Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, December 09, 1880, Image 1
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VOL. 26. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1880. ^ ^ NO. 50.
fir ljvr r , '' 1
^elected f?octog.
From tlie Southern Presbyterian.
ENTERING INTO LIFE.
I stood beside the sufferer's bed,
And saw the sufferer lie
With pallid brow and drooping head,
And dimly-glazing eve.
I saw the hectic's fevered flush
Fade from its wonted glow ;
And faintly heard the dying hush,
? As life's lamp flickered low.
The wasted form, upon the couch
Like sculptured marble lay,
As chiseled by a master's touch,
Tho' crumbling in to clay.
The King of Terrors saw I come
With cold ami venoined dart,
And strike, amid the gathering gloom,
That feebly-fluttering heart.
But fear or fluttering saw I none,
Nor tremble in that glance,
As with nnquuiling heart and faith
She met his dread advance.
A smile seraphic, soft, and sweet,
Swept o'er that stiffening clay;
Like sunlight from the spirit-world,
.Like gleam 01 goiuen uay.
I saw no glittering cherubim,
And heard no rustling wing;
Nor glimpsed afar thro'distance dim,
Bright spirits minist'ring;
But well I know, in viewless air,
Unseen to mortal eyes,
Celestial convoys hovered there,
To bear a ransomed prize.
Then came a gasp?a tremor slight,
And drooped the weary head ;
The tenant-spirit wings its llight?
The maiden fair is dead.
"Dead" did T say? And is this death ?
And is it this, "to die" ?
This slumber sweet?this parting breath,
With neither sob nor sign ?
This laying down all mortal woe?
And pains and groans and strife?
This surely is not death?no, no?
' Tis eterinff into life.
Aye, entering into life?for them
"Earth's turmoil all is o'er;
And thpy who live that life again,
Shairtaste of death no more.
Cold Is the marble of thy brow,
And pale the snowy cheek ;
The rose has faded from it now?
Thy lipti no longer speak ;
The> death smile on thy features sleeps,
And lingers beauteous there;
The sore liereftone o'er thee weeps,
Or breathes th' nnuttered prayer.
And friends now- wail, aiu^ hearts now bleed,
For thee, so long caressed ;
They need not, for this day indeed,
Thou'rt entered to thy"rest.
For He who bought thee, He who bled,
And gave his life for thine,
To thee, soft whispering, sweetly said,
"This day, fair one, thou'rt mine
j|u (Ngiual
Written for the Yorkville Knquirer.
THE LADY OF LINTON.
BY WALTER MORGAN.
CHAPTER I.
Linton Towers, a magnificent structure off
the reign of Queen Anne, standing in the centre
of one of the finest estates in Kent, and
owned by a widow lady who livejJ there in perfect
seclusion, was the object of peculiar interest
to all the inhabitants of that part of the
country, as being the seat of a singular and not
altogether agreeable romance.
Miriam Hepburn, the present "Lady of
Linton," as she was always called, had been
in early childhood, betrothed to her cousin,
Sir Roland Hepburn, the heir of great wealth
and the possessor of a noble name ; but his
personal advantages did not correspond with
those of his ancestral inheritance. He was,
in fact, a cripple, having been deformed in infancy
by a fall from his nurse's arms; had a
stunted, sickly frame, a disproportinned head
and feeble limbs, which rendered him an unsightly
and pitiable object. When the little
Miriam, then a mere child of seven or eight,
first beheld her cousin, to whom she had, until
this meeting, been a stranger, she ran to con
ceal herself in her mother s room, declaring
that she would never, never play with such a
looking boy, or have anything to do with him.
"You are mistaken, my dear," calmly and
severely said her mother, a most resolute dame.
"You will not only play with your cousin, but
be careful to treat him with the utmost courtesy
and consideration, and on no account allow
him to perceive that you have any distaste
dor his appearance. He is a clever and prom
ising boy, and is to be your constant companion
from this time forth. Moreover, he will
one day bestow a great benefit upon you, since
in making you his wife, he will render you the !
mistress of great wealth, and an elegant |
home. But this you are too young to under- |
stand."
Miriam, however, did understand it, and j
she firmly resolved that never, even to obtain j
the advantages of which her mother had ;
spoken; would she submit to such a sacrifice |
as a marriage with Roland Hepburn.
Lady Agnes Hepburn, her mother, had an |
inflexible will, and seldom failed in carrying
out any purpose she had at heart. She had
usually fouud her daughter tractable, and
felt secure of being able to mould her incli-j
nations, in this case, as in most others, into i
compliance with her own. She had manoeu- '
vered successfully to obtain the guardianship
of little Roland, left, as he was, an orphan at
the age of ten, and considered that she had
gained an importaut pointiu thus bringing him ;
under her direct influence, and into constant
association with Miriam, his future bride. \
The boy was docile and gentle in disposition,
but a tinge of bitterness and discontent shadowed
his mind, and interfered with his en
joyment of childish pursuits. Miriam, afraid [
openly to disobey her mother, ceased to avoid
his companionship. They played and studied
together, but there was no congeniality of
feeling between them, and they never became
mutually attached. Roland admired her, for
she was both handsome and brilliant, and
possessed some fine qualities ; but he had an j
inward consciousness that she looked on him
with pity, if not with absolute scorn, and was
never easy in her presence. A morbid dread
of the future marriage, which was made no
secret of, but often aud openly alluded to in
the household, crept over him, strengthening
with advancing years, and he was quite as
anxious as his betrothed to find some means,
if possible, to avert such a consummation, from
which, however, there seemed little chance of
escape. The contract of their betrothal had
been solemnly made between their respective
parents ; aud in additou to this, it was enjoined
upon him by his father's will not to
fail in carrying out the agreement, since, by
such a failure, he would not only forfeit his
inheritance to Liutou Towers and their valuable
belongings, but carry with him to his
grave the heritage of his deceased pareut's
I severest displeasure?an imaginary heritage,
1 by the way, but one which young Roland's
i sensitive mind shrank from bringing down
j upon himself. The elder Sir Roland had
known his disposition sufficiently well to believe,
and with justice, that the reproaches of
his oonscience, in the event of his non-compliance
with such an expressed wish, would
be a heavier penalty for him to bear through
life than the loss of the wealth of which it
would deprive him. So far as Roland was
concerned, 'herefore, there was small likelihood
of the con'ract being broken; and in
regard to Miriam?well, her mother would
take care to manage that there was no failure
on her part?so said Lady Agnes to herself,
-* t i . . . a- 1 ?
wun ner usual ueierminauou lu u#ve uci
way.
Months and years rolled by. The young
lord of Liuton Towers attained his majority,
and Miriam, three years his junior, was
quite old enough to become a bride. Quietly
and unostentatiously, Lady Agnes began to
make preparations for the wedding.
"Cousin," said Roland to her, a day or
two after the celebration of his coming of age,
"next week I go to take possession of my estate.
I wish to take this oportunity of thanking
you, most warmly and gratefully, for the
motherly care and kindness I have always
received at your hands, during my stay beneath
your roof."
"Most welcome have you been to all that
you have received," graciously replied Lady
Agnes. "But you speak of leaving us. How
long will it be, my son, before you return?"
Roland well understood her meaning. He
turned pale, hesitated, and looked down as
he rejoined?
"That depends on the pleasure of my cousin
Miriam and yourself."
"Your cousin Miriam, my dear Roland,
always conforms to my wishes. Moreover,
it would be impossible for her to feel anything
but pleasure at your return. It is for you
and for me, therefore, to make definite ar11
%
rangeraents on this subject. Of course, you
do not intend to postpone your marriage ?"
"Of course not?that is?if Miriam consents,"
faltered Roland.
Consents! 0, that is already un fait accom
nil" liphtlv said Ladv A?nes. "However.
since you have never (as I believe) formally
sought her acceptance?"
"No madam, I have not."
"You should delay no longer doing so.
Come, tard} wooer! there need be no better
time than the present; "and with a playful
but imperious gesture, she motioned him
towards the door of the next room, where, as
they both knew, Miriam sat at her embroidery.
The door having been closed, she had heard
nothing of the dialogue which so nearly concerned
her ; but the expression of her cousin's
face seemed to forewarn her, iu some in
explicable manner, of his purpose in seeking
her. Nervous and trembling at heart, the
young man drew a chair to her side, and in a
scarcely audible tone, accosted her thus?
"Miriam, I am come to iuforni you of my
intention of shortly bidding your farewell."
"Indeed !" Miriam's heart gave a suddeu
leap, and the color mounted to her face. Had
she, then, been mistaken? Was she to have
a reprieve ?
"A temporary farewell," Roland continued,
becoming still more embarrassed. "It is for
you to decide?that is," he added, remembering
Lady Agnes' words, "your mother insists
ou my return at uo distant period ; but I
would rather have the time appointed by
yourself?since?"
"Since what?" coldly asked Miriam, as he
paused.
"Since I should prefer consulting your wishes,
I would not have you unnecessarily hurried."
"I do not understand your meaning," replied
his cousin, bending over her work.
"You do not speak very clearly."
"I allude, Miriam, to our marriage, which,
as you know, has so long been a settled fact;
and I desire to learn from you when you will
be ready to bestow your hand upon me."
"You do?" said Miriam, in a suppressed
tone. "You do?" She raised her face, and
6xed her eyes, glittering with excitement and
disdainful auger, upon him. "Then you can
easily be satisfied. My answer is ?never."
"Miriam !" exclaimed an icy voice. Lady
Agnes had just entered the room.
Miriam turned hot, then cold. She stood
for a moment struggling with her emotions,
then suddenly burst into a passionate fit of
weeping.
"Miriam," asked her mother, coming forward,
"what is the meaning of this?" And
without waiting for a reply, which, indeed,
her daughter was unable to give her, she continued,
turning to Roland?*
"I regret, my dear boy, that your suit has
been so discourteously received ; but in a little
while, be assured Miriam, will recover from
the disorder of mind, under which she seems
just uow to be laboring. She certainly forgets,
at present, what is due to herself and to
...... no ...ntl no .no r ....1
J yu ao ?cn oc iu ino. m uj x ywu iu
leave us for the present. You can easily find
better entertainment than in the society of a
wayward girl."
Roland was glad enough to make his escape ;
and agitated and troubled beyond description,
he left the house to seek the refreshing quiet
and solitude of a little shrubbery, not far off,
where he could reflect, undisturbed, on his
perplexing position. No pleasing reflections
they were, surely. He knew well enough that
Miriam's couduct was far from being the result
of waywardness, but that it was rather a
settled and immovable dislike to himself, and
repugnance to the idea of becoming his wife,
that made her thus respond to his suit. Gladly
would he have cooperated with her in avoid
ing this marriage, but for him such a course
was impossible. He looked forward with horror
to a future which could be productive of
nothing but misery; but he was too firmly
bound to be able to retract.
What transpired in the interview between
Miriam and her mother, he never knew ; but
i on repairiug to his own chamber, some hours
later, he found there the following note, in
pencil, addressed to himself:
"I crave your forgiveness for my conduct this
i afternoon, and promise to act with more deference
to your wishes in future. I am ready tofullill
my part of the contract to which you alluded,
at anv time that is considered most tltting.
Mikiam."
"Written at her mother's dictation, of
11 course, "he said to himself, as he crumpled
the note in his hands and threw it into the
; grate. "A pleasant prospect I have in store,
j truly ! Forced to wed me against her will,
' j hating me, as I know she does, simply because
: of being thus forced, I shall not find much
comfort in my wife. Could we have remained
cousins, we mighj, have continued friends ; as
it is, I see no chance of anything but enmity
and discord between us. And no wonder she
dislikes me?no wonder she finds her fate
hard," he continued, as he surveyed his reflection
in an opposite mirror. "It is natural
enough that any girl should shrink from an
| alliance with such an object! She is beauti
I ful?royally beautiful, and she knows it.
I With her queeuly face and form she could
j command the admiration of courts; and to
' waste such beauty upon me, a hunchback ! No
wonder it seems monstrous to her ! 0, why
! was this hateful contract ever made? Why
! could we not be let alone in our babyhood,
like other babies, and have our future left to
; UCUUC 1U5C1I i
I* Roland exaggerated his personal defects, j
i Though painfully apparent, they were not of i
; the repulsive kind that he made them out.
J He was certainly dwarfed and misshapen, and.
! his face had the pale, unhealthy look common
i to cripples ; but its expression, though melancholy,
was far from unpleasing. On the j
; contrary, this expression was both intelligent j
| and sweet, and his large, deep-set gray eyes
j were remarkably fine. His head, though out
j of proportion to his size, was well formed, and
intellect was clearly marked upon his broad,
high brow, around which his chestnut hair
clustered in soft, silky waves. All his features
were delicate and refined, and to an unprejudiced
eye would have presented much
that was attractive, as well as touching, in
their ensemble. But he himself knew nothing
j of this palliation to his own ugliness, as he
j termed it. He believed his aspect to be wholi
ly revolting, and desired to conceal himself
; forever from the gaze of the world.
He did not see his cousin again befoie his
j departure. L tdy Agnes iufbriued him that
she was unwell, and preferred remaining in
her own apartment.
''She begs you will think no more of her
I strange conduct, ray dear Roland. In fact, I
: may safely say tha.t she is now deeply sensit
ble of the impropriety of which she has been
guilty," said the wily mother, who had desired
Miriam to avoid the young man during
the remainder of his stay, for fear she might
again be betrayed into a similar outbreak,
and who preferred acting as a go between on
the occasion.
The wedding-day was fixed for about two
months beyond the present time; and this
being definitely settled, Roland bade Lady
Agnes adieu, and turned his face, for the first
time in eleven years, towards his own beautiful,
but half-forgotten home. He arrived
there to find everything in the most perfect
order, and to receive a warm welcome from
the trusty steward, who had the place in
charge, and from his dependents, many of
whom had been servants on the estate during
the life time of the former lord. One of these
in particular?old Priscilla?a wrinkled
dame who had nursed him in his infancy
and his father before him, gave way to lively
demonstrations of joy at beholding him
agaiu.
"And it's yourself that's come to rule over
us at last, and be the master here, my bonny
boy!" she cried, embracing him with the
familiarity to which her position in the household
entitled her. "A joyful day it is for us
all that brings the Lord of Linton back to
his own estate. Sorrowful I've been during ;
your absence, and wearily I've pined to see
your blessed face again."
Touched by this heartfelt greeting, Roland i
was glad to escape to his own apartments, j
where he could hide his emotion from these j
friendly eyes. Many and varied were the j
feelings that agitated him on his return to I
his childhood's home, where old associations,
clingiug to familiar objects, brought the past;
vividly to his mind, and seemed almost to
bridge over the gulf of years which separated
it from the present. Here, in these rooms, |
j he recalled his mother's presence, as she had :
| taught him at her knee, or heard him lisp
j his childish prayers. Yonder was the very
! chair in which she had sat, a fair, frail figure,
j too delicate for earthly surroundings. He '
could almost see her face, with its trauspar-,
i ent coloring and deep dark eyes ; could almost
fancy that he heard the gentle tones of
her voice as she spoke his name. Her por- !
trait hung over the mantel. He gazed upon
it reverently, until tears obscured his vision,
and bowing his face upon his hands he suffered
them to flow freely, for his heart was
overcharged.
"And does the Lord of the Towers weep on
the day of his return ?" exclaimed old Priscilia,
who had stolen, in after him uflperceived.
Laying her hand upon his shoulder
she continued, solemnly, "It's ill luck to shed
tears upon your own hearthstone, the first,
i hour you set foot in front of it. Is it so sad ;
| a heart you brought home with you, my j
jewel boy!"
"A jewel in an uncouth setting, Priscilla," j
evasively replied Roland, trying to smile; for
though somewhat vexed at being thus discov- \
ered, his regard for her feelings forbade his
displaying any resentment at her intrusion, j
"Fie ! and who regards the outside form ?" j
she exclaimed. "The mind, the beautiful soul,
are all that there is to value. Sure it wasn't
for that you were crying, master Roland,
I dear ?"
"No, no!" he hastily rejoined. "'Twas
j only a passing weakness, niv good nurse ; you
: should not have noticed it."
"But is it that you are unhappy at all ?"
; she persisted, wistfully regarding him. "You
' oughtn't to be?you, the master of the bon|
niest lands and lordliest house in the country,
and soon, as I hear, to be the master of a
j handsome young bride as well. Is it true,
j master Roland ? Are you to wed your cousin,
Miriam Hepburn, as it has aye beeu settled
! you should ?"
I "Yes; we are to he married in February,"
; answered Roland, while a pang shot through
i his breast. "Are all the apartments of the
house in good order, or is it necessary for any
new furniture to be bought?" he hurriedly
continued, anxious to escape from so distasteful
a subject.
"Aye, aye; you'll need to make some alterations
for your- bride." But not many?not
j many. Everything's been preserved wonderful.
And if she'sgotgood taste, like the rest
of the Hepburns, she'll prefer the old things
to the new. They are far more solid and satisfactory,
to my mind."
"And now I am so tired, I should like to
rest awhile," said Roland ; and old Priscilla,
taking the hint, immediately withdrew.
CHAPTER II.
In making himself familiar with all the
ins and outs of his large estate, and in becoming
acquainted with his numerous tenants,
Roland found his time pass very quickly.
' rr p l. |j |
ne ien mm ne cuuiu ue peneuuy nn^pjr
here, but for the one prospect which shadowed
his life; and from the recollection of this he
could not, in his busiest moments, escape.
Even if he could otherwise have succeeded
in doing so, he woufd have been prevented by
old Priscilla's constant reminders; for unconscious
of the pain she was inflicting, the garrulous
nurse loved to enlarge upon a topic
which she naturally thought was one of especial
interest to him. Numberless were the
questions she asked him, on every possible occasion,
regarding the disposition, appearance
and habits of his fiancee, and it would torture
her listener to hear her innocently exclaim,
"Ah, happy will be the day that sees a fair
young bride.come to be mistress of Liuton
Towers ! Blessings ou her for giving you her
love, my heart's jewel! With such a treasure
you'll have naught more to wish for."
All too swiftly for Roland, went by the
weeks that elapsed between his arrival at
Linton Towers and his return to the home he
had lately left, where bis doom, and Miriam's
awaited them both. A day of doom it seemed,
indeed, when it dawned upon them ; and
never a more reluctant pah- met at the holy
altar to plight their vows?vows which in
this case were a mockery, indeed. Miriam,
instructed by her mother, and perhaps schooled
by her own resolution and self-control into
outward submission, appeared coldly resigned,
immovable, expressionless as a marble statue;
while Roland, less able to conceal his agitation,
was, to all appearance, by far, the most
disturbed of the two. The short ceremony
was over. There was no wedding-breakfast
or other festivity, since the newly married
pair were to start at once for their Kentish
home. With the same cold and passive air
which she had worn through the morning,
Miriam received the adieux of her mother.
Her husband assisted^ her into the carriage
which waited at the door, and they were
driven rapidly away.
Evening brought them to the abode of
which she had just become the mistress.
Here, of course, a tetinue of domestics stood
ready to jeceive them, and foremost among
these was old Priscilla, waiting to bestow her
warmest greeting on "her boy's bride." With
a gesture of mingled reverence and affection,
she stepped towards Miriam, took her hand
between her own wrinkled and tremulous
hands, and with a low courtsey pressed it to
her lips.
"The Lord be thanked !" she devoutly exclaimed.
"I've lived to see a mistress again
in Linton Towers ; and a fair and handsome
mistress, too," she continued, fixing a gaze of
earnest scrutiny upon Miriam's face, "though
over-sad and grave looking for one so young!
Surely it's a happier look you should be
wearing on your wedding day, and you the
Lady of Linton ! It's ill luck to enter your
new home with a sorrowful face, my lady."
"You are rather free with your remarks,"
coldly answered Miriam, as she withdrew her
U r\ /*! /I tilAm n r?'o nl n nrv
lianu iiuiu tuc wiu tvuiuau o uaop x uovuin
instantly drew herself erect; stood for one
instant motionless, without removing her
eyes from the young lady, who with equal
steadfastness returned the gaze ; then turning
away with a stately gesture, left the hall in
silence. In that interchange of glances, each
had read enmity and hatred, suddenly awakened,
never to die out of the other's heart.
So inauspicious ap introduction did not tend
to inspire the rest of the servants with a cordial
desire to welcome their new mistress, thereby
incurring the risk of meeting with similar
rebuffs. With downcast and disappointed
looks, all fell back, except the old butler,
who with silent gravity, preceded his lord
and lady to the reception-room. Miriam,
however, desired to be shown at once to her
apartments ; and shutting herself up in them,
she did not again appear below during the
evening, saying that she was too fatigued to
sit up any longer.
Priscilla took care to keep aloof, and Roland,
knowing how deeply she must be offended,
sought her out, in order to try and soften,
by some means, the vexation which she felt,
and persuade her to forget the cold manner in
which her well-meant advances had been received.
At first, with a gesture of the hand,
the old woman signified to him not to approach
her, and when he would speak, listened
in silence. Finally, in a voice full of dignity,
mingled with sadness, she exclaimed?
"I don't doubt your friendliness and good
intentions, master Roland; I know you well
enough to believe that you wouldn't hurt the
feelings of one who nursed you as a baby,
and would give her heart's blood to make you
happy. But I fear me you have chosen a
stony hearted bride?one who won't bring
much joy or sunshine into your home. Why
did you deceive me, and make tne believe she
was of a different sort? Why did you let me
go on praising her, and thinking, like a fool,
your marriage would prove a blessing to you
and yours? Ah! my eyes haven't looked
upon the world and human kind these seventy
years for nothing. I can read faces?I can
read hearts. And I say your lady's face is
fuir, but cruel; I say her heart is cruel, too?
cruel and hard. Master Roland, do you not
know that I am speaking the truth?"
"God help me! I fear you are," muttered
Roland, while a shade of anguish crossed his
face. "At least," he hurriedly added, "she is
cold and hard to me; but if she loved me, it
would be different. In that case, I doubt not
she would be kind enough ; but she does not
| love me, and never will."
I "And you do not love her either. Is not
[that so?" asked Priscilla, with her usual I
j searching glance.
I "I cannot lovelier. Heaven knows I would
, | if I could.%
j "If you could, it would be love thrown .
j away?it would be pearls cast before swine. !
j God help you, ray poor boy ! Your fate is'
i a harder one than you. deserve. Evil was the
day when they, thinking only of lands, and
money, and the family name, blighted your ,
life by making this contract for you in your
cradle ! As to me, I shall never trouble her
ladyship with my presence again, unless she
specially commands it. I see plain enough it j
| would never be welcome to her."
j "But, Priscilla," exclaimed Roland, fearful
that he had gone too far, in admitting the ;
truth of the case to even so faithful and tried
a friend as this old dependent, "for my sake, j
I beg that you will cease to thiuk and speak j
of this matter; and, above all, never betray j
to any one, by word or sign, that Lady Hepburn
is other than you could wish, or that?
that this coldness of feeling exists between J
myself and her."
"And what does my young master takeme I
for?" somewhat indignantly responded the
worthy dame, "to suppose that I'can't keep a
family secret?one that concerns the family
honor? Me, that has been bom and raised
on the estate, and has held two generations of
Hepburns in my arms? I've eyes to see, and
ears to hear, and wisdom to know how to
hold my tongue when it's my duty to do it.
But it's sad and sorrowful I am to know
there's such a secret to keep."
"After all," said Rolaud, making an effort
to speak more cheerfully, "there is no terrible
secret in. the matter. I and Lady Hepburn,
being bound to each other, without our knowledge
or consent, in our childhood, and not
liking to act in direct opposition to the wills
of those who judged such an arrangement to
be a wise one, have merely consented to do as
was promised for us, and must abide by our
own decisions. I suppose there have been
numberless matches made without affection?
quite as many as those which are entered into
by persons of their own free will. At any
rate, it is useless to take too gloomy a view of
nonnnf ho V?nlnor) anrl mv wife fn HQV
"""u "v,ru > '"j """i ? ?J
the least, is as much to be pitied as myself."
"Ah ! I differ from you there," rejoined old
Priscilla with a significant shake of the head. 1
"However," she added,' sighing deeply, "I'm
over bold, perhaps, to speak as I do; but it's
the deep love I bear you, and bore those before
you, that makes me free to utter all
that's in my heart. If I'm wrong, dear heart, 1
forgive me. Indeed, I meant no offence."
"Nor have I taken any," replied her master.
"It is because I am assured of your
affection that I have confided my feelings to
you; and I can rely upon your faithfulness
and your discretion, in any difficult or disagreeable
circumstances which may arise at
any time from a want of unity in our household.
You will aid me to conceal such a condition,
if it unhappily occurs, from all eyes
and ears."
"Rely upon me, child of my heart; your
old nurse will be a mother to you, if you will
let her," was Priscilla's eager reply. "But
oh, master Roland, dear, family discord's an
evil thing, and discord between man and wife
the worst of all; and though you've got a
bitter cup to drink, better drink it in silence
if you can. Maybe when you've lived together
a while, she'll learn to love you for what
you are. She's fair to look at. I'll say that
for her, andit seems incredible to think but
what, at her age, she has tome softness in
her."
"There is that in her which would make
her a good wife to one she loved," replied
Roland, sadly. Then thinking that enough
had been been said on the subject, he bade
Priscilla good night, and repaired to his own
solitary room, to spend the greater portion of
the Dight in bitter thoughts.
A week passed by, during which Roland
and Miriam never met except at meals. He
spent his days out of doors, riding about his
estate, and winning his way constantly deeper
into the affection of all those with whom he
came in contact. She secluded herself in
her apartment, sometimes listlessly turning
over the leaves of a book, but oftenest sitting
in brooding idleness, with a dark look on
her face, and Heaven knows what shadowy
images trooping through her mind.
At last, one evening, by an unacountable
impulse, she arose, put on her shawl and hat,
and went out of the house. Perhaps she was
too weary of self imprisonment to endure it
any longer. At any rate she followed her
impulse, and let it lead her whither it would,
over lawns and fields and through the autumn-tinted
woods, until suddenly her eyes
encountered the figure of her husband riding
towards her. At this sight she stopped, and
would fain have turned aside ; but, on Becond
thought, she changed her mind, and went
with a proud, cold air,' forward on her way.
On seeing her, Roland instantly checked
his horse, and dismounting, advanced to meet
her on foot, leading the horse by the bridle.
"Taking a walk, Miriam ?" he asked, with
involuntary satisfaction in his look and tone;
for he hailed it as a happy change that she
should at length have voluntarily emerged J
^ ^-,1!*.. JA UTSY moo Ko/Yinninr* f A 1 An CT ,
irum summit;. lie naa uc^iiHiii.g y\j iwufe I
intensely for something like a bond between I
them. This coldness, this estra.gement, was |
so repugnant to his nature, that he felt as if j
he would give worlds to end it, and let at
, least toleration, the faintest shadow of a mu-1
| tual regard, take its place between them,
j "Yes," she briefly replied.
"Are you going on farther, or shall we go
home now ?"
She looked at him a moment in silence, as j
j if debating how to reply; then answered j
i indifferently, "I believe I will go back."
She turned, and they walked towards the (
house. Meeting a groom near the park |
gate, Roland gave him his horse to carry to I
the stables. Afteuome minutes' silence, he |
I remarked?
"I believe you have not yet seen anything
of the place. Will you not let me show it to
you, some time?"
"As you like," she returned.
"Miriam," he said, stopping suddenly. The
color rushed to bis pale, sensitive face; his
heart beat, and for au instant he found it ira
possible to go on. She stood still also, looking
at him with cold inquiry in her gaze.
"Miriam." His voice was iiusky and low,
and tears filled his eyes. "Miriam, for God's
sake let us be friends. This sort of life is unnatural?unbearable,
Why do; you hate me ?
We have known each other a long time. If
you cannot give me your affection, tince fate
has ordained that we must live under one roof,
can you not at least learn to tolerate my presence?
Do not regard me as your enemy. It is
not I who have wronged you. Believe me,
could I have followed my own inclinations, I
would never have brought you into this bondage
; but I was powerless to save you."
"rtp anvo vmi r?alf Well I do not blame i
you. I have never blamed you, have I ?" she
rejoined, looking away from him as she spoke.
Perhaps some womanly feeling stirred at her
heart. At any rate, he thought that he detected
a softer look upon her face, and a slight
tremor in her voice. It gave him courage to
touch her hand, timidly, with his; but she
drew it away.
"I don't pretend," she said, rather hurriedly,
and still with averted gaze, "that I can
ever be reconciled to this fate. I never can.
But I am willing?if you wish?to try and
Beem so. At least, I will not avoid you?will
try to become accustomed to ray surroundings
here. Will that satisfy you ?"
"If it is all you can do?yes."
"What more should I do? You do not,
cannot, pretend to care about me. The tie J
between us must be as hateful to yourself as i
to me. How can it be otherwise ?"
"Have you always hated me, Miriam ?" he ,
sadly aeked.
"No," she answered more slowly. "If
things had been different between us, I could j
have liked you?even been a little fond of
you, perhaps. But as they really stood, it
was not possible for me to do otherwise than?
"Than hate me?"
"Than regard you as my enemy."
"And yet, I, like yourself, have been but a
tool?the instrument of others' plans!"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Well, it is
useless to discuss it now. What good can
talking do? I am tired of standing here;
the wind blows cold."
"I crave your pardon for detaining you,"
he said with bitter humility v in bis tone, as
she drew her shawl closer about her, and
walked on. Twilight .was gathering about
them. Around their feet the decayed leaves
whirled, blown hither and thither by the
breeze. The chill of winter was still in the
air; and it seemed to'sink deeper and deeper
into Roland's heart. What spell had suddenly
come over him, that he yearned for a
gentle glance, a loving word, from the cold
being at his side, with an intensity of longing
that could.not have existed if only indifference
towards her occupied his heart ? Alas!
Fate was becoming more cruel to him than
she had already proved herself. The bnrden
of a loveless union was a heavy one. How
much heavier did that burden grow, when !
there mingled with the certainty of his wife's j
dislike to him the equal certainty, revealed to j
him as if by an electric flash, that a sudden, j
overwhelming jove for her had filled his being
! Indifference can be borne when it is met
by a corresponding indifference; but it is the
death-blow to affection; is unendurable to
a throbbing, living, loving heart.
Miriam was in a wayward mood this even
ing. At the entrance to the grounds she
turned towards her husband, and said, in a
half-reckless tone?
"If you choose to show me the house now,
you may. Let us begin with the basement.
I am curious to see to what those iron doors
lead."
"It is gloomy in the basement, and at this
hour must be totally dark. However, I will
procure a light, if you fancy going there now.
We can pass through here. I have matches
iu my pocket, and I can get a candle from
one of the offices."
He held open the heavy iron door, which
shut behind them with a clang. They entered
a stone passage, on one side of which were
the laundry and some other offices, all deserted
at this hour. Odd flights of steps led here
and there. Various cross-passages came in
their way, with all sorts of doors leading in
different directions; for Linton Towers was as
spacious as many a castle, aod in its lower
departments as extensive as in those above.
About half an hour after they had entered
the iron doorway, Lady Hepburn emerged
from it?alone. Her face was deathly white,
as with swift and silent tread, looking cautiously
about her as she went, she passed out,
glided through an outer passage, roofed and
columned, that skirted this portion of the
building, sped up a side flight of steps, and,j
unseen, entered the house and reached her
own rooms.
Sir Roland Hepburn was not seen in his
house that night, nor the next day, nor the
next. No one knew what had become of him, j
or whither he had gone. Lady Hepburn i
seemed as ignorant as tbe rest. It was a mystery
which no one could clear?which re- j
mained uncleared, and seemed likely to continue
so.
[to be continued.]
?????bu
Multiplication of the Scriptures.?
The Bible productidn of our time is equal to
more than a iti.lion copies a year, or say
more than nineteen thousand every week, more
than three thousand every day, three hundred
every hour, or five every minute of working
time. At this rate the press is producing an
Euglish Bible or New Testament every twelve
secouds. Those Bibles are not wasted?they .
are required?and more copies of the Sacred !
Scriptures are demanded in tbe English
tongue than in the languages of all other j
nations of the world, although the number of j
versions to which this country gives en- i
courageraent and assistance, over and above, i
is considerably more than one hundred and
fifty.
Lost an Eye by the Epizooty.?Mr..
Fred. Palmer, of Elmira, N. Y., was driving !
his horse, which was suffering from epizooty,
one day last week, and the animal sneezed
some of the froth over his coat, which he
wiped off with hie handkerchief. Afterward j
he used the eame handkerchief to wipe out his
eyes, tbe result being that be has lost.the sight,
of one eye, while the other is seriously affect-1
ed. Physicians say that the poison in tbe
froth destroyed the sight. This should be a
warning to owners of horses to be careful in .
handling animals suffering from the disease. 1
IpKUaHMttS featirog.
A REMARKABLE MAN.
One of the most remarkable private soldiers
on either side io the late war was a young
man named Tom Kelly, a private in the Second
Michigan infantry. The remarkable began
with his build. He had arms a full
hand longer than any other man who could be
found. He had no more backbone than a
snake, and could almost tie himself in & knot.
He could tell the date on a silver quarter
held twenly feet away, and he could hear every
word of a conversation in a common tone
of voice across an ordinary street. He could
run half & mile as fast as any officer's horse
could gallop, and there was a standing offer of
810 to anv man who could hold him down.
On a bet of a box of sardines be once passed
six sentinels within an hour. On another occasion
he entered the colonel's tent and
brought away that officer's boots.
When Tom's remarkable qualifications were
discovered,he was detailed as a scout and spy,
and was changed from one department to another.
In the capacity a of spy he entered Richmond
throe times. He entered Yicksburg
and preached a sermon to the soldiers a week
before the surrender. He was in New Orleans
five days before that cjty was taken. He was
a man who firmly believed that he could not
be killed by an enemy, and he governed his
movements accordingly.
While under orders of General Hooker,
Kelly proved, on several occasions, that he
could see further with the naked eye than any
officer could with a field-glass. If he could
get a place of concealment within fifty feet of
a picket, he could catch the countersign. He
visited Lookout Mountain, intending to spike
as many of the Confederate guns as possible.
His disguise was that of a farmer who had been
driven from home by the Union forces. The
enemy somehow got suspicious of him, and he
was placed in the guard house for the night.
There was a sentinel at the door and others
near by standing guard over guns and stores,
but it was all the same to Kelly. With an
old tin plate for use as a shovel and scoop, he
burrowed out at the back end of the building,
and walked up to two pieces of artillery, and
spiked both before any alarm was raised.
When the sentinels began firing at bim he ran
out of camp, but before he was clear of it be
had been fired at fifty times.
Kelly was once captured when asleep by
Missouri guerrillas. When he opened his eyes
he was surrounded by five or six men oj foot
and others in the saddle. It was under a tree
r, * * 11 I 11 x 1 J I
in an open neia, ana ne naa oeen iracteu uy a
dog. As he rose up at their command he resorted
to bis wonderful skill as a gymnas . By
dodging and twisting and jumping, he got out
of the crowd, pulled a man off his saddle, and
would have escaped had not the dog fastened
to his leg. He was then put under guard in a
log house with only one room. Two sentinels
sat at the door with revolvers in their hands *
and kept watch of his every movement. After
an hour or two Kelly approached as if to offer
them tobaccD, and jumped clear over their
heads liks a deer.- He had half a mile of
open field to cross, and he crossedlt under the
fire of a score of muskets and revolvers without
being hit.
During his three years and a half in the
service, Kelly captured fifty-two Confederates
and turned them over as prisoners. He himself
was captured and escaped five times.
As a spy he entered more than thirty Confederate
camps and forts. He was fired upon at
least 1,000 times, and yet was never wounded.
He had said that he would never die by the
band of an enemy, and his prophecy came
true. In the last year of the war, while
bringing a captured Confederate scout into
camp, both jyere killed within forty reds of
the Union lines by a bolt of lightning.
POLYGAMY ASTN* INVESTMENT.
We halted at a way station for dinner. A
white' baited, but not very sanctimonious ?
saint occupied the chair next to me. "A resident
of the country ?" I asked. "Oh, yes ;
for twenty-five years." "Married ?" "Some."
"More than one wife ?" "I think so. I've
got a few scattered about here and there."
"Believe in polygamy, I presume ?" "Certainly.
I'd never made a living if I hadn't."
"How's that?" "Well, you see, stranger, I
used to think g good deal as you do. I bad
160 acres of land and" one wife, but didn't
make much headway. There was too much
work for one man to attend to. Finally I
took a second wife. She took her share of
the burden like a brick, and affairs moved on
in better shape. Then I got to thinking if
two wives were better than one, three would
be better than two; consequently I took a
third and my affairs improved still more. I
mapped out the business of the ranche, and
gave No. 1 her part, snd gave a part to No.
2, and a part to No. 3, and took a part myself.
Everything went on like clockwork.
Our little community was thoroughly organised.
Finally I concluded that a fourth wife
would be quite an advantage, and, I looked
around and secured her. I found that the
more wives I bad the more land I could work.
I now operate 240 acres of one kind and an- ?
other, and have things, so systematized, that ;
everything goes on quite lovely, and I don't
have much to do myself. Polygamy is a
great institution, my friend, and you'll never
succeed in the world until you marry a few
times. Sometimes one of my wives gets a little
offish like, but instead of making a great
row about it and getting a divorce as you
would do in California, I simply stay
from her for a day or two, and then when
do happen around, she smiles all over her
face and loves me in a desperate fashion. Oh,
yes, I'll marry several times yet before I die,
and the more women I marry, the richer I
expect to get." This talk was by no means
sophistry, as I afterward ascertained. #A
large part of the women of Utah are slaves.
The Word "Negro."?The Standard
Bearer, edited by a colored man, says : We
are afraid that some of our readers, among
the colored people, misunderstand the word
"negro" as applied to their race, and one of
our correspondents has most vigorously protested
against our use of it. He probably considers
it synonymous with "nigger," a vulgar,
meaningless epithet, that no people use so
frequently as the colored people themselves.
The word 'negro' is the proper race designation
of the colored people in America, and
is rightly applied tp the descendants of the *
tribes along the coafct Of Africa. The names
our young friend alludes to with so much
pride were African,,, but not negro. The
word "African" has jho relevancy as a race
designation any more than the word "American
/' an American may be Esquimaux,
Sioux or Anglo Saxon, according to the
blood in his veins; an African may be Egyptian,
Moor or Negro for the same reason,
and we have never thought the word A frican
a properly descriptive adjective when applied
to our race.
The term "colored/ while generally used,
is rather meaningless, and strictly speaking,
the word Negro (with a big N) is the only
correct term, and we see no impropriety in
using it. It is neither low nor degrading,
unless our actions make it so, and it is open
to no more objection than the words Irish or
German. Our ancestors were negroes and
no more barbarous or uncivilized than the
ancestors of the whites, and it is only a false
idea of its meaning that makes our people
object to its use. In these days of fine
phrases, it will be well for us to use the
shorter and more expressive term, "American
citizens of A frican descent," It