Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, May 07, 1874, Image 1
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YOL. SO. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MAY 7, 1874. ^TO. 19.
(Drigiual
Written for the Yorkville Enquirer.
HOLLINGWOOD HOUSE.
BY MRS. HENRY DEAS.
CHAPTER III.
"I can't think what has come over you, Elsie,"
querulously exclaimed Mrs. Deane, about
two weeks later, to her daughter, who was sitting
in the twilight beside the open window,
gazing abstractedly out at the passing objects.
"What on earth ails you, that you've grown
so glum and silent, hardly saying a word all
day long ?"
Elsie started and colored. "Nothing ails
* t i v.
me, mother," sue repneu ui some luuiusmu.
"I didn't mean to be glum?I was ouly thinking."
"Thinking! you've grown terribly fond of
thinking, all of a sudden ! You always had
enough and to spare to talk about, until lately,
and now you do nothing but mope and
dream. Look here, lass," and Mrs. Deane,
approaching her daughter, laid her hand heavily
on her shoulder, "are you in trouble
about anything ? If so, speak up and tell me.
It's not good for you to keep secrets from your
own mother."
Elsie shrank in dismay from her mother's
questioning, and her keen inquiring glance.
Mrs. Deane was not an unkind parent, but
she had never been one to invite confidence,
and Elsie could not remember the time when
she had not been a little afraid of her, and
felt a chilling consciousness of the want of
sympathy and congeniality between them.
So she sat now with averted face, nervous aud
embarrassed, and ouly faltered forth a repetition
of her first statement, that "nothing was
the matter."
"I know better," declared Mrs. Deane, giving
the shoulder she held a little shake to emphasize
her words. "You can't deceive ?ne,
child. I see plainly that you've got something
on your mind, and I must know what
it is. Come, is it about Jem Sterling ?"
Elsie's heart gave a little bound of relief.
It was bad enough to be questioned about
Jem, but she had felt a vague apprehension
? Kw orvmn
ior a moment umt uei mwuici miguv, uj sumv
chauce, have heard of the meetings with Mr.
Sydney. She knew that these stolen interviews
were wrong; she had not at first thought
that there could be any harm in his joining
her of an evening as she was walking home ;
but his always leaving her before they came
in sight of the village, aud contriving to throw
an air of mystery aud concealment over their
intercourse, had awakened in her mind a
troubled feeling which marred the happiness
she felt iu his society. She never thought
much about it while he was with her, he always
met her so easily and naturally, as if it
were quite a matter of course for him to be
waiting at the mill just at the hour wheu he
knew she would be coming by; and then his
conversation possessed a subtle charm to banish
all uncomfortable reflections. But she always
parted from him with an uneasy consciousness
that she was acting wrongly, and
sought her home with a feeling of trepidation,
fearing that something might be said which
would lead to a discovery.
Sr, cko aneworprl linw with leS8 difficultV
than she would otherwise have done.
"No, mother, I'm not thinking about Jem."
"What's the reason he's kept so much away
from here, lately ? He used to be forever following
you up, before. Have you quarreled
with him ?"
Elsie colored up more deeply than before,
and a little frown of vexation contracted her
brow. She found it very disagreeable to be
cross-questioned in this manner, but there was
no escape for her; Mrs. Deaue had planted
herself in front of her chair, and seemed resolved
on having an explanation.
"I'm sure I don't mind whether he keeps
away or not," she answered, evasively.
"That's neither here nor there. Answer
my question!" said Mrs. Deane, severely.
"Have you had any quarrel with him ?"
"N-no," said Elsie, in a low tone.
"Nor angered him in any way ?"
"He's no right to be angered, if he is," said
Elsie. "May-be I've affronted him, but if I
have, I don't care."
"Affronted him! You're a very stupid
girl, Elsie, if you do anything to turn him
off," said Mrs. Deane, with some excitement.
"Anybody, that's not as blind as a bat, can see
that you may have him any day for the say-so,
and I can tell you he's not one to be despised.
Why, there isn't a young man in the village
of better character than he, nor better prospects
neither. You're over young and giddy
to be thinking of marrying just yet, but I'd
as lief know you had such a good husband in
store for you ; and so you may, if you choose.
Speak up, Elsie ; has he ever asked you to
t ! *}>?
marry nun :
Thus driven into a comer, Elsie was constrained
to murmur a reluctant "yes."
"He has?has he! and pray what did you
tell him?"
There was gathering anger in Mrs. Deane's
voice. Elsie's head drooped as she answered,
in a low tone?
"I don't want to marry him, mother." .
"Then you refused him ?"
Silence gave assent.
"Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Deane, drawing a
long breath. "If ever I heard the like of
that before!"
There was a short silence. "Oh !" thought
Elsie, "if mother would only go away and
leave me in peace !" But this was by no
* a? CM
means tne gooa woman s lmeiiuou. one was
resolved to sift this matter to the bottom, and
find out exactly how it stood ; and to this end
she proceeded to besiege Elsie with a train of
harassing questions, the purport whereof was
to obtain a full and particular account of the
when, where and how of Jem's proposal, also
a minute exposition of the state of feeling
which had led to the rejection of the same?
an aet which appeared to Mrs. Deane a piece
of unbounded folly, and stirred up no small
measure of wrath in her heart. It had long
seemed to be a settled fact that Elsie and
Jem should marry ; his attachment had long
been too evident to permit much doubt regarding
his inclinations in the matter, and as
she had always received his homage willingly,
and frankly acknowledged her liking for
him, their future union had come to be regarded
almost as a matter of course. Jem
was acknowledged to be one of the finest and
most promising young men in the community ;
he was steady, intelligent and industrious and
possessed of a comfortable income and a fair
| share of good looks and good temper?what
i more could be desired ? Many a rustic belle
envied the devotion he so exclusively bestowed
i on the object of his choice, who, iu his eyes,
far eclipsed them all; and many au aspiring
dame, solicitous of having her girls well-dis|
posed of, sighed to reflect that he was beyond
: their reach. Mrs. Deane had, therefore, al!
ways felt very proud of his preference for
j Elsie, and had indulged in so many knowing
looks and winks to her friends on the subject,
; as to create the impression that there must at
! least be a settled understanding between the
j young folks. It was no wonder now that she
! felt angry at this sudden turn of aflairs,
which so completely disconcerted all her speculations.
j She could obtain no satisfaction from Elsie
j in her cross-examination, save the 'reiterated
! answer?"She didn't want to marry him?she
j didn't want to marry at all."
i "Not marry at all! who's to take care of
| you, I'd like to know, .when I'm dead and
? ' -*il
j gone, ana you a jone orpnan, wiin uu musiuik.
I to call upon? Elsie Deane, you are enough
| to try the patience of Job himself," cried Mrs.
I Deane, in utter exasperation at what she
! termed "such a pack of nonsense."
"Your contrariness passes all belief. What
on earth have you been fooling with that
young man all along for, if you didn't mean
to marry him in the end ?"
"I haven't been fooling with him," said
Elsie, hanging her head.
"Yes, you have! you received all his attentions
as if you liked 'em, and made him think
you cared more for his company than any
body's else. I've seen you many a time casting
your soft looks at him?"
"Oh! mother."
"Yes, and giviug him all your smiles, when
there were others standing around that you
grudged even to look at, though they tried to
make you ; and dancing with him half the
evening at parties; and talking with him in
corners; and letting him walk home with you
afterwai-d ; and pressing the flowers he gave
you in books; and what not beside. And
"" " 1 ~ ^rl nn/] f rvl 1 rrtck tliof \rnii monnf
j UUIY UJ till II luuiiu aim ttji nib vuuv j v.. >?> ?>
! nought by it! Elsie, I didu't look for you
! to act this way. I'm mortified at you ; you'll
S be the talk of the place, for your forwardness
and conceited ways. I never spoke to you
about your behavior, because I thought if
you preferred him, it was natural enough
! for you to show it, and it kept worthless fellows
off. But if I'd known it was coming to
this, I'd have stopped it long ago."
"I don't see that I've done anything wrong,"
murmured Elsie, who felt more irritated than
penitent at this lecture.
"Suppose I do like him, that's no reason
why I should marry him if I don't want to.
i I never told him I would, so I don't see that
he has any fault to find."
"But you must have some reason," persisted
Mrs. Deane. "Do you like any body else
better ?"
A vivid blush crimsoned Elsie's face, but
iu the gathering darkness it was not visible to
her mother's sharp eyes. Her equally sharp
; ears, however, detected au unwonted tremor in
i Elsie's voice as she replied?
i "I like him as well as any body, mother."
Mrs. Deane could make nothing out of her,
and finally ceased her questions ; but she pondered
the matter in her heart. She did not
think Elsie could have been so "daft" as to
refuse Jem's offer, unless there were some one
in the background for whom she entertained a
preference ; but who could it be?
"It can't be that good-for-nought Silas
Warren ! He's sweet on her, I know, butshe
never seems to notice him much. Or Marston?dear,
dear! could it be Joe Marston, I
wonder ? He's a tolerably likely lad, but he
can't hold a candle to Jem. Well, I'm bound
to find out the truth of the matter, somehow
or other. Elsie shan't keep no secrets from
me"
Henceforward the dame's vigilence was unceasing;
but with all her trouble she failed to
I discover any clue that might lead to the disj
entanglement of the knotty point in question.
I She narrowly watched her daughter's behaj
vior when in company with either of the
| young men whom, in her own mind, she had
i decided upon as the only likely objects of her
I regard, but the young girl appeared equally
indifferent to them, and to all others, who
sought her favor.
The change in her manner, formerly so
i cheerful and sunny, became more apparent as
the weeks wore on ; each day it became more
! reserved and preoccupied ; she shunned com|
panionship, and though she performed her du|
ties with mechanical regularity, they seemed
more of a task to her than formerly; she
seldom sang over her work, and her light feet
moved with a less elastic tread. There was,
in truth, a weight upon her spirits, which betrayed
itself at times in a feverish restlessness,
giving place in turn to listlessness and depresj
sion ; now she was all excitement, now tnel|
ancholy and peevish, yet through all these
I varying moods she appeared auxious to avoid
' notice or comment. But her mother watched
I her keenly, and became more than ever con|
vinced that there was something wrong, which
| as yet, she had been unable to fathom. She
' sometimes thought that Elsie must be pining
| f ?r Jem, as she did not seem to care for any
| one else, and repenting of her folly in having
! rejected him.
Poor little Elsie! If that had been all,
| her trouble could easily have been remedied.
j dem, inougn Danisheu, still leit luraseii ner
j slave, and could have been brought back by
. one kind word. But she did not bestow even
; a thought on him now ; his disappointment
{ was nothing to her; she almost forgot his
i very existence. To this simple country girl
a new and thrilling experience had come,
lifting her out of her every day sphere into a
new and visionary world, radiant with a romantic
halo that casta veil over every danger
I in her path. She loved deeply and passionl
ately; every fibre of her heart stirred respon!
sive to the touch that had awakened it to life,
1 and she yielded it up, wholly and unreserved:
ly, into the keeping of one who seemed to her
| imagination the very embodiment of peerless
perfection and manly worth.
And Charles ?
He was capitivated by her beauty; pleased
j and flattered by the naif admiration, almost
reverence, with which she regarded him?a
style of homage so novel to his experience as
to be almost as amusing as it was delightful!
The mere passing desire of gratifying his van;
ity by winning her regard, had indeed given
placo to a less shallow sentiment; he could
not but be charmed by her artlessness and
sweetness, and the timid deference she paid to
I his judgment, and he felt that if she had been
1 born in a higher sphere it would have cost him
bat little deliberation to ask her to become
his wife. Even as it was, he confessed to himself
that she pleased him better than any one
he had ever before seen. He had left home at
eighteen, Brmly convinced that he was in love
with his cousin, Julia Hargrave, and looking
' forward to marrying her on his return; hadI
heard twelve months later of her union with
j a naval officer, abandoned himself for the
! space of a fortnight to the profoundestmelan- j
, choly, then sought consolation in the charms !
I of the daughter of a Leipsic landlady; had j
; flirted with dozens of Lottas and Minas, lost j
i his heart nine successive times and managed j
i to recover it, and finally bid adieu to the
i University with the conviction that Iviitchen
! von Arndt would die of grief at his departure;
and now by way of crowning these varied experiences,
he was quite as ready as ever to |
j yield to the dictates of his present fancy, and
j to declare Elsie Deane the prettiest, most at.
tractive and most loveable little creature of
| all.
Perhaps oue of her chief charms lay in the
fact that she believed in him so entirely. She
could not suppose that any one would insincerely
utter such protestations as daily fell
from his lips ; and when her own timidity had j
worn off, and she gained courage to acknowl-j
edge her regard for him, he was surprised, I
| touched, and half incredulous at the manifestation
of her simple faith and devotion?the
unquestioning faith she placed in his love. It
j had needed but a brief intercourse to ripen
j friendship into that tenderer sentiment of i
j which Elsie had at first scarcely dared to j
I think. He himself had removed her doubts,
! her fears; he had told her that he loved her,
; and the overpowering joy of knowing this
made her forget or overlook all the drawbacks ,
j which existed to the expediency of such an :
attachment. Elsie, having a taste for romau- j
J tic literature, had read in novels and poems J
! of lowly maidens being espoused to noble j
| lords and high-born gentlemen, and it seemed j
I to her now as if she herself had become the j
j heroine of one of these idyls. Affection as j
deep and unquestioning as hers, could scarcely i
I ~ . i ,._j . ,1 |
fail to sviu lu return a deeper unu iruer icgaiu
j than Charles would, perhaps, otherwise have
felt for her. He had met her by hazard the
i day after his arrival with Horace at the inn, j
been struck by her appearance, and found :
means to introduce himself to her notice, think-1
ing that a flirtation with such a pretty girl j
| would be a pleasant variety to the amusement \
of which they had come in quest; but he soon j
began to discover that what lie had uuderta-1
! ken as mere pastime promised to be a much j
| more serious affair than he had at first con- j
| templated. He was diverted by the discove- j
| ry, then provoked ; blamed his own folly, and j
; finally began to weigh in iiis mind the most;
; proper measures for him to take under the |
I circumstances.
"Why should I not marry her ?" he even j
I went so far as to ask himself, more than once. ;
i "She adores me, and she is really a beauty? !
% 1 T 11 I J .PI I
1 do not; see tnat 1 need ue asnameu 01 nor us ;
j a wife. Plenty of men marry beneath them, I
and raise their wives to their own level in so- '
j ciety. If I did marry her, nobody should !
dare to say a word against her. The folks at
home would be angry, I suppose, and the
J governor would make a precious row at first, j
j because they all expect me to marry Elinor j
Hollingwood; but they'd get over all that;
when once they hud seeu her. Elinor was j
not pretty a bit, as I recollect her?sallow and j
, lanky, with sharp elbows and frocks always ;
j too short for her, and as stiff as a poker?just
! as different from Elsie as a scarecrow is from
j a daisy. And I'd take Elsie to the Continent!
J and polish her up there a little bit before go- j
i ing home; there is not a particle of coarseness j
j or ill breeding about her, only she hasn't so- j
j ciety manners, exactly. The fact is, I am ;
; awfully spooney about her; never saw a girl ,
! I liked so much before. I've a great mind to j
I do it, and astonish the weak minds of my re- J
' lations! It would be very shabby to go off
now and leave the poor little thing, after get- J
ting her so madly in love with me. It would ;
; be unprincipled ; I really dou't think I ought !
' to do it." |
Principle was, unfortunately, not always the j
ruling motive of Charles' conduct; but when |
it went hand in hand with inclination, he was ;
* . * '
readv to listen to its voice. Naturally selfish
; and irresolute, he was prone to seize on the en-;
>joyineut of the present, without much regard j
' to consequences, and to delay as long as pos-1
I sible the fulfillment of any unpleasant duty,1
j which he was not able altogether to shirk. |
: In his first acquaintanceship with Elsie, he [
I had chosen to keep the knowledge of it a se-1
' cret, because, intending only to amuse him-1
! self for a little while, he thought it would be
| a bore to have either Horace or Elsie's friends ;
i become cognizant of it; the former would !
: blame him, the latter might interfere and put J
I a stop to it altogether; and even after he j
| began to entertain more serious thoughts re- j
I garding her, his characteristic love of put-1
I ting off made him reluctant to take any de
cided steps in the matter. In fact, he was by
no meaus, sure of his own mind ; at one mo-'
! ment he condemned his folly, and almost re- j
! solved to break it off by leaving the place at j
; once; at the next, the recollection of Elsie's ;
charms and her devotion to him would entire- j
. ly revolutionize his feelings, and bring him to
| the determination to marry her, cost what it
i might.
At last, troubled at the long continuance of,
! the secresy which had become so oppressive :
i to her, Elsie ventured to ask him why she '
; might not tell her mother of their attachment. j
Charles, a little embarrassed, evaded the ;
I question by asking, in turn, why she wished j
i her mother to know.
) "Why, Charles!" (He had insisted on her !
calling him Charles, and with much difficulty ;
I she had been prevailed upon to do so). "IIow j
! can I help being worried, to think that I am :
acting so deceitfully ? I never did so before." i
i "You are not acting deceitfully, Elsie; you i
j have been asked no questions, therefore, it
| cannot be wrong to keep silence. Telling a !
: fib would be different."
"It is just as bad," said Elsie, "because I
j am hiding the truth. And mother suspects :
me, I know, from the way she looks ; and it's 1
: so miserable at home now."
! "Poor little thing," said Charles, caressing
her with a feeling of compunction, "what a
| wretch I am to make you unhappy."
j "Tell me," said Elsie, anxiously, "do you ;
! think there can be any harm in?in our caring
: for one another ? Is it wrong?"
j "Wrong? How can it be wrong for two j
! people to love each other, Elsio? Does not
i the Bible tell us we must?"
"The Bible !?oh ! now you are joking,
' and I do want you to tell me in earnest?to
J tell me truly, what you think. Please do."
Her glance was so pleading, her tone so full
; of child-like, wistful entreaty, that Charles
j felt, at that moment, ready to do anything
1 she might ask. He drew her closer to him.
I "Tell you the truth, Elsie?" he exclaimed.
"Well, the truth is, that you are just the
I dearest, sweetest little piece of perfection I
ever saw, and to please you I'll make any
confession you like, even at the risk?"
But Elsie, with a cry, suddenly started
away from him, and stood petrified, every
trace of color banished from her dimpled
cheeks. There, not six yards off, stood her
mother, who, for certain reasons of her own,
had thus unexpectedly sallied forth this afternoon
to meet Elsie on her way home.
CHAPTER IV.
To say that Mrs. Deane was shocked and
astonished at what sjie saw, would be giving
so mild a version of the truth, as to convey
but a faint and imperfect idea of the intensity
of her feelings on the occasion. She was positively
paralyzed, and stood for a moment or
two glaring at the offenders, stifly erect, and
incapable of speech or motion.
Charles was so taken by surprise that at
firaf Via looked as onnfused as he felt, but al
most immediately his customary self-possessiou
came to his aid. The sight of Elsie's pale face
and evident terror, aroused all his manly instincts,
and drawing nearer to her he took one
of her trembling hands, as if to assure her of
his protection.
"Don't be afraid, Elsie," he said gently.
"You have done nothing wrong."
The words and action combined seemed to
arouse Mrs. Deane's powers from their temporary
lethargy, and loosened her spell-bound
tongue. With eyes blazing in wrath she stepped
forward, and with one abrupt and energetic
movement detached Elsie's hand from
her lover's grasp, and pushed her aside.
"How dare you, sir!" she cried in a voice
quivering with indignation. "Before my very
eyes! Who may you be, pray, that dares to
take such liberties with my daughter ?"
"My name is Sydney," said the young man,
courteously lifting his hat, for he was anxious
for the daughter's sake to propitiate the angry
mother. "Ifyou will allow me to explain?"
"Elsie !" cried Mrs. Deaue, turning sharply
round upon her daughter, "go home this instant?this
instant! do you hear?"
Elsie moved off a step or two, met Charles'
glance, and stopped.
"Oh! mother," she began in faltering tones.
11 JUU 11 VIIIJ 1IOWV1I
But her mother would not listen.
"Do you hear what I say ?" she reiterated,
stamping her foot. "Do as I bid you and go
home. I'll hear what you have to say when
I come. Now, young man," she continued,
wheeling round again upon Charles, "please
to say your say out, and be done with it."
And as Elsie slowly aud reluctantly retired,
she folded her arms across her chest and
looked scowlingly at the chief offender, somewhat
as a member of the inquisitorial fraternity
might have regarded a criminal, before
passing upon him the sentence of condemnation.
Charles reddened and bit his lip; lie was
angry, yet half inclined to laugh, and not at
all desirous of treating the affair au strieux.
"I am quite ready to give you any explanation
you desire, madam," he rejoined, composedly,
leaning agaiust the railing of the
bridge, thrusting his hands in his pockets, aud
carelessly crossing one foot over the other, as
if resolved upon taking, as easily as possible,
whatever unpleasantness was in store for him,
though in his mind he voted it "a great bore."
"Then, sir," said Mrs. Deane, a iiuie staggered
by his coolness, "will you be kind
enough to inform me, as I consider I have the
best light to know, what you mean by taking
such liberties as to be kissing my girl?I saw
you do it! I saw you with my own eyes!"
she continued, in tones of rising shrillness,
"and I just ask again, how dare you J"
"Well," said Charles, looking down, and
kicking a loose pebble with his foot, "I did
not consider it a liberty, because?I love your
daughter."
This was said not without an effort, but he
saw no way of escape.
"Love her!" echoed Mrs. Deane, drawing
herself up, and speaking with scornful emphasis.
"Love her! Yes, I dare say. Mighty
fine, sir, indeed."
"What do you mean?" asked Charles.
"Mean!" said Mrs. Deane, excitedly. "I
mean that I know the ways of fine folks like
you, who come and make love to silly, ignorant
girls for your own amusement, pretending
all you say is gospel truth, and then go off
" "'om imnsr /lormir ivllpthpr VOIl'vP
auu ivjicaau viuj uv^vti ^ _
left broken hearts behind you or not. But
no girl of raiue shall be humbugged like that
by any villain, gentle or simple, while I'm
above ground to look after her, I can tell
you."
"You quite mistake me, Mrs. Deane. My
intentions are perfectly honorable," said
Charles. "I wish to marry your daughter."
"Much obliged to you for the honor, sir!
My daughter's got honest lovers enough and
to spare, of her own rank in life, without being
put to the trouble of seeking one of your
sort; so, if you'll excuse the impoliteness of
it, I'll just advise you to go about your own
business, and leave her alone. Marry my
daughter!" repeated Mrs. Deane in a towering
passion ; "marry the cat's grandmother."
"I am afraid she wouldu't have me," said
Charles, with great politeness.
"Then go and find somebody who will," retorted
his adversary.
"But I would rather have Elsie," said
Charles, who was beginning to derive some
ffnm T\Trs Dniinp'q Rrtrrpr. ''Bfi
<1 III UOUIUV1I V JIVS&A* "i ? ?'"W -
sides, she loves me?"
"I always knew she was a little fool! But
I'll teach her sense," cried the enraged dame.
"All I've got to say to you is that you'd best
leave her alone now, and not follow her up
no more. I'm a lone widder woman myself,
but I've got friends enough to protect me and
her too, if I choose to call on 'em."
"You talk of protection," said Charles, "as
if I were a ruffian, or a raging beast. Do
you suppose that I intend to persecute your
daughter, or injure either of you in any way?
I offer to marry Elsie, and you treat the offer
as if it were an insult. Really, I don't understand
such singular conduct."
"It may be very singular, no doubt," said
Mrs. Deane, whose temper waxed hotter and
her tones higher as the interview proceeded,
"very singular, for a girl like my Elsie to refuse
a fine gentleman's offers, or for me to re*
i' fuse 'era for her, which you'll find is more to
: the purpose. But I can tell you that it's not |
I because I don't think her good enough for you ; i
; no, indeed, I think her a million times too '
1 good."
j "Complimentary," muttered Charles.
) "I don't know who you may be, nor do I j
: care ; all I know is you're a stranger to these j
j parts, and how you met Elsie, or got round
i her as you've doue, passes ray understanding.
; You look like a gentleman" (with scornful j
j emphasis) "I 'spose you call yourself one? ;
i but if you are, you ought to know better than j
to seek underhanded meetings with an igno-;
! rant girl, and worm yourself into her liking,
I unbeknown to them as could teach her better, j
That's a fine gentleman's conduct, forsooth ! j
! Actions speak louder than words, and if you !
! raeaut to act fair and honest by her, what hin- J
! dered you saying so, instead of sneaking after j
j her in the highways and by-ways like a thief? j
! If you're ashamed of being seen with her, j
i keep your own company and welcome. Please j
God, I'll soon see her married to one who j
don't come a-courting her in secret; she don't |
need to go a-begging for a husband. And I
want you to understand, sir," said Mrs. Deane, j
winding up her peroration with exceeding !
; fierceness, "that this is an end of everything
between you and she, and you'd best keep
your distance in future, and leave honest folks
alone."
Here she paused purely from lack of breath,
j and after waiting for an instant in expectation
j of an answer?which, however, did not come?
I triumphantly retired from the field, in the
! firm conviction that the enemy was entirely
! routed by the force of her oratory. Charles
; watched her tall figure until it vanished :
1 among the trees, then with a short laugh, 1
j turned upon his heel and strolled off in the j
: opposite direction.
j "Poor little Elsie ! I'm afraid she'll catch !
j it," he muttered. "What a virago that woman '
j is. Well, I've certainly stirred up a nice j
i kettle of fish. What a ridiculous fuss about;
j nothing ! Can't a man kiss a village girl, I
[ wonder, without biingingsuch a hornet's nest
j about his ears ? I suppose all the bumpkins
in the neighborhood will be lying in wait for
me now, ready to cudgel my unfortunate j
brains out if I so much as cast another glauce
at her. Well, it's not her fault; and ail this 1
row only makes me determined to outwit the |
old woman and carry my point. She'll cage
ray pretty bird, I suppose, but I'll see if I
can't manage to cut the wires and set her free,
or rather take her captive myself. There's
irr ,.!ii
really some zest in the enterprise now i a win j
be fun to out-general the ancient matron, and I
spite my rustic rivals, whoever they may be.'
By fair means or foul, I'll carry that dear !
little thing away?.she's too good for this !
place. That's my determination, and neither
dame nor devil shall hinder me from carrying
it out."
Charles was surprised, aud somewhat disconcerted,
to discover, in any member of a
community of such coramou folks as he supposed
the villagers to be, so much sturdy pride
i as could receive the advances of a gentleman
like himself with indifference and even dis-j
dain. He had thought that he was condescending
greatly in offering to make Klsie his
wife, aud to be "abused like a pickpocket" as
he styled it, instead of being overwhelmed
with the gratitude his magnanimity deserved,
was really too bad. The more he pondered
the matter, the more annoyance it caused him,
and the more firmly did he resolve so carry
his point.
Upon Elsie, when her mother reached home,
- " ? 1 r% % r T~V (
were poured the lull vials or ivirs. jL/eanesi
wrath. The poor little thing was so dismayed
and and cast down by the unexpected turn j
iu the tide of affairs, that she offered uo resis-1
tance, but meekly succumbed to the torreutof j
reproach that flowed from the lips of her an- j
gry parent. Only once, when it was directed ;
with especial virulence against Charles, did j
she summon courage to interpose a faint plea
in his behalf.
"It was my fault, mother, for not telling
you. I wa3 afraid you'd be angry. He's a |
real true geutleman, and never meant any 1
wrong."
Woman like, she accepted far more than ;
i her merited share of the blame, for the sake
! of sheltering the object of her love. But her
weak defense was not heeded much ; Mrs.;
| Deane was too much excited and engrossed j
! in the expression of her own feelings to notice ;
; the timid interpolation. She did, indeed, occa- i
j sioually pause for an answer to the questions i
j she launched at Elsie concerning all the cir- i
curastances of her acquaintanceship with ;
Charles ; each answer seeming to stir up a fresh |
measure of indignation at the impropriety,1
j the audacity, the duplicity of the whole affair.!
j Elsie was finally banished to her room, feel-!
| ing herself the greatest criminal in existence, j
| She shuddered at the thought that her con- \
j duct must appear bold and unraaideuly in ;
| her lover's eyes ; for her mother had impressed
i upon her that he had merely been amusing ,
himself at her expense, as such fine gentlemen j
always did, and trying to see how far he could j
make her betray her own folly. This she did
not, could not believe; yet she was confused
and perplexed, and the mere suggestion of i
! such an idea made her miserable. She!
I crept into bed in tears, feeling as if she bore j
i upon her a stigma of reproach that could i
never be removed.
"Perhaps he despises me!" was the thought!
that haunted her, even in her dreams. "lie
seemed to care for me?and yet, mother says ,
he was only trying to see how far he could im- j
pose on me. Oh! I can't think it! But!
then, he might have thought I was foolish !
and ignorant; and I must have let him see '
my feelings too plainly. If I ever meet him i
again I shall be ashamed to look into his
face!"
Yet the fear of not seeing him again was ,
| the keenest misery of all.
j Charles, it must be confessed, slept as well!
as usual, and had an excellent appetite for his
: breakfast next morning. He was disposed to
* 1 " *.i * r T\ I
j regard ins stormy coiioquy wild iurs. j^eaue ,
' almost in the light of a joke, and laughed
j once or twice as he recalled her indignant i
looks, shrill tones and melo-dramatic gestures, j
To say, however, that he was quite uncon* j
j cerned at what had happened, would be to do
him injustice; he felt very sorry for Elsie,!
and while he was yawning over a novel in the !
i forenoon, stopped several times to say, in a j
! reflective tone, "Poor little thing 1 what a
confounded shame it i3 !'* When evening
came and he had no prospect of meeting her,
j it really made him dull, and his blank, dis-'
1 satisfied feelings caused him to set to work in
I earnest to contrive some means of seeing her j
I again.
"It must be soon, too," he thought, "or I ir
shall throw up the whole thing and clear out. "
I can't stay in this dull hole without the sight ?
of her face to enliven me." ^
The next day he sent after a little farmer's p
lad in the neighborhood, whom Horace and f(
himself had once or twice employed to accora- tc
pany then) on their fishing expeditions, and
asked him if he knew Elsie Deane, down at 9}
the village.
"In course I do," was the reply. "Why, I ?
goes to church there 'most every Sunday, and 0]
Elsie's ray Sunday-school teacher, she is." st
"Is she, really ?" said Charles. "Then can j b
you do a little errand for rae, ray hoy ?" i 8t
"Dn a whieh. sir?" | j1'
"An errand?carry a message to Miss Elsie ^
for me, I mean. But look here, I want you 0I
to do it so that nobody shall know any thing d,
about it. Do you think you could manage r<
that ?" E
"Dunno," said the boy, staring at him inquisitively.
"I guess her mammv'd be after
?? tt
me. ^ ]f
"But couldn't you meet her some time when f\
her mother was not there ?" suggested Charles, ri
impatiently. w
"I might at Sunday-school," said the boy. "
"Why, yes, of course you could ; that would v
be just the very thiug."
"But that won't be for three days."
"Never mind?I suppose that would do. ]
The message is written in here," said Charles, E
taking a sealed note from his pocket, "and I ft
want her very much to get it safe; but at the
same time I do not wish anybody to know "
about it but herself. Now do'you understand j ^
me?" jjj
"Yes, master; it's a secret you mean. I C
can keen a secret." said the boy with an in- j w
telligent look. "Once when another boy und ! b,
me was out after hares, on the Squire's land, j
and he telled me he'd kill me if I let on about! ?!
it?be was big, you see, and I was little?I j ^
never said nothing about it; so you see I; c]
knows how to keep a secret." i c<
"No doubt, when it concerns yourself," said j ai
Charles, amused at the illustration. "But,! al
see here, if you'll carry this letter cleverly, I
and not let anybody see you give it to her, J g
I'll pay you well, boy. Wouldn't you like i ?
that?" IE
A broad grin testified assent. j si
"I'd give you a shilling, or maybe two," j h
said Charles. "But mind, if you don't do j ^
exactly as I bid you, I'll give you nothing at ^
"? " ! tt
"Two shilliu'!" cried the little fellow, all ! ai
excitement. "Hooray! Give us the letter, S
master; don't be afeard, I'll take it safe, and J ^
nobody but Elsie'll see it." j
After still further impressing upon him the j j]
necessity for extreme caution, and being satis-1
fied from his answers that there was not much | tl
risk in trusting him, Charles delivered over j T
the note iuto his keeping. The urchin stuck j fi
it carefully into the ragged liuing of his hat; J1
nodded with an expression of great sagacity, I j
as if to deuote his thorough understanding of ^
the importance of the trust; and raced off, 11(
leaving Charles to meditate on the probable ti
success of his mission, and read a dissertation j es
x- 1 ; te 4|._ _1 i,:? I rr
10 Q1IU301I UU LUC UUSUlUltj' U1 IJiO tuivmg ov ;
much trouble about anything.
"I almost wish I'd never come here," he re- j
fleeted. "And yet that girl is pretty enough ' q
to make one willing to be a fool, almost." j C
[to be continued next week.] i a
St
fPswUittteauis Heading. S
A CAROLINA CREMATIONIST. j p
In citing examples of cremation in modern ' b,
times, one of the most noteworthy has been j j,
overlooked. It is important, not only from 1 cj
che high character of the person, but from
reasons which bear directly upon the subject C{
as discussed by the World. It is that of h,
Henry Laurens, which took place on his plan- a
tation, December 11, 1792. The connection
of Henry Laurens so prominently and credit*' 0(
ably with our early national life, renders the j re
carrying out of his last wish more interesting. J
? - p rii l ^ \ ? ... 4 p
A citizen 01 ^narjcsiun, ue ueuume a must j1(
successful merchant, amassing a large fortune j
during a business career, in which he was dis- f m
tinguished for his accuracy, iutegrity and rf
the punctuality with which he met all busi-1 fr
ness engagements. Having gone to Europe I hi
for the education of his sou, he was one of the j hi
thirty-nine who petitioned parliament against i ft
the Boston port bill. Having done all in his i
power to prevent war, against all persuasion ! w
to remain in England, he came home and i $
identified himself with the revolutionary j j,
struggle. He succeeded John Hancock as ! ]t
President of Congress, an office he resigned i
the second term, wheu he was made minister ' w
to Holland. On his way to his mission the :
vessel was captured by the British, and he j hi
was carried to the Tower, on the suspicion of, hi
treason. Here he was placed in close con- hi
finemeut, guarded by two wardens, who never j c]
left him out of sight. | p,
With no pen to write with, no one to speak j ju
to, he remained fourteen months, suffering i 01
from insufficient food, not being permitted to j a(
use his own money for that purpose, broken I 0f
down in health, aud suffering acutely from < jD
gout. His sufferings became known ; Burke !
was interested in him ; various schemes were j g(
proposed for his release. Oue of these was . C
to be through the concessions of his sou John, j hi
then in Paris as representative of Congress, | fr
but Laurens replied : "He loves me dearly, i $
and would lay down his life to save mine, but !
I am sure he would not sacrifice his honor to
save mine; aud I applaud him." When, di
finally, he was released, he was appointed one ' \\
of the raiuisters of Congress for negotiating j is
peace. He met Jay, Franklin and Adams at' hi
Paris, where the preliminaries of the treaty j bl
were signed. On returniug to America he 1 m
was received as a national benefactor, but he j is
declined all public offices and devoted himself er
to agriculture and the mending of his broken : w
fortunes. He died December 8th, 1792. The tt
following clause in his will relates to the dis- j V
position of his body : * tl
"I solemnly enjoin it on my son as an indis-1 sr
pensable duty, that as soon as he convenient- J oi
ly can after ray decease, to cause my body to i
be wrapped in twelve yards of tow cloth and j bl
burned until it be entirely consumed, and i oi
then collecting my bones deposit them wher-: hi
ever he may think proper." ! be
His biographer, Ramsey, who was his son- { wi
in-law, relates this much, and adds that it was j be
done as desired, but makes no mention of the I pi
causes of the request or the details of the i ur
burning. So unusual a proceeding doubtless j be
must have created considerable interest, and : ne
the New York Journal and Patriotic Register,
Saturday, January 26, 1793, on file at the j ra;
Historical Society Library, contains this al- j D
lusion: I w<
"The following extract of a letter, dated ] rii
Charleston, S. C., December 24, is copied j T1
from the Norwich Weekly Register, of Janu-! dc
ary 14: j se
" 'A few days since departed this life, Henry
Laurens, Esq., about seventy years of age, 8
and his corpse was burnt the Thursday after an
his decease. This was done by his son at the as
request of his father, who made this reverse th
i his will, that unless his son complied with
lis he should be cut short in any of his
states, which were worth ?60,000 sterling,
'he ashes remainiag from the body were
iken up and put into a silver urn for that
urpose. The reason that Mr. Laurens gave
>r this singular desire was that his body was
>0 good to be eaten by worms.' "
A foot-note, however, in Chadwick's "Report
n Intramural Interment," states that Henry
.aureus, having an infant child die of smallox,
when the body was laid out, caused the
indow to be opened to admit afresh current
f air. The air blowing over the body reared
the child to life, and in this manner it
arely escaped being buried alive. So horror
ricken was Mr. Laurens at this event, that
e left orders in his will for his body to be
' * * ' - * i-i- ?L..
urned, aua tne mneruance 01 ma esiawj uy
is son was made conditional on his carrying
at the request. It is impossible to had the
etails of the burning so far, but a gentleman
imembers to have read them years ago in an
Inglish book. The funeral pile was erected
q a beautiful spot on his plantation. The
ody, wrapped as desired in the will, was borne
n the shoulders of four favorite slaves and
lid upon the pyre^ when incense and perlmes
were thrown upon it. After the funeil
services were held beside it, the flames
ere kindled, and when the pile was burned,
le ashes were collected and placed in a silver
ase.?New York World, April 12.
A GAMESTER OF THE OLD TIME.
The "Life and Adventures of Robert Baiiy"
is a somewhat rare book, published at
Richmond in 1823, and sold to subscribers
om the hand of its author.
Bailey was the greatest gambler of his pcod,
and was in the height of his fame dung
the administrations of Washington, Jefsrson
and Madison. He was the son of an
rishman and his mother a Quaker. Born in
hester Valley, Pennsylvania, his father
asted a considerable fortune of Mrs. Bailey's
y going security for men at large. Then en(ring
the patriot army, the elder Bailey beime
a major, and was killed at the battle of
owpens. The impoverished widow loaded
er goods upon a cart, and with her brood of
liildren, followed after, on foot, to Culpepper
ounty, Virginia, where she kept a tavern,
ad afterward a school, and finally married
gain.
The second husband undertook to chastise
oung Bailey, but received a dreadful floging.
This happened at the Seneca stone
uarries, in Maryland. Afterward, young
lailey married a tavern keeper's widow, and
lowed considerable genius for trading in
orses, liquors, negroes, and' merchandise.
Without education, he had still a powerful
ill and violent temper, ana 111s prowess maue
im audacious and feared. In those days,
le Virginia springs were full of faro dealers,
ad Bailey was the principal gambler at the
weet Springs, afterward keeping the hotel
lere. In the height of his fame, he had a
irge boarding house at Berkley Springs, and
city hotel at Washington, called the Bell
an, kept in six of Daniel Carroll's houses.
At this time, as for fourteen years, he was
le dupe of a Winchester widow, named Ann
urnbull, and though his relations were notoous
aud open with this creature, the chief
istice and the supreme bench boarded with
im, and even advanced him hundreds of dolirs
at times on account of board. Afterward
e had a magnificent establishment at Georgejwn
and haunted Union Hotel. He was
vice put in prison as a debtor, and each time
scaped, once advertising a reward for the
larshal of the district, Ringgold, who had
lacarded him. On another occasion he vised
President Jefferson, at the White House,
t the request of Commodore Barney and
ominodore Dawson, and when the Secretary,
olouel Cole, sent an usher to tell him he
iu3t retire, he way laid the marshal in the
,reet and gave him a terrible flogging, for
hich, after a tedious prosecution, he was
tied only $10 and costs.
He kept some of the fastest horses in the
luntry, and ran at Annapolis, Richmond,
etersburg, Winchester, Lexington, Lynchurg,
Port Tobacco and other places. He
rove either four or six horses to a grand
laise, with outriders, and men in livery, and
is own hair was superbly powdered, while he
irried a gold-headed cane. On such tours
e stopped at the prominent places and opened
game. He says that his earnings amounted
? half a million dollars, in gross. On one
jeasion, when the ladies at the Sweet Springs
jfused to dance with him, he bought the nero
violinist and stopped the music in the
eight of the season.
He went abroad to dispose of some of his
lountain land, and becoming short of funds
tng in with some Englishmen, who diced
eely, and he bet ?50,000. Losing, he threw
imself on their generosity, and they raised
im a purse. Again, in France, magnificent
ick followed him, and he returned to the
nited States rich. He then loaded a ship
ith merchandise and went into business at
ew Orleans, where a disagreement with his
oxy made him low spirited, and he lost his
ick.
Iu the latter part of Bailey's life, when lie
as struggling most earnestly to amend his
/il courses and thrive by legitimate business
3 fell into the hands of bailiffs, and was
unted from jail to jail for trivial debts, until
s lost the use of his limbs by wearing ronuapq
and hv rheumatism. Then, wretched.
ursued and despairing, he went into a meetig
house at the town of Bath, where he had
ice been a great favorite, and endeavored to
idress his ignorant soul to the contemplation
' heaven. The constables suddenly rushed
upon his meditations, and he was dragged
;ain to jail. Finally, released from Ha>rstown
prison, by the intercession of the
debrated Otho Williams, he had no resort
it to indite his memoirs and peddle the same
om horse race to horse race.? Wa$hi7iglon
ar.
?
Dead, But not Buried.?When a friend
es and is buried, there is an end of him.
Je miss him for a space out of our daily extence
; we mourn for him by degrees that
icorae mercifully less; we cling to the
IpsspH hnnp that we shall be reiinited ir >ome
ore perfect sphere; but so far as this v*arth
concerned, there's an end of him. Howev
near and dear he was, the time arrives
hen he does not form a part of our daily
loughts; he ceases to be even an abstraction.
Jo go no more with flowers and tears into
le quiet cemetery; only the rain and the
iow flakes fall there; we leave it for fingers
spring to deck the neglected mound.
But when our friend vanishes unaccountaly
in the midst of a crowded city, or goes off
1 a sea-voyage and is never heard of agaiu,
s memory has a singular tenacity. He may
> to all intents and purposes dead to us, but
2 have not lost him. The ring of the doorill
at midnight may be his ring; the apoaching
footstep may be his footstep; the
lexpected letter with foreign postmark may
i from his hand. He haunts us as the dead
iver can.
The woman whose husband died last night
ay marry again within a score of months,
o yon suppose a week passes by when the
3man whose husband disappeared myste3usly
ten years ago does not think of him ?
here are moments when the opening of a
ior must startle her. There is no real abnce
but death.?T. B. Aldrich, in Atlantic.
65" An Indian paper thus politely expresses
opinion of a judge: "He knows just about
much of law as a mule does of mineralogy?
e chances being in favor of the mule."