The Wellston News. (Wellston, Okla.), Vol. 6, No. 33, Ed. 1 Friday, August 4, 1899 Page: 7 of 8
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CHAPTER II.-(Continued.)
“I played In the aunny garden.
amongNt tho thyme and rosemary, the
climbing ro*cn, the lilies, the sweet
basil, and tho scarlet anemones. I said
my prayers In the dim chapel, and
went to rest In my tiny cell.
“This lasted till I was ten years old.
One duy It ruined heavily. Ah I have;
said. It was the only wet day that I
remember. Soon after our midday din-
ner the great bell clanged at the gate,
a very unusual occurrence. Sister Ursu- i
lino wont to tho gate, aud I remember
that one or two curious nuns and I j
were peeping through tho grille when
she came back, in evident agitation,
and sought the mother superior. I was
carried ofT by one of the nuns,'my con-
stant playfellow, a sweet woman of |
fifty, with the heart of a child. She j
kissed me lovingly as she held me in j
her arms. I remember it all so well! '
“ ‘Sister Desiree,' I whispered, ‘thou
art crying.’
“ ‘No, no, Bebc,' she said; ‘it is notn-
ing! I am rightly punished. My af-
fection for thee has grown too deep,
beloved—it is earthly. I know tncu
wilt be taken from me; it is but just.’
“I did not understand her then. I
was wonderfully childish for my ten
fears. But you cannot think how viv-
dly I recall it—how I should remem-
ber every stone of the dear old con-
vent, every path in the sunny gar-
den!”
“You make me feel as If I could
see It all myself—you interest me ex-
tremely," said Mr. Martineau. “Pray
go on.”
“Well, that was my last day with
the nuns. It was the very last happy
day of my life. They told me present- [
ty that my uncle had come for me. My !
Uncle! The words conveyed no impres-
sion to my mind. Who was he? I did|
not want him. I declined, with thanks,'
the honor of relationship. When tuey!
made me understand that It was not ai
matter for my choice at all, that II
must go with him, It was terrible. Ij I
threw myself Into such a passion as
the nuns had never seen me in. But
there was no help for it. I never
asked who or what was my uncle; but
he must have come vested with full
authority, for the nuns never hesitated
to resign me to him. I remember bow
I clung round the neck of eacn, and
promised to come back soon. My dis-
tress was unbounded, but it changed to
terror when I beheld my uncle.
“I had never seen a man but the old
cr .srnpilght and a woman s face, mid-
dle-aged and rather kindly. My uncle
dragged mo out of the carriage and
handed me over to her, blinking with
sleep, dusty with travel, linlf crying
with fatigue, l think she put me to
bed at once. At first, any conversa-
tion between us was very difficult, as
I could not understand anything she
said, and I was quite determined not
to learn English, which stood roi-
demned in my eyes as the language of
my uncle. At last, however. I bad of
counte to give in, nnd to acquire by
slow degrees, a knowledge of col-
loquial English.
“It was a dilapidated house, and, 1
am sure, Id a most out-of-the-way
place—there was no railway for sev-
eral miles. There was a small village,
and a tiny church in a very bad statu
of repair. 1 did not even remember
the name of the clergyman.”
"Pardon me.” interrupted Mr. Mar-
tineau; "but, from the way you were
talking, you lead me to imagine that
you don’t know where this place is.
Is that so?"
“That is so, unfortunately.” she
answered, with drooping eyelids.
"How long did you live there?”
"From the time I was ten till about
the time that I was sixteen.”
“And you don’t know where the
place is?” His tone expressed
most absolute incredulity.
“No, I don't," she admitted shame-
facedly.
"I hope you will forgive me; but I
can scarcely believe such a thing,” ht?
cald, looking rather excited and fftle.'
j'TDon’t you know the name ot the vil-
lage? You must know that.”
“But I don’t,” she faltered.
“But I can’t understand it,” he
said.
“I used to know it, of course,” she
remarked.
“You used to know it?’’
“Oh, yes; but I have forgotten It!’’
Sl^e blushed deeply while making this
admission.
“I am hopelessly at sea,” said Mr.
Martineau. His grey eyes rested on
her face with suspicion. It was easy
to see that he thought she was trying
to deceive him.
“May I go on,” she said, “and try to
explain how I came to forget all these
things? I can offer you an explanation;
> but I don’t know why I should expect
you to believe it. I have often thought
that no lawyer would believe nay
story. But what can I do?”
confessor and Jean Baptiste Leroux,
who dug the garden. This new arrival
was not at all calculated to impress a
child favorably. He was a stout man
with a short red beard, red hair, and
very small, twinkling, pig-like black
eyes. His expression was cunning and
cruel; and, to make matters worse, I
could not understand a word he said.
He was English. I was to all intents
and purposes French. He did not con-
sider it at all worth his while to at-
tempt to cajole me in any way. He
packed me into a carriage, heedless of
my screams and tears; and so we
drove away in the dusk, the pelting
rain descending in a blinding mist and
hiding the beloved convent walls from
my poor aching eyes.
“I have very faint recollections it.
my Journey to England; but the onu
thing which I distinctly remember 19
that we always traveled by night. I
remember, too, that my uncle twice
boxed my ears—once when he told me
to leave off crying and I did not, once
when I stumbled over his foot; but
what with being always in tears, and
always traveling in the dark, my idea
of our route is very indistinct.
“I remember at last starting front
sleep at the sound of bolts and bars
withdrawn, and seeing a glare
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Martineau was compelled to con-
fess to himself that her sincerity wa»
self-evident.
“Please go on,” he said.
“It is a difficult thing to tell, I know
so little about it myself.” she resumed.
“The woman whom I have mentioned
was my uncle’s housekeeper. She was
kind to me, but I was afraid of her.:
She was a very reserved, silent wom-j
an—I think she spoke less than any
woman I ever knew. Our house stood
quite by Itself, a good way from the.
high road, and three miles from the'
village. I was never allowed beyond!
the grounds without the housekeeper.
“Every day the old schoolmaster
from the village came to give me les-
sons. It was, as you may imagine, a
very old-fashioned education which I-
received; but I liked it. My uncle had
a library—neither large nor valuable,
'but I read all the books on those
shelves. Robinson Crusoe, Rasselas,
Gulliver, the Pilgrim’s Progress—that
was my only idea of fiction. So the
days and months crept slowly by. My
'uncle was often away, and I used td
!notice, at those times, a greater anxi-
ety on the part of the housekeeper to
have an eye on me. and that I sho«W
1 not go out of bounds. I was no doan
closely watched; hut by degrees they
grew to trust me more, for I was very
tractable. Constant Isolation made
me dull, quiet, unlike other girla. I
had absolutely no link with the outer
world; 1 bad been distinctly forbidden
to write to tbe nuns—I knew no oat
In England. My uncle used to have
visitors- always men—but these 1
never saw. I lived quite apart from
him; his rooms were at tbe other end
of the bouse. I always had my meals
with the housekeeper.”
“Pardon my Interruption.” said Mr.
Martineau, In a low lone. “Did you
say you never saw your uncle's
guests?”
"Walt n minute; I am going to Inll
you,” she replied. “When I was to-
i tween sixteen und seventeen a change
[ came about In ray world. The old
schoolmaster died. There was a pause
In the regular routine of my days. Left
entirely to my own devices. I used to
wander all over the upper parts of the
house. In one of tho cities I found a
i box full of books. Some were dull and
uninteresting, but some were—well, I
do not think you can have any Idea
of what It was to mo to become ac-
quainted with Sir Walter Scott. Ttack-
eray and Lord Lytton. My bralr al-
most reeled with an accumulation of
new ideas. I wondored how lw the
world I could have remained whv*b I
n'as so long In helpless, stupid igtvjr-
Snce of life. I soon resolved that I
would bear it no longer. I would
brave my uncle; I would demand my
freedom; I would ask why I was
mewed up thus In a corner, away from
all companionship.
“I remember that night vividly. It
was August, sultry and still, and both
atmosphere and sky were beautifully
cl*ar. I had spent the afternoon un
der the willows by the brook, gloat
in?? over my novel till the fading light'
compelled me to close the book. The
pastures, as I walked lingeringly back
to the house, were heavy with dew,
and discolored the hem of my white
cotton dress. I must have been a
strange looking girl; my hair floated
all over my shoulders and down my
back below my waist; nobody had
ever told me that I was growing up,
and that my locks should be arranged
more neatly. I came with slow steps
round tbe corner of the house, brushing
my hand softly along the thick dark
box trees; my lightly-shod feet made
no noise on the gravel as I turned
the corner of the clurap of thick bushes
which stood at. each side of the en-
trance, and advanced toward the heavy'
white columns of the porch.
“Then I started back and paused
irresolutely, for there was a stranger
standing by the door— a young man
with bare head and folded arms. I;
beg your pardon, Mr. Martineau, didi
I startle you?”
“Not in the least, thanks. You—you
j can’t think how you interest me.
Please don’t pause.”
“It seems a strange thing that up tot
that night I had never encountered
(any of my uncle’a guests. but It Is
nevertheless quit® true. As h® turned,
and caught sight of me, he utttered a*,
exclamation of surprise.
“ ‘You startled no®,’ he said.
“ ‘You startled me, too,’ I answered
vaguely, as I looked at him, there came
floating into my mind reminiscences
of the romances with which I had late-
ly filled my head. I thought of the first'
meeting between Ivanhoe and Rebecca
as I looked up at him. He took my
hand, drew me to his side, and patted
my hair kindly.
“ “Whose dear little girl are you?’
he said.
“I felt cruelly wounded and hurt!
There was every excuse for him—you
see how small I am. no taller than a
child, my hair was all down my back,
and the light was fading! But I never
thought of that. Picture to yourself
a girl, with a mind just awakened to
a consciousness of womanhood and its
possibilities, brought face to face with
the first young man she had ever met,
and greeted as I was greeted then! He
must have thought me mad. I burst
into indignant tears, and tore myself
away from him.
" ‘Wow dare vou—oh. how dare *—
•peak to me lint that?” I cried n
can’t think bow you ran Insult me sot’
“I think he saw then that be bad
made s mistake, for he said. *Hy
George. I beg your pardon!’ Hut 1
would not stay another moment. I ran
upstairs to my own room. There I
cried as If my heart would break. (
had deeply realized how neglected i
was, and there was no ono to help me
to gain redress!”
(To be continued.)
CLIMBING STAIRS
•Vuat Ih* Thin® lo HI rrngt hrii (lie f.iings
■ ml Car* Ityapriioln.
New York Times: The average
•landlady of the average lodging-house
Is nothing If not resourceful and orig-
inal. When It comes to the question
of tbe merits of her particular bouse,
tho unoccupied rooms of which are
open to Inspection at all reasonable
hours, her vocabulary Is practically un-
limited, and while her English may not
always be without roproach. It Is suffi-
ciently lucid nnd forcible to give a
good Idea of the many excellencies of
her domain. It has remained, how-
ever, for a landlady living not 1,000
miles from West Eighteenth street to
make, with the assistance of a num-
ber of unknown medical men, the as-
tounding discovery that climbing up
numerous flights of stairs is not only
not Injurious, but is actually benefi-
cial to the health. “Why, bless you,”
she said to a young man, an unfortu-
nate seeker after rooms, who protested
that the fourth floor was too high up
for him because of the weary and hurt-
ful stair climbing, “why, bless you,
it’s the best thing in the world for
you. The doctors all around here are
recommending stair climbing for dys-
pepsia and lung trouble! They say it’s
the best thing In the world for either
of these complaints, if you’ll only walk
up stairs often enough and always be
sure to throw your shoulders well
back.” The seeker protested that he
was troubled with none of these com-
plaints. “Oh, well." said the obliging
landlady, “that doesn’t matter. It’s
good for the general health. You don’t
care to try it? Very well. Good-day,”
and the door closed firmly behind tho
outcast young man, who was wonder-
ing what tale would confront him in
the next house.
ODD BITS
Of Change Ceft l>y Cuslomm Help Out
the C’aHhier’H Salary.
Philadelphia Inquirer: Odd bits ot
change thoughtlessly left by customers
(form no inconsiderable part of the
income of cashiers in certain business
establishments, notably restaurants,
saloons, cigar stores and similar places
' where, during many hours of each day,
there is a steady rush of patrons. “I
get $15 a week salary,” said a cashier,
“and I always count on an additional
$3, or 50 cents per day, through for-i
; gotten change. I do not consider that
H am doing anything dishonest, either,
| because I always make an effort to at-r
^tract the customer’s attention to tha
'fact that he is leaving his change be-
!hlnd. Nine cases out of ten I succeed,
.'even if I have to send a waiter to fol-<
.'low the man clear out into the street.
■But there are enough of the tenth
'cases to make my receipts foot up all
:of the sum weekly I have named. The
majority of them are people In a hur-
ry to catch a train or car or to keep
an appointment, and they haven’t the
time to return, even if they did discov-
er their loss a square or so away. The
next day they don’t care, or at least a
majority of them do not,to speak about
such a small matter, the overlooked
change seldom being more ti'wa five or
ten cents, and I am just so much
ahead. The proprietor get It? Certain-
ly not. It doesn’t belong to him, and
just so the money in the cash drawer
balances with the register he is sat-
isfied.” The presiding geniuses of the-
atrical box offices are also occasion-
ally In pocket through the carelessness
of ticket purchasers, but with box of-
fice transactions the change, if any,
is usually in such large amounts that
their opportunities are fewer
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Beeman, Frank E. The Wellston News. (Wellston, Okla.), Vol. 6, No. 33, Ed. 1 Friday, August 4, 1899, newspaper, August 4, 1899; Wellston, Oklahoma. (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc407115/m1/7/: accessed July 17, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.