Evening Star Newspaper, July 12, 1890, Page 7

UNDER WHAT LEADING > THE MYSTERY OF A MOTHER'S ILL-REQUITED LOVE. ——_—_—>——_ CHAPTER L HE only son of his mother, and she was a widow. : : If I begin my short, sad story with this familiar quotation, it is because nowhere else can I find such simple and beautiful words expressing so much; also, because the two of whom I am about to speak—mother and son—are so welded together in my memory that I cannot think of them apart—of the one without the other. She—that widowed mother—had ne life apart from his; he, in spite of sin, sorrow and estrangement, loved her to the last, as he loved no other. The pathetic and the commonplace jostle each other strangely in this world of ours, and, surely, few would have expected to find mate- rial for romance in the unpretentious row of suburban houses where lived Mrs. Ruthven and her son, Maicombe, « slender, dark-eyed boy of twenty or thereabout, with clustering locks, whose richness and ripple and golden sheen were the admiration of every feminine creat- ure in Radley Crescent. Yes, we called ourselves a Crescent by virtue of a very slight curve in our center; and were not a little proud of certain narrow slips of arid land at the back of each house, which we were pleased to call our gardens, and in which the ground bad apparently made up its mind to produce nothing but marigolds, no matter what else was set therein. By reason of these garish flowers—varied here aud there by the pallid greem sprays of the plant called indiscrimi- nately “old man” and ‘lads’ love’—we were, some of us, wont to speak of the Crescent as uite “countrified.” though there was a Secoughfare within = stons's throw of us where omnibuses rolled and rattled all day long, and by-streets, striking off on either hand, the surroundings of which were squalid. the tenements of which were crowded, and which led, by narrow and devious ways, into some of the busiest parts of London. This juxtaposition, however, suited many of the tenants of the Crescent, for there were more workers than drones im our hive, and transit was easy for those who toiled in divers ways to make both ends meet—a feat that re- quired « good deal of pulling. In my own case, pull as I might, there was sometimes a gap, for the number of my music pupils varied, though rent and other expenses did not. However, I have always looked upon a grumbler as a being who ought to take rank in the lowest scale of creation, and generally managed to keep up my heart when a London fog pressed its dank, gray-green face right up against my windows ona & that a lesson had to be given ever so far away, for could any nectar be so delicious aa the cup of tea partaken of on returning from that misty journey, any beacon brighter than the glint of the fire that Sister Janet always coaxed into a blaze to greet my return? __ I do not mind in the least saying that Sister Janet and myself were what may be called “old maids,” nor is this the place to speak of bopes that once blossomed in our lives and now lay withered like dead flowers pressed within those closed books—our memories. I am concerning myself with the lives of others, not of ourselves. ‘The passion and the tragedy of the tale I have to teil is over me as I write. Sister Janet has not been well all day and has gone to bed early, so 1 am all alone and the better able to iy myself to my task. The wind blows out- driving down the shallow bend of the Crescent like a thing with a living will anda longing to rend and tear. Outside, in the bitter cold. some one is singing—a woman with a thin, worn voice, that yet holds something of | sore and sweetness. Little mouths at home have to be filled, though the rain drift ever so piteously and the cruel wind cuts like a knife; but oh, sing any song but that! It brings such terrible memories with the swing of its plain- tive refrain: Some are gone ver, Longer bere th he not Stay ‘They have reached a fairer region, Far away—far away. Things have gone rather well with me this week—ends hi a lapped over. That weary singer shal! be sent home rejoicing. ‘That song shall be sung no more, else will my its become a tangle and run riot in spite of me, so that no thread of narrative shail be spun tonight. I take a shilling. bright and new, out of my purse, huddle a shawl over my head and so accoutered present myself at the open door. The singer is through the gate and up the stepsinamoment. I see an eager, hun- gry face, an outstretched hand, a sudden gleam in the sunken eyes, a clutch at the shilling and then she is gone; both she and her song are shut out into the night and I can work in peace. But that sad refrain has taken possession of me. it runs in my head—now like the strains of a distant band. now like the sough and sigh of the wind. Well, let it go on and I will tell my tale to its sad rhythm. It was well on in the summer—indeed the marigolds were in full bloom—when new ten- ants came to the next house. Little lives have little interests and the little interests fill the little livea. Sister Janet and myself were full of the new comers—remarkable people to}look at in their way—and, as I have mentioned be- fore, consisting of a mother and her son. When first she came to Lager Crescent Mrs. Ruthven wore her widow's veil over her face; we couid, therefore, in the short glimpses we got of her between the gate and the door form small idea what manner of woman she was— that is, in face. Her figure and walk, however, were unmistakabl; both bore every sign of dis- tinction. Her son—the bright-haired boy of whom I have slready spoken—was sometimes with her; sometimes she was alone. But here all variety of circumstances ceased. Neither at first nor at any other time did we ever see any ©ne—man, woman or child—with these two. No visitor ever rang the bell: very seldom did even the postman mount the steep narrow steps that led to the door. There was an old servant, with a face like a hatchet and apparently stone deaf, and that was all. Sister Janet became so devoured with curi- osity that she asked the postman what was the uame of our next-door neighbor, and he told her it was Ruthven—Mrs. Ruthven—that was ail he knew. There was @ young gentleman, too, a fine young fellow, with a pleasant tongue in his head, “‘Ay, wonderfully nice spoken, surely,” and again that was ail. Sister Janet was very much ashamed of this adventure and always had an uncomfortable feeling that the postman might tell Mrs. Ruth- yen what she had done. But I do not think she ad any cause for fear. Men have generally chivalry enough to keep them from petty tattle about anything a woman says to them, and this sort of chivalry is quite as prevalent in the workingman as in the prince; it is an attribute of sex. I felt sure Sister Janet's postman was safe and trustworthy, and I comforted her when she had qualms. Meanwhile it was ever so much more con- ient to speak of our neighbor as Mrs. ‘hven than as “the lady next ir.” I con- -dered Sister Jan>t had scored. It must not be thought that we kept a vulgar watch upon eur neighbors. We had been too well brought Up for that. It was no idle curiosity that gave Us an interest in Mrs. Ruthven. Our sympathies were called out toward her because of her lone- limess. We were somewhat alone in the world ourselves. Sister Janet and I, and our sympa- lies were like some pent-up stream that now and again overflows its banks, so deep and strong is its current. We had not many to love, so we went out of our way to find channels for Jove to flow in, and it came about that in a week or two the unknown woman in the simple black veil and snood-like bonnet became the oue deep interest of our lives. Not but what tue brig t-haired boy had something to do with all this. Oh, yes! we were quite elderly. Idare say some people thought us really old, but we loved to look upou what was young and fair to see. We delighted in the sight of the boy’ slight, graceful figure swing out of the littl iron garden gate, and were thoroughly famil- iar with the wave of the hand to the mother watching at the window, and the glimpse of the short, clustering locks of golden brown Youchsafed by the doffing of his hat as he turned down the Crescent. “The marigolds are making a good show this summer,” said Sister Janet one morning when she bad watched the boy out of sight. “1 should like him to notice them.” We ramed no names; there was no need to do so. The pronoun answered perfectly. There was no other “he” in the world just then, as far as we were concerned, and sister Janet gave herself acrick in the back by diggin weeds out of the marigold beds with an ok kitchen knife and had to have what our small workhouse servant saw fit to call -‘hot lamenta- tions” om at bed time. All to plesse the boy we had neither of us, as yet, ever spoken to in oar lives! So true it is that what is young and fresh and fair has@ strange, sweet attraction for the way-worn traveler, dusty and faded yoy having borne the burden and heat of the “I fancy that boy works ver, late at night,” said Sister Janet to me one day, with an anxious face, one that it might almost have befitted the lad’s own mother to wear. “It can’t be good for him, for any one can see he hasn't done wing yet. is really cruel, Sister Anne” — to slave nowadays to a living— “And old people, too,” t 1, calling to ¥ ‘ind eight music lessons ing all of which the fingerinz of c pase sages on the partof wy pupils head beon exe- erable and the time worse. Lut to return to young Lpesoenbcon Sister Janet esarrene = me v. wely over her spectacles, an aid her eit on the table. She was speak- ing very earnestly and gravely. too. “It was near 1 o'clock this morning before he got home, You know my room ison that side, and I can hear both steps and voices, I was baggy thtened—I really was, for I — at scry—" “A cry?” “Yes; a strange, low,sort of wail, I tell you what it is, Sister Anne—that boy is a journalist, Imean that he works ina journalist's office and has to sit uj write things for rich, idle posto. Hh toread at their breakfast tables, and the poor mother is breaking her heart seeing her darling—he must be that, you know, for who could look upon him and not love ‘him?—slaving himself to death to earn » living. We are living next door to one of the thousand tragedies hidden away in these crowded London streets.” Surely Sister Janet was right. We were cheek by jowl with a tragedy, but not such a one as she thought—not suchaone as she thought. We had only, so far, heard the first notes of the overture. The curtain had not — up yet. The passion and the pathos and the pain were yet to come. But, in happy ignorance of the day that was coming, she and I together—two lonely old women—chatted over our frugal tea; for now the knitting was laid aside and the spectactes were folded in their case. “That boy,” said Sister Janet—how thor- oughly the expression seemed to suit him, there being, as it were, no other boy to speak of in London city, or any other!—“is just the sort of fellow who ought to have a fine estate and five thousand a year to keop it up with.” “I have no manner of doubt he would thor- oughly agree with you there, my dear.” “Very natural that he should, I'm sure.” Then she added, meditatively: ‘How he would delight in dressing that dear mother of his in silks and satius, and driving her about in ever 8o fine carriages.” “Ye—s,” I replied to this, lamely, and with- out enthusiasm, trying hard to prevent my voice rising slightly at the end of the word of assent, and giving it a faintly interrogative air. Sister Janet slowly and deliberately put down the tea cup just raised to her lips. “Do you mean—" she began. To which I hastily, andin some confusion, answered: “Oh, nothing much; only from various little things'I have heard, I should say the—ahem— boot is rather on the other leg, as the saying goes.” “Sister Anne, you have been goiping with servants. Iremember now I saw that grim creature next door talking across the palings to our Amelia. “Well, she did say, and so did Mr. Cheese- man—” “Gossiping with tradesmen, too!” said Janet, raising hands and eyes, I was too generous to remind her of the post- man, you may be sure; and in a few moments ail night an | she was eagerly listening to what I had gleaned from various sources as to the position next joor. “Very natural, very natural,” she said, as my narration ended. “Mothers are like that, so they say.” This last with a sigh thatI echoed. Few women, perhaps, can reflect contentedly on their own childless state—can look back smil- ingly upon a barren and loveless life. “No doubt they are,” I said, replying to Sis- ter Janet's description of mothers in general, “but whether it is—e! “Good for the boys?” putin Sister Janet; “well, may be not. Still, I don’t wonder at r. Cheeseman saying she would feed the boy off gold if she could. Any one, to look at him, would—eh, Sister Anne?” And Sister Anne, looking sadly out of the window, replied: “Quite so. We were sailing in quiet waters in those days, the current of our lives pleasantly fresh- ened by our interest in our new neighbors. It seemed strange, in the days still then to come, to look back upon such calm, unrufiled times, when Mr. Cheeseman's opinion was a topic of interest and Amelia chattering across the pal- ings an event to be commented upon. 1 was the first to touch the edge of the storm —to feel the stirring of those after events that shook our quiet lives to the center and for ever afterward seemed the pivots upon which all other things turned, even making all things else seem petty and small. One evening in the early autumn—at a sea- son when the marigolds had made a brilliant show and then — their amber fires and drooped their golden heads—a time when the afternoons shrunk up perceptibly and the dusk crept on earlier and earlier day by day—I was at a house some distance off giving a music lesson, when a case of sudden illness occurred in the family. Now, I have always held the maxim that possible help withheld is some- thing stolen, and it had so come about that I possessed some knowledge in such cases. I staid. All was fear and confusion, and I could be useful, so Sister Janet having to wait for her tea, and being beset with fears as to my having been run over by a van or crushed by &@ traction engine, were therefore considera- tions that ought not to weigh for a moment. It was late—for me very late—before I set out upon the journey home, and I made various short cuts down somewhat undesirable streets to reach the route of an omnibus that would set me down close to the Crescent. Pardon the egoism of the definite article. ‘To us there was but one Crescent in London. Ata _ where two roads meet Icame upon an unpleasant group of noisy roysterers, gath- ered about one center figure, the whole group in close proximity to a glaring and flaring gin palace—a kind of place I generally carefully avoided, but had drifted on unawares tonight. Huddied in my shawl, and with my head bent. I was hurrying by, leaving the pavement | tothe revelers, when something in a voice, something in the glint of sunny locks upon a bare, bright head, something in the attitude of the one that formed the center of the crew, brought me up short and sharp. I might have been the statue of Lot’s wife for all the life or stir that was left in me. Was I mad—dream- ing? Had I become all at once a doddering old woman, full of strange. impossible fancies? Were my eyes and ears playing me false? He who was the loudest, wildest, maddest of that most unholy gathering could not be—oh! surely could not be the widow’s son, could not be “our boy,” who, having smiled’ upon our show of marigolds, made them fairer in our eyes than any flowers that ever blossomed? No, it could not be. I was sessed, a very poor creature, easily hoodwinked, a ready prey to the silliest of fancies. By this time the doors of that garish hell had opened and closed upon the noisy group. How silent the street seemed as I hurried on, stumbling.now and then in my cagerness to fly from the place and reach Sister Janet and our little parlor once again. Battling with my own thoughts, striving to beat down the fancies and the fears that seemed like living things to jibber at me from this side and from that, I was jolted over stony roads and finally landed within a few rods of the Crescent. I wished I had not to pass by Mrs. Ruthven’s house. If it had not been so late I might have gone round and come down by the opposite end. As it was, there was nothing for it but to put a bold face on matters, and the fact of it being quite dark by now made this easier than it would have been otherwise. Once opposite the widow's house I was quickly conscious that the sitting-room blinds were still undrawn. The interior of the room showed itself to me like a picture. The fire- light glinted upon the tea things, all set round in array upon the small, round table. I could see the brass kettle on the hob, the lamp prettily shaded, all the little preparations for a cozy meal, when some one who was being waited for should come. And she, the poor, lonely woman, was wait- ing, standing close to the windows, her widow's cap with its long weepers showing ghastly white against her black gown, her face hardly less white, her hand resting on the window bar, her whole attitude one so plainly telling of weary, yet patient waiting; of that quiet, self- disciplined endurance that nothing save con- stant pain can teach. I don’t know how I got past; no one could have felt more guilty, no one more miserable. If mine had been the hand to lead that wretched wanderer of the night astray I could hardly have felt worse. Sister Janet was peep- ing from under the blind and had the door open in a trice. “I've been so frightened,” she cried out, shrilly. “I thought you’d been run over; but bless us you needn't fly up the steps and stumble like that; there’s no one after you, is there?” Once in, I sank breathless on # chair. I might have run miles and miles, “I—hurried—so—I was so afraid you would be anxious. There was some one ill, and I had to stay.” Lhad a long story to tell, and I told it at some length. But not a word did I say about what I had seen or fancied I had seen, where the two roads met. Nota word did I utter of times, But events were destined to crowd now one on the heels of another. We had skirted the [padeos a for Thad bad e long day of it, and of, duties had to be When I ‘ide. the blind just before getting int and look at into the mist night pach of light Mrs. Tuthven’s window ‘across the ad gravel ire the — Fivect cla iment efore wh it out ow clearer redone kaye not, for I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. CHAPTER Il. Country people age very apt to suppose that neither spring nor summer is of much account in London. There could not bea greater mis- take. Why, the flower vendors’ carts area spring in themselves and rival any maseod, bedded-out blossoms in tg Pi eercre bd garden, however well tended. 6 gorgeously colored butterflies awakened from their winter sleep they glide about the streets nodding their tamed heads and dazzling blossoms in the balmy breeze. ‘ ‘Oh yes! it is baimy enough, even in the Cree- cent, and as to the row of young linden trees that stand, each in a little sentry box of its own, all round our curve of pathway and road, they put on their spring dress of tender green, with tiny tufte by way of tassel, just as t- ily as your country trees, every bil ‘There are other changes, too, that mark the springtime for Sister Janet and myself. We take out the velvet linings of our Leghorn bon- nets, remove the bows to match upon the crowns and substitute silk or satin instead. Once these changes are made we always feel that the winter is past, and any little renewal of sleet or frost is a sort of accident. The mari- golds keep pace with us and begin to put forth tiny om, hard buttons here and there amor their fluffy leaves to show that orange-colore: flowers are on the way; while the tawny wall- flowers follow suit. i In the year of which I am writing we had what is called an “early spring.” By notes in our respective diaries for the former years we found that fully a fortnight, if not more, dif- ference lay between the changing of our bon- net trimmings in the two consecutive years. I had just remarked upon this fact, and Janet had retorted that certainly the biting east wind of that particular afternoon made our proceedings seem rather ironical. The kettle was singing on the hob; the light was fading. It had chanced to be an “off” afternoon of mine, and we hada busy time of it stitching and unpicking. “The winter is past and gone and the flow- ers come again upon the earth,” said I, with a glance at the two bonnets that now reposed upon a side table, not in the least applying the text in question to them. but still feeling that they made a very tolerable show. i es,” said Sister Janet, giving the kettle a touch, since it seemed rather inclined to tilt upon its nose, ‘the years run by very quickly in quiet lives like ours. I suppose each one is = like the others that it is hard to distinguish them.” “This has seemed somehow different,” I hazarded, a certain shy feeling coming over me as I spoke. “Ah, yes,” said Sister Janet, “they have been here nearly a year now,” and she knitting pin toward Mrs. Ruthven’ Crescent. “Eight months and a fortnight,” I put in laconically. “What an accurate mind you have, Sister Annie,” replied my companion, “I could not have told the exact time.’ A certain guilty reeling came upon me, Sister Janet was not of Se hemes disposition, but if she only knew how all my heart seemed drawn out of me toward that lonely woman next door;if she only knew the passion of sym- pathy that had grown up within mo, stirring my life to its depths as the angel troubled the pool in the olden time; if she only knew the wonderment, the dreamings, the forebodings that filled my waking hours, the way in which, with all my soul in my ears. I used to strain and listen for sounds in the next house—in the room that was only divided from mine by a shallow wall, and yet might as well have been a hundred miles away for all that I could read of the secrets it buried—what then would Sister Janet have said? If ever you feel drawn to some one who is a stranger to you in this irresistible manner, be sure it is heaven's way of telling you that you are wanted to do something for them; that some hour is coming in which your hand is destined to cInsp theirs, your arm to uphold and strenghten, your sympathy to console and sustain them. I know this now, I did not know itthen. I felt the influence about me and around me, but I did not know the why or the wherefore of it. _I was led blindly toward Iknew not what. My whole life in some strange sort seemed changed and renewed. Ite passioniess calm was stirred. A passing glance at the fair-haired boy, a sight of the pale, stately mother at the window—such trifles ag these marked a day as with a white stone; sent me thrilling and trembling on my way; kept me waking and wonderi gan the silent hours of the night. Thus had it been with me through the long winter. But the days that were so short and the nights that were so long had brought me no new knowl- edge. Sometimes the boy would disappear for days together. Then the window was seldom without a watcher, or we would see Mrs. Ruthven set out in the morning and only return as the dusk was falling, like a gray veil over the Crescent; a gray veil pierced heretand there by a shimmer of a star showing bright in the frosty air. “There is a great crush of business on just now,” would Sister Janet say at such times; then perk her head and pucker up her mouth. “They are killing that young fellow, whoever they are,” she would say, indignantly. Something was evidently wearing him out strangely, for when we did see him he would look wan and worn, his eyes deeper and darker than ever, his cheek pale, his temples hollow. “Life in these days rfect Juggernaut!” Sister Janet would say, it full of righteous indignation. I used to say nothing. Queer fancies would come over me—wicked fancies, maybe, and the echo of a footstep that ofttimes paced the floor until the church be- hind the Crescent chiming the small hours of the morning seemed to trample on my heart, crushing it. But all this was in the winter. And was I not writing of balmy spring? Had we not been putting spring linings in our bonnets? And was not Amelia about to bring in the tea? I say “about,” becduse Iam not sure that tea was ever brought in at all. Sister Janet had moved to the window and was about to pull down the striped chintz blind, when she gave a sharp sort of cry that brought me to her side moment. There, out in the ery dusk, was the tall, dark figure of Mrs. uthven, She was standing by—no, clingin, to—the gate at the end of the narrow flagge: pathway that led from the road to the porch. “Go to her! Go to her!” cried Sister Janet, wringing her bands one in the other. But I seemed rooted to the spot. It was as if something I had long oe had at last come to Then, while I hesitated, be- numbed, as it were, by the intensity of my own feelings, we saw her move slowly and painfull up the pathway, reach the bottom step, an: then sink down, @ dark heap, against the white stones. It seemed but a moment before I was by her side, had rung a frantic peal at the house bell, had raised the fallen head upon my lap, and was sobbing over the death-pale face that was nigh as white as the widow's cap that {clipt itround. A strange way, truly, to be going on about a sempiote stranger to me, and yet a way over which I had no control, That wondrous feeling we are all conscious of at times—the conviction that the thing that moves us has all happened before—was power- fully impressed upon me. I felt no astonish- ment when a gaunt woman, with a face like a hatchet, bent over the two of us, lifted Mra, Ruthven as easily as though she had been a child, and muttering to herself, “It’s the old story, the old story, all the time,” half led, half carried the poor lady into the house and, in the twinkling of an eye, had her laid ona shabby lounge that stood behind the parlor door, tad her bonnet off, the neck and m2, of her dress unfastened, jerked herself out of the room and jerked herself in again with some water and a sponge and began to moisten cara rg brow and pallid cheeks of her mi A prompt and unsentimental cer- tainly, and one more given to deeds than words, So eee the wails of the house upon wi cast so many longing glances, ith one look around I took every ‘detail in— books, books, books in rows one above another; the shelves of plainest deal, their frei dently a precious one. the placed that the li ht evi- astand of brushes, a large magnifying glass and a high pile of cabinet photographs. taal bow isI sos ber sitting in the window so often. She is trying to eke out their small income in any way she can.” A mist came over {Beam Taled tobe here.” but my lipe ecirerel ta ths tenes rose in spite of me. “Do not be so sorry for me,” she answered, ‘There is nothing with a pitital little smile.“ very much the matter after all. Long always take it out of me and I went quite too far today, didn’t I, Hannah? Hannah growied out something within her- seit, of which I could only catch the last words: “Miles and miles too far.” A faint blush rose to Mrs. Ruthven's cheek. “Iam much better now,” she said, rising from the couch and standing, tall and pale, be- fore me. ‘:A-h! My locket!” . It had fallen at her feet, and flown open with the force of the fall. Little women have some advantages in life; one is that they can stoop jaickly and easily. Iraised the locket in an paren and there it lay open in the palm of my hand, showing me the face of an angel—a child of some five years, with the most pathetic eyes, the curls, the sweetest smiling mouth, “It is—your son?” I said timidly, as she took it from me. “Yes,” she said, “my boy Malcombe—many years ago. He is now quite a young man, as ou have seen, I doubt not. Most le notice olmbe"”—this with a fitful sm: ‘but he is not much at home just now; his time is not his own. Young men have to work very hardin these days, if they mean to mak @ their own jhe turned away from me, and was slightly moving the photographs on the table by the window; while, to my extreme consternation, the hatchet-faced one was maki wonderful grimaces and gestures at me from the open door. nfortunately for her, there was a small mir- rorinan angle of the window, and with one glance at its surface, Mrs, Ruthven took in the state of affairs. “It was so kind of you to come—busI must not keep you now. am nearly well again—” The “climbing sorrow” of poor old Lear seemed ready to choke me. Had I aw eed the coveted citadel to be expelled? Was this to be my first and last visit to Mrs. Ruthven? Were weeks and months of watching and wait- ing to count for nothing? felt myself dismissed—and yet it was so hard to fo. Tfelt that the eye of hatchet-face was upon me and an encouraging eagerness in its glitter. “I may come again, may I not?” I began bravely enough; then, as Mra. Ruthven looked me gravely and silently in the face, I stam- mered, lamely enough, ‘just to ask for you, just to let my sister, who is so anxious about you, know how you are—” A sudden sweet smile stirred the pale. beau- tiful lips. Mrs. Ruthven laid her hand a mo- ment on my shoulder: *‘Yes,” she said, ‘“‘come and see me again, come some morni sure we like the same books—we can talk them over—” A pretty gesture of the slim, white hand dismissed me, and I turned to go—but I was beckoned back. “You have beenso good to me,” she said, ‘so good and kind. Thank you—my dear.” I seemed to be in a kind of maze all the rest of that day. I found myself turning an almost deaf ear to Sister Janet's comments upon the fact that, in her alarm, she had come out into the garden without putting on her cross-over; and her fears as to the ultimate results. Each time this subject was touched upon Amelia ejaculated: ‘‘Lor, M’em!” liftin, ands and eyes; but all enthusiasm seemed dead in me, all earnestness absorbed in the house next door. Every echoand sound I could catch set my nerves a-quiver. I seemed part and parcel of a pale-faced, weary-eyed woman's life and sorrows. What was the secret of the mother’s sorrow? Why, oh, why! was the dark-eve golden-haired boy so seldom seen? Why wi the tea so temptingly set out, the room ma to look its poor best—and all in vain? Why di hear such heavy, lagging footsteps making faltering way up the steep stairs at hours when all the world was sleeping? Was it fancy, or did I hear, and that more than once, a low, wailing cry, # lamentation, bitter and pro- longed? The Crescent was a commonplace neighbor- hood enough; hod within the walls of one of its unpretending houses a tragedy was being en- acted, a pitiful drama, dragging ite weary length—a human heart, passionate, loving, faithful, was slowly breaking. It will be seen by all this that I shrank from again visiting Mrs. Ruthven unasked. It would be difficult to say why, unless it was that the remembrance of some fancied reserve of man- ner on her part held me back. Almost daily I saw her sitting in the window, bending over her painting. Many times and oft I saw her watching for “golden locks,” as Sister Janet used to call the boy. Many nights I noticed the patch of light upon the narrow, sloping lawn; often I had put my own gas out, and the patch of light, that told me she kept vigil, was shining still, But the longing to see her nearer, and to hold speech with her, was burning within me; andI have it faith in longing bringing forth opportunity, One morning, a4 I passed, she beckoned to me. For amomentI thought I might be mis- taken, but the gesture was repeated, and a moment later she had opened the door herself and stood waiting me. I hardly know how the time passed. Mrs. Ruthven was one of those people one meets with som whose com- antonahi has a charm sete time at de- lance. e talked of books, of works of art— of anything, in fact, except her boy. We neared the subject once or twice, but she glanced off from it. Yet I am very sure that he was present in both our thoughts. y times { saw her Rage the locket that hung upon her breast, and I knew—I knew— I could not help expressing my astonishment at the amount and reer of her reading. IL am never unoc- like books that and attention; that must be thought about if they are to be under- stood, Then there is my painting. Oh! I could not bear to be idle—I should go mi constant occupation, that is the only thing —” Then she stopped suddenly. Shortly after this I left her, but only to re- turn the next day, and the next, and the next after that. In spite of the sorrow that I always felt underlay everything I can look back upon it now and say it was a happy time. The com- panionship ofararely beautiful and highly cultured mind must always be that. Then there came a terrible episode. Going over to see Mrs. Ruthven one day about noon I found the house door unlatched and—an indiscretion, perhaps, on my part— pushed it gently o m and went in. I knew that my friend grown tobe gladof my comings. I loved to see the quick, sweet smile of welcome that was ever her greeting to me. Iwent along the lobby and reached the threshold of the parlor door, which stood half open. There my feet seemed to become rooted to the floor. I longed to retreat the way that I had come, yet felt powerless to move. Mrs, Ruthven wae seated in a low chair by the fireplace. On his knees beside her, thrown in all the abandonment of sorrow on her breast, her arms encircling him, her tears streaming down upon his upturned face, was the boy Mal- combe. Bright have I called him—beautiful to look upon? Ah, whither had brightness an beauty fled now? His eyes were sunken an dull, his cheeks ard and colorless; even the curly locks y against bis mother's shoulder seemed to have lost their glous. . His ise were round her neck; he sobbed as e spoke. “You are the only one who never fails me— the only one—the only one!” “My darling—my darling,” she answered, and ob, the anguish in her voice! “I could never change to you; you are always the same to me, so dear—so dear! A mother’s love is like en's love, it knows no variableness, neither shadow of turning; only come back to me, only think of the father who was so proud of. Bianl hat business hadI listening to the out- Ppourings of a love like this? With @ vague ides of the hatchet-faced one making extradordinary gestures at the top of the kitchen stairs, I passed rapidly out into the sunshine, blinded to its shtness by the that tears my eyes, re i flooded y 2 spent a restless, miserable & eamful night. The memory of that night, now long ago, when I saw the fair face of Mal- combe Ruthven all flushed and reckless, the lovely eyes wild and bloodshot, kept coming up before me like a vision. Yes, I that it was the widow's son, the dearly loved boy of whom the father had been once “so proud,” who was thecenter of that crew gath- Se he eican elttaaing palace of sin where the four roads met. longed to see Mrs, Ruthven again,yet shrank from the ordeal. : A : up courane to MS cag found her calm, smiling, most complete ignorance, poy te , of my having — an unwilling witness of her anguish on the autumn evening was as one summer and left carelessly behind. e md was soft as velvet, Sister Janet had tea with- out her cross-over, and we only burned the very smallest fire imaginable—a very baby of a fire. We could catch the ring of voices from next omenpll pond and merriment were evidently prstiy, chaple muleay in which ine barra sete in which the boy's tenor Ser de mmars anh sedkelio mingled lov- ingly. What a yy time it was! How sweet, and, ah me! how shortlived, After this the old life set in as before. Long, lonely evenings; Mrs. Ruthven never asked me to be with her in the eveuings; those secrated to Malcombe, or te watching or towalks that lasted for hours, and from which my neighbor came in weary and worn, and over which Hannah shook her head. “They are keeping that young fellow hard at it ; they will him,” Sister Janet would Deep down in we greet dark and dire If it is true, as they say, that a chill shudder tells you some one walks across = grave. then must my destined tomb have in across the turnpike road. My outward daily life went on in the same commonplace way as before. “One, two, three and four” had to be counted over and over again, as clumsy fingers tumbled one over an- other, and being wesc another up on the ke: and yet how changed was I in ail that lay neath the surface! I was conscious, more and more vividly con- scious, of being in a state of waiting and of ex- pectation; conscious of all life's pulses beat- ing, haltingly and heavily, because of some- thfag that was coming, though I knew not what It was later than usual, it was darker than usual, and I was returning homeward hur- riedly, fearing that Sister Janet might be get- ting anxious. All at once, at the turn of a street, I stood still, uttered a low cry, which it was fortunate no one heard, and hastened forward to meet— Mrs. Ruthven. “You here?” I said, as we came face to face, and held out my hand. She passed me by, not rudely, but as though she were unconscious of my presence. “It has come,” I thought to myself. I cannot tell you why { thought this, Indeed I did not think it. I knew. The tall figure, with the simple black dress and long black veil, passed on. I noticed more than one step aside to let her pass; more than one turn and gaze after h What wonder? The death-white face, the great, dark eyes, misty and unseeing, fixed as those of a sleep-walker—all this I had seen as she passed me. I followed, overtook her, pressed to her side, took her hand and held it with gentle force. We were just beneath a lamp, and the light shone fuli upon my face. For a moment hers changed. A faint smile touched her lips, her eyes looked as if they saw. “Ah!” she said, “itis you. You are always good and kind.’ You are coming with me? But we are losing time; we must not do that.” She paced pape on, I with her,my arm close in hers. I soon realized that it was only when I spoke to her that she seemed conscious of my nearness, Something in the set, white agony of her face held me silent, How long, how long did we pace those un- familiar streets! How far did we wander I knew not wither! Yet in my companion seemed no indecision, no hesitation, no wavering. As if led by some unseen hand. she went on, on with relentless purpose, apparently blind to the wondering looke bestowed. upon us by those around us. “Where are we going to, dear?” I ventured to say at last. She ignored my question, answering to her own thoughts, not to my words. «Iam so glad to have you with me; you are always good tome. I have felt your sympathy near me and around me—even in the dead of night. I knew something was helping me, and making me strong, long before I knew what it was, God is very good.” She could say this—and her life what it was— one long heart-break, one long. weary watching. On We paced, the streets we traversed grow- ing narrower and more squalid. Here and there we passed groups of men and women, drunken and dissolute, the men blear-eyed and sodden- looking, the women painted and haggard. Yet somehow they hushed their laughter, and the ribald jest was silenced as we passed. In the midst of this labyrinth of streets, full of gaslight and noise, we crossed the mouth of | the a little cul-de-sac, and here, gathered about a street singer, was a better kind of crowd. ‘The woman had a child in her arms, and her voice was thin and wiry, yet not without pathos, What she sang was this: “Some are gone from us forever, ‘Lon r here they might not stay; They have reached a fuirer region. ray—ter ay we I saw a change pass over Mrs. Ruthven's face. Her lips quivered and she passed her hand across her brow. Thatsad refrain seemed to pursue. “Far away—far away!” Long after we could hear the words of the rest that cry rose above the stir of many feet and the distant murmur of the great city, “Far away—far away.” Suddenly Mra, Ruthven gripped my arm close and turned toward me. “I have made an idol of my boy—an idol; do ou hear? Butdo not be hard upon me. I ave never—had—anything else.” When I come to look back upon this strange episode in my life I recoguize that this was the one only hint I ever had of what had been the life of the woman whom I loved with a pas- sionate tenderness and knew for so short a time. Av I listened to her words, as I met the sad, pathetic, far-off gaze of her dear eyes, my own grew dim, while the lamps of all became blurred and dazzled, like so many watery moons, Yet no fear that I should stumble. My companion led me on too firmly for that. It was along, long while since I had walked so far or so fast; yet my limbs knew no weariness, I was as one under a spell, lifted out of com- mon life by an experience beyond all prece- dent. When and where would this journey of ours end? What was our ultimate destination? Under what leading was this strange compan- ion of mine acting in so strange a manner? That she was pnder some exceptional and im- perative influence I could not doubt. But here my inventive faculty failed me. I could but grope blindly. “Have you ever been this way before?” I ventured timidly. She turned upon me with a gentle sort of ity. 4 “Only in a dream,” she said, and I felt a shudder shake her whole frame, “only in a dream.” By this time we had got into a neighborhood in which I instinctively felt no lady had any business to be at all. th moment I feared some open insult would be offered to us. Once, as three half-tipsy fellows reeled around a corner, singing and shouting, my heart gave » heavy thud of fear, but, strange to say, they swung aside to let us pass, one standing, or rather swaying in the roadway, to stare after my companion with « sort of maudlin awe and wonder. On, still on, the same white-stricken face by my ; the same misty, unseeing-looking eyes gazing straight ahead; the same untiring footsteps hurrying to I knew not what goal— what ghastly tryet—what terribie bourne. Suddenly her hand grasped mine with a pain- ful pressure—she drew her breath heavily and, thus linked together, we turned down a side street, a street dotted here and there with groups of shabby, flaunting women and shabby, dissipated men; a street which at any other time I should have shrunk with every nerve in my body from entering, but which now seemed as but a natural part and phase of a dream. Halt way down this street Mrs. Ruthven stood a moment irresolute; then rapidly brok away from me, crossing to where, round about a doorway, crowd talked and gesticulated, and at which a policeman stood on guard. Again I was conscious of the strange influence Posseased by my companion. This way and that the eager and excited poorle fell back to let her pasa. I followed on her heels, “You can’t pass in, ma’arm,” said the police- man as she reached his side; ‘‘there’s been an accident in this here house—a bad ‘un, too—a young fellow’s been and shot himself dead—” ibable geetaro of digaity sad. aupuish, eho ori an wi confused murmur of 2k and Loney rose from the crowd behind. It appeared to me that the man let her in spite of himself. I followed closely. he turned to face the excited who At | shoved and crushed and tried to look over his shoulders and under his arms after the manner of a London crowd, were con- | Mi for him, I went down upon my knees to you once; he would have come back to me then, if you would have let him alone—but you would not, you would not—” Her voice tell toa hoarse whisper. her head sank _ her breast. The remembrance of the or still to be faced came upon her. “Where is he?” she said. ‘Will some one take me to him?” They led her in—these bad who were 80 es ore tender and than better people might have been—aud there, in a poor and narrow chamber. with the blind pinned askew across the window, lay all that was icft to her of her son. A white cloth, blood-bedabbled at the lower edge, Ixy upon the face. The long, siender Outline of the figure was well defined beneath “iron tl by th bd and i irs. Ruthven knelt by the bed, epite of more than one detaining hand, puiled the face cloth from the ghastly thing itcovered. I say ghastiy because the lower part of the jaw hot away, the little silky, golden mustache yee ly my dear,” I said, trembling, and scarce knowing what I did. “‘Come aioe) ob, come away, my dear!” She looked up at me and then I saw that the noble mind wandered; the brain was reeling from a shock too heavy to be borne, “Come away!” she said and smiled. “Come away and leave the boy when I have just found him! He is tired. He wants rest—sleep—quiet. 1 will hold him, as I always do, as I have done 80 often.” Some pitiful hand had drawn the kerchief over the shattered mouth. Only the calm, beautiful brow, the golden locks, the balf- closed eyes beneath their long lashes were vis- ible. She gathered the stiil form in her arms, drew the golden head to her breast and bowed her face upon that of the dead. “It is mother,” she crooned, “it is mother's arms that are around you. Try to sleep—my boy—my boy.” The women in the room broke out sobbing; the men turned aside. Oh, pitiful and awfal sight; the poor, dazed mother holding the dead boy in her arma, the boy dead by his own hand! While I stood there bewildered, my hand upon that dark, kneeling figure, from whose prone head the black veil fell to the — there was a stir, and new strange vo! on the passage, in the room. police inspectors,” said some one an in uniform, with two others following, stepped up to the bedside, “Clear the room,” said the first comer, in an authoritative manner. “Stay, what is this?” He touched the long veit. "I stretched my arms over her. “She is his mother,” I said, and could say no more for tears. “It don’t matter who she is; she must go.” A great horror was upon me. Something in the drooping attitude of the kneeling figure by the bed sent a chill shudder through my veins. My arms feil heavily to my sides, “None of this,” said the man harshly, un- heeding of the murmurs that began to be heard among those around. “I tell you, whoever she is she must go.” I lifted the head that lay beside that of the dead boy. The face was ashen, the lips livid, the eyes——Ah, heaven! they would never look on me again, “She has gone!” I said, speaking in what voice I knew not, surely not my own. “She has gone; but a higher call than yours.” There, [have told you my story. and now you know whyI could not bear to hear the woman singing ont in the shadowy night: Some are gone from us forever, Longer here they could not stay; They have reached region Far away— T have often asked myself under what leading Mrs. Ruthven took that strange journey to her deadson. Dut Ihave found no answer.—Al i ——_—_+oe_____ ACode of Morals. Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house Year order, y tothe Hurrum Hills, above the bord Afgl ler, To sit on a rock with’s heliograph, but ere he left he taught His wife the working of the Code that sets the at naught. And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fai So Cupid and Apollo linked, per heliograph, the pair. At dawn across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise— At e’en, the dying sunset bore her husband's homilies. He warned her ‘gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold, As much as’gainst the blandishments paternal of the od; But kept his gravest warnings for (thereby the ditty hangs) That —— Lothario, Lieutenant-General ngs. "Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, that tittupped on the way, When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play. They thought of border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt— So stopped to take the message down—and this is what they learnt: “Dash, dot, dot. dot, dot, dash, dot, dash, dot,” twice. The general swore. “Was ever general officer addressed as ‘dear’ be- ve,’ i faith! ‘My Duck,’ Gadzooks! “My darling popsy-won!’ ” “Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountain top?” ‘The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still, As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that mescage from the hill; For clear as summer's lightning flare, the hus band’s warning ran; “Don't dance or ride with General Bangs—a most immoral man.” (At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise. But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.) With nepal dot and dash he heliographed his wire Some interesting details of the general's pri- vate life. ‘The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the shining Staff were still, And red and ever redder grew the general's shaven gill. And this is whathe said at last (his feelings mat- ter not): “I think we've tapped a private line. Hil Threes about there! Trot” All honor unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones there- after know By word or act official, who read off that helio; But = is on the frontier, and from Michni to tan They know the worthy general as “the most immoral man.” rs —Roupyagp Kip.ine. —————+o+_______ A PECULIARITY OF CELLULOID. When Burned Every Vestige of it Dis- appears From the Earth. ‘From the New York Times. Insurance men say that when they are called upon to adjust a loss caused by the burning of celluloid they are absvlutely compelled to take burns up everything that is in it passes away into the air and disappears, The substance is made under patents owned by an American company and it is composed principally of camphor, ‘tleman connected with the whic! sold in this market and the According to report Lord Ogilvie ie When piece of celluloid | com ‘Manufactures all. the celluloid articles | aud furnishes the bulk of ‘2 Vietor Hotel, where be makes his q during recent visits to the & brief vacation at Las Vegas, N.M., the benefit of the mad baths and Of the debilitating effects of the speaking of this remarkable all who know Lord Ogilvie will agree he has capacities of a man said yesterday: “I Ogilvie to go to bed while paying his periodical, Visits to this city. Thirty oe chair each twenty-four — ” system seems to jure Fenty at reread wef be je is only twenty-eight years of dropped into Denver about ten visit to the mountains with his father. elder Ogilvie took sick at the Windsor Bi and died after a brief illness. were sent to Scotland for burial ap family vault. Ogilvie is remarkably well upon all subjects, and when at home on ranch, near Greeley, he spends the main of his time poring over books. He is one of his peculiaritios being his of dress and the odd-looking plaid by which he is recognized all over the “That vest,’ said he to me one day, “is and no other man it a just like mine. I ty Eg H fly ei i mensions and when stretched at full iength em tends nearly to the knees of the wearer. only ornament is a huge steel watch chaim, which is also made upon a pattern peculiar te itself. Ogilvie dresses plainly, but always wears a flannel shirt with high collar, starched perfectly stiff and fortified by a cravat of pon- gee silk. “I have visited him at his ranch,” continueg the narrator, “and it would be difficult to im- agine a more royal welcome than is by Ogilvie to his friends. He lives in the ene joyment of all the good things that might be sired. and takes especial pride in his herds blooded horses and cattle, I was su a the extent of hie wardrobe. He showed me et least fifteen trunks fall of clothing, all made by Poole, the London tailor, aud not one suit in the jot has Ogilvie ever worn. I'll venture to say that he has 150 complete suits of on hand. Take him all in all, he is the “T= conglomeration of oddities to be found im state of Colorado.” his A Girl Who Did Not Learn Music. From the Seattle Press. E. Steinle tells the following story of how piano lessons are sometimes given: “Once upon a time I was engaged as teacher for the daughter ofavery rich man in San Francisco, Mr. W——. I learned that the girl had already had several other teachors and I hesitated to accept her asa pupil, but the en- treaties of the mother, a fair, amiable and the good looks of the daughter, a real some girl of sixteen, induced me to consent. “When Lily (that was her name) and I seated ourselves at the piano for the lesson si said: ‘O, I would give a thousand dollars if did not have to take any more piano lessons!" ‘Why don’t you stop it, then? I will talk with your parents and try torelieve you from the task.’ “Oh, no, no! Don't you do it. It wouldn't help anythis I have tried time and 10 get rid of it, but it is of no avail. Iam to continue the hateful work.” “Well, L talked with Lily. I found her ag clever and as witty as she was handsome, an@ of the best natural position. She hked music, but she dida’t want to become a per- former; she hated practicing. We talked dur- ing the whole time of the lesson. When my time was over I told Lily that next time she would have to practice, She laughed end saids ‘You will greatly enjoy it, lam sure.’ “The next time I put on a professional mi and began to examine Lily in order to see wha! she knew of music. She had quite s number of pieces, I requested her to play something for me. ~ ‘I don't play anything, sir. Really I can't” Vell, Lily, only begin something, so that I may form an idea of where to commence with ou,” me ‘Lassure you, professor, I am not able to play one single bar of that whole stuff there.” **“Do you read the notes?" “ ‘Weil, sir, I know that E is on the fisrt line in treble, but that's about all.” “ “How long have you taken lessonss?” “« ‘About four years or more.” “Lily, areu’t you ashamed of yourself? I asked. sir; I am not This is warfare be- tween me and my mother. She compels me to take lessons, That's her advantage, but she cannot compel me to learn anything. succeeded at lest in fingers on the pian whole thing and in this way a month went by. I then had a talk with her mother. I told I could not do anything with Lily and intended to give her up. “The good Indy almost began me, professor,’ she said, ‘don't do have patience and go on with termined that she shall ha Li “Well, Lily, don’t you want to continue your lessons with the professor? Don't you like your teacher?’ “Oh, yes; [like him very much, and I want to go on with him.’ “*‘Now, you hear that, sir!’ cried the mother, triumphantly. “That's a success.’ “I was, of course, proud of that snccess, and I was weak enough to yield. “Another month went by in the same way, At the end of it I did not say anything to the mother or to Lily, but went to her father's office and uted him my bill—sixteen lessons in eight weeks at $3 a lesson, $48. He paid it promptly. Itold him that I should = giving his daughter lessons. He was @ rather rough old fellow, an old forty-niner. (We were then in the year 1864.) ‘No,’ he said, ‘you wouldn't do that, sin You go right on.’ = “I began explaining. I told him all about it, and of my experience with Lil told him I that she never would learu anything in m there are any piano teachers there. I don’t care, either. + now let stop ton now about the matter. You go her.” “I laughed. ‘Well, Mr. W——, how is that? I don’t understand you.” * a sir, then I will make myself under- stood. Now, suppose you stop git my daughter lessons. Do you think I ow Ra 4 any rest when I come home in the evening? My wife would tease me to death until J en- gaged another teacher. Don't you see? Now et : { fi “f i i i i Be. i il eure eEGEETE | Soon there will be no profession or trade nd Women have i i |