of this friend of his who was

v'not

of

Philip's sort." Ifer mind was on the rack as long as Arnold was at Ilington—distant about sixteen miles from (irayle—and she lived in these days on suspense, tortured by a thousand fears, and more than all by the necessity of this miserable silence she deemed herself bound to maintain to her husband, and which was a tacit deception.

One evening late in September the irl wandered down to the beach whero 'oyrter's boats lay.

It was quite dark, and a fresh breezo Wfts blowing in from the sea and lifting the loose tresses that fell on her shoulders.

Philip had ridden over to a village some miles away to seo .1 friend, who was staving there, and he would not be back until late so, weary and sad of heart. Erica had put on her hat and thrown a shawl round her and come down to commune with the sea, as she used to d(i when a child.

The sea was as sorrowful as herself, she thought, and muttering softly to lier a.n the waves came rolling in almost to her feet.

There was something in the desolation of the scene that exactly chimed in with her mood. Tho dark mass of water stretching away, it seemed, into infinitude tho bleak rocks rising up to right and left only hero and there a light gleaming from some house up 011 the hills the perfect stillness that was intensified by tho sullen wash of tho ocean.

Erica stood, her fingers lightly interlaced, her hands hanging down loosely before her, the large, mournful eyes looking out with a fixed, changeless gaze into the darkness.

Did it cross her then that sho was keeping her vow at a tremendous cost, a coat that outweighed the sanctity of an oath made oven to the dying?

It might have done so, but. the very wonls so burned into her brain to her were justification: "at whatever cost to yourself or to others." They shut up any loojiholo of escape. She could not see one ray of light in all her darkness, no end to the misery that had fallen 011 her.

She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that a sten crushing tho shingles did not rouse tier. If she heard it ai ail she probably deemed it that of some fisherman going home, .and sho started and sprang back almost a pacts at the voice tliat fell on her ear, as sho saw the man who stopped before her. "Arnold," she said, under her breath, "whr !:a\e you come?" "To seo you. dear co7.,M Arnold replied. coolly. "1 went tin to the house, and the servant housekeeper. I suppose by her venerable looks—told mo you were down on the beach, so I camo after von." "What made you go to the house?" said the tfirl. quickly and sternly. "Hceause 1 knew St. John wasn't there." answered Arnold, laughinrr. "I saw him over at Melwood, and took caro to ascertain from Poynter that he wouldn'T Ih back till late. Poynter is a treasure, lie knows everything." "1 low long aro you going to stay at Ilington?'' asked Erica, without replying to his remarks. "The races come off in a week or two I shall leave after that if my horse— that is, Kenton, you know—wins I shall bo tho richer by several hundreds if he loses I shall'have to make myself scarce." "You. and such as yon," sho said, elowlv, "are enigmas to me. C-an you choose a life that literally hangs on tho chance of one horse distancing another in a given space? ('an you liko a life that is one agonv of susjense?" "One gets used to it." lie said, shrugging his shoulders, "and, besides, von make so much out of nothing. What you call 'an agony' of suspense, is a sort of pleasurable'excitement, suppose von can't understand it. There something exhilarating in the thought that vou inay be rich or a beggar tomorrow, as tho turn of the (lice or the running of a horse may decide." "No, I don't understand it. I only know. Arnold, that this life of suspense is killing me."

He started, and a look of shocked wonder came into his face then he laid his hand on her shoulder. "What life of suspense?" he said. "WIin dovou make yourself so unhappy about the whole thing. Erica? I am not worth grieving over so much." "I cannot forcet that we played as children together, that vou were once innocent as others are that on In'ar a gmxl name, and that you have sullied that name. 1 cannot forget that you had a mother's love to guard you—and oh." Erica said with sudden passion, clasping her hands over her face. "1 cannot tonret would to Heaven I could for one brief moment!-that on me is toil the burden of striving to win you back to honor and dntv."

Arnold did not speak, but sbMd in jvffiv*. e, ha.f amused by the nasvi-ante biUcrness with which Erica iiad n!i« those wor». yet half angered too. "Wi.v ,-n try'*" he said, sr'.lenlv, at /. -V. "it's n't-aiiMy You've t,v\l (if I v.: a that I'm everything ihaf« J- 1 can't tit if you

are so sensitive as to "be watched "hecause I play and bet, and so on, and because your husband is too honorable to allow nis wife to know such a person. Thousands of fellows do the same, Erica you dont know the world a bit, and think evervthing dreadful." "Thousands*" said the girl, clasping her hands together, and suppressing the sterner words that sprang to her lips, "luring themselves to ruin they 'only1 plav and bet. And, Arnold, you know well that my husband would not turn from you if you remembered that you bore an honored name." "I would not sue any man for his favor," said Arnold, haughtily. "I steer my course to please myself, not any man living. For you. Erica," he went 011 more softly. "I could try to be something more different but you say yourself I am weak, and if ever one wants to get out of the set I'm in. there are a hundred fellows to pull you back. I won't trouble you much after these races are over. I'll go away abroad again." "Abroad or at home, Arnold," Erica said, sadly, "you are the same. I railnot shut my eyes to a sorrow because it is not actually at my doors. And you always turn to me for help how long shall I be able to give it to you? And if Philip were to find out that I helped you she shivered uncontrollably, and Arnold said quickly: "He must not—need" not you would not break your oath. Erica?" "Have uo fear," she answered, with a qui«t scorn that stung him. "I deem my honor sacred, and I have sworn to shield your name from public shame. I can do 110 moro than that. Hark!" she said, suddenly bending forward, striving to pierce the darkness, and sinking her voice to a whisper "did you hear nothing? A step? Go, Arnold you must not stay."

Sho put out her hand, laying it with quick force 011 his arm but he paused yet a moment. "Say you forgive me. Erica," he said, earnestly, with one of those flashes or better feeling that veiled to a certain extent his real nature even from her. "Try and think of mo less bitterly try and remember how I love you. You are the only friend I have, Erica."

Hut she did not heed him, still bending forward, looking up the beach but suddenly, with an almost frantic gesture pushed him from her. "(Jo—go. Oh, for God's sake, leave me," she whispered with white lips. "It is he—Philip." "Why should I not meet him?" said Arnold, flushing. "Why?" She turned almost fiercely upon him. ".Because I dare not own you as Walter's wild companion. Do you comprehend now?" lie turned quickly then with a low "Good-night," and strode away swiftly through the darkness, and then, with an effort that seemed to almost exhaust all her powers, the girl braced herself to meet Philip calmly, to combat any questions lie might ask.

He came down to her, and his first words sent a lightning thrill through every nerve his tone had in it some displeasure. and his question was almost stern. "Who was that talking to yon, Erica? It is late for you to bo out on tho beach alone."

It was well that in the darkness he did not see the swift upward look of despair, the clenching of the small hands together. But she answered him. speaking carelessly: "There's nothing to be afraid of. No one will hurt me here. You have London notions, Philip." "You are too careless," ho answered more quietly, and wrapping her shawl round her, for she shivered in the night wind, "and it is too cold for you to be out, if there were 110 other reason.— "Who was with vou?" "I was talking'to Nat Poynter," she answered in a low voice, crushing back Heaven knows what agony in her heart jis she uttered the lie—the first she had ever uttered. And the first was to the man who loved her! "Shall wo go back, Philip? I did not know it was so late. You are earlier than you expected to be. are you not? And uid you meet Mr. Proctor?" lie told her, as they went back up the beach, of his visit to Milwood. who he had met. and of some literary scheme that had been proposed to him, apd tho girl walked by his side, hearing all he said, but like one. in a dream, and feeling all the while as though a denso black mist had risen up between her and l'hilip, as though she had fallen suddenlv from his sphere.

And she knew that her own words had done this, and that she had taken one more step in that "failure of love and duty" which she felt, with a deadly shiver, he could scarcely forgive.

The housekeeper, who had como to her from Ivor aunt's house, met her in the hall and took her shawl from her. "A gentleman camo to-night, madam," sho said, "and asked for you. IIo did not give a name, but said lie was an old friend." "An old friend!" repeated Krica.

And the housekeeper added: "I told him you had gone out o» the beach, and then he went away.'* "Thanks, Janet. It doesnt matter. Perhaps he'll oall again."

Ana the girl entered tho drawingroom, and began putting away somo music that was lying about, with a sort of suppressed impatience in her manner which did not pass unnoticed by Philip St. John, and he glanced at her covertln. and checked the sigh that could not ease the weight at his heart. She could scarcely bear the gentle, tender kiss he pressed on her brow when sho camo to say "good-night:"' sho was tired, sho said, so weary, though it was early, and long afterwards when he came upstairs, she was lying with her hands locked in a straineu clasp over the pillows, and the long, dark lashes that swept her check were wet still with tears, and she seemed restless in her very deep sleep. "Poor child." he said, and did not now stitle the bitter sigh that passed his lips, "have I made one more miserable after all? Is it my fault? Love begets love, so they say it may be so but is it?"

CITAFTER Tl.

nrSOTOX RACES. TllK

nORSE TIT AT

WIN'S.

"I suppose. Erica." said Philip St. John, one evening

about

ten days after

his wife's interview with her cousin, "that you would not care to go to these Kington races?"

He smiled as he made the assertion, pausing bv her side in his walk up and down the long drawing room.

She was playing softly iri the twilight, but her hands dropped "from the keys, and she looked up with a sv.dden fltish 0:1 her cheek and a sparkle in her eyes. •*Oh. yes. Philip. I should like it so nn5 h."Vb* said "will you take me?" a 1 at ii "Yes. mv chad, if you like I am glad

there is* anything'to amuse you in this dull place," he said "since when, though, have you developed a taste for racing?" "Oh, I don't care exactly for the racing," answered the girl, rising up and bending over some flowers in a stand near: "the scene is amusing, and the people are so odd. But if you had rather not go. Philip

She stopped. "I had rather do what pleases you, my child. We can ride over, if you will not be tired."' "Tired!" Erica laughed at the notion.

UI

shall enjoy it. I suppose everybody will go from here. I remember, when I was a child, the Rington races wero a grand holiday for all the country side." "I saw your friend, Poynter, this morning," said St. John, "and he said he was going. I believe he has the presumption to hold some interest in the horses—a sweepstake, I suppose. I wonder at what class of Englishmen the passion for betting stops!"' "I don't know," said Erica, with some bitterness. "I think the farmlaborers, even, have a sweepstake.— Never mind them, Philip," she added, abruptly changing the subject, "you don't like Poynter?" "Do I ever show it?" Philip said, with a smile, and playing with the soft moustache that drooped over his lip "do you think he is keen enough to see that?" "Not unless the feeling is reciprocal you never show anything," said the girl *'but I am sure Nat doesn't take to you. In fact, I don't think he likes anyone but me. He is an extraordinary creature do you know he never will let me

Ee

ay for my boat, if I go out alone, but doesn't refuse your money." "Nor anyone else's, I imagine,'* said St. John, dryly "there is something that does not please me about your favorite. No doubt he is a good fellow enough, as those sort of people go." "You haven't much faith in 'those sort of people,' you intolerable patrician." said Erica, smiling. "Not much in anyone," Philip said, and the girl bent low over her llowers, and drew her breath in with a quick, uncontrollable gasp, and the hand that was wandering among the roses trembled. "Would he have faith in me," was her bitter thought, "if he could dream why I am giad to go to these races? Not for the pleasure there will be none for me—only dread, and suspense, and feverish excitement."

She was restlessly impatient, the next morning, to be off, and though Philip smiled, even while vaguely wondering at her eagerness, ho sighed to think how dull lie must make her life, if she was so glad of anything that broko its monotony. "Even country races," said the London man inwardly, as I10 swung his young wife lightly to the saddle, and then mounted himself.

They rode through the gates into the yellow autumn sunshine and tho sweet, soft air, and Erica looked over to the sea, lying so placidly under the golden haze of light, and drew a long breath, as though she would fain cast off the weight that oppressed her, and, aided by the infiuenco of sunshine .and air, and exercise, she was more like herself during that ride than she had been for weeks.

Although Philip St. John regarded tho Rington races with that sort of good-natured contempt which denizens of cities are apt to indulge towards country gatherings, they were by 110 means so looked upon by tho county, and the gentry always came, and tho bets ran high on the "favorite" in aristocratic county coteries.

Not a fow sporting London men came down also, and honored the course with their presence and the horses with their patronage, and several Derby winners nad been known to make a promising (JUbU on the Ilington turf.

Not only tho ground outside that charmed line of ropes dividing tho course from the outer world was crowded with the motley throng which races always attract, but the grand stand— for Ilington boasted this glory—was also well filled with spectators, and there were three drags from some of tho country houses, and a great many carriages of all descriptions, and several men and their fair companions were 011 horseback.

When Philip and Erica rode on to tho ground, their appearance caused quite a sensation. Both were unmistakably of patrician order both were singularly handsome, and were faultlessly mounted, and—still greater attraction—to the vast majority they both were strangers, and Philip laughed and Erica colored slightly at tho notice they excited, and the comments passed on them. "Who are they?" said LordCheshunt's daughter, looking after them as they rode by. lie was a county magnate, and sent a horse to Rington always, to patronize, he said, the good old sports of England and no doubt it was in furtherance of this laudable object that the heir and hope of liis house spent so much money on that crown and centre of old English sport—Epsom Downs. "That's Philip St. John," said a gentleman on horseback near to Lady Juliet, who was staying at Cheshunt, and to whom St. John bowed and raised his hat. 'I've met him in town—th« writer, you know. Lady Juliet." "Oh, indeed!" The youn£ lady turned to look after him. "He is to be the famous man of the day. Mr. Arkwright, isn't he? And is that his sister with him?*' "That lady must be his wife, Lady Juliet,'* responded her cavalier. "I heard he was married—a Miss Vernon. I think she lived at Grayle. I know his brother—young fellow in the Lancers." "Mr. St. John is exceedingly handsome." said Lady Juliet, fanning herself languidly, "and looks very haughty but he can bear it—it suits his style."

Mr. Arkwright murmured something acquiescent, but did not venture to assert that Mrs. St. John was very beautiful. "They are not bad," said Philip, looking round, with some mischief in his glance, at Erica: "a very tolerable gath­

ering for the country. Ah, here is Proctor," as that gentleman came up ana was presented to Erica. "You're rather a stranger here." said Proctor, after the greetings had passed, "though I saw you bow to some of the

"I know verv few," answered Philip, curbing back his horse to allow a little flower-girl to dive almost under its nose. "We live a sort of hermit life at Grayle. but in a week or two we shall be in town. Who is supposed to be the favorite to-dav?" "Oh. Kenton: belongs to a London man—Yickcrs, or some such name. But come and talk to my people—at least, the folks iji staying with—the Peer-

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

mgs. Tney have heard so much of you, and are longing to be introduced to Mrs. St. John."

Erica laughed as they moved on a little towards a carriage in which a lady and her two daughters were seated, while two or three young men were "lords-in-waiting" on them.

It was rather a strange and not unpleasant feeling to Erica for anyone to wish to be introduced to her, and though she had lived so secluded a life, she had no shrinking from societv, and possessed perfect grace and high breeding of manner that many a young lady "in society" might have envied. "There is your friend Poynter," said Philip to her, a little while afterwards, when they had left the Deerings, and she turned with a half-start at the sound of the name which always brought with it its troop of painful associations.

But she smiled in answer to the boatman's respectful "Good-morning, Miss Erica," and said, brightly: "So you have come to this provincial Derby, Nat? Are you interested in any particular horse?" "Nought but a trifle, miss," said Nat, shaking his head with a shrewd look "my money's too hard earned, and too scarce, to lie risked 011 a horse." "A very good rule, my friend," said Philip's sort, clear voice, a little sarcastic, Erica thought. "Heaven has endowed you with excellent principles."

And Nat glanced up sideways with a sort of idea that Mr. St. John was not speaking "straight-like," but not taking him by any means, and again touching his hat, moved off and disappeared among the crowd, almost brushing against two young men who were pushing their way through to get round to the starting "point. He glanced atone of them and drew a soft whistle, but they were instantly separated from him by "intervening people, and he looked alter them, muttering: "Good Lord! missy won't want to seo him: and who's that young chap with liim?"

But Arnold Murray had not tho slightest intention of running against Erica or Philip—indeed, he did not know that they were 011 the ground, and it was a sudden exclamation from his companion—a fair, handsome lad, with something of Philip St. John's cast of features, out little of his haughty resoluteness of expression, that made him stop. "What the deuce is the matter?" staring around for a cause for Walter St. John's exclamation and sudden Hush, and succeeding pallor. "Have you seen a ghost, man?" "My brother is over there," Walter said, turning away, half ashamed of the plea, more than ashamed that he should nave need to offer it. Had I10 ever bofore feared to meet the brother that loved him? "Jove!"' Arnold muttered between his teeth, and looked over to the spot whero Philip and Erica's horses stood. "What made him come here? If that young fool meets him the game's all up. There'll be a deuce of a row all round." "I'll go and see him," said Walter, suddenly, his fair face (lushingcrimson. "I hate to be ashamed to meet my own brother, as if I were a criminal."

Arnold laid a detaining hand on the young man's hand, just as he was about to start impulsively forward. "What are you going to say to him?" he said. "He'll wonder how you got here, and you can tell him you've got a lieavv bet 011 Fenton, of course, and ho will be charmed, and think what a frank, above-board young fellow his brother is "Hold your tongue, Murray, for Heaven's sake!" cried Walter, writhing inwardly under the taunt. "Come away out of this infernal crowd, and lot me talk." "All right," said Arnold, linking his firm through that of his companion. "I think that's an excellent plan of yours, for Philip St. John's eyes are everywhere."

And he breathed freely when he had got Walter away from "the neighborhood of his brother. "Talk away, young 'un," said Murray, lighting up a cigar, when out of the immediate vicinity of so many ears. "You've not getting frightened, and going to cave in?" "['wish to Heaven I had never been fool enough to come here, or to listen to you at ail," said Walter, energetically. "I hate to shrink from seeing Philip. I hate to think that I daren't meet his eyes fearlessly." "Pooh, pooh," said Arnold, with good-humored indulgence "now you're talking like the good boy of the plav. Why in the world should vou fear to do this, that, or the other? Why bo afraid of a brother, just because you have, had the senso for once in your life to use vour own wits and assert your freedom? Why, one would think you wero in the leading-strings still." "Have done with that chaff." said Walter, impatiently, but nevertheless flushing again with anger. "I wish I'd never listened to you." "You won't say that, my boy, when Fenton leads, and you can pay those little debts of yours without this immaculate brother of yours," said Murray, laughing. "Never mind, don't apolo-

flave

fize. Come 011 and see the start, and some champagne that'll put pluck into you again."

Walter stopped irresolute, and glanced back. "I think I'll go back," he said.

Arnold turned on his heel with an exclamation of contempt. "Go, then, and make a penitent confession, and promise never to sin again," he said, with a laugh and sneer that crushed the lad's half-formed resolve more effectually than twenty minutes' reasoning. "Tell him of those other

you. Walter turned and strode forwards, setting his teeth, muttering an oath under his moustache, and Arnold Murray smiled quietly to himself. There was no need to say any more, he knew his man well enough, and went on talking of the probable winner and the race with admirable tact.

And then, just as they came unto the course again, the bell rang, and like a flash the horses went away, and a breathless excitement ran through the throng.

A few moments' suspense as they flew past the eager gazers, past the grand stand, past the spot where Erica, watching with quick-drawn breath and parted fips, sat still by her husband's side. "Keep your horse well in." he said, laying his liand on her rein and half smiling. "She is nearly as excited as you-are. Why, Erica. I never thought you could care so much for a race."'

The girt started and gave him a fleeting glance. "Excited!" she said, putting up her hand to her brow.' "I am—I Which horn- is leadijig, Philip?"

"Not the fstVorite,n said St. John, with a slight laugh. "Favorites never do. Have you bet on him. Erica?"

She scarcely heeded the question, bending forward, following the two who led—the others had lieen left far behind in the race—and of these two one was a few' paces in advance. And just then a shout went up that seemed to rend the air, and drowned the coarser expressions of disappointment that fell lrom some. "Which is it, Philip? What aro they saying?" Erica said, almost sick with foreboding.

She was deathly pale now, and the hand that held the reins trembled. For the moment she had lost power to control the sinking of her whole being.

Philip glanced at her, and a shade came over iiis face, and for one brief second his lips settled into an almost stern gravity. lie could iwJt have found a cause, for lie was only just conscious of the dread thrill that "shot through his inmost heart. But he spoke to'her in a low voice, some touch of severity in his soft tones: "Erica, you are too excited. It is not like you. "I will go and see which is the winning horse if you wish it."

His words, his tone, recalled her with a sharp stab of pain to herself, to tho apprehension, the dread of what I10 might think.

She straightened herself in tho saddle and was calm at once, outwardly—with what terrible effort perhaps she only knew, and was thankful for the short reprieve from observation while Philip rode off a few paces, and in a few minutes came back to her side. "Prince Rupert is first," he said, "Fritz second, and Fenton a'bad third,' if you know what that means."' "Poor Fenton!" Erica forced herself to smile and try and seem brighter. "And Major Deering was so confident he was to win." "Major Deering's losses won't ruin him." St. John answered, laughingly.— "But come. Erica, we had better ride into the town." "Mr. St. John!" cried a high voice, in the most cordial of accents, and ho turned instantly to see Mrs. Deering, who had just driven up: "you and Mrs. St. John will do us the honor to join our party for lunch at tho Cheshunt Hotel? You must, you really must." "I should esteem it a pleasure, Mrs. Deering," answered Philip, with his courtly bow, "but I fear that my wite will be too tired we have a long ride before us!" "Oh, 110, Philip I am not tired," interposed Erica, with a suppressed eagerness that only he noticed "how kind you are, Mrs. Deering 1 shall be delighted." "Audifsheis tired, Mr. St. John," said the lady, smiling. "I shall have so much pleasure in setting her down at Grayle." "'Setting me down,' Mrs. Deering," laughed Erica. "Grayle is four miles out of vour way." "Never mind", anthing is in my way," replied Mrs. Deering, serenely. "How kind of you. Mr. St. John, to favor us. Where is inyluisbajid? Dear nie, those men and their horses, and their bet sand things! Mrs. St. John. I congratulate you 011 possessing a husband who does not bet at all."

Erica smiled, but winced inwardly, and Philip ofi'ered to go and find the missing husband, which offer was accepted with many thanks.

So there was a reprieve for Erica, and sho drew a long breath of relief. Anything was welcome that staved off, if only for a time, any question or conjecture on Philip's part, and while he was jone she remained talking and laughing

Mrs. Deering and her son, who had just come up, conscious all the while of the dull fire burning into her heart. Sho heard of Fen ton's failure and the probible causes thereof discussed, and took Jier part in the talk and jests, ainl through all she seemed like one- round whom four walls aro closing inevitably, ertainly.

Someone touched her habit and she turned with a start—how everything startled her that day!

Nat Poynter stood near, and sho lacked her horse to his side, in obedineo to a slight sign from him. Fortusately Mrs. Deering was engaged in an animated war of words with Archie Proctor, and tho crowd had drained oil' somewhat.

Nat quietly put a paper into her hand with a low spoken "lie bade me give it, to you, missy." and then lie sauntered olfand the girl glanced at the writing and her heart throbbed heavily as she read the words, "Be at the south gate to-morrow night at eleven. He will bo away."

She read and crushed the paper in her ..and, putting it in tho bosom of her habit, just as Mrs. Peering called out: "Come, my dear Mrs. St. John, here are the two husbands come back to do their duty in attending us Algy, go and bring your sister to the carnage.

Erica lifted her eyes, impelled by some instinct stronger than reason, to look across the carriage at Philip as she rode up, and for an instant she met his glance full, and then her own wavered and fell.

She read in that glance a strange questioning, an anxious perplexity. Before it her very soul died down.

Was all-all she held on earth slipping away from her? Must she suffer it all for the sake of the vow laid on her?

Almost, in the wild anguish that swept over her, she had resolved to throw herself on his mercy, to break the coil of deception that was drawing her away so surely from the shelter of his love. Almost—for. while she yet paused on the threshold of that confession, the last blow fell, scattering forever such faint hopes of a nobler life and when, dazed and bewildered, she could once more lift her eves to see, nought but the shattered wreck of love and honor lay at her feet: only life—dull, perpetual life—remained.

She need have had no fear of question or conjecture from Philip that night. She was wean- and spent, he saw well, bv the time they reached home again, and whatever the cause of her strange manner, her evident anxiety of late, it would be cruel to put another burden on her.

It might be, too, that deep hidden his own heart lay the dread of an answer that would crumble to dust the brighter hope that had come to dwell with him since he had known her—an answer that would once more throw track all the new-born love and trust he had cherished as something so sweet, so precious*, to learn from her own hps that her marriage had been a mistake, that he could not make her happy—for-, ever mistrustful of his own power to attract love, this was the one thought that shadowed his heart. et he could not live in uncertainty he could bear— had borne—to have every fibre of fove that reached out to cling to some objret crushed back on himself: buj, ljg could

Oonlinued on Third Page.

From Irark Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper.

A LADY SA1I

Tliosr Horrid

Piinplrnl

®o,

iiid

TUTT'S

((ray mm

Bi.ack

by

a

X®, ICiiuiux

3*1 enn* l*r«» rut My

Exeuara."

Probably two-thirds of the ladies in society and homes of our land areafllictcd with skin diseases of various kinds, to do awav with which, iriteonld liedone with out injury, would be tlie happiest event of their lives. Then she would havo instead of a disfigured and marred countenance, one that would be

hand-

1 some, or at least good-looking, for any one with a clear, pure skin, no matter what the cut of her features aro, has a certain amount of good looks which attract everybody. ,\s it is now, she imagines every one sees and talks about "those freckles," "those horrid pimples," and other blemishes with which she is atllicted, and this is true of either sex.

To improve this appearance great risks aro taken arsenic, murcury, 01 higiisound titled named articles' containing these death-dealing drugs, aie taken iu hopes of petting rid of all these troubles. I11 many eases death is the result. No ailevitatiou of the burning, heating itching and inflammation is given. All troubled with Eczema (salt, rheum), Tetters, Humors, lntlammatian, Hough Scaly Eruptions of any kinds. Disease of the Hair and Scalp, Scrofula, Ulcers, Pimples or Tender itchings on any part of the body, should know that there is hope for them in a sure, perfect reinedv, known as Dr. C. W. Benson's Skin Cure." It makes the skin white, soft and smooth, removes tan and freckles, and is the best toilet dressing in tho world. It is elegantly put up, two bottlesin one package, "consisting of both internal and external treatment. Our readers should be sure to get thisai:d not some old remedy resuscitated 011 the success of lr. Kcnson'sand now advertise us "The (ireat Skin Cure." There is only one—it bears the doctor's picture and is for sale by all druggists. $1 per package.

A SENSATION HAS Ol-TEN 1JKKN MAIK

by the discovery of some new thing, but nothing has ever stood the test like Dr. Benson's Celery and Chamomile fills.

They realy do euro sick headache, nervous headache, neuralgia, nervousness, sleeplessness, indigestion, paralvsis and melancholy.

Price, "0 cents per box, two for §1, six for $2.f() by mail, postage free. Dr. C. W. Benson, Baltimore, Md. Sold by all druggists.

C. N. CrIMenton, New York, Is \fholemlo agent for Dr. C. W. Henson's reinfcllcN.

M\*IVTKI.

PKKSONHhaven

nfilleted with |'IU«X to address

itu*. I never fulling cure, application niacin by patients without pain or incon venienco. IVisonal examination or visit not rci|iilred. Positively no cliar^c for treatment until pormantlv cured. For iAiloby

ADAMNON KKKITIyNSTIKN DM. li.

Voi.KKUH,

CM Main St. Terre llunte, IikI., or Donntsoii, tils.

PILLS

A DISORDERED LIVER IS THE BANE tho present generation. It for tho

5ure~orYhlB dinetiao arid its attendants,

sioiTHEAijach£,_ biliousness,__dysp: :PSIA, CONSTIPATION, PILES, etc., that 'n/TT'S PltLS have Rained a world-wulo rt nutation. Mo Remedy Han over been discovered that acta bo

Rentiy on tho

li yosttve organe, giving thorn vigor to ftH•ii lilfUo food. An a natural renuH. tho N jrvouo"Bystenf is Braced^ tho Muncles ,i r.i Developed, and tbo Body Sob net.

Oliillis and jPovor. E. lilVAti, PI unto nt Dajrou Sara, La., trnyn: Mv plantation In In a malarial rtlntrlot "or ip'veral yon.rn I

could not tnnltobalftv

crop on

•vocount of blltous rtlaeanon r.nd clilUn. 1 v/an n-nrly tHr.couragod Tehon I beam tho mbm ,f T"JTT'3 PILLS, Tho renui4, wn-i murv..iwv

-ny

laborers soon booamo

lu nrt and it biui',

I b&ro had no further troublo.

~lirr rcllrvp

ihecttRonreiS

rAver.

tiie lilood front hnmiin. mntn lh« boKfla aci nolwr.-i/Iy. .'.Jiout nblrh «oonn«i« wr'.l.

Try thlaremedy ftilrlT.m/ yow

or

iriltanin

honlth.r Vlf »riiin WosJj "Jlood, Strong: mul a. HoupkI J.I K'rloc, 25Out*. Oflleo.3S.noit*.3 Nt., M. V.

WlTTFKKIW rhftllEe.l to 3 (1

ulnglo application of Uiln

1vi

Imparts a natural color, nti'1 i«'t« Instantntii Sold by PrtiKfflnta of Ono Dollar.

"«e

ild bj i, or m-nt by r.-.TpraHn on Office, 88 Murray Str*~t, N#«\v Yor!'.

(«ei!f

Dr.

Ttirrn MAKIA I, of Valunbl Information

and

6«

Vmm/itl lltncipt*

mmtiMI

mi

on av»lUutiotu

LIVER

TARAXINE

The Great Vcf/ctable Liver Corrector. Jt contain* no Citomrl or HHnnrnl of attjf tr 11

kind. It* M'tin Iitarrdlent in thr f'oncentraO'd JUfdicnt J'riurtptc of

It Trir".r{rmii or iJandtflon.

TARAXINE

1» a Specific, for aft ariMnff from Deranged JArrv.

J'-iirels, ftpli-i'll dn TARAXINE

or ii

TARAXINE Cures Liver Complaint in all its I

Stages.

Sever fails to cure ('/ironic Ague. Try it.

TARAXINE Cures (Dyspepsia and

TARAXINE\ Curett Habitual\ Constipation.

Indigestion.

TARAXINE

1$ for fair hy all nr'irvl*t* and Patent Medicine Dealer». Tricc, r,0 Cts. and $1.00.

A. KIEFER,

Indianapolis, Tnd.