The National tribune., 1889-02-28

cared ] that the thuuders OF the Holy See had
rHng throughout the land against these patri-
ots? What cared that Garibaldi was knock
ing at the gates of Naples2 Nothing-noth-
ing! Only Carlo-only Carlo!
Ny father called me. / went down to him.
The door was open, and standing IN 1t was
gendarme from the city. There were others,
too, outside.
Pedro Cavalli, !" he said, here is something
for you"
He handed him sealed envelope. My
father took it calmly and tore it open. He
read it slowly. Not a nerve of his face moved.
BE handed it back.
+" When am l to go?"
"Now-with Us"
"And my daughter?"
''She goes also. His Majesty says if you so
wish liberty he sends you to find it. 1t is bet
ter than the Genoese dungeonsi"
Fatheri Fatheri" l shrieked, throwing
my arms about him; tell me, what is il"
"Exile!" embracing me.
"Where?"
America" my dear child" he said gently.
In little room-growing poorer every day
we had lived three years. The house was
one Of those many downtown tenements, full
Of the cries Of countless children of squalor, of
poverty, of ali that is terrible in the useless
struggle for life. The city was New York. l
wish here to make my story brief 1t is black
curtain hanging before my memory. When
we first came we did not live here, but in bet
ter places. But the iron hand of need and
poverty had, as 1t always does, pushed US
down further and moro relentlessly. My
father painted well, and did a little modelling
in rough clay. At first he had had quite class,
and sold some little pictures that had taken
him long months of patient toll. / helped all
] could in my laee-worB, but it was hard to
sell. But one by one his pupils fell away; he
EvpE Epr-rF r.n1d nd y-nC ten I
employment in every channel. In some re-
manned q while, in others failed. 1t is the
same, same sad and horrid story. Who of the
poor and fallen has not counted and knows the
bitter history of every footwOrn step that leads
TO human want and suffering? But three years
passed, and We were here. My father was very
i'll. OF all his pupils but one came even rarely
to see Us. His name was Henry Watson, an
American.
He was tall and handsome man, with bright
and winning manners and good and kindly
heart When at last my father grew near to
death, Henry never left him, and all that NOR
tai man could do he did. When the last hour
came creeping near, one hot and starless night
In Midsummer lay with my head buried on
my fathers pillow knew that it was the
solemn voice of his pupil that repeated the
short prayer and gently closed the eyes of his
old master. 1 was alone.
We were married; not in the church, as was
q Catholic aud Henry was not. But he took me
before some civil parsonage in the city, which, he
said, in America was iust as binding. We were
married, and left forever the great unwhole-
some place with its hOrrid filth and squalor-
LETT forever the little room the abode of so many
signs, and from whence the soul of my noble
father took its flight.
Henry!" l exclaimed, as the carriage we
had taken stopped at last in front of splendid
- did not know that yoU were rich. You
never told me-"
a. am not cara mia; these are apartments
only that l have rented for you, Marietta"
But they were beautiful. 1t often seemed to
me that all that wealth could convey had been
squandered here. There were many rooms, all
connecting aud each differently but splendidly
furnished. / had nay own, and il was flied
with all the bric-a-brac and Woman's fancies
that my heart so yearned. All that my hus-
band could do for me he did. He left no wish
ungTatihed-no half-expressed desire unfulill-
ed. So passed many months Then came the
change-slow, gradual, deadly. 1t was the
same old story. The same dreadful story of
wreck-of a thousand wrecks scattered along
the sands OF human misery. Slight neglects to
grow to pointed indiferences. Club delays,
with many fond excuses, grow to careless re-
turns at all hours Of the silent nights. / did
not uphraid. ] did not complain. only under
stood. Slowly, surely it came. Very rarely
now we went out together. Once l remember,
one day, in Winter, it had been showing hard,
and be took NE sleighing in the Park Ii was
growing late when We passed large sleigh
filed with party Of boisterous men. One of
1 these shouted, q / say, Eal !" and something
/ else did not hear. The man took rose from
his coat and threw il at me. 1t fell on the
snow behind Us. Henry's face grew white, and
bis lips tight-elosed.
Drive me home" spoke to him.
That long night, still dressed, walked the
floor of my room. 1 waited for him. 1t was
late when be came. he did not take of his
hat to me, but threw himself in great chair,
and looking at me, said:
"Weu?"
told him all that burned in my woman's
| heart
He leaned his head upon his hands and look
ed at me.
Nonsense, Marietta; did you suppose we
were married?"
l heard the carriages passing in the street
/ beneath. ] could almost hear the people talk
] ing. The moon was up. l saw its light upon
/ the heavy carpet. The stars were out too, |
am sure, and it was Winter. Bnt the gaudy
walls, the heavy curtains, the costly pictures
that were hanging-aIl were closing now
abont me. The air grew close and heavy.
! Through it all saw the figure of man seated
en- chair, looking al me in a half-sneering,
! drunken way.
Coward 9-it was all could say. but tore
the false ring from my finger, crushed it be-
meath me, drew shawl about me and ran
down TO the wintry street.
Here, said the Count, the MANUSCRIPT pt
becomes fragmentary. 1t shows evidence oi
| having been written in haste, and probably in
secret. But have patiently traced out Mari.
etta's wanderings after her leaving Henry
Watson up to the time the manuscript becomes
more clear. win give these in my own words
to make them more plain and concise. Mari
eta found herself in the streets of New
York, knowing no one, and with but little
funds in her pocket, unable to decide which
way TO turn her steps. She finally goes to
small, obscure hotel and takes lodgings for the
night. She seems TO have stayed some day!
here, until at length attracted by the advertise
Tnent Of Madame" she applies and is, as yot
know, accepted. The manuscript becomes ex
ceedingly indefinite. She is constantly writing
of " Madame's" goodness; of her boundless gen
crosby and OF the growing peace of her life
Maadme" has already told how long she re
Inained. and of her sudden disappearance. A
great pains have here taken up the old man
! uscript and translate in the words of Marietta
One day I was sitting in the Park, as wa
now my daily habit. The leaves were fas
falling from the trees, and scattered about b,
/ the goldfish wind. The sparrows were hopping