The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on July 5, 1893 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

Algona, Iowa
Issue Date:
Wednesday, July 5, 1893
Page 3
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MQINES ALQQNA.M.IOWA, W^BNJESDA^ V JULY 6,1893. was 1 HUGH coir* AY, "Called Batik" Eta. Eta. "he is in gooa heauti now, isn't tie?" "Splendid, 1 believe." "Then I think we can give him the '53 this •time— the '4t is growing low," This was not meanness. It was but the • Caution a wise tnan exercises over his cellar, Besides, who could complain of the delicate .graduation? 1858 is a fine wine, inany prefer it to 1847. .Beatrice's promised letter came in the •morning. Horace read it first His face was a perfect blank. He read it again before he handed it to the anxious Herbert, who, al< though he saw from his brother's face that something strange had happened, was for • once unable to make the slightest guess at •the truth. Here is Beatrice's letter:— "My very dear uncles,—! should be un- gratel'ulfor the kindness you have shown me if I left you in any anxiety a moment longer than I could help. I sent you a telegram yesterday afternoon to show you that no evil had befallen me. "I scarcely know what tosnyto you. I -can at present olTer no excuse for what I am about to do. I can give no explanation. When I came to Hazlewood House I hoped to be able to maku it my home for so long as you would keep mi 1 . Now, I iind, I am forced to leave yon and make a homo of my • own. Moreover, I am forced for a while at least to keep silence as to where that home •may be. At f his moment 1 have not even •determined. It will, however, he out of En- inland. I cannot oven tell you why this must be so. Will you ever forgive me? 'Please do not fear on my sujciiunt. I am growing old and can well take care of myself: besides. Mrs. Miller will bo with me, also Harry, so that I shall not be dull. • "If I cannot promise to tell you where I •am. I will at least let you hear from me now and then. Plcaso, oh, please, do not try and trace me, but do endeavor to thln< kindly of your loving but unhappy niece, BKATIUCE." "What does it mean, Herbert?" said Hor.-ace in sepulchral tones. "What can it mean?" echoed Herbert. They sat staring at one another and feel- Jngthat such an unlooked-for catastrophe .had never before happened since the world began to be peopled by ladies and gentlemen. Their niece, the feminine counterpart ^of themselves; the embodiment, to their .minds, of all that a well-bred, well-bom wo- ••man should be, to be guilty of such an escapade. It was awful, perfectly awful I They read the letter again and again, dis- •cussed the meaning of sentences, even of •words; but this analysing process helped •them nothing. So they turned to reconsider >in a new light Beatrice herself as they knew her or fancied they knew her. Although neither of the Talberts had ever -felt the tender passion it was thought by nnany that if either were attacked, Herbert would be the victim. A widow anxious to -re-enter the holy estate of matrimony would Aave directed her attention to the younger •man as being of a more malleable material than the elder. There was, Indeed,' a vagno "tradition floating about that Herbert had -once upon a time looked rather tenderly up•on some young lady, and that had not Hor- .ace with praiseworthy selfishness promptly interfered and nipped the affair in the bud, •,he, Horace, might now be living in solitude with all the cares of Hazlewood House on his shoulders. So It was Herbert who first approached the puzzle from the romantic -.Bide. "You don't think," he said, "that Beatrice -could have any— any unfortunate attachment •of which wo should have, disapproved?" "How could such a thing be possible?" "We thought such a tiling as her leaving •us like this an impossibility." This argument impressed Horace. He •thought the matter carefully over. "No," he ^saicl, with theairof a judge giving a decision, "it is impossible. She has given no signs of •:such a thing. She lias seemed quite happy and contented. Her appetite has, I think, been very good." "Yes. very good," said Herbert. "Besides, who could there be? She is also •her own mistress, and if she wished to marry AVO have no voice in the matter. She is quite • capable of having her own way. Witness her leaving all that money idle " Horace had never got over that present of ••seven per cent, to the bankers. Herbert,in obedience to his brother's views, • •dismissed the unfortunate attachment theory and began to look for another. "I wonder," • lie said sadly, and after a long pause, "I -wonder if we have misunderstood Beatrice's -character?" "I am almost afraid it is so," said Horace. "She seemed so quiet and contented," ••sighed Herbert. "True that affair about those people and the boy upset her." "Now," said Horace, "I believe you are getting nearer the mark. Can it be possible that any fear that the child would be taken from her induced her to make this foolish flight— I can call it nothing else?" Herbert objected In his turn. Beatrice had been so certain that the claim would come to •nothing, and events had proved her sagacity. So they talked and talked, suggested and reasoned, but never got near the' truth. They • •could not even frame a theory. Nothing in this world is more annoying than to be witli- • out a theory. At lust Horace rose. "Something must be 'done," he said decisively. "Yos," assented Herbert inquiringly. "AVo are, it appears to me, placed in a most '•unfortunate position. This mysterious ilight •Involves the most grievous consequences. "We must do something which I feel sure 'Will be repugnant to both of us." "You will not employ any one to trace flier?" "Certainly not. She is her own mistress, : an dean go where si 10 chooses. 1 am tliink- .tag more about ourselves. Life will become •'intolerable if 1 lie matter gets bruited abroad." "How can we help it? All the household "knows that Beatrice lias gone, and gone witli- •out any luggage." "That," said Horace, with mild triumph, ••'1 have thought out." He rang the bell, and asked for the parlor-maid. "Jane," he said, "Miss Clauson has been called to London. Will you be gooii-enough to got such tilings packed in her trunks as ahu is likely to want for a lengthy visit; also pack the nurse's box andtlie child's things." Jane curtseyed, and withdrew. Presently she returned and asked how many dresses she had better pack? "Two morning and four evening dresses," said Horace, promptly. Herbert admired his brother's great mind, which rose so equal to the occasion. Then Jane wanted to know which drosses. The two now ones, of course. Then what? The black silk, the black lace, the high body with jet trimmings, the brocade upper skirt, •or what? For the moment even Horace was at fault. He soon recovered. "We will come and assist you," he said. So they went to Beatrice's room, and with • eye-glasses fixed stood one on eauh side of the trunk and superintended tho packing. Much as they delighted in odd jobs of this kind, to-day they felt no jilua'sure. They scarcely dared to glance at each other. They felt ashamed, as all honorable juon do, who •by Irresistible stress, pf .circumstances we I compelled to act a lie. The packing was completed. Jane was sent to see to Mrs. Miller's and the boy's things. The select ion of these our friends did not superintend. The boxes were brought down, placed in the wagonette, and Horace and Herbert drove away with them. Nothing could have been more skilfully managed. Even Whittaker was completely deceived. They took the boxes, and warehoused them in Blacktown. "You see," said Horace, as he turned the horses' heads homewards, "Beatrice /MM gone to London. She menus to make a lengthy stay. She must want her things. Any Woman would." "Every word you spoke was the exact truth," said Herbert, consolingly. But they were horribly upset; so upset that they forgot-all about Frank's Impending visit, or forgot about it until the next morning, when they found It was too late to telegraph. • Frank, with "hope eternal" growing like an eucalyptus, came down'as he had forewarned his friends, by tho morning train. Ho was rather surprised at not seeing his two tall cousins on the platform, or any signs of the wagonette outside the station. He secured a hansom, and drove straight to Hazlewood House. Whittaker opened the door. "All well, Whittaker?" nsked Carruthers cheerily. He did not hear the servant's reply, for at that moment Horace and Herbert appeared and shook hands heartily. They took him Into the dining-room, and once more tho three wen Mhnok hands. "Well, how are you both?" asked mink. They told him they were quite well, but, all the same, Frank knew by their solemn laces that something had gone wrong. He wondered what the cook had been up to. "And Miss Clauson? Beatrice?" he continued with an assumption of carelessness, but longing for the door to open and admit her. The Talberts exchanged sad glances. "Beatrice," said Horace, "is—not here." His voice was so solemn that Frank's blood ran cold. Horace was not addicted to the use of canting colloquisms, but the words were spoken in such a way that Frank believed "not here" must inevitably be followed by "but gone above." He was immensely relieved when the speaker stopped short. "Not here," he said. "Gone out, you mean. My greetings must wait." The brothers' eyes sought counsel of one another. "Beatrice went to London yesterday," said Horace. Frank seemed much astonished. "To London 1 She left London only a few days ago. Is she gone back to her father's?" He was already framing excuses for leaving Hazlewood House and returning to town. An ominous silence followed his question. "What is the matter? Is anything wrong?" he asked in great agitation. "My dear Frank," said Horace, "something strange lias happened, but it is so strictly a family affair that wo are considering whether we ought to mention it to you. Not but what your advice might be of service to us." . •. Frank grew seriously alarmed. "But I am one of the family," he said hastily. The Talbwts shook their hends doubtfully. They were not sure about, it. The family consisted of. iwo, or, counting in Beatrice, three at the outside. "1 hnve another right to know, a stronger right still." said Carrnthers, who was on thorns of suspense. ''There is no reason why 1 should make a secret of it. I have loved Beatrice since the day we met. My one hope is to nniki! hur my wife. 1 claim the right to know anything that concerns her." The astonishment depicted on the brothers', faces spnko volumes in favor of their trustful natures or Frank's circumspect love-' making. "Good heavens, Frank!" ejaculated Horace. "Yes; 1 asked her to marry me before I left here last autumn. She refused:! was now going to repeat my offer." "She refused you!" asked Horace. "Yes," said Frank, sadly. '-But what la the matter? For IK'nven's sake tell me." "Herbert," said Horace, "I bolieve this gives us the clue to tho mystery." Herbert nodded. "What clue? What mystery? My good fellows, don't yon see you are driving mo mad?" said Carmthcrs. "Beatrice left us yesterday. This morning we received this letter." The loiter was handed to Frank, and whilst he read it the brothers drew aside and talked in whispers. Frank's astonishment need not be described. Like his cousins, he could only ejaculate, "What docs it meiiii?" Horace and Herbert came forward. Herbert spoke. As the romantic side of the question had again turned up, it was felt right for him lo be spokesman. "Frank," ho said, "wo <lo not wish to misjudge, yon, but the fact of Beatrice's having refused you, and of your coming down to renew the oiler, makes us think that she must havo fled to avoid yon. We know little about such matters ourselves, but we have heard of young girls flying to get out of the way of distasteful—ahem, what shall I say? " "Persecution," put in Horace. "No,tlie word is too strong—distasteful advances, Frank. This is, of course, a matter entirely between yourself and your eon- science." As tho oration proceeded Frank stared from one to the other. Then he burst into a short peal of laughter. In spite of his anxiety about Beatrice,tho situation overpowered him. "There is nothing to laugh at, Frank," said Horace. "There is madness, sheer madness in the air, my good men," said Carruthers. "Do I look like a man who would subject a woman to distasteful persecution? Hang it! I am prouder than you are. I had Beatrice's permission to come. Perhaps you may know that it was arranged that we should travel down together?" They remembered that Beatrice had told them this and at once saw the folly of their new theory. They apologized humbly to Frank. No men in this world could apologize more gracefully than our friends. Then they talked the whole matter over again, without any result, Frank did not say much. He wanted solitude and quiet thought. By and by the wagonette came round to the door, "You must excuse our not having sent to meet you," said Horace. "The truth is tho roads are dirty and we could not have had the wagonette cleaned In time to take us out." "Where are you going; for a drive?" "Wo are going to make a round of calls." Frank marvelled, and thought that under the circumstances this social amenity might havo been postponed. "It is a painful, a most painful duty," said Horace, "but wo feel it must bd done. We must go round and indirectly give our friends to understand that Beatrice has left us under every-day circumstances, to pay a long promised visit in London. Wo can see no other way of arresting inquiry and scandal." It was after hearing this that Frank understood how truly great was Horace's nature. The brothers drove oft'. So far as time would allow they, called upon every one they could think of. They called upon Lady Bowkcr who had known them from boys; they called upon Mrs. Catesby, the stately, yet affable, well-dowered and better connected widow who loved artistic society; tjiey called uppu gie igetor's wife; upon, the Purtons, upon the Fletchers, upon ninny aristocratic and a few simply opulent persons. Being such universal favorites with the ladies they had no scruple in conllnuini: their calls even to the very last itlbinent allowed by society. They they drove home feeling they had done all then could to ihrow a curtain over Beatrice's extraordinary indiscretion. CHAl'TEK XXIV. A.N OUTKAOE ON WH1TTAKEB. Carrnthers, when Horace and Herbert went forth at the call of duty, had asked that Beatrice's letter might be left with him. As he had fully proved his right to be admitted to the family council his request wa.< readily granted. With the letter in his hand he went Into the library and pondered what had happened. The question lie had to solve was what motive could have been strong enough to force Beatrice to take such a step? He had heard from Horace all about the claim made upon the child, and Oils had explained a matter which had for some days been troubling him greatly, namely, Beatrice's abrupt departure from London. But here he could see no strong motive. The claim was abandoned, or at least lay quiescent. Besides, Beatrice, as lie judged her, was far more likely to fight than to fly. He dismissed anything to do with tho boy, or at least put it aside to be inquired into collaterally. Herbert, too, had hinted his idea about an attachment. Frank having ascertained that no shadow of suspicion of such a thing hung over Beatrice, sternly put it out of sight. Besides there were one or two recollections which he carried always with him and which rendered such a vulgar, unworthy explanation something not far short of sacrilege. Ho reckoned Beatrice a woman of superior abilities, logical and perfectly able to foresee consequences. He felt that she would not have acted as she had acted without carefully considering what it entailed. No romantic girlish impulse had hurried her away; no eccentricity of character had led her to shape such a course. The reason, whatever It might be, was to hermind amply sufficient. She was unhappy. Her own words said so. Did some danger overhang' her? Did some evil threaten her? What danger? What evil? Why could not lie, Frank Carruthers, be at her side to shield and aid? Heaven knows ho would do it and seek no reward. He groaned. He was very miserable ana cast down. It was in this very room he had bemoaned his first sorrow, lie had recovered from that and had encouraged himself to hope that the woman he loved would, after all, bo his. And now to come and find her gone—gone without a word—gone no one knew whither—no one knew why I To feel that she was Hying from some menacing evil and yet not know what. He was very unhappy. He had come down with such news for her —news which even as n friend she would bave been glad to hear. He had breathed no word of it to hpr In T.mulon: had resolved to say nothing about It until all was settlou. At last he saw his way to giving up the drudgery of teaching what he bitterly called fools. He had for years been a thrifty man and the money he had saved was not a small sum. For years he had dreamed of literature as a profession, and now hesaw his way to a realisation of that dream. His political articles had attracted attention. He had been offered an important journalistic post. A manuscript from which he expected great things was in the printer's hands. He saw a certain amount of renown if not fortune waiting for him. All this lie had come down to tell Beatrice before lie went back to Oxford, woundup his affairs, and bade the classic town farewell. It seemed as if, whenever lie on draining the cup of joy, it was struck from his lips I He must find Beatrice. Sacreu as her wisli not to be traced might' be to Horace and Herbert, Frank felt that it did not affect him. He would not of course stoop to calling in detective aid, but the utmost he could do to solve the mystery should be done. To Frank, Beatrice's flight appeared in a far more serious light than it did to her uncles. He must go and look at her portrait. There was a fine one in the drawing-room, lie went there, stood before It for a long time, and to the representation of herself vowed that she was the fairest woman on earth, I well worthy for a man to live or die for. Then he began to retrace his steps to the library. As ho crossed the hall lie saw a strange sight. Whittaker, the irreproachable, the dignified, with indignation written in every lino of his black-coated limbs, was standing at the front door against which he leaned his full weight, whilst with his right hand he was struggling with some object which prevented him from absolutely shutting the door. Closer examination showed Frank that this was the end, about six Indies, of a stout walking-stick; a contemptible objeet, yet as it was held powerful enough to foil tho o'.d servant's efforts. Whittaker was pulling and blowing, not so much from his exertkms as from anger. His face wtis as red as a turkey cock's. Nothing impressed Franlv morn strongly with tho feeling, that unusual tilings were happening »t Hazlewood House than the sight of this respectable olU retainer in such abnormal difficulties. "What's the matter?" ho said going to the door. "It's a man, Mr. Carruthers," puffed out Whittaker. "What does lie want?" "He asked for Miss Clanson, sir; 1 told him she was away from home." "Well, what then?" Frank grew interested. The parties outside and inside remained in the deadlock. "He asked for her address, sir; I told him I did not know." "Well, what then?" "He called mo a damned liar, Mr. Carruthers," said Whittaker, with supreme cmo- tion,and in a voice so low that it showed how ashamed ho was of the occurrence—"a damned liar, sir." The repetition sounded almost tearful, '•Open the door and let mo have a look at him," said Frank. "I wouldn't, Mr. Carruthers, if 1 were you, sir. J. believe lie meditates making an attack of personal violence." "Never mind, open tho door. He won't personal violence mo; and you can stand behind me." This, as lie was a head and shoulders taller than Frank, Whittaker felt to bo sarcasm. However, being accustomed to obey, he opened tho door, and Frank found himself face to face with a man about his own ago. A strong-looking, muscular fellow, dressed In the very height of fashion—too far up, in fact, to look a gentleman. Maurice Horvey, of course. Having given Beatrice more than twenty-four hours' grace, he putju execution his threat of looking her up. Not that he expected to see her; not that he was prepared with a plan of action In case she proved recalcitrant; but he knew that call would alarm her. It was only when he heard from Whittaker that she was out of town that tho idea of her attempting to evade him by flight occurred to him. It completely tlirew him off his balance, made him disrespectful to the old servant, and evea when that functionary replied as a gentle- innp's servant should in sue!) straits reply, by simply closing the door, induced him to put his stick between the door and the post. Hervey looked at Frank; Frank, little guessing what this man's existence meant to him and Beatrice, looked at Uervey. "Well?" he said, coldly. "I wish to repent a few Inquiries which I made of the servant when he so uncivilly Shut the door in my face," said Hervey. "I beg to repeat the servant's answers which you so uncivilly received," said Frank, "You do not know her address?" "If you are speaking of Miss Clauson, 1 do not," Hervey hesitated. "You are not Mr. Talbert?" lie said. "I am not," said Frank, coldly "Mr. Talbcrt can no doubt give me tho Information?" "No doubt. But I presume he will want to know your reasons for asking." "I'll wait and see him." "I don't think you will. Of course I hnve no power to prevent your calling again, but you will not wait here." Hervey scowled. "Will you try and turn me out?" he said, defiantly. "Certainly not," said Frank, pleasantly. "You stand higher than I do; you must weigh two stone heavier; you look in perfect condition. Oh, no, I shall merely send round to the stables and have the dogs loosed, or I may even send as far as the village and fetch the constable. I shall not interfere further than that." Hervey muttered what Frank knew wa.« an oath. He turned away as If about to take Frank's warning. Suddenly ho changed his mind and came back. "Does Mr. Talbert know his niece's address?" he asked. For a second Frank felt almost sick. His interrogator had tried to ask the question as if it bore no hidden meaning, but he had failed. As by inspiration Frank know that this man, whoever ho might bo. was aware that Beatrice had fled. "No," ho said, looking him straight in the face, "Mr. Talbert does not know it." Without a word Hervey turned and strode away. Frank, with his head in a ferment, walked across to the library. Dimly he guessed at something—not the truth, but something which from its vague terrors was worse than the truth. And in consequence of that half-formed guess he turned traitor at once, and began to fight on Beatrice's side, ready to aid her and to keep her uncles in tho dark. He paused at the door, and called to Whittaker. Whittaker came.' "You set that fellow down properly, Mr. Carruthors," he said, approvingly. "Did I? If I were you, Whittaker, I should not mention the affair to your masters.' 1 "Sir," said Whittaker, with emotion, "1 should bo ashamed to breathe a weird almni it. Both Mr. Talbert and Mr. Herbert wouli. bo so mortified at the thought of n servant oi theirs being called such an opprobrimi.- epithet." "I should not mention it to tho maids either Whittaker." "Sir 1" exclaimed Whittaker, in a tone ot great surprise. "Ah, 1 forgot to whom I was speaking. ) bog your pardon.Whlttnkor—I quite forgot.' "Yes, sir, you did," said Whittaker, will true dignity; but, novcrthelus.s, if only In order to show there was no ill-feeling, t-A ing. the two half-crowns which Frank ten dcred him. SUMMER -WEAR. Clothier and Furnisher:—It is a card!, nal principle of the Outing code that articles of outi|ng wear should not be worn •with articles not of outing wear. The man who is seen iibout the streets of the town with a yachting hat In conjunction with his own'suit, you can gamble has never been on boaro. a yacht. With an outing suit or make-up, for, a derby hat would not be exactly in accordance with tho proper idea of ensemble. In the nature of fair play, then, lot outing have its inning. You cannot wear a stiff collar on a soft material shirt and maintain your standing IILI the community any more than you can chase green peas around yoml plate with a ku'fe. The man that allows Ms; outing trousers to drag at the heels is to be avoided as the bibulous personage who roams the corridors of the summer hotel in the summer morn. He needs bracing. There are solecisms of attire as well as "bad breaks" iin table etiquette, and there wre more pitfalls in this outing business thrm elsewhere in the realm of men's dress. "Oh, yes, you can go into the ball room of tho fashionable summer hotel where ladies are all in full, dress, in your rowing, tennis or bicycle costume, and you can stay there until some one in authority requests your absoiiico." There is a regular understood code ct dress covering all social functions oc- cuiing at any hour of the day. FADS AND FANCIES. Pretty Novelties for Pretty Summer Girls. Medium 1 bin '(remains the favorite color for gloves. While other shades are old, this is the standard, 'and there Is more demand for it than for all tho other colors combined. A new sheer fabric is the tamboured organdy, which is embroidered in arabesque design in long tambour stitches done in whi'te or a color on a pale tinted ground. A beautiful neck Is often more lovely if fitted over with a seamless yoke of transparent or semi-transparent material. A tiny edge or ruflle may finish the yoke at the neck or it may there be drawn full with a dainty narrow ribbon, or, ngaiu, it may simply disappear under a necklace. Plaited velvets in Scotch plaids and other gay colors, though no longer a novelty, are used to brighten dresses of wool. Feather, laco and ribbon fans are most favored for evening dress. A novelty in veils is of white or ivory silk net. Another, even later and more pronounced, is of black not with contrasting colored spots. However, from the start it has taken it is likely that the veil- spotted in colors is likely to become vulgar before it is fashionable. The most fashionable black veil is of silk not dotted, with chenille nqit too close together, REDS ARE RELEASED CHICAGO ANARCHISTS PARDONED BY GOVERNOR AI/TOELD. FIEIJ3EN, NEEBE AND SCHWAB GIVEN FREEDOM. Anarchists Can Now Rejoice—Banker Dreyer's Visit to the State Capital Supposed to Be Connected With the Action—Brief History of the Hny- inarket Crime. Springfield, 111., Juno 20.—Gov. Altgeld today pardoned Fielden, Neebe and Schwab, the anarchists serving life sentences In the Jollet penitentiary for complicity In the Hnymarket riot in Chicago on the night of May 4, 1880, in which a large number of policemen were killed and wounded and for which Parsons and others were hanged, and oA'er whose grave a monument was unveiled by Chicago anarchists yesterday, The governor takes the ground that these men did not have a fair trial a.ud that the court was prejudiced; Banker Dreyes was here today and It Is supposed his Influence was decisive. It was not even known that the case was being considered, by the governor. lAltgeld's action has created great surprise here, and it will doubtless cause a profound sensation in Chicago. He scores Judge Gary and Inspector of Police Bonfield severely. Fielden and Schwab were convicted with the other anarchists of complicity in the Haymarket dynamite massacre in May, 1880, and were sentenced to be hanged. Governor Oglesby commuted their sentences to imprisonment for life. An appeal to the United States supreme court was taken, but that court maintained that it had no jurisdiction. There was no claim in the allegations that the prisoners were Improperly convicted or that anything shtort of substantial justice resulted the legal proceedings in either The supreme court of HUnois from case. aflirmed the entire regularity of all the proceedings In the lower courts. In the case of Oscar Neebe, convicted with Fielden and Schwab, but sentenced to a long term of imprisonment instead of to death by hanging, many people have long thought that there was probably ground on which an application! for executive clemency might be based. Gov. Altgeld is himself a lawyer. He was born In the duchy of Nassau, Germany, in 1847, and was reared on a farm near Mansfield, O., to which place his parents had emigrated when the governor was but one year old. Altgeld has the reputation of having overcome almost insurmountable obstacles during his lifetime. He is a self-made man." He has risen from poverty to wealth. He served as a soldier in the union army, and was not admitted to the bar until 1872. Judge Altgeld located in Chicago In 1875, and has long felt that the anarchists were treated with undue harshness. Chicago, Juno 2G.—Fieldcn, Schwab and Neebe arrived in this city (his cv. euing accompanied by Banker F. S. Dreyer. The latter when he arrived at Jolijet this ..uftorjnoou made a briel! spec-oil to them saying that clemency had been extended to them on condition that they promised forevermore to re. frain from associating with men who preached the doctrines which brought them within the prison walls and retain themselves from again professing anarchistic theories. They got off at Tweinty-third street to avoid a possible demonstration at fhe depot but nevertheless found largo crowds about their residences. No demonstrations were made. • here by his democratic ways and knowledge of news. Most young men ap- utmost of her power, and the two together now concocted a series of stratagems which proved only too success" ful. They began by skillfully insinuating into the mind of her betrothed doubts respecting Mtllicont's fidelity—representing that she seemed to be in correspondence with some unknown admirer, and was In the habit of absenting! herself sometimes In a, suspicious man* ner. They directed his attention, moreover, to her paleness and silence, her fits of mental abstraction, varied by words of nervous agitation, ns signs to which he ought not to remain Indifferent. Finally, one day, he received from nn anonymous source a package of let* ters in Millicent's familiar hand writing, which, seemed to furnish proof positive of her want of faith. They were notes, evidently intercepted, con- taming the warmest expressions of fondness for the person addressed (who was, apparently of inferior station, mingled with regrets over the engage* incut by which she was at present bound, and from, which she saw no means of escape. All tills tallied but too closely with, many indications which Horace had! been taught to discern in Millicent's changed demeanor toward him. Ho had already begun to doubt If she really loved him; if she were not in reality the victim, like her mother, to a scheme of family policy, in framing which die question of her inclinations had never been considered. Had lie not been seriously warned against contracting n. union which might infuse iuto his children's blood tho taint of insanity? It must bo so! He would release her at once, and take measures that she should not, by accepting that release, suffer any loss of fortune. As for himself—and here arose before his mind the image of Helen Gordon, glowing with health, queenly hi beauty, supreme in intellect and accomplishments. He acted at once. The Episcopal church at W was crowded by a. brilliant and fashionable congregation. They were awaiting tiie arrival of a wedding party. It was the mouth which was to have witnessed MHlicent's own, marriage, but in this day's proceedings she was to'bear no part. 'Stricken many weeks ago with sudden sickness, she was said to be now lying helpless in the apartments occupied by her mother at the time of her death. It was whispered that the hereditary curse of her family had fallen on her hi an aggravated form, and that it was necessary to keep her under severe restraint. But, excepting those In Immediate cliarge of the hapless girl, none knew accurately the character or degree of her malady. The organ pealed forth a joyous strain as tho procession entered the porch, and advanced through the hushed and admiring throng up the broad aisle to the chancel. At its head, the objects on which all eyes were fixed were Horace Lnsalle and Helen Gordon. The latter stepped prounclly to her S'taltlon, flushed, It seemed, as much with triumph as with maiden modesty, and hardly bending her stately head beneath the gaze of the crowd, The -bridegroom, it was remarked, looked loss elated. His expression was strangely careworn, and his look downcast, as though for the moment his thoughts were elsewhere. Aroused by the opening words of the officiating clergyman, he took the bride's hand in his and the ceremony proceeded. He was in the act of placing the ring on her linger when a slight dis- turbauce arose in 'the side aisle, near a pillar on a line with the bridal group. The groom cast a careless glance ha the direction of the stir, when suddenly his countenance changed, and, with 1 a, cry of alarm, ho sprang forward. It was too late! A sharp report rang through the edifice, and Helen Gordon fell piostra/te on'the steps of the chancel—shot through the heart! (Ittie next moment an unearthly shriek was heard, and a female figure, pointed to his position have had their parting the crowd before her like wa- heads swelled, and Landis is a distinct teri rilsh(Kl wl(:h disheveled hair and exception. Wore there more private' streaming garmenfs to the side of the secretaries like him the daily walks of i lor ror-striclcen bridegroom, seized him their chiefs and the newspaper correspondents would be much less exhausting. SHOT AT THE ALTAR. When Henry Graves died he left his property to his second wife, but she could not touch it until his daughter, Millicent, was married to Horace Lasaile. IMiUicont, whose •mother had passed away when she wns young, was a timid, shrinking sort of a girl, with none of the brilliant resources of her half-sister, Helen Gordon, who soon attracted the interest of Mr. I/asalle. Probably Horace at first was merely drawn by admiration of the lively wit and piquant manners of the southern, belle, who generally aimed to engross by the hand and wildly motioned the paralyzed clergyman to proceed! How Millloent Graves had escaped from her confinement and procured a deadly weapon are questions not to be answered. Horace Itosallp expired within a year after the catastrophe on his wedding day, and death alone will release poor Millicent. SEL73CTED RECEIPTS. More Good Things Which the Should Know About. Cook Rhubarb Jam.—To every pound of rhubarb allow one pound of granulated sugar and the rind of half a lemon. Peel the rhubarb, cut It Into inch at least a temporary worship of all lengths, and put Into a porcelain-lined the eligible gentlemen In her vicinity. Of these, at present, Horace stood decidedly in 'the foremost rank, besides or perfectly glazed granite kettle. Add the sugar, Stirling to prevent burning. Bring to a boil, skim, and add the being regarded as the property of i lemon peel, finely minced. Boil aboxit another, which with Helen was merely an additional inducement to attempt his capture. She secretly hated her country-bred sister for having so early secured the richest purse in the neighborhood; and she resolved to spare no pains in order at once to cure Mllli- ceut's betrothed of his infatuation, and add another, and tho most important to her list of conquests. She succeeded so far as to torture her innocent rival, and give rise to a number of gossiping reports; but she saw clearly .that the inner citadel of Horace's heart was still his own, and that she was as far as ever from tho attainment of her xiltimate design, Hev mother, in whom she entirely confided, entered iuto prqmote three-quarters ft' an hour, pour iuto snial pots and cover securely with paper dipped in tiie white of an eaf. The addition »£ a grated plneappleMto five or six pounds of rhubarb greatly Improves the flavor of this jam. Prepare the pineapple, rejecting the hard core, and weigh it with the 'rhubarb, allow* ing a similar weight of sugar. When pineapple is used, the lemon peel can be o in mi t ted. John O. Ulrich, who recently died at Sau Diego, was a pioueor of the towix of Caledonia, leaving there for Pike's Peak in 1802. Winter wheat Is ready'for- the reaper in Trompealpau county, with some, pieces that promise forty-five

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