Papurau Newydd Cymru
Chwiliwch 15 miliwn o erthyglau papurau newydd Cymru
3 erthygl ar y dudalen hon
Cuddio Rhestr Erthyglau
3 erthygl ar y dudalen hon
---' ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.…
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. OLD BABETTE. By C. M. HAWKSFORD. CHAPTER I. VILLEROI AND OLD BABETTE. Just look at that ugly old woman leaning of that window "so very artistically í -ined in vine leaves. To be in touch with her surroundings she ought, at least, to be I&ng and lovely I" The speaker was a young man who, whilst waking a. tour through .Normandy, was stay- 8 for a day or two with a college friend, lose people lived in the picturesque town 01 V illeroi. She was both young and lovely once, so f>eopie say," his friend replied; "the hand- fj°nieSK ^or m^es around, but time, my ^nie 'U!S no respect for persons." I only know, if I were a pretty onaan," the younger man said emphatically, Would pray never to live to be old and s he spoke they turned the corner of the \r -Horologe and disappeared. fcanwhile, old Bubette continued leaning of the window. It was a still, warm S^mng. Her arms rested against the low ^g which bounded the sill; her head as bent, her whole attitude was dejected. -Hi hot sue, which had baked the houses — g the day almost to fire-heat, had sunk llow. The green jalousies were mostly thrown tP-.f' c'1!ren sa^ ou the doorsteps eating 'r eyeaing meal of cabbage soup and black isaa out of little wooden bowls. A number or> ^eoP'e were Passing through the street °n 1 ,11- way to the Bocage, where the band ometimes played, and wijere the trees grew ose together and formed arcades as cool as cathedra I aisles. Babette seldom left her room in the Rue orologe, except for the market or church. le nad lived in this same house ever since ■ e was a child. Time, that lays such a proving hand on the human tabernacle, had t,. Materially altered the quaint old narrow r'-et. It looked just the same as it had U(Jiie whea Babette was young. in 4i a or^ 01 meaning is wrapped up |0 u won' young. It means hope, capacity ,renjoyment, expectancy—the tirst volume ill unread, with the fair pages all uncut, tiie last volume only waiting to be closed u the word •"Finis"' staring vou in the face. }vJ .M"as true, Babette had been a b-atl, She was seParatcd as much ni-v? time now by years of life as she ha 1 i-,UVe keen by years of death. Time, hor 'kd on, laying as it went a seam ]. -P a, ^"iiukle there, turning the brown elioi. Wlute> stealing the rose-pink from the dhs and the brilliancy from the eyes, tli- 8 f r Av'khered hands lay folded one over evo- i!8r' a su'^ escaP0d "er bps and her looked wistfully down the street. thpIrU+ry ?hu}.vs kept the past alive. It filled it T^ireet PsuP*e n<> longer familiar to sjj j ie sound of the footsteps for which fpr s<> °*ten listened seemed to echo the pavement below. «er body might grow old, but the heart Y always young. artc-i,,Itp-ast days Babette lived with an dav Sranclmother. The grandam sat all °orri 0n -1 tall-backed carved oak chair in a blini tiiG room'. knitting. She was nearly ^orl-' nn^ interfere with her it long habit of years had made of almost mechanical eifort. The click ? r^er ^eec*les came with the regularity of bainjlCa/lle" ?ie was rather deaf, besides a!I»ost blind, but she was quite con- & that state can be called contented learn"' + Knowin° lias nothing to expect, ye„ 0 to accept the inevitable. 1'hey were for tm-01"' fe!r & sufficed rooms r 'I1?3'11 nee^s th& rent of two bricl-pi°? second (ioor of the tall, rei- £ raCv T1,01^6 111 the Rue L'HoroIoge. The of «ftn,0uUej ll&<* 'JrouglJt up a large family ■8 a daughters, hit now her work bUj.s ,10na.' sp there ww nothing left for her fQ in the chimney corncr. No one u a!ne(l to her now of all her large family to °rand-daughter Babette. Tlie last i from her had been her youngest son, i0 «'as the pride of her heart, the Benjamin x her old age. .-it was in the days of the conscription rihKCrUitins"ser?eant cailie 4x> illeroi. Bright Wer'a^f ^eie fastened to his cap, drums Viiip,,063 ,an^ *e usually quiet town of lected01 ^'iS 1U^ ex-c't:mei)t. Crowds cul- Huincr -'ln market-place, and "Bon a hnn°. Was on evel7 ''I1 :• but it was not to (7Q a^neroi that Jacques erevr. He had sideVrl iS :'d^:as °f I1'3 country were con- Be m°re important than the tics of heme. sercr(1V'lf parched away hy the recrniting- fiK?>„tn b-ud still playing, the coloured he r.„.f %'Qg* He said, "Au revoir." but of war61 ('ame '3ack- lliat was the fortune To i ma'' dl;>fc:tte was entrusted all tlie household tverv3°ment' and sl!e <hd it well. Early ^opoin10111'11^ S^e weQt to market, generally to tl'A V-°n- way there to say a prayer Ii°ujj \\ri°'n ^"ther at the Church of St. she _n ^iei\ marketing was completed c°oked l')11" straight home, arranged and ^as ov„ le midday meal, and when that dishes cLeaTed away, and the plates and out hor s^ie drfessed herself and took On s Worli-basket. old crriThfC'ai,s aafl Sunts' day she took the1 tioon dtircllurc'h' and in the after- the Bo-'a'a" sunimer they both went to time f ,r f was Babette's happiest joine'd ti 6!e »T°uno Andre de Bernicr always Under ,ancl whilst the old lady sat iiio-s t>. i R'lafle of the trees knitting stock- do°vn. d ts and Andre walked up and oWn. iiio-s t>. i R'lafle of the trees knitting stock- do°vn. d ts and Andre walked up and froin ^n(lre had known each other begun un l' °^' ancl their intimacy had It Q rat'iei' exceptional circumstance?, is abroad 'f& Cl!stoni at Videroi, as ft usually chiir(>i- °1' those who have graves in the as is not S i ten'^ them with a care such terv Vm •tood in E"oh'.nd. The oeme- aQd on flimm01 Was ^ust outside the town, Was over 6r eYeui^s- when their work God's mourners wended their way to aticl e.Vfn I carrying immortelles, flowers, Places nf ^k°^S on the last resting- ftiostlv ^le-v l°ved. The graves were by a sit 'TlP'e!l of mounds of turf, headed AtiHt.o'1 9 ac'l5: wooden or iron cross. Vil heroi Ji'°Vier' w^° was E°t a native of iad only ono grave to bUried for her kte husband was Was (ni:f there but the cemetery longinp, °^er-run with wooden crosses bo- Wa,s y^, ° Labette's grandmother, and she to Proud of this fact and the superiority lnotller Un,})er"s sJle could hold over Andre's stances' 1 re's m°ther was in better circum- the on the mutual ground of s^e was less importance than able 3ff^ran<lInotlier. though she might be °f ever^r '16r busb -d a bought couronne liar} ,n.~ flowers. When her one grare don,e .S'te,l and wept over, liar work was Gross' rri grahdam went from cross to On'f] Vln?.a; fresh lamentation to each. the cemetery Mad.ame <le and tho Vras always accompajiied by Andre, Carried1 ?]! an(?am by Babette. Andre usually bunch immortelles, and Babette some rally vj fl°wers. These latter were gene- a aiVlde<J and a flower put on each grave— th^re r^i5rite here a piece of white stock daj<t T^~ often Babette put some field Ir,lxo<l with srrass into little earthen VatererS' Andre would help to fill with • _a Performance that was not always ^.th access. Wdfvr^r R work was over, and whilst tlie ^"Ould saying their prayers, the children enjoy themselves. The cemetery was like a gardten to them and they ran about playing hide and seek among the tombs. As they grew up the affection between them developed into love. Andre was very proud of Babette's favour, for many othur yoiuig men in Villeroi would have liked to have been in his place and envied him, but Babette had no eyaa and no thought for anvone but Andre. There was no formal engagement, and Andre's mother pretended to ignore the intimacy she was quite well aware existed. The old g; an/dam, knew all about it, but could do no- thing to help. Andre's mother had beon left a widow soon after her son's birth. Her husband had been a cwth weaver, which, in the old days was the great trade at Villeroi, and she did not think Babette was good enough to be her son's wife. The hand loom still filled up the biggest room in La, Maisonette, the houso Madame de Bernier had occupied in her husband's lifetime and where she still con- tinued to live. The loom was never used now. Andre did not take to weaving. He had a restless spirit, and would not settle to any particular work. He was a handsome lad at twenty, with dark grey eyes shaded by black, curling lashes, and hair that grew in waves. He was lit lie and active, being well built, and his winning smile and easy, plea.sant manner made him many friends. HLs mother, it is almost needless to say, was inordinately proud of her son. She was, moreover, dreadfully afraid of not doing her Chity by liini. for her husband had bym above her in social life. Hi-s only brother had left Villeroi more than twenty years before this story opens, and he was now a successful silk merchant at Lyons. As lit, had bo children, his wife being a great invalid, she thought he would have the right to bla.m<t her if Andre did not do credit to the. family. She hdly belivsd his father had not ris&n in the wr>-Vf a« his brother had done, because ho had Bi =r*:ed her with no fortune and no position. She had not beard of Mo-nsieur de Bernier fo-r years, except indirectly, but the fact that Andre had a rich uncle made all the difference in her views for him. She did not dare to oppose Andre, for lie had a. quick temper, and opposition had always, even from a child, rathe'' a. strengthening than a deterring effect I upon him There was nothing to say against Babette, so Madame de Bernier said nothing, but she waited. CHAPTER II. LOVE'S YOrKG DREAM. Babette's life was full of sunshine, partly because she was young and strong, but more probably because she was gifted with a naturally bright and happy disposition. She naturally bright and happy disposition. She sang as she went about her daily duties; she sang as she sat at her sewing. There was an old oak press in the corner of the sitting- room that must have known all about it, for Babette was so constantly on her knees before it, hiding away in the deep drawers, carefully folded, bundles of linen sheets, table cloths, and under-garments. She sat at her spinning wheel and spun the flax, and took it to a friend, who was a weaver, and he wove Babette's thread into strong pieces of linen, hanging them out on the hillside to bleach. When they were white enough Babette fetched them back. and began this labour of love, the preparations for her mar- riage with Andre. Even the old grandam was working for this same object. She knitted squares, which Babette was to sew together into a counter- pane—-a counterpane to be used in her own home—hers and Andre's. Everything when it was finished went into the oak press, and Babette saw with pride the shelves, as well as the drawers, were filling. When the light faded, and she could no longer see to work, siie sat listening for Andre's familiar step coming up the stairs, and then she would run and open the door for him, a glad light in her eyes, a smile on her UP": She did not always bring out the lamp, but she and Andre would sit down and talk in whispers. Sometimes, when the moon rose and threw the reflection of the latticed window panes upon the dark, unearpeted floor, the lengthening shadows would show that Babette's head rested on her lover's shoulder, and that his arm was round her waist. Though the old grandam could neither hear nor see, she knew they were there, and nodded her head, for she had been young once, and, though the olick of her needles went on perpetually, perhaps she was thinking of the long ago years. When Andre went away Babette would lean her head out of the vine- trellissed window and watch him till he was out of sight. Sometimes, as he passed' under the window, she would throw him the little bouquet she had been wearing at her breast. Just at tlie corner of the street he always turned and raised his cap. with a long last look at the girl framed in vine leaves. CHAPTER III. PRIESTLY PLOTTING AT THE CHA- TEAU. The only house of any importance at Ville- roi was the Chateau, and there was a romance attached to it—a romance which the people still liked to talk about, though it had all happened ten years ago. The Chateau stood on the heights just above the town, and its conical tourei.es towered above the trees that surrounded it. Monsieur Leon, to whom it belonged, was a banker; he had a bank in Paris and a branch bank at Villeroi. He had been married, but his wife no longer lived with him, and whether he was a widower or not remained a mystery upon which Mon- sieur Leon did not choose to throw any light'. He had not been a young man when he married, but lie had been absolutely devoted to his wife. He had met her in Paris, and was married there. His wife's mother, the Baroness de Courcelles, was a. widow, still comparatively young and very good-looking. Gabrielle was her only child. The Baroness, for her position, was frightfully poor; con- sequently, that Gabrielle should marry well became a necessity. Madame de Courcelles had found some diffi- cultv in arranging what she considered, a suitable alliance for her young daugther, who, although a very quiet girl, possessed a deter- mined"spirit: "but, on the other hand, she had a great friend and supporter in the Abbe Godard. He was a Jesuit priest, only a little past the prime of life, though he gave the impression of being many years older than lie really was. He was tall, slight, and austere looking, with a firm mouth and deep- sct piercing grey eyes. He was tne Baroness's friend, her confessor and adviser in things temporal as well as spiritual. He ruled her with a rod of iron, and she kissed the rod. One morning the Baroness was sitting be- fore the fire in her own particular sanctum in her house in Paris. She held a fire screen in her hand. which was delicately gloved In pearl grey kid, and the Abbe was leaning against the mantelpiece. The Baroness held the screen so as to shade her face from the blaze of the wooden logs, and her voice when she spoke w&s deeply agitated. The Abbe, on the contrary, was cool and collected. He looked down on the Baroness with an air of marked superiority, whilst he listened attentively to her communications. „ "I don't know what to do about Gabrielle, she was saying. "I am afraid she has formed an attachment for her cousin Gaspard. In her convent seclusion she had no one else to think about, and her mind has evidently been full of him." "Have they been much together lately? the Abbe asked. "Yes, at intervals, from childhood. My husband, unfortunately, was left sole guardian of his brother's son. Gaspard spent most of his holidays with us in the country. He and Gabrielle were playmates, but till quite lately I had not the remotest suspicion any feeling existed between them beyond cousinly regard, or I should certainly have told you." The Abbe was silent for some seconds; then he said: "Where is the young man now ? In Paris?" "No. He is on leave, and has gone to some friends near Orleans for shooting. The Chasseurs D'Afrique are quartered at Orleans. but Gaspard has been a good deal in Paris since Gabrielle came home." "We must find a, more suitable match for Gabrielle," the Abbe said, meditatively. "Her cousin is, of course, out of the question." "Yes, quite out of the question, for he has no means; but Gabrielle is difficult to manage. She inherits her father's determina- tion—his obstinacy." "You must leave her to me, the Abbe said, with an air of authority. "Visible coercion would be a mistake. Mademoiselle Gabriel has a nature that may be guided, though not driven—anyhow, the reins must be concealed." A few days after this conversation had taken place the Abbe asked permission to bring to the Baroness's Thursday "At Home" in the Rue St. Jean a gentleman of his acquaintance. The permission was, of course, granted, and Monsieur Leon was formaPy presented to the Baroness and her daughter. Monsieur Leon had seen Gabrielle at the theatre and at one or two salons. He was immensely struck with her beauty-a fact which had accidentally come to the Abbe's ears, and of which he was not slow to take advantage. The Baroness received Monsieur Leon with that charming courtesy which made her social popularity, and at once introduced him to Gabrielle. Gabrielle took no notice of the visitor bevond what civility demanded and she was not aware that Monsieur Leon's eyes followed her every movement. She possessed the refined beauty he admired, and to which lie was not accustomed. Her olive-tinted oval-shaped face was devoid of colour, except for the lips. Her eyes were dark blue, the eyebrows delicately pencilled. She wore her hair, which was almost jet black, simply coiled up at the back of her well shaped head. Tall and slender, her movements nere full of natural grace, and she had the un- mistakable high-bred air that belongs to the old noblesse of France. Every time Monsieur Leon saw Gabrielle his attachment, his infatuation, grew stronger. He did not think himself good enough for her, though lie knew that the Abbe desired the marriage. He placed himself, however, entirely in his hands, and took no step un- advised. One day the Abbe intimated to him lie was to bo allowed a private interview with the Baroness de Courcelles. Monsieur Leon asked the Baroness for her permission to come to her house as a possible suitor for her daughter's hand, and the request was immediately granted. Nothing was said to Gabrielle, but Monsieur Leon, instead cf only appearing at the Thursday receptions— open to all friends—was invited to little dinners in the Rue St. Jean, joined the Baroness and Gabrielle in the Bois de Bou- logne, accompanied them to the theatres or opera. (To be continued.)
- IN HIS OWN TRAP.
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IN HIS OWN TRAP. "Confound the boy what does he mean ? Does lie think I am going to be a father to him and not be obeyed as a father? Does he think I am going to give him my money to spend in business and take only ingratitude in return ? What can the young dog be thinking of? Plague the youngster! What business has he to go and fall in love with a poor piece of trash ? I'll fix him I'll—but here comes the rascal, the spurner of my coun- sels As Captain Jerry Pieman thus spoke he sank into a great stuffed chair and looked daggers and twice he stamped his dumpty foot vehemently to keep up his stern purpose. He was a stout-built, red-checked bachelor, just five-and-forty. Most of his life he had spent at sea, and had lately settled down ashore with an immense fortune for the pur- pose of enjoying the rest of his days "after his own heart." as he expressed it. His pate was just large enough to carry his jollv face high up over his brow. but vet he had a good quantity of dark kds clustering atlNlt his short, fat neck- The only near relative he had in the kiwer world was Jack Kendall, an only eftilcl of his only sister. Jer/y Pieman ha.d loved his sister fondly, and v$: £ en she died—she was a widow then—she "ieft a prayer upon record that her brother would care for her orphan boy. And-'Uncle Jerry had done it faithfully. FojMTen years he had provided for his nepj>?fv, keeping him at one of the best sst^ols for a while, and then paying his i>cy through college. But now that lie had settled down in a home lie had Jack come and live with him. "Ah you are here, are you?" growled the uncle, looking up with a dagger-like expres- sion. Jack Kendall wa.s 23, somewhat taller than his uncle, but with the same family look. He was a. handsome, good-natured, generous, affectionate fellow, and loved his Uncle Jerry with his whoie soul. "Yes. uncle, I am here," he replied, taking a seat, "and I know you are glad to see me." "Aye, I am glad, for I have something to say to you," the bachelor resumed, looking more daggers. "Have you seen that baggage again?" "Baggage, uncle?" "Baggage, sir. I said baggage. Have you seen "Her, uncle? Baggage? Her? Why— what do you mean?" "You know very well what I mean. I mean that piece of poverty—that hanger-on —that—that baggage—that—girl "Oh, you mean Lizzie Brown, the girl that ■" "Thinks to catch you, and thus catch my money!" interrupted Uncle Jerry, emphati- cally. "It is hardly fair to say that, uncle, seeing that I made all the advances myself." "Nonsense don't you suppose I know? I say she set the trap for ye! But I won't have it. If I'm to be a father to ye, you must obey me. Now I've got you a good chance. I want you to marry Susan Garland." "But she's a widow, uncle." "So much the better. She'll know how to make a home for ye." "And she's older than I by a dozen years." "Just five years. She's only twenty-eight. It's all the better for that." "But I can't love her." "Can't love her cried the uncle, looking an immense number of sharp-pointed daggers. "Cannot love the woman who was the wife of the most faithful friend I ever had Let me tell you, sir, that when the Gazelle was enst upon the rocks at Barnegat Bill Garland saved my life and lost his own. He died in these arms, sir, and the last words he ever said to me were, 'Be kind to her, my poor Susan;' and I will be kind to her," the Captain added, wiping a big tear from his cheek. "I'll give her a husband-a graceless one, perhaps—but who shall have money enough to keep her above want. You shall marry her, sir." "But suppose I should refuse?" "Refuse! refuse your uncle You dare not do it, Mr! I'll turn you out of doors in an instant! I'll see you starve before I'll give you another penny. I'll take away all I ever did give you." "Ah you couldn't do that, uncle. The education I have gained under your noble, generous patronage is a mine of wealth of which you cannot rob me, and I would not to-day exchange it for all the wealth you ever possessed. I can live by my own wits." "Aha! you threaten me, do you? You mean to rebel, do you! You mean to dis- obey me ouUi £ liU" "You do not understand me, uncle. You surely would not force me to belie my own heart. If you could but know Lizzie Brown-" "Lizzie Fiddlesticks I don't want to know her. I know Susan Garland, and that is enough. I've had this plan fixed ever since I came home. I promised Bill I'd take care of her. and I must do it; and how can I do it if you don't let me have her for a niece?" "Why not have her for a wife?" asked Jack, very quietly. "Wife—me Why, you young rascal What do you mean? Me—marry? Zounds! Do you think I am crazy? I am old enough to be her father." "Only seventeen years, uncle. Just enough to give you character as a husband." "Silence, villain Would you have me make a fool of myself just as I am settling down for quiet and comfort? Don't you dare mention such a thing again. I shall go and see Susan to-morrow, and shall tell her you will have her. That's enough. I won't hear any more. By the big fish, I'll keep my promise." Jack knew it would be useless to say any more at present, so he held his peace. William Garland had been his uncle's first mate during his last two voyages, and the captain not only liked him much, but also thought much of Susan, having stopped at her home while her husband was living. When Captain Jerry came home with the care of the widow upon his shoulders he had hit upon this happy expedient of making her his niece by marriage, and thus having the right to care for her without exciting scandal. Jack knew how his uncle had cherished this plan, and he feared it would be hard to thwart him. The old fellow was as stubborn as he wa-s kind-hearted, and where he felt he had authority he would not yield. FinaHr, Jack retired to ponder upon the subject, and before dark he resolved to see the widow in advance of his uncle, and he went that very night. Susan Garland was a very pretty woman, with a plump form and a dimpled, cheerful face, over which the sweet, genial smiles were continually playing when she was happy. She had been a widow two years. She welcomed Jack kindly, and after some common-place remarks the young man came to the point. He related the conversation which passed between himself and his uncle that afternoon, and expressed the hope that she would help him. "Surely you would not wish to take me from the being I love," he said. "vi course not," the widow replied, with an earnest smile. "I should be decidedly opposed to any such thing. I know Lizzie well, and I know. too, that she will make you a good wife. You may depend upon my assistance, for I can tell your uncle that I won't, and that will be the end of it." They chatted a while longer, and then Jack took his leave. "He will be here to-morrow forenoon," the young man said, as he reached the door. "I shall be ready for him," was the reply, and a funny light twinkled in the widow's eyes as she said so. About eleven 'o'clock on the following day Uncle Jerry called upon the widow. She had left oil her weeds, and now appeared fresh and fair as a maid of sixteen. She welcomed the captain with one of her sweetest smiles, and finally took a seat close beside him. 'By a dexterous turn she got him engaged in relating wonderful stories of his adventures at sea, and thus an hour slipped away. Of course, he must now stop to dinner. "Ull, no I must go home to dinner," said I.e. "But before I go I have a little 'business matter to touch upon." "Then you must wait, ^ir," pronounced the widow, decisively, "it is my dinner hour and I must prepare it. Wait and eat with me, and then I'll listen to you." With this JSiisan drew out the table, spread the snow-white table-cloth, and soon had the dishes in their places. She finally went swav to the kitchen and tsoon the captain heard t!;n pots and kettles rattling, the meat sputtering, and a brisk culinary racket going on generally. "Egad," the old fellow muttered to !• n;v]f, "she's a splendid craft. What a clean bu:ld. If 1 had come across such a woman years rgo, I believe I should have made a fool of myself." in due time the dinner made its appearance and the captain was invited to part-ike of it. "Now. make yourself at home," the widow said, with a charming smile, "for I look upon vou as one of the dearest friends I have." jjgad, if she ain't a. beauty," Uncle Jt? jy said to himself, as he drew up to the table. The lamb chops were done as the captain had never seen them done before. So juicy. "fJ rich, so delicately spiced—and so splendidly crooked. And then the pies and the cake ani the rich golden eoliee. But, above all, he wa.s entranced by the (bright smiles and sparkling wit of his fair hostess. "Zounds," he muttered, while she was carrying away the dishes, "ain't she charm- ing?" finally, the widow came and sat down by the side of 'the captain upon the sofa. Her mmptOd cheeks were all aglow her bright eyes sparkling with a, beaming lustre, and over h?r white 'shoulders flowed a wavy, curling tre; which trembled ever and anon, as though there were some strange emotion in the bosom beneath it. ".Now, sir," she said, "I am ready to listen." "Well-well," Uncle Jerry managed to say, "e after a prodigious eifort at clearing his throat, "you must pardon me if I come right to the point." "Uf course." "Then, here it is—you know I promised Bill —that is--Hill Garland—my old mate—or I should «iy my young mate—that I would look out after you—care for you; you know that." "Yes, sir," continued Susan, with a grate- ful look "1 know that, and I have blessed you many times for your kindness to poor rne. Alas I don't know what I should have done but ffor your generous bounty." "Tut, tut—don't talk so. How could I he p being good to you?" "Ah, but everybody don't (have hearts Fke yours." The captain rather liked the compliment: and then it came from ^in agreeable souice, too. So he did not dispute it. But he made an- other prodigious effort to clear his throat, and then said: "I have tried to be good to jrou. Susan, and I hope I have been; but I can't do all I want to do for you at present. I am rooming light to the point now." (Another clearing of the throat.) "You know you are a widow." She did know it. "And you know you are yet young and very beautiful." "Uh, ro not beautiful," she t.aid, "and, surely, not very young." "But you are not old, and—you tire beauti- ful. Now this won't do. Scandal will icaeh you. I—ahem—am not so old myself but that the Ishaft of scandal might reach me, too." "You old?" uttered Susan. looking- up re- provingly, and yet admiringly. "Why, you are right in the very prime fof manhood. A man at your age and with your genial, happy disposition, has just reached the dawn of life at five-and-forty." Uncle Jerry rather liked this, go he did rot contradict, as lie had at first a v.iil to do. "Then, of ooetsc," fcs rtSnrned, applying th, compliment to his own purpose, "it" is' r 11 more necessary that there should be a new and nearer relation between us. I Jove you t well to have a single breath of suspicion rest upon yon. Would you object do such a relation f The widow's long lashes drooped, and the dark tresses upon her bosom trembled per- ceptibly. "If it is your wish, sir, I should have no opposition to make," she said. "And you'll come and live with me?" "Yes." "And we'll be as happy as kings?" "Oh, I should be very happy she whis- pered and as she did so her head rested upon the captain's shoulder, and the bright tress fell upon his hand. with several tear- jewels glittering amid its curls. "What a time we'll have!" Uncle Jerry cried, winding his arm about her plump form and drawing her more closely to him. "When you are Jack's wife-" "Jack!" repeated Susan, breaking from his embrace and springing to her feet. "Jack's wife she uttered, dashing the tears from her eyes. "Why, bless me, yes." "And you have meant for me to marrf him ?"' "Lord bless me, who should I mean?" And do you suppose I'd marry with a mere boy? Are there not girls enough for the youngster? Sir, you mistake me—you mistake my love, if you think I could give my heart to your nephew." "But, bless me—ahem—a-h-hem, Jacli is—■—■" "I know, sir—I know him well. He i# a very fine youth, a worthy youth, and may be a noble man, if he lives long enough. But I can say no more. I am sorry to dis- appoint you. I am—am deeply gratified for all your kindness to me, and I will pray te God for all His blessing upon you continually. But we had better part now. You havt spoken my doom. Farewell "But, Susan. Here! Stop! Bless me!* Susan did not stop, and Uncle Jt/rry found himself aolne. He said, "Bless my soul!" forty* three times, and then left the house. All the way home he muttered to himself; and wh?% he met Jack at the supper-table he was moody and silent. When he went up to his chamber he commenced to mutter again and he kept on muttering and pondering until he fell asleep. Finally he began to dream. He dreamed thf.t Susan Garland became his wife, and he held her t,) his lx>som and wondeiied tliat he poulc1 ever have thought of such a thing as allowing Jack to have her. But as he held her thus, who should appear in the nuptial chamber but Bill Garland, pale and cold, with sea-weed eo £ hair and dark-green ocean moss for raimenbC And the cadaverous presence said- "Give me my wife!" The dreamer awoke with a sharp cry of feafr and found the sunlight streaming into his roonv He arose and sat down by the window, an^ finally he said, in a deep, fervent tone:- "Thank God! Bill Garland hasn't comtf back!" For three whole days Uncle Jerry was lik" a newly converted sinner. He could neitliog, eat, re-ad, nor sleep, and the burden of his ra. marks to Jack was: "Clear out, you rascal!" On the evening of the third day the capraia made an extraordinary toilet, and then went uj to see Susan Garland. She welcomed him with, a warm greeting, and finally, at his particular request, sat down by his side upon the sofa, just as she had sat before. "Susan," said he—he spoke bluntly, for Iii, courage and determination had been daily brought up to the sticking point before started — "you said the other day that yoj should be very happy to come and live v.it{, me. Did you mean that you would be willing to become my wife?" > There were a dozen tresses upon that v-hitc shoulder now, and they shook 1;ka asppns. "That's a curious question, sir," siie re- plied. "But, tell me plainly, did you mean that?" "If I mistook your meaning, sir, you have no right to question mine." "But, Lord bless me! Suppose I should ask you to become my wife? Answer ma that." "You never did ask me, sir." "Then, by the rar of old Neptune, I ask yen now. Susa.u Garland, will you be my wife ?" "Jerry Pieman—I will!" "What!" cried the Captain, starting back and gazing into her blushing, tear-wet face. "Do vou Hl2:111 that you can love an old man like me—that you can love me always?" "You arc not old, and, as for loving you. I have loved you for a long while; and if you take me for a wife I'll love and bless you to my dying hour." "Then come here! Come here, Stisar Come right here; and if I ever cease to lo,) jou—may—may—that seaweed ghost come back!" About ten minutes aft-e. this Uncle Jerry n j-de the following Hry sensible remark: — "Why, bless my sO'11! We are acting like two fools, Susan" The wid-w only smiled, t.nd said— "Two very happy cres, ain't we! And Jerry said— "Bless my soul, we are 1" On the following day Jack happened t" pass near the widow's house, and lie dropped in. In a few moments he was the happiest fellow imaginable. "But," said Susan, earnestly, "don't mis- understand ire. I have loved your uncle— loved him well :bnd truly—and I believo he loved me, but dared not say so. Had it not been thus, I could not have done this* I would have helped you all the same, by simply and flatly refusing you, but I could not have toyed or trifled with him. He is a good man, Jack —a good man." "So he is," said Jack. And then Jack took his leave. The youth found his uncle in the library- reading a took—said book being bottom en" up. He sat down and peeped wickedly out of his eyes, while an ill-mannered smile kept playing around the corner of his mouth. "What are you winking and blinking a.nd squinting and grinning at, you young dog?" asked the old Captain, with tremendous fero- city. "I was thinking of a story I once read," repCied Jactk, quietly. "A story, eh? What is it, you scapegrace?" "Ill tell you, uncle," said the nephew, with the smile and the twinkle more wicked than ever. "It was a very funny thing—it is the funniest thing I ever heard of. A man once went to set a trap in which to catch a very respectable and honourable young friend of his. He had got the trap all nicely set. as he supposed, when, what do you think?" "When, what, you graceless rascal?" "Why, uncle, when the thing was an fixed there was the funniest, thing haippened you ever heard of. Instead of catching his re- spectable, high-minded young friend, the old fellow got nabbed himself. In fact. he got causrht in his own trap. Wasn't it-" "Get out of my house, you young scamp—. out with you, you reprobate." "But. uncle-when I come back mayn't I bring Lizzie with me to see and participate in your new and deep felicity?" "If you be decent, you daring young villain, you may bring the queen of slatterns herself but beware how you offend me! I can't bear everything—and I won't? I won't put up with it !T'I-I'R kick you out of doors, you ungrateful tr itor!" Alter this effervescence Uncle Jerry's soul settled down to a clear, placed cabin, and when Lizzie Brown finally appeared before him he actually kissed her and said she was •i«st the giil for his rascally young nephew. In a. few weeks after Uncle Jerry had a wedding party. He was married first, and then sat down and saw Jack married. "There," sand the happy eld fellow, after thing was all over, as he approached his nephpw and 'handed him a paper, "there is something to make up the loss you have sustained in letting me rob you of the be.-A woman in the world." Jack opened the missive and read it with tears in his eyes, for it was a certified cheque for £ 1,000, with a little note attached. uavin-T that if he behaved himself lie mi^t at to-no future time have mere. e
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