Evening Star Newspaper, April 19, 1890, Page 10

10 -THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON, D.C., SATURDAY, APRIL 19, 1890—TWELVE PAGES. a lip Pd - Written for Tum Evaxrxe Stan. WHOSE WAS THE HAND? BY MISS BRADDON. Anthor ef “Lady Anudley's Secret," “Like and Unlike,” “Ishmael,” “The Day Will Come,” &o. (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED} ——__ CHAPTER XXL “ENOUGH THAT I CAN LIVE.” SClara Arden anticipated, dinner was late that evening at RiverLawn. It was nearly half-past eight when | Mr. and Mrs, Arden and Daisy met in the drawing room,and the butler had been hovering in the hall for pearly half an hour waiting to announce dinner. — “¥ou are looking so pale and so tired, Am- brose,” Mrs. Arden said, as they seated them- selves in the light of the large shaded lamp, supplemented with clusters of wax candles, a light in which she could see the color and ex- pression of his face better than in the softer lamp-light of the drawing-room. “I don’t think that I am any more tired than usual,” he answered. “You know what your fashionable physician said of me. You a not expect me to look particularly robust.” “He said that you were not to devote your- self to intellectual work, Ambrose, and you | have been doing nothing else since he saw you.” | “Old habits are not so easily put off as doc- tors pretend to think. They tell the drunkard he must leave off brandy, and they tell the scholar he must live without books, with just the same admirable complacency, as if they | were asking very little.” ee “Tm afraid we ought to leave Berkshires,” pursued his wife, looking at him anxioufly. ‘Jam sure that you will be better away from your books.” “I shall be ready to leave my books when my book is finished. Iam nearing the end. When that is done I will go where you like.” “It is not where I like. but where you like,” she said sadly. “Iam happier here than any- where else.” “Then let us stay here—till the end of our lives. You know what Horace says, Daisy.” no, I am not selfish enough to keep you here when I see that you are dispirited and out of health. We wil! go back to London, we will go to Italy, anywhere.” ‘ ay There was a silence after this, Daisy being more thoughtful than usual, and not offering any diversion by the girlish prattle with which she usually brightened the meal, whether her heart was ght or heavy. No word had yet been spoken about Cyril's absence. The butler had quietly removed the cover laid for him, and the chair in which he was to have sat; but nobody mentioned his name till nearly the | end of the meal, when Clara said rather nervously— “Cyril is dining out, I suppose?” “He has gone to London,” Ambrose Arden answered quietly. “He is not coming back | tonight.” | Clara looked at him wonderingly as he answered. Had Cyril told his father that his engagement was at an end? She would hardly | believe that her husband would have taken the blow so quietly. It was left for her, she thought, to tell him of his disappointment. Daisy slipped away to her own den as soon as she was free to leave the dining room, and Mrs. Arden entered the drawing room alone, and sat there waiting anxiously for her hasband to re- join her. It was very seldom that he lingered | in the dining room after his wife left him, but this evening he was sitting in an abstracted mood at his end of the table. and did not stir when mother and daughter rose and went away. It was perhaps the first time that he had ever allowed his wife to open the door for herself when he was in the room. Absent-minded and | dreamy by temperament he had yet rarely failed in courtesy to the woman who was to him this world’s one woman. HE GSAT BROODING IN THE LAMPLIGRT. He sat with his head bent over the empty dessert-plate, and the untouched glass of claret which the butler had filled unbidden. He sat brooding in the lamplight for nearly half an hour; and then. with a deep-drawn sigh, he| rose slowly and went to the drawing room, where his wife was sitting by au open window looking out at the moonlit water, very sad of heart. He went over to her and seated himself by her side. “Cyril is gone from us for good, Clara,” he said. “I suppose you know that.” “I know that all is over between him and Daisy; but I thought you did not know. I feared you would not be able to take the blow so quietly, knowing ‘how pleased you were at their engagement.” “I was pleased because it was a link that | drew me nearer to you. It was of our union I thought, not theirs. Nothing can touch me, | Ciara, while I have you.” ‘Did he tell you why he and Daisy had made | up their minds to part? es, he told me his reasons.” nd hers. You will blame my daughter for fickleness, I fear, Ambrose.” | “Blame her, me Daisy! Your daughter—| and my pupil! Why.she wasthe bond between | us years ago, when I was but the stranger within your gates. My love for your daughter | is second only to my love for you.” His wife took up ‘his hand and kissed it in a/ Fapture of grateful affection. “How good you are to us, Ambrose,” she Said softly. “Harsh words never fall from | Fe lips. lcould only see you happy my | t would be full of content Tam happy. Clara, happy in having won my heart's desire. What can a man have in| this world more than that—-the one desire of | of his life, the boon for which he has waited and longed through years of patience and | t hope. If there is happiness upon earth have attained it.” pI believe your metaphysicians teach you t there is no such thing as happiness.” “Oh, they only preach the gospel of doubt. ‘he whole science of metaphysics consists in the questioning spirit, which analyzes every- thing. without arriving at any definite conclu- | sion about anything. “ : sizhed Clara, after a pause of | contemplative silence, which seemed in har-| Mmony With the stilluess of the summer night | and the beauty of the moonlit landscape, gar- den and river, meadow and woodland and dark eburch tower. i “Poor Cyril. Itseems so sad for him to! leave us, to go out into the world asa wan- derer; and yet, of course, it would be impos- sible for our idle life to go on, now that he has | broken with Dais: “No, the old life would not bo possible. It belongs to the past already. Did he tell Daisy where he was going?” “To Australia, he said. He consulted with You as to eee omy ition, no doubt.” “No; he told me he should go away; but hi @id not enter upon his plans,” 3 2 “Poor fellow. He was very unhappy, I fear. “He did not confide his sorrows to me. H. bad made up his mind. to try to change his resolution.” His whole manner altered as he spoke of his gon. There was a hardness in his tone that surprised and grieved his wife, who a minute | before had done him homage as the most ad- mirable of men. His manner in speaking of her daughter had expressed the utmost tenderness. The tone in which he spoke of | bis own son was cold and stern almost to vin- dictiveness. Clara feared there had been a quarrel between father andson and that Am- brose Arden had resented the cancelment of Daisy's engagement with an unjust wrath. “You must not be angry with Cyril,” she said. softly. “I fear that it is Daisy's fickleness that is the begiuuing and end of our disappointment. Bhe owned as much to me, « child. She how frank and open her companio: expansive his speech and manner! He had never hidden a care from her. Were his thoughts light or heavy she shared them and he knew every desire of her heart. many years, had griefs which he would not share with her. | He was angry with his only son; they had | parted within a few hours, perhaps for all this | life, and he would tell her nothing of the cause of their parting, he invited no sympathy. He sat by her side in melancholy silence, and she felt the burden jof unhappiness which she was not allowed to share. marked Clara Arden’s da: her early married life had been so fuil of hap- piness and where her one great sorrow, the sorrow of a lifetime, had come upon her. 'The idea of going on the Continent for the autumn was not carried out. ‘The scholar’s book ab- sorbed him wholly in the waning of the year and he preferred the quiet of River Lawn to all the glory of the Italian Lakes or all the art of Florence. He spent a good many hours of every day in his old cottage study, while his | wife and her daughter lived very much as they had lived in Mrs. Hatrell’s widowhood. wish for if he were only hap; Bave her promise too lightly and repented almost as soon as it was given, although she had not the courage to confess her mustake.” “Well, we will say it is Daisy's fault, or that beth are fickle. There are no hearts broken, I believe. Cyril goes out into the world, a sane to us henceforward.” “Not @ stranger, Ambrose. Your son wi! be dear to us both.” bap He will be in Australia, where our love or our indifference cannot touch him.” ‘There was a bitterness in his tone which warned Clara to pursue the subject no further. She could not doubt after this that there had been a breach between father and son—that these two who had been so fond of each other and so parted ill friends. And it was all Daisy’ Ing. poor little feather-headed Daisy, who should have been a bond of union, but had be- come the occasion of disunion. Clara Arden felt weighed down by the sense of inexpressible sadness as she sat looking out into the moonlit garden, that garden which she and her first lover had fo a wilderness and which he had made into a paradise for her sake. It was her girlish admiration of that old garden by the river which had made Robert Hatrell eager to possess the place. He had laid it at her feet as if it were a bunch of roses, never counting the cost of anything which pleased her. Had it bsen ten times as costly a place he would have bought it for her. His image was with her tonight more vividly than it had been for along time. It was as if he himself were at hand in all the warmth and energy of life, and that she had but to stretch out Ler arms to beckon him to her. And, oh, with whata heart sickness of longing and regret she turned toward that idolized image. Face to face with the inexplicable gloom of Ambrose Arden’s temper she recalled her first husband's happy nature, his joyous outlook and keen de- light in life. With him her days had seemed one perpetual holiday. If she ever complained it had been because that energetic tempera- | ment took life and its enjoyments at a faster ace than suited her own reposeful temper, ut how bright, how gay those days had been; face; how But in this man, this cherished friend of she had discovered mysteries, He not buck-; mental malady which m My mother seldom, if ever, in a world where we should meet our loved and lost and know them again and live with them again in a better and loftier state of being, but that I also believe in the influence of our be- loved dead upon our thoughts and actions even while we are on this side of the veil that parts flesh and spirit. “If he would only talk of his trouble, if he would only let me comfort him, I should be twice as good a wife,” she thought despond- ently. ‘It is not my fault if our lives are grow- ing farther apart.” After this night an emotionless monotony in the house where “Your second marriage and my engagement to Cyril seem almost a dream, mother, when | you and I are sitting here alone together, and Uncle Ambrose is pouring over his books on the other side of the road,” said Da sat at her mother's feet in the morning room, | pretending to read Lecky’s England Under the Georges, but looking up every now and then to talk. “I call him quite a perfect husband in | his way—never interfering with our plans, | never grumblingat his dinner, always courteous and kind and ready to do what we like.” as she is all goodness to us,” answered her nd one would have nothing left to “I daresay he is happy—in his way, mother —his caim, philosophical way, which ‘used to soothe and tame me in my rebellious fits when Iwasa child. He was always the same, don't you know. Tranquil aud rather _mysterious— like deep still water; like Lake Leman whose depth one would never suspect if one did not see the mountains upside down in the water— and get reminded by those delusive shadows of the real depth below. Rely upon it, Uncle Ambrose has all he cares for in this’ world, having you and his books, and you give your- self groundless trouble when you are anxious about him.” Her mother sighed. but did not answer. She had watched her husband's face with a new anxiety ever since Cyril had seen the lines dei droop of the firm li departure; and she and the melancholy row more marked. wn knew anything about No one at River Cyril's whereabouts, unless it was his father, He had left Lamford within a few hours of his interview with Daisy, taking with him only a single portmanteau, as Beatrice Reardon in- formed her friend, this young lady having a habit of meeting e departed from the village. y fly that ever entered or “It's no use telling me you haven't quar- relled,” protested Beatrice, when Daisy denied any ili-feeling between Cyril and herself. “I sa® the poor dear fellow’s white face as he €rove by, acknowledging my bow in the most distracted manner, and I never saw such a change in any man, A few hours before he had been the gayest of us all. on the tennis lawn, and now he looked posi ghost. "You must have had a dreadful row, vely like his own has no other source than your own mind moved by your own loving heart.” memory—something independent of my own mind or my own heart—an influence that flashed upon me when I least expected it—sudden, mysterious, full of suggestions of another world, I told him that there were moments in which I could feel that my father was with me, that he was loving and pitying me in my weak- ness as a woma’ when I was a foolish child, the rest of our dreams, Science has mado an end of all such deceptions. The belief ina spirit world was only possible while mankind remained densely ignorant of the world of sense.” goes on,” Isaid. “It must be so hard to feel that you are treading a path that only leads to adead wall, That there great, cruel wall, no beyond, me it is harder to believe in extinction than in a world to come—a chain of worlds, if you will—a gradual ascent from this life with all its sin and misery, to the highest form of life con- ceivable. The most elaborate of those systems which you call superstitions seems simpler and easier for my understanding than the bar- ren creed of the materialist.” full of enthusiasm, end because you know very little of the world in which you are one happy atom—a joyous mote dancing in the sunshine. You think life is the gift of a beniticent Creator, who holds in reserve future lives, fairer than this, for those who believe in Him and obey Him. That pretty creed comes nat- uraliy enough to you who know life only at River Lawn and in Grosvenor Square—but go | and look at life in Whitec into the skin of the women you will see there, and then ask yourself about the benificent Crentor, the Eternal Wisdom, Who has made man in His own image. Your rose-water theories would hardly be strong enough to stand that atmosphere. A Bradiaugh’s vitriol better suits the district.” that because there was so much misery in the world He who made it could not be a just God; or rather that there could be no directing mind above the universe, only unreasoning matter working out its own destiny upon material and immutable laws—that the God who could be moved to pity was the God of children ana visionaries only. ery in my life,” I said, ‘Do you forget what it was to me, in my happy childhood, to see the father Iioved go out of this house one morning and never to see him again? Do you forget what it was to me a year ago to hear the dreadful secret of his death? If I could rebel against the Power to which I have praved ever since I knew what prayer meant I should have rebelled then,” 14 me at the thought of my father’s cruel death. Uncle Ambrose melted in a moment and took me in his arms, just as he would have done years ago in one of my childish troubies, and ‘We had no row, a yon call it. We only agreed that it was better for us to part.” I HAP NO IDEA HE WAS SO DESFERALELY IN LOVFs “Poor Cy: Thad no idea he was so des- perately in love with you.” “He used to take things so very easily,” re- marked Beatrice, with all the freedom of friendship. “Of course, I aiways suspected you of not caring a straw for him. You were not the least like an engaged girl, You didn’t spoon hima little bit.” Daisy shuddered. She wasone of the few girls who are revolted by such forms of speech us prevail in some girlish circles, Miss Rear- don affected a fast and slangy manner asa kind of perpetual protest against the dullness and monotony of her life in a Berkshire village. She wanted everybody to understand that there was nothing rustic or pastoral about her | mind or her manners, ‘This was all that Daisy or her mother heard about Cyril's departure. He had gone to his chambers, most likely, where he could prepare at his leisure for that long voyage of which he had talked. The greater part of his posses- sions, his books and guns and sporting tackle of all kinds were in the Albany. He had his | own man to pack for him and accompany him to a new world, if he was so minded, CHAPTER XXIL DAISY'S DIARY. How peacefully the days have slipped by since poor Cyril went away. I find myself thinking of him and writing of him as “Poor Cyril,” which is really an impertinence, as I dare say by this time he is perfectly happy and has fallen in love with some magnificent Australian girl, a higher order of being. like the Gy in the Coming Race, a powertully built creature, who can ride buck jumpers, and camp out in the bush, without fear of consequences. I fear I have very narrow and insular ideas about Australia, which I can only picture to myself as one vast jungle, interspersed with con- vict settlements. Cyril is happy no doubt by this time, sad as he looked on that day of sudden parting, so I may allow myseif to feel happy with an eas; conscience. I should be perfectly happy if it were not for the change in Uncle Ambrose, who has evidently some secret grief, some cor- roding care which he will not lighten by s! ing it with his wife. I can but fear that mother was right in her foreboding and that he has taken the cancelment of Cyril's engagement dit was not for me | sorely to heart. It is his love for mother which is wounded. He wanted a perfect union, that we should be one household, bound by every tie that can muke a family virele indivisi- ble. It must be very hard for him too to know that his son, his only child, has been self-ban- ished from his home and his native country. if my fickleness alone had been to blame— if Cyril had found out my foolish secret, and that the man who was nothing to me was a great deal nearer my heart than my plighted husband—if he had broken with me on this account, my conscience would hardly have been as easy as it is. But I have at least t comfort of knowing that Cyril had some Pressed his lips upou my forehead witha kiss that seemed lik that unquestioning faith which the pure in spirit. It isasecond sight, Dai It isa sixth sense. It is given to the chose few, God's very elect. To them it is given to conceive and understand the unseen, They are the children of light. Be always of that happy race, Daisy. My reason has nothing to offer in exchange for your clairvoyance. always that if could not help you to believe— if [could not enter with you into the holy of } Anda breath through the incense floated wide holies, I never taught you to doubt.” me to guess your sécret, Dais Llove you too well to blame y Your mother and I both think that Mr. Fior- estan had something to do with the change in nature of my mistak: y less after I had seen Mr, Florestan, and foun knew allatonce that my love for Cyril had never been the kind of love that would make as if he were something less than a husband, weighty reason upon his own side for parting with me—and that, therefore, I am not actually to blame for the existing state of things, It was ‘ho took the initiative. It was he who said: Ets = between us.” ve left off puzzling myself with idle ulations about hie motive. Whatever his pant may have been I feel assured that it was very serious and entirely convincing to his own mind—that he obeyed what to him was a stern necessity. I can but be grateful to Providence that has released me from a bond that could not have brought real happiness to either C. or me, and looking back now at the past I feel how cowardly I was in not daring all and tell- ing him the truth about my own feelings. He was no coward, When the hour came in which he felt he ought to break with me there was no hesitation or wavering on his side; aud yet I believe he loved me better in that parting fore. Poor Cyril—old friend and playfellow—I hope the young Australian will be kind and true, and that his life in that far world may be fall of all good tl gold in mor nug- ngs gets, shetp in mighty flocks, horses Whaat are jumpers, woods of eucalyptus; groves of mimosa, birds of vivid plumage, and the most perfect thing in bungalows. hour than he had ever loved me in his life be- | I was on dangerous ground. Cyril told me to let people su) that I had broken oar en- gagement, and to tell the truth would be to touch upon his secret, which he may have wished to keep from his father's knowledge. “Oh, the cancelment of our ment arose on thi aoe, of the moment, plied carelessly. Iyril and I were of one opinion. “That is enough, child,” Uncle Ambrose an- Tam really very sad about Uncle Ambrose. I | swered kindly; “if Florestan is the chosen man man stricken in the think he fights against the gloom that gathers | I think he ought to be informed of what has round him asa st prime of life by some insidious malady might fight against ‘disease, and yet the gloom deepens. With him low spirits seem actually a disease, and I tremble and turn cold some- times at the thought that it may forebode some | he rushes off to propose to somebody else—as darken all our days. | I have heard of young men doing—that will I sees him as I see | only prove that his love wasn't worth having him when she is not present. When she is | Let him wait and find out for himself that I am with him I know that he makes a stupendous | not going to marry Cyril.” effort to appear cheerful, to seem interested in the things she loves; happened, and that the lady he loves is free.” “Oh, no, no, no, no,” I cried in a great fright. “He musn't be told anything. Why, that would be like putting mo up to auction. If he reaily cares for me his love will keep. If hat an arrogant young person you are; but but when she leaves him | I suppose you must have your own way,” said the mask drops and I see as he really is—a man weighed down by deep-rooted melancholy. Uncle Ambrose; ‘only remember, Dais I want to see you happily married to the man I have talked to him of the books I used to | of your choice before I die. I want to be sure physicians, and of Heine. who saw all thin, with the saddened eyes of a man whose life was like Pope's, talked of theology, and I have discovered the hopelessness of his creed—that for him there is nothing beyond this life of ours, this poor brief life, in which there are so many chances of being miserable against a single chance of be- ing happy. No, for him there is no beyond— for him the dead are verily dead. long diseas We have I told him yesterday that I believe not only “That influence is only memory,” he said; ‘ I told him that it something more than just as he used to pity me “A delusion, Daisy,” he said, ‘‘a delusion like “I know now why you grow sadder as life no door in the hank God, to “That is because you are young, Daisy, and ut yourself Itold him that 1 was an old, old argument “You talk to me as if there had been no mis- I could not goon for the sobs thut ehoked ea blessing. “Believe, my dearest,” he said, “keep always the gift of expression of hi me, made my heart thrill with love and rever- ence. Yes, he isa good man, a man in whose ges I have never discovered fault or aw. you happy. for the last time and turn my face to the wall, to be able to say to myself, ‘At least my little friend, Daisy, is happy; I have been her friend from the hour she learnt to read at my knees ‘until the hour I gave her to the husband of her choice. No father upon this earth could have been more careful of his daughter's happiness than I have been of hers.’ Perhaps in the last hours, when mind and senses grow dim, I may forget that my little Pupil ‘ever grew up to Written for Tar Evi o,no. I have only known latcly thas you yourself were without the hope that has sus- tained mother and me in our dark hours,” He told me that I must not talk of dark | w hours—that for me life was to be all sunshine; and then, for the first time, ho spoke of his disappointment about Cyril and me-—touching on the subj mentioning his son’s name. very lightly, and, indeed, not “A little hint o* your mother’s has helped, he said, “an! your inconstancy. your sentiments,” ‘Something to do with my finding out the truth about my own heart,” I said, “and the I did not love il outsomehow that he cared for me. Butl me his happy wife. I found out that he could never be more tome than a dear aud valued friend—never so much to me as you have been, He could never be the first; and one’s husband ought to be the first in one’s heart and mind, ought he not, Uncle Ambrose, as mother’s hus- band was?” And misty memoric Sweet and sad as the I felt so sorry for my thoughtless words when Tsaw him wince at the mention of my father’s name. It was such a heartiess thing to say— as if he hardly counted in my mother’s life. I hung my head, deeply ashamed of myself, but feeling that any attempt to unsay what I had said would only make matters worse. And then again och cannot alter the trath. He knows, he knows that my mother has never loved him as she loved her cherished dead; that the very mention of my father’s name can move a deeper feeling in her than all my step- father’s adoring tenderness, There was an awkward silence, and then Uncle Ambrose went on gravely and quietly, with infinite kindness: “I want my pupil and adopted daughter to be happy, even if she cannot be bound any nearer to me bya new tie. Don't be afraid to trust me, Daisy, Remember I was your first friead— after your father aud mother, amd that you used to tell me all your thoughts and fancie: ‘Try to be as frank today as you were in those happy hours when your doll used to sit in your lap and share your history lesson. You have some reason to believe that Mr. Florestun cares for you?" i “He told me so one day,” I faltered. “I was alone in the summer house in the shrubbery, intending to spend a studious morning. Mr. Florestan found me there, and sat down and began to taik to me; and before I knew what was coming he told me that ho was very fond of me, and that be was sure I did not care quite so much as I ought to care for Cyril; and he asked me to cancel my engagement and marry him, I was very engry with him, and I told him that he had no right to form any such opinion about my senti- a and that nothing would induce me to 8 : “Yet you did break very soon your pro afterward. How did you come to change your min d so spew: read with him, the low-spirited school of meta- | that I have done all for your happiness that your own father could have done had he lived to bless you on your wedding day. The deep grave tones of his voice, the solemn eyes as he turned them upon “You are not going to leave us for many a year tocome,” I said, ‘Indeed, indeed there isno reason that my marriage should be hur ried on.” “Yes, Daisy, there is need. I want to see want when I lie down on my bed womanhood, I may think of you asa child still, flitting about the garden with streaming air, [may not recognize the real Daisy when she looks at me with pitying eyes.” These sad forebodings made me cry; and I kissed Uncle Ambrose and tried to comfort him, and felt as fond of him as I used to be when I wasachiid. Iwas glad that the old feeling came back, for of late, though I know always that he is mybest fri after my mother, we seem to have been growing further apart; andI have had acurious sense of appreheusion when Ihave been in his company, asif there were some evil influence for me lurking under the | gloomy cloud which has darkened his life. ‘To- | day I felt only a great pity and a great love, the old confidence and affection which used to fill my heart when I ran across the lawn of a | morning to meet him as he came in at the gate, Ipitied him because I began to fear that the | shadow that rests upon him 1s the shadow of a closing life, and that it is some deep-rooted malady which makes him so joyless among our haj gs. I fear that his own forebodings may be too surely realized, and that he will never see the quiet long-spun- out days of a goodold age. Thisthought made me very melancholy; yet it was a great relief to that he did not disapprove of Mr. | Florestan as a tover forme. Who knows? Mr. Floresian may be as fickle as the inconstant moon; and all that impuisive nonsense of his jin the arbor may be utterly forgotten on his part, though I remember every syllable. I wonder whut he is doing in Scotland? I think he ought to have shot cverythiug shootable by this time. (To be continued.) — ING STAR. An Old Haunt. The Easter world is waking from death, A lacework of sunshine the smooth grass frets, And the young Spring is drawing her first faint breath, A breefe sweet with promise of violets, Fair are the forests of Fontainebleau, Bat fairer still the fresh leaf buds grow By the wild, steep path where the waters slide Through the heart of the hills by Ingleside. When the yellowing light and the sky’s soft blue Are joinec in the green of broad, quivering leaves, And bright red berries the mosses strew, With joy the light-flooded sense perceives ‘The sinking sun through the poplars blaze, A great gold tulip whose stamens are rays, Shining in splendor all glorified Over the hills by Ingleside. In dim-grown thickets, from boughs wind-stirred, We hear as the dusk-cloud silently floats, ‘The sleep drowned chirp of some drowsy bird, And cateh in faint and irregular notes ‘The tinkling bells of the distant flocks, As the soft shadows gather and cling to the rocks, And spirits of twilight dreamily glide ‘Through the darkening woodland by Ingleside. Its frozen beauty ‘neath winter's hand, Rose in fancy more rare than famed column or dome, ‘With the Christmas bells in a foreign land, ‘The holly twined in the stranger's home, Remember | Clear strains of an old familiar psalm Pealed with the organ through Notre Dame, Of sweet brush burning by Ingleside, Loved recollection still kept its tryst With the home land on Scheveningen’s sands, Vhere the cold northern sun struggles up through the mist To lighten the pale gray Netherlands. And under the Lindens the helmots shine Of the German patriots guarding the Khine, But their castled river is naught beside (’} The fern-bordered stream by Ingleside, Out of the west at the sunsot’s bar, A sound with the solemn evening blends, A tangle of music bringing from far Mingled bird songs and voices of friends, Ot the loves we have loved and the deaths they have died, Out on the hills by Ingleside. Friends with love's mystery still in your faces, Tam clasping your hands across the sea. Over the limits of time amd of places, Sweetest of all life is bringing to me, Comes strong assurance of steadfast devotions Borne on the winds that blow over the ocean, Faith in the future and joys that abide On the beautiful hills by Ingleside. —Merrmac, ———— see GIRLS AT THE PLAY. Young Women Should Economize Their Fun—No Chaperons in Jersey. “If the girls here in Washington had any gumption,” said a club man to a Stan reporter the other day, “they would organize in favor of a reform as to theater going. As things are now it is expected that a fellow who invites a young woman to go to the play with him shall pay €3 for two reserved seats in the orchestra even if nochaperon is to be provided for. Lately the girls have been getting to expect boxes, But, as matter of fact, in the theaters of this city excellent seats can almost invariably be obtained for 50 cents apiece simply by buy- ing admission tickets and taking chances on the rerult. It isn’t so dignified as having the coupons for stalls in your pocket, but it has several important points to recommend it. Just about fis much fun is obtained for one- third of the money, and thus one can afford to take a girl to the play just three times as often, You sec, young men in Washington are mostly poor and’ cannot often afford $3 or $4.50 for such a luxury, AS FOR CHAPERONS, it isa curious thing that the custom of em- ploying their watchful services has not yet be- come by any means so general at the capital as it is in other eastern citics, where people never think of permitting a daughter to goto the theater unattended by a duenna, There are a ood many Washinztonians of the best set who jo not hesitate to intrust their fair maidens to such good young men of their intimate family acquaintance as they deem worthy of the con- fidence. I myself ‘am a believer in the chaperon system, on the general principle that it as well not to put a premium on temptation, ‘The most remarkable illustration of the no- chaperon plan that I ever heard of used to be found in a certain Jersey town that I was born in, where it was customary for the girls to go to Philadelphia to the theater and afterward putup ata hotel inthe city for the night— there being no boats to take them back—re- turning home the next morning. Everythi was managed on entirely ant principles, but from a pea acting ‘standpoint the scheme was certainly unique.” ———— HOUSEWIVES IN PANTALOONS. How Bachelor Epicures May ‘Render Themselves Independent of the Kitchen, 4 CHAFING DISH AND AN ALCOHOL LAMP FURNISH ALL THE NECESSARY CONVENIENCES FOR PRO- DUCING A GREAT VARIETY OF DELICIOUS THINGS, If YOU ONLY KNOW HOW—HERE'S HOW. R. GOBBLEBY is rather a bore in some ways, but he does cook so su- perbly that the boys are fain to put up with his society for the sake of what he gives them to eat. Cooking in general is not entertaining, by reason sim- y of the labor it so palpably involves and the incidental muss it makes; but the fatand cheer- ful person above mentioned has a way of doing all such things so that they neither upset things nor occasion any worl worth mentioning. The only implements that he ever seems to use are ® saucepan of moderate size and an alcohol lamp—the one sitting upon the other. This ar- rangement he calls a “chafing dish.” and with it he produces an unheard-of variety of dishes almost too delicious for description. ‘A STAR man was very much struck with the old gentleman’s gastronomic genius when one night after the theater Gobbleby invited two or three of the boys to his bachelor quarters and suggested scrambled eggs: SCRAMBLED EGGS OFF HAND. Now, it so happened that the visitors were allremarkably hungry and the proposition was received with acclamation, So Gobbieby, without making any fuss about it, lighted an alcohol lamp that stood beneath a little sauce- pan in the corner and a moment later dropped ito the saucepan a piece of butter as big as his two thumbs, A small amount of pepper and salt he added from a couple of little boxes that stood handy and then he quickly broke into the saucepan six raw eggs. Then ho told one of the fellows to cut half a dozen slices of bread from a loaf that he supplied and toast them in a gridiron over the red hot open grate, But the toast was not done quite in time and the oggs, which Gobbleby had been scraping about in the pan, had to be kept a moment or two too long before they could be dealt out upon the thin slices of browned and buttered bread prepared. How- | ever, if you could have seen the boys fall to you would have entertained no doubt as to the edible quality of the product. Gobbleby in- sisted that it would have been better had he had a gill of cream or even milk to put in at the beginning, as soon as the butter had melted, He said. incidently, that the toast was a very important thing with scrambled eggs, and he added that most people did not understand the making of toast at all—not realizing that the very to make it as thin as possible and as crispy. PRESTO! AN OMELETTE. But Scrambled eggs is the simplest sort of a dish to old Gobbleby. He says that one can make nearly everything that is good to eat ina chafing dish. From his point of view akitchen is u thing superfluous for cooking purposes— one may so easily dispense with it, including the cook and the range, when one is supplied with a saucepan and an alcohol lamp. Sup- osc, for instance, one wishes to make an ome- jette, There is no difficulty about beating up three eggs vigorously with two tablespoonfuls ot cream, adding to the mixture a proper quan- tity of pepper and salt. By this time the chaf- ish is very hot and the tablespoonful of butter you have put in it is melted. So all you have to do is to pour in your beaten-up € and hold the saucepan with your left hand | the handle, while you scrape rapidly with @ spoon the contents from all parts of the pan. When forty or fifty seconds have passed the contents will be sufficiently cooked, and then you have only to slipa knife under the left-hand edge and fold it over gently to the sid pan opposite the handle. Mean- while you have had ready a hot plate or dish which you reverse on the pan, and, turning both pan and plate over quickly together, your omelette lies smoking betore you, inviting im- mediate consumption. The delight about all this sort of thing, Gobbleby very justly says, is that 1t can be done at a moments notice right on your table without any bother whatever, either of making a fire or of collecting pro- visions. There is no end to the good things you can make inthis way, With a very small amount of preparation you can get up without difficulty the most elaborate dishes, Take salmon a la reine for example: SALMON ANQ OYSTERS, TOO, Before beginning you must have a little flour, lemon or two, an onion, a few eggs and a can of salmon, You can get them all on five min- utes’ notice at the corner grocery. When you are ready to perform put into your chafing dish a tablespoonful of butter and when it is meited gently stir with it a tablespoonful of flour until the resulting paste is quite smooth, ‘Then addagill of water, the juice of one ‘thy lemon, a proper amount of pepper and salt, a small onion minced very fine and the yelks of three hard-boiled eggs mashed. Last, but not least, put in the entire contents of your can of salmon and let the whole simmer for dive min- utes, Then serve the result and await with confident expectation the applause of your guests. Most people are addicted to oysters. You can prepare them, if you so desire, in a man- ner that is at once superior ani to most people unaccustomed. Get your oysterman to send you twelve tine big bi vular creatures aud dram them well of their juice. The time for theic apotheosis arrived you place them in a single layer ina pan, which mast be very hot, and when they are brown on one side you turn them on the other until that side 18 brown also. During the pro you add a Iittle butter, and this, combining with tho juice given out, forms abrown skin in the chating dish which con- tains in itself? the quinteseuce of the oyster flavor. Add pepper and salt, and finally serve the oysters with the brown skin, ANOTHER DELICIOUS DISH. One of the dishes with which Gobbleby en- tertains his friends to their extreme satisf: tion is 2 mysterious mixture of eggs and dried beef. The way he manages the concoction is this: He puts two tablespoontuls of butter in a chafing dish with helf a cupful of milk and aj y¢ quarter of a pound of dried beef thiniy shaven. buch materials are never further off than the n simmer for ten minntes, at the end of that time adding three or tour eggs. As soon as the eggs are “set” the dish is ready to serve. But, goodness me! This is only the begin- ning of Gobbleby’s culinary accomplishmeuts. With his little apparatus of saucepan and jamp he will tell you how to make a beefsteak a la mode. Previously it is necessary to buy one pound of steak oue inch thick. Put it in the chafiug dish, in which two tablespoonfuls of butter have been melted, with two or three thin slices of lemon. Let it cook slowly for five or ten minutes and then pour over it a gill of port wine. Simmer for ten minutes more and, when ready to serve, squeeze over ita scrap of lemon. EVEN MINCED COLLOrs. You can see for yourself that the simplicity of such dishes as this—implying ease of con- cocticn—is their most striking charm, All you want is a saucepan, an alcohol lamp, and at most two or three ordinary grocery material and—with the proper knowledge. such as is de~ sigued herein to be conveyed—you can cook up most anything. Now, Gobbieby claims that the minced col- lops le serves up for the boys at a moment’ notice are fairly astonishing. And yet all the preparation he makes is to order a pound of beet cut out of the tender part of the round, chopped very “fine and free from fat. ‘This he seasons with pepper and anit and puts into a chafing dish before itis hot. Then he stirs it in its own juice for ten minutes while it gets hotter and hotter, finally adding a teaspoonful of butter, one small onion minced fine, a tea- spoonful ‘of mushroom ketchup and a table- spoontui of flour made into a paste with but- ter. ‘his receipt implies, to a certain extent, the conveniences of a kitchen, And such con- veniences may be utilized in a sparing way to serve the purposes of the bachelor cook. But th it goes without saying that the kitchen | must be eschewed as tar as possi Some bachelors may discover a superlative fashion of broiling steaks with three inches thick of butter spread over them and other expensive accompaniments, but it is not easy to adapt such profligate culinary usages to practical em- ployment. A WELSH RAREBIT TO WIND UP. about it is that it is so frequently composed badly, There is no exeuse for failure in its manufacture, inasmuch as it is 20 readil; duced on ideal principles. A chafing dish is the thing to make it in. Put in, to a tablespoonful of butter, and when it melted add a quantity of fresh asa pound and a half AUCTION SALES. FUTURE DAYS. _ rpromas DOWLING, Bess = POSITIVE SALE OF GOOD WILL, STOCK AND FIXTURES OF THE DRUG STORE NORTH- EAST CORNER OF TENTH AND Q STREETS NORTHWEST. EMBRACING FINF STOCK OF STANDARD AND PATENT MEDI- CINES, FANCY ARTICLES, TOILET ARTICLES, MES, FLUID EXTRACTS, STUFFS, HOMEOPATHIC SPONGES, SOAP AND PER: CHEMICALS, D’ NES, RUBBER SCALES, PRESCRIPTION COUNTER, SIL\ER- MOUNTED SHOW CASES, ToG MANY OTHER ARTICLES USUA IN A FIRST-CLASS ESTABLISHM: 1 ATH ANDCSIREETS AUCTION. On THURSDAY AFTERNOON, APRIL TWENTY- at FIVE O'CLOCK, we will sell ia AND 6, IN SQUAT eson C street ai FOURTH, 150 fronting SS teet “4 1 ee-story cl rh Cellar aud Fiame Back Build ine, also Frame Building in be easily w@bdivided to. ad houses. A spieu.id opportunity for : ash, If terms of sale are not o FRONTING 40 FEET i. or can readily be subdivide ‘Lhese lots are the best m tl and should attract tue attention of those desir One-third cosh, balance . Hotes to bear inter lay of sale, interest f m cach lot att ‘Terms to be compli rene Ls at Fisk y essence of the art was | pe pub. OF FRAME HOU TRUSTEES SALE STREE? NORTHEAST reby, I w 1 at ises, ON WEDNE: APRI D. All conveyancing, & HOMAS DOWLI GLASS ORDER: FINE CK HAND HORSES, WILL DKIVi sid 1 ABOVE KEY.WITH POLE (NEW: LADY'S PHAE- ¥, APRIL TWENLY IN FRONT OF NEV'S STABLES, 1 TEENTH NOnTHWEST, Iw leaving the city the above found first-class and in AT ‘This sale offers aspleudia op Can be see:: at above stables from 9 uutil 1 jock om Saturday prior to sale. THOMAS DOWLING, thoneer, HHOMAS DOWLING. Auctionec SPECIAL TRADE SALE OF F: On MONDAY Mok 1890, AT ELEY rooms, I shall ‘sel Tar jarge cousiznment of Assorted Crockery, to which the special atu ution of the trade is directed. THOMAS DOWLING, Auctioneer. a) JRATCUPEE, DAME & CO., Auctionce 920 Pa. BLE, THREE - STORY - AND EKN IMPKOVEMEN’ GN PLACE, BETWEEN NT STREE AUCT FuIDAY AFL N. IW FIFTH, 1590, at FIVE O’CLOCK, we will improved by House No, 27 Grant plat contaii stato din Food c all lines of th all modern improvements: Wanh-stands; bested by ed residence street. A ment or permanent splendid opportunity for 1: urchaser's cost, iu 15 days from day of sale R” CLIFFE, DAR & S DESIRABLE TWO-STORY 4 HOUSE, NORTHWEST AND FE STREE On FRIDAY AFT a z at FIVE U'CLOCK, we will offer for sale 1 LOT 107, SQUARE 861, 100 feet by depth o1 61’ feet, 1faproved pavement Brick yvements, being one of the fiuest | — Tight reserved to resedl t advertisement of in Washington, est grocery. Then he lets the mixture | t?-THE PURCHA’ rty at the former sil terms of sale th MPROVED PROPERTY FRON \-F iH SIR : thorcon-cobsistiug of atwo-stury brick dw LOCI trout of the premises, 1.t | corded subdivisi No. 675, ments thereon, consisting of a three-stor; imeut brick dwelling fronting on K st Capitol and Ist sts. n.e., ‘erms of sale: One-fourih cash, baauce in one, two, ‘and three years, for notes bearing interest from day of deed of trast on pre at purchuser"s cost. nece of property when struck off. terms of sale are not complied with within ten days from day of sale, the property will be resold cost of defaiilting purchaser WALTER B. Wi. t hut premises No. 9. sale aud secured by Ail couveyaucing, &€ EXECUTOR’S AN ABLE KEAL EST Tine WAND ‘ the jast will and testament of Fannie P. the UndePsigPed, as executor and trustee therein named, wili sell at pul wction an front uises,on MONDAY the TWEN1}-FLEST A.D. FIVE @'CLOC! ‘2x aud twelve months, wits interest frou for which the purchaser or pure! OF their promissory notes, secured HER WI1H FOUND THE FNTIRE SHELVING AND MARBLE-TOP DAY MORNING, APRIT, TWENTY- OCK, T shail sell the en- ued establishment, hole, and be sold im detail. and the sale should an sess, THOMAS DOWLING, Ai sneer. mnsylvania ave. now, CORNER UTHEAST, at Fas and tioual u Ivestucenit. ne aud two years, f trust on . Ke, at purchaser's ¢ smpiied with in ten days from day of sale the right is reserved to resell the | risk and cost of the de TY. sell in front of and two annum ya with im . Aucta, USE Na 128 ¢ “third cash, balance in one and two | 5, t of trus R LANDA, | SS-MATCHED SOL Lt GOOD 1 AND STABLE | 890, AT - DOW. SEVEN- ell tor a gentleman I of which will be to obtains CRATES OF AS- uctiol ~ BASEMENT H . MOD- y li e One-third cash. balance in 1 and 2 years,with interest at the rate of necuved by deed of trust u All convey- If terms of to reseli the property at the risk » detaulting purchaser, afver 5 lvertisement of such Paper published in Washington, > days’ Tesule in some Dews- 'E, DARR & CO., Auctioneers, ) Pennsylvania ave. now, «| EVENTH | LEVENTH, | n front of House, u days property after five days’ & CO, Auctioneers, OF THE ABOVE PROP- ng failed to comply with f ) the improvements, lung house, |e ND, AT sell. i in Gilbert's re- ‘And if the ENT cy feet in dep aud lot thirty one (31), beiug improved by a two-story Brick Dwelling. UCTION SALE _OF CHOICE. AUCTION SALES. ue __ FETURE Das. IRUSTEIS SALE ‘HE RE PLANT AND PP Te chancery of Washing trustee UESDAY ¥ Past m. Alex Alexandria and Washington tucnpik redaloai quipped jan = Twos With desks, safe Westinghouse Au Pumps and coune Thre n-cirat i RHINE ty i foriy Whee my) Cental ud Lrade Marks pin is property will be offered es enurety, but :f no adequate bid is made it (of par Prospective purch: be day of sale and inspecting the 72 Louiaian Alexandria, Va NHOMAS DOWLING, Auctoneer. STEES' SAL" OF A HOUSE AND LOT KNOWN S PIEKCL ST RELT NOKINW certain deed of tris perty REACH, Trurtes 10 Sout Wa Any date No, 13h land the undersigned trustees TWENTL-1HIKD DAY FIVE O'CLOCK EM aah. at the purela-er Wil: be required on the day of ma within tev ds the day of BE RICHARD _aplo-dads of ree 6 uubia, 5 Tu d byt | dWeding No. 24 Massachusetts avenue n Bexinning at a pe U4] feet jue ot rtheast, e ALS ME DAY, AT HALY-PAST FIVE O'CLOCK J nell fh frout of ‘the pens “et — + thene 0 by | two-story fram rtheas from day ng interest payable we P deed of trust on pm f purchaser. property ‘Tertus to plied with in "ten day Fight to resell the prope cost of the defaulting purcuaser. MENKY WISE GARNETT, Trost 416 FERDINAND SCHMID I se trustees y in detault at the apl4akas 3 FPBOMS DOWLING, Auctioncer, ARGE AND VALUABLE HINGTON, D. « St or Cougress street be or Water street, ymise Bost Club H a“ tc " iley run Mich street to the south ii re rt de eneil ut risk aud cost of good or no sale, Convey STEAMERS HORT KOUTE TO LONDON, NOKDDLUTSCHER ¥. Fast kapross 5 To Sonthamptog Werra, Sat., April Y ORDDEUTSCHER LLOY Balumore to bre tes Karlsruhe (new), 6,000 tous. Suitteart, oa = 5500 “ — Herniann, - =~ * Awenca, - Sjiendid accommodstions, good table.” Rates from 860 to #100, accosding to Loeution of rooms, For particulars apply to E.F. DROOP, Agent, anh: 3m. » Pa. ave. I AMBULG-AMERICAN PACKET COMPaNyY. XPRESS SERVICE between NEW YORK, SOU 1H. AMPTON aud HAMBUG by the magnificent teamers Of 10.000 tons and 1 power. THIS LINE TRIPS ST! BD THE CONTINEST. CHOK LINE. 2 A ATLANTIC EXPRESS SERVIC! LIVERPOOL VIA QUEENSTOWN. Every Saturday from New GLASGOW AND LONDONVERKY. Cabin Passsye to Glasgow, Londonderry ‘ rond-clans, &: en cursion Hickets at Keduced itates, ‘Traveers’ Circular Letters of Credit and Drafts for any amount issued at lowest current rates. ‘or dours, 1 Apply to He NDEASC ‘Moss, v2 GAS COOKING STOVES Or band and for sale wh31 ‘WASHINGTON GASLIGHT COMPANY. GENTLEMEN'S GOODS. _ Maenczaxt Tanonrise, FALL AND WINTER, "89-90. Our own Importations now received. and you Se invited to inayect at the well-hnown bouse 4H. D. BARR, IMPORTING TAILOR, LLL Penus. eve.