462 
herself, she had not yet tried to think ; but leav¬ 
ing Noel stupefied by the tidings she had brought 
him, she went swiftly—silently away.—To be con¬ 
tinued. 
-- 
THE SCANDALOUS LETTER. 
[Complete in Ten Chapters.] 
CnAPTEK I. 
A handsome, lofty room, furnished in a formal 
manner with old-fashioned, well-kept furniture, 
Including a center-table covered with gilt books 
and bead mats and empty vases, a square piano 
bearing on its closed lid several orderly plies of 
music books, and, ranged along the walls, an am¬ 
ple array of angular, drab-covered sofas and chairs. 
This was the drawlDg-room In Dr. Yorke's house, 
106 George street, Woolcbestcr. 
The elderly lady who was kultrlng by the lire 
was Miss Elizabeth Yorkc, the Doctor's aunt—a 
broad-built womau, with country color In her 
cheeks which twelve years of Woolchester air had 
not power to dim; clear, resolute eyes, and strong 
hands that had done good service In old days on 
her father’s farm, and that even now, In her 
nephew’s comfortable establishment, couni hot 
keep from furtive dusting, and china-wash lug, and 
pickling and preserving. Miss Yorke thought that 
she was not “cut out” lor a lady, and found It very 
hard work to do nothing all day long. She liked 
sometimes to remind her nephew that ho was the 
lucky’ member of the family, and that education 
was not thought so much of In her early days, 
when a woman was merely expected to be a good 
housekeeper, Industrious, thrifty and neat. 
Her niece, Miss Fisher, the young lady In elabo¬ 
rate mourning, who sat opposite to her with some 
lacework In her hands, had been brought up more 
In accordance with modern notions, having been 
“finished” at a boarding-school in Leamington, 
whence she had brought a small store of accom¬ 
plishments by which Aunt, Elizabeth was greatly 
impressed. The old lady listened complacently 
every evening while Gertrude played her half- 
dozen pieces and sang her half-dozen ballads; and 
she made a point of asking her nlete to translate 
the odd words of French —oti alt , tapis, beau 
monde, and so forth—which cropped up from time 
to time In the Woolchester Guardian, it was six 
months Rluce Gertrude Fisher lost her father, and 
came to live with her cousin and guardian. I>r. 
Yorke; and already aunt, and niece had begun to 
cherish a little romance, In which the uncon£oJ r '>s 
head of the house played a remarkably prominent 
part. 
Gertrude’s music was over for that evening, and 
had failed to elicit any remark rrom her cousin, 
who sat in an easy-chalr, with bis hands clasped 
at the back of his head and ills eyes fixed absently 
on the fire. The last number or the Lancet lay on 
the floor where It had dropped half an hour slnee, 
and the women were conversing In occasional sen¬ 
tences, unheard by his dreaming ears. 
“ I will go and match your wool to-morrow, 
aunt, if It clears up,” Gertrude said, laying her 
work on the table and smoothing fi out so as to 
judge of the patterns. “ Do you think It will clear 
up ?” 
“ I hope so, my dear.” 
“ It al ways does rain when one wants to go out. 
I remember the very last time I went to that shop 
it poured.” Tick—tick—tick, went the bronze clock 
on the mantelpiece; a gust of wind shook the. 
house. 
“ Let us hope It may clear up before the morn¬ 
ing,” Miss Elizabeth remarked. “What do you 
say, Robert?” 
“ I beg your pardon, aunt.” The Doctor sighed 
deeply, and turned round, passing his hand con¬ 
fusedly through hts hair. “ You said-” 
“ Really. Robert, I think you might exert your¬ 
self a little more for your cousin’s amusement 
during the few hours you are home.” 
“ I know I'm a bear," Robert returned, penitent 
ly. “ But I—I have been rather tired to-day, aud 
Gertie will teach me better manners In time.” 
Miss Yorke's face relaxed at this little speech, 
and Gertrude smiled on her cousin as he picked up 
the fallen paper, pitching It on the sofa, and 
stood with his back to the fire and his bands In 
his waistcoat-pockets. Gertrude had light hair 
and good, gray eyes. She Would have been a nice- 
looking girl but that she was too buxom for her 
hight. Just then, however, while the affectionate 
smile was lighting up her face, she looked her 
very best,, and Aunt Elizabeth, watching the cou¬ 
sins over her knitting, thought what a nice couple 
they would make. 
“ Your tea Is quite cold, Robert,” said the young 
lady. “ Shall l give you another cup 
The Doctor accepted the tea, and admired Ger¬ 
trude’s lace-work, which ho had seen every evening 
for the past six months; but, having so far re¬ 
deemed himself, he seemed In some danger or a 
relapse Into silence, when a servant entered with a 
note on a salver—a note which for dbmc reason or 
other produced signs of displeasure In Miss Eliza¬ 
beth’s lace, and which the Doctor read eagerly and 
thrust into his pocket, calling out in strong bail- 
tone voice— 
“ Parker, my coat!” 
“Robert—” Miss Yorke looked up sharply— 
“ you are not going out ?” 
“ I must. Probably I shall not be long.” 
“ That woman again, I suppose! She might dis¬ 
pense with 3 'our services on a night like this. A 
sprained ankle Is a not a matter or life or death.” 
“Perhaps not,” the Doctor returned shortly, 
donning his waterproof. “Still, as Miss Carew Is 
depending on her salary for her own and her 
brother’s support, and as It Is slopped during her 
absunce from the theatre, the sooner she is able 
to return to her duties the better.” 
“ How kind you are, cousin!” Gertrude said, 
looking up with eyes of gentle admiration at the 
Doctor's tall figure. 
“Too kind,” objected VIlss Elizabeth. “ Robert, 
you are not going to walk ?” 
“ Of course I am. It Is no distance, and I can¬ 
not keep the horses standing In such weather as 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
this. Good night aunt. Don’t sit up for me, In 
case I am detained. Good night, Gertrude.” 
“Try to come home early, cousin,” Miss Fisher 
said, taking the Doctor’s proffered hand with a 
very perceptible flutter. “You have not stayed 
at home one evening tor a whole month, and—’ 
“ You are keeping M Iss Carew walling, Gertrude, 
my dear," put in Miss Yorke rlryly; and with an 
impatient shrug of the shoulders Robert dropped 
Ills cousin’s hand, aud went away. 
Gertrude sighed, aud resumed her luce-work; 
Miss Yorke's needles clicked angrily. The Doc¬ 
tor’s Impetuous feel were heard running down¬ 
stairs. 
“ I am afraid he Is annoyed,” Gertrude said, 
lifting her head, startled, as the whole lnn.se 
shook with the slamming of the front door. “ I’m 
sure I did not mean to vex him; but I’m afraid he 
Is annoyed, Aunt Elizabeth.' 
“Let him be annoyed 1” 
“ But he will think It Is my fault, and I did act 
say anything, aunt, did I ?” 
“ No. child; you are a great deal too kind and 
patient with Robert—he does not deserve such a 
faithful little mend.” 
“ I dare say Robert, finds our society dull after 
that—that person’s at the theatreaud Gertrude 
sighed. 
“At least It is respectable, Gertrude. And 1 do 
think It Is rather late In the day lor Robert to be¬ 
gin to turn up his nose at the home I have made 
for him ever since Ills poor moiher’s death, twelve 
years ago—and all ror the sake of some aotresa- 
woman he has not seen a dozen times.” 
“ But, aunt, doctors must attend to their pa¬ 
tients, must they not? 1 dare say when Miss— 
when that person leaves Woolchester, Robert will 
lorget all about her. and be as happy as ever at 
home in the evening.” 
Miss Yorke pulled up sharply at a knot in her 
wool, but did not speak. This was a subject to 
which she had never berore alluded in Gertrude’s 
presence, though doubtless each lady knew quite 
well what was in the other's mind concerning It; 
but for once her annoyance had got the better of 
her prudence, it did Indeed seem bitter to her, 
and not. without reason, that her nephew, whose 
household she had ordered so ialthfully tor twelve 
long years, whose socks she had knit, vvhase but¬ 
tons she had superintended, should be wnu away 
from her in one short month by a strange woman, 
about whose character or past life he could know 
nothing—that he should take to spending fils even¬ 
ings in the boxes of a dingy little theatre, neglect¬ 
ing his tainily and making himself an object of 
wonderment and gossip to his Mends and patients. 
Bo steady as he had been too till now; aud to 
think that when he had no longer the excuse of 
youth for his folly (Miss Elizabeth choked as she 
thought of it), he should bring this disgrace on the 
family—the proud, respectable yeoman’s family 
that had owned Its own farm, and the pleasant old 
home down In Lincolnshire, and had borne a spot¬ 
less name fur two hundred years and more, before 
young Robert Yorke took a fancy to be sent to col¬ 
lege aud to learn doctoring and to set up in prac¬ 
tice for himself in the little garrison town or Wool- 
chester! And here, at home, was a wife waiting 
for him—Ills own cousin—a girl with a snug little 
fortune to add to her other attractions—a girl sen¬ 
sibly brought up, who was prepared to make him 
happy I 
“ Well, thank Heaven,” Miss Elizabeth thought, 
“ the theatre will close before long, aud then that 
brazen piece of goods will take herself off, and 
Robert will return to his senses l" 
Ten o’clock struck; a servant entered with 
candles. Miss Yorke collected her work into a 
grlm-looklng basket, and the long day was sup 
posed to be over tor all respectable people. 
“ You won’t sit up for Robert?” Gertrude asked, 
suppressing a yawn, as with a discontented air 
she took her candle aud kissed her aunt's cheek. 
“ No, my dear. That Is a tiling your couslu has 
an unreasonable disilke for. He has Ills latch¬ 
key, and I dare say he won’t be late. Good night.” 
Meanwhile Dr. Yorke, tramping along the de¬ 
serted streets, was thinking, as he often had lately, 
In a maze or curious doubt and wonder, of the 
change that befell his life one day, not long since, 
when he was called In to attend this tll-pald pro- 
vincial actress wbo had hurt her foot. He had 
never*yet found courage to explain to Miss Eliza¬ 
beth bow tills had occurred, on that particular 
evening he happened to be passing the door of the 
theatre In his brougham, which was as well knowu 
in Woolchester as the town-clock, and, not Laving 
been Inside a plaj’-house since he was a boy, he 
was seized with a sudden fancy to see the new 
comedy, “ Fetters,” which was announced in red 
letters several feet high on every wall and board¬ 
ing In the town. 
Perhaps the recollection that his old quiet even- 
tegs at home, when he could shut himself up with 
a cigar and a magazine, were now at an end had 
something to do with his decision, and he shrank 
from dressing for dinner and “ making talk ”—no 
easy task—for his aunt and Gertrude, as ho had 
done every night for the past six months. At 
any rate he pulled the check-string, aud told the 
grave servant that he had a call to make in that 
neighborhood, and would walk home, charging 
Thomas also to say that Miss Yorke need not 
“ wait dinner.” Thomas touched his hat—how he 
would have stared If he had known the call his 
master Intended to make l—the carriage drove off, 
and Dr. Yorke, running up the dimly-lighted steps, 
bought his ticket and passed Into tbe boxes, even¬ 
ing dress not being (te rigueur in tbe Theatre 
Royal, Woolchester. And alter all he did not see 
the comedy! 
The curtain had just fallen on the first act, and 
as he sat reading his bill, and the characters of the 
play, a hand touched him on the shoulder, and an 
official of the theatre said hurriedly— 
“ You are a physican, air? Will you please to 
corno behind? Miss Carew has had an accident— 
hurt her loot. This way, sir.” 
Through the sacred and dingy door that led from 
the boxes to the stage, ana was an object of in¬ 
terest to many of the young officers who had a 
taste for the drama, Dr. Yorke followed his con¬ 
ductor, and after stumbling against one of the 
*• wings,” and nearly backing Into a green gauze 
lake on the banks or which Lady South Kensing¬ 
ton’s fete was about to be held In the next act, he 
found hlinselt In Miss Carew's dressing-room—a 
bare little chamber with whitewashed walls, much 
scrawled with the names of former occupants— 
and in presence of the actress herself, wbo was 
lying on an improvised couch In her stage cos- 
sume of often-washed white muslin, and her stage 
paint. Several ladles of the company were with 
her, and these kind people surrounded the Doo- 
tor and explained, In somewhat loud tones, how 
the accident had occurred, 
“Only let me get through my part,” Miss Carew 
said, her young face distorted with pain. “ Can 
you bind up my foot so that r can stand on It?” 
she raised ber eyes wistfully to tbe Doctor’s, and 
two great tears rolled down the pretty rouged 
cheeks. 
l)r. Yorke’s grave face softened. He stooped 
down and spoke a tew sooiblng words, but for¬ 
bade the young lady’s attempting any exertion. 
Yes; he remembered it all, as he trudged along 
on that wild March evening—bow lie brought a 
carriage, and himself lifted the actress Into it; 
bow be called next day at her quiet lodgings, 
where he found that she had a little delicate broth- 
cr, to whom he could be of great service ; bow he 
bad si flee then learn t to look forward with a quick¬ 
ening pulse to the. hour of ids dally visit to Miss 
Carew, and had more than once found himself 
going out of his way during [bis round of calls, 
so as to pass by her door and glance, up at the 
window of her room. 
And now slie had written him a little note—In 
a refined picturesque hand too—signed “Yours 
very truly, Olive Carew," and had asked him te 
come and sec her for a few minutes, lie turned 
down a side-street where trees grew behind the 
houses, just visible in the blurred lamplight, and 
paused with a beating heart at a certain Iron 
gate. Borne one was playing the piano in the 
room with the Ut-up windows, and he stood with 
his hand on the lock to listen. It was pleasant, 
vague, rambling music—snatches of melody run¬ 
ning one Into the other, full chorus, lingering 
legato passages, a rain of sudden silver notes in 
Lhe treble. Tbe Doctor sighed as he knocked at 
the door. 
“ Miss Carew expects me,” he told the woman of 
the house; and then he went up-stalrs unan¬ 
nounced, and Ills heart was beating faster than 
ever. 
The actress’s sit ting-room was shabby enough; 
tbe furniture was scanty and faded; but the low 
cottage-piano—at which young Nelson Carew was 
strumming as usual his eyes full of dreams—a 
bunch of violets in a cheap blue jar, some books 
and photographs which were scattered about the 
table, gave It an atr of comfort such as Dr. Yorke 
did not find In his own big substantlally-rurnlshed 
drawing-room at. home. 
Miss Carew was a tall slender girl delicately 
pale, and with golden-brown hair and eyes and 
lashes, who reminded one of some white long- 
stemined flower. Her hands were of exquisite 
shape and color, while t he delicate curves of her 
figure were graceful even In the shabby black 
gown the actress wore, as she sat by the Are, In¬ 
tent upon the part in her hand. 
Dr. Yorke was loath to break up the pretty pict¬ 
ure, but, Nelson’s extemporised transcription 
coming to an end, the lad woke up out or a dream, 
and saw him stand In the doorway, hat In hand. 
“Dr. Yorkc l” he cried, with a feeble shout of 
delight; and Miss Carew, turning, dropped her 
“part,” and with a charming smile held out her 
hand. 
“How good of you to come on this wet night,” 
she said. “ Take this chair by the fire. Nelson, 
don’t choke the Doctor, you young bear!” 
Nelson was hugging ills friend in tbe firm con¬ 
viction that it was an agreeable process to both of 
them. 
“ Olive has a piece of news tor you," he whis¬ 
pered, “ and she Is dying to tell It!” 
“ Then we won’t deprive her of that pleasure, 
will we?” the Doctor answered good-naturedly. 
“So be off to your music-box, sir—do you hear ?” 
“ That last bottle of stuff is horrid,” observed 
Nelson calmly, lfls arm still round Ills Mend’s 
broad shoulder. “ Olive says It Is wine, hut, if so, 
why does she give me sugar after It, I should like 
to know ?” 
Dr. Yorke responded by propounding an alarm¬ 
ing arithmetical problem which posed Nelson, and 
in an Instant the boy limped back to Ills instru¬ 
ment, leaving his sister to her interview undis¬ 
turbed. A silence ensued, which the Doctor did 
not seem inclined to break. He leant back in his 
chair, watching tbe Ilrellght play on Olive’s beau¬ 
tiful hair; and so It. was the lady who spoke first. 
“ I asked you to come,” she began gently, “ be¬ 
cause I could not leave without saying good-bye, 
and Nelson and I are going away to-morrow.” 
“ Mls3 Carew I” 
‘ ‘ It is sudden, is It. not ? But you know It almost 
as soon as myself. I have had an offer of an en¬ 
gagement. in Birmingham, and 1 am compelled to 
go at once. Ou r manager here has been v ?ry kind, 
and has consented to release me at sot ye Incon¬ 
venience to himself.” 
Dr. Yorke could not speak. He hardly heard 
what the girl was saying, but with a curious tor¬ 
tured attention he was following every note that 
Nelson played. He, loo—that prosaic country 
doctor—had been wandering In just such an unreal 
garden, hand-in-hand with his first love, as the 
music told of. 
“ It Is you i have to thank for being able to 
travel,” Miss carew continued, iu her sincere 
voice. ‘ And Nelson, too! What.can 1 ever say, 
Dr. Yorke, that will tell you how I feel your good¬ 
ness to my poor boy ?” 
Still Robert Yorke did not speak. He wastrylrig 
to recall bis lire as It had been before that happy 
night a month ago—trying to imagine how he 
could go back to that old life again, lonelier than 
ever as }t would be for the fair glimpse of a fuller 
and happier existence which the past few weeks 
had shown him. olive Carew was going away! 
“And—Dr. Yorke—” The young lady hesitated 
now. Bhe bad her poor little purse ready In ber 
band, but how could she find courage to speak to 
that big, strong man, who was gazing at her with 
his heart In lfls eyes, and ask him to take payment 
for such generous service as he had done her? 
“Must you go?” Robert Yorke said, at last, 
breaking through the spell of silence in which Nel¬ 
son’s music had bound him. “ You arc hardly fit 
to travel yet.” 
“ I must. You know I have told you what a 
poor little pair of church-mice Nelson and I are. 
Some day he Ls going to make a great deal of money 
with Ills gift for music. But, white he Is growing 
tall and strong, It Is my delight te work for him ; 
and In this new engagement I shall earn twenty- 
one shill lags a week more than I earn now—think 
of that!” 
Twenty-one shillings! Gertrude Fisher spent as 
much every week In sugar plums or Berlin wool; 
but to this pale, pretty girl, battling unaided with 
the world, tbe additional guinea meant additional 
Comfort and ease for tbe boy whose feeble life was 
fading away slowly from a love such as ls given to 
a lew In this world—a sacred agony of affection, 
keen, Intense, undying. 
“ Boor child ’’’ burst with an irresistible Impulse 
from the Doctor's lips; and Olive, looking up with 
gratef ul eyes, saw that his were dim. 
A throng of pleasant recollections were gather¬ 
ing In the shabby room, as If to show him more 
Clearly than ever how gray and dull his life must 
henceforth be—recollections of bright morning 
hours, when Olive, free from rehearsal had sat 
and talked to him lu t hat little bow-window against 
which the rain and wind were beating now, and 
when he Lad been permitted to “bear ber” her 
part,, bungling a good deal over the “cues,” and 
rather posed by her matter-of-fact grabble of the 
lines which she would deliver with such charming 
point at night.—of certain cups of afternoon tea 
poured out and brought te him by Olive—of one 
happy little supper of cold mutton, to which he 
had been permitted te contribute a bottle of Mo¬ 
selle, and over which they three had sat till twelve 
o’clock, tbe merriest, most talkative, least sensible 
party In Woolchester. Those were ended now, 
and 
“Over all old things, and all things dear.” 
But there was still his profession, Robert Yorke 
reminded himself — Ills profession and the big 
drawing-room lu George street, enlivened by Ger¬ 
trude's pieces and Miss Elizabeth’s conversation. 
As for this actreas—this girl with her beauty and 
her frank, charming ways—she would go Into the 
world where he might not follow. Her place was 
not in this small town, where fate had thrown her 
for' a while. She would go away and forget him, 
and other men would learn to look at her with 
longing eyes and Impatient, restless hearts, and 
— Dr. Yorke made a sudden desperate resolve. 
Olive was looking absently Into the fire, and 
seemed to have forgotten his presence, one 
thought of Miss Elizabeth's cold face crossed his 
mind swiftly, but he leaned forward—he was sitting 
close to Miss Carew ou the narrow hearth, while 
Nelson was thumping out the Wedding March 
with all his little might—and took her slender 
hand. 
“Olive, do not go-do not leave me—stay with 
me always 1” he whispered, In broken sentences. 
“Give me the right to take care oi you and the boy 
—be my wife.”—[To be continued.] 
CITY CATS. 
An Automatic, Self-setting, Inflexible Ex. 
terminator. 
In all great metropolitan cities the. cat question 
ls assuming great proportions. Obedient to the 
primeval law to Increase and multiply, cats have 
increased and multiplied, declared dividends and 
paid compound Interest on the original Investment 
—never a one going Into bankruptcy. For a cat to 
have great-great-great-greuLgrcat grand kittens, 
is no strange thing If wc helleve the naturalists ; 
and the tendency of the average to multiplication 
In ordinary only ceases when the last of Its 
nine lives has flickered and gone out. before an 
unusually well-aimed brick or Inordinately spry 
bulldog. 
The effect of cats upon manufactures has been 
very marked. Since New York was Invaded by an 
epidemic of catsln is,is It Is computed that 213,000,- 
000 boot-jacks have been Bold, while the yearly 
consumption of soap-dishes and bed-slats amount¬ 
ed to $1,105,000 annually. Before the epidemic 
began aud cats were but, sporadic, boot-jack-maker 
after boot-jaek-maker went Into bankruptcy, and 
slat and crockery men did less business than deal¬ 
ers In fiddle-strings. 
Last April letters patent were issued to one J. 
Tomlinson Hathaway, of Elizabeth, N. J.. lor the 
“ Automatic, Inflexible, Self-Setting Extermina¬ 
tor”—a machine which was adapted to fill a want 
long felt In every tamlly, and at the same time 
ruin the business or the chlnaware and boot-jack 
dealers. It was a combination of steel springs, 
barbed hooks, syringes, ldgli-pressure air receivers 
and clock-work, constructed In the form of a dimin¬ 
utive cat, aud covered with the skin of one of 
those mathematical but obnoxious animals. Un¬ 
derneath the supposititious stomach was a clamp, 
so arranged t hat t he “ Inflexible” could be screwed 
on top of a fence and 1 jok us naturally as a living 
cai. When properly wound up, it was 1 U to run 
for twenty-TOUr hours. Every five minutes during 
the Blleut. watches a portion ot the compressed air 
was let out In a grown of rhallenge which would 
not fall te arouse the Ire aud attention of any cat 
within earshot. At the same lime a small Rhum- 
korr coll within sent a current of electricity 
through small Gasslot t ubes In the eyes, making 
them gleam with greenish and bellicose fire. This, 
together with the small size or the couohant, In¬ 
flexible. was generally sufficient to draw the wan¬ 
dering felines of the neighborhood te the scene. 
Now, when one of them approached sufficiently 
near to touch a small steel wire which projected 
