Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-02-01
"Clara!" cried Uncle Ambrose. "What is the


matter2'
She pointed to the French novel she had
been reading. which lay open on the table.
"How could you choose such q book az that
for me?" she asked reproachfully.
II choose the book because it has made q
great success in Paris. See, ninety-nine thou
sand! Isn't that guarantee that the story Is
| worth reading?"
1T is revolving story-the story of a muir
| der-in a low lodging-h house in the cite-a
murder that was never avenged"
Don't you like murder stories?'' asked
81 enjoy murder If it is a really good one
q mysterio Us murder. which keeps the reader
wondering all through the book.
"Never talk in that strain. Daisy, unless you
| want to disgust me" answered mother, NOR g
| sternly than l ever remembered her to hav 9
| spoken to me in her life. do you think a
crime which desolates a home and wrecks a
| iife--or many iives-is thing to be talked of
| in that sprit2"
"Oh, but poets and dramatsts would be Door
creatures unless they were able to describe
| great criminals. Look at Macbeth, for instance.
Some critics call that the finest of all Shak-
sspeares plays, and l really think it is my first
favorite among them all"
'Stop, Daisy" said Uncle Ambrose, with his
hand upon my shoulder. Don't you see that
your mother is tired and nervous? 1t is past
| eleven, and we are to do great deal of sight
seeing tomorrow. You had better bid US good
night"
| l kissed the poor pale face, which had
changed so sadly since dinner time, and went
off to my room, where my maid was waiting
| for me.
1 had shared mothers maid until now, Blu,
now l have the undivided service of my good
| old nurse. who has been gradually educating
| herself into lady's maid, and who has nothing
to do except look after my wardrobe and brush
| my hair.
| My head was little troubled as laid it on
| my strange pillow, troubled about my mothers
| trouble. which seemed more than the occasion
! accounted for If had known then what
know now l should have understood that look
| of horror in her eyes as she lifted them to her
husbands face while she pointed to the open
| book.
Oh, what blessing it was not to know. and
| how l wish Providence had suffered ME to re-
main in happy ignorance, as my mother wished
But there are always officious people in the
world to take things out of the hands of Provi-
dence, or, at least, it seems so.
We had been nearly month in Switzerland
moving quietly from place to place and thor
| oughly enjoying the beauty of everything, all
the more because of Uncle Ambrose, who was
like walking encyclopedia, telling me all l
wanted to know about everything and every
| body, talking most delightfully."- about Voltaire,
Rousseau, Gibbon and all the Lake Leman
poets and philosophers, and quoting whole
pages Of Tyndail on the alps and Glaciers.
My dear one had no more nervous fits after
that night in Paris, she seemed thoroughly
happy. and pleased with my enjoyment of
everything. Sometimes a shade of melancholy
would creep over her at the thought of years ago
when she had been in these places with my
| father, and there were days when she had a
listless air, If she weary of life, in spite
| OF the love that watched her footsteps and
wrapped her around like an atmosphere. l
wonder II all husbands are like Uncle Ambrose.
There ls an intensity in his devotion to my
| mother which shows itself in every act of his
daily life; and yet his affection is never intru-
sive, it never touches the ridiculous. think
| very few people at the hotels where we stopped
| guessed that they were honeymoon couple.
Mother is silent and reserved among strangers,
and Uncle Ambrose has always the thoughtful
air OF a student. At the National, at Geneva,
there were some Oxford men who were very
much impressed when they found out who he
was. heard them talking about his books one
evening in the reading room when l was look
ing through the Tauchnitz novels. felt quite
proud to think that the man they we're praising
was the man who had stopped his high estate
| to educate me.
wonder whether IL was for mothers sake
| whether he worshlped her from the very be-
ginning, in my dear fathers lifetime, with the
worship that he has for her nova hopeless
distant love in those days, without expectation
| or thought of reward. l can but think that it
may have been so, that no lesser feeling would
have induced 80 learned a man to devote him.
self to the training Of an ignorant little girl.
1t was at Lucerne that the secret of nv
| fathers death was revealed to me. 1t hap
pened only the day before yesterday, and yet
feel as II 1t was ages ago. l have not had one
happy moment since and yet l have been
Obliged to appear as happy as ever, for fear my
mother should find out what l am brooding
upon and be reminded of the one great sorrow
OF her life. Oh, what sorrow it must have
been! What an awful haunting memory! 1t is
wonderful to me that she could ever smile
again, or take any pleasure in life. or think Of
| anything except that one dreadful fact.
L know how nv father die1-whv no
was snatched away from us without an hour 8
| warning. know that he was cruelty murdered
| by an unknown hand and that his murderer is
| walking about the earth at this day, undiscov-
cred and unpublished, unless Gods vengeance
| has fallen upon the wretch in some mysterious
| way that We know not
We were at the Schweitzerhoff at Lucerne.
The weather was lovely and we had spent the
| day on the lake and in the evening after din
ner We all went out to the portlcO in front of
| the hotel. There were some Tyrolese musi-
Clans playing under the trees by the lake and 1
| thought of that curious story of TOlstoi's, of
| the poor wandering musician and the cruel
! people at the SchweitZerhoff, who listened and
| appiauded but never gave him a sou. And
| then the poor creature went strollng about the
town, where the teller of the story followed
him, to take him back to the Schweitzerhoff
and treat him to champagne, much to the in
| dignation OF the company in the coffee room.
| reminded Uncle Ambrose of Tolstoi's story,
Il
in the deep shadow of the portico, looking out at
| the moonlit quay, and listening to the Tyrolese
musicians, one Of them playing upon the
streich-Zlther while the others sang
| Presently Uncle Ambrose and my mother
| went for turn on the quay, leaving me sitting
! in my dark corner at the back Of the colon
made. They asked me to 60 with them, but /
had walked and run about q good deal at Alt
dorf and Fluellen, and / told mother was
tired and would rather stay where was
was sitting in a dark corner, enjoying the
music and unobserved by anybody. There were
| two rows of people in front Of me.
| do you know who she ISL" asked a man sit
ting very near me, as my mother moved slowly
| away on her husbands arm.
Her name is Arden-a very striking woman,
is she not?" returned his companion.
Decidedly handsome! But don't you know
| who she is?''
~ only know that the man she is walking
| with Is her husband, and that their name Is
Arden. ! saw it in the visitors book this
| morning."
Didn't you notice another name bracketed
with it, did"
| "What name?"
Miss Hatrell, the lady's daughter. She is
| travelling with her mother and her stepfather
| MIR. and Mrs. Arden have only been married q
month. saw the marriage in the Ttmes."
| But what about Miss Hatrell?'
| "Do you mean to say the name has no asso-
citation in your mind?"
''Not the slightest / never knew any Hat
rells, so far as can remember"
Perhaps not, but don't think you can have
forgotten the mysterious murder in Denmark
street, st. Giles, which everybody talked about
| SIX or seven years ago. The man murdered was
| "a flayna ubn had r