Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 17, Number 23, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 27 November 1886 — Page 6

3HHP

THE MAIL.

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRE HAUTE NOV 27, 1886.

Haunted Chamber.

BY "THE DUCHESS/

Author of "Monica," "Mona

4Ah,

Jpr lit

Scully,"

"P/H/U/s,''

etc., ctc.

CHAPTER IV—COVTINUKD. It is an early party, all things considered, and Dora Talbot, going to her room aoout two o'clock, stops before Florence's door and knocks softly thereon. "Come in," calls Florence gently. "I have just stopped for a moment to express the hope that you are not ill, dearest," says smooth-toneued Dora, advancing towards her. IIow early you left us! I shouldn't have known now early only Mr. Dynecourt told me. Are you sure you are not ill?" "Not in the least, only a little fatigued," replied Florence calmly.

no wonder, with your exertions

before the dancing commenced, and your unqualified success! You reigned over everybody, darling. Nobody could hope even to divide tne honors of the evening with vou. Your acting was •imply superb.* "Thank you," says Florence, who is not in bed, but ia sitting in a chair drawn near a window, through which the moonbeams are flinging tneir pale rays. She is clad in a clinging wnite dressing-gown that makes her ipeauty saintlike, and has all her long hair falling loosely round her shoulders. *What a charming evening it has been!" exclaims Dora ecstatically, clasping her hands, and leaning her arms on the back of a chair. "I hardly know when I felt so thoroughly happy. Florence shudders visibly. You enyourself, of course?" continues ra. "Ev .7 one raved about you. You made least a dozen conquests one or half one—" with a careful hesitation in manner intended to imress her listener—"is as much as poor ttle insignificant me can expect."

Florence looks at her questioningly. "I think one really honest lover is urorth a dozen others," she says, her voice trembling. "Do you mean me to understand. Dora, that you have gained one tonight?"

Florence's whole soul seemed to hang on her cousin's answer. Dora simpers, and tries to blush, but in reality grows shade paler. She is playing for a high stake, and fears to risk a throw lest it may be ventured too soon. "Oh, you must not ask toomuchl" tiles, shaking her

"Uh, you must noi asK too mucni the replies, shaking her blonde head.

mA.

I hope-"

lover—no! IIow can vou be so absurd! d! And yet I think—

I see!" interrupts F1

Florence sadly.

•Well, I will be as 'discreet as you wish but at least, if what I imagine be true, I can congratulate you with all my beart, because I know—I know you will be happy."

Going over to Mrs. Talbot, she l.iys her arms round her neck and kisses her softly. As tfhe does so, a tear falls from her eyes upon Dora's cheek. There is so much sweetness and abandonment of self in this action that Dora for tho moment is touched by it. Jjlie puts up her hand: uutl. wiping away tho tear from her check as though it bums her, says lightly— "But indeed, my dearest Flo, must not imagine anything. All is vague. I hardlv know what it is to winch I am alluding. 'Trifles light as air' lloat through my brain, and gladden me in spite of my common sense, which whispers that tney mean nothing. Do not build castles for me that may have their existence only en J&-

^^They seem very bright cjistles," observes Florence wistfully. "A bad omen. 'All that's bright must fade,' sings the poet. And now to speak of yourself. You enjoyed yourself?" "Of course"—mechanically. "All, yes I was glad to see you had made it up with poor Arthur Dyntv court!" "HowF demands Florence, turning

Vpou

her

quickly.

"I saw you dancing with him, dearest: I was with Sir Adrian at the time, auu from soinothing he said. I think he would be rather pleased if you could bring yourself to reward poor Arthur's long devotion." "Sir Adrian said that? He discussed mo with you?" "Just In passing, you understand. He told me too that you were somewhat unhappy in the earlier part of the ng. anil that he had to stay a sideralile time with yon to restore

unhapi)

evening, ami that he had to stay a conable time with yon to restorejrou to calmness. He is always so land, dear Adrian!" "Ho spoke of that?" demands Florence, in atone of anguish. If he had made her emotion a subject of common talk with Mrs. Talbot, all indeed is at an end between them, even that sweet visionary offer of friendship he had made to ner. No she could not submit to be talked about by him, and the woman he loves! Oh the bitter pang it costs her to say these word* to herself! That he now loves Dora seems to her mind beyond dispute. Is she not bis confidante, the one in whom he chooses to repose all his secret thoughts and surmises?

Dora regards her cousin keenly. Florence's evident agitation makes her fear that there was more in that tti~i tote with Sir Adrian than she had at first imagined. "Yes why should he not speak of ttr

Dora goes on coldly. "I think by his manner your waul of self-control shocked him. You should lmve a greater command over yourself, it is not good form to betray one's feelings ito everv ctoance passer-bv. Yes I think Sir Adrian was both surprised and astonished.* -There was nothing to cause him either surprise or astonishment," f«*vs

Florence haughtily "and I could well have Mwd him of tV wav!" "Itri^asI hnn rejoins Dora artfully. "Bat eer:' uqr h* spoke to me of 1**"^ unplrr*.\iit*v delayed by—by iraj* ble were his venr wor: and rw'.y alto-gi»Uh-r—1 may he \ntng—l l* vc he allu il to vou. Of course* I xv iM not follow the in »i er up, becau much as I like Sir Adrian, I could not listen to him spea)

SO

lightly of

"Of me—you forget yourself, DoraJ" cries Florence, with pale lips*, bat head erect. "Speaking lightly of me. she repeats. "Young men «rt» often careless in their language* explains Dora hurriedly, feeling she had jpotte too far.

IfiiiSS

TTOBB

"lie meant nothing unkind, you may be sure!? "I am quite sure"—firmly. "Then no harm is done"—smiling brightly. "And now. good-night, dearest: go to bed instead of sitting there looking like a ghost in those mystical moonbeams." "Good-night," says Florence icily.

There is something about her that causes Mrs. Talbot to feel almost afraid to approach and kiss her as usual. "Want of rest will spoil your lovely eyes," adds the widow airily "and your complexion, faultless as it always is, will not be up to the mark to-morrow. So sleep, foolish child, and gather roses from your slumbers."

So saying, she kisses her hand gayly fco the unresponsive Florence, and tnps Lightly JFrojn the room.

CHAPTER V.

Florence, after Dora has left her, sits motionless at her window. She has thrown open the casement, and now— the sleeves of her dressing-gown falling back from her bare rounded armsleans out so that the descending nightdews fall like a benison upon her burning brow.

She is wrapped in melancholy her whole soul is burdened with thoughts and regrets almost too heavy for her to support. She is harassed and perplexed on all sides, and her heart is sore for the loss of the love she once had deemed her own.

The moonbeams cling like a halo round her lovely head, her hair falls in a luxuriant shower about her shoulders her plaintive face is raised from earth, her eyes look heavenward, as though seeking hope and comfort there.

The night is still, almost to oppressiveness. The birds have long since ceased their song the wind hardly stirs the foliage of the stately trees. The perfume wafted upward from the sleeping garden floats past her and mingles with her scented tresses. No sound comes to mar the serenity of the night, all is calm and silent as the grave.

Yet, hark, what is this? A.footstep on the gravel path below arouses her attention. For the first time since Dora's departure she moves, and, turning her head, glances in the direction or the sound.

Bareheaded, and walking with his hands clasped behind him as though absorbed in deep thought, Sir Adrian comes slowly over the sward until he stands beneath her window. Here he

most desire to be

The moon, spreading its brilliance all around, permits Florence to see that his face is grave and thoughtful, and—yes. as she gazes even closer, she can see that it islull of pain and vain

°^^haf is rendering him unhappy on this night of all others, when the woman she believes he loves has been his willing companion for so many hours, when doubtless she has given him proofs of her preference for him above all men?

Suddenly lifting his head, Sir Adrian becomes conscious of the face in the window above, and a thrill rushes through him as he recognizes the form of the woman he loves.

The scene is so calm, so hallowed, so full of romance, that both their hearts beat madly for awhile. They are alone any one still awake within the house is far distant.

Never has she appeared so spiritual, so true and tender so full of sweetness that is almost unearthly. All pride seems to have'gone from her, and its place onlv a gentle melancholy reigns she looks so Far removed from him, sitting there in the purity of her white robes, that, at first, he hesitates to address her. To the excited imagination, she is like an angel resting on its way to the realms above.

At last, however, his heart compellingjiiui, lie speaks aloud. "Florence, you still awake, when all the world Is sleeping?"

His name falling from his lips touches a chord in her breast, and wakes her to paiuionate life. "You too," she says in a whisper that reaches his strained ears. There seems to her a subtle joy in the thought that they two of afl the household are awake, are here talking together alone in the pale light of the moon.

Yet she is wrong in imagining that no others are up in the house, as his next words tell her. "It is not a matter of wonder in my case," ho responds "a few fellows are still In the smoking-room. It is early, you know—not yet three. But you— whv are you keeping a lonely vigil like this?" "TTie moon tempted me to the window," answers Florence. "See how calm sho looks riding majestically np there. See"—stretching out her bare white arm until the beams fall full upon it, and seetn to change it to purest marble—"does it not make one feel as if all the world were being bathed in its subdued glow?"

A pale tremulous smile widens her lips. Sir Adrian, plucking a tall pale litv growing near nim, flings it upward with such an eager aim that It alights upon her window-sill. She sees it. Her flHirers close upon it. "Fit emblem of its possessor," says Adrian softlv, and rather unsteadily. "Do you know of what you remind me, sitting there in your white robes? A medieval saint cut in stone—a pure angel, too good, too far above all earthly

rami

talon to enter into it, or understand the grief that must ever attend \ipon it."

lie sneaks bitterly, she is

that

It seems to him

indewl cold not to have

leased before this the intensity of his nay have given her affection to another, re

gues love

for her. However much she may

still seems to him inexpressibly hard that she ean have no pity for his suffering. He es at her intently. Do the mvstie mwubeams deceive him, or are there tears in her great dark eyes? His heart tieata quieklv. Once again he remembers her emotion of the past evening. He hears again, her passionate sobs. Is she unhappy? Are there thorns iu her path that are difficult to remove?. "l- ^enee, once again I entreat vou to ulide in me* he says, after a pause. "I can not," she sully but firmly. "But there is one thing I must say to you—th :*k of me as you mav for saying it—I au» not cold as you seemed to imply a moment since I am not made of stone and, alas, the grief von think me incapable of understanding is mine already! Yon have wronged me in your thoughts. I have here," she explains with some vehemence, laying the hand in which .the still holds the drooping lily njtMi Iter itfvast, "what I woofd gladly bh vt about—» heart." "Naj, says Adrian hastily "you tor-

get. it is no longer yours, you nave given it away." For an instant she glances at him keenly, while her breath comes and goes with painful quickness. "You have no right to say so," she murmurs at last. "No, of course not I bee your pardon," he says apologetically. "It is your own secret. "There is no secret," she declares nervously. "None." "I have offended yon. I should not have said that. You will forgive me?" he entreats, with agitation. "You are quite forgiven and, as a token leans a little further out of the window, and looks down at him with a face pale indeed, but full of an unutterable sweetness.

Her beauty conquers all his resolutions. "Oh, Florence," he whispers an impassioned tone, "if I only dared tell you what—"

She starts and lavs a finger on her iio accents. "You forget! The hour, the surroundings, have momentarily led you astray. I ought not to have spoken with you. Go! There is nothing you dare to tell me—there is nothing I would wish to hear. Remember duty to another—and—good-night.' "Stay, 1 implore you, fOT one moment, ne cries but she is firm, and presently the curtains are drawn close and he is alone.

lips, as though to enforce silence. "Hush!" she says, in trembling

Slowly he walks back toward the smoking-room, her last words ringing in his ears—"Remember your duty to another." What other? He is puzzled, but. reaching the window of the room, he dismisses these thoughts from his mind, and determines to get rid of his guests without delay, so as to be able to enjoy a little quiet and calm for reflection.

cide neighboring wu«*j, nnw from its peculiar circumstances, caused more than usual interest.

One of the guests to-night is an armysurgeon, ana he is giving them an explanation as to how the fatal wound bad been inflicted. It appeared sfc the inquest that the unfortunate man h&d shot himself in a peculiar manner as to cause considerable doubt as to whether he had been murdered or had died by his gwn hand. Evidence, however, of a most convincing nature had confirmed the latter theory.

Captain Ringwood. with a revolver in his hand, is endeavoring to show that the man could not have shot himself. just as Adrian re-enters. "Be careful with that revolver," he exclaims hastily "it is loaded!" "All right, old fellow, I know it," returns Ringwood. "Look here, doctor, how coula he make a wound here?" "Why not? Sir Adrian, take the revolver for a moment, will yon?" says the surgeon, anxious to demonstrate his theory neyond the possibility of doubt. "I want to convince Ringwood. Now stand so, and hold the weapon so"— placing it with the muzzle presented in a rather awkward position almost over his hftArt "I thought fellows always put the muzzles of their revolvers in their mouths and blew their brains out when they committed suicide," Ringwood remarks lightly. "This fellow evidently did not," says the surgeon calmly. "Now, Sir Adrian

I'lin \J T* ijii iiuin»u« you see, by holding it thus, you could quite easily blow yourself to—"

Before ne can finish the sentence, there is a sudden confusion of bodies, a jostling as it were, for Arthur Dynecourt, wno had been looking on attentively with one foot on a footstool closo to Sir Adrian's elbow, had slipped from the stool at this opportune moment, and had fallen heavily against his cousin.

There is a shout from somebody, and then a silence. The revolver In the scuffle had gone off! Through the house the sharp crack of a bullet rings loudly, rousing many from their slumbers.

Lights can be seen in the passages terrified faces peep out from half-open-ed doors. Dora Talbot, coming into the corridor in a pale pink cashmere dressing-gown trimmed with swan'sdown, in which she looks the very personification of innocence and youth, screams loudly and demands hysterically to be informed as to the cause of the unusual noise.

The servants have rushed from their quarters in alarm. Ethel Yilliers, with a pale scared face, runs to Florence Delmaine's room, and throws her arms comes

As nobody knows, and as Florence in her heart is more frightened than she cares to confess, being aware through Adrian that some or the men are still up in the smoking-room, and fearing that a quarrel them, she

TTAT7TE SATURDAY EVUNING MAIL.

arisen

that they

should go to' the smoking-room in a body ana make inquiries. Old Lady FitzAlmont, with Lady Gertrude sobbing on her arm, seconds this proposal, and. being a veteran of much distinction, takes the lead. Those following close behind, are glad of this, and hopeful because of It, her appearance being calculated to rout rniy enemy. The awful character of her dress-ing-gown and the severity of the nightcap that crowns her martial head would strike terror to the hearts of any midnight marauders. They all move off in a body, and. guided unconsciously by Florence, approach the smokingroom.

Voices loud in conversation can be heard as they draw near the door is slightly ajar. Florence drawing back as thev come quite up to it, the old lady waves her aside and advances boldly to the front. Flinging wide open the door, she bursts upon the astonished company within. "Where is he?" she asks, with a dignity that only heightens the attractions of cap and gown. "Have you secured him? Sir Adrian, where is the constable? Have you sent for him?"

Sir Adrian, whose gaze is fixed upon the fair vision in the trailing white gown standing timidly in the doorway, forgets to answer his interrogator, and the others taken by surprise, maintain a solemn silence. "Whv this mvstery?" demands Lady Fitz-Almont sternly. "Where is the miscreant? Where is the man that fired that shot?* "Here, madame," replies the surgeon dryly, indicating Arthur Dynecourt by a motion of the hand. "lie—who? Mr. Dynecourt?" ejaculates her ladvship in a aisappointed tone. "It was all a mistake, then? I continues "that you might finf a more suitable time in which to play off your jokes, or to practice target-shooting. than in the middle of the night, wfien every respectable household ought to be wrap* ped in slumber."

-I assure you," begins Arttrar Dynecourt, who is strangely pale and discomposed, "it was all an accident—an—" "Accident! Nonsense, sir I dont believe there was any accident whatsoever!"

As these words pass the lips of the irascible old lady, several men in the room exchange significant glances. Is it that old Lady FitzAlmont has just put their own thoughts into words? "Let me explain to your ladyship," says Sir Adrian courteously. "We were just talking about that unfortunate affair of tne Stewarts, and Maitland was showing us how it might have occurred. I had the revolver in my hand so"—pointing the weapon toward himself. "Put down that abominable weapon at once, sir!" commands Lady FitzAlmont, in a menacing tone, largely mingled with abject fear. As she speaks she retreats precipitately behind Florence, thus pushing that young lady to the fore. "When my cousin unhappily stum-

grieved, Lady should nave occurred to disturb the household but, really, it was a pure accident." "A pure accident," repeats Arthur, from between his colorless lips.

He looks far more distressed by this occurrence than Sir Adrian, who had narrowly escaped being wounded. This onlv showed his tenderness and proper feeling, as almost all the women present mutually agreed. Almost all, but not quite. JL)ora Talbot, for example, grows deadly pale as she listens to the explanation and watches Arthur's ghastly face. What is it like? The face of a murderer? "Oh, no, no," she gasps inwardly "surely not that!" "It was the purest accident, I assure you protests Arthur again, as though anxious to impress this conviction upon his own mind. "It might have been a very serious one," says the surgeon gravely, regarding him with a keen {dance. It might have meant death to Sir Adrian!"

Florence changes color and glances at her host with parted lips. Dora Talbot, pressing her way through the group in the door-way, goes straight up to him as if impulsively, and takes his hand in both hers. "Dear Sir Adrian, how can we be thankful enough for your escape?" she savs sweetly, tears standing in her bright blue eyes. She presses his hand warmly, and even raises it to her lips in a transport of emotion. Standing there in the pretty pink dressing-gown that shows off her complexion to perfection, Dora Talbot looks lovely. "You are very good—very kind." returns Sir Adrian, really touched by her concern, but still with eyes only for the white vision in the door-way but you make too much of nothing. I am sorry I have been the unhappy cause of rousing you from your rosy dreams you will not thank me to-mor-row when there will be only lilies in your cheeks."

The word Illy brings back to him his last interview with Florence. He glances hurriedly at her right hand yes, the same lily is clasped In her fingers. Has she sat ever since with his gift before her, in her silent chamber? Alone —in grief perhaps. But why has she kept his flower? what can it all mean? "We shall mind nothing, now you are safe," Dora assures him tremulously. "I think I might be shown some consideration," puts in Arthur, trying by a violent effort to assert himself, and to speak lightly. "Had anything happened, surely I should have been the one to be pitied. It would have been my fault, aud. Mrs. Talbot, I think you might show some pity for me." He holds out his hand, and mechanically Dora lays her own in it.

But it is only for an instant, and she Bhudders violently as his touch meets hew. Her eyes are on the ground, and she can not bring herself to look at him. Drawing her fingers hurriedly from his, she goes to the door and disappears from view.

In the meantime. Sir Adrian, having made his way to Florence, points to the My"You have held it ever since?" he ssksv in a low tone. "I hardly hoped for so much. But you have not congratulated me, you alone have said nothing." "Why need I speak? I have seen you with my own eyes. Yon arc safe. Believe me, Sir Adrian, I congratulate you most sincerely upon your escape."

Her words are cold, her eyes are downcast. She is deeply annoyed with herself for having carried the lily into his presence here. The very fact of having noticed it and spoken to her about It has shown her how much importance he has attached to her doing so. What will he think of her. Ilewifl doubtless picture her to himself sitting weeping and brooding over a flower given to her by a man who loves her not, and to whom she has given her love unsolicited.

Her marked coldness so oppresses him that he steps back, and does not venture to address her again. It occurs to him that she is reserved because of Arthur's presence.

Presently, Lady FitzAlmont, marshaling her forces anew, carries them all away to their rooms, soundly rating the sobbing Lady Gertrude for her want of self-control.

The men, too, shortly afterward disperse, ana one by one drift away to their rooms. Captain Ringwood and Maitland the surgeon being the last to go. "Who is the next heir to the castle?" asks the latter musingly, drumming his fingers idly on a table near him. "Dynecourt, the fellow who nearly did for Sir Adrian this evening!" replies Ringwood quietly. "Ah!" "It would have meant a very good thing for Arthur if the shot had taken effect," says Ringwood, eyeing his companion curiously. "It would have meant murder, sir!* rejoins the surgeon shortly.

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Corner of 6th and Ohio sts., Terre Haute, Ind. for ALL CHRONIC and SPECIAL DISEASES, Male and Female, MEDICAL or SUR GICAL. Oltlce hours: 0 to 12 1 to 5 and 7 to 8.

A TRIAL TREATMENT FREE In the following diseases, via: OPIUM, morphine or laudanum HABIT, NERVOUS DISEASES of MEN and WOMEN, FITS or EPELKPSY and SORE, WEAK or.DEFlCIENT EYES.

The following I will TREAT-NO CURE, NO PAY, with a wqfttenguarantee, vis, CANCF.H8, TUMORS, aud OLD SORES, TAPE WORMS, FISTULA, PILES and ALL DISEASES of the RECTUM, without the KNIFE or CAUSTICS.

GKATKKVL—COMFORTING.

Epps's Cocoa

BREAKFAST.

"By thorough knowledge" of tho nntural laws which govern the operations of digestion and nutrition, and by a careful application of tho line propeitles of well-selected Cocoa, Mr. Epps has provided our breakfast tables with a delicately flavored beverage which may save UH many heavy doctors' bills. It Is by the Judicious use or such articles of diet that a constitution may be gradually built up until strong enough to resist everv tendency to disease. Hundreds of subtle maladies are floating around us ready to. attack wherever there is a weak point. We may escape many a fatal shaft by keeping ourselves well fortified with pure blood and properly nourished frame."—[Civil Service Gazette.

Mode simply with boiling water or milk. Sold only in half pound tins by grocers, labeled thus: JAMKH KPJP8 CO..

Hnmrropathtr Ctiemlxt*. London.

Kn«r

PETRDLINE

A trial will oonrlnce the siost skeptical that thev are tlM best The* are medioated with oapsioaa and tho active pnaeiple of petroleum, being far mors powerful in tneir action than other plasters. Do not be lndneed to take other plasters wtaleh are inferior, but be sure and get (he genuine "Petrollne," which ia always enclosed in an envelope with tho signature of the proprietors, The P.W.P. Co., also above seal, la •reea and gold, ea oaeh plaster. Sold by aU dvoMlsts, at 85 seats eaoh, and oar Agents.

J. J. BATIRt SON, Terre Haute, Ind.

WAITED

4iret* to

jfor our St-ogklnir snpjport-

Shields.good*,

Soppor

m, Bosom to m», Safety BHIU,Jn hber Mr •riisna ready mim. W

m«, Prra» Infants*

rubber "good*.' etc. Sew device* una ri'SDFnto.

MIM.

SSMMNW*

Woh**«

rs$$s number of ladle* now rlear|I00 a month. AddreM

Q. L. IRWIN A CO., 1»S La Soil* St, Ohlew

Iks ivTKar eviDM is ftBMM* Sept. esi March* •Mhpostf. pageo, lsieheo wtthyeer 3,900 UlsassHiss-a wbels Plstsrs ©aJIery. •ITU WlMbasl* Price*

en all feeds for

pmsissl st tuailf at*. Telia lsew so snst seal sf erery«mtt drlat, w«ar, or fcawe tmm wit*. These UTALIIAiUI BOOKS

(SBMB

laaiwsMsa |lessei

frmsi the markets rflta wfU. W. will aall a sepf WMUK Is «af s*« recvtpt eflle«s.le Mtaf efsulllai. Let hear *OTS gtoapoetAeMy,

MONTGOMERY WARD A CO.

g#7 4k 119 Wsbssh Aveaae, ChlcsfSi Ilk

CatabhB

HtfFEVER

Y-FEVE

Balm Unci a liquid, snuff or powder. Jfo injwriou* drug*. No offensive odor. ApplMintoeachnodrait quickly absorbed

A Quick RdUf. A Positive Cure. WetmUatDrvggUf bymaU,r*fUUr*l,1DeMt+

By Irotltrs, IrigfJsts, tvigi, 1.1