Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, January 02, 1873, Image 1
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VOL. 19. YOBKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JAJSTTJAEY 1873. NO. 1.
Am Original Jdorn.
Written for the Yorkville Knquircr.
THE MYSTERY OF MOSSGROVE.
A ROMANCE OF THE 19TH CENTURY.
BY MRS. HENRY DEAS.
CHAPTER I.
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.
It was on a cold, murky evening toward the
end of November, in the year 18?, that a
heavy traveling carriage, splashed with mud,
and drawn by two tired looking horses, slowly
traversed the maiu street of a small and obscure
country town in a retired part of the j
State of New York.
The carriage contained three occupants. ;
On the front seat sat a middle-aged man, with '
a sinister face and rough, dark beard ; his ;
dress wa3 coarse, and his vulgar air contrasted !
strongly with the refined appearance of his i
companions. Of these, one was a young man !
of about twenty-tive, and the other a lemaie,
t wrapped in a long, heavy cloak and hood,
which almost entirely concealed her features, j
The latter was, apparently, in a deep sleep,
for her head reclined on the gentleman's shoulder,
and the profound repose of her attitude,
unbroken by the jolting of the coach, and her
deep and regular breathing, seemed to denote
total unconsciousness of what was transpiring
around her.
"Are we nearly there, Leroy ?" presently
asked the younger mau, anxiously looking out
of the window.
"Behold us already arrived," responded the
other, in an accent which proclaimed him a
foreigner, by birth as well as name. "See,
yonder is the house?here is the gate itself."
As he spoke the coach stopped in front of
a large iron gate, opening in a high stone wall
surrounding an enclosure some fifty yards
square. From this gate a gravel path led to
a square brick house, nearly concealed by the
overhanging branches of a cluster of sombrelooking
trees that embowered it. Leroy
opened the carriage door and alighted first;
then turned to assist in the removal of the still
sleeping woman.
"I had better awaken her, I think," said the
younger man, and gently shaking her, and
raising her drooping head on his arm, he
added in a louder tone,
"Bertha! Bertha, wake up?we are at the
end of our journey."
With much difficulty he succeeded in arous
ing her, and opening her eyes she enquired in
a drowsy voice,
"Where auil? Did you call me, Alfred ?"
"Yes, you must get out now?come, come,
don't fall asleep again ! Give Monsieur Leroy
your hand?there, Leroy, have you got
her? Hold her for a minute, till I get
down."
"Madame seems to be only half awake,"
remarked Leroy, with a smile. "Your precautions
were quite effectual, moil ami."
Supported on either side by her two companions,
and gazing around with a stupefied
air, Bertha moved slowly up the graveled J
walk toward the house. The door of the latter '
now opened, and on the front porch appeared
a woman, holding a lamp in her hand, which j
cast its uncertain light on features as coarse j
and as repulsive in their expression as those !
of Leroy himself. As Alfred Stanley?for i
en^h wns the name of the voung gentleman? j
glanced from one to the other of this unprepossessing
pair, an irresolute look crossed his
face; for a moment he hesitated, and holding
Bertha firmly with his arm, cast a backward
glance at the carriage, which wasstill in wait- j
ing at the gate. Leroy and the woman?who ,
was none other than his wife?both observed !
the moveraeut; and the latter, holding open ;
the door, exclaimed in a tone of affected I
anxiety?
"Pray, sir, don't keep the lady standing out-1
side in the cold?there's a good fire in the parlor,
aud I'll make her comfortable directly if j
you'll bring her in.. She's a good deal fa- j
tigued, sir, I am afraid ? Perhaps she would !
like to go to her room at once."
"Yes, I dare say," said Stanley, as without j
farther hesitation he entered the house, half-1
carrying his drooping charge, who seemed ;
perfectly passive in his hands. They were j
shown into a small sitting-room, where a
bright fire was burning in the grate, affording
a pleasant contrast to the chilly, gloomy at- j
inosphere without. Stanley placed Bertha on 1
a sofa, which madame Leroy wheeled close to j
) the hearth, at the same time loosening the
fastenings of her cloak and hood, which, fall- \
ing back from her face, revealed a set of fair, 1
delicate features, upon which ill-health orsuf
fering had set its melancholy seal. Long, j
dark lashes shaded the half-closed blue eyes,!
beneath which two deep circlets were traced j
by care or fatigue, and a profusion of soft j
golden hair, partly escaping from its confinement,
fell in rich curling masses about her i
shoulders. Although not positively beautiful, j
there was a tender, child-like charm about her j
whole appearance, which, joined to her appa-1
rent helplessness, must have found an answer i
to its mute pleading for sympathy and protec-'
tion, in any but the hardest hearts.
But who, on reading the harsh and forbid- j
ding countenances of Leroy and his wife, al-1
beit they were now tutored into sycophantic ;
smiles, could fail to discern the grossness of!
the natures to which those lineaments were
the true index ?
Even Alfred Stanley, youthful and handsome
as he was, seemed all unfit to be a com-1
panion and protector to one so gentle, inno-!
cent and fair. His cold gray eyes glittered
with a steely light, and a stern, unsympathet- j
ic expression rested on his symmetrical fea- j
tures. In spite of this frigid exterior, howev-:
er, a close observer might detect, from time to '
time, a covert shade of uneasiness on his face,1
as he glanced alternately from the master and
mistress of the house to the unresisting victim, j
now placed in their charge.
"May I see tho accommodation you have
reserved for her, Madame Leroy ?" he presently
asked. "It is getting late, and I must
be going."
"Certainly, sir," said the Frenchwoman,
with much urbanity. "Probably you had better
induce Madame to accompany you, at once,
to her apartment; she will be glad to rest
after her journey."
"Come, Bertha," said Stanley; and assisting
the poor girl to rise, he led her from the room,
and followed his guide up a flight of stairs to
a chamber on the second floor. Here, too, a
fire was burning ; and though the furniture
was scanty, everything looked neat and clean.
A cot-bed, covered with snow-white drapery,'
! was already arranged for the night, and as
Bertha's eyes fell upon it, she murmured?
"I am tired, Alfred ! May I go to sleep,
now?"
j "Yes, yes, certainly you may," eagerly in-.
, terposed the woman, adding in a low tone to
j Stanley?
j "You see it's all right, sir; we'll get along
quite nicely with her, never fear. She'll be
as quiet as a lamb all night."
; "But to-morrow," muttered Stanley, turning j
aside his face to conceal an involuntary spasm i
of pain that crossed it.
Madame Leroy affected not to hear him,
aud busied herself in mending the fire, and
hanging up Bertha's cloak in a closet at the
farther end of the room.
"l am tired," plaintively said Bertha again.'
"I would like to go to sleep."
"Well, you shall go to sleep," said Stanley, ;
with assumed eheerfulness: "I'll not detain!
you any later. This kind lady will attend to j
all your wishes. Good-night, Bertha, I trust!
you will rest well after your long ride."
"But you are not going, Alfred ?" she
asked, clinging to his arm. "Don't leave me
alone here," and she cast a piteous glance
around at the unfamiliar room.
"I only said good-night," he returned, husk- j
ily. "I will see you again?after a while. I
Madame Leroy will take care of you now."
"And you will come back ? You promise :
to come back ?"
"Yes, Bertha, yes. Go to bed now, and \
sleep soundly."
He kissed her?a traitor's kiss, pressed on j
the pure, child-like face lifted so trustingly to i
his ; unwound the clasp of the delicate hands |
that still sought to detain him, but which, :
when loosened, fell unresistingly at her side;
and left the room without another backward |
glance at the fragile form, the drooping face, |
the blue eyes turned appealingly toward him, j
the parted lips on which seemed still to linger j
the echo of tHt last plaintive question?a j
question that would vibrate in his ears for j
many a long day, seek oblivion of it as he
would?
"You will come back?you promise to come
back ?"
A few moments more, and he was seated j
again in the carriage, rolling rapidly away i
through the gathering darkness of the winter's j
night; and Bertha, subsiding ouce more into i
the apathetic state from which she had been
only partially aroused, submitted, without resistance,
to the assiduous attentions of Madame
Leroy, who disrobed her with her own hands, 1
and helped her into the little white-covered
bed, where she had scarcely touched her pi I- '
low ere she fell into a profound and dreamless
sleep.
Madame Leroy, after lingering a little
while to assure herself that there was no danger
of her awakening, carefully extinguished
the fire, barred the only window?a high narrow
casement which she was obliged to mount
upon a chair to reach?and left the room,
carrying the light with her, ana securely iocking
the door on the outside.
It was late on the morrow when Bertha |1
awoke. The effects of the drug which had j
been administered to keep her quiet during :
her journey and on her arrival, still lingered j
in her system, and with a dull, confused sense j
of pain she lifted her hand to her brow, and j1
partially raising herself on her elbow, gazed i
enquiringly around the room.
She had no recollection of how had she
been brought there, and thought at first that i
she must still be asleep, for surely it was all a 1
dream.
"Where am I ?" she faintly exclaimed, at j
length, as she sank hack upon the pillow.
Some one must have been stationed within |1
hearing of her slightest movement, for she had j
scarcely uttered the words, when a tall gaunt I
woman of forbidding appearance suddenly 1
showed herself at the foot of the bed. j
At this unexpected apparition, Bertha ut- 1
tered a faint cry of surprise, not uumingled 1
with fear.
"So, you're awake at last, are you ?" was (
the uncourteous greeting proffered by the in- j:
truder. "Seems to me you've had a good I
long spell of sleep. Do you feel pretty well |1
rested, now?" j'
"Who are you ?" asked Bertha, disregard- j
ing the enquiry. "I never saw you before." 11
"No, iuy dear, you never did, that I know 1
of," rejoined the other, "I'm your compan- j1
ion?your guardian?your servant, if you like 11
that better," she concluded in a mocking tone, j1
It depends entirely on your fancy."
"My servant! All my servants are at 1
home ; you are not one of them."
"Well, your keeper, then," the woman rejoined,
with a laugh. "I'm the person apDointed
bv the madam to keep you company,
* " * ? .
at any rate?just to prevent your feeling lonesome,
you know."
"The madam" repeated Bertha, in a bewildered
tone. "I don't understand?whom are
you speaking of?" i
"Of the lady of the house, my dear?the i'
house you're staying at; and a very nice, j
pleasant house it is, and a very nice, pleasant i
lady she is, as you'll soon find out. She's ]
mistress of everything in the house, too, I i
can tell you, from the old man down, which I
likewise you'll not be long in finding out." |
"And ray husband?where is he?" asked!
Bertha, still struggling with the mist of be-1
wilderment that oppressed her, and striving to ;
preserve her composure through the terror j
that was gradually gainiug the mastery in i
her mind, at the strangeness of the position i
in which she found herself placed.
"Your husband?la! my dear, how should
I know ? People's husbands, aud other relations,
don't have much to do with them after
they are once in the madam's charge?she j
takes such good care of them, and don't like j
much interference, you see. Come, ain't you :
going to get up now ?" she added, laying ,
her hand on Bertha's shoulder. "It's high :
time you were dressed, I should say."
But the mingled surprise, terror and dismay j
which had been slowly reaching a culminating
point in the victim's trembling heart,
now found vent in a loud, wild shriek, as she
recoiled abruptly from the offending touch.
"Go away!" she cried, shrinking back to;
the farthest limit of her narrow couch, glar-1
ing with fear and abhorrence at the repulsive j
looking creature who thus ventured to address
her. "Go away! I don't know you ! I j
won't have you near me ! Go away, I say, j
and leave me alone ! I won't let you touch j
me!"
"Won't you, my lady? If you come thai j
dodge on me, I'll soou show you who has j
most power," said the woman coolly ; and
grasping Bertha's hands she held her with a
pressure of iron. "As long as you are quiet
and pretty-behaved, we'll be good friends; but'
if you take to screaming and quarreling I'll
have to exercise ray authority. Those are ray j
orders ; so no offense."
"For God's sake," panted Bertha, in a |
scarcely audible voice, and nearly fainting i
with terror, "tell me where I am and what is .
to be- done with me ! I don't know how 11
came here?I don't know anything about it!
Are you going to kill me?"
"Kill you ? Certainly not?we bring people
here to cure them ; not to kill them," was ,
the reply.
"To cure them ? But I am not ill?why
should I be brought here ? Is it a hospital ?"
asked Bertha, with another fearful glance. ,
"A hospital?not exactly, though you might, j
I suppose, call it a hospital for the mind," |
said her tormentor. "It's folks' minds, not j
their bodies, that we undertake to cure."
Bertha listened with panting, heaving J
bosom, dilating eyes, and a face over which ,
an ashen pallor was slowly spreading.
"Do you mean," she asked in a low, hoarse
voice, which sounded strangely to her own
ears, while, as the perception of the fearful
truth began to dawn upon her, every drop of
blood seemed to be receding from her heart
"do you mean?that?I?am in?a madhouse
t"
"It's an ugly name, my dear." said the woman
; "but if you choose to call it so?"
Bertha heard no more; her eyes closed,
consciousness forsook her, and she sank back
in a death-like swoon.
Over the scenes that followed her awakening
from that merciful stupor?which lasted
sufficiently long to arouse the apprehensions
of the whole household?pity bids us draw a
veil. It would be too harrowing a task to
delineate the hours, the days of anguish that
ensued; the long nights fraught with such
terror, that the visions they conjured up wellnigh
crazed, in truth, the poor, weak brain
that had needed only tenderness and watchful
care to strengthen and restore it to its former
clearness, partially clouded over by ill-health,
anxiety and unrest; the sickening, impotent
struggles of the victim to escape from the
thraldom that bound her?the piteous protestations,
met with silence and contempt and
disbelief, feigned or real, on the part of her
gaolers; the slow, gradual conviction that
grew upon her, of the necessity of submission
and quiescence, of the utter folly and impotence
of all efforts to resist the iron rule under
which she writhed; the knowledge that
she was cruelly betrayed, deserted?forsaken,
deceived by one she had loved and trusted
only too well. All this, we say, came upon
her by slow degrees ; and in that process 01
torture, her strength, physical as well as mental,
grew less and less ; her failing limbs, her
attenuated frame seemed advancing to decay,
as her reason grew ever feebler, until at last
the culminating point was reached?the mind,
in truth, deserted its tottering throne, and she
became in reality, what she had been falsely i
asserted to be, a maniac.
Did Alfred Stanley, in his hours of solitude,
ever indulge in retrospection of the past ?
Did memory ever carry him back to the days
when he had wooed and won, a gentle, confiding
bride, who little dreamed that it was j
her wealth, and nut her heart, that he had
coveted for his own ? Did he see her as she i
had stood then at his side, timid and trustful,
with blue eyes upraised to his, as a tender
flower twines aboutastrong tree, little fearing
that its support will ever fail, or its frail,
clinging tendrils be rudely torn away ? Did
he recall his own false vows, her unreserved
faith in his lightest words; did he see again
the happy joyous light that had ever kindled
on her face at his approach, the blush that
had mantled her soft cheek, ere coldness and
incipient neglect, and unkind words had
dimmed that light and blighted that rose,
aud brought the plaintivelook of anxiety and I
care to usurp the beaming smiles and glances |
of affection and happiness on the tender,
trusting face ? Did he see her as she had been,
even theu, meekly submissive and unreproachful,
patient in her sorrow, striving by every
" 1" * ?- ahaaI f i r\ fhft rtl n/tn ,
\>UJiJllJg W1IC IKJ ICiUOLUtCi 11C19VI4 IU UJL' |ilUtC .
she had lost ? Did he see her as she was notv, j
driveu by his cruelty, his fiendish and skilful- j
ly accomplished device, to the most pitiable |
condition in which it is possible for a human
creature to exist?did he recognize the work
of his hands, the result of his malignant arts,!
and contemplating the wreck he had caused, j
still seek his pillow with a tranquil mind, and I
revel undisturbed in the possession of his ill-1
gotten wealth ?
If he could do this,'then surely he was a j
fiend, and not a man.
Two years passed away, and Alfred Stanley !
received the following letter from Leroy, the ,
unblushing though not acknowledged accom- j
plice of his guilt: :
"Dear Sir:?I regret to be obliged to in- j1
form you of the occurrence of a most painful i
and unforeseen event. Madame Stanley, your
afflicted wife, notwithstanding the mo3t assiduous
care and unceasing watchfulness on the '
part of Madame Leroy and myself, and the!
most vigilant attendance furnished her by us, i
has, by some mysterious means, effected an
escape from our custody, and we are unable
to gain the slightest clue as to her whereabouts.
She disappeared from our establishment on j
Wednesday night (the 3d ultimo) and in |
Bpite of strict and continued enquiry on our |
part, baffles all efforts at discovery.
I need not tell you into what distress and '
anxiety of mind this sad and most unaccount- j
able occurrence has plunged us. It is the i
first time we have ever had to record such an !
event in the annals of our institution, and it!
afflicts us the more, as your amiable wife was 1
the object of our special interest and affection, i
We can only attribute it to some remarkable j
and still undiscovered instance of neglect on ;
the part of her special attendant, whom, how- j
ever, we have never before had cause to re- j
proach for inattention to her charge, or want
of fidelity to her employers.
f u~... i
" \\ 6 Willi lur lijftirimji'iuijs irum yuu jiuw tu i
proceed in this matter. With every senti- j
raent of sincere condolence and profound es-1
teem, I remain, dear sir, your most obedient j
servant, Augcste J. Leroy."
Every effort was made to discover the un-1
fortunate fugitive, but in vain.
At length a rumor was circulated, printed ;
in the daily papers throughout the State, and ,
finally developed into a certainty.
The body of a woman was dragged from a ,
stream about twelve miles distant from the
Asylum, which became identified as that of|
one of the patients of that compassionate in- i
stitution. She wore the prescribed dress?a
plaiu brown stuff, with a narrow standing
collar at the throat; she had lain so long in
her watery grave as to be unrecognizable, but
there was little doubt as to her being the lost
wife of Alfred Stanley, the escaped lunatic of,
the Lcroys' Asylum.
These facts were communicated by letter to
Stanley, who had gone abroad, to banish in
travel the uneasy sensations that troubled his
mind.
He turned over that black page of his life
with a sigh of relief, and felt?or tried to
feel?grateful that he was once more a free,
unfettered man.
Did his conscience never sting him again ?
None ever knew.
CHAPTER II.
A SUDDEN REVERSE.
Our readers mu6t now accompany us, after
a lapse of five years, to the home of a wealthy
merchant in Charleston, South Carolina.
The gay season has just commenced, and
one of the fairest of Charleston's daughters is
about to make her debut on the stage of fash- j
ion. The elegant mansion of iMr. Andrew j
Carroll sparkles with a hundred lights; rare I
flowers are arranged in tasteful profusion in
the different reception rooms, and all is in
readiness for the expected guests.
In her dressing-room, Lucy Carroll stands
before a long mirror, while her maid puts the
finishing touches to her dress. Very lovely
is the reflection given back to her gaze, and a
blush of girlish pleasure and vanity mantles
the cheek of the young heiress as her dark
eyes rest on the radiant vision before her.
Her long, flowing robe of simple white, falling
in graceful folds around her, displays to the
best advantage her slight form ; on her brown
hair rests a wreath of white rose-buds, and on
her neck and arras glisten circlets of pure,
snowy pearls. These are the only ornaments
she wears, and her fair, fresh youthfulness
needs no further adornment to enhance its
beauty.
As the sable waiting-woman steps back,
displaying her shining teeth in a broad smile
of admiration at "Missy's" appearance, the
door opens, and Mrs. Carroll enters. She is
a proud, stately-looking woman, and moves
with the air of a duchess across the room,
rustling in draperies of heavy silk and lace.
"So, Lucy, you are dressed," she said, with a
satisfied look. "It is sensible of you to be in
time. Some girls have a foolish way of procrastinating
to the last moment, and put
everything in hurry and confusion. 1 came
to offer my assistance; but you have got on
without me, I see."
"I was just coming to your room, mamma,
to get your verdict," said Lucy, smiling.
"Plensc give it to me now."
"You look very nicely, my dear," said Mrs.
Carroll, with a critical gaze. "I think, myself,
that your dress is a trifle too plain. A lew
roses on the skirt would have improved it;
but you and Miss Gray settled it differently."
"She thought, mamma, that my first dress
ought to be simple; but I am sorry you don't
like it," said Lucy regretfully.
"Yes, I do like it; it is only a slight omission,
and Miss Gray i3 acknowledged to have
excellent taste. She has fit you admirably,
at all events. Are you ready to go down?
Your father would like to see you before any
one comes."
"Yes, I am quite ready," said Lucy, taking
up her fan and handkerchief from the toilettable
; and mother and daughter went down
stairs together.
Mr. Carroll, a benevolent-looking, grayhaired
man, came forward to meet them as
they entered the drawing-room, and a smile
of pride and pleasure lit up his kindly face
at the sight of his fair young daughter.
"My bonnie lassie!" he said, taking her
hand in his, and drawing her close to him, as
he bent down to kiss her cheek, "you look
pretty enough to turn the heads of all the
young sparks who will be here to-night. Take
care, Lucy?take care you don't do too much
mischief. Don't try too many experiments,
my dear!"
"No fear, papa," said Lucy, laughing, and
well pleased with the compliment. "I am
not quite as dangerous as you seem to think."
At this moment a step was heard in the
entry, and directly a young man entered the
room, with the air of being perfectly at home.
"Good evening, uncle and aunt!" he exclaimed
gaily. "Well, Lucy, so you are all
ready?armed for conquest, I see!"
"Nonsense, Edward," she retorted. "I am
not armed for anything; I am simply prepared
to amuse myself and have a delightful
time. Do I look well?"
"Tolerably," he rejoined, mischievously,
while his glance betrayed a far deeper admiration
than his bantering tone. Bending forward,
he murmured something in her ear that
brought a deeper flush to her cheek, and a
dimpling smile to her lips; though with a half
pout she turned from him in affected displeasure
or deprecation of his words. Andrew
Carroll watched them with an amused, wellsatisfied
look. He dearly loved this handsome
nephew of his, and it had long been the
earnest wish of his heart that his Lucy, his
pride and idol, should place her happiness in
the keeping of one whom he considered every
way worthy of her, and who had, from childhood,
cherished the dream of making her his
wife.
Mrs. Carroll watched them with a colder
glance. She, too, loved and admired Edward ;
but she was worldly, and had more ambitious
views for her only child than to see her
united to a merchant's clerk.
Young Carroll possessed a haughty, .though
generous spirit. He was aware of his aunt's
sentiments in regard to his attachment to his
cousin, (an attachment hitherto only tacitly
acknowledged,) and though he took care to
treat her with marked deference and consideration,
never could feel an entire cordiality
toward her. Hence there seemed to be always
a fine, imperceptible line of reserve
drawn between them ; while with his uncle
and Lucy, his bearing was always boyishly
frank, gay and unrestrained.
Of her sentiments toward Edward, Lucy
herself was scarcly aware. They had been so
constantly together since childhood, she had
learned so completely to regard him in the
light of a brother, that if any warmer emotion
had begun to dawn in her heart, she did not
pause to analyze its nature; and while the
young man cherished an ever increasing and
ardent attachment for her, an unconscious
timidity, quite foreign to his nature, a fear lest
a spoken word might rudely break his dream
of happiness, kept him silent on the subject,
and prevented his discovering what he most
desired to know. Often he felt a secret pang
of jealousy while watching her in gay, sportive
conversation with others, and marking the
glances of admiration frequently bestowed on
her; for although not yet fairly "out," as it is
termed, she had alrendy mixed sufficiently in
1 society to form a large number of acquaint-'
i ances, and among these, not a few unmistakable
admirers and aspirants for her favor had
begun to hover around.
Although not yet eighteen, Lucy possessed
J much gentle dignity of manner, and while a (
playful ease and vivacity characterized her j
deportment, it was marked with sufficient
reserve to check anything approaching famil- j
iarity, or an undue expression of admiration,
. or too near an advance to flattery, from which j
her sense nnd good taste- alike revolted, i
i There was no coquetry in her nature; and.
while she fully enjoyed, as all girls will, the
homage paid her by the "sterner sex," she 1
made use of no arts to win it, nor ever feigned .
in return a sentiment she did not feel.
But in our dissertation on the character of |
our heroine, we are neglecting to attend to j
the newly-arrived guests, who now began to
flock into the handsome and gaily-decorated
rooms. Soon a band of music began to dis- j
course enlivening strains, and manly and j
[ graceful forms mingled in the mazes of the
stately quadrille and floating, dreamy waltz.
Lucy, of course, was the cynosure of all
eyes. With her radiant color and sparkling
eyes, she looked more than usually animated
and beautiful, and her bright smiles and silvery
tones revealed the joyous lightness of her
innocent heart.
"Lucy," whispered her mother, during a
pause between the dances, "you have already
twice danced with your cousin Edward. You
| will make yourself conspicuous if you do it
again. People already remark his attention
to you, and seem to fancy that there is something
special in it; and I do not wish such
an idea to gain circulation."
Lucy flushed deeply, and could not forbear
a slightly reproachful glance. "Oh, mamma,"
she returned, "you would not have me rude to
Edward? I could not refuse him the dances
he asked me for, and I have promised him
one more. Must I break my engagement ?"
"I will arrange it for you," said Mrs. Carroll;
and turning to her nephew, who just
then approached, she said with a smile?
"My dear Edward, I am quarreling with
Lucy for allowing you to engross so much of
her time. She must dispense her favors with
greater impartiality. I have been assailed
by several malcontents, who complain that
they cannot obtain a place on her card, and
on looking over it I find that your name is
three times recorded. The last of these you
must now allow me to efface;" and as she
spoke she drew a pencil across the name on
the card which she had taken from Lucy's
hand.
A frown contracted the young man's brow,
and a look of anger for an instant sparkled in
his eyes; but a beseeching glance from Lucy
checked the hasty words that rose to his lips,
and with a forced smile and a slight bow he
rejoined?
"If my cousin desires to be released, her
...? ~ L 11 Ua aUaita/I onrl 11? i f h a
WlSUCd OllUll tci Uklllljr UC UVCjTCU 9 OUU if ivu m
more stately air than usual he turned away
and walked to the farther end of the room.
Lucy's heart beat, and for the moment all
her happiness was marred by the fear that he
was deeply offended with her mother, and perhaps
with herself; but directly her mother's
dulcet tones pronounced her name, and looking
up, she saw a tall, foreign-looking man
standing before her.
"My daughter, Mr. Stanley," said Mrs.
Carroll; and the stranger's eyes rested with
undisguised admiration on the face of the fair
debutante, as he made a courtly reverence in
acknowledgement of the introduction. He
requested the honor of her hand for the next
dance, and she was fain to allow him to write
his name in place of that which had just been
erased.
Well pleased with the result of her manoeuvre,
Mrs. Carroll moved away, and Mr. Stanley
devoted himself with, ardor to the agreeable
task of trying to make a favorable impression
on la belie Lucy. At first, he found
her slightly distraite; but his flowing, graceful
conversation soon engaged her attention, and
she was soon responding with her usual gayety
to his delicately-worded compliments and
well-pointed remarks.
Mr. Stanley was an American gentleman
who had just returned from abroad; he had
spentseveral years on the continent of Europe,
and had acquired, during his sojourn among
foreign society, a peculiarly polished address,
ease and grace of manner, and the art of
adapting his conversation so entirely to the
taste of his listeners, as scarcely ever to fail to
please. Lucy found him very agreeable, and
in the course of ten minutes quite forgot her
momentary regret at Edward's discomfiture.
The latter, meanwhile, watched from a distant
part of the room the conversation between the
pair, which both seemed to find so interesting.
Mortification and jealousy rankled at
his heart, and his pleasure, at least, for the
rest of the evening was totally destroyed.
Mr. Stanley had the reputation of being
extremely wealthy, and this was a special
charm in Mrs. Carroll's worldly eyes. Her
scheming brain was already devising means
by which a match between her daughter and
himself might be brought about. She was
particularly suave and gracious in her manner i
to the strauger, and requested him to let her
husband and herself have the pleasure of
seeing him frequently at their house.
Could she have obtained a glimpse at his
past life, she would have been less ready to
form such a plan as that of effecting a union
between him and her young and innocent
daughter. But in this world the surface of
things alone is often read, and on the surface
Alfred Stanley, handsome, cultivated, intelli- >
gent and refined, appeared in every way an
eligible parti.
Lucy's beauty and winning manner ira- j;
pressed him in turn quite as favorably as her j
oaipp fttiH ho left Mr. Carroll's :
lUUlllUl VUM.U UVW.kW,
house that night resolved to accept the flat- j teriug
invitation tendered to him, to discard j;
ceremony and visit them as often as his incli- i
nation prompted him. i
He had scarcely made his adieus, and the :;
remainder of the guests were about departing,
when an event occurred which caused the!
greatest commotion, anxiety and terror. 1
Mr. Carroll was conversing with some gentlemen
in the ante-room, while waiting for the j i
ladies to be cloaked and shawled, when he
suddenly fell to the ground, completely insen- j
sible, as if struck by lightning. It was a
paralytic stroke. i
Twice before, he had had a slight, very i
slight, assault from this fearful enemy, from !
which he had entirely recovered, and had i
been for several years as hale and hearty, to i
outward appearance, as ever.
A physician was summoned,'and the pa- 1
tient removed to his chamber. The few re-1
maining guests, with many expressions of
sympathy and regret, took their departure,
leaving the household plunged in gloom and
grief, where all had been so gay and cheerful
a few minutes before.
Sirs. Carroll, Lucy and Edward, hung in !
speechless anxiety over the prostrate form of j
the sufferer, who for many hours remained
unconscious, despite every effort of the skillful
physiciau to restore him.
"Doctor, is there any hope ?" falteringly ;
asked Mrs. Carroll, who, with all her coldness ;
and selfish ambition, was a devoted wife.
"While there is life, there is hope," said the '
doctor, evasively; but?it is his third stroke."
"Oh, father, my darling father!" murmur- j
ed Lucy, hiding her face on the bed. Ed- j
ward's manly bosom heaved, for he loved his i
kind uncle with a son's affection, and his heart
bled, too, for the grief of his aunt and cousin,
toward whom his brief coldness and resentment
? ? - iL. -f .i.:? i
vanisneu away in uie preseuue ui una gicau j
sorrow.
At length Mr. Carroll's eyes opened, and j
with a glance of recognition he met the tear- j
ful, devoted gaze of the faces gathered around.;
He tried to speak; but the power of speech j
was gone. He tried to move his right hand;;
but that effort, too, was in vain. Feebly he j
moved his left, and motioned for a pencil and
some paper.
"My frieud, do not agitate yourself," said
the physician ; "you are unfit to make the
least exertion, and I must enjoin perfect quiet
and repose."
With a distressed look, the sick man persisted
in his demand. At length, fearing to
excite him by continued opposition, the desired
articles were brought him.
Slowly and painfully, with his trembling
left hand, he traced a few scrawling words on
the paper; but ere he had completed a sentence,
the pencil dropped from his neiveless,
impotent fingers.
All that could be distinguished of what he
had written were the disconnected words?
"Ruin?madness?forgive?too late?my
blessing?repent."
They fancied that these words were but the
promptings of a weak, disordered brain. In '
silent anguish they wept over this proof of a
shattered mind; and, in truth, he now appeared
to lose all consciousness of his surround- (
ings. His eyes lost their intelligence of expression
and wandered vacantly around the 1
apartment; his head sank back, and it soon
became evident to all that his last moments
were rapidly approaching.
The struggle was brief and comparatively '
easy, and ere the clock had struck the hour ,
of noon, the soul of Andrew Carroll had
escaped from its tenement of clay to seek its
better home.
The grief-stricken family could scarcely
realize that this sudden blow which had descended
upon them was not a terrible dream.
That the generous, kindly-hearted man, who
a few short hours before, had stood in the
midst of them, in the flush of life and health,
should now be lying still and cold in his last
repose; that the cheerful voice should be
forever silenced; the grasp of the warm, firm ,
hand relaxed, never to be felt again ; that the
heart that had throbbed with warm affection,
benevolent impulses and kindly desires, should
now be senseless and pulseless?never more to ,
stir and bound with life?seemed too dreadful
a reality for them at once to comprehend.
In the ball-room still bloomed the fresh 1
bright flowers that had beautified it for the j
festival of the previous evening; in the supper- i
room there lay on the table the fragments of
the feast, which the distracted servants had
not yet thought of removing. And Lucy,
herself, in her white, flowing dress, now
crumpled and disordered, felt the horrible
mockery of the contrast between life and
death?between the brief, brilliant pageant in
which she had borne part, and the awful
mystery 01 the solemn tragedy at its close!
On the evening of the next day, the mortal
remaius of Air. Carroll were consigned to their
last resting-place. A large concourse of .
friends atteuded the melancholy ceremony; 1
for in the mercantile world, and, indeed, in
every circle in which he had moved, he had
commanded the respect, esteem and admiration
of all, for his integrity and moral worth. ,
Another blow was yet to descend on the
bereaved family. 1
To the astonishment of every one, it was
discovered that the affairs of the deceased
were so hopelessly involved, that upon pay- '
raeut of the claims against it, there would be ]
only a small remnant left for1 the support of
his wife and child. 1
Mr. Carroll had allowed himself to become '
entangled in business speculations, which had
utterly failed. The knowledge of this disaster
had reached him but a short time before his
death. He had devised means to extricate
himself from its consequences, which, had he
lived, would probably have proved successful ;
but as it was, the ruin was almost complete.
Now they understood the meaning of those
mysterious words he had traced on his deathbed?understood
the anguish of mind and
heart that he must have felt, in that feeble
struggle, to express his sorrow for what he
had done?his prayer for their forgiveness?
his assurance of his tender love?the love that
would have shielded them with its dying
breath from the evil which his own hand had
wrought.
"OhI Lucy, what is to become of us?"
moaned Mrs. Carroll, to whom the loss of her
fortune was indeed a grievous blow, and one,
which already crushed by sorrow, she found it
difficult to sustain. "What are we to do?
Where are we to go ? We cannot live here in
poverty and ruin. I could never show my <
face again." ]
"Why not, mamma ?" asked Lucy, who ]
completely engrossed by her grief at the loss 1
of her father, regarded the loss of their wealth *
as a very minor consideration. "We know ]
every one here, and people cannot think less ,
of us because we are poor. It would be worse
among strangers." I
"Ah! you are so inexperienced?you do j
not know the world," sighed the mother. |
"People who are your fast friends in prosperi- t
ty, turn the cold shoulder when trouble 1
comes; and I could not endure to be slighted j
by those whom we have always met on equal
ground before."
"Those who are truly our friends will never g
3light us, mamma, aud we do not care about ^
the conduct or opinion of others," said Lucy, t
with spirit. "Let us rent oar house, which I
3till remains to us, and hire a smaller one in *
a less fashionable part of the city, and after
we have made the change we can devise far- \
ther means of getting on." ' *
For once Lucy's counsels prevailed. Their
large, elegant residence was let to a family
who were able and willing to pay a liberal
rent for it; with the half of this they hired a
small, but neat and comfortable residence,
whither they removed about a month after
Mr. Carroll's death.
Edward was greatly delighted at this plan,
which ensured his lovely cousin being still
within his reach. ' He now only waited for a
fitting opportunity to declare his attachment
to her, which he hoped his aunt might now regard
with more favorable consideration than
she had hitherto done.
Among the first visitors who called upon
them in their new home, was Mr. Alfred
Stanley. Lucy was indifferent to his attention,
but Mrs. Carroll received it gladly, and
welcomed him with an empressmnt that was
r\ _ . ! a_ 1_
mod I naiienng to nis vanity.
[to be continued next week.]
A HUMAN PHENOMENON.
The most remarkable specimen of physical
organization we have ever seen is Mr. Geo.
Thomas, a Brazilian, who has been in Port
Jervis since Thursday of last week. He has
been exhibiting himself in various places in
the village, and has puzzled physcians and
surgeons; they are unable to understand his
anatomy. He can move his heart to any part
of the body at pleasure, and even stop its beating
for nearly sixty seconds. He has two
sets of ribs, one of which he can move from its
position to the front of the body, covering the
abdomen. He causes a revolving motion of
the bowels, both upward and downward, the
abdomen uudulating and resembling the corrugating
motions of a flag or a piece of cloth
when disturbed by the wind. He can so arrest
his pulse that for a short time one cannot
discern that he has any. Another wonderful
thing that he does is to bend an iron bar fiveeighths
of an inch in thickness by striking it
across his left arm. The muscles of his arms
he so contracts that the flesh feels as hard as
wood.
Mr Thomas is certainly a wonderful specimen
of physical construction, and he has puzzled
the scientific men of the world. At
our request he called in our office yesterday,
and gave us his history, from which we glean
the following:
He was born in Brazil, South America,
on the 4th of March 1820. His father was
Ethiopian and his mother a Spanish woman.
When four years old, he was taken to London,
England, by his mother, and was there
examined by Surgeon Kent. The latter took
him to Edinburgh, Scotland, where he made
an incision near the heart, and discovered
that he had no diaphragm, and that the heart
was not enclosed in a pericardium, but is suspended
by two cords, instead of one. Some
years afterward, he was given an examination
in Paris by Surgeon Lois, with the same re...u
xt -c .u? ?< t?.,
9U1U JJ1UUC VI U1U OUiCUUUU UiCU VI uuiupc
understood his structure, and they advised
him to come to America, to see if our learned
men could comprehend the formation. But
uo one here had before seen such a creature,
and could not understand his organization.
"It was in 1863 when he came here, and in
1865 he went back to Europe. In 1867 he
was at the Paris exposition, and was examined
by several eminent surgeons, among them
Professor Smith, of Baltimore. Since that
year he has been in this country. His home
is in England, and he says he likes that country
better than this?there he is treated as a
gentleman, here as a worthless vagrant. He
is not married, and his parents are now dead.
He has a brother who is six feet three inches
in height, but who can contract himself so
that he is but three feet three inches tall.
This is the only peculiarity. There was
nothing remarkable about their mother, but
the father was apparently destitute of ribs.
The latter at one time?a great many years
ago?worked upon the Erie Canal and lived
in Lockport George has a cousin who can
throw his left hip to his right side and vice
versa. The former is in good health, weighs
165 pounds, is about five feet eight inches in
height, and appears to be not over thirty years
old.
Mr Thomas goes to Middleton to-day. He
will visit Albany and return to this village in
three or four weeks, soon after which he intends
to bid farewell to America.?Port Jervis
Tri-State Union.
Von Moltke's Snuff and How He Paid
for It.?Uount von JVioitxe, wmie temporarily
resident at Versailles, during the winter
of 1870-71, one day ran short of snuff, and
failing to find any "sneeshin" of the brand he
especially affects in the local bureaux de tabac,
instructed one of his subordinates at the
war office in Berlin to forward to him a packet
of his "own peculiar" rappee, without delay.
The snuff was bought, paid for, and
3ent on to Versailles with'military promptitude,
and was duly charged to the account of
the nation. When peace having been concluded,
the time came for examining the
books of all the different departments that had
been spending money with horrible prodigality
for nearly three-quarters of a year?when
the indemnity began to drop in by small installments
of ?20,000,000 a piece or so, which
were at once appropriated to the defrayal of
the actual war expenses?one of the officials
trusted with the revision of all the petty cash
transactions of the war office, came one day
upon the following startling and nochnichtJagewesenes
item: "For one pound of extra
fine, with-of-tonquin-bean-perfurae-highly-impregnated
snuff, by his excellency the Count
eon Moltke, commanded, three thalere seven
md a half sibergroschen." The rigid conscience
of the accountant did not allow of his
'passing" this irregular, unprecedented item ;
so he made a memorandum of the entry aud
referred it up to his immediate official superior,
with an explanatory essay, learned, parenthetical
and exhaustive, going a good deal
into the origin of things, and logically demonitrating
that snuff could not be held to be a
naterial or munition of war?ergo, that outays
incurred for its purchase could not in
jquity be saddled on the national exchequer,
>r be defrayed from the incoming property of
;he State purchased by the lives of Germany's
ions, and so forth. The demurrer thus raised
was submitted by one authority to another,
mriched with anotations and "opinions, the
)fficial manipulation of the question lasting
jome sixteen months. Eventually the crown
lawyers having considered the whole case, and
pronounced the snuff claim to be one that
the State could not admit, von Moltke was
officially addressed upon the subject, and requested,
with peremptory politeness, to pay for
liis snuff?a demand with which he at once
oomplied.
Troubles.?Some people are as careful of
;heir troubles as mothers are of their babies;
;hey cuddle them, and rock them, and hug
;hem, and cry over them, and fly into a paslion
with you if you try to take them away
"rora them ; they want you to fret with them,
ind to help them to believe that they have
oeen worse treated than anybody else. If
hey could, they would have a picture of their
jriefs in a gold frame, hung over the mantel
ihelf for evervbodv to Iook at. And their
jriefa ordinarily make them selfish?they
hink more of their dear little trouble in the
jasket and in the cradle than they do of all
he world besides.
"Why should we celebrate Washington's
)irth-day more than mine ?" asked a teacher.
Because he never told a lie!" shouted a boy.