University of South Carolina Libraries
WEEKLY EDITION. " WIXNSBOEO, S. C., WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 25, 1882. ESTABLISHED IN 1848. THE BLACK ROBE. BY AVILKIE COLLIXS. ?ACTHOB OF? 9 THE WOHA2* Ef WHrrZ," " THE M003 STOJTE," " AFTEE DAEK," "XO XAME," f MAX AND WIFE," " THE LAW AKP H TEE LADY," " THE NEW MAG^ DALES," ETC., ETC. CHAPTER IV. There was not a sound in the room. Ko^avne stood looking at the priest. "Did you hear what I said?" Father Benwell asked. "Yes." "Bo you understand that I really mean what I said ?" He made no reply?he waited, like a man expecting to bear more. Father Ben well was alive to the vast importance at such a moment of not shrinking from the responsibility which he had assumed. "I see how I distress you," he said; k. "but for your sake I QJlw you have married is the wife of another man t Don't ask me how I know it?I do know it. You shall have positive proof as soon as you have recovered. Come! rest a little in the easy-chair." He took Bomayne's arm and led him to the chair, and made him drink some wine. They waited a while. Romayne lifted his head with a heavy sigh. ' , . " The woman whom I have married is the wife of another man." He slowly repeated the words to himself and then looked at father BenwelL "Who is the man ?' he asked. " I introduced yon to him when I was as ignorant of the circumstances as yon are," the priest answered. " The man is j Mr. Bernard "WinterHeld." Romayne half-raised himself from the chair. A momentary anger glittered in his eves and faded ont again, extinguished by the nobler emotions of grief and shame. He remembered Winterfield's introduction to Stella. "Her husband!" he said, speaking again to himself. "And she let me introduce him to her. And she received bim like a stranger." He paused and thought of it. "The proofs, if you please, sir," he resumed, with sudden humility. " I don't want to hear any particulars. It will be enough for me if I know beyond all doubt that I have _ been deceived and disgraced." Father Benwell unlocked his desk and placed two papers before Bomayne.^ He did his duty with a grave indifference to all minor considerations. The time had not yet come for expressions of sympathy and regret. " The first paper," he said, " is a certified copy of the register of the marriage of Miss Eyxecourt to Mr. JVinterL field, celebrated (as you will see) by the English chaplain at Brussels, and wit~"~~ nessed by three persons. Look at the IF names." Tie bride's mother"was the first wity ness. The two names that followed were the names of Lord and Lady Loring. "They, too, in the conspiracy to f deceive me?" Komayne said, as he laid the paper back on the table. "I obtained that piece of written evidence," Father Ben well proceeded, '' by the help of a reverend colleague of mine residing at Brussels. I will {rive vou his name and address if you wish to ' ' make further inquiries." " Quite needless. What is this other paper?" " This other paper is an extract from the shorthand miter's notes (suppressed ; in the reports of the public journals) of proceedings in an English court of law obtained at my request by my lawyer in London." " What have I to do with it ? " He put the question in a tone of passive exiuursmue?jresigueu iu mw severest mortal martvrdom that could 5 be inflicted on him. "I \rill answer you in two words," K said Father Benwell. "In justice to W Miss Eyrecourfc, I am bound to produce HPf Ler excuse for marrving you." Romayne looted at him in stern amazement. : " Excuse I" he repeated. L "Yes?excuse. The proceedings to which I have alluded declare Miss EyreK court's marriage to Mr. Winterfield to be null and void?by the English Jawis consequence of Lis having been married at the time to another woman. Trv to follow me. I will put it as briefly as l>ossible. In justice to yourself and to your future career you must understand this revolting case thoroughly from beginning to end." k With those prefatory words he told the story of "Wioterfields first marriage, altering nothing, concealing nothing, doing the fullest justice to Winterfield's innocence of all evil mo-ive from first to last. "You were mortified and I was sur| prised," he went on, "when Mr. Winpk terfield dropped his acquaintance with yon. We now know that he acted like an honorable man." TT.-x ir-Airnrl f A f?ao Trl^rtf offiavf a I J_i.Cs IV CCV IT I4U VMVVV UV j \ produced. Romavne -was id no state of mind to do justice to "Winterfield or to i anyone. His pride was mortally wound- j It ed; his high sense of honor and delicacy writhed nnder the outrage inflicted on it. "And mind this," Father Benwell persisted, "poor human nature has its right to all that can be justly conceded V in the way of excuse and allowance. Miss Eyreconrt would naturally be ady vised by her friends, would naturally be K eager on her own part, to keep hidden f/Mi rrliftf llo-tvnortCul of T^msspls \ UUUi ;uu nuav WW . sensitive woman, placed in a position so horribly false and degrading, must not be too severely judged, even when she does wrong. I am bound to say this? and more. Speaking from my own knowledge of all the parties I have no Idonbt that Miss Eyrecourt and Mr. Winterfield did really part at the church door." .. Romayne answered by a look so disdainfully expressive of the most immovable unbelief that it absolutely justified the fatal advice by which Stella's worldly-wise friends had enconraged her to conceal the truth. Father BenPf well pradesitly dosed his lips. He had put the case with perfect fairness; his bitterest enemy could not have denied that. Eomayne took up the second paper, looked at it and threw it back again on the table with an expression ot disgust. "You told me just now," said he, " th&t I was married to the wife of another man, and there is the judge's decision releasing Miss "^yrecourt from her marriage to Mr. Winterfield. May I ask you to explain yourself ?" "Certainlv. Let me first remind vou that you owe religious allegiance to the principles which the church has ?r serted for centuries past, with all th& authority of its divine institution, You admit that ?' " I admit it.' "Now, listen. In our churoh, Romayne, marriage is even more than a religious institution?it is a sacrament. We acknowledge no human laws which profane that sacrament. Take two examples of what I say. "When the great Vapoleon was at the height of his power Pius the Sqrentli refused to acknowledge the validity of the emperor'5 second manage to Maria Louisa while living, divorced by the tioned the marriage of Mrs. Fitzherbert to George the Fourth, and still declares, in justice to her memory, that she was the king's lawful wife. In one word, marriage, to be mamage at all, must bo the object of a purely religions celebration?and, chis condition complied | with, marriage is only to be dissolved j by death. Yon remember what I told yon of Mr. Winterfield'?" " Yes. His first marriage took place before the registrar." "In plain English, Iiomayne, Mi-. Winterfield ar.d the woman rider in the circns pronounced a formula of words before a layman in an office. This is not only no marriage; it is a blasphemous profanation of a holy rite. Acts of parliament which sanction such pro- , ceedings are acts of infidelity. The j church declares it in defense of le ligion." "I understand yon," saidRomayne. "Mr. "Winterfield's marriage at Brussels?" " Which the English law," Father Ben well interposed, "declares to be annulled by the marriage before the registrar stands good, nevertheless, by the higher law of the church. Mr. Winterfield is Miss Eyrecourt's husband as long as they both live. An ordained priest performed the ceremony in a consecrated building, and Protestant marriages, so celebrated, are marriages acknowledged by the Catholic church. Under those circumstances the ceremony which afterward united you to Miss Eyrecourt?though neither you nor the clergyman were to blame?was a mere mockery. Need I say more? Shall I leave you for a while bv vonr self?" "No! j. dont know what I may tliink, I don't know wliat I may d v, if yon leave me by myself." Father Benwell took a chair by Ilomayne's side. " It has been my hard dnty to grieve and humiliate yon," he said. " Do yon bear me no ill will ? " He held ont his hand. Eomayne took it an act of justice if not as an act of gratitude. "Can I be of any nse in advising you V Father Ben we]1 asked. "Who can ad-1"* ^an in my position?" Romayi r? * rejoined. "lean at le-st ? it that you should take tim {?. .mnk over yonr position." "Time-take time? You talk as if my situation was endurable." "Everythingis endurable, Romayne/ " It may be so to yon, Father Benwell. Did you part with your humanity when you put on the black robe of the priest "I parted, my sod, with those weaknesses of our humanity on which women practice. You talk of your position. I will put it before you at its worst." " For what purpose ?' " To show yon exactly what your position is. Judged by the law of England Mrs. Eomayne is your wife. Judged by the principles held sacred among the religious community to which you belong she is not Mrs. Komayne?she is Mrs. Winterlic-ld?living with you in ? T? VAiWaf T?A^ /><"VT? TTAH . <ACi 111 ItZLJ JL.L J VIA ICJjiCl1 JVUX V/V/U T Ci si on?" t " I don't regret it, Father Benweli/ " If yon renounce the holy aspirates which yon have yourself acknowjfl^d to me, return to yonr domW^Kife BuTdorPTasi^vwhil? vajABHving with that lady, to ackU^j^^M^Fa as i member of cur commnn^^HJV Eomayne was silent. ^^HKre violent emotions aroused inHHsad, wit'a time, subsided into ealm.^BBndernesi:, mercy, past affection fou^Mfteii' opportunity, and pleaded w^^him. The nnest's bold language h^^missed tlie object at which it aim^ST" It had revived in Komavne's memory the image of Stella in the days ^hen he had first seen her. How gently her influence had wrought on him for good; Low tenderly, how truly she had loyed him. "Give me some";more wine!" ho cried. "I feel faintj'and giddy. Don't despise me, FatherBenwell; I was once so fond of her!" / The priest poured out the wine. " I feel for you," he. said. " Indeed, iD-.leed I feel for you.", "Let me mention oiie circumstance," Father 3 en well proceeded, " "which may kelp to relieve you for t?ie moment. In jour present state of mifrtd yon cannot return to the Retreat." 'Impossible!" l\ " I havo_had a room preparjed for you in this house. Here, free frojm any disturbing influence, you can > shape tie future course of your life, if you wish j to communicate with your residence at j Hig'ugate?" ) "Don't speak of it 1' \ Father Benwell sighed. s* " Ah, I understand!" he sajid, sadly. " The house associated with iMr. Winic. ? \ LtJIiiUiU 3 rioit ^ Fiomayne again interrupted Jhim, this lime by gesture only. The h^nd that had made the sign clinched itself when it rested afterward on the tab?e. His c-yes looked downward under frowning ! brows. At the name of Winterfi^ld re' iiiemb:ances that poisoned every fetter influence infljm rose venomously in his | mind. Once Sore he loathed the deceit ! that^had beelpracticed on him. Once more the detectable thought of that asserted partinl at the church-door renewed its steaJKiy torment and reasoned with him as iiain words?She has deceived you in ole thing, why not in an[ other ? 1 "Can I see ky lawyer here?" he asked, suddenly! "My dear K^najne, you can see any one whom yA like to invite." "I shall not treble you by staying very long, Fatlif>r"*en well." "Do nothing it..#* hurry, my son. "Pray do nothing iiw hurry!" Romayne paid no intention to this entreaty. Shrinking fAm themomentuous decision that awai?d him, his mind instinctively took refug? in the prospect of change of scetf^. vtt shall leave England," he said, impatiently. "Not alone," Father Eeuvxell remonstrated. " Who -will be my companion ?' "I will," the priest ansfferea\ Komayne's weary eyes brightened faintly. In Ids desolate pogit^i^her he Lonn^s : . ceived: Maior Hvnde hao^r^^W'pitied 1 and despised Mm. " Can you go with me at any time ?" lie asked. '-Have you no duties that keej-you in England?" "My duties, Romayndj are already confided to other hands." " Then you have foreseen this ? " "I have foreseen it. Your journey may be long or your journey may be short; you shall not go away alone " "I can think of nothing yet; my mind is a blank," Romayne confessed, sadly; " I don't know where I shall go." "I know where you ought to go and where you will go," said Father Benwell, emphatically. "Where?" "To Rome." * Romayne understood the true.*ffiefcn ing of that brief reply. A vague sense of dismay began to rise in his mind. While he w*is still tortured by doubt it seemed as if Father Benwell had, by some inscrutable process of prevision, planned out his future beforehand. Had ?* 0 \TA* /\ Kft/l-N. me pxiesii lUicatrcu ctcms: j.w, ut uau only foreseen possibilities on the day when it first occurred to him that Romayne's marriage was assailable before the court of Romayne's conscience, from the Roman Catholic point of view. Thus far he had modestly described himself to Ms reverend colleagues as regarding his position toward Romayne in a new light. His next letter might boldly explain to them what he had really meant. The victory was won. Not a word more passed between liis guest and himself that morning. ****** Before post-time, on the same day, Father Benwell wrote his last report to^ the secretary of the Society-of Jesus ir j these lines: s J "Romayneis free from the domesticties that bound him. He bequeathe Vange Abbey as a legacy to the church, and he acknowledges a vocation for tlie priesthood. Expect us at Rome in a fortnight's time." THE END OF THE FIFTH BOOK. AFTER THE STORY. Extracts from Bernard, WinlerfielcCs Diary. I.?UTXTERFIETiD DEFENDS HTiKELF. " Beaupark House, June 17,18?. " You and I, Cousin Beemj'nster, seldom meet. But I occasionally hear of you from friends acquainted with both of us. } " I have heard of you last at Sir Philip's rent-day dinner,^, week since. My name happened to be mentioned by one of the gentlemen .present, a guest like yourself. You to^k r<i) the subject of your own free will; and spoke of mo in these terms: J "' I am sorry t<5 say it of the existiug head of the family, but Bernard is realty unfit for the &?>sition which he holds. He has, to saw the least of it, compro mised himself and his relatives oil more than one occasion. He began as a young man by marrying a circus rider. He got into some other scrape after that whicli bfe"has contrived to keep a secret from^affs. We only know how disgracefpffifc must have been by the results; he Vfeva voluntary exile from England for moroXhan a year. Acd now, to complete the list, he has mixed himself up in that miserable and revolting business of Lewis Komayne and his wife.' " If any other person had spoken of me in this manner I should have set him down as a mischievous idiot, to be kicked, perhaps, but not to be noticed in anv other way. " With von the case is different. If i I die wiihout male or female offspring the Beaupark estate gees to you as next heir. " I don't choose to let a man in this position slander me and those dear to me without promptly contradicting him. The name I bear is precious to me in memory of my father. Your unanswered report of me, coming f~om a member of the family, will be received as truth. Bather than let this be I re-1 veal to you, without reserve, some of the saddest passages of my life. I have nothing to be ashamed of, and if I have hitherto kept certain eveut3 in the dark it has been for the sake of others, not for my own sake. I know better now. A woman's reputation?if she is a good woman?is not easily compromised by telling the truth. The person of whom I am thinking when I write this knows what I am going to do and approves of it. "You will receive with these lines the most perfectly candid statement that I can furnish, being extracts cut out of my own private diary. They are acjum^auica ^wuuic J/jluh. LL ututooiuj seems to call for it) by the written evidence of other persons. " There has never much sympathy between us. But ycu Lave been brought up like a gentleman, and when you have read my nirrative I expect that you will do justice to me and to others, even though you think we acted indiscreetly nnder trying and critical circumstances. "B. W." IL?WINTERFIELD MATTES EXTBACT3. llthApril, 1859.?Mrs. Eyrecourt and I her dang!a'.3rhave left Beanpark to-day ' ft ~i for London. Have I really made any impression on the heart of the beautiful Stella? In my miserable positionignorant -whether I am free or not?I have shrunk from formally acknowledging that I love her. 12th.?I am becoming superstitions! In the obituary of to-day's Times the death is recorded of that unhappy woman whom I was mad enongh to marry. After hearing nothiDg of her for seven years I am frte! Surely this is a good omen ? Shall I follow the Eyreconrts to London and declare myself? I have not confidence enongh in my own power of attraction to run the risk. Better 'to write first, in strictest confidence, to Mrs. Eyrecourt. \4dh.?An enchanting answer from my angel's mother, written in great haste. They are on the point of leaving for Paris. Stella is restless and dissatisfied: she wan"s change of scene; and Mrs. Eyrecourt adds, in so many words: " It is you who have upset her; why did you not speak while we were at Beaupark ?' I am to hear again from Paris. Good old Father Newbliss said all along that she was fond of me, and wondered, like Mrs. Eyrecourt, why I failed to declare myself. How could I tell them of the hideous fetters which bou' i me in those days ? 18^, Paris.?She has accepted mel Words are useless to express my happiness. 19tk.?A letter from my lawyer full of professional subtleties and delays. I have no patience to enumerate them. We move to Belgium, to-morrow. Not on our way back to England; Stella is so little desirous of leaving tlie continent tliafc we are likely to be married abroad. But she is weary of the perpetual gayety and glitter of Paris, and wants to seo the old Belgium cities. Her mother leaves Paris with regret. The liveliest woman of her age that I ever met with. 7th May, Brussels.?My blessing on the old Belgian cities. Mrs. Eyrecourt is so eager to get away from them that she b?,cks me in hurrying the mar riage, and even consents, sorely against the grain, to let the wedding be celebra'ed at Brussels in a private and unpretending way. She has only stipulated that Lord and Lady Loring (old iriends) are to be present. They are to arrive to morrow, and two days afterward wo are to be married. ***** (An iaclosure is inserted in this place. It consists o:? the death bed confessions of W-ir.terS eld's first wife and of the explanatory letter writ ten by the rector of Bdhaven. The circumstances related in thej.e documents, alieady known to the reader, are left ;o speak for themselves, and the Extracts from the Diary are then continued.) ;* * * * * jm May, Uingen-on-t/ie-K/une.?ijQt'/Jfca from Devonshire at last, which resmi jit" degree. Tie frightful misfortune at Brussels will at least be kept secret, so fax as L am concerned. Beaupark house is shut up and the servants are dismissed, "in consequence of my residence abroad." To Father Ncwbliss I have privately written, telling him that the marrif;ge is broken off; he writes back (good old man!) a kind and comforting letter. It all seems safe so far. Tine will, I suppose, help me to bear my sad lot. And perhaps a day may come when Stella and her friends will know iiow cruelly they have wronged me. London, 18th November, 1860.?The old wound has been opened again. I met Lev accidentally in a picture gallery. She turned deadly pale, and left the place. Oh, Stella! Stella I London, 12th August, 1861.?Another meeting with her. And another and a worse shock to endure. I went to vi sit an agreeable new acquaintance, Mr. Horn ay ne. His wife drove up to the house while I was looking out of window. I recognized Stella! After two years she has made use of the freedom which the law has given t? lier. I must not complain of that, or of her treating me like a stranger, wlien her husband innocently introduced us. But, when we were afterward left together for a few minutes?no! I cannot write down the merciless words she said to me. Why am I fool enough to be as fond of her as ever ? Beaupcwk, 16th November.?Stella's married life is not likely to be a happy one. To-day's newspaper announces the conversion of her husband to the Roman Catholic faith. I can honestly say I am sorry for her, knowing how she has suffered, among her own relatives, by these conversions. But I so hate him, that this proof of his weakness is a downright consolation to me. BeauparJc, 27th January, 1862.?A let ?* ^ i * ter from btoiia, so startling ana deplorable that I cannot remain away from her after reading it. Her hnsband has deliberately deserted her. He has gone to Some to serve his term of proba tion for the priesthood. I travel to London by to-day's train. WTSTEEETELD'S DIARY?(COSTTNTKD). London, 11th January.?Short as it is, I looked at Stella's letter again and again on the jonrney. The tone of the closing sentences is still studiously cold. After informing me that she is staying with her mother in London, she concludes her letter in these terms: " Be under no fear that the burden of my troubles will be laid on your shoulders. Since the fatal day when ?" ?+ Tan Anrao T7AT1 VlRVP fihoTTO ** C uicu nu j-cu j w% ?w . forbearance and compassion toward me. I don't stop to inquire if yon are sincere?it rests with yon to prove that. Bnt I have some questions to ask which no person bnt yon can answer. For the rest, my friendless position will perhaps plead with yon not to misunderstand me." Inveterate distrust in every sentence! If any other woman had treated me in this way I should have pnt her letter into the fire, end should not have stirred from my comfortable house. 29th January.?A day missed ont oJ my diary. The events of yesterday unnerved me for a time. Arriving at Derwent's hotel, on the evening of the 27th, I sent a line to Stella by messenger to ask wheD she could receive me* It is strange how the merest trifles j seem to touch women I Her note in reply contains the first expression oi friendly feeling toward me which has escaped her since we parted at Brussels. And this expression proceeds from hei ungovernable surprise aid gratitude at my taking the. trouble to travel from Devonshire to London on her account. For the rest, she proposed to call on me at the hotel the nest morning. She and her mother, it appeared, differed in opinion on the subject of Mr. Komayne's behavior to her, and sho wished to see me, in the first instance, unrestrained by Mrs. Eyrecourt's. interference. There was little sleep for me thai night. I passed most of the time in smoking and walking up and down the room. My on?.'relief was afforded by Traveler; he b6gged so hard to go with me I could not resist him. The dog always sleeps in my room. His surprise at my extraordinary restlessness (ending in downright anxiety and alarm) was expressC'l in his eyes, and in his little whinings and cries, quite as intelligibly as if he had put his meaning into words. "Who first called a dog a dumb creature ? It must have been a mm 3 think, and a thoroughly unlovable man. too, from a dog's point of view. Soon after ten on the morning of the 2btn sne entered my sitting-room. In her personal appearance I saw a change for the worse, produced I suppose by the troubles that have tried hei sorely, poor thing. There was a sad loss of delicacy in her features and oi purity in her complexion. Even hex dress?I should certainly not have noticed it in any other woman?seemed to be loose and slovenly. In the agitation of the moment I forgot the long estrangement between us; I half-lifted mv hand to take'hers. and checked mv self. Was I mistaken in supposing that she yielded to the same impulse and resisted it as I did? She concealed hei embarrassment, if she felt any,by patting the dog. " I am ashamed that yon should have taken the journey to London in this wintry weather to?" she began. It was impossible, in her situation, to let her assume this commonplace tone with me. " I sincerely feel for you," I said, "and sincerely wish to help youil J I can." K She looked at me for the first time. Did she believe me, or did she still doubt? Before I could decide she I tnok a letter from her pocket, opened it and handed it to me. " Women often exaggerate their troubles," she said. "It is perhaps au unfair trial of your patience, bnt I should like you to satisfy yourself that I have not made the worst of my situa! tion. That letter will place it before you in Mr. Eomayne's own words. Bead it, except where the page is turned down." It was her husband's letter of farehte & " The langnage was scrupulously deli cate and considerate. i5uc to my mina i it entirely failed to disguise the fanatical cruelty of the man's resolution addressed to his wife. In substance it came to this: " He had discovered the marriage at Brussels, which she had deliberately concealed from Mm when he took her for his wife. She had afterward persisted in that concealment, under circumstances which made it impossible hat he could ever trust her again." (This no doubt referred to her ill-adadvised reception of me as a total stranger at Ten Acres Lodge). "In the miserable break-up of his domestic life the church to which he now belonged offered him not only her divine consolation, but the honor, above all earthly distinctions, of serving the cause of rein aor>roil -ranks nf fhfi rvripf.t hood. Before his departure for Bome lie bade her a last farewell in this world, and forgave her the injuries that she had inflicted on him. For her sake he asked leave to say some few word9 more. In the first place ho desired to do her every jnstice, in a worldly sense. Ten Acres Lodge was offered to her as ? - '-L * T 1-C-i*?? ? ?,,e a iree gilt xur Iier iiicujxLic, witu a dial- | ficient income for all her wants. In the second place he was' anxious that she should not misinterpret his motives. Whatever his opinion of her conduct might be, he did not rely on it as affording hi3 only justification for leaving her. Setting personal feelings aside, he felt religious scruples (connected with his marriage) ffhich left him no other alternative than the separation on which he had resolved. He would briefly explain those scruples and mention his authority for entertaining them before he closed his letter." There the page was turned down and' the explanation was concealed from me. A faint color stole over her face as I handed the letter back to her. "It is needless for you to read the rest," she said. " Yon know nnder his own hand that he has left me, and (if snch a thing pleads with yon in his favor) yon also know that he is liberal in providing for his deserted wife." I attempted to speak. She saw in my face how I despised him and stopped me. 1f Whatever yon may think of his conduct," she continued, " I beg that yon will not speak of it to me. May I ask your opinion (now you have read his letter) on another matter in which my own conduct is concerned ? In former days?" She paused, poor soul, in evident con fusion and distress. ""Why speak of those days?" I ventured to say. " I must speak of them. In former days I think you were told that my father's will provided for my mother and for me. You know that we have enough to live on?" I had heard of it at the time of our betrothal, when the marriage settlement was in preparation. The mother and daughter had each a little income of a few hundreds a year. The exact amount had escaped my memory. After answering her to this effect, I waited to hear more. I She suddenly became silent, the most I ? _ t-1 ?t i. ?i? ptLLLUUl eiUUMifXWIHmfflU) OUUWOU atccju. jju her face and manner. " Never mind the rest," she said, mastering her confusion after an interval. " I have had some hard trials to bear; I forget things"? i she made an effort to finish the sentence and gave it up, and called to the dog to come to her. The tears were in hex eyes, and that was the way she took to hide them from me. In general I am not qnick at reading the minds of others, but I thought I understood Stella. Now that we art face to face the impulse to trust me had for the moment got the better of kei ^on+.inn an/1 Vi<vr titi/Ia ?lio woq sdlf ashamed of it, half-inclined to follow it. I hesitated no longer. The time foi which I had waited, the time to prove without any indelicacy on my side that I had never been unworthy of her, had surely come at last. " Do you remember my reply to yorn letter about Father Benwell ?" I asked. "Yes, every word of it." " I promised, if you ever had need oi me, to prove that I had never been unworthy of your confidence. In youi present situation I can honorably keep mv riromiaA. SVis.ll T waif, till TYVn ftTfi calmer, or shall I go on at once?" " At once I" " When your mother and your friends took yon from me," I resumed, " if you had shown any hesitation?" She shuddered. The image of my unhappy "wife, vindictively confronting us on the church steps, seemed to be recalled to her memory. " Don't go back to it!" she ciied. " Spare me, I entreat you!" I opened the writing-case in which 1 liad kept the papers sent to me by the rector of Belhaven, and placed them on the table by which she was sitting. The more plainly and briefly I spoke now the better I thought it might be tor Dotn 01 us. " Since we parted at Brussels," I said, " icy wife has died. Here is a copy of the medical certificate of her death." Stella refused to look at it. "I don't understand such things," she answered, faintly. " What is this?" She took up my wife's death-bed confession. " Eead it," I said. She looked frightened. ""What will it tell me?" she asked. "It will tell you, Stella, that false appearances once led you into wronging an innocent man.,J Having said this, I walked away to a window behind her, at the further end of the room, so that she might not see me while she read. affor a timfi?how much loncrer it seemed to be than it really was!?I heard her move. As I tnrned from the window she ran to me, and fell on her knees at my feet. I tried to raise her; I entreated her to believe that she was forgiven. She seized my hands, and held them over her face?they were wet with her tears. "I am ashamed to look at yon," she said. " Oh, Bernard, what a wretch I liave been!" I never was so distressed in my life. I don't know wMfr'I should have said, what I should have done, if my dear old dog had not helped me out of it. He, too, ran up to me with the loving jealousy of his race, and tried to lick my hands still fast in Stella's hold. His * i ?it paws were on ner snouiaer; no astempted to push himself between us. I think I successfully assumed a tranquillity which I was far from really feeling. " Come, come!" I said, " you mustn't make Traveler jealous." She let me raise her. Ah, if she could have kissed me?but that was not to be done; she kissed the dog's head, and then she spoke to me. I shall not set down what she said in these pages. While I live there is.no fear of my forgetting those words. I\ed her back to her chair. The letter addressed to me by the rector oi Belhaven still lay on the table unread. It was of some importance to Stella's complete enlightenment as containing evidence that the confession was genuine. But I hesitated for her sake tc ^peak of it just yet. "Now you know that you have s friend to helo and advise vou," I be gan. " No," she interposed; " more than t friend, say a brother." I said it. " Ton had something tc ask of me," I resnmed, " and yon nevei pnt the question." She understood me. " I meant to tell yon," she said, " thai I had written a letter of refnsal to Mr. Romayne's lawyers. I have left Ten Acres never to retnrn, and I refnse to accept a farthing of Mr. Komayne's money. My mother?thongh she knows we have enough to live on?tells me I have acted with inexcusable pride and folly. I wanted to ask if you blame me, Bernard, as she does ?" I dare say I was inexcusably proud and foolish, too, It was the first time she had called me by my Christian name sine* the happy bygone time, never to come again. Under -whatever influence I acted I respected and admired her for that refusal, and I owned it in dj many words. This little encouragement seemed to relieve her. She was so much calmer that I ventured to speak of the rector's letter. She wouldn't hear of it. "Oh, Bernard, have I not learnt to trust you yet? Put away these papers. There is only one thing I want to know. Who gave them to you ? The rector T "No." "Howdid they reach you V ( ( V/-VT! "PofTinr "RonTTfill " She started to her feet like a woman J electrified. "I knew it!" she cried. "It is the priest who has wrecked my married life, and he got his information from those letters befoie he put them into your hands." She dropped into her chair again. "That was the first and foremost of the questions I wanted to put to you," she said. " I am answered. I ask no more." She -was surely wrong about Father Benwell ? I tried to show her why. I told her that my reverend friend had put the letters into my hand with the seal which protected them unbro? - * i _ T\* 3 T ken. biie laugnect aisaainrany. urn x know Mm so little as to doubt for a moment that lie could break a seal and replace it again ? This view was entirely new to me; I was startled, but not convinced. I never desert my friendseven when they are friends of no very | long standing?and I still tried to de- j j fend Father Ben-well. The only resnli j was to make her alter her intention ol j asking me no more questions. I innocently roused in her a new curiosity. She was eager to know how I had first become acquainted with the priest, and how he had contrived to possess himselj of information which was intended foi my reading only. There was but one way of answering her. It was far from easy to a man like myself, unaccustomed to state circumstances in their proper order, but I liad no other choice than to reply by telling the long story of the theft and discovery i of the rector's papers. So far as Fathei Benwell was concerned the narrative only confirmed her suspicions. Foi the rest, the circumstances which most interested her were the circumstances associated'with the French boy. "Anything connected with that pooi creature," she said, "has a dreadful interest for me now." "Did you know him?" I asked, with some surprise. "I knew him and his mother?yon shall hear how at another time. I suppose I felt a presentiment that the boy would have some evil influence ovei me. At anv rate, when I accidentally touched hi'm I trembled as if I had touched a serpent. You will think me superstitious; but, after what you have said, it is certainly true that he has been the indirect cause of the misfortune that has fallen on me. How came he to steal the papers? Did you ask the rector when you went to Belhaven ? " I asked the rector nothing. But he thought it his duty to tell me all that he knew of the theft." She drew her chair nearer to me. "Let me hear every word of it?'she pleaded, eagerly. I felt some reluctance to comply with the request. " Is it not fit for me to hear ?' she asked. This forced me to be plain with her. "111 repeat wnat tne rector torn me, I said, " I must speak of my -wife." She took my hand. "You have pitied and forgiven her," she answered. " Speak of her, Bernard, and don't, foi God's sake, think that my heart is harder than yours." I kissed the hand that she had giveD to me?even her "brother" might do that I " It began," I said, "in the gratefu] attachment which the boy felt for my wife. He refused to leave her bedside on the day when she dictated her con* | fession to the rector. As he was entirely ignorant of the English language, there seemed to be no objection to let* ting him have his own way. He became , inquisitive as the writing went on. His questions annoyed the rector, and, as the easiest way of satisfying his curirrn^a T"? 1 tv% chr\ UOJLl/J J i-LLJ YYi-i.^7 UV1U mill UXtaw OXLt? V/OQ making her wilL He knew just enough, from -what he had heard at various . times, to associate making a will with gifts of money, and the pretended explanation silenced and satisfied him." "Did the rector understand it,'' Stella asked. " Yes. Like many other Englishmen in his position, although he was not ready at speaking French, he could read the language, and could fairly well understand it when it was spoken. Aftei my wife's death he kindly placed the boy for a few days under the care of liis housekeeper. Her early life had been passed in the island of Martinique; and , she was able to communicate with the . friendless foreigner in his own language. When he disappeared she was the onlj | person who could throw any light on , his motive for stealing the papers. On , the day when he entered the hous.7? she , caught him peeping through the key- ; hole of the study-door. He must have seen where the confession was placed, and the color of the old-fashioned blue paper on which it was written would help him to identify it. The next morning, during the rector's absence, he brought the manuscript to the housekeeper and asked her to translate it intc French, so that he might know ho^i much money was left t-o him in 1 the will.' She severely reproved him, made him replace the paper in the desk from which he had taken it, and threatened to tell the rector if his misconduct was repeated. He promised amendment, and the good-natured woman believed him. Two days afterward the locked door of the cabinet in which the papers ha-d been secured was found open, and they and the boy were both missing together." "Do you think he showed the con+? onrr rtfhor nr-rs/m 9" , ICOOAVJ-L w vvmv* > I asked. " I happened to know that he ] concealed it from his mother.** i "After the housekeeper's reproof," J ' replied, " he would be canning enough, 1 in mj opinion, not to rtm the risk of showing it to strangei-3. It is far more 1 likely that he thonght he might learn English enough to read it himself." There the subject dropped. We were < silent for a while. She was thinking : and I was looking at her. On a sudden she raised her head. Her eyes rested on me gravely. " It is very strange," she said. "What is strange?" " I have been thinking of the Lorings. < They encouraged me to doubt yon. \ They advised me to be silent abont what j happened at Brussels. And they, too, , are concerned in my husband's desertion I of me. He first met Father Benwell at ^ their house. From that time I see the circumstances in my mind, all following ] one on another, until the priest and the < French boy were brought together, and 1 the miserable end came -which has left me a deserted wife." Her head drooped again ; her next words were murmured to herself. " I am still a young woman,' she said, "Oh, God! what is my future to be?" This morbid way of thinldng distressed me. I reminded her that she , had devoted friends. "Not one," she answered, "but 5 you." " Have yon not seen Lady Loring V I , asked. 1 " She and her hnsband have written 1 most kindly, inviting me to make their 1 house my home. I have no right to ] blame them, they meant welL But, ] after whst has happened, I can't go i back to them." ' 4 ' I am sorry to hear it," I said. "Areyou thinking of the LoringsT she asked. " I don't; even know the Lorings. I can think of nobody bnt you." I was still looking at her, and I am afraid my eyes said more than my words, [f she had donbted it before she must bave now known that I was as fond of aer as ever. She looked distressed rather than confused- I made an awkward attempt to set myself right. f: Surely your brother may speak plainly," I said. She agreed to this. But, nevertheless, she rose to go with a friendly word intended (as I hoped) to show me that I had got my pardon for that time. " Will you come and see us to-morrow ?" she said. " Can you forgive my mother as generously as you have forgiven me ? I will. take care, Bernard, that she does you justice at last." She held out her hand to take leave. SfriTT cArild T renlr? Tf T *. resolute man I might have remembered. that it would be best for me not too see too much of her. Bui I am a poor weak creature. I accepted her invita. tion for the next day. ZOtk January.?I have just returned from my visit. My thoughts are in a state of indescribable conflict and confusion, and her mother is the cause of it. I wish I had not gone to the house. Am I a bad man, I wonder, and have I only found it out now? Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawing-room when I went in. Judging by the easy manner in which she got up to receive me the misfortune which U/tM VIA* OAAfVlA/1 +A LLao MClaliCU xxox IV have produced no sobering change in. this frivolous woman. "Mydear Winterfield," she began. ?I have behaved infamously. I won't say that appearances were against you; I will only say I ought not to have trusted appearances. You are the injured person; please forgive me. Shall we go on with the subject or shall we shake hands and say no more about it?" I shook hands, of course. Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was looking foi Stella. "Sit down," she said, "and be good enough to put up with no more attract-" ive society than mine. Unless I set things straight, my good friend, you and my daughter?oh, with the beat intentions]!?will drift into a false position. You won't see Stella to-day. Quite impossible?and I will tell you why. 1 am the worldly old mother; I don't mind what I say. My innocent daughter would die before she would' confess what 1 am going to tell you, Oazxl offer you anything? Have you had lunch?" I begged her to continue. She perplexed, I am not sure that she did noi even alarm, me. " Very well," she proceeded. "Yon may be surprised to hear it, but I don't mean to allow things to go on in this way. My contemptible son-in-law shall 1 return to his wife." This startled me, and I suppose I showed it" Wait a little," said Mrs. Eyrecourt; "there is nothing to be alarmed about. Eomayne is a weak fool, and Father Benwell's hands are (of course) in both his pockets. But he has, unless I am entirely mistaken, some small sense of shame and some little human feeling still left. After the manner in which lie nas behaved these are the merest possibilities, you will say. Very likely. [ have boldly appealed to those possibilities, nevertheless. He has already apne away to Rome, and I need scarcely idd?Father Benwell would take good . jare of that?he has left us no address. \ [t doesn't in the least matter. One of ;he advantages of being so much in society as I am is that I have nice acquaintances everywhere, always ready x> oblige me, provided I don't borrow money of them. I have written to Bomayne under cover to one of my friends living in Bome. Wherever he may be there will my letter find him." So far I listened quietly enough, naturally supposing that Mrs. Eyrecourt trusted to her own arguments and per- : suasions. It was a relief to me to feel that the chances were a hundred to one ; against her. This unworthy way of thinking was instantly checked by Mrs. Eyrecourt'? i next words. ' << T*nn'f cnnnncA T orn frtnlish enough to attempt to reason with him ?" , ?he went on. " My letter begins and snds on the first page. His wife has a 1 :laim on him which no newly-married nan can resist. Let me do him justice. , Ee knew nothing of it before he went iway. My letter?my daughter has no suspicion that I have written it?tells him plainly what the claim is." She paused. Her eyes softened, her ; roice sank low?she became quite un- ' Like the Mrs. Eyrecourt whom I knew. ( "In a few months more, Winterfield," she said, "my poor Stella will be a ] mother. My letter calls Romayne back 1 to his wife - and his child." Ttvi T3T rnvrrviTD 1 ! A Hundred Years Ago. One hundred years ago not a pound Df coal nor a cubic foot of illumina- j ;ing gas had been burnt in the country. : So iron stoves were used, and no con- : :rivancfs for economizing heat were s employed until Dr. Franklin invented , ;he iron framed fireplace which still < Dears his name. All the cooking and \ warming in town, as well as in the j lountry, was done by the aid of a fire ) kindled on the brick hearth or in brick ? jvens. Pine knots or tallow candles j 'urnished the light for the long winter < aiglits, and sanded floor supplied the ] place Of rugs and carpets. The water , ice/' frtr 1-nnr?1r? -nnmnses ^r&s drawn From deep wells with creaking sweeps, j So form of pump was used in this conn- i trv, so far as we can learn, until alter | :he commencement of the present cen- j .ury. There were do friction matches j in those days by the aid of which a fire ] :ould be easi'y kindled, and if the fire , vent out upon the hearth over night md the tinder was damp, so that the spark would not catch the alternative remained of wading through the snow a nile or so to bon-ow a brand of a neighbor. Only one room in any house was srarm, unless some member of the famiJy 1 w&s ill; in all the rest the temperature " yas at zero during many nights in the winter. The men and women of one nnndred years ago went to their beds in a temperature colder than that of :rac barns and wood sheds. A BOT SX'AKE CHARMER. ||9HH| The Unpleasant Pets of a Ltd of Seren- . v3|a AIIowIdr Esuletaake* ud T?rtlo>He?4< toTwlne Aroand HisXeckutd W?i*C? Stories told by . travelers in places ^ where venomous reptiles abound, of snake conjurers, are usually received i \ cum grano salts, but there is a little boy ; :M residing in tliLs city who ean out-do any of the alleged tricks of Indian serpent charmers, so great is tho isfloenca he appears to possess over rafcc'esnakes, black snakes, moccasins, vipers, boas, turtleheads, copperheads and others of ||| the crawling family, always regarded as . mortal enemies to man. A Press reporter in search of a cigar, entered B. R. Cill's store on Second street, aad having procured a supply of the fragrant weed, was about leaving, when ; a little girl came in carrying a box containing a mouse. She put it down on the counter, and was handed a penny in exchange by Mr. Cills. ' I buy a good many mice and rats during the day," said he, in reply to the inquiring gaze of the reporter, -'sometimes as many as fifty to a hundred .; but then I have a good many g&akes .. to feed/l . "Shakes!" Was the ejaculation. "Tes, come and look at them." Ths reporter accepted the invitation, and walked into a small room at the back of the store, round the walls of which were a number of cases fronted ;3*1 with glass, containing any number of ".Them's rattles. Here you hare ||j romencaas, pretty; ainc tnej t sua;: ^ their enthusiastic "proprietor. "That's a kingshead or cannibal snake, the only ' ; one left of a family of seven, father, %pj mother and five brothers and sisters." "What became of the rest V - ; ; "All represented there. They fed on ^fal each other. The father fell a victim to . ^ the appetite of his wife, and she was :- ^ eaten by one of her sons. The latter was swallowed by his Bister, and she by :%8B her brother, and so on till that fellow Jg&gM\ only was left. He breakfasted off a / water-snake this morning almost as long as himself, so h?'s a bit sleepy, bat my* ' boy will wake him np." "Here, Willie!" A delicate-looking youth about sevenyears cf age came running into the "" rnnm. Sn/?.h n. -nrftfctv hov. iritfc I ATtrP. 'S-zJS dreamy eyes and a mass of' stmny brown hair combed over his forehead. -IIS Obedient to k sign, from his father, he pushed aside the glass covering of th& . i| case," and, inserting his tiny hand, --M prilled out the wriggling monster and began to caress it by stroking its head. "i can't do xl zch with him," said the boy. "I lik8 the rattles and turtle- d? heads best." Patting the cannibal back into its lair, he went over to a large case, in which some twenty turtlehead snakes, varying in length from threeto eight . ,5^8 feet, were busily engaged in twisting themselves and each, other into knots. The boy opened one side of the case, and, seizing a snake with each hand, ~j|g pat. the n round bis neck." 1 . " Pixi3 one's Barnum and that's Baby, i*| see how they kiss me," said the little fellow as the reptiles rubbed their mouths against his lips and cheeks. 8 Barnum was a beautifully marked -JSBB creature, pure white belly and back >' <v -*M with bbck and. white spots. He measured about eight feet and the center ol his body was as f;hick as a man's wrist. Baby was Sve feet long. Without removing the two others, the boy again put his hands in the case and brought out three more full-sized fellows, which he placed about his waist. '*This is >~J Jack, and that's Nellie, and here's Bill. They all know me and they would never hurt me." It made the newsman & shudder as he washed the snakes crawling and twisting over the boy while a dozen more heads protruded from the 1 case pointing their forked tongues at fl the lad as if trying to join in the fun. a ('Those snakes could crush my son to death if they liked," said Mr. Gills, as he also took three or four of the reptiles I ord nllnm^ ftiflm TTricralp ?lwi? llis body,^'but they would never think of -9 doing him harm- With the exception. : V of Baby, all those turtleheads were -a brought t.' me by a sea captain from Mm the West Indies. JBaby was hatched. from an egg that lav in the barrel which ./JH formed their traveling carnage. He was four inches long when he was bom | and now he's over lour feet and a-iuUf, all grown in five months. He's 'my son's favorite. They were pretty fierce 1 when I first got 'em, bat I buret all their mouths and that tamed them." flH "How do you mean?" "Why I took them in turns Turtleheads have teeth, not fangs, and are supposed for that reason not to be poison- .1 ous by naturalists. I consider all snakes^ more or less venomous, sc to usually cure them of that habit before fl [ play with, 'em, I heat a poker red hot, then I put the snake on the ground and irritate it, and when it makes for . I one of my fingers I watch my op-Jg|fl portanity and shore the hot iroal^wn its throat. Snakes treated in thafway very seldom try to bite a human beag^SB again. Every one of those fellows in there has been treated thus. I kept ^?3 them separate until their mouths were (veil and then I or my boy stroked them H a little each day until at last we could do what we liked with them. They ap- 1 pear to take kindly to this climate. I S H had several more, but showmen pur- JO chafed them from me. 7 got from S2d ;fl ( o $25 a pair for them. They eat rats, sparrows, mice, young squirrels and rabbits, which they crash and swallow fl -- ... * _ - on tbe Doa-constrictor principle.?nw m ielpliia Pre*s. A Lucky Escape. During the trip of a Portuguese vessel . from Bio Janeiro to New York she ea-1 30uniered a fierce storm. The,tiw of 1 the yards almost, touched the wave6s*M?|B I the phrase used u> describe the situation.^? While the vessel labored along in thi^-J :t-'? ? .,^,1 Syria cm ahmrV VtPTi^l amidships from the windward sides, j It swept across the deck with force, carrying away every looee objcot 1 and, tearingthree men from the rigging? to which they were clinging, it swept them clean over the lee side, some ?f-fl teen or twenty feet from the vessel. Tba fl waves were washing over the decfcfcfl from all sides, and luck K*4Jt that thefl mass of water into which they fell waaH moving toward the vessel. Just how ifl ill happened, or how long they wercfl overboard no one could tell. Thi* :aptain. Francisco Di as dos Santos Bor3aJ H thinks it was about a minute. He saw them carried away and a terrible feelin* took possession of hi for a moment! I rhen he saw them swept on boerfl again. He rushed forward ancLseupfl 3ampos by the hair, holding o^Srdeifl I Life while the waters retrdjflfci. JH jonple of others caught rercira grasped and *^1 B part of the rigging.^j^' cM <sr?w atia rvni+iAv, ^ ^Q| | ^iUlv <~v v/ -2- c W transpired, and the^^*, ^ sc> ^ proved to be a triflrHfc^^ 4 mate's left leg and \ V moderated later the M^Bay, ana passage concluded unercStfulIy. 3 H ?? A llcr^e Epitaph. Horse epitaphs are not nuzneroH but here is one taken from a rojH 3tone set up near a farmhouse in9 England: B Here lies poor Zip ~""N fl ludeatu's cola grip, Just lour weeK-> since x do: ters s No .v twelve p-'t!nd8 turco Arc gone, ana s: e Died wtwr? u..c hadn't oa bt<afta3J