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learned from his mother that rumors had
reached her or how Louis Bond had placed
himself in the hands, as it were, of three or
Jour spiritualistic mediums and had become
a confirmed devotee of their theories. Then,
toon afterward, another letter from Mrs.
Havelow told him of how Brenda had been
to see her at that lady's home in New York
and had wept plenteous and most pathetic
tears over the infatuation of Louis. "It
seems," wrote Gerald's mother, "that there
is a certain clairvoyante named Mrs. Lev
eridge, wno has acquired great control over
Tour friend. Brenda has seen her once at a
meeting where she spoke in a real or ficti
tious trance, and describes her as strik
ingly beautitnl, with a slight ioreign accent
and a voice ful 1 of the most dnlcet cadences."
A little while after his graduation, in the
following June, Gerald met this Mrs. Lev
eridpe. He had no sooner seen and talked
with her than he realized that she was
odious. Not that she was without beauty of
a certain sensuous type, but her green-gray
eyes held lights that repelled him.andinthe
coils of her glossy auburn hair he seemed to
see suggestions ot a serpentine temperameLt.
She had given it out in a vague way that
she was by birth an Hungarian, though about
her past clung the haze of decided uncer
tainty. Almost lrom the first moment that
she and Gerald met an antagonism developed
itself between them. Mrs. Leveridge ap
peared to realize that her sway over Louis
would now be disputed, and that Brenda
had secured an ally. Still, Brenda and Ger
ald soon tell into a dispute concerning this
very question of their confederacy. "You
are doing nothing to take my brotber from
the clutches of that horrid woman," she at
length said. "It is so disappointing. I
thought you would use your influence?"
"What more caD I do" thar I've already
done?" queried Gerald. "Louis is infatu
ated. It you attempt to speak the truth
about Mrs. Leveridge he receives your words
almost in the sense of personal insult."
Brenda tossed her head. "You should
disillusion him!" she exclaimed. "Yes,
vou should I If von were not indolent
V- nbont the matter vou would!"
Gerald bit his lip. "Do you want me to
make myself absurd both in your brother's
eyes and my own?" he said.
Brenda gave a bitter little smile. "I
want you to show that you have some human
compassionl" she answered. "Oh, not for
myself indeed, no! For him, whom you
once told me that you truly loved!"
It was on the verge of Gerald's tongue to
say, "not half so much as I love you," but
one of the moods that visit lovers prevented
this sentiment irom being uttered. "I sup
pose Louis is at least moderately sane," he
said, however, and then followed some words
ob both sides wbicb were hostile if not posi
tively angry. Brenda reproached herself
alter Gerald had cone away, and saw re
pentantly her own rashness. Bnt Gerald,
stung to the quick fay -her unjust treatment
of him, and feeling exasperated by the
adverse spirit in which Louis had received
his counsels, took passage not long after
ward for Europe and remained there almost
a whole year.
During this time Mrs. Leveridge became
the wife of Lonis Bond. Brenda suffered
tbe keenest pain at being obliged to welcome
beneath her own and her brother's roof a
woman for whom she bad only doubt, sus-
Dicion and contempt. Her deep anection
lor Louis alone deterred her from leaving
him and going to live in the companionship
oi a relative. Poor high-spirited Brenda
suffered untold pangs as months glided
along. Tbe "trance states" of her new
sister-in-law had struck her, from the first,
as rank humbug. Louis still believed in
them, and would sometimes openly declare
his allegiance to their potency. In New
York it was unpleasant enough for Brenda
to occupy the same house with her brother's
wife, but at Shadvshore it was ten times
worse. The girl strove to curb her temper
and succeeded. Mrs. Bond had seemingly
so temper to enrb, but she dealt in little
touches of sarcasm and impertinence which
taxed keenly Brenda's powers of endurance.
Louis so passionately loved his wife that
any complaint on the part ot his sister
would have been equally unwise and use
less. Brenda comprehended this, and
passed a summer of silent martyrdom.
During the next winter affairs grew worse.
Brenda was asked ont a great deal by the
leaders of societv, butrarcly accepted an
invitation. Lonis would go nowhere with
out his wife, and Mrs. Bond in spite of.
iaving wedded a man whose name posses
sed aereat social value, had failed to secure
recognition among the reigning cliques.
Begarded as an adventuress before her mar
riage, she was avoided subsequently.
"It is not my fault," mused Brenda; "I
would do anything to have the wife of
Lonis received. But that she should vent
her spleen upon me, because of not being
received, is certainly hard to bear."
Mrs. Bond did thus vent her spleen. She
behaved to Brenda as if filled with a latent
hatred of her. No matter whom Brenda
visited, ber sister-in-law bad some sneer to
direct at tbe bost or hostess. American soci
ety, sbe avowed, was ill bred and tedious.
Brenda could never get ber to say just wbat
.English people sbe bad known during ber long
alleged residence in London, or precisely what
had been ber origin and antecedents previous
to ber first marriage. As tor Louis, be seemed
Immensely satisfied with something tbat sbe
)iad told him regarding ber past life, and to de
sire no weightier diversion than to watch her
mobile dimpled face w bile she talked amply
though vaguely of transatlantic reminis
cences. In the following spring Louis showed
symptom" of illness. Brenda became deeply
worried, and even if she had not tbongbt of
tbe absent Gerald, ber longings for nis pres
ence would now have wakened. Just before
the time came when Shad shore was preferred
to the beat of a New York June, Gerald sud
denly appeared at the Bonds' Madison avenue
residence. lie came at about 8 o'clock one
evening, and as iiienda shook hands with him
It seemed to ber as if she might swoon from
sheer surprise and joy.
Do do j on know of Louis' marriage T" sbe
stammered. "1 I suppose, though, that of
course vou have heard.'1
"Ob, jes."said Gerald. And then to Bren
da's great relief both Louis and ber sister-in-law
came into tbe room.
Mrs. Bond was in one ot her most amiable
moods that evening. 'It gives me so much
pleasure, Mr. Ravelow." she said, "to welcome
3 on homo again. Pear Louis, as you see, is
not very well, but we hope that Shadvshore
will soon prove for him just the change he
Gerald scanned her lithe figure, and let bis
eves dwell perhaps too intently for courtesy on
her clean-cut, symmetrical face.
"I hope so, with all my heart," be said.
"Louis, however, might be benefited by a still
"Ob," laughed Louis, with that effort which
seems alwa) s to cling about a sick man's laugh.
"I suppose you mean Europe, Gerald. But no;
I'm a better American than you are at least
for the present. I mean to try what Shady,
shore will do. If it fails, we may try more he
"There will be no need of tbem. Louis." said
Mrs. Bond, addressing her husband with a cer
tain tartness of tone. "I am sure you will
mend as soon as von begin to breathe the fresh
conntry air." Sbe turned toward Gerald, now,
with ber sweet radiant smile. "Shall you be
our neighbor this summer?" she asked.
Gerald's eyes wandered toward Brenda. "It
depends," he said, vaguely. Mrs. Bond gave a
light, rippling laugh. "On wbat, pray?" she
asked, "You look at Brenda while you reply
In tbat unsatisfactory way. Is sbe at all con
cerned with your fntnre plans?"
Gerald said nothing, while Brenda slowly
crimsoned. A little later Louis was seized with
what be called one of bis tired feeling?, and
begged Gerald to excuse bim. His wife ac
companied bim ont of the room. Gerald was
sot sorrv to be left alone with Brenda.
"Your brother looks quite ill," be said.
"Do you think so?" she answered. Her eyes
filled with tears the next Instant. "Oh, Gerald,
1 am dreadfully worried about him!" sbe
"You don't like the woman he has married,"
"No I don't," and then a sign of her old
haughtiness revealed Itself. "You know very
well that I don't," she proceeded. '-You ought
"I ought to know!" repeated Gerald, with a
little npward motion of one band.
"Yes, why not? You might have prevented
tbe marriage, too, if you bad chosen!"
Gerald rose. "Ah, Brenda," be said, "you
are at your unkind tricks again!"
Brenda bit ber lip. "You've never given me
credit for having decent manners," came ber
piqued words. "You're always fancying I'm
the same little hoyden who used to gambol
about with you at Shadvshore."
"Ob, no," said Gerald. "You were natural
Brenda's blue eyes flashed. 'Tm always nat
ural," she said. "Do yon mean tbat you think
me a hypocrite?"
And then came one of their old hot little
quarrels. Gerald siid things which be re
gretted, and Brenda said things which kept her
remorsefully and tearfully awake all that night:
After he had departed from Madison avenue
Gerald told himself tbat he would join with
tbe physicians In forcing bis mother to spend
the entire summer at the Whits Sulphur
Mrs. Eavelow, whoe digestion was in bad
straits, would have given a finger to spend tbe
summer with .her son in Westchester county,
notwithstanding headaches and like bodily ills.
The idea of having Gerald marry Brenda was a
dear one, and his trip to Europe had been
taken at tbe very bayonet point of her maternal
direli.h. But now tbat Gerald leagued him
self with medical counsel there was no nse in
fighting his decision.
Brenda felt very lonely and guilty after 1 eav
Ing town with Louis and his wife. A certain
dim suspicion had crept into her mind, and al
though there were times when sbe told herself
that she hideously wronged her sister-in-law. it
still occurred tbat special moments of anxiety
and alarm would work their darker spells.
Louis brightened a little at first and then grew
more languid and nerveless. Once she said to
him: "Why don't jou have a talk with Dr.
Soutbgate, Louis? He Is only a conntry doc
tor, it's true, but he knows your constitution
well, having attended jou from childhood."
"I can't see why you should want to dose
Louis with any more medicine." said Mrs.
Bond, a hard note creeping Into her voice. "It
strikes me that he is getting along exceedingly
Louis fixed his dark eyes on the speaker.
"I'm not getting along half as well as I should
like. Natalie," he returned. "Bat as for more
medicine, it seems to me you're quite right. I
always feel worse, somehow, after taking that
decoction you prepare for me."
Brenda believed tbat she saw a slight flush
steal into Natalie's cheek as her husband thus
replica But an Instant afterward tbe young
wife said In ber gentlest and most solicitous
"Ah, Louis, that can only be Imagination, my
dear. Tbe medicine has already strengthened
you wonderfully, I think."
"Oh, well, I suppose you know best," said
Louis, with a gaze that was in Itself a caress.
"How ha loves her." thought Brenda. "and
how devoutly he trusts her! Can it be posslblo
that both his love and his trust are misplaced?"
Not long afterward, on a lovely starlight
evening, Brenda chanced to be taking a little
stroll about the lawn. Sbe had walked inethe
direction of the shore, where stood a summer
house in which she wonld now and then seat
herself and watch the dim stretch of waters
beyond. This evening it was rather chilly
down bv the rocks, and she passed inland
among a great grove of fir trees that rose near
one of the roadside gates. On a sudden she
heard the sound of a feminine voice emergent
from a specially dense cluster of trees. At
once she recognized the voice as that of her
sister-in-law. and paused, listening in surprise.
"Never come like this again," Natalie was
saying. "Your letter gave me a great shock.
I should not havn met you here, and you bavo
been horribly imprudent In writing for me to
meet you as you did write. Tbe money you
needed was one thing. Archibald; to Insist on
seeing me was another."
Then came the unmistakable sound of a
man's voice: but already Natalie and ber com
panion (whoever be was) had strolled beyond
ear-shot, and all that Brenda could now hear
was a swift succession of words, few of which
conveyed to ber more than a faint idea of their
The girl remained for a moment quivering
with consternation. Then sbe hurried forward,
and through an opening in tbe trees presently
discerned two forms that moved side by side
along a path leading straight to tbe outer op
A little while after this Brenda had resolved
on taking one particular course. She made no
further attempt to follow ber sister-in-law. Re
turning to tha bouse she entered the still, va
cant, lamplit drawing room. For some time
she sat there, with ber eyes fixed on the floor
and ber face pale and determined. Then sbe
rose and went to find ber brotber. He was up
stairs in tbe library, lying on a great leathern
lounge and apparently sleeping. But he gave
a quick nervous start as Brenda approached
bim and lifted himself into a half-sitting
"Oh, It's you, Brenda," he said. "Ithought
you were Natalie. Where is sbe? Have you
seen her lately?"
"Not very long ago," answered Brenda. She
was standing close beside her brother now.
Sbe put out her hand and let it rest on his
shoulder. "Louis," she said, "I sometimes
tbink vou no longer care for me the least in the
He shook his head, with a cold compression
of the lips. "Ah. Brenda," he murmured, "you
are to blame for whatever change may have
come between us."
"I. Louis! No, no; you are quite wrong."
"I'm wholly right," he contradicted. "How
do jou treat my wife?" be went on. with
mournful reproach. "She is worthy of your
love and devotion, but you give her only neg
lect and rudeness."
Brenda felt ber face flush. "Oh, Louis," she
exclaimed, "if you would only realize that
what you call neglect and rudeness is the stern
He flnng ber hand from his shoulder, and
met with a scowl herpleadlngeyes. "Brenda."
he said, "how dare yon? What right have you
to assume, as you do, that my wife is beneath
your respectful treatment?"
Tbe girl's lips moved, but Bhe said nothing.
Had sbe not perhaps already said far too much
for her brother's health and mental peace?
''Brenda!" again cried Louis, and his eyes
flashed with anger, "jou can nc longer live in
this bouse!" There seemed to have been some
thing about his sister's recent silence that had
acted upon him more stingingly than ber
speech. "No; Shadvshore is mine, and I shall
be master here. You have your own fortune.
Spend it as you please, and where yon please.
I ve borne with your scandalous actions long
enough. I give you just one week in which to
make your preparations; after that, go you
Brenda had grown very pale by the time that
Lonis had ended. Horror at tbe thought of
leaving her brotber with Natalie now made her
"You tell me that I wrong your wife, Louis,"
sbe said, in choked tones. "But ah, how does
sbe wrong you? With whom is sbe walking
the lawns now, at this very moment ? Who is
the man she calls 'Archibald,' and what right
has he to be here as her clandestine associate ?
Let me tell you the words that I have just
beard her speak to this man " and then
Brenda gave those words, with unerring literal
ness. "I I can't believe this," faltered Lonis, when'
she had finished. He looked steadily into his
sister's face for an instant. "And yet, Brenda,
I have always known you to be so truthful."
"1 swear to you." said Brenda. "that I have
told you nothing but tbe absolute truth."
He caught her hand with bis own thin and
feverish one. Oh, forgive me!".came his re
sponse. "I have been unjust to yon! Perhaps
your fears, your doubts, were, after all but
no! nor' ho suddenly broke off, and then for a
moment be covered bis facelike a man in great
agony. "Ah, my God!" be soon pursued, "if It
were possible that she is faithless to me! But
Brenda not a syllable to herl Promise tnn
this! It may be that sbe is altogether inno
cent. And yet sbe has told me so much everv
thing. In fact about her past, and I have never
even heard her mention the name of Archi
bald' yes, I am certain of it and pray, Brenda
keep silent. Say nothing whatever, leaving
all to me. and and forgiving me, I hope, as I
I do not deserve to be forgiven!"
For answer Brenda impetuously threw both
arms around her brother's neck. "Oh, Louis,"
sbe cried, "Heaven knows that I've hated to
tell you these things! I have no wish to quar
rel with your wife. I should so have loved her,
Louis, If only but never mind.' You have my
promise. And yet, If Natalie should attack
me, I can't be sure just how calmly 1 shall re
But Natalie made no attack. Whatever soon
Eassed between herself and Louis was spoken
ebind closed doors.
"Sbe will tell him some falsebood.no doubt,"
mused Brenda, "and he will believe Hand
turn once more against me." For two or three
days poor Brenda walled some such develop
ment, but none came. Louis failed to give her
the slightest confidence on tbe subject of bis
wife's avowals, though an interview of this
kind was eagerly and longingly expected.
Louis' appearance and deportment were mean
while dejection itself. He showed no longer a
sign of fondness toward Natalie, and Brenda
preceived tbat her sister-in-law labored nnder
visible annoyance orworriment. it was hard fo
tell precisely which.
Shortly after dinner time, one sultry, lifeless
evening, a servant came to Brenda and told
her that Mr. Bond had suddenly been taken
very ilL Hurrying to her brother's apartment,
Brenda found bim stretched on a sofa near one
of the windows, looking pale as death. His
wife eat beside him, chafing one of bis bands
between both her own and seeming to be over
whelmed by distress.
"It'shis heart," she whispered to Brenda.
"He has bad one or two Illnesses like this bo
fere. They are usually followed by falntness,
just as you 6ee, though this is more severe than
anv other that has yet visited him."
"1 shall seua at once lor ur. Southgate," said
Brenda, with decision. She promptly went to
ward the bell and rang it
Natalie looked at her with an abrupt, chal
lenging stare. "Louis does not need a doctor."
she said. "He is better now. Besides." sbe
went on with an obstinacy that bore strange
contrast to ber former meln of grief, "a rural
doctor like tbat might do him more harm than
good. To-morrow, if be is strong enough, we
will go to town and see some physician of
Brenda gave alight. sarcastic smile. "I disa
gree with yon," sbe said, "and shall send for
Natalie rose haughtily from the chair beside
ber husband. "You shall not set your will
against mine," sbe said. "You are always de
lighting In opposite views to my own. Ever
since I married Louis you have seen fit to treat
me witb either concealed or open Insult."
Just then Louis opened his dark eyes, and
Brenda saw, as they fixed themselves on hers,
that tbev burned like diamonds.
Lonis!" she exclaimed, hastening toward
bim. "Do not you sanction my sending for Dr.
"No," heanswered. But while Brenda started
backward In despair at this unwelcome renlv.
he put forth his band with a slight, unmistaka
ble motion. Brenda at once seized tbe band
between both her own and sank down at his
She perceived the next instant that he was
more ill than she bad ever seen him. Across
Brenda's shoulder be looked at his wife.
"Natalie," he said, in a voice that was husky
and yet contained a ring of command. "I wish
to speak a few words with my sister. You your
self can go and tell tbem tbat the bell which I
heard Brenda ring need not be answered. Do
you understand me? I hope that you do."
Those last two brief sentences bad not a sign
of menace, and yet there was something in
their low emphasis that made tbe color slip
from Natalie's cheeks.
"Dear Louis." she broke forth, a moment af
terward, however. In tender, persuasive tones,
"you had best not talk with anyone this even
"Do as I desire yon," Louis Interrupted. His
voice was not much above a whisper, but
Brenda recoiled from him as she heard It, so
unlike his usual self did it seem, so compell
ing, so commandant and yet so terribly tran
quil. Natalie went to one of tbe doors and slowlv
opened it She disappeared slowly, too, as if
some magnetic force were insisting upon tbe
Louis' band trembled a little, now, in Bren
da's bold. But soon It lay there quite still
again. He presently spoke, but as if with in
tentional caution against a possible listener.
Brenda, leaning forward so tbat bis breath al
most swept ber cheek, was just able to bear
each word as It fell from bis pale and slightly
'My sister, I have wronged you very much.
Yes, I see this now now, when death has laid
hold of me and there may be only a few hours
left me to live. Brenda don't start like that
It is nothing, this change we call death. But to
die as I am dying is an exquisite comfort. I
would not live on, Brenda, for an empire. My
part in life is done, utterly done. I have loved
that woman, Natalie Leveridge, (with an Im
mense passion, an Immense constancy. Wbat
I forced her to tell me the other evening there
is no need of my telling you. You are a mere
girl; you could not avenge me. But all bas
crown clear to me, and I know beyond a doubt
that someone else will."
"Someone ele? Oh, Louis "
"Hush, Brenda. You see how weak I am.
My brain seems to swim now. There Is a paper
here in my breast pocket. Reach up your hand.
isneii ana niae it as inougn your own m e. de
pended upon Its jealous concealment. Have
you found it, Brenda?"
"Yes. Louis, yes."
"Have you hidden It?"
"Now, remember. When I am laid in my
coflln not until then get a chance to place it
next my heart just as you found it placed a
minute ago. Don't let ber see you. But Gerald
w.'.l come: be will come tbe day of tbe funeral,
even if something should delay bim from the
funeral itself. And then, as soon as you and he
shall meet, tell him where you put the paper.
Will you swear to me, Brenda, that you will
carrv out this wish of mine?"
"Yes, Louis, I will swear with my whole soull
"The paper is sealed close, as you will see,
and bears no superscription. It Is something I
wrote esterday. I have been In fearful suffer
ing for hours past, but I have guarded this even
from her. And don't grieve much for me,
Brenda. I'm a thousandfold happier at going
than staying. To live, now, would only be one
prolonged anguish. Some dav I think tbat
Gerald will make everything Uear to you. He
will find out. Never mind bow. He can't tell
you yet, even if you ask bim. He will simply
listen to you w hen you tell him what you have
Perhaps Louis might have gone on sneaking
in his faint yet clear-heard voice, if tbe door
had not now been suddenly opened and Natalie
bad not swept into the room.
Brenda at once realized that she had tried
to listen and failed. The girl rose from ber
brother's couch, still holding his hand and
facing the intruder.
Natalie at once spoke, before Brenda bad
time to depart. "My place is here at my bus
band's side, and here I shall remain." she said.
"Oh. I know why you came in like thatl"
now broke from Brenda. "You were afraid to
let us be alone together! You were afraid of
something be migbt tell me!"
Natalie bit ber lips and shot snch a look at
her husband's sister as might have flashed
from tbe eyes of a striking snake.
At this moment a long, heavy groan burst
from Louis. Brenda flung herself once again
at his side. His face bad now grown bluisb,
his eyesllds were strangely fluttering, and at
tbe verges of bis lips had collected a slight
wreath of foam.
"Louis!" called Brenda wildly. "Louis! speak
tome!" But she had beard the .sound of bis
voice for the last time in life. About two hours
later he died, besieged by recurrent soasms of
what appeared keen suffering, though old Dr.
Southgate, summoned at last and watching
bim with deepest attention.declared that being
wholly unconscious be bad escaped all pain.
The White Sulphur Springs bad bored Gerald
Ravelow severely for a number of past weeks.
He saw in a hundred of tbe pretty girls that
haunted lawns and piazzas of the hotels a re
semblance to Brenda, vague yet irritating. He
avoided all chances of being presented to any
of these damsels and soon won, in Consequence,
the name of woman-hater. This put bim into
a still more unpleasant humor, from which bis
only refuge was found an taking very long
horseback ride among the breezy Virginian
bills. One day be was startled by receiving a
delayed telegram from Brenda Bond, telling
of ber brother's death.
Gerald was horribly shocked. For the first
time since boyhood his mother saw him weep.
He bitterly reproached himself for having seen
bis friend so seldom of late; he pitied Brenda
with all a lover's exorbitant power to pity, and
finally he told bis mother that it would be im
perative for bim to leave on tbe next Northern
"Of course, my son." she acquiesced. "I
would not have you remain away from tbe fu
neral for worlds tbat i, if there is any possible
chance of jour reaching it in time."
Gerald did bis best. But tbe journey was
long and Brenda's telegram had been cruelly
delayed. When he arrived at Shadysbore tbe
funeral ceremony had been over about three
hours. Brenda, clad in the deepest mourning,
met bim with a sob and a little cry.
"My poor girl !" be said, and took her in bis
arms. A servant bad just glided from the
drawing room, leaving them alone.
Gerald's lips found their way to hers, and the
kiss that followed was one of betrothal, as both
"I havo so much to tell you," faltered
Brenda, looking abouc ber with nervoos
glances. "But there will always be tho thought
that he is listening. It is such a lovely after
noon. Let us walk out under tbe fir trees."
Their walk lasted until nearly dusk. Finally
with a blinding headache, caused by grief and
excitement, Brenda redirected hersteps toward
the house. "And you tell me," said Gerald, as
be walked ruminatirely at ber side, "tbat Dr.
Southgate declared your brother died of heart
Yes. He wrote that on the certificate; I
saw the two words myself."
"But you yourself think "
"Ob. I think nothing, because I've not a ves
tige of proof I"
Gerald was silent for some little time. He
would have liked to tell Brenaa tbe reason ber
brotber bad caused her to place that paper In
bis coffin, but remembrance of bis oath for
bade. After once having made the midnight
visit to Louis' tomb, ho would be privileged to
speak of it, but before doing so the terms of
that curious, whimsical compact precluded all
reference to his intended act. v
"You, too, seem mystified by bis having bid
me to conceal tbat paper inside bis coffin,"
said Brenda. "You cannot guess, can you,
Gerald, what it contained?"
"No; I cannot," replied Gerald, glad to an
swer so directly. "Unless," he went on, "a list
of accusations against bis wife is to be found
"Ob, I have thought of that," said Brenda;
"but surely if Louis had wished that yon
should see the paper, he would not have "
The words died on her lips, far just then,
while they were ascending tbe piazza steps,
Natalie came forward from tbe inner ball.
Her mourning did not become her as it did
Brenda. and beside the extreme pallor of her
face there was a certain wildness noticeable in
her odd-hued eyes.
She drooped her gaze before Gerald's direct
one. A significant silence now ensued, which
Brenda suddenly broke. Sbe put out ber hand
to Gerald. "Goodby," she murmured; "I am
worn out for to-day; 1 must He down. You will
come to mdrrow?"
"To-morrow surely," he said, pressing her
hand. She at once glided past her sister-in-law
and disappeared into tbe hall.
Gerald waited a moment for Natalie to
speak; then, seeing that she looked both em
barrassed and agitated, he said:
"I was very sorry not to Have seen the last of
Natalie seemed furtively to gnaw her nnder
lip. Then she threw back her delicate head
with a little blending of scorn and sadness.
"Oh, if you bad but come here a few hours
sooner. Mr. Ravelow," she exclaimed, "I be
lieve that even you might have consented to
side with me yes, me, tbe wife of your friend
against tbe treatment 1 have been forced to
receive from Brenda."
"What treatment?" asked Gerald. "I have
heard that you wished to keep a physician
from visiting your husband, even while yon
knew him in tbe agonies of death."
"I did not know it!" she burst out, clenching
both her slim bands as they hung at her sides.
"I never dreamed be was dying! How should
I dream so? Ho had been ill and ailing he
had had such attacks before, and I wished a
New York doctor of reputation to see bim in
stead of some soinemerecountrylgnoramns."
Here she sank into one of the bamboo chairs
tbat were scattered about the piazza, and
looked at Gerald with a mixture of imperious
ness and malice. "I have only this to tell you.
Gerald Ravelow," sbe continued. "You may
be as much in love witb Brenda Bond as you
please, but If my husband has left you an ex
ecutor of his estate and I dare say that be
has then I shall demand that a full settle
ment of It shall be made as speedily as possible,
giving me the share to which I am entitled.
Fur I wish to leave this country and escape
from all further Insolence at the bands of bis
arrogant sister. Yes, I wish- to go back to
"With Archibald?" asked Gerald, making
tbe two sharp words cut ber unfinished sen
tence like the swift stroke of a knife.
She started terribly, and then stared at bim.
"How do you know what do yon know?"
she began to stammer.
UO SUIHGICUi AMU .." 4(OllU .a.... .u DM
and talk with ber like this might be to place
within her power some hint ot a certain secret
It was both his duty and bis desire jealously to
guard for the present, he slightly lifted his hat,
murmured "Good evening," and passed at a
rapid pace down the piazza steps.
To-morrow will be time enough for action,"
be thought, as he hurried across tbe twilight
lawns. A dread which be could not dismiss,
however, assailed bim with regard to Brenda.
Was it safe for her to pass abother night at
Shadvshore with the hatred of Natalie vigilant
and assertive? But soon Gerald smiled at bis
his own fears. Whatever evil this widow of
Louis Bond's might already have done. It was
sure that she would put no future obstacle be
tween berselt and the possession of a noble for
tune. Policy would be tbe potent motive to
keep her from all immediate mischief.
For the first time in his life Gerald felt beset
by a sense of "nerves." He would almost
rather have lost a hand than violate bis oath to
the dead, but this Oath bad of late entered his
memory with an altogether novel series of
By 11 o'clock that evening he found himself
In a most perturbed condition. His own home,
closely adjoining the larger estate of tbe
Bonds, bad been left In charge of an old couple
whom his sudden appearance had greatly sur
prised. After doing wbat they could for his
entertainment these two custodianshad retired
to bed at Gerald's earnest behest. The evening
outside was full of soft breezes and sctntillant
starlight summer darkness with just the least
autumnal tint in It. To reach tbe Shadysbore
vault would require a walk of not more than 10
or 15 minutes. Gerald bad secured tbe key,
having long ago placed it in a certain drawer,
which he had now but to open for the purpose
of laying his hands on what they sought. He
had supplied himself with two orthrre candles
and a box of matches. All was ready. His
heart beat queerly as he began bis little jour-
ntiT across iota anu uy uar. ciua.c.a ui luaeiy
foliage, Tbe ghastly character of his under
taking was not its only drawback. He seemed
to see, again and again, before he reached tne
vault, forms dart out upon bim with vetoing
gestures, accusative eyes. And bow could ho
explain his trespassing presence in case any
such arrestshould occur?
But in reality be gained the vault quite un
observed. It was build of solid granite in the
side of a slight bill. He listened for a moment
lyid then descended the small flight ot steps
leading inward to a large metal door. Then he
inserted his key in the lock. It fitted perfectly,
and quite soon afterward he had passed within
the interior of the vault, leaving the metal
door behind bim just enough ajir to admit a
certain quantity of air. jet not enough so to
attract the notice of any possible passer.
He now stood in pitchy darkness. A heavy
smell as of fresh cut flowers at once oppressed
him. He bad ceased to feel trepidation; his
old magnificent courage and coolness bad come
back to him. Slowly be struck a match and
lighted one of his tapers. As the flame
struggled from intense dimness into compara
tive brightness, the solemn, stone-wrought
chamber became clearly visible, it contained
but three coffins, each laid in a separate niche.
One was tbat of Louis Bond's mother, one tbat
of bis father, and one was bis own. The last
lay heaped over with wreaths and crosses. All
the niches were large, and In a manner took
from the asual grlmness of such receptacles by
being uncramped and commodious of aspect.
Gerald bad brought.a small sconce for his
candle, and now set both on the edge of tbe
empty niche, just above tbe casket of his
friend. He waited some time In awed silence.
To open tbe coffin was an act from which he
shrank most reluctantly. And yet his sacred
oath compelled him to perform tbis act. There
was only the usual lock to be pried asunder,
ana ror tnis purpose ue naa orougnt wiin mm
a capable instrument. Presently be banished
bis repulsion. "How can there be tbe least
desecration," he thought, "when I am only fol
lowing out Louis' own earnest wishes? Besides
the vow he once exacted from me. there is a
new stimulus in Brenda's account of that hid
And yet to spend threo mortal hours in tbis
dismal vault! Ho began already to feel tbat
bis nerve-power, strong and trustworthy as it
was. could scarcely endure so drastic an ordeal.
Still, be must make the effort. Looking at his
watch, be discovered that only 15 minutes of
tbe allotted time had already passed. And yet
they had seemed far more than an hour!
One stout wrench with his chisel, and the
coffin was pried apart. He soon looked upon
tbe calm, waxen face of Louis. How like, and
yet bow completely soulless and Irresponsive!
Wbat hope of any vital resurrectional sign
could possibly be drawn from this pallor and
He leaned closer above the still features,
familiar and yet utterly changed. .Ho forgot
the concealed paper of which Brenda had told
him, whi'e he parted lrom the dead man's
breast and chin tbe thick masses of flowers
which lay there. But be remembered, and
with a piercing force of recollection, what he
bad bound himself of old to use every mental
effort in desiring and yearning after.
Some of the flowers fell over vpon the stone
flooring of tbe vault loose camellias and white
roses, with perhapsafewglossyleavesof either.
He meant to stoop and pick them up, when
suddenly a strange and horrible thing occurred.
Tbe light went ont, and It seemed to him that
as It did so a sharp, metallic sound rang through
the dead, abrupt darkness.
And then something struck him, with a light
yet distinct contact, full on tbe breast. He
lifted his hand and caught a stiff square of
glazed paper. ,
"Tbe hidden letter!" flashed through his brain.
"He has given it to me himself r
For the first time in all his brave young life,
Gerald Ravelow knew wbat it was to be dazed
and half mad with terror.
He reeled backward In the dense darkness,
clutching tbe letter. How he found bis way
out of the vault be never afterward remem
bered. Everything seemed to bim a blank un
til he found himself on tbe grounds of bis own
estate, with well-known trees and paths and
tbe gleaming drive all about him and the tacit.
Inscrutable stars glittering down npon him
from the mighty concave of the midnight
Brenda wondered for three or four hours, the
next morning, why Gerald did not keep his
promise and appear. Natalie passed her once
or twice in the balls with a pale, supercilious
face. Repeatedly Brebda went out on tbe
piazza and looked with longing eyes toward
Gerald's home, whose roofs were just faintly
seen above masses of greenery.
At last, to her surprise, sbe saw him coming
np tbe lawn from the outer road, with a man ou
either side of him. Sbe slipped into the house
again, and watched the approaching figures
from one of tho drawing room windows.
While she did so Natalie entered tho room.
"I see Gerald Ravelow comlngbere," she broke
out, "with two men in his companv. Who are
"I bave no idea," answered Brenda, turning
from the window. "Why should I bave?"
Natalie gave a slight laugh that was like a
sneer made into sound. Just then steps were
beard on the piazza. Moved by a sudden im
pulse Brenda flung open the blinds of tbe win
dow near which sbe had been standing.
This way. Gerald," sbe said.
Gerald entered soon afterward alone. But
Brenda saw tbat bis two companions waited
The young man pnt out his band toward
Brenda, while he fixed a hard and cold stare at
"I bave a paper," said be, "written a day or
two before bis death, by your late husband. In
tbat paper he accuses you of trying to poison
bim. He detected you. but said nothing. He
preferred to die by your hand, since he bad
loved you so well tbat to live on wonld bave
been a horror. X quote almost his exact words.
And there Is no doubt about the authenticity
of this paper tbat he left. Brenda, here, re
ceived it from htm and placed it secretly with
in his breast after be had been laid In his coffin.
I found it there. In it he also states tbat not
long ago he forced from you a certain confes
sion regarding a man named Archibald Clay,
and that be bas reason to believe you bide at
the present time both a packet of letters from
tbis man, and one or more bottles of poison as
well, within a particular cabinet upstairs. 1
bave secured a search warrant, and must
At the word."search warrant" Natalie darted
toward the door. Gerald followed her, after a
swift sign through the wide piazza window. He
sprang upstairs, knowing the bouse so well tbat
the cabinet to which bis friend's letter bad
alluded and tbe apartment in which It stood
were both well remembered by him.
But quick as be had been, Natalie reached
the cabinet before bim. He saw ber kneeling
at one of its open drawers. The next Instant
be saw her lift something to her lips. Almost
immediately after tbat, sbe fell beavilv back
ward. There had lam a swifter poison here in
the cabinet than tbat stealthy one which bad
doubtless wrought ber husband's death.
Sbe was quite liieiess wnen tnev picked her
up. Afterward, when rigid examinations were
made as to her previous life, it seemed slight
wonder tbat such a woman should bave pre
ferred to end by suicide tbe final collapse of
her evil hopes. Sbe had undoubtedly been the
wife of a certain disreputable Englishman
called "Captain" Clay, and one of whose aliases
was Leveridge, long before her marriage with
fioor infatuated Louis Bond. Fromaome of the
etters from tbis man found in the cabinet it
was only too evident that she bad planned
Louis' murder with his full knowledge, and
thaf the two expected at some future dayio
enjoy the wealth which would thus vilely have
During tbe following autumn occurred Ger
ald's marriage with Brenda, greatly to the de
light of Mrs. Ravelow, whose health bad now
regained Its usual gentle state of invalidism.
Some time before tbis event Brenda bad vis
ited the vault where her brother lay and had
first ordered with ber own band what disarray
had been caused by Gerald's weird visit and
afterward quietly obtained aid for the restora
tion of the injured coffin.
But Gerald conld never be induced to accom
pany ber on either of the several little pilgrim
ages which her task involved. "No, Brenda,"
he would say, "there are memories connected
with tbat place which will haunt me till I die.
No need of making them more vivid than they
are sure to be slre&dy."
Copyright, 1889: all rights reserved.
the new Platonics:-
,A New York Woman's Views on the
Present Social Situation.
MARRIAGE BECOMING UNPOPULAR.
The Higher Opportunities Offered, hj a
Life of Celibacy.
TKUE FRIENDSHIP IS FAE SUPERIOR
fWItlTTlW ron rni DisrATCii.:
The cottage overlooking the water at Nar
ragansett justified its name of Witheden or
some such pretty composite. It was the
fashionable two shades of dark red outside,
with a deep porch, half octagon at the cor
ner, making an outside summer room, hung
with roses and Virginia creeper, banked
with all the midsummer flowers, tube roses
showing white against the brilliance of
monthly carnations, foxgloves and lychnis.
The windows blossomed with gay Italian
awnings, red and gray, or green and white,
the Japanese iriuge-curtains trembled in tbe
doorways, and the mats of ginger grass,
which kept the windy corner, had been
freshly sprinkled at sundown and gave their
faint aromatic fragrance as tbey moved.
Bamboo lounges and rockers with cush
ions in red or blue linen held such of the
party as were not at the piano within, and
the handsomest woman of all, sat apart and
talked either the most daring sense or ar
tistic nonsense. Her age was nnguessable.
In her white wool batiste with the wild
white roses of Narragansett at her throat,
she looked in her teens, yet a tall girl at
the piano, listening to an admirer, called her
mother, and few of the pursuits of women
failed to find her their mistress. Practical
in affairs, a thorough housekeeper, gifted in
bucievy, ariisuu 10 ner linger lips, lucre re
mained a dominant idealism or thought and
feeling to enrich her life and others.
Some one had spoken lightly of Mona
Caird's "Is Marriage a Failure?" which set
both worlds talking a year or less ago, and
the New York woman took np the word.
"Whether marriage is a failure is not the
consideration lor the times. The question
is related to others we so often hear, why
young men do not marry, and is the want
of marriage the fault of men or women. All
the gibing at the extravagance of one side
or the other, the sarcasm at match-making
mammas and angling girls spring ont of
tbe great mistake under which the world
labors, that matrimony is any longer a
necessity for the better part of society.
Please understand from the beginning that
I ignore and repudiate all license, or.if it
must be, we will consider all relations of
the sexes as a sort of matrimony, licit or
illicit, the latter being more stupid and
burdensome than the former.
"People forget that tbe world moves so
cially as well as round the heavens, and
that there is a moral procession oi equi
noxes, gradually shifting and developing
the relations of things. To my mind it is a
great, convenient, natural working of law
that there should be a falling off in the sen
timent of marriage amongeducated persons,
and that the more thoughtful and gifted feel
no leaning toward its bondage and its obli
gations. Marriage has served its purpose
in populating the earth, and its best acres
are crowded now.
"I repeat, it has served its time the
crowding or the population is such as to
shorten the individual life and rob it, of the
finest pleasures. It is well' that the senti
ment tails into disuse, and with the higher
portion of humanity first. The intellect
and emotions of the race expand and domi
nate its propensities, just as they have over
come the money-making sentiment or the
thirst for self will and greed of power. Men
don't care about marriage, because
EDUCATIOH AND SOCIETY
open to them a hundred other sources of
pleasure, which do not present such heavy
charges to pay afterward in care and money.
Women have submitted to matrimony sev
eral thousand vears as the only chance for
protection and" maintenance. Society now
offers protection by the spread of chivalrous
ideas, and clever women find it easier to
make their own living than to earn it in tbe
slavery of wife and motherhood. I know wbat
you were going to say, that love lightens tbe
yoke, but it Is a yoke nevertheless, and never a
woman was born into the world, who bas not,
felt it so.
"Ask any thoughtful man if he would like for
a year to step Into tbe position held by the hap
piest wife, with the loss of freedom to come
and go daily, as suits him, witb the multitude
of pettj cares and restrictions, the obligation
to consult another's taste in every detail ot
dress and behavior, or ba tbe loser. Six
months of a woman's life would send him in
sane. I often think of wbat one of the bright
est authors of the time used to say to me when
earning her limited income by daily toil with
pen and housekeeping. 'I never look at auy
of tbe married women of my acquaintance
without tbanuing God that He has kept me
free to follow my own tastes and principles, at
the cost of loneliness and hard work. It would
be far harder to follow tbe line of submission
and cajolery these women must affect to get
along at all.' Professional women are not anx
ious to marry, for their life gives them plenty
of interest as it is. Wealtby women are slow
to marry, and generally repent the step before
tbe honeymoon is over.
"Women of genius learn too late that they of
all others Should not marry, and divorce
themselves practically if not formally. The
finest men avoid marriage and entangling ties,
from fullness of other pleasures, social and
intellectual. Macauley was not the only edu
cated Englishman of bis time who found no
savor in the idea of wedlock, nor was Allen
Ihorndike Rice the sole yonng man ot fortune
and brains to whom it had no attraction beside
tbe calls ot high ambitions and noble alms. If
tbe voto were called to-morrow on tbe question
to marry or not to marry. I believe tbe ma
jority of the best bred men would honestly
pronounce against it for themselves. If the
CHANCE "VYERE OFFERED
them already married to go free, leaving each
partner scathless in position and repute, with
children happily provided for, one marriage
out of ten migbt remain undissolved, though I
doubt if there would be as many. For marriage
at its best is, an eartbly necessity only, born of
sense and losing its bold on tbe senses in a few
years, or months as the case mav be, and words
cannot measure tbe weariness of tbe close daily
association It inflicts. It was one of tbe
cleverest, handsomest men in New York mar
ried to ono of tbe most accomplished and
lovely women, who said to me, what many
other men have said since: The first year we
were married my wife and I talked incessahtly;
tbe second year we talked at intervals. Since
then we have had little to say beyond the
nothings of dailv life, about the bills and ap
pointments and children.' '1 go to the club,'
says another, 'not because it interests me. but
to get away lrom the sameness of my wife's
"And the Lydgates I have known who were
utterly lost to anything fino in science and art
by tbe necessity of providing for a wife, are too
many and too sad to mention. St Paul did not
idly commend celibacy when persons were
strong enough to choose it. The force, the time
wasted in caring for a family count sorely in
men's minds against the successes tbey might
hare maae unnamperea. it comes to tnis, to
day, if a man marries he has to assume from
S500 to S5.U0O a year extra expense for tbe sup
port of tbe young woman he takes to wife. It
is no easier for him to command money just
because he is married, and It is good common
sense, not selfishness, which leads him to ask If
it is worth while to give up
HALF BIS IXCOME
for the sake of tbe society of a particular wo
man, when he Is pretty certain to get rather
tired of It In a year or two. I think it is better
to follow the example net by some of the finest
men and women of New York and London so
ciety to-day, where two people frankly own
tbat they like each other better than anyone
else, but do not care to marry, any coarser feel
ing being out of tho question. Tbe attachment
is tacitly recognized by tbe friends of both; the
man is free to visit tbe lady, to spend evenings
talking to her when he chooses, to drive with
her, to take her on his yacht, under chaperon
age. Indulgent and discreet. They have a
thousand mutual tastes and Interests In art,
society, benevolence, and for the life of me I
don't see v.-hy a man and woman of taste can
not -enjoy talking over the last novel, or the
affairs of their acquaintance, or their dividends.
If tbey want to, his easy chair within two feet
of ber sofa, just as well as If they bad a wed
ding certificate and talked from opposite sides
of the room, as they probably would."
A spark on the end of a cigar had drawn near
enough to listen, and it suddenly left its place.
"Ob, confound it! You women, forget there
is such a thing as sitting on tbe arm of a man's
chair with your arms around his neck. Be
cause you are cool-blooded shall there be no
more cakes and ices?"
"The time comes when one has no fancy tor
cakes and ices or a diet of sweets, and some
people keep their taste for confectionery by
tasting it d screetly. Yon may laugh, but the
world is wiser in practice than the divines. The
sweetest poetry ever made was written by Ideal
lovers, the rreat things in art and science
reached by men who were content with affec
tion rather than passion, and men were never
more heroic than in the days of chivalry when
a look and a glove were the sole reward of the
most unselfish bravery."
"But how much there might be In that look,"
said he of the cigar more softly. "Enough
worth living and dying for," and bemusing,
A CHANGE C01IISG.
"I can't help thinking society will change its
tone, as it surely does its practice," said the
lady, "and in place of urging foolish boys and
girls, men and women indiscriminately into
marriage, to fepent forever, it will see the
loftier, sweeter nature of refined celibacy. Not
the austerity ot the man who never looks at a
woman for fear he may be pleased with ber, or
the woman who never glances beyond the rim
of ber poke bonnet, and who are twice as
likely to tall Into a snare to pay for it, but of
those wise enough not to deny affection be
cause they prefer to do without passion. Men
who half know tbe world may sneer at tho
Idea as an impossibility, but those who know
it best, know that sweeter, purer things are pos
sible, and actually existing than common
human nature dreams.
"Men have outgrown the Impulse of old rob
ber knights when they saw a pretty womau to
carry her off by force, and tho finer of them
can admire a peerless woman, feeling ber
witchery in their very souls, without finding it
indispensable to marry her. The sooner this is
recognized and society adjusted to this new
privilege and freedom, tbe better. There will
always be fools enough to carry on the race,
and tbe increasing proportion of men and
women not desirous o( marriage Is something
to be grateful for and to encourage. It means
health, leisure, devotion to large interests for
the good of society. It means longer life,
larger means, more room and opportunity for
tbo rest of humanity, mote happiness for the
Individual and for the world.
Give men aud women more liberty to make
friends of each other and you will find less
vice, fewer marriages and sounder ones. Tbe
license is not half so likely t be abused as tbat
of love-making, as it exacts decorums which
our courtship does not. The duenna, the dis
creet friendly third is essential to such inter
course, and renders it possible for such inti
macy to defy misconstruction. Sav the picture
Is too fine drawn, impossible, and I will show
you instances, scores of tbem, when such
friendships are carried on
WITHOUT HABat OE CAVIL
in tbe heart of the most conventional society
in tbe world. I know one professional woman
of the highest repute, a physician of high fam
ily and character, rapt in ber calling yet of too
refined,poetic a nature to live without warm
and subtile affections. One prosaic-looking
business man, a publisher, loves this rare
woman in a way that with most men would re
quire a wedding ring and carrying ber on! from
the profession where she is life to 100 patients,
being one of those thorough students who re
deem the calling from the reproach of 60 half
trained practitioners. His house as be first
entered it, came so near bankruptcy that it
will be the work of years to pay its debts; and
he bas assumed tbe support of his dear part
ner's helpless family, widow and girls.
"Marriage is out of the question for him for a
dozen years, if ever. She Is too much in love
with ber work to really wish to leave it, while
caring so much for this unselfish, sweet
natured man to quietlv by her influence throw
many business chances in his .favor. Do tbey
find it necessary, like Margaret Harold and
Winthorp in "East Angels,"to deny themselves
the sight of each other's faces, lest passion
should overleap every consideration of honor
and conscience? Evenings in ber library
which makes an exquisite boudoir in harmoni
ous dim colors and scent of tearoses, prove the
"The matronly relative with ber embroidery
and magazine cosily established near tbe open
archway in the next room, is always part of the
picture. In tbat gracious, flower-filled air, tbe
tired man is privileged to seek bis friend, and
tbere tbey two drop the faces of 40 years which
tbe world knows, and are young, hopeful, sym
pathetic together. They each know too well
by the inslgbt which our social refinement give",
that they hold the best of life to peril it by un
seemly shows of feeling, but all the refresh
ment In the
COMMUNITY OF TASTES
and depth ot sympathies is theirs. Their plans,
their vacations are arranged together; tbey
visit, they travel together in so guarded, yet so
open, a manner that malice itself can find
nothing to carp at, and gossip is beaten down
by the presence of blameless and discreet facta.
8acbfnendships are known and memorable in
society, notably Horace Greeley's regard for
Alice Cary, which was the solace and support
of two generous spirits as long as gossips kept
their tongues off. No feelings finer or more
honorable to human, nature can be imagined
man tne sympatny wnicn drew tne sorely ha
rassed politician to tbe recluse poetess, or In
tercourse more free from reproach than that
which soothed tbe world-worn man and brought
the stimulus of ardent appreciation to a wo
man's shut-up life. When in sensitive defer
ence to the opinion of fools who knew nothing
of the facts, there was a widening apart of
these friendly ways, the loss to each was im
measurable and never repaired.
The influence of tbat trail, dark woman kept
the ardent man from extravagances unknown,
and who can read in her biography of the pop
ular poet weeping after her crowded reunions
for the word of affectionate sympathy the
crowd bad not known bow to say without tbe
deepest sympathy for tbe warm, rugged nature
which could respect entirely while it paid ar
dent homage to her gifts and soul. Tbe world,
as well as private lives is the poorer for tbe mar-
ring oi sucn episodes Dy areaa oi petty gossip.
The best thing in the life of Albert Victor, heir
to the throne ot England, will be tbe fascina
tion which drew him to the beautiful, brilliant
and high-minded Lady Churchill, a woman
twice his age and three times his superior by
nature. And It is tho deepest credit to tbis
princeling that such a fine-natured woman bad
? tower to drag bim from London actresses and
ast beauties to follow her to Brighton and tbe
Continent, even at cost of setting shallow pages
astir and mean tongues wagging.
"The face of Jennie Jerome nnder its dia
mond star is not one to dim its luster for tbe
heir to ICO crowns, but rather to touch any
man to finer Issues of mind. It adds tbe last
touch of warmtn to one's regard for this
American peeress who does ber country so
much honor abroad, tbat sbe was able, after
POOL OF POLITICS,
to see its odiousness and retrieve her action.
There are so many women whose blunt senses
never realize tbe foulness of its odors, the un
cleanness df its tide, but linger and delight In
raking its ooze for chance of spoil.
"Have I tired you with this long talk? It
bas been on my mind so long tbat people de
fraud themselves of the better part of lire
because, forsooth, they cannot have its lesser
things. If I bad a son. as things go in the un
settled state of social order, I would counsel
him not to make marriage his hope of happi
ness, but seek some woman's favor and be her
honorable friend and knight. For my daugh
ter, if sbe were poor, or anything came In the
way of tbe happiest marriago possible, 1 would
choose the lifelong, chivalrous regard of some
fine natured man of ber own order, too poor or
too fettered perhaps by family ties to marry,
but not too selfish to be an ardent, careful
friend. Do you call sucb attachments cold
and slight? My friend, these cobweb cables ot
sentiment bold exceeding strong. As the
mental and spiritual outweigh the corporeal,
in the advancement of the race tbey will grow
firmer, and take place as recognized ties of the
It was new doctrine in words. But this
woman unfeignedly believed in wbat she said,
and her opinions are not so strange to our
inner consciousness as we affect to feel tbem.
Anyhow, they are novel enough to relieve the
common topics of a letter.
THE OBEEAMMEKGAU PLAT.
It U Very Easy to Spoil a Good Thine by
Trying to Improve It.
The history of the Oberammergan passion
play shows how easy it Is to spoil a good thing
by trying to improve it. Thirty years ago the
great world knew of the play only through oc
casional reports from artists and men of letters
who had quit the beaten track of European
travel and bunted their' way to tbe quaint old
village.' The peasants who took part in it wero
so thoroughly In earnest that they seemed
even to try to lead in their every-day occupa
tions the lives of the characters represented
by tbem on the stage, as a sort of preparation
for the great event ot each ten-year period.
But tbe Franco-Prussian war of 1870 broke in
upon tbe decennial rule, and In 1871 tbe per
formance attracted such a crowd or slgbt-seers
who flocked to tbe Continent when danger from
the international duel was over, that the Inn
keepers and teamsters and other beneficiaries
through all the neighboring country had their
heads turned and sawthat tbere would be profit
in making tho play a fashionable feature.
The presentation or ItSSO strengthened tbis
idea aud extended it tn some managers in
Munich, who have now undertaken to revise
tbe text, supply new dresses, elaborate scenery
and mecnanlcal devices, increase tbe orchestra
and enlarge the auditory so tbat 10.000 or 12.000
persons can see the stage. Tbe rustic flavor of
the whole affair, which was one of Its chief
charms. Is gone, together with the devout
atmosphere which pervaded tbe performance
In the old time. The Oberammergan play is
now an ordinary spectacle, like any other In a
m TEE'OTHER SIDE.
Tbe Grave Is tbe Inevitable End and
Still is tfot tbe End.
ILL OPPORTUNITY WILL CEASE,
So Par as May he Judged hy Any Knowl
edge Tbat We Possess.
THE DEATH OF THE GREAT EXAMPLE
rwBrrns ron TITE DISrATClf.l
It is appointed unto men once to die.
"Whosoever liveth and believeth in me
shall never die." Here are two quite differ
ent thoughts about death. Here is the great
universal inevitable fact of death looked at
from two points of view, from the two sides
of the grave.
We must look at it from some point of
view. We cannot help it,because this great
inevitable fact forces itself upon our atten
tion. We take up our daily paper and there
is its daily list of the dead. We walk
abroad and the mourners go about the
street, often we are of their companv. Year
by year, as the seasons pass and the shadows
gather, and one by one those we have loved
go hence and are no more seen, this fact of
the uncertainty of life and the approach of
death impresses itself with increasing em
phasis upon our minds.
The fact of death is being emphasized for
somebody every day. Bnt sometimes in
the departure of some widely-familiar figure,
in the putting of an asterisk beside some
well-known name, in the silence of some
strong voice to which inanv have been used
to listen for help and inspiration, this fact
is emphasized for awholecommunity. And
sometimes when some great disaster comes,
like the Johnstown flood, and sudden de
struction falls on an unnumbered multitude,
not only a community, but a whole nation,
"WHOLE WOULD, IS REMINDED
that there is such a fact as death. Some
times the air seems freighted with tragic
rumors. On all hands are disastrous hap
penings. The newspapers come like the
servants of Job, bearing sad news from all
parts of the compass; and we remember the
predictionsof the final catastrophe, which
will eDd the world. Wars and rumors of
wars, the pestilence, the famine, the earth
quake, the sea and the waves roaring, and
men's hearts failing them for fear. At
such times we have to think of death; we
cannot keep the thought away.
We are living just now in such a time.
The year 1889 will go down in history
marked with black, as a year touched by
the fingers of death- We have to take up
death from some point of view. But it
makes a good deal of difference sometimes
from which point of view a thing or afact is
looked at. Because few things are so sound
that when we have seen one side we have
seen all the sides. And few facts are so
simple that one look suffices to their under
standing. More often it is the second look, from the
second point of view, which gives the first
look its meaning. The second look inter
prets and translates the first. Sometimes the
second look quite reverses the impression
taken of the first. We cannot be said to
know much about any thing or fact which
we have looked at lrom only one point of
view. It is appointed unto men once to die.
Tbat is one view ot death. That is the great
fact of death as we look at it from this side
of the grave. The words express the inevit
ableness of death. Death is of all things in
this world the most certain and the most un
fixed. The most certain in the fact of its
coming; tbe most uncertain in the time of
its coming. It is appointed unto men; yes,
bnt when? Why, "once." That is all we
know about it
THE LOT OF ALL.
Did you ever think, in the midst of a
great crowd, how every member of that mul
titude must one day be tbe center ot a com
pany of awed watchers and must die? And
don't you know that at eyerj funeral the
thought of everybody's heart as we sit
silently in the still room is the same, 'I
must die." You have in your heart, '"I
will lie some day where now my friend lies
and the life be gone out of me."
Very likely you have read Tolstoi's story
of "Ivan .Iiyltcb." Ivan Ilyitch was a
.Russian official of high station who got a
hurt in bis side, one day. There was a twinge
of pain tor a moment, but it passed away.
It passed away, bat tbe next day it came
hack again, and the next day after that,
coming and going, getting harder and
harder to bear, and at last coming and stav
ing. The doctor made bis visit, counting the
minutes of his stay; impatient to get to his
next patient. Friends came in. full of various
interests. Ivan's wife and daughters were
about him, finding the sick room a little weari
some, going out on errands of duty and pleas
ure, and coming, back witb bright faces, sad
dening somewhat as they came into the sick
The world outside his. windows went on as
usual. But Ivan had but a single thought. He
thought of death. And day by day the grim
figure of death, which all his life had lingered
In tbe dim background of bis thought, came
slowly forward step by step, till at last it filled
tbe whole horizon of his vision. So he died,
itisapicturo of the life of nearly all of us.
Nearer and nearer comes that silent spirit;
closer and closer draws tbe inevitable change.
And death is tbe end. We stand before It
looking at It out of our unassisted eyes, and it
is tbe black wall which marks tbe end. The
pleasure of the world, for which people are
busy making plans, will all end.
WHAT "WILL END.
Tbe work of the world, which leaves some so
little time to consider anything which is not
bounded by a counter or written in a cash
book, which makes the subject of so many ex
cuses for the neglect of the duties of religion,
will end there. Tbe pain of the world, thank
God, which makes some people long for the
coming ot death, the pain of tbe world will end
when tbat spirit enters Into light and summons
the soul away. There is no more pain, no more
sorrow, nor crying for those who bare loved
God and served Him. That Is all ended.
Opportunity ends then. Tbe soul that has
gone on continually saying: "To-morrow. To
morrow I will be kinder and more loving and
gentle. To-morrow I will speak the self
reproachful word which I ought to speak and
begin to make my borne more happy. To-morrow
I will repent and amend my lite; I will be
done of this evil bablt; I will enroll mjself
upon the side of tbe disciples of the Master."
And so cumes upon a day which knows no mor
row. Death, so far as we know, so far even as reve
lation has taught us, is the absolute end of
opportnnity. Some think not, we must all hope
nor, but this, so far as God's disposition of
man's destiny is understood. Is true, that death
sets a last amen to opportunity. The hour
strikes, tbe work ends; is done whether well or
ill; the book Is closed and handed up for God to
see. Death seals the story of our life. We
stand before the blacK wall. It Is the end so
far as we can see. We ask of Knowledge. "Is
it tbe end I" and Knowledge answers, "I know
IT MUST BE.
Knowledge falls Into Silence and Love takes
np tbe story: "It Is true," says Love, "that
nothing else stands written on the black wall;
but over on the other side there must be light,
must be beauty, must be life and joy. It must
be. It cannot be otherwise. Thus tbe 'life
everlasting' has been an article in all creeds,
because love dwcllJfiv all hearts." Tbe Idea of
immortality, one bas truly said, "that like a
sea bas ebbed and flowed In the human heart
with Its countless waves of hope and fear, beat
ing against tne snares ana rocus or time ana
fate", was not born of any book hor of any
creed nor of any religion. It was born of hu
man affections, and it will continue to ebb and
flow beneath tbe mists and clouds of doubt
ana darkness as long as love kisses (be lips of
death." That Is true; tbat is apart of the truth.
And to this hope, thus born of love, men bave
added, and are still adding, a strong conviction
born of reason. Reason reinforces love, and
tbe two together." like the strong voice of a
man and tbe sweet voice of a woman, sing the
song of immortality. .(Seed time and harvest
have al ays preached to the thoughtful tho
lesson of another life. Tbe strange phenomena
of will and memory and lore bave made It, lm-
Eosslble for men to think that man dies when
e body dies.
Of late, since the theory of evolution has
broadened ont the reaches of man's mental
vision, and accustomed him to think of the
progress of the universe to perfection through
great eras, reason bas found new arguments
for immortality.. Tbe "destiny of man," inter
preted out of the book ot nature, only reaches
far beyond the grave. On has gone the world,
century by century, mlllenlnm by mlllerjlum,
out of nothing, upward step by step Jill all has
reached its climax In the splntnal nature of
man. What is it all for? If man die as beasts
die it is all for nothing. "From the
first dawning of life," declares the leading
teacher In this country, of the theory of evolu
tion, "from the first dawning ot life we see all
things working together toward one mighty
goal tbe evolution of the most exalted spirit
ual qualities which characterize humanity."
Has all tbis work been done for nothing? Is it
all ephemeral? A bubble which bursts a vision
which fades? Are we to regard the Creator's
work as like that of a child who builds bouses
out of blocks
JUST FOE THE FLEASUBE
of knocking tbem down? The questions are
capable of but one reasonable answer: Death
is not the end; man's soul must lire. Bnt we
want stronger assurance than either love or
reason gives us. Love and Reason after all are
only standing in the shadow ot tbe black bar
rier and guessing wbat is on the other side.
There must be life beyond tbe grave: cries
Love. "I hope If there must be life beyond
the grave: cries Reason, "I think it" But we
want more than that, and we hare more than
that. For as tbe one longing of all men has
been realized; tbe one voice beard to wbich all
men have desired to listen. "If only'somebody
could come from the other side of tbe black
wall and tell us."
Out of tbe other world He came, tbe Divine
Teacher. He came, bringing life and immor
tality to light, opening heaven as wide as man
may endure to bave it opened, assuring us that
Love and Reason are quite right about it that
there is Ufa beyond the grave, and that the
black barrier is not a wall, but a door. Beyond
is our Father's house, and many mansions In it,
and a place made ready there for every child
of man, and Christ Himself tbe door and the
"Let not your heart bo troubled, neicher let
it be afraid." And, as if teaching were not suf
ficiently assuring and we needed more than
His telling u so to make ns certain that death
is but the door of life. He died as we must die.
"See." He said, "I will die just as you must die.
I will go before and show you every step of the
way." So He did, and came back again.
"There it is, as I told you: death Is tbe end, and
not tbe end. Death is but a door out of this
life into another." '
Christ did not solve all tbe mystery of death.
I suppose we could not have understood tbe
words of tbe solution. When death comes,
many things now dark to us will be made plain.
In tbe words of Chrnt wbich we bare recorded,
some things are unintelligible to us, juit as the
writing on tbe cylinder of a phonograph would
be unintelligible among a people who had no
phonograph. When death comes it will be like
the putting of sucb a cylinaer Into an instru
ment and bearing the black lines speak. Christ
did tell us tbat death is related to sin: tbat it is
a part of the disorder introduced into the
world by man's disobedience. Cbnst did tell
ns that death is the enemy of God. Speaking
through His apostle. St. Paul, He assures us
that the last enemy that shall be destroyed is
death. And so God does not will death. If
the word "will" means the desire of God, death
is never the will of God for any human being.
TEAES OF CHRIST
beside the grave of Lazarus were a revelation
of the sympathizing heart of God. But Christ
did tell us that God our Father is a God of in
finite wisdom, who knows best. When death
seems especially dark or mysterious we rest
upon that truth, God knows best and does best;
always. He knows why. When even the In
nocent transgress the great laws of His uni
verse He doesn't stop tbe workings of tbe law,
but lets the punishment come. He knows why
the God of infinite wisdom. Christ did not
solve tbe whole mystery of death, bnt He told
us tbat which above all we desire to know
about it, that death Is not the end. but the be
ginning. On goes the soul out of this life into
And tbe next life. Christ said, depends upon
this absolutely, just as to-morrow depends
upon to-day. In the face of this great fact of
the uncertainty of human life, let us lire pre
pared for the ending of life; let us so live that
tbat the joy of tbe other world, wbich they
alone can appreciate who have lived here fol
lowing tbe will of God, may be possible to us.
Then shall we know wbat old St. Ambrose
meant, who wrote a book on "The Advantage
of Death." Then shall we know wbat he
meant who said, "Death is the veil which we
who live call life; we sleep and It is lifted."
"What If some morning when the stars were
And tbe dawn whitened and the eaitiwas clear.
Strange rest and peace leu on me from the pres
ence Of a benignant spirit standing near.
And 1 should tell him as he stood beside me,
Ihls is oar Earth most friendly Earth and fair.
Dally its sea and (bore through sun and shadow
Faithful it tarns robed In Us mzure air.
There ts blest living here lorlng and serving
And guest of troth and serene friendship dear
Bat stay not. Spirit t Earth has one destroyer
Ills name Is Death: flee lest be find ttiee here!"
And what If then while the still morning bright
ened. And freshened In the elms the tammer's breath
bhoald gravrly smile ou me the gentle angel
And tale mr hand and say, '-Jly name is Death."
THE BATTLER'S CHIEP.
The-Lair of the Rattlesnake at Lake IIo-'
patcongr The Cheerful Mote of
Warning Applrlnck a Sure
Remedy for Blteiu
CORKESFONDEXCI OF THX DISPATCH.:
f'LAKEHOPATCOXG, N. J., July 13.
Steve Decker knows Hopatcong from its
lowest point to the Morris canal lock that
marks tbe upper end. Nobody has such a
knowledge of these splendid waters, whose
beauty is just beginning to get national
fame. Nobody can tell such yarns about
tbe lake, because nobody but Steve bas ever
bad such a variegated experience. Decker is a
hunter. He belongs to the brand of hunters
that James Fennlmore Cooper popularized. He
looks as if he had stepped out of one of tbe
"Leather Stocking" tales. He claims to have
been represented, through an ancestor, in some
of Cooper's novels. One thing Is sure. If half
the stories of bunting tbat Steve tells are true,
there Is a good chance for some ambitious
fiction producer to make hlmelf immortal.
"The Nlmrod of Hopatcong" would sell mighty
well. Steve finds his occupation rather Cur
tailed tbis year, owing to tbe arrival of three
Cape Vincent gnides, who cover pretty much
the same ground Steve has covered since he got
away with his last bear a few years ago and
settled down to such common and Inactive
game as possums and catamounts. The Cape
Vincent importation pilot the visitor around
the lake and Uke him on the walks that are
outlined In tbe literature about Hopatcong.
Steve nsed to have a monopoly ot this business,
but he doesn't tbis season. He has a mo
nopoly on hunting stories, however. The Cape
Vincent pilots lay right down when Decker
spins a yarn.
If vou want to hear Steve's stories and at the
same time really see tbe wild spots back of tbe
lake and up In the Scbooley range of mountains,
spend a day and a few dollars with Decker as
your guide. Beginning with rattlesnake lairs,
you are gradually piloted to holes in tbe ground
and fissures in the rocks where bears used to
dwell and where tbe captivatin' catamount still
lingers. For lair and hole and fissure Steve
has a separate story. Tbere really are rattle
snakes around Hopatcong, but tbey don't come
singing down the path as they did In the halcy
on da s Steve pictures so graphically. The
rattlesnake doesn't bnnt you tbis season; you
have to hunt the rattle. It seems tbey used to
pounce on you from the tops of huckleberry
bushes and then charm you until they conld
chirp threo times. A well-regulated rattle
snake, you know, never bites uutil be bas
chirped three times. Tbere are intervals be
tween the chirps about the length of the inter
vals on a District Messenger call box when you
don't want to get a policeman or the fire depart
ments. Instead of a cab. He Is the wise man
that never waits for more than one cbirp. A
rash mortal will bear tbe second note of the
rattle, but only a fool waits for tbe third and
Steve says lots of people nsed to get bitten,
in tbe days when tbere were no big hotels and
only camping parties frequented the waters
and first discovered the piscatorial pleasures
hidden therein. But Jersey ap. lejack is a sure
cure. It you drink enouzb of tbe Jack, all tbe
virus of the reptile will ooze out or your skin
and sneak away as if it was ashamed. Tbere
were giant rattlesnakes in those days. Decker
recalls serpents with sixteen rattles.and be bas
lost more skins with a dozen rattles than other
old inhabitants ever heard of. Tbe crop has
thinned ont, howe-er. If, In one of the lairs
on tbe road to Budd's Lake, you stir up a snake
with eight rattles, you are lucky. Aud if you
succeed in killing one of tbe "varmints.'' as
they are known in tbo Hopatcong vernacular,
before it gets in its triple chirp, you are luckier
still. A purse made of rattle skins Is a novelty
and ought to fetch a big price somewhere.
Boond to be Well Heeled.
Rev. Dr. Thirdly Is not your bill rather
high. Dr. Diagnose?
Dr. Diagnose Yes; bet I bave scriptural au
thority for making It high, and you, asa clergy
man, should not object.
"Ab, I am not aware ot snch authoritv."
"I will recall tne passage to you. It reads:
Physician, heel thyself.' "
Pater Well, my son, yon are graduated, and
are now prepared to go West and fight the In
dians. Do you think you hare the necessary
West Pointer Well. I should think so. I
am the champion long-distance runner of ou