AOS. 23 
litcraru SKisttUaitj, 
UNDER THE GUNS. 
Undek the g-una of the fort, on the hill 
Daisies are bloseominK, buttercups fill ; 
Up the gray ramparts the scaling vino flings 
High its green ladders and falters and clings 
Under the guns. 
Under the guns, 
Under the guns ot the fort on the hill. 
Under the gUDH Of the fort on the hill. 
Once shook the earth with the cannonade’s thrill, 
Once trod these buttercups, feet that, now still. 
Lie all at rest in their trench by the mill 
Under the guns, 
Under the guns. 
Under the guns of the fort on the hill. 
Under the guns of the fort on tha hill, 
Equal the rain falls on good and on ill, 
Soft lies the sunshine, stilt the brook runs, 
Still toils tlie husbandman—under the guns, 
Under the guns, 
Under the guna, 
Under the gnus of the fort on the hill. 
Urder the guns of Thy fort on the hill. 
Lord! in Thy mercy wo wait on Thy will; 
Lord, is it war that Thy wisdom best knows, 
Lord, is it peace, that Thy goodness still shows 
Under the guns, 
Under the guns, 
Under the guns of Thy fort on the hill. 
[Bret Harte in London Society. 
THE SCANDALOUS LETTER. 
[Complete in Ten Chapters.] 
CHAPTER VII. 
Nelson had been flattening- Ills nose against the 
parlor window all the afternoon, and stretching 
his neck In vain efforts to look up the dismal little 
rain-blurred street, but no sign could be see of Dr. 
Yorke, whose usual hour for calling upon Miss 
Carew had long- passed by. 
“ I wonder what can be delaying the Doctor?” 
he sighed for the hundredth time. “ He has not 
been here now ror three days.” 
“ Perhaps he Is very busy, darling. We shall see 
him to-morrow, I dare say.” 
Nelson sighed again disconsolately, olive was 
working busily at her costume ror the evening's 
performance—altering ribbons and laces, trying to 
make an old dress look like a new one. She laid It 
down as she noticed the boy’s listless air, and said 
cheerfully— 
“ Will you play for me, dear? It will make my 
needle fly twice as fast.” 
Nelsou limped over to the piano at once, and 
soon the room thrilled with the pathetic tones he 
coaxed out of the well-worn Instrument, while 
her needle flew In and out. of the silk. Tears were 
falling as she sewed, and wetting her thread with 
big drops. Tbe world—her life—seemed very dark 
to her Just then. She had done what she had felt 
to be right, but it was hard, try as bravely as she 
could, to help doubting and longing and regretting. 
And since the miserable ulght when she had said 
good-bye to Jack Dacre she had been so lonely. 
The poor fellow’s words kept ringing so persis¬ 
tently In her ears. If Robert would only come, 
she thought despairingly as she stitched and 
stitched-if he would only come and help her to be 
strong and true! The teal's were all wiped away, 
when presently Nelson grew tired-as he had so 
easily growu of late, Ills sister remembered, stung 
with a sudden cruel pang—and came limping over 
tor olive’s smiles of thanks. 
“ Your music has done me so much good, my dar¬ 
ling !" she said, dropping her work to clasp him to 
her breast and cover his little wan face with kisses. 
“ But why do you stop so soon? You don’t feel 
any worse to-night?” 
“ Only a little tired and drowsy,” replied the 
boy, smiling faintly ; and as lie spoke he sat down 
at his sister's feet and laid his head upon her lap, 
still holding her hand between his two little 
wasted palms. •• Olive, 1 shall be so glad when 
Dr. Yorke lakes us home with him. You will never 
look anxious then, will you, dear ?” 
“ Never,” Olive answered huskily—*’ never, my 
dearest, If you will only grow strong and well.” 
The child turned his Ups to the little hand he 
held, and kissed It fondly. There was a silence oi 
some minutes, which was broken by the entrance 
of Mrs. Allen, In a rather floury condition, as to 
her hands and apron, who announced the Doctor, 
and, shutting the door upoutwo troubled hearts, 
went back to the cakes she was making for tea, 
unconscious of the tragedy going on in her modest 
parlor. Nelson had fallen asleep In the warmth of 
the Are, and Olive, putting her Anger to her lip as 
she smiled at her lover, motioned to him to bring 
her the pillow from the sofa, and to help her to lay 
the boy’s head gently down, and to cover him with 
a shawl. 
“ I have, been walchlng tor you so anxiously,” 
she said then In a cautious whisper, and putting 
her two little trembling hands Into the Doctor’s. 
“It Is very kind of you to come when you are so 
busy.” 
Dr. Yorke made no reply. 
“ I may flulsh my work, I suppose ?” the girl con¬ 
tinued nervously, *• It’s lor to-night.” 
Tall, slender, pale, she looked more Uke a garden 
Illy than ever as she stood before him la her black 
gown, her head drooping a little under Its crown 
of chestnut braids. But there were traces of suf¬ 
fering round her sweet eyes and trembUng Ups 
widen awoke a pathetic yeamlogln Robert Yorke’s 
heart, and moved him to speak her name very 
gently as he drew her chair up for her and made 
her sit down. And as lie did so, cold and Impas¬ 
sive as he looked, Miss Uarew’s middle-aged lover 
was struggUng with an UhpUlse thaL bade him fall 
at her feet, and call upon her to declare that all 
the misery he had endured during the past few 
days was but a hideous dream, and that she was 
still as fair and pure aud sweetly cold as she had 
ever seemed to him. as she then looked. But he 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
recollected himself In time, and the Impulse was 
mastered—recollected what he had read and seen, 
and what he had come to say to the beautiful dis¬ 
loyal woman who was to have been his wife, it 
was sometime before he spoke. The pleasure was 
too keen. In spite Of his bitter resolutions, of gaz¬ 
ing at the charming sensitive face before him. of 
following the delicate hands as they went rapidly 
and dertly to work, of breathing the same air with 
OUvo Carew, for the Doctor to wish to break tbe 
silence; and Olive was loo full of painful and con¬ 
flicting thoughts to be able to speak. 
During the past, tew days she had been trying to 
think very kindly of her grave plat n lover, she 
had resolved to he to him a good and obedient wife, 
of whom he should have no cause to complain, 
She almost believed herself capable of forgiving 
the. grim coarse woman who had lain In watt for 
her and insulted her, If it would only set matters 
on their old footing bet ween lierself and Dr. Yorke. 
But, now he was there, close at her side, touching 
her hand, speaking her name every drop of blood 
in her young body turned cold ; she could hardly 
repress a shudder, and she k"ow, once and for all, 
that she could never he happy with this man she 
shrank a little away then, and took up her work 
“What Is he going to say ?” ste wondered breath¬ 
lessly, as she fastened the coquettish blue knots 
on her white stage-dress. 
Dr. Yorke did not leave her long In suspense. 
With an effort taking his eyes from her sweet 
beauty, he straightened himself up, sighing. 
Olive,” he said, “ l have been very unhappy 
since t saw you last ” 
“ Unhappy !" she echoed faintly, pricking her 
trembUng Angers as she sewed. 
“ Have you nothing to tell me?” he continued 
earnestly. •* What is tills cloud that has come be¬ 
tween us?” 
•• There is none of my making, Robert.” 
He sighed again, and starting to his feet, began 
to pace up and down the narrow room. 
“ You remember,” he said then, coming back to 
her side, " that day In the garden—the day you 
gave yourself to me ?” 
“ Y'es.” 
“ Y'ou remember the confession you made, that 
your heart had gone out of your keeping before 
ever we met ?” 
" I remember.” The warm blood rose In her 
cheeks at the thought of It; he saw It and It did not 
make him the more patient. 
“ Olive,” he cried with a sort of groan, “ why had 
you not the courage to be true to yourself that day? 
Wliy did you promise me a fidelity, an esteem, 
which were out of your power to maintain ?” 
“ Robert" — Miss Carew dropped her sewing— 
“ take care what you say ( You are looking at me 
through some oue else's eyes. 1 will hear a good 
deal from you, but-” She gulped down a sob 
which would rise when she remembered what It 
had cost her to maintain the faith he was so ready 
to question. “ You forget," she continued, " that I 
do not know yet of what I am suspected. All I 
know Is that you have not been to see me for three, 
days—why 7” f 
“ Do you ask me why ?" 
“ 1 do. I hate mystifications, and I am talking 
quite In the dark, so 1 ask you again. What have I 
done? And what has my poor little dead-and- 
gone romance to do with jour absence of the past 
few days?” 
“ Will you look me in the face and say that you 
have seen no one during those three days whom I 
should disapprove oi your meeting?” 
“ 1 will assure you that I have not spoken one 
word, Robert, in those three days that I need nave 
been ashamed of your hearing. 1 have been true 
to the promise I made you Jn the garden. What 
cause have I ever given you to think otherwise ?” 
She spoke with the most patient sweetness, for 
she had resolved to bear with him, knowing that 
he was suffering. 
But Dr. Y’orke looked at her with a kind of won¬ 
dering pain. 
“ Poor child,” he said huskily, “ I must not be 
hard on you, for you have had to struggle alone 
with the world at an age when other girls are safe 
In their mothers' arms. Perhaps the fault was 
mine. I might have known you could never care 
for me. But there Is no need for auy further con¬ 
cealment or deceit, my dear. I know your un¬ 
happy secret.” 
“ You may think so, Robert," she answered with 
quivering Ups, "and perhaps appearances are 
against me. But If 1 teU you that 1 have sacrlliced 
everything In the world to keep faith with you, 
you will believe me? Y'ou wiU take my word be¬ 
fore that of the—the persons who are misrepre¬ 
senting me ?" Olive waited breathlessly for the 
Doctor's answer. 
With an exclamation of pain he passed his hand 
flercely across his eyes. 
“ Your word 1” he cried. “ It Is your own word I 
am taking. To whom else do you think I would 
listen for one moment?" 
"My own word?” Olive looked bewildered and 
drew back a pace or two. " Robert, what does all 
this mean? 1 Implore of you to speak plainly and 
have done with mysteries.” 
Robert did not speak, but he took from his pocket 
the stolen letter and put It Into the hand which 
she extended mechanically to receive It. With 
her first, glance at Its contents an utrer change 
flashed over her face. Every trace of color died 
out of her cheeks and lips; she turned and looked 
at the Doctor with eyes of passionate disdain. 
** Where did you get this?” she asked, In quiet 
accents that seemed to cut the air with their keen 
edge. 
No matter,” he muttered, a dark Hush rising to 
bis brow. 
“ Where did you get this ?” she repeated, in pre¬ 
cisely the same tone; aud he told her. 
Miss Carew buret into a peal of bitter laughter 
that woke the boy out of hts sleep; he sat up, 
looking with drowsy bewildered eyes at the two 
agitated faces Just visible in the dusk. Uls sister 
run to him and lifted him up, straining him In a 
passionate embrace. 
“It is on this letter you condemn me, Dr. 
Y’orke?” she cried. "I congratulate you on the 
honorable means you have taken to prove the 
character of the woman who was to have been 
your wife. You did not think me worthy then of 
one kindly doubt ? You take It for granted that 
1 am bad—deceitful—false 7” 
" What else am I to think ? Good Heavens, Olive, 
am I a stock, a stone, that I am to bear such 
things as these and hold my tongue?” 
"No; you are right," Miss Carew said bitterly. 
" Further concealment is unnecessary. I did write 
this letter, and I admit. Dr. Yorke, that after what 
has happened to-day Olive Carew can never be 
your wife.” 
“Olive,” Nelson cried fondly, winding his arms 
round her, “who has been cruel to you? Come 
away, dear! No one shall hurt you!” 
“No, darling,” the girl answered, with a shower 
of kisses on his wan cheeks—“ no one shall hurt 
me attor to-day. Y'ou and I will go away to¬ 
gether.” 
The Doctor stood In speechless misery, more 
conscious than ever of the pale woman's beauty, as 
she flashed defiance out ot her dark eyes and 
towered superbly above him. Then he called to 
her hoarsely, extending his arms. 
“ Olive l Have you no excuse—no explanation 
to offer? Must I lose you ror ever because you 
will not speak ?” 
Olive drew back, with a magnificent gesture of 
dismissal. 
“ I decline to offer either excuse or explanation,’’ 
she returned, still holding Nelson within her arm. 
“ I acknowledge that I am guilty of all this letter 
Implies. There Is nothing more to be said but that 
you and I have done with each other from to¬ 
day !” 
" That Is your last word to me 7” 
. “ That Is my last word.” 
Robert Yorke crossed the room like a man in a 
dream—the room where he had been so happy and 
so miserable, the room he would never enter again. 
He turned when he reached the door to look at 
Olive, standing In her long dusky gown, with the 
child still clinging to her. The letter lay on the 
floor, a patch ot white In the flrellt gloom. He 
heard the rain, and the swish of the willow-boughs 
against the panes; a clock struck the hour. Me¬ 
chanically lie counted the seven ringing strokes as 
he stood grasping the door-handle, and thought, In 
a dull, stupid way, that he would be late for din¬ 
ner and had better be going. Then he turned and 
walked dizzily down stairs, and Into the rainy 
streets. 
CHAPTER VIII. 
The rain poured down unceasingly, the wind 
rose, and blew gustily among the trees and chim¬ 
ney-pots, but Robert Yorke did not feel tbe chill 
showers that beat Into his face. The thought of 
home, of the cheerful dinner-table and Gertrude’s 
conversation was hateful to him. He could not 
bring himself to face Miss Elizabeth's cold Inquis¬ 
itive eyes and aneenng innuendoes. Better was it 
to tramp tbe muddy pavements and be buffeted by 
the shrill blasts that met him as he struggled 
round the corners, out in the dark and the rain 
there was quietness at least and solitude. And, 
as soon as it was time for the theatre to open, he 
would go to for the last time, and look once more 
at. the beautiful, cruel face of the woman he loved, 
and who had never loved him. 
Dr. Yorke was tbe first person to enter tbe poor 
lll-patronlsed Utile theatre that night. Wet, cold, 
exhausted, but not feeling so—feeling only a 
strange feverish pain and contusion to his brain— 
he passed Into his mouldy little box near the stage 
He bad spent so many happy hours to that 
shabby old building, be had dreamed so many 
sweet dreams there, that now, as he looked down 
into the dim empty pit and the vacant orchestra, 
where a listless boy was placing sheets ot music 
on the various desks, and remembered the gulf 
that had opened between this sad. heavy-hearted 
hour and those that were past aud gone, a sense 
of unutterable misery came over him, and he 
shrank back with a kind of groan Into the obscur¬ 
est corner of tbe box burying hts face In hts wet 
coat-sleeve. By-and-by a few people, enthusiastic 
or lonely enough to leave their homes for muddy 
streets and the damp, foggy theater dropped to, 
those In the gallery exchanging audible remarks 
and beguiling the tedium cf the hour with tbe 
cracking of many nuts. Then the orchestra ap¬ 
peared, damp, dispirited and tardy, and played a 
waltz, which seemed to Robert Yorke the most 
melancholy music he had ever heard, though it 
was bubbling with Offenbacbian melodies which 
the wretched performance could not entirely sub¬ 
due. 
Ue sat with his haggard eyes fixed on the green 
curtain that divided him from Olive carew. con¬ 
scious of a certain pleasure to the thought that he 
was breathing the same air with her, that he 
would hear her voice again Chough she might 
never speak to him auy more. And when the play 
began, and Miss Carew ran on to the stage with 
a peal ot Joyous laughter, and wearing the very 
white dress on wliloh he had seen her fasten the 
blue knots that afternoon, it seemed as It the cruel 
scene they had gone through mu3t have been a 
dream, that he would wake up presently when the 
curtain fell aud walk home as usual with his 
sweetheart through the quiet streets. The actress 
was quite unconscious of his presence—some In¬ 
stinct forced him to keep well out of sight while 
he fed his hungry eyes upon her sweet beauty— 
and she acted wttb as much sparkle and espleglerle 
to the dull, empty house as If It had been crowded 
with what the Guardian called tbe elite of Wool- 
chester. 
Was the past already forgotten by that bright 
creature? Robert Yorke wondered Jealously. Had 
every recollection of her brief engagement to the 
commonplace country Doctor faded from her 
mind? Was there no undertone of pain to tbe 
silvery laughter that rang so cruelly In his ears, 
or could pain assume Joy’s shape so easily In wo¬ 
men's hands? Another peal ot laughter seemed 
to answer him with mocking mirth, as If defying 
him to read the truth to the arch white-lidded eyes 
544 
that darted sunshine into the foggy pit, from the 
sweet smiling Ups that he had kissed just, once and 
would never kiss any more. Oh, pretty Olive 
Carew! Oh, her low voice atsd dettcatc tender 
grace, and the sweet red curves of her girlish tips f 
Why did she ever shine upon his dull life, to bless 
It for a while, and then to kill him with her falser- 
ness? 
The play dragged Its slow length along and tbe 1 
act-drop bad risen for the last time. By-and-by 
tbe people would go borne yawning and Indiffer¬ 
ent, not dreaming that the dingy curtain had 
fallen upon another drama besides that “ washed- 
out ” adaptation rrom tbe French at which they 
told been assisting, unconscious of the fact that 
for one man to the halt-empty theatre the end of 
the play meant tbe death of his youth and his 
hopes and his best life. Some such thoughts as 
these were passing drearily through Robert 
Y'orke’s head when—what, was It that made him 
start to his feet with a groan of shame, passion* 
despair, and stagger Uke a man stunned tff » 
blow? The comedy was one of Intrigue. The* 
plot was seen to turn chiefly on tbe fortunes of a 
love-letter written by the merry widow and con¬ 
veyed by tbe smart aoutnvtte, wbo at tbat moment 
stood wltb her hands to her pockets and her head 
on one side, while Miss Carew, with a pen gullt- 
less of Ink, traced In the usual rapid stage fashion 
the words which she was presently to read aloud. 
“There, Flounceyl” she cried, signing her name 
with an elaborate flourish aud throwing down tbe 
pen. “ I think tbat will mystify my guardian, 
and assure the Captain tbat he need fear no rival 
to my affections. Listen!” 
And, as Miss Carew, or " Madame de Haut-ton/ 
read the composition aloud, every drop of blood in 
Robert Yorke’s body seemed to freeze, the lights 
and faces of the theatre seemed to dazzle him and 
burn Into his very brain. For—Une for lto*. and 
word for word, he recognized It only too well: - the 
letter written by the merry stage-widow, and read 
with archest mischief aud laughter by M Iss Carew 
to that character, was tbe letter on the evidence 
of which he had chosen to condemn the woman he 
loved but could not trust-the letter stolen from 
the actress's room a week before by EUzabeth 
Yorke. 
k » -* 
There was a terrible scene the next morning at 
tbe house In George Street. Miss Yorke Indeed 
would still have affected unbelief to the actress, 
and Insinuated tbat tbe introduction of the letter - 
to the play was merely one of Miss Carew's clever 
tricks. But the Doctor's wrath was so tremendous 
tbat she was glad to take refuge In a sour aud dis¬ 
contented silence until the storm had somewhat 
abated. Then she asserted herself ontw nan e a nd 
tolO Gertrude that she had better pack up her 
things and accompany her to Lincolnshire. one 
house would never be able to bold them and ttos 
Doctor's wife. 
*• My wife!” echoed Robert Yorke, laughing bit¬ 
terly. “ You need not be afraid—I have Insulted 
Miss i'arew deeply enough already. Do you sup¬ 
pose I would add to my folly and cruelty by asking 
her to enter such a family as this?” 
“ Oh, Robert!” said Gertrude, beginning to cry. 
“ I don’t apeak for you, child.’' her cousin an¬ 
swered, softening—" you have hanned no one—but 
for myself audjrour aunt, who will go with me 
this morning, and apologise with me to the young 
lady we have both so foully wronged ” 
Miss Elizabeth colored angrily, and made an ex¬ 
clamation that sounded rebellious. 
"Oh, Aunt Elizabeth, do go!” sobbed Gertrude 
if Robert Is willtog to apologise, surely you need 
not be ashamed to do so.” 
*• Gertrude, you are a fool I” snapped Miss Yorke, 
tapping her foot on tbe floor and swallowing wltb 
difficulty. 
The Doctor turned to leave the room, and his 
coustn, timidly approaching him, whispered that- 
she would persuade her auuc. 
" And Olive will not be hard upon you. cousin/' 
she added, faltering and blushing; “ she knows 
how you—you love her, and she will forgive you, 
and all will be as It was before this dreadful mis¬ 
take occurred.” 
Robert laid bis hand so gently upon Gertrude’s 
head that the poor girl blushed with still more un¬ 
becoming intensity. 
“Y'ou are a good girt. Gertie," be said kindly. 
** Y'ou are the only one to our family who never 
said an unkind word to—Miss Carew, Hut you 
must not think that her engagement to me will 
ever be renewed, my dear. That is all over now. 
I was never worthy of her.” 
Miss EUzabeth uttered, an ejaculation of con¬ 
tempt. 
“ You will bo ready to half an hour," her nephew 
said quietly as he left the room. ** If you are not 
you will understand that my house Is no longer 
your home, and that we are strangers to each 
other from to-day.” 
No one but herself knew of the throes and strug¬ 
gles gone through by Miss Yorke before she could 
make up her mind to kiss the rod. But the Doctor 
was to triumph. After all, the house to George- 
street was a more desirable place of residence than 
the farm to Lincolnshire, where her brother’s wife 
reigned absolutely, having come off victorious in 
more than one domestic skirmish between the two' 
ladles In olden days. Theu there was Gertrude to 
be thought of, as her aunt reminded herself When 
that “player-woman” was broughr home—tor M iss 
Elizabeth had no hope that Miss Carew would 
release the Doctor, notwithstanding all hts line 
speeches—Gertrude would want some respectable 
feminine Influence about her, or who could tell but 
that she might learn to be us good-for-nothing and 
affected as tbe actress herself ? 
Accordingly, at tbe hour appointed. Dr. Yorke 
found Miss Elizabeth, to an elaborate toilet, smiles 
on her lipc. and anger In her eyes, awaiting his 
appearance, ana the two set off together for ouve 
Carew’s lodgings. It was a very silent drive, 
The mau’a heart was heavy with bitter unavail¬ 
ing regrets; tbe lady was mentally rehearsing 
her apology resolving to render It as little apolo¬ 
getic as possible, and to neutralise the humility of 
