M c M innville , O regon , T hursday , N ovember
VULUME
A JUDAS KISS.
north yamhill cards .
.1. I,. III YEN,
DENTIST,
First National Bank
i>. <. nu.i. • m >
E,
IRELAND
—OF—
!.. E. U'iUTK.
A
M c M innville ,
CO.
OREGON.
“There 1« no End In llic Trull
of the licrpeiit”—Heeiiea
iroiu Itrnl Lite,
NORTH YAMHILL, OREGON,
First class work. Referenda: My patrous.
JOIIV |,. CAMI4
Butcher and Dealer
3111.
T iìiih - uc I h a (olierai Banking business
I h terrât allovved un timo deposita.
< olici tiomi mmie on favorable tcrim.
i^bt Exchange and Télégraphie Tiunsh rs
ou New York, San Fra indaco and Portlaud.
<»ilice Louis -lìorn V a. m. t<> 4 p. in.
Gill. {
UU| 7 (Ml
H 001 |M (Ml
I« OObMi (Mil
IN
Meats of ill Kinds. Hides, Skins. Tallow, Etc.
NORTH YAMHILL, OREGON.
Highest cash price raid lor Hides, Tallow,
Deer and Elk skins, Sleep |»elta, etc.
Daisy Saloon,
OKEuoN,
•
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NORTH YAMHILL
Win Malone, Pro.
Sole ageuy tor the famous Gambrinus Beer.
Imported ami domestic cigars. An attentive
barlender to attend to the wants of customers.
im
DELAP HOUSE,
NORTH YAMHILL « -
- OREGON,
JOHN TOMPKINS, Proprietor
First class Accomodations.
Ilea» quarters <»t the Tillamook Stage lin»* au»l
S| mxiih 1 iiwInt'enieiitR to Commercial Men.
Whit- labor only, Employed.
EE I-1) an<
Salo Stables.
HIELAN 1> A
(
W»? ate prepared lo furuiaL
t an luge«,
1 OK > II.E!
Within a quarter of a mile of North Yamhill
a little home fo. some man, consisting of five
acres of land, with good house. 16x22, H stories
high ; barn and oilier outbuildings ; h good
well of waler and p enty of fruit. Price,$700.
Crops uow growing, a number of chickens and
numerous household articles to go with the
place Apply to or address
F ranklin G hinkr .
l«u< hr
SHERIDAN ( ARDS.
Muid Ir llorara,
F. 8. MuKIBBEN, M. D
SURGEON,
AMI»
HONKEOPATIIIC I'llYttICl AN,
I fierfvrm surgical <»p®r«lious without it
•pee to any system of medicine.
1 respect hilly *»li it patron tgv in t»»wu s
»untry, and to tti»»se wlm l.avu n«» faitl
onxeopaihy, I would **y Ltfi-xtiijaf. it, i
give ita fair comparison un«l you will h
faith. Office and residence »»ue block cast
the pmlotHce corner, McMinnville,
in
Counsolloi at Law
T
SAR
OÍ
IL
lieMiii im illr,
Particuliir attenti<>u given to (‘onve^ncmg
Collecting, Buying aud Soiling Real Estate.
Oregon.
PHYSICIAN & SURGEON
I l i lii.ie
». i
Oregnn
T" W li irli 1
MrMiunvIllr, Oi.lioii.
I
I
rvi'oininelid,
rt'lumkd.
All kiinlR *
oidvr «t »hor
.. "All gooda purchuHtiii al thè Star Miti«
wiit be delivrcod free. L bhvo oriier« ut thè
ai abiti <»f'.lenders* hi
Logmi Bros., col lier
ì hi*-.! ttiid I> «ti<*<*(«.
lom J.
l'roprirtor.
Offiw uud reKideiiOi* <’ Mtw'l talw.oi Fust
mid tlBooud. All prof.iwtouul call» promptly
Httrtid d to, day or niplil.
CITY MARKET,
» X-
puiLl»
H. V. V. JOHNUON, M. I».
\ JÜHNSOH & FRANK.
ph YsieiA\s i < i >
seiitiKoxs.
I.. Moll V.
STOKV (SC
W.F.BANCAS8ER, Propr.
Allomen' al Law and Nolaries Public.
Successor to Baiigusser A Son.
IhMigHsscr’s building (’or. B aud Third streets
—o—
Here is where you cau get your money**
worth in
Uflico in WiMM’Ain»' • building
d»M'i- •'•nth
of iK -toili »', McMinnville, (’n-got».
SI iccíh I attention given to cell»elioni in 'Hl
parts of the state.
Beef, I’ork, Mutton, Sausagu, Tripb
uiid evt i vlhiiig lithe line of meats, of the
bc.st quality the country affbrda. Also the
o —
A ttn ’ ï
at
L aw am » N otary I‘ i
iii . h
BILLIARDS, flÇÂ.
(cDoNiaasavCloT'
Á*
W. II. H All REN,
Notary Public.
BARBER SHOP. AMUSEMENT HALL-
NO INTOXICANTS..^!
Having •ecured the service of Damon Sawyer,
who atU nda to the wants of my numerous
customers al the counter and billiard
table, I can now devote most of
my time to those wanting
FENTOM,
Siuliii. SliaBPOOlu or Hair Cutting -
Done. I am driven L> the courtusiou that one
has as much time Io have his bartering
done during the week as lie has tocol-
lect provision» for bis lamity use.
Hence, no more Sunday work
in my sliop.
l’ilnl In»' first dooi south of lion. J.
Bralv's new brick. (' street, In i ween Third
ami I’- ui'Ii rlrvits. M Mainville.
11. II WELCH.
Deairea to inform the |>et»r»le»>f Yamhill < ••unty
that lie has a first c 1 h .«< Railroad Trun. it, ami
is now pre|*r«i io do a general aiuveying
buaineaa on short notice.
Terma—to suit the times.
Office with Dr. GoucT.» r, McMii.nvi“' ,
NTEItlJM« 1
ttorney at la "
A
LAFAYETTE ( ARDS.
T. C. STEPHENS,
WATCHMAKER,
JEWELER & ENGRAVER
DEALER in
Give me a call ami Im satisfied.
W. F. BANGA86ER.
/kl FfCE Ono Door Eait oi Post Office,
' .McMinnville. Oregon.
JEFF. D.
<<»iinl}
Produce will be taken at cash prices in ex
change lor goods. Out slock comprises only
first class goods. Call and examine our goods
and obtain price« before purchasing elsewhere.
R JACOBSON A CO.
Sheridan, Or., Sept. 7, IMK5
Bost of Uolo^nas.
.
Business rrompt'.y Attendo! te.
Ml. MARREN.
at COS I', for CASH,
il
convi . yance '
• Reni KoUtc hh <1 (.’oil, rtlns A.-ri.i u.ii x
Ury Dul.liv All work i oiUliiii'f t>. Hii. Lit.
att«i»le<l to promptly ami reliably. I
uf nrer and repaii’er «»I Boot»» «»"I •'
w > done with neatness an»l disp
quarters thre»* doors chs I of IL'i’i"
McMinnville, ’)»egon
WATCHES,
CLOCKS,
JEWELRY,
SPECTACLES, Etc.,
Iu the Brick Store, corner 3.1 an.l Jefleraon St’.
LAFAYETTE,
-
■
OREGO*
ll’tfIrh llfpairinnamt Jnb
biiitt a
talli/.
DAYTON CARDS.
V. A. HUMPHREY. M. D.,
Pliywicinn, Niirgron
and Proprietor of the
Dayton Drug Store
[Saylor's Old Htandj
»’« r> M.,
•
-
*
Da> (on. Or,
? . H. & O. O. HOD «ON
DEALERS IX
Ik' iiwaro Stove?. Tinware, Agri
cultural :i;»d Farm Iniple-
nient?. Bain Wagons,
AMITY CARDS.
AND
House, (’arrian»
Bulldog Cultivators
ami
¡He Viinuvill
M SO || 4
f.l.-V.S.
Painting done in
shortest not ico »nd
Shop in the
LOWS.
Lows.
Lows.
PRICE
1TMI . .
IT MI'S.
IT MI'S.
I-I'MI-S.
I’I MI'S.
I l CE
PIPE
PIPE
PIPE
PIPE
9
s
I
HATOE DOUBLE FORCE PLMP
THE
Third at., aoiilh Mile,
PLUMBING AND GENERAL JOB WORK.
Jicar AdtuiisASholwsnew brick. I in Tj |> cn «
B'liIftrglng in India In!.« Oil
Witter Color* h »prcia.lt a . Ail work
Guaranteed to give jwrfect Pat la-
fact ion.
Roofing, Spouting ami guttering.-
Builders' Supplies and Mtciulci Tools.
THE
Custex Post Band,
’ . HCxWiiiMvDle» <»rvcon.
Best Plows in the World.
Is now prepared to furnish mu^ic for I’m-Nies
Celebrations, etc., on short notuus and at res
•—bl. nue, ,A.ia^ow| ANt<
B i ixesss M anager , McMinnville, Or.
Best Roller Skato in the World.
lie
i
At prices to suit the times.
A II. 4 0. O. HODSON.
I
The undersigned invites you t-. ..»me and
get the very beat cedar ports, boards.
as
cheap a« the cheapest. Call »ir»n .»r addrrsa
II. SliARTZER,
Idyl-wild or McMinnville.
A cheering summer’s R’Ui shone brightly
on me, and mirrored its reflection in my
heart. 1 had arrived at that hopeful age when
all things wear their faliwt aspect, when
life itself flows like a smooth unruffled stream.
I had just attained my onc-and-twentieth
birthday.
I was engaged to be married to a man 1
loved. My chief friend and companion was
the Belle of Rothsey, the envr and admira
tion of the whole village; htr name was
Grace Merton, and sljo was the loveliest wo
man in the world, in my eyes. I was an artist,
and it was my delight to sketch the perfect
face of my girlish friend aiKhg^oo] compan
ion. I was not jealous. ficw could I be
jealous of a bosom friend?
Besides, 1 had secured the heart and hand
of one of the most envied heirs In Rothsey,
and standing next in succession to a baro
netcy. What greater stroke of fortune could
I secure had 1 possessed the most beautiful
face in Christendom?
I was not a beauty, but my friends all saw
a something in me; what that something was
I never had been able to discover. I was
about the average height, of somewhat stout
frame, with dark hair and eyes, and rather
sallow complexion—the very op|»osite to my
fair delicate fiiend, with her golden hair,
blue eyes, and exquisitely modeled features.
I had no relative in the world, except a maid
en aunt whom I lived with; but I had money,
and, of course, could command a wide circle
of friends and acquaintances. I was proud,
and, with the exception of Grace Merton, I
never admitted any woman into my confi
dence.
I was too proud to be jealous, I had too
much self-respect; I knew that if I had uot
beauty, I had many other higher gifts to
make up for its absence, and I had one of
the prettiest homes in Rothsey. I was hap
py—ah I too happy to last
I was, at the commencement of my tale,
sitting on a bench beside the clear brook,
which rippled at my feet, at the end of our
garden, and on which the cheering sunrays
reflected two shadows—my own and aunt
Betsy’s who sat beside me knitting, seeming
more grave and solemn than usual. She was
a prim spinster on the shady side of fifty, an
excellent and well-disposed creature, al
though perhaps given tn look on the shady
side of things, she had corkscrew ringlets
fastened back by side combs, a florid com
plexion, and w ore green glasses. One of the
most unpleasant features in my aunt’s face
was her mouth; it was always set and grim;
it never relaxed on any occasion; no frivo
lous smile dared to lurk around its sacred
precincts. She had long, long bid her final
adieu to this world’s glare and tinsel.
“Gertrude,” she said, after a long pause,
“I have been thinking over your wish, and I
advise you not to invite Grace Merton to stay
with you until after you are married.”
1 opened my eyes to their fullest extent.
“Why after?” I asked in astonishment.
“My dear Gertrude, you don’t face the two
sides of the question; she may »r all very
well as a companion: but have you consider
ed that your intended husband will be visit
ing you at the same time?”
Still in perfect darkness as to the drift of
her argument, I replied:
“Of course, I have considered it, aunt;
surely the house is large enough to hold
both.”
There was another awkward pause, a shift
ing of the green glasses, and again a firm
hand on my arm.
“My dear, you won’t understand me; there
are some women whom no houses are large
enough to contain. Suppose she should be
come a—a—a rival?” finally burst out my
aunt, turning round suddenly, and facing
me.
The latter word,instead of having its usual
effect, touched me quite in a contrary direc
tion. I burst out w itli a hearty laugh, my
aunt looking on with frigid seriousness all
the while.
“Child! -why do you laugh?” she said, aft
er regarding me tor a long interval. “Is it
so very impossible for one woman to rival
another; and one who has such winning pret*
tlness, and—and—?” She hesitated here,
and breaking off into another strain, remind
ed me that none of our family bad ever been
beauties (which fact she herself certainly
bore out); reminded me also that my dark
heavy features would not retain youth in
them long, and that men were always led
away ¡¡.in ••idajs by prettiness.
Still bearing my aunt’s unflattering com
parison good-humoredly, I replied:
“Some, men, but not &ucli men as Bernard
McGregor; besides, Grace Merton is my
friend.’ 1 laid emphasis on the last word
“friend.” my ideas on the subject being rath
er elevated. Tn me the word “friend” com
prised all a woman should be to another—
genuine, tru«’, steadfast, ready to sacrifice
anything and everything. Alas, 1 placed too
high a stake on frail woman’s friendship. I
judged others by myself.
My aunt saw that I entirely ridiculed her
caution’, she know that my will was as firm
a: id stubborn as my friendship.
“Have your own way. G Tti iide. ’ she said,
rising and wending her footsteps towards
the house; “you < an never know anybody
until you live with them! But, come.” And
my aunt was a sealed book to me for the rest
of that day.
The following day (»race Merton arrived,
and was warmly greeted by myself, although
received somewhat coldly bv my aunt. Old
maids are often curious in theii prujudici s,
and I attribute] my aunt’s foimality to her
weakness in tills respect
Grace Merton.I have iirgb < ted tomention,
was an orphan like myself. Perhaps this
similarity in our positions made the bond of
sympathy stronger between us, only in every
other respect we were entirely opposite.
She was fail and pretty. I was dark and
ugly; she was )«*nnile.»s. ami 1 was well off.
I pitied from my very heart this young and
lovely girl left to battle with the world, sur
rounded by all the allurements and tempta
tions which such a beauty as her* would lay
her open to,
Grace m t uie with a hearty embrace on
her arriv al.
“My dear old girl,” she cried, hohlinng me
before her by my tw.» Iiaiids; "I declare you
are growing quit? pretty.”
1 smiled and shook my head. No. I w as
not weak enough to tak»* ihut in. I altril»-
«ited this expression to the natural warmth ,
of hoi disposition.
In her eyes probably I might have been so
—in the blind rye.’* of a !>»«ing friend; but,
alas, when I turned my head an»F markrd
the contrast In tbc opposite mirror, eoinic-
tion (old me that if I was not iwwitivcly ugly
—I < eitrvinly had no pretensions to good
looks.
“My dear Gra» e,’’ I replied, “yon are see
ing your own beauty reflf« :ed in me; but I
fear I am a very unflattering mirror of your
self.”
She U»ighed. aud circliru o r aim In mine,
led me out into the la a h .
“Now. Gertrud»'.” *be <vh- n we r»*a< b
ed the «nmmer-lious»'.
u->4 d»»wu and
talk. Y*»u can't think h<>" .-»irion« I am to1
19,
issò .
see tips intended liusaamt 01 yours.
1 lucky girl, don't you apprec iate your
I fortune?”
“Indeed 1 do, Grace—I love him with all
! my heart.”
“Not al!,” echoed my companion, placing
| her anus around my neck. “Not all; reserve
I a little corm r in your heart for poor, neglect
ed. <k sorted me.”
I glanced up at the lovely profile bending
dow n upon mo, w ith its angelic softness, a
half-uarncst, ha!f-m rry glitter in the azure
eye. I giz »i at :.»> parted coral lips encas
ing th** whiu- t.*»?th, the thick ey^labhes
which swept f’i:\u- . tinted with a roseate
1 blits’,, as tit»» w.-»r • • •.!•' r ed me” left the
iipr.
Truly, some, worn- n w»>’ild have exchanged
a corn t for .su.-h : i <c«» as hors. Its soft
I mo 1
made it doubly lovely.
‘D - !.*d!” Could any hitman being de
ficit 01 toi.iake such a cr-'uture? Such a face,
and yet it was on'y t’v face of a weak wo
man; only a face, wit4 neither a heart, nor
a soul,though I did. not se»- it then. I thought
her as pure as he«v n. ami have nun wU***—
since time ami «ulferiiu'have matured my
judgment—how God could place so bad a
heart in so lovely a being.
Bernard r une on the second day of her
visit, ami I introduced them. Ho admired
her very much; but did not seem in any
other w ay taken. How blind men are to
other women’s charms when they are in love!
Ou her side I perr;»ivc I a far greater ad
miration; she was id her very liveliest, her
manners more fascinating than I had ever
seen them before—she played and sang with
increased expression. She h id evidently be
come greatly smitten with my handsome
lover, and 1 felt proud to sec it.
Alas! I did not read beyoud. 1, in my na
tive simplicity, did not dream of thearts and
deceits a cunning woman is capable of when
she acts with-n object. Days passed with
very little incident; but the sixth day struck
the key of my life’s song.
I happened to be watorii g the plants in
the conservatory: I ha»l onicred by the gar
den, and having my slippers on, my presence
there was unperceived by the inmates of the
drawing-room.
The glass reflected tw'o forms to me—one
Bernard, who was seated in the armchair
reading, the other Grace Merton, who lan
guidly reclined upon the sofa. She wore a
dark blue dressing-gown, and her hair fell
carelessly around her shoulders.
I stood for awhile admiring her. thinking
what a striking attitude she formed for a
fresh picture. She was neither reading, nor
doing the flimsy fancy work she usually’ in
dulged in; but seemed to be in deep medita
tion, and was pulling to pieces the leaves of
a rose, which lay beside her on the table.
“Bernard,” she said, at last, half-pettishly,
somewhat annoyed to think that niy intend
ed should so far ignore her presence, “do
throtv aside that horrid book !”
My lover closed the book, and looked at
her half-astonished—w’hethor at the mention
of his Christian name, or whether at the tone
of the speaker, I knew’ not; but he certainly
looked very’ much surprised, as if he was not
used to such familiarity from her.
“Do you dislike reading, Miss Merton?” he
inquired.
‘ No; not exactly that,” she replied, with
perfect good taste; “bin—but don’t you like
my company a little Bernard?”
She uttered these words with a well-as
sumed simplicity, w’hich would have deepiv-
ed a cleverer pei’son than I. She would been
irresistible to stronger men than Bernard.
I looked on as one in a dream, fascinated
.by the h vely picture, though I can't say I
felt gratified to hear that low’-toned, win
ning voice directed towards the man I loved.
She blushed, and held down her head, as
if she had too deep a friendship for Bernard
McGregor, and it held its fatal influenceover
him. He rose to her side. What could he
do less? What could any man have done un
der such a trial? I was a fool to suppose that
such a siren could pass his attention unob
served.
“My bonnie little girl,” he said, encircling
her waist; “is she so very sensitive?”
She did not wait for further encourage
ment; but threw her fair arms round his
neck. Here was a situation for him! What
human lover could resist such an enchant
ress?
“Bernard, darling!” she murmured, “say
you love me. I feel so lonely—so forsaken!”
My lover seemed too taken aback to find
words.
He stammered out something about being
engaged; but I could not catch his words.
He made one effort—a feeble effort, I must
confess—to extricate himself from this snare;
but finding the arms too tightly together to
sever without possible violence, he finally
yielded to her ctiarms, and bt g.m pouring in
to her ear all the soft, meaningless speeches
a man is often guilty of when infliu*nc.ed by
a passing passion, and which weak women
so love to listen to, putting all down for
gospel truth.
“My beautiful angel I” he cried, “be mine i
—mine!”
He spoke in the frenzied accents of a man
who is hardly accountable for what he says;
who is uttering random words, goaded on by
an unconquerable passion. I had never seen
my calm, dignified Bernard, speak so much
like a madman, and I, though 1 felt a vio
lent beating of the heart, still did not lose
my self-possession.
I made every reasonable allowance for this
outbmst from him; he no more Intended the
wolds lie had uttered than I did. He had
been lured into a butterfly bow« r, and was
not strong enough to resist its attractions.
He was acting weakl.v, 1 thought: but not
guiltily. On calm reflection, no doubt, be
would curse himself for I is folly.
“Bernard, hush!” she < ried, -;idd< niy un
clasping her arms. “do you forget your idol
Gertrude is In the hoe
• <air beautiful
Ideal of perfection and loveliness?”
She uttered tluse words with a scornful
curve of th“ lips, and the soft mouth I m came
hard and cruel.
Bernard imm di d-Iy became himself
again. Siu1 li.nl -
the wrong means of
winning him, thmk lb u.« n!
The words I) 1 I • w »¡il a ful effect over
him; they brought him to his senses.
“Miss Merton, lie suddenly exclaimed,
“Is this the maun r in which you speak of
your friend? Gertrude is a true and good
woman. I11 our f-dly I t us not profane her
pure name.”
No longer feeling able to contain myself, I
determined to enter th” room; but to give
them fair warniu- so as to allow them time
to asNiime «liffcHHd attitudes; so I began
humming a soft tunc, although niy \oiec had
a tremor in it wlii»h it was impossible to sub
due.
I wondered v r thei <1 mu* would be writ
ten on that V.o'ii ill’s fee. how she would '
meet me face to f.»ce altei her wickedness;
but my wonder was
sei at rest. She
r«»se as 1 civ r d not » particle of shame 01 '
einbari■i'Si!i.-ii' »1 pico l it>, If in her man
ner. She a» In i.'ly smiled at me, displaying 1
her whife penly ! th. Ve god-»! I never
felt
inclined to lute her a-when 1 saw
that smile; B w «s to my then aching heart.
A Jmlas
“Oh, <r”i r.uK’ she > »id. with sweet sim
plicity. "I li iv * been talking of you. dear
longing !<»r your 1 et urn: your ungallant lover
has not spoken 1 ^ liable to me all the morn
ing”
I felt niy fa<e f ir i pile, ¿5 In 111 swell; I
but I endeavored n -'»pj n • rhe pain.
“Mis- M' llon. ” I -»i l iA'iuly. “if y»ai will j
m V»» thia wav. 1 will «!«.*.<’« R’l von.*’
$2.50 PER ANNUM.
1 opened the door, and led the vtay to the
breakfast-room. I shall never forget Ber
nard’s face, as I did so—he, at least, bird uot
become so hardened, but that be knew hoti
to blush; he held down his Ijeacj consciously
as I led Grace Merton into the adjoining
room.
“What is the matter, Gertrude?” st.o
when we had entered and closed th5
“you look quite tragic. Have you bSeu
nessing a melodrama?”
“No, Miss Merton, ’ I replied icily, “I have
been witnessing a scene from rea) life.” $he
colored quickly at these words,the first harsh
words 1 had ever uttered to her.
“And I have profited by the lesson,” I add
ed. “I have discovered that 1 have a
friend instead of a sincere one, in Grace Mar
ton.”
She hung her head; she knew by my man
ner that it was no use telling lies; that I
must have seen and heard all.
“I am not jealous of you,” I continued; “I
never felt, before that I was your superior.”
She glanced up quii.-kly, almost savagely.
“Superior!” she
**
“Yes,” I answered, “superior. I do not
mean in position, nor do I consider inyself
nearly your equal in looks.”
“1 should think not!” she exclaimed, with
that same cruel curve again round her lips
which I had never seen toward me before.
She must have worn a mask to me during
our friendship, and now it no longer suited
her purpose to weal it, or rather, she was
conscious that I saw the face through it.
“No,” I added, “I am not the beautiful
ideal of n bride you just now called me to
my lover; but I am a woman, and 1 possess
a woman's heart. My love and respect for
Bernard McGregor are such that if I never
saw him in this world again, I would step
between him and the altar, were he mad
enough to take you in my place.”
I shall never forget the fiendish glance
with which Grace Merton regarded me.
“Jealous, eh?” she sneered.
“Jealous! no, thank Heaven,” I answered,
“I am a litdo above being jealous of a girl
like you; 1 have not fallen quite so low in
my self-esteem. No! if I stood between you
and him, it would not be out of anything sq
mean as jealousy; it would be from the mere
Christian desire to save a man I loved and
revered from a pitfall and degradation. If
Bernard loved another woiyaiuand 1 thought
he would lie happy with her, that she would
make him a good wife, I would resign my
position, even if it broke my heart, for his
sake and for his happiness; but I would save
him front the clutches of a treacherous creat
ure, who lured him from the woman he was
engaged to. 1 would save him from a life of
misery and disgrace, such as an unprincipled
woman like yourself could bring on an hon
est name.”
“Your flowery sentiments are doubtless
very romantic and fine,” my companion said
jeerlngly; “but they wont hold water, for he
loves me. Yes, me,” she added, trlumphaut-
ly, “and he despises you; it is only your
money which has hitherto attracted him, but
now he has seen me he will relinquish that;
he loves me for inyself, for I am penniles?.”
I staggered against the sideboard for sup
port. Was I dreaming!—dreaming! Was
this my bosom friend, whom I had ^Jmost
pictured as a saint!—this the woman whose
fair, placid brow I had never seen ruffled be
fore.
Heavens 1 shall I ever believe in my owh
sex again 1 But this libel against Bernard. 1
would hasten to him at once; I would hear
from his own lips the truth, and nothing but
the truth.
“Remain where you arc, woman,” I cried;
“1 will bo with yon again in a short space.”
I entered the drawing-room.
My milliner was that of one who wanders
In a dream - cold, icy, almost, lifeless. Colo
nel McGregor evidently perceived a marked
change in manner and appearance. He rose
half-confusedly.
“G< rtrnde,” lie said, humbled and abashed,
“how shall I ever dare, hope to obtain your
pardon?”
My proud spirit was fully roused.
I did not relent.
“Sir,” I ciied, “I have come to release you
Ijoni yoiu rnv i cm. nt with me. You have
this morning off« red marriage to another wo
man.”
“Oh, Gertnide!” he cried, looking white
as dfatli, -,foi ;■.•.<■ mu I implore it of you; I
was a mad fool, and hardly accountable for
what 1 said; it was a trying hour forme, and
all men are fallible.”
1 sneered < ontemptuously. “If a man is
so weak that lie cannot resi ,t a pretty’ face,
Heaven know. wlr»t will become of him!
You asked ( U .1 • ■ ? »ton to be \01ns, sir,and
shedesh. - to hold you to your word.”
“()j,G Tlmd; !G i t: tide!” lie cried, wring
ing his hands <!• - pail ingly, “J tell you, upon
my honor, I v...s speaking under the influ
ence of mere passion. Geitrmle, must I ap
peal to you in vain?'he continued, falling
on his knees at my feet. “Confound that wo
man! I d( spise her far more than you do!
I should have awoke to a sense of shame at
my tolly before it ever went any further. If
you leave me, Gcrti ude, you don’t leave me
to marry anntln r. 1 never loved as I love
you. G< iini»l,‘. For Heaven’s sake hear me
—-forgive me—without you my life would in
deed be a blank ! ’
His appeal was mo-t carm st; doubtless he
bitterly r»‘pt ¡ited of his tolly. We had been
very happy 1 * ‘her for years. Why should
we allow a worthless woman to separate us?
“Are you willing to speak face to face with
Grace?” 1 asked.
*
“Willing’.’ Yes!” he cried, impulsively,
ami throwing open the door, “Now,madam,”
he cried, midi, ing himself to the oceupant
of the next room, “kindly step this way.”
I shall never forget the dejeeted appear
ance my friend presented as she came for
ward and faced us.
“Mis • M( rton,” I said, looking at her with
undisguised contempt, “you have been our
enemy and mischief maker; hear what Colo
nel M c G k gor has to say to you.”
“Mis.« Meiton,’’ he sal,I, bowing, “I am
sorry to have to speak such words to you. I
speak them on my own account ami in my
own defense. 1 ask you to forget the words
I uttered to you a short time back. They
were not meant seriously. There is but one
woman in tlu1 world whom I love and re
spect, ami that one is your fiiend, Gertrude.
I was weak enough, mad enough, to listen
to your avowal, but I have since repented of
niv folly. Had you proved yourself a sincere
friend of Gerty '!- • i should have at least
cherished a ki.ul fouling towards you; as it
is, I thoroughly •» pise you. Von are a false
friend, and a dangerous rival; but I tel) you
that, with all youi beauty. I would rather re
main a single man all my da vs than wed
you.”
She laughed a bitter laugh.
“Grapes are sour!” she cried. “You ore
a coward and a sneak; you cling to your
golden treasure because you can’t live with
out it. I soar above you both. Gertr: Io Is
a blind fo<»l, ami you are a nv,’',Li‘nary kn ve!
—A »lien!”
Slip v.« about to flor nee out of the room,
when niv aunt appeaie " I at the doorway, a
rigid smile upon her lips. She fixed upon
Grace Marton a look 1 had never seen from
under those green glasses before.
It was not a look exactly of anger, but a
penetrating, scrutinising gaze full of con
tempt and disdain.
She had hca»<l the latter portion of my
friend’s—or rather my enemy’s—speech.
“Stay, MibS Merton. I want a v. ord with
you before you leave this room and house.”
She he! ’ sue an opep letter towards Grace
Merton as sue said tnese worn«
“Th[s epistle belongs to you, I believe,
since it is in your handwriting. I picked It
up in the hall. As it began with my name I
read the first two lines, but soon discovered
from the tenor of it that it was not addressed
to me, but, I conclude, to your sister. I im
mediately closed it then, for 1 am above read
ing that which is not mine. 1 hold the per
son who reads or opens letters addressed to
another in the utmost contempt. Take your
letter.**
My curious eye could not resist seeing the
first two lines as my aunt reached across to
hand the letter to its owner.
“D ear B etts ,—I am not sleeping at my
post of duty. I am in possession of tne heart
of Bernard McGregor.’’
1 closed my eyes with a sensation of faint
sickness.
My aunt addressed herseif to Miss Merton.
“You foolish girl,” she said in bitter ac
cents, “you may be capable of winning
hearts for an idle hour, but you could not re
tain them. No one could live In the house
with you aitji not see through you. I read
you from the first.”
Grace Merton turned pale with that inrei
rag« which is so dangerous and deadly.
“You prying old maid,’’ she cried, with a
fierce glance, “how dare you open my desk?”
“Miss Merton,” I exclaimed, no longer
able to keep my temper calmly under con
trol, “my aunt is a woman of honor, who
acts up to the advice she gives. I have lived
with her from a child, and I never knew her
guilty of a shabby or mean action. I beg you
will at once quit this house, and never dare
return to it.”
She glided towards the door with a stealthy
cat-like tread, she cast upon p;e one linger
ing gaze of concentrated an ,er, and, without
uttering one word, closed the door.
In about half an hour’s time I heard her
leave the house Thus I lost my friend, but
still retained my lover, which her powers were
not great enough to lure away from me.
As I heard the hall door close on her, 1
drew a breath of relief—I felt that the house
was at last free of the viper.
My aunt sat herself down beside me and
placed her hand on my arm, with the same
peculiar firmness which was her habit when
ever she had something serious to say to me.
“Child,” she said, looking penetratmj
'
penetratmgly
into my face, “was my warning to yotF an
idle fancy? Did I not strive to save you from
this?”
“Yes, aunt,” I replied, “you were correct
in your judgment of Grace; but she has not
proved my rival as you predicted, for-----”
Bernard came to my rescue, seeing my con
fusion.
“No, aunt. Gertrude is not to be rival! d
by such a person as that,” he cried, taking
iny hand, “nor is our love lessened in the
least.”
My aunt shook her head prophetically.
“You are not out of the wood yet, my
dears,” she said, with a heavy sigh;
is no end to the trail of the serpent.”
“But, aunt, she has gone.”
At that moment a ring was audible at the
hall door.
“It is only the servants’ bell.” I cried, in
answer to my aunt’s “hush,” and we resum
ed our conversation.
“That girl has the face of an angel and the
heart of a demon,” my aunt said after a
pause, during which she had been looking
intently at the clock over the mantelpiece.
“The face of an angel when the mask Is
drawn over it,” replied my lover. “But did
you ever see a face so altered as hers became
a short time back. 1 cannot forget that aw
ful glance she cast upon Gertrude as she
closed the door. The look was a volume,
yet her white lips did not open. She is a
dangerous woman to trifle with, I am con
vinced of that.”
“Oh, let us forget her. I want to bury her
very memory,” I replied, with a shudder.
“Shall we have a little music?”
1 rose to the instrument, and commenced
one of Beethoven’s sonatas. I only cared
for classical music, and Bernard’s taste was
like my own.
Just in the midst of it I heard the hall-door
close. I looked out of the window, and saw
Grace Merton walking hurriedly away, a
dark veil over her face.
“What on earth has that woman comeback
for!” I cried. “It. must have been she who
rang.”
“I will ask the servant,” my aunt replied,
and she laid her hand upon the bell, which
was almost immediately answered
“Mary, who was that who rang just now?”
“Miss Merton, ma’am. She came back for
her music, which she left upstairs.”
“Her music,” I echoed. “Why, she never
brought any—1 am positive of that.”
“She came hack to listen to what we had
to say, no doubt,” said Bernard.
Mary withdrew,and we resumed our music.
Bernard had a lovely voire, and lie sang bet
ter than ever on this especial evening.
Afterwards we played chess and ecarte,
and indulged in a long and earnest discus
sion about the future, building those charm
ing, airy castles which all young engaged
couples delight in.
Dream on, young people; what matter if
they are but idle dreams after all, so long as
they afford you present happiness, present
bliss? Is not life itself a long continued
dream? Time enough to awake when the
spring has passed and the summer siui set.
Sweet dreams whicli only visit us once in
a lifetime, unreal, foolish as they be, what a
halo of glory they shed across our path,
scenting the very air we breathe with per
fumes like an earthly garden of Eden, and
obscuring the shadows of future ills, which,
without them, would force their grim outline
before our vision’ even in the springtide of
hopefulness.
Why not dream on hazy, misty as your
dreams may be? Time enough to awake to
stern, cruel reality when the hoar frost of
winter has checked your buoyant spirit and
printed furrows on your brow. Few can in
dulge in blissful, joyous dreams when time
has bleached their locks and enfeebled their
steps.
But, even then, the sweet summer of their
youth has its pleasing memories, although
they may have traversed a dreary wildemeM
since and have felt the keenness of the reap
ers’« scythe at every step they took.
Oh. if we could for one short hour dream
the bright day dream of sweet girlhood; but,
alas, the cruel frost of winter lies dead ami
cold at our </.jor, and reminds us that al
though we may press the glowing bud to our
lips in the early morn, at evening our feet
may scatter the dried and withered leaves,
leaving in our hearts an aching void, never
in this world to be filled again.
“After passing some hours in fairy im
aginings, my aunt, who with good taste had
absented herself from us after the music
terminated, returned.
“Gertrude, it is eleven o’clock I” she said.
1 glanced at the timepiece; It was eleven.
I w ished Bernard good night.
He said he should retire into his room, but
not to bed, as he had some important writing
to do.
Thus we.parted for that night. As my band
met Bernard’s a distinct knock was heard.
It seemed to proceed from overhead, which
was his room.
“What is that?” I exclaimed, pausing to
listen.
“Oh! someone lighting the gas—no doubt,”
he replied.
“Good-night, Gertrude. Don’t let your
sleep be haunted by that woman’s face,” he
cried, with something of a forced laugh.