Evening Star Newspaper, August 13, 1898, Page 16

{ee By BPR. EVRNING STAR, SATURDAY, ‘AUGUST 13, 1898-24 PAGES. NO NOMOWONEIWOOWOWOWOS Ase Ase nce) eh seisekse) 2h se) THE DESBOROUGH CONNECTIONS, , atin catie PUN OG NON OWS, Keekse) seh 227 ey PART IL eS) bees Ns (s-) ‘WRITTEN. FOR THE EVENING STAR BY BRET HARTE, / (Copyright, 1898, by Bret Hazte.) xe NDT MONE NINN MOONE AD WO WO WO WOW sehse) Geksekserse) Gelackse) sekselse (sex sek 5e X52) 4 Se As she entered the iron gates at the | guish nothing in th> pouring rain above the Wind-swept meadow. He must have gone home. Relieved for a moment, she turned and hurried on toward the priory. lower end of the park, and glanced at the n cipher and crest of the Ame- above, she was conscious that the b ng more chill, and that a few clouds had gathered. As she walked on down the long, winding avenue, the sky became overcast—and in one of those strange contrasts of the English climate, the glory of the whole day went out with The woods suddenly became gray, the distant hills som- English turf beneath her feet w brown; a mile anda half away, the opening of the trees, the west part of the priory looked @ crumbling, ivy: eaten ruin. A few drops of rain fel ried on. Suddenly she remembered that 7 de a long circuit before the house, and that its lower she as walking, was but a of the park. Consequently there a short eut across some fields and to the back of th at once diverged to found a low fence, which over, and again found a led to a . Crossing ee the ath now led nd au- ber, the ver: gre where © it was, indeed, ailing on was was af the rain vas p cap he i He uncor instinct car him, and v which ordina: from grasped his th Ss cap his head, the raindrops ikerchief, ok Wet parasol, and, against a tree, and n I've heard of people { know enough to come in when but I never met one before.” started, lifted his hairy, d to the elbow, and wiped dry ‘side of it. albeit half ag- Wheer beest Mr. Det was me resemblance e © looke to his at him asol to the gray possible that didn’t even under- * Suddenly his bro e facel her. ‘An’ was- s' im this foinery that goawn? Thissen, a n’apron, fit for thy wark as at serviss; an’ par- ‘a gettin’ tha’ place at hail! So thou’it be high and moity, will tha! Thou'lt not ; walk wi’ maids, but trapse by this sen like a@ slut fr Althou old ma toon—dang tha! it was plain to Sadie that ae na in his wandering perception mistaken her for his granddaughter in s< fce at the priory, there was still enough rudeness in his speech for her to have re- sented it. But, stra: ze to say, there was nd of authority 1 it that touched her with an uneasiness a:d repulsion that was ronger than any other feeling. “I think have mistak yme one else,” said hurried}; ig why she irritated at the @ stranger her I called with Miss Amelyn and saw your other grand had admitted i nission ; “I am ory. A sad, senile bewilderment crept into t he plucked his limp cap from his head and let it hang submissively 8 face changed. in bis fin if it were his sole apol- ogy. The tried to straighten himself and said, “Naw offi aw offins! If tha knaws mea tha'll w I'm grand- feyther to two galis as moight be tha owern age: tha'll + that old Debbs at haat ‘ked and r lost a day as 28 niver coome oopen ‘em for n ¥ enow to loy wi’ Lankshee m’s che an’ not that, scarce- feeling any = details, she ead comprehension reminiscent he were going me unpleasant ace was be- rd attrac- ed amiliar to he: was holding he Stentatiously at pared to open her parasol and ige cautiously a: ye : =e beant from these Dearts?” he deny. she said quic’ . I'm an Ameriean. man started said s and emphat- moved toward is keen eyes breaking through at at times obscured them. “Me: Merrikan? Then tha knaws ee 2 War nowt but a bairn Dick took un to Merrik that wor years sen!—niver ver coomed thee said ‘e Trew up his vith his skinny fingers drew back zeling lc his sunken r The quic . shoe rror, he $ sped her wrists. aws John—tha ¢ randfeyther. Wh, to fool mea, dic 1 tha voice, -athers h, pmes from un T-u! Ea lass? 3 tha foine pea- So tha be John’s gell coom Dear! a dear! Coom neau: a see what loike. Eh—bat ss tha granc A wild terror and u had ec overp But sh? rate effort to free her wrists, 3 madly: - Let me go! How dare you! ¥ don’t mow you or yours! I'm nothing to oO your kin! My name i. gee Desborough—do you rstand—do you, hear me, Mr. Debs?— borough!" ‘So thou'lt l_ thissen—Des-borough !— Wilt tha? Let me tell tha, then, "that “Debs,” ‘Debban,’ ‘Debbrook’ and ‘Desbor- ovgh are all the seame! Ay! Thy feyther and thy feyther’s fsyther! Thou’lt be a Des-borough, will tha? Dang tha! And look doon on tha kin, and dress thissen in silks o’ shame! Tell ‘ee thou’rt an ass, gell! Don’t tha” hear? An ass! For all tha’ bean gohn’s bairn! An ass! That's what tha’ east?” With flashing eyes and burning cheeks ghe made on> more supreme effort, lifting her arms, freeing her wrists and throwing the old man staggering from her. Then she leaped the stile, turned and fled through the rain. But befors she reached the end of the field she stopped. She had freed her- self—she was stronger than he—what had she to fear? He was crazy! Yes, he must be crazy. and he had insulted her, but fie Bas an old man—and God knows what! Her Eeart was beating rapidly—her breath was hurried—but she ran back to the stile. He waa not there. The field sloped away on etther side of it. But she could distin- park and | the | on bis rake. He was v and weatherbeaten though helter of t arently | pelter of j “|be continued, ell keap out o” warkus ttil | But at every step she was followed, not by th> oll] man's presence, but by what he had said to her, which she could not shake off as she had shiken off his detaining fin- gers. Was it the ravings of insanity, or had she stumbied unwittingly upon some awful secret—was it, after all, a eret? Perhaps it was semething they all 2W, or would know later. And she had come down here for this, Fer, back of her indignation, k even of her disbelief in his insanity, | there was an awful sense of truth. The names he had flung out, of “Debs,” “Deb- bans” and ‘Debbrook,”” now flashed upon her as something she had seen before, but had not understood. Until she satisfied her- | self of this she felt she could not live or breath?! She Icathed the priory, with its austere exclusiveness, as it rose before her; she wished she had never entered it—but ft | contained that which she must know, and Imow at once. She entered the nearest door and ran up the grand staircase. Her flushed face ang disordered appearance; wer2 easily accounted fer by her exposure SHE MADE ONE uponsit, handed it to the girl and ony pushpd her from the room. ee ee ts ce ee The consul was lingering on the terrace beside one of the carriages; at a lttle distance a groom was holding the nervous thorovghbred of Lord Algernon’s dogeart. Suddenly he felt a touch on his shoulder, and Miss Desborough’s maid put a note In his hand. It contained only a line. “Please come and see me in the library, but without making any fuss about it—at once-—-S. D."" The consul glanced around him; no one had apparently noticed the incident. He slipped back into the house and made his way to the library. It was a long gallery; at the further end Miss Desborough stood Cloaked, veiled and coquettishly hatted. She was looking very beautiful and ani- mated. “I want ‘you to please do me a great favor,” she said with an adorable smile, “as your own, countrywoman, you know, for the sake of Fourth of July and pumpkin pie and the old flag! I don’t want to go to this.circus today. I am going to leave here tonight! I am! Honest Injin! I want you to manage it. I want you to Say that as consul you've received import- ant news for me—the death of some rela- tive, if you like—or better, something af- fecting my property, you know”—with a Hitle satirical laugh—“I guess that would fetch "em! So go at one: “But reaily, Miss Desborough, do let us talk this over before “you decide!” im- plored the bewildered consul. Think what a Gisappointment to your host and these Jadies. Lord Algernon expects to drive you there—he is already wafting! The party was gotten up for you.” Miss Des- borough made a slight grimace. “I mean you ought to sacrifice something—but I trust there is really nothing serious—to them!” “If you do not speak to them I will!” said Miss Desborough firmly. “If you say what I tell you it will come the more plausibly from you. Come! My mind is made up. One of us must break the news! Shall it be you or I?” She drew her cloak over her shoulders and made a step for- wards. The consul saw she was determined. “Then wait here till I return, but keep yourself out of sight," he said, and hur- MORE SUPREME EFFORT. to the sudden sterm. She went to her bed room, sent her maid to another room to prepare a change of dress and, sinking down before her traveling desk, grop2d for jocument. asthe expen- with. She to th2 page she nd there, among! cular lines’ she had ran over i remembered. shes and perpend jested over last night, on which sh2 had thought was a collateral branch of the Ine, stood her father’s name and that of Richard, his. uncle, with the bracketed notes in red ink, “See Debbrook, Daybrook, Debbers and Debs.” Yes, this gaunt, half- crazy, overworked peasant, content to rake the dead leaves before the rolling chariots of the Beverda'es, was her grandfather; that poorly clad girl in th2 cottage and even the menial in the scullery of this very house that might be hers—were her cous- i She barst into a laugh, and then re- folded the dotument and put it away. At luncheon she was radiant and spar- kling. Her drenched clothes were an ex- cuse for a new and ravishing toilet. She had never looked so beautiful before, and significant glances were exchanged between some of th guests, who believed that the ct2d proposal had already come. But who were of the carriage party knew otherwise, and of Lord Algernon’s disappointment. Lord Beverdale content- ed himself with rallying his fair guest on the becomingness of “good works.” But “You're offering a dread- to these ladies, 3fiss Des- \borough, and I know I shall er here- |atter be able to content them with any | frivolous morning amusement at the pri- jory. For myself. when I am grown gouty | and hideous, I know I shall bloom again | as_a district visitor.” Yet under this surface sparkle and nerv- |ous exaltation Sadie never lost conscious- | ness of the gravity of the situation. If her sense of humor enabled her to sea jone side of its grim irony—if she ex- | perienced & wicked satisfaction in accept- ling the admiration and easy confidence of {the high-born guests, knowing that her cousin had assisted in preparing the din- ner they were eating, she had never lost sight of the practical effect of the dis- covery she had made. And she had come to a final resolution. She should leave the priory at once and abandon all idea of a matrimoniai alliance with its heir! In- | consistent as this might scem to her self- ish, worldly nature, it was nevertheless in keeping with a certain pride and inde- pendence that was in her blood. She did not love Lord Algernon, nelther did she love her grandfather; she was equally willing to sacrifice either or both; she knew that neither Lord Algernon nor his father would make her connections an objection, however they might wish to keep the fact a secret—or otherwise dispose of them by pensions or emigration, but she could not bear to know it herself! She never could be happy as the mistress of Scrooby Pri- | ory with that knowiedge; she did not idealize it as a principle! Carefully weigh- ing it by her own practical common sense, she said to herself that “it wouldn't pa: The highest independence is often akin to the lowest selfishness; she did not dream that the same pride which kept her grand- father from the workhouse and support by his daughters had kept him from com- municating with his own son, now kept her from acknowledging them, even for the gift of a title and domain. There was only one question before her: should she stay long enough to receive the pro- pesal of Lord Algernon and then de- cline it? Why should she not snatch that single feminine joy out of the ashes of her burnt-up illusion? She knew that an opportunity would be offered that after- noon. The party were to take tea at Broxby Hall, and Lord Algernon was to drive her there In his dogcart. borough had gone up to her bed room to put ons warmer cloak, and had rung twice or tirice impatiently for her maid. When the {irl made her appearance, apol- ogetic, voluole and excited, Miss Desbor- ough scarcely listened to her excuses, until a single word suddenly arrested her at- tention. It was “oid Debs.” * “What are you talking about?’ said Sadie, pausing in the adjustment of her hat on her brown hat “Old Debs, miss; that’s what they call him; an old park keeper, just found dead in @ pocl of water in the fie!ds; the grand- father of one of the servants here; and there's such an excitement in the ‘serv- ents’ hall. The gentlemen all knew it, too, for I heard Lord Algernon say that he was looking very queer lately and might have had a At, and Lord Beverdale has sent word to the coroner. And, only think, tho people here are such fouls that they daren’t touch or move the poor man, and him lyin’ there in the rain all the time, until the coroner comes!” | { | i | ful example turned. But she kept the maid. “That'll do,’ as can tell me all later. I have some important news myself, and I ma; ou: after all. I want you +4 for me.” She went to her ine in pencil, folded it, seribbled an ad- course you will advise her, and, call him in. away. Between the library and the he conceived his plan. His per- lent him a seriousness which be- vity of the news he had to am sorry to have to tell you,” , taking Lord Beverdale aside, “that the unlucky bearer of some sad news Miss Desborough this morning, through onsular letters. Some matter concern- ing the death of a relation of hers, and scme wearisome question of property. I thought that it was of little Importance, and that she would not take it seriously, but I find I was mistaken.. It may even oblige her to catch the London train to- night. I promised to make her excuses to you for the present, and I’m afraid 1 must add my own to them, as she wishes me plexity to stay and advise her in this matter, which Tequires some prompt action.” Mi. Desborough was right; the magic word “property” changed the slight an- noyance on the earl’s face to a symps~ thetic concern, “Dear me! I trust it is nothing really seriou: he said. “Of by the way, if my solicitor, Withers, who'll be here tomorrow, can do anything, you know, I hope she'll be able to see me later. It could not be a near relation who died, I fancy—she has ne brothers or sisters, I understand. “A cousin—I think—an old friend,” said the consul, hastily. He heard Lord Bev- erdale say a few words to his companions, saw with a tinge of remorse, a cloud settle upcn Lord Algernon’s fresn face, as he appealed in a whisper to old Lady Mesthyn, who leaned forward from the carriage and sald: “If the dear child thought I could be of any service I should only be too glad to stay with her.” “I know she would appreciate Lady Mesthyn’s sympathy,” said the ingenious consul quickly, put I really think the question is more a business one—and—" “Ah, yes, said the old lady, shaking her head, “it's dreadful, of course—but we must all think of that!" As the carriage drove away the consul hurried back a little viciously to his fair counirywoman. “There!” he said, “I have She Kissed the Cold, Hard Forehead. done it! If I have managed to convey elther the idea that you are a penniless orpban or that I have official information that you are suspected of a Aynamite con- spiracy—don't blame me! And now,” he said, “as I have excused myself on the ground that I must devote myself to this dreadful business of yours, perhaps you'll tell me what It really ts.” “Not a word more,” said Miss Deshor- ough, “except’—she added, checking her smile with a weary gesture—“except that I want to leave this dreadful place at once! There! Don’t ask me any more!” There cculd be no doubt of the giil's sin- cerity, ncr was it the extravagant caprice of a petted idol. What had happened? He mig’t have believed in a lover's quar- rel, but he knew that she and Lord Alger- nou could have had no private interview that evening. He must, perforce, accept her silence, yet he could not help saying: “You seemed to like, the place so much last night. I say, you haven't séen the ae ghost, ‘ priory gho: she said quickly, “what's that?” ae 2 = “The old monk who passes through the cloisters with the sacred oil, the bell and incense whenever any one it would have ’ she said, him out of the window. cottage this morning. But, no! goout. You can take me for « walk, if you like. -you see, I ready, and I’m just stifling here.” They descended to the terrace together. Where would. you dike to a “To the village. eee Tepe eels? graph, you know.”) < we They turned into the avenue, but Miss Desborough stopped. } “Is there not a shorter cut across the fields,” she asked, “oye: there?” c “Phere 1s,” said the consul. They both turnéd into the footpath which Jed to the farm and stile. After a pause she sald: “Did you ever iaik with that poor old man?” z Wor ‘Then you don’t know if he really was crazy as they think?” “No. - But they may have thought an old man’s forgotfulness of present things und his habit of communing with the past was Insanity, For all that he was a plucky, independent old' fellow with a grim purpose that was certainly rational.” “I suppose in vhis independence he wouldn't have taken favors from these pecple—or anybody?” “I should think not.” “Don't you think it was just horrid— their leaving him alone in the rain, when he might have been only in a fit?” am all | somewhat uneasy evening under the fire of questions that assailed him in reference to the fair deserter. But he kept loyal faith ith her—adhering even top thezletter of r instructions—ard only omce was goaded into more active mendacity. The conversa- tion had turned upon “Debs,” and the con- sul had remarked on the singularity of the name. A guest from the north observed, however, that the name was undoubtedly a contraction. “Possibly it might have been “Debbcrough,’ or even the same name | as our fair friend.” “But didn’t Miss Desborough tell you last night that she had- been hunting up her People—with a family tree, or something like that?” said Lord Algernon, eagerly. “I just caught a word here and there—for you were both laughing.” The consul smiled blandly. “You may well say so-—for it was all the most de- lightful piece of pure invention and utter extravagance. It would have amused her still more if she had thought you were listening and took it seriously!” “Of course—I see,” said the young fellow, with a laugh and a slight rise of color. “I knew she was taking some kind of a rise out of you—and that remark reminded me of it." Nevertheless, within a year Lord Aiger- “The doctor says he died suddenly of | non was happily married to the daughter heart disease,” said the consul. “It might} of a South African millionaire. whose have happened at any moment and without | bridal offerings alone touched the sum of warning.” half a million. It was aiso said that the “Ab, that was the coroner's verdict, | mother was “impossible” and the father then,” said Miss Desborough, quickly. | “‘unspeakable,” the relations “inextinguish- “The coroner did not think it necessary to hava any inquest after Lord Beverdale’s statement. It wouldn’t have.been very joy- ous for the priory party. And I daresay he thought it might not be very cheerful for you. * “How very kind,” said the young girl, with a quick laugh. “But do you know that it’s about the only thing human, origi- nal and striking that has happened in this place since I've been here! And so unex- pected, considering how comfortably every- thing is ordered here beforehand.” “Yet you seemed to like that kind of thing very well, last evening,” said the con- sul, mischlevously. “That was last night," retorted Miss Des- berough, “and you know the line, ‘Colors seen by candle-light do not look the same able,” but the wedding was an “occasion.” and in the succeeding year of festivity it is presumed that the names of “Debs” and “Desborough” i But they existed still in a little ham- let near the edge of a bleak northern moor, where they were singularly exalt- ed on a soaring shaft of pure nrarble above the submerged end moss-grown tomb- stones of a simple country church yard. So great was the contrast betw en the modern and pretentious monument and the graves of the humbler forefathers of the Village that even the Americans who chanced to visit it were shocked at what they believed was the ostentatious and vulgar pride of on? of their own country- women. For on its pedestal was inscribed: ©. 0 by day.’ But I’m going to he very consist- ent today, for I intend to go over to that Sacred to the Memory poor man’s cottage again, and see if I can of be of any service. Will you go with me? JOHN DEBS DESEBOROUGH, “Certainly,” said the consul, mystified by his companion’s extraordinary conduct yet apparent coolness of purpose, and hoping for some further explanation. Was she orly an inexperienced flirt, who had found herself on the point of a serious entangle- ment she had not contemplated? Yet even Formeriy of this parish, Who departed this life October 26th, i At Serooby Priory, At the age of eighty-two years. This monument erected as a loving testimony by his grand- then he knew she was clever enough to ex- daughter, tricate herself in some other way than this Sadie Desborough of New York, abrupt and brutal tearing through t U. 8. A. meshes. Or was it possible that she really had any intelligence affecting her property? “And evening brings us home." He reflected that he knew very little of the Desboroughs, but, on the other hand, he} o a knew that Beverdale knew them much bet- (The End.) ter, and was a prudent man. He had no rght to demand her confidence as a re- ate ward for his secrecy—he must wait her MABRIACE AND GCERIUS Pleasure. Perhaps he would still ex- is 5 a plain; women seldom could resist the tri- | Girls Warned to Beware of Very Talented Men. From the Phitudelphin North American, Mr. John Gilmer Speed warns girls of a martiageable age to beware of men of ex- ceptional talent, and if they would seck safety to chouse nusbands from the class umph of telling the others. When they reached the village she halted before the low roof of Debs’ & had better go in first,” s ccme in later, and in the meantime might go to the station for m: secret that puzzled the exact time that the expre: of industrious mediocrity. But take the for the north.” E rae 4 two most conspicuors literary lights of our Ris ieee eure ee own day. Stevenson was an invalid and a “No,” said Miss Desborough, quietly, “I ] Momad, a man of genius, with every ap- am going to join some friends at Harro- Bate.” parent excuse for being an indifferent h 3 bend, instead of which he seems to have “But that train’goes much earlier than |':¢en a delightful man to ive with the train south, and—and I'm afraid Lord | provident, always Hind cad wedwatiea: Beverdale will not have returned so soon.” | Yond the lmlts of his strength ae ws a now Bad!” said! Miss Desborough, with | ; presents Mr. Kipling as aman who qed 8 faint smile, “but we must bear up under | tis chief pleasures at home, and as a-kin it, and—U'll write him. I will be here until | sober and diligent atinem you return.” Mr. sed’s impressions to the contrary She turned away and entered the cot- ai Pnerselies not see: : : notwithstanding, there does not The granddaughter she had already | sufficieat reason for wise maide ter, the servant at t criminate against men who have were both chatting comfortably, | worse the matter with them then but ceased as she entered, and both rose | are exceptionally clev Abi with awkward respect. .There was little to suggest that the body of their grandfather, already in a rough oak shell, was ly upon trestles beside them. “You have carried out my orders, I see,” said Miss Desborough, laying down her par- esol. “Aye, miss; but it was main h: et dooan so soon, and et cooust—" “Never mind the cost... I’ve given .you money enough, I think—and if I haven't I guess I can give you more.” “Aye, miss. Abbut the pa’son ‘ead g’I un a funeral for nowt.” “But I understood you to say,” said Miss Desborough with an impatient flash of eye, “that your grandfather wished to be buried with his kindred in the north?” “Aye, miss,” said the girl, apologetically, “an’ naw ‘ees savit th’ munny. Abbut e’d bean tickled ‘ad ‘ee knowed it. Dear! dear! ‘e niver thowt et ’ud be gi’en by stranger an’ not ’es ownt fammaly.” “For all that, you needn't tell anybody it was given by me,” said Misa Desborough. “And you'll be sure to be ready to take the train this afternoon—without dalay.” There Was a certain peremptoriness in her voice very unlike Miss Amelyn's, yet apparently much more effective with the granddaugh- ter. “Aye, miss. Thon, if tha’ll excoose mea, I'll go straight to "oory oop sexton.” She bustled away. “Now,” said Miss Des- borough, turning to the other girl, “I shall take the same train, and will probably see you on the platform at York to give my final directions. That's all. Go and see if the gentleman who came with me has re- turned from the station.’* ‘The girl obeyed. Left entirely alone, Miss Desborough glanced around the room and then went quietly up to the unlidded coffin. The rapose of death had softened the hard lines of the old man’s mouth and brow into a resemblance she now more than ever un- derstood. She had stood thus, only a few years before, looking at the same face in a gorgeously inlaid mahogany casket, smoth- ered aiid costly flowers, and surrounded by friends attired in all the luxurious trap- pings of woe—yet now the same face that was rigidly upturned to the bare thatch and rafters of that crumbling cottage—her- self its only companion. She lifted her dell- cate veil with both hands, and, stooping down, kissed the hard, cold forehead with- out a tremor. Then she dropped her veil again over her dry eyes, readjusted it in th little, cheap, black-framed mirror that hung against the wall, and opened the door as the granddaughter returned. The gen- tleman was just coming from the station. “Remember to look out for me at York,” said Miss Desborough, extending har gloved hand. “Good-bye till then.” The young girl respectfully touched the ends of Miss Des- borough’s fingers, dropped a curtsey, and Miss Desborough rejoined the consul. “You have baraly time to return to the priory and see to your luggage,” said the consul, “if you must go. But let me hope that you have changed your mind.” “I have not changed my mind,” said Miss Desborough, quietly, “and my luggage is already packed.” After a pause sha said, thoughtfully, “I’ve been wondering—” “What?” said the consul, eagerly. “I've been wondering, if people brought up to speak in a certain dialsct, where cer- tain words have their own significance and color, and are part of thelr own lives and expertence, if even when they understand another dialect, they really feel any sym- pathy: with it, or the Yperson who speaks ‘Apropos of—?" asked the consul. “These people I've Qust left! I don’t think I quite felt withgthem, and I guess they didn’t feel with me.” , laughingly, “you speak with de- a and attach the . Yet, upon m Beverdale, or, shail ould not only un- word ‘guess’ as Perfectly sympa- es sparkled even glanced at her make up for serious defects of ¢ Don’t marry a brute, ho 8 | ror a man more seifish than Is pro! man, nor any sort of bad man whatever: but don’t discriminate against intel!ig even when it exceeds the usual | mac of sense will make his wife happy if he can. More women suffer from a lack of intelligence in husbands than from an of it. Intelligence helps a man to ving, helps him to make himself agreeable and heips him to appreciate the importance of doing both. Girls about to marry should guard per- haps against choosing men who are so clever that they won't care for their wives, but they must take thought also against choosing men who are so dull that living with them will be uninteresting. It is just as bad—werse, perhaps—to marry a man who does not interest you as to marry one whose thoughts you cannot share. = A lawyer in a Boston court the other day after a close cross-examination of an il- literate Irish woman in reference to the position of the doors and windows, etc., in her house, asked her the following ques- tion: “And now, my good woman, tell the court how the stairs run in your house.” To which the good woman replied: “How do the sthairs run? Shure, whin I'm oop- sthairs they run down, and whin I'm down they run oop.” ‘d gettin’ os The Terms of Peace. From Filegende Blatter, cided dialect of our same occult meaning word, I think that Loi Tsay, Lord Algernon derstand that Ami you mean it, but w thize with you.” Miss. Desborough’s through her vel! as companion and said: “t guess not.” : As the “tea” party / {tt fell to the consul to borough and her maid the station. But here he was startled ott ‘® collection of villagers upon the platform, gathered around two. young women in mourning ana an ominous-looking x. He mingled for moment with the crowd and then returned to Miss pesborovan Ae GP ened “Really,” he said,” was scarcely assumed, “I ought not to let® you go: “The cmens are most disastrous. | - You came here to a death; you are going aoe Risen! ack “Then it's high time Z took myself_off,” said the lady, lightly. «~ eee “Unless, like the gl see came not yet returned, pany Miss Des- here on a mission and have fulfilled “Perhaps I have: Good-bye!"* . . . . . . ettee eae Mis Dearengs roa sien Ay ch mingled her beculioe host—a letter w! a her humorous. WAITING ROOM AT AN AGENT'S. ENGAGING TALENT How Managers, Agents and Actors . Come to Terms, HOT DAYS SPENT IN HARD WORK Leadiag Man and Lady Must Dive and Dance as Well as Act. ——— GHOST WALKS AT LAST a (Copyright, 1898, by -th s Special Correspondence of Th? Evening gtar. YORK, August 11, 1898. Up to some twenty-five years ago the lie of @ theatrical company was as permanent as that of a military regiment. Individuals dropped out, others filled their places; there always a nucleus of older niembers to | international Literary and rviee perpetuate tho organization. The Comedie | Francaise of today has thus lived from | centuries up to the present time, and so | have the companies of the court theaters in Berlin and Vienna. But the stock com- pany system is becoming obsolete. Formerly the play was selected to fit the | players; now, the reverse is the case, and of jast year’s green room companions no two may ever again share the varying for- tunes of the road under the same manage- m When a manager purp play he seeks the assistance of his theat- rical agent in the selection of a compan) y of them in New York, in Rialto district, on and just off Broad way, between 23d street and 42d. A few of the older agencies still cling to the old stamping ground of the profession, near the corner of 4th avenue and 14th street. At some appointed hour the manager meets the agent at the latter's office, and in order that they may not be disturbed, | the players who call on their daily rounds | | producing a at the agencies are told that Mr. Urgent is very busy and must not be disturbed. Some one vouchsafes the information that Mr. Briskty, the well-known theatrical pro- moter, is with him, whereupon everybody is very much interested, and all sorts of surmises are indulged in as to the play he would produce for the coming season. The news presages the possibility of an engage- ment for some. people, and all tip-toe out of the ante-room as if absolute silence were essential to the success of the negotiations in the sanctum. in there Mr. Urgent, taking occasional notes upon a pad lying before him on the desk, is intently Hstening to the wants of Mr, Briskly. “Whom can I get to play the hero, an American soidier?" begins Mr. Briskly. “He ought to be light-haired, and soidierly- looking; get me somebody with snap and vim in him.” “How would M. do?” don’t care for him for that part. He is all right in society work, but I doubt whether he could do justice to this role, and, by the way, if you can get me a lead- ing man who is something of an acrobat, so much the better.” Acrobat and Actor. To the layman the combination of leading man and acrobat seems absurd; Mr. Urgent merely asks, “How much of an acrobat?” “Well, he must dive from the Spanish fort into Guantanamo bay, an actual dis- tance of twenty feet, to rescue the Ittle nigger boy, and, iet me tell you right here, that the soubrette who wants to play that part must know how to pick a banjo, and must do a dancing specialty in the second act. But let us return to the leading man.” Mr. Urgent opens a cabinet standing on the top of his desk, and, taking a package of photographs from a pigeon hole, marked “G,” selects therefrom a picture of a man dressed in the costume of Hamiet. He hands it to Mr. Briskly, who adjusts his eyeglasses and looks at it critically fer a few minutes: then he wants to know how tall the original is “Not very tall; inches.” “That won't do. I want a big brawny fellow, and if I can get the right sort of a man I wouldn’t mind engaging somebody else to double the leading man and do the Jump for him.” “I will see what I can do for you, Mr. Briskly; now, what about the leading lady?” “Say, Urgent, Miss T., who was with me last year, can’ act all ‘around anybody I ever took on the road, but her face queers her. I must have somebody who will get the sympathy of the audience, and be- tweeen you and me, I don’t care so much whether she can act or not, so long as shi is good looking and dresses the part well.” Mr. Urgent smiles the cynical smile of one who knows how little of mimic art a personally attractive person needs to please | on or off the stage. “Pll fix you up all right on that. You say you will re-engage F, a comedian? Who next?” Senorita and Soubgéjte. “An ingenue and a soubrétté. The sou- brette will do the nigger-boy and the in- genue is to play the part of a senorita. Both will have to do a dance together at about five feet six town so eddie if you can us me drop a leaf me Choek.” “He will do, I guess, if he will s .” dryly comments the manager. After some further talk, the list on the agent’s desk looks something like this The Necessary Talent. keep BRISKLY COMPANY. Man—Tall, brawny, blond, ac- robat (7%). Leading Lady—Handsome, good dresser. et a@ song in first and thi: Sc te—Banjo and danelr er boy (take care of ch Spanish accent. thin. Musical instru- jowery boy (Chuck Connor?). age manager, Mrs. Briskly. rt, small y man. Girl—Must travel without mo xpe will be taken care of pay; serves the Mr. Urgent ing th interview with the mana takes down his books « names and addres actor clients, arranged according work they do, and s the mes of people most likely to rements. To these he sen requesting them to call at Early next mornin; val of t are oce long before = in hi a room tions standing about discussing the tions of the day, with the refr nuousness an actor’ pw can ques economy, or to a knotty problem in- ctive tical nent the firances of a great nation, The ladies present preserve all the punctilio of social quetto toward one another, but reiax ably in their manner toward exchange betwee tw those ho have tb nd as their number inci ses e il it would take little hand iby a ng. @ them who e than a lively tune an to set them all Yet there are many have not as yet broken the fast of the night »nundrum before, to be si Th nd to Whom dinner is a c ed by chance. improvidence of the is such that, of even the best enly a small have cient money to months betwi 5 u but America have ed a fent compe- tency to during the summer months. The ater majority the others depend upon summer snaps; L engage- Ments with companies playing at watering places, and a large number of th as genteelly as their ability at d tion will admit of. Now to the Manager. Upon his arrival the agent briefly out- lines the requirements of the different parts te the several aspirants separately, and the preliminaries being satisfactory, he directs them to the manager with a short note of introduction. Sometimes the manager appoints an hour at which to meet his prospective employes at the agent’s office; more frequently he receives their calls at his own offices or at some theater. He inquires very closely in- to their past suge experience, looks at pho- tographs of them in costume to determine whether they dress well und what sort of stage presence they possess. Finally the question of salary is discussed. The fol- lowing list of remunerations applies ap- simately to road companies of the past season: Leading man Leading lady. $60.00 to $159.00 and up. . 50.00 to 150.00 and up. Comedian . -$40.00 to $100.00 Comedienne 40.00 2075.00 Adventurer + 60.00 to 100,00 Adventuress 50.00 to Juvenile . - 35.00 to Ingenus - 35.00 to Soubrette - WO) to haracter . ove + 25.00 to 100.00 Chorus (trained)... - 15.00 to 30.00 Stege child... + 25.00 co 50.00 lu engaging leading ladies great stress is laid upon their dressing well, and the item of costuming a part properly may make a considerable difference in the salary paid: No member of the company is finally en- gaged until she or he has shown the ability to play the part assigned at the rehearsal. These latter begin as soon as the cast of the play is filled, and they are held at one of the theaters or in a hall hired for the purpose, frequently even in hotel room In smaller companies the “old man” of the play is as stage manager and his orders as regards the technique of the play are supreme. Salary When the Show Opens. it must not be supposed that, although finally accepted, the members of the com- pany are paid during the time of rehearsal. Their salary only begins with the first per- formance and yet the heart of each player beats easier, once the coveted contract is signed, because it can be made the basis of such advances on the part of the man- ager or of money lenders to enable the “party of the second part” to tide over the | weeks that are yet to elapse before tho opening night. In this manner some five hundred differ- ent companies are fitted out annually in New York. A number of firms send out anywhere from five to fourteen companies to present as many different productions. In some cases as many as four companies play one and the same plece on different circuits, which are booked ahead at the beginning of each season. The larger firms find it more profitable to engage their peo- ple without the aid of the theatrical agent, who exacts a percentage for his services. The commission paid by the player to the the end of the second, asI said before. 1 also need a tall, thin character-actor to play a Cuban patriot. If you can sepd me some one that can play a musical instru- ment he might do something tn the camp scene. Mrs. Briskly will play the adven- turess. Candidly speaking, I would prefer to have her remain in New York, but she just won't do it. She isn’t happy away from the footlights. There is one more part‘that I am particular about and for which I would like to have some well- known character, rummaging he hands the manager of yellow paper on which pencil: “New York 27 a, 3 g £ LP NT agent for securing an engagement is one- hbaif of the second week's salary. All summer long rehearsing goes on; ¢os- tumes are prepared and changed to fit all exigencies of the play; Uthographs are sent out; advance agents work the newspapers by tue advance agent calls at the boarding hou:s or hotel of every member fo take away the road trunk, plainly marked with the full name of the owner and with the name of the company of which he is a member. With hopes Seating Siete in their hearts,