Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-03-22
CHAPTER XVII.
DAIsY's DIARY IN LONDON.

1t was old fancy and one which had
haunted me from the first night slept in Gros-
venor Square. AS / laid myself down to rest
In the pretty little bed. with its embroidered
japanese coverlet and cloud of white lace cur
tains-all devised by mother, 80 dainty and
graclous-and as | heard the noise of the car
riage wheels like the great hoarse roar of the
seal said 10 myself. This is London cruel
London. the city i'll which my father was lured
to his dcath-the city i'll which a good man
may be murdered In broad daylight. ON a sunny
summer afternoon, in the very midst of his
fellOw-men."
could not sleep that first night for thinking
OF my dear dead father. | could not stop nv
self from picturing the awful scene over and
over again-the CHASTITY change in the dear face
the horrld wound-the pitiless murderer
whose face could not picture to myself
Again and again and again tried to shape
that unknown face. | thought of all the vii
famous countenances had seen in picture gal
lerIes-of this or that Judas, this or that muir
derer-the malignant face with dull, red hair
the swarthy face with close cut black halr--the
rugged features and beetling brow the low
scarcely human forehead, under ragged tam
gled locks. all of the villainous and inhuman
that painters have ever conceived; yet could
never picture to myself the form and face of
the man who killed my father
Night after night have lain awake thinking
of him. Ny father has been much more often
III my thoughts since we came to London than
he was while We were at peaceful River Lawn,
where use to lie awake to hear the night
, inGales III the warm June nights. and where
the sound OF the river was always like lullaby.
Here all the gaiety and splendor the operas
and plays, the music and dancing. and talk and
laughter are not enough to make me forget
In this city my father was murdered If there
were no such wilderness as London he might
! be living and among us today. He might be
ours for many year to come
think OF Prof. Palmer In the desert, lured
to his fate by murderous Arabs. Was the des-
ert worse than London! / think of all who
have ever been treacherousy slain in wild and
lonely places, but can think OF no place worse
than London.
| want to see the house in which nv father
\ died want to see the room in which he was
/ found lying stabbed to death.
This Is the fancy that has tormented me ever
since We took up our abode in London. ever
/ since the rotl of the wheels and the tramp
tramp, tramp of horses feet have been in nv
ears; feel as if should think less of him
and be less haunted by the dreadful vision of
] that room If l could once see it in all its sor-
| did reality; II l could know exactly what il ia
| like.
! have told Cyril my feelings on this point
/ but he refuses to take me TO see the house or
| even the street In which my father died He
cannot understand me. He cannot understand
that this dreadful sensation OF being haunted
nightly by the vision of the deed and the room
| might be lessened by familiarity with the scene,
| however painful the sight of that horrible place
might be.
have entreated him to take me there, but
| he steadfastly refuses, SO / have made up nv
mind to so there without him. Mother and
| her husband are going TO grand dinner this
evening to meet royalties; Cyril has gone to
| Oxford to dine with the Burlington club.
shall have the evening all to myself and shall
| go u Denmark street alone.
! suppose 1t is rather awful thing for a
/ girl OF my age 70 go out after O'Clock, and
| have never been in the streets Of London by
| myself at any hour, but / don't care to take
even my good Broomfeld, for she would most
likely make as many objections rs Cyril, and
might fail in getting inside the house l want to
see. would rather depend entirely upon my
! own cleverness
know the number of the street. know the
position OF the room, know that it is a street
OF loiglng houses, so i can very easily make
| ooIleve TO be IN search of lodgings. l shall
wait TIL the carriage has driven off with mother
| and Uncle Ambrose and then shall send down
word to the butler that have a headache and
| won't dine. shall tell Bloomfield that am
going to lie down for an hour or two. upon
! which know the dear SOUL after having fused
about me with eau-de-cologne and sal-yolatile,
ana arranged my pillows and reading lamp,
| Will so down to the servants hall at the yery
| bottom OF the house and will be absorbed in
gossip till my bell rings
| L know where Uncle Ambrose leaves the
latch key which he always uses when he comes
| in from walk. so lean lot myself in as ouietly
| as let my self out Our hall and staircase when
| the heads of the family are out might for
silence and solitude as well be in the sepulchre
| Of one OF the Pharoahs
shall put on my very plainest cloth gown