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Burke Brentford’s

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Entered According to A

42.

Office

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

S87

ct of Congress, in the Year |

3! Rose St.

Exciting Local Story, “TORN FROM HOME,”

. oy Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D.

New York, July 16, 1887.

Wl

' Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter.

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

be Commenced Next Week.

87.

No.

 

GOING FROM CHURCH.
BY A. L. M.

Do not let us take the highway, sweet,
It is full of curious, prying eyes;
Let us take the pleasant path that lies
Through the fields, and shuns the dust and heat,
Daisy-bordered, bridged by leafy shade,
Swinging wind-tossed o’er the golden flood,
Which the priest, this morning,when he prayed,
Likened to the unmeasured love of God.
Sweet the text that followed—I could have wished no
other—
A new command I give, Love ye one another.

I turned to watch you as the words divine
Stole on my sense like music of the spheres;
A flush crept up your cheek, a mist of tears
Dimmed your clear eyes which drooped away from mine,
I saw the hand that held your book of prayer
Thrill like a flower swept by delicious gales ;
But not a look would you vouchsafe me there,
Oh, lovely saint! shrined within altar rails—
Were you afraid to turn and face your brother,
After the new command, Love ye one another?

I grant remission for the look not given,
So fully doth suffice the look you give—
Nay, do not turn away, but let me live
For ever in your eyes’ serene, blue heaven.
Give me your hand—and give me, maiden mine,
Your heart-thoughts in this happy Sabbath stroll,
And happy Sabbath talk of things divine—
Of love, joy, faith, God, heaven, and the soul,
And of the sermon that our holy brother
Preached from the golden text, Love ye one another.

Ah, life, will not be all like this, alas!
A walk through meadows under skies so fair,
With happy birds a-trilling in the air,
And daisies blowing golden in the grass.
There will be rough and stormy days, my sweet,
When God behind a cloud will hide from sight,
And you aud I, with hurt and weary feet,
Will press through thorny ways to reach the light;
But hard in hand, dear, and patient w
Remembering the text, Love ye one another.

ith each other,

a e

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM ]

MAJOR JACK,

OR,

A Luckless Marriage.

By DORA LESTER,

Author of ‘‘An Evil Reputation,” ‘‘A Child’s
Honor,” etc.

(“MAJOR JACK” was commenced Last week.)

CHAPTER IY.

’TWIXT LIFE AND DEATH.

 

Major Selby’s ery of horror was echoed by a shriek |
from Dorothy, who ran forward and fell down by her |
mistress’ side, and lifted one of her hands in hers.

“Is she dead?” asked Selby, hoarsely, now also
kneeling down, and lifting Mrs. Brooke’s other hand, |
and laying his fingers on her wrist to learn if her
pulses were stilled forever.

There was a faint, irregular beat yet,
moment hope stirred again in Selby’s heart.
“She is not dead,” he said, in a low tone.

any brandy ?’ And he looked around.

“The devils who’ve murdered her drank plenty
anyhow,” answered Dorothy, starting to her feet.
“Tl look, sir. Maybe they’ve left a drop.”

She ran out of the room, and Selby got some water |
and wetted the parched open lips of the stricken
woman on the floor.

There was a terrible discoloration on her forehead,
and her hair was wet and clotted with blood, but she
lay still.

As Selby raised her head a faint moan escaped

and for a

“Ts there

| widow, “can do anything.

 

her lips, and when, a few moments later, Dorothy |
returned with a bottle containing a little French |
brandy, Selby bade her reach a pillow from the bed, /
and having lifted Mrs. Brooke’s poor bruised head |
on this, he got a wineglass and endeavored to pour |
a little brandy between her lips.

But she seemed unable to swallow it.
her eyes, but there was

She opened
no them,
and Selby seeing this, at once determined to send
Dorothy for help.

“You must run to the Hall,” he said; “I would go,
but I dare not leave her unprotected, for those vil-
lains may be nearer than we think. Unlock the yard
door—I noticed the key was in the lock on this side
and run for your life. Take this to my father’’—he
was writing a few lines on aleaf of his pocket-book
as he spoke. ‘Tell him what you have seen; tell him
to send for Doctor Millar at once—that it is a matter
of life or death. Now, my good girl, go!”

Dorothy Johnson, who in spite of her dull appear-
ance had her senses about her, saw at once this was
the best thing to be done. She knew Major Selby, of
course, by sight, and so she started off on her errand,
running as fast as her feet could carry her, directly
across the fields that lay between North Hall and
Mr. Selby’s house.

The squire by this time had gone down to break-
fast, and was fidgeting and slightly fuming because
his son had not yet appeared.

“Jack’s late this morning, Mrs. Jenkins,” he said,
looking at his watch. *‘I wish he may be well; I hate
those mess dinners; I remember how often I used to
have a headache after one of them—and no one has a
stronger head than I have—no one!”

“No, indeed, squire; but clever people, you know,
always have strong heads ; but I don’t think the ma-
jor’s late—Patterson says he’s out.’

“Out! said the squire, jumping up and going to
the window; ‘‘out on a morning like this, with a north-
easter blowing direct from the sea! The major must

consciousness in

 

be mad then, Mr. Jenkins, absolutely mad.”

 

 

 

 

‘SHAVE YOU BROUGHT

know,”
It’s when to
middle age that we require some one to take care of
us,” and Mrs. Jenkins cast down her eyes and sighed.

“Oh, no; young people, you

one gets

smiled the !

The wary squire thought she was approaching dan- |

gerous ground.

“By the by, did the wine come last night, Mrs. Jen-
kins ?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, sir: and it’s a very fine turkey, and a very
fine sirloin, so I hope the dinner will be good.”

“T hope so too. Why, here’s a girl running like a
mad thingup tothe front door. Whatever can be
the matter ?”’

It was poor Dorothy Johnson, breathless and

| Patterson, and my revolver—yes, I’ll go armed—and,
| Mrs. Jenkins, exert yourself; no good crying now;
| and, girl, don’t make any more of that confounded

| bring the brandy bottle; call the gardener; let’s

}
|
|
|

frightened, and she ranup the front door-steps of the |
I

Hall as the squire spoke, and began ringing loudly at
the bell.

“The fool will break the
man, irately. ‘‘What the duse can she be pealing
‘like that for? Ay, that’s the way. If she had to pay
for the mending of things she would not tear at the
wire like that.”

Another peal that rang through the house now put
the squire nearly beside himself.

“T’ll give her a piece of my mind,” he said, hurry-
ing out of the room, pulling his brown wig awry in
his haste and anger; and when he reached the hall
he found the butler, Patterson, in the act of opening
the front door.

“Whatever’s the matter, girl?’ cried Mr. Selby, in
arage. ‘What are you pulling the door-bell down
for ?”’

“Murder’s the matter, squire,’ panted out Dorothy,
handing the major’s note to the squire. ‘The
major sent you that, and he said I tell
ye poor mistress is lying there at North Hall mur-
dered, and the dog has his throat cut, and the whole
place is upside down!”

“What!” cried the squire, and his yellowish-brown

bell,” eried the little

was to

|

| Jenkins hastily went in search of the brandy bottle,

| just

skin grew pale, and his hand trembled so he could |

scarcely hold his double glasses to his nose, and he
could not read his son’s writing without them.

At last he managed to decipher the few words Jack
had written:

“Come down at once, father; something terrible
has happened here, and Mrs. Brooke is lying des-
perately wounded. The girl will tell you. Send Pat
terson at once for Dr. Millar, and ask Mrs, Jenkins
to bring down brandy and any other restoratives
that she has. J. Es 8s”

| butler now placed in his hands.

| gardener ?

“Good heavens!” cried the squire, after he had |

read these words; ‘‘what can this mean?
house been broken into, girl, or what?’
“The house has been none broken, sir,” answered

Dorothy, now beginning to sob aloud. ‘‘My belief is

Has the |
| every one of you.”

that that Pierre’s done it—and master, too, maybe— |

for I think naught good of either of them.”

“Girl, do you mean Mr. Brooke? A most respect-
able man apparently, who paid his rent in advance ?
It’s been burglars. Do you
Jenkins, North Hall has been broken into by burglars?

Nonsense!

| Hall.

hear, Mrs. |

Confound it, was there ever such an unlucky house ?” |

“Dreadful, sir!” said the widow, who had followed

|

| overcoat energetically from the stand in the hall and

THE DOCTOR, FATHER?’ ASKED

the squire to the hall, and stood with a blanched
face and uplifted hands behind him; ‘“‘and so near us,
too! And the poor lady—oh, sir, what does the
major say ?”’

‘He says we have to go at once. Get my ftop-coat,

noise! Patterson, go for the doctor; Mrs. Jenkins,
have plenty of assistance; the ruffians may be hang-
Ing about the place still!”

Patterson, the butler, upon this, tore his master’s

handed it to the squire, who began plunging his arms
at into the sleeves; while Patterson (a sly,
thin old man, who had been inthe squire’s service
forty years) ran up stairs for the revolver, and Mrs.

once

and Dorothy Johnson’s loud sobs subsided into whis-
pers.

In less than three minutes Mrs. Jenkins returned
with the brandy, and in her other hand she held a
large woolen scarf ready to envelop the squire’s
throat.

“Oh, sir!” she cried, appealingly,as she approached
him, ‘do put on this. Think what it is,
and what acold you had just about this time last
year; do, please, not quite, quite forget yourself!”

“Upon my word, you are a good creature to think
of it! Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins;
say, in getting a bad cold. Ah, Patterson, so you've
brought the revolver.”

“Yes, master; but must I load it?” inquired the
cautious Northumbrian,

‘Toad it? Don’t know, I’m sure; not very safe
earrying loaded fire-arms, is it? No, don’t load it; ’l
point it at ’em, and I dare say that will be
enough; these fellows are always cowards! You are
quite sure it isn’t loaded now, Patterson ?” asked the
gingerly receiving the weapon which his

a morning

no good, as you

squire,

“Tm quite certain, sir—a babe unborn could carry
it and come to no harm. And now, squire, must I go
with yer honor to the Hall first or run for the doc-
tor ?”’

“Perhaps best come to the Hall first and see how
the land lies, Patterson. And, Jim, where’s Jim, the
Tell him to bring his pitchfork, and you
take a spade, or something, in your hand, Patterson.
Best be on the safe side. And now, come along,

Thus accompanied by his armed force, the squire,
a few minutes later, was to be seen speeding over
the fields which lay between his house and North
The squire went first in his overcoat, a large
woolen scarf wrapped, by Mrs. Jenkins’ tender care,
round his throat, and in his hand, held at a respect-
ful distance from his person, was the unloaded re-
volver.

Next to him came Patterson, armed with a garden-
rake, which he had snatched hastily up outof the

 

 

JACK, SHARPLY.

tool-house, and Jim, the gardener (a sturdy lad),
earrying a pitchfork, and bringing up the rear was
Mrs. Jenkins and her brandy bottle and smelling
salts, and Dorothy Johnson, and two other women
servants, who followed just because the others were
going.

In the meanwhile, when his father and the rest
were approaching to his assistance, Major Selby, at
North Hall, was still kneeling by the side of the
prostrate, unconscious woman, and having bound
her wounded hands with his handkerchief as best he
could, he yet held one of them in his own, and kept
looking at the beautiful white face lying before him,
his own heart filled with very deep and bitter emo-
tion. For he blamed himself for this dreadful
tragedy. By persistently seeking this poor creature’s
acquaintance, for the sake of adventure—for the
sake, perhaps, of his foolish bet—in truth, for the
sake of the loveliness which had won his fancy,
Selby began to fear he had brought this terrible end
upon her, by. arousing the (he believed) mad jealousy
of her husband.

And he believed, too, that the wild ery which he
had heard last night, had been her last appeal for
help, as she was struck down. This idea was terrible
to Selby. His warm, generous nature recoiled with
horror, to think that he had passed on and left her
to the mercy of merciless men. He strong,
young, and courageous—he might have saved her.
He would give his life to save her now, he told him-

was

| self—with his eyes fixed on the fair features, on the
| delicate, almost perfect beauty, of the woman lying

between life and death.

But presently he heard his father’s voice below.
The squire and his followers had arrived, and the
squire directed Dorothy Johnson, Patterson, and
Jim to lead the way into the house.

T’ll look after the women folks,” he said, glancing
at Mrs. Jenkins. ‘*‘Now, you two men go first, and
the girl will show you the way, and I’ll bring up the
rear. We must be cautious—there’s no saying but
the ruffians may be lurking about still.”

Poor Dorothy needed no second bidding. She ran
up the staircase, followed by the two men, and the
only movement Major Selby made when he heard
them approaching was gently to lay Mrs. Brooke’s
bandaged hand down by her side.

A few moments later and they were allin the room,
the men standing in silence, the women uttering loud
cries of pity and horror.

Then the squire hurried up to his son and laid his
hand on his shoulder.

“Jack,. my dear Jack,”
business is this ?”’

“Have you got the doctor, father?’ asked Jack,
sharply. ‘‘Mrs. Brooke wants assistance at once.”

“He’s coming,” answered the squire, with a look at
his ancient serving-man which the butler quite un-
derstood. “Go, Patterson, and hurry Dr. Millar;
tell him he must come directly—the lady is badly
hurt.”

“Don’t crowd round her,’ said Jack.

he said, “what terrible

“Open the

there!

 

| dear

 

 

windows, some of you. Ah, Mrs. Jenkins, you are
Have you any smelling salts ?”’

The widow had not forgotten them. She was a
handy woman, and she now knelt down by Mrs.
Brooke’s side and did what she could to aid her.

But, luckily, Patterson had met the doctor starting
on his morning rounds.

Dr. Millar was a tall, lanky Scotchman, with rough
features, pleasant eyes, and good brains of his own,
which, however, it was said, he sometimes muddled
with over-strong potations.

But the poor man led a hard and ill-paid life, going

| from fishing village to fishing village, as the needs of

the inhabitants required him.

“TI bring more people into the world than I send
out of it,” he used to say, facetiously ; and, in truth,
these hardy children of the sea did not trouble the
doctor unless in cases of real necessity.

But he was aclever man, and as soon as he en-
tered the room where Mrs. Brooke lay, be quietly

| knelt down by her side, and the first thing he did
| was to push back her bloeod-clotted hair.

“Here is the injury,” he said; ‘she is suffering

| from concussion of the brain; she has been struck on
| the head.”

“Look at her hands,’ said Jack Selby,in a low
tone, who still kept kneeling beside her.
The doctor undid Jack’s handkerchief, which he

| had torn in two to wrap round Mrs. Brooke’s poor
| wounded fingers, which were cut severely in several
| places.

“She has been trying to save herself, poor soul!”
said the doctor, examining the small blood-stained
hands. “She has no rings on; does any one know if
she wore any ?”’

“She had a sight 0’ them,” said Dorothy Johnson,
who had been sobbing in the background, looking

| hopelessly at the pitiful scene before her; but she
| stepped forward now at the*doctor’s question,.and

made her rustic courtesy to him.”
“You know me, please, don’t you, doctor?’ she
said; “I’m Bill Johnson’s darter; and you came to

| see mother, who’s laid down with the dropsy.”

“T know you, my lass; and what have you to do
with this sad business ?’

“Nothink, doctor, ’cept I was the general servant
here; that French feller, Pierre, he got me to scrub,
and do the dirty work, and I liked the mistress well,
and I believe they’ve murdered her between them.
And rings! Ay, they’ve took her rings off her poor,
fingers!” And Dorothy’s burst. forth
afresh.

“Hush, hush, my lass! though you’ll not disturb
her, poor soul! And now, Major Selby, will you help
me to lift the poor lady on the bed, and I’ll see what
I can do for her? Will you leave the room a bit, all
of ye, except Dorothy here, whom she’s used to, it
seems; and perhaps Mrs. Jenkins will stay, as I want
a handy woman beside me.”

All the men at once obeyed the doctor’s directions
and left the the squire putting arm
through his son’s as he did so.

“Jack, this is a terrible affair,’ he whispered; ‘‘the
house is done for now; I don’t believe it will ever let
again!’

sobs

room; his

CHAPTER V.
A GOOD SAMARITAN.

While the doctor was dressing the unfortunate
woman’s wounds, the squire, Jack Selby, and the
two men thought it only right to search the house.

No living creature was to be found in it, and Mr.
Brooke and his servant, Pierre, had vanished from
the scene, and left very few traces of their presence
behind them.

In the dining-room some cold meat and bread and
some spirits were still standing on the table, and it
was here Dorothy had found the nearly emptied
brandy bottle which she had brought to Major Selby.

There were signs, too, of hasty packing—straw and
cord—lying about in the lower part of the house, but
nothing very extraordinary was to be seen. The
horse was gone from the stable and the carriage
from the coach-house, and, as we know, the poor dog
lay dead in the yard, and the poor lady very near to
death up stairs. She had been left for dead, Jack
Selby felt no doubt; these wretches had meant to
leave no living witness of their silent, secret flight.

But there was a mysterious cause for all this, both
the squire and his son felt convinced, Why had these
men come to this lonely place and left it apparently
in the dead of night? Suddenly the squire remem-
bered the banker on whom Mr. Brooke had drawn a
check for the year’s rent, which check had been duly
honored. The squire determined to write to the
pankers before placing the affair in the hands of the
police, as the notoriety of doing so would, he feared
dolorously, destroy his last hope of ever letting North
Hall.

But Jack persuaded his father not to do this.

‘‘What matter is the rent,” he said, ‘Sin comparison
with tracing the would-be murderers of this poor
woman? Let us write to-day tothe chief constable
at Oldeastle. The affair is sure to get into the papers,
father; it’s no good hushing it up.”

“Perhaps the poor lady will be able to give us some
information soon,” answered the squire, dubiously.
‘Was there ever anything so unlucky, Jack? Dear
me! dear me! misfortune seems absolutely to cling to
this house.”

“You must pull it down,” said Jack, with a smile.

While the squire and his son were thus conversing
about the house, Dr. Millar looked in at the dining-
room door’ where they were standing.

“May I come in, squire?” he said.

“To be sure, to be sure,” answered the squire.
“How’s the poor lady, doctor? Do you think she
will come round ?”’

“Yes, I think she will, with great care. Her head
is badly hurt; the brutes, or brute, must have tried
to smash her skull, and have partly succeeded. But
she’s a fine young woman, and I hope I will pull her
through. But it’s about this I wanted to see you,
squire. Is she to be left here?’

“Of course not!” said Jack Selby, hastily.

“But Jack, my dear Jack, this is a very serious
consideration—where else has she to go?’ said the