The Darlington news. (Darlington, S.C.) 1875-1909, January 30, 1890, Image 3
K
m:
®0etvy.
WAKIN’ THE YOUNGUNS.
(The old man, from the foot of the stain at 6
o'clock In the morning.)
Bee-ullt Bea-ull! O Bee-ulll Kygncioas,
Air you still alee pin'?
Th' hour hands crespin'
Noarderflva. •
(Wal’ durnad ef this hyar ain't vexatious!)
Don't you hyar them cattle callin',
An' the ole red steer a-bawlin'?
Come, look alive I
flit upl Git upl
Mar’min I Mar'annl (Jist hyar her snorin'I
Mar’ann, it's behoovin'
Thet you be a-movin’l
—Brisk, I say I
Hyar tlio kitchen stovo a-roarin' I
The kittle's n-spilin’
Ter get hia se’f hlUn’.
It's coinin' day.
Git upl Qitupl
JuIj: O, Julol Now whut is oilin'.’
You want ter rest?
Wai’ I'U be blest I
B'poee them cows
*11 give down milk ’thout you pollin' ?
You mus’ be goln’ crazy;
Er, morelike, gittin* lazy!
Come, now, route I
Git up I Git upl
Jake, you lazy varmint I Jake! He-ey Jake)
What you hgrin’ theer fur?
You know the stock’s ter keer fur
So, hdp out!
Crhet boy is wuaser’n a rock ter wake!)
Don't stop ter shiver.
But jilt unkiver,
An* pop out I
Git upl Git upl
Youugunsl Bee-ulll Jake! Uar'anu! Julel
(Wal’ dura my or'n'ry sklnl
They’ve gone ter sleep agin.
Fur all my tollin' 1) a
See hyar, I hain't no time ter fooll
It's the las' warnin',
I'll give this mornln';
I’m done a-yellin’ 1
Git upl Git upl
(Solus.)
Wal* whut's the odds—on hour, more or less.
B'Ueves It makes em stronger
To sleep o little longer
Thar in bed.
The time Is cornin' fast enough, l guess,
When I'U wish—an* wish 'Ith weep in'—
They was back up yender Bleepin’
Overhead,
Ter git up.
—John Bohn in Atlanta Constitution.
•■Nay. " he replied, looking darkly, y«t body about the business; but 1 was
with a smile, "you may say what you troubled in my mind, aud greatly afraid
please; yon cannot offend me. I have just that the man would do some dreadful mis-
oome from Alnwick, where I sold four fat chief if he could.
beasts At the inn 1 fell in with a stroll- Well, he came again a third time to me
ing player, and talked with him over a it was three days later. If I was dis-
glass about his wandering life. Presently quieted. I could see that ho was more so.
I asked him whether he had seen any- LI is red cheeks were become pale, and his
where upon his travels, especially in eyes were red. lie was quiet in his man-
By WALTER BESANT.
CHAPTER VII.
MATHEW’S FRIENDLY OFFER.
This letter made me, from ono of the
most unhappy of girls, the most joyous.
The immediate prospect of poverty—fur
the dame declined daily—the hard work
which began at daylight and ended at
bedtime, the certain knowledge that Ma
thew was not satisfied with a simple re
fusal—these things, which had before
filled my mind with terror, now appeared
like the imaginary specters of the night,
which cease to alarm when the day has
dawned. To me it was more than the
dawn of day; It was the uprising of a
glorious sun of love and hope. Ralph
loved mo; Ralph was well, prosperous aud
in high esteem; Ralph was already
wealthy; Ralph would como, and all
things would be well, whatever might
happen at the moment. Yet this I could
uot tell to any. Mathew was not to know;
my poor old grandmother was too old n < w,
and too failing of mind and body, to care
for earthly things; my father had clean
forgotten the boy; my mother wonld not
greatly care to know; nor would it soothe
her anxieties to feel that we hada protec
tor separated from us by tlje rolling seas
and by a voyage of ten months or more.
What good would be his far off treasures
to us, she would have asked, when what
we want Is beef for the pot, and bread f r
the board? As for my father’s madness,
it increased every day, so that now our
cottage was a palace Indeed, every meal
was a banquet, and the small beer of my
brewing was champagne, port, Malaga, or
Imperial Tokay. But Mathew was too
much with him, and it made me uneasy
to observe how ha complimented my
father on his wisdom, his resolution and
his wonderful success.
"In all respects, madam,” ho said to my
mother, “I find your husband most sensi
ble and full of sound judgment. I have
taken his counsel of late in many private
matters of importance.”
'‘Then the Lord help you!” said my
mother, sharply.
"What if ho does exaggerate his private
fortune?" Mathew went on. "It is a fail
ing with many persons concerned in
trade.”
"If you mean this in kindness, sir,”
•aid my mother, "I thank you humbly for
your good opinion of my poor, distraught
husband. If you mean It in mockery, you
an a most cruel man. ”
"Indeed, madam,” he replied, bowing,
"pray believe that I mean it in kindness.”
He had no kindness at all in his nature.
He designed these words to cover his in
iquitous purpose.
So ho continued to come and go, and to
walk with my father in the garden, and
whatever wild things my father said he
would accept gravely as if they were in
deed words of wisdom. No ono except
myself suspected him of sinister designs,
and my father disclosed to him the whole
prodigious extent of his madness, so that
I could have cried with shame and hu
miliation, Mathew knowing well, as all
the world knew by this time, that he was
little better than the poorest in the
parish.
"The world, sir,” the poor gentle
man would say with a lofty air, "has
yet to learn how great a benefactor
a simple London citizen may be. There
have been many benefactors. I acknowl
edge their greatness. But wait, sir,
until my will Is opened and read. To
you, friend Mathew, I have bequeathed a
poor £10,000—no more.”
"Oh, sir I” He bowed and spread his
hands. “This is indeed goodness.”
"It is the duty of a rich citizen to dis
cover merit and reward it—the plain duty.
I ana a London citizen, and am perhaps
more proud of this position than becomes
a Christian. The bulk of my fortune I
have left to my daughter, whom I design
in marriage for some great nobleman.
But I have not forgotten the poor of my
native parish, Mathew—no, no; and you
will find, when my will is read, that
schools, hospitals, marriage portions for
the girls, and apprentice money for the
boys, will attest my remembrance of this
place.”
"Sir,” said Mathew, with a grin of con
tent, "you will be a benefactor Indeed.”
Now, before I answered Ralph's letter,
which I kept for more than a month in
my bosom, reading It every day when I
could snatch a moment, Mathew came to
me, and after a little preamble, of which
I am going to tell yon, reopened the dis
tasteful subject of courtship. I was in
the garden, gathering herbs for a mint
julep, when
places where actors like himself, with
profligates and thieves resort, such a lad
as Ralph. It is wonderful to relate that
he rememberod seeing th* boy at a place
called Grantham. It was about six or
, seven years ago. Tho reprobate lad was
| making love—to a young actress. When
my informant came across the party again
! Ralph had left them. ”
At first I concluded that this was sheer
fabrication, but afterward gleaned that it
was to a certain extent true; that is, that
Ralph had made the acquaintance of the
actress aud her family on his way to Lon
don; but there was no love making. How
could there be, when ho was already in
love with me? And what follows was
pure and clumsy Invention.
"lie wandered about with them playing
and acting,” Mathew went on, "for four
or fivo years. Then ho deserted them, or
was turned out in disgrace—it matters
not which—and, I am ashamed to say”—
but he looked delighted—"took to the
road, where ho is now known everywhere
as Black Ralph or Bloody Ralph. ”
•‘Are you quite sure of what you say?”
“As sure as I am that he will bo hanged
os noon as ho is caught.”
I know not by what reasons Mathew
persuaded himself, if indeed he did per
suade himself, that Black Ralph, who was
f notorious highwayman about this time,
and practiced his wicked calling on the
York road, was Ralph Embleton. Yet he
made so certain of it that he told—under
strict promise of secrecy—the barber, who
told everybody, also under promise of
secrecy, and it was noised abroad that tho
distinction of giving birth to the most
bloodthirsty villain in England belonged
to Warkworth, and many people advised
Mathew to go armed and to provide his
house with a loaded blunderbuss, a bull
dog and a few man traps, because his
cousin would probably visit him with in
tent to murder as well as rob.
“I suppose,” Mathew went on to me,
“that you will now give up tliinking of
that young vagabond A pretty girl like
you should throw your thoughts higher.
Why, though your father’s a beggar, as
one may say”
"He Is not a beggar so long os my grand
mother lives."
“Perhaps that will not be nmch longer,”
ho replied with an ugly grin. “Now,
Brasilia, listen to me. You know that
I’ve set my fancy upon you. I’ve been
waiting just till you grew up, and then
for—for ono or two littlo things to ripen
which have now ripened and turned out
pretty well Now that everything is
ready, there is no reason to wait any
longer. Ralph being a highwayman and
certain to bo hanged”
“Then, Mathew,” I replied, “I will wait
until ho is hanged, and then you can talk
to mo again if you like. Now, go away,
and leave me to my work. ”
Ho went away for tho time, and next
morning his sister Barbara came. Sho
was at first mysterious about sudden
changes of fortune, unexpected reverses,
and the judgments of angered heaven.
Theso things I did not then consider as
pertaining to myself, because I knew not
how I had especially angered heaven,
more, that is, than thonghtless youth
may do at any time, and yet obtain for
giveness by daily prayer. She also added
a certain exhortation to kiss the rod,
which I pass over. Then she launched
into praises of her brother. lie was most
industrious, sho said; up early and to
work before daybreak; he was full of re
ligion, which surprised me very much to
hear; he was thrifty and had already
saved a large sum of money—this, I found
afterward, was false; he could provide a-
comfortable homo, and happy, indeed,
•.lio added, would be tho woman on whom
bis choice should fall. Added to this that
lie was no longer young and scatter
braiued, but arrived at the sober age of
three or four-and-thirty; and that
Mathew’s wife would have the advantage
of her own society, help, example and
admonition.
I told her that Mathew had got his
answer, and that I thought it hard that a
woman could not bo supposed to know her
own mind in so important a matter.
“What is your answer, then?” she
asked.
“I will talk to Mathew on the subject
again,” I repUed, “when Ralph is hanged,
since this is a thing which both you and
he desire so vehemently. ”
Two days afterward Mathew himself
met mo as I was on my way to the castle.
He begged me to give him another hear
ing, and, as I could not refnso so simple a
thing, I led him by the path below the
castle to the bank of tho river, where he
could talk at his ease and unheard.
First it was the same story. Would I.
forgot the young villain and marry him?
He was so much in love with me, that he
would not say as somfe men—not so rich,
mind you, as himself—would say, that I
might go hang myself in my garters for
aught ho cared. He would forgive my
disrespect and Impudence; ho wonld for
get the past altogether; people should seo
that he was of a truly noble and forgiving
disposition; ho would give me another
chance, so great was his generosity. Very
well, then, would I marry him?
I replied very gravely, that he had al
ready received his answer. When Ralph
was hanged, and not before, I would listen
to him. Then I asked him seriously why
he thought so meanly of me as to try this
trumped up story about play actors and
highwaymen upon mo, and reminded him
of what a truly wicked disposition he
must be, thus to glory and delight in the
supposed wickedness of his cousin, whose
guardian ho had been, and whose lands he
now occupied.
He grew angry at this plain speaking,
and began to swear, as Is the wont of
such men. If kindness would not movo
me, he said, something else should bo
tried. I thought I was free and independ
ent of him, did I? I should see what
power was In his hands, and what mis
chief he could do mo. I was young and
imprudent. It chafed me to hear that ho,
and such a man as ho, could do me harm
—as if tho meanest wretch who ever lived
cannot do harm—and I told him what I
cught to have kept a secret, that so long
as Ralph lived I should not want a pro
tector, and that, so far from his being a
highwayman, I knew certainly that he
was a prosperous gentleman, already held
in great honor, and respected by all.
He was so staggered by this intelli
gence that I thought he was going to
have some kind of fit. Consider how
much it meant to him; ho would certainly
have to give up tho mill, and to render a
strict account of all his doings; ho would
be reduced to the station of a poor small
(■farmer; ho would bo robbed of his re-
uer, and held out his liand.
“Drusilla,” he said, "I was wrong tho
other day. Yon won’t nairy me? Very
well. then. Never mind; some ono elso
will, if I want. What matters ono wo
man more than another, if you como to
t.iiinlr about it? What hurt me most
wasn’t 'our refusal, which I don't care for
not one brass farthing, but you saying
that 1 'wanted Ralph to go bad. Tint
was cruel to such u conslu and guardian
os I was to that boy.”
“Well, Mathew,” I said, “if I was
wrong, I pray you to forgivo me.”
“I should like to know, on tho contrary,
that he was becoming a credit to his fam
ily. I say,” he added, "I should like to
know it, if you can assure mo of tho
fact.”
“Then you may depend upon tho truth
of my statement, Mathew,” I said. “IIo
is already a credit to your family.”
“How joyful a thing this is;” Ho
folded his hands and raised his eyes hypo
critically to heaven. “It shows that tho
many corrections I gave him produced
their effect. I was a throwing of this
bread upon the waters. After many
days, as ono may say, it hath como back
to me.”
He spoke with a—sweetness which dio
not deceive mo.
“And this prosperity, Drusilla. Who
told you of it?”
“That I must not say.”
“Where, in what place, is the boy?"
“That I shall not tell you ”
“How is ho employed, then?”
"I must aay nothing. Mat how Do uot
lisa
wan, oesiuca, a uangorous tmng to ao, DO-
cauac I rm convinced that nothing moro
. cffojtqtily turns aside tho fancy of a man
: for a wora.:n—which is a delicate and ten
der plant, oven at its strongest—than the
thought that sho is lacking In the mod
esty and reserve which are the cboiceet
virtues of a maiden. Yet I ran that dan
ger, though I imperiled tho most precious
Uiing to mo in all tho world, the heart of
my Ralph. But there is a time to speak,
as well as a time to keep silence,
said was this:
“Dear Ralph—I have now received
your letter, and I thank you for it with
all my heart. My father hath lost all in
London, and is now returned to his native
place; wc are, therefore, poor Indeed, and
have nothing to live upon except the an
nuity which ho long ago bought for my
grandmother, who falls daily; when she
dies wo shall have nothing. Also, my
futbv is afflicted with a strange belief
that ho is rich. « This makes us unhappy.
Mat how hath spread abroad a report that
tho mill is his, and not yours at all, by
reason of a second will, which nobody has
seer, except himself. I fear that you will
have trouble with your cousin. The fugle
man is well and hearty, and bids me tell
you”— Hero I set forth as many of tho
messages as I could remember. “As re
gards myself, ho bade mo say many things
out of his kind heart, for he loves 'mo;
but 1 must not write them down. My
dear Ralph, do not say again that you
want me to have a husband. I shall never
marry any husband nor lovo any man, ex
cept yourself, if you still continue to love
) me. Indeed, there is no moment of the day
—if you will not think mo unmoidenly to
confess this tiling—when you are out of my
thoughts,*and 1 pray night and morning
for your safety and n|x>edy return. Ma
thew has asked me to marry him, and is
angered because I refused. He has spread
abroad reports that yon ore now a high
wayman. Will you come back to us, dear
Ralph? 1 am in great sadness, and I am
afraid that Mathew means some mischief.
Yet 1 would not mar your fortune by call-
i ing you away from the work you have in j
hand. Mathew threatens mo with re- I
vengo, and Barbara, his sister, bids me i
read passages in tho Holy Scriptures
which threaten woe to sinners. I am
afraid what they may do, though I cannot
think that they can do us any evil. It makes
mo unhappy to think that any can believe
hero that you have boo « ic a highwayman.
Yet I keep your letter -rot, and no one
knows where you are. The fugleman says
Barbara went away,
little before Christmas.
but returned a
Mathew, she re
peated, waa of ao Christian a disposition
that he was still waiting for submission
and to know where the boy was to be
found. She also held out her skinny finger
In warning, and when I laughed and re
fused either to make submission or to tell
where Ralph was living, she bade me
tremble and read the first chapter of the
What I book of the Prophet Joel, applying verses
four to twelve to my own esse, especially
the last clause, which on investigation
proved to be a prophecy that joy should
wither away from the sous of men. I
laughed again, but I confess that I was
disquieted. What consequences? I was
soon to discover that the woman used no
idle threat, though I believe that she did
not herself know anything of the abomi
nable plot which Mathew was contriving
for our destruction.
This, I say, was just before Christmas.
We passed the season of festivity in com
fort, thanks to a gift from Mr. Carnaby
of a noble sirloin and some bottles of good
wino for my father; but on Twelfth
Night my grandmother, who had become
very feeble of late, suddenly showed signs
of Impending change. This was a truly
dreadful thing for us, not only for the
loss of a good and affectionate parent,
which thoso who have faith ought not to
lament, but because at her death we
should lose even the small income which
we had, and there would be nothing but
the house. It was with despairing looks
that my mother and I sat by her bedside
all that night. In the morning she died,
having been speechless for some hours;
but, as happens often with the dying, she
rallied just before the end, and recovered
for a moment the power of speech.
“Child,” she whispered to me with her
last breath, “thou hast been a good child.
The Lord will reward thee. Be of good
hope, and never doubt that the boy will
return to be thy protector and thy
guide.”
After her funeral I asked my mother if
she had any money at alL She told me
that on leaving London some of their old
friends mado up between them a purse of
a hundred guineas in memory of old
times, but after payment of their small
debts and tho cost of the journey from
London, she had tho sum of fifty-five
guineas put by for unforeseen wants—
that wo must live on this money as long
as it lasted, after which she supposed we
must starve.
Fifty-five guineas! Why it would last
Fint hr. bhiKtrred and threatened.
ask me. It is very certain that Ralph is
alive, and that ho is prospering. I shall
answer no more questions.’’
"I will ask other people then."
“It is of no use,” I said hurriedly.
“There is no one knows except me.” This
was not true, but at tho moment I was
thinking of my mother, who certainly did
not know.
“No one knows except you?” ho re
peated. “That is strange indeed.”
“It is very strange."
“And how long,” ho went on, “is the
mystery to be kept up?”
“As long,” I replied, "as your cousin
pleases.”
Then his sweetness left him, and he fell
again into a madness of wrath. Ho went
away, however, when he found that I
would tell him nothing.
All this time I had not written my an
swer to Ralph’s sweet letter. Tho reason
was that I feared my words would prove
so poor and weak compared with his noble
language; and I was afraid besides that
what I might say would offend or disap
point him. What maiden but would have
been ashamed? Yet this business with
Mathew made me resolve to lose no time,
and I began seriously to consider what I
should say in reply to tho long letter which
I carried in my bosom and read daily. In
order to bo undisturbed, 1 carried paper
and pen to the fugleman's room at tlxo
castle, and wrote my letter in tho after
noons, whenever I could snatch an hour
from my work. What was I to say in
answer to the many tender protestations
of Ralph? And how was I to speak of
Mathew?
“Teil him,’’ said tho fugleman, “that
Mathew is a villain. Last Tuesday week
there was a run to - Coldstream—lace and
brandy—Mathew stood in and found tho
ponies. Yet he is a villain.”
“And what about yourself?” I asked.
“As for me',’’ ho said, “I always said
that once the boy got his foot on the low
est’ rung, it would not bo long before he
was on the top of the ladder. Half way
up and more he is, I reckon, by now. So
that I am not surprised to hear of his
good fortune, and only wish I was young
•riough to bo his fugleman. Tell him
that first cf alL But Mathew is a villain.
Next you may say that I’m well and
hearty, and likely to continue in tho way
that a villain must have rope enough to . . . , . ...
i i it ai i> i ». f ,, us a year and a quarter at least with pru
hung himself. Ah, Ralph, if you could , ^ t-.a c i .
t> . .. U . ' . denco. Fifty-fivo guineas! It was e
como back to us. But tho quiet country
would bo tedious to you after your splen
dors and tho pleasure of an active life.
But whether you como home or whether
you stay, you must always believe that I
am your loving Drusilla.
“P. S.—I forgot to beg that you may
not take it ill that I have written these
words. For, indeed, you maybe married,
ar at least in love, with ono more worthy
loan myself, find if that is so, I wish
both her aud you many years of happiness
md love, and shall only ask her to let me
lovo you still as my brother. How can
Mathew presume to court a girl who has
inown Ralph!”
CHAPTER VHI.
IS IT TRUE?
Now was Mathew pulled asunder with
t grievous doubt and anxiety. For not
raly might his enemy, as ho considered
him, appear at any moment to demand a
strict account, but ho knew very well
.hat if he pushed on his suitor attempted
my deviltry with us, I might send for
Ralph and ask his protection. Yet could
my story be true? How could I know,
and I alone, of his welfare and the place
of his dwelling? Was it possible, he
thought, that such a secret, if there was
any secret, should be intrusted to tho
keeping of a mere girl? If the boy was
really doing well, why did he not return
on his twenty-first birthday and claim his
: Inheritance? So that the more he thought
about it, tho more he tried to persuade
himself that the thing was false. And
yet he was afraid; I could seo that ho was
continually haunted by tho fear of what
might happen. Ho sought me often and
begged for information concerning his
i cousin. Next, ho tried my father, but
his memory as regards the lad was quite’
gone; and my mother, but she took no in
terest in the subject, and said she knew
nothing about the boy for her part.
“Yet,” said Mathew, “your daughter
pretends to know where he is and what
ho is doing.”
“1’hen,” replied my mother sharply,
“Lord help the man! go and ask my
: daughter.’’
“But sho will not tell me.”
“Then how can I? Hark ye, Master
Mathew; you como here too often. My
daughter hath given you her answer.
She bears no love to you; she will hare
none of you. Go, then, and leave us alone,
of grace, such being my constitution and Wo are poor enough, God knows, but not
my habits. Mathew, his cousin, is a so poor as to thrust husbands ou our girl
desperate villain. Tell him that. You against her will. Leave us to ourselves.
may tell him next that if he still re-
gardeth eggs I have got such a collection
for him ns can’t be matched. As for
Mathew, he is a rogue and a villain.
Fish, tell him, are plentiful this year, and
otters there bo in plenty. Yesterday I
trapped a badger, and I know of a marten
opposite the hermitage. The birds are
wild, but I had good sport with Ids
worship last winter, ami hope to do some
thing by myself when tho nights draw
out. Say next that I send him my faith
ful respects aud humble good wishes; and
Mathew is a villain. And as for your own
pretty self, you sit down and tell him that
there isn’t a straighter maid, nor one more
beautiful, on the banks of Coquet; while,
as for eyes and shape and rosy lips”
“Indeed,” I cried, “I shall tell him no
such nonsense. No, I will not tell him
such nonsense.”
"Why, he loves thee, sweetheart. Say
it, child, to please him, so lonely ho is,
and so far away from us. I wish ho had
good man, and find another wife.”
After this, Mathew remained quiet
again for throe or four months. That Is
to say, ho came no more to the house.
So great, and reasonably great, was my
suspicion of him that I was certain h*
! would do something to revenge himself
upon me, or to get me in his power. Yet
I know uot—I could not guess—what he
would do, or in what way he could injure
mo, as if tho machinations of wicked men
can ever be suspected and guarded against;
as if the head of him who is desperately
wicked may not conceive, yea, and exe-
! cute things which an innocent girl would
I believe incredible. The first alarm was
' caused by a visit from Barbara, who came
to see my mother and myself, together or
separately. She said sho was a messenger
from her brother, who, whatever I might
say or think, was tho most forgiving and
the most long suffering of men; that he
was perfectly prepared, if I would make
submission, ask pardon for the injmrious
Fifty-fivo guineas! it was a
little fortune to us. It would keep us
until I got a letter from Ralph. Where
upon I told my mother to be of good
cheer and to wait patiently and hope for
the best. She sighed, being uever a
woman of sanguine disposition, and ignor
ant of those secret springs of happiness
within me which made me think lightly
of present poverty.
And now you shall hear a plot of dia
bolical wickedness, which for the time
was successful. We all know that for a
season sinners are sometimes permitted
to compass their own designs, but for
their surer undoing in the end.
Two days after the burial of the dame,
at a time when we might bo supposed to
bo overwhelmed by the calamity of being
left destitute, Mathew came to the cot
tage. He looked ill at ease, and his eyes
met mine shiftily, but he spoke ont with
boldness, while he produced a leather
pocket book and turned over certain papers
within it.
“I have como, madam,” ho said address
ing my mother, but looking at m^, “to
inform you or your husband—It matters
not which—that I can no longer wait for
the Interest on the principal of my money,
and that you must be prepared to pay, cr
take the consequences.”
“What interest? What money?” asked
my mother.
"Why,’’he affected great surprise, “is
it possible that you are going to deny the
debt?”
“What means tho man?” my mother
said impatiently.
“Nay,!’ said Mathew, smiling, but look
ing like a hangdog villian the while,
“this passes patience. I mean, madam,
my loan to your husband."
“What loan?” she repeated; "and
when?”
“Why,” said Mathew, “if you pretend
not to know, I am not obliged to tell you;
but since . Well, I will tell you: I
mean this, madam; the sum of two hun
dred pounds advanced by me to your hus
band, for which, and in security, he
hath assigned me a mortgage on this
house.”
My mother was quite wise enough to
know what was meant by a mortgage. She
asked, but w ith pale face, where was his
mortgage.
Mathew unrolled a paper and laid it on
the table. My mother read It through
hurriedly. Then she sank bock in her
chair and covered her face with her hands,
saying:
“It is true, my child. Here is thy fa
ther’s signature. This is the last blow."
saw s an ing at the ren g e; an( ] ij 0 would bo convicted as a
slanderer and calumnious person, if that
mattered anght.
First ho blustered and threatened. I
iared, did I, to reproach him; very good,
I should see what things ho could do; I
should laugh the other side of my mouth.
Did I refuse this offer? Very well, then,
t should find oat what his displeasure
meant. And, perhaps, ‘ before long, t
should be sorry for the Insult 1 had of
fered him and the proposal I had refused.
He then flung away, becoming at this
point speechless, and Indeed he looked so
apgry that I was afraid he would have
thrown aw Mto the stream.
I want home, and said nothin* to anr-
garden gate. He looked so jocund,
smiled so pleasantly, and ho wore so self
satisfied an air, that I was quite certain
some evil thing had happened.
“Drusilla,” he said, "I have heard cer
tain intelligence. Yon may depend upon
Ita truth, which is confirmed in every par
ticular. I think that you should be the
®mt to hear of it, aad though it be, yet
I could not but expect.”
’T suppose,”! said with a laugh,be
cause I knew that he waa about to Invent
•°®« wicked falsehood, “I suppose you
nave got something to tell me about
i, whom your cruel conduct drove
I into the world?"
blushes on tho checks and all. A girl
ought to be proud for such as him to fall
in love with her.”
“Is he truly In lovo with mo?” I said,
with tears coming into my eyes, because
now that tho words were spoken I know
very well how much I longed for that
very thing. "Why, he says he wishes me
nappiness with my husband. As if I could
toko any husband but Ralph. ”
“There—there,” he cried, “tell him
that. Tell him that, and it will make him
happy and bring him home.”
"You think such a little thing as that
would bring him home?”
"There’s ono thing,” said the old man,
“which women can never understand, and
that's tho strength and power of love.
There was a man in Lord Falkland's regi
ment—but I cannot tell thee all the story.
There was a young gentleman in tho
Fourteenth, when we were stationed at
Gibraltar, in love with’ a Spanish lady-
hut of that at another time. What did
the soldier care that he got 800 the next
day? And as for tho young gentleman,
be would have done the same—and always
said so—if another dozen of duels was to
come after it, aud him to be pinked in
every one. Cheerfully he would have
done the same for such another charmer.
Ah! he would, and more; but women never
understand.”
With theso mysterious words did he en
courage me as to the force and vehemence
among men of the passion called love.
If Ralph was only home again, we
should have a protector. I thought of
this and hesitated no longer. Yet it gas
an tmmaidenly thing which I did, aad to
this day I am uncertain aa to whether I
wit, iustifisd hr all the circumsUaoes. It
thy picture just now, with the pretty | things I had said, and reveal what I knew
of Ralph, viz., where ho was living, what
lie vres doing, and what were his inten
tions; to pass over all, and to take mo
onco more into favor.
“Good Lord!” said my mother. “Does
the man think ho is the Great Bashaw?
Favor, indeed!”
"Beggars,” said Barbara, “must not be
choosers.”
At these words my mother flamed up
and asked Mistress Barbara many ques
tions relating to her birth, parentage,
wealth, religious professions, personal
beauty, and so forth, leaving her no time
to answer any. This is, with respect to
the memory of a kind parent, a manner of
speech common among women—oven well
bred city madams when they are angry.
Finally, sho said that there had been quite
enough said about Mathew’s proposals,
and that he was to understand again, and
once for all, that they were distasteful;
upon which Barbara coughed, and said
that she had delivered her message, that
she hail no desire, fo$ her own part, for
tho alliance, which would as certainly be
os distasteful to herself as it was to Mrs.
Hethcrington, and more so, for her brother
had a right to look for fortune, which
would be of much more use to him than a
baby face; that she was surprised, being a
messenger of peace, and seat by a man of
substantial estate, as all the world knew,
to be thus treated by folk who were ex
pected shortly to come upon this parish,
and the daughter to be glad of honest ser
vice and a crust. But enough said.
"Hoity toltyl” cried my mother. "This
is brave talking, indeed, from plain milltrs
and simple farmers. Is the world going
UMddo down?”.
- m
“Here i * thy father 1 * signature.
Mathew rolled up the paper again and
put it in his pocket.
“Can you, madam,” he asked, “pay me
my money ?*
“Go ask of the poor demented creature
to whom you lent it,” she replied.
“Then,” said Mathew, “If the money be
not forthcoming I must sell the house.
Yet there is a way”
“What way?” I asked.
"You know tho way. You have only
to tell mo where the boy is and to marry
me.”
I shook my head.
“And you, sir,” cried my mother, “you
who lend money to poor madmen for the
min of their house, you—a villain if ever
there was one—you think that I would
give my daughter to such as you?”
“Very well, madam, very well,” said
Mathew, unmoved. “Very likely the
cottage will sell for as much as the mort
gage. Perhaps, if not, your husband
may carry his extravagances to a jail, as
provided by a righteous law."
Here he Red, because, I believe, my
father could be caUed upon for nothing
more than the house which was his secu
rity.
My mother pointed to the door, and
Mathew went away, leaving us bewildered
indeed. Two hundred pounds! Now, in
deed, we were ruined. But what had he
done with the money?
“Mother,’' I cried, “it is a black and
base conspiracy. My father has never,
since he came from London, possessed
single sixpence. Think of it. If he bad
a penny • ’i have known it. Try
to mnem.^ a ever you saw the least
sign of his having money.”
No, there was none. He wrote no lot-
ten and received none; he bought noth-
ing. His clothes, wUch were how old
wore when he returned home. On the
other band, because ho was of a generous
heart, he was forever giving away what
he called money In large sums by means
of drafts upon London bankers, which he !
would sign and press upon the recipient
with kind words. For Instance, on my j
birthday ho always gave me an order tor
£100 on a piece of paper, signed by his ‘
own hand, “Sol. Hethcrington,” bidding
me, because I was a good girl, go
buy myself some finery and fallals.
At Christmas, the New Year, Easter, j
Roodsmass, fair time, and other
times of rejoicing, he would fill his
pockets with thoso valuable gifts, and
sally forth—first to tho vicar, with an
offering for the poor, saying that it was
little merit to give out of abundance; that
tho Lord loveth a cheerful giver; that tho
poor wo have always with us; that a rich
man must remember tho fato of Dives,
and that, for his part, ho would that tho
church had all charities in her own hand,
so that schismatics, profligates and per
sons without religion should starve, with
other pithy and seasonable remarks.
Haring received the vicar’s thanks and a
glass of usquebaugh to keep out tho raw
air of tho morning, he would proceed up
tho village street, the boys and girls
touching their caps and making courto
sies to him, while the barber and black
smith would offer tho compliments of the
season, with the hope that her ladyship
was well. Then he would pass tho cot
tage of Sailor Nan, and would call her
out and press Into her hand a folded
paper, saying that it was for Christmas
cheer: that she must rejoice, with a dish
of good roast beef and plum porridge, and
a great coal fire, and bidding her God
speed, would go on his charitable way,
while some laughed and some looked
grave, and tears would fall from tho eyes i
of the women to think that ono so good
and generous should also be so poor.
Alas! my father was ono of thoso who
could never become rich.
Even while wo spoke of this wo heard
outside tho voice of my father as if to
confirm our words:
' “It ill becomes men of substance, Mr. i
Carnaby, to allow poorer parishioners to
bear the burden of such things. I will
myself repair tho roof of the church at my
own charges. Nay, sir, permit mo to take
no refusal in this matter. If it stand me
In £1,000 I will do it. Why, it is a lend
ing unto the Lord; it is a good work.”
It happened that in some way I had
more influence over my father than any
ono. That is to say, ho would unfold Ids
mind—such as it was, poor man!—tome
with greater freedom than to my mother,
who could never make any show of in
terest or belief in bis magnificent designs
and charitable schemes. I therefore tried
to learn from him, if I could, tho truth of
this business. After listening to a long
story of his intentions as regards the
church and tho endowment of the living
&t Warkworth, I turned the conversation
upon Mathew Humble, and asked my
father if ho had of lato seen and spoken
with him. Ho said that Mathew now
avoided rather than sought his company,
for which he knew no reason, except that
when you have obliged a man it fre
quently happens that ho keeps out of your
way—a thing, ho said, of common ex-
pericnco in the city, where young men, in
cautious men and unlucky men often ob
tain assistauco in the prolongation of bills
and loans.
“Since I have boon of sucli great serv
ice,” he said, “to Mathew Humble, ho
seems to think that he must not como so
often as ho did. A worthy man, however,
and, perhaps, ho is moved by tho shame
of taking assistance.”
“Very likely, sir,” I said, wondering
what thing, short of tho pillory, with tho
fugleman and his pike beside it, would
move Mathew to shame. “It is strange
that men should thus court tho appear
ance of ingratitude. Did you ever, sir,
borrow money, sums of money, of
Mathew Humble?”
• Lend, you mean, Drusilla," lie replied,
turning red with sudden anger.
“No, sir, I said borrow. Pray pardon
mo, sir, I had no intention to offend."
“But you have offended, child.” Ho
puffed his cheeks, and became scarlet
with sudden passion. “You have of- j
feuded, I say. Not offended? Do
you know what you have said?
Have words meaning for you? Should
I, Solomon Hetherington, Knight,
known and venerated for my wealtli
from Tower Hill to Temple Bar, ami
from London Bridge to Westminster,
stoop to borrow—to borrow, I say, paltry
sums—for ho could lend none but paltry
sums—of a petty farmer? Not mean to
offend! Zounds! the girl Is mad.”
“Pray, sir, forgive me. I am so ignor
ant that I knew not”
“To be sure, my dear, to be sure.” IIo
became as quickly appeased as ho had
been easily offended. “She docs not know
the difference between lending aud bor
rowing. How should she?”
And have you lent Mathew much,
sir.”
‘As for lending, I have, it is true,
placed In his hands, from time to time,
sums of money for which I have no
security and have demanded no interest.
But let that pass. I am so rich that I can
afford to lose. Let itpass. And whether
he pays them back «(|M, I do not greatly
c&ro.”
“You gave this money to him,” I said,
by drafts upon your bankers, I suppose.”
“Why, certainly. You do not suppose
that we London merchants, however rich
we arc, carry our money about with us.
That would indeed bo a return to barbar
ous times.”
“Then there was the paper that you
signed in the presence of an attested at
torney and of Barbara, what was that,
father?”
He laughed and made as if he were an
noyed, though ho appeared pleased.
“Tut, tut,” he said. “A trifle—a mere
trifle; let an old man have his little whims
sometimes, Drusilla.”
“But what was it, sir?” I persisted.
“Mathew would have me call it a mort
gage,” my father went on. "A mortgage,
indeed! Because he wished his sister not
to know It was—ho, ho!—a deed of gift,
child. That is all. It was when I as
signed certain lauds to him. A deed of
gift. Wo called it a mortgage, but I could
not prevent showing Barbara by laughing
—ha, ha!—that it was something very
different. In addition to tho money, I
have bestowed upon him a field or so for
the improvement of his farm. The gain
to him is great; the loss is small to me. A
mortgage, we agreed to call it. Ha! hal
Duly signed and witnessed. Your father,
Drusilla, is not one to do things irregu
larly. Duly signed and witnessed.”
This conversation made it quite clear to
me that Mkthew had contrived an abomin-
able plot for our ruin. For the supposed
deed of gift which my father wished to ;
oi marriage, » woum seeit me pxmeenva
of Mr. Carnaby. All theso things I con
sidered, but none of them approved them
selves ou consideration, because a forger
and a cheat will always bo ready, if he
escapes punishment for the first offense,
to repeat his wickedness. Lastly, I re
solved upon seeking Mathew at the mill,
where I could talk to him at greater
freedom.
I went there in tho afternoon about 2 of
tho clock. When I lifted tho latch I saw
Barbara sitting on the settle near the
window working. Before her, os usual,
lay an open Bible. Strange! that one who
was so hard and severe could draw no
comfortable things from a book which
should be full of comfort.
She shook her long lean forefinger at mo.
“I have known,” sho said, “for a long
time tho ruin that hangs over your house.
I saw your father sign the mortgage. Ho
laughed and called it a deed gift, I remem
ber. Ah! good money after bad. But my
brother, who was foolish enough to lend
the money, was uot so foolish as to let it
go without security. A deed of gift! He
is c(inning, your father, and would do-
ceivo mo if he could, I doubt not.” Sho
turned over tho leaves and found some
thing that seemed to suit tho occasion
and my demerits. “ ‘Ho hath mado thy
vino bare.’ My brother is full of com
passion. ‘IIo hath made it clean bare.’
Thy punishment hath begun. ”
“I wish to see your brother alono.”
“Do you come in peace or in enmity?
If In peace, you must first make submis
sion. and confess your deceits as regards
the boy, who is surely dead. Nothing
else will satisfy him. You can begin with
me. Where is the boy?”
“What I have to say is with your
brother, not with you.”
“Go, then; but remember, when you
are married, look not to bo mistress here.
I shall continue to bo tho mistress as I
have always been. If you como in enmity,
then you have mo to battle with and not
my brother alone. Two hundred pounds
is not a sum to bo given away for naught.
Mon arc soft where a woman is concerned;
Mathew may be a fool for your sake; you
! may look to wheedle him out of his papers.
1 Ah, but you shall not. He may bo a fool,
but I am behind. I am not soft; your
eyes will not make a fool of me, Mistress
! Drusilla.”
She then bade me go within, where I
1 should find her brother.
It was a cloudy afternoon, and, so early
in the season, already growing dusk;
Mathew was seated beside tho fire, and ou
the tablo a stout jar containing Hollands
which ho had already begun to drink.
“Pretty Drusilla!” ho cried, astonished.
"Have you brought tho money?”
“No,” I said. “I como to learn If yon
are in earnest or in jest.”
“In jest?” Then ho swore a loud oath.
"Seo you, my lass; If that money is not
paid next week, your house will bo sold.
Make your account of that. But if you
comply with my conditions, tho papers
shall be torn up.”
“Then I am como to tell you, Mathew,
that although I shall not comply with
your conditions, tho cottage will uot bo
sold.”
“Why not?”
“Because, first of all, that mortgage is
false. 1 know now what you did. You
caused my father to sign one paper, be
lieving it to be another. That is a fraud,
I and a hanging matter, Master Mathew.”
He laughed, hut uneasily, and he turned
pale. Also, which is hardly worth tho
noting, lie swore a great oath.
“It’s a lie 1” ho cried. “Prove it!”
“I can prove it, when tho timo comei>.
Meantime, rcllect on what I have said. It
is a wicked and detestable plot. Reflect
upon this and tremble.”
He laughed again, but uneasily.
“There is another reason,” I sold,
“why you will not sell tho cottage. It Is
this. You are afraid that Ralph may
como homo and demand an account.
Well, I can tell you this; that ho will not
come homo just yet. But, if you do this
thing as sure as I am alive, Mathew, 1
will write to him and tell him all 1 shall
tell him how yon have persecuted me to
marry you, aof because you want me for
your wife, and thouga you have had your
answer a dozen times over, but because
you want to plague and spite your cousin.
1 will tell him, next, how you have spread
false reports about another will, and how
you have wliispered that he is turned
highwayman. And lastly, 1 will tell him
how you have practiced upon the kind
heart of a poor demented man, and mads
him sign his name In testimony of your
own foul plot aud falsehood. 1 will not
spare you. I will tell him all. I will beg
him to return post haste, and to bring
with him officers of justice. Then, in
deed, you may look for no mercy, nor for
anything short of tho assizes and New
castle jaiL”
1 spoke so resolutely, though perhaps
through ignorance I spoke foolishly, that
I moved him aud ho trembled.
Yet he blustered. Ho said that all
women are liars, as Is very well known;
that the boy was long since dead and
bnried; else why did ho not return to
claim the property? That, as for my
story, he did not valuo It one farthing;
while, as regards my accusation, ho would
laugh. In fact, be did laugh, but not
mirthfully.
“Como, Drusilla," he said; “your father
Is welcome to the money, for aught I care.
I do not desire to sell tho cottage. Sit
down and bo friendly. Toll mo all about
the boy; and look, my lass"—his eyes were
cunning indeed—“look you. Write to the
boy; tell him, If you will, about the
i money. Tell him that I am willing not to
press It If ho will give reasonable assur
ance or security of his own in exchange.
Let him, for Instance, give me a mortgage
on the mill, and let him, since ho is so
prosperous, pay the interest himself-"
This was a trap into which I nearly fell.
Bat I saw In time that ho designed to find
ont in this way what ho had to fear.
“I have told you,” I said, “what I shall
do."
“Ahl your story, I doubt, Is but made
up by woman’s wit. Drusilla, you are a
cunning baggage. Como, now, give over;
stay here and be my wife; thou shalt be
mistress In everything. As for Barbara,
I am tired of her soar looks. Sho scolds
all day Sbo may pack; she makes the
meala uncomfortable. She may vanish;
■he stints the beer. We will keep house
without her She finds faalt from morn
ing to night She Is a”
“You called me, Mathew?" Barbara
snddenly opened the door and stood be
fore os. Her eyes followed me as I went
away with malignity difficult to describe,
and Mathew, sinking back Into his chair,
feebly reached ont his hand for the jar of
Hollands
Schedule o! the Hartsville R. R.
Haktsvxllk. 8. C., Dec. 7, ’89.
DAILY MIXED TRAIN.
Leaves Hartsville, 7.15 A. M.
leaves Jovann, 7.40 “
Arrive at Floyd’s, 8.05 “
Making connection with the Sonth
bound passenger train on the Cheraw
A Darlington Railroad.
RETURNING.
Ixiavo Floyd’s, 10.00 A. M.
Leave Jovann. 10.20 “
Arrive at Hartsville, 10.50 “
This train waits two hoars, if necessa
ry, for the North bound freight train
ou C. &. D. R. R.
Leave Floyd's, 9.00 P. M.
Ix>ave Jovann, 9.20 “
Arrive at Hartsville, 9.45 “
J. L. COKER.
President.
FOR C. & D. AND C. * S. RAILROADS
PassiDsn’sOmci )
& D. andC. & S. RAILROADS, \
Charleston, 8,0., May 12, 1889. J
lo ami after May 12, the trains on
three roads will run as follows (Sunday ex*
oq ted) every day:
DOWK TEAUt.
i.. vu Wudesboro
Bennetts.,
Morven’s 0.86
V ci'nrlund •eeen eene 0.50
l.e ivt CUeraw 7.80
• e eeeeee eeeeee
7.45
8.03
8.22
8.42
8 65
• 15
Cash’s
Society Hill
Disc’s
Darlington.
Palmetto....
Arrive at Florence....
UP TRAM.
Leave Florence 8.10 P M
Palmetto 8.25
Darlington 8.85
Dove’s 9.52
Sooietyllill 9.12
Cash’s 9
LeaveCheraw 9.43 P M
McFarlan 10.08
Morven’s •eeeen eee 10.20
Bennett 8*eee*«•••••• *•###• ••• 10*
Lake W&desboro • eeeeeeeeeee 11.00
Freight Train going up.
Leave Florence 7.00 a m
Arrive Darlington 7.45 a m
Freight going down
Arrive Darlington K.OO p m
Leave Darlington 8.60 p m
Arrive Florence 4.10 pm
G
A. F. RAVENEL, Pres.
II Master Transportation.
ITE-W SOHEIDXJLB
ORTHEASTERN RAILROAD.
N'
Oiiarlkston, S. C., May )2. 1889.
On and after ibis
schedule will he run :
dale the following
GOING SOUTH.
No. 27,
Daily.
Leave F lorence
*1 85 a to
Leave Kingstrce
2 29 a m
Arrive Lanes
2 60 a m
Leave Lanes
2 50 u ra
Arrive Charleston
1 00 a ni
No. 23,
Daily.
Leave Florence
*9 80 a m
Leave Kingstree
10 65 a o
Arrive Lanes
11 20 a •
Leave Lanes
11 90 a l
Arrive Charleston
1 30 a ■
No 63.
Leave Lanes
*7 60 P. M.
Arrive Charleston
t 30 a. m.
Train No. 63 takes No. 63 South of Lanes
Train on C & D K K conn ate at Flor-
enoc with No 23 Train
GOING NORTH.
No, 78, Daily.
Leave Charleston
Arrive Lancs
Leave Lanes
Leave Kingstree
Arrive Florence
No. 14.
Leave Conrleslon
Arrive Lanes
Leave Lanes
Leave Kingstrce
Arrive Florence
*r. 25 A m
2 45 a m
2 60 a m
8 10 a m
4 20 a m
•4 30 p hi
6 28 p m
6 28 p in
ti 46 p m
7 55 p in
No. 52, Daily.
Leave Charleston 7 '0 a tn
Arrive Lanes 9 i0 a m
* Daily, f Daily except Sut.
Train No. 52 tikes No. 62 North Lanes.
Train Nn. 11 connects at Flor with
Train on C A D K R for Cheraw ..and
Wadesboro, N. C.
Nos 62 runs through to Columbia
via Central K R of 8 C.
Nos. 78 and 14 run solid to Wilmington,
N. C., making close connection with w. &
W R R for alt points north.
J R. KENLY, J. F. Divmt,
Supt. Trans. Gen’l Sap’t.
T. M. Emerson, Gen’l Pass. Agt.
WILMINGTON COLUMBIA AN# AUGUSTA RAILBtil
May 12, 1889.
GOING SOUTH
. No. 28.
Leave Wilmington
"6 25 pm
Leave Marion
9 88 p a
Arrive Florence
10 3ft. a
No. 60.
Leave Floreuce
3.20 a u
Arrive Sumter
4.40 a a
Leave Suuiier
4 40 a a
Arrive Columbia -
6. It a a
No. z7
Leave Wilmington
*10.10 • a
Leave Marion
12.40 p m
Arrive Florence
1 90a m
No 52
Leave Sumter
flO 33 a a
Arrive Columbia
11 65 p ■>
No 58
Leave Florence
t9 20 a a
Arrive Sumter
10 28 a a
No 52 runs through from
Charleston via
Central R U.
Leaving Lanes 9 15 A M., Manning 8 53
j A M.
Train on C & D R R connects at Florenc*
riib No 58.
GOING NORTH.
No 61
(To be continued.)
People Everywhere.
sign, ho subetitnted a real deed of mort- _ „ , , , i „„
gage, in which my father was to acknowl- Confirm DUr stateni<-nt
edge that he had received £200 for which say that Acker 8 English Kenie-
his house for security, and dy is in every way superior to
afterward appeared, any any and all other preparations
i after notice f or the Throat and L
should be given of foreclosing. How far Whooping Cough and
the lawyer was concerned in this con- . .• _ 0 i: av o a
tica vo Columbia.
•10 36 p n
Arrirs Sumter
11 68 p m
Leave Sumter
11 68 p m
Arrive Florence
No. 78.
115am
Leave Florence,
4 35 a ■
Leave Marion
6 20 a m
Arrive at Wilmington,
No. 69
8 36 am
Leave Sumter
f6 37 p a
Arrive Florence
No. 63,
7 50 p a
Leave Columbia
•6 20 p is
Arrive Sumter
No 14
6 82 y ■
Leave Florence
•8 16 p m
Leave Marion
8 69 p m
Arrive at Wilmington
11 60 p a
he assigned
without, as
clause as to
In
th*
lawyer
spiracy I know not. Perhaps he was in
nocent. Indeed, I am now inclined to be
lieve that he was innocent of any com
plicity. How far Barbara—perhaps she,
too, was ignorant of this wickedness.
All that night I lay awake turning the
thing over in my mind. I planned n
thousand mad schemes; I would break
into Mathew's room and steal the papers.
I would go round the town and proclaim
his wickedness; I would inveigle him
surrendering the papers by
Lungs.
Croup it
is magic aud relieves at once.
We offer you a sample bottle
free. Remember, this Remedy
is sold on a positive guarantee by
Dr. J. A. Boyd. 2
turoing Ivevs
Writing poetry is recommend
ed as a mental exercise* You
can get physical exercise by at- rive Sumter
tempting to read it to tho odi-
i t or.—Terre Haute Expre&t.
"Daily. fDaily except ..Sunday.
No 63 rune through la Charleston, via
Central R R, arriving Manning? 04 P M
Lanes 7 42 P M. Cbarlestoa 9 80 P II.
No 69 connects at Florence with C ft D
train for Cheraw aud Wadesbero’.
Nee 78 and 14 make eloee eonnectien at
Wiliningiou with W ft 17 HR for all peiati
North.
Train on Florence R. R. leave Pee Dee
daily except Sunday 4.40 P. M., airlve
Rowland 7.00 P. M. Returning leave
Rowland 6.80 A. M., arrive Pee Dee 9.00
A. M. C
Train Ou Manchester ft Augesta R. R
leave! Sumter daily 4
A. M., arrive P
-
HI
AUgaata A* m
Sunday, 11.Qi
1.01 P. M H.
1.30 P M., Ai •*■
R. KENLY,
t m.:
DIVINIi Gem* • I
Traas.
am.Pw ft •
as" I
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Ella
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