Cameron County press. (Emporium, Cameron County, Pa.) 1866-1922, November 27, 1902, Page 6, Image 6

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    6
REMEMBRANCE.
Wf think of long-past moments.
The day we say good-by;
The tear we do not care to show
Conies stealing to the eye;
The voice that lulled us long ago
Is tremulous and sad;
The busy city tar away
Has lost the charm it had;
The peacock's cry Is shrill, as though
Protesting, and her hands
Are pressed against her eyes, as we
Look back where mother stands.
With prayers to H'm above us,
We hurry on the way.
And leave the ones who love un—i
Too proud, alas, to stay!
"We soon forget the heartache,
The tears soon cease to blind;
We soon forget to pray at night
For those we leave behind;
We hurry onto gain the height.
We strive for wealth and place.
And in our e-agerness forget
The dear, pathetic face—
But some one's hair keeps turning whit#.
And while we push ahead
A prayer God first heard long ago
For us each night Is said.
Though we forget they love as
And lose our old regret,
The God who reins above us
Knows that they ne'er forget.
—S. E. Kiser, in Chicago Record-Herald.
A Knave of
Conscience
By FRANCIS LYNDE.
(Copyright 1900, by Francis Lynda.)
CHATTER XXX.—CONTINUED.
Andrew Galbraith was silent on the
short run before the gale to the pier
head at the foot of Main street. For
one thing, he was not a man of many
words; and for another, he was
chilled through and thoroughly un
comfortable.
None the less, he made shift to
thank his rescuers in fitting phrase
at the point of debarkation, and to
intimate, as a gentleman might, that
his gratitude would wait upon a fit
ting opportunity to take a more sub
stantial form. Charlotte offered to
walk home, that Griswold might see
Mr. Galbraith safe to his hotel, but
this the old man would by no means
permit.
"Na, na," he said, relapsing, as he
did now and then, into the Scottish
mother-tongue. "I'm wet as any
drowned rat, but I'm not that badly
fashed. Take the leddy home, Mr.
Griswold, and do you two be seeing
after yourselves. You're as wet as
I am."
Accordingly, Griswold accompanied
Charlotte to her own gate, and then
went home to change his clothes.
Just what he meant to do afterwards
was not very clearly defined, but dur
ing the changing interval he made up
his mind with sudden determination.
Whatever should come of it, tbe
thing for which all other things must
wait it ust be said. He had reached
the pai ting of the ways; he knew, as
he might have known from the mo
ment of love-making on the "Belle
Julie," that life without Charlotte to
share it with him would henceforth
be no more than a shadow of the
real.
H# had a good excuse forgoing
straight away back to Dr. Farnliam's.
The very least he could do would be
to call and ask if she had come
through the adventure with no worse
consequence than a shock and a wet
ting. And yet, when he had let him
self out of Mrs. Holcoinb's gate he
did not go directly to the house on
the lake's edge. Instead, he made a
long detour, walking aimlessly and
deeply buried in thought. This thing
which he was about to do was not
to be done lightly. So far from it,
the more he pondered over it the
more he realized that it was likely
to prove the turning point in his life.
Now, that he gave himself the back
ward glance which he had steadily
refused since the morning of the
Bayou bank incident to take, he saw
that he had been living tentatively;
passing from day today as one who
waits upon the event of the day;
looking neither backward nor for
ward. Though he had worked faith
fully, doing the thing that lay next
to his i and, he knew now that his
work, on his book or in the office
with ltaymer, had been purely ex
trinsic to any well-considered future.
But now the future demanded
thoughtful consideration—would have
it, whether or no; and, its was in
evitable, the past colored every fore
casting picture.
For one thing, he had come +o that
stone of stumbling which he had
forseen in his earliest imaginings
touching his future relations with
Charlotte. Without being unduly be
sotted, the hope that he should not
plead with her in vain was almost an
assurance. If he could gain his own
consent to let the past lie buried in
oblivion, the vista of the future
opened out before hiin with all tin
barriers to happiness brushed aside.
And yet, try as he might to resolve
to hold his peace touching the past,
he could not bring himself to the
point of tuking her conscience un
awares. He was far enough from
reali/.ing that his own conscience was
iuterposibg this obstacle. lie
thought, when he allowed himself to
think in that direction, that he had
settled the conscientious scruples for
himself ones and for all. Neverthe
less, there had been momenta, brief,
fleeting moments, for the most part,
wheu he would have given the rever
sion of years of life to be as he had
bet-i» before the pi*>to|-drawing Inci
dent iu Andrew Ualbraith'a private
oltti s. Hut the** little upflaskes of
remorse had been but mutch flares,
going out in a sudden whiff of the
winl <>f finality. For the thing wt»
d mi" irrevocably ami cotlhl Utter be
ttftdone.
11l the aimless detour which led
fc'ur fi '»i sWt • t tu struet uut 11 It* Hi
into a road that brought him out
upon the lake front far from town,
these things all came up for a hear
ing, and he gave them room patient
ly, as a judge hears a plea that he
knows well he must disregard. The
storm was over, and the sun was set
ting in all the glory of the broken
cloud rack in the west. Griswold had
the artist's eye for nature's grand
eur, and at another time the sunset
would have held him spellbound. But
now he plodded along with hands
behind him and his head down, seeing
nothing but the all too clear vista of
the past, and that other vista of the
future which had but now become a
valley of shadows.
So plodding along the lake drive,
he came at length to the boundaries
of Jasper Grierson's domain, and al
most before he knew it, he was climb
ing the path to Mereside. At the
very veranda steps he came alive to
some sense of what he was about to
do, and would have stopped to weigh
the consequences—to turn back, it
may be. Hut a trim little figure
slipped from a hammock at the cor
ner of the veranda and Margery came
to meet him.
"I'm so glad," she said, standing
at the steps to give him both her
hands in welcome. "I did so hope
you would come."
CHAPTER XXXI.
However much or little Griswold
ever meant to say to Margery Grier
son on any of his visits to Mereside,
she never suffered him to follow out
any programme of his own. She did
not do it now; and when he would
have spoken about the loss of the
launch and her own narrow escape
from drowning, she turned him aside
with a word.
"It was an accident, and accidents
are always happening," she said,
lightly. "Nobody was drowned, and
I hope nobody will be silly enough to
take cold. That wasn't why 1 was
hoping you would come."
"No?" he said, following her as she
led the way to a wicker tete-a-tete in
the hammock corner.
"No. Sit down and be prepared to
give me what I have never had; a
good, sound flogging of advice —a
cool-headed man's advice. You'll do
it if I can make you understand how
much I need it."
His smile was self-depreciative.
"You have hit upon the worst pos
sible man, I fear. I'm more in need
of counsel myself than able to give
it."
She regarded him with a curious
little smile twitching at the corners
of her piquant mouth. "Are there
two of us?" she asked.
He saw beyond and behind the
smile; saw troubled depths in the
bright eyes, and was suddenly moved
to pity, though why she should be
pitied he could not guess. The pity
was the first step on the way to other
things, but this he did not suspect.
He was consc'ous only of a certain
pleasure in her nearness; flattered a
little, too, as any man would be, by
her implied promise to take help
from him.
"I can't imagine your leaning on
anyone," he said. "But if a broken
reed will serve your purpose—"
"Hush!" she commanded. "That is
conventional cant, and you know it.
You are not living up to your pose
here in Wahaska. You may think
you are, but you are not."
"I don't know why you should say
that."
"If I couldn't say it, I shouldn't
be asking your advice," she retorted.
"Not many people here know the real
Kenneth Griswold, but I think I do."
Griswold smiled. "Describe him to
me, and I may tell you if you are
right."
There was a little pause, and
though she was looking past him,
there was a certain raptness in her
eyes that was new to him.
"He is a very ruthless man at
heart," she said, speaking slowly;
"hard and unbending, and terribly
self-centered, but with eyes that see
through all shams but his own. He
thinks thoughts and would do deeds
that would shock conventionality into
a state of coma; and yet convention
ality is his god. Am I right?"
Griswold took time to think about
I it. "Perhaps you are," he said, at
length.
"I am going to assume it,** • she
went on,"and ask him—the real
Kenneth Griswold, you know—to lend
nie those hard, unpitying, all-seeing
eyes of his. May 1?"
"If 1 say 'yes' it is without preju
dice to the right of protest."
She waved the condition aside in a
quick little gesture of impatience,
and what she said seemed altogether
irrelevant.
"In your opinion, Mr. Griswold, how
j far may a father go in demanding
1 the loyalty of his child?"
' The question was so totally unex
pected that Griswold had once more
to take time to think about it.
"if you mean in the ethical field, I
should say his right stop* this side
of wrong doing."
"Thank you. Now supposing that
the father of a young woman pressed
his demands beyond that point;
would she he justified in open rebel
lion?"
"In refusing, to be sure."
"No, but in rebullion in open re
prisals, I mean?"
"I don't know; possibly the cir
i-umstaiK es in some particular case
■night justly open rebellion. Uut
I can hardly conceive the contii
I lions "
' "('a;;'! you? I.et nie see if I can
suppose them for you. Picture to
.yourself un unhappy marriage the
j unhupplest of Mil in a world of uu
-1 happy marriage*. I.et the blame of
it lii- where it may fall, on either
ide, bill i ''member that the mau was
brutal and the woman was weak
pi ■ e there was a child, who, in
CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1902
■tead of being a bvnd between them.
w*s a bone of contention. Do you
follow me?"
"Perfectly."
She was looking past him again,
and there was a certain quality of
hardness in her voice that spoke of
unsuspected depths of bitterness.
Y'et she went on steadily.
"Suppose when this child grew up
she was compelled to choose be
tween the mother who needed her
and the father who could gratify her
ambitions. Suppose, if you can, that
shu made some sort of a compromise
with the little speck of conscience
she had and went with the father
who, if he was brutal, was also
strong."
She paused again; and he said:
I'Well?"
"I—l am afraid I am boring you."
The eyes were downcast now.
"No, you are not. Goon."
"Well, let us say that after a time,
this girl, who had some of her fa
ther's hardness and some of her
mother's weakness, came to see that
6he had taken the winning side mere
ly because it was the winning side;
that she was helping her father to
become harder and more pitiless than
ever; that she was really helping him
to —to ruin other people who couldn't
fight as well. Then you are to imag
ine, if you find it possible, that her
speck of a conscience rose up in re
bellion; that the father tried to bribe
her to be loyal, and that she took the
bribe and afterward went about de
liberately to upset all his plans for
ruin—for getting the best of other
people. Don't you think such a
young woman Wyould be an object of
contempt to any really good man?"
There was not any of the hardness
with which she liad dowered him in
her description in the eyes that met
hers. In the room of it, there was
something she did not understand.
"It would depend somewhat upon
the man,"he said, slowly; "and much
more upon a thing quite extrinsic to
all these conditions you have been
supposing for me."
"Yes?" she said, and she could no
longer meet bis gaze fairly.
"Yes. If the man, knowing all
these hard conditions, still loves you,
Margery—"
She interrupted him with a sudden,
fierce energy. "Oh, but lie couldn't,
Mr. Grisewold, indeed he couldn't!"
i !i
TMi,
Jr m
XT WAS FROM MARGERY.
Her hand was on the low dividing
rail of the tete-a-tete, and he cov
ered it with his own.
"The roan loves you with all his
heart, Margery, and will always love
you, no matter what you tell him
about yourself or your past."
"Oh, Kenneth!—may I call you Ken
neth? —If I could only be sure of
that!"
"You may be sure of it now and al
ways. Hut —but, Margery, dear, you
must cherish that speck of a con
science, for I happen to know that
this mythical man sets great store by
conscience-—will be very unhappy if it
is lacking in the woman he loves."
She was standing before him now,
and lier eyes were alight from with
in. Rut what she would have said is
not to be here written down. For
at that moment there was a heavy
step on the gravel and some one came
to interrupt. It was Andrew Gal
braith, calling with old-school punc
tilio to see if his hostess had suffered
in the accident on the lake.
CHAPTER XXXII.
When Griswold took his leave of
Miss Grierson, which he did as soon
as he could after Mr. Galbraitli's
coming, he did not goto Dr. Farn
ham's. On the contrary, he went to
his room at Mrs. llolbrook's, and
spent the hour before dinner tramp
ing up and down *ith his hands be
hind him and with a sharper trouble
than lie liad ever known gnawing
ruthlessly at bis peace of mind.
All through the talk with Margery,
anil up to the very instant of inter
ruption, he had made sure that her
thinly veiled hypothesis revolved
about one Edward Raymer. Rut at
the last moment, this conviction hud
trembled upon its pedestal and tot
tered to its fall, lie thought he had
come to know Margery pretty well—
well enough to be sure that she
would not misunderstand anything
that he might have said. Rut when
he t'ume to weigh thofte sayings of
his in the light of a possible miscon
struction he was moved to griud bis
teeth iu u very manly ago ay of
shame.
lie bad neither weighed nor mens
ured litem at the time being so sure
that wus the man; but in
that la .t little outburst of hers there
was room for u most disquieting
doubt; and since a man may be a
knave of conscience and still be a
gentleman, tin wold tie-pi >*d Uin»e|f
very heartily after the fact, going so
far to question his right to go in
( but lot te until after tllla terrible
doubt uia drum* and quartered uud
decently buried out of sight and be
yond the possibility of a resurrec
tion.
It was during this ante-dinner in
terval of self-recrimination on Gris
wold's part that two men met behind
a closed door in a first-floor chamber
of the summer hotel on the Point.
One of them was Mr. Andrew Gal
braitli, but now returned from his
call 011 Mis.s Grierson. The other was
a shrewd-faced man, as yet in the
prime of life; a man with a square
jaw and thin lips and ferrettj- eyes.
Mr. Galbraith held a cjgar between
his fingers, but it had gone out. The
other was smoking a Regalia, and its
subtle fragrance filled the room.
"You think you are sure of your
man this time, are you, Griffin?" said
the banker.
The detective blew a smoke-cloud
toward the ceiling and nodded slow
ly. "There isn't a shadow of doubt
about his identity, now."
"Then, pardon me, Mr. Griffin, why
do you come to me. Why don't you
make your arrest and take the man
to New Orleans? I'll be there to ap
pear against him at the fall term of
court."
"I don't rightly know why I have
come to you." The detective's reply
was as hesitant as his nod had been.
"I've put the irons on some queer cus
tomers in my time, and I don't know
as I ever hung back till now. Rut
this fellow—"
"State your case," said the banker,
briefly. "I can't conceive of any
thing which would come between you
and your sworn duty."
"That's it; that's just it. Neither
could I. Rut something has come be
tween, this trip. First off, I got to
know the fellow pretty well before I
found out who he was, and—well, he
sort of captured me, as you might
say. He wasn't anybody's hold-up;
he was just a nice, square, clean-cut
gentleman, all open and above-board.
Pretty soon after that, he did me a
considerable of a good turn—took
some trouble to do it. About that
time I began to suspect who he was,
and not to be owing him when it
came to the handcuff act, I tried to
even up on that good turn of his.
That's where I fell down. Instead of
squaring the thing, I got in deeper,
and the cool-headed beggar saved my
life, out and out. Now that's my hot
box, Mr. Galbraith. What would you
do if the fellow saved your life?"
Andrew Galbraith answered off
hand, as a man will when the sup
position is only an hypothesis which
can by no means be transmuted into
facts personal.
T should do my duty, of course.
This would be an uncanny world to
live in, Mr. Griffin, if we let personal
considerations stand in the way of
plain duty."
fTo Be Continued.]
NOT TO BE TRIFLED WITH.
An Arab Wife Who I ithclil Her Hon
or l>7 llehendiiiK Her Worth
lens Huiliaoil,
The Times of India tells the follow
ing story to show the character of
the Arabs of Yemen, among whom
there had been some disturbances, says
London Telgraph. A man of Zaraniks,
who had several times cut the new tel
egraph lines, and who was punished
more than once, was caught on one
occasion by an Arab sheik in charge
of the lines. The sheik intended to
send him to Meedy for imprisonment,
but the wife of the accused came in
and stood as a guarantee for his fu
ture good behavior. The sheik ac
cepted the bail and released him, but
shortly afterward he again resorted
to his old practice of cutting the wires,
and bolted away to another village,
at a distance of one day's march, where
he had another wife. The sheik then
sent for his first wife who stood se
curity for him, and told her he would
disgrace her among the Arabs if she
failed to bring in her husband. The
woman asked the sheik not to "spread
the black sheet" (a custom of the
country when anyone commits a
breach of trust) until the following
day. She started that night, taking
a sharp dagger concealed under her
clothes, to the village where her hus
band was staying. She found him
asleep in his abode, and stabbed him,
cut his throat, and carried his head
Ijack to her home. The next morning
she went to the sheik and presented
t he head of her husband, saying: "Here
is your criminal, and 1 am freed from
the bail. Please do not affix the black
sheet."
The I*ri>|>er Place.
"What on earth," said a gentleman
to his son, "are you doing up there,
Johnny, sitting on the horse's back
with a pencil and paper, when you
ought to be at school?"
"Teawher said I was to write a com
position <>ii a horse," said the boy, "and
I'm trying to; but it's awful difVult,
'cos he will keep moving so. 1 s'pose
that's why teacher gave it to us to do,
aiu't it?"—Tit-Bits.
Dtseoverjr of Iron.
Teacher —Johnny, can you tell me
how iron was first discovered?
Johnny- Yes. sir.
"Well, just tell the elas* what your
Information is on that, point."
"I heard pa nay yesterday that
they smelt it."—London Spare Mo
ments.
t he o«ir W my.
Cholly—By Jo*#, guide! I've
Ituirifeil a bird at hist.
The Guide Thai's jest 'eon yer
took r.'.y kdvics an' stopped aitnin'
at 'em. I've told jriv riifht along dut
by shuttin' ver ej.• t a»' bla/in' away
al a tloek von wmld sooner or later
lsit one. Judge.
Heel* %«»» (rum the Dwelt.
Kvery time a lit/y man look* at the
e • 1 the * \ lues longer. L lil^e
go l>»itj
Si* f<Mi InitrrA.
■Representative Pearre. of Maryland, }IM
a constituent who recently related to him
a. hard-luck story.
"I've lost two horoea and my wife," an id
the stricken man."lt was a good sr>an of
horses, too," he added.—l)e« Moines
Leader.
"Cure the cough and save the life." Dr.
Wood's Norway Pine Syrup cures coughs
and colds, down to the very verge of
consumption.
"If ev'y man," said Uncle Kben, "was
willin' to work as hahd as he expects his
mule to work, dar wouldn't be nigh so
much complainin' in dls wort'." —Wash-
ington Star.
"I suffered for months from sore throat.
Eclectric Oil cured me in twenty-four
bours." M. S. Gist, Hawesville, Ky.
Early frost catches the budding geniua.—
Chicago '"Wilv Newa. ..
We cannot control the evil tongues of
others, but a good life enables us to de
spise them.—Cato.
"And you say Gittiif/s new production
is a problem play?" "That's what."
"\\ hat's the problem?" "Why. the prob
lem is how Gittnp can stand off the slier- (
iff. - ' —Baltimore News.
"A man kin alius tell whut he would do >
ef he was in another man's place," said
Uncle Kben, "but de man dat gits de
place is de one dat keeps a-doin' an' cuts
out de tellin'."— Washington Star.
"I don't understand," remarked Miss
Prettygirl, "how you men can go around in
the woods and tielils, shooting down poor,
innocent little birds and animals."
"Weally, weal I v," replied Mr. Wiilieboy,
earnestly, "I don't either; but I have a
fellah who lias pwoniised to show me how
to do it this week, don't you know!"—.
Cincinnati Commercial Tribune.
An Ine insistency. "There's another
thing I can't understand," said Mr. Sinus
Barker as he laid down the paper and
took a dyspepsia tablet. "What can that
be?" asked his wife in a well-feigned tone
of surprise. "Why a woman will fuss
over her husband brushing his coat and
fixing his necktie and warning him when
he needs a haircut, and then rave admir
ii.gly over a football player."—Washing
ton Star. I
l'liieliiu the Hern.
"I'm goin' to be married, father," said
a young woman tire other day."
"Veil, Rachel," responded the father,
"BO you're goin' to get married? Vot is
he and who is he?"
"Oh. father, he is a fine young man, a
fine young man."
"Rut vat is he and who is he?" persist-'
ed the practical father.
"Father, he is a line young man; he is a
hero," rc-iterated Rachel.
"Hero?" questioned the old man.
"Vot for beesness is a hero? Makin' but
tonholes is a bee- ness, but vot for bees
uess i» a hew?"—N. Y. lierpl'' l
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C'RI «ICN HIAO^CHK.
THE TEST OF TIME.
Mrs. Clara J. Sherbourne, Profes
sional Nurse of 257 Cumberland St.,
Portland, Maine, says:— t
"I heartily wish those who sufTen
from some disturbed action of the
kidneys would try Doan's Kidney
Pills. They would, like me, be mora
than surprised. My back annoyed
me for years. Physicians who diug
nosed my case said it arose from
my kidneys. When the grip was epi
demic, I was worn out with constant
nursing, and when I contracted it
myself it left me in a very serious
condition. I could not straighten
nor do the most trivial act without
being in torture. The kidneys were
too active or the secretions were too
copious, and I knew what was wrong,
but how to right it was a mystery*
It seems odd for a professional
r.urse, who has had a great deal of
experience with medicines, to read
advertisements about Doan's Kidney
' Pills in the newspapers, and it may
appear more singular for me togo
to 11. 11. Ilay & Son's drug store for
a box. But I did, however; and had
anybody told me before that it was
possible to get relief as quickly as
I did I would have been loth to be
lieve it. You can send anj-one who
wishes more minute particulars
about my case to me, and I will b«
only too glad to tell them personal
ly. As long as I live I will be a firm
advocate of Doan's Kidney Pills."
Cure Confirmed 5 Years Later.
"Lapse of time has strengthened
my good opinion of Doan's Kidney
Pills, first expressed in the spring
of 1896. I said then that had any
body told me that it was possible
to get relit«f as quickly as I did I
would have been loth to believe it.
Years have passed and my continued
freedom from kidney complaint has
strengthened my opinion of Doan's
Kidney Pills and given me a much
higher appreciation of their merits."
A FREE TRIAL of this great kid
ney medicine which cured Mrs. Sher
bourne will be mailed on applica
tion to any part of the United States.
Address Foster-Milburn Co., Buffalo,
X. Y. For sale by all druggists, price
50 cents per box.
c/
Vi» Dubuque, Waterlso tail Albert Lea
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