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THE SHOW GIRL
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THE SHOW GIRL IT MAX PEMBERTON, AwImt of "The Iron Pirate," "Red Morn," It A PuBtui Wde." "The Hundred Days," 6c c. SYNOPSIS. EsotT Qastovard, a student of sculpture in Paris, baa been left a fortune of seven thousand pounds a year on condition that ho is earning live hundred pounds a year fcj U* »itr labour and talent by the time be is twenty- II that condition is unfulfilled the money is to go ttacMfii. Gastonard is now twenty-four, and there gmmu to be no prospect of his ever receiving the fortune. V* wr-tes to his friend Paddy OConnell telling of his mcquaiTitAnce with Mimi—"The Show Girl "and an Mtr«n £ sre with a gang of Apaches, who attack him in Pari*, having designs upon a gold and diamond Ol^arette-case which they think he carries, but which is Mtuaify in Mlmi's possession. To the opportune arrival of the police Henry is iB<tebted for escaping from the ruffians with a whola skin, but be fin-Is himself with Mimi on his hands, for the-girl, who has restored to Harry the cigarette case, clar-e. not return to her former associates. She tells him all she knows of her h story, which is not much. She retonmbers, far back in her childhood, an old lady who was kind to her, and after that, she has no knowledge of any other life but that of a show-girl, travelling about the country with a lion-tamer, of whom she still stands In terror, At his wit's end to know what to do with his protege, Gastonard appeals to hit friend Madame Lea. d AJeujon. Gastonard is coavineed that Mimi has dramatic talent., and it is decided that she shall study for a year to fit iIrself for the stage. Captain d'Alenfon, husband of Madame Lea, is of opinion-quie mistakenly-that he baiacause of quarrel against Gastonard, and challenges him to a duel. A letter to friend Paddy O'Connell brings the Irishman post haste to Paris, and he arrives to fiud H*arj wounded and being nursed by Mimi. CHAPTER IX. rBeing a further instalment of the Story C, fr..I" tha pen of Paddy O'Connell.] Hotel St. Paul, Paris. June 30th, 1905. Dear Clara,—I address this to you from the Hotel St. Paul, but I would have you to kr,ow that I am these two days at Poissy, which is a riverside hamlet at the gates of Paris. Harry is here with me, looking all his old self, and the little witch of a Greuze girl. We fish all day and catch nothing, and at night we listen to the singing when there is any But, oh, my dear Clara, 'tis the oddest folk in the world which comes to this place, and no people for the back drawing- room at all. But that is between you and me, and need not be told to our neighbours at Glendalough. Ye should know that the Seine winds about Paris, and is here a pretty river enough, with a bit of a feathery island and an inn, to which the Bohemians come when they are not playing at the theatres. Such a company they are The prettiest women of Paris, dressed in collars and straw hats (and not always so much as that upcn them), and the drollest figures of men that I ever clapped eyes upon. They spend the morn- ings upon the river bank or in their barges, fishing for gudgeons which they do not catch but in the afternoons they go off to make love in the woods, and come back as brazen as the colleens from a fair. In the evenings we have dinner and music; and pretty enough it is to sit out in the moon- light and listen to these merry nightingales when they are in the maul to amuse us. This is the outside of the platter, Clara; but the inside is not so pleasing by a long way. For one thing. I have discovered that the little simpleton Mimi is head over ears in love with my friend Harry, and he is not far short of that with her. And if this was not the worst of it, what should happen but that he had a visit last night from the very last person in Paris who ought to be seen with him, and she none other than the Captain's .w i f e, Lea d'Alen<;on, Oh, 'tis a pretty business entirely, and enough to drive a sane man silly. I had be- U, lieved that he was done with Madame Le& for good (as he ought to be, for her folly hM got him into trouble enough). The weeks that have passed since the duel have hardly brought her name up betwixt us. I said that she as back with her husband, who would learn to treat her better; when what should happen but that she turns up at dusk last night, in a fine automobile with a nigg-er man driving, and-is closeted afull hour with Harry to my certain knowledge. To say tnat I was angry is but to express my feelings poorly. You will be my judge in that. It would have been about eight when Lea came. Harry had gone up from the boat to the hotel, and I was helping Mimi to carry up the tea things, for we had been for a bit of a picnic, and a merry one, forsooth. I saw the automobile and a veiled woman get- ting out of it; but the child was the first to recognise Loa, and she had no pleasure of the meeting, you may be sure. "That is Madame d'Alengon," says she, as pale as a little ghost when she said it. "Madame who?" asiied I, not wishing to believe it. "Madame Lea," cried she. "How could it be anyone else?" "Oh, come," says I, "there's more than one Madame whom he knows in Paris." She stamped her foot, just like a wild beast scenting its prey. "You know it is Madame d'Alenqon, Mr. Paddy. Why do you not prevent it?" "What! Shall I bundle her into the car and send her back to Paris? Pretty talk if I did that, my dear." "She has come here to beg money of him, Mr. Paddy. You know she would not come for anything else." "What cried I. "Don't you think she is in love with him?" She laughed at this, long and drolly, the laugh of a woman who is shaken by a passion she cannot express otherwise. "Love—love—oh, what is all this talk of love? Go to her and offer money, and then come back and speak to me of love." "My dear," says I, "'ti8 plain you will never be the friend of Madame Lea, in spite of what she's done for you." "Done for me, Mr. Paddy! Oh, yes, yes, yes—she tried to prevent me seeing Monsieur Henry again. I remember that, and the English pension where I was to be locked up ar.d treated like a school-girl, that she might be with him-her lover—while I was away." "Her lover I'll not have Harry called that." "It is true, true," she said, "and I—I am nothing when she is here. Why did he call himself my friend at all? Why did he take me from the Fete? I was happy then-yes, happy, Mr. Paddy. Why did he not leave me where I was?" She turned away from me and sobbed just for all the world like a grown woman who has come upon the supreme sorrow of her life. To be sure, Clara, I wa-s much taken aback, and hardly knew what to aay to her. Never until this moment had I understood how deeply she loved my friend, Henry Gas- tonard; but here was all her love written down in glittering tears which a child would have understood. No longer did I doubt the gtory of her virtue in a society where virtue is never much more than a jest. All that had happened up at the Butte and after- wards at the Hotel St. Paul became as clear as the day. Mimi the Simpleton was ready to die for the devil-may-care English boy. I had guessed it before, but to-day I was sure of it. "Oh, come," says I, "'tis hearts that are soon mended when two have the will to do it --and, see here," says I, "will ye be leaving him to the black woman who will ruin him, or take a hand in that affair yourself? Come up with me to the house now and hear what the lady has to say. I'll engage that neither of us will be behindhand in the civilities- and, Mimi," says I, "'tis your diity to go up." Well, she would not hear me, but went off in a tantrum down again toward the river and the boat. When I entered the house I discovered Harry to be closeted with Madame Lea in the little sitting-room upon the first loor, and far from pleased she was to see me, as you will imagine. A very beautiful, stately woman, as dark as the shadows upon a cnmwa rose and as full of passion as a caged opaniard. I observed immediately that she had been telling the old story to my friend Harry, and with no mean, success; for he" paced up and down like a wild beast thinking of the country, and seemed to wel- come my intrusion as though a special provi- dence had sent me to watch over him. "You know Madame Lea," says he, with a vrave of his haad toward her. l towv tar," BSZS tkM. D f take leave to as> a word after Captain d'Alengon and his health." She laughed at this, saying something in Frencn about "these droll Irishmen;" but sha did not inform me that the Captain was well and, be sure, I was over-aniious about him. "Is he in Paris, Madame?" I asked her. 'Twould be good news that he was in Paris." "Monsieur d'Alengon is at Chalons," says she, blazing up suddenly; "he has been transferred there at his own request." Then 'tis to Chalons that you'll be going presently, Madame? says 1. She did not reply to this, while Harry looked as foolish as a man can look when a woman has put a question to him and he hps no mind to answer it. For my part, I was never more at my ease, and I sat there watching the fair-haired lad and the grown woman, and thinking that but for my pre- sence in that same hotel, she would carry him to Paris with her for pity's sake. "Are you fond of the fishing at Poissy, Madame? I went on. 'Tis little that they seem to catch here and a long while in the. catching of it. I have taken one gudgeon this day, and my friend two more—but you will not have come here for the fishing, per- haps?"—I put it to her. She answered me with a commonplace. Harry appeared to be greatly troubled while I spoke, and presently he could stand it no longer. "Madame d'Alemjon is in trouble," he said, "I am sure you do not understand that, Paddy." "In trouble?" says I, "then that's the worst news I've heard this day. Would it be about the Captain's going to Chalons?" "Captain d'Alengon has behaved like a blackguard, Paddy." "1 won't doubt it. Let me meet him soon that I may tell him so." "He has gone to Chalons and left this poor lady almost penniless." "Then let her follow him immediately and see that someone else hears of it." "She cannot follow him, Paddy. You are talking nonsense. We must put ourselves in her position and try to help her. I'm sure that there is not a man in Paris who would be readier to do so than my friend Paddy O'Connell." I answered this at once- "If it's to me that she's come for advice, why here I am as ready with it as the best of them. For all that, her coming was an imprudence, Harry, and she'll allow me to say that she'd have done better to have stayed away." I said this in English, for I thought that she had no knowledge of a Christian's tongue —but here I must have been mistaken, for she blazed up immediately, and said aloud that I had insulted her. "Who is this man?" she asked him. "Why do you permit him to say these things ? Is he your friend? No; a would not insult your friends. I wish to speak to you alone, Harry—have I not the right to ask that?" "Certainly you have, Lea-Paddy does not mean what he says. He will understand everything better when I tell him about it afterwards. Come, Paddy (this to me), now do be reasonable for once, and put your philo- sophy in your pocket. I am sure you are very sorry for Madame d'Alengon." "So sorry," says I, "that if I could meet the Captain this night, I'd put him in the river to show the good opinion I have of him." They laughed together at this, and then, to change a subject which was not by way of being too delicate, Harry spoke of dinner, and the lady was quick enough to say "yes." No one in this country does much without eating or drinking before and after they do it; and a better ornament for a dinner-table than Lea d'Alengon you would not be finding anywhere. She is a stately, vivacious lady, living chiefly for the glory of showing herself to the gentlemen of Paris, and of making love to such of them as captivate her fancy. Here, at this little inn at Poissy, she cut a fine figure enough, and sat down to the table as though she were a queen of a mountain kingdom come down from the Heights to dine with pigmies below. We sat and listened to her talk as humble ministers to an acknow- ledged wit; all of us, that is, but little Mimi the Simpleton, and she was silent enough but for one or two words of repartee'that by no means discredited her. 'Twas as good as the leaping at the Horse Show, Clara, to watch the woman and the child upon opposite sides of that table, and to see the love that went flying between them. First, it would be Madame Lea talk- ing to Harry with the grand air of the woman who finds herself in the nursery; then my little Mimi making such a grimace be- hind the lady's back that I must hold to the table with both hands to prevent the explo- sion that was within me. When Lea asks her quite affably what she came to Poissy to. catch, Mimi answers as readily, "I came to catch myself "-and when Madame went on to say That is a new kind of amusement" —says Mimi, "You are not too old to learn it." None the less, I knew the child was all on fire because Harry talked so much to the other one, and I was not a bit surprised when she ran away to her own room directly dinner was done, and refused to come near us for the rest of the evening. This would have been about nine o'clock; Madame left us at a quarter to eleven when Harry had told her for the twentieth time that he was not returning to Paris, and that she must go back alone. I saw that his re- fusal caused her much chagrin, but I will do him the credit to say that it was just what I had expected of him. When she was gone, and we sat together for a last pipe before turning in, he asked me frankly what were his responsibilities toward this woman, and what he ought to do for her. "The man has left her, you see," says he; "he has made my friendship for her the ex- cuse, and gone off with himself to Chalons. None but a jealous Frenchman would have planned quite such a devilish revenge as that. He doesn't divorce her, doesn't talk of a separation; but he leaves her in Paris with- out a sixpence, and then practises the mor- alities. Confess, my dear Paddy, that there is something particularly French and subtle in all this. Lea has been accustomed to all the luxuries. She is a woman who cannot live without them. Poverty to her is some- thing beyond the bounds of imagination a shadow-land too woeful to contemplate. Asd now d'Alengon thrusts poverty on her. He leaves her in a house of glass, whence she can see the pleasures to which she is accus- tomed, but is forbidden to take part in them. Two or three chosen servants are there to spy upon her. What alternative has such a woman if it be not an alternative of dis- honour? "Ye speak truly," says I, "and yet, if I were asked to name the biggest fool in Paris to-night, 'twould be this same Captain d'Alengon. The man cannot see further than the end of his nose, and that, I am sure, is no famous spectacle. Of course, he has no love for the woman left, and may be trying to drive her to those devices which he sus- pects, but cannot prove. Your own course is clear, Harry-you may help her if you can help her honourably. But you'll not see her again, and you'll deny yourself because you are a man of honour to begin with, and a lover in the second place." A lover, Paddy ? What do you mean by that? "Just as much as I say, and not a word more. You are in love with little Mimi up- stairs—I'd cry shame upon you if you were He was taken aback at this, and did not answer me for quite a long while. When he spoke, I knew that I had touched his heart- strings, and that he would deny it no more. "If it's true, Paddy, what then?" he put it to me. "Why," says I, "you'll leave for London in three days' time; get honourable employ- ment, which will save your fortune, and then come back to Paris to marry her-she, mean- while, having been at some good school to soften the manners of her." "Do you think they want softening, Paddy?" I'm sure of it. Put &U this talk of play- actresses and opera singers ont of your head and come down to the truth. Mimi will make you a good wife but you'll have to teach her how." "She'd never stop at any school, Paddy." Try her and see; and, directly it's done, go back to London and work for jour liv- IB I? N r, A" g&yg he. riiiing tLbtPptly, "it't a fist old philosopher come out of Ireland after all. Well, my boy, I'll ask Mimi in the morning, and hear what she has to say about it." "And you'll not see the other woman again? "Not of my own volition, Paddy upon my honour, DO." Ali says I, "and a fine old friend is that same volition when ye begin to weigh it up and a pretty woman's in the balance. But I'll take what I can get," says I, "and be thankful it's no less." Upon which, Clara, we parted; but how the promise is to be carried out, or what the future of such a man may be, God only knows. Now, at the very minute of closing this letter, I learn that Mimi La Godiche has left the hotel early this morning, and is no- where to be found. Such a thing was not wholly unexpected by me but what it may mean to my friend Harry Gastonard, I pre- fer not to think. Never was a man in such a state of misery and despair. I can do nothing for him, say nothing, think of nothing. The child ha6 gone, and there's an end of it. But God keep her wherever she may be is the prayer of, your affectionate brother, PADDY. CHAPTER X. [Henry Gaatonard writes to Paddy O'Con- nell a letter concerning his search for Mimi the Simpleton, j Hotel St. Paul, Paria. July 15th, 1905. Dear Paddy,—The calamity of your sud- den departure from Paris is in no way miti- gated by the sad news I have to tell you. Mimi is not found, nor have I any clue to her whereabouts other than a pitiful little letter from her, posted three days ago at Raincy, a suburb of Paris, and evidently a sincere expression of her determination not to return to me. That Lea d'Alengon is at the bottom of it all I have not the smallest doubt. But there are subsidiary reasons, and one of them your own frankness before Mimi concerning my fortune and my future. The idea has come to her that I am lost if I remain in Paris. She is madly jealous of the other woman, and would have me leave Franco that I may also be quit of the fascinating Lea. Such is the truth, Paddy; such is the naive confession of one whom few would credit with so sure an instinct or so faithful an affection. Meanwhile, as I need not tell you, who stood by me during the dark of the day, that my efforts to find her and to bring her back are unceasing, and pursued with all the ad- vantage my fortune can bestow. Recently I revisited the old haunts at Neuilly, which we re-discovered together before your sister's unfortunate illness, recalled you from Paris. The quest of the lion-tamer, this horrible monster of a Cassadore, was rewarded with success some days ago, when I found him in a booth at ConSans, and was immediately ad- mitted to his august presence. But he knows nothing of Mimi, nor is it reasonable to sup- pose that even her resolution would carry her again to scenes so reminiscent of the phantoms of her childhood. I say that he knows nothing of Mimi, but this is not to believe that he would not hear of her gladly, and press her joyfully to his grimy bosom if any opportunity occurred. A truly heroic figure, vast and proud and formidable, I found him in a wooden shed behind a crazy circus, taking a plat du jour of black bread and ancient beef, and making frequent applications to a green bottle which contained an unknown but, I doubt not, potent liquor. Upon either side were lions, which so delight the simple oeople of the fetes and fairs about Paris. They were shut off from the passage in which he sat by huge beams of timber but these stood so wide apart that a paw could pass at half a dozen places—and you, Paddy, will understand how much I enjoyed that interview. For there were lions at the front of me and lions at the back of me, and, although some of them seemed half asleep, there were others very wide awake indeed, and so playful that I wonder I came away with any flesh upon my bourn at alL Wo spoke between the roaring no pleasant sound at any time, and doubly fear- ful when you have a lion witnin a foot of you, I found Cassadore quite frank, both about Mimi and his business. The lions, he admitted, were half drugged when he put them through their paces. Ic was true that the great African brute Salarubo had eaten hie keeper, "Sammy," when he, Cassadore, was away in Paris but, after all, you can- not make Christiana of lions by burning them with red-hot irons, nor was the "Sammy" aforesaid quite sober when he en- tered the cage. In a voice resounding with dramatic tones, the man described how he had returned to find his servant eaten to the very neek-umai8, monsieur, the eyes were wide open and staring, and the head was untouched." Of Mimi the fellow told me much. He had bought her of an old woman at Orleans. There was no other word for it. He saw the child capering before a dirty home, and was struck by the readiness and the wit with which sho answered hisquestions. Assuming her to be a waif and stray entrusted by callous parents to a mercenary hag, he made a bargain on the spot, and took Mimi away with him. Ilia further assurance that he loved her as his own daughter, uttered between lengthy draughts from a capacious bottle, carried les3 conviction than his story. He had, so he said, spent large sums upon her educa- tion, and taught her himself those charming accomplishments which she displayed at the many fetes her presence graced. Having in turn sold her to me (for it came to that), he ,asked if I thought he had no sense of honour, no finer feeling than to play the part of a mean kidnapper, taking ycung women from respectable hemes? This 1 answered immediately in the negative—for who would contradict a showman with half a dozen Iionti at his back Admit, my dear Paddy, that this quest is not a little pitiful, when you remember tho object of it. Consider what my acquaint- ances would say of me if they heard that my l&test occupation is to search the booths about Paris for a child who was capering with a tambourine a few months ago, and may now be returned to that employment. With these I myself should not argue. There is a day in every mark's life when he must stand outside the world's conventions, break with all common tradition, and write the page of action for himself. Such a day is mine—I am indifferent to all else but its issme. This spirit, my dear Paddy, is moving me to employ every agency money can command for the recovery of little Mimi. I have just engaged the services of Jules Farman, per- haps the cleverest officer in Paris to-day, and he is with me in this quesb. Our latent call was upon the old woman Marie, who lives in a cottage upon the great high road between Blois and Orleans. Here we gleaned but little. The child is the natural daughter of persons unknown. She was left with a mm of money, and a "mother's care"—do not laugh, Paddy-was bestowed upon her. Far- man assured me that this hag would not help us, but on the day following our return to Paris, he carried me suddenly to the suburb of Rainey and declared that he had a clue. Mimi was travelling with a rascally showman named Gondre. A hundred franc note would- buy her freedom—that freedom I would have paid not a hundred but ten thousand franca to ensure. We left for Rainey early in the afternoon and visited the ehow as any bumpkins ready to gape at aged Pantaloon, or to lay our offer- ings at the feet of a rouged and battered Columbine. The tents were pitched in a clearing of the wood near the village—half a dozen of them with sorry spavined hacks grazing round about, and as fine a collection of rascality in charge as all France could show you. I will not dwell upon the shame with which I dis- covered myself seeking the child in these haunts. I am not easily moved to excite- ments, Paddy, but when we approached this place and I told myself that little Mimi had left me for such a life as this, that I was about to re-discover her and take her to my house-be sure never to leave it again-then, believe me, I lived one of the truest hours of life that I have ever known. I say that we walked about the ground as ordinary bumpkins, but, be sure, our eyes were seeking Mimi everywhere, and the first disappointments came when we discovered nothing whatever that would justify Farman'a optimism. The man Gondr,6 proved to be a veritable clqwa of th<* TolgareBt kind—a iel: low of small physique, mean eyes and jaded energies. He stood upon the platform of a booth supposed to contain an angry panther, who shared a dinner with a white-haired Cir- cassian, and generally displayed tenderness towards her-but when we paid our money &ad went in, we discovered the panther to be nothing more than a German wolf- hound, while the white-haired Circassian was a lady from the neighbourhood of la Galette, who had resorted with some success to the potentialities of common washing soda. This did not surnrise me, but I was disap- pointed to find that T-tnan was well known to these people, and that I hd done better to have gone there alone. True, every door opened at his coming, but tt/i suspicion re- mained that these vulgar wits were being played against his own, aDd th-t tfiey under- stood perfectly well why he had come to Raincy. From this moment I. myself, despaired of finding Mimi at all. Useless for Farman to tell me that she was hidden somewhere in the neighbourhood of the fete and that he would not leave without her. I began to believe that our coming had been anticipated and Mimi removed. It is true that a gleam of hope came to me after dinner, when my friend asked me to go with him to a cottage a little way from the town, and did not hesitate to say that Mimi was there. The place proved to be a tumble-down shanty in the very heart of the wood, a mere cabin reeking of filthy odours and indescribably damp. Here we found the fellow Gondre, and with him a handsome girl, sleek and dark-eyed and of the gipsy blood. They received us civilly, and said that they believed that the young woman was dis- covered and would be handed over to us. I perceived nothing in their demeanour to awaken suspicion, and for the first time I really dared to believe that Mimi was found. Farman, upon his part, took the affair a little cautiously. I think that he feared some- thing, both from the lonely situation of the house and the known reputation of those who owned it. (To be Continued.)
CHRONIC ASTHMA
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CHRONIC ASTHMA with Heemorrhage of Lungs. DECLARED HOPELESS. Extraordinary results from VENO'S LIGHTNING COUGH CURE. Mr Henry Beard, of 40, Huoknall Road, Car- ring-ton, Nottingham, write.s: -"I suffered for live years from chronic abtlmia and shortness of breath, with periodical and d-u-ag'erous at- tacks of bleeding of the lungs.Donors deeded me incurable, and 1 gave up all hope of ever being- better. "One day, as a last resource, I began to take Veno's Lightning Cough Cure, and it at once checked the bleeding and tvued the spasms, when doctors' medicine and ali else had failed. I am quite sure that your wonderful remedy had prolonged my life. "I was very bad when I began taking Veno's Lightning Cough Cure, but now I am able to follow my employment. I am never without a bottle of your value specific." Mr Herbert C. Lees, Oiiemiot, of Market Piaoe, Carrington, Nottingham, verities the above as follows:—T can personality voucn for the value of Veno's L:ghtning- Cough Cure in the case of Mr Beard being indisputably and substantially correct-" v (Signed) H. C. LEES. Veno s Lightning Cough Cure is free from ail dangerous drugs, and is the safest, purest, and most effective remedy extant for a.sthma coughs, coids, bronchitis, catarrh, hoarse-neey, sore throat, whooping cough, and all chest and iung troubles. Price, O^d, Is l^d, and 2s 9d of ad chemists and stored.
--t&. -----MEDITERRANEAN CRUISES.
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--t&. MEDITERRANEAN CRUISES. Mediterranean Cruises have during the past few yea.rs become wonderfully popular, and this is especially th» case with those arranged by tii-^ Cua_ard Steamship Company. Their next Yacht- iug Cruise commences on the 16th inst., when that wed-known steamer, "Carpathia," sails from Liv- e-P-1 for Alexandria, touching en route at some, of the most attractive Mediterranean ports. Tho ship is a large one with an unrivalled reputation for steadiness, and those fortunate to saii on her will appreciate the generous space allowance and other arrangements which the Cunard Steamship Company have made for their comfort- Thero are still a few rooms vacant, and the ship sails on the 16th inst. For those who prefer a later start for the Mediterranean the Cunard Steamship Company have provided their woil-known At- lantic Liner "Slavonia," which sails from Liver- pool for Cadiz, Tangier, Naples, Trieste, etc., oni March 3rd.
-----NORTH WALES BRANCH OF…
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NORTH WALES BRANCH OF THE U.K.C.T.A. The monthly executive meeting in connection with the North Wales branch of the U.K.C.T-A., was held at the Station Hotel, Bangor, MR Charles Palmer, Colwyn Bay, in the chair. After the business meeting, members and friends sat down to a meat tea, and a most enjoyable musical evoning and smoker followed, the ar- rangements being in the hands of the social se- cretary, Mr H. V. Doughty-Davies. The follow- ing took part in the programme: Song, M l Bithell; song, Mr Mobley; song, Mr II. Parry, Penmaenmawr; speech, Mr Humphreys; song', Mr H. V. Doughty-Davies; song, Gwesyn Price; song, Mr Humphrey Davies, Bangor (encored); comic song, Mr Bithell; song, Mr Palmer; speech, Mr J. T. Williamsi Bangor, who wel- comed the Association to Bangor; humorous song, Mr H. V. Doughty-Davies; song, Mr Mobley; song, Mr Tunna; duet, Messrs Parry and Price; comic song, Mr Bithell; duet, Messrs H. Davie« and Doughty-Davies. A hearty vote of thanks was passed to those who had taken part, Mr W. Jones, Bangor, who had so ably accompanied, and to Mr Humphrey Davies, Bangor, being specially mentioned.
BARONET RECOMMENDS ZAAil -…
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BARONET RECOMMENDS ZAAil BUK. Sir Genille Cave-Brown-Cave Proves the Balm Excellent for Hurts & Sores. A remarkable tribute to the unquestionable superiority and world wide fame of Zam-Buk has been received from Sir Genille Cave-Brown- Cavc, Bart., of Stret-ton Hall, Asliby-de-la- Zoueh, Leicestershire. Before coming into the family title and estate, some two years ago, Sir Genille had spent the greater part of his life in search of adventure abroad. Australia, Egypt, America, India, Burniah and China, caoh in turn was exploited Hy t.he young drisUjcrat It naturally follows thai (icnii0 wroiir ho crammed with adventure and danger to life and limb, the need for a perfect and reliable heal- ing balm for the skin was ever pi-eeent. Sir Genille, after trying various things, always founá this need admirably filled by Zam-Buk. Breaking through the reserve of his class, Sir Genille does not hesitate to give credit whera credit is due, and his spontaneous letter shows how keenly Zam-Buk's wonderful healing power is appreciated in England's stateliest Mansions as well as in the humblest cottage. The letter reads: "Gentlemen,—I feel it is only my duty to let you know what great benefit I have derived by keeping Zam-Buk handy and having it; in con- stant use. For the sprains and bruises which I have incurred in my horsemanship and in my oowboy life generally, I have found it a reliable and speedy healer. Some of the best riders in the West that I know use Zam-Buk regularly with the greatest benefit- I may mention that while performing at the London Hippodrome on one occasion, my horse 'Bob' came down with mo at rehearsal, through catching his feet in the arena mat. He rolled over my limbs, bruis- ing me generally and tearing pieces of skin off my arms. By use of Zam Buk immediately the wounds and bruises were cleanly and quickfy healed, and the raw parts covered with new w healthy skin. I use Zam-Bok daily for lubrica- ting my arms and muscles, as it keeps my limbs free and my skin supple. "As far away as the Mexican plains, I have used Zam-Buk for many poisonous insect-bites, a trouble inseparable from hot climates. "Zam-Buk haa yielded me fax more remark- able results and generally proved more reliablo than anything could have done in the way of more ointments or embrocations, and I heartily give you permission to publish these few words. "Yours faithfully, "GENILLE C. B. CAVE, Bart." No clearer evidence than the above from this ■well-known P-aronet could be needed to prove the unique merit of Zam-Buk, and to show the wisdom of always keeping baud; a box of this wonderful 6111W
I BY AN UNSEEN HAND
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I BY AN UNSEEN HAND BY JOHN K. LEYS, Author of "The Lindsays," Held in the Toils." The Bolton Square Tragedy," &c SYNOPSIS. HORACE OLEKVE has lost the last rcmr, ant of his fortune by a slump in mining shares. Having lad a life of luxury and ease he is not prepared to face poverty. He Uifere- fore accepts willingly enough tJu, vi'uffered hand of his rie' cousin, Lnvinia Cuthbartaon, who has long teen vaJnly in love with him. Cleeve Is really in love with Stella, a beautiful girl who returns his affection. He has, however, to break to hor tho news of his fumneial ruin and approaching marriage. Then he leaves her— he;r" broken. After the marriage Lavinia quickly finds that the leve Is all on her side. Horace re'uses to accept anything from his wife beyond board and lodging alid the barest necessaries. lIe obtains employment as a c'erk in the office of a frieud in the City at a small wage. jBeturcing home one night he sees a woman rescued from the river. Impelled by something more than curiosity, he pushes through the crowd which has gathered, and sees thai the woman is Stella. She attempted to commit suicide, they tell him. Filled with remorse, Horace is waiting at the pelice-court when she is charged, but he can get no opportunity of speech with her. She is discharged, Rni isilure is the result of all his efforts to trace her. Iben one night he reaches home to find her Installed in his wife's hou«e. Stelln has been engaged as companion by Mrs. Cleerei Strangely enough the girl had not heard her employer's name, and the lattt-r had known nothing of her bus. band's earlier love affair. Stella now declares that she will leave the house at once, but Horace perauades her to &tay for that night at least, for the sake of appear- ances. It ends in her becoming a permanent member of the household, but no word of love is spoken between her und Horace. Mrs. Cleeve never dreams of con. necting her husband's evident lack of love for her with the presence of her betuitiful companion, until one evening, lacking up siuWanly from her chair by the 11,"3. she sees Horace gazing at the girl-who is uncon- scious of his regard -A'it h a look of ardent affoction. It is a look of which Mrs. Clee, e cannot jossibly mistake the meaning. She goes at once to her room. Stella takes a cup of coffee up to her, and, soon after drinking it, Mfa. Cleeve becomes seriously ill. CHAPTER VII. XAVINIA MAKES CERTAIN PREPARATIONS. Dr. Nicholls was -an old man, nearly seventy, and his practice had been always of a domestic nature. He had known Lavinia since the hour of her birth, and she had the fullest confidence in him. Should she tell him that she feared-that in fact she knew- that she was dying of poÍfion Y Her first impulse was to tell him, but the thought of the awful fate that would befall her husband, the man who, in spite of all, she yet loved, deterred her from speaking. She was convinced that if he had not taken an active part in administering the poison, he must be an accomplic-e of the poisoner. And that thought was the worst of the agonies she had to suffer. In the morning she was no better. She even thought that the medicine sent by Dr. Nicholls did her harm rather than good, and she entertained a suspicion that it had been tampered with since it reached the house- that poison was being given her in the very remedies intended to cure her. She refused to take a second dose, but hid the bottle away under her pillow. While it was yet early she caused a tele- gram to be despatched to Lettie, begging her to comfi to her at once. But she knew thut .1 it would be impossible for the girl to arrive before the afternoon. More tha.n once during the day she felt that ¡ the end was near. Nothing seemed able to cheek the frightful sickness from which she suffered, and she knew that her strength waa fast failing. A nuree had been called in to help Virginia, for the sick woman would not allow Stella to come into the room. Her husband she did not absolutely refuse to see, but she could scarcely bring herself to address a wcrd to him, ajid she would not allow him to sit by her bedside, as he wished to do. Stella sat in the breakfast-room, alone and miserable. She was much hurt at Mrs. Cleevc's refusal to see her, and searched her memory in vain, trying to remember some- thing by which she might have unconsciously given offence. Horace sat in the study, too wretched to read or smoke, or do anything but stare out of the window, or pace the floor, bis eyes oa the carpet at his feet. F rom time to time he would creep up to the sick room, and tap gently at the door. A fretful voice would be heard within, and then the door would be opened an inch or two, and tho cold, impassive face of the nurse would appear. "How is she? lie would whisper, and the Tiurse would shake her head and whisper back "No better, I am afraid." May I come in? "Only for a minute, please. Your coming seems to disturb her." Horace would move on tiptoe to the bed- side, and lay his hand on the forehead of the Buffering woman, and as often as He did so she would move uneasily, without opening her eyes, so that ho felt constrained to reniove his hand. "I hope you feel a little easier, darling?" he would say in her ear, but a moan would be his only answer, and then the nurse would beckon him away. About four in the afternoon the patient felt a little easier, and the nurse went to get something to eat, for she had scarcely had any dinner in the middle of the day. She left Virginie in charge, with strict injuuetons to call her if Mrs. Cleeve should have another attack of sickness. But she had barely left the room when the patient called out: Virginie, are you the "Yes, madame, I am here." "Are we alone? That woman has gone away, hasn't she? "Yes, madame, we are quite alone." "Then put some pillows at my back. I want to sit up." This was done. "Now, give me my blotter and a sheet of i)aper and an envelope. I want- to write a etter." The woman hesitated. "But is madame strong enough to write? May I not act aa madame's secretary, or Mr. Cleeve?" "Do as I tell you, woman said her mis- tress angrily, and Virginie made no further objection. She got the writing materials, placed them where her mistress could use them, and retired to the other end of the room. The writing of the letter took a long time, for it was interrupted by a fit of sickness and the prostration that followed it; but at last it was done, and another shorter mis- sive was also written. "Now, Virginie," said the sick woman, "I wan*; you to get me a box, about so big- any sort of box will do." Virginie asked no questions, but did as sha wau bid. She rummaged about in a large cupboard that was in the room, and pre- sently brought a cardboard box that had held shoes. "That will do very weII-" She was in- terrupted by a bp at the door. "Who is that?" called out Lavinia, angrUy. "Send them away, Virginie, who- I ever they are." But next moment the door was opened from the outside, and Lettie, in hat and jacket, came swiftly into the room and threw her arms round her aunt's neck. "Ah, Lettie, my child!" cried the sick woman, "it does me good to see you. I am glad you have come!" "Are you very ill, dear auntie?" asked the girl, making a brave effort to keep back her tears. "1 am very ill, my child." "Will you let me stay with you till vou get better ? "I fear that will be never, my dear. But listen. I want you to do me a little service. When I die-" "Oh, auntie, you mustn't speak in that Yr&y I can't bear it!" "My dear, I don't think I am likely to live. They don't intend that I should." "Who don't intend that you should get better? I don't understand," cried Lettie, looking puzzled and alarmed. "Never mind, dear. I am going to give you a parcel, and as soon as you hear that I am dead, you' must send for a cab and take the parcel yourself to an address that I will give you. It is very important that it should be delivered safely, and I can't entrust it to anyone but you. Will you promise me to take it with your own hands, Lettie?" "Certainly, aunt. I will do whatever you wish. "You will not allow anyone-mind, anyone —to persuade you into giving it to anyone else to "Indeed I won't." "Thank you, my darling. Go now and get yourself a cup of tea while I get the parcel ready. There will be a letter to go with it, and I have to write it." Lettie kissed the sick woman, and went silently from the room. As soon as she waa gone Lavinia told her maid to bring her some cotton wool, a sheet of brown paper, and a piece of string. "Now," said she, when these articles had been laid on the bed beside her, "go and stand outside the door, and don't allow any- one, not even the nurse, to come into the room till I call to you." These orders were strictly carried out, and when, half an hour later, the nurse and Virginie entered the room together, they found Mrs. Cleeve sitting up in bed, with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper on her knees She vra» looking very ill. "You have been letting her overtax her strength," said the sick-nurse to Virginie re- proachfully, in an undertone. "1 can't help that," said the maid imper- turbabljr. "When my mistress tells me to do a thing, what can I do but obey her?" "Tell Miss Nielsen I want her," said Lavi- nia faintly. In a minute Lettie was in the room. "Come here, my dear," said her aunt. "Here is the parcel I spoke to you about. And here is the letter. I have sealed it, ut I want you to write the address; my hand is so unsteady. It is for Charles Hovendean, Esq., Solicitor, No. 19, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Now an envelope for the secon.l letter—ad- dress that too, please. That will do nicely. And now the parcel." As Lettie was addressing the parcel her aunt was engaged in placing the envelope which was already scaled, with its contents, inside the letter she had written, and enclos- ing the whole in a second envelope. This, wilii the parcel, she entrusted to Lettie, tell- ing her to lock them up. She then leant back on her pillows with an expression of satisfaction in her weary eyes.- Before long she had another attack of sickness, and, when it was over, the nurse suggested that Dr. Nicholls should be sent for. "Not yet—not just yet—presently," she gasped. Some minutes passed, the sick woman gradually recovering a little strength, while Lettie sat quietly crying by the bed- side. "Give me a little brandy in a wine-glass of water," she said, and when she had drunk it she told Lettie to leave the room, at the same time bidding the nurse fetch her husband and Stella. "Tell each of them," she said, "that I should be very glad to see them together." This speech was overheard by Lettie, who wondered at it, but held her peace, and crept upstairs to her own chilly room. CHAPTER VIIL LAVINIA'S REVENGE. "How are you, my darling?" asked Horace, coming up to his wife, and trying to kiss her. She gently pushed him away. "Stand there," she said, pointing to th« foot of the bed; and he obediently took th., position she had-assigned him. "And you, Miss Silvester, please stand be- side him. I have something to say to you- something I want to say to you both. And God has given me the strength to say it before I die." "But you are not going to die, Lavinia The cry from her husband's lips soundell earnest and sincere, and his wife looked ai him for some seconds before replying. I am dying, Horace, and I think you know it," said she quietly. Whether J could recover or not I do not know, but I do not wish to live. No, Horace, do not inter- 'rupt me again. Miss Silvester, you see, has better taste. I do not wish to live. Life would be only a long torment to me after knowing what I learned last night." She paused a moment, but neither of the other two spoke. Nor did they look at each other. They seemed to know already some- ml" thing of what was coming. "I thought you loved me, Horace, at least a little. God knows 1 gave you my whole heart; but, perhaps, I ought not to have ex- pected that you would be faithful to me." "Whnt do you mean, Lavinia? I have been faithful to you." "Faithful! Do you call it being faithful to me to fall in love with another woman under my very roof, under my very eyes? I saw you look at that girl as no true man ever looked at a woman except his wife or the woman he wanted to marry. As for her-" "Lavinia," cried her husband in a voice that could scarcely articulate, in a thick, harsh voice, "you must hear me. It is not true that I have made love to Stellg-" "Stella You call her Stella? It is not true that I have made love to her under your roof. I was no party to hei coming here. It was the greatest surprise I ever had in my life-" "The greatest surprise!" was echoed from the bed. "The greatest surprise," she repeated. "Then you knew one another be- fore 1 was fool enough to give the viper shelter? Is that so? Is that true? Answer me "Yes, it is true," said her husband, sul- lenly. "Why did you not tell me? "Because in that case she would have had to leave the house, and she had nowhere to go. She had no money, and I-God help me —I had not a five-pound note to give her." "But why need she leave the house?" He was silent. "Was it because you were lovers? You had been lovers, sweethearts, in the past, and you threw her over and married poor me for my money. That was it? Her husband said nothing. What could he say? But he was surprised at the calmness with which she spoke. He looked at her keenly, and felt convinced that she waa spending the last remnant of her strength. "La"inia, it is useless to discuss the past. I suppose it is of no use to tell you that I am sorry that I did not tell you all this sooner— before we were married. I ought to have done so. I have acted like a ca-d-like a blackguard, if you like, to both of you—to both you and her." Don't speak of that woman and me in the same breath Don't couple our names to- gether, even in your thoughts. Don't dare to do it!" Her voice rose almost to a scream, and then again there was silence. A small fire had been lit in the room, and a large cinder fell from the grate upon the fender with a noise like that of a bullet striking a target-so it seemed to the silent three. It was Horace who spoke next. "There is no causs for all this passionate feeling on your part, Lavinia," he said, hoping to reason her into a calmer state of mind. "I give you my word of honour that since. Miss Silvester came to this house not a word of love has passed the line of either of us. You may believe it or not, as you like, but it is true. And it is the worst possible thing for you to dwell on this subject now- the worst for your health. I mean "My health IIYee, and it is quite unnecessary. Stella will leave the house to-night, and if you wisb it we shall not meet again. I suppose you do wish it? I do not say it is unreasonable, bul you might spare her. It is I who have be- haved badly. She, at least, is innocent." Innocent! And you have the hardihood to say that to me To the woman she is murdering "Murdering? My dear, you are mistaken. But you will bring on the sickness if you go on exciting yourself like that—you will, in- deed. He did not believe that his wife was in earnest —or, rather, he believed that her sick- ness had turned her brain, and that she was as little responsible for what she said as if she had been really delirious. He was surprised at the way she looked, at him. The expres- sion of horror wiLh which she had listened to his first words faded, and an anxious, puzzled expression took its place. She was thinking that it really seemed as if he were ignorant of the fact that she was being poisoned. She turned her eYD-it was the first time she had done so—to the girl who was stand- ing at his side. "Innocent?" she said. "Does that look like innocence? Stella's face was white as that of a corpse, for she was under no such delusion as Horace. She knew that Mrs. Cleeve believed that she was being poisoned, and she under- stood that she meant to charge hor with the QUUUb- "Lxsok at trar! Site can't speak 1 know 1 am dying of poison--peimn which 1fru we have given me Her husband gave a cry that wm like 0 ihcyuL "Yon ace mad, Lavinia, aDd don't know, what you saying If you are in rout sober senses, God forgive you. Good God I is it possible that she can believe this ol met Lavinia, I call God to witsess that I am innocent even of the thought of rach thing. May Heaven punish me this mome.at if I am not telling the truth 1" "Horace, I believe you," said the woman, in a tone wonderfully quiet axic| gentle. "I believe you, and it is a comferl to me to think that I do not owe my death to you. But if so. nothing is more certain than that I owe it to that girl at your side. "Stop!—say nothing just now. Listen td me. Dr. Nicholls does not understand these constant attacks of sickness. He said so this morning. I might have enlightened him* but I thought of you, Horace, and held m/ tongue. You see, my love for you was not quite dead, even when I believed that yott were my murderer Whether I shall de- nounce that wretched pirl I do not know. I think, since I am to die, I would rather go to my grave peacefully tha.n be the subject of- She shuddered, and did not finish; her sentence. "But she shall not triumph over me," she continued, after a pause. "She mr.at be punished." "Dear Lavinia," interrupted her husband, "do try to put those dreadful thoughts out of your mind. I have con- meed you, I hope, of my innocence. And I assure you she is as innocent as I am." "It is true. God knows I never thought of such awful wickedness!" cried Stella, whose white face was stained with tears. "Silence, hussy! And you, Horace, don't shake my new faith, my new hope in you innocence, by pretending that you thinir this creature has no hand in my death. I know I am dying of poison, and if Dr* Nicholls were not a fool he would know it too. A word from ma would open his eyes* and what would become of your pretty play- thing then? Who elre in this house do yott suppose would wish to poison me? Would any of the servants, who have lived with m. so long? What could they gain by it? Noy you cannot hide it from yourself that, if it is once proved that I died from the effects of poison, there is nothing but the scaffold and the rope for her." Horace shuddered, and recoiled a step. "You are beginning to understand at lastiv are you?" said his wife, with a sneer. "Now listen, and I will tell you what I have done. I have resolved that under no circumstanced shall that guilty wretch profit by her crime. She shall never take my place and live in luxury on my money. I have made it certain that she shall not. You know Mr. Hovenw dep-n, Horace?" "You mean your solicitor? But I things you are mad, La,,inia. That's all I :.«P say." "It matters very little what you think. Yes, Mr. Hovendean is my solicitor. Ilia partner is the coroner. I have written a full statement of what has happened, and tbia statement I have placed in a box along with a phial containing what was left over of the coffee that woman gave me, and also tho medicine bottles, for I believe poison ha5 been put into them. The box containing these things—the statement, and the poiJ soned coffee and medicine—I have sent to Mr. Hovendean, with a letter asking him to keep it safe, but unopened, till he hears on good authority that you two are married, of are about to be married. "As soon as he can be certain that the marriage is actually going to take place, he is to open the box and read th9 statement I have enclosed in it. Ap- pended to the statement is a dying rej quest that the contents of the phials shall be analysed by the Home Office analyst. So that from the grave I will be your accuser. I can die in peace, knowing that you-yoia at least, you murderess !—shall never enjoy the fruits of your crime Tnat is all I hav-D to say. You can leave me now." Stella fell on her knees in a passion of tears. If she could have spoken, she would ha-.e protested her innocence, but her tears choked her. 'She could not utter a word. The dying woman looked at her with. grim satisfaction for some seconds, and then signed to her husband to take her from the room. He helped her to rise, but as soon as she had regained her feet, she gently put his hand aside. A faint, bitter laugh cama from the bed, and then the door was opened, and the nurse, who was standing out6idwo anxious and indignant, was admitted. No doubt the excitement Lavinia had gonS through, and the exertions she had made,- hastened the end. That night she became rapidly weaker—she could not rally after the fits of sickness as she had done before. In the grey of the morning she passed away; from earth. (To be Continued.)
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Wood's Great Peppermint Cure for Coughs and Colds never fails. l/l, 2/9.—p. The "Pioneer" is recognised as one of the most popular newspapers in the Principality- ni-edi-um for advertisers.
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SUPERPHOSPHATES of THE UNITED ALKALI CO., LiMITED, LIVERPOOL. HENRY J. ROBERTS, THE SHOP, Llangerniew, ABERGELE, HAS pleasure in informing Land Agents and Farmers in the District that he is CON- TINUING the AGENCY of the above-named COMPANY: the Largest Makers of Manures in the Kingdom; and is ABLE to SUPPLY their well-known SUPERPHOSPHATES, and other MANURES, at the LOWEST PRICES for Cash or Credit, at any Station. HE HOLDS STOCK DURING THE SEASON AT LLANGERNIEW. ARRANGEMENTS MADE FOR TRACTION LOADS TO PETRYAL AND GOSAN CROSS ROADS. 23533p WOOLLENS V NEVER | TSIA R 1 F4 K vmEN WASHED V/ITH frox; For Fl<M\r\e!s f,orwoollem.s j lfor dainry fab ri c.3 ILmt Bismaa, P8aY Situ ««t 1 Lx 3