Papurau Newydd Cymru
Chwiliwch 15 miliwn o erthyglau papurau newydd Cymru
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[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] WHICH…
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] WHICH WAS THE HEIRESS? OR, THE CURSE OF ADRIAN BLAIR. BY EDITH C. KE, NYON, jLuihor of JacJds Cousin Kate," The Squire of Lonsdale" "A Poor Relation," etc. etc. CHAPTER XXI. THE PRISONER IN THE CELLAR. MRS. J ONES had been young herself; she had tender recollections of the days when her Jamie used to come courting her. She was, therefore, a long time talking to the page about the indigesti- ble qualities of green food for ponies when they Were in harness, together with many personal reminiscences of porries in the States, where at one time she herself possessed a pony-cart. Then she carefully examined the downstairs rooms, and, last of all, was going down a round staircase just inside one of the entrances into the summerhouse which led to am underground cellar, when a deep groan startled her not a little. Lawks!" she cried in accents of dismay, there's someone at the bottom as well as the top of this 'ere rummy house." Running out to the page, she told him what she had heard, but he laughed at her. "Indeed it will be nothing at all but the rats," he said, there will be scores upon scores of rats down in that cellar." Well," said Mrs. Jones, thinking he must be correct and that it must have been a rat she heard, "when I come to live here I shan't use the cellar, then. For of all things I do abominate a rat. I knew someone who was bitten by a rat once. Oh, and her hand did swell just, and her arm It was thought she would have to have it taken off." You don't say so just for a rat bite ? "I do, indeed. However, in a day or two, the swelling went down, and the woman recovered and was no worse for it after. But you never could persuade her to go into a place where there were rats after that." My eye I should think not." "It is going to rain I am afraid," said Mrs. Jones, looking round. "It is that Hadn't you better go and see if Miss Blair is ready to come home ? I'm sure you'd better." Thus admonished, Mrs. Jones went upstairs, making a rather unnecessary noise as she ascended the last flight of steps. Arrived at the top, she found Doris and Archie sitting hand in hand, apparently studying the view, but in reality studying each other with new and tender interest. "Oh, Miss Jones, how quick you have been exclaimed Doris with such evident sincerity that the good woman could not help smiling. Mrs. Jones," said Archie, "there is going to be a sale of furniture on the Green to-morrow. I shall go to it on purpose to buy you a little." "Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Jones, "I'll go myself. May-be I can pick up a few things cheap." i can let you have some out of one of the lumber rooms at the Hall," said Doris. I believe there are a couple of bedsteads and some chairs up there which nobody wants." Oh, thank you, Miss. A couple of bedsteads Then I shall be able to keep a lodger!" and the woman laughed in her queer, cracked voice. "Jamie will just be suited," she added. "Is your husband a great cripple?" inquired Doris, kindly. Yes, Miss, he can only get about with crutches and on his harnls and kneeioi. He usually lies down all along. He will like this place all amongst the trees. He does like the country so." "Well, he can lie on his bed and watch the trees, and look at the birds and rabbits running about all day here," said Doris, pleasantly. "But now hadn't you better go to him, Mrs. Jones, at once, and tell him all about everything. There is a short way to the village from that end of the wood opposite to us-a winding path you can't miss it if you go straight on. Mr. Archie Scott is going to drive back with me to the Hall." Oh, very well, Miss. And thank you kindly." The woman smiled upon the happy lovers, and hurried away. "Now, Archie, come," said Doris, and they leisurely descended the winding stairs, chat necessi- tated often the offer of a hand from the young man, which hand was always tenderly clasped and reluctantly relinquished by the charming girl who accompanied him. At last they reached the lowest steps of all, and here Archie stood, and clasped Doris to his heart. "My darling," he said, "if a thousand fathers forbid me to have you, I will win you in spite of all." I shall be true to you," whispered Doris, kissing his dear face. "But, hark! what iR that noise ? she questioned. From the cellar under their feet proceeded a faint sepulchral groan. "Oh, it's nothing but the wind which has now risen, blowing through some old grate, perhaps half rusted through," said Archie. I have often heard a similar sound in old buildings. You know, Doris my own, your father will probably tura me out of the house and forbid my ever speak- ing to you again. He will be so mad with me I know he will." Never mind; I'm sure it is better to be quite straightforward," said Doris, lifting her lovely head proudly as she spoke. And if he does send you away, Archie, I shall be true to you, and wait until I am of age, then I shall marry you, in spite of all the fathers in the world," Again the noise, which was so like a groan, came to their ears from below, but now each was so intent upon a matter which was to them all im- portant that they did not remark it. "I submit to my dad," continued Doris, "in everything I can, (as, of course, it is my duty to do BO), but when he is unjust-and you know he does not always see things as we do-then I take my uwn way a little." Quite right, Doris. Oh, my queen, my love and he kissed her again. Now, Archie, we must go," said Doris, disen- gaging herself from his encircling arm. "Look Listen as the patter, patter of great rain-drops could be heard from the broken windows. It is going to rain. Remind me, Archie, as we pass through the village, to send a plumber, to put glass in these windows, and look to the drains." Have you a cloak, Doris? Yes, in the carriage." I will fetch it, and put it on you here. Stay here, dearest, until I return." Left alone, Doris once more heard the strange groan proceeding from the cellar below. Curiosity, thy name is woman Doris determined to find out the cause of the sound which Archie had declared was the wind blowing through a rusty grating. She, therefore, cautiously began to descend the steps. "Doris, Doris! where are you?" called out Archie, on returning to the room and finding her absent. Doris heard the voice of her beloved. It was a more potent summons to her than her own curiosity had been. Quickly she forsook her quest, much to her regret afterwards, and ran back up the stairs to find herself once more face to face with him. He carefully wrapped the cloak about her, fas- tened it, and then conducted her to the little car- riage. There was not much rain, but the weather looked threatening, and they drove rapidly home, only stopping in the village to send a plumber to the summerhouse, and to speak to Mrs. Jones, who was most anxious to go to her new home at once that she might begin to scrub it out. You see, Miss, we've nowhere else to go. And it costs us ever so much staying at this inn, although we do only have an attic. My Jamie thanks you very much, Miss," she added, "he Will be right glad to come." Oh, you can go at onee," said Doris—"now if you like." Thank you, Miss." At the Hall they proceeded at once towards the library where Doris had left her father. Dora met them almost at the door, with a pale scared face. Mr. Blair is not so well, Doris," she said, I don't think he can see visitors," and she looked at Archie with dismay. Least of all would Mr. -131air be willing to see him with his daughter. Oh, but it is only Archie," said Doris. "You had better not go in," said Dora to Archie. Mr. Blair has had a visitor this morning who has upset him dreadfully. He cannot sea anyone else." Who was the visitor?" asked Doris. Mrs. Adrian Blair, my step-mother," replied Dora. "Indeed Doris looked surprised. She could not remember Mrs. Adrian Blair ever having come to Waddington Hall. Has she gone ?" she asked. "Yes, yes," answered Dora, "And Mr. Blair seems most dreadfully upset." "Then, Archie, it is clear you cannot see him to-day," said Doris. "Very well," he said, reluctantly, "then to. morrow will have to do." n- "And in the meantime," said Doris, "we will try and help poor Mrs. Jones. I will look out those things for her this afternoon, in the lumber- room, and send them." And I will go to that sale to-morrow, and buy something." But Archie spoke disconsolately. Yes, and then come straight on to the Summer- house," said Doris, "and I will meet you there, dear. Then you can come home with me." Archie gladly agreed to that arrangement. He punctually attended the sale the next day, and bought poor Mrs. Jones the most miscellaneous assortment of furniture. Indeed, he was so ab- sorbed in thinking about Doris and the coming meeting with her father, that he only half attended to what was going go. The result was that he bought a cradle, and one or two more utterly use- less articles for the childless pair. All which Mrs. Jones graciously overlooked, because he also kindly bought for her a table, sofa, and fire-irons, which she said were better than she could have ever hoped to possess." Oh, Archie cried Doris, meeting him on the mossy sward just before the Summerhouse the next afternoon, ilwhat do you think ? Mrs Jones has a lodger already. Indeed, he wan already in the house when she arrived to take up her abode." "You astonish me! There was no one here when we looked over the place." Oh, wasn't there ? That is all you know exclaimed Doris. Archie, don't you be so sure that groans proceed only from rusty grates when the wind blows through them. Do you know there was someone in the cellar, lying there half in some water. He had a broken leg, and so could not get out, and when Jolies found him he was quite unconscious." Indeed Poor beggar Where is he now ?" Lying on the bed in the inner room. I haven't seen him yet. He is very ill. Mrs. Jones says he is a stranger. The doctor has set his leg, and he is to remain there a long time." Mrs. Jones came out of the house, looking very anxious. To think that this should have hap- pened," she said. And the poor gentleman was lying in the cellar and groaning when I heard him I —and that Tom said it was rats And I believed him Well, when Jamie and me got here this morning early. Jamie, he says at once, now, my lass, you must look all over the place before we settle in. That cellar now. The opening to it looks uncanny. There might be a dead body there for aught we know." "Well, I went down, and lor, MisF., how I did scream! Poor Jamie, he comes sliding after me as best he could, worse luck, for I had hard work to get him up again. And there was a man lying down at the foot of the stairs, with his leg doubled up under him, and blood across his face, which was as white as my sheet that he's now lying on." And did he come round ?" asked Archie. "Yea. Blair had sent servants with all them beautiful things she has given me, and they brought him up, and got him to come round before the doctor arrived." I I Archie, will you go in the room and see him ? asked Doris. "Certainly." Archie went into the room. The two women heard the sound of exclamations, and then, he came out again. "Doris, my darling," he said, drawing her aside," who do you think is there ? "I haven t the least idea. That gentleman so like, your father who came and had some words with him the other evening at your house." "Not Mr. Adrian Blair!" cried Doris. The same. You told me he and your father withdrew into the wood together to have it out. Well, it seems to have ended with hia being thrown down into the cellar, poor beggar "Oh, but don't think for a moment that mv father threw him there!" cried Doris, indig- nantly." He quarrelled and fought with him in the wood, certainly but afterwards they both came to the Hall, and Mr. Adrian Blair lett some time after, quite alone-at least that is except for Elsie." "Elsie?" Yes. Papa sent her with him to see him safe down the drive. And she came back after a while as if she had done so." Could she have brought him here ?" Oh dear, no; she always does as she is told Perhaps he came here to pass the night. You know he and papa were boys together here in thfiir grandfather's time-at least Mr. Adrian often came on visits, and he knows every nook about the place." "Well, he cannot explain anything just now. He is too ill." "If you please," said Mrs. Jones, coming out of the other room, in which a bed had been hastily set up for the injured gentleman, "he wants to see you again, Mr. Scott. He has something to say to you." Archie went back to the bedside, and, looking at him in a strange way as if he were dying, Adrian Blair said, "I heard Dorisi's voice. Be good to her. Be worthy of her ?" Then he ieU hack fainting. F CHAPTER XXII. | A HARD FATHER. j "WHAT the dickens does the fellow mean?" queried I i Archie inwardly, as he stood by Adrian's bedside, i I trying to restore animation once more in his shat- i tered frame. "What is Doris to him? Now, if | it had been Dora it would have been different, j He said he knew the voice. Well, Dora and Doris j' are half cousins, so their tones may seem to some j1 people alike, although I don't find them so." S; The doctor who had been called in by one of the Hall servants, who was named King, came in just then with Mrs. Jones, and Archie left the patient 1 to them and returned to Doris, who was directing a maid to light the fire and make things comfort- able. Archie," she said. taking him up the next ? flight of stairs into the empty room above, that they might talk without being overheard, "I think we had better not tell papa about Adrian Blair being here-at any rate at present. He is very weak and ill himself, and the news that his j enemy is lying here might be too much for him. He might order him to be turned out, too, and ) that would create a scandal and would be cruel to 1 the unhappy man-in fact, it might kill him." It certainly would," said Archie, "and I agree j with you, Doris, we had better not irritate your father by telling him who it is. The servants j won't know him." ( They will recognise the likeness to papa," said Doris and oh, Archie, he is Dora's father. She ought to know." Yes," we shall have to tell her. But now about j our own affair, my darling, can I see your father j i o-day ? ° I'm afraid not to-day, dear," said Doris, gently, j he is strangely upset about some business matters, j His lawyer was with him all the morning. And { when I came away, Mrs. Adrain Blair was closeted j with him. I didn't like to leave the houie when she was there, for her visit yesterday upset papa i so. But I had promised to meet you here." j Darling, I should have been distressed if you ) had not come;" and Archie drew her to him, and i kissed the sweet face again and again. ] A few happy minutes passed. Then Doris said, | 3oftly, "I must go. Come to the Hall to-morrow, | Archie." Won't you meet me again here ? If you like, dearest." I In a few minutes Archie said, "You'll have to j tell that Mrs. Adrian Blair about her husband being here, you know. Then she can come and look after him." j Oh, yes," said Doris," how stupid of me to forget! I'll hasten home now and tell her." But, mind, don't tell her before your father." Of course not!" cried Doris, hurrying away. j When she arrived at home, she met Mrs. Adrian j Blair at the door, the latter lady was going away. i A cafe waa^waitisuK for her, Well, Doris," she said, in a friendly way, how are you, my dear ? Very well, thank you," said Doris, and would have added more, but the other said, quickly, You had better run to your father I left him looking very ill." Oh, dear, what have you done to him ?" ex- claimed Doris. I only relieved him of a little spare-well, of some things he did not really require. Good- j bye." "Mrs. Blair," said Doris, quickly," I have some I bad news for you. Your husband lies very ill at the Summerhouse in the East Wood." j You don't say so ? Well, I am surprised, j Ta! ta!" and she kissed her hand to Doris, as she went lightly down the steps to get in her cab. j Aren't you going to him to look after him ? asked Doris in surprise." I "Oh, dear no; we are nothing to each other BOW. Good-bye." The cabman slammed the cab door irritably. I The lady had upbraided him with his slowness, as he paused for her to continue talking if so in- clined. Doris turned, and hurried to her father, whom she found looking very much disturbed indeed and feeling very faint. I Will you have some brandy, paoa?" "A little." II. Doris got him some, and after he had taken it hb breathed rather more freely. That woman he said. She has done me a great injury." I In what way, papa ?" Child, I cannot explain." As he looked at her, he thought that, after all, the immense amount he had paid over to Constance Blair to seal her tongue-was not too much to pay for the j sake of the peace of mind of the daughter he loved J so dearly. For whatever else would result from the wicked lie, did Constance utter it in court as j she threatened, Doris herself would be dreadfully troubled. Her sweet mind would be filled with suspicions, her heart, so warm and loving, might be turned from her father. I' Papa, she is a horrid woman I felt it to-day when I met her in the hail." "You met her? What did she say to you?" there was anxiety in his tone. j Doris felt embarrassed because she could not tell him all that had passed without betraying Mr. Adrian Blair's whereabouts. Oii, not very much," she replied. She asked how I was and she said I had better go to you as you were not very well. And, indeed, I can see that, papa. very well. And, indeed, I can see that, papa. What shall I get you ? "A glass of water, nothing else." Doris busied herself in getting it for him, in shaking up his cushions and in various other ways ministering to his comfort. Doris, said her father," I've been a hard rough man, my dear. I don't say either that I haven't been a sinner more than most. But in one thing, and, perhaps, one thing alone, I've done my duty. I have been a good father to you. Always remem- ber that." 11 Yes, papa, I always do remember that; and if I don't seem to you quite grateful enough, you must know that I will do anything in the world for you." Doris spoke very earnestly. She felt more sympathy, and, in a way, affection for her father when seeing him lying there, so helpless and in such suffering, than she ever felt when he went about hale and well, but often rough and tyran- nical. I Would you, Doris? Would you? Then try to like Lord Herbert Blakeney a little." "Papa, he loves Dora "Nonsense! How could anyone in his right senses love her, when she is such a sight to look at?" 1101), papa," don't talk like that. I love her dearly. If her poor face is marked, she has a very sweet expression and her figure is good. But it is not for those things I love Dora, but for her sweet unselfish soul, and, perhaps, a little also for her exquisite voice. Surely a man could love for all those things too ? Her father shook his head. No, no," he said, men love beauty, and sometimes, I grant it, riches too. She has no beauty and she has no riches- pooh she will have no dowry to take her hus- band." Papa, you are rich, you can give her one." "Not I," he answered roughly, wincing as he recollected how seriously his riches had been diminished that very day, "I have done quite enough for Dora. What do you suppose her edu- cation cost me ?" A great deal I know. And you did it all for love of me; how can I thank you enough ? 0 By obeying my wishes. Write a nice little note yourself to Lord Herbert, recalling him here, and telling him in some sort of way that does not look-hem-indelicate, that although he has not been appreciated in one quarter, there are others here who esteem and love him." Doris shook her head. Dear papa," she said, I am very sorry, but you ask for the one thing that I cannot do.' By Jingo then don't talk about loving me Ambrose cried, sternly. You see, papa," pleaded Doris, I believe Dora, being taken unawares, made rather a mistake the other night. I think she loves Lord Herbert. I have hear her weeping in the night and her eyes are often red and swollen just now. She has never looked happy since he went." Good gracious, child! How ridiculous you are Do you want Dora to have the greatest matrimonial prize in all this county? Why, jriothers with marriageable daughters are all angling for Herbert Blakeney. And you, who have no mother to look after your interests, coolly intend to let your oousin have him." "Papa," said Dora, drawing herself up, and looking at him with a distressed air, I don't like you to talk like that. Do you want me to leave you for anyone in the world ? and she wound her soft arms about his neck and looked pleadingly into his face. "Papa" I don't like you to say such things," she repeated. "Very well, then, I won't say them," he rejoined, considerably mollified. But—" There was another interruption. Leggott entered, saying the doctor had arrived and wished to see him. Doris slipped away, and it so hap- pened that she did not see her father alone that day. The next morning she met Archie at the Summerhouse, and after they had both said a few kind words to the sick man, telling him not to trouble about anything, for he was their guest, and they would see that Mrs. Jones was supplied with the means to get him everything that he required, they drove to the Hall in the pony carriage. Archie went straight to the library, whilst Doris waited for him in an adjoining room. "Good morning, Mr. Blair. I'm exceedingly sorry to see you looking so ill," began Archie. Good morning. I am getting on all right. Have you thought over my proposal ?" questioned the other. "Your proposal?" faltered Archie. He had forgotten it. Ambrose Blair looked keenly at him. What had he come about if he had not come to say he was agreeable to go abroad for six months at his expense ? Well ? he said, gruffly. "I have come, Mr. Blair," said Archie, boldly, to tell that I love your daughter, and, and she loves me Bosh bosh 111 almost shouted the elder. If you have come here to talk rubbish, the sooner you are out of this room the better." I know it seems very presumptuous of me-" Presumptuous Bosh! I say bosh It is all bosh cried the infuriated father. But it is true we do love one another-" If you don't cease to couple my daughter's name with yours, I will order you out of my house," cried Ambrose, getting quite purple in the face. Archie was alarmed at his appearance. He feared he was going to have a fit. Still, he thought he might make one more effort. Mr. Blair," he was beginning, when the door opened, and Doris came running in. "Papa, dear papa," she said, "do forgive us. We cannot help loving one another-but we are willing to wait- Willing to wait cried her father, scornfully. "Why, you are babies yet, mere babies. You don't know what love is. You are two poor silly young fools Archie caught hold of Doris's hand, and the mere touch of it seemed to give him strength. I love Doris, Mr. Blair," he said, "and I shall get on, and shall one day win her for nflr wife, shall," "And 1," struck in Doris, bravely, "love Archie, papa, and I shall marry no one else. I shall just wait patiently until he comes for me." "Nothing of the sort," thundered the irate parent. You shall never marry each other. You, Doris, will have to marry such a husband as I approve of; and you, sir," looking at Archie with great scorn, must take care tha,t you never come inside my door again, or I shall order my servants to kick you out-to kid: yon out," he repeated, almost in a shout. A rough, wild man was Squire Ambrose, with a violent temper, which his family knew to its cost. "Doris," said Archie, clasping her hand, "Doris, good-bye. It shall be as we have said." "Yes, dear Archie, it said Doris, weeping and clinging to his hand as if she would never let it go. Oh, papa," she added, turning to him with streaming tears, don't send him away thus. His only fault is that he loves me- and can you blame him for that ? Ambrose Blair had been trying to speak, but the words only seemed to come into his throat and choke him, so terrible was his wrath. Now he pointed to the doors, shouting, Begone—or I shall order you to be kicked out." Archie turned, an(I -,vezit. ( To be continued.) -4..<1
HOW A BISHOP SPENDS HIS I…
HOW A BISHOP SPENDS HIS MONEY. For the third time within a fortnight the Bishop of London and the Bishop of Kensington appeared on a platform the other day to make earnest and eloquent appeals for help for the 11 Bishop of London's Fund." The Bishop of London said that in that time of Advent it was right that all of them should face facts, review their conduct, and put first things first. He himself had done his best to do all three. He had faced facts by going into the balance- sheet of the See to ascertain whether it could afford to give more than its usual annual donation of E400 to the fund. The Bishop then proceeded to read out the following list of his expenses £ B. d. Fulbam Palace and London House RatesandTaxes. 848 12 6 Queen Anne's Bounty 422 4 7 Income Tax 500 0 0 Household Account, servant's wages, food, entertainment of ordina- tion candidates 1678 9 5 Repairs of Houses 1190 7 3 Coal, Gas, and Electric Light 379 9 5 Stable Account, three men and four horses. 895 0 4 Garden and Farm Account, 37 acres. 723 9 6 Printing, Stationery, and Postage 388 9 4 7026 3 4 He wished his hearers in the same way to face the facts of their balance-sheet, and to see what they could do, or could not do, and to act accord- ingly. Among the facts to be faced in London was one which showed that only 18 people in every 100 ever went to church or chapel; that he con- sidered a most tremendous fact. Another fact was that every year 40,000 more people came into the diocese. But for this fund these new-comers would have no churches and no ministers.
DEATH OF LORD HARDWICKE. I
DEATH OF LORD HARDWICKE. I The Earl of Hardwicke, Under-Secretary of State for India, died in his sleep on Tuesday morning at his house in Regent's Park, in his thirty-seventh year. Few political careers have promised so brightly as Lord Hardwicke's, for he was regarded as "sound," and' was avowedly popular. He was gifted with a clear brain and a strong will to carry his ideas through. At twenty-four Lord Hardwicke found himself a poor peer. All his great family estates were gone. He went on the Stock Exchange, where his ex- ceptional business abilities and tact in society soon brought him a large business, the Roths- childs being among the great financiers with whom he had diealings. But before then he had started life as an attache at Vienna from 1886 to 1891, when he came home to go into the City, and he had also been a captain of Militia. After awhile he thought the time had come for him to enter public life. He became a member of the London County Council—representative of Marylebone, where Lord Onslow made him his protege. Graduating here in political work, he soon left Spring-gardens to the higher state of Under Sec- retary for India in succession to Lord Onslow. He was etill a member of the Stock Exchange. To this the House of Lords took exception. He defended himself brilliantly. He referred first to his penniless outlook. "Any young peer," he said, "can exchange his coronet for an assured income, but I preferred to make my own living." He insisted on his right to remain a member of his City firm, but promised to take no active part in the business. In the reconstruction of 1902 he was made Under Secretary for War, and proved a capable and energetic administrator. When Mr. Brod- rick left the War Office in 1903 his lieutenant returned to his former position at the India Office. Of late years he had added to his varied occupations a controlling share in. the "Saturday Review." He was greatly responsible for its rise into the position of a paying property. He was a writer of no mean merit. The late Earl w'as the sixth in succession. The title passes to his uncle, the Hon. J. Manners Yorke, late captain in the Royal Navy, J.P., and D.L. for Cambridge- shire. The first Earl, Charles Yorke, was the son of a. Lord Chancellor, and himself a Lord Chancellor—an unparalleled thing. He, too, died suddenly while the patent was being drawn up making him Baron Morden.
VERY HARD ON THE LADY. I
VERY HARD ON THE LADY. I Juliette Elizabeth Mary, Lady Turner, ap- pealed to the Court of Appeal on Tuesday from an order of Mr. Justice Warrington giving to the police fund C30,000 which would have come to her had she not married without the consent of her father's trustees. The late Mr. Henry Whiting, of Battersea., founded a fund for grant- ing rewards to members of the Metropolitan Police. By a settlement made in 1886 £30,000 came to Mr. Whiting's daughter, the present plaintiff, provided she married with the consent of three trustees. If she married without the consent, the money was to go to the police fund, which was administered by the Bow-street magistrate. One of the trustees (Mr. Whitings son) died in 1897, and the mother of the ap- pellant, the second trustee,, in 1902. The ap- pellant obtained the consent of her mother to her marriage with Sir Alfred Turner, but the surviving trustee, Henry Paul Whiting, refusea his consent. The lady, however, married Sir Alfred Turner in August, 1902, and though she was independent of the settlement itself, the matter was brought before the Court in the interest of possible children. Mr. Justice u ar- rington held that the fund passed to the police magistrates, and from that Lady Turner now appealed. The Court of Appeal held that though it could not be said that any restriction upon marriage was for the benefit of the community, the re- strictions of the settlement in question were not such a restriction on marriage as to render them bad in law. Tne judgment of Mr. Justice War- rington was therefore right, and the appeal must be dismissed. By consent, the costs of all parties were directed to be paid out of the fund.
[No title]
Sir William J. Sinclair, of Victoria Univsr- sity, Manchester, has been elected chairman of the Universities of Glasgow and Aberdeen Con- servativeand Liberal Unionist Association, and of the committee of graduates for promoting the candidature of Dr. W. R. Smith. At Durham Assizes a fireman was sentenced to penal servitude, for life for wounding a woman. Mr. Justice Darling said it was a marvel that the woman had lived, and the punishment must be severe—almost as severe as though she had died. As hon. colonel of the St. Helens Engineer Volunteers, Lord Lathom states, says the "Manchester Guardian," that he is prepared to give a prize to the lady recruiting the most eligible lot of young men.
I HOME HINTS. j
I HOME HINTS. j i Cure for Hea.rtburn.-Some people are very much troubled with heartburn; but if a piece of orange peel is dried and eaten it etope it directly. When poaching eggs it is a good plan to put 0 a teaspoonful of vinegar in the water; this sets the whites quickly, and keeps tfea eggs a nice shape. To clean tarnished silver, moisten the wh'ting with methylated spirit or liquid ammonia in- stead of with water. The cleaning will be done both quicker and better. To prevent a cheese from becoming hard and dry, keep it wrapped in a cloth wrung out in light ale or water, except during the short time daily when it appears on the table. Tar on Clothing.—Rub a little lard on to the spot and allow it to stand an hour or more, till the tar is softened, when it may be washed out with hot water and soap. Rinse in clean rain- water. Cure for Sore Throats.-Well rub the throat with ordinary paraffin oil before going to bed, and tie round a piece of flannel. Do not soak the flannel. You will find this a simple cure. To Steam Potatoes.—In steaming potatoes, put a cloth over them before putting the lid on. They will take much less time to cook, and be much more mealy than when done in the ordin- ary way. To Keep the Pantry Sweet.—A small box of unslaked lime kept in the pantry will absorb all impurities and keep the air beautifully dry and sweet. The lime must be changed every two or three weeks. To Make a Comb Last Well.—When you buy a new comb, put it into a saucepan of cold water —don't let it wriggle abouand boil it. This treatment will make the comb last much longer than it would otherwise. Tarnished steel ornaments may be cleaned with emery. Apply the emery powder with a brush-an old tooth-brush will do-dipped in paraffin, and rub till the steel is quite free of rust. Polish with a leather. Knittedl dishclothes are very soft and pleasant to use, and are easily and quickly made. They should be of plain knitting, about half a, yard square, and are best made of coarse, soft un- bleached cotton, with pins about No. P. To Clean Wine-Stained Decanters.—Put into the decanter some tea-leaves, a little sand, and some warm soapy water. Shake well till the stain is removed, then rinse thoroughly in clear water, and stand upside down to drain dry. To Wash Scarlet Flannel.—Mix a handful of flour in a quart of cold water, and boil ten minutes. To this add some warm suds made with castile soap, and then wash the flannel gently, rinsing rather than rubbing it. Now rinse in two or three waters of the same temperature—]ust comfortably warm to the hands, not hotter—and hang out to dry in the shade. By this method the colour should remain unchanged in tIPe flan- nel after many washings. For the Complexion.-It is a very good plan to take a warm bath every night before retiring. This cleanses the body. A cool sponge in the morning invigorates one. Glycerine and rose- water agree very well with most skins, but the glycerine should not be too strong. Diet has much to do with the -complexion. Avoid highly seasoned foods and rich fancy and desserts sub- stitute fruits. Drink plenty of water between meals. i Mock Terrapin.—Cut bits of cold' roasted I fowl, turkey, or duck in cubes of one inch. Measure; to each pint allow two tablespoon- I fuls of butter, one tablespoonful of flour, half a pint of milk, and the hard-boiled yolks of three eggs. Rub the butter and flour together, add the milk, stir until boiling; add this gradually to the yolks of the eggs, rubbing all the while. When you have a perfectly smooth, thick, yellow sauce, add the chicken stand it over hot water for a least twenty minutes, add a level teaspoonful of salt, a snitspoonful of white pepper, and a teaspoonful of suitable sauc. Serve smoking hot.-HLondon Journal." Patterdale Puddings.—The weight of two eggs in flour, sugar, and butter beat the eggs then add flour and sugar gradually, the butter melted, a little salt, the rind of half a lemon grated", and a few currants. Bake in well- buttered teacups for twenty-five minutes, and eerve with wine sauce. Helena Pudding.—Four oz. stale bread- crumbs, 2oz. sugar, loz. butter, loz. candied peel, 2 eggs, some raspberry (or other) jam, and I 1 pint of new milk. Boil the milk and pour it over the breadcrumbs, and allow them to soak fifteen minutes then add the beaten yolks of eggs, butter, sugar, and peel chopped fine. Pour this into a buttered piedish, spread the jam on the top, then add the whites of the eggs whisked to a stiff froth. Bake for half an hour, or until a light golden brown. All Three Pudding.—Three oz. currants, I chopped apples, suet, grated breadcrumbs, castor sugar, and three eggs, leaving out one I white. Mix well, and boil for two hours. Serve with sweet sauce flavoured with brandy, I if approved. Manchester Pudding.—Three oz. bread crumbs. t pint of new milk, a. strip of lemon rind, four eggs, 2oz. butter, sugar to taste, and three tablespoonfuls of brandy. Flavour the milk with the lemon rind by infusing it for x an hour; then strain it on the breadcrumbs and boil it for two or three minutes; add the eggs, leaving out the whites of 2, the butter, sugar, and brandy. Stir all these ingredients I well together. Cover a piedish with puff paste, and at the bottom put a layer of any kind of jam pour over it the mixture, cold, and bake the pudding for one hour. Serve cold, with a little sifted sugar sprinkled over it. Sponge Cake Pudding.—Put a pint of new milk into an enamel-lined saucepan add a httle salt and four tabespoonfuls of sugar; then mix three tablespoonfuls of flour in 4 cup of told milk and stir in when the milk is scalding hot. Stir it till it thickens1, and let it cook for en minutes; .dd the yolk of one egg well beaten; cook five minutes, and remove from the fire. Slice stime st-ale, sponge cakes i of an inch thick. Put a few spoonfuls of the custard in the bottom of a flat dish, and next a layer of cake spread thinly with jam then another layer of cake, and pour over it the remainder of the custard, which should have been kept warm. j Beat the white of the egg to a stiff froth; add two tablespoonfuls of icing sugar, and beat j till smooth; then put it over the top of the custard. Set the dish in a tin plate half full of water, and put in a hot oven for five minutes to brown the frosting. Serve cold. Cumberland. Pudding.—Two-oz. butter 4oz. j castor sugar, 3 eggs. 2oz. flour, 4oz. bread- j crumbs, 1 gill of milk, 3oz. candied lemon peel, j 3oz. dried cherries, a little essence of lemon, and some apricot jam. Beat the butter to a ( cream, add the sugar, then the eggs one at a | time stir in the flour and breadcrumbs, ndci the milk, mix gently, add essence of lemon, candied peel (firmly chopped) and the cherries. Pour the mixture into a buttered mould and steam for one and a-half hours. Dissolve half a pot of apricot jam in hot water; turn the pudding on to a dish, and pour the sauce over it, and serve at once. J Chocolate Pudding.—Half pound of light stale breadcrumbs, 1 pint of new milk, loz. butter, 2 large teaspoonfuls of grated chocolate, 2 eggs well beaten, and a little sugar. Boil the bread in the milk till it becomes a thick paste; when it has cooled a little, add the other ingredients and put the whole into a well-buttered' piedisnl Bake it for threequarters of an hour, and serve either with cream or cup custard.
WOMAN'S WOKLD
WOMAN'S WOKLD NOTELTIBB I IN FUR. There are moleskin, squirrel, mink, caracul, Persian lamb, m fact all of the short-haired furs are shown with a relieving touch I of exquisite white fur, and a generous touch it I usually is. One is a plain scarf of ermine, on the four-in-hand style, that comes around the neck, I and is loosely knotted in front. This is surrounded, I framed, as it were, in mink, the mitil- sliiaped to below the ermine scarf around the neck, and the two ends allowed to drcp from the shoulders each side of the ermine scarf ends. The effect over the shoulders is almost that of a cape, and yet one gets only the impression of a dainty and exceptionally becoming cravat. The muff that accompanies this --for they are all shown with the most fascinating of muffs—is an dark eastern mink with just two broad bands of ermine around it. THE SHAWL POINT. The shawl point in the back is very smart just now, it is such a chic change from what we have been having. There are charming little victorines arranged with this in the back, the point coming to the waist-line, and a huge bow of velvet ribbon with many loops and tasseled ends falls to the hem of the frock. Over the shoulders they are making them wide and ripply, and the fronts are simply fascinating, coming to the broad point at the waist-line, and long scarf ends hanging almost to the hem of the gown. STORM COLLARS. Storm collars are in vogue again., The one that is cut upon Medici lines, and flares away from the face, is becoming. Little neck- pieces are found that you can turn up or down, just as you choose; and all of the larger pieces are similiarly arranged. The shoulder cape with stole ends is almost a necessity, and it is seen in all the fashionable furs, and especially in Persian lamb, either with or without the qualifying toaeh or ermine. Sealskin is not much seen as yet. hat they say that it will be used again later on. There are some lovely double capes is chinchilla, delight- fully full and ripply, and these,too,have the fashion- able pointed effect, aDd sometimes a jaunty postilion is added, this being especially becoming to tall people. Ermine is used with chinchilla, hat the effect is not good. It looks better with mole- skin, and usually it is placed near the face so that the complimentary white comes between the trying bluish grey of the mole. MAKING OVER. To make over one of last season's styles into one of the latest stylo is a comparatively simple matter, providing that the sloping shoulders are not be be altered. A blouse co&t which is double-breasted and square-shouldered may easily be recut to this season's shapes. In case the blouse is not double-breasted it may be pieced out under the fold of the lapel. The double-breasted waistcoat, which is to be such a feature of both indoor and outdoor suits, is the only addition required. These little waistcoats are made of regular men's vesting, and as they are fastened in the coat on small buttons they may be easily cleaned. TEIMMBD SUITS. Trimmed suits will have satin waistcoats, richly embroidered. Whatever the material used, five- eights of a yard is required also the same amount of heavy linen for the lining. Eight buttons, four on either side, are needed. They should by about half an inch in diameter and as handsome as you can afford. For the revers there is an interlining of tailor's canvas and a fac ng made of a bias fold one and one-half inches deep, occurring both inside and outside around the neok and down the front. This might be of black satin, or it may match the suit in colour. Trim the sleeve in the same way, giving the effect of a cuff: Sleeves are still large, but the bag puff below the elbow is pared off in a rounded seam from eibow to cuff. If the blouse had a long skirt piece, cut it off to the length of two inches. MUFFS. Muffs are variously shaped. There are draped muffs in moleskin and in ermine that are beautiful, the flat shape lending itself so easily to this dainty conceit. Then there are huge pillow muffs, big and rounrl, and smaller editions of these for those who do not like extremes. There are square muffs with little whalebones and featherbones run in the sides to hold them square; and there are the exquisite muffs of silk and chiffon and velvet and lace, that have a sable or ermine skin drape as a trimming. WHEN TO MARRY. At what age should girls marry ? When they are quite young, answers one, but if you take the real young wo in an still in her teens, what does she know of health, heredity, or social influences ? She has been too busy wrest- ling with studies, too busy attending dancing classes and too busy having an altogether delight- ful time to ponder over life and its many respon- sibilities. Each day as it passes is the one day for her, and the disappointments that- chance her way are heartrending. Besides all this, her ladyship has in all pro- bability delved into the family library or nine times out of ten into the public one. and her head is filled with all sorts of romantic notions, that are certainly very pretty, but not very practical. She imagines that the man who cuts a dash is the one to be proud of, and in her unsophisticated way flutters and colours every time he chancc-s to even so much itS glance in her direction. In fact, 80 much of a hold does he gain on her that she follows blindly where he chooses to lead, without thinking or realising anything bat- that he is calling. WHAT IS CHARM ? A charming woman is never dul); there is no dissatisfaction felt in her presence—in fact, quite the reverse. When an artist has finished his picture he feels a need for something else to strive after, but before the completion he lives in his work and finds his pleasure in worki cg out the plan he has formed. It is this same idea. that should be connected with the search to find out what constitutes eliarm in a woman. A charm- ing woman intimates, rather than displays her good qualities. In her manner, in her conversa- tion, there is always a suggestion. It seems tha.t a woman to be charming must first have the qualities of a true woman, and. second, give only glimpses into her character, in such a way as to ia- vite further confidences and trust. How TO TALK. How to talk well is not how to talk much, though sc-me seem to think so. The wonderful French- women whose names are ever linked with the age of most brilliant conversation were also adepts in the art of listening and of inspiring others to speak. The interchange of ideas is the end of conversa- tion, and speech is the medium of conveyance. Therefore, when bent on imparting, first hastily range your thoughts in order. Anecdotes, espe- cially are ruined by the pell-mell habit. With a story to tell, have the point clear to yourself first of ail. Then lead up to it briefly, and let it have its legitimate effect. Announcing anything as funny before you begin detracts from its comi- cality-remem-ber this. Mróke others shine in talk and they will vote you brilliant is a maxim unalter- ably true. WOMANLY WOMEN. It is a mistake for women to I dwarf their fincn feelings, either because they are afraid of being called sentimental or because they consider that worldly wisdom means roughness of manner andspeech. Some women are impolite to their inferiors because they are afraid of the free and easv attitude which may be the outcome of more intimacy. The true gentlewoman is Ilot afraid of being civil to her servants, 0 Women should always be sweet-voiced and tender- hearted; strength does not mean hardness of heart or roughness of voice. We lose from our lives half their magic and half their power when we | gcoff at the sympathies, the little self-denials, the eager wish to be of service or to give pleasure, of the truly womanly woman, whose possession all these excellent virtues are.