Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1877, by BEADLE aim ADAMS, in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

  

 

 

Vol. ‘VIII.

aVId Adams.

WHY AND HOW.

BY EBEN E. REXFORD.

 

 

You ask me (0111/ I love you, dear,
And question how I know:

Pray tell me why the sun must shine,
And how the roses blow,

The blossoms know the time to bare
Their sweet hearts to the sun;

Because the sun shines on them, love,
They open, every one.

My heart was like a summer-rose
l‘hat waited for the sun,

To touch it ere it burst in bloom.
You smiled. The work was done!

How do I know? Because your name
Makes music in my breast.

Love starts and trembles into flame
To hear itself confessed.

Because my life seems all complete
That was not so before.

I’ve answered all your questions, love,
And earned one kiss the more.

The Bittgfir Secret;

THE HEAIE’I.‘ OF GOLD.
BY GRACE MORTIMER.

 

 

 

CHAPTER I. a!
TOO LATE.

NFORMATION WANTED—Of Ada Derwent,

maiden name Rivers, native place Addiscombe,
State of New York, who married Otto Montacute
Derwent, in the year 1850, June 19th—or of her
child, issue of said marriaoe. If she, or said child,
will communicate with essrs. Korner & Price,
Room 9, No. —- Warren Street, New York City, they
will hear of a long~unclaimed right now completely
at their disposal, and greatly to their advantage.

Monica Dcrwcnt, only child of the above-
mcntloncd Ada Rivers Derwcnt, sat by her mo-

ther’s cor )sc, rcading this announcement in the ‘

“persona s ” of the Ncw York Hcrdld.

She was nineteen years old; her mother had
been a widow all that tilnc; they had lived a
toilsonic and penurious life, and Mrs. Del-went
had died ycstcrday of the “hard times,” and
now Monica had discovered this )l'oniise of
prosperity in an old paper, which she had in;
twisted from the stems of a great sheaf of white
flowers sent her by the clergyman’s daughter,
to lay about her dead.

It was an humbly—furnished little parlor in a
tiny frame cottage, very clean and dainty, and
garnished delicate] y with many a graceful fancy,
costin nothin r but natural taste.

Thefiody, w ich lay across the two white—
draped windows, was that of awoman of thirty-
seven, in Whose features could be traced the
remains of great beauty and refinement; but
the slender hands which lay across her bosom‘
were almost transparent, her face was fright-
fnlly emaciated, and broad streaks of gray
gleamed among her thick, wavy black hair; it
was painfully evident that not only sorrow of
heart, but actual privation, had brought her to
this prematm‘e bier.

Monica Derwent was utterly unlike her m0—
ther—her features wanted the graceful harmony
of hers; also the expression indelibly engraved
upon the dead visage, of soft dependence and
habitual melancholy, was replaced on the
daughter’s by one of spirited power and
hau rhty pride; ale, famine-pinched and poor-
ly 0 ad though 5 e was, she would have attract—
ed a second glance anywhere, through the mere
power of her princely air, and the dark dignity
of her presence. ()ne rare beauty she possessed.
Large? iinel '—shape(l lustrous eyes, black and
expressive; ier hair, too, had it been artisti—
cally dressed, would have won praise for its
ebony hue and silken gloss.

In truth, what with her tall, slim figure,
which only wanted filling out—poor hungercd
body that it was—and her proud, innocent, sig-
nificant face, all she lacked was food, dress,
and a forlluullc expression to make her pass as
a more than usually fine woman.

For more than an hour she had sat poring
over the advertisement addressed to her n10-
ther, motionless blind, and deaf; she was look-
ing back over those nineteen years which her
mother and she had trodden hand in hand, illu-
inined as they now were by the light of this most
uncxpccted amiouncement.

The paper was two months old.

Two months ago her mother’s strength had
been, though cbbing, at full enough tide for Dr.
Seymour, the village physician, to say to her in
his offhand way:

“ You’re all right madam—sound at the core.
Nothing to be afraid of, if you take a rest and
feed up. Your trouble comes from nothing
but debility. You don’t eat enough, and you
work too much. Get off to the seaside, and
drink cream and eat chickens. That’s my pre-
scription. ”

Tnnidly informed that she could not take
time to rest, nor afford such expensive luxuries
as seasidcs, cream and chickens, he had shrug
ged his muscular shoulder in its fine broadcloth
coat, pouted out his full red mouth portentous-
ly, and dashed off an iron and quinine mixture,
‘ to be taken three times a day, for six weeks;”
and then, accepting her two dollars with all the
graceful unconsciousness with which he would
have accepted the five~dollar fee from the
wealthy Mrs. Million, relict of the late cracker—
merchant of that name, had bowed her smiling-
ly out of his richly-furnished consulting-room,

and bowed in the next in line from his elegant _

waiting-room.

And this foolish woman hadcrushed up the
prescription in her thin, hot nervous hand, as
she slowly wended her feeble way home through
the driving sleet, for shehad no weekly sevent '-
five cents to spare, the sum which the strength-
9 ' mixture would call for, so wh should
sl’lclallfis‘tress poor Monica with the sig t of the
prescription? And she sat down to her work
again, ryin to see the exquisite stitches
through the red motes that were dancing before
her eyes, and to hide the creeping chills which
ran through her shadowy frame, in ite of the
spa: kl'mg, well-swept fire, which onica. had
'ust lit in time for her return, having :furtive—
y let it go out, to save the fuel, in her ab—
sence. So she told the satisfactory news that
Dr. Seymour said she had no organic disease,
and was only weary.

E.,F,. Beadle.
\gxlham Adams,

 

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“ So, darling,” she said, cheerfully, “ I won’t
stick so constantly at the lace~making, but re-
lax the strain by doing the housework turn
about with you, instead of letting you do it all;
but, dear, you will have to learn to sew lace
more quickly, or else get a new inspiration, and
invent a design more popular than any you have
invented yet, make your fortune, and retire
with your poor, broken—down mammy. Eh,
dearie?”

And whilst the doomed mother was talking
thus, trying to smother under these playful
speeches the dark conviction that death had
marked her, and whilst faithful Monica was
listening and looking wistfully at the fading
victim of poverty, this advertisement, which
seemed to promise prosperity, or, at least, re-
lief, was already in print, calling—calling them
to come and be helped, and they had never seen
it!

Too late—oh, anguished thought—too late!

“Merciless Creator!" murmured Monica, rais—
ing her black eyes bitterly to the wintry hea—
vens; “your succor comes only to fill higher
my cup of despair. My mother has starved to
death I”

It seems terrible to own that such a thing is
possible in a Christian community like that in
which they lived. Loangerie, not’a hundred
miles distant from that nucleus of splendidly or-
ganized charities, Philadelphia; but it was true.
Mrs. Derwent and her daughter could afford
nothing more costly than the coarsest and sim-
plest food, and the invalid had died for want of
better. Her wasted system had demanded just
such rich and dainty fare as the comfortable
Dr. Seymour had prescribed; she had not the
means to procure such, and so, surrounded by
good and kind—hearted people, all of whom rc-
spected her highly and looked up to her as a su—
perior character receiving just as much lace-
work from a wealthy merchant in the village as
she could do, and a handsome price for it, besides
the modest but really helpful salary which Mon—
ica received in her position of district school—
mistress—in spite of all these facts, Mrs. Dcr-
went had died of want.

How bad it been? How could it have been?

Was that what Monica was asking herself, as
she sat there beside her (lead mother, holding
the paper that spoke of better days for her?

W as that what brought the lines of painful
thought upon her smooth young brow, and lit
the mood fire in her eyes?

Yes; It onica was once again groping blindly
in the sinister darkness of a secret which her
mother had held inviolate during her whole life,
and which she had carried to the land of spirits
with her.

Mrs. Derwent had always earned a comfort—
able income from her lace- hoop, more especially
since Monica had developed a talent for design-
ing new and exquisite patterns, which in their
graceful originalit were eagerly purchased by
connoiscurs; and Monica had received, as we
have said, enough to maintain herself ever since
she was twelve years old, and tall enough to see
her scholars’ heads over the tall teacher’s desk;
the neighbors loved and honored the widow and
child, and would have been glad to help them,
had they been able under these circumstances to
dream that they needed help; yet Mrs. Derwent

 

'had died the death of helpless destitution.

Where did she put their money?

Monica had grow up under the shadow of
this mystery; it had been her one insufferable
annoyance, suggesting the only hideous thoughts
that ever had entered into her pure and lofty
mind; it had eaten and eaten into her reveren-
tial love for her mother, until one da , long
ago, she had burst out w1th apassionate emand
for some, for any explanation, confessing with
grief, that a host of terrible s icions had
crowded her thoughts; so that Mrs. erwent, at
first startled and remonstrant, then cut to the
heart, had folded her gentle arms about the
tremblin r girl, pillowed her head upon her own
swelling Iiosom, and spoken as follows:

“My child, I had hoped that you noticed
nothing that could disturb or pcrplex you: I

 

see now that my poor little diplomacy is too

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NEW YORK, AUGUST 25, 1877.

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transparent to blind you. This matt Ar that you
have distressed yourself so much about, is the
one secret I must keep from all the world—even
from you, dear girl. It is a very bitter secret,
it has crushed my s )irit to the earth for all the
years of my widow ood. If it would only please
God to remove it, I should be at peace, content-
ed and happy with you, my darhng good child.
If I were to tell it to you, your dear young life
would be overshadowed with a. curse which
would embitter every hour. And yet it is not
for this reason alone that I keep ou in igno-
rance of it, nor is it for my own s 'e, for I am
utterly guiltless in the matter; but there is a
person alive for whose sake I keep it, ay, and
must keep it as long as I live, and carry it to my
ave with me. Now, my darling girl, you must
smiss the matter from your thoughts. You
trust in your mother’s integrity, do you not?
Yes, you do, my sweet; you never really doubt-
ed me, I am sure; those ideas which distressed you
were only the natural efforts of filial affection
to fathom a m story which obviously clouded
your mother‘s life. All I can sayin ex lana-
tion, dear, is, that as long as I live I am ound
to put aside, and secretly to forward to—some-
one—somewherc—half of whatever income I may
get; even if ilwerc but one dollar a year [must
part wilhfifty cents of it.”

And then she had glided away, with a very
pained and roused look on her usually meek
face, and a sudden haughtiness of mien that
struck cold to Monica’s heart, suggesting, as it
did, certain hidden depths in her mother’s char-
acter, and events in her past, that came like iron
hands pushing them a little apart.

And, although the high—minded daughter had
never again whispered another inquiry, or looked
curiosity; but had put entire faith in her moth-
er’s integrity, according to her gentle request,
and driven the secret from her mind, as far as
that lay in her power, still, we say, there had
not passed one day since, that she had not been
visited by the consciousness of a something sinis-
l‘m‘l‘ and disastrous brooding over her home.

Half of all she could earn—handed over to a
nameless being, as long as she lived!

That was the 'st of her mother’s secret.

But Monica flilanked God every day, with
passionate gratitude, that she could believe her
mother guiltless, and clung to the belief with a
desperate hold, heaping only the more love
upon her, devoting to her the more assiduously
fond and unwearied services; fronting fate for
her with the loftier courage; for Monica Der~
went held reserves of pride and heroism in her
warm, dcep heart, that even she herself could
not fathom as 'et, and often marveled much at
her own hang ty impulses, so unlike the soft,
passive resignation of her sweet mother.

The night before Mrs. Derwent died, she had
beckoned her child to her pillow, and with a.
pale and thankful smile had murmured in her
ea

1':
“ Fear nothing from that old sorrow of mine,
my darling; with my death the price is fully
pald——there is nothing more to give. It dies
with me; henceforth you walk free.”

As Monica muses with the newspaper in her
lap. and her gaze fastened bitterly upon the
dead face of her idolized mother, strange
thoughts are busy in her brain. She is t ' g
to trace the connection between her mot er’s
secret and this expression inthe advertisement,
“ A long unclaimed right.”

From her knowledge of her mother’s self-
sacrificing, dependent and tiinorous nature,
Monica reasoned that if any sacrifice had been
made, any fortunate right allowed to lie un—
claimed, it must have been she Who had made
it—she who had refrained from claiming that
right; therefore (and Monica‘s heart swelled
with hot and acrid regret), Circumstances had
at last so transpired that the fortune, if fortune
it was, had sought her through the columns of
the everywhereread New lork Herald, since
she would not seek it.

And it had come too late «too late.

That was always the heartrending refrain of
all Monica’s thoughts; here was help for her
mother. and it was too late.

 

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nica. fixed hers upon these strange eyes, she caught a. look, indescribably wild.

By what perversity of destiny had it chanced
that not one of the half-a-dozen subscribers to
the New York Herald in Loangrie had noticed
this announcement, and told her mother of it?

As Monica asked herself this she recalled,
with a throe of fierce rebellion and disdain, the
evil repute in which this very column of anony-
mous communications was held by all Christian
people, and as the people of Loan erie were par
excellence a most devout and rigi set of Chris-
tians, who would as soon own to dancing the
can—can as to poring over that disreputable
column, it was easy enough to guess that those
six deacons who took the paper in Loangerie
never perused the advertising sheet or permit—
ted it to fall into the hands of their families;
and that so the paragraph which would have
saved her mother 3 life had never been read here.

Was it rimning still? Or had some spurious
claimant, more wide—awake than the doomed
widow, snatched at the chance to rea what
benefit there was, and was this all thatllllonica
would ever see or hear of the matter?

The girl’s haggard face suddenly fired crimson,
her eyes sparkled.

She rose and went to her mother’s bier, and
standing over it, she gazed long at the sweet,
cold marble face there, as if she would photo-
graph it, in all its pathetic attenuation and
purity, upon her memory.

Yes, she had faithfully believed in her mo-
ther, in her goodness, worth, her sweet, proud,
pure life, and in her hard ill-usage by an ada-
mant Providence.

There had been something that could not be
told. Yes—but it was not shame to her 1110.
ther. No, 110! She had certainly been the dupe
of an invisible and sinister power, a vampire
which had sucked the life-blood out of her
veins until here she lay dead.

And now deliverance had come, and it was too
late!

“Let me avenge her—that is all I shall live
for!” panted Monica Derwent, and stooping,
she sealed her vow by a long, anguished kiss on
her mother‘s dead lips. -

 

The funeral was over.

Its expenses. humble as they were, had drain-
ed Monica‘s slender purse to a low ebb. She
had seen the latest Herald, and the advertise-
ment was rumiing in it still. She was resolved
to answer it»to hear what these strangers had
to tell her about the “unclaimed right,” which
she believed to be connected with her mother’s
secret.

But she was so penniless, that, whilst the
kind-hearted neighbors were cheering her by
the reminder that she would at least be little
the worse pecuniarin by her invalid mother’s
decease, since her sa ary as the village teacher
was quite adequate to the supply of her own
wants, she was casting about in her mind how
she should procure money enough not only to
journey to New York, but possibly to remain
there for some time to come.

She gathered together all her resources; set
her cottage in order for an absence, long or short,
she knew not which; and without explaining
anything to anybody, exce )t to tell the Rector
that she was going to New ork on busmess, she
left Loangerie the day after the funeral.

And so calm and self-possessed was she when
she went from among them, that all Loan Verie
looked to see her back at her desk in the ttle
frame school-house in a few da 's, as before; and
gladly accorded her the few ays hohday and
chan e, since her bereavement been sore,
and t 9 poor oung thing, though she had made
little outward moan, seemed to be fiane'A for
death herself.

But busy was the tongue vof rumor when the
Monday came—Tuesday, II ednesday—a week,
two weeks—a month—a year—years—and she
never came back to Loangerie!

CHAPTER II.
I WILL NEVER OWN HIM FOR

MY FATHER!"
MONICA found in room No. 9, Warren Street,
Messrs. Korner & Price, two driving and thriv-

 

“ MY FATHER!

()ne Copy, four months. 81.00
One copy, one year, . 3.00
Two copies, one year, . 5.00

No. 389

i113 lawyers. 11013 SO long in practice as to
pass by nidiiferently any chance of emolument,
crooked or straight, and tlilrsting to manage
tlns matter with benefit to themselves.

They received the yolmg lady from the coun—
try, who introduced herself as the only child of
Mrs. Ada Dcrwent, nee Rivers, of Addiscombe,
With due caution and reserve, until satisfied with
the proofs of her identity; and, although they
were at first bitterly disappointed to learn of
the decease of Mrs. Derwent herself. the soon
accommodated themselves to the inevitab e, and
set about manipulating the survivor to the best
of their ability.

avmg gleaned from her a distinct account of
her mother’s and her own history during the
past nmeteen years, they coolly desired her to
come to them that da week, when they hoped
to have something dc to totell her about “ the
Important matter in connection with which they
had been advertising at immense expense,” as
they carefully reminded her, for over four
months.

As they were resolute, Monica had erforce
t0 obey, and retired to her boarding- ouse to
Wait, feeling a growing interest and excitement,
as she note the portentous manner of the law-
yors, and vainly tried to guess at the news they
had to tell.

Of course she could guess prettyl correctly the
use they made of that week; t at they were
sifting her story and proving its truth; but so
judiciously did they conduct their inquiries,
sending an agent to Loangerie to investigate
sub rosa, that not a soul in the straight—laced
little townlet dreamed of what was being done.

Having returned on the specified day, Miss
Derwent found herself greeted with fervor,
placed in the seat of honor, and both the law-
yers bustled about her, vying with each other
in showing her how they honored her.

This servility angered and disgusted the proud-
spirited girl.

Of course. she knew this was a money matter;
guessed at some fine legacy or inheritance, and
measured the courtesy of the astute men of af-
fairs by the probablc bulk of the fortune.

“Be good enough to come to the point with-
out ccrcmony,” she said, haughtily, “ as you see
I am too humbly born and bred to appreciate or
expect meaningless compliments. And since
this matter did not chance until my mother was
gone, it can seem of very little moment to me,
in my present state of mind. What care I now
what befalls?” she said, bitterly, her low, stcrn
tones sounding in strange contrast tothe flutter-
ed jubilation and gratulation of theirs.

“ Ahcm! The family spirit!” chuckled Mr.
Korner, surreptitiously nudging his partner, Mr.
Price, as if her lofty tone pleased him, and red-
dening uncomfortably when he saw that her
bright eyes had detectedhim. “The fact is, my
dear young lady, that by the merest accident
we have discovered something of importance—
of great importance to the wife or children of
Mr. Otto Derwent.”

He paused with an impressive smile, waiting
for the tremendous announcement to overawe
his listener; but she answered, with a gloomy
look utterly regardless of the piquant news he
had ' ted at:

“ As there is only one thing which men in your
profession think of enou h importance to ex—
pend time and talent on, can easily guess what
you are about to tell me. Some relative of my
lon -dead father has thought of mother, and
Wis ES to assist her pecuniarily. And it is too
late.

“ IVrong—altogether wrong!” saier. Price,
with airy enjoyment, and a gallant bow; “Miss
Derwent is too unworldly to come ncar the
truth.”

“ IVhat is the truth, then?” asked she, noting
with a little wonder the repressed excitement of
each wary visage. I
“It would. perhaps, be well to state that this
matter is entirely in our hands,” said Mr. Kor-
ner, very earnestly fixing his eyes on her, and
hitching his chair a little nearer hers. f‘ hot 3.
soul but 100 two can assist you to gain your
rights. The facts came to our knowledge some
months since, and we have already gone to con-
siderable expense and labor collecting informa-
tion and advertising. You understand g”

“ Perfectly,” replied she, promptly, With some
disdain. “ ’ou wish to impress upon me that
your services are valuable, and that you Will not
continue them unless I can pay for them, and
am willing to lace myselfin your hands. I can
only say that am penniless, and will not pledge
myself to any course in the dark.”

“Very good; we shan’t ask you to do afly-
thing but what is perfectly just and right, ’ r.
Korner hastened to assure her; “ and as to _0ur
present poverty, the whole business IS to re eve
you of it, and to put it in your power to recom-
pense our services in the future. W111i h, 'of
course, a lady of your strict sense of justice
would wish to do whenever she had a chance,
added he, insinuatingly. _

She bowed, with a slight smile; somehow the
longer they talked of this Inystenous busmess
the more she doubted the. Wisdom of confiding
too much in the crafty palr. _ _ .
“Just tell her distinctly what 1t ls,” put in
Mr. Price in an anxious aside; “ she can’t pos-
sibly realize the position until she sees it.” '
So Mr. Korner settled himself in his chair,
and with a bland face and congratulatory tone
of voice, spoke as follows:

“In the course of a. lawyer’s practice many
secrets leak out, which those concerned thereby
never supposed would come to mortal cars.
This is an instance; a secret which has been
kept for nineteen years has come to our ears,
and affects strongly your future, my dear young
lady. I may begin the disclosure by; saying
that this secret is connected with that ablt 0f
the late Mrs. Derwent, of handing'over, to an
unknown party the half of her earnings.

“ Stop!’ exclaimed Monica, suddenly ; her
cheek had flushed scarlet and her e .85 were
sparkling warningly. “ My mother de berately
kept this matter from me: even 011 1191‘ Geath‘
bed, she said it was best for. me not  know
what her secret was; so I _mll not hear it from
you. If you cannot explam this busmess With-
out betraying my mfther’s vsecret, I shall go

w ' as i orant as came.
a “a em—galhem—a streak of the blood. eh i”
muttered Mr. Korner to his colleague; “ no use
insisting here; might as well t to move the
Palisades, chi” and with a comp acent chuckle
he resumed. “ Very good, Miss Derwent, We
can easily avoid trenching on the forbldden
subject. For nineteen years you have sup