The Darlington news. (Darlington, S.C.) 1875-1909, October 04, 1894, Image 3
YELrbOW
BY © IOTA. =S
CHAPTER XXXII.
“I wonder whether the fel
low is grasping the ‘high se
riousness’ of Art, or goinir to
the devil?”
Strange was on his road to
see Brydon, from whom that
morning he had received a
rather enigmatical note.
"I didn t expect you this
hour,” said Brydon, v.hen he
arrived, ‘‘I thought it was that
brute, the fellow over me, who
always forgets his key. I came
back to the old place, you see,
from a sort of habit, and I
thought too it would suit Mag
and Con. I went to see them.
They taught me a lot, those two
girls; they had fine flesh tints,
better than the French article
as a rule.”
‘‘Have they been to see you?”
“Yes, Mag’s married, and her
figure!—throw your coat there
—It’s a sin to see it; women of
that order should die young.”
“And Connie?”
“Connie! she’s grown frowsy.
I’m afraid it’s gin! There was
a blackguard she‘walked with’
who levanted with a cook, so
it’s censorious to grudge her a
drop of comfort. But to think
of jjkose pearly tints grown
froitty!” he murmured, “to sell
thatpooloring f >r a greasy mess
of ppSttage! The folly of man is
inscrutable!—Strange, you want
desert air, your skin has lost
tone!
“Reason, my good boy, what
else can you expect?”
“I wonder if it’s all season,”
thoughv the fellow, and an un
accountable coldness ran down
his spine.
“1 wonder if he’s made a mis
take too!”
“How are you getting on, as
to work?”
“1 have to speak of something
else first, and for reasons btest
known to myself, I prefer fresh'
air for it—will you stroll
round?”
“I should like to see the pic
ture first,” said Strange. One
of his old blushes mounted to
Brydon’s cheeks.
“Ljok at the light from that
gin-palace on the red head of
_ that child!” he went on, as they
" turned the corner, “it’s funny
what glorious effects one gets
from the filthiest combinations!
There is no light more bewilder
ing and lovely than the phos-
phoric blue flickerdrom a grave
yard.
“That effect now, those reek
ing gin lights on that beastly
dirty head, and the corpse lights
are like a lot of writers’ work,
no one can pass it by, it has a
power to grasp and hold you,
that cleaner things don’t have
and such power means genius,
don’t you think? Power strong
enough, I mean, to stop a fel
low's mind and nose low enough
to batten on corruption? If tike
corruption wasn’t made worth
examining, one would only pass
on, with a kick at the seething
mass. Instead of that, one
looks and spits, and looks and
spits again, buts keeps looking
and finally settles doiyn to en
joy one’s self and then a fellow
gets enervated and unmanned
before he knows what he is
about. Ho sees the pitiless
truth of things, of course, but
he loses every thing else—the re
sult is very limiting when one
thinks of it. Battening on cer
tain books,” went on Brydon af
ter a pause, “was the beginning
of it, I think, then rottenness
smells sweet after a time, and a
fellow gets curious and wants
to exploit on his own account.
I did all sorts of things first, I
tried trees, sun, shade, moon
light; I walked blisters on my
feet, 1 worked in the sweat of
my brow, but nothing would
still the brutal throbbing, and I
went mad one day in that mad
dening city. Art wasn’t worth
a straw to save me. I made a
beast of myself, the cheap sort
of beast that I had tunds for,
and—here is the result!”
“Well, you’re a sorry object,
it must be confessed!”
“But that’s not the worst
either—do you know I have al
together lost the way to work; I
can do nothing. Now some fel
lows can go down in the gutter
one day and mount up amongst
the gods the next without turn
ing a hair; it beats me.”
“It’s a good deal a question of
nationality,” said Strange, •‘En
glishmen as a rule can’t do com
plete work while they’re mud-
larking; French fellows often
can; just as no decent bourgeois
John Bull has it in him to write
tons of magnificent filth on a
sort of principle. The fact is,
no fellow of your temperament
has any business to wallow in
modern French realism, you
haven’t tone enough. I felt
certain this would happen, but
you had to take your chance
with your betters, and no doubt
the experience hasn’t been all
loss. I am sorry for you all the
same; you’ll find your repent-
anceadarned sight bitterer than
the delirium was sweet. That
is my experience anyway, and
‘ go harder with you; your
health, you see, can’t stand
it.”
“It can’t, which makes me
the bigger fool. To think of
my work being knocked on the
head, and to so little purpose!
Especially,,’ he added naively,
“when one has to do that sort
of thing on the cheap.”
“ Fello ws like you feel that sort
of thing always, even if they
have a pocket full of coin. You
see, you are’too fastidious and
sensitive to enjoy vice properly;
and yet the queer thing is, it de
bases you sooner than it does
men of coarser make, unless it
kills you right off the reel, as it
mostly does. Stronger men
have things to keep them up,
you fellows haven’t; they get
brutalized if you like, but it is
the brutalization of men, not of
women.”
Here Brydon winced, possibly
Strange saw him—he took no
notice, however, but went on
coolly:
“They don’t get rotten-soft,
and corrupt. Another thing
that’s against you;yourfather’s
a parson, and his father before
him, and your mother is a par
son’s daughter.”
“Yes—what on earth has that
to do with iti”
“A lot. With inherited con
science and spiritual feelings,
and a sneaking regard for hell
fire in every drop of your blood,
things were sure to be made
pretty hot for you in next to no
time. Small wonder your work
went to the devill”
“I suppose it’s all the brutal
truth,” said Brydon.
“Did you expect this?” he
asked with —’dden shyness.
“Are you disappointed?”
“I am two old to be disap
pointed in any fellow, probably
there’s nota thing you have done,
I wouldn’t myself have done had
I been in your skin. Now the
question is, what’s to fit you for
work again?”
“I think,” said the boy dole
fully, “the best thing I could
do would be to cut my throat.”
“If I felt like an ass I should
hold my tongue about it, and
take a blue pill. By the way,
there’s some contradiction, for
Blunt saw Legrun the other
day, and he’s tremendously
pleased with you.”
“Oh, I took to swatting for a
time, as a sop to Cerberus, and
worked like the very devil at
drawing, but somehow I’d rath
er get a kick any day, than
praise, when I know my work’s
dishonest, done to cover filth;
it’s an insult to Art.”
“My good boy, don’t be mor
bid! It was a good sight better
to bring your lines into order
than to do nothing.”
“All the same, 1 have no sat
isfaction in the work done
then.
“Ah, parson’s blood again—
no need you should, but you
needn’t add it to the list of your
sins, that would be rather a
work of supererogation,
wouldn’t it?”
“I would like to go out in the
desert alone for forty days or
so, and wrestle with anything
that came along, God or the
devil.”
“A very proper attitude of
mind and befitting your breed.
In the meantime, when do you
intend returning to Paris?”
“I must go to morrow.”
“Why must you?”
“Because—” he hesitated,
blushing furiously.
“Good Heavens, man, speak
out! Have we been friends for
titeen years ftfr nothing?”
“W^L beastliness, however
cheap ymi do it, is costly. Even
your magnificent commission
has gone down the gutter.”
“It wouldn’t pay either of us
for you to return there just now,
besides, I want you to come over
and stay at my house.”
“I cannot stay in the house
with Lady Strange,” said bry
don in a low voice, “I couldn’t.
If I am not clean enough to
work at my Art I am certainly
not fit to eat and drink in her
presence. I didn’t stay in my
father’s house until my mother
and sisters had gone away, and
—Lady Strange, somehow, is
divine tome. She is always the
bride in that picture. I think,”
he continued, with a strange
softness in his voice, “for all
her jeering at me, that-1 have
painted the real woman.” It
was Strange’s turn to wince
this time.
““Look here, Strange,” the
boy went on, still softly and
with lowered head, “I finished
that picture before I went into
the sty. I wouldn’t have touch
ed her with a dirty brush.”
“My dear fellow, I know it! I
should have liked you to have
stayed with us. At any’ rate
you will stay in London for a
few days; I will be your banker,
of course; it will after all, only
a very trifling increase of your
debt to me, and there’s plenty
of time to pav that in.”
He took held of the fellow’s
arm and swung him round.
“It’s getting late,” he said,
“and I want to see the picture
to-night,”
They walked on in silence, the
boy’s chivalrous adoration of his
wife touched Strange sharply.
All the same, he felt fastly in
clined to turn round and pnnch
his head for it.
“How dared the fellow go
speculatingon her possibilities!”
he thought, “that is my busi
ness.
“Yet when one comes to think
of it, I’m an ass, I might just
as well go for the dozens of oth
ers whose admiration is quite as
vicarious. It’s not Gwen one
of the lot goes mad over, it’s
her double. Heigh ho! Biga
my’s an awful imbarrassment.”
“I tried to keep exactly to na
ture in that last picture of Lady
Strange,” said Brydon, as he
set to unfastening the packing
of his picture.
“You succeeded,” said
Strange. Brydon looked round.
“You didn’t like it then—no
more did I, I tried too hard to
be faithful to the order.”
“Well, and so you were, and
that was what was wanted of
you. Mrs. Waring, for whom
the portrait was intended, liked
it tremendously,” said Strange
shortly, “Damn the fellow’s im
pudence!” he thought.
Brydon continued his cutting
and unwinding, painfully red in
the face.
When it was all undone he
waited for a moment before he
removed the last covering, then
he pulled it off with a quick
soft movement, and from a
vague feeling of half shy deli
cacy he turned aside and began
to cut up tobacco diligently.
W hen Strange saw his wife,
not the cold living abstraction,
but a warm, big-hearted, divine-
ly-natural creature, alive there
on the canvas before him, a
sudden soft rush of tears flooded
his eyes, and he shook and reel
ed at the queer warm shock of
them \
“Brydon,” he said, turning
round suddenly, “one makes a
fool of one’s self over her, it is
a tribute to your genius.”
Brydon looked at him and
hesitated, then he said in a half
fearful tone, looking away:
“It is no tribute to my genius,
it is that face! I never cried, I
have roared and howled, you
know, scores of times, but I
never cried properly till I saw
it; it is the strongest and the
most touching woman’s face I
ever saw.”
“It is, and you have done infi
nite justiceto it.”
“I had to paint her as she
was there, I couldn’t help my
self, I shall never again do any
thing like it.”
“What does Legrun say of
it?”
He was silent for a minute.
“Did you think,” he asked at
last, angrily, “that I did that
for Legrun’s praise or blame?
Did I paint her to be torn limb
from limb by those steely
eyes?”
“As a matter of fact I did not
expect anything half so sensible
from you, but this—this,” he
added slowly, with a spasm of
infinite generosity, “this shall
hang in tbe Academy.”
“If it does,” said the boy, “I
shall never touch a brush
again ”
“Well, we won’t discuss it
now.”
“Nor at any other time. I
shouldn’t care a tup penny
, don’t you know, for any
fame for which you had to suf
fer.”
“There was no word of suffer
ing to me, or to any one else.”
“Who said there was? But
do you see the alterations I
made,” he went on hurriedly,
“I made you even vaguer ttAfe
you were and served the parson
in the same way, and the car
pet in Waring church was too
strong altogether, I got a piece
of stem green stuff and substitu
ted it.”
“Well, it’s a work of genius,”
said Strange as he got into his
coat.
“I am not such a fool as to
deny that, but I didn’t paint It,
you know Here, you’ll break
your neck on thqpe stairs, let
me light you. Good night, dear
old man.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
When Mrs. Waring got the
sketches of her children—for
Strange had used almost physi
cal force to compel Dacre to run
over to Paris to sit to Brydon—
the very first minute she found
herself alone with them she
cried her heart out over the two,
then she sat herself down and
systematically adored them.
She had them hung in the li
brary where she could see them
from her writing table and only
for their weight she would have
had them carried to her room
every night.
Mr. Waring, in his emotion
less way, valued his daughter’s
gift, but this chronic passion of
adoration was beyond him. He
had already borne much with
divine patience; he had seen bis
wife carried away from his side
for hours at a stretch, to waste
her mind and soul in the duties
of an ordinary squire’s wife,
and she had come back to babble
of babies in a way that made
his blood run cold. He had
caught her thoughts wandering
at moments when the crisis of a
discovery was setting in, and
with tears in her eyes that the
subject under discussion could
in no wise account for. Ah, he
had suffered in a thousand in
definable ways!
But yet there were moments
when he had her still, just as in
the sweet old times, body and
soul and brain, all to himself;
when she still put out all the
force of her keen fine intellect
and saw, with her beautiful in
tuition, puzzles that had made
his great man’s brain reel.
Through all time had ever
any man such a wife, he would
think, as he watched her softly
frowning, pondering ever a
thought and bringing out a re
sult with that charming diffi
dence, that wonderful venera
tion for the nice intricacies of
truth that characterised her,
looking withal so young, so soft,
so serene.
No wonder that the man’s
heart clave unto her!
And now those pictures!
That sublimely haughty young
woman—that big strong soldier
with pluck of a most soulless
British order stamped all over
him, came in and robbed him of
the better part of himself.
They still sat side by side,
hand in hand, and worked to
gether, but they were no longer
one. No wonder indeed, that
untimely age fell upon the man
and forced him with its chill
hand down on his stick, a little
heavier as each day passed!
Mrs. Waring did not go out
every day, her restless yearning
often took her no farther than
the children’s old nursery,
where she would sit by their
little chests of drawers and fin
ger fheir old yellowing baby
clothes with a shy sad wistful
wonderment; she had never put
a stitch into one of them, and
their shapes and intricacies
were sealed mysteries to her.
Mary, now grown aged and
gray, looked upon the state of
affairs with much dissatisfac
tion, and seemed likely to con
tinue to do so, for things instead
of getting better gjt worse.
Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes did all
they could to turn her gentle
E ersistent grief into a more
ealthy channel and were by
no means careful to spare her
any plain speaking, but it seem
ed impossible to get her to fit
Her new sweet sad experience
into her old life anu to make a
whole of it.
It is a frightful grind to get a
great heartful of fresh emotions,
of new sorrows and joys, into a
middle-aged woman, and not to
cause a general disruption. It
seemed rather hard, however,
that Mr. Waring should half
perish in his wife’s own partic
ular earthquake. But though
his grief lay down with him at
night and rose with him day by
day, he cherished her with ev-
erincreasing tenderness, and
never by word or look expressed
the smallest atom of reproach.
Toward the end of July a lit
tle fleecy cloud of hope, no big
ger than a man’s hand, appear
ed upon the horizon, and Mr.
Waring grasped it with nervous
despair*
After repeated puttings off,
Gwen was coming for certain
in a week or two, to remain un
til the shooting took them
North.
“Perhaps now,” the poor man
thought, “perhaps now she will
find what she wants, and can
rest and be satisfied, and our
life will return to us. This ma
ternal feeling must certainly be
a very powerful and a very pre
cious factor in a woman’s mak
ing, or such an one as my wife
would not be so touched and
shaken by its advent and growth
in her. It is a mystery, in
truth, thus to come so late,
born out of due season as it
were, and so strongly to take
possession of her. I certainly
never should have classed her
among the true mothers, the
producing woman; they should
be of a more robust, a more an
imal type altogether. It is a
most remarkable case, with cu
rious complications. It is the
daughter—the feminine part of
her—my wife yearns and pants
for, the masculine element
seems to affect her but little;
when our son Dacre visits us 1
have in vain looked for any
symptoms of satisfaction or
restfulness.
“I feel so unusually depressed
and aged, this afternoon,” he
went on, slowly, laying down
his fruitless pen, and gazing
with sad eyes out of the win
dow, “even my ordinary lucidi
ty of brain seems clouding and
thickening. It cannot be that
f have already reached the ulti
matum, and that the period of
decadence is now upon me—
that cannot surely be! Only
just forty-seven,” he cried soft
ly, and his face sank down in
his hands on the study table.
He raised it again, and went
over to his cabinet and touched
his heaps of manuscript one by
one with loving, lingering ten
derness, but a little shakily.
“This but just begun!” he
murmured; “this but just want
ing the verification of an exper
iment or two; these, notes for a
new work, the most comprehen
sive, the most exact we have
yet made—ah! this book would
have been very close up to the i
truth, nearer to it than any-j
thing yet produced.—She looked
with suen keen, such very 1
youthful pleasure to the lighter
task of compilation; the vouth-
fulness in her intelleciual,
pleasures is a very precious gift
of my wife,
“Here is a little satirical skit
she wrote in a playful moment,
how charming it is, how deli
cate! Ah, my sweet young
wife! More notes—more—and
so few worked out to their final
conclusion! Must I then take
these symptoms as those of un
timely decay,” he whispered
sitting down again, “I, who
looked to long years of honest
labor in which I might have
forged on farther than my fel
lows, and have erected some
fresh finger posts on the road to
everlasting truth? To stop now,
when the world is crying and
wailing in the darkness of its
ignorance, when men grasp any
scrap of verified knowledge as
a drowning man a straw, and
must I be swept down the hill
before I have breasted the crest?
Must I sink to oblivion with my
work but just begun, and with
the heat of battle strong upon
me—and she—my wife, my own,
my helpmeet—Do none of these
things strike and touch her,
does this overmastering strange
tumult of new emotions shut
her heart to the awful beauty of
truth?
“It is strange” he repeated,
“strange, and very sad.
“The swift-running smooth
course of life has been paral) zed
for me, I am oppressed with tor
turing doubts, and—and—I be
lieve it is not age, it is not the
years which have stunned my
powers, I believe it is this new
phase of her life; then comes the
consideration; is this a passing
phase, or is it permanent? 1
cannot face the question!” he
cried with a groan, holding his
head in both hands to steady
it.
Then he took his hat and
stick, and made mechanically
for the Rectory.
She always came from that
direction, and always sadder
than when she went forth.
But to-day she was different.
When she saw her husband she
did not keep to her ordinary
soft listless movement, and then
when she reached him, slip her
nand into his mechanically
from mere reflex action, and
strike out eagerly into an infant
anecdote.
She started and flushed, and
rau towards him with out
stretched hands, and looked
wistfully up in his face, and
her mouth trembled as, for the
first time, the great change in the
man flashed itself into her, and
her heart stood still and her brain
“Henry!” she cried, “My
Henry, you are tired!”
He stooped wonderingly clos
er to her. “Dearest, no!”
She gazed with sickening
dread up into his face.
“Ah, yes, you are tired and
sad. Mr. Fellowes has been
telling me so much, making
things clear, and—and—yes,
you are older, and I never saw
it until this instant.”
“My love, I am #ell!” he
said, caressing her softly.
“It is I who have done this,
Henry”—she silenced his pro
test with a soft imperious mo
tion—“they saw it weeks ago; I
am a bad wife now, as I have
been a bad mother—ah, that is
very sad!”
She laid her head dowfi on
their clasped hands and with a
little shudder broke into soft
sobbing.
"You are a most true, most
noble wife,” he whispered, “my
helpmeet in all things!”
“I have gone away and neg
lected yon, and you have grown
older.”
“Come home, my best beloved,
come home and rest.”
“If I only could,” she said
wistfully, “but dear, I am rest
less, I cannot stay still.
“After Gwen went away,”
she continued softly, with bent
head, as they pacea slowly up
the drive, “my heart seemed to
fill with restless growth, new
thoughts and feelings were for
ever astir in me, I could not
rest; old feeiings that should
have had their budding and
birth long ago only then awoke,
and beset me with sweet pain.”
She stopped and leaned up
against him. “I have never
been able to tell you all this be
fore, except indirectly. Ah,
Hemy, such strange new
thoughts torture and soothe me,
they war with one another con
tinually mid there is not one
drop of sweetness that has not
two drops of bitterness to temper
withal.
“Let’s walk on, dearest, you
are cold.—I have such strange
yearnings, Henry, for baby
touches and baby kisses, I, who
have never felt them for my
own, have to seek them among
babies not of my flesh and blood.
I have to find the pale ghosts of
them amongst my lost children’s
little clothes.”
“My love, not lost.”
“Yes, Henry, lost, more than
if the grave had closed over
them; those forfeited things do
not return. I have a mother’s
heart now when I no longer
need it,” she said, with a wan
smile, “and I know—ah, I know
so many things, such pitiful
things. The other day a tiny
baby grasped at my breast and
tried to nestle its head there—to
suck my breast, Henry,—it was
worse than death, for I knew I
hail lost the best sweetness of
life.”
“My love, my love, those
things are not lost,” cried her
husband and then with sudden
and surprising astuteness, he
added, “there will be Gwen’s
children.”
She clutched his hand in a
sudden tremor of excitement.
“Ah, and then—then, too,
Gwen might understand—now
—” she coughed softly and broke
off.
“But, Henry, I have you, we
will go together as we used to
do: perhaps work, regular work,
may make me feel better.”
“My love,” he cried eagerly,
“1 am certain it is just the thing
you want, the very thing ”
“Perhaps,” she said sadly,
“perhaps it is.”
[to be continued.]
S»iid YE t R.
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Ma. W J. RoddSy, Rock HU1, a G
Deah Bk :
I have aenpud the cash valM of 107
Tontine Poller In Iba ‘ Equitable," wbieb
matured Jan M. ISM. I deatra to aar that 1
am verr well pleaaed with tbe remulu aa aa
evidence of which I have applied tor mom
Respectfully, W. F gxibca
If yon are interested send your
age and let us give you figures
on a Tontine Policy. Address
W. J. RODDEY, Manager,
Department of CaroHoas,
Rock hill. S. C.
XXARTSVILLE RAILROAD.
** June 8, 1894.
MIXED TRAIN
Leave Hartsville 4.30 a m
Jovaim 4.4ft a m
Floyd's ft.05 a ut
Darlington 5.2ft aiu
Palmetto 5.40 a in
Arrive Florence 6.00 a m
Leave Florence 7.35 p m
Palmetto 7.50 p m
Darlington 8.20 p m
Floyds 8.85 p m
Jovanu 8.55 p iu
Hartsville 9.10 pm
J F. DIVINE. Gen. Supt.
CHARLESTON, SUMTER AND
NORTHERN RAILROAD
CHARLES E. KIMBALL Receiver.
In Effect Jan. 16, 1804.
CAN be CURED;
— W. wta SEND FREE by
■ — wal a kM«a TRIAL BOTTLEj
Sea. StamaadCtmaty, ami A*a plainly.
^^SSStiSS&tSii^
NORTH.
SOUTH.
9
8
P.M.
P.M.
Lv 4.t 0
Charleston
2.80 Ar
5.20
Preguall’s
1.10
7.25
Sumter
11.02
8.87
Darlington
0.50
9 20
Heunettsville 9.00
0.52
Gibson
8.37
Ar 10.20
Hamlet
8.10 Lv
P.M
A.M.
No. 9 connects at Hamlet with 8. A.
L. Vestibule train for Raleigh, Rich
mond. Washington. Baltimore, Phil
adelphia and New York.
No 8 connects witli 8. A. L. Vesti
bule train/rum above named iioiuts.
Trains run solid to and from Charles
ton.
C. MILLARD, Superintendent.
C & D. and C. & S. RAILROADS,
a In effect June 3, 1804.
MIXED TRAIN
Leave Wadesltoro 8.00 p m
Bennett’s 2.25 p m
Morveu’s 2.40 p m
McFarland 2 55 pm
Cheraw 8.45 p in
Cash's 4.10 pm
Society Hill 4.40 p in
•ove's 5.10 pm
Floyd’s 5.80 pm
Darlington 6.05 p m
Palmetto 6.20 p m
Arrive Florence 6.45 p m
Leave Florence 7.85 a m
Palmetto 8.00 a m
Darlington 8.85 a m
Floyd’s - 2.00 am
Dove’s 0 15 a m
Society Hill 0 45 a in
Cash's 10.15 a m
Cheraw. 11.00 a m
McFarland 11.40 am
Morven’s 11.55 am
Bennett's 12.10 a in
Arrive Wadesboro 12.80 a in
Local Freight.
Leave Darlington 4 10 p m
Palmetto 4.42 p m
Arrive Florence 5.00 p m
Leave Florence 8.80 a m
Palmetto. .'.. ;r.-w ■ 8.50 IU
Arrive Darlington !..' S1-Q5 a m
A. F. RAVENEL, President. '
N ortheastern railroad.
In effect June 8, 1894.
SOUTH BOUND.
No. 85.
Leave Florence 8.10 a m
Lanes 4.05 a m
Arrive Charleston 0.10 s m
No. 28.
Leave Florence 7.45 p m
Kingstree 0.02 p m
Idiues y.23 p m
Arrive Charleston 11.18 p w
No. 58.
Leave Lanes 7.10 p m
Arrive Charleston 8.40 p m
NORTH BOUND.
No. 78.
Leave Charleston 8.36 a m
Lanes 6.40 a m
Kingstree 6 00 a in
Arrive Florence 7.10 a ut
No. 32.
Leave Charleston 8.30 p m
Lanes 6.38 p in
Kingstree 5.57 p ta
Arrive Florence 7.05 p in
No. 52.
Leave Charleston 7.15 am
Arrive Lanes 8.45 » m
No. 52 runs through to Columbia
via Central R. R. of S. C.
Train Nos. 78 and 14 runs via Wilson
and Fayetteville—Short Line—and
makes close connection for all points
North.
J. F. DIVINE. Gen. Supt.
fMTILMINGTON, COLUMBIA *
FT AUGUSTA RALROAD.
In effect June 8, 1894.
SOUTH BOUND.
_ „ No. 55.
Leave Wilmington 8.40 pm
Marion 6.31 p u
Arrive Florence 7.10 p m
No. 50.
Leave Florence 7.85 p m
Sumter 8.46 pm
Leave Sumter 8.48 p m
Arrive Columbia 10.10 p m
No. 58.
Leave Florence 8.15 a m
Arrive Sumter 4 21 a m
No. 52.
Leave Sumter lo.oo a m
Arrive Columbia 11.20 am
No. 52 runs through from Charles
ton via Central Railroad; leaving
Lanes 8.48 a m, Manning 9 25 a m.
NORTH BOUND.
. „ No. 51.
Leave Columblc 4.8O a m
Sumter.... ,.»«. « . 5.58 a m
Arrive Florence ... . 7.10 a m
r No - M -
Leave Florence 7.40 a m
Marion 8.28 a m
Arrive Wilmington 11.10 am
_ No. 68.
Leave Columbia 4.20 p m
Arrive Sumter 5.50 p m
No. 59.
Leave Columbia
Sumter 5.55 p m
Arrive Florence 7.05 p m
No. 58 runs tbiouKu «u onarleston
via central Railroad, arriving Man
ning 6.28 p m Lanes 7.06 p a,
charleston8.40 pm.
Trains on ikatictu-ster and Augusta
B. R - , leave Florence daily except Sun
day, 8.15 a. m., arrive Denmark 6.18
a. m. Returning leave Denmark 3.57
p. m., arrive Florence 7.05 p. m.
Trains on Wilmington, Chadboura
and Conway Railroad leave Chad-
bourn at 10.10 a m, arrive at Conway
12.80 p m, returuingleave Conway at
3:00 p. m., arrive Chadboant 4:60 p.
m. Leave Chadboura 5.85 p m
arrive at Hub 6 20 p. m. Re
turning leave Hub 8.15 a m, arrive at
Chadboura 9.00 a m. Dally exopet
Sunday.
JOHN F. DIVINE, Genl BmpY,
t Tinwiwnr iiir nimMw^nrni -niinmni finwii num h ~ »iii
■ .