Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 4, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 22 July 1882 — Page 2
THE MAIL
A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE..
TERRE HAUTE, JULY 22, 1882
Not Quite the Same.
Not quite the same the Spring-time seems to me Since that sad season when in separate ways Our paths diverged. There are no more such days As dawned for us in that last time when we Dwelt in the realm of dreams, illusive dreams Spring may be Just as fair now, but it seems
Lort
Not quite the same.
Not quite the same is life since we two parted, Knowing it best to go our ways alone Fair measures of success we both have known. And pleasant hours and yet something departed Which gold, nor fame, nor any thing we win, Can all replace. And either life has been
Not quite the same.
Is not quite the same, although cach heart Has formed new ties that are both sweet and true But that wild rapture which of old we knew fieems to have l/f-en a something «et apart With that last dream. There is no passion now .Mixed with this latter love, which seems, somehow,
Not quite the same.
Not quite the some am I. My Inner being Heasons and knows that all is for the best But, 01 the unbilled yearning in my breast. As my soul's eyes turn ever backward, seeing The vanished self, that evermore must bo XhlJ Side of what we call eternity,
Not quite the same.
Erica's Sacrifice.
A Question of Forgiveness or Dishonor.
CHAPTER XI.
FAREWELL IIOrE, LOVE, AND LIFE.
*'I believe him too," muttered Poynter, as he quickly strode up the road to his cottage, and began springing up the cliff path. "Good Lord, if she comes back and meets him there'd be mischief done. I wonder if she will come back. I'd give somethin' to know she ain't bad."
Thus soliloquizing, Nat climbed the path till he reached tne little plateau on which his cottage stood. lie was about to Insert the key into the lock when a light touch on his arm made him start round as though ho had seen a ghost, and if it had been indeed a ghost he could not havo turned whiter, nor fallen back with more apparent fear, for the tall, slender form of Erica St. John stood beforo him in her long cloak drooping around her, and her veil thrown back. "Good Lord!" the man said, and for a moment could add nothing else, but ho recovered himself very soon and put' his hand on her arm.
t1£I
Question:
am so glad
and yet so sorry to see you back, missy," said, rather huskily, "I don^ know vliat to say. ihit come in out of the Wind.'1 "Hist!" Bho whispered, under her broath "they told me at the station he was come back—is it true?" "Come in—come in," was all Nat said, gently urging her forward, and sho obeyed liiin, and waited till he lighted a lamp, and then she threw off hor bonnet as though even that slight weight oppressed her. Ah! how beautiful sho looked in her dire sorrow the rich bronze hair (lowing over her shoulders, those large eyes so pitifully questioning, those white lips quiveringly framing the
"lell me, is it true—is ho come back?" Nat took both her hands in his, and his eyes looked sorrowfully, kindly, down on her. His heart was sore for hor. lie could have sacrillced in that moment the gold promised him—tho gold that should keep hirn above privation in the cruel winter-time—to seo this girl restored to all sho had lost. "Why do you look at mo so?" sho
'you—you You must
said, half-shrinking back have something to tell me say it quickly, Nat, for I must go borne."
She put her hand to her forehead,
Jlazed
mshing back the hair, as if she was with all she had gone through.
"MY
poor lassie!" said the man. turn
ing aside, and his rough voice shook, "yo haven't no homo to go to, that's just the truth." "No home!" How her hands tightened their clasp round his: how ner eyes sought his face. "My home—my husband's home "Miss Krea," Nat turned to her again, with the desperate resolve to fight no longer against the inevitable— the truth she must know, "you musn't think me a presumin' and asking what 1 ain't no right to ask if I died for't I must know this. You didn't leave tho master's home 'cept only to save Mr. Arnold, didn't vou?"
.. ..
bands from his and knelt down by the table, resting her forehead on them, and rocking herself to and fro with a low moan. "Go on. go on." "The master, he sent for me, but I couldn't snv nothin'. missy, seein* as how ve tolled me not" es, ves: and how did he look, and what did" he say—say of me?" she asked with feverish rapidity, and she moistened her parched lips and lifted her eyes a moment on him.
The man was silent. How could he toll her she was in Philip St. John's eyes a dishonored wife?
She rose
UP
ci ie.
"lie thinks it now," she saiu, in the! same way: "he thinks—what can he think but that I am—oh, great Heaven!" she broke down into wild, bitter weep-! ing that shook her from head to foot, "Am I lost—lost? Has he cast me out? Am I dishonored in his eyes? Oh, no,1 no I will not believe it. I cannot, 11 cannot bear this—his love was all I had."
She struggled passionately for control, and lifted her head, tossing back her long hair with an almost wild gesture. "But I will go to him," she continued excitedly "I will beseech his mercy he will surely trust me!"
She turned, and putting out her hands like one who gropes in darkness, moved to the door. But Nat sprang forward and stood between it and her, and she drew back with a haughty defiant flash in the large eyes. "You dare not stand between me and my husband," she said. "Let me pass, I am not afraid of the night let me go, and I will plead with him—he will see me." "lie won't see you, Miss Erica," said the man, earnestly. "I'm afraid to let you go. You mustn't, missy you mustn't, indeed." "Let me go," she cried out, frantically, with a passion of entreaty in her accent. "I must, I must,"—she choked back the agony that well-nigh mastered her—"I must kneel to him, and he will forgive—believe. I am his wife he will not refuse me. You do not know him you think him cold and stern—not to me, never to me."
Nat caught her hands and held them in his own. "I'm iust afraid for your very life. Miss Erica that's the downright truth," he said. You shan't go, not if I stand here all night. It's no use your looking so wild-like at me there's quite enough misery without any more bloodshed. I must tell ye, after all, what he said and he meant it all—every word you ought to know him, missy he's just flint. He says to me, quite passionate, for all he was quiet enough 'If you value her life and your own, keep "her from my path.' There!"
For a moment, as those awful words fell on her senses, the girl stood like one on whom sentence of death has fallen. Only then at last did she seem to fully comprehend all that had fallen on her —banned and cast out, dishonored, lost! "lie—said—that!" fell from her stiffened lips. 'Keep her from my path.'
She tottered forward a step, dizzy and blind, and fell like one dead at his feet. It was bright early morning before the girl once more opened her eyes on her world of woe—opened them to meet the anxious, concerned gaze of her protector, and she started half up from the rude settle on which he had laid her. "Lie still, my dear, lie still," he said, putting her back "you mustn't stir I'll take care of you." "But I must go," she said, dreamily, but looking round with wide-open eyes. "I must go to him—home." "IIo's gone away, missy," said the man, soothingly. "You mustn't try to Bee him."
She df in her breath with a quick jasp, and pressed her hands over her for'ehead, as. like a flash of lightning, came back to her the memory of the night before. "Ah, I know—I remember," she said, with such despairing bitterness that the tears started to his eyes. "I remember now where I am and—what I am. Have I really done so awful a wrong, am I the guilty thing he thinks me?" "No, no, mv dear," interposed Nat, earnestly. "You ain't well now, but you mustn't talk like that. Look, missy, you can write to him and tell him." "I cannot tell him the one thing that will clear me," she said, shaking her head, wearily closing tho burning eyelids. "I—I—will see him." "Listen now, Miss Erica. What could you say if you saw the master? You won't tell him about Mr. Arnold. You say he would have his life. He wouldn't
Surely
She flushed to her very brow, and a have been told, it is all true—all out wild terror came into her eyes "To save him. only to save him," she said. You know I dared not trust him alone and he is safe—at least not if he
knew— Philip: but oh, what is in yourj 5?, ng more than your love can give? face, Nat? Your eves look so
into
mine* He. knows then that I went of the love I tried to give you! Rememressed away ber your lips have pressed mine—have "lie knows, missv." The man spoke called me your wife, your darling! I am a back I ^at still. Philip—loyal true, th low and falteringly. "Ho came this e^r.lng, and Mrs. Robertson, she saw you leave with Mr. Arnold, and the jrirl Bridget, she heard you speakin' to him before, and they found that there note I give yon on the course, and the master had "it. missy. Dear Miss Erica, for nit v's sake don't so ye ain't goin' to I roore, a faint?* "Faint!" she echoed, and drew her ..
I'm he'd true
like." Sho lay silent for some time, and then rose up, putting him aside. "I will write/' she said, quietly. She seemed utterly spent and worn out, the mere wreck of tne bright, bold-spirited Erica of old. "Give me paper you have some? He is really gone?" "I see him go to the station, Miss Erica. I can see right over the village from here. The train's gone this halfhour."
Very well. Give me paper." She sat. leaning her head on her hand, while he brought her a sheet of paper, and then he went out and sat down a little wav out of her sight. She drew out the little gold pencil-case—his gift to her—a.id looked at it for a moment with wistful sadness, then bent down and wrote these lines of despairing sup-
lication—of such useless pleading, they might have touched him to some softer answer! "I have nothing to say—no excuse, no reason to offer, no explanation to give of my absence. I deny nothing that you
Oh. think, for the love of God! think
She broke olt abruptly, adding no more, and the pencil dropped from her
had been
agony
Semned
and came to him. an al
most fierce gleam in her eyes, and her slender fingers closed on his arm with a clasp like iron. "The truth." she whispered hoarsely "I will know the truth. You shall tell it me—I must hear it. Tell me—I shall go mad:
to her to write
those words. They came from the depths of her despair, and she knew they were empty words, they would fall dead to the ground.
And so they went forth, and the days passed slowly, all too slowly. She was told that the house was shut up, only Mrs.
Robertson remained to take care of it. It was said in the village that it was to be sold, and all the village knew her story now, and in the great houses round they spoke of it too, and some
itied and condemned, and more conand had no pity. Well, she was not worthy of pity if it were all true.
And one day there came an answer for her. It had come under cover to the gostoffice at Kington, whence she had
"I ask neither reason, explanation, or excuse from you," Philip wrote, "as vou say you deny nothing but one thing that denial I pass over. You ask more
For dia-
iveness, or
or Pitt, tail* jroai may daim,
and justice I give you." You are mv rife yet in name, as Heaven's law made you, and that I cannot break, but from nenceforth you are nothing more: there lies a gulf between you and me that not a life-long penitence can bridge. You have chosen your path—see that it never crosses mine, for never will I look on your face again. You are dead tome. "I have made arrangements with Mr. Garth, my solicitor, by which you are provided for. You are at liberty to apply to him by letter whenever you will."
That was all—those cold, hard lines, no softening apparent in them, not one word of farewell.
And as Erica reacf the last lines her features grew rigid and stony, and she rose up and laid the paper on the fire and watched it consume. "He gives me justice!" she murmured, a world of bitterness in the low tones. "And I will die before* these hands shall take hold of the life his justice renders me. And so, farewell, hope, love, life!"
All was over now. Henceforth her life would be a blank, an existence, in which despair would be her only partner.
Ah, why was she doomed to bear so heavy ana cruel a burden? Could the spirit of her mother look down with ap-
6ie
roval on the bondage she had laid upon 30ul of one so innocent?
CHAPTER XII.
WHAT TIIEY SAID IN THE CLUBS.
"There goes a man," said Archie Proctor, "for whom Fate seems to have reserved all her 'whips and scorpions.' I fancy 'all the fairies but one,' as someone says, assisted at his bjrth."
The "remark was made to two or three men who were in the smoking-room of the "Norfolk," and they one and all looked up. "Who are you talking of?" asked one, with a half smile of surprise at this solemn assertion. "That man there," replied Archie, waving his hand towards the window. "What! the man speaking to Lady Cheshunt—the one on that splendid horse?" cried Greville, the writer. "Why, that's Philip St. John, the man of the day. You might single out some other unlucky dog for your sententious observations." "One of the luckiest fellows," said another. "The man's famous, and isn't above two or three and thirty. Wish I were he, that's all." "Then," said Mr. Proctor, grimly, "you wouldn't say so if you as much about him as I do. I wouldn't change places with Philip St. John with all his
rriffa a# minrl on/1 norann un/1 Vita fftmA
not
These three years have scarcely changed him. In the brilliant eyes there lies the deathless shadow—deeper, graver, perhaps the lips are set more stonily, and it may be there is something "now about lnm that chills and repels, yet still he unconsciously draws men to him by the brilliant gifts that compel homage and reverence.
But not one could read the daily and hourly suffering that lav on the man's soul, torture scarcely dulled by time, for what time can even skin over honor's wounds? Who could guess the eternal conflict of the. love that would not, could not die. with the indomitable
Jleadly
yo
that I am guilty, that I have brought dishonor on your name. I plead for trust—you loved me once, Piiilip—for trust that shall cover my fault. Am I asking more than your I
lough I
may seem to have broken my faith. What shall I plead, what more shall I say? I have no words, Philip my thoughts fail me in my despair. Have mercy! have pitvl and forgive
uide that could never stoop to forgive a wrong to honor. Once among his letters—mnnv there were some dainty scented pink notes that wer• tossed unopened aside—there came one the writing on which sent a lightning thrill to his heart that seemed to stab him with a desperate pain. He had taken it up and looked a orief moment on the characters, traced he could think in what anguish perhaps then, with lips close pressed, and hand that never faltered, he had put it unopened into an envelope, and sent it back to that little cottage on the cliffs at Gravle.
wo.u
•robably. And then he had sat the long night through, his head bowed on his hands, without once moving.
Three years of such suffering, and a life-time lay before him. What won-
TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MA IT.
£ifts of mind and person, and his fan}®-'' on him," said the man, holding back What up, then j* laconically asked h0rse -which, impatient and frightCaptain Cartwright, who was popularly
supposed to know everything, but clear-1
ly.didn't know this.
I wonder he's never married," put in Greville, still watching the grava and handsome literatcur, who was chivalrous in his courtesy to all women, but had never singled out one above the other for more than the ordinary attention of a gentleman. "He is married," said Proctor, "as far as I know, at least." "Married!" they all echoed. "Never knew it till this day never saw his wife. By the way, wasn't there something about a brother who was murdered about throe,or four years back?" "His broNiar Walter—yes, a young fellow in the Lancers,* answered Proctor, with whom reticence was not a salient quality. "Not like this one. Oh, dear, no. A good sort of young fellow —clever, too—but not mm'
5? fifek-tano p^e.?'re
in him. Ho got drawn into betting and all sorts of games—that he never said a word about, of course,. to St. John, who was then away from London. It came out at the inquest, I remember. They have never found the murderer. And then," added Proctor, after a pause, "he came back from his brother's funeral to find his wife gone off with someone, an old lover, I suppose. Young thing she was—such a beauty."
There was a moment's silence. They all knew Philip St. John to a certain extent, and this page in his past life revealed to them was sorrowful enough to touch the most careless there. "And so deuced proud as he is!" said Greville, at length, as if uttering aloud the conclusion to a train of thought. "Hush!" said Cartwright^ quickly, "he's just dismounted aud is coming in."
uiat little cottage on tne cims at irravie. warden-walk and through the open door
sought by
Society welcomed him and would have edits doors to the famous literatettr.
open lie came in now to the smoking-room and glanced round, shaking hanaB with Proctor and the others.
He turned to Greville. "You are the man I wanted. I knew I should find you devoted to cigars at three o'clock." "You're too bad, St. John." said Gre-
"Luncheon from one to two cigars from two to three."' said PhiKp. and the men laughed, for Greville's devotion to cigars was a joke among them "but I did not come to take you to task, but to give you an invitation from the editor of the'Circle.' He has a dinner-party to-night—everybody yon ought to know will be there. I spoke to Mm to-day about you." "Yon are too kind. St John," said Greville, earnestly "how can I thank
SS|. and a mafmSt tove »6tie«. rir,3^11 please to step this after luncheon."
man cher,* answered Philip, without a smile "evoila tout, there is no room for thanks." "And von wouldn't believe I meant them if 1 gave them." Greville said, with a sort of manner with which a man makes a venture on untried ground.
But Philip only smiled a little, the
haff MreastV smile~ihat waTyet rat: unkindlv as
l»e. turned to
I kindly as he turned to go. "My faith would last as lor ong as your gratitude, I dare say. I must go now, I have a man to see in Ilampstead somewhere if you have a moment to-mor-row. Greville, you can bring your cigar to my chambers, from two to three, and tell me how you fared with Harrington. "Aren't you going to-night, then?" asked Grevjlle. "No I shall not have time. I have work to do. I shall see you to-morrow."
CHAPTER XIII.
"FORGIVENESS OR DISHONOR."
Along the white dusty road, chequered with the shadow of sweet-scented laburnums and chesnut trees, a hansom cab came bowling along at a swift pace. It was one of those pretty suburban retreats upon which the advance of bricks and mortar in the north is fast encroaching.
On one side were Small villas, standing within gardens on the other, the grounds of some large house, aristocratically hidden from the common gaze, somewhere down along drive.
Not a human being or another vehicle was in sight only a collie dog was busy in the roadway over a bone, which fact
Elat
roved that seldom did carriages pass way. And, indeed, the whole
Eouses
lace seemed set out of the world. The looked as if they had gone to sleep in the sun. their green jalousies carefully excluding the light, which might be more treasured in England since so little of it is vouchsafed to its inhaBitants.
A sudden shout from the driver of the hansom, the sharp pulling up of the horse, and a shrill crv of pain, startled Philip St. John from the thoughts which, waking or sleeping, were ever his grim companions.
It was but a moment's work to spring from ttie cab and bend over the poor dog, who, too busy with his bone to heed the sound of approaching wheels, had fallen a vidim to his country supineness, for the driver, not noticing him until he was almost on him, had then been too late to stop tho horse from knocking the animal over. "1 didn't see the beast, sir, till I was
enefj
mi„ht
the incident. was straining at
the bit to be off
uTake
bite„
lgri
sir
am not afraid," Philip said, with a ring of contempt in or
his voice for the
vulgar terror of dogs which characterizes even stalwart men of the lower order. "lie is not much hurt. You have managed, mv friend, to run over his shoulder and graze his jaw."
The poor dog suffered Philip to examine the extent of his wounds, looking up into his face with that trustful gaze wnich seems to acknowledge that the examiner is "cruel only to be kind," and only uttering a soft, plaintive) whine as.I*Wlip sUtroohed with his baud flfewea fetun
811
haiidliMrthe
wit
chkjf the blood which cjreatupe'8 mouth. "There don't seen} to be nobody here, sir." said the man, looking round.—
aslccp'1
tnke
,l:'
111
th'8
Philip glanced around. He could not leave the dog in the road, and the creature could not walk. He looked so piteously up at his benefactor, too, when he moved a step away, that Philip could not have found it in his heart to disregard the mute appeal. "I am close to the place I was going to," he said, after a pause, "you need not wait. I recommend you, my friend," he added, as ho paid tne man, "when you como out to these parts not to follow the customs of the inhabitants and go to sleep at five o'clock."
The man looked a little sullen, and drove off, and as Philip paused, somewhat uncertain what to do with his charge, the gate of the house opposite was opened, and a servant ran out, uttering an exclamation between amazement and grief when she saw the (log. "Oh, what is the matter?" she eried, running to him. "Oh, my poor Kenneth! he's dreadfully hurt." "There is not much harm done," said Philip, "the driver of my cab was awkward enough to run over him. If you will tell me where you live. I will do what I can to repair the mischief." "Oh, sir, how good you are!" said the girl. "Poor Kenneth! But lie can't walk, I'm afraid, sir and my mistress— oh, she will be sorry, seeing as she's alone but for Kenneth, and he's such a pet, sir. with her." "I think, my good girl," Philip said, "you would serve both better if you show me where to take the dog, instead of lamenting."
The girl colored high and began to remonstrate. "He can't walk, sir, and oh, you mustn't carry bim, a gentleman like you, sir. I can." "A gentleman may do worse things, foolish girl, than carry a dog," was all Philip said, as putting" her aside he bent over Kenneth and lifted him easily in his arms. "Now lead on, I have no time to waste." "It's this house, sir," said the girl, a sho
meekly, and she led the way up a short
into the pretty flower-decked nail to a small room beyond. She was London-bred servant, ap
not a pr
she might have had some trepidation in introducing a stranger into the house, or cism
i™?TSWtheSvSoIen w™Vfnteltecrt SkTneinthe neighSrhmS and g'nerai' J,1wa.rd pc'rhkps. liardenwj wasalWafeH. II. by all.
toe girl, said: "There is nothing to be done but to wash his mouth with warm water: there are no broken bones, and he will be well in a week or two."
way she'd be vexed not to thank you herself." "There is no need of thanks," said St. John, smiling a little. "I were less than man to have left this noble-looking brute to his fate and. truth to say, he might have died before anyone had seen him. Pray don't disturb your mistress." "Oh. indeed," cried the servant, with enthusiasm, "she would be angry with me if I let
And Phil
and smiled. irirl into the drawing-room.
apartment, replete wHVi all the graceful accessories which a cultivated" woman gathers about her, and Philip glanced round him while he waited that minute or two. It might have been that nameless something which without reason carries the mind back to scenes and
I luxury of flow ers-roses. lute and red.
many-hued geraniums, delicate lilies of the "valley—that flashed back to his vision as in a mirror, a long low room with just such wealth of flowers, and a girl's fair face bending over them, touching them with a girl's dainty petting wavs. Or was it, in truth, some subtle chord of sympathy, touched into mysterious vibration? "Was it some such feeling that made him lift his eyes suddenly, for he had not heard the slight rustle of the window-curtain
pushed aside, to see a woman's slight rorm enter from the garden. lie looked up, and with a smothered crv recoiled: "God in Heaven spare mel Erica!"
One minute she stood, then sprang forward to his feet, stretching out her hands: "Philip! Philip!"
What piercing anguish ran? in the voice once so pathetic in its sweetness. "Look on me, speak to me. You turn away and cover your face, as though to look on me were misery and pain."" "It is. it is!"' he muttered, hoarsely. "I have not sought this: I thought never to look on your face again. Stand back. I have no place here."
He stretched out his hand as though to put her aside and pass out. but she fell on her knees before him. lifting her clasped hands, her eyes seeking his with a wild appeal. "You will not go, you will not leave denying me all mercy! No, no: must, I
me,
ny
you shall not put mo aside I may claim sonte pity." That agonized voice, that Wondrous beauty, did they touch him, or only rouse again the fierce passions that had been only veiled? "Three long years so long, each minute a weight of lead. Has there come no whisper to you, Philip, that the wife you lovea once was innocent? Has there come no voice pleading mercy for her? You lock your hands together— your eyes avoid mine. It is torture to see me, to hear my voice, to be in my presence. Oh! thou who hast mercy, move this heart to mercy."
She bowed her head down in bitter despair with tearless sobs tliat shook her slight frame like a reed.
Is he unmoved by this—a woman's tears? "Aye, aye," he said at last, looking down on the bending form at his feet. "Tears, tears! a woman can ever find these to draw from some well, be it ever so shallow. The time has gone by when these tears can move me. Did you think of love or pity, or of justice even, when you stabbed the honor of the man whose name you bore and were bound to keep unstained? But what boots it to speak of that?" he said, with a sudden passionate change invoice and look "tho gulf is made tho chain is broken the scar is burned into my very life. Once more I tell you, for your sin I have neither mercy nor pardon."
She wrung her hands above her head. "No forgiveness, no mercy. Oh, the vilest criminal, the most lost among women. inj$jlrt ask that, Philip." She spoke with quick ^asps, pushing back •Her hair now, moving Uer hands restlessly in the very angmsh of her despair. "I will not. I do not ask much. I would not ask to come back to yon, because I have nothing to say, except to beseech a trust you cannot give: but only—only forgiveness—only forgiveness." "Forgiveness!" he said, with a strong passion that shook his voice. "No yon do well to ask only that, and that is not mine to give. You have dared to trainpie on the one thing I held a spotless treasure above all else the one thing I thought could never fail me when love was denied and trust withheld honor still was left—and that is tainted. A thousand deaths a thousand tortures were better than that slow agony, that wroek of all but the curse of 'life.— And while I hold that deadly life, ask no more. Mercy! I have no wells of mercy left."
Shrinking, almost cowering on the ground, she had heard those scathing words, spoken with so deliberate a passion, not und M- the ephemeral excitement of a passing anger. Her brain was dizzy with the strain laid upon her but as once more he moved, and would have passed her by. as those awful words fell from the ruthless lips, she gathered strength from despair, she almost flung herself again before him, clinging with a frantic clasp to his hand—a clasp that would not be denied. "No, no! oh, no, no, Philip," she cried out with a verv passion or agony that sent the blood flushing to his brow. "You are human, you have passions and feelings, you are not a thing of stone. Oh, take back the words it cannot—must not be! I have suffered is it not an agony to know that I am lost, despised in your eyes and the world's, to be scorned? And I have not sinned, I am guiltless. And if—if she stopped, convulsively choking back the anguish that almost mastered br?r "if I were all you deem me, there was one who sinned—whom they would not have stoned—and Christ forgave—^—" "Have you ever read," Philip interrupted, through his clenched teeth,"that the man wronged forgave? I trow not. Yes, I am human, a man with passions, whose very strength is my curse." He paused a moment: she had bent her face down, her fingers twining still
around his hand the touch that brought back a thousand softer memories, et
was he touched, moved at last to a shadow of relenting moved by that de-
introducing spair. by the love tliat never could die? else, I lulip thought, with the seep*' jf jt were so, the very potency of the ism natural to a man of the world,!
readiness
otherwise explained. He laid the dog -pntipr quietly on a couch, and then, turning to
niooJiin«
8
Will he really, sir?" The girl looked
Sisplayed.
uite amazed by the knowledge of dogs "Poor dear! ITT do what
^ipnt
flnJ.
though
He bent down, and with Arm gentle hand unclasped the slender gers that had little strength to hold him, and put her back and then her tears ceased, she rose up, her features white and set as marble in the large eyes a steadfast sternness as she faced him and spoke, locking her hands over her breast. ".Merciless— cruel—hard," she said, the words dropping slowly from her pale lips. "When you, Phjan St. John, shall stand all stripped of that pride, that honor which makes your priceless mantle here, when you shall be arraigned before that har, where I, too, shall stand, how shall you dare appeal r/T
for mercy, who give no mercy here,'
Mercy! that was all—all I pleaded. Well, I have asked in vain, now it is all over, I will trouble you no more."
Like one who no more strength left to battle aga fate, she sank into a chair near the table, and laid her face down on her crossed arms: and that mute.flegpair sent a rush Q( passionate,
mVonunu€tl
en Third Page.
From Frank Ltw io's IlhisTrnt.,1 NYusj A I.ADY SAID
Those Horrid lini|.los! I Chium Jo, I'Icnsf I'ro.TiU My 1 usr:
Probably two-thirds of the Indies society and homes of our land areatlliei ed with skin diseases of various kind: to do away with which, if it could be dor without injury, would be the happit event of their lives. Then she have instead of a disfigured and ninrr countenance, one that would he han some, or at least good-looking, for one with a clear, pure skin, no math what tho cut of her features are, has certain amount of good looks which tract everybody. As it is now, she agines every one sees and talks aloi "those freckles," "those horrid pimples, and other blemishes with which she alllieted, and this is true of either sex.
To improve this appearance great ris! are taken arsenic, lnuicury, or hig' sound titled named articles* eontainin these death-dealing drugs, are taken hopes of gelling rid of all these troublr In ninny cases death is the result. ailevitation of I lie burning, heating ih ing and inlhnnmation is given. A troubled with Fczrina (salt rheum letteis, lluniois, lnihinmiaiiau. Rom Scaly Eruptions of any kinds. Disease the Jlair ami Scalp,' Sciofula, Vice Pimples or Tender Itehingson nnv put of the body, should know that there is hope for llieni in a sure, perfect reined known as Dr. C. W. Benson's Skir Cure." It makes the skin white. sofS and smooth, removes (an and freckles and is the best toilet dressing in tIK world.
IT
is elegantly put up, two bot
tles in one package, consisting of l»ot" internal and external treatment, (hi readers should be sure to get thisand no some old lemedy resuscitated on the sue-t-ess of Dr. Benson's and now adveiti as "The (.Jreat Skin Cure." There is only one—it bears the doctor's pictim and is for sale by all druggists. $1 pe package.
A SENSATION"
HAS OFTKN ILKKN MAD15
by the discovery of some new thing, but nothing has ever stood the test like Dr. C. W. lienson's Celery and Chamoniilt Pills.
They realy do cure sick headache, nervous headache, neuralgia, nervousness, sleeplessness, indigestion, paralvsis an melancholy.
Price, 50 cents per box, two for $1, six for $2.50 by mail, postage free. Dr. C. W. Benson, Baltimore, Md. Sold by all druggists.
C. N. Crlttcnton, New York, Is wholesale agent for Dr. C. W. Heiison'.s remedies.
I
PTCIIHONShave
afflicted with 1*1 I.MS toaddrew
me. I a never falling cure, application made by patients without pain or Inconvenience. Personal examination or visit not required. Positively no chargc for treatment until permantlv cured. For Sale by ADAMKON HKITKNSTIKN
In.
I,. YOl.KKKH,
086 Main st. Tcrre Hunte, hid., or Dennlson, Ills.
TUTT'S
HW W
BHSHMHI
PILLS
A DISORDERED LIVER IS THE BANE
tho present generation. It In for th ire~of~thti dlsoaae and lta attendants, 81. k-HEAbACHE,_BlLi6USNE88,_pYS-:PSIA, CONSTIPATION, PILES, eto., that fifTT'S PILLS have gained a world-wide rt nutation. No Remedy-Has ever been ,covere3~that dots no Rontiy on tho :i jentive organs, giving them vigor to anirailate food. An a natural reshIt, the jrvoua tiystem i« JJracecl, the Muscles -.r '"Developed, and the Body itobuat.
Chills and. Povor.
E. RIVAL, & PI em tor at Bayou Bara, La., BGVB My plantation Is In a malarial district. For averal yearn I conld not rnajte half a crop on loooant of bllloua dlaaaaea and chills. 1 w«» marly discouraged when I bogan tho uso of run'8 PILLS. The result wan mnrvoloun -y laborers noon became hearty and robust, ..ad have had no further trouble.
roller** lhi Mie»rB«l T.Iror, rtosnw I lie IIIimmJ from polMineu* linmoro. itntl muse lli« bowels to Hot naturally, without which noonooBn fcil *v«*ll.
Try this rrmcilT ftilrlr, nnil yon ivltl lifnlUiyUlcnllon, Vlfiorouu ltiulv. Pnro filoorf, Mtronv ,N'rrv«**, «m«l nttoiinrf l.tvfr. Price, as
On U. OlSlce, 35 ."Hurray*#., !¥. K.
TUTT'S
UBAY
ITAiiior
Wmtmcur* c»ianc-'l
ton
OI.'
Bi.At by Alnclo "r
,h!"
,,VK
Impart* natural color, Mid wta Sold by Dmggliit/i, orwMii ly cxprvHi-, on of Ono Dollar.
Office, 88 Murray Str^ot. N«»v/ York.
(teill
nr. Tt'TTFH JUAJVtAI' of atuaUlr.~y. Information
an
it Vnrful ICr.r'jit*
be tnaU*d TBXt on awHnation.
LIVER
TARAXINE
The Great Vegetable Live Corrector. Jt contain* no Cnlomft or Mineral nf an kind, its Main Inr/rr'lidit in the. Conccntratnl Mrtticn! J'rinrlple of the Trir'ijriettill or
Jfandftion.
TARAXINE
It a Sprciflr for all IHnram-it arlalnft from frra njf'l fsl rer, Hmrrln, HpU'-n or Kidney».
TARAXINE Cure.n TAver Complaint in all its
TARAXINE Never fails to cure Chroni
Stages.
TARAXINE Cures Habitual Constipation.
Ague. Try it.
TARAXINE Cures Dyspejmia an
Indigestion.
A f\TJ^
J_ JL JL JLJ
It for Salt! bu all ImggUt» and Paten Medicinr Dealer*.
Price, 50 Cts. and $1.00.
A. KIEF Ell,
Indianapolis, Ind.