Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 3, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 15 July 1882 — Page 2

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRE HAUTE, JULY 15, 1882

Erica's Sacrifice.

A Question of Forgiveness or Dishonor.

CIIAPTKI

vnr.

HONOR AND DISHONOR, NOT COUNTING THE COST.

It was not till the afternoon that a messenger brought a few lines from Philip to Erica 8t. John, and as she read tliein her heart Beemed to stand Still. "The coroner's inquest was held this morning." Philip wrote, ''and on the evidence given, a verdict of wilful murder was returned against Stephen Martin, the man who was last .wen with Walter, and with whom he was last seen at the Crown Hotel he was seen with him also on the race-course. I have no time, Erica, to write more now I must go to London at once there is so much to be done. When I return it will be from Wilton-le-Thorpe, Mhere all the St. Johns are buried. I cannot be home for four or five days, if then. I will write to you again. Write to me at Morley's Hotel till after to-morrow, then at \Vil-ton-le-Thorpe."

The letter dropped from her hands, and she stood for a moment without movement, her fingers clasped together tightly, the brows contracted. She could" scarcely gather herself together to think: il had all come so suddenly upon her-that awful haunting fear that had overshadowed even the horror of the wrong done, and the grief for Philip's bitter loss. .She

strove

clearly to think what

ground she had for the suspicion she could not, cast off there was absolutely none but the fact that Arnold Murray had been tt the Crown, had been on the course, and had been, in London, one of Walter's companions. She did not know that he had assumed another name. It was not unlikely she wondered now she, had never asned him. "And yet. and yet she murmured again and again with white lips. "Oh, wliy does this anguish of fear take hold of me? Why does not Philip say more? If I could only know something! And this suspense is agony. Arnold is passionate and liot-tempered, and so was Walter. They might have quarreled, and- what am I saying?" She pressed her hands together, and began pacing restlessly up and down. "Why do I connect them so in my thoughts? And if it were that, what should I do? .No, no, I cannot think of that now."

She lived through the rest of that day. Janet coming in, besought her to take something to eat or drink. She feared Iter mistress would be ill and was really anxious for her. Hut Erica put away the tea and wine and food the housekeeper brought and said she could not eat, and Janet went away sorrowfully, and shook her head as sho returned to her own regions. "Mistress hasn't been herself for a long time." she said to herself.

Night came on at last, and Erica breathed a sigh of relief when she hea I'd the distant sound of elosingdoors.

The servants' apartments were all on the other side of the houso. The windows looked out on the village below, while the south gate faced the sea.

Would Arnold come? If—if what she dared not put into words were true, he would not come, surely?

She stops suddenly and leans forward, scarcely breathing her intense listten ing*

Surely there was a sound as of a step creeping stealthily over the grass. It was a gusty night, the wind was high and moaned tlirough the trees in the garden and swept the fi^len leaves before it, driving them against the window naiv," perhaps it was that she had heard.

She went to the window and liiied the curtain. Throng'.! HI my grey clouds a faint moon was struggling to shed its rays, and by its dim light she saw the trees swayed and rocked in the night wind, saw the dead leaves whirled into the air in a column but something was moving in the shadow of those funereallooking

Ill's,

routing on towards the

window it was no fancy. The girl paused one brief second, and then softly undid the fastenings of the casement anil opened it. "Who goes there?" she said, in a low, distinct 'voice, and almost before the sound had died away a man's form came out into the light, and with one swift atrkle he had reached the window, and the girl would have laid her hand on his to draw him in but he warned her awav with a gesture that made her shrink back, and he sprang into the room, shutting the window after him.

There was an instant's deathlv silence in it you might have heard her low quivering breath coming as if respiration was forced from the throbbing of her heart.

She stood looking at him with dilated «yea and white drawn lips, her hands pressed over her breast, her form shrinking. and ghastly horror in her face—the shadow of that look which never again left the depths of the dark-eyes.

She strove to sjxnik. but her dry lips moved tutlv, no words eame from them, ami then in her agony she stretched out her hands to him. and he fell back with a strong shudder, and turned away his face from the piercing questioning of her eves. "Tell me." she gasped her breath, a despairing supplication in her voice, "tell me it is not true. On. (»od! it is not true. There is not blood between us?"

He male her no answer, but sank down into a chair near ami hid his face, trembling from head to foot. Ever weak, he had not even now the kind of reckless courage that can fight off the horror of disgrace and death.

Krieft. don't, fail me now." he mnttehni. with white trembling lips. "Reniemlter our oath. There sno one but you. If you ca£t me off, I shall go and (five myself up there'll be nothing els*."

It was true then. It had been no fancy, that black cloud hanging over her, enveloping her now in its folds the fear that haunted her was now changed i« awful certainty. She had thought that any certainty would be better than suspense. ell, it Iwd come now, and she scarce knew which was the fiercer agon*.

Vet. at least, with knowledge came the uece»Uv of or for^actiop.

There was something her sninr could rise to meet and bewildered, dazed almost by that knowledge as sue was. she did not succnmb under it, though there flashed before her, as clearly as if every step had been illumined by electric lignt, the inevitable issue, the one course she must follow—the one laid on her, she deemed, if she were tc be faithful to her trust. "I have been hiding since last night," Arnold said, sitting up and speaking rea un rapidly, and his eyes flickered uncertainly, and never looked straight at the slender, gentle form lefore him. As she stood, moving a little to and fro, it seemed to her that with every 'movement her life must have ceased to be. "I've been up at Nat's cottage, Erica. He was near he saw all "He saw all?" she repeated, dizzily. "Yes, yes." He spoke excitedly now, and twisted his fingers together very restlessly. "Erica, swear you will never breathe a word to Philip St. John. He would have no mercy, even for your sake, lie would hunt me down. Oh, Erica,"—he covered his face and the drops stood on his brow—"I cannot, I cannot face that, to be dragged down to a felon's death. I did not mean to do that at first and then he loaded me with curses. He had lost on that cursed horse Fenton, as I have, and I hated him for his brother's sake "What had he or his brother done to you?" Erica said, speaking in measured tones, with no change of face, only the lips moving. "I hated him," said Arnold, fiercely, "because he was ever Hinging his brother's name at me, and I hated his brother because he stood between you and me. All the same," he added, sinking back again, and speaking with a kind of sullen dejection. "I wouldn't have hurt him we had both been drinking champagne, and our blood was as hot as lire, and so—and so

He stopped, shuddering again in every limb. "1 didn't think he was dead at first," he went on after a moment. "Oh, shall I ever get that face out of my thoughts?" "IJtit when you struck the blow, vou meant to kill him," said the girl's low tones.

He sprang up and walked away to the window and back again before he answered her. a savage gleam in his eyes. "Don't drive me like that, girl perhaps I did. What then? Hadn't he accused me and reproached me? I'm not a poltroon to stand anything a man may like to say. Why do' you look so at me?"

She made a step forward, and laid her hand upon his arm, and he started back with a half cry, as its icy chill struck through him. "Don't touch me," he said, whisperingly "your hand is pure mine "Is a murderer's hand," she said, bitterly. "Yes, I know it can it pollute me more to touch you, than to know that the same blood (lows in our veins? Listen, Arnold, and answer me truly, or. as Heaven is my witness, I will not stir hand or foot to save you from justice.

your thought that Philip

sent for, because of his brother's death? The truth, remember." "I swear to vou," he said, eagerly, and site knew this time that he spoke truth, "I had not an idea to harm him." "Was it you that brought him to Itington?" "I asked him to go with me three weeks ago," Arnold answered, and in the rbady mixture of lies, and »nat Erica know by Walter's letters to be truth, how could she separate the wheat from the chaff? "Had he refused, or cited his brother again with a sneer. "But he came after all, worse luck for him and me." "Aye. aye, Heaven knows it," the girl said, covering her face with such awful bitter anguish in movement and tone as held even Arnold silent. "Oh, is this burden laid on me too? Does this fatal vow exact that I should shield my brother's slayer, deceive still, live a lie to him? And oh!" she bowed her head down, falling on her knees beside the table, "he loves me must I betray his love, or betray one I have sworn to protect?"

In that fierce conflict Erica seemed indeed to have forgotten Arnold's presence till he touched her lightly on the shoulder, and then she lifted a white rigid face to his and rose to her feet, and in the burning dark eyes lay a fixed resolve. Cost what it might that vow lay on her still, so in her blindness she deemed it. "Whv do vou shake and tremble so:" she said, anil he fell back, gazing at her, for she looked so strangely quiet and dreamlike. "You will not be fit to take such care as you must." "Iam half dazed with it all. Jtou don't know what it is to be hunted as a felon,"' he muttered. "I am unnerved I start at every sound, and fear my own shadow." "And betrav yourself," she answered. "No. that will not do." She paused a moment in thought, and for a brief second a sort of spasm of anguish passed over her features. "And so roynter knows of—of this?" she said. "Yes he will keep quiet—I bribed him—and he'll do anything for you." "Will he? Hut "not without your money tot)." said the girl, with a smile of strange bitterness.

Would her prayer l* more than a thread to hold him back if there were no other motive. How could she telly "Where is he?" "He is out on the road he came down with me. He said he might lx wanted." "He is wanted—I must think."

He leant Kick in the chair, watching her lmlf-curiouslv. and yet in a sort of apathetic wav. lie seemed quite incapable himself of making any effort on nis own behalf never quick or resolute to act in anv emergency, he more than ever now threw himself absolutely on Erica's stronger spirit, and felt himself lost without her.

And while she walked up and down, she resolved in that busy brain a plan of escape which might elude vigilance. There was no train going anywhere from Grayle until the next morning and. moreover, it would not be safe to go from this little country station but it would be almost impossible to trace Arnold if they put off in Nat's boat, and bv that means reached a more distant station. For Erica, casting all scruple, all thought of consequences to the winds, resolved to see Arnold safe as far as she could. He might get off in some vessel that would take him abroad. It scarcely entered her mind that she would be compromising herself, and if by asy means the affair became known, placing her name—her husband's name—in jeopardy. She had been so little in the world, and had alwavs looked on Arnold so completely as a brother, that she did KOI realize $U

2 TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL. THE MAIL

that she risked. Philip would not be I home for four or five days, and she would have returned by that time,

She stopped at last and spokev "I am going to leave you for a moment,"*sne said, and she marked how he started and glanced around nervously. "No one will come, the servants are all in bed. I shall go with you to London, Arnold, and never leave you till you are safe—as safe as thought can make you. We will speak of that presently. I have monev "Erica, stay." lie roused himself, and laid a hand on her shoulder, and the crimson rushed over her brow as he spoke, looking down on that beautiful, stern face. "Do you know what vou are doing. Erica?" he said, touched to some compunction for her sake. He would fain spare her fair name if he could, and yet, even with that better thought, flashed simultaneously a sinister joy. Would not this be sweet revenge, indeed? Would Philip, so stern —so implacable, she had said—ever forgive a step that sullied his name.

She shrank a little and her eyes drooped, but she moved away and only said: "I know, Arnold, he will never know: let me go, I cannot speak of it. I must lay down all for mv oath's sake." "Only for that. Erica?" he said, bending quickly forward as she was going, and sue met his look steadfastly, and answered in the cold, measured way she had spoken almost throughout this interview. "My oath is registered in heaven my mother claimed it. and right or wrong, a vow made to the dying is to me binding even unto death but you have no claim on my justice, or forbearance. Are you answered?"

She turned and quitted the room, and he stood without moving for a few moments, and then muttered to himself with a sneer: "That miracle of honor, Philip St. John, will find a spot on his spotless shield. He will never know I think lie will. Ah. that is a goodly revenge she might have done this for my sake, but for him—curse him!"

But his amiable reflections were put to flight by the entrance of his young cousin, draped now in a long black cloak, and wearing a bonnet with a thick veil, now thrown back. "Come," she said, briefly, and "without a word he followed her down the damp garden, keeping in the shadow of the trees. Light as were their steps, tho watch-dog in the stable-vard heard some sound, and bayed, but Erica called his name softly, and he knew her voice and was quiet at once.

So she went out of that house, out at the garden gate, and shivered strongly in the night wind as she glanced back at the darkened windows.

Ah, will no one save her—warn her? Nat tries to: in his rough way he takes her two little hands in his great brown ones as they stand on the beach by the boat. And he is puzzled, and does not know what to think quite.

Yet surely Miss Erica can do no wrong? "Miss Erica, dear," he says, "I'm a rough sort o' customer, and "ye musn't be angry like are ye sure ye mind what ye're cloin'?"

She looked steadily out to sea and drew in her breath with a quick gasp. "I know ho must be saved it is too late "Have ye thought of the master, missy?" the man said slowly. "IIush!" she answered him under her breath "I dare not think—I must only act To tlio lioof rp.nrlvV' SVn "wiVo now with a feverish impatience, and he was fain to let her go and make ready the boat.

How often in this very boat she had gone out with Philip in the sunshine and brightness of day, on soft moonlight nights, in the dreamy twilight now in darkness and mist, hand in hand with his enemy. How vividly, as under the steady stroke they pulled the boat and made way through the rough cold waters, she recalled that bright day when she had shrank, chilled and oppressed by those stern words of his.

CIIAPTEH I

DESE KT E D—I) ESOL ATE.

"Did vou hear Wolf baying last night, Mrs. Robertson?" said the housemaid the next morning as the old housekeeper came downstairs to breakfast. "Yes, I did," she answered, rather crossly, for she had been disturbed, and disliked to be cheated out of her ten hours "and I got up and looked out at the staircase window, and I thought I saw something moving in the garden, but he was quiet, so I didn't trouble myself further. Is the mistress down yet?" "She ain't in the library," answered Bridget, bustling about the kitchen "I'll go and see, shall I?" "No, I'll go," and Janet rose up and went upstairs. It was not fitting that this pert young housemaid should wait on her mistress now, so she rustled upstairs and knocked at Erica's dressingroom door, but as no answer was returned, she ventured in. "Poor darling!" she said, with a sigh "she's just worn out and asleep, 1 dare sav."

She softly opened the bedroom door and looked in. but stood transfixed at the sight of the empty room, the bed evidently unused everything looking exactly as the housemaid had left it the evening before. "She has never been to bed!" ejaculated the housekeeper, turning to descend to the sitting-room. "Poor lassie, she'll iust be fairly worn out body and mind.

But no mistress was in any of the rooms, and, seriously disturbed in mind, the housekeeper cast about whether grief had not unhinged Erica's intellect, and she had gone out into the night, or thrown herself into the sea, or "Oh T^nrd!" said the noor woman.

the place searched, and "What's the matter?" asked the housemaid's voice, and she came in and stopped, looking round. "The mistress isn't in her

Ttom,

nor

she isn't here nor anywhere, that's what's the matter," said Janet, rocking herself to aud fro. "Ob, what's to be done? She's gone and drowned herself." "I know she 'avent gone and done not hi n' of the sort. You are a simple old lady," said Bridget with contempt, her thoughts actively springing to the most exciting notion "why she's just took herself off with that there gentleman as came one evening, and that's what you saw, Mrs. Robertson—and Wolf barking too—and it's a real downright shame I call it. when the master's awav on such an errand, that I do." "Haud vour tongue, ye saucy wench," cried Janet, who was apt to become Scotch when put out. "jjow dare ye

say such things 6s a wife?" "Well, didn't you see some one?" persisted the housemaid, undaunted. "The best thing you can do is to send for master."

Poor Mrs. Robertson began.to cry very bitterly. The more she had protested. the more she had felt in her heart that she had not much ground to stand upon, and she felt thoroughly helpless. She had not a notion what to do, whether to send and seek lier mistress, make inquiries, or let the matter rest till her master returned. "And, oh!" cried the faithful woman, putting her apron over her head and fairly sobbing, "what a coming home it will be? Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! what will we do?"

4tSiie

might have gone out on the

beach," suggested Bridget, dubiously. It was clear she made the remark from a sense of duty, and would have felt some little disappointment had her surmise proved correct. But Janet caught at it, and soothed herself by protesting: "She was just nathin' but an auld foo' not to think o' that at once."

All search on beach and rock proved fruitless, however. No one had seen Erica, not even the fishermen, who returned early in the morning and the day wore on" without any tidings of the lost mistress. And then Mrs. Robertson. with a heavy heart indeed, wrote a letter to her master, as carefully worded as she knew how to make it, poor soul. "MR. ST. JOHN,—Sir,

There was no more than time for the warm hand-clasp, which spoke such sympathy, and the earnest words: "Write and let us know if it is illness. I fear all this trouble lias been too much i'or Iter."

And then Philip was gone. On the, third day from that on which Erica left her home, Philip St. John once more, set foot in that house—deserted, desolate! Was it dishonored?

CHAPTER X.

TITE LAST BLOW FALLS.

The wind was sweeping in wild gusts over the lawn, bending the trees before it, lashing the sea below into a boiling foam the clouds hung low over the horizon, and seemed to mingle with and join the inky black waves that came tumbling along in their uncouth play, when Philip St. John crossed his own threshold and passed at once to the lirffow dull and cheerless it looked, despite the bright fire that burned in the grate. There was a sense of emptiness about the house, a feeling impossible to bring to the bar of reason, but that mado him shiver as he entered.

Janet met him in the hall and followed him to the room, and his first question took away the little presence of mind she had left. "Where is your mistress?" he said, with a force o'f quietness that told even her that he was anxious. "Is she ill? Tell me at once?"

Janet sank into a chair, trembling from head to foot. "Oh, how shall I tell you sir?" she said, covering her face. "What shall I say?"

For an instant such deadening foreboding came over him as seemed to take avay all power of speech.

Had Erica died all alone in his absence, and they had feared to toll him? He took one stride to the door, stung wil that thought—his impulse to spring ujntairs and turn suspense into certainty, even of such woes, when the H'cman caught his hand, and her look atfp])ed him.

In Heaven's name," he said, with sieh imperious sternness that she shrank back in fear "speak, and tell «e the truth! I am in no mood for trifling." "The mistress is not upstairs," she aiswered, braced into something like cnirage by the force of his command, "the isn't here, sir, at all. She has gtie."

Ajid then she burst into bitter weepto. rGone!" he exclaimed, staggering bak as if struck. "Gone!" The word lut scarcely any meaning to him. Gone wire—out over the rocks wandering on!the cliffs perhaps gone back to Scfcland? But in an instant he had mdtered himself with a fierce effort. BlAr on blowl Could he bear two such slinks?

Ii pressed his hand on the woman's sbcfider, and at the sound of his voice herears ceased. "*u will tell me the truth without anysnore delay, without idle tears, witbut softening or prevarication," he sahfcuid she knew that she must obey.

Fjr would have cared to brave Philip St. .»hn when he spoke in that low, har4one, when that steel-like gleam camfto the brilliant eyes. "Cm waiting."

Tfo in low, nnrrfed accents she told himtl. How that Bridget had heard Ericfe and a stranger's voice talking at I the *uth gate, and ending with the nighbhe had left her home. Since I Jandiad written, a fisherman had told her tit up the coast a little way he had pasMan open boot some distance off, and 4t a girl and a man were rowing he fa-ied there was another form in the txt, but it was too dark to distin-

guisti She acknowledged that she had been Kvardly in not seeking to know who 9ras in the garden that night. But vfct could she nave done? "I find this scrap of paper, sir," she conclifcd, timidly putting into his hand the litArnold sent to Erica on the race-carse, and his hand closed round itlikekrice. And then be glanced at it, taty in those fatal words. "I saw it, sir, her dressing-room floor, and no oneis seen it but me."

His ly life seemed to cease for a secondjthat supreme effort to keep cal© tcfer eye*.

"Leave me"" was all he said, and then he was alone. Aye. alone, with his shattered love— with his love hurled back on his own heart, his faith broken to atoms, his honor thrown down, trampled in the very dust.

In the fierce tempest that swept over him he was shaken to the very centre of his being like a reed he bent before the storm, and gave himself up to be the very sport of wild passions, whose force even lie had never guaged till then

if she had knelt there at his feet and

pleaded for mercy, he would have spurned her. No softer thought came to him in those first hours of burning agony indeed, there was no distinct thought, his soul was a battle-ground on to which

Sentle

please come home at

once. We're in dreadful trouble, them beinjf only Bridget and me to think, and we don't know vrhat to do. Pardon the liberty I take in writing. Yours respectfully, "JANKT ROBERTSON."

She did not know where he was exactly, but addressed the letter to Morely's Hotel, where she knew he often stayed when in town but Philip was then at Wilton-le-Thorpe, and the letter reached him just after his brother's funeral, when he was about to start for London once more to settle all claims against the dead, of which there were not a few. But he .altered his determination at once on receipt of that message. which somehow fell like lead on his heart. Was Erica ill? Why did she not write? Why had she sent no line? "I am afraid you have had more bad news," said his cousin's voice, the head of the family at whoso house he was staying, and Philip looked up, crushing the" letter in his hand. "I am called home," he said. "I must go sit once. 1 fear Erica is ill. I shall catch the train to Pelham End, if I leave at once, and can change there for Itington."

emotion and sweet memories

ared not stray. He knew, felt, was conscious only "of this his dishonored hearth his proud name sullied even the love and faith so ruthlessly, recklessly cast back were secondary to that degradation which blasted the'haughty patrician's very life.

He had not moved his position one hand was still pressed heavily on the back of a chair, the other clenched until the blue veins stood out like cords the dark eyes, burning, lurid with tho storm that was none the less fierce because it found no expression in gesture or word, gazing out straight before him. Stern in repose that face had ever been, but until now, under the quieter influence of his later life, those blacker and more restless passions of his earlier youth had slumbered such tempests as had shaken him when a boy, stung by injustice or brooding over liis loveless life, had visited him rarely since manhood now they were aroused again to life in all their full power, roused by a scathing agony before which all the habitual controlof a lifetime went down like shivered glass. lie could have borne to know she had not loved him, that she had come too late to the knowledge of her own heart only, if she had not sinned, only if sho had not thrown name and honor to the winds he could have borne to see bellying dead at his feet, to know she had died alone, suffering but not this—not this! Was it not all a frightful dream? Was there no mistake—no escape from the inevitable conclusion? Could sho be guilty, that fair young wife who had come to him as the "gentle rain from Heaven," who had laid her head on his breast, whom his arms had clasped, whose brow his lips had pressed? Had he not whispered onlv a few short days before, "My darling!''

His darling! Even then, as he had kissed her, she had been set to betray his trust—even then those fatal words he clenched now iu his right hand had tempted her from her faith.

One by one there came back to nis memory all things that had perplexei him during these past weeks— her quiet ouestion, "What if 1 failed in love or duty?" his stern answer, and her altered manner. That very night, she had seemed so disturbed*when her letters came in, and her passionate weeping when, later, he had returned and met her in the garden.

All her strange anxiety and excitement at the races, and a hundred other things, so slight in themselves—words, looks, tones, heeded but unread at the time—all clear now under the fierce light Hashed on them by the knowledge lie held.

Who was this unknown, this cursed ^PnUltorV nMio man rtliiTci iwl like oil tlH pen from head to foot with the wild surge of deadly wrath, as the question came, and was flung unanswered on one side. What mattered it even? What availed it to know the robber who had stolen the priceless jewel, and in stealing shattered it? Would that bring him back her spotless purity, restore to him her broken faith? Could the shedding of his blood whiten a blackened namo?

It was a slight thing to make the first check in that whirlwind of passion that scarce left space even for grief.

The watch-dog Wolf, who had leen hers—his wife's—came softly out of a corner, where unseen he had lain, and thrust his head against the closed right hand, uttering a gentle whine.

The touch, the sound, roused him. With a start that sent the mad blood bounding to his heart, he turned, drawing away his hand sharply as if stung, and his eyes fell on the dog, and a change came over his face.

He had often caressed the creature, and it luid seemed to love him, following him about from room to room, or lying at his feet, and now came offering its dumb sympathy.

But all that was good and gentle and tender in that mans heart was turned to bitterness and wormwood. He could not be touched now by a dog's simple faith. He could not be softened to give a caress to anything that had loved Tier.

And reading, witTi the sure instinct that is given to these lower animals, the steady, bitter hardness of the face his eyes sought, the poor brute laid his ears down and slunk away under the table. "Aye," Philip said between his teeth, "you too come and ask for a caress, and will turn and rend the hand that gives it. And I have done with all."

With all! Down the sad vista of his life came the memories of childhood, of youth, honor, of love. Not one thing ne had touched but had turned to ashes in his hand not one creature he had loved bit had failed him—dumb creatures. brother, wife. Where were they now? Where was that one enduring love he had dared of late to rest in as a haven in which be hail anchored with the trembling new-born trust that this at least would bear stress of wind and tide? Well, where was the haven? where his anchor of faith?

The tides had come, and the winds had blown full strong, and behold the haven had vanished, and the anchor lay broken on the ground. "And I have done with all," he muttered, lifting his hands in strained, locked clasn to his forehead- "With life—with honor—with love. Had I ever love? Was that counterfeit thing that showed me its tinsel wings and fluttered round me for a sunshine season, was that love? And yet—and yet I loved her." He fell down, stricken in agony, his head bowed on his arms. "Brother —wife. Oh, God! oh, God! why hast Thou marked me out so pitilessly to be hunted down—down to worse than death?"

He never knew how the minutes sped away into hours, lie had lost all heed of time, or place, or change. The wind came sweeping round the house, wailing like some lost spirit. But he heard it not. was not conscious that the dusk had deepened into darkness, and that even the dull red light of the fire had died quite down.

When he rose at last it seemed as though rears bad passed over him inQmtinucd en Third iVyc.

From Frank Leslie's illustrated Newspaper.

A LADY SAID

"those Horrid Pini|lr«i! Xo, K'nniio Pre«*iit My

have instofld of a

IXT IIXCN.

Probably two-thirds of tho ladies in society and homes of our land arontllietcd with skin diseases of various kinds, to do away with which, it'it could bodone with out injury, would bo the happiest event of their lives. Then site would

disfigured and marred

countenance, one that would bo handsome, or at least good-looking, for anv one with a clear, pure skin.no matter what tho cut of her features are, has a certain amount of good looks which attract everybody. As it is now, she imagines every one sees and talks about "those freckles," "those horrid pimples." and other blemishes with which she is afllicted, and this is true of either sex.

To improve this appearance great risks are taken' arsenic, niun-ury, or higksound tilled named articles" containing these death-dealing drugs, are taken in hopes of getting rid of all these trouble.-.. In many cases death is the result. Js'o ailevitation of the burning, heating itching and intlammation is given. All troubled with Eczema {salt rheum). Tetters, Humors, lnfiaiumatian, Hough Scaly Eruptions of any kinds, Disease of the llair and Scalp," Scrofula, Vleers. Pimples or Tender ltchisigson any part of the body, should know that there is hope for them in a sure, perfect, rentedv, known as Dr. ('. W. Benson's Skin Cure." It makes the skin white, soft, and smooth, removes tan and freckles, and is the l)est toilet dressing in the world. It is elegantly put up, two bottles in one package, consisting of both internal and external treatment. Outreaders should be sure togct thisaml not some old remedy resuscitated on the success of Dr. Hen son's and now advertise as "Tho Circa! 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'TKN BKKN MA OK

by thodiscovery of some new thing, but nothing has ever stood the test, like Dr. C\ W. Benson's Celerv and Chamomile l'ills.

They realy do cure sick headache, nervous headache, neuralgia, nervousness, sleeplessness, indigestion, paralysis and melancholy. l'rice, cents per box, two for $1, six for $2.50 by mail, postage free. Dr. C. W. Benson, Baltimore, Md. Sold bv all druggists.

C. N. CrlMenton, New York, Is WIIOICMIIC agent for Dr. C. W. lien son's remedies.

MAXTE1.

FSKSONHhaven,

aftlieleil with I'lLKS to nddiesH

me. never fidlln^ cure, implication made by patients wilhout pain or inconvenience. IVrsonal examination or vlstl not rc(|iiiml. positively 110 charge for treatment until permantlv cureil. For Sale by A1»AMS N A- HK1TKNSTIKNT

J»:.

II. VOL.KKKH,

&'l(i Main st. Terro lhuite, hid., or Dennlson, tils.

M*6

PILLS

DISORDERED LIVER IS THE BANE

freient

Cure

generation. It la for the

thia disease and Its attendants,

pvpSIA. CbirsnpATIOWrmES, cto., that fiffT'8 PILL8 have gained a world-wide re putation. JJo Hemody haa ever been Jlaoovered that~aota

BO

gently on the

di festive organs, giving them vigor to a*gfioilate food. As a natural rowuit, the NJrvous Byatom ialBrabed."the Muscles arj Developed, and the Body Robust.

Obills and. jPovor. E. RIVAIJ,

(wMI

Dr.

Planter at Bnyoa La., nay*:

My plantation l» In a inalivrtat district. For ooveral yearn I could not maho half a crop on account of bilious dlu©anon and cbllln. 1 wan nearly dlncouragod when I b'Jijitn the HUB of TUTT'8 PILLS. Tho ro»ult won murvelciiii, my laborers aoon bucfiroo lioixrf.y aud robust, and 1 have bad no furtbor trouble.

Tlicr rcllpro (h«i oitforitfO T.Svcr. *»lean»!-» (ho lllood from bullion, nm ruum llin bowel* nuiurnJly, without nlilrb no

otif ran lc-I

u"II.

Try tit la romeilT fnlrly, ami yon will cnln a lirnltlix Vlaorniwi Blotl.t. I'ur* lllood, NtronK aifl Mound l.ltvr. JS*rlce, 8tttuU. Ofiice, TJtirray !*t.,

TUTT'S Hi

ORAY

HAIRMMK

or

Ti.

Y.

WITTSKKIW

HI.AI

CHANGED to A

by

a I

application or this

P(

VK.

I

Imparts a natural color, and acta Instantaiii'Oiinly.

of

Sold by Druggist*, or (tent by t.xpresn on receipt

Ono Dollar.

Offloa, 83 Murray Street, Nov/ York.

TPTTS MAKVAIj of raluahl* *. Mn/mrmuMon and Vnaful Ilmeript* maUstf mi on amUoRlton.

LIVER

TARAXINE

The Great Vegetable Liver Corrector. It ron(ft inn no Calomel or Mineral of atijf kind, it* Main Iiiyrftlirut in the Concentrated 31rtllr.nl J'rhirlple of the Tarajrlntm or

IfattdeUon,

TARAXINE

la a Speriftr for nit liloeitMrit nrltinf/ from Deranged Llr'-r, Ihnrrlt. ."yviceit or Kidneytf.

TARAXINli Cures IAver Complaint in all its

Stages.

TARAXINE Cures Habitual Constipation.

TAIIAXJNE

Never fails to cure Chronic Affile. Try it. TARAXINE

Cures

DyspppHia and Indigestion.

TARAXINE

for Sale fry all Trngrji»t* and Patent Medlrlne Dealer*. Price, 50 Cts. and $1.00.

A. KIEFER,

Indianapolis, Ind.