14
$HE STTBTDAY OKG02IA3T. POETiLAlSTtf JA3STTARX 6, 1895.
THE FROXTTEIt.
At the hushed brink of twilight when, as
though
Seine solemn journeying phantom paused to
lay
An ominous finger on the awestruck day.
Earth holds her breath till that great presence
go
A. moment comes of visionary glow.
Pendulous twixt the gold hour and the gray.
Lo eller than these, more eloquent than they
Of memory, foresight, and Hfe's ebb and flow.
So I have known, in some fair woman's face.
While viewless yet was Time's more gross im
print. The first faint, hesitant, elusive hint
Of that Invasion of the vandal years
Seem deeper beauty than youth's cloudless
grace.
Wake subtler dreams and touch me nigh to
tears.
WILLIAM WATSON.
Clarence.
Br .Bret Harte, Antuor of The Luck
of Itoarint? Camp," Etc.
(Copyright. 1S04. by Bret Harte.)
PART II-CHAPTER VII.
Not a word was exchanged till they had
reached the lower landing- and Brant's pri
vate room. Dismissing his subaltern and
orderly with a sign. Brant turned toward
his prisoners. The Jaunty ease, but not
the self-possession, had gone from La
grange's face; the eyes of Captain Faulk
ner were fixed on his older companion
with a half-humorous look of perplexity.
"I am afraid I can only repeat, general,
that our foolhardy freak has put us In
collision with your sentries," said La
grange with a slight hauteur that re
placed his former jauntiness; "and we
were very properly made prisoners. If
you will accept nay parole I have no doubt
our commander will proceed to exchange
a couple of gallant fellpws of yours, whom
I have had the honor of meeting within
our own lines, whom you must miss prob
ably more than I fear our superiors miss
us."
"Whatever brought you here, gentle
men," said Brant, dryly, "I am glad for
your sakes that you are in uniform, al
though it does not unfortunately relieve
me of an unpleasant duty."
"I don't think I understand you," re
turned Lagrange, coldly.
"If you had not been in uniform you
would probably have been shot down as
spies, without the trouble of capture,"
said Brant, quietly.
Lagrange's cheek flushed. But he re
covered himself quickly, and with a for
mal bow. said: "You will then perhaps
let me know your pleasure?"
"My duty, colonel, is to keep you both
clcse prisoners here until I have an op
portunity to forward you to the division
commander with a report of the circum
stances of your arrest. That I propose to
do. How soon I may have that oppor
tunityor if I am ever to have it" con
tinued Brant, fixing his clear eyes sig
nificantly on Lagrange, "depends upon the
chances of war. which you probably un
derstand as well as I do."
"We should never think of making any
calculation on the action of an officer of
such Infinite resources as General Brant,'"
said Lagrange, politely.
"You will no doubt have an opportunity
of stating your own case to the division
commander," continued Brant, with an
unmoved face. "And," he continued,
turning for the first time to Captain
Faulkner, "when you tell the commander
what I believe to be the fact from your
name and resemblance that you are a
relation of the young lady who for the
last three weeks has been an inmate of
this house under a pass from Washing
ton you will, I have no doubt, favorably
explain your own propinquity to my
lines."
"My sister Tillie!" said the young of
ficer. Impulsively. "But she is no longer
liore. She passed through the lines back
to Washington yesterday. No," he added
with a light laugh, "I'm afraid that ex
cuse won't count for today."
"I regret," concluded Brant, as he sum
moned the officer of the guard, "that I
shall have to deprive you of each other's
company during the time that you are
here, but I shall see that you. separately.
want for nothing in your confinement."
"If this is with a view to separate in
terrogatory, general, I can retire now."
sold Lagrange, rising with ironical polite
ness. "I believe I have all the information I
require," returned Brant, with undisturbed
composure. Giving the necessary orders
to his subaltern, he acknowledged with
equal calm the formal salutes of the two
prisoners a3 they -were led away, and re
turned quickly to his bedroom above. He
paused instinctively for a moment before
the closed door and listened. There was
no sound from within. He unlocked the
door and opened it.
So quiet was the Interior that for an
instant, without glancing at the bed, he
cast a quick look at the window, which
till then he had forgotten, and which he
remembered opened upon the veranda
roof. But it was still closed, and as he
approached the bed he saw his wife still
lying there in the position in which he had
left her. But her eyes were ringed and
slightly filmed, as if w 1th recent tears.
It was perhaps this circumstance that
softened his voice, still harsh with com
mand, as he said:
"I suppose you know those two men?"
"Yos."
"And that I have put it out of their
power to help you?"
"I do."
There was something so strangely sub
missive in her voice that he again looked
suspiciously at her. But he was shocked
to see that she was quite pale now, and
that the fire had gone out of her dark
eyes.
"Then I rany tell you my own and the
only plan to Fave you. But first we must
find this mulatto woman who has acted
as your double."
"She is here."
"Here?"
"Yos."
"How do you know it?" he asked, in
quick suspicion.
"She was no: to leave this place until
she knew I was safe within our lines.
I havo some friends who are faithful to
me." After a pause she added: "She has
bean here already."
He looked at her. startled. "Impossible
I-"
"You locked the door. Yes, but she has
a second key. And even if she had not.
thoroiis another entrance from that closet.
You do not know this house; you have
been hre two weeks; I spent two years
of my life as a girl in this room."
"Perhaps1." he said, grimly, "you have
already arrancd your plans."
Stoe looked at him with a singular re
proachfulncss even in her submission. "I
have only told her to be ready to change
clothes with me and help me color my
face and hands at the time appointed.
I have left the rest to you."
"Then thie Is my plan. I have changed
only a detail. You and she must both
leave this house at the same time, by
different exits, and one of them must be
private aud unknown to my men. Do
you know of such a one?"
"Yea," she said, "beside the negro quar
ter." "Good." he replied. "That will be your
way out. She will leave here publicly,
through the quarters, armed with a pass
from me. She will be overhauled and
challenged by the first sentry near the
guardhouse, below the wall. She will be
subjected to &ome delay and scrutiny,
which se will, however, be able to pass
better than you would. This will create
the momentary diversion that we require.
In the meantime, you will have left the
house by the wing and you will then
kep R the shadow of the hedge until
you oaa drop down along the run. where
It empties into the swamp. That," he
continues, fixing1 his keen eyes upon her,
"is the weak point in the position of this
place, that Is neither overlooked nor de
fended. But perhaps," he added again,
grimly, "you already know it."
"It is the marsh where the flowers
grow, near the path where you met Miss
Faulkner. I had crossed the marsh to
give her a letter," she said slowly.
A bitter smile came over Brant's face,
but passed as quickly.
"Enough." he said quietly, "I will meet
you beside the run and cross the marsh
with you until you are within hailing dis
tance of your lines. I will be in plain
clothes, Alice," he went on slowly, "for
it will not be the commander of this force
who accompanies you, but your husband,
and, without disgracing his uniform, he
will at least be your equal, for the Instant
he passes his own lines, in disguise, he will
become like you, a spy, and amenable to
its penalties."
Her eyes seemed suddenly to -leap up to
his with that strange look of awaken
ing and enthusiasm which he had noted
before. And in Its complete preposses
sion of all her instincts she rose from
the bed unheeding her bared arms and
shoulders and loosened hair, and stood
upright before him. For an Instant, hus
band and wife stood beside each other as
unreservedly as in the nuptial chamber of
Robles.
"When shall I go?"
He glanced through the window, al
ready growing lighter with the coming
dawn. The relief would pass in a few
moments; the time seemer propitious.
"At once," he said, "I will send Rose
to you."
But she had already passed into the
closet, and was tapping upon some inner
doer. He heard the sound of hinges
7&
V., Tg,
r ' -r "
HE DROPPED LIKE A LOG BESIDE EIS
SUBALTERN.
turning and the rustling of garments.
She reappeared, holding the curtains of
the closet together, with her hand and
said: "Go! When she comes to your of
fice for the pass, you will know that I
have gone."
He quickly descended the stairs as the
sound of trampling feet on the road and
the hurried word of command announced
the return of the scouting party. The
officer had little report to make, beyond
the fact that a morning mist, creeping
along the valley, prevented any further
observation, and bade fair to interrupt
their own communications with the camp.
Everything was quiet in the west, al
though the enemy's lines along the ridge
seemed to have receded.
Brant had listened impatiently, for a
new Idea had seized him. Hooker was
of the party, and was the one man in the
party in whom he could partly confide
and obtain a disguise. He at once made
his way to the commissary wagons, one
of which he knew Hooker used as a
tent. Hastily telling him that he wished
to visit the pickets without recognition,
he induced him to lend him his slouched
hat and frock coat, leaving with him his
own distinguishing tunic, hat and sword.
He resisted the belt and pistols which
Hooker would have forced upon him. As
he left the wagon he was half amusedly
conscious that his old companion was
characteristically examining the gar
ments he had left behind with mingled
admiration and envy. But he did not
know, as he slipped out of the camp,
that Mr. Hooker was quietly trying them
on. before a broken mirror in the wagon
head.
The gray light of that summer morning
was already so strong that to avoid de
tection he quickly dropped into the
shadow of the gully that sloped towards
the run. The next moment he saw the
figure he was waiting for stealing to
wards him from the shadow of the gully
beneath the negro quarters.
The light was growing stronger; he
could hear voices in the nearest picket
A'&miBEmtos).
A FEW COMRADES COMMISERATINGLY TAKING J.EAVE OF CLARENCE.
line, and the sound of a cough in the in
vading mist. He made a hurried sign to
the oncoming figure to follow him, ran
ahead and halted at last in the cover of
a hackma-tack bush. Still gazing for
ward over the marsh, he stealthily held
out his hand behind him, as the rustling
skirt came nearer. At last his hand was
touched but even at that touch he start
ed, aud turned quickly.
It was not his wife, but Rose! her
mulatto double! Her face was rigid with
fright, her beady eyes staring in their
china sockets: her white teeth chattering.
Yet she would have spoken.
"Hush!" he said, clutching her hand
in a fierce whisper. "Not a word!" She
was holding something white in her fin
gers; he snatched it quickly. It was a
note from his wife not in the disguised
hand of her first warning, but in one that
he remembered as if it were a voice from
their past,
"Forgive my disobeying you to save you
from capture, disgrace or death, which
would have come to you where you were
going. I have taken Rose's pass. You
need not fear that your honor will suffer
by it, for if I am stopped I shall confess
that I took It from her. Think no more
of me. Clarence, but only for yourself.
You are in danger."
He crushed the letter in his hand. "Tell
me." he said, in a fierce whisper, seizing
her arm,"and speak low. When did you
leave her?"
"Sho'ly just now!" gasped the fright
ened woman.
He flung her aside. There might be still
time to overtake and save her before she
reached the picket lines. He ran up the
gully and out on to the slope toward the
first guardpost. But a familiar challenge
reached his ear and his heart stopped beat
ing. "Who goes there?"
There was a apuse, a rattle of arms,
voices, another pause and Brant stood
rooted on the spot. Then the voice rose
again, slowly and clearly: "Pass the
mulatto woman!"
Thank God! she was saved! But the
thought had scarcely crossed hi3 mind
before it seemed to him that a blinding
crackle of sparks burst out along the
whole slope below the wall, a charac
teristic yell, which he knew too well, rang
in his ears, and an undulating line of
dusty soldiers came leaping like gray
wolves out of the mist upon the pickets.
He heard the shouts of his men falling
back as they fired; the harsh, commands of
a few officers hurrying to their posts, and
he knew that he was hopelessly surprised
and surrounded. '
He ran forward among his disorganized
men. To his consternation no one seemed
to heed him! Then the remembrance of
his disguise flashed upon him. But he had
only time to throw away his hat and
snatch a sword from a falling lieutenant
before a scorching flash seemed to pass
before his eyes and burn through his hair,
and he dropped like a log beside his sub
altern. An aching under the bandage around
his head, where the spent bullet had
grazed his scalp, and the sound of im
possible voices in his ears were all he
knew as he struggled slowly back to
consciousness again. Even then it still
seemed a delusion, for he was lying in
the hospital of the headquarters, with
officers of the division staff around him.
and the division commander, himself,
standing by his cot, and regarding him
with an air of grave, but not unklndly
concern. But the wounded man felt in
stinctively that it was not the effect
of his physical condition, and a sense of
shame came suddenly over him, which
was not dissipated by his superior's words.
For, motioning the others as'lde, the major-general
leaned over his cot, and said:
"Until a few moments ago, the report
was that you had been captured in the
first rush of the rear guard, which we
were roiling up for your attack, and
when you were picked up, just now, in
plain clothes on the slope, you were not
recognized. The one thing seemed to be
as improbable as the other," he added,
significantly.
The miserable truth flashed across
Brant's mind. Hooker must have been
captured In his clothes perhaps in some
extravagant sally and had nbt been rec
ognized in the confusion, byt his own offi
cers. Nevertheless, he raised his eyes to
his superior.
"You got my note?"
The general's brow darkened. "Yes,"
he said, slowly, "but finding you thus
unprepared I had been thinking just now
that you had been deceived by that
woman or by others and that it was a
clumsy forgery. He stopped, and seeing
the hopeless bewilderment in the face of
the wounded man. added more kindly:
"But we will not talk of that in your
present condition. The doctor says a few
hours will put you straight again. Get
strong for I want you to lose no time
for your own sake to report yourself at
Washington."
"Report myself at Washington!" re
peated Brant, slowly.
"That was last night's order," said the
commander with military curtness. Then
he burst out: "I don't understand it.
Brant! I believe you have been misun
derstood, misrepresented, perhaps ma
lignedand, I shall make it my business
to see the thing through but these are
the department orders. And for the pres
ent I am sorry to say you are relieved
of your command."
There was something of a strange and
fateful resignation in his face, a few
hours later, when he was able to be helped
again into his saddle. But he could see
in the eyes of the few comrades who com
mlseratlngly took leave of him a vague
half-repressed awe of some indefinite
weakness in the man that mingled with
their heart-felt devotion to a gallant sol
dier. Yet even this touched him no
longer. He cast a glance at the house and
at the room where he had parted from
her, at the slope from which she had
passed, and rode away.
And then, as his figure disappeared
down the road, the restrained commen
tary of wonder, surmise and criticism
broke out. But as Lieutenant Martin was
turning away a lingering corporal touched
his cap.
"You were speaking of those prowling
mulattoes, sir. You know the general
passed one out this morning."
"So I have heard."
"I reckon she didn't get very far. It
was just at the time that we were driven
in by their first fire, and I think she got
her share of it, too. Do you mind walk
ing this way, sir."
The lieutenant did not mind, although
he rather languidly followed. When they
had reached the top of the gully the cor
poral pointed to what seemed to be a
bit of striped calico hanging on a thorn
bush in the ravine.
"That's her." said the corporal. "I
know the dress. I was on guard when
she was passed. The searchers, who were
picking up our men haven't got to her
yet she ain't moved or stirred these two
hours. Would you like to go down and
see her?"
The lieutenant hesitated. He was young
and slightly fastidious as to unnecessary
unpleasantness. He believed he would
wait until the searchers brought her up
when the corporal might call him.
The mist came up gloriously from the
swamp like a golden halo. And as Clar
ence Brant, already forgotten, rode mood
ily through it toward Washington, hug
ging to his heart the solitary comfort of
his great sacrifice, his wife, Alice Brant,
for whom he had made it, was lying in
the ravine, dead and uncared for. Perhaps
it was part of the Inconsistency of her sex
that she was pierced with the bullets of
those that she loved, and was wearing the
garments of the race that she had
wronged.
(To be continued.)
BUSINESS ITEMS.
If Baby la Cutting: Teeth,
Be sure to use that old and well-tried remedy
Mrs. WlnsloWs Soothing Syrup, for children
teething. It soothes the child, softens the
puns. ullar ail pain, ceres wind colic aad
diarrhoea.
THE BLOOD. O'F THE WANDERERS.
To wander and wander while life remains.
And never to find me a. place of rest
For the blood of the race flows through ray veins
That wandered away to the unknown West.
They wandered and wandered, and so will I.
Reaching and touching the world's far ends.
With the hill and the plain, the wind and the
rain.
The sua and the stars, as their earthly
friends. ,
And when years are gone and strength is out
worn. And never a crast the good chance sends,
I shall curl me to sleep where the grasses grow
deep.
And say good-bye to the old-time frtneds.
AUBERON HERBERT.
Not practical,
By Anthony Hope.
(Copyright, 1S95, by Anthony Hope.)
I have never been nearer doing it in my
life. In fact, I was just about to do it
when young Stevenage hove in sight.
"I rather like Lord Stevenage, don't
you?" said Lady Amy.
"He's not a bad chap," said I.
"Only," observed Lady Amy, "he's so
poor, poor boy."
"So what?" I cried.
"I don't suppose," said she, impressive
ly, "that, with the fall of rents and so on,
he can have more than five thousand a
year."
I looked at .Lady Amy. Then I re
marked, with a touch of satire:
"Unhappy devili"
The satire did not reach Lady Amy.
"Yes," said she, "it's horrid for him;
''IT WAS RATHER DEAR OF YOU TO FOR
GET, DICK."
but he may get a little bit more when his
aunt dies."
There was a thoughtful, speculative
look in Lady Amy's eye. That look is fa
miliar to me.
"My aunt is dead," said I, proudly,
"and she left me "
"But it won't be more than two or three
thousand," pursued, Lady .Amy, sadly.
"Not a bit more," saldfl. (It was two
or three hundred,, really).
"Still, it would just help," said Lady
Amy, and she bowed most graciously to
Stevenage.
Matters standing thus, I thought I
would do it after aU It would relieve my
feelings, for she ,was looking atrociously
pretty; It might also he healthy for Lady
Amy.
"One mustn't tlfink of money," said I.
"Of course, one oughn't to think too
much of it," agreed Lady Amy.
"If I loved a girl;.", said I, "the fact of
her only having' a ihousaridor two a year
would not stop me."
"Wouldn't It, indeed, Mr. Vanslttart?"
"Not it," said I. "We must think of the
heart. Amy."
"Mr. Vanslttart!"
"I said, we must think of the heart."
"But you you you "
"Oh, I meant it," said I, quickly.
"But you called me "
"By the sweetest name in the world.
I cried. "My name is Dick."
"I don't care a bit what your name
is," said Lady Amy.
"Nor I what yours is," said I. "Name3,
forsooth! I once knew a perfectly charm
ing girl named "
"What has- that got to do with it, Mr.
Vanslttart?"
It had nothing to do with it. I resumed
my declaration.
"I've loved you for years. Amy," said
I. "But I have toiled in silence till I
have amassed thanks to the death of
my aunt a suitable sum "
"I think you're very curious tonight,
Mr. Vanslttart."
"Of upwards of three hundred a year.
It shall all be yours every farthing."
"Three hundred a year?" and Lady Amy
began to laugh.
"And," I added, "a love such as "
"Please, Mr. Vanslttart! Surely you
must see that Oh, It's absurd, it really
is! Oh, what are you doing?"
"I was taking your hand," said I.
"Well, but you mustn't; because it's
quite impossible, and absurd and there
you've held It quite long enough nowf I
am very sorry, really I am, Mr. "Vfaflslt-2
tart, but" fy
"Sorry? What are you sorry for. Amy?"
"Now, you mustn't call me"
"I do believe," I cried "that you're go
ing to refuse me!"
"Certainly I am." said Lady Amy.
"I never heard of such a thing in my
life," said I, indignantly.
Lady Amy looked at me. I had never
quite known how much (or how little) I
loved Lady Amy. The question, you see,
was really not a practical one; but I
think I looked as if I loved her a good
deal, for she said, with a perplexed little
laugh:
"How silly you are! Because we were
such good friends, Mr. Vanslttart."
"Your heart is softening," I observed.
"You like me very much, really."
"I should just really like to hear what
mamma would say!" said Lady Amy.
"You shall enjoy the pleasure in 10 min
utes," I promiseed her, preparing to rise.
"Oh, Mr. Vansittar, please! Oh, no.
please! Oh. please, sit still I I didn't
mean anything of the kind. It is abso
lutely out of the question. Besides, I
don't don't care for you, you know."
"That's a mere afterthought," said I,
severely.
"And even if I did"
"And even though you do?"
"Oh, dear me, what's the use of talking
about it? If I liked you ever so much,
it would be"
"Only half as much as I like you," said
I. I was quite Interested in the thing
by now.
"Oh. Mr. Vanslttart, this is most painful-"
"Painful?" I cried.
"Why, of course. When I like you so
much as a !"
"Well, I suppose it is painful in a
way," I conceded reluctantly.
"But I shall always like to remember
that you paid me the "
"You oughtn't like to remember it, you
know."
"I suppose I oughtn't but . Some
times I think it's a horrid world, don't
you, Mr. Vanslttart? Oh, be careful!
There's Lord I mean, there's somebody
coming."
"It's nothing to me who's coming,"
said I. "I am only being refused and
if I don't mind, why should your
Then Lady Amy said in a curious tone
quite low, yt)u know, and not quite
steady, and, oh, hang It, I can't describe
it-
"You mustn't be unkind to me, Mr.
Vanstlttart." ,.
, I looked at Lady Amy., My cousin Flo
" ' 1I1V4'
never allows that she was pretty. "Well,
I don't know.
"It Is rather a beast of a world," said I.
"I just shouldn't dare," said Lady Amy.
"I was an Infernal brute ever to
"Oh, no, you weren't II didn't mind
It much, you know. But you must have
known it was absurd, mustn't ycu?"
"I knew it," said I, gloomily, "till half
way through."
"Then you forgot it." she asked, lift
ing her lashes for an instant.
"Yes; clean," said I.
A pause followed. Then Lady Amy
gave another little laugh, and said:
"Heigho! I I nearly forgot it, too. Shall
we go back to the rcom?" (We had been
upon the stairs.)
"I suppose we'd better," said I, rising.
"In a minute," said Lady Amy; and
she took a little lace spider's web, and
delicately "Am I all right, now?"
she asked.
"No one would ever suspect it," said
I, giving her my arm.
She took it, and we set out. Just as
we reached the door of the room, I felt
a sudden little pressure on my arm, and
a sudden grip of slim fingers; and a voice
said in my ear:
"It was rather dear of you to forget,
Dick."
And before I could answer for just at
first I couldn't answer Lady Amy was
gone, and I drifted alone across the room
till J found myself opposite the mar
chioness. "Oh, Mr. Vanslttart, have you seen my
daughter? I've been looking for her every
where, and Lord Stevenage has been
helping me, but we can't find her."
"I lost sight of her only a minute ago,"
said I.
"What can she have been doing?" asked
the marchioness.
"Oh, she's been all right," said I, re
assuringly. "I want to introduce Mr. Br . Oh,
why, there she is now with Mr. Bramp
ton. Thank, you, Mr. Vanslttart." And
the marchioness, having no more need of
me, moved on.
I looked and beheld her with Mr. Bramp
ton. She sat down with Mr. Brampton.
Brampton is a decent enough fellow, and
he is supposed to have 500 a day. After
I had looked (from round a corner) as long
as I wanted. I went and got my coat. It
chanced that Stevenage was getting his
coat, and we walked off together, smok
ing our. cigars. Suddenly Stevenage ob
served: "Thought Lady Amy looking well to
night, didn't you?"
"Deuced," said I, licking the stump of
my cigar.
"I say, who's that chap Brampton?"
"Oh, he's got a pile," said I.
Stevenage stopped short in the middle
of the pavement.
"Hang the fellow!" said he and walked
on again.
"He's just as good a fellow as most,"
said I.
"Oh, it's all very well for you," he
broke out. "Look here, Vanslttart, you're
a 'good sort. I don't mind telling you.
I wish I wasn't so confoundedly poor."
I took Lord Stevenage's arm. I felt very
friendly toward him.
"That's what's the matter, is it?" I
asked.
"Of course, the old lady well, you
know the old lady! I was well enough
till Brampton came along, don't you
know?"
I pressed his arm sympathetically.
"And I tell you what, Van, I believe
that if it wasn't for the beastly money,
Lady Amy would have "
"Upon my word," I cried suddenly. "I
believe she would!"
"You noticed something in her manner?"
he said, eagerly.
"Rather a lot," said I.
"Isn't it infernal?" he asked.
"It's as infernal as they make it," I
agreed.
It happened that at this point we came
opposite my club. I took Stevenage In
and we had some brandy and soda-water.
Stevenage drank his at a gulp, and ob
served: "The poor girl daren't do as she likes,
y6u see."'
"No, If she did " said I, gazing at
the smoke rings.
"If she did " said Stevenage, leaning
forward.
"Upon my honor, I believe she would
have " But I stopped abruptly.
Yet something caught Stevenage's eye,
for he said:
7
M, J iV-f A-53 '
W ,
THERE WAS A THOUGHTFUL, SPECULA
TIVE LOOK IN LADY AMY'S EYESl
"By the way, you had a good long sit
ting with her on those stairs."
"Oh, that was nothing," said I, mod
estly. "You seemed to find a lot to say,
though," he remarked.
I leant forward in my turn, and laid my
my hand on Stevenage's knee.
"I was only," said I, "asking her to
marry me."
"What!" he cried.
"I was only," I repeated, "offering my
hand to her."
"You were offering your hand to Lady
Amy?"
"Well, my dear fellow, haven't I told
"AM I ALL RIGHT .VOIFf"
you so twice already? Oh, don't be un
easy. You can fight it out with Brampton.
She refused me."
But Stevenage finished his brandy and
soda-water, threw away his cigar, rose,
put on his hat, buttoned up his coat, and
thus equipped, stood staring at me for a
minute.
"Well, that is a good 'un," said he.
I believe he still tells the story as an
example of impudence but he doesn't tell
it all; and he still thinks himself very ill
used by Lady Amy Brampton. Ah, well,
she was a charming girl.
Hard Times and Honeymoons.
Washington Post.
"For years past Washington has been
the Mecca, of happy brides and bride
grooms from all over the country," said
the chief clerk of an uptown hotel, "but
during the last 18 months there has been
a marked falling off in the number of
newly wedded pairs visiting the capital.
My explanation of it is the hard times.
Perhaps there are not so many young
folks getting joined in wedlock's sacred
bonds in these times of financial and busi
ness depression. I think that matrimony
must have suffered along with other great
institutions: at any rate the happy young
couples don't come along as they used
to."
LITTLE EVA.
Mary Baaton, of Kentucky, Figured
ia ''Uncle Tom's Cabin.''
She was born in Lancaster, Ky., Octo
ber 17, 1S11, and was the daughter of
John Banton and Eliabeth Campbell,
who were both children of heroes of the
war of the revolution. Her grandfather.
Captain Samuel Campbell, was a Scotch
man, and lived near Silver creek. In
Madison county, Ky., to which place he
moved from Virginia. He was a large
landholder and a wealthy man for Jiis
day, and possessed many slaves, among
whom was a handsome quadroon named
LetiOa. She was one of the most val
ued slaves Captain Campbell owned, and
while she was much liked by all, she
was an especial favorite with Mrs. Camp
bell. When the war of 1S12 commenced
he went to the front and left his wife
and children at home with an easier
mind, knowing Letitia's faithfulness and
capacity as a house servant.
Letitia was brought into even closer
relation with her mistress, because she
was an unusually expert seamstress as
well as an adept in spinning. Nowadays
when we neither spin, nor card, nor
weave, nor even knit, it is difficult to
comprehend the Immense responsibility
of every mistress, in those days, who had
to grow, spin, weave, cut and make each
garment worn by every man and woman
slave employed about the house, the gar
den, the dairy and the fields.
In those days it was found most ex
pedient to engage the services of a pro
fessional weaver who went from place to
place in the neighborhood in turn. Wheth
er it was because of the well-known su
periority of the Scotch in this direction,
or whether it was because Captain Camp
bell, being a wealthy man, attracted to
himself his humbler countrymen, the
weaver employed by this family was a
Scotchman named Clark. But I dare say
the captain was canny and simply em
ployed the man for his skill. When the
master went to the war, his wife man
aged these large interests with the assist
ance of Letitia, the trusted house servant,
who was, of course, frequently thrown
with the weaver.
In a year the captain came home for a
visit, and it was sad news he heard from
the anxious wife. Well, the upshot of the
matter was that the master ordered Clark
off the place, and lectured Letitia, and
took an oath that he would do awful
things to them if they dared bring scan
dal on his name. In a little while he re
turned again from the war for a visit,
and found the weaver still on his estate.
Then there was another scene, and he
threatened to cowhide Clark, who bade
him do as he pleased, for he loved Letitia.
"Hoot, toot, man!" exclaimed Campbell.
"You're a grand fool. Do you suppose I
want a lot of white negro children on my
place? And don't you know your children
will be my slaves that I will put them in
my pocket that I will sell them?"
But nothing daunted Clark, and he mar
ried Letitia, vowing her master would
never sell her children for he would make
them the most humble and valued slaves
on the plantation. And it is but truth to
say this pledge was kept.
Letitia and Clark had a son named Lew
is, who was an unusually bright child and
who was given to the captain's daughter
brilliant and accomplished Betsy Camp
bellwhen she married John Banton, the
son of a Revolutionary officer, who left a
leg on the field, but brought his head home
in such good condition that his chief diver
sion was learning to memorize the whole
of the New Testament. And they had a
daughter, Mary Ann, with whom Lewis
Clark was raised in the house, neither of
them then little dreaming that she was to
be immortalized as "Little Eva" and he
as "George Harris" in "Uncle Tom's Cab
in." He was an invaluable servant In the
dining-room and about the house, and was
trusted with the marketing of all the va
ried products of the farm and carried
large sums of money.
One unjucky day his master was com
pelled to mortgage his to a neighbor, who
would not consider any other slave than
Lewis, but who agreed to allow Mr. Ban
ton to redeem him at his convenience. In
his new life Lewis was put with the com
mon field hands and harshly treated, and,
instead of eating the same that was put
on the master's table, he was half starved.
The man had cheated Mr. Banton out of
the servant as well as the money to take
up the mortgage who was thus unable to
buy Lewis back when he was offered for
sale and no one else would bid on him
because he was considered "a spoilt dar
ky." This was a bad state of affairs for
Lewis. He now belonged to a hard master
and no one would buy him, and he was
powerless to run away until Caldwell
Campbell, the son of the captain, came to
him as he stood on the auction block and
slipped Into his hand a gold piece, saying:
"If this will help you, use it;" and Lewis
fled to Canada.
About 13 years ago Lewis Clark went to
Stanford, Ky., to see Mary Banton, his
playmate, and the daughter of his mis
tress, now the widow of William G. Lo
gan. And then it was he told her that
"little Eva" was the same Mary Banton
he loved so dearly as a child. She was
surprised, amazed, but thanked Lewis for
the lovely character he had given her, but
she expressed her regret that he had said
such harsh things of those near and dear
to her.
Mary Banton was not the typical goody
good child, but she was a warm-hearted,
affectionate little girl, who, while full of
life and fun, was noted as a peacemaker
and was truly pictured by Mrs. Stowe,
who says: "The gentle Eva is an
impersonation in childish form of the love
of Christ." It seemed to be her special
care to shield the servants, to comfort
them in their troubles which she did in
a blithe, happy way that knew no touch
of sanctimonious asceticism.
Physically she was exactly as Mrs.
Stowe describes her except that her love
ly, rose complexion was of the healthy,
enduring kind that outlived more than
three score years and ten. Those who
have cherished her as a beautiful ideal
will be glad to know she was always a
gracious and a handsome woman, as her
photograph at 74 3hows.
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" created such in
tense excitement in the South, and more
especially in Kentucky, where many of
the scenes were laid, that Mrs. Stowe.
in self defense, published the "Key."
Her scathing pen was merciless; indeed,
friends of the persons at whom her satire
was directed burned the "Key" in a
snirit of kindness that sought to snare
I the families of. these people. And so It
LITTLE EVA (MARY BANTON).
came about that the veritable "Eva"
never read it, but as the years passed
she heard that it contained a most unflat
tering picture of some of her family.
As she never saw the "Key," she never
knew that Mrs. Stowe or any one enter
tained for a moment the false idea that
Lewis Clark's mother was the daughter
of Captain Campbell. In her interview
with Clark he reiterated that he owed
all he was his success and reputation
to "Miss Betsy," whom he said was a
strict but always a good mistress. In
his lectures in Stanford and the surround
ing country he made the same statement
and said a mistake had been made for
which he was not responsible. Mrs. Lo
gan and her family have always held
Mrs. Stowe blameless.
It was not until six or seven years after
the Interview with Lewis Clark, when the
newspapers had wearied of the story of
the man's life and she had ceased to re
gret those things that had wounded her,
that she could be persuaded to see the
play of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." In the
scene where Eva crowns Uncle Tom with
flowers her eyes filled, while she smiled
at the recollection of herself a mischiev
ous, - lovable little hoyden, bedecking
old Uncle Yammer, a slave of her fath
er's. She declared afterwards she was
glad she went to see it, but it would take
her many a day to forget how odd she
felt at the death scene. It was with this
in mind that her eldest daughter, being
in Hartford, hoped' to see Mrs. Stowe
and tell her of it, but. learning the bril
liant writer's mind, had somewhat yield
ed to the strain of emotion that fired her
her pen. she postponed the visit prefer
ring to demember her as a gifted woman
at her best.
She, whose personality inspired the
character of little Eva, died in Elizabeth
town. Ky.. August 6. 1SSS. and lies at
rest in Louisville's beautiful Cave Hill,
on a gentle slope that catches the first
glint of the morning sun before it spies
out the lake that flows peacefully below
at the foot of the soldiers' graves. The
heroine of the book that was more in
strumental than any other thing in bring
ing about the slave war lies facing the
North and the federal dead who fell
while fighting for the abolition of slav
ery. She sleeps and they sleep, like the
issues that were burled with them, and
when this story, like good wine, can show
a respectable age. their children will
seek out her children, and they will speak
together reverently of her.
MARY ANN TIQUITY.
THE FKLKTI7CL
HIM BUILDIN
DIRECTORY OF OCCUPANTS
Rooms,
AMOS, DR. W. F., Physician and Surgeon.
- - 604-605
ARISTOS SOCIAL CLUB 211, 212. 213. 214
ASSOCIATED PRESS. E. L. Powell. Man
ager -..-.-... . . . . S03
BARBER. DR. S. J.. Dentist 60S-603I
BECKWITH. H.. Route Agent Pacific Ex
press Company .204
BISHOP. DR. J. S., Surgeon 713
BELL. DR. J. F., Physician and Surgeon.
- - .- ..711-713
BINSWANGER, DR. O. S.. Physician and
Surgeon . 111-413
BROWN BROS. CO., "Continental Nurser
ies" G12-G13-GH
BLANDFORD, S. M.. U. S. Weather Bu
reau .... .90fl
BUILDERS' EXCHANGE , 80Q
CATLIN, W. W., Receiver Oregon National
Bank .....-..-...... 30300"
CAUKIN, G. E., District Agent Travelers'
Insurance Co-.. 703
CARDWELL, DR. HERBERT W., Physi
cian ................... . 70S
CARDWELL. DR. J. R.. Dentist....S0S-S00-810
CHAPPELL BROWNE. P.. Architect.. 700
COLUMBIA TELEPHONE CO... -..... ..600
CUMMINO, DR. WM, Dentist-. . .408-409
DICKSON, DR. J. F., Physician -.-.-713-711
DRAKE. DR. H. B.. Physician 512-513-514
EQUITABLE LIFE ASSURANCE SOCI
ETY. J. B. Wranghatn. Cashier.. ..500-510-311!
EVENING TELEGRAM 325 Alder St.
FENTON. DR. J. D., Physician and Sur
geon . . . .... . . . .... . ...31Q
FENTON. DR. HICKS C., Physician and
Surgeon . . ........ ..303
FENTON & FENTON, DRS.. Surgeons.30S-310
FENTON, DR. MATTHEW F., Dentist 300
FERRIS. DR. FRANK E.. Dentist 311-312
GIESY. DR. A. J., Physician . 710
GIESY & CARDWELL. DRS.. Physlclans...70q
GODDARD. E. C & CO., footwear, ground
floor . ...129 Sixth St.
GRAVES. DR. J. L.. Dentist S04-S0S
HELMBOLD, R, P., Special Agent Manhat
tan Life . ...203
HURD. DR. EVERETT M., Dentist 403
MACKAY, DR. A. E., Physician and Sur
geon 704-703
MAXWELL, DR. W.E., Physician and Sur
geon 701-702-703
MORRIS, E. C. Secretary and Manager
Brown Bros. Co... .... 614
MOSSMAN, DR. E. P.. Dentist 512-513-514
MANHATTAN LIFE ASSURANCE CO.. of
New York, S. E. Mulford. Manager.20S-209-21(l
McELROY, DR. J. G., Physician and Sur
geon .-701-702-703
McMILLAN. N., Real Estate. Loans 501
M'GUIRE, H. D., State Fish and Game Pro
tector - . ....Sit
MILLER. DR. H. C Dentist 408-403
MULFORD, S. E., Manager Manhattan Life
. -- 20S-209-210
MFADEN. Miss Ida E., Stenographer and
Typewriter 203
OREGON NATIONAL BANK. W.W. Catlln.
Receiver - - 305-303
PACIFIC BANKER AND INVESTOR, L.
Stagge. Editor 803
PAGUE &. BLANDFORD, Attorneys - at -
Law 717
REED & MALCOLM. Opticians, ground floor
131 Sixth St.
RIGGS. DR. J. O.. Dentist G03
ROBERTS. A., Merchant Tailor.131 Sixth St.
REID. JR.. R. R.. Special Agent Equitable
Life 511
SAMUEL. L., Special Agent Equitable Life
511
SCHMIDT &. ROBLIN. General Agency 303
STOLTE. CHARLES EDWARD S03
STUART. DELL. Attorney-at-Law..C16-G17-013
STUART & YOUNG. Attorneys-at-Law
G16-C17-613
STEVENSON. W. R. and HELMBOLD. R.
P.. State Agent3 Manhattan Life. .208-200-210
SUPERINTENDENTS OFFICE 203
TUCKER. DR. GEO. F.. Dentist 610-611
U. S. WEATHER BUREAU 007-008-909
WILSON, DR. EDWARD X.. Physician and
Surgeon 304-305
WILSON. DR. HOLT C. Physician 507-503
WRANGHAM. J. B., Cashier Equitable 509
WHITING, DR. S., Physician and Surgeon
504-505
WHITE. LEVI 407
WOOD. DR. JAMES B., Physician and Sur
geon 312-313
WOOD. DR. W. L., Physician 413-414
YOUNG, GEO. D.. Attorney-at-Law.G16-C17-6I3
A fcTF more decant offices may Tja
hnd ty npplylnff to Portland Truxl
Company, of Portland, Oregon, lU
First Ktreet, or to the rent elerlz ia
this bulldlasr.
A