Jewish Economies Development And Migration In

America And Beyond Vol I The Economic Life Of

American Jewry Simon Kuznets download

https://ebookbell.com/product/jewish-economies-development-and-
migration-in-america-and-beyond-vol-i-the-economic-life-of-
american-jewry-simon-kuznets-42873834

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

Jewish Economies Volume 2 Development And Migration In America And

Beyond Comparative Perspectives On Jewish Migration Simon Kuznets

https://ebookbell.com/product/jewish-economies-volume-2-development-
and-migration-in-america-and-beyond-comparative-perspectives-on-
jewish-migration-simon-kuznets-5492858

Profits And Prophets Market Economics And Jewish Social Ethics 1st Ed
Nancy Ruth Fox

https://ebookbell.com/product/profits-and-prophets-market-economics-
and-jewish-social-ethics-1st-ed-nancy-ruth-fox-22448360

Purchasing Power The Economics Of Modern Jewish History Rebecca Kobrin

Editor Adam Teller Editor

https://ebookbell.com/product/purchasing-power-the-economics-of-
modern-jewish-history-rebecca-kobrin-editor-adam-teller-
editor-51962894

Purchasing Power The Economics Of Modern Jewish History Rebecca Kobrin

And Adam Teller Eds

https://ebookbell.com/product/purchasing-power-the-economics-of-
modern-jewish-history-rebecca-kobrin-and-adam-teller-eds-7436118
The Tenants In The Vineyard Ideology Economics And Agrarian Conflict
In Jewish Palestine 2006th Edition John S Kloppenborg

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-tenants-in-the-vineyard-ideology-
economics-and-agrarian-conflict-in-jewish-palestine-2006th-edition-
john-s-kloppenborg-48959296

The Jewish Economic Elite Making Modern Europe Cornelia Aust

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-jewish-economic-elite-making-modern-
europe-cornelia-aust-7005438

Jewish Forced Labor Under The Nazis Economic Needs And Racial Aims
19381944 1st Edition Wolf Gruner

https://ebookbell.com/product/jewish-forced-labor-under-the-nazis-
economic-needs-and-racial-aims-19381944-1st-edition-wolf-
gruner-2143648

Economic Morality And Jewish Law 1st Edition Aaron Levine 19462011

https://ebookbell.com/product/economic-morality-and-jewish-law-1st-
edition-aaron-levine-19462011-6638556

The Economic History Of The Jewish People Jacques Attali

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-economic-history-of-the-jewish-
people-jacques-attali-44017388
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
and try to get a blacktail. Bacon three times a day is getting
monotonous.”
“Don't you think you'd better take the Winchester?” said Cooper.
(They had brought but one rifle.) “You might hit up against a grizzly
or a mountain lion. I heard one of 'em screeching last night.”
“No; I can't lug a gun. I've got my six shooter, and I'll risk it.
Come on, Shep! It's noon now, and we won't get back to supper if
we don't hurry.”
The dog raced gleefully ahead as the young man strode up the
gulch, scanning its rugged slope in search of a convenient place to
begin the ascent, and presently, as though cognizant of the plan, the
dog turned aside and with loud barking and much tail wagging
invited attention to a dry watercourse that offered a sort of path.
“I guess you're right, Shep,” Tom assented, and set his face to the
sturdy climb.
Half way up a ledge, covered with cedars and Spanish bayonet,
made the ascent really arduous for a little way, and here the dog,
which as usual was some rods in advance, suddenly began barking
furiously, and capering around a small object.
“Chipmunk, I reckon,” said Tom to himself, as he scrambled on,
short of breath; but when Shep came sliding down, holding in his
mouth a battered old felt hat, curiosity changed to amazement. The
dog growled at first, and refused to give up his prize, but after a
little coaxing yielded it into Tom's hands.
The old prospector had had no hat when found. Could this be it?
It did not seem to have lain out of doors long, and the dog would
hardly show so much interest unless his sharp nose had recognized
it as something belonging to his former inaster. Closely scrutinizing,
Tom found tucked into the lining a slip of sweat-stained paper with a
name upon it—

ARTHUR F. PIERSON,
Tucsony Arizona.
 Stuffing the hat into his pocket Tom scrambled on, thinking out
the meaning of the incident; and now he began to notice in this
steeper place that some of the boulders had been misplaced, and
here and there was a broken branch, as, if someone had descended
very hastily or clumsily.
“If that crazy old man came down here, and perhaps caught a
second bad fall, I don't wonder he was used up by the time he
reached the lake” was Tom's mental ejaculation, as he toiled up the
acclivity and at last, panting and leg weary, gained a narrow grassy
level at the foot of a crag “spiked with firs,” which had been
conspicuous from the valley not only by its height and castellated
battlements, but because a colossal X was formed on its face by two
broad veins of quartz crossing each other.
With his eyes fixed upon the rocky wall he walked along in the
face of a stiff breeze, until he noticed a pinkish streak upon the dark
cliff, betokening the outcrop of another vein, and turned aside to
climb a pile of fallen fragments at the foot of the crag to reach it.
These fragments were overgrown with low, dense shrubbery. He
ducked his head and was pushing into them, when suddenly he saw
a huge brown body rise almost into his face, heard the tremendous
growl of a grizzly, and amid a crash of bushes and dislodged stones
felt himself hurled backward.
Clutching instinctively at one of the shrubs as he fell, he whirled
under its hiding foliage, and the vicious stroke of the bear's paw
came down upon his leg instead of his head, while the released
branches snapped upward into the face of the brute, which, as much
surprised as its victim, paused in its onslaught to collect its wits. An
instant later Shep dashed up, and at the bear's hindquarters. Bruin
spasmodically sank his claws deeper into Tom's thigh, but turned his
head and shoulders with a terrific ursine oath at this new and most
palpable enemy; and ten seconds afterward Tom's revolver, its
muzzle pressed close underneath the bear's ear, had emptied half an
ounce of lead into its brain. A blood-freezing death squeal tore the
air, and the ponderous carcass sank down, stone dead, upon Tom's
body and upon the dwarfed spruce which covered it. It pinned him
to the ground with an almost insupportable weight. Perhaps if the
animal alone had lain upon him he might have wriggled out; but the
brute's carcass also held down the tough and firmly-rooted tree, and
the rocks on each side formed a sort of trough. Turn and strain as he
would Tom could not free himself from the burden which threatened
to smother him. Moreover, the convulsive death throe had forcibly
tightened the grip of the claws in the side of his knee, which felt as
if in some horrible torturing machine of the Inquisition; and had he
not been able at last to reach that paw with his left hand and pull it
away from the wound he would have died under the agony.
Then, as he felt the blood running hot and copious down his leg, a
new fear chilled his heart. Might he not bleed to death? There
seemed no end to the hemorrhage, and what hope had he of
succor? He thought of firing signals of distress, but could not reach
the pistol, which had been knocked out of his hand. He spoke to the
dog, which was barking and worrying at the bear's hind leg, and
Shep came and licked his face and sniffed at his blood-soaked
trousers. Then, as if even he realized how hopeless was the
situation, he sat on his haunches and howled until Tom, hearing him
less and less distinctly, imagined himself a boulder slowly but
musically crunching to powder under the resistless advance of a
glacier, and lost consciousness as the cold-blue dream-ice closed
over his dust.
By and by he awoke. It was dark, and something cold and soft
was blowing against his face. He moved and felt the shaggy fur and
the horrible pain in his leg and in his right arm, which was confined
in a twisted position. Then he remembered, but forgot again.
A second time he awoke. It was still dark, but a strange pallor
permeated the air, and all around him was a mist of white.
It was snowing fast. He closed his left hand and grasped a whole
fistful of flakes. The body of the bear was a mound of white—like a
new-made grave over him, he dismally thought. The snow had
drifted under and about his shoulders. Its chill struck the wound in
his thigh, which throbbed as though hit with pointed hammers,
keeping time to the pulsations of his heart; but, thank God! he no
longer felt that horrible warm trickling down his leg. He had been
preserved from bleeding to freeze to death. How long before that
would happen; or, if it were not cold enough for that, how long
before the snow would drift clear over him and cut off the little
breath which that ponderous, inert, dead-cold beast on his chest
prevented from entering his lungs? Where was the dog? He called
feebly: “Shep! Shep! Hi-i-i, Sh-e-p!” But no moist nose or rough
tongue responded. He tried to whistle, but his parched mouth
refused. Heavens, how thirsty! He stretched out his hand and
gathered the snow within his reach. Then he closed his eyes and
dreamed that two giants were pulling him asunder, and that a third
was pouring molten lead down his throat.
But it was only Bill Cooper trying to make him drink whiskey.
He understood it after a little and realized that he ought to
swallow. Then life came back, and with the knowledge that he was
no longer alone on the cold, remote, relentless mountain top, but
that Cooper was lifting away the bear, and that Shep was wild with
sympathy and gladness because he had been able to bring help,
came courage and forbearance of his suffering. In the morning new
strength came with the sunshine. The snow rapidly melted. Cooper
got breakfast and Tom rebandaged his knee.
“These gashes won't amount to much, unless the claws were
poisoned. You'll have to make me a crutch, and give me a couple of
days to get rid of the stiffness, but then I'll be all right.”
“How did you and the bear get into this scrimmage, anyhow? You
surely didn't go hunting him with that there six shooter?”
“Not I. The wind was blowing hard toward me, so he didn't smell
nor hear me, and I ran right on to him. Shep was not there to warn
me, but if he hadn't come back just as he did, or if I hadn't been
able to get at my revolver, Old Ephraim would ha' used me up in
about a minute.”
“I ain't a betting on one pistol shot against a grizzly, anyhow.”
“Of course, the chances were about one in a thousand, but I
wasn't going to die without a shot. I suppose the bullet struck the
lower part of the brain.”
“Yes,” said Bill, who had been probing its track. “Tore it all to
pieces. But what was the bear after in that brush?”
“Give it up—ants, likely. You know—Great Scott! What's that dog
got now?” Shep was coming out of the bushes, dragging a package
wrapped in buckskin which was almost too heavy for him to handle.
Cooper went and took it from him and brought it to the fire. It was a
sort of pouch firmly tied with a thong. Running a knife under this the
bundle fell apart, and a double handful of flakes and nuggets of gold
and quartz rolled out.
“The cache!” Tom shouted, comprehending instantly the meaning
of this. “The bear was tearing it to pieces!”
It was true. His strong feet had displaced the loosely-heaped
stones, and a half-devoured side of bacon lay close by where the
animal had been disturbed.
Evidently the marauder had just begun his work. There remained
in the cache two more pouches of gold—perhaps a quart of the
metal pieces in all, more or less pure, for all of it had been dug out
of a vein with hammer and knife point, none of the fragments
showing the water-worn roundness characteristic of placer gold.
Then there were a small quantity of provisions, some ammunition
and a small rosewood box with an ornamental brass lock having a
remarkably small and irregular keyhole.
From an inner pocket of his purse Tom drew the odd little key the
dead prospector had given him. It fitted into the hole and easily
turned the lock. The cover sprang open, revealing a package of
letters. He lifted them out, but did not pause to read them.
Then came an envelope containing a patent to ranch lands in
Arizona, certificates of stock in Mexican and other mines that Burke
had never heard of, and a commission as lieutenant of artillery in the
Confederate army. All these documents were made out to “Arthur F.
Pierson,” establishing the fact that the lost hat was really that worn
by the old man, as his dog had recognized.
 At the bottom of the box, however, Tom found what interested
him most—a formal “claim” and description of the lode whence the
gold had been taken, and how to reach it from this cache. It was
written in pencil, in a very shaky hand, on two or three soiled leaves
torn from a memorandum book and eked out with one of the covers.
Then Tom took up the letters. Most of them were recent and of
business importance, but several were old and worn with much
handling. One of these latter was from a lawyer in San Francisco,
acknowledging funds “sent for the support of your infant daughter,”
describing her health and growth, and the care taken of her “at the
convent”—all in curt business phrase, but precious to the father's
heart. Then there were two or three small letters, printed and
scratched in a childish hand, to “dear, dear papa,” and signed “Your
little Polly.” One of these spoke of Sister Agatha and Sister Theresa,
showing that it was written while the child was still in the convent;
but the others, a little later, prattled about a new home with “my
new papa and mamma,” but gave no clew to name or place.
“This baby girl—she must be a young woman now, if she lives,”
Tom mused—“is evidently the person the poor old chap wanted me
to divide with. It ought not to be difficult to trace her from San
Francisco, I suppose the convent Sisters knew where she went to
when they gave her up. But, hello! here's a picture.”
It was an old-fashioned daguerrotype of a handsome woman of
perhaps four-and-twenty, in bridal finery, whose face seemed to him
to have something familiar in its expression. But no name or date
was to be found, and with the natural conclusion that this was
probably Pierson's wife he puzzled a moment more over the pretty
face, and then put it away.
After a few days, when Burke was able to travel, the prospector's
memorandum and their mountain craft together led them almost
directly to the coveted gold vein, which ran across a shoulder of the
mountain at the head of the gulch, like an obscure trail, finally
disappearing under a great talus at the foot of a line of snowcapped
crags.
 Tracing it along, they presently came upon the old man's claim
marks. The stakes were lettered pathetically with the name of the
old man's choosing—“Polly's Hope.”
Adjoining the “Hope” Tom staked out one claim for himself and
another for his sweetheart, intending to do the proper assessment
work on it himself if Corbitt couldn't or wouldn't; and Cooper used
up most of what remained of the visible outcrop in a claim for
himself.
Returning to town their claims were registered in the Crimson
Mineral District, and their report sent a flight of gold hunters in hot
haste to the scene.
Tom Burke, after selling everything he could send to market to
turn into ready money, departed to Denver, carrying with him
documents and specimens of the gold quartz to support his
assertions.
Keen men fêted and flattered him, buttonholing him at every
corner with whispered advice, and many proffered schemes. But he
was indifferent to it all, and anxious as yet only to hear what Marion
should say.
Not a word had he heard from her directly during all the weeks of
her absence, but indirectly he knew she had been a star in the local
society. He had even to hunt out where she lived, finding it in a
cottage near where the stately court house now stands.
He went there, after tea, with a fastbeating heart. Had she
forgotten, or withdrawn or been turned away by hardhearted
parents and friends? He suspected everything and everybody, yet
could give no reasons. And how absurd these fears looked to him—
how foolish!—when, sitting in the little parlor, hand in hand, they
talked over the past, and she confided that the same doubts had
worried her now and then—“most of all, Tom, dear, when I hear of
this wonderful success of yours.”
“Bless me! I had forgotten it. By your side all else——”
Here the door opened—not too abruptly—and Mr. Corbitt came in,
grimly hospitable and glad, no doubt for his own sake, to see this
young fellow who was still true to his daughter; while Mrs. Corbitt
was more openly cordial, as became her.
“An' what's this we're hearin' aboot your new mines? They're
sayin' down town that you've struck a regular bonanza, an'll soon be
worth your meellions. But I told 'em 'Hoot! I'd heard the like o' that
before!'”
So Tom recounted briefly the story of the prospector's death and
his will; still more briefly his adventure with the grizzly, and how it
led to the curious disclosure of the cache. Then, with no little
dramatic force, seeing how interested was his audience, he
described the hunt for the vein and the finding it, produced his
specimens and handed to Miss Marion a mass of almost solid gold
embedded in its matrix.
“I can't promise you,” he said, as she tried to thank him with her
eyes and a timid touch of her fingers, “that the whole ledge will
equal that, but it is a genuine sample from near the surface.”
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” the old Scotchman ejaculated, with
gleaming eyes, as Tom went on to show how regular and secure was
the title to this possession. “But did ye no find out the name of the
poor vagabone?”
“Oh, yes. Didn't I mention it? His name was Arthur Pierson.”
Corbitt and his wife both started from their seats.
“Man, did I hear ye aright?—Arthur F. Pierson?”
“That was the name exactly. I can show it to you on the letters.”
“An' he charged ye to give the half of all ye found to his daughter
Polly?”
“Yes, and I mean to try to find her.”
“There she sits!” cried Mother Corbitt excitedly, before her
cautious husband, could say “Hush!”—pointing at Marion, who gazed
from one to the other, too much amazed to feel grieved yet at this
stunning announcement. “We took the lassie when she was a wee
bairn, and she would never ha' known she wasn't ours really till
maybe we were dead and gone. Her feyther was a cankert, fashious
body, but her mother was guid and bonnie (I knew her well in the
auld country) and she died when Mary—that's you, my dearie—was
born.”
“Is this her picture?” Tom asked, showing the daguerrotype.
“Aye, that it is. Puir Jennie!”
The rest is soon told. A company of capitalists was formed to work
the four consolidated claims on the new vein, under the name of the
Hope Mining Company.
 All the next season was spent by Tom Burke in developing the
property and erecting machinery. Corbitt was there too, much
thawed by the sun of prosperity, but his wife and daughter remained
in Denver. In the autumn, however, the ladies went East, and as the
holidays approached Tom and Corbitt followed them to New York,
where, on Christmas eve, my hero and heroine were married quietly
in a little church up town; and his gift to her was the brooch which
had attracted my attention and whose significance was now plain.
 MISS GWYNNE'S BURGLAR, By
Violet Etynge Mitchell

I
N the heart of Wales, nestling between two dark frowning
mountains, and lulled to drowsy indifference of the big outside
world by the murmurs of the not far distant sea, stands the little
village of Cod-y-glyn.
Just outside the village, on the main road stands—or did stand ten
years ago—an old stone house, in the middle of a large garden,
which was surrounded on all sides by a high wall, also of stone. It
was the pride of the owner, Miss Gwynne.
One night, in the early spring of the year, there was to be a
wedding at Cod-y-Glyn—a wedding in humble life, but anticipated
with great glee by the invited guests, among whom were Miss
Gwynne's servants, the coachman and his wife (who was also cook)
and Ylva, their daughter, employed as a maid-of-all-work.
Knowing the disappointment it would be to them if they were
denied the pleasure of attending the wedding, she had declined the
coachman's offer to remain with her, allowing his wife and daughter
to go, and laughingly assured him that with her father's gun for
company she feared nothing.
Miss Gwynne retired at an early hour, having locked up the house.
She lay for some time gazing through the window at the twinkling
stars, lost in quiet retrospection.
I will let Miss Gwynne tell the rest of the story in her own way,
repeating as well as I can from memory the words as I heard them
from her lips ten years ago.
 I cannot tell if I dozed or not, but I was conscious of the moon
shining dimly through the clouds, and I wondered how long I had
lain there. Reaching out for my watch, which lay on the table, I was
horrified to feel my wrist grasped and held by a firm hand.
To say I was frightened would be less correct than to say I was
astounded, for I have always been a woman of steady nerve, and
the present occasion called for its use.
The moon had retired behind a heavy curtain of clouds, and the
room was in complete darkness, but from the drapery at my bedside
issued a voice, and at the same time the python-like grasp on my
wrist relaxed.
“I beg to apologize, madam,” said this voice; “I have chosen a
bungling manner of awakening you—foreign to my custom. Pardon
me, and do not be alarmed. I merely wish to relieve you of any
superfluous silver, jewelry or bank notes you do not absolutely need.
But as the vandalism of breaking locks is out of my line, I will
request you to arise and show me where such things are kept.”
By the time he had finished this speech I was myself again.
“Very well,” I said, “I'll get up and show you; but, as it is
embarrassing to dress in your presence, will you step out into the
hall and close the door while I put on my clothing?”
There was a soft rustling of the curtains at the bedside, and the
sound of footsteps on the carpet, and immediately afterward the
door closed.
“Five minutes, madam, is all I can give you,” remarked the burglar,
as he disappeared.
It took me (after lighting the candle) two minutes to slip on a
warm skirt, and a blue flannel wrapper over it; then, sticking my feet
into a pair of down slippers, I had still time to snatch a roll of bills
amounting to one hundred pounds, and pin them deftly to the lining
of the canopy above my four-post bed.
 Then throwing open the door I stood on the sill facing my visitor,
and threw the glare of the lighted candle full upon him, as he lolled
in a careless, easy attitude against the bannisters.
I had been prepared for a burglar—but I had looked for one
attired according to the traditions of my ancestors. But here was a
gentlemanly, mild-featured individual, such as I should have
expected to find filling the position of a professor of Latin—perhaps
of theology—in Oxford University.
There was no appearance of a jimmy, or tools of any kind.
Evidently here was a type of criminal with which history was
unacquainted.
“Madam!” he exclaimed, bowing with the grace of a French
courtier, “you are punctuality itself. And how charming!—no hysterics
—no distressing scenes. Allow me.” He took the candle from my
hand, and holding it aloft preceded me down the great oaken stairs,
talking fluently all the while, but pausing at every other step to
glance over his shoulder at me with coquettish politeness.
“I wish to assure you,” he remarked, “that I am no ordinary
house-breaker. Burglary is with me a profession, though not the one
(I confess) chosen for me by my parents. I saw, at an early age,
that I must either descend to the level of the burglar, or raise him to
the level of an artist. Behold, my dear lady, the result.”
He stood at the foot of the stairs and looked up at me.
“Shall we proceed to the diningroom?” he asked airily; “and, as I
wish to give you no unnecessary trouble, let me say that I do not
dabble in plated spoons; nothing but solid silver.”
I opened the old mahogany sideboard, in which Griffiths had, for
years, placed the family heirlooms at night, and beheld my
gentlemanly burglar stow them, one after another, in a capacious felt
sack, which he carried in his hand.
“Charming!” he cried. “I am a connoisseur, I assure you, and I
know silver from plate. These articles are really worth the risk of the
enterprise.”
 You ask me if I was not alarmed. No, I was not. Personal violence
was not in his professional line, unless opposed. I summoned all my
energies to outwit him. I thought much and said little, for I had no
intention of allowing him to carry off my mother's silver.
After having rifled all the rooms of the most valuable articles, he
returned to the dining-room.
On the table the remains of supper still stood, consisting of a fowl,
hardly touched, some delicately cut bread and butter, cake, and a
glass jar containing some fancy crackers.
“I will make myself entirely at home,” he remarked, sitting down
to the table, and helping himself to a wing of the chicken.
“Really,” he proceeded, “I have thoroughly enjoyed this evening.
Not only have I met a most charming lady, but I have been able to
prove to her that the terms gentleman and burglar may be
synonomous.”
He now began on the cake. I pushed the cracker jar toward him.
“Try them,” I observed.
Still smiling indulgently, and talking, he took out one of the
crackers and began to nibble on it. It was very dry.
I rose, and in an absent-minded manner placed on the table the
remains of a bottle of rare old Burgundy, which had been opened the
day before.
“Now, really,” he prattled, “I'm a very harmless man five months
out of six—I never steal unless other means fail, or a tailor's bill
comes due. I'm a respectable citizen and—a church member in good
standing when I'm not on one of my professional tours. I took up
burglary more as a resource than from necessity. Candidly speaking,
now, am I a ruffian?”
 “No!” I replied, looking directly at him. “On the contrary, you are a
very fine-looking man.”
A glow of vanity spread over his face. I poured out a glass of the
Burgundy and pushed it toward him.
“England to Wales!” he cried with gallantry. “I don't generally
drink,” he added, “but these crackers make me thirsty.”
 “If I could only find a wife suited to my tastes,” he mused, “such a
woman as you are, by George! I'd give up aesthetic burglary and
settle down to quiet domestic bliss.” He looked questioningly at me.
“If”—he hesitated—“you could be sure I would abandon my
profession—would you—do you think you could—condone my past
and—marry me?”
“That is a matter for consideration,” I replied.
He helped himself to another cracker.
“Your proposal is so startlingly unique,” I continued, “to marry
one's burglar! Really it is quite a joke.”
“Isn't it?” he chuckled, evidently enjoying the idea of the oddity.
“We are kindred spirits!” he exclaimed, convivially, but was
interrupted by a violent fit of coughing.
Seizing the bottle of Burgundy, he drained the only drop or two
left.
“I think, maybe, there's another bottle down in the cellar,” I cried,
artlessly. “I'll go down and see—I feel thirsty myself.”
“We will descend together,” exclaimed my burglar, gallantly taking
the candle from my hand and following me to the door leading to
the cellar steps.
We descended the steps chatting pleasantly—he discoursing on
matrimony, I answering rather vaguely, but measuring the distance
to the wine bins by my eye. They were at the far end of the cellar,
and were five in number, each large enough to hold a quarter of a
ton of coal. Before the furthest one I paused.
 “Here,” I said, “is the brand we are looking for.” I raised the heavy
lid and looked in. “I will hold the candle,” I observed; “will you get
the bottle? I can hardly reach it.”
He handed me the candle and bent low over the bin. Ha! ha!
Quicker than a flash of lightning I tipped up his heels (he was easily
overbalanced), and into the bin he fell headlong. Down came the
heavy lid. But there was no padlock on it. I must hurry! Blowing out
the candle, I ran, for I knew the way, straight to the cellar steps and
up them—like a cat. Then with a locked door between myself and
my burglar, I could breathe.
 I heard the man kicking about down below, for of course he got
out of the bin at once. But our cellar is a labyrinth. Seizing father's
old gun from its resting-place in the hall, I sat down near the door at
the head of the stairs, waiting for the worst.
The door was fairly strong—that I knew; but he was a powerful
man. So I dragged a heavy table from the sitting-room and placed it
against it.
Suddenly I became conscious that he had found his way to the
stairs and was rapidly approaching the door, which was all that lay
between me and his revengeful fury.
Bracing myself against the opposite wall, I raised the old gun, and,
deliberately aiming it, waited.
He began by pounding with both fists on the door, but, not
receiving any answer, he tried threats. An instinct seemed to tell him
I would remain on guard.
His language, I must confess, while threatening, was not abusive.
It was, in fact, incredibly elegant for a burglar, and strictly
grammatical.
All at once there came a crash, followed by the creaking of heavy
timber, and the door fell. Down he came on top of it, sprawling at
my feet on the floor. I raised my gun and fired.
“Hit him?” I interrupted.
“No,” replied Miss Gwynne; “here in the wall of the dining-room
the bullet lodged, and is still there.”
The next thing I was conscious of was Mrs. Griffiths bending over
me, and her husband's voice exclaiming:
“He'd never have escaped if we had not left that door open when
we came in. You see we got home just in time to hear you fire the
gun, and as we ran in he ran out. Drat him!”
I raised myself on my elbow and looked eagerly about.
“He had no time to carry off a thing,” said Mrs. Griffiths.
 “I would like to set my eyes on him,” I remarked, when Miss
Gwynne had concluded her story. “You are a distinguished woman
and are—I believe—the very first one who ever received an offer of
marriage from a burglar.”
The lady smiled. “Do you not remember reading about the capture
of a notorious bank robber, several years ago? The case created
quite a sensation, owing partly to the difficulty in tracing the thief,
who was clever enough to puzzle the most expert detectives and
evade the police, and also to the respectability of his position. No
one could believe him guilty.”
“Indeed I do remember it,” I answered. “Not only that, but I saw
the man after he was in prison. I happened to be going through
Chester Jail at the time and J——— was pointed out to me. He was
quite distinguished looking. In fact, I did not believe him guilty.”
“Nor would I,” said Miss Gwynne, “if I had not known.”
“You mean,” I said, “that he——
“I mean that you saw my burglar.”
 THE LADY IN ROUGE, By W. E. P.
French

“Pretty woman! That's just like a man. Pretty

chromo, you mean, Tom.”
“Well,” in a hearty, pleasant voice, “maybe you are
the better judge; but I don't believe she's 'made up,'
and if I wasn't the most henpecked man on earth I'd
say she was the loveliest creature I ever saw. As for
her hair, it's——”
“Blondined! And so utterly impossible in color that it
couldn't for a moment fool anybody but a man,”
interrupted the first speaker, with deliciously spiteful emphasis on
the very common noun man.
“Eyebrows stencilled, eyelashes darkened; lips, ears and finger
tips tinged with carmine—don't you know? Complexion enamel,
vinegar rouge and brunette powder—pshaw! The way the men go
on about her makes me positively ill. If you fall in love with her,
Harry, you are no brother of mine. I don't care to be sister-in-law to
a lithograph in fast colors.”
“You make me curious to see her, Nell, dear. By Jove, she must be
either a monster or a paragon! Have the spirit of a man, Tom, and
tell me which.”
“Don't try to extract any more information from me, old man; my
teeth are positively chattering with terror. You can decide for yourself
this evening, if your ferocious sister will allow you to leave your
room. By the way,” with an amused laugh, “what do you suppose
Nell and the rest of her charitable sex up here have dubbed the poor
girl? 'The lady in rouge!'”
“Yes, and she ought to have a sign, 'Paint, don't touch.' I believe
she is a divorcée or a widow, and I know she's thirty in spite of her
sickening affectation of youth.”
“Oh, come, Nell, you are absolutely vicious. She is not a day over
twenty, and she has the prettiest name I ever heard, Violante
Solander; accent on the second syllable, Harry, not on the first, to
rhyme with Hollander, as the bride of my bosom insists on
pronouncing it.”
“Sounds like a combination of Spanish and Scandinavian,” the
younger man answers.
“It is,” returns his brother-in-law. “I have met her father several
times at the Cosmos Club in Washington. He is a Norwegian, a
wonderfully handsome man, of the purest blonde type, with
charming old-time manners and a voice as deep and sonorous as a
fine bell. Jack Kendricks, who knows him quite well, told me
something of his history. As a young man he traveled pretty much all
over the world, and in South America met and married Miss Viola's
mother. She was an Ecuadorean of Spanish descent, and so beautiful
that she was called, in reference to her name, which was the same
as her daughter's, 'The Violet of Quito.' It is really a case of the
Arctic zone wedding the Equator.”
“Or of a walrus committing matrimony with a llama. No wonder
she is neither fish, flesh nor fowl,” added madame, with a malicious
emphasis that made both men laugh.
This conversation floated up to me as I sat smoking my cigar on
the forward edge of the hurricane deck of the little steamer that
carried passengers from the railroad station at the foot of a beautiful
and well-known lake in the Adirondacks to the village at the head of
it, whither we were all bound.
The party of three had crossed from the other side of the boat
and Were leaning against the guards immediately under me. Later
on I came to know them all well. The lady was a delightful little
bundle of inconsistencies, sharp of tongue, quick of temper and
jealous of all that belonged to her, but as generous as an Arab, very
warm hearted, perfectly fearless and honest and a loyal friend when
won. She was born Miss Eleanor Van Zandt, a family with a tree and
traditions, pride, possessions and position; but the fact that she
belonged in the top layer of the Four Hundred did not prevent her,
some ten years before, refusing a scion of the English nobility (a
very wealthy one, too, if you'll believe me), to her mother's Infinite
disgust, and giving her dimpled little hand, where she had already
given her heart, to big, kindly, genial Thomas Northrup, who was
every inch a man and a gentleman, but who was third in direct
descent (and gloried in it, too) from old John Northrup, saddle and
harness maker, of whom I have heard it told by one that saw it that
he died on his sixtieth birthday in the battle of Gettysburg, from
some twenty bullet wounds received while carrying the colors of his
regiment, and that his last words were: “Don't let the Johnnies get
the flag!”
I feel it to be my painful duty to relate that Madame Nell, when
remonstrated with by her family upon the plebeian nature of the
match she was about to make, flew into a violent rage and said she
would gladly trade a baker's dozen of her eminently high and
wellborn Knickerbocker ancestors for “that grand old saddler.” The
Van Zandt crest is a lion rampant gardant, and shortly after the
wedding an aunt, who had declined to be present, received a
spirited sketch of the family beast, leaning upon a musket in the
position of parade rest, carrying a flag in his mouth and bearing
upon his lordly back a monstrous saddle, the motto in the
surrounding heraldic belt being, “Don't let the Johnnies get the flag!”
This cheerful device was accompanied by a very deferential and
affectionate note from the bride, asking her aunt if she did not think
it a pretty way of combining the Northrup family (saddle) tree with
the crest of the Van Zandts, or if she thought the “dear old lion”
would appear to better advantage under a saddle that would conceal
him entirely from the gaze of the vulgar herd.
 The old lady declined to receive Mrs. Northrup from that time until
the day of her death, about four years later, but when her will was
opened it was found that she had left $200,000 to her niece, Eleanor
Van Zandt, “as a mark of respect for her truth, courage and artistic
ability,” and $10,000 for a monument “to that gallant soldier and
true gentleman, John Northrup, who died on the field of Gettysburg
in the defense of his country's flag.” Nell designed the monument,
and every Decoration Day she puts a saddle made of flowers on the
old lady's grave. But to my tale.
Harry Van Zandt, at the time of which I write, was about twenty-
six, tall, broad shouldered, athletic, brown as to eyes, hair, skin and
pointed beard, an engineer and architect by profession, an advanced
and liberal thinker for so young a man, full of high spirits, though
with a depth and earnestness of purpose very refreshing in these
days when selfish indifference is the rule, and altogether a manly,
honorable, self reliant and energetic young fellow. He had charming
manners, reverenced all women, rich or poor, proud or humble, and
treated old people with an affectionate deference that won him
many friends.
The steamer had changed her course to the left rather sharply,
heading for her wharf, when a Long Lake boat, with a woman at the
sculls and a young man holding the tiller ropes, crossed our bow and
floated by within fifteen feet of us. I did not need the quick, “There
she is! Look, Harry!” from Mr. Northrup to know that it was Miss
Solander. She had turned her head slightly toward them to bow, and
the setting sun shone squarely in her face, making the wonderful
amber hair seem a nimbus of golden light against the dark
background of her huge Gainsborough hat.
A more perfectly, harmoniously, radiantly beautiful girl I have
never seen. Her coloring was simply marvelous, and I inclined to
Mrs. Northrup's opinion that it must be artificial. It is impossible to
give an adequate description of her—the wonderful child-woman. A
face of rounded and exquisite contours, the skin of that warmest,
richest, brunette type that is almost dusky; cheeks that had the soft,
tender, velvety bloom of a sun-kissed peach; a charming mouth,
scarlet as a flower, ripe, luscious, sensitive, ready to curve with
sweet, swift laughter or to droop with grief. Her eyes, in the glimpse
I had of her, I took to be black or a very dark brown, but later I
found they were of that rare deep blue that becomes violet by an
artificial light, and, indeed, owing to the length and thickness of the
dark lashes, it was not easy at any time to determine their exact
color, much less shade. Well, she was more nearly perfect than any
other human thing I ever hope to see.

From her gold-flax curls' most marvelous shine,

Down to her lithe and delicate feet,
There was not a curve nor a waving line
But moved in a harmony firm and sweet.

As she passed from view I looked down at the trio below me. Mrs.
Northrup was regarding her brother curiously, and I don't think
either she or I was at all surprised when he turned, his face aglow
with enthusiasm, and said: “What a lovely girl!” Then, with quick
change of tone, “Who is that man with her?”
“Lovely as a Prang,” remarked my lady, dryly. “The man is your
hated rival, of whom you are already madly jealous. He is young,
beautiful and rich, dances divinely, speaks real English and has very
nearly a tablespoonful of brains—not that he needs such a
preponderance of brain, for he has enough money to make a social
success of a jibbering idiot. His name is Francis Floyd-Jones, but we
speak of him affectionately as 'Fluggeon,' and those that know him
best sometimes lovingly refer to him as 'Balaam's Ass'—but you'll like
him, Harry.”
Van Zandt's reply I did not hear, as I discreetly moved away; but I
heard both men laugh, and I joined them heartily when at a safe
distance.
When we landed I found we were all bound for the same hotel, a
capital one, named for and kept by one of a famous hotel-keeping
family. The Northrups' little girl, a madcap child of six, was on the
lawn waiting the return of her parents and the arrival of her uncle,
of whom she was evidently very fond, although she abandoned him
speedily in order to hug and kiss his superb Irish setter, Blarney, who
licked the small imp's face calmly and appeared in his grave dog's
way genuinely glad to see her.
Ethel, as I found out in a day or two, had taken one of those
intense fancies that children do occasionally to almost entire
strangers to “the lady in rouge,” and would escape to her whenever
chance permitted. Poor Mrs. Northrup! Her ranks were deserters to
the enemy. Her husband openly admired the gorgeously-tinted girl,
her child simply worshipped her, her brother had palpably fallen in
love at first sight, and, when we came out from dinner, it was found
that Blarney had dumbly sworn allegiance to the violet of two zones
and could with difficulty be induced to leave her. The dog's
infatuation was put to-practical service by his master during the next
few weeks, for that astute young gentleman, when unable to
discover the whereabouts of his idol by peering and prowling, would
take one of Blarney's silky ears in his hand and whisper, “Go, find
her, boy,” which the clever animal promptly proceeded to do, usually
successfully, though often the search would receive a check on the
edge of the lake and be resumed after a run of a mile on the island.
Madame Nell and I soon discovered that we had a host of
common friends in New York and Washington, and that an uncle on
her mother's side (poor Dick Whitney, who was lost on the Ville de
Havre) had been a classmate of mine at Harvard forty odd years
before. These kindly young people were as good and affectionate to
me as though I had been a relative, and the heart of a lonely old
man went out to them gratefully and lovingly.
By the way, I am tempted to repeat a compliment that I overheard
toward the end of the summer, because it was the pleasantest and
heartiest I ever had paid to me, or rather about me. Charge it to the
garrulity of age or simple conceit, but here it is:
I came up behind them one dark night on the piazza, just as Mrs.
Northrop turned to her husband and said: “Do you know, Tom, dear,
I think Dr. Zobel is the very nicest old man I ever knew; he has the
head of a sage and the fresh, pure heart of a little child.”

There was a hop that first evening in the large drawing room of
the hotel, and a little while before the music began I wandered in to
find three or four small groups talking and laughing, among them
Van Zandt and his sister. She made room for me on the sofa, and
said I should be her attendant cavalier, as she did not intend to
dance. We chatted a bit and then madame began a running
commentary on the people as they entered.
“The Robinsons—papa, mamma and daughter. Papa looketh upon
the wine when it is red. Mamma is a devout Catholic. Daughter
openly defies both parents and, I am convinced, hath a devil. I have
ventured to rename them 'Rum, Romanism and Rebellion.'”
“What De Quincy would call 'an overt act of alliteration,' Nell,” said
Van Zandt, and added: “Who is the imposing-looking old girl leading
the small, meek man?”
“Where? Oh! of course. The lion and the lamb. Mrs. Colter is
literary, writes things, reads Browning understanding (happy
woman!), quotes Greek to people that never harmed her, and herds
the lamb, who never has any capers in his sauce, and who is, I am
told, her third matrimonial venture.”
“A fulfillness of prophecy,” murmured Harry, “'And the lion and the
lamb shall lie down together.'”
“Harry, you are incorrigible. The young man of peculiarly
unwholesome appearance who has just sneaked in is, I am morally
certain, Uriah Heep, though he says his name is Penrose. That [as a
handsome old lady of large proportions came into the room] is Miss
Eldridge. She is very nice, but is omnipresent, so we call her 'The
Almighty,' Her escort is Mr. Hinton; he is the biggest, jolliest and—
except my Tom—the bestnatured man here. Everyone calls him
'Jumbo' or 'Billy' Look out for him, Buz; he is another rival and
determined to have the chromo at any price. There she is with
'Buttons' in tow, and the disconsolate 'Wafer' vainly endeavoring to
console himself with his divinity's aunt.”
The young gentlemen were aptly named. The first, a handsome
young West Pointer on furlough, in all the glory of cadet gray and a
multitude of bell buttons; the other, a pleasant-faced fellow,
surprisingly tall and thin. Nell had introduced Van Zandt and me to
Miss Solander and her aunt shortly after dinner, and I had had a very
pleasant chat with the stately, whitehaired old lady, who was so
proud and fond of her exquisite niece. She was Mr. Solander's sister
and the widow of Captain Dupont of the French Navy.
Several friends of Mrs. Northrup joined her, and Van Zandt
excused himself and went to make one of the little group of men
around Miss Solander, followed by a parting injunction from his sister
to remember that benzine would remove paint spots if applied while
they were fresh.
Beautiful as this flower-faced girl was at all times, by lamp light
and in evening dress she was lovely beyond all power of words to
express, and as I came to know her I found that her beauty was not
alone in her superb coloring, in the perfect lines of her face and
figure or in her exuberant health, but was in her life; for she was—
and is—that rare, sweet thing, a womanly woman, brave, strong,
gentle, generous, pure of heart and clean of thought, a lover of
truth, a hater of meanness, with a mind broadened by travel and
burnished by attrition; and she carried, moreover, a cloak of charity
of such wide and ample fold that it fell lovingly over even the follies
and frailties of those weaker ones of her own sex and was proof
against the arrows of envy.
With old people and children she was a great favorite; the men
were her enthusiastic admirers, and a good half dozen of them were
helplessly, hopelessly, over head and ears in love with her; but a
number of the young married women and girls professed strong
disapproval of her, on similar grounds to those outlined by Mrs.
Northrup on the steamer, though I had my private suspicions that, in
some cases at least, they were a trifle jealous of the attention she
received from the men, who, as is generally the case at summer
resorts, were not overabundant. Mrs. Northrup's dislike was an
honest one, for she firmly believed the girl was artificial, and having
carefully avoided an intimacy knew but little of the lovely nature and
bright mind that no one was better fitted to appreciated than she.
Besides, Madame Nell was a born matchmaker and wanted her
adored brother to marry her particular friend and crony, Miss Carrie
Belmont, a brighteyed, keen-witted, merry little soul, who took
nothing seriously except medicine and had about as much fixedness
of purpose as a month-old kitten. To a man like Van Zandt, who
needed both the curb and spur of a mentality as strong and earnest
as his own, she would have been about as valuable a helpmeet as
was poor little Dora to David Copperfield. But Nell was fond of the
pretty, clever little creature, felt sure (as our mothers and sisters,
God bless 'em! always do) that her brother was thoroughly incapable
of picking out the right kind of a wife, and weeks before he came
had perceived in Miss Solander's marvelous loveliness a dangerous
and powerful factor in the personal equations she wished to make
equal to each other, so that by the transposition of matrimony they
should become one.
Of course this knowledge came to me gradually; but even that
first evening, as Van Zandt and Miss Solander passed near us in the
waltz, I could see that he was wonderfully taken with his fair partner.
For the next few days he was more or less the victim of some little
sisterly traps that were set with great tact and amused Northrup and
me immensely. Then my young gentleman escaped and made great
running, distancing “Buttons,” “The Wafer,” “Balaam's Ass,” and the
rest of what Nell called the “fry,” and crowding Hinton closely for
what each felt was his life's race for a prize that might be for neither
of them. They were a nice, manly, generous pair of rivals, and I
never saw either take an unfair advantage of the other. I remember
one day I was fishing, when they both rushed down to their boats
and started for the island at racing stroke. Just as they were abreast
of me Van Zandt, who was leading, broke a rowlock, and Hinton
forged ahead; but the moment he saw what had occurred he backed
water, tossed Harry an extra rowlock, waited until he had put it in,
and then away they went again.
Which was the favored one it was for some time difficult to decide,
as the girl was evidently used to a great deal of attention, and
accepted it gracefully and even gratefully; but yet somehow as
though it was a matter of course. She took many things as matters
of course, by the way, among others her beauty, of which she was
as little vain as a flower is of its color or perfume, and she labored
under the pleasant delusion that men liked her simply because she
could dance and ride and row and shoot and play tennis. There was
another thing she played beside tennis, and that was the banjo, and
it seemed to me that her rich, flexible contralto, the liquid tingle of
the banjo and the Spanish words of the song she loved best to sing,
made a harmony as soft and sweet as the fragrant, moonlit nights of
her Southern home.
Until I read the generous and intelligent praise of the banjo by the
gifted pen of America's greatest writer of romance, I had been
rather diffident of expressing my liking for this charming instrument,
partly because it was rather impressed upon me by my parents, who
were a little tinged with Puritanism, that it was low, and partly
because a musical friend, whose opinion in matters harmonic I
always deferred to, disliked it; but, under the rose, I thought it
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com