Newspapers / The Times-News (Hendersonville, N.C.) / April 5, 1901, edition 1 / Page 2
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r .4 "It is quite, quite impossible to let ant another inch; she must have a new fckirt. Miss Pincham." My mother knelt on the floor of our' 'little sitting-room. The green cloth had fceen removed from our table, which was strewn with scissors, cotton, tape and -snips. On a square piece of drugget, pur -d)ffa by our landlady, Mrs. Lipsbonibe, to save the carpet, stood, undergoing the agonies of being "tried on." I was wondering whether it could be in .any way connected with a letter which mother had received a -day or two pre viously a letter which I had seen her "a.ke out and read several times since. I bad not seen her answer it yet mother so eIdom wrote a letter that I should nave ben certain to notice it. Altogether was -jpazzled. The letter, I believed, concern d me in some way; else, why this new rock? Poor, darling mother! As she rose -fxotn the floor and arranged her widow's p at the glass, I thought how sweet -was her pale, lined face. To me it was all so natural, our monotonous life to gether at Shipley-le-Marsh, that I never fenew what she suffered. Mother was the eldest daughter of Matthew Carewe, a mill-owner, polling . fa money. He bought Gray Ashtead, a beautiful estate some fifteen miles from - - Shipley., and added to it every modern , - - " luxury that wealth could supply. His . family consisted of two daughters Em ... - -, meline and Rosalie. Emmeline was beau : A tif ul. with that fragile loveliness which ' . - mo soon decays. A complexion like a s.-"J' , conch shell, delicate features, hair of Dale gold, and soft, blue eyes. On her fte centered all his ambition. "Who mar- : ttied Emmerline, married her name," said . , 2ie. She was to be heiress of Gray Ash- j .. -lead: she was to perpetuate the line of i :. darewe. At the ago of eighteen his idol . Jnet. at Harrogate, a young Frenchman, CJonstant Damien by name. He was a .V - member of a most ancient and noble Siouse, deprived of its title and estates by the revolution of 17S0.- He was supreme ly handsome, and. of course, penniless ' ' r "When Emmeline petitioned to marry . Constant my grandfather 'almost had fit- With much coarse language he dis- .. missed the idea altogether, terming his -"Would-be son-in-law a "beggarly adven -farer. Beside himself with rage. Con -slant told him that it was a condescen- -aion on his part to stoop to the. daughter ' ' -f a parvenue one who certainly did not T derive her beauty and goodness from her ...;.' -iJather, but inherited them straight .from -the angels; but Mr. Carewe should know v ; '"that it was not for such canaille as he - v Co insult a nobleman of France with, im punity." - V So- the two separated, and next morn- . r fng Emmelipe ran away with young Damien. They went to London and were " - v married. My grandfather expected them ; v fe appear in a few weeks, suing for for- ifiiveness and help. He much mistook the .nature of Constant Damien. The young 'man. who was by profession an artist, "worked night and day to keep his girl -wife from want. He would have died a thousand deaths sooner than apply to 3atthew Carewe for a pin. For a year the foolish couple were very, very happy. Success began to smile on Constant; peo ple took him up. I was born, and their bliss seemed perfect. Then the shadow .elL Constant, walking home one day fa the rain, took a chill. He neglected bis cold neglected the hollow cough which followed it continued to go out in all weathers, and at last, one day, took p his bed." He was in a rapid decline: -nothing could save him, and in a year he iwaa dead, and beautiful Emmeline was a widow just twenty years old. Then, indeed, she wrote to her father, but too late. He would have nothing' Whatever to say to her. He could neither firBrive nor forsret. His darlinsr. IcnUxfA daughter had dealt him a blow from Which he could not rally. He desired his solicitor to write to her and tell her that 1QQ a year, which she inherited from ner mother, would be paid regularly, "3Chat was all. The despairing young widow next wrote -to Constant s mother, who had married tm eeona time a uevonsmre .gentleman toamed Bum side. : The answer from her was that she could , have no communica -t3oa with any member of a family which Sad insulted her Constant; Mrs. Damien's 4SW& grand relations might look after her sand her baby: By the next post came a she's growing, Emmeline! I don't know how you keep her in frocks." ,"It is difficult," said mother, sitting near, and watching with a smile of pleas ure as I dived into a basket of Gray Ash tead strawberries. "And that reminds me Rosalie, I have been waiting most eagerly for your visit to-day, to consult yon about something. I had a letter the other day from Mrs. Burnside." "Mrs. ?" queried my aunt, puz .led. "Mrs. Burnside my mother-in-law old Madame Damien. that was." "Oh, to be sure! What did she say?" "She wants to make Olga's acquaint ance. She wants me to send her down to Burnside, for a lone visit, and I I have deeioeu 10 let tier go." "Emmeline! All that distance!" "Here is the letter; read it for your self." Aunt Rosalie took the missive, in its cramped, angular, French handwriting. wnich seemed to belong to another een tury. "Burnside. June 3. "My Dear Madame Damien You will, without doubt, experience a great sur prise in receiving a tetter from me after my long silence; but it is written in de- t fenence to the wish of my late husband. Mr. Burnside. In his lifetime he ex pressed a desire to be at the expense of educating the daughter of my Constant, whose memory he ever held as dear as that of a son. According to my calcula tions, your daughter must be ten years 01 age Dy tnis, and be grown a great girl. I would ask, let her come to Burnside and pay me a long visit. Let me ascertain her character, her mental capacity, her tastes, and her temper; I shall then be able to judge how best to carry out the wishes of Mr. Burnside. I trust that no foolish pride will induce you to stand in the way of your child's interests in this matter. Send me a letter, indicating the day and hour of her arrival, and she shall be met. "Hoping for a favorable reply, I am, madame, yours very faithfullv, "BLANCHE MARIE NICOLINE BURNSIDE." "I think the old lady's rather uppish," was my aunt's comment on reading this epistle. "Only look on the matter rationally. Rose," said mother, pleadingly; "what other prospects have I for her? Yon yourself must by this time despair of papa's ever coming round. Ii darling Olga had only been a boy it might have been different but now! His adopting young Rayvenham Carewe has been my linal blow. You see," continued mother, with a hopeless sigh, "my only hopes for the poor child must come through Mrs. Burn side. She must have a little money, I should think, and when she dies she might feave it to Olga." "But I don't want to leave you; I won't go anywhere," I cried, and therewith I burst into tears. But the fiat had gone forth. Mother and aunt set about to comfort me; but nothing could change mother's deter mination. I was to go and make mv grandmother's acquaintance. appeal in her voice. The eld serving woman shook her head. -"My Monsieur Constant had deei brown eyes," she said. "The young de moiselle's eyes are gray. His complexion was a' perfect olive her skin is fair under her black hair. But, madame, she re minds me strikingly of the old portrait of the Princess Olga, which was brought from La Chaudenaye." "You think so?" said my grandmother, with evident delight. "Yes, you are right, Esperanee, it is so. She has the same low brow and short upper lip; she is aristocratic to the backbone. Thank heaven, there can be very little of the Carewes about her!" "She is tired, madame. It is seven o'clock. I shall take her straight to bed. Yes. my lamb." she went on to me, "cry if thou wilt, thou must be so weary. It is a frightful journey for so young a creature." I laid myself down in the strong arms and wept quietly. My grandmother stole up and stroked my hair. "I give you due notice that I do not go," went on the squire. "That is a pity; you will be terribly snissed," answered my uncle, with great est gravity. My grandmother, who had been listen ing to this jangle with evident uneasi ness, now thought -it prudent to interfere. "No more of this, please, my sons." said she; and neither of the young men spoke another word. It was my first intimation that this peaceful Devonshire household possessed, like other households, a skeleton in their cupboard. I had never before seen the domestic quiet disturbed in any way. But, as I looked at the lowering brows of Mr. Burnside, under which his blue eyes seemed to shoot sparks, I pitied Uncle Remy from the bottom of my heart. CHAPTER IV. Next day my unoje Remy elected that we should not go for a ride; instead, we would go for a walk through the hav- helds. I acquiesced, as I should have She must wait. then, until to-morrow I .done in anything he had proposed. So we to see her Uncle Remy," said she, softly. "I wonder, Esperanee. will he, too, see the likeness which we have discovered?' "I think so, said Esperanee, "and Monsieur Remy will also be a playfellow for her. I dare say the master scared" her." "Yes," observed madame, regretfully, ny Door Victor is not a ladies' man. i wonaereu, sieepny, wnether Victor were Hercules, who had vanished mirac ulously as soon as my grandmother ap peared; also, I wondered how my Uncle Hemy, who must of necessity be grown up, could be my playfellow; and so I felt the touch of soft lips on my tear-stained cheeks, and was carried up the wide, shallow oak staircase, along a corridor, ana into tne sweetest little chamber im aginable. CHAPTER ni. I was awakened on my first mornin iii iurusiue uy singing, a young, vig orous man's voice was caroling in the garden below me. I sprang from my bed, drew aside my rose-colored curtains, and peeped tortn; but the singer had disan peared. Esperanee now entered and pro ceeded to wash and dress me. At the door I paused, and demanded in a low voice of Esperanee: "Who is thn gentleman who drove me from Kingsden yesterday what is his name?" iless mel W hy, that is Mr. Bum- side, the master of the house! took a lunch of strawberries and cake in a little basket, and went off together. We came to a stop at length in a delicious meadow which, like all Devonshire mead ows, lay on the slope of a hill. Uncle Remey appeared to be in a drowsy and contemplative state of mind. He lay full length on the warm, fragrant hay, and allowed me to pile it up behind his head to keep off the sun. This done, I crept to his side and lay down with my head on his arm. "What are you thinking about just now this Very minute?" I demanded. "I? Oh, nothing that would interest you, child. I say, Olga, did you notice Miss Lyndon, the young lady we. met yesterday?" "Why, yes, of course." "Didn't you think her very pretty?" "I think she's the prettiest person I ever saw, and the nicest, too. Are you going to marry Miss Lyndon, Uncle ReV" He started. "I don't know, child. No one can say beforehand what he or she will do. If only I were free " "Are you not free? You are grown up," I said, wondering. On this he burst half roused to consciousness as my tin cle lifted me out of the .carriage, and the lamplight flashed in the hall at Burn side. "Remv. I should like to speak to you at once in the library," I heard the squire say. "With all my heart," answered Remy, defiantly. Cncie Remy. still with me in his arms, walked into the library. forth with bitterness. "Free? I am chained like a captive! I wear a galling yoke! Almost as I raise my arms" suiting the action to the word "I expect to hear my chains rat tle! I cannot do as I like half so much as you can, child Olga! No; may you But Mr. Burnside is dead," I objected never know the bitterness of being bound True. Mr. Burnside who was lms- as 1 am eating another's bread, and ex pected m return to do as aitiad, bluff letter- from Mr. Burnside. mv grandmother's English husband," inclosing at ten-pound note, and promising to. send OMore when I should be old enough to aseed education. But before that -time me he was dead. Poor mother was in leed friendless. She came to Shipley-le-Jtfaxsh, and settled there, for two rea auoa. First, it was within the eaeh of -&r eister Rosalie; secondly, it was a &2&ce where nobody knew her.' . : ! ; For some years mother was always , fioping that her father would: relent; but . -when I was about four years old, Mr. 3arewe adopted the son of his cousin a ftoy about three years older than L : Then mother felt that our' chance was gone. TOs adopting of a son and heir was -a. final blow. Day by day she lived on her ; -Quiet, dreary life, meek and crushed, ' Jboping and expecting nothing. ; All dinner-time; that day mother -was silent and preoccupied. The kind atten km nd grave smile with which she asoally met my childish chatter; were ssat mine to-day, Once I almost thought I saw her crying, but it might have been iSsuicy. ' -, - . V:V':-- - i : Marianne Lipscombe had hardly ''-'finish-' . d clearing away the dishes when,' from mr Post at the open window, I announced V -triumphantly, "Here's Aunt Rosalie!" Ehe elegant barouche, with its spirited tefeestnuts, drew up at orir humble door. iAtint Rosalie marched into the room full ' 'fsf life and spirit. ; She was .twenty-six 3ars old, and a - very striking-looking orooiani She , embraced mother warmly, asod sat down, with me on" her lap -, -"Well, Tadpole," v quoth she,; "when's -jpouv body going to grow, as large as your Jaad?" . rKy'iriy fa answer to this inquiry I burrowed . my tadpole head in her -shoulder and 4S3gziod. ; Lou and lanky I What a gawky child ' m grave. CHAPTER II I will pass over the sad parting with my mother and the few incidents of mv journey to Kingsden, where I wms to be met by some of mv srrandmother' folks. Kyhen the train reached mv destination I scrambled up, the guard appeared. flung open the door and deposited me and my portmanteau on the platform. A heavy step crunched oa the gravel near me. I looked up. A very tall. and. as it seemed to me then, fabulously broad inan stood over me. A rough, graj'-cloth hat covered tangled yellow hair, blue Saxon eyes looked down from under squarely marked brows, the lower part ot tne race was hidden in thick blonde beard and mustache. r "Miss Damien ?" said he, deep tones. "Yes, I am Olga Damien," I answered, looking up at him with a treacherous quiver of my mouth, which warned me that tears were not far off. Hercules lifted me up a tremendous height into an airy "trap." I liked be ing there. It was not so pleasant when Hercules climbed in beside me, carefully arranging a dust-cloth over my knees, and easily gathering up the reins. We started off for our five-mile drive. Suddenly we took a. sharp turn to the right,' through a gate" which stood open, over a bridge under which a stream murmured, and, behold, the house fronted me! An old'! low, long Elizabethan pile, gray, stone built, and beautiful. We stopped at the front door; it was open, which struck me then, I remember, as odd, I was st on. my feet by Hercules, who then strode to the wide door at the foot of the stair case, and called aloud, "Madame! I have brought her!" A moment elapsed, durine which of June sunset, cold shivers ; ran down my back. Then a door opened, and through it came my erandmofhW with- hands outstretched. Ah! She was like an old picture like a lady from another century. What a grandmother for me to possess! As she stood smiling, and never speaking, but holding out her hands to me, I held back no longer. -1 ran straight into the shelter of her arms. let her null my hat off my. tumbled locks, and felt her caressing touch as she held my head against her breast and murmured over- tne, in the softest voice imaginable. ; My dear granddaughter! Mv- nonr Constant's fatherless little one! So thou hast come to me at last, mon enfant! Art thou very tired, then? - ,Nay, do not weep, the journey has been a long one for such small feet." ' v . a Drawing me into a room near, whereof Ir was too tired to' notice anything but that it .smelt of roses, she rang a bell. In a moment a middle-aged, woman an- peared. with a sweet, sober face, dressed In black like her mistress, with nn of those pretty Normandy caps , which framed the face like an aureole. Lsperance,- this ! is Monsieur : Con stant's little one," said my grandmother, tremulously. Do you see a likeness." asked my grandmother, with a kind ot band to madame is dead; but this is his son. Monsieur Victor. Now, run in, dear child, and greet thy grandmother. I entered timidly. My grandmother was presiding over a most tempting breakfast table. At the other end of tho table sat Mr. Burnside, quietly unfold ing the Times. The lion looked no less terrible with out his hat than with it. He turned on me a half-puzzled, half-amused glance. I drew reluctantly near, and received a grave and awkward "How do you do, Miss Damien?" I retreated as far as possible from him to the other end of the table, and at that moment was heard an elastic step on the gravel outside, the French window was flung open, and a young man bounded in and flung his arms round my grandmother with efrusion. "Good-morning, my dearest," she re plied to his ardent salutation; "see Remy. here is your little niece noor Constant's little girl." My uncle flung himself on his knees beside me and encircled me with his arm. His beautiful face was close to mine. 1 saw dark masses of rlnstprin.' curls, a rich brown skin, sparkling black eyes, a slight dark mustache on the impetuous lip, and a warm flush of color in the cheeks. My heart went out to him at once. His smile of pleasure and amity won me. I gave to him willingly the kiss for which he entreated, and in a minute found myself enthroned upon his knee, shy, yet utterly happy. "Tell me, Remy," said, my grand mother, wistfully, "do you see any like ness?" "To my brother? None. But I tell you to whom I do see a likeness to our Muscovite ancestress, the Princess Olga!" "I am enchanted," said madame. I do not know when my life at Bum side first became an ordinary thing io me. I was wonderfully happy there. Every day developed some new pleasure, though the life at the Manor House was of the quiestest and most retired order. My chief delight was in my rides with Uncle Remy. Esperanee made me a: lit tle riding skirt, and together we scam pered' over Dartmoor, or traversed the old coach road, whence, at tjie high points, one could catch glimpses of the sea. One day, many weeks after my arrival, when I had settled down into all the Burnside ways, and ceased to feel a sin gle pang of homesickness, my uncle and 1 were riding along the coach road, past j a pair of old gates, evidently leading to some park or country seat. As we passed at a foot-pace, the heavy gate swung open, and a young, pretty girl stepped out into the road. She glanced up as sue was closing xne latea, met my uncle s eye, and bowed, with a blush and a smile. He instantly checked his horse. and raised his hat, with looks of most evident pleasure. How do you do, Miss Lyndon? I did not know you were returned from Lon don." iiow ao you oo, Mr. jjamienr was the answer, in a fresh and prepossessing voice. "We only, returned yesterday evening. W ho is your fair lady?" "It is .my little niece, Olga Damien. She and I are sworn brothers and the best of comrades." "I am delighted to see her, and hope we may be better friends," said this de lightful young lady. "We are going to have a garden party next week; I shall certainly inclose a card for Miss Olga Damien. Will Mr. Damien's pressing engagements allow him to honor us wirk his presence?" , : ; .Remy burst forth into a vehement dec laration that ropes should not keep him from the Brooklands on the day men tioned; at which Miss Lyndon laughed, waved her hand, and walkei quickly away up the lane. " After this meeting my uncle was silent and abstracted during a long portion of our ride. That day, at lunch he an nounced suddenly, "the Lyndons are back at the Brooklands." The squire looked up, and I .saw ' a frown of : annoyance gather on his usually passive face. Hiai stepbrother looked d&fiantly at him. 1 - ."When .did theylcqir? home?" growled the squire. ;. " ' " " '. - "Last night,t t?as the airy reply.'They are going ' tosgivea -garden party' next mrtAlr niijl ll rrn . a 4- Via !nn1nf4i .V . I invitation' . 1 am told, and look pleasant! It is servitude ignomini ous slaverv." I was fairly puzzled. I had certainly ne"eer before noticed any signs of the bondage of which he spoke. He seemed as unshackled as the June, hav-scented breeze which cooled our foreheads. Yes, ' he resumed', "I am like the mis erable French nation when Marat gripped her by the throat! I lie unable to heln myself, yet all the time obliged to srasD out 'Vive la Liberte!' Oh, where is the Charlotte Corday who will rid me of tho tyrant?" The allusion to Charlotte Corday was the only thins in this sentence which caught my attention. I reminded my uncle that he had promised me the his tory of this heroine, who, he had told me, was one of my French ancestors. His eye lit up. "I feel exactly now in the mood for telling it," he said. "So listen to me well, you little descendant of the noblesr dr tghter of France." So his emnhatic. melodious, voiuhlp French voice related the account of Ma rat's assassination, and, as he called it, the martyrdom of his murderess. I lay entranced, deep among the hay buried in it almost so that all I could see was the blue, deep sky, with occasionally the flight of a bright bird across it. Uncle Remy began to sing the "Marseillaise.'" How he could sing! The martial words rang across the quiet English hayfield with a quaintly incongruous effect. The next few days passed quietly. We did not again meet Miss Lyndon, al though I am sure, now I look back upon it, that Uncle Remy purposely bent his steps to the places where we were most likely to meet her. To me the days seemed to roll by on leaden wings the slow days which stood between me and that garden-party. I was awake by G on the eventful morn ing, and when the withdrawal of my window curtains showed me a cloudless sky, I could have cried with joy. The carriage came round at 3 o'clock the large open carriage and pair which was only used on state occasions. What ex citement and what with the awe of hav ing Mr. Burnside' s formidable beard op posite me, I never uttered a syllable dur ing the whole drive. I know my heart was beating as the carriage shot past the old gateway leading to the Brooklands, and I squeezed Uncle Re's hand. What a fairy sight met my gaze when we alighted! The broad terrace lawns were gay with ladies attired in every delicate hue of pale blue, coral, amber, terra-cotta, and cream. Tennis was going on in three separate courts, and the proceedings were enlivened by the strains of a band playing a soft, German sounding waltz. I cannot here describe the delights of that afternoon; how we swung, played tennis, ransacked the fruit garden, and constantly repaired to tne marquee on the lawn for ices. I now and then caught a glimpse of Uncle Remy, now and then of grandmother, who was sitting under the trees, and now and then of the squire walking and talking, or, once or twice, standing still and blank, as if lost in un pleasant thought. At last the wonderful, beautiful day came to an end. Miss Lyndon's nieces, Hugh and Chrissie, and I had finished our game of tennis, and were reclining on a garden-seat, while I regaled the others with a tale about a knight and a naiad, which; "was one of the many that Uncle Re used V tell me. Suddenly a quick, firm step crunched on the gravel, and, looking up, I beheld Mr. Burnside. "Child, we have been looking for you everywhere; be quick, the carriage is waiting, he said, in a voice which sounded irritated and harsh. ' Uncle Be nefer spoke to me like that, nor called me "child" in that way, as if I had been doing something naughty. I made my adieus, and followed him relucr tantly. He walked on, his thoughts miles away from the little girl who trotted bey'l 'side him how amazed he would hav been could he have known of the angiy, resentful feelings then working in fcer mind. Uncle Re stood at "the carrifiee door, his lips set, bis face defiant. Liiss Lyndon I could not see." " - " I was very tired indeed. The eve A trot of .the ..horses' hoofs was saothi'ig and sleepy. I leaned my head on Umcle Re's shoulder, and ho passed 'his ayin round 1 shut my heavy eyes,. and only CHAPTER V. Uncle Remy carried me into the library, and laid me down on a sofa covered with a fur rue. The squire stood erect beror- the carved oak mantelpiece. In a low chair, over the back of which a stuffed Delican imtjertlnenriv oeeoeu. sar maa- arue; and Remy's graceful limbs were dis persed over two chairs, his head resting on his elbow, his fingers buried among his black curls, "Now, Remy, I want you to tell me at once, clearly and without equivocation, what you intend to do." "My good friend, as soon as this mo mentous interview is over. I intend ro go to bed." "Without equivocation." said the squire, in a muffled growl like distant thunder. "Explain yourself more clearly, Vic tor, I beg. What do you mean?" "You perfectly know my meaning. What do you intend to do as regards Miss Lyndon?" "I can't see what earthly right you have to ask." "You cannot? Well. I will tell you. While you live under my roof I refuse to allow you to offer to any lady such an insult as the offer of your hand would be. When you leave this house, as you are free to do at any moment, yon can. of course, indulge in any such black guardly meanness as you think fit. but while you live at Burnside I will not have it." "Have you any further names to call me in the presence of my mother? I be gin to see the reason why the virtuous squire so strongly disapproves of my pro ceedings," said Remy, sarcastically. "Tt appears that he, too, has cast an admir ing eye on the golden apple." "Such an attempt to waive the point will serve you nothing, Remy," was the firm reply. "I merely wish you to under stand that I will not have you conducting yourself like this under my roof. If you wish to marry Miss Lyndon you can leave Burnside and take a house of your own." "Noble, generous being," said Remy, through clinched teeth; "you are ad mirably consistent as well as essentially charitable. If you think so much of Miss Lyndon's broken heart, why not give me the wherewithal to mend it? You could well spare it." "You have asked me to tell you why. and I will," returned the squire, folding his arms and fronting Remy quietly. "I will not stir a finger to facilitate your marriage, because I consider that a man who refuses to do a single stroke of hon est work is a man who would make any good woman miserable. You are totally unworthy of Miss Lyndon." "Remy," said madame, raising her eyes for the first time and looking very pale, "my son, tell me, is your love for that beautiful girl deep and enduring? Would you be prepared to make sacrifices .'for her sake?" "Really, sweet mother, I am hardly prepared to answer such questions in public," he replied. "I' must bow to my destiny. I admit, frankly, that a noble man of France is totally unable to con tend with the delicately put arguments of a Devonshire yeoman. Were I to ex plain myself more fully to Victor, I should doubtless fail to make myself un derstood by his superior intellect." "Could you not give him something to do, Victor help him to some appoint ment?" pleaded madame. "Madame, as you know very well, I once made Remy baliff of the estates. : The result of that experiment was not such as to make me ready to repeat it. Remy has shown himself utterly unfit for a position of trust. Now we have had enough wrangling; let me go on to say what I jsked to speak to you for. I re quire from you, before you leave this li brary, a promise to go straight to Mr. Lyndon to-morrow and tell him exactly your circumstances. You have no money you do not intend to try to earn any; you wish to marry his daughter. I won der what he will say to the rapport of kindred spirits?" "Such a promise you will never get from me," said Remy, betweea his teeth. "Mean, base and cowardly are the ad jectives you have applied to me. Look at home and see if the cap fits. You, rolling in money, who, though born with the constitution of a plowman, have yet never known what it was to want. I, born a descendant of one of the noblest families in the world, have all my life groveled in the dust, eating your bread flung to me grudgingly and with reproach es. You do not scruple to torture my finest feelings, you goad me to madness with a sense of my obligations! I will not promise." "Here has that child been all the time." observed the squire, breaking a some what dreadful pause. "I will rins for Esperanee to take her'to bed." Esperanee carried me upstairs and un dressed me. I was so silent all the time that she thought I was still half asleep. She heard my prayers, tucked me into my little white bed, and left me. As soon as she was gone I sat up, my arms round my knees, my eyes wide and sleepless. The whole of what I had just heard r was ringing in my ears. "Oh, poorjW uncie ltemyr- Wiat a sordid, meci less heart had the squire! Tears rushed into my eyes as I thought of theihisery of my uncle and sweet Miss Jtyndon. How they loved each other! "Wht would be the consequence if theyWere be trayed! The next morning the tyrant was going to the Brooklands to carry the fatal message which wo'uld ruin two lives. "On, xuld not someone stop him? Was there no one to help Uncle Remy? No one who could crush the tyrant? No Charlotte Corday " I paused.- My heart seemed to give one leap jind then stand still. Over me, like afevelation, came the thought of whatJThad the power to do. Motionless, hugging the dreadful thought, I . sat till Esperanee came up to bed. I heard her Shoving about, undressing in her room. Then the light was extinguished -she had lain down to sleep. I rose from ; bed. There was no guardian angel sent to take my little misguided hands and keep me from my madness. If the -tyrant were removed Uncle Re would have beautiful T" ' - 1 1 1 - i e - . . Z jourusiue an w muiseii, ana could Drin- Miss Lyndon home to it; so I reasoned in my ignorance. I rose and shook back my, hair. . I; knew exactly where there was a knife a Damascene dagger; hang my benefit, making the Drlght blade flash In the sun. I paused and listened. The whole house was still. My whole being was centered on the awful end I bad iu, view. I crept along the corridor to the door of the squire's room. It was not locked; it yielded to my pressure, and I stole in. The moonlight flooded the room. The only sound was the squire's regular breathing. He lay with one arm thrown up under his head, the other stretched on the counterpane. I felt as though he must hear the loud thumpings of my heart. I turned sick and faint. Tho ery thonsrht of .blond to me was an ab liorrence out a tretuenaous power, not mysel-f, seemed to have taken possession of me. It was my duty, and do it I would. I climbed on a large footstool bf the bed ,:V-, ;'- .--.' ., I scarcely know how : to write it. I raised the knife in both hands, and brought it down with all my might I heard a sudden, choking, smothered cry, and terror, such as I cannot describe, took possession of me. The sleeping man writhed and started up. I wildly tugged out my murderous weaponrl had aimed as near to the heart as I knew how. The dagger had something glittering wet upon it. I threw it to the further end of the room and fled. It .seemed to myself hardly a second before I was back in bed in my own room, every limb shaking as if with the ague. I lay with my face buried- in the pillows, hearing the monot onous beatings of my heart, as if it would burst. Should I ever sleep again, I won dered. Gradually, the moon set, the stara faded, the dawn came up over the lovely 1 J : T. 1 J , light at last; and, as I lay, hating the level beams of the hot morning sun, be fore I knew it my eyes closed, and I sank into an uneasy slumber. In my sleep I enacted over again tho dread tragedy of the night. I dreamed that I stole from the bed, procured tho Damascus dagger, and entered the room of the sleeping squire. Again in fancy I raised the weapon and struck with all my force; and again I heard that cry. I sprang out of bed, my heart in my mouth. Surely that cry was not a dream; and as I stood, every nerve convulsed, on the floor of my room, the cry was repeated more loudly, in accents of horror and alarm, "Murder! Murder!" I opened my door. Uncle Remy at the same moment opened his, and came out, ' without his coat, and ..with a white, scared . face. One of the men-servants, with ashen lips and wild, eys, was running down the corridor. Oh, Lo r d, M r. Damien. it s murder, neither more nor less! Oh, in heaven's name, come here " "What do you mean?" . I saw my uncle stagger and lurch back against the wall. "I went to call him this morning, sir, a usual, and I found him lying on the floor, midway between the bed and the door, and all over blood." "Oh, you're dreaming it can't be." "Uncle Re," I interposed, trembling with excitement. He never even saw me. . He ran like an arrow down the corridor, and I heard his cry of agonized horror as he entered the chamber of my victjm. (To ba continued.) RAMS' HORN BLASTS HE brava man la ever a 'b-eliavirg one. , ; Love is a convic tion that super sedes the senses. If you voa d avoid sin do not seek out 'tempta tion.; The only true di vine service is tto ce. vice of humani A man is worth what he gives. Ifceiformers must be transformed. Manliness is built on godliness. 'Fast liviing is really but slow dying. The Christian serves all men but Christ is his only Master. The heaviest cross of many Chris tians is the church collection. The maa who will not serve others cannot succeed himself. The light of a Christian life either shines out or it goes out. Spasms of spiritual indigestion are produced by swallowing isms. A diamond must remain dirt if it be not willing -to lose half itself. A ballocar rises when you throw out ballast but a man will sink that way. He who would mieasure the sun wUh a foot-rule would Judge God by h im eelf. Grit is a good thing to have s o long as you don't fire it in your neigh bors' faces. The man who seeks to pillow . on popular applause finds it hard to sleev tor fear the bubble will burst. Th trouble witib some scientists is that they live 4n ishfy'' ,cooal-mine of their investigations and call their candi. 4Ee sun, . : --V. '.. I ing in the halL which Uncle Re had 1 ef ten drawn from its velvet sheajth for, Men Who Talk to Themselves. A Western physician made his first visit to New York last week and at a semi-public dinner on Saturday even ing he happened to be seated with men who had spent all of their ljves in this city. One of-them said to him: . "Doctor, I have often wondered how New York would impress a thinking man on his first visit. What impresses you most in the streets?" "The thing which first attracted my attention," said the physician; "and which still holds it is the fact that most of the men' whom one passes in tbe stret are talking to themselves. Why is it? Don't New Yorkers have friends to whom they may talk or are they so given to talking that they must talk to themselves when they are" alone? Do they all talk in their sleep? "Is it because men work harder here that they go along the streets mum bling to themselves ? I don't know the true explanation of it; but I have been in many different cities and in nene of them have I seen so many men talking to themselves as in New YorU.''rNev,r York Sun. '
The Times-News (Hendersonville, N.C.)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
April 5, 1901, edition 1
2
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