Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 15, Number 31, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 24 January 1885 — Page 2

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THE MAID

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TEKRE HAUTE, JAN. 17 1886

fOommenoed In The Mail Dec fltta. Back numbers can be had on application at publication office or of new* agent*.]

Wyllard's Weird.

"%Jf

•v'"v Br MI38 M. K. BR ADDON. S:'•' ~i ynthor of "Lady Audley's Reeret," "Aurora

Floyd," "The Outcast," Ac., Ao.

CIIAPI ER X.

^.^'TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS." While Edward lleathcote was on the other »lde of the channel trying.to find a solution for the problem of Leonie

Lemarque's death, wblch should also be a complete acquital of Bothwell Grahatne, that gentleman was trying to solve his own particular problem, that grand perplexity of his nodal life, which had weighed upon him more or less heavily for the last three years. Hehad been to Plymouth twice since his deoisive interview with Hilda, and on each occasion it had been impossible for bim to obtain so much as Ave minutea' tete-a-tete with the lady he went to see and that which he had to say to her oould not be sal in five minutes, or in five times five minutes. And now, while his champion was faithfully toiling iu bis interest, and while Hilda was giving him all her thoughts and most of her prayer*, Both well sat out on bis familiar Plymouth journey, for the third time within ten days, and with a letter in his pocket which held out the ,» hope of an opportunity lor confides tial tfti "You looked miserably the last time yon were here," wrote the lady, "and you looked as if you had something very serious to say to me. I am bored to (loath by the General's hangers-on he is much too kind to the nobodies who besiege us here—and I hardly ever know what it is to be alone. But if you will come to-morrow I will take care to keep other peopio out. I shall pretend a headache and deny myself to everybody.

You would walk boldly in by the garden, contrive not to meebsany of the servants, and you will flud me sitting

in the colonade. It will all seem accidental.

When

5ay

the General comes to his

afternoon tea, he will and you there. and we shall tell him how you wandered ti in aud escaped the consigns. You aie j, euch a favorite that he will smile at a liberty from you, which he would be

the Urst to resent in anyone else."

f'

Bothwell sat iu bis corner of the railway carriage, meditating upon this letter in his breast pocket. How hard and cruel and false aud mean' the whole tone of the lady a correspondence seemed to him, now'tbat the glamor of a fatal in fatuatlon bad passed from his brain and aud his seuses now that he was able to estimate the enchantress at her real value, now that his newly-awakened eouscience had shown bim the true color •of his conduct during the last three years. Three years ago and a stroke of

ood fortune had happened' to him one in the hill country when he and his brother offloers bad gone out after big

S,me.

It had been his chance to save life of otie of the most distlnquished mea in tbetfBrvloe, General Harborough, a man who at that time ocoupied an im-

fortaut

official position in the Bengal

residency. Bothwell's presence of mind, oourage, and rapid use of a revolver had saved the General from the jaws of a leopard, which had crept upon the party while they were resting at luncheon, after a long morning's wild boar ibootiuK* General Harborough was the last tnan to forget such a service. He took Bothwell Grahame under his protection from that hour, introduced him to his wife, Lord Lostwlthlel's daughter And one of the most elegant women in the Presidency.

Favored by such friends, Bothwell Grahame life in India became a kind of triumph. He was good-looking, wellmannered, a first-rate shot, and an exceptional borstman. He oould sing a part in a glee or duet, and he waltzsd to perreotion. He was supposed to have a genius for waltring, and to become M.aster of every new step as If by a kind of inspiration. "What is the last fasuionable waltz in London T" people asked him, and he showed them the very utest glide, or swoop, or twist as the oase may be. His friends told him all about it in their letters, he said. He always knew what wu going on in the dancing world.

Such a man, not too young nor yet too old—neither a stripling nor a fogey —chivalrous, amiable, full of nerve and enjoyment of life, was eminently adapted to the

holiday

existence at Simla, and

it was at Simla that Bothwell Grahame became in manner tbe fashion, looked up to by the young men of his acquaintance, petted by the women. Nor did It appear strange in the eyes of society that Lady Valeria Harborough should be particularly kind to him, aud should have hltn very often at the bungalow, which Is the center of all that was gay, and elegant, and spiritual in the district. All the Simla jokes originated at tbe Harborough bungalow. All the latest English fashions, the newest refinements In the service of a dinner table, or the arrangement of afternoon tea, came from that source. Lady Valerie led the fashion, gave the note of taste throughout that particular section ol the Indian

*°No,^there was nothing exceptional In her kindness to Captain Grahame. In thn first place he had saved her husband from being clawed and mangled to deal by a wild beast, a service for which good wife would be naturally grateful and, in the second place, Bothwell was only one of a conrtof young men who surrounded Lady Valeria wherever she happened to be living—but most of all up at the hills, where there was more leisure for chivalry. She always spoke of them as bovs, and frankly admitted that she liked their admiration an account of its nh1 vote.

For some time she talked of Bothwell Grahame as a "nice boy,", in spite of his thirty years. She herself owned pensively to seven-and-twenty. Ters giversation would have been vain, since the peerage was open to all her friends, with its dry-as-oust record. ''Valeria Hermloue, born 1854."

She was tw^ty-seven years otagp. strikingly elegant and interesting, if n.mnliv handsome, and free** two Ts*r* rm-iied to a man who had lately M* sixty-eighth birthday.* She had accepted the General and his splendid settlements, meekly enough. There had been no undue per* suaxion, no domestic tyranny. Her suitor was a perfect gentleman, wealthy, distinguished. and she was told that he oould give her all good things that a woman need care to poeeess. She would spend two or three years with him in India, where he had an important offi-

jcial appointment, and then she woald I return to England, where he bad two country seats—a villa near Plymouth, and a castle in Scotland—and a bou se in

Grosvenor square. As one of the seven sisters, it became her to accept the fortune that had fallen into her lap. She I was, or seemed to be, of a temperament that could be happy in a union with a man old enough to be hei grandfather. «She seemed one of those women born to shine, and to rule, rather than to love.

No one who knew her intimately knew any evil consequences from her marriage witb the elderly soldier. "Valeria will make General Harborough an admirable wife," said the matrons and ancient maids of the house of Lostwithiel, and she will be a splendid mistress for that fine old federal castle in Perthshire."

Valerie had never known what passionate feeling meant until she gave her friendship to Bothwell Grahame. She had never thrilled at a man's voice, or listened for a man's footsteps, till she began to start at his voice and listen for his tread. Tne fatal love came upon her like a fever, struck her down in ttie strength of her proud womanhood made her oblivious of doty, blind to honor, mastered her like a demoniac

Ksame

ssession, and from a spotless wife she all at once an actress and an intringer.

Oh, those fat&l days at Simla, the long idle afternoon. The music and singing —the dances late In tbe night, when the cool winds were blowing over the hills —tbe gardens lit witb lamps like glow wormthe billiards and laughter, the light jests, the heavy sighs. There came a time when Bothwell Grahame found himself bound by an iniquitous tie to the wife of his most generous friend.

Their love was to be guiltless always —that is to say, not the kind of love which would bring Lady Valeria Harborough within the jurisdiction of the Divorce Court not the kind of love which would make ±he name a scandal and disgrace in the ettrs of all her English friends a theme for scorn aud scoffing In all Bengal. Buf short of such guilt as this—short of stolen meetings and base allies, the connivance of servants, the willful blinds of hotel keepers—short of actual shame and disgrace they were to be lovers. He was to be at her beck aud call, to devote all the leisure of his days to her society, to. give not one thought to any other woman— to wait patiently, were it ten years or twenty years, for the good old man's death and then after her ceremonial of widowhood, all deference to the world's opinions having been paid, he was to claim Lady Valaria for his wife. This was the scheme ot life to which Bothwell Grahame had pledged himself. For all the best years of his manhood be was to be a hypocite and an ingrate— the slave of a woman whose rule he dared not acknowledge, waiting for a good man's death. That was tbe worst degredation of all to a warm heart and generous feeling. All that was best and noblest In Bothwell Grahauae's nature kept his mind in perpetual revolt against the baseness of his position. To grasp General Harborough hand and to remember, how coldly he and Valeria had calculated tbe years which the good old man had yet to live bad speculated upon the end drawing near, coming suddenly perhaps j. to know that all their hopes of happiness were based upon the ,husband's speedy death. There were times, even In the first red dawn of passion, while he was proudest of this woman's lovo, when he almost hated her for her disloyalty as a wife. Could there be happiness or peace in a bond so made? And then the woman's fascination, the absolute power of a passionate, resolute character over a week *»nd yielding one, vanquished hisscruples, stifled the voice of conscience and honor. No Samson at the feet of Delilah was more completely a slave than Bothwell in that luxurious idleness of the Indian hills, when the only purpose life held seemed to bo the desire to get the maximum of frivolous amusement out of every day. There was no pastime too childish for Lady Valeria aud ber admirers, no sport too inane. Yet the lady contrived to maintain her womanly dignity oven in the most infantine amusements, and was honored as a queen by all her little court of worshipers, from the bearded major, or the portly lawyer, to the callowest subaltern.

Bothwell's conduct toward her, and the lady's mauuer to him, were irre proachable. If there wereany difference she was a Bhade colder and more reserved In her treatment of him than of her slaves but there were moments, briefest opportunities, a tete-a-tete of five minutes in a moonlit verandah, a little walk down to the fountain, a ride in which they two were ahead of tbe rest just for a few yards moments when Valeria Impassioned soul poured forth its treasures, of love at this man's feet, with tbe utter unreserve of a woman who risks all upon one cast of tbe die. She who had been deemed the coldest and proudest of women—Diana not more chaste, an iceberg not more oold—she, Valeria Harborough, had chosen to fall madly in love with a man who was her social inferior, and who had tried his uttermost to escape from the net she had spread for him. Yes. he had not yielded willingly. He had fought the good fight, had tried bis hardest to be loyal and true. And then in one moment the spell had beeh too strong for bis manhood. One never-to-be forgotten night, they two standing beside the fountain, steeped in tbe golaen light of the southern stars, he had yielded himself up tojthe enchantment of the hour, to tbe witchery of luminous violet eyee, brighter for a veil of tears. He had drawn her suddenly to his heart, astred her passionately why she had made him adore her in spite of himself, against reason and honor and she with tearful eyes looking op at him, had answered softiv, "Because it was my fate to love you,*' and then she told him in short, disjointed sentences, broken by sobe, that she was not a wicked woman, that be most not scorn or loathe her, even if he could not give her love for love. Never till she knew him had she swerved by one Jiair's-breadth from the line of strictest duty never had she known a thought which ahe need wish to hide from ber husband. And then in a& evil hour he had become almost domesticated in her house, and his Influence had gradually enfolded her like a cloud spread by a magician,and she had awakened to anew being. She had learnt the mean ing of that magic word love.

From that night Bothwell was her slave. Touched, flattered, possessed by this fatal love—too glad weakly to echo the woman's favorite excuse, Fatality be struggled against the magic passion. He belonged henceforth to Lady Valeria —more completely enslaved than if she had been free to" claim him before the world as her affianertl hnsbaod. Her lightest word, her lightest look ruled him. He went where she told him, spent hie days as she ordered. He had been one of tne tardeet working officers In India, up to this time, and his branch of the service, tbe engineers, was one which offered splendid' chances of pro* motion.

General Hardorongh had promised to do all that hi* rerj, considerable in­

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

fluence oould do to push his young friend tp the front, and it segpaed to the men who knew him best tint Bothwell Grahame's fortune was naajte. "There are many whB heads are turned by the first'stroke of luck, and who never do anything ^altac.'f said a canuy Scotch major: "bdt Grahame is thorough, and it is "not amnof hard work. Take my word for it, he'll get on just as young Napier did."

But with the ball at his feet Bothwell Grahameb suddenly dropped out of tbe game. He left off working altogether. He was the slave of a woman who^preferred her own pleasure in his society to his chances of distinction who said why should you work There will be enough for us by-and-by."

By-and-by meant when the good old General should be lying in his grave. He was an old man it was not possible to ignore that fact, though be was erect as a darl, full of digiiity and intellect, a man of men. He was nearing the scriptural limit of three score and ten, and the inevitable end that comes to us all must come to him before many years.

Nothing was further from .Bpthwell« thoughts than tbe idea of being maintained by a wife—but he let Lady Valeria tempt him away frotis his books or his labratoiy—suffered himself to become indifierent to his profession—to care for nothing but the life he led iu her boudoir or her drawing-room.

And there came new difficulties. Lady Valeria was at heart a gamester. The excitement of cards or betting bad become a necessity to her in her Indian life. She played high. She had her book for every great English race. She awaited the telegrams that brought her the tidings of victory or defeat witb feverish impatience. Tbe natural result followed. She was often in money difficulties. Generous as ber husband was, she feared to appeal to him on these occasions. She knew that of all types of womanhood, he most

hated

a gambling

woman. She bad her pin-money, which was ample for all ordinary requirements and extravagances for a woman of fashion. She dared not ask her husband for more money. But she was not afraid to call upon her slave, Bothwell Grahame—and Bothwell had to help her somehow this wife of the future, who by and by was provide for him.

He helped her by nominally leading— actually 'giving her—every sixpence of his own patrimony, bit by bit, of that, little estate in Petershire of which bis ancestor, had been so proud, ^hen he bad beggared himsdif thus,, he began to borrow of the Jews—always f6r Lady Valeria—and finally fouud himself in such a mess, financially, that be had to leave the sruay.

General Harborough heard of his difficulties, and supposed they were all selfinduced, but made the kindest excuse for tbe sinner. He offered to pay Both well's debts, and implored him not to throngh up his career, with all his brilliant obances. The general was wounded to tbe quick when his offers were steadfastly refused.* '•A gentleman knows how to aecept a service as well as how to render one," he said. You saved my life, and I have ever felt burdened by the obligaeion."

Bothwell stood before bim, grave, pale, silent, humiliated by his kindness. "Forgive me, sir," he faltered at last. "Believe me, I am not ungrttteful. There was a time when I would rather have accepted a favor from you' than any other man living. But I am tired of the army. I feel that I never shall get on. I have sent a statement of my affairs to my cousin's husband, tbe banker, who has a geiAw for finance. He will aottl® «nj? I shall begin the world again, my own man."

Bothwell sighed involuntarily after those last words. What freedom, or manhood, or independence could there ever be for him, bound as be was bouudf

He left India soon after this interview with tbe General, who was going back to England In the following year. Lady Valeria deeply resented his conduct in leaving India while she was obliged to remain there. It was desertion, infidelity. He ought to have remained at any cost, and aay loss of his own self-re-spect. She never could be broaght to consider things from his standpoint. If he had loved her, she argued, he would have stayed. Love never counted tbe cost of anything. They parted in anger and Bothwell went home with a sore heart, and yet with a sense of relief in the idea of recovered freedom.

Tnen came a peried of comparative liberty for Bothwell. He received an occasional letter from Lady Valeria, full of upbraidings and regrets. He answered as best he might, kindly, affectionately even, but he flattered himself that the fatal tie, the dishonorable engage ment, was a folly of tbe past. He was all the more anxious to believe this during that peaceful Winter at Penmorval, on acoount of his growing esteem for another woman. Oh, what a different feeling it was, that Winter love of his. Those hsppy half-hours amidst the rimy hedgerows, with the shrill northeaster swirling across the dark brown of the ploughed fields, tbe yellow light of :sunset shining against a leaden sky. How curiously different was the girl's light, happy talk in tbe English lane—talk wmch all the world might have heard—from those impassioned whispers besides tbe fountain under the stars at Orient. At first it seemed to bim that he was only soothed and cheered by bis acquaitance with Hilda Heatheote. He affected to consider her a mere

fle

irl hardly emerged from the nursery/ was surprised to find how rightly she thought upon the gravest subjects. Then all at oace he awoke to tbe knowl edge that be loved her and while he was hesitating, doubting whether be were free to indulge this new and purer, sweeter, happier love, hardly daring to ask himself whether that old tie was or was not canceled, he received a letter from Valeria, with the Paris postmark "We have just arrived here from Brindisi," she wrote. "Weshall stay in London for a few weeks, and then go on to the General's place near Plymouth, where you must come and see me every day, just as you used at Simla. Ob, Bothwell, I can hardly trust myself to write. I dare not tell you half the Joy feel in the idea of our meeting. If you eared for me you would come to London. It would be so easy to pretend business, and you would be warmly welcomed in Grosvenor Square. Your last letter seemed to me so cold and distant—as «f you were beginning to forget, or as if you hsd not forgiven my anger at your desertion. Ah, Bothwell, you should have pitied me and sympathised with me in that cruel parting. You ought to have known that my anger wasdespalr. But you thought only of your own dignity, your own self-respect—not of my sorrow. Men are so selfish."

Bothwell did not go to London. He excused himself npon various .fcrounds, and remained qnietly at Penmorval. But from that hour his manner to Hilda

calmly and deliberately broken with her he could not be the lover of any other woman. He made up his mind that so sliltoh as the .General aud his wifo were fettled at Fox Hill tbere should be a rupture—temperate, gentle, firm, irrevocable.

Lady Valeria pctme to Fox Hill, and summoned the slave. He went, and tbere was no rupture—only a renewal ot the old bonds. Tbe bird was in the fowler's net again. Bothwell was often at Fox Hill. He spent long afternoons there tete-a-tete witb Lady Valeria. She was less careful ihtoiisbe bad been iu India. V?* "Weare not surrounded with busybodies here," she said. I feel that I can do as I like in my own he use

He went to London to borrow money for her when she was in .difficulties about that horrible book of hers and Lady Valeria's normal state now was financial difficulty. Almost everybody knew that she was a gambler, except her husuand. He was so thoroughly respected and beloved that no one had tbe heart to make him unhappy by breathing a word to his wife's discredit. He thought her faultless.

Sbe had bardeued in that false, wicked life of hers but she ws* more fascinating than eVei, Bothwell thought, albeit he was far less under her spell than he had been in the old day* at Simla. The very fever of her mind intensified her charm. She seemed such au ethereal, creature—all life, and light, andspa'kle.

And now half burled In bis corner of the railway carriage, Bothwell smoked the pipe df meditation. He looked back upon that fatal past, and curbed himself for tbe vt qas folly that had put micb a chain around bis neck. He looked back and recalled the old scene, the old feellugs, and be almost wondered if be could be tbe same man who had so felt aud so acted.

He drove to Fox Hill as fast as a cab horse would take him, alighted a little way from tbe obief gates, aud dismissed his conveyance, meaning to walk back to Plymouth after his interview. Fox Hill was four miles from the staiion, but Bothwell could walk four miles iu an hour with that free swiuging stride of his. A four mile walk and a pipe might just serve to quiet lih nerves after tbe ordeal be had to undergo.

Tbe General's Deveuahire home was an Italian villa, built on ihe southern slope of an amphitheater of hills, and commanding tbe town, the dock-yards, tbe Hatnoose and the Hoe in all their extent. Distance lent encbautment to tbe view. Plymouth, seen from this »unny hill side, looked as beautiful as Naples.

The villa bad been planned by an architect of taste and culture, built regardlessof expanse. The house was not large when measured by the number of its rooms but all the ro H*B were spacious, lightsome and lofty. The decorations were of the simplest. Tbe glory of the olace was its conservatory, which were so arranged as to mtroduue flowers and tropical foliage into every part of thedwelling. Along marble col mnade, enclosed by plate glass shutters In Winter or bad weather, surrounded the bouse, and here bloomed and flourished all that is rarest and lovelie-t iu modern horticulture. Tbe central hull bad a glass roof, and was more a conservatory than a bail. Tbe coriidors betweeu drawing-room and diningroom,between boudoir and study, were indoor rose gardens. Flowers pervaded the bouse, and harmonized admirably with the elegant simplicity of the furniture, tbe diaperies of delicate chintz and India "T

SC'villa

had been'oreated sixty years

ago, in tbe days of the Georges, a period when Italian colonnades, Corinthian porticos, and Pompeian conservatories were the rage but the bouse suited L'idy Valeria just as a well chosen frame suits a picture.

On this Summery September morning Lady Valeria

WHS

was

seated in tbe colon

nade, half reclining in one of those very low chairs which women who can rise gracefully from a seat about a foot from tbe grouud. Sbe was half bidden by the foliage ot oleanders tnd maitnolla, and It was only by a kllmmer of white amongst the glossy |reen that Bothwell descried her in the distance as be crossed the lawn. Tbere ws a fountain on the lawn, just as at Slma, but the fountain

a late improvement, insisted upon by Lady Valeria. I "It will recall Sinla, where we were go happy," sbe toldper husband. "And yetr you wre so impatient to leave India, toward! the last," be said, almost reproachful^. "Yes, 1 was very ired of India at tbe last. There is an ea of all things."

Bothwell had olved Lad.v Valeria's instructions to thi letter. He had entered the grounds 1' aside gate, so as to escape challenge at be lodge and now be made his way Idly to her boudoir. It was not a parti llarly sacred apartment, as it form one in the suite of rooms and conser itories which communicated along te whole length of the house. Italian vils of tbe Georgian era are not planned fcjseclusion.

Sbe was sitting h.er low cbair, with a little table at beside, scattered with books and newspwrs. Tbe books ere mostly new Frend memoirs and novels of tbe moat adva ed school. The pa-! pers were chiefly sorting. Sbe looked up lauguldly as othwell approached and gave him her and, likean empress without stirring om her graceful repose amidst embr iered silken cushion She was not beat Tul. Her charm lay in an extreme ref sment of feature and figure, a delicacj tiut which verged upon sickliness. was the refinement of a vanishing ra and recalled the delicacy of an over-! ined racehorse.

Her complexio vas almost colorless in repose, but thi ps wereof tbe tint of pale pink rose pc Is, and every emotion flushed the waxi cheek with loveliest bloom. Her no* was long and tbin, too long for per beauty. Her chin was thought to harp, ber brow too narrow. But eyes were exquisite. Herein lay her grand charm, and Lady Valeria knew tbe power of those large viol eyes, fringed with darkest lashes, amtuated by penciled brows—eyee wb seemed to fill witb tears at will—ei which could plead more eloquent tl Hps ever spoke since tbe days of Eve, it tempted and then tempter. "I hope you a not really ill," said Bothwell, seatinilmself in the chair opposite Lady ris. "Only worried death," sbe answered with an irritei air. "I have troubles enough to id me Into an early grave." "Monev troub1 "Money troub Yes. I have other troubles, also, I the money troubles are the most uiit. They gnaw the sharpest."

You have bee wing again T" "Yes. I was sicky with the Chester thst I grew b*-determined npon a

freatcoupat

changed altogether. From an unavow- for the Great Ebl I had been as-ured ed lover be became an ordinary *ft- it was tbe safest hg In tbe world. I quaintance. He set a watch upon his might back hlmfh my wedding ring, tongue that it should aay no Words of Sir George Mikfy said. And York pleasantness. He vowed that he would generally b| lucky to me, you not again suffer himself to be enmeshed know. It is mjfn comity, and I love in Lady Valeria's net but until he had eyery inch of itfhe Knavenmire was

Yo put every furtbing

could scrape to iwr upon tbe favorite

the first race-course I ever saw—the place where I first learned to love horses and to understand them. My father used to tell fme everything about the raees. 1 was the only one of us who and really interested in bis talk." "I thought tbe money from Davis, and the money you won on the Chester Cup, cleared all your difficulties." "Yes, for the moment. But this York business has made things worse than they were before. Miidmay has offered to lend me tbe money."

Sbe said this slowly, with idrooping eyelids and a thoughtful air, but she stole'a little look at Bothwell from beneath tbe long dark lasbea to see how he took her speech. "You must not take a sixpence of his money—not a sixpense," said Bothwell, sternly. "No, that is exactly my idea. It would be very bad form for a woman in my position to borrow from Miidmay— who is—well—a man of the world. But I must have the money somehow. Tbe bookmakers wou't wait. They otily give credit iu my case- because they know I dare not cheat them." "Surely the bookmen do not know that you are their creditor." ••They are not supposed to know. Tbe bets are made in my brother's name —Otho'§— who bas been in Australia for the last two years. But I don't believe those men who trust Otho, even it he were in London." "It is dreadful." exclaimed Bothwell, deeply distressed. "You ought not to have eutanglea yourself again. What makes you do this thing, Valeria? It is worse than chloral, or any other form of feminine madness." "Yes it is a kind of madness, I suppose. I should not do it if I were happy. I shall have no need to do it when I am happy—by-and-by."

Again sbe stole a look at him, a tender pathetic look, which would bave melted him, a year ago. But it left bim unmoved now. He felt only anger at her folly, her obstinate persistence in wrong (Joing. '•You mu3t not take Midmay's money," he repeated, "not for worlds. To think that you should have secret dealings with such a mau—a hardened scamp and rone." "I am not going to accept Sir George's offer—which was at least good natured, so you heed not be uncivil about him," replied Valeria coollngly, "but I must get tbe money somehow. I don't want Otbo's name to be posted at Ttttersall's. There are too many people who would guess that Otho stands for Valeria in tills "It would be disgraceful, horrible." "But it will happen, I'm afraid, unless I can get the money." "I oau Bud no more, Valeria. The last loan from Divis was most difficult tojmanage. I had positively no security to offer. The money was advanced on the strength of Wyllard's position, on tbe speculation that be would not s6e me broke." "I am not asking you to pay my debts." she replied with her grand air^ Tbe air of a woman aocustomed to be worshipped for all she did, and to do wrong witb Impunity. "But the money must be found somehow, and perhaps you can tell me where I am to get It." "From your husband," he answered, impetuously. "Yes, Valeria, from your one ti ue and loyal friend. The one man you can ask in all honor to pay for your follies." "You ask me to go to him!" exclaimed Valeria, livid with anger. "You!" "Yes, I. I, who bave wronged him deeply by a most fatal engagement which 1 bave regretted «v*r since It was m—lo. Not. because you are not lovely, fascinating, all that is fairest and most desirable in womankind but because I bave been hateful to myself on account of that treachery. What, to be tbe affianoed lover of a woman whose husbands hand I grasped In seeming friendship to8tnile in bis face, to accept his friendship, his confidence, .while all my life was one long waiting for his death, while you and I were saying to each other every day, by and by we will do this by and by we will go here and there, sail our yacht in tbe Mediterranean, build our cottage on tbe Scotch moors by and by, when that good man who trusted us both is in his grave. Ob, it haa been a hateful position, Valeria, base, miserable, guilty, accursed, for both of us, and it must end at last."

Tbere bad beeh tears In his voice almost from the beginning of his speech, and at the end he broke down alto getber and sobbed aloud.

Valeria rose out of her low chair and stood before him straight as a dt.rt. Tbe movement wasso quick, so instinct witb an unbolly grace, that it recalled tbe image of a cobra he had once seen rise up straight before him in the midst of bis path through tbe jungle. "You are in love witb another worn an," she hissed, like tbe serpent. "That is the meaning of this sudden outbreak of virtue."

He could not deny it. "You want to break with me in order that you may marry some one else," sbe said, whiter than death, ber eyes dilating, ber lips quivering. "Yes," he answered, quietly. "I could form a happier tie if you would set me free. But tbere is not one word which I.said just now about tbe feeling of my own baseness which was not just as true two years ago as it is to-day. Such a bond as ours could never bring happiness, Valeria,to man orto woman.*' "It gave us hope," sbe said "a fair dream of tbe future. Well, it is all over. Whatever it is worth it is gone—like a tuft of thistledown blown into tbe air. Go, Bothwell Grahame, you are your own man again go and marry your new love." "It will not be a marriage of to-day or to-morrow," answered Bothwell, gravely. "My new love and I will have to wait for better times. Fiiftt, I am a pauper and, secondly, tbere ia a taint upon my name, inasmuch as tbe good people of Bodmin and tbe neighborhood have taken it into their wise beads that I am a murderer, because I refused to answer some verv impertinent questions at tbe inquest. Veleria, will you forgive me—will you believe—" '•That you were heartily tired of me ages ago, before yon left India," sbe said, iuterrurtinic him with a feverish exd'ement. Sbe had sunk into ber low chaif again, and was seated witb her bands clasped upon the banket-work bedizened with trappings of Oriental embroidery, likean Arab's horse—ber eyes gazing over tbe wide panorama of land and *ea, tbe dockyards, the river, tbe lighthouse yonder, and tbe long line of surf dashing against the breakwater. "Y«-s, I know that you were weary of me long before that bitter good-bye," ahe went on breathless with passion, her sentences broken into sbort gasps. "I think I knew even then that you were false—though I pretended to myself that you were true. I don't believe you ever loved1 me. You just let me love you, and that was all. If you ha** really cared for me—as other sen have cared for other women—yoi would not have been so obedient. You would have flung prndenoe to tbe wind, you would have made scenes, you would bave wanted to run away with me. No,you never loved me."

It would have been vain now for

Bothwell to protest the realty of tbe oNt worn-oot passion. It had never been of the strongest stuff that love is made of, and it had long been growing threadbare. He had received bis release, and that was the boon he had come here to ask. But be could not leave the wodnaa he had once loved without one word of peace. "Valeria," he said gently, tenderly even, "I shall stay here till you forgive me." "Would you stay until you have foroed me to tell a lie? There can be no blacker lie than, any word of mine that offend forgiveness to you. You have deceived# me cruelly. You were pay strong rook and I leant upou you for comfort. Ok, Bothwell, what la sbe like, this other woman for whom you forsake met Is sbe so much more beautiful—so much younger—fresher than I |f "She is good, and pure, and true, and% has been brave and loyal When theSl or ok vi of ha is a

I

can tell you about her." "But she is handsome. I suppose? You are not going to marry a plain woman, out of gratitude I" "She is lovely, in my eyes, and I balieve she is generally considered a pretty girl.?' "Whoisshe?" "A lady. I can tell you no more ye* awhile. Hark! there is the General's voioe. I had better go. Stay, there is something you once gave me. You told, me to wear it tili—" ,j "Till you were tired of me. Yea, I remember," sbe said, impatiently. "Till the tie Was broken between us. in some wise," he answered, taking out bis watch.

There was about three inches of slen-^ der Trichinopoly chain on the swivel of the watch, and on the chain hung an old-fashioned hoopring of old Brazilian diamonds. The ring had belonged ,to Lady Valeria's grandmother, and hhd' been Valeria's favorite jewel.

She snatched it from Bothwell's hand the moment be had taken it off tbe chain, and flung it with all her force into the nearest thicket of shrubs. "So much for tbe token of a worn-osut love 1" she said. "If one of tbe garden-: era finds It he will pawn it at Davenport, and spend the money In drink. A worthy end for such a souvenir. Goodbye, Mr. Grahame."

Bothwell bowed and left her left bwr to crawl up to her bedroom like a wounded doe,, and fling herself face downwards on tbe floor, and lie there tearless, despairing, ready to invoke hall, itself to help ber to some kind of revenge, bed see but believed in thedevil. But Lady Valeria was Agnostie. She had not even that comfort left her^l [TO BB CONTINUED.] 4

Mrs. Daniel Weldner, New Baden," Texas was cured of severe Neuralgia hy St. Jacobs Oil, the great pain-cure.^

The year tarts out propitiously. Two base ball clubs have disbanded. Twenty legislatures, however, are in session.

AN AGED BAPTIST MINISTER.

Two,More Important Cases.

tisH.

Your agent being in Columbus, Ga., few days ago, and meeting the venerable brother J. H. Campbell, we asked $ him for news. His reply was, "I have two more important cures effected by| Swift's Specific to report." This vener-1 able man is known fat and wide for hiafe unremitting labors of love iu the behalf of the poor of Columbus. It will bere^v ^i membered that the Swift Specific Co. has donated quite sn amount of their famous medicine, to be distributed .by Mr, Campbell among the poor of Jhe city hence his remark. He said "1 have just seen a lady who has been greatly annoyed by a tetter in oho of j, her bands. It had given her much trouble and pain. She said she had been treated by several physicians durifag the part three or foui years With the' bid $ remedies, but without giving any relief, jj? I suggested Swift's

Specific and she took if

four bottles and is now apparently perfectly well. Her band is smooth, dai not a single sign of the disease is left, It is marvelous bow this medicine renovates the system." A "What about the other case ?"i Ltw "Well, that was a lady also. She ,ha4 been badly."

I have just returned from a visit to a lady who was affected with eczema for four years. Her face, bands and arma, as well as ber body, were covered ifith sores and scabs. It was one of the wont cases of this terrible disease that I bave ever seen. Tbe suffering of this poor creature was beyond expression. She tried every remedy at hand, including mercury and iodide of potash, but Is be only grew worse. Sbe was in this condition when I first saw the case. I soon had her taking Swift's Specific, and she has now enly taken two bottles, but .= every mark of the disease bas almost entirely disappeared. ^Her general health has greatly improved.* It is one of tbe most remarkable cures that has come under my notice, and in a ministry of sixty years I have mingled with every class of society and observed closely the variety of disease which affect humanity. Blood diseases are tbe most numerous and the most difficult to remove. To overcome these diseases, it is my deliberate judgment that Swift's Specific is the grandest blood purifier ever discovered. Ita effects are wonderful, and I consider them almost miraculous. Tbere ia no medicine comparable to it.

RBV. JBSSB H. CAMPBELL, Columbus, Ga.

Treaties of Blood and Skin Diseases mailed free. TH* SWIFT SPECIFIC CO., Atlanta, Ga.

This medicine, combining Iron with trare vegetable tonic*, quietly and cpnjjl*tcljr Core* DnpciMi% lndi«c»tlon, eakneaa* Impure BIM4, AFAJAJR|*,CBLLL»RBD fevers,

It Is an unSjTinjr remedy for Diseases of the "nTinTSi-'bl."£ DfiCOM. pecf[lta t. Women, and all who lead *efcntery Hvm

It doe* not injure the teeth, cause headacbe/*

l&SKS-wS £s SffiffiESS«&£

en» the iwiscie* and_nerves. For Intermittent Fevers, Lassitude, Lselc c* Energy. Ac-it has no equal. _11 ma- The genuine bas above trade maxk ml croaied rsdllBea on wrapper. Take no otbe^. saowK caaaiou. «*, suffisosc,a*~l

11

-THE

BEST TONIC.

1