Evening Star Newspaper, February 1, 1890, Page 11

THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON, D.C., SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1890—TWELVE PAGES. Written for Tae EVENING Stam, WHOSE WAS THE HAND? BY MISS BRADDON. Anthor of “Lady Audley's Secret,” “Like and Unlike,” “Ishmael,” “The Day Will Come,” &0. {ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.) CHAPTER VIIL Dalsr’s HONEYMOON DIARY. How strange life ia The change that has come in my life came so suddenly that I fancied I should never be accustomed to the new state of things; yet after alittle more than» month I feel ss if Uncle Ambrose had lived with us for years and as if I had always been one of a united family of four instead of the other half of my mother's soul. In my thoughts of her I have always called her what Horace called Virgil—Anim» dimi- dium mee. Have I lost her now that she is Am- brove Arden’s wife; or rather, how much of her love and her sweet companionship have I lost? Naturally there is a loss. I cannot be to her quite what I was before she gave herself to a husband who worships her, who seems jealous of every thought and every moment she gives to any one but himself. We can no longer live like Hermia and Helena before Puck set them by the ears, Wo are no longer more like twin sisters than mother and daughter, as people used to say we were in the old days, which be- gin to look so far y. No, it must be owned there isa loss, anda loss that I shall feel all my life, bat it is not so great a loss as to make me unbappy, for Iknow my mother loves me ae truly and fondly as ever and that she would not part with me for snything in the world. I know that Uncle Ambrose thoroughly deserves her love and that he is doing his utmost to win it. I know that to me he is a second father and that I am never tired of bis society. I know that the atmosphere of love in which I have lived all my life has lost none of its warmth and brightness. I know I am a girl in a thou- sand for good fortune and that I ought to be very grateful to Providence for all my bless- ings. As I have failed in all my attempts to write a novel I mean to make this journal the book of my life and to put all of my thoughts and ail my fancies into it, I shall describe things as vividly as ever I can, so that when I am an old woman I can look back upon the history of my life and find my youth still fresh and bright in these pages. Let me record the great event which has made so marked a change in my mother’s life— her second marriage. It is a very curious sen- sation for a girl to stand by and see her mother married. It seemed to me almost as if time Lad gone backward end mother were a girl again standing on the threshold of life. Uucle Ambrose was a most devoted lover, and would hardly let my mother out of sight dur- ing their very short courtship. When mother accepted him I knew that a very short engage- e as Very far from her thoughts. Grati- vailed with her, and rather than lose tude so valued a friend she consented to take him as # basband; but when she gave that consent Just July she certainly had uo idea of marrying hum. early in September. However, those grave, placid people are much more persistent than impetuous charac- ters. bhe my beloved father, for instance, and Unele Ambrose contrived to talk my dear one iuto an ulmost immediate marriage. Of course there was not the least reason why they should deiay their wedding, for as both are rich there could be no question of ways and means, and es veither of them is young, it might seem a pity to lose time. Nor is mother kind of person to waste six months upon the ram tiou of a troussewu. She is always charmingly dressed. though it is only within the last year or two that she has consented to wear anything bat black; and her wardrobe ia fall of beanti- ful things—so it wouid be mere idle vanity to Wait for a heap of new clothes to be made, and during that delay to lose the peautyef the au- tun for her honeymoon tour. it was decided at the very first discussion of the honeymoon that I was to travel with them after the first week, which they were to spend very quietly together at Folkestone, just to get used to the idea of being all in all to each other. A great many places were prcposed aud discussed and finally bree cctiled that wo should spend the autumn in Switzerland and 8° on to ltaly in the beginning of the winter. Where do you think we are g to spend the winter, dear Diary? In what particular city smoug all the cities of the world is our home ¢ Itislikesdream. Iturn giddy at the Very thought of it, We are to winter in Venice. We are to live within «stone's throw of the Doge’s paluce and the Lion's Mouth, Iam to see the Bridge of Sighs so often, going back- ward and forward in my gondola, that I shall et to think no more of it than I do of Lamford lock. Yes, it is enough to turn any girl giddy. I want to preserve all the details of that won- derful day—my mother’s wedding day. It was & perfect morning—as lovely a day as there had been all through the summer, which ought to have been over, but which was just then in its rime, for that first week of tember was otter and brighter than July. The dear old chureh, the graveyard where father lies, and the village, and the river were basking in a faint haze of beat, which hung over all things like a bridal veil. Mother and I arove to church together, she very pale, and with a distressed look about her beautiful mouth, which made me feel sorry had not begged and prayed her not to marry again; for I felt that her heart was with her first love, lying in his grave under the willow, and not with the tan who was so soon to be called her husband. She looked lovely, in spite of her marble whiteness—lovely, but not like a bride. Her soft faw: silk gown harmonised with ber rich brown hair, and became her admir- ably. So did the little fawn-colored bonnet with a bunch of corn flowers. She was dressed for the journey to Folkestone, where they were oe im time for dinner, Pocono = no weddi guests, except Aunt Emily and her husband, my cousins, the Reardon girls, the Vicar and his wife, and good old Mr. Mellidew. my father's lawyer. I carried mother’s sun- shade, and I was to hold her gloves while she was Ss Everything had been kept so quiet, thanks to the vicar, that very few people in the neigh- borhood knew that mother and Mr. Arden were going to be married, and only sbout half a dozen knew that this was their wedding day, so the church was almost empty. There were no school children to strew flowers There Was nothing im their pathway as they left the eburch but the sunshine and the shadows of the old yew branches that trembled across the pat, {think I like that utter simplicity r than what people call a picturesque wedding. There was just one thing out of the common in the whole ceremony. We have fine old organ at Lamford, an organ built in the reign of George LI, but we have a very poor Orgenist. Great, Tefore, Was my amaze- ment to bear a Gloria of Mozart's played by a master band as we walked up the nave: and when mother and her new husband came out of the vestry, arm in arm, the same master hand attacked the opening chords of Mendelssohn's “Wedding March” with a power which must have startled and everybody in the church as it startled and thrilled me. “Whoever that was, it wasn't Mr. Parkins,” I said to Cyril, as he handed me into the second carriage—Mr. and Mrs, Arden—oh, how strange it seems to write it—baving goue away in the “It was not Mr. Parkins. It was Mr. Daven- “What brought him to Lamford?” “Friendship. My father asked him to give me toueb of his quality upon this cular He kuows your mother is fanatica per la musica and he wanted to please her.” deligiall that # very delicate attention,” said I, “Do you, child?” exclaimed Cyril, in a scorn- ful way. “Perhaps you don't know that if it would your mother for him to cut his that delicate at- 7 o to ourselves by an acci- dent. Beatrice was to have gone with us, but had arrived at the church door in a state of be- Wilderment and had got into the landan with unt Emily, Mrs. a, and my Cousin — the rest of day at baving her crushed by overcrowding. Ft aaa exclaimed Cyril; “no, I am not ready he was with that sacred —' ee le itying any man asdeep in love as m: [ie e spectacle of human weahvess ‘=i ing human, one must and “almost "t help father. be- them in the old quiet way, and have kept m: mother ail to myself.” . “Egutistical puss,” said Cyril, “De you know, Daisy, that you have the egotistical nose—not a bad nose in its way, but speaki volumes for the character of the nosee. A pe nose—straight and delicate in line, but with just that upward tilt which means vanity and sel!-consciousness.” “I suppose now you srea kind of brother you going to be rude to me.” said L “Decidediy. I mean to take every fraternal privilege,” answered he, And then, without a word of warning, he kissed me. I was desperately angry. “That is a fraternal P scien rd which you will please to foregoin the fature,"I said. “I adopted your father for my uncle when you were asmall schoolboy, buti never adopted you. And in our enlightened age no one sup- poses that you are any more my brother be- cause your father has married my mother than you erty yesterday when they were only en- ed.” “But just now you said I was your brother. What an incoasistent girl you are.” “I said a kind of brother.” “Not the real thing. Very well. Daisy, I hope you may never want to put me upon the fra- ternal level, Ican assure you that I don't de- This was so rude on his part that I lost my —— altogether. “You are a smug.” ] said. Itrembled when I had uttered that awfal word, expecting that he would want to anni- hilate me, but he only laughed, which was worse, 3, “Lam getting behind tne scenes.” he said; “and my first discovery is a vixen in the family.” We are at home by this time, and went into luncheon. It was not avery gay feast, though Uncle Ambrose looked intensely happy. I had been surprised by his appearance a3 he stood beside my mother at the altar. . He haa been gradually changing for the bet- ter in his looks and bearing ever since he waa engaged, but on his wedding day the transfor- mation seemed to have completed itself. He who used to stoop now carried himself with an erect and noble air. His clear blue eyes seemed to have more color in tiem; and, oh! there was such a look of happiness in every line of bis face. Then, as for his clothes, he who used to wear acoat that was almost disgracefully shabby was now dressed to perfection, neither too young nor too old. I really felt proud of Uncle Ambrose as I watched him leave the church with my mother on his arm, and later, when we were allclustered at the gate to see them start for their honeymoon, And then, as he bade me good-bye, Icould but think of that other parting, seven years ago—the part- ing which meant for ever. ‘Thescarriage drove away, with one of my shoes flying after it, thrown by Cyril, who has & great reputation for throwing the hammer, and who threw my poor little bronze slipper so as to lodge it between the carriage and the lamp, like a decoration. I had to hop back to the hall, which seemed soridiculous that, while I was ready to cry at parting with my mother, the absurdity of the thing made me laugh in- stead, and then, three minutes afterward, the langhter and tears got mixed and I was sobbing hysterically on Cyril’s shoulder. ‘Aunt Emily took me away from him and scolded me for being so foolish as to make such a fuss for such a brief parting. “You will see your mother again in a week, you silly child,” she said; “one would think she was going to Australia, Why, my girls and I are sometimes parted for six or eight wecks at a time.” “But they are used to it,” I answered, as in- deed they are, poor things, and have been from theirinfancy, ‘‘It’s different with mother and me. We have never lived apert.” I ran upstairs as soon as I could slip away from the family party and had a comfortable ery in my own room while Flora and Dora played tennis with Cyril and Beatrice. They were all very noisy, so I suppose they were en- joying themselves. Even though I was 80 miserable I couldn't help noticing the diffe ence between Beatrice’s country noise and Flo and Do’s London noise. My cousins are what people call stylish girls, and have a dashing off-hand way of talking and doing everything. Beatrice, on the other band, has a kind of lumbering vivacity, which I hope it is not ill- natured to compare with a brewer's horse in high spirits. Aunt Emily and the cousins were installed at River Lawn for a week, and at the end of that week aunt was to take me to Folkestone to join mother and her new husband, and from Folke- Stone we were to start for Switzerland, Ob, how I counted the hours in that week, and how it seemed to me as if those seven days and nights would never come to anend! How I sickened of tennis and boating, and of all the things which amused my cousins! How I sick- ened even of Cyril, who used to come across from the cottage at ali hours, and who devoted himself to Fiora and Dora and was very kind in asking me to join in their boating excursions up or down the river. They used to start soon after breakfast with a well-iilled picnic basket and land at any spot they fancfed and eat their lunch in some picturesque corner, and they came home to afternoon tea sunburned to a degree that horritied Aunt Emily. “Are you aware that your complexion will never recover from such treatment as this?” she asked them solemnly, Cyril was to start for his travels on the day I set out upon mine. He was going to the Nor- wegian Fjords to fish for salmon. I cannot un- derstand the rage some people have for chilly, halt-civilized countries, when there are all the lories and grandeur of the south waiting to be Gaecan imagine anybody preferring Nor- way to Venice! Cyril does. Venice is so triste, he said. And then he promised me that if I were @ very good little giri and sent him a nice long gossiping letter every week he would go to Venice just to see if I were dying of too much Paul Veronese. “You will be dosed with that fellow and his school,” he said; ‘made to look up at ceilings till your eyes aud your neck ache. would only let one alone in foreign citi ing would not be half such a trial as it is; but there is always the intelligent companion bent upon improving one’s mind.” Cyril has grown blase from having been al- lowed to go wherever he chose. He has seen all that is best worth seeing in Europe anda sunny corner of Africa into the bargain. He has trav- eled all through Greece and thinks no more of Marathon than I do of Maidenhead. 1 some- times think it has been a misfortune for him to have so much money, and that he would be ever so much nicer if Uncle Ambrose had never come into his fortune. He 18 kind and gener- ous and high-spirited; but he thinks jast a little too much of himself, and he seems to think the world is hardly good enough for him to live in, Mother was at the station to meet me when the train went slowly over the house tops into Folkestone. How young and handsome she looked in her dark brown tailor gown and neat brown hat, and what a moment of bliss it was for me when she clasped my hands and gave me one discreet little kiss, “Are you hepry, mother, and are you still fond of me?” I asked her in a breath. “Yes to both foolish questions> See, Daisy, have you not a word for—" She stopped embarrassed, looking at her husband, who came up at this moment after baving sent off his servant to help my maid with the Inggage. “Yes, 1 have plenty of words for Uncle Am- brose,” I said, giving him both my hands. “Gracious, what a grand person you have grown, and ever so many years younger; I think you must have concocted one of those wonderful philters that I have read about in Horace.” “Yes, Daisy, I have drunk of a philter, but not one of those nasty compounds which wicked witches produce. My philter bas been happi- ness.” “really half suspect you are a second doc- tor Paustus, and that you have made dreadful bargain with the fiend,” sald L “If Lhad, Daisy, I don’t think my conscious- ness of the compact would prevent my being happy,” he answered, smiling at me. e went straight from the station to the boat, only a few yards, and then we sailed across a summery sea, and then came a lon; hot journey—for though we had left o weather in ‘England there was @ sultry atmos- phereon the other side of the channel. We were in Paris in time for an 8 o'clock dinner, and isat between mother and Uncle Ambrose in one of the —— private sitting rooms in the Continental hotel, with wide open windows facing the big lamplit square, and the fountains and statues, aud the Champs Elysees all in a glittering haze of summer mist mixed with lamp-light, and over all arched the great purple sky flashing with stars so brilliant and 0 == they seemed hanging just above our They both seemed glad to have me with them; they both seemed fond of me. After dinner Uncle Ambrose took me for a walk and showed me Paris by lamp light, while mother sat and rested and read the last new book which he had bought for her at the station. There never was a happier girl than Iwas that September night hanging on to Uncie Am- ‘Greee's arm andl devouring Pirie with my eyes, We walked as far as ies eee ~ in the quiet space looking up atthe great anny Gwen, and, so old, each a page of history carved in*stone. He told me about the building of that mighty erthedra!, and how it had slowly risen from foundations and grown and ripened pede gersic ie 8 Goes ke Dee the jmost as gradually, ost as And then we looked at the river and walked slowly back to the hotel. I felt so happy when I went in, but the look at my mother’s face, as she sat staring straight before her im the lamp-light, dashed all my happiness, . “Clara!” cried Uncle Ambrose. ‘‘Whatis the matter?” She pointed to the French novel she had been reading, which lay open on the table, foe mar” the sited epspeshiaiiy. nn for me?” she re) ly. “I choose the book because it has made a great success in Paris. See, ninety-nine thou- sand! Isn't that a guarantee that the story 1s vert Go reneiting story—the story of a mur- “It is a revol '—the story ‘© low lodging-house in the cite—a murder that was never avenged.” “Don’t you like murder stories?” I asked. “J enjoy s murder if it is a really good one— a mysterious murder. which keeps the reader wondering all through the book. “Never talk in that strain, Daisy, unless you want to disgust me,” answered mother, more sternly than I ever remembered her to have spoken to me in her life. “Do you think a crime which dedolates a home and wrecks a —or many lives—is a thing to be talked of in that spirit? . “Oh, but poets and dramatists would be poor creatures unless they were able to describe eat criminals. Look at Macbeth, for instance. me critics call that the finest of all Shak- speare’s plays, and I really think it is my first favorite among them all.” “Stop, Daisy,” said Uncle Ambrose, with his hand upon my shoulder. ‘Don't you see that your mother is tired and nervous? It is past eleven, and we are to doa Uh deal of sight seeing tomorrow. You had better bid us good night.” I Kissed the poor pale face, which had changed so sadly since dinner time, and went = to my room, where my maid was waiting lor me. I bad shared mother’s maid until now, but now I have the undivided service of my good old nurse, who has been gradually educating herself into a lady’s maid, and who has nothing to do except look after my wardrobe and brush my hair. My head was a little troubled as I laid it on my strange pillow, troubled about my mother's trouble, which seemed more than the occasion accounted for. If had known then what I know now I shonld have understood that look of horror in her eyes as she lifted them to her husband's face while she pointed to the open book. Oh, what a blessing it was not to know, and | how I wish Providence had suffered me to re- main in happy ignorance, as my mother wished. But there are always officious people in the world to take things out of the hands of Provi- dence, or, ut least, it seems so, We had been nearly a month in Switzerland moving quietly from place to place and thor- oughly enjoying the beauty of everything, all the more because of Uncle Ambrose, who was like a walking encyclopedia, telling me all 1 wanted to know about everything and every- body, talking most delightfully about Voltaire, Rousseau, Gibbon and all the Lake Leman poets and philosophers, and quoting whole pages of Tyndall ou the Alps and Glaciers, My dear one had no more nervous fits after that night in Paris, she seemed thoroughly happy and pleased with my enjoyment of everything. Sometimes a shade of melancholy would creep over her at the thought of years ugo when she had been in these piaces’ with my father, and there were days when she had a listless air, as if she were weary of life, in apite of the love that watched her footsteps and wrapped her around like an atmosphere, I wonder if all husbands are like Uncle Ambrose. | There is an intensity in his devotion tomy mother which shows itself in every act of hia daily life; and yet his affection is never intru- sive, it never touches the ridiculous, I think very few people at the hotels where we stopped guessed that they were a honeymoon couple. Mother is silent and reserved among strangers, and Uncle Ambrose has always the thoughtful air of a student, At the National, at Geneva, there were some Oxford men who were very much impressed when they found out who he was. I heard them talking about his books one evening in the reading room when I was look- ing through the Tauchnitz novels. I felt quite proud to think that the man they were praising was the man who had stooped his bigh estate to educate me. I wonder whether it was for mother’s sake— whether he worshiped her from the very be- ginning, in my dear father's lifetime, with the worship that he has for her now—a hopeless, distant love in those days, without expectation or thought of reward. I can but think that it may have been 0, that no lesser feeling would have induced so learned a man to devote him- self to the training of an ignorant little girl. It was at Lucerne that the secret of my father's death was revealed to me. It hap- pened only the day before yesterday, and yet I feel as if it was ages ago. i have not had one happy moment since and yet [have been obliged to appear as happy as ever, for fear my mother should find out what Iam brooding upon and be reminded of the one great sorrow of her life. Ob, what sorrow it must have been! What an awful haunting memory! Itis wonderful to me that she could ever smile again, or take any pleasure in life, or think of anything except that one dreadful fact. know now how my father died—why he was snatched away from us without an hour's warning. I know that he was cruelly murdered by an unknown hand and that his murderer is walking about the earth at this day, undiscov- ered and unpunished, unless God's’ vengeance has fallen upon the wretch in some mysterious way that we know not. We were at the Schweitzerhoff at Lucerne. The weather was lovely and we had spent the day on the lake and in the evening after din- ner we all went out to the portuco in front of the hotel. There were some Tyrolese musi- Gans playing under the trees by the luke and I thought of that curious story of Tolstoi’s, of the poor wandering musician and the cruel people at the Schweitzerhoff, who listened and applauded but never gave him a sou. And then the poor creature went strolling about the town, where the teller of the story followed him, to take him back to the Schweitzerhoff and treat him to champagne, much to the in- dignation of the company in the coffee room. reminded Uncle Ambrose of Tolstoi’s story, which we had read together. We were sitting in the deep shadow of the portico, looking out at the moonlit quay, and listening to the Tyrolese musicians, one of them playing upon the streich-gither while the others sang. Presently Uncle Ambrose and my mother went for a turn on Be quay, leaving me sitting in my dark corner at the back of the colon- nade, They asked me to go with them, but I had walked and run about good deal at Alt- dorf and Fluellen, and I told mother I was tired and would rather stay where I was, I was sitting in a dark corner, enjoying the music and unobserved by anybody. ‘There were two rows of people in front of me. “Do you know who she is?” asked a man sit- ting very near me, as my mother moved slowly away on her husband's arm, “Her name is Arden—a very striking woman, is she not?” returned bis companion. “Decidedly handsome! But don’t you know who she is?” “Louly know thatthe man she is walking with is her husband, and that their name 1s Arden. Lsaw it in the visitor's book this morning.” “Didn't you notice another name bracketed with it? I did “What name? “Miss Hatrell, the lady’s daughter. She is traveling with her mother and her stepfather. Mr. and Mrs. Arden have only been married month. I saw the marriage in the Times.” “But what about Miss Hatrell?” “Do you mean Hao the name has no asso- ciation in your mind? “Not the i poms Inever knew any Hat- reils, so far as [ can remember.” “Perhaps not, but I don't think you can have forgotten the mysterious murder in Denmark Street, St. Giles’, which everyhody talked about | six or seven years ago. The man murdered was | a country gentleman who ~~ up to Lon- don to cash a big check in order to pay for an estate he was buying. He cashed the check in Pall Mall, but he never reached Lincoln's Inn Fields with the money. He was intercepted on his way and Inred to alodging honse in Denmark street, where he was found next day stabbed and plundered by an unknown hand. It was one of those murders which bafile all the en- deavors of the police and bring discredit upon the force.” “Yes, I have a faint recollection of the af- fair—the Denmark street mystery, I think they called it. I had utterly forgotien the man's name. Do you say that this Miss Hatrell is a relation of the murdered man?” “Only his daughter. Mrs. Arden was his widow until a month when she married the man who is walking with ber over there in the senalighs. I have some friends at Hen- ut her, has a be- tween Henley and Reading, where she has ee in retirement since her husband’s mur- ‘Was it never known who murdered him?” ‘Never, The motive was plunder, of course, lies) off with his booty, The murderer in the form of implement of his trade and were only going bask to his workshop. This, I believe, is the last that was ever seen of him.” “No doubt he is knockii about Et somewhere,” answered the other man. “Who knows? He may be here tonight. The Schweitz- erhoff would be # capital resort for a man who was wanted by the police. The blicity Of the hotel would be his safeguard” I sat there cold and trem| while talked, oh, so Rypaieag as if it ma nothing that an adored husband and father should be lured away to some horrid den and cruelly murdered. And then the dear face came back to me in all its brightness—the happy smile—the candid gray eyes, The loved yoice sounded again in my ears, just as if my father had that instant called to me from the garden. Oh, how could my mother get over such a blow as that? The wonder was not that she had grieved dreadfully, but that she had ever ceased to grieve. And nothing had been done, His death was unavenged, his murderer was walking about the world unpunished. Yes, as that man said, he might be in Lucerne tonight. I did not cry out or faint or do anything to create a disturbance. For a minute or so there was a rushing in my ears, and the pillars of the portico seemed to rock, and then my head grew cool and clear again.’ But I felt that I could not goon mtting quietly there, and I sterted up and asked one of the men who had talked about my father to make way for me, and I broke through the double range of sitters somehow, and ran down the steps and away toward the cathedral and then up the hill at the back of the hotel. I wanted to get away from the crowd, from my mother and Uncle Ambrose, from every one and everything, ‘iced to be alone with my thoughts of my dear father, The narrow path u; which I went to the top of the hill was quite deserted at this time. stood on the at top alone, looking down at the lighted city, so picturesque in its bere the quaint old roofs and gables and market squares and narrow streets, which it had been such a delight to explore with Uncle Ambrose only yesterday, but which I looked at now with dull unseeing eyes. Pilatus lifted his snow- crowned head above the further shore of the lake, and over all there was the clear light of the moon, clear yet soft, leaving great gaps of densest shadow, black depths where the lamps twinkled here and there, singly or in clusters of warm red light, which seemed a relief after the coldness of the moon and stars. Ihad noticed all these things the night be- fore, when J stood in the same spot with Uncle Ambrose. I noticed them mechanically to- night, while my heart beat loud and fast with a passionate longing to do something, weak, inexperienced girl as I was, that should slowly; laboriously, surely lead to the discovery an the punishment of my father's murderer. “How is it,” Tasked myself, ‘that one mur- derer escapes and that another who seems to leave but the slightest indications to lead to discovery is arrested within a week of his crime? What is it that makes the chances of criminals so uneven, and how is it that the police, who in some cases seem to exercise @ superhuman intelligence, seem in other cases helpless and blundering almost to the verge of idiocy?” Ihad heard this question discussed a great deal within the last few weeks in relation toa mysterious murder in Liverpooland I had taken an intense interest in the subject; a morbid interest, Uncle Ambrose told me when I talked tohim aboutit He reproved me for occupying my miud with s ghastly story. Ireminded him that the story of this murder was no more ghastly than the story of Agamemnon's murder, or of the string of mur- ders in “Macbeth,” and that one might as well be interested in real horrors as in fiction, Littie did 1 think then that there would come aday whenI should havea stronger reason for brooding upon this ghastly subject. Lsteyed on the hill a long time, forgetting everything, except the horror that had been made known to me that night—forgetting most of all that my absence would alarm my mother, i was startled at last by the cathedral clock, which began to strike the hour. I counted the strokes and found that it was 11 o'clock. I had been away from the hotel more than an hour, I hurried back, and en the way met Uncle Ambrose, who scolded me for going out alone at such a late hour. “Your mother has been anxious and agitated about you, Daisy,” he said; “how came 80 wise a person to do such a foolish thing?” “I don’t know—I forgot;” I said. “Where have yon been all this time?” “On the hill up there, looking down at the town.” “My dear Daisy, how could you forget that your mother would be alarmed at your disap- pearance?” “I forgot everything.” And then I told him what IT had heard an hour ago in the portico. I asked him why the cruel truth had been kept from me during all those years? I looked at his face in the moon- light aud saw more trouble there than I had ever seen in my life before, “It would have been cruel to tell you the trath, Daisy. The greatest curse of life is the existence of idle chatterers,who must always be babbling about other people's business, If wishes could bear fruit, it would be bad for those men you overheard tonight.” Thad never heard such anger in his voice as Theard then. “God only knows the pains your mother and Thave taken to keep this trouble from you,” he said. “We have pledged all who knew you and were about you to silence. We have hedged you round with precautions. And yet, in one unlucky minute the prurient gossip of a wonder monger frustrates all our care,” “Lam glad I know,” I answered. “Do you think I wanted to live in a fool's paradise?—to think that my father died peacefully in the arms of a friend, when he was brutally mur- dered? You don't know howI loved him or you would know better than that,” I was angry in my turn—and now tears came, the first which [had shed since I heard the story of my father's death—tears of mingled anger and grief. I siezed Uncle Ambrose by the arm. I was almost beside myself. “You were his friend,” I said, “this closest friend. Almost like a brother! Did you do nothing to avenge his death? Nothing, noth- ing?” “I did all that mortal man qould do, Daisy: I stimulated the police to action by every means in my power. I didnot rest till all that could be done had been done. It was in con- cert with me that your mother offered a reward large enough to set all Scotland Yard on the alert. Ifthe murderer escaped be assured it was not because his pursuers were careless or indifferent, Had he been prince of the blood royal the endeavor to solve the mystery of his death could net have been more intense than it was, “What idiots the detective police must be,” Texclaimed. “No, they are not idiots, Daisy, though it is the fashion to call them so when a great crimi- nal evades pursuit, There are some uncom- monly clever men among them, and there are some uncommonly clever captures and discov- eries made by them. But now and then they have to deal with a criminal who is both clever and lucky, and that was the case with the wretch who murdered your father,” Mee a me all about his death—every detail," I ‘What good will it do for you to know, ? he asked in his pleading voice; just as he used to talk to. me years ago when I was a child and inclined to be naughty. “For Gol’s sake, my dear girl, try to forget ‘all you heard tonight. Think of your father only as you have thought of him hitherto, as one who was taken from you in the flower of his years and who sleeps quietly in his grave, honored, loved and lamented. The manner of his death makes little difference. It was swift and sudden, a merciful death—without deathbed horrors or prolonged pain. It must have been an almost instantaneous death.” “You know all about it, and I want to know, too,” Lauswered. “If you won't tell me I shall find out the truth for myself, I know the date of my father's death, and I have only to get the newspapers for the following days and I shall learn all that can be learnt about his mur- derer and the circumstances of his death.” “You are obstinate and foolish, ree th he said, ‘It would be far wiser to blot the horror of the past outof your mind forever. Your father’s sleep is just as sweet as if he had per- ished by the slow and painful decay which incalled atgocd old agm"'A good old oge-ces a old age. age—as age and decay could ever be good. I wonder at your want of philosophy. I thought I hed trained my pupil better, and that whenever you should come to know the worst own calm reason would show you that by assassins Spake os saves areadtel than any other form of death.” “It ismore dreadful—infinitely more dread- ful—for it robbed me of my beloved father. He would be with us now—he bog be with us for eid a = a =. wretch who killed him. It is easy for you to preach rene. — rm eae you have been the gainer by ath. was a hard thing to have lost so dear e father, so aman regard for your faery" he suid, ‘although our ror sf ers ideas of life were so different—he all Sotion and vivacity, I dreamy and self-contsined—he was the best friend I ever had, the man I liked best in the world. Yes, Ibave gained by his untimely death, gained a pearl beyond price, SS ee oe can ‘never palter with facts there, yy. You and I must understand each other and believe in each other if Iam to stand ina father's place for my dear pupil and friend. There be no sophistication peril = T have told you why your mother and I have labored to keep the manner of your father’s death hidden from ; but now you have discovered so much Twill not stand in the way of your knowing all, since it is your wish——” “It is my wish—my most ardent wish.” “Very well. When we go back to England I will give you the rej of the inquest, which will tell you eve: tail. I will give you a oped Sag: Poon one in ou how eas: an jure bey theorize 4 about s crime, and how ve difficult it may be to find the criminal. I bave on creel papers for you to read, and you shall be Allowed to read them, but under protest. I know that it is not well for you to brood upon SSE sual! Urved Inu, porkaps when T no 4 rood less, perhaps, when w more,” I told him. And then he implored me to say ener B04 mo mother about this dreadful past, which ied her so terribly. “God knows what would happen if hersorrow mete tp bs Deonght Soe vi idly back aryl any display of emotion upon your he said. “She must never be allowed to talk about that dreadful time. Her life and her reason were both in danger—child as you were you must have seen what a wreck she was when = went home from Westgate—you must have own how slow she was to recover health and spirits.” I promised him that come what might I would never afilict my mother by any allusion to my father’s death, and then once more I pleaded for pardon for my foolish and thankless speech. “My child, how can I be angry with you?” he said in his grave and gent!e yoice, the voice I have loved from my babyhood almost, “What can be more natural than that you shonld love your father and regret him, passionately and fondly. Only tell me, dear, honestly, are you sorry that your mother has made my life happy? Are you sorry that she has allowed me to stand in the = of the father you have lost?” I told him no, a thousand times no, Next to my father and mother he was the person I loved best upon this earth and I was very glad to have him bound to me for all my life as my guardian and friend. “There shall be no one ever nearer or dearer to me,” [told him, “but you must be Uncle Ambrose to the end. I cannot call you father.” [70 be Continsed,) CARDS FOR SWELL DINNERS. Some New Styles for This Season— Points About Other Cards. “Fashion is showing tendency just now to elaboration in dinner cards,” said a stationer of the mode toa representative of Taz Star yesterday, “Life-size orchids made of paper 80 artistically that they look like real ones almost are the latest thing, the name of the guest being written across the middle of each. Here are big roses, too, somewhat conven- tionalized and flattened out, stamped from paper for menus with single rose petals for the names, If these latter are used the table should be decorated with pink roses to match— real ones, of course—and the same principle would hold good with the orchid cards, A coat-of-arms in colors and gold is a very swell device to have on one's dinner cards: if no coat-of-arms has been inherited or secured by purchase a monogram will do. But there should be something. A fad at present isa conundrum for each card to help start conver- sation. The conundrum notion is managed in avery pretty way. The question is written upon a white satin ribbon tied to the card, while in s gilded English walnut, also attached, is discovered, upon opening the shell, the answer.” SOME CONUNDRUMS. The Stak man was not able to learn any of the answers, because to open the nuts would have been to spoil them, but some of the conundrums were: “What does a man take who has a mean wi! “What relation is a door mat to a scraper?” “Who can speak all languages?” “What is that which is often brought to table, seldom cut and never eaten?” You can puzzle these out for yourself at your leisure. THE QUOTATION CARDS are perhaps adapted to legs intellectual com- pany, requiring, as they do, less thinking. Here are a few of them: “In after dinner talk across the walnuts and the wine.” ‘And there- fore let us be mer: “The merry guest the host doth bless.” “Eat and drink as friends.” “Well met and well come,” very new thing,” continued the etationer, “4s hand-carved dinner cards of the finest bristol board, cut with a knife so as to lift = designs delicately representing leaves an: flowers from the surface. Also parchment cards with cameos stamped upon them are rather ugly but fashionable novelties. If you like you may have little paper flowers stuck through the corner of each card, and in case your dinner be a pink one it will be high) correct to have cards with pink edges, pin! lettering and pink monograms. Correspond- ingly with feasts of other colors. Menus, by the way, are not used much now at dinner par- ties—they convey too distinct suggestion of the restaurant. “The host only shot have a bill of fare, so thathe may see that the ban- quet is going properly.” STYLES OF VISITING CARDS. “How about visiting cards?” “Oh, there bas been no marked change in them of late. Strangers in Washington are apt to be much struck with the fashion which per mits certain persons of official prominence here to put on their cards, instead of their names, merely their titular designations. They think it seems quite too awfully swell; and so it is, in fact. Mr. Reed's card reads now, of course, simply, ‘The Speaker.’ In like manner it is with ‘The Vice President,’ ‘The Chief Justice,” and all the secretaries of the President's cab- inet. The President himself is not supposed to have any visiting cards, because he and Mra, ison are exempt from the necessity of making calls, The wives ot these dignitaries are entitled to print plain ‘Mre. Morton,’ ‘Mrs, Reed,’ ‘Mrs. Blaine,’ and so on on their cards, The wife of the chief justice is likewise ‘Mrs, Fuiler,’ but the wives of all the other justices of the United States Supreme Court must have their full names, as ‘Mra, Lucius Quintus Cartius Lamar.’ The commandant of the navy rard has his title only on his card, That is the it of Americans who are allowed such official distinction. Members of the diplomatic corps are also permitted it. For instance, an invita- tion from the Britieh legation would read: ‘The British minister and Pauncefote request the pleasure of your company, &c.’ A plan coming into use is for three or four ladies who receive together to have their names printed allon the same card. Rather acurious thing here is a death notice card, the revival of an old fashion, originally German, which, with a wide border of black, the dead person’s name and the date of his desth, is sent around to friends by mail.” ——<—— Written for Taz Evenine Stan. John Howard Payne. (Written at the Poet's Grave.) ‘We've sat beside the ingle And listentd to the songs Which oft in memory mingle With the music that belongs ‘To heart and home and childhood With their blessings and their love, ‘The season of the wild-wood And the budding leaves above. ‘We've thought alone in sadness Of the lines of Home, Sweet Home, Full of tenderness and gladness To the wanderers whoroam; ‘The words of Payne were grateful ‘To our souls for many a day When foreign life was fateful ‘With its longings far away. RAILROADS. HMOND AND DANVILLE RAILKOA 30am. eet Tennessee Mail, dai tor Warren. ton, Gordonsville. Chariovteastiia vohbung amd obs between Alexamdria and Lybet ns Alianta, B isto, Knoxvitia, Chattaccoss and Mesaphig $1,000,000 ‘SIX PER CENT PREFERRED STOCK Pullman Sleeper Washington to New Urieaba, ISSUED BY 214 aan” Past Mail daily for Calpe Jottesville, a Net tween Lynchburg and Danville, . THE AMERICAN WATER WORKS Co., Asheville. Charlotte, Columbia, Auguste,’ Atlas tut Montgomery, New Orleans, Tease an Caliornis. “Puliman Slecper New York to Atian' Pullman Sleepers AUan' . man Sleeper Dagville to Columbia and Aus wan Sleepers Washington to Ciuclabatl ¥ joute, OMAHA WATER WORKS. te atations 5-30 bm —Daily via Lynchburg, Bristel and Chat. tanooa, Pullman Vestibule Sieepere Washington to Memphis, connecting Useoce for all ArEaLeas pointe, Western Fayrees daily for Manasesa, yer, Orange, Charlottesville, Stauuton, Louis nuati. Pullman Vestibule train Wasiing= ton Yo Cincinnati with & Sleeper for Lou vil 1100 pm.—Southern Px Danviller h, Asheville, Chartotte, —Colus Augusta) Atlanta,” Moutrouuery. ‘Rew Griewns, Teans and Calornia. “ullmap Vertibnle Car Washington to ta and Montgomery Wenitgrhan Pullman, Ala. via Atlante, a ay. and Pullinau Sleeper Asheville and Hot Spriuga, N.C. vie. Washington t tise Washinton to Auguste via Danville te. on aud Obto division leave Wash me samday and 4 4 ) and Chai Lraius on Washi ineton 8-00 a.m. daily exc daily. arrive Kownd Hull 1 returning leave Ke THIS STOCK 1% ENTITLED TO CUMULA- TIVE DIVIDENDS AT THE RATE OF 6 PER CENT PER ANNUM BEFORE ANY DIVIDEND CAN BE PaID ON THE COMMON STOCK OF $4,000,000. from the south vis Che are arrive in Waatsinat: peake aud Obio route and Chariot Nari and 7-10 p.m. and 7 0Sa.u. Strasburg local at 104? DIVIDENDS PAYABLE APRIL AND OCTOBER 1 AND REMITTED BY CHEQUE. cketa, sleeping car reservation and informations furnished. and beremce cb at office 12000 Mente © aud at Paseeuger station, Peuusylvauie railroad, th aud B sts p20 JAS. L. TAYLOR, Gen. Pass Agent rPHE GREAL PE SSYLVANTA ROT KU, WEST ‘The American Water Works Company owns the aria + water works with which the cities of Omaha and South : cer Msose : ht as IPMENT, Omaha sre supplied, and during the year 1889 ex AVE WASHINGTON, PROM STATION, pended, in the completion of its new plant and other st fa as FOLLOWS: picago Limited Decessary improvementa, the sum of $1,139,336.23. On account of this outlay the Company proposes to sell @1,000,000 of its six per cent preferred stock, 10,000 shares of the par value of 8100 each, as author ized st 8 meeting of stock holders beld August 20, 1889. With Sleeps Chicago and Cin Parlor Gar Wasth ANNUAL GROSS EAKNINGS. at 7-40 p.m. daily, with to inca td Se mate rristare with throm commie Menpuie Pacitc. be daily, f — ever to Pitt nd the Woo ming, end Pittsburg va BALIIMURE AND POTOMAC RAILROAD, For. Kane, Canaidaicua hocbester sid N daily, except sunday For brie, Canandanua, fal aud S: With Nice For Willian a7 a.m. daily, except Sunday. For Millisunajort daily, 3 FOR PHILADELPHIA, NEW 7:20, 9:00, 11:00'and 1 $201, 10-00 and 11 eeeeereyy Increase during last three years $153,217.33, or 119.38 per cent, ANNUAL AVERAGE INCREASE FOR 7 YEAES 31.51 PER CENT. Allowing that the increase for the ensuing year wiil be only 25 per cent, the following is an approximate por cele abens fee by ‘Ok DELPRTA ONLY statement for 1890; Fast Pxprons § ry “ee daysand 5:10 p.m. daily, econ. 600 p.m, dail For Boston without chauge, 2 Kiyn, NV, ail Servey City with “boats we direct tras dvuble terriaucr For Auautic City, $351,948 63 000 00 m. every day. tratus couuect @& kiyt Annex, afford> Fulton street, avoiding New hock Ciy au, Week days 212 daily For Baitimore, 6.: 0, B21 1100 aud hdd win. 1 0, 4:20, 4d rt diy om 9200, 9:40, 10.59, 1, Eee sa ae okies: 8 If the for the next six years averages only peciibieesanted 25 per cent per annum (the average for the past seven years having been 31.51 per cont per snnum), the gross earnings will be as follows: excep For Annapolis, 720, 9.00 a. daily, except Suuday. si Dau. 7 ALEXANDRIA AND FREDERICKSBURG KAIL- 18 00-eee...9351.048.63) 1893. ee agacs | WAY AND ALPAANDAAA AND WASUINGLOS 189222. Erica rd Etta 1,074,062.03 Basa IN LEFECT NOVEMBER IN Issa THE COMPANY 18 NOW EARNING, aT THE | F°, Alexsndnis, 4 Sin Geka hea RATE OF ABOUT #3:20,000 PER ANNUM, A SUM MORE THAN SUFFICIENT TO PAY ALL FIXED CHARGES AND THE PREFERRED STOCK DIVi- DEND, AND AS THE INCOME MUST CONTINUE TO INCREASE FOK MANY YEARS TO COME THE ABILITY OF THE COMPANY TO MAINTAIN THE DIVIDEND CANNOT BE QUESTIONED. umvdation for Quantico, 7:45 am and 4.53 week days. oA. Su Kichmoud aud the South, 401 4:19 pau. daily. Accommodation a. ‘Trains leave Alexandria for Washington, « B00, 9210, 1015, 1307 aa. 0 rarer 220, BQ Gh, » horthenst core NUMBER OF WATER TAKERS. tordeetsnat Cha bk Poon, 4.4% _ Geveral Mauayer. Lal) Gen Barotore Axo Ouro Rareoan. Increase in three years, 3,023, or 140.7 per cent, Bchndule iy eect Decetber 2, 188i, tation corner uf New Jersey id © or an average of 46.9 per cent perannum, If the ratio of increase in number of water takers for the next six years averages only 25 percent per annum the result will be as follows: For and eaprens dauiy 11-20 oF Ciuciiuati, St daily, $:10 and 11 For Pittabury nd, Veatibuled Limited enprees daily 11 aud exprem 5:40 pm or Lexington and Local Stations 110 30 aua, Zor Wikcuemer aud Woy sadous, t9.3U po, ou ik 30 687 08 “4 Se | For Luray, 8:40 pan. dm oo we 2:80 | FOr Baltic 00, 6:40, 7:20, s = a 28650 | 830,920. 43 mites) & tiie In support of this estimate it may be stated that the record shows that after water works in large cities have been in operation fifteen years or more the ratio of water takers to population is about 1 to 7. 4 9200, 10:40 und 11:30 yoy For Way distions be more, 5:00, 64 6.00, 8 1200 p, about 22000 100,000, has about 16/000 231,000 AVERAGE BATIO OF CONSUMERS TO POPULA- TION 1 TO 6.9, 5 aud 1 115 For Annapolis 6:40 and 8:30 am, 12:10 and Paw. Oy Sundays, s:30 aan, ¢ am. bapolis 6 2 Bundaye, 8 Metropolitan Branch, t6:4 biter priucpal elaticue wily and 5 ‘The present combined population of Omabs and South Omahs is not less than 140,000. It seems cer- tai, therefore, thst in the course of 3 few years this Company will have 20,000 water takers, even though riuediate puts, 2-004 ma, 11200, TL ch Hf qos Bede Abd anterinediaie stations, 17-00 pt 1:00 p.m, Church train leaves Washington on Sunday at 1.10 Pun. stoppin at all stations on Metropolitan Branca, For Frederick, 16:45, T1i ¥en. 1510, Ta m, Dundays, 1:10 pan. aa For Hagerstown, 111 20am, and t5 30 p.m. ‘Trains arrive trom Chicago daily 11-45 a.m, and 4:00 p.w.; from Cmenman aud dt. Lous daily 343 sm. 2. 1.50 paw. , too deur TU a, Good ¥ ADELPHIA DIVISION, Rewark and Elzabeth. i * OU a.m, 20) pario1 a ali day 10:50 pan. open at 4-00 pan Newark, Wiinington and Ch 25S, “ARO, a oll ‘The Compsny, realizing that the old plant, which from 1882 until August last furnished the city with water, would, in consequence of the enormous growth of the city, soon become inadequate, determined to build another plant at Florence, about six miles orth of the old pumping station, which would have capac- avy Philedelphie, for 28 ity tosupply five times the quantity of water now Snare Cany Abe eee ond TAH en ee used. This new plant was practically completed Au- gust 1, 1889, and formally opened on thst date. It ‘hss been constructed in the most substantial manner ‘at Scost of nearly $1,500,000, and it is generally sc- knowledged that Omaha now has the most complete system of water works possessed by suy city of less than 400,000 population in the United States. ‘The Missouri river furnishesan inexhaustible sup- ply, and chemical analysis shows the water to beas Dure as any city could desire, ‘The history of investments proves that there are no esfer securities then those issued for water works under proper conditions. The reasons are obvious. #400 au. and 12:00 mown. Except 5 % “Dany, {Sunday only. cxxace culled or and checked from hvtels and idevces by ULion Trauster Co, on orders lett at ucke® ofhces, 619 and 1391 Fa, ave. aud at Depot, 3.1 ODELI eS ge POTOMAC RIVER BOATS, \O NORFOLK AND FORT MONROE, THE POPULAR LOUTE. Gen. Manager. eam Polite ‘Thorough discipline, From 7th-strect wuati MONDALS WEDNESDASS and FUDAN st 5 p.m, Vater is a necessity; there isand ean bet E steamue: at Boston wharf, Norfollty Jor, oe meen cae pant can be no subettute | o4! te obit ling hove ex ture couceb with forit, The earnings are permanent and, in growing BOSIUN AND PROVIDENCE BILAMERS cities, continually increasing. There are no bad debta, | | Tickets and Gly and 1351 Penuaylvanig no strikes and no competition. The franchise fixes the Fates and the city and people must pay for the service, or the fire and doméstic supply will be cut off. No enterprise rests upon s more solid basis. The record of the nine hundred private waster companies in the ‘United States and of the old companies in Europe sus- tains the statement that no other class of enterprises has been so uniformly successful. THE COMPANY DOES NOT OFFER ITS SE- CURITIES FOR SALE UNTIL AFTER THE MONEY REPRESENTING THEM HAS BEEN EXPENDED. ‘The bonds of the Company are listed at the New ‘York stock exchange. and spplicstion will be made to Lat both the preferred and common stocks. The regis- trarof the Company is the Farmers Loan and Trust Company of New York. ‘We offer the preferred shares st the rate of 100 each, subject to advance without notice, making o rebate of interest at the rate of 6 per cent to April 1, 1890, the date from which the regular dividend will accrue, it being the intention of the Compsny.to pay the dividends April and October 1. Bubscribers are privileged to pay in full and receive their certificates at once, or to pay 25 per ceut at time of subscription and the balance in three installments of 25 per cent each om the 16th of February, March BI ORFOLK, FORTRESS MONKOK AND Tua bouth—On and atier MONDAY, November 1) SHY, St-amer Lady of the Luke, Laving been ropat aua uewly furvished, will ieave Siath-strect wi ato hart, “Tuesday Keturuing, Clyde's fitinia wt. Clone conpections State Tvomss aud information rcerding Ireicht call 08 Whart or Telephone Cal 04. Also Baud U. Tcke® Qihees, 619 sud 1251 Fs ave. sud Hawley’ Exyrwan, nt} ND AND BEALUAKY Cvadil NG COMPAL, Ey Me? verxon i ir Feoon Ny CORCORAN, ‘ Blake, st. whart daily Mouus \eruvu, Jeavaug at 10 @u, wbour it Capt. LL. Bunday) tor POTOMAC RIVER LANDINGS. DEW THON DTLAMLAL “WARY EFL i whust cu MUNDALS LBC OSD yuri 1 U! PRINTERS. FRETS, DARBY, BOOK. JOH. NE bew material, iunproved machinery, lerwest a jetietaction ocd. rem end April, 1890. the trade "1508 16 uve.1311 Dat, ‘We recommend the preferred stock asa safe invest- ment. Further particulars upon application. Aa cQUREN & Wai Mee sox See inurets, 1208-1120 E st. o.w., sour side COMMERCIAL, 1.5GAL_AND PANTING UF ALL. peesoMaL 7 —_MANICURE__ e ME. NUEVILLE, LATE OF NEW YORK ome [eet ee ‘1336 F st, Adame Building, a x ‘Washington, D.C,