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I"'" A.GIRLIN A THOUSAND.
{Copyright.} A.GIRLIN A THOUSAND. BY JEAN MIDDLEMASS, Author of "Lady Muriel's Secret," "The Spider lod the Fly," "Poisoned Arrows," It Wild Seorgie," &c., &c. CHAPTER VIL CROSSED IN LOVE. Tom Chilton was evidently one of those indivi- iuals who are perpetually putting in an ap- pearance at moments when they are by no means wanted. Erratic, restless mortals are apt :to do this. j Tom Chilton was erratic and restless. He had ■gone to America because he was tired of England ■be had returned at the end of two years because he was tired of America; by the same rule in his daily life he was never still. Under the slightest pretext, generally business he imagined he had to attend to, he would go off miles when a penny letter would have answered every purpose. That he never lost by this promptness of action he at least felt very certain, and the fact that his means increased as time progressed would seem to sub- stantiate his statement. His quarters, of course pro tern., are scarcely Cheery ones. Men of Tom Chilton's calibre do not go in for luxury, and, though it pleases the vanity the man to be spick-and-span in his attire when to company, his home surroundings would tend to ¡&how that he is sorely in want of a good wife. Two grimy ground-floor rooms in a narrow Street off the Strand, high tea laid out on the table, but scarcely in as picturesque a form as that amphibious meal is sometimes represented! Nothing matches among the crockery. "In these days it is not the fashion for china to match," someone observes, but then there is a 1Vide difference between artistic oddness and the barbarous clashing of colour which the table in Ovid-street presented. True, in revenge, it was laden with viands; more food stood upon it than it Would seem possible for Tom Chilton to consume a week. It was evident that he expected a guest —-yes, there were covers for two it had hppn 6L fl re(1, but now looks as though Tn t» washed in sea water. "wpll ™I'S jme.nt 8118 by the open window, a ^ell-coloured clay pipe in his mouth. quarter to six," he mutters, glancing at an ,adjacent clock; "it is time she was here if she ever means to come at all." She Can it be possible that it is a woman om Chilt-on is going to receive ? If so, it is very certain that he believes her to be a hungry one. Yes, there she comes bustling down the street, niDson-faced and hot-looking, though she has got out of the omnibus at the corner. She is not Young, has no pretensions to being young or pre- Possessing.or to anything else that would appear apparent reason for Tom Chilton to have put "'mself out of the way to invite her to tea. •jet he starts up when he sees her, opens the or for her, takes the bag she carries, and sets it 1011 a side table establishes her in as comfortable an arm chair as the room affords, and finally Places a to ttstoo) under her feet. All, however, *jjth no avail, if he imagines she will be gracious. «he wipes her face over with a half folded hand- kerchief, with which she finally flops herself, fishing you to believe that the said handkerohief *8 a fan, and says with some severity, What a fool you are, Tom but then, Lor' bless Us, you always were a fool." What have I doue now. Aunt Purvis ?" asks Tom with a sort of mock air of humility. 4 Yes, the guest Tom Chilton had just received none other than Mrs. Purvis, Lady Fedora i Stanhope's housekeeper; though by no twisting could the connecting link between her and Tom be tortured into aunt-ship; yet for so many years had he called her aunt that he was almost be- iginning to think she was one. Look at that table and say you're not a fool," the answered, you'll die in the work'us, Tom, you wdl, for you waste more than you earn." | ^° 'ie said, laughing, while his eyes i r^ri "■ Tom knew full well that his own f n ts we re so moderate that he at times mr.i, ? s, ou'd 1)6 accused of some of the Purvis ni°Ua bits °f the old lady he called Aunt II It's all in your honour," he went on, wheeling r chair ronno to the table, "so come along and eery. Out West, where I come from, we always £ most and the best we can H ^en'a* tone seemed to restore her over- equanimity, and she tried to look pleased « W 8aid' "ell, 1 am a cros«-grained old woman, I know 'east, so Miss Irene is always telling me; but I help it, I am that worrit-ted." Tom did not seem anxious to enter on the iubjectof Mrs. Purvis's worries, so interrupted at Once by saying, How beautiful Miss Irene is, quite as pretty as 6he promised to be when a child." v. Why, whenever did you see Miss Irene?" «*■ At the Wandsworth Station two or three even- J*mgs ago, with her brother and Phyllis Knight." f This announcement seemed to have very much I the Bame effect as setting a match to a fuse. All «; Purvis'sconcentrated anger blazed up. Them Knights," she almost shrieked Miss Irene is alwavs with them Knights, and Lady » e"?ra ought, to be ashamed of herself for allow- *i there, said all I can say on the fih s'10 don't live to rue the day as she lillowed it mv name ain't Sarah Purvis, that's aU." Good gracious, in what does the danger con. \BIst ?" jpan<^ water, my dear Tom, you can't mix Jem, can you ? No—well no more can you mix ^inese two distinct and different families; it ain't UL "r(e' Fancy they Knights being grafted on to i&otf j°Pe8! Sim°n's a good sort, but he ain't a (if an" u00'1 want to be he'd do well enough that silly fool of a wife of his would let him Sen-6' hut_she'8one of they sort who's always for ,T18 up in life, and she never knows when she's je^P^he.highest hill as her poor little legs will e\>er climb." .Chilton, to whorp the jealousy Mrs. Purvis lteoR for Mrs- Knight was nothing new, 'hi, n to laugh as he Dassed a plate of salmon to ™ so-called kinswoman. II fehe And the young woman, Phyllis," he asked, is as stuck up as her mother ?'" bfje. j Purvis paused before she took the plate he uy u, and looked at him very straight. fete „ °U Was once spooney on that gal, Tom what f- now ?" J>r0v ^hink that, she, like Miss Irene, has much im- a»d I durinS the two years I have been away, h'10'1 fully resolved to ask her to be my But what, Tom ?" u one is changed." ^nanged—that is just it—she ts changed." th rs. Purvis WaS by this time voraciously eating e, sahnon she had been chiding Tom for pro- ,nff>and it was between the mouthfuls that she jBhim her sentiments on the subject of Phyllis. that, minx—a stuck up minx like her mother— bov w',al 'he is. You had best leave her alone, She'll never be a lady though she thinks she hut she'll never be an honest working man's 1 *»Un!» She's spoiled. Simon Knight's ^Oii basknt with rotten eggs. But there! If $Str»rimen w* he fools and not see their way their8owrT»en 't'8 a^ore 'em» it's no one's fault but to her giSt°n smiled as Mrs. Purvis thus gave way Simon Knivfi?'. ??. knew of old the story of how Withstanding {? ^!ted Sarah Purvis—who, not- Sever married_^f brevet rank of mistress, had miller's daughter0*" .pretty Hannah Brown, the almost as much' vill*ge- Ifc was Simon's, for in those d Purv'8'8 own fault as *«d Sarah thought hetSSS* ^he" they were y°ung Save herself great air8 »n^a eyed 8he Knight, who had'Co"„Was not aure that t>ut up some farm buildingT?o^°M £ War,eiSh t0 Sood enough for her. She waa Wa.8 and made much of by Lady since they had been too old to '• ^aS "» 35'SJ'of oUSekeeper 10 acknowledge that she loved him, though she so with her whole heart. bej 01011 Knight, however, never had any i<jea 0 £ Dlayed with, and he transferred his atten- ^hosaw. affections to pretty Hannah Brown, but wk ^ar that of Sarah Purvis, WornanWaS D° means 80 c'ever an<^ manaSing Simon Knight married was as if u 1)6611 Poul'ed into Sarah Purvis's life, ^tt0v»lert ^a,8 0nly i° later years that she had ac- *.°uht, M, 'er hking for Simon; there was little „L0rkifte °u"h, that the vinegar had been steadily J K-aiTe,i s.'nce t-hat wedding morn, and at 45 T.t °f a., 0 woman with a sharp temper and !f Sio^tongue. Purvis had elected to marry Sarah ence it d of Hannah at the mill what a diffe- generatiou of ,uVe made in the lives of the rising truly e Stanhopes! r ^Uently the hine acts their dependants are fre- the conve?68.011 which great families hang crusty hou(Slt'0n between Tom Chilton and ho n'n £ doors wh <KPer wou'^ have the effect of jf Pe familv wouM some member of the Stan- 1* a 'ninute or f Pet"haps have gladly kept closed. Chi'ton hea"°, after Mre- Purvis'8 outburst, Qui, pressed hpr » £ ood things on her plate, lipht ^Powpri eat^ith a vulgarity that was d ^jrs p lng, but which apparently de- ast who tonL-UTis' 'or actually smiled on c« advantage of her genial mood to aae I y, bYllia1{ntu Consent, Aunt Purvis, to marry Airs. Pur;' t If I can win her?" her ,ork in 1 me this ?" she cried,« unless 'tha^P, stoo ^anting, and t ^on't wanf* ,he interrupted, M understand a farthing, only your blessing IeCoa>o>en^dk her knife and fork again, I •»>oniv very slowly; however, llt8 Knight," Tom Chilton-went on. I have loved her for three or four years, and I did think she loved me. I want you to tell me what has changed Mrs. Purvis's brows, which were rather shaggy, contracted. I have told you, uppishness," she answered tartly. He shook his head. "Uppishness would not bill her love for me or make her what she is now." And pray what is she now ?" Miserable—unhappy—very silent for her, and when she does speak she is almost as sharp tongued as As Masty, cross old Aunt Purvis oh, I know," said the housekeeper, interrupting him, there is only one thing as ever makes a pretty girl sharp tongued.and that is when she is crossed in love." But why should Phyllis be crossed in love, when I love her even more devotedly now than I did before I went to America?" You don't imagine ahe is a pining for you, do you now, Tom ?" You don't wish to insinuate that she is in love with another man? Mrs. Purvis nodded her head nearly off. That's just about it, she said, and it will be her ruin." "Tell me, tell me his name," almost gasped awakening Tom. Why, Mr. Geoffrey, of course. You don't sup- pose as Phyllis is always with they great folk for nothing." And does Mr. Geoffrey love Phyllis ?'' Spooney I suppose, as they calls it, but he'll get over it, never fear. If you want Phyllis, Tom, you'll just have to bide your time." "Take Phyllis when Mr. Geoffrey has tired of her! No, Aunt Purvis, never. 1 may be a rough man and no gentleman, but I'll have naught to do with this grand Mr. Stanhope's leavings." Not so fast, Tom, not so fast; don't let your blood boil up, that won't further you just listen to me. Though Mr. Ferdinand is my OOy-l love him as if he was my own child—yet I brought up Geoffrey and I know him through and through. He is the very honourablest young man as ever was born. He wouldn't leave no woman in the lurch, least of all Phyllis. The girl is in love with him he's spooney on her. It ain't dawned on him yet what a fool he is making of hisself. When it does he'll run away; for as to marrying Pnyllis he'll never think of such a thing. It would break Lady Fedora's heart, and the master would blow his brains out." And you wish me to come into the breach and carry off the girl. I thank you, Aunt Purvis, I am not so devoted to the Stanhopes as you are." It ain't for the sake of the Stanhopes, but your own if you want Phyllis, you will have to catch her at the rebound. Don't be down-hearted, my dear boy you're sure to win. She's only passing through the silly stage; most girls has it as they has measles." "I should like to kill Geoffrey Stanhope," mut- tered Tom. Should you now ? Well, I hope you haven't brought no bowie knives to England." What right has a man like this Stanhope to interfere with a girl of Phyllis's rank—to come be- tween me and my love," Tom went on," to weat- her for a while like a gay feather in his cap, which he throws away when he is tired of it, and replaces by one of another colour?" Taint that at all. I tell you it ain't. Geoffrey don't know as he loves Phyllis Knight; don't know it no more than nothing." Then someone had better tell him. I should say perhaps you, Aunt Purvis, who have always professed affection for me, would kindly undertake this." Me ? Mr. Geoffery never speaks to me except to say in his civil voice,' Good morning, Purvis! Well, get your pet Mr. Ferdinand to do it." "The two brothers ain't, very chummy, but I might hint the subject to Ferdinand he'd roar it out at Geoffery some day when he was in a pas- sion." And so my winning or losing Phyllis Knight hangs on Ferdinand roaring at Geoffrey when he's in a passion. I have a mind to go back to America by the next packet." Nonsense, Tom, don't you do it. It will he all right I tell you. You might have took up with a girl 1 should have liked better than Phyllis Knight, but since she's your fancy, and you don't want no money, I'll help you." But Mrs. Purvis's promise by no means raised Tom's spirits as it would have done if he had never heard this tale about Geoffrey Stanhope. Looking very dejected, and having already given up pressing the comestibles on his so-called rela- tion, he said with much seriousness, Remember, there must be no pressure brought to bear in the form of Simon Knight. Phyllis must of her own free will lay her hand in mine and say, Tom, the happiest thing that can happen to me in life will be to be your wife,' or I will none of her." Humph," grunted Mrs. Purvis, some folks are exacting—most men when they want a pretty givl don't make no conditions; howsomever, I'll do my best." And if Tom Chilton was considerably more thoughtful and down-spirited after that meeting in Dvid-street than he had been before it the effect on Mrs. Purvis was quite an opposite one. To part the Knights from the Stanhopes was the main object of her existence. "And if I can't do it now they two is both in love with Phyllis, well, Sarah Purvis ain't no good at plots," she repeated over and over to herself, as she finally made her way towards Eaton-square. CHAPTER VIII. A RULING POWBR. Geoffrey Stanhope's painting-room in Eaton- square had been once the nursery it was called so still, though it had long been converted into a joint stock recreation-room for both Geoffrey and Irene. Naturally Ferdinand might have claimed his share in it had he chosen, but his pursuits were not their pursuits, and he seldom joined the group of which Phyllis mure frt-quently than not made up the trio. Hhe knew nothing of art but what the other two taught her but she had a keen sense of appreciation, and never grew tired of sitting as Geoffrey's model, while Irene played on an old piano, which had certainly seen its best days, or warbled forth to her own accompaniment on the guitar some melody of the South. They are sitting now in the well-accustomed room, Geoffrey in a holland blouse, painting, as it seems, assiduously, Phyllis half reclining on a divan of cushions which he has arranged for her, watching him in a sort of speechless ecstacy, while Irene lounges, dreaming,in an arm-chair by the window, the piano closed by her side. For at least a quartor-of-an-hour not a sound has been uttered. Something has evidently stagnated the happiness of that usually merry, contented group. Perhaps it is the heat, for the thermometer is at 84deg.; but no, they are scarcely old enough to object to the dog-days; their silence has a stronger and deeper cause. Geoffrey is the first to break it. "It is impossible to paint," he criea;" every- thing is wrong ^o-day. Your raspberry coloured gown, Phyllis, against those crimson cushions jars till it nearly drives me mad. "Iam sorry," she says rising; and walking across the room she takes an Eastern-looking cover off a table, and throws it over the cushions, and then, half-seating herself upon them, again asks, Is that better, Geoff ?" He bows his head in acquiescence, while such a glowing light of love shines on her from his dark eves that hers sink abashed before it. "You are lovely, darling, more lovely than ever to-day; so beautiful I cannot hope to do you justice. I wonder what has made my little Phyllis so much more beautiful of late," he murmurs, aR, instead of taking up his brush again, he seats himself on the cushions beside her. "If I look better, Geoffrey, it is because I am so happy in the knowledge that you really love me." He looked very intently into her face and said, "Yet there is something of sadness mixed up with this new lease of beauty you have taken. She turned from him, and her cheek paled just a tinge. "What is it my love? Tell me. I am to be your husband, you know, and should have full confession of your worries as well as of your joys." # "I have nop-well,no absolute worries, Geoffrey, etill I cannot help looking into the future with dread. This great secret of our love, which to me brings such immense happiness that it frightens me, what will happen when it is no longer a secret, and Lady Fedora and Mr. Stanhope know it—and my father? Oh, Geoffrey, I sometimes think I shall never live through that time, but shall run away and hide or drown myself." Good gracious, Phyllis, I always believed you to be a brave little person. I am sure I have seen you dare many a mighty jump, before which most girls would have quailed." Jumps when we were at play, or used to scou. the country for amusement, are not like jumps in life," said Phyllis, solemnly. You ought to have left me, Geoff, to mv jumps in father's wood.yard. I feel certain if you try to make a lady of me some terrible thing will happen." And this is what you call your immense happi- ness in my love! Really, Phyllis, I am surprised at you. If you are so afraid of what our relations will say and do, let us run away and get married, and then it will not much matter what happens." 0, no, no! Geoffrey. I would not do such a thing for worlds. Lady Fedora has trusted me to be with you and Irene. How base it would be for IDe to behave like that!" You think of everyone but me, Phyllis," he sam rather tartly; perhaps, after all, you would pre r to marry that individual who glared at you at the railway station." rnyius's very lips grew white as she muttered in very Jow tones-" o Geoffrey, it is unkind to try me so." J Her words did not, however, tend to make him more kind. On the contrary, his brow contracted, and he, too, looked at her with something of the glare to which he had just alluded in fact their conversation had every appearance of ending in a quarrrel, since Geoffrey was by no means satisfied that there was not the shadow of an old flirtation with Tom Chilton between him and his love. Phyllis always denied it, but her manner never seemed to endorse the assurance of her words. Irene, however, at this juncture started up from her dreaming posture. Merciful goodness she exclaimed, I wonder if mamma is at home ?" "Mv mother at home ? Why, what do you mean ?" asked Geoffrey, joining her at the window from which she stood gazing, her face whiter than the artistically clinging virginal robe she wore; yet Irene was ever pale. "There is Prince Lenskoff driving across the square! I know he is coming here." Geoffrey looked at her, and the shadows on his brow deepened. Poor little sister, is your doom, too, sealed so soon ?" And something passed over him which he could not define, but he felt that he dreaded all that the future had in store for Irene. She, however, sought to regain her usually bright spirits. "Hush! Geoff. No nasty, ominous remarks, if you please. Just crane your head out of the win- dow and see if the Prince comes in." Geoff did as he was bid, and at the risk of a sun- stroke ascertained that the Prince had been ad- mitted and was probably at this moment on his way to the drawing-room. "I wonder if mamma will send for me?" was Irene's next inquiry. "Shan't you go down unless she does?" asked Phyllis. No, certainly not! I would not appear too in- terested in Lenskoff for millions." Yet, though you have only seen him once, I believe you would give us all up and follow his fortunes to Russia," observed Geoffrey, laughing rather dismally. Oh. Geoff, I never thought of such a thing." And I hope fervently you never will." "Why, Geoff? You have never seen Prince Lenskoff." No, but I have heard of him, Irene; his has been a dark life, one in which no young and simple girl like yourself can have any place." Place ? No! Perhaps he does not willh me to have a place there but it is the very strangeness and mystery of his life that interest me. I am only 17, hut 1 am bored to death by the monoto- nous sameness of all the other men I have met. All their vices and all their pleasures are alike." What do you know about men's vices, little sister ?" Well, there's Ferdinind, he is a fair average specimen of a man in a fast set. All the others are about the same pattern—you, dear old Geoff, are quite out of the question. And you think you will find something newer and iiiorer to your taste in the life of this Russian Prince ? Oh, Irene, I trust you will not be disap- pointed." "Deir old croaking Geoff. Hush, what is that ?" He had not time to answer her, or even to look round, before Lady Feclorll, accompanied by Prinoe Lenskoff, was in the room. That stmngers should intrude on the privacy of this apartment was an unheard of thing, and Geoffrey at all events was very much inclined to resent the arrival of this Prince. Lady Fedora did not, however, offer any explanation for bringing him there; she had chosen to do so, and that she considered quite a sufficient reason for her children. Her white brow puckered when she saw Phyllis, of whose presence in the house she was unaware. Lady r Fedora's white brow had taken to puckering ot late when Phyllis was brought under her imme- diate notice and yet, as far as Geoffrey was con- cerned, she suspected nothing. P ice Lenskoff shook hands with Irene and made a courteous speech about the pleasure he felt in being permitted to penetrate into the sanctum of the house, accompanying his words hy such an ardent gaze of admiration that the blood came coursing in full flow into her pale cheeks, and, in truth. tingled through her frame till she almost cried aloud from the pleasurable sensation that was so neni-ly allied to pain. Another moment, and Lenskoff had turned his glance towards Phyllis. Hers was a beauty of another and ruddier type; for beautiful he de- cided that she was, though scarcely fitted to be a Princess as was fie graceful Irene Stanhope. Still Prince Lenskoff, though he did not fail to note what he called serf's blood in Phyllis, admired her as a man who prides himself on his appreciat ion of everything that is beautiful in nature and art could not fail to do. Those tell-tale eyes of his, too, did not under- stand silence, but when they wandered from Phyllis's face to Geoffrey's they read so much iinger there that Prince Lenskoff knew at once the secret which had hitherto been so carefully kept from all i" that house save Irene. The two men shook hands, as under the circum- stances they were bound to do, but the act seemed rather to be the signing of a bond of enmity than one of friendship. Geoffrey S'anhope and Prince Sergius Lenskoff would never be friends; as easily have tried to assimilate the powers of light and darkness. And yet in Irene's young heart there was awakened a yearnint; tenderness for this man and Lady Fedora would foster the feelings which she hoped they both had, the one for the other, because, forsooth, he was a Prince and a millionaire. Yet Lady Fedora was not a snob—no but the fortunes of the Stanhopes were at so low an ebb that at any price they must be retrieved. liven at the price of Irene's happiness? Absurd! What woman can be otherwise than happy with a princedom and millions at her control ? Geoffrey did not think so, and would rather have seen Irene married to some humble cotter than the wife of this Prince, in whom nothing would ever cause him to believe. .-So this is my old friend Henry Stanhope's eldest son ?" Lenskoff said, while he was reading Geoffrey's face its he read every face he met. "I should scarcely have credited it; the tall young ,kill I I saw at the ambassadress's ball is far more like his father." "Exactly; I belong to tVie race of the pigmies. There is a tradition that a Stanhope once espoused a fav; hence the amount of second sightand kuow. ledge of the invisible which we are all supposed more or less to possess. I am a direct descendant of this fay." "Geoffrey!" exclaimed Lady Fedora, warningly. But he only sneered, took hit picture from the easel, and placed it with the face to the wall. His words seemed to have impressed Prince Lenskoff somewhat, for the Prince did not speak for a few seconds. On the two girls they had no effect. This old fa.mily tradition, which they always called Geoffrey's "crack," was well-known to ihem; he invariably alluded to it when his small- ness of stature was mentioned. Geoffrey was par- ticularly sore on the subj-ct of his height, as com- pared with Ferdinand's, and could never be made to see that, he possessed the brain power, while Ferdinand had naught but mere physical strength. When Prince Lenskoff did at last speak he said, musingly, "The story of this fay carries me back for many long years. Did you ever hear of D'; idora Blanchi, Lady Fedoru?" It was Lady Fedora's turn to show some emotion under Prince Lenskoff's gaze, and she answered, hurriedly, Never but once has my husbind mentioned that name." Who was Desidera Blanchi? What a strange name said Irene, who, having recovered from the effect of the Prince's eyes, was once more her natural, simple self. "A beautiful maiden, a Russian of noble birth, who was killed by bein< thrown from a sleigh. When your father was in Paris about fifteen years ago we were breakfasting together tete d-téte, He had not seen l>?«i<iera for years. At breakfast, like one in a trance, he told me the manner of her deat h. An hour afterwards I received a telegram, saving it had occurred even wliilt he was speaking." "Papa? This happened to papa? Oil, it can never be true. Why, he is the most practical man in Europe, and is always laughing at Geoffrey's cracks." The Prince shrugged his shoulders, and the in. quisitive Irene went on—" Was papa in love with this unhappy gii-I ?" The Prince looked at Lady Fedora for a second, •ind then said :—" There :tro some secrets of the past, Mademoiselle, which it is well never to reveal." Irene asked no more, and they all felt that the strange man who had come among them held, locked in his memory, knowledge of many events which couid make him if he chose, as far as the Stanhopes were concerned, mould their fortunes pretty n uch a he listed That they were not mistaken in this they felt still more certain when Henry Stanhope, who had been absent for a day or two at Warleigh, came somewhat unexpectedly into the room. Prince Lenskoff received him with effusion. The return greeting of his old friend was, perhaps, scarcely so cordial. On neutral ground Henry Stnnhope would have met Sei gius Lenskoff with no little •gree of pleasure but here, in his children's play- room, what, had this man to do? As he looked from his face to Irene's the answer seemed to COIIIP, and if his mental ejaculation had dared to be outspoken, the fervency with which he asked, Great. God! is this the price?" would have startled not a little those who heard it; and, strange though it may seem, of the party there assembled, only Irene seemed thoroughly com- posed, and laughingly suggested an adjournment to the drawing-room, as the smell of paint was enough to poison those unused to it, and she knew her father hated it. To the drawing-room then they descended, leaving Phyllis and Geoffrey alone. No sooner was the door closed than Phyllis sank among the cushions in a paroxysm of tears. O, Geoffrey," she cried," what a dreadful man Are all princes like that? Poor, poor Irene! And to think she loves him, for she does love him, Geoffrey she has never been herself since that ball. Do you think he has bewitched her?" I think he has bewitched us all," said Geoffrey, solemnly my father and mother look as if they had seen a ghost. Phyllis, swear that you will do all you can to prevent Irene from marrying this man." I am powerless," she answered; he is much more likely to prevent me from marrying you." Phyllis!" "Oh. don't look angry, Geoff. It is of no use I feel that the fate of everyone in this house is in Prince Lenskoff's hands." (To be continued.)
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Holloway's Pills purify the blood, remove all obstacles to Its free circulation through the lungs, reli ve the over-gorged air tubes, and render respiration free. without reduoing the strength, irriuting the nervrs. or depressing the spirits; such are the ready means of saving suileHng when anyone is afflicted with oold, coughs, bronchitis, and other chest com- plaints, by which so many persons are seriously and perma- nently afflioted In most countries. PARRY AND KOCKB'S Welsh Knitted Stoektngs are the best. 7903c (All Rights Reserved.) LAZARUS IN LONDON. By F. W. ROBINSON, Author of "Grandmother's Money" "Owen, a Waif"; Mattie, a Stray The Black Speck"; No Church," &c. BOOK THE SECOND. THE CLOSING OF THE NET. CHAPTER L SUNDAY MORNING. Yes, it was a pleasant holiday after all, and it brought me the health of which I had set out in search; it gave me strength to meet the troubles under which I might have sunk-even the strength to resist them when they were at last before me, a serried phalanx, difficult to cope with. A pleasant holiday to look back upon-a fair, green resting-place, full of bright and happy asso- ciations in the beginning, and well on towards its close-dating therefrom many changes—the one great change of my life, first of all. If the shadow land came back, and on its cross-paths and murky footways it was my lot to wander almost help- lessly, still there lay always this brightness in the distance, as one turning back in the twilight may catch the glory of the sunset on the hills beyond. And to the end of this story, to the end of time, the reflex of the sunshine never wholly left me, and kept me from giving up. To be less fervid in my descriptions, to let the gentle reader into my confidence at once, it may be as well to say that before the fortnight had elapsed of my holiday Ben Wellmore and I were engaged to be married, to take each other for better or worse, when the time that might be considered appropriate for that mutual transfer should arrive. What had brought about this extraordinary posi- tion of affairs—this decision—has to be explained. There were so many little reasons that seemed to lead up to it., and that did lead up to it, and settled the question for good and all, almost before I was quite sure myself that it was settled. In the first place I discovered that Mrs. Well- more was very poor, and that the small income saved from the wreck of her late husband's specu- lations just enabled her to rent and live in this cot- tage without any assistance from her son. I could not be a drag upon Ben," she said it is a great satisfaction to think I take not a penny ftom either of my sons—that I am independent of them, and can have to visit me now and then," she added, lightly touching my arm, "the friends I like, and the friends Hen likes." "You have been very kind," I said. Not at all. It is kind of you to brighten my little home." I- You have been kind to more than me—espe- cially of late," I added. Lydia, I know, has written to thank you for all your generous pre- sents." What presents?'' said Mrs. Wellmore, looking a trifle bewildered. Why, the fowls, butter, eggs, the—I Icnow-I see!" I exclaimed, so suddenly that the old lady leaped in her chair, and the kittens scuttled up- stairs overwhelmed with alarm, "it was Ben Yes, it was Ben," replied the mother. I did not know what you were talking about. My memory is not as good as it was. When I was a young girl, 1- It was Ben," I repeated, interrupting her "Why did he send those things to us in your name?" He was afraid you would not take them in his own, I suppose," said the old lady the Pi-otlie. roes are rather proud, like me. You must not be angry with him." I 11 Yes-I must,I replied. "It was deceiving u." My dear, he is anxious for you all." Anxious?" "He is concerned for you three girls," confessed the old lady whether he is right or wrong in his surmise, I do not know-but there, thlre, you must, talk to him about it when you see him." Yes," I answered thoughtfully, I will. I was wondering why he was distressed con- cerning the three Miss Protheroes, what there was in their position to render him anxious, what he knew that Ella and I did not, whether Lydia had said anything to him—which would be unlike Lydia's way to say anything at any time concern- ing our private bu-inea-wiiat he had found or^ for himself, or was rashly guessing at. I felt sorry he was so dreadfully deceitful, and I fHt angry, too a little sad, and then a little pleased, to think that there was one friend on our side, if somewhat clumsy in his friendship and his services. I would give him a" good talking to," I promised myself when we were face to face again, and two days afterwards, one early Sunday morning, there was the opportunity. He had come down by the first Sunday train from Waterloo, and was at Woodbine Cottage in time to take me to Bisley Church, a pleasant mile and a half walk away. He brought rneiown the news that they were all well in Fislier-street, th,.t Isaac Grarboush was no better and no worse, and that his daughter Sal was assiduous in her atten- tion to him, if occasionally irritable. All wasquiet. in Soho, I had been assured so by a note from Ella already, but it was satisfactory to hear from Ben that there was nothing new or sensational to dis- turb me. "And are then watching you still ?" I asked, a little nervously. I don't know, was the careless answer;" it is possible. If they are, we shall improve their health with the country air this morning. That's pretty evident. I wish you would not treat the matter so lightly," I said. I am not gran,- to let it prey upon me. and break me down," he answered that is not my style. Maud." No. But the charge itself is o g>*ave," I said. "Yes. And it is only a charge," he said "that's all they can make of it. And as it is no business of mine, I put it very positively on one side." It is not pleasant to be suspected even." "People are suspected every day of something they have neither done nor thought of. Why should I escape?" UP laughed at the idea of escaping calumny in an age of spiteful neighbours, bitter enemies, falqe friends, private inquiry offices, and respectaiile society journals. People must be amused, slander is a marketable commodity, and scrubs as well as scribes have a living to get. This is a good old-fashioned church," lie said, as we approached Bisley" a place which m'thes a fellow think he is really going to church. I shoutd like to be married here some day-when I can afford it," he added drily. He was very quiet during service, although he had talked of anything and everything up to the church doors, and at a great rate, too, as if he were afraid I should interpose with some questions of my own to which he might not care to reply. I had an idea that his mother had warned him I had a few words to exchange with him, and that he would prefer to postpone the subject till a more fitting opportunity-at all events—he was particu- larly garrulous, and did not allow me a fair share in the conversation. Iam afraid, too, that he was not attentive to the service, and that his thoughts travelled far afield—judging by a steady, solemn stare ahead of him. Ben Wellmore had a great deal on his mind that morning; a man on the verge of a long journey may possibly be pardoned a few moments of distraction, especially when that journey is through the mists of dim uncertainty and he leaves behind him, for went or woe, for good and all, perhaps for ever, the friends he has known, the friends he has loved and who love him. He was certainly a little absent before the ser- vice concluded a man cannot keep his seat when he ought to be Standing up, or remain standing after everybody has sat down, without giving the impression to those about him that his mind is a bit pre-occupied. The thought crossed me that he was disturbed even, that he was keeping some- thing to himAelf-gond news or bad, probably bad —and that the news rather than the sermon lay in the foreground of his ruminations. "I'm glad that's over," lie said, as he came out with me through a little crowd of parishioners, who evidently wondered where we had sprung from that morning. "It's a stuffy little place, overwarmed and like an oven. I have had the greatest difficulty to get a bi-ath there." I thought it was the church you liked?" "I have never been in it before," he said, coolly. "I'm not too regular a church-goer. But you wouldn't have thought it exactly Sunday if you hadn't gone to church, I'm sure, although I wmjld have preferred a good long walk myself. I have so much to say to you," he added, almost petu- lantly, and there does not seem enough time for me to say it in even." Is there not all day, or are you going away early ? I asked. "It is not all day with you," he replied, "and then mother will have a lot to say-all the say, poor old lady-and Heaven forbid I should stop her." Have yol.1 any bad news for me ? I asked, a little anxiously;" is tliere-is there-Rnvtbi n g about home, or Lyd ia, or El la." Nothing at all," he replied; they are well, and business is about the same, I believe. I haven't asked that, but I daresay it is." "And are you keeping something back from me ? I inquired again, "for you do keep things hack. You are not as outspoken and frank as I once thought you were. You are a little deceitful, Ben." •• Oh!" he said, now all attention what have I done?" We were crossing the fields, and had the morn- ing and its brightness completely to ourselves. I went straight to subject number one. I thought I would get that over first. "Why did you keep sending up presents in your mother's name of-of all kinds of things that we did not want?" I inquired, to begin with. Has the mother told you she didn't send them ?" « Yes." Didn't I say she had a bad momrrv And she never did send them, V .erfmore P" Ah I you must not be quite st.,w of that," he said easily;" and at all events it is not worth talking of to a fellow who has such a lot to tell you." Did you send those things ?" I persisted. Well, some of them. There!" he confessed. Why did you adopt the mysterious in the matter ?" I have been indebted to your sister Lydia for many little kindnesses in my life; for invitations to step in and spend half-an-hour, and—and, so on," he stammered, "and I thought I would try and make a little return if I could." You thought we were very poor, and it was your way of helping us," I said. Upon my word, I—I——" 1 do not say it was not very kind of you, Ben," said 1, interrupting him "but what gave you the impression we were so poor as that? I have not known it, if it be really so. I have not sus- pected it." Don't let us say anything more about it," he replied, uneasily. Do you know?" I have not been told. I can only guess—perhaps guess wrongly," he hastened to add. It is lowering us to have to subsist to any extent upon your charity." u Charity A fowl or two!" And times are not su bad as that in Fisher- street, I hope." I waited for him to say they were, but he answered, I hope not. But that fellow—that under-sell- ing wretch over the way—has brought down thfl trade, and I-I don't see people often in the shop now—and i have jumped to conclusions, that's all. Not that those things were sent out of charity," lie addfd, suddenly. You must not look upon it in that light. Charity, indeed what a word to use! Pray don't tiny Knythillg more about it. What is the good of it, and it makeB a fellow so warm But At all events, not to-day. You distract my ideas. I can't think what I was going to say next. Pooh it is hot." "Why, it's freezing I feel as if I were going to have a sunstroke." He took off his hat, and wiped his broad brow with his handkerchief; he looked so confused and worried that I did not persist in further inquiries. Perhaps we icere poorer than I had fancied, and Lydia had kept the truth from me more cleverly than she had from Ben Wellmore. It is the looker on that sees most of the game." And he had not only looked on but assisted us, and if this were the truth, the cruel truth, I was grateful in my heart. But it was hard to be helped by him to this extent—it touched the Protheroe pride more deeply than he knew. Could we be so very poor ? Could we have gone down so completely as this in a little while, and if so, what was coming with the rest of the winter? We had not known hitherto the desperate grinding of I he wheels, and I was not ready to belirve in it now. We had always lived on and fought our way. We were not wholly down Had not Lydia insisted on my having that new merino dress to come to Woking in, and to do honour to my hostess, and for the credit of the Protheroes? That was a happy thought, and brightened me up again. Ben noticed the change in my looks before he had got his hat on again. He was very quick, I began to think. Now it's my turn to put a few questions," he said, with a curious and forced smile. Not yet. I have another complaint to make." "Oh! lor' he exclaimed, "I have not done any- thing else against the peace and quietness of the family, upon my word and houour." have been very sly." "Sly 1" To keep from me all this time the knowledge of my sister's old engagement to your brother James—the fact even of your brother James's existence—every scrap of the story." "To keep from you!" he repeated. Yes." And you did not know anything of this ? Lydia has never told you ?" he exclaimed. Nut a word." I should not have imagined she was as close as that," he said, looking very much puzzled; "shf is the veritable silent woman, Maud. 1 thought you would not speak of her, or of my brother, or of the past—that it was etiquette for att of us to be dumb, brother James having sneaked out of his en- gagement like a weasel. But to think you did not know That is what your mother said last night," I said; "but to think you did not know I did not know!" No, I di1 not know that—Oh! bother these didn't know's," he broke in, restlessly after all, it's a painful story that. is not worth talking over. I'm sorry you have dragged it forward at such an unseasonable tune-such a very awkward time for me." Why awkward Because I'm one of the Wellmore tribe, you pe, the brother of that party at Brooklyn who never kept his word, he said. Is that anything to do with the present occa- sion ?" Very much to do with it, Maud," he said, sud- denly, for I want you to trust 1111', is Lydia Pro- (hc oe trusted my brother James. And it seems a bad look out fur me!" CHAPTKR If. "THIRD TIMK—LUCKT To say that I was surprised at Bon Wellmore's proposal would not be in keeping with the vera- cious character of these chronicles. I had quite expected something of the kmd; this was the third tiuie that he had done me the honour of offering me his hand and heart and fortune, and I had grown usfd to the position. At least I had got used to Ben Wellmore and his ways—considered that I understood him pretty thoroughly, and that nothing he could say would astonish or alarm or embarrass me much. But on this occasion [ was disturbed, and more inclined to blush and look confus-d than I had been in all my life be- fore. Perhaps this was on account of its being Sunday morning, when love-making should, as a rule, be very properly set aside till the week-da" d, unless the gentlemiin suitor is in a hurry and can- not make it convenient. to propose on Monday, having an important engagement elsewhere. And this was the excuse I could make for Mr. Well- more's irreverence, consequently I was not much stacked as a properly regulated heroine should have been. And, after all, love-making does go on —on a Sunday I have heard, and is rather fashion- able than otherwise. I, Maud Protheroe, however, had a character to maintain for consistency. I had already said No twice, and very firmly too. WtI had tafkmi all this over twice before, Ben," I said is it worth while to begin again?" "I thought it might bu," he replied. Is it fair to take advantage of my being your mother's UØdt ?,. "I have thought of that too," he said, "and perhaps it is not fair. But I am going away—and one wants to make sure of you." "When are going P" I inquired; "is it quite d, c ded ?" Yes; it is quite decided," he repeated. 44 And when is it to be?'' Next Saturday week." Why, that is almost a fortnight." Yes I shall not go till you are back in Fisher- street," he said. I shall not say good-bye here, of course. But I wanted to know- "What!" I asked much too innocently, for he said at once in his usual impetuous way, Nw, don't bel(in to aggravate me, Maud.This is' the third time of asking,' and it's a crisis in my life, and [ am "8 serious and solemn as becomes a man. I know I am a rough, blunt sort of fellow, and hardly fit for you; i have had to rough it many years, aud not. had time to grow refined, and to study deportment and so on. I have only had to fall in love with you, and to think that if there's a nicer girl in the world I haven't seen her, and if I had, I'm sure she wouldn't suit me half so well as you would." I don't like flattery," I said. I hate it," he answered; but I'm telling the truth—that's the beauty of it. Now, don't begin to laugh. When once you are in one of these laughing moods I know you'll be saucy, and turn everything into ridicule. And then it's all up with me." Is it not a strange time to ask me to become engaged, Ben ? Not at. all. That is, not as I look at it, and as I hope you will look at it this time." "Well. Why isn't itP" I am going abroad, and if I am lucky abroad I shall settle there for good," he explained; "and it would help on my work and sweeten labour very much, God knows, if I could be assured that you were waiting for me to come and fetch you to the new home presuntly-the home I should work heart and soul to get round me." Is not this very much what your brother James said t o my sister Lydia ? "Ah! there you go. Yes, something like it, I daresay, and that is what I am afraid of," he re- plied, with a rueful gaze towards me; "only there if a little difference in it which linn coming to. I believe that in six months I shall see my way, and if that way is downward, I will let you know as readily as if the road was leading to pros- perity. You will give me six months' trial- won't you ?'' Why not wait six months longer, and then write to me ?" "I would go away with something more of a hope at my heart," he replied. Don't you know that that gives strength to a man, and makes leaving home less hard to bear—makes the new country more like the home he has left." And Ella, and Lydia ? You expect me to leave them!" Ella will get married and leave you," was the quick reply. And Lydia?" Well, I have a plan concerning Lydia and my mother—all in good time that is. And Lydia will be very glad to hear you have accepted me." Oh I will she? I said ironically. "I have spoken of it to Lydia," he replied. "I spoke of it last night, Maud, and told her what I was going to say to-day, and she wished me God speed, and said that I cculd bring her no better news than that you and I had made up our minds to get married, when the good times came round to us." She said that ? "Yes." "She wished it?" "Yes. With all her heart, she said," Let me think over this for a while. Seriously ? Y<>s. I am not making a jest of it at all, Ben. I have grown very old of late days, and this world of mine is not as it has been. It is full of change, and Iam changing with Changing to a thoughful and tender-hearted little woman," he answered, that's all." And this is the man that does not deal in flattery!" I said. Now let me think it over for a good long while. Ma.y I V How long do you want?'' Would a week be too long?" Good Lord! Yes." Would five minutes be too long ?" Ah! that's more rational. Anybody can make his mind up in five minutes,if he tries, if "and then he paused. i fancy I can make up my mind before we get to the next stile," I said thoughtfully; u and if I try very hard." He looked quickly du at me, us if doubtful of what my answer would be—doubtful if 1 even were considering the matter very gravely after all. or as if suspicious that it might be the echo of my last two responses to his love suit, the echo of the wish of my heart to be quit of him this time for good and all, and so end the persecution. He could not read my thoughts, and I did not intend that he should. My heart was not on my sleeve for this big daw to peck at, yet awhile. He relapsed into silence, and walked on moodily by my side, like a man prepared for the worst. Glancing at him, I noted that his face had gone into shadow, and that it was a sterner face than I had hitherto seen. When we reached the stile I said very gravely too— "I have made up my mind not to wait six months for vou." Just as I thought you——" But to wait till you come for me, however long that may be," I concluded, putting my hands in his. My darling Maud!" he burst forth. Then, before I knew where I was, he had lifted me up in his arms like a doll, kissed me, and set me down again. Now, we can face life," he said, drawing my hand within his arm now one feels marching forward in earnest, blessed with a strong hope. And now Ben Wellmore is really talking poetry." Ah, Love brings the poetry out of a mtn," he replied." but this is real earnest. I hope so." And so began love in real earnest, as well as life in real earnest, for us two simpletons, knowing not what a day might bring forth. I had been a long while making up my mind. It had seemed at one time impossible that this should be my hero; but I had been learning to love him by degrees—bit by bit, perhaps, but then he was such a giant of a man to love aH at once! I had learned to know that he was a good man, a man of much consideration for others, and one who understood the trials and temptations of others, and had a sympathy for them, none the less real because he made no parade of it and lived in a top room in Fisher-street, Soho. And so Ben and I were engaged. It was an odd sort of engagement; the lady wit h not a penny in the world, and Ben, after his passage money was paid, with only about fifteen pounds ten shillings to the good. An improvident match, but we were two of the working classes, and they are always improvident, the wise folk of this world take occa- sion to prove to us. Ah well—very likely. And they have their love makings as well as their betters, and don't wait for the settlements," and, so far as I can see, are about as happy as the great, grand people further West, take them altogether. They have their lights and shadows, their joys and sorrows, and in the grand sum total of accounts the scales do not always weigh against them. Even in Holy Writ Dives did not always have it all his own way. CHAPTER III. ANOTHER COOTLE. We did not get quite across the fields without meeting someone whom we both knew. It is a very narrow worid.the philosopher says, and there is no escaping old faces, old friends, old enemies. As we neared the last field there came through the gate which opened on the high road a lady and gentleman in deep mourning, and the gentleman was Hugh Mackness, I saw at a glanse—and before Ben had time to recognise him too. He did not see me for some time. He was coming along slowly, and cutting at the grass with his walking-cane as he strolled on by his cousin's side, and I had leisure to observe the lady whom he had preferred to Ella-for whose money, as a wise pre- caution against fate, he had given up my sister. Vanda Mackness was fair and rather pretty— "talii-h" and slim, with a face that was very white in the sunlight, and hair of a deep, dusky red. A woman thirty years of age—at least, six years older than her captive. She was talking to her companion—"doing all the talking," as Ben remarked afterwards—and he was answering without taking his eyes from the grass. When he did look up he recognised Ben Wellmore and me, and was startled at the sight of us. I could almost fancy he changed colour as he advanced, raised his hat, and extended his hand almost eagerly towards me. Miss Protharoe," he said, this is a surprise indeed. Good morning," he added more stiffly to my lover. Good morning," replied Ben, a little gruffly. I did not want to shake hands with Hugh Mack- ness again, but it looked like affectation, like a wish to make II a scene, or too much of the posi- tion to decline his friendly advance. So we all four came to a full stop, and all four were possibly somewhat embarrassed by the meeting. "Vanda," he said, turning to Miss Mackness. "you will allow me to introduce you to Miss Protheroe, the daughter of Mr. William Protheroe, your father's old partner." Vanda was not unainiable in her greeting, but noteffusive. There was a sad smile, if somewhat f. reed, upon her face, as she bowed in response to the hasty introduction, but there was a keen summing of me up in the grey eyes, a look that seemed to say, so this i a Protheroe, this is one of them!" I was sure a minute afterwards that Vanda Meekness knew something of the old story-perhaps all of it—for she added in low voice— Mis En" Protheroe, is it, ?" No. I am Maud. Ella's sister." "I had some little knowledge-very little—of your half-sist'-r, Miss Campbell, some yea. s since," she addnl calmly; but she would hardly recog- nise me now. Is she well?" Quite well, thank you." You are staying in Woking?" Yes, for a few days." "I am staying with my aunt for a week or so but the place would be very dull if my cousin were not kind enough to run down and see me now and then," she said, "he is very good to me." The cousin, who was very good, continued to flip diligently at the grass—he looked very sallow in the dayiight.and not particularly happy in the pros- pects of his coming grandeur. was a new, strange, furtive look in him which I had not noticed before, a trick of regarding one from under his black eyebrows that was almost sinister. And he was regarding Ben Wellmore in this way—and only Ben—as if puzzled to account for his presence there, or his right to be with me, as if very curious in his heart about him altogether. Ben's position was a somewhat awk ward one, for I could not introduce him to Miss Mackness, and Buh Mackness had evidently not thought it worth while. And feeling in the way after a moment or two he strolled on a few paces in advance, with his big hands clasped behind him. Miss Mackness was very quick. She saw that I was anxious to follow Ben, and she extended her hand suddenly and frankly, and with some degree of grace towards me, and said— We are detaining you, Miss Protheroe. Good- day." 1 shook hands with the pale lady. but Hugh Mackness turned to me, as if anxious to postpone the parting. And you are all well, I trust," lie said. Thank you, yes," I replied. "I had a letter from Bournemouth from your father, yesterday." Indeed." Where are you staying ?" he asked suddenly. 14 At Mr. Wellmore's mother's house." His mother's f" with a gesture of his hand towards Ben, sauntering on very slowly; did you say his mother's ?" Yes." "Then But before he could ask me another question Miss Mackness had caught her cousin by the wrist, as if for support, and I saw that her lips had turned white and her eyes were half-closed. "Vanda—what is it?" he said, solicitously enough, II are you ill ?" No—no—I shall be better in a minute," she said, a sudden faintness, that is all. Did you mention the name of Wellmore, Miss Protheroe?" Yes," I replied. And that is—Mr. Wellmore?" she asked, look- ing eagerly after Ben, and yet shuddering as she looked. I answered yes" again. Take me away, Hugh," she murmured. He offered her his arm, and she put her hand upon it, and walked slowly from me. Hugh Mack- ness looked at me for an instant, and said— Good-bye." Then he glanced at Ben again, and passed on with his cousin Vanda. Had those two heard that Ben Wellmore was under suspicion ? It was very probable. (To be continued.)
TO A KITTEN.
TO A KITTEN. Written by a little Curd iff Lady (of 14) in anticipation of the advent of a new governess. Oh kitten with thy winsome face. Xhv gotden head an I gentle purr. Thy IItt.le paw, so full 01 grace, And curly tail of lovely fur! My t reasure, should we ever part Oh! keep me still in thy dear heart! Oh pussy: when Miss comes I'd better teach thee all I learn Thou shalt know German, French, and sums. But never think that I'll be ste, n My treasure, Ihould we ever part Oh keep me still in thy dear heart!
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[All rigius reserved.j BETWEEN MTDNIGHT AND DAWN. By INA LEON CASSILIS, Author of "Strangely Wooed—Strangely Won "Guilty without Crime;" "The Mystery of Weeping Cross," &c., &c. Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream ?" —Edgar Allan PDe. CHAPTER XXXVI. MORE LINKS IN THB CHAIN. While vengeance in the lurid air Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare." One morning in May Max Caerlyon, seated in his chambers in the Temple, was told that a gentleman wished to see him, and the gentleman's card was handed to him. Ask Mr. Harwood to step in," he said, quietly, and in walked in another minute a gentlemanly- looking man, who had nothing striking in his ap- pearance, and the possession of a pair of shrewd, bright eyes would not have specially distinguished him In a crowd. Nevertheless, Mr. Harwood was a person of some consequence, as some people knew to their cost, though they would not have recognised the name by which he thought proper just now to designate himself, and which Mr. Caerlyon also employed, though well aware of his visitor's real patronymic. Pray be seated, Mr. Hafwnod," he said, indi- cating a chair. You have some news for me, 1 see." "You're keen, sir," said the other, smiling, as he sat down. Yes, sir, I have news-tolerably im- portant news, I take it; and it has been a pretty job hunting it up. That gentleman is a knowing blade, sir." Aye; he does not walk on a road till he has paved it well." Caerlyon pushed aside the papers upon which he had been engaged, and added—" I have news too; but first for yours, and if it be what I hope to hear, I shall next take a bold step." First, then, sir," said Harwood, leaning for- wards a little," that uncle was, as you thought, a • cook-up '—there's no such person, and if there had been, Mr. Desborough certainly wasn't with him, for I've found out where he was. No need, perhaps, sir, to go into all the details now, as you are busy, no doubt; they'll do another time; the upshot is this: While you were at Ercildoune Mr. Desborough was in apartments in Moninouth-road, Bayswater; he'd be nice and out of the way there of such people of his set as happened to he in town in September. He went out very little; but he left about nine in the morning of the —th, the Dingwall Race day, and returned in the afternoon of the day following. The landlady and her daughter will swear to aU this and they will swenr to Mr. Desborough him- self. He lodged with them under the name (If Des- borough. They'd nothing to tell about him, ex- cept what I have told you, sir; he was quiet, gave very little trouble, saw no one at home, seemed to go nowhere. When he left on the —th, he only said that he was going for a day or two; and they asked no questions. They are very superior sort of people—trustworthy witnesses." Caerlyon set his teeth. "Well done, Harwood," he said, in a kind of grim triumph, "it will go hard if this double-dyed traitor is not in my grasp within a week. You have not yet succeeded in tracing him to Ding- wall ? B No, sir, I have tried my utmost; but I cannot find any trace of him. He has quite b >(fled mfl there. He must have gone down in some disguise. Nor can I discover anything more than is known already about the man who was seen with Mr. Herbert at Dingwall. Of course that man was Mr. Desborough, and certainly he was disguised then." I think, said Caerlyon," that the evidence we have already will justify me in taking the one step which can bring to the test the belief that Laurence Desborough and Dick Tollemache are identical; and even if a jury should decline to con- vict of murder, Tollemache is wanted for forgery —as you well know. Thanks, a thousand times, for the work you hav6 done, and done so thoroughly well. And now for my news. I obtained, and sub- mitted to a first-class analyst, a lock of Des- borough's hair. His report, stripped of technicali ties, is this—that the hnir is dyed; of the orginal colour he cannot speak with certainty, but he in- clines to the opinion that it is very fair hair." Mr. Harwood nodded intelligently. Mr Caer- lyon," he said, "excuse me-but what a detective you would have made Nothing iike leather, eh said the Hher, laugh- ing. "I think I have now I "nest Mr. Laurence Desborough on the «. :rge of murder. A bold step—yes but, y-ou knew, I be- lieve in boldness; besides, I must have Mr. Des- borough in durance vile, where it can be proved that he is made up,' where his hair can have lim<> to grow, and, in short, the butterfly Dick Tolle- iniche c^n struggle out of the chrysalis Laurence to grow, and, in short, the butterfly Dick Tolle- iniche struggle out of the chrysalis Laurence Desborough." I It is a bold step, sir, but right—boldness I is a paying game. What then, if I may ask, will b" t'te procedure ?" At the first examination I shall produce the landlady and her daughter from Munmoufh-road to sws»ar to the identity of their lodger and his absence on the date of the mjrder, and other evidence, sufficient to make out a primA facie case and then I shall ask for a remand. Cut off from I the means of shaving, Desborough will resume his own identity, and there would be no difficulty then in establishing he fact that he is Wild Dick Tollemache.' Many others, besides the house- keeper of The Larches, will swear to him and Lady Una Herbert's recognition of him could ¡ hardly fail to weigh with a jury. Ishatt.ofcourso, see you as,in in the matter, as your evidence will be required, and I must place the case in the hands of a solicitor. The cypher papers wili tell heavily against Desborough." It is the strangest case I ever came across, sir," said the detective, as he rose to depart, and I have had to do with some queer ones in my j time. The psychology gets beyond me, and yet there must be something in it, because Lady Una' never knew Tolleiiiache, and couldn't, as he must have taken up his disguise when she was in the nursery; but if it hadn't been for her seeing him in that way, he might have got off scot free." Most likely, for who would have thought of the gully, of which so few persons even knew the existence ) "It's bad for him, sir-I wouldn't be in his place: for something. Good-day, sir." Good-day, Mr. Harwood." I An hour later Max Caerlyon was in the office of; a well-known solicitor, and that evening he called I in Whitehall Gardens. I CHAPTER XXXVII. I AKKKSTKO I Not at home ?" repeated Laurence Desborough, in answer to Lady Una Herbert's footman, who had just vouchsafed the information above recorded. "I think if you will tell Lady UnajI wish to see her 'j she will be at. home to me." My lady is out, sir she went out about half- an-hour ago in the brougham and left no message." You don't know, then, when she will return ?" No, sir Very well." Desborough left his card, and turned away from the door, disappointed. He would call again in the morning, he said to him- self but he little imagined when and wherelie would again meet Una Herbert. He sauntered slowly to Grafton-street, where he had chambers, enjoying the fresh, soft air, and possibly medita- ting somewhat Cynically on the contrasts of human existence, and wondering who and what were some of the men and women who he passed, and if they equally wondered who and what he was. Or he might have been thinking of Una Herbert, and speculating on the brilliant future that lay before him, none the less brilliant for the likeli- hood of Max Caerlyon having coveted the treasure of Una's love. There was a smile on the man's lips as he opened the door of his rooms, and the smile had not gone when he flung himself into an arm chair, and clasped his hands above his head. He had reached the acme of his hopes. All he had striven for he had gained. If there were shadows in the past, he would not permit them to cloud the future. Una Herbert's love-and fortune—were virtually his. She was not a woman who would allow the opposition of friends, or the evil opinion of the world, to stand permanently between her and happiness, still less to sacrifice anotlwr's happiness to the Moloch of scandal; therefore, Desborough had no fear of what the eud would be. Already his hand grasped the prize-already he saw himself en vied—succe>sf u I-happy, Another month," he said within himself, "another month, maybe, and busy fools will have ceased asking, Who is Laurence Deshorough ? Suc- cess is a wondrous quietus for ill-timed curiosity. Ah! my dear friend Caerlyon-if you only knew! —you might cut me out even now. Come in!" This aloud in reply to a hurried knock at the door, but before the words were out of his mouth the door was almost burst open, and his servant entered abruptly, with pale face of alarm. No need to announce the reason of this unceremonious entrance, for close on the servant's heels came a couple of tall policemen, one of whom was an in- spector. Desborough rose to his feet. haughty and self-possessed, though he had turned deadly white. What does this intrusion mean?" he demanded of the policemen." '• Why are, you here ?'' The inspector saluted respectfully. "An unpleasant duty, sir," he said, but I have no choice, 1 have here a warrant to arrest you on a charge of murder." "Murder!" repeated Desborough, with an air of bewiHerment. "There must be some mistake, Murder Well, of course, sir, if there's a mistake it'll be all cleared up," said the inspector; but the war- rant's right enough, and he was proceeding to read it aloud when Desborough interrupted him. Who is my accuseri>" he asked, calmly, Mr. Maxwell Caerlyon." Desborough staggered back a step, but almost immediately recovered himself and said rather hurriedly— And I atx. charged, I presume, with the murder of Grantl<sy Herbert9 Just sir; I must "Ak you to come along [ with me." "It is a cWirfwr cned i isborough. •I'm very sorry, sir, said the imperturbable policeman, but I'm only doing my duty." "Of course. Well, I have no choice. I suppose I may get a few things together?'' I mustn't let you out of my sight, sir." «You're welcome, and to seize all my papers also; you'll f>n(l nothing compromising." Ten minutes later Mr. Laurence Desborough de- parted in the custody of the police. He felt almost stunned by the utterly unexpected blow; but he did not suspect that Una Herbert was an accessory j in his arrest. Max Caerlyon had been raking up evidence in order to sweep a rival from his patii. Left alone, however, the man's acute intellect gradually resumed its balance, and he was en- abled to review the circumstances of the past few months. A new light broke in upon him. Had he been duped and fooled ? Had he been playing into Max Caerlyon's hands instead of baffling him? Was Una's love all a pretence-her pre- tended fear of the world's censure only a mask to cover her real detestation of the man she professed to regard as a lover, yet to whom she permitted none of a lover's privileges? He re- called her reticence, how she had never allowed him even to kiss her hand. Had she been all through only Caeriyon's accomplice-obeving his behest- acting as he—her real lover—dictated? The journey to Dingwall Wood, was it a plant, the real object being the visit to The Larches? Yet how should Max Caerlyon suspect the truth on which alone such an expedition could be explained? The I lock of hair-was it as a souvenir that Una begged for this, or only to submit it to analysis? As these surmises ranged themselves in his brain, Des- borough ground his teeth in the very impotence of wild fury that for a time obliterated every fear. There is nothing in the whole range of human feeling more maddening to a man than the know- ledge that he has been fooled by the woman lie loves, and who he believes loves him, and has been made to dance to a rival's piping. Laurence Desborough's so-called love might be only a selfish passion, but such passion is as jealous as love without love's ennobling ingredients; and it is certain that if, in these moments, Una or Caerlyon had appeared be- fore the prisoner he would have leaped at them like a wild animal, with murder in thought and deed, if not stayed, recking no more of conse- quences than an animal. But presently another passion supervened the passion of fear. Max Caerlyon was a man to act boldly, but not rashly he .was a profound lawyer, and not likely to take the step he had taken with- out some very strong evidence. Was it possible, Desborough asked himself, that Caerlyon bad dis- covered the secret of the cypher ? That cypher Desborough had himself submitted to experts, with the same result as that obtained by Caerlyon how, then, could Caerlyon have discovered a secret hidden from men for whom such a thing as a secret cypher hardly existed ? Yet if Caerlyon suspected that he (Desborough) was disguised, and succeeded in proving even so much, no one knew better than the accused man how grave would be the conse- quences to himself though the charge of murder should fail to the ground. The drops of perspira- tion stood on the man's brow as he reviewed all the past and strove to conjecture the future, but strive as he would he could not fit all the links. He knew enough, however, to be well aWare that lie had pretty well run his course, and had little to hope for. And meanwhile London was ringing with the news that the supposed murderer of Grantley Her- bert had been taken, and extraordinary revela- tions were promised an expectant public. (To be continued.)
GHOSTS AND GHOST STORIES,…
GHOSTS AND GHOST STORIES, ALSO SUPERSTITIONS, LEGENDS, FAIRY TALES, ETC. COMPILED AND COLLECTED BY THE "DUTCHMAX." BITING THE THUMB. From the days of chivalry right down to the time almost of Shakespeare the recognised form of challenge was universally that of biting the thumb, though, according to many historians, it was originally only a form of insulting gesture. At the rising of the curtain on "Romeo and Juliet the feud between the adherents of the rival houses is introduced by one of them biting his thumb. This is construed by those on the opposite side as a challenge (or insult) for another deadly broil. Thus Sampson, on the Capulet side, telis Gregory, I his companion, I will bite my thumb at them I which is a disgrace to th?mif they bear it." Lpon this Abram, of the Montagues, who eoters upon the I scene, inquires, Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?" Sampson, after a hasty calculation of the force he should have to oppose, says, No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, but I bite my thumb, "ir." This evasive reply served not his purpose. for the onslaught becomes general, tue fatal issue only being prevented by the arrival of the Prince, who commands them Under I pqin of death, all men depart. Decker, in his dead term, gives a lively description I of the groups of gallants who daily distinguished themselves in the walks ot Old St. Paul's Cathedral Churchyard, and makes use of I this expression," What swearing is there: what shouldering! wha., jeering what biting of thumbs to begot quarrels Several other writers make use of the same expression, and we are, tliersfore, led to believe that when not used as a direct cual- lenge to strife to bite the thumb was as great an insult as to tweak the nose." LORD BACON'S AFTER DEATH APPEARANCE. Mr. Aubrey has left it on record, on the authority of Sir Wm. Dagdale, that Major-General, afterwards Lord Middleton, went into the Figiiiand-- if Scotland to endeavour to make a party for KingCharlesI. An ok1 gentleman possessing the gift of second sight met him, and told him that his attempt, though laudaole, would not be successful, and that, besides, they would put the King to death, and that several other attempts would be made, but all in vain. I His son, however, would come in, although it would ba long fitst, and would at last be restored I This nobleman (Middleton) had a gteat friendship for Lord Bacon, and they made all agreement that the first of them that died should appear to the othor in extremity. It happened that Lord Middle- ton was taken prisoner at the Battle of Worcester and sent up to London. When he was confined in the Tower one day, under three locks, lying pensive on his couch, Hacon appeared to him. Lord Middleton asked him if he were dead or alive. He replied that he was dead, and had been so for m tny years, but that he was come to revive his I hopes, and that ;n a very short time-within three days-lie should escape. This fell out a.b it was foretold, Lord Middleton escaping in his lady's dress. When Lord Bacor i delivered his mes- sage he floated cut of the room like a vapour, aud vanished. THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. It is related of the lady of 3. Constable of France that when in bar prime she was s ipposrd to be OM of the most beautiful women in Europe. On one occasion she was conversing with some ladies in her boudoir when one of her waiting women came in apparently suffering from great emotion, and said:—" My lady, a gentleman is just enter- ing your chamber, who is very tall, and quite black, and desires to speak with you. He says it is about affairs of great consequence, which he cannot communicate to any but you." At every circumstance relating- to this extraordinary courier, which the woman was ordered to describe .ninuteiv, the lady was seen to turn pale, and was so oppressed with horror that she was hardly able to tell her woman to entreat the gentleman in her name to defer his visit, to another time. This message she delivered, bur he answered in a tone which filled her with as- tonishment, If your lady will not come to me I will go and seek her in her closet." At last she resolved to go to him, but with. all the indications of deep despair. In a short time she returned to her company, bathed in tears and half dead with dismay. She was able only to speak a few words, to take leave of them, particularly those ladies who were her friends, and to assure them that she should never see them more. That instant she was seized with exquisite pain; all her beauty vanished, every feature of her face was changed, and she became It spectacle of horror. At the end of three days she died, in the utmost pain of body and mind. The Duke of Sully, referring to the story, says, Of this story the wise thought as they ought to think. Suppose the story be true suppose it be related just as it occurred (and there is no shadow of reason to imagine the contrary), all wise men ought to think that God permitted an evil spirit to put an end to the life of an evil woman." A MURDER DISCOVERED BY A DREAM. A young gentleman in the city of Dublin dreamed one night that his sister, who had recently been married, and lived at some small distance, had been murdered. Waking up it gave him some uneasiness, but finding it was only a dream he went to sleep again, when he dreamed the same thing. He then got up, dressed himself, and went to the apartment of an old lady, and with great agitation told his dream. She smiled at him, and said she wondered that a gentleman of his under- standing should be troubled about a dream, and bade him go to bed again. He did so. fell asleep, and for the third time dreamed that his sister had been murdered. Thereupon he arose, dressed himself quickly, and hastened to his sister's house, where he found that her husband, after a religious dis- pute, had cut and mangled her barbarously. She just lived to utter a few words to her brother, and then expired of her wounds. Subsequently, the husband was captured, tried, and hanged for the crime. LOVE TOKENS. B^twnen two and three centuries ago, says Mr. W. A. Clouston, it was the custom, as stated in the old chronicles, for "enamoured maydesand gentil- women" to give to their favourite swains, as tokens of their love, little handkerchiefs about three or four inches square, wrought round about often in embroidery, with a button or a tassel at each corner, and a little one in the centre. The finest of these favours were edged with gold lace, or twist, and then being folded in four cross folds, so that the middle might be seen, they were worn by accepted lovors in their hats or in their breasts. Tokens were also given by the gentlemen, and accepted by their fair mistresses. They are thus described in one of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays:- Given ear-rings we will wear, Bracelets of our lovers' hair, Which they on our arms shall twist. (With our names carved) on our wrist.
[No title]
Public Analysts have submitted CADBURY'S COCOA to close tests, and the result has always proved its great value as a sustaining and nourishing beverage. Beware of Imitations. 6978c PARRY AND ROCKE'S Welsh Yarns are the hest. 7905c
ITO CORRESPONDENTS.
TO CORRESPONDENTS. EN-GUSH Poetry intended for insertion in the Weekly Marl should be addressed to the Editor, at the Cardiff offices of the paper; all Welsh compositions to Dewi Wyr. o Essyllt, Ponlyiii'1' COKRKSPONDJSNTS who heir unused MSS. re- turned must in all caaei enclose stamps for that purpose. "J. J." (Rnvmney).—Not up to our standllrd by a hun- dred miles. "EKGLYJT I'R EHEDTDN," gan Daniel Jenkins CwmdAr.-Englyn tlws ac ardderchog ei feddyl- ddrychau; ni ddarllenasom ei gystal i'r ehedydd erioed, yr ydym yn ineddwl yn sicr. ENGI^N {'R GWIRIONEDD, ELOR, A'B Wr," gan Ogwenydd, Trefgarth, Bangor. Eoglynion buddugol yw y rhai hyn, ac y maent yn rhai gici/ch dros ben. "DAU ENGLYN I BEDWAR PLENTYN MR. WILLIAM THOMAS, BRYNAWEL, ABERDAR (pa rai a fuant feirw o fewn tri mis), gan Ehedydd Glan Aman, neu Mr. Morgan Lewis, Troedrhiwtwyn- Gyfeillion. Englynion tlws a chywrain- gynghaneddol iawn. "ENGLYN BEDDARGRAFF AMELIA," gan yr ur awdwr.—Prydferth iawn. i "ENGLYN BBDDARGRAFF MARI," gan yr un awdvri eto.-Englynion o gynghaneddiad cryf, ac < syniadaeth dlos a thyner rhyfeddol yw y rba' hyn oil. Diolch i'r awdwr am danynt.
BARDDONIAETH.
BARDDONIAETH. YR EHEDYDD. Hedydd derch? gwawr-anerchydd,—awenber Unben haf-wybrenydd; O-i addolfa ddieilfydd » Mawrha,—ysbrydola'r dydd Cwmdar. D. JIKKINS. ENGLYN I'R GWIRTONEDD. (Buddugol yn Eisteddfod Goronog, Llangefni, allan o 30 o ymgeiswyr). Gwirionedd dilwgr liyiiod.-yr un fudd, A'r un faint bob cyfnod, Da fyth,—dim newid i fod,— Diadwy fel y Duwdod! I'R ELOR. (Buddugol yn Nghonwy). Moddion i'm danfori, me,idaf.-hyd weryd- Oror faith, lie byddaf; Drwy'r byd o gerbyd a gaf, I r Elor fydd yr olaf. I'R WY. (Buddugol yn Mbsingor.) Goludog giawl hedyn,—a da 'r iâr, Ydyw'r Wy mewn plisgyn- Gwisg y cy w i gysgu, cyn Deori yn aderyn. Tregarth, Bangor. 06WZNYBD. DAU ENGLYN Ar farwolaeth pedwar plentyn William Thomas, Brynawel. Pedwar plentyn gwyn, teg wedd,—a roddwyd I'r pr dd I gydorwedd Dwy chwaer—da i frawd, Ow • chwerwwedd, Druain bach roed i'r un bedd. Er inarw. fe ddaw awr mawredd- iddyut 0 berfe<1dion dufedd Codant yn bedwar cydwedd I wlad bur o waelod bedd. BEDDARGRAFF T AMELIA. Oer ei hanedd, lle'r huna-y deilwng Hndolus Amelia; Gorwedd mewn bedd, nes gwawria "I Farn fawr, i nef hi A. BEDDARGRAFF MARL Dyma weryd du. Mari.—yn y bedd, o swti byd j\'i gyni; Wvlem oil pan wnaed colli o Seion hoff ei own hi. EHEDYDD GLAN AM A*.
ODDIAR Y MUK.
ODDIAR Y MUK. LLITH III. Y mae rhyw bobl yn son yn barhaus am eu cenedlgarwch, a gellid meddwl mai hwy ydyw ffynonell ein bywyd fel cenedl ac amod a hanfod ein cenedlaetholdeb. Ar lwyfan yr Eisteddfodau ac esgynloriau cyfarfodydd politicaidd. ceir eu clywod yn "cosi" v bobl ac yn gogleisio eu teimladau, er mwyn iddynt gredu mai hwy ydyw gwir arwyr y Dywysogaeth. Canmolant y Cymry a'n holl eefydliadau, ein hiaitb a'n harferion, eir beirdd a'n Uenorion, ein mynyddoedd a'n hafon- ydd, y golygfeydd rhamantus, a phobpetb perth- ynol i Wlad y Gan ond yn y cyffredin y maent hwy eu hunain wedi gadael ein gwlad i gymeryd ei siawns o'u rhan hwy, ac yn fyoych iawn y maf y ffug-gyfeillicn hyn yn analluog i anerch torf < bobl yn iaith v-u mam 1 Y maent yn Gvmry 0" tafoa i'w Ilogellau-dii-n pellach a phan y bydf bod yn rhywboth arall yn fwy o elw iddynt rhedalJt ar ol hwnw, Dyma y dosbarth, mewi gwirionedd. sydd yn gwaeddi am ddinystrio y Eglwys yn Nghymru, a rhyfedd mor anwybodusy rhaid eu bod yn tybied fod y werin pan y codant y cri yn ei herbyn ei bod yn Eglwys estronol ac yn an-Nghymroaidd, Fe wyr pawb mat dyma y sefydliad hynaf yn ein gwlad. Y mae yr Egiwys wedi goroesi pob peth ac y mae wedi cael ei throsglwyddo i lawr i ni yn ddiogel trwy chwyl- droadau yr oesoedd; ie, trwy f wy naphyntheg cant o flynyddoedd o brofedigaethau ac orlidig- aethau. Os oes rhyw sefydliad yn ein mysg yn meddu hynafiaeth, yr Eglwys ydyw hwnw. Yn wir, pan yn chwilio am hynafiaeth rhaid I ni fyred ynoied yeh am dano; ac os nad all yr F.[..»vyi hawlio ei bod yn "Gy.nraes lan, lobw ifi e genedigaeth-fraint a chyflwyno llechj, 0" hachau ag a rydd foddlonrwydd i'r mwyaf vh*g farnllyd, ni wiw i ddim na neb arall geisio honi eu bodo waedoliaeth Cymreig. Gwir fod yr Eglwyfo yn Nojhymru wedi ei huno å'r Eglwys yn Lloegr ond nid yw .)yny yn ei gwneud yn llai Cymro aidd, mwy nag y mae Y" undeb gwladol yr gwneud un gwahaniaeth i ni fel cenedl. Yr ydym ni yn Gymry yn awr fel yr oe^iyin pan yn meddu brenin o'r eiddom ein hunain ac felly y mae yr Eglwys yr un mor Gymreig a phan yn bodoli ar ei phen ei hun. Digon gwir hefyd i'r Eglwys Seisnig c'r wladwriaeth geiQio ei Seisnigeiddio trwy bcb moddion, teg ac aniieg, gan apwyntio Saeson yn esgobion a chlerigwyr.—dynion heh feddu yr un wreichionen o gydyindeimlad & ni, ac hob fedru yr up gnir o'n ftiatth ond eto gyd, yr oedd digon o waed Cym.eig yn ngwythienau yr hen Eglwys fel y gwelodd drancedigaeth bob ystryw o'r fath, ac y mae mwy o bregethu Cymraeg y dydd iiedavw yn ngiyn å'r Eglwys yn Nghymru nag a fu erioed. Y mae y Dadgysyllt- wyr yn gwybod yn dda am y cariad gwiiioneddol sydd yn nghaloii pob Cyriro tuag at yr Eglwys ar gyfrif ei hyofiaeth, heb son ¿.n ddim arall, ac yna y maent yn ceisio ccdi dygasedd tuag ati trwy ddweyj mai rhyw blanhigyn estronol ydyw wlad y Sais. Os ydynt yn myned ddadleu y fforld hon, byddai yn well iddynt fyned dipyn yn mhellach, a dadieu mai o wlad Canaan y mae y gyfundrefn wedi hanu, ac felly na ddylai gael bodolaeth yn Nghymru, ar- n'id ydyw yn gyd- naw; a ct-waeth ac arfprion y bobt. Gwell iddynt odadleu ar unwaith-Wel, -tn mai luddewon, ac nid Cymry, oedd sylfaenwyr a ohrogfthwyr o.yntaf Cristionogaeth, nid ydyw yn haeddu bodolaeth yn ein mysg ii gan liyny, dirivistrier sLc ysl%eilier hi, a gollynger hi ymaith i'r byd i gymeryd ei siawns. Na, y maent yn rhy gyfrwys i fyned y ffordd yna -ni ddeuant allan yn eu lliw prioriol: ond yrn- ruthrant yn bobpeth fel byddo yr amgylchiadau. Gwyddant ein bod yn deal! ein Beibl, ac yn credu inai datguddiad uniongyrchol oddiwrth Dduw ydyw gwirioneddau yr Efengyl, ac mai Eglwys I'dnw ydyw yr Eglwys—nid Eglwys Loegr neu Eglwys Gymreig. hefiiiant Incyfol ydyw Eglwys nw Crist ar y ddaear, a. gwiriondeb o'r mwyaf ydyw myned i geisio profi mai sefydliad o haniad Seisnig ydyw yr Eglwys yn Nghymru. Nid yayw Eglwys Dduw yn perthyn o gwbl o ran ei haw- duriaot-ii i'r byd hwn-y mae yn y byd, ond nid yw "o'r byd." Y mae yn dda, ar ryw olwg, fod y gwrthwynebwyr wedi codi y mater hwn i'" gwynt, oblegyd fe gasif ein cydwladwyr weled a barnu drostynt eu hunain a chredaf y bydd y ffaith o hynafiaeth yr Kglwrs yn unig yn rheswm cryf g't.n lawer dros droi o'i phlaid. Ac lieblaw lyny, pale y mae yr enwuu hono yn Nghymru sydd yn fwy Cymroaidd na hi ? 0 ba le y daethant oil ? Ac eithrio v Methodistiaid Callin- aidd, onid o dros Glawdd Offa., ac onid Saeson oead eu sylfaenwyr a'u cychwynwyr? Ond nid yw hyny i'r un meddwl diduedd yn un rheswm drostynt nac yn eu herbyn fel cyfundebau cref- yddol. Y cwestiwn pwysig ydyw-A ydynt yn gwneuthur daioni yn ein mysg—a ydynt yn cyflawni neges rnawr eu bodolaeth, sef dyrchafu y ddvnoliaeth ? Ac nid yw Eglwyswyr ein gwlaa yn hawlo dim yn rhagor oddiar law eu cydwlad- wyr nag iddynt ymddwyn tuag at yr Egi wys, yn ol ei t.heilyngdod, ac nid yn ol yr hyn a ddywed y Dadgysylltwyr am dani. Os gall yr enwadau eraill ymffrostio mewn hynafiaeth, mewn enwog- ion, mewn merthyron, yn maint eu daioni, ac eangder cu terfynau, gall yr Eglwys ddweyd, "Myfi yn fwy." Yr Eglwys roddodd fod ac a fagodd hyd yn nod h§n gewri enwocaf a hynodaf holl enwadau crefyddol ein gwlad, ac o'r Eglwys yr hanodd yr holl wahanol ganghenau. Hi yw y Fam-Eglwys, ac nid oes dim yn fwy gwrt.hun na gweled plant yn ceisio andwyo eu rhieni a'u gwarthruddo. Y mae yn arwydd o ddiffyg dyn- oliaeth. heb son am Gristionogaeth. Ond yr wyf yn credu na oddefa y VYllIry i hyny gymeryd He gyda golwg ar Eglwys yn Nghymru ond y bydd iddynt yn yr etholiad nesaf bleidleisio yn ol llais eu cydwybod, ac anfon dynion i'r Seoedd a wna sefyll a dadieu dros yr Eglwys. pwy ond yr Eglwys sydd wedi bod trwy y canrifoedd, er pob gwrt.hwyuebiad, yn ceisio addyagu plant tlodion ac onid ei deiliaid hi sydd weai gadael cymun- roddion o ganoedd o filoedd, er galluogi y doe- barth gwei thiol gyrhaedd safleoedd o urddas a phwysigrwydd ? Y mae y Cymry a ddyrchafwyd felly yn llu nuawr iawn. Os nad ydyw cyfundrefn sydd yn bodoli yn em mysg er's mwy D8 phymtheg cant o fivn%ddoe(i(i sydd wedi cael cefnogaeth a gwarogaeth v Oyinry trwy yr oesau ~eydd wedi bod yn bur { Dduw ac yn onest tuag at ddyn er gwaethaf carcharau, tanau, a chrog- brenau—sydd wedi bod y moddion penaf i wneud ein gwlad y liecyn mwyaf moesol a chrefyddol ar wyneb y ddaear-ac sydd heddyw yn llawn gwaith a bywyd—os nad ydyw y cyfryw yn haeddol on cefnogaeth, yn enwedigol pan y mae Duw wedi gosod ei set o'i gymeradwyaeth wrthi, nid oes genytn yr un sefydliad crefyddol yn eiD gwlad yn werth ymladd drosto. Cofiwch, anwyl Gymry, pan yn rhoddi eich pleidlais yu yr etholiad cyfifredinol nesaf, mai hon, nid yn unig ydyw hen Eglwys eich hynafiaid, eich treftadaeth, yn nglyn a pha un y mae ein hares fel cenedl wedi ei gyinhlethu gydactivaegi-edigrwyddond mai Eglwy. CRIST ydyw. Cofiwch mai gwasanaethu Duw a'cfc gwlad y byddwch wrth wneuthur hyny, ai nic offeiriaid ac esgobion yr Eglwys. 139N Gnnto
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TRY JOTHAM AND SONS for Welsh Flannel Shirts and Shirtings.—26 and 27, St. Mary-street.Cardiff. [7917c