St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1881-04-22

| hearu his voice, and her heart Is fnll OF
vague fOrebodings, and this in civil
lized country-free Great Britain.
Jack Trevor has, as he himself says,
done nothing broken no laws, harmed
no one. Kind-hearted, generous Jack !
he wouldn't be guilty of cruelty to man,
woman or child for the world yet the
last few weeks have been weeks of ter
ror, during which he, his wife, and his
children have all been threatened !
Ballyhague is a desert. Such few cattle
as were not manned have been sold.
Captain Trevor is under police protec-
ton, and for what ? He askes the
question often enough in his own hon
est, straightforward way, and no one
seems able to answer it. His land is
let below the letting value; his tenants
have fair, just, honorable landlord to
deal with but any day, any hour, he
may be shot His corn and hay were
burnt to cinders long ago, and ruin
menaces him
A very dreary morning. Mrs. Trevor
watches the children, out for their
walk, and 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 look
out on either side ! If it were not so
real, so terrible, Dolly could almost
laugh to see the perambulatOr with the
two great policemen in attendance.
| However, it's no laughing matter-only
a wise precaution. Outside on the ter
race under the drawing-room windows
another policeman marches up and
down. 1t seems incredible that this
should be necessary in the year Eigh-
teen hundred and Eighty -One. but so it
is, and Dolly is getting accustomed to
he 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 a
soft, lovely day, with gray sky and a
taste of spring i'll the air ; but Dolly
can take no pleasure i'll anything till
her husband is safe home. She gathers
bunch of violets and comes in again,
with that vague uneasiness that has
made her so restless of late whenever
Jack is ont of her sight.
The newspapers are full of agrarian
outrages, land meetings, and threaten
ing notices. Dolly glances over them,
but the subjects are not cheerful, so the
papels are laid aside, and she writes a
long letter to an old schoolgirl friend in
England. After beating about the bush
for some time, Dolly scTibbles out of
the fulness of her heart
81. E. | 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 hunt
ing to-day, the first time he has ven
tured 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 dread
fully, being almost a prisoner, or driv-
ing 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 Gov
ernment will do nothing. That dread
full Land League held meeting here
last Sunday, and we expect that some
thing terrible will follow. am trying
to persuade Jack to leave the country,
but he says he won't he 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 do not care for that !;
l only mind the awful fear that is be-
fore me that they will do something
to Jack. | believe it is regular sys-
TEN, and they have hired and paid
assassins. Is it not terrible to think of 2
| 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 before it is put a
stop to ? ."
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 sigh from the
window, where, with her face against
the glass, she has been watching for
Jack, peeTing out until it is too dark to
see the avenue and the rows of ghOstly
trees under which he rode that morning.
She can only see the reflection of her
own face now, and the leaping, tiickeIng
freight, dancing up and down, so she
comes in from behind the curtains and
sends for the children.
1t is past 6 and still no papa The
children have long ago gone up to the
nursery, and Dolly sits alone by the
fire, trying not to be frightened, per-
suading herself that she is not a 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 a 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 suddenness that
makes her jump, so strained are hel
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 bt
raised against him
, Jack won't like to find her low, Sc
she wipes away the falling tears and
: goes to dress for dinner. In the hal
She meets Martin, and the old, tried
trusted servant looks as worried anC
5 anxious as his mistress.
"The master not home yet, ma'am p
} "No, Martini" Dolly answers, will
lips that shake in spite of themselves
"But he didn't expect to be home til
late"
So she speaks, trying not to believe
S that her heart is sick with fear anC
5 slowly passes up the stairs. Somehow
5 she never runs up now with flying steps