Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 5, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 29 July 1882 — Page 2

2

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERKK HAUTE, JULY 29,

1SS2

Erica's Sacrifice.

A

Question of Forgiveness or Dishonor.

CTIAPTER XIV.

«m IT niUfTIUK!) OF ME? IS IT P.IQIIT." "Without counting the cost," slio murmtiri'd. clasping lier hands over her eyes. "I have not—anl oh! the cosv is more bitter tlin.ii d£«ith, if only I suffared! Must he suffer so too? Is it required of raeV Is it right?" She paused, and her hands dropper! down beiore her and her eyes were lifted with a yearning agony. "Oh. to feel once more the touch of his hand on mine, to feel his lips pressed to this burning, aching forehead, to hear his voice speak gently, in love to rest in those arms—restrsstl"

How has she lived, this frail girl, all through the long years of separation, alone in the world never at peace, never at rest ever on the tension of awful fear for the murderer she is doing such wrong to shield.

She had come to London after that Tain appeal to lier husband she could not stop in Grayle, everyone knew her and her story.

And not long after that her aunt in Scotland had died and left her money not much, but more than enough for her own needs, and this little villa in am ad

But there was Arnold to be supplied with money. lie was always writing for money, and she, dreading that if she did not send it, he would procure it in some way that might lead to his identification had rarely refused him though she was ill able to stand such oontinual drain on her purse.

Ho always told her he must pay Nat Poynter well or the game was up there, and she had no means of disproving this assertion, as she had lost sight of the boatman. IIo too had left Grayle, for he had got into ill odor there, it being popularly believed that ho had had something to do with Erica's flight. ."If I told l'liilip," the unhappv girl murmured, covering her face, "that I was bound by an oath, that was why I could not explain, would he believe me then? Would lie have mercy, and with that mystery between us

She shivered, and pushed back the silky hair from her face, and knit her brows together.' "What did lie come for?" she said, a half dazed wav "he had not sought this, he said. Ah, I know now." She smiled a bitter, a very bitter smilo of pain, as she moved towards the door. ''Merry for the dumb brute, stern justice for the frail woman. Well, well, poor Kenneth has done him no wrong, true."

She passed out across the hall to the little room where Kennetti lay, com--tre^*torfmn[fentt,htt0 fffeAY" afone while she went about her duties, and as Erica entered he testified his joy at sight of her by beating the end or his bushy tail on the sofa, erecting his ears, and looking eager—the poor creature was feeling too bruised and ill to do more. "Dear old Kenneth!" the girl said, kneeling beside him and putting her arms about him. and he laid* his head affectionately on her shoulder, and tried to lick her soft cheek, "lie was tender and kind to you, my Kenneth,'" the girl said, sadly, with tears that fell fast on the dear honest face "his hand has caressed you in your pain, his eves have rested kindly on you. Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth! I. wish—I wish I were you."

And Kenneth whined softly and tried to give his silent sympathy, divining but dimly &ho hopeless anguish that found expression in that useless wish.

She sprang suddenly to her feet as a knock came at the door, dashing away lier tears as the servant entered: "A gentleman, ma'am, to see you, she said "I've asked him to the dravv-ing-rooin." "1 cannot see anyone," the

swered

"it is late."

girl an­

"lie said, ma'am, you'd be sure to see him," said the girl "he'd come from abroad, and was an old friend that's What he said."

Her heart seemed to give one throb and then sink down like lead. From abroad! She knew who it was. "I will come." she said, verv quietly, "I think I know who it must bo.

And Mary retired somewhat puzzled, Mrs. St. John had never received so many visitors before.

Erica paused one moment outside the drawing-room door, and then went in. A man, still unmg, but bearing in face and mien the unmistakable signs of a life of dissipation, was standing turning over an album bv the table, full under the lifcht of the chandelier. His face was oionzed and half coneeal'Nl by a thick heard and moustache his hair, hanging low over his forehead, was thin and more than streaked with grev, the eves were sunken, the brow cripased with lines, and the hand that held the book was unsteady.

He turned as "the girl entered and stood bending little forward, her large eyes dilated, seeking to recognize, yet doubtiul if she in truth lo..k'd once more tut the hande. ih v,..v cousin with whom she had sported in those 'S- davs of childhood. 'n ell." he said, at last, with a half lance, not good to hear, "so you don't m\ynire Arnold Murray. That's a good hung too, for if you didn't, who would, I wonder?"

She came a step forwasd, and lifted her to her head. "Arnold!" she said. In a shocked wnihjter. "Arnold Murray! so changed —so tearfully changed'" needn't look so sea ml. girl," he satd. with some roughness. She noticed now that his voice was low and husky, its bold, free tone gone. Was this wreck of manhood indeed Arnold?— lou haven much of a welcome to give a fellow, but I dont expect that, or course. 1 ou've grown more beautiful than ever. Erica." "Hush!" she said, quickly, "dont speak like that. Telljme why yon are In England, where the very air yon breathe is full of danger." "Because I'm sick of wandering," he an^reml. "Who do v*m thinklfknow pie? why, I passed two fellows I knew in the Lancers yesterday, and neither of

them gave me a second glance. Bali. I am all right. I've been in London a week knocking about."

You take all risk to yourself." Erica said, steadily. "I have done my part. I can give vou no protection other than I have. Heaven knows I have lost enough. I will lose no more.' "I aon't see as you've anything more to lose," said Murray, with a half sneer. "It's my life or your name. And, he added, with a look that made the passionate blood rush to her cheek, "your name rests with me. not yours, pretty coz."

She knew it too. Of what use, if she could have done so, to tell Philip the truth, when with a word this man could blast her name to the world? Philip might believe—but who else? "Why have you come to met" she said, abruptly. "I naturally came to see you, and I want money as naturally. I ve had to send some to Poynter that I won at cards. I've nothing, and I've had nothing since the morning. Haven't you got some wine?"

She looked at him steadilv—a look before which his own wavered. "Your hand shakes," she said, "your cheek is flushed. No, I have no wine. I will give you money—nothing else and then you must leave this house and never come here again. I am living alone, and never receive anyone. "You've got quite knowing since you've lived in London." said Arnold, with again a sneer. "Where am get food at this time of night? me something to eat and drink, •you."

Mere life! and Philip St. John had deemed that "a curse, a deadly thing!"' There was some pity, more bitter scorn, in the girl's face as she put a purse on the table, and he took it up without glancing at her. Somehow he could not say to her again "I hold your name, as you hold my liberty, in my hands," and he passed from her presence in silence. And the girl stood where he had left her, with burning eyeballs that could weep no more, and her heart numbed into a dull agony. "For this man—for this man, the

Perhaps, too, that secret he holds, and the woe it is bringing to "Miss Erica," whom he loves still in his strange fashion, weighs on his soul, and gives him an anxious, drawn expression and, working, with that remorse. Mr. Arnold hasn't paid him anything for a long time. If he had been steadier he wouldn't have felt that long illness so.

He stood on the platform looking round him with some bewilderment the noiso and bustle confused him—he was not used to such a crowd of people all rushing about absorbed in their own business, not one of whom he knew, or who knew him. All this was quite new to him he had not been in London since his young davs. and there was no Liverpool-street Station there. He caught a porter at last. "T say, master," he said, with a strong tinge of Suffolk accent which his long residence in the county had given, for he was not a native, "where must I go for the West End of Londou?"

The man stopped and laughed. "You ain't a Suffolk man," said he. "are you?" "That's just it—leastways I've lived there pretty well all my life on an' off," answered Poynter, with a little eagerness. "You come from them parts?" "Rather," said the porter, with a smile, though I've been in London ever sin' I was a little chap. Come along, mate. I'll show you where to go."

Nat thanked him and felt grateful for the strong fellow-feeling which exists among provincials, and the porter took him along what seemed to him endless tunnels and down interminable steps until he emerged on to the Metropolitan platform. ''Where d'you want to go?" asked he then. "That's what I don*t know," answered Nat, who was not only physically but

don know." Pimlico." said the porter, that's a thunderm' way. You're on the wrong line, too you'll "have to get to the Mansion House Station. Do you know that?' "Lord. yes," said Poynter, laughing:

I mind a gom' that re place when was a boy. I was took to see the Loir! flavor at some kick up or other." /'Well, the station aint fur

v"

xiThan*K

I to Give I teU

With a sudden change of voice he spoke the last words, a fiercer gleam in his eyes. But she did not shrink or waver. "I have sworn," she said, low and sternly, "to shield you from danger and death. I have not failed. Aye, to the uttermost I have kept every tittle of that vow. But beware how you try me too far. From the moment you suffered me to bear the charge of dishonor, I vowed you should never again eat of my salt or sleep under my roof. Money I will give you, and from henceforth that is to be the limit of our intercourse. Remember that I hold your liberty in my hands." lie seemed almost to cower before her as she spoke. She did not fear him. "Give me money, then," he said, sullenly. "I guess I shan't trouble you much longer. I'm broken all to pieces racketing from one place to another, and play and drink. It's no cood looking at me, Erica, I must drink or drop —send thought to the devil. I've wished sometimes that they'd nail 'me only death is horrible a nightmare that haunts me." lie shuddered strongly and turned away muttering: "No, I couldn't face, that life is sweet after all, mere life!"

V\ Um'A urTflobon

CHAPTER XV.

NAT POYNTER COMES TO LONDON. A Great Eastern train had just arrived at the Liverpool-street station and discharged its load of passengers. Amongst those who had alighted from the third-class carriages, was a man dressed in the boatman's garb of blue serge, and he wrapped round him a rough pea-jacket, as though even on this hot June day he felt chillv. lie looked gaunt and hollow-eyed, and walked somewhat feebly, although he should have been by his Duild a strong and stalwart man.

Hut nevertheless he is not so much altered but that we know the rough, sturdy face with its mixture of kindliness and hardness. The world had knocked Nat Poynter sometime boatman and "handy man" of Grayle, about a good deal in these three years, lie looks as if sickness and short allowance of food had done something for him, and he has not the bright, ready, alert look he once had.

mentally a fog. I want to get to I getful of all that lay in this man's powPimlico somewhere in them parts.

Tf

ve. male, kinuly." And Xat,

having received full sailing directions how to reach the Mansion lionae. departed, and reached it in safety, and in a verv short time, it seemed to him, found himself at Victoria. "That there Underground," said he to himself, as he coughed the sulphur from his throat }uid folfc he would have given a good deal for a puff of sea air, "may be a wonderful thing, but handed if it ain't a cliokin' me. Now, where's this *jre place Mr. Arnold writed from

AH theoower is last week. Young fool, r.hat does lie i, want in London, just to worrit Miss Erica. Oh. Lord! I wish I hadn't never known nothin' about all this."

With which earnest, but ungrammatically expressed wish, Nat slowly began the ascent of more steps, and asked the ticket-taker how he should get to Gil-bert-street, Pimlico at which the man eyed him all over and wondered what he wanted there, and directed him, in

the gruff way which usually passes for

gcials.

oliteness among "Underground" of-

But on reaching the street and asking !f Mr. Righton (that was the name Arnold had given him) was there, he was told that such a person had been there, but had left. "Oh, three days gone," said the woman. "You seem put out be you from far?" "A long way," answered Nat, who was inwardly in a great passion with Mr. Arnold. He had not a notion how to get a lodging for the night, or bread to eat, for lie had not a penny he had spent his last coin on the railway fare. The woman seemed concerned at his timid looks, but he was not the sort of man to give monev to besides, how should she know he had none, and Nat was proud and would almost have died sooner than beg. He must do something for money, even if it was to keep "dark" about a* murder. "Never mind." he said, turning away, "I daresav I'll find him. You 'aven't an idea where he is, you're sure." "Don't know more nor the man in the moon," answered the woman.— "Folks comes and goes in this 'ouse, and I never ask where they come from or goes to—'tain't my business—sorry for vou," and she shut the door. "What shall I do now"' said Nat to himself, as he traversed again the narrow, shady-looking streets. "I'll have it out o' that infernal young scamp.

I've a mind to go straight off to Mr. St. John, and split on the lot. I would if it wasn't for Miss Erica don't know how she'd take it. I wish I knew where she was—I'd give somethin' to see her purty face ag'in."

He sighed as he thought of that, and looked longingly towards a baker's shop he passed he had tasted nothing since the early morning, and had been ill, and he was feeling faint and weary, and was angry and ill at ease too. "That young scamp," he growled "Miss Erica's to be unhappy along o' him. It's a gettin' late the sun'll be down soon. Ilulloal here's a park." He had walked some good way, and had come upon the Green Park from Grosvenor-place the sight was refreshing to his eyes, and lie had passed the night in worse places than a tolerably quiet park. He drank some water at a drinking-fountain near one of the gates, and entered. "I've some notion I've seen this 'ere afore," said he "that be the duke's statter over there, I mind. Well, I can't£o_P*.

It was a secluded path in which he found himself. There was no one in sight, and he was the solitary occupant of the bench on which he had sunk down, with a groan of mingled weariness and mental disturbance. But he had not long sat so. when a step, crunching the gravel on the pathway, caught his ear, and he looked up, with no idea that the gentleman coming swiftly towards him had anything to do with him or his concerns.

As he came closer, however, Nat bent forward with a change or face the listless weariness left it, giving place to an eager scrutiny, and he hall' rose as the young man came by.

He, on his part, suddenly paused, and started back with an abrupt exclamation of "The devil!" "Mr. Arnold, as I'm alive!" And it seemed as though, for a moment, Nat could get out no more.

But Arnold was not so much taken aback. "What are you doing here, in the devil's name?1 he said, roughly. A llush was on his face, his manner excited he seemed to have had, Nat thought quickly, too much to drink but he was not to be put aside like that, and resented the words and the tone. "I came up to see you," he said, and rose up and faced the young man with a truculent air that somewhat daunted him for a moment. "I went to that there place you writed from, and you was gone, u'wasu't fair that, Mr. Arnold.7' "What d'you want me for?" said Arnold, impatiently. "I'm in a hurry, I cant Btop now. "Oh, but you've got to," replied Nat, coolly. "Look "ere, sir. I dont want to be nresumin' like: but I promised to keep dark about "Yes, yes. I know you needn't talk about it," interrupted Arnold, with a sudden flush and succeeding pallor. "You want money, I suppose: I haven't any for you. There—1 have uo more to say." "Wait a bit. wait a bit, young master," Nat laid his hand on the other's arm. "Just you listen. I've been druv from place to place ever sin' I was fool enough and brute enough to give in to rou and Miss Erica, and help yon off. .[Ve been sick all the winter, and can't get no work now, and I aint nothin' to live on that's just the size of it. Io yon think I'm a goin' to keep your cursed secret if I starves for it? See you at the devil first, where you belong, a-makin' that there girl miserable, ana away from her husband all along o' you. And look ye," Mr. Poynter waxed wroth, and seemed to have taken with his anger a new lease of strength, "I aint a-goin* to bear it no more. If you dont give me money I wont keep dark

erto do. His voice was hoarse with passion as he shook off his hand. "Stand off," he said "bow dare you nse such language to me? What do yon mean, you scoundrel? Trying to wring money out of me. If you come pestering after me I'll give you in charge as an impostor."

A savage gleam shot into the man's eyes at these words. Hie tone was enough to arouse his pa««?on: and that Arnold Murray, who nld have been

«n fc iur rrom Arnold Murrav. who nki nave been

urere—a on can ask, ou know, and get working in the hulks, or hung perhaps, out at iCiona—you mind. but forhlm. should dare to "give him cheek," was enoijgh to epragc him, es-

t. iva^i

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY, EVENING MAIL.

no more, and missy can go back £o her please, sir, there's a man behushand. I)o you hear? low wanting to see you he's very urArnold had been partaking freely of wine, and his mind was off its balance. Enraged at Poynter's tone, he was for-

penally as be "had been brooding over his wrongs, and was feeling the gnawings of hunger through Arnold's fault.

But he was shrewd and cunning, as well as strong-tempered, and the moment Arnold began to "bluff it out,' as he expressed iOie took a grim determination. to which he had been inclined before. It needed but the slightest spark of the match to fire this tram. "It's devilish hard, master," he said, sullenly, burning the while to knock Arnold down "I've had neither bit nor sup across mv lips this blessed day, and I dont know where to turn for a bed." "Sleep in the park, or go to the workhouse. or the devil," was the savage and polite reply "dont annoy me, that's all. I've had enough without you. I'll •rive you in charge if you are not off." "I teU you what, Mr. Arnold," said Nat, "you've been 'aving too much drink. You arent in your senses, like." "I'm enough in my senses to know you're telling lies,'T retorted Arnold, losing all control. "I shan't give you money, and you bad better take care what vou do. You'll come in for a term, vou know, for concealing crime. Ha! ha!" he laughed, with a sort of stupid triumph as Nat shrank back a little.

He knew better, but it suited him to seem cowed by the information, which Arnold knew also to be false. "Ta, ta, my prince of beggars you had better go back where you came from."

He turned on his heel with a loud laugh, and reeled slightly as he did so but he steadied himself with an oath, and strode off over the grass at a pace which rendered it impossible for Nat to follow him.

But Nat's eyes followed the retreating form with a look so black, so full of hate and threat of coming danger, as would have made Arnold in his sober senses beg in abject fashion for forbearance, had' he seen that look. "So, so, my tine bantam cock," he muttered between his teetlu "when the wine's in the wit's out. You've just done for vourself now, cursed young idiot! Mr" St. John'll be fit to kill me, but I'll chance it. I'd do more nor that to spite vou, and bring Miss Erica back. I'll go'to him to-night, blessed if 1 won't. 1 can easy find out where he is. lie pas-seil a moment and knit his brows. "What'U missy say to me breakin' my wordr but there—it's for some good.sure." lie gave his head a decided nod, and an angry gleam shot from his eyes. "He shall know what 'tis to raise Nat Poyliter's dander. He shall suffer for't. I ain't a-goin to starve for him, blowed if I will.' And he walked away with as brisk apace as he could command.

CHAPTER XVI.

"NAT POVNTEIt's CONFESSION."

Philip St. John had once more seen his wife—had spoken to her—had felt the touch of her hand on his, and that brief half-hour had broken up the. foundations of his self-control—that case of granite it had taken, it seemed to him, a life-time of anguish to build up. And the strong love that had been so cruelly stabbed—not dormant, but still secondary to the burning sense ot wounded honor and the old sting of injustice—this strong love, overwhelmed bv other passions, woke anew to strugulaX sire nau pieaaea, to seeK reasun ior her flight, tenable or untenable, to find flaw in the chain of undenied evidence that condemned her

She had knelt at his feet and lifted her eyes to his, eyes that could only mirror a stainless soul. Was it possible for guilt to wear such aspect? How fair she was, diademmed with sorrow! The music of her voice echoed back to him he heard it day and night. The touch of her hand lay still on his. Ah, how wildly she had clung to him, how frantically besought only his mercy! And he had put her from him, and denied even that. He could endure that terrible strain of passionate emotion it had been possible when to look on her was to bring back the sense of all so irrevocably lost but no*w, in solitude, in silence, it seemed as though there must be some different reading to give to her conduct.

Again he traveled over all the fell evidence, not one tittle of which she had denied, simply avowing her innocence. There wras no flaw in that. He knew that it was only sentiment, not reason, that pleaded for her so powerfully. lie had never for one second thought to take the wife who had so trampled his honor under foot back to his heart, and forgiveness and belief in her faith went so hand in hand together that it seemed impossible to give the one without yielding the other. What was it then his heart strove for?

And for this mental question Philip St. John—so clear, so accustomed to know and to weigh motives for his actions—had no answer.

He was tossed by contending passions once more. He would have swept her from bis very memory if that hau been possible, yet yearned with a passionate longing to clasp her to his heart. And day by day such conflict warred in his soul.

A week had passed since he had seen Erica, and there had come no rest, mental or physical—not even the hollow surface-calm he had obtained before: even that was not left him. Work, of which he had more to do than he could get through, was no barrier to thought for even in work there was ever the dark background, and the very effort to concentrate his thoughts on his work was continual pain, and.at times even that power deserted him.

On the evening of l'ovnter's meeting with Arnold, he sat writing in his study —writing, or trying to write, for the pen dropped from liis fingers often.

He rose up, and began pacing up and down the room, as though in movement he could find some relief: thought was less of torture than when he was still.

His own man came in, and Philip looked up as he paused. "I am not busy, Andrews what is it?" he said

ou

c^VhaVdid

'd see him.

gent, and insisted that Poynter's his name. sir. Philip drew a quick breath, and the blood flushed for a moment redly to his

a,nd^nk a^iin

pause, before he said ouietly: "I will see him: let nim come np.M The man bowed and retired, wondering within himself what possible business a rough-looking seafaring man could have with the famous Itieraleur. He preceded the man upstairs, however, in decorous silence, inwardly a little amused nt his gingerly way of treading on the thick, soft carpets, and the somewhat wondering looks he cast on the statues and flowers in the ante-room.

"This door," said Andrews, and Nat Povnter found himself standing in what seemed to him a magnificent chamber, and more than all, in the presence of Philip !rt. John.

It was with mingled emotions that the writer scanned, for a brief space, the form and features of this man, whom he knew to have had some complicity in Erica's flight, and who h«ul nevertheless lied to him: he saw that Nat was terribly altered and aged, and that he looked haggard and wan. as there in this haughty nature some pity for this evidence of "suffering?

Before he could speak. Poynter, who had stood silent and with drooping form where the servant had left him, suddenly sank down into a chair with a groan, and Philip sprang forward. "Give me food, for pity's sake, he muttered, putting his hand to his forehead, and looking up with uncertain gaze into the dark handsome face.— "I've been sick I ain't had nothin this dav

There was wine in an adjoining room, and St. John poured out some and gave it to Nat. who swallowed it eagerly.

If in Philip's stern heart there had been one second's turning from giving to this man of his charity, it had never reached the definiteness of distinct thought.

Implacable, vengeful in some things to almost a sinister fault, there was too much nobility of soul to harbor for an instant such a shrinking.

Poynter rallied almost directly, and half rose, but Philip put him back in the arm-chair and bade him sit stilly "I asks your pardon, sir," said Nat, humbly—he was quite subdued under the continued effects of sickness, want, remorse, and awe "I didn't oughter 'ave sat down in vour presence, but I was took like all sudden faint like. I've come to tell you summat, Mr. St. John."

He said the last words in a low voice, and when he had said them, drew a quick breath and leant back, as though he dreaded the effect his words might have on his hearer.

But Philip only folded his arms and said, quietly: "Say on. I am willing to listen.

If again that fierce thrill of an almost impossible hope—born rather of his own longing than of any reason—flashed through him, he suppressed all signs oi it under these measured tones.

Yet that ready acquiescence, that direct challenge to plunge into his story, emba rrassea Poy 11 ter.

He had thought that Thilip perhaps would at once have demanded to know whether what he had to tell him concerned Erica, thus breaking the ice for him.

It is alwavs a difficulty for the uneducated mind to go straight to the point, and to find language proper to clothe that point in. lie glanced up furtively and twisted his hat round awkwardly, and at last said, slowly: "It's about Miss Erica, sir."

Philip had known that, had sought to prepare himself to hear her name spoken, and to endure the subject touched on. Yet, when the namo so sweet, so bitter to him, passed the man's lips, it fell on him with a shock that struck like an actual blow. His armor was not proof against that spearthrust after all. "Yes go on." he said, and he shaded self to enatfr!nif'\}.,,{"

v"""'

"I'm sorry now, sir." Poynter said, dejectedly. I didn't tell you afore, but Miss Erica begged and prayed me to keep dark about Mr. Arnold.' "Who is that?" Philip interrupted "That's her cousin, sir—Mr. Arnold Murray —they was brought up like brother and sister. It was him she went oil with to get him off safe. He always was a wild, bad scamp, Mr. St. John, broke his aunt's heart—Miss Erica'f mother that was. lie was a deal o' trouble to niissv. bettin' and gamblin', and the like. She's paid his debts many a time. She telled me, sir. the very day you came to Grayle that she didn't dare tell you about him, 'cos as how you wouldn let her help him no more, and he was such a disgrace too. He used to come over ana she giv'd him money. lie was down to Kington for them races with—with"— ho stopped, clearing his throat, and then went on —"with your brother, sir. They both had bets on Fcnlon, and lost, then they quarrelled about the money, 'cos Mr. Walter said the other had led hirnon to bet, which he did, sir an'after supper at the Crown they both went out, an—Mr. Arnold was that Stephen Masters as killed your brother." "Great Ileaveiif" broke from Philip's white lips, and his right hand was clenched till the blood was forced from the finger-nails. "I see it all—all." His voice sank to whisper, and for an instant he bent his race down in uncontrollable emotion on the cold marble mantel-piece. "Oh. Erica. Erica, what had I done that you should fear me so?"

Only a brief moment of giving way, the next he had rallied with strong selfcontrol, his proud spirit chafing that he had shown even this much. "Go on," he said, and resumed his former attitude, while Poynter told him how that he also having come from the races, was crossing the woods when he heard voices in the pathway. He concealed himself for. a little while not wishing to get into any fray, and thus saw Arnold and Walter they were both angry, and at last Arnold struck the lad a blow that knocked him down before Nat could prevent it. "He was dead, sir it wasn't no use stopnin', and then Mr. Arnold begged me for Miss Erica's sake not to say nothin', and help him, and I shouldn never want. I hid him in my place, and then he went off to Miss Erica the night yon left, sir, and she, to save him from the law, helped him to escape. She was afrn^l to lose sight of him, he was that shaky like, an' I dont think, 'pon my word, sir. the poor lass knew what she was a-doin'. I tried to tell her, I did indeed, but she wouldn't listen. She thought she'd get back afore you come, and didn't think of the servants a-writ-in\ Well, I took them in my boat as far as Dal wood, and they got "the train there. And I tell you, Mr. St. John, that brave lass, she went to London with that infernal scoundrel, an' she see him on board a steamer as took him

^s man want with to Amstenlam, and she hadn't never a

him. Some sharp, sudden, wild hope minute's rest or sleep to her byea for L^.PlnP

?n.^at

8econti 8

fear of surprise. An'when she come'd

back, she was as white as a ghost, then she did cry, to be sure, poor lass!" He brushed away the tears from his own eyes, and his voice was quite husky as he finished. "An'that's all, sir. Mr. Arnold didnt do what he said, but I ken' on for Miss Erica. I got sick and out o' work, and wanting bread to my mouth, and IVe just come'd up to see Mr. Arnold. He'd gone away from his lodgings, but he come'd across me in

Continued on Third Pnge.

From Frank Ii ii:i-iiirNtw.-p A LADY SAID

Those XTorrid tnti]»]r*! No, I Cum Go, l*Iea*e 1ret rut Jlj lixeuK^.

Probably two-thirds of the ladic society and homes ol'our land areafll ed with skin diseases of various kio to do away with which, it it could In1 with out injury, would be the hnpj event of their lives. Then she wi have instead of a disfigured and niai countenance, one that would be ha some, or at least good-looking, for a one with a clear,1pure skin, no mat what the cut of her features are, 1 certain amount of good looks whir tract everybody. As it is now, she agities every one sees and talks ab "those freckles," "those horrid pimplr and other blemishes with which she atllicted, and this is true of either

To improve this apj carmuc j:i (at ri are tak*n arsenic, niumuy, or hi sound tiihd naimd articles contain these dcaih-draling dints, aie taken hopes of getting lid of all these tioul In many «ases death is the lesult. aikvitation of the burning, hutting ii ing and intlaii ination is given tnubhd with lu-ztnia (salt iluni Titieis. Humors, Inllainniatian. Kou Scaly Kiuptions of any kinds. Discus the llair and fcr'calp, Kciotula, VK Pimp

Its er Tender luhiogson any of tl.e body, should know that thcic hope for tin «u in a sine, 11 f( ot nut! known as I)r. C. W. Denson's Sk Cure." Ii makes the skin white, s( and smooth, lemons tan and firekl and is the bfst toilet dressing in tl woild. It is elegantly put up, two IK ties in one package, consisting of bd internal and external treatment. O leaders should be sure to get thisard some old lenxdy resuscitated on thesu cess of Dr. Henson's and now adveit" as "The (iieat Skin Cure." Then only one—it bears the doctor's pictu and is for sale by all druggists. $1 pe package.

A

SENSATION

HAS OKTKN 1 IK K.N AI

by the discovery of some new thing, bu nothing has ever stood the test like TV C. W. Benson's Cclei and Chamcnii" Pills.'

They realy do cure sick lxadaehe, ne vous headache, neuralgia, nervousness sleeplessness, indigestion, paralysis an melancholy.

Price, f0 cents per box, two for $1, si. for $2.50 by mail, postage fice. Dr. W. Benson, Baltimore, Md. Sold by al druggists.

C. N. CrlHcnton, New York, Is wholcsnli agent for Dr. C. W. Benson's remedies.

HAXTF.D.

rEHSONS

antiolcd with PILES to address,

me. llmvea never falling cure, application made bv patients without pain or Inconvenience. Personal examination or visit not required. Positively no charge for treat nieni until permantly cured. For Sale by A DAM SON .V KIEI TEN ST IKN tin. I,. YOI,REUS, 08(1 Main si. Tcrre lluute, Ind.. or Dennlson, tile

PILLS

A DISORDERED LIVER IS THE BANE

0

the present generation. It la for the ire of thia disease and its attendants, 81.7K-HEADACHE, BILIOUSNESS, DYS.PSlA, CONSTIPATION, PILES, eto.. that

TT'S PILLSliave gained a world-wide rt potation. No Remedy Has ever been icovered that acts bo gently_on the li restive organs, giving them vigor to a«•Ti liTate food. As a natural result, ttao Pi .rvoui System ia Bracedj J.he Muflcieu -r Developed, and the Body Robust.

Oliills and Povor. r:. RIVAI., Planter at Bayou Sara,

IIi.ack

Im.,nave

My plantation la in a malarial district. For loveril yoivr* I could not mako faalf a crop on iccount of bilious dlseaaas and chill*. I wm nearly discouraged when began Iho uae of TUTT'S PILLS. The result wm marveloun: ir.y laborcro noon becamo hearty and robunt, and I Uavo bad no further trouble.

T1»«\t rollptc (horngnrifcd (Jver,dcusiM !Iio Blood from )ittUon»iiii linmvra, mid fuuae tli« bo»«•!• lo acl iiutf urulJy, with, out trhlrh no on* ran frcl well.

Try thin rftnrilr f'nlrlr. un«J yon wllltntn hpnltliy llv*«lloo, Vljr«»r«ui» llnili. ('urn mood. Klronc JPrice, 33

rv«'«, t»»i .ton nci 1,11 0(llw,.1.Ulurr»» Nt., N. V.

On U.

TUTT'S

hiiav IIaiu

or

Wiiiskf.rk rhanK'-d

to O'.o^.y

by Klnele Appl! «ti

nr

'mparts a natural color,

this Dvi*.

1:

mikI hcih

Hold bv Druggists, or nt 1 jy exprvais on receipt of One Dollar. Office, 85 Murray Street. New York.

Dr. TVTrm MAM At. Inltmttlr tnfmrwntion and h'me/ul «eiit b* maUwI FBXZ on uttttllcatUtn.

LIVER

TARAXINE

The Great Vrffrtnhle Liver Corrector.

Jt ronfatnn no Cntomrl or Mineral of anjf kind, It* ituin IttorfillPiit i» the Con-centraU-d JUnliral J'rlnrlple of thr Tarrtjrlniin or

JJanUrtlon.

TARAXINE

Mt Upeelflf for nil Jtln'usrm nrl*(»y from Liti r, ftoirr!*, fijiUrn or If! nt'ift.

TARAXINEW TARAXTNE

Cures

Liver Complaint in all it ft Stages.

TARAXINE\ Cures Habitual Constipation.

Never fails

I to cure Chronic Ague. Try it.

TARAXTNE

Cures

\l)usjrpfiia and Indigestion.

TARAXINE

for Mal« hy all Trntgl$t» and Patent Medicine liralcra.

Pricet HO Cts. and $1.00.

A. KIEF Ell, Indianapolis, Ind.