Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1881-04-29
this in a civilized oountry-freo Great Brit

be guilty of cruelty to man, woman or child
for the world yet the last few weeks have
been weeks Of terror, during which he, his
wife, and his children have all been threat
ened Ballyhague is a desert Such few
cattle as were not manned have been sold
Captain Trevor is under police protection,
and for what? He asks the question often
enough in his own honest, straightforward
way, and no one seems able 70 answer IL. His
land is let below the letting value his ten
ants have fair, Just, honorable landlord TO
deal with but any day, any hour, he may be
shot His corn and hay were burnt to Gin
ders long ago, and ruin menaces him
very dreary morning. Mrs Trevor
watches the children, out for their walk, and
q lump comes in her throat as she sees the
little procession going down the avenue in
the soft gray light Of the winter noon baby
| Dorothy in her perambulator, little Cecil
walking by the nurse, and two policemen,
armed with loaded guns, keeping a keen
lookout ON either side. If II were not SO real,
SO terrible, Dolly could almost laugh to see
the perambulator with the two great police
men in attendance. However II is no laugh
ing matter-only wise precaution. Outside
on the terrace, under the drawing room win
| dows, another policeman marches up and
down. It seems incredible that this should
be necessary in the year 1881, but so 1t is,
and Dolly is getting accustomed to being
guarded and watched. She goes out, too,
and walks about with the children, protected
by their escort. They see nothing, hear
nothing unusual. 1t is q soft, lovely day,
with gray sky and taste of spring in the
air; but Dolly can take no pleasure in any
thing till her husband is safe home. She
gathers q bunch of violets and comes in
again, with that vague uneasiness that has
made her so restless Of late whenever Jack is
out of her sight
The newspapers are full of agraran out
RACES, lard meetings and threatening notices.
Dolly glances over them, but the subjects are
not cheerful so she writes long letter TO an
old schoolgirl friend in England After
beating about the bush for some time Dolly
scribbles out OF the fullness of her heart:
-" daresay in England you have
not the faintest idea of the awful state we are
in here, actually living in terror Of our lives.
Jack is out hunting to-day, the first time he
has ventured out without the police for three
weeks. / did not like his going at ALL and
shall not be happy until he is home again
Poor fellow he feels it dreadfully, being al
most prisoner, or driving out with an armed
guard. Fancy the children have police
armed at all points to protect them when
they are out even in the place. 1t makes me
very miserable, and the wretched government
will do nothing. That dreadful Land League
held a meeting here last Sunday, and we ex-
pect that something terrible will follow. /
am trying to persuade Jack to leave the coun-
try, but he says he will not be frightened
away, and in the meantime there is nothing
but ruin before us. We have got no rents,
and see no prospect of getting any, but l
do not care for that only mind the awful
fear that is perpetually before me that they
will do something TO Jack. believe it is
regular system, and that they have hired and
paid assassins. Is it not terrible to think of ?
l hardly ever let Jack go out without me,
and cannot tell you how wretched feel to-
day, knowing that he is in danger and how
long is this dreadful state of affairs to last,
how many more widows must be made be- |
fore it is put stop to? I"
So Dolly writes, her pen flying over the
paper and her thoughts with Jack in the |
hunting field. But the long weary day fades |
into darkness only too soon. She sees the |
crows flying home far up in the quiet sky |
sees the faint sunset die out in the west, and |
the blue, dim shadows creeping up fold after |
fold. Dolly comes back with a sigh from the |
window, where, with her face against the |
glass, she has been watching for Jack, peer
ing out till too dark to see the avenue and |
the rows of ghostly trees under which he |
rode that morning. She can only see the re-
Election of her own face now, and the leap |
ing, Pickering freight, dancing up and down,
sends for the children.
1t is past six, and still no papa The chill |
dren have long ago gone up to the nursery, |
and Dolly sits alone by the fire, trying not TO |
be frightened, persuading herself that she is |
not bit anxious, that Jack couldn't be home |
yet if there had been anything like a run
Yet all the time she feels sick with strange |
longing, and her lips grow dry as she listens
to every sound and starts at the slightest
noise. She is horribly anxious, but she will |
not allow it yet and, by and by, the dress
ing bell rings with q suddenness that makes
her jump, so strained are her nerves with
this watching and waiting, this awful dread
that sooner or later something will befall her
husband. Oh God perhaps even now,
while she is sitting by the FIRE, some hand
may be raised against him
Jack wouldn't like to find her low, so she
wipes away the falling tears and goes to dress
for dinner. In the hall she meets Martin,
and the DID, tried, trusted servant looks as
worried and anxious as his mistress.
''The master not home yet, ma'am?"
"No, Martini" Dolly answers. with lips that
shake in spite of themselves. 'But he didn't
expect to be home till late"
So she speaks, trying not to believe that
her heart is sick with fear and slowly pass
es up the stairs. Somehow she never runs
up now with flying steps, and old Martin
looks A1Ler ler anu snakes his mead.
9TH kill the mistress" he says to himself,
and waiting till turn in the wide staircase
hides her from view, he opens the hall door
carefully and looks out but there is no sign
of the master of Ballyhague, and after watch
ing and listening for minute OF two he
comes in again.
The night draws on. He never comes
Dolly, with cheeks like snow, stands in the
nursery, and watches the children but she
never smiles, as little Dorothy splutters in her
bath, growing and laughing the freight
flashing on her rounded limbs Dolly has no
stories for the children tonight, and present
ly they catch the infection of her mood and
grow grave and silent too-awed and hushed
when they see their mothers sad face.
The boy whispers his prayers at her knee.
"God bless papa" '''and bring him safe
home tonight p" says Dolly with little
catch in her voice and the child, looking up
at her with his fathers eyes, isps out the pc
titiOn after her, and doesn't know why the
tears roll down her cheeks.
Down the staircase again and into the
where the fire is warm and
bright and shaded lamps cast a soft glow.
But Dolly is too anxious tonight to sit in her
own easy chair and wait for Jack as she used
to do SO often when he was hunting. Now
she stations herself behind the curtains, for
though she cannot see out very far into the
dim moonlight she could hear the sound Of
his horses hoofs in the avenue What is that?
In the far distance a horses football sounds
on the ear-nearer now and then nearer.
Thank God he has come home And the
blood rushes back to her white cheeks he is
safe for tonight, at least, and Dolly flies into
the hall TO meet him.
The horse trots past and she goes back into
the drawing-room again. Jack has ridden
round to the yard and will be in directly.
All the fear is forgotten in the thought that
in another minute he will be with her safe by
his own fireside, and she makes up her mind
to be very bright and cheerful this evening
and never TO tell him how frightened and
wretohed she had been all this long horrid
day.
Poor Dolly Poor little wife standing on
The haarthrnp in her nratLY Whita dress. q