Saint Mary's beacon. [volume] (Leonard Town, Md.) 1867-1983, 1888-01-26

! S~13si anu laf even
ings were in general free. So, one
night | called for Standish at his lode.
ing. and together we. trudeed off to
fnd Macbane. Oar path led through
one Of those strange. uncanny wilder.
nesses that lie about the outskirts of
every great and growing town. Sksl-
etons OF unfinished houses, bristline
with scafolding poles, loomsd on ms
at intervals through the rainy mist !:
the roads were long heaps Of brickhats
and loose stones. already varied with
blades of coarse grass. The path wa
followed was scanned across with the
ruts OF heavy carts that had gone 10
and fro from the hall. built houses, and
We stumbled over posts and through
plashy pools. along the ghostly high.
way, completely deserted now that
the workmen were gone, and stretch
ing its miles of raw ruin through the
autumn mist. Standish whistled
cheerily as he strode on through the
desolation, and l was comforted to
have him with me. ! think should
almost have felt afraid but for his pre-
sence. :. We crossed the No Mans
Land Of chaotic brick and mortar, and
found ourselves in a street of mean
new houses. At No. q Wolseley
road Staudish paused and rang. A
slatternly maid Of all work answered
the bell, and ushered US into the
presence of Angus Macbane.
He was sitting by poor little fire,
in shabby armchair. with his black
cat on his knee as usual, and q vol.
ume of demonology in his hand; and,
save that the room was small, cheaply
furnished and hideously pspered, and
the occupant looked thinner and
wearier, we could have fanciod our
selves at Cambridge again. But after
the first greetings l soon noticed tha,
Macbane was changed for the worse
since I had seen him last. He did
not seem at all dissipSted, nor had he
acquired the air Of meanness and
shiftiness. that marks the needy ad-
venturer; but there was a genuineness,
almost desperation, in his cynical
utterances, which they had not had
betore-a hopelessness of expression
and a irritability which did not
like. The misanthropy at which he
had played before was now in grim
earnest.
He told us little--very little, and
that reluctantly-of his own way of
life. He was doing nothing of any
moment-a struggling, unknown wri-
ter, spasmodically trying to secure
some literary foothold, and failing
always, whether by the fatality which
attended him specially, or by the same
chances as befall any author. Added
to this misery was the consciousness
Of his dependence on his uncle, which
was bitterer to him, could see, than
ever. He began to talk about Mr..
Macdonald of his own accord, and
that was always a bad sign. 80
"Do you know" he said with bit.
ter laugh, "my worthy relative 10
coming out here before long? He
writes me that he is due in London on
business in fortnight or so, and will
pay me visit to see If I am still
given over to the same reprobate mind
as befofe and opposed to what he calls
my duty. Won't you come and see
the fun, you two? I think I know
how to aggravate him now perfectly
well. l assure you. at my last inter.
view with him, l made him swear
within three minutes-and he an cid.
err
II say, Macbane," Standish put in,
in his goOd-natured way, "don't carry
that game too far. The old cnap is
good for a lot if only you don't rub
him up the wrong way. If yon rile
him this time. ten to one he cuts ven
off with shilling. and then whsrs
will You be 2"
"If he only would die r. Macbans
went on, not seeming to hsar his
friends remonstrance. Fellows ike
that have no sense Of fitness. When
| saw him last he reminded me Of one
Of those big, fat. coarse, specklsd
spiders that you want to kill, only
they make such a mess. I should 50
like to murder him, If ! could do &C.
by deputy"
He was joking, Of course, but there
was more earnestness than I liked in
his manner. / looked-at Standish,
and he at me. before ! spoke.
"f those are your sentiments" I
said, echoing his light tone, Eve had
better come to prevent bloodshed."
"Yes do come" Anrns rasnnaa.