4 r . (f J& jci f i ii : : IV r i n n j it i it; ii ii i if li it ii ii t u ii i u: i r j TERMS-PAYABLE IS ADVANCE,) -vr T-VTTTnTT!iTXTTncrrn tti a hVtt x-r-T-iw-i- -i-vr-i-r- (TERMS -PAYABLE IN ADVANCE, (wtthim this oountt,) AN INDEPENDENT FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 1 (0., $1.25 per Tear j 75 Ots. 6 Months.) --.. I $1.60 per Year ; 85 Cte. 6 Months. ' -"" :;" " ' ' " . rT-:r-;ir:: : : zzr:izrzrrrr:sJt. Vol. VIII. IVoav Bloomftcld, Pa., Tuesday, Novcmber3, 1874. IVo. 44. IS PI1BLI8IIBD STKRT TUESDAY MORNING, ST FRANK MOETIMEB & CO., At New Iiloomfleld, Terry Co., Ta. Being provided with Btenin Tower, and Inrge Cylinder and Job-Presses, we are prepared to do all kinds of Job l'rlntinn Id good style and at Low l'lices. ADVERTISING BATKSl 7aniln V Cents per lino for one insertion 18 " . " twolnsertioni 15 " " "three Insertions Business Notices In Local Column 10 Cents per line. S-For longer yearly adv'ts terms will be given upon application. For the Iiloomfleld Time.. THE SECRET MARRIAGE. JUST as the sun was sinking, one tine day in Jane, a carriage stopped at tho gate of tho old stone church in Merton and two ladies, "young, lovely ond richly dress ed, were handed out by a gentleman who bad, for the last half hour, been pacing up and down the church-yard, pausing now and then to read the name on some moss covered stone or leaning for a moment against one of the magnificent old trees that beautified and solemnized the spot. It seemed, by his eager greeting, that be had been impatiently waiting the coming of the beautiful girls whom he directly conduoted into the church. - 1 Almost im mediately after them the good old rector entered, leaning on the arm of bis nephew, a slender, graceful youth, whom he bad brought as a witness of a ceremony he bad been urged to perform in the most private manner. Reverently the old man opened bis .book and the young people silently placed themselves before . the altar. The quiet of the lonely church, made more im pressive by the shadowy dimness of the twilight hour, the full, deep, solemn voice of the rector and the low though earnest tones of the young respondents, which alone broke the almost painful silence, gave an ahtf of sadness to that strange bridal, and when Robert Elliot signed that mar riage certificate, as a witness, bis hand trembled and bis young heart sank with a sad foreboding of sorrow either to himself or the young and beautiful pair who had just received the nuptial benediction. Bl lently and slowly the parties left the church and as much to the surprise of the boy as to the horror of the good sexton who open ed the gate to thgm, the bride-groom, after a few hurried sentences and a warm em brace, handed his weeping bride into the carriage, then pressing the hand of ber sister, who was already seated, with a fer vent " God bless you," and one glance of anguish, turned hastily away and mount ing a horse whloh awaited him, rode off rapidly in on direction while the carriage immediately rolled away iu another. "I'm afraid they'll come to no good," said the sexton as he shut the heavy iron gate and placed the key in his stout leather pouoh, touching bis cap respectfully to the reotor as he finished, and " good night, master Robert" to the strippllng who just then stopped and took from the pavement, where it had probably fallen from the hand o the bridgroom, in that hurried parting, a folded paper which he instantly recog nized as the marriage certificate. Robert Elliot was bis sinter's son, an orphan boy whom he was training to fill his own place, as he hoped, in after years, but those who saw the fire in the boy's dark eye and marked his proud, firm bear ing, even in eaily youth, thought him. ill- suited to the holy calling, aud he himself had many a vision of honors gaiued and laurels won In a far different sphere from that secluded village. Still he remained at the parsonage, a dutiful aud patient pupil, dearly loving the good old man to whom be was the last earth-fiower ; the only being, out of heaven, he could call his own. When Robert banded the certificate that evening to the rector, the old mail's face saddened for a moment and he said, " They should have taken more care ; put it iu my prayor-book, my son ; they will doubtless call for lb soon, and to-morrow you must record the marriage for me in the parish register." Robert placed the paper as desired, and then seating himself on a low bench at bis uncle's feet, began talking of the strange and secret marriage, saying, "Did you know the parties before, sir?" ' " I never saw the bride or tier sister till we met in the chnrch, trat I have known the bridegroom. Richard Harding, since h is boyhood, or rather I should say I knew him as a boy, for he has been many years absent from bis country aud I did not know of his return, till he came this afternoon to rcquost me to perform the ceromony." "The lady is very beautiful, very," said Robert thoughtfully, and to himself rather than to the rector, who, however, some what to the boy's surprise, immediately replied, , " She is very beautiful, and I fear Rich ard has done wrong in persuading her to become his wife without the consent or knowledge of any of her friends except her twin-sister, who, a school-girl, like herself, and of course as much a stranger here, is not a very sags counsellor." " I wish you would toll me all you know of them, dear uncle," said Robert, "for I feci a strange interest in them. Tho lady is so gentle and lovely and the gentleman seemed so stern and cold, so prompt and determined. I almost hated him when be turned so abruptly from bis carriage and rode off, as if relieved at having performed a painful duty." " Nay, Robert, you wrong him ; he is summoned to attend his father immediate ly, who is only waiting his arrival there to sail from New Orleans for Cuba, where he has large estates which require his constant supervision, and whore his son's assistance aud society are particularly needful to him. Old Mr. Harding is an honorable and warm-bearted though eccentrio man, and Richard, knowing his excitable temper, dared not take bis bride with him, and when I urged him first to obtain his father's consent and then come and ask her openly of her relatives, as a gentleman should do, he told me that to wait was to lose her for ever, for her step-father was his father's bitterest enemy; that she was the daughter of a British officer who resided many years at Halifax and left, at his death, no fortune to theso twin girls and a widow, whose weak nature disqualified her to stand alone in the world, and whose polished manners and great beauty tendered her still very attractive, who bad within a few months after her widowhood married a man of wealth and influence but of inferior rank, which so incensed the sister of ber late husbaud, Col. Ormond, that she refused to have any intercourse with her, and even threatened to bestow her little fortune on a charitable institution, instead of giving it to her nieces as she had often promised. But now, dear Robert, we must talk of other things more nearly concerning our selves, for I have much to say to you before you leave me next week for College." " Isn't the masther down yet, ma'am," said Norah, opening the door of the little parlor, and adding in a half vexed tone, " I wonder he don't come when be knows my cakes will be all spiled for him ?" " You would not wonder," peevishly re plied Mrs. Stanton, the housekeeper, " if you had heard him talking in his study with Robert till almost morning. I sup pose they have both overslept themselves." " Well, and sure It's a pleasure to talk to the hoy any time, and the ould glutle man was just beginning to say his last words afore he leaves for the school, ma'am and sorry we'll be whin he's gene." ' They were interrupted by the agonized voice of Robert, crying : "Mrs. Stanton, Norah, come, come quick to the study ;" and in an instant both were standing at the study door, ap palled at the scene within. In his high backed arm chair close by the open win dow, Just where Robert had 'loft him the night before, sat the good rector, looking so calm, so beautifully quiet, that for one moment they almost thought ho slept ; but the repose was too deep, too rigid for sleep, and the two women paused and looked at each other with sad, troubled faces for several minutes, ere Mi's. Stanton pressed a cold baud iu hers, and murmuring, " He is dead, poor old gentleman," burst into tears. The death of their beloved pastor spread so deop a gloom over the whole parish, so many hearts were heavy with sorrow, that Robert felt almost ashamed of the utter lonelinoss and desolation he felt while so many sympathized in and shared his grief. Day after day the Summer sun rose and set and found Robert lingering yet in the lonely reotory, ' pale aud hopeloss, and not until Mrs. Stanton (old him that hor grand. son had come to take her to his home in a neighboring village, did he seem to com prehend that the house which bad so long sheltered him was his home no longer, Then be roused himself, and with reveren tial care packed the few books and other articles which had belonged to his uncle the furniture with the house was the prop. erty of the parish and leaving them under the care of an old friend, took his own little property and departed for the city, where he immediately commenced his col lege studies. Tho new family arrived at the rectory and bright young faces were seen at tho windows and graceful figures occupied the rector's pew in church ; yet still, children went by the gate with a slow er step and a pause in thoir mirthful talk, and many a matron wiped away a tear as her eye fell on the new white stone which marked the good old rector's quiet grave About four years after these events, Miss Ormond sat in the parlor of her niece, Cor nelia, (who had beon married several months previous to Lieutenant Frank Courtney of the United States army), read ing a newspaper, when she suddenly ex claimed : "What a strange advertisement !" and immediately road aloud, "'Any person who can give information of a certain Edith Merton, who was several years since privately married to the late Richard Hard ing, and who can bring proof of the mar riage aud of the lady's identity, will hoar of something greatly to her advantage by calling on Edward Weston attorney and councellor at law No. 73 Street, Phil adelphia.'" "Strange, indeed," said Mr. Courtney, and turning to his wifo he added, " Corne lia, was not Mr. Harding an acquaintance of yours, a lover of Edith's, or something like it, before you left Halifax?" " Yes no," stammered Cornelia, " that Is, he was our fellow passenger from Hal ifax, and my sister liked, or rather he liked or " and blushing and confused she stopped abruptly, for just then Edith en tered the room, and noticing the wondering looks of her aunt and Mr. Courtney, and the confusion of her sister, nuked anxiously what was the matter. Aunt Ormond im mediately handed her the paper, point ing to the advertisement, which she had no sooner glanced at than her brain reeled aud she sank fainting on a sofa. All was now confusion and anxiety. The secret which the sisters had so long and faithfully kept was revealed, and in the family council which followed it was decided that Mr. Courtney should proceed immediately to Philadelphia and learn all Mr. Weston could tell him of Richard Harding's death and of bis wife too, for, from the hour of his parting with her at the church door, bis young wife hod received no intelligence of him, and until she saw the advertise ment was of course not aware of his death. It was strange the name should be Edith Merton, they thought, but perhaps Mr. Weston could explain it, so they wisely de termined to say nothing of the affair until they knew all he could tell them. Mr. Courtney found Mr. Weston very ready to impart all the knowledge of the case he possessed, which was, briefly, that about a month previous to their interview be had received a package from the United States consul at Cuba,containlng a lotter from the honorable gentleman, informing Mr. Wet ton of the recent death of Richard Harding, Sen., ; also that the said Richard had, in his lost illness, earnestly desired that the will and letter accompanying might be conveyed (as soon after his decease as pos sible to Mr. Weston. " Harding and I were old school-follows aud friends, and I was not surprised to find myself named executor of his will, though the document itself excited no little aston ishment and seemed to promise some dif ficulty in its execution, since it expressly says in due form, " I bequeath all my es tate, real and personal, of whatever nature and wherever found, to Edith, wife of my lute son Richard Harding, now residing, if she bo yet living, in partri unknown to me ; and if she cannot be found Within five years from the date hereof, I devise the same to James, the only son of my brother . James Harding, of Boston, Mass., U. S. In the letter which accompanied the will he writes, " Soon after we arrived at borne after our last visit to the United States, my son was seized with tho fever which ter minated bis lifo,and as I watched anxiously by him one day, he told mo of his marriage with a beautiful and portionless girl,, and besought not only my forgiveness for hav ing acted without my sanction, but also my permission to return as soon as he was able to Massachusetts, and claiming his bride, to bring her to our luxurious homo, or to allow him to remain iu America with her. I was' beside myself with rage, and forgetting the weakness of my boy, I load ed him with reproaches, swearing in my wrath that he should never again leave his West Indian home, never again behold the being who had come between bis love and me. When I stopped to take breaMs, my boy hail fainted. Horror-struck, be lieving him dead, I summoned the attend ants. He was soon restored to life but not to consciousness, nor for one moment after did his delirium cease. He often murmur ed the names of Edith and Morton, but said nothing distinctly, so that I could learn nothing of the family of his wife, nor obtain the least clue to her station or resi dence. I will not tell you how wretched my life has been since, how remorse and shame have haunted me, nor why I have resolved to bequeath my fortune (as a sort of atonement, a poor one I own, to the memory of my boy,) to the woman he lov ed, if she can be found. You will for our old friendship's sake seek her diligently, and at the end of the five years specified in my will, if you hear nothing of her, will deliver the property to my nephew, whom I hate though he is my only brother's son, but who ought in justice to inherit a por tion of the fortune the germs of which, at least, I received from his grandfather." After reading tho letter, Mr. Courtney gave Mr. Weston the little information he could afford, and was surprised to learn from that gentleman that Mr. James Hard ing had already been to inquire if any claimant for the fortune had appeared. "He is," added Mr. Weston, "a grasp ing, avaricious man, whom I detest almost as heartily as did bis uncle, but unless you can furnish me with ample and unquestion able proofs of your sister-in-law Miss Or mond'a being the lady who was married to Richard in Merton Church in June, 18 I shall be obliged to hand over the deeds of property to him at the end of the five years specified in the will ; but I presume you will have no difficulty. There is, of course, a certificate, and tho marriage is recorded in the parish register, and there were un doubtedly witnesses of the ceremony who must be found and requested to give their evidence. Be assured I will do all in my power to place Miss Ormond, or rather Mrs. Harding, iu possession." Mr. Courtney anticipated no difficulty in obtaining the desired proofs, and with a light, hopeful heart he returned to his fam ily. Great was his astonishment to learn from Edith that so far from being able to produce any proof of the marriage, she had nothing but her wedding ring, containing their initials and the date ; that there were no witnesses except her sister, and that she did not even know the officiating clergy man's name. She knew only that the rite was solemnized in Merton Church, and to Merton Aunt Ormond insisted on going, accompanied by Edith, immediately. A new life seemed given to the old lady. Now that she had recovered from her anger and astonishment at the clandestine mar riage, she entered with all her youthful energy upon the task of proving it, insisted on having Edith called " Mrs. Harding," much to her annoyance, and talked of their golden expectations to all their acquaint ance. Poor Edith 1' since reading that im portant advertisement she was a changed being. Sad and pale, she shrank from society, even that of her most intimate friends, and her aunt could have scarcely imposed upon hor a more painful task than the visit to Merton. It was made, how ever, and was unsatisfactory. Tho sudden death of the good old rector had prevented the recording of the marriage ; the sexton, not liking the new rector, or the new laws he mado, had "hauded in his keys" and "moved off to the West." The rector's nephew was reading law in the office of Messrs. Parchment & Smoothwit, of Mich igan, and old Mrs. Stanton's failing mem ory only enabled her to say, " Robert was a good boy and she hoped no harm would come to him, for he went right away when his grandpa' died, and nobody bad heard of him since." What was to be done? Several letters were addressed to Robert Elliot without eliciting a reply, and Mr. Weston, unable to encourage his cliont, could only bid her wait patiently, and re mind her that five years was not long to wait for Buch a fortune. 1 Mr. Courtney was soon ordered to Flori da, and spite of the urgent entreaties of his wife, Miss Ormond, feeling herself too old to bear the transplanting, positively re fused to accompany thorn, and Edith would toot leave her, even to go with that darling sister from whom she had never been separated a day. Soon after the Courtneys were gone. Aunt Ormond was seized with a paralysis which deprived her of the use of one side, and so affected ber mind that she was incapable of managing hor little household affairs, and in many re spects so childish as to draw largely on Edith's patience and ingonuity for her comfort and amusement. About this time the bankers who held Miss Ormond's little fortune failed, and her income was reduced in consequence to one-eight of what it had been. How were they to live now ? They bad never had too much, and that which was left them was a mere pittance. Poor Edith 1 Nobly she bore her burdon, brave ly she endured ber trials, and many one who saw her with calm brow and firm heart steadily performing her daily duties, wondered at her insensibility, while a few, who understood her better, breathed an earnest prayer that she might be able to prove ber right to the estate she claimed. Meanwhile Mr. James Harding was not inactive ; on the contrary, he exerted him self continually to find "proofs that Rich ard Harding had never married, and he so often called Edith an impostor, a deceiver, that many bolioved his report and soma even among her own acquaintances began to look coldly upon her. The affair remained in this state for many months, when Robert Elliot happen ed to visit in that vicinity, and while walk ing with a friend in Boston, be chauced to meet Edith. The face attracted his atten tion, aud finally he said to his friend, "The young lady we have just passed, puts mo strongly in mind of a strange in cident that happened the night before my uncle died." And then he briefly related the circumstances already recorded regard ing the mysterious marriage. Burton, who had been intently listening to his friend's words, now exclaimed, " Why, Elliot, the fates have sent you . here just in time, and I will honcefortb believo in presentiments aud special provi dences as devoutly as yourself or Giant Thorburn. It was only yesterday I heard Weston say his father would give his right arm to find Miss Ormond's marriage cer tificate, or one credible witness of the mar riage, for which it soems he has been seek iug these five years. "Where is Mr. Weston? Can I see him immediately?" said Elliot, excited beyond control by Burton's account. "Wftwlll rrA flimnflv in liia rnnma. fnr ... pi j , he is now in the city," replied Burton ; and' a few minutes' walk brought them to Mr. Weston's door, and a few more sufficed to acquaint the lawyer with their errand. Having listened eagerly to the story, he asked Elliot, rather peremptorily, "Are you willing to appear , in court next week and repeat this story on oath f and can you tell me where the sexton you speak of may be found ? and above all things ean you produce that certificate?" Elliot gave the little lawyer the sexton's address, promised to attend the court at the appointed time, and then said, " I cannot toll any thing of the certifi cate ; I remember my uncle's telling me to place it his prayer-book, and that I must record it on the morrow ; before morning be was a corpse, and I so over whelmed by my first sorrow that I have no distinct recollection of any thing that oc curred until after I loft Merton," "But his books," said Mr. Weston, " what became of bis books?" " His library was not extensive ; and when I left the rectory I placed all the books, carefully packed, with a friend, and they have remained unopened, undoubtedly until now."' "By your good leave, sir, they will re main no longer unopened, for wo will send suitable persons to search them, and may hap this long-missing certificate, on which so much depends, will be brought to light." Elliot anseuted of course, for why should he refuse ? The result of the search was the discov ery of the certificate, which was the only evidence required to convince Mr. Weston, that Edith was the person to whom the fortune rightfully belonged. Before con cluding this narrative, I perhaps, should state that it was only about six months after tho discovery of the certificate, that Robert Elliot induced Edith to again go through the niarringo ceremony, but this time it was not "a Becret marriage." Burning a Corps The ldoa of " Cremating" the dead has received a praotical illustration in Europe. The London Timet' Beiiiu correspondent writos that the body of Lady Dilke was burned on tho 10th Inst., at Dresden, strangers being permitted to be present. The coffin was placed in tho chamber fur nace and six minutes later the coffin burst; five ruinates more and the flesh began to to melt away. Ten minutes more aud the skeleton was laid bare. Another ton miuutes and the bones began to crumble. Seveuty-five minutes after the introduc tion of the coffin all that remained of Lady Dilke and the coffin were six pounds of dust.
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