Evening Star Newspaper, January 4, 1890, Page 7

—_—_ a WASHINGTON, D.C., SATURD. il Ad JANUARY 4, 1890—TWELVE PAGES. . ‘Written for Taz Evesree Stan. WHOSE WAS THE HAND? BY MISS BRADDON. —- taLL RIGHTS RESERVEL > CHAPTER L DRAMATIS PERSONA “Wife,” cried Robert Hatrell, coming into } the sunny parlor where his wife and her daughter were sitting, the little girl in the broad recessed window with her tutor puzzling over her first French verb, a bed of pink tal in front of the window waving and noddins their rosy lips im the soft April wind, “Wite, | can you guess what good new I have brought | cs : “Indeed, no, Rob, unless it is that you are going to take me for along drive to Burnham Beeches or the Forrest, for instance.” i She was not one of the indifferent, off-hand | wives, who hardly look up from their work or their book when # husband comes back from bis morning walk. She was not even one of those exceilent matrons whose ¢ffections are concentrated upon the nursery, for whom babies have a higher claim than the bread. winner. Clara Hatrell was fond of her bus band, and was not ashamed to show her affec- tion for him in those trivial ways which mark the line between love and toleration. She laid down her pen, rose from the little davenport and went over to mect him as he came flushed and smiling into the sunshiny room. “Better than that; ever so much better than Bhat! ‘Not another diamond bracelet, I hope,” she said, with a touch of petulance. He had a passion for buying things, an amia- ble weakness which had been pleasant enough ap to a certain point, but which Clara ob- fected to when it passed the limits of common ! sense. “Ungrateful woman!” “You know, dear, I have more jewelry al- ready than I care to wear.” “It isnot a bracelet. It is not any kind of ornament for the most ungrateful of women. Will that satisfy you?” The little girl never looked up from the in- dicative mood; the glory of beginning a for- eign language overcame her sense of weari- ness. The tutor never raised his eyelids from the eyes which watched the child puzzling over her book; but he was listening intently all the same. “Not quite, Rob. You have been buying something. Ican sce it in the sparkle of your eye. You have been wasting a heap of money Upon seme trumpery or other.” “I have not spent or incurred a liability to the extent of three and sixpence since I left this house, but I have heard something which may lead to my spending three or four thou- sand pounds before we are much older.” “The land!” cried Clara, clapping her hands. “Jy meadows, my gardens!” Precisely. Young Florestan has made up his mind to part with some superiluous terri- tory, and as soon as the lawyers are ready to sell I shall be able to buy the extra acres for which my fair land grabber has been pining.” “What rapture! And I shall have an Italian garden—a real Italian garden—with marble balustrades, and Pan and Syrinx, and walls of cypress and yew, and along avenue of juni- pere—" “My dearest dreamer, your cypress walls will take thirty or forty years to arrive at perfec- tion.” “They will be something to look forward to in our old age, and we shall have the pleasure of planning everything, and watching the things grow. The garden will be our own creation, an emanation from our very selves. Adam and Eve would bave takes more troubie to stay in Eden if it had not been ready mad Robert Hatrell had the sanguine tempe: ment, and had a knack of adopting any idea his wife's with even greater enthusiasm than herown. He was never more pleased than in pleasing he: ret had marked t: 6 of bis own— pictures, statues, foreign tr a man of no profession or pursuit. and of an energetic temper; energetic even to restlessness. He was an only son, and had been lord of himself and of between three and four thou- sand a year atan age when most young men are still dependent upon parental benevolence. He had left Oxford without a degree, but witn @ reputation for considerable talent of an ar- tistic, social, and generally intangible charac- ter; he had traveled and amused himself for half-a-dozen years, enjoying independen health, and high spirits to the uttermost. He | had his adventures. his disiliu- | ons, and his disappointments during that y; and he had only sobered and settled down on marrying one of the prettiest girls of her season, a girl fresh froma Bucking- hamshire valley, where her people had been lords of the soil before the Wars of the Roses. She had practically no money, but she came of a aed kindred with Hampden. She alm end chaste beauty of an Art by Praxiteles; she neither flirted nor talked slang; and she knew no more about racing or cards than if she had been still in the nursery. In ® word she was a gir! whom Wordsworth or Milton would have accepted as the fairest tspe | of English girlhood; and Robert Hatrel! sidered himself a very lu man in the wia- ning of her for his wife. His father had been a civil engineer—a genius, successful in all he touched. The re- wards of his profession had been large and rapid, and had tempted him to which resulted eventuaily, after man Warning. in an appallingly sudden death. Robert inherited with the engineer's fortune the engineer's ardent temperament, which, his part, showed itself in supertiuous energy, a feverish activity about trifles. There were times when, in spite of fortune, happy home and idolized wife, he felt that he had made a} mistake in his life. that 1t would have been | better for him to have worked hard und had a career like his father’s, He read of the two Brunels, the two Stephensons with a pang of Fegret. But on this bright April morning there was | 5 long holid Bo shadow upon Robert Hatreli’s happiness; | “ Ro sense of a purpose and a career missed; life in somewise wasted. He talked of the | additional land as if it were the beginning and end of existence. “It will just make the place perfect. Clara,” be said. ~You are always right, love—we were terribly cramped when we made our garden, ‘The grounds are unworthy of the house.” He opened a glass door and went out upon the lawn. his wife following bim. They stood } side by side and looked first at the house and then at the garden, this way and that, and then at the river. Eleven years ago, on the evo of their mar- | he and Clara riding together one morn- tween Reading and Henley, had discov- ered an old-fashioned cottage in. a good-sized garden, with a lawn sloping to the river. There | were a couple of meadows and an orchard be- hind the cottage, divided from it by a road, | but the best part of the whole thing was this river frontage of less than a quarter of @ mile. | ‘The cottage was to be let or sold, as a lop- sided board announced to the world at large, end the neglected garden gave evidence that it was a long time since the last tenant had de- | ema and left the place to gradual decay. The jovers dismounted. and founda door on the latch, and explored the house. which was empty of bumaa life; albeit some shabby furniture and a sandy cat in the kitchen indicated that caretaker bad her habitation on the prem- dees. The thick walls, leaded casements, quaint old Staircase and corridor tascimated Clara, Ske Was passionately fond of the mver and of the country in which she had been born and reared, Her future home was to be in Chester street, Belgravia; but the exploration of the cottage suggested a delightful alternative. “How sweet itwould be to have this fora summer house, Rob,” she said, and Robert,who Was at the period of his most abject slavery, in- stantly decided that the cottage must be hers. ‘The negotiation gave him somethiug to do. Alterations and additions aud improvements Would make a delightful occupation for bus- band and wife after the honeymoon. The house in Chester street had been taken ona seven, fourteen or twenty-one years’ lease; a Mos: common place business. It was furnished snd ready for them. Nothing more to do there. But this cottage would afford endless work. He began to plan at once. even befere he knew the o ‘# mame. Of course they must build a drawing room and a couple of bed rooms over it. The Breen sitting room would make a pretty ball by knocking down a lath and plaster rtition and throwing in the passage. Those hick walls and great chestuut beams were de- lightful. He saw his way to an artistic-looking Bouse for very little mouey, “ft am noth ng if uot inventive,” he said. “Remember what my father did, Some faint trickle from that deep stream of intellectual ferce ought to have come down to me.” “I'm suse you would be quite as clever as your father, and would plan viaducts and things ashe did if it were required of you,” said Clara, admiringly. The cottage was bought, and was the play- thing of the first and second year of their mar- ried life; their chief amusement, occupation and excitement. The cottage was always with them, and the greatest pleasure of their for- vign wanderiugs was found in bric-a-brac shops searching out strange aud picturesque things for their new home. At the end of those two years the cottage was no longer a cotiage, but pacious and luxurious house, of moderate ation, with many gables, a tiled roof, and tall chimuey stacks. The garden had been made as perfect as its narrow limits would al- low; but everybody felt, and many people said, that the house was too large and too handsome for its surroundings, ‘Vhey had occupied it for nine years, und the daughter who had entered it a year-old baby was old enough to learn her first French verb, ‘Lough her education had been conducted in . eisurely manner, yet only today had hope of possessing the adjoining land, which had been in the hands of trustees until | two or three years ago, when the heir had come The trastees had been unable to sell, and the heir bad b unwilling to sell, buta winter on the R had brought about a change of d this mornimg Mr. Hatrell had seen and had been told that young uldbe glad of an order tor so ‘a of the Lome farm as might be wanted to ect Mr. Hatrell’s holding. ; You will understand that as there is a river frontage, andthe land is eminently adapt for vuitding, we shall want a good price for it,” said the agent. ‘ now your price without an hour's essary delay, Du ther not make an 't be buyer and seller too,” an- 1, and then he walked home at »s an hour, brimming over with delight, phant at having such news to carry to his undaries and distances. Thi uuis must come down; the river » must be coutinued along there; the eadow would have to be leveled intg an upper and lower lawn, and there must be stbne balus- trades and ilights of steps. “I'm afraid it will cost a fortune,” said Clara. can afford to do it, dear, now we have up the house in Chester street.” They had discovered two or three years be- fore that a London house was a useless ex- peuse—an incubus im some wise, siuce it obliged them to live in town when they would ‘her be in the country. They both infinitely dlife in Buckinghamshire to life in so on the expiry of the first term of + they gave up the house, aud sold the bulk of the furniture tothe incoming tenant. Aud wow they could spend as much of their time as they liked in the honse by the river, «nd could winter in Itaiy or Switzerland with- outany scruples of conscience. When they wanted tobe in London there were hotels ready to receive them, and the journey to the West End took very little more than an hour, Lue child had stuck to her book with dogged determination while her mother and father were judoors; but the sight of them standing on the lawn was too much for her. Their animated gestures filled her with curiosity, What were they pointing out to each other? What could they be taixing about? Her tutor laid his long white fingers upon her shoulder, with the slow caressing touch she knew so well, “Where are your thoughts flying, Daisy?” he said gently. ‘We slant manage our two tenses if you don’t attend better,” “Lm rather tired,” said the little girl, ‘‘and I want to go to mother.” “Let it be one tense, then, only on must be q Shut your book, and jawu—her mother ina gown oolen stuf, with an orange- handkerchief kuotted loosely round colored her neck. The tutor—tutor for love, not gain—never looked up. Dreamy at the best of times, he was im an unusually meditative mood this morning. He seemed to be giving a small portion of his brain-power to the ciuid, while all the rest was lost in a labyrinth of thought. mt tense, indicat was repeated wit said Ambrose Ard: the imperfect tense tomorrow. e mood, of the t a hitch. e will have And now you may run in the garden for half an hour before | weread our English histor: id like to read out of door “Very much, if you please, Uncle Ambrose.” She put her arms around his neck an laid her soft cheek inst his silky hair. He had pale auburn hair, which he wore rather long; bis skin was as fair asa woman's, Hair and com- plexion, and the clear brizht blue of the large dreamy eyes, gave something of effeminacy to his appearance; but his features were large and boldly cut, « .ongish nose inclining to aquiline, a strong chin and de, resolute mouth. He was tal! aud broad-shouldered, but had the stoop of a bookish man. whose life was for the most part sedeutury. All his movements were slow and deliberate, aud his full, deep voice had slow and deliberate modulations—-a legato movement that answered to the gliding move- ments of his tigure. Daisy out to the lawn like an arrow from a had her mother’s hazel eyes and sim, straight, and swift as Atalanta, Ambrose ose slowly and sauntered after her. y Linquire the cause of all this excite- * he asked, as he approached husband an‘l wife. ~-Didu't you hear just now, you man of ice?” Robert § ii umed laughingly. “Can it th ings have no interest for only ears and mind for the Perhaps you rd something about Florestan’s land.” San + Precisely. rou been more keenly in- terested inthe welfare of your friends you might have heard that I have now the chauce of getting the additional ground my poor Clara | has been pining for ever since we made our garden. “Tam very glad,” said Arden, quietly. {ou don’t look a bit glad,” said Clara, am one of those cold-blooded people se faces do not — what they feel, I am beartily glad, all the same—since you and Hatrell are glad.” “Ob, it 1s Clara’s business. This place is Clara's ereation. She can do what she likes with it,” said Hatrell, “I'll have Cruden over this afternoon to = he new ground.” “But, my dear Rob, is it worth while to begin our plans before we are even sure of the ground?” remonstrated common seuse in the person of his wife. “We are quite sure. It is only a question of ahundred or two, more or less. Florestan wants money, and he can spare the land; we want the land, and we can spare the money. ‘There is always so much time lost in beginning hing. Ill send for Cruden at once,” and you and Mr, Cruden will have d every detail before I can make a sin- a “I know your im- love, the new garden was your idea, and you shall carry it outin your own way,” re- plied her husband, “but we may as well see Cruden’s plans. He is the best man in this part of the country for # job of thatkind. We wiil do nothing without your approval,” Clara gave alittle impatient sigh, She knew so well for how little her approval would count | when once the landscape gardener and his men were set at work; how little pause or leisure there would be for thought or taste, and how the whoie business would be hurried along by her husband's impatient temper till ail was fixed and completed—for good or ill. And she knew that the lovliest gardens she had seen had been the slow and gradual growth of cure and thought. Mr. Cruden, however, was a prince among nurserymen. ‘He had taste and knowledge, aud many acres of nursery ground and, if he — but allowed time, all would uo doubt be well. Ambrose Arden strolled down to his favorite Seat under a weeping willow, which overhung the river and made a tent of tender green above. @ rustic beuch aud table. There were cushions scattered on the ground under the tree, and there was a doll sitting with its sawdust back propped up against the trunk. These and va- rious lesson books indicated that the spot was Daisy's chosen resort. Here in fine weather she carried on her education, under the affec- tionate guidance of her father’s friend and neighbor, Ambrose Arden. When they bought their cottage at Lamford Mr. aud Mrs, Hatreli found Mr. Arden estab- lished in a small, square brick house on the opposite side of the road, one of those ugly, useful houses which peopie used to aud seventy or eighty years ago in lovely places, houses which inal that at a certain period of English history the sense of beauty ‘was dead in the English mind. Such houses, as square and as unbeautiful,are built by the dozen now- a-days ou the outskirts of French provincial towns, and seem the natural outcome of the small burgeois retired from business. Time and the mild, moist atmosphere of the Thames val- ley haddealt kindly with this sordid building,and had covered it from basement to roof with roses, passion flower, woodvine, wisteria, and trumpet ash. So clothed, and nt an the midst of an old-fashioned garden, it assumed a cer- tain humble prettiness, us ‘commonest laborer’s cottage will when it has time to ripen. It was quite good enough for Ambrose Arden, the Oxford scholar, the man who had carried off some of the chief prizes of a bring: 4 career, but whose name, from a social point of vi had been written in water. Even the of his year had scareely heard of him, or at most heard of him as a poor creature who neither rowed nor hunted, nor spoke at the union nor gave wines; a creature who only sat in his college rooms and read. He came to the square brick house at Lam- forda = = a, one eee a boy pin ears ol je ied a parson’s daug! Jor ot of « village = '4 the Welsh bills, aud had lived with her in tnat quiet, far-off world until their brief married life ended in sudden darkness. Her son was just beginning to run alone, when the young mother, who had never given up the pious and charitable ways of the vicar's daughter, contagion of a deadly fever by a sick bed in a remote home- stead. half hidden among the hills, too far for the elderly vicar to carry words of hope and consolation, Ambrose Ardeu’s wife had takeu the duty of visiting these people upon her- self. The husband had an evil repute, was known to have ill-used his wife. and she was dying of some mysterious, consum- ing disease. alone and friendiess, Amy Arden went Gaily to visit her, Ambrose walking with her, and while the wife read or talked to the sick woman, the husband sat ona little rustic bridge that spanned a trout stream hard by reading the book he always carried in the pocket of his shooting coat. Never had Am- brose Arden been known to leave his house wa- supplied with intellectual food of some kind. Wether the dying woman's malady was contagions or whether the house itgelf reeked with drain poison the doctors never decided. All Ambrose knew was that his young wife fell a Victim to her own large-hearted charity. From her childhood she bad miuistered to her father’s Aock, and she was stricken down in the path of luty. Ar. Arden left the rustic cottage in the Rad- norshire village, in which he had lived for three Years in comtort and retinement upon a very small income, which he had inherited from his mother. He was an only child, the last, as he supposed, of a race that had slowly exhausted itself; a race of gentlefolks who had neither toiled nor spun, and who had done very little to distinguish themselves in the busy places of this world. They were a Cheshire family. and they had lived on their own land and had seen taeir importance and their means gradually de- % generation after generation wichout being moved to any uttempt to mend the for- tunes of the house. Some of them had been soldiers and some of them had been students, not undistinguished in the records of the uni- versity; but the active temper which can re- deem the fortuues of arace had been unknown in the house of Arden, Ambrose fled irom Lkadnorshire with a great horror of the soil on which he lett the grave of his dead love. He had been very fond of his wife, not with a passionate or romantic at- tachment, but with a miid and in some wise fatherly affection, appreciating the sweetness of a most perfect character. She had never been more to him than a dear and tenderly- loved friend, and his affection at the begin- ning of their married lite had been as placid, temperate and as colorless as the love of gray- haired Darby for gray-haired Joan after their golden wedding. It did not seem within the capacities of the student’s nature to care pas- sionately for anything outside the world of thought, He went to London and lived in a lodging near the British mu®ewm for about half a year, while his infant son was cared for by a little stay maker at Roehampton, who had about half arood of garden ground behind her cottage. The boy throve well enough in this humble home, and Ambrose used to walk to Roehamp- ton every Sunday to look at him. All his week days he spent in the reading room of the mu- seum, One day he discovered that his boy had grown very fond of him, He cried and clung to his father at parting, and then it firstentered into the father’s mind that he might make a home for his son and for his books, which had gradually accumulated since he had been in Loudon, the temptations of the second-hand book shops being irresistible to a man for whom the world of books was almost the only worid. The valley of the Thames was fairer and more familiar to the Oxonian than any ether part of England. It was also within reach of the great reading room; so it was on the banks of the Lhames that Ambrose Arden looked for ahome. He founda cottage and a good old garden for £30. year, aud, as his prowlings ubout the lamplit streets within a one-mile radius of the museum had made him familiar with a geeat many brokers’ shops, he had no difliculty in getting together the few articles of furniture necessary for the establishment of a widower with an infant son. A carpenter from Henley put up pitch pine shelves for the stu- deut’s existing library and provided space for future accumulations, aud with his books and hisson Ambrose Arden settled dowa to that dreamy life which he had now been leading for between eleven and twelve years, ‘The Hatrells made their neighbor's aequaint= ance casually one summer evening on the river, where the student was sitting ina punt with his boy, the father absorbed in a book, the boy fishing, moored to the willowy bank, and where Kobert Hatrell was sculling his wife slowly toward the sunset in his capacious wherry, the stroug rythmical stroke bearing witness to the time when he was one of the best oars in the university eight. The casdal acquaintance soon ripened into an easy and familiar inter- course, and with the passing years intimacy became friendship. The two men had bven at Oxtord together, albeit they had no memory of having ever met there. They had some tastes in common, although one was all energy, the other all repose. Mrs, Hatrell was a voracious reader and looked to Mr. Arden for counsel and help in the choice of books, By the new lights which his wide knowledge of books af- forded her, she found many a pleasant short cut toa higher level of thought and culture than governess or professors lad revealed to her. She grew to depend upon him for intel- Jectual guidance and it was with delight she accepted his offer to educate ber only child after his own plan, “It seems almost absurd to see you wasting your time upon that child,” she said, feeling some compunction at the beginning of things. “have plenty of time to waste, and Daisy's education will serve as amusement and laxation for me. Now that Cyril is at Oxford I have no young thing to lighten my life except Daisy.” ‘But to see you teaching achild of seven seems rather like setting a Nasmyth hammer to crack a nut.” “One of the boasted merits of the Nasmyth hammer is that it can cracks nut. Let me think that I have not lost the lightness and delicacy of a mind which can understand the workings of a child’s brain.” ‘The mother submitted and was grateful, and it gradually became a familiar thing to see Ambrose Arden, the grave student of seven and thirty, whose magnum opus was to make a revolution in the philosophy of the world, bending over the brown-eyed child and teach- ing her history upon his own plan, which was to begin in the valley of the Euphrates and travel gradually downward through the ages, from the dim ‘fairy land of the east to the finished civilization of modern Europe. He had a genius for simplifications and contrived to make the broad outlines of ancient history clear agd interesting even to that infant mind. He had traveled over all the same ground with Cyril, who was now distinguishing Vinchester, whence he came nearly every saint's day to see his father, CHAPTER IL CONPIDENCES. The moon rose at 9 o'clock that evening, and Robert Hatrell sauutered into the garden after dinner to smoke and meditate upon the pro- jected improvements. With him action was everything, and reverie, however pleasant, rarely lasted long. Tonight the meditative mood lasted no longer than a single cigarette. ‘That finished he spore # little gate in the kitchen garden and strolled across the road, opened another little gate that admitted him into his neighbor's garden, and went straight to the open window of the shabby, square = lor which Ambrose bad converted into a study by the siuwple process of lining it from floor to ceiling with books, A roomy old knee- hole desk occupied the center of the floor, and three chairs and an old fashioned sufa com- pleted the sum of the furniture. It looked a snug and congenial room for a student, shabb: Sr in the light of a mal pe unconscious that which Ambrose sat ee any one was looking in at him. “Shut your dusty tome, old book worm, and come for a stroll in the moonlight,” said Hat- rell, whereupon the student rose and obeyed him without a word, like a man of weaker will obeying one of stronger will. A cigarette was offered and oe the two men walked along the road in silence, broken only by a commonplace remark or two about the weather and the night, until Robert Hatrell said ete ex re you sure it was the same man?” “The man you have described to me? Assur- edly it was, What other man should know YeNor pethaps not ‘Tdoabt if there ia “No, per! one elec who would know,” zag ‘The whole and then istence im London since last May- iy a year, who ama lican and a in theory, have jies with these men who have tried to reduce theory to practice, So I whipped ‘@ few pounds, your fiver among others, and I took the money to a public house phe cramer es friends assemble of an evening, it among them, in accordance with their necessities, In the course of conversation I happened to mention your name, and the man foliowed me into the street afterward and questioned me about you. I naturally refused to answer questions which I eee impertinent, and Ben he told me “And of course made the worst of it?” Mm gen itin ovate ~ a 5 ae “And you think, per! t I onghi have acted differently; thet Claude Morel, the chemist's assistant. ought at this moment to be my brother-in-lew7” i} “My dear datrell, a man’s relations with women are just the one of his life which no other man has the right to question and in which counsel and opinion are worse than use- “That's no answer,” exclaimed Hatrell, im- patiently. “Why doa't you say at once that I) a to have married a milliner’s apprentice and had that man for my brother-in-law?” “‘He would not have been a very agreeable connection, I admit, in practice, although in | theory all men are equal, There are plenty of | men of as low a grade socially whom I would | accept as my friend and equal tomorrow—but | not Clande Morel. The fellow bears the brand | of Cain upon his forehead. It was men of his stamp who made the commune what it was, | He was one of their speakers, the intellectual clement, the force that set other men’s brains on fire. I was sorry to see great hulking, | bonest fellows under his influence. 1 could | read the history of _ year’s riot and murder | ia Guat room,in Soho, A very dangerous | man, your Claude Morel.” | “Yet you think he aught to have been my | brother-in-law.” said Hatrell. slashing at the | flowery bank with his stick, harping irritably on the same question, Yo. no, no! Since you were not so far en- sled with the sister as to—" “But [ was entangled. I loved her, man. Yes, I was over head and ears in love with that milliner’s apprentice, and had more t! halt fling prudence to the winds aud She was very young, very contid- .and altogetier innocent. Yea, a grisette in Paris, and innocent. God knows how long taat would last. She had left her native village less t year betore I met her; had traveled f find her brother, who had appren- ta ticed her to a miliiner in the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs. We met by purest accident in a street crowd; she hustled and frightened in the mob. I happened to protect her. I walked home wita her, ever so far—beyond the Bas- title—and so an an acquaintance which might have ended—God knows how—if that Young man had not tried to force the running. I have to thank his violence, not my prudence, for my escape, and tor my sweet English wife. Ishudder to think of the difference sucl a marriage as that must have made in my life.” “That depends upon the strength of your love,” said Arden, — “I can imagine a man lov- | ing so deeply and truly as never to regret hay- | ing warried beneath him.” | “No, Arden; repentance must come. It is the aitertaste of passion and a gentleman's love for a peasant girl can be only passion at best.” *That depends upon the gentleman.” Ah, you are in your provoking mood to- night. Esee. Dad this fellow tell you what has become of his sister—whether she is dead or living?” “No, he went into no particulars, nor did I encourge him by asking questions. ‘He talked of broken promises, broken hearts, a blighted life, pride and cruelty—talked as you may sup- pose @ communist, nurtured upon Le Pere | Duchesne, would talk of an English gentleman who had, in his idea, compromised and _disap- pointed his sister. Mere rhodomantade, like his speeches, I cut him as short as I possibly could, only Iconsidered it my duty to let you know that the man isin London. and that he threatens to hunt you out and reveuge his sis- ter's wrongs—her supposed wrongs, we will —in some way or other. ‘That means lying in wait for me at the cor- ner ofaLondon street to shoot me or throw vitriol in my face, I suppose,” said Hatrell, with a scornful laugh. must take my chance of the bullet or the vitriol.” “It may be only an empty threat, bat Town Idon’t like the man’s physiognomy or his history, and I recommend ‘you to be on your guard. Itmight be wise to try to get him out of the country. Idare say he would emigrate to one of the colonies if emigration were made profitable to him, “Arden, do you think Iam such a poltroon as to buy my life from a foreign bully? Ho threatened me in Paris, and I turned him out of my room neck and’ crop. He wanted to frighten me into a marriage with his sister by pretending to believe that I was her seducer. But that was not the worst. WhenI told him that marriage was impossible he insinuated that there might be oe arrangements, A rich young Englishman in love with a girl of inferior station might make such a settlement as would insure the comfort and respectability of her future life without the Jegal tie. In a word, the man was, and is, a sconndrel, He knew that I was rich and he wanted to make a Market out of me. Don’t you know that chan- tage is a profession in Paris; a profession to which profligates and idlers look as the one easy way to competence? And he found that I was not a singing bird. Whatever debt I owed to my little Toinette, it was one that be could not force me to pay. And do you suppose that now, fourteen years after, I would reward his bluster with the commission of so much as a sixpence? If you do think 80 poorly of me, Arden, you must be a very bad judge of human mature.” “Perhaps Iam wrong, but I have your wife to think of as wellas you. What if this man were to come here and tell his story — “To my wife? Let him. She will believe no man’s word against mine. Indeed I have talked to her about Autoniette, or at least I have told ber balf in sport and half in earnest, that I was in love with a French grisette; and Lam not afraid to tell her the truth, that in my salad days, two years before I saw her fair young face, was very hard hit by that same grisette and trifled With her longer than I ought, and had even half a mind to marry her, and only pulled myself up sharp when her brute of a brother interfered. I need not tell her that I sent the girl a hundred pounds in my farewell letter and wished her a good husband in her own rank of life who would re- spect her all the more for that dot. and for the knowledge that I could sign myself in all sin- cerity and honor her respectful friend. Ah, Ambrose Arden, you who have given your heart to books can never imagine how this foolish heart of mine ached as [ wrote that letter.” “IT own that I have lived more among books than among human beings, yet I can just con- ceive the possibility of an over-mastering love bearing down all barriers, weighing caste and circumstance as feathers in the scale against passion. But whatI cannot conceive is that such intense feeling can be transient, that such ve can ever give place to another,” “Ah, but you see Ido not pretend that my fancy for Antoinette was ever a grande passion, My heart ached at throwing her off, but the heartache came as much from my sympathy with her in her disappointment as from my own sense of loss, I was never really and tremendously in love till I met Clara.” “She accepted your hundred pounds, I sup- pose?” “T hope so. It never came back to me; but as I received no acknowledgment from my poor little friend it islikely enough her brother in- tercepted my money and her letter, counselled her to refuse the gift indignantly perhaps, and then put my bank notes in his pocket. ‘I be- lieve Monsieur Morel to be capable of any- thing sneaking and infamous.” “And you never heard of Antoinette after that letter?” “Never. Ileft Paris the next day. ‘The city seemed dull and dark without the light of those southern eyes, It was in autumn, the dead season, and I went off to Petersburg, and thence to Odessa to look at my father’s work there, and to feel sorry I was not so good a man ashe. The air has turned chilly. Will you come in and play a rubber?” “With pleasure.” ‘They turned and went back to River Lawn. ‘They went in by the hall door into that roomy low-ceiled halt which had formed the whole basement of the original cottage, and which was a triumph of engineering skill on Mr. Hatrell’s part, Ponderous cherry wood beams supported the ceiling, which was further sus- tained by two oak pillars carved in a bold and vigorous style of art, which looked as it it had been done under the Heptarchy. A procession of short-nosed Druids and Saxon kings, with Boadicea in her chariot leading the way, en- circled those stunted pillars in a diagonal line, and many an erudite person had expatiate: upon their antique preciousness until by Robert Hatreli’s uproarious laughter. Tonight in the shine of the lam glowed with the vivid hues of I and Persian looking-glass embroidery, und through the open door the large airy drawi room revealed its more delicate coloring an draperies touched with faint Mother and daug! at a small round table, with the light of a ing lamp concentrated upon their bright, » Sasa ‘as they arranged the pieces a large puzzle map, the intensely eager to forestall her er. * “Oh, mother, Fae) put India next to Russia —one 8o hot and the other 20 cold, can't which was exhilirating to his com and then the hour having ended in triumph on his part, and the complete humiliation of his op- ponents, he would rise from the table, exultant a pace up and down the room talking as few men can talk, with arush of eloquence even about small thi: nes the tures poyars bad. en their seats Daisy came to say good night, having stayed ‘up till half. it nine—a prodigious indul; She kissed her mother and father an went to Mr. Arden and put her arms round neck and kissed him almost as fondly as she had kissed the other two. He detained her for 4 minute or so while Hatrell was dealing for the always favored dummy. a hall we have the imperfect tense tsmorrow, aisy?” “Yes, Inearly know it now. I shall quite know it tomorrow.” “And tomorrow will be today, and even these kisses of yours will be in the imperfect tense, won't they, things that have been? God bless mother's treasure. Good night.” He said the words almost reverently, with a touch of deeper solemnity than is usually given to fatherly good nights. Robert Hatrell had not even looked up from the cards when his child kissed him, It was a pretty domestic picture in the cheet ful light of lamps and fire. The three figures atthe table so ¢: 0 reposeful, with such passionless countenances, the child’s vivid face moving amidst them, looking with bright, rapid Rlances from one to the other. Fanniy a! tion, unciouded peace, unquestioning love, could hardiy be more periectiy expressed than they were that night in Robert Hairell’s draw- ing room. [To be continued.) ee-ecuamnaaidT HOME MATTERS. SEASONABLE SUGGESTIONS To PRACTICAL HOUSE- KEEPEI E DINING ROOM, PAN- TRY AND L-TESTED BECIPES WORTH TRYING AND KEEP Ose Quant or Srrrep Four, well heaped, is one pound. A Lirrte Pounpnen Ice laid on the back of the neck will allay nausea, Two Tantespooxs or Powpenep SucaR or flour weigh one ounce. Batue Tinep Eves ix Hor Water two or three times a day; it will rest them. A Finer os More Dexicate Grar 18 se- cured in cake by stirring the cake only in one direction, To Prevent THe SMELL or Cappace per- meating the house while boiling place on the stov dish containing vinegar, A Wise Giass or Stroxg Borax Water in @ pint of raw starch will make collars and cuffs stiff and glossy. To Ganout a Sone Trost take of paregorie one teaspoonful, of glycerine two teaspoonfuls, of lime water one tablespoonful. Ir You Wiss To Krzr a Suanp Kytre don't putit in hot grease. Stir your potatoes while frying or turn meat with a fork or an old caso knife kept on purpose, To Resovars: Buack Lacr.—If lace is narrow wind it tightly around a bottle and pin it on. Wet it thoroughly with alcohol and let it re- main until perfectly dry, It will be like new. If the lace is wide take the wooden roller from a window shade to roll it on. How to Take Coat Om, Our or 4 Canret.— Saturate the carpet with benzine and then rub dry with a clean white cloth. If the first appli- cation does not take it out go through the same process until it is out, As benzine is very ex- plosive be careful and not have a light in the room nor a hot stove. Axy Sout or Dank Woop may be freed from all traces of dirt and grease by a good spong- ing with strong tea, just warm; it will not, however, answer for light, unpolished furni- ture, as it would stain it. Very old furniture that is becoming worm eaten may be greatly preserved and improved if some carbolic oil is poured into the wood. CEREALINE Is A Goop Founpation for many dainty desserts. Heat a pint of milkina double boiler, add salt and make a thick batter CONFECTIONERS’ SECRETS. Some Information Obtained by a Star Reporter in a Sweetmeats Factory. THE STRANGE AND DIFFICULT ART OF MOLDING ICE CREAM—SHAPES IN PEWTER FROM PARIS— HOW TO MAKE SPUN SUGAR—FRUITS GLACES— HINTS ON ICE CREAM—STALE CAKES. “People think that we charge « great deal for putting ice cream in molds,” said & confectioner to a Stan writer the other day, “but that is because they don't realize what a skilled and difficult labor it is, It does seem a high price to pay $2.50 for three pints of water ice—itself worth only 75 cents—in a shape. However, you will readily seo that it is not excessive when I describe the elaborate- ness of the process, Suppose you order your three pints of cream in the shape of a hen,which is a comparatively simple one. I dare say you imagine that it is merely necessary to squeeze the material into the mold with a spoon and then empty it out of the form, all ready to go on the table. Asa matter of fact the filling of the mold requires great care and skill. The operator has to take the material bit by bit and force it with his fingers into every crevice of the interior of the pewter, which is usually in two or three pieces. In the case of the hen the bird opens into two halves from bill to tail, at the back, and the workman, seated before a row of tubs containing different kinds of cream, first FILLS IN THE WINGS WITH CHOCOLATE; then he stuffs the places for the bill and crest with yellow orange water ice and loads the breast cavity with speckled bisque to give the proper effect, The tail is filled with pistache and the body suitably made up otherwise, the mold being finally closed and the halves fast- ened together again. But that is only the be- ginning. Next, the mold thus stuffed must be put in a freezer, with ice and salt around it for a while, and when it has got thoroughly hard the cream ben is taken out of the mold and put into a cold-air box to freeze some more. When itcomes outof that itis like a rock and the last thing isto touch up the feathers with r colors, outline the eyes and give asmooth finish to the general effect. Then you have your hen, natural as life, with a yellow beak and crest, brown wings, speckled body and green tail, Maybe you seat her ina nest of spun sugar to heighten the effect, That is what you call art. [tis worth the money you pay for it, The ice cream, too, tastes better when so prettily served. Of course each kind of mold is filled on a different artistic plan. A swan, for instance, would have to b of white vanilla with a yeliow water ice bill.” FREN€H MOLDS THAT COST MONEY, “Where do the molds that you use come from?” the confectioner was asked. “From Paris,” he replied. “They are very expensive. Twenty-five dollars apiece they cost, if not very elaborate. Pewter is the ma- terial always, and I think they are made on wooden models, You can see for yourself how carefully they are made—each feather dis- tinctly carved out so that it shows naturally in the cream bird. Beasts of different kinds and other things are equally artistic im other ways.” “You were speaking of spun sugar. How is you make it? confectioners secret, and I oughtn't to give it away. However, I will tell you. Noend of people exercise their wits to the point of despair in trying to make spun su- gar. They know how to boil the sugar to just the right point, so that it will spin beruuful threads, hke silk; but when they have span a few such threads, laboriously—not enough to fill a spool, perhaps—the mixture gets hard- ened and ‘sugary,’ and won't spin any more from the forks or whatever unsuitable instra- ments are employed. Now, I will inform you very simply how to make as good spun sugar ectioner can, in auy quantity you may desire, Take two parts of granulated sugar to one partof cold water and stir them up to- gether in a saucepan—the bigger the quanti the easier the operation. Let the mixture boil hard, without stirring, until a little of it drop- ped into cold water becomes at once as brittle as glass. Then remove the saucepan to a table and you are ready for business. Previously you with cerealine, Beat until smooth and light and turn into a square mold to cool. Cut into blocks, roll in crumbs, dip in beaten egg. again in crnmbs and fry in hot fat, Eat with butter, sugar and cinnamon, with jelly, or with any sort of a pudding sauce, A Nice Litre Sipe Disn is made from the giblets of fowls. Wash well and soak in warm water for twenty minutes, Cut in thick slices and fold each ina thin slice of streaky bacon; tie or fasten with a small skewer and stew forty minutes in seasoned brown gravy with six smail button onions, Dish the rolls, lay the onions around and strain the gravy, slightly thickened, over all. Sunsutve Savce.—Beat a quarter pound of butter and four tablespoonfuls of powdered sugar together until light, then add the yolks of six eggs beaten toacream. Scald a pint of cream in a farina boiler, pour it over the other mixture, mix, return it to the farina boiler, stir it over the fire until it forms a thick sauce, take it from the fire and add a gill of good brandy, MusunooM Savcz.—Put a tablespoonful of butter in a frying pan and let it brown, adda tablespoonful of flour and brown agi adda half pint of stock, stir continually until it boils, strain, add a tableapoonful of mushroom catsup, and a half can of mushrooms; simmer gently for five minutes, adda palatable seasoning of salt and pepper, and pour it over the broiled steak, Sanatoca Poratogs Arg Twice Faiep, by the following directions: Slice very thinly some washed and peeled potatoes, dry them well in a clean cloth, put them in a frying basket, and plunge this into sufficient boiling fat to cover them completely. Cook them till tender, then lift out the the basket, allow the fat to boil up, return the potatoes to the pan, and let them get quite crisp, drain from the fat, sprinkle with salt and a little chopped parsley and dish up. If packed in a tin air-tight box, these potatoes keep good for some time, and are equally good hot or cold. Very Deuicate Mince Pres can be made without meat, and they are considered less in- digestible than the orthodox mince pie. Chop fine and free from shreds one and a half pounds of suet; chop three pounds of tart apples; seed and cut one and a half pounds of raisins; wasla two pounds of currants and mix all together with one and a half pounds of brown sugar, one-fourth ounce of mixed mace and cinnamon, one-fourth of an ounce of cloves, one grate nutmeg, one tablespoonful of salt, the juice and grated peel of one lemon and half a pound of mixed candied fruits cut small; moisten with cider, or brandy and wine if you prefer; make very hot, using care not to burn, and let it stand a week before using, Mustanp.—Io prepare mustard for the ta- ble take two tablespoonfuls of Coleman's mus- tard and one teaspoonful of flour. Mix this smooth with a little cold vinegar. Mix together four tablespoonfuls of vinegar, one tablespoon- ful of olive oil, one teaspoonful of sugar, one ‘teaspoonful of salt and one of black ec. Set this on the stove in a suitable dish and let it come toa boil, stirring it all the Pour the boiling mixture into the other, stir it well, and as soon as it is cold it is ready for use. Darsty Crackers. — One pint of the best flour, salt to taste, one teaspoon of cream tar- tar, half a teaspoon soda, three ounces of but- ter or sweet lard. With sweet milk mix up into a dough half the flour and butter and roll it out. Take half of the remaining butter, cut it up into small bits and put about over the dough, sprinkling over the butter half of the flour, fold the dough over and roll gently. Then put on the remaining butter and flour as before and roll, Fold over and roll twice more, the last time rol it little more than an eighth of an inch Cut into strips half an inch wide and six or seven inches long, lay ina and bake toa pale brown; arrange pret on a plate and serve with chocolate. the hall | \ Four Disuzs From Beans.—Put one pint of stripes | beans in four quarts of cold water with one-half pound each of salt pork and corned beef, one bay leaf and a slice of onion cut fine. Simmer slowly for four hours, When the beans are +h will be in about two hours, take out a plateful and let them stand until cold, Then make a salad with two table- fuls of vinegar, one of olive oil, one clove out sq £ F i Zl rte tie util i we may. There is of yet.”"— Yankee Gentleman (to little on the horse “How old are you, Little Girl—“‘Are you the conductor?” Gentleman—“Why, no; I have nothing ith the railroad. am seven years old."—Byfulo Cou- must have provided yourself with a baker's egg-beater, the wire end of which you have cut off with wire mippers, so as to leave a handle with perhaps fifty long wire points projecting from the end, THIS 18 THE TOOL with which spun sugar is made. You dip it into the saucepan and draw it out,a thread of candied sugar hanging from each point. And thereupon you wave the tool in every diree- tion, to right and left, over your head and all around as far as you can reach, above the greased pans with which you have completely covered as large an area on table and tioor as possible, When I make spun sugar I place in the middle of a large room a great quantity of the boiling sugar and cover the entire floor, save the small = necessary for standing room, with huge baker’s pans, Then my as- sistant and myself dip our wire brushes into the hot candy and throw the spun threads ail over the place, up to the ceiling and this way and that, redipping the brushes as often as is necessary, until the room looks like a silk fac- tory. Finully.when we have spun all we waut,itis gathered up and -made into any shape desired. By the way, it may interest you to kuow that if you will dip white grapes, mandarin oranges, figs, nuts and such things into the same mix- ture that is prepared for spun sugar you can make in that way as good fruits glaces as can be bought at any confectioner'’s. When the sugar has been boiled to a ‘crack’ pour it into reviously warmed cups, drop in your fruits, hm ten onthe quickly as possible with forks, place them on greased pans, and set them out in the cold fora few moments. Twenty minutes later you will have the most delicious candies producable. Would you like to know how to make ice cream for yourself as well as any confectioner can make it?” “Very much, indeed.” SUGGESTIONS ON ICE CREAM. “Nothing could possibly be simpler. In the first place use pure cream, unmixed with milk or water—so long as the cream is not very unu- suaily thick—and fresh fruits. If you want to make strawberry ice cream take a full quart of wwberries and a quart of cream. Mash the strawberries, put some sugar on them and let them stand an hour ortwo. Then mix them with the cream and sweeten to the taste. Put the mixture into a freezer, turn the crank and when it is frozen it will be as good ice cream as any one can produce. For orange water ice take the juice of adozen oranges and three lemons and put with it as much water as there is juice, with sugar tosuitthe palate; then freeze it. The reason why home-made ice cream is nearly always a failure is that house- wives will put milk into it or even arrowroot.” STALE PRODUCTS. “Is not a good deal of ice cream wasted by getting stale on your bands?” “Not so much asa half pint. It will keep in- definitely in the porcelain-lined vessels we use. ‘Tin is not good for the purpose, because it corrodes. How do we dispose of cakes that get stale on our hands? ed them ~~ the gar- bi barrel; nobody is poor enough hereabout to want stale cake, The doughnuts and one or two other things, sometimes, are given to the garbage man personally. We don't lose so much in that way as you might suppose. Our loss is chiefly uncharlottes-russes, cream cakes and eclaires, allof whichsourinaday, The de- mand for these goods is very capricious and we never tell how many will be for within a given twenty-four hours, Maybe twenty or thirty charlottes, for instance, will be left on the counter of an evening, to be thrown away the next morning. Mixed cakes, such os pound cake, keep much better, though all cakes are best not later than the day after they are made, Macaroons will last fresh enough for a week, Pies are never lefton our hands, be- cause the demand for them isa very steady one. We might keep cakes fora long time in cold air-tight boxes; but it isa trade necessity to have them always exposed on the counter or in a glass case that is constant “£ Hite “f f ii i F | it i] iq i Hi 3 A Dusrsumox Ox Axricax tured and pure wine i the most peth ner aud strengthnving beversge every stste—no matter bow duces from which PASADENA WINES are fal wine made SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA grapes which attain the huenest rade of maturity apd ripeness and are, there fore, the best Wines in the market L , E A SELIGSON, or 1200 and 1202 Penns. ave aw. WASHINGTON, D.C, My 2U per cent removal discount will be indefinitely: continued, PLEASE COMPARE MY PRICES WITH THOSE OF OTmEn if i fi verGal per 100 Bue i bo Py 150 20 het 200 ie bor ise i Fy Port, ext 200 a Hock ioe ‘iesiing. lv Bran Fy 00 3 brand, vo 4 Brandy, 10 00 . Maina. 3 oS Chanipasne, qua 2 Shanbacnes piste Sdorencc «1300 1080 VIRGINIA AND OTHER AMERICAN WINES, Men So g i 100 so jortou's ‘Virginia’ Seedling, ’ cms Sib. ae Sweet Catay ot quality! WO SO Icarry the largest stock of Imported Wines, Cog- acs, Gins, Jamaica and St. Croix Kums and ali the French Condiais, including the celebrated after-dinner cordial, CKEME DE MENTHE (Cream of Mint), een or orange. The oldest Rye, Bourbon and Imported Whiskies cau always be foundat my store, I enumerates few: Trimble Pure Ry. Monticello Pure ki Perfection Pure Maou uae Fr Beotch Whisky, old 600 = 480 Scoteh Whisky, very old. 750 | «600 heotch Whisky, very very old. 1000-800 Insh Whisky, old 890 $38 Irinn Whisky, very oi Tw Ariat Whhiaky.” very 10 v9 S00 German Koxgen Brantwein, S00 400 I make a specialty of High-flavored Cooking and Jelly Wines and Braudies, H. A. SELIGSON, ‘THE WINE AND LIQUOR MERCHANT, 1200 and 1202 Penna. ave. nw. ‘Telephone Call 112-3. d18-wks Lt GRIPPA. HOW IT CAN BE CURED. ‘The epidemic of Influenza is now raging im this Sountry. There is 9 strons probability et th ourths of the people, particularly tu large cities, be affected by it. Prof, Latatre ot ‘York bas made a number of miéroscopical e? of the mucus frou the nostrils of those with i, and found the microbes in numbers. "Radam's Microbe Killer was then poured on them in # bottle and auotber examination made in twenty-four hours, e found to veall dead. All over Novave day by’ the use of tug ro we days by use We recommend it as « quick MM MM EEE NN N MMMM FE. NNN MMMM FE NNN EMR OE NNN MM KEE WN NN coc H H 00 ccc 00 © CH Ho 00 CO oO PARIS EXPOSITION, i889, 3 GRAND PRIZES. 6 GOLD MEDALS, LARGEST CHOCOLATE MANUFACTURERS IN THE WORLD. YEARLY SALE EXCEEDS 30,000,000 POUNDS. PUREST, HEALTHIEST AND BEST. ASK FOR YELLOW WRAPPER MENIER CHOCO- LATES AND TAKE NO OTHERS. 40 CENTSIA POUND, FOR SALEJEVERYW: BRANCH HOUSE, UNION SQUARE, NEW YORK. EPPS'S COCOA “By a thorough kn: oeED the operations of digestion 1) @ Careful application of the fine telected Cocoa, Mr. bas sist_ every tendency to mn are th ever there ism wi fatal shaft by "with boiling Sold only sulbalt pound tha by wrocereinboled tt: JAMES EPPS & CU., Hom@opathic Chemists, sul7-samétu London, Engiend McMoxws Isapreparstion of the drag by which its injuriow cffects are removed, while the valuable medicinal anodyne and antispasmodic powers of Optum, but pro- duces no sickness of the stomach, no vomiting, no ‘costiveness, uo headache. In acute nervous disorders it i# an invaluaole remedy, and is recommended by the best E. FERRETT, Agent, mys-s 372 Pearl at, New York, Price, $1.50 per case of two domes ‘pints, delivered to any part of the city. 308 11TH 8T. N.W. 41 ;