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HomeMy WebLinkAboutGoderich Reporter, 1880-07-17, Page 1-03119113SEZI:: • • Int 0 1 0 :t , 1 • 7-enere- • 01 -4101010011: GODERICH, SATLIDAY, JULY 17,1880 ,srsaras.veslisamorssmsassmalmassufamcliSSsaswwwszt-,2reSecelsihtssktsissesstassrESV• • . 3 • Don't Tread op. your Neighbour's Toes. Your;friend may have contrary views from you, And see in a different light: Bt Larry and glad, or sorry and sad, While you are the opposite quite. Don't grumnie and growl at the faults of men, Bat take the world as it goes; And, whatever you may choose to do, Don't tread on your neighbonr's toes. Iron musrwinter and summer a man you know, Before you cadfirid him out: Ho has faultspis true, but so have you, Full many, there's no doubt. Respect the opinion of rich and poor, Offintimate friends or foes, .And in treading the intricate walks of life, .Don't tread on your neighbor's toes 1 You may have for your plea that people crowd, And jostle, end pink, and throng,; Thut their plans too often upset their own, Thus making the world go wrong (?) Two wrongs hays never yet made one right, As many a sequel shows; So, whatever oles yon may choose to do, , iton't_tread on your neighbors toes MraescoolliMirMilactiscerarms. The Last Evening "- Going out ?." The tone was one so full of surprise that it might be supposed, to hear it, that going out was rathetan astonishing event in the daily routirre of Robert Seymour's life, to leave his business during busi- ness hours. was the reply, while the old gentleman drew on his well-worn over- coat, and carefully brushed his rather shabby bat, shall be out for an hour or twd. it is a dull day, Fred, so you will probably have but little -to. do. Sitters are -not apt to come in such gloomy wea- ther." " Are yeu going far ? not spoken as if dictated by mere curiosity, but in a • Voice full of affectionate interest. 'As far as W street. 1 may be detained, but 1 - return in two hours ; " and, with a kindly nod, the old gentleman left the room. It was, as he had said, gloomy weather; ' a dull November day, not raining, but • -cloudy, chilly, and disagreeable. Robert Seymour drew his oyercoat closely around him, and walked as fast as bis rather fee- • ble frame would permit towards his des- tination. • He was an old man, to all ap- pearance, and yet he seemed more bro- , ken by anxiety and care than by the • positive weight of years. His hair was white,- his figure, once tall and large; shrunen and stooping, and his large blue eyes, full of benevolencaand kind- ness, rere yet dull and wavering in ex- pression. As he turned into W street his step grew slower and mora ir- resolute, till he cattle to a large and . handsome house IShere he stopped, look- ing behind birn as if half inclined to turn back again. The house before which he thins paused bora the marks that in Philadelphia signify a recent bereave- ment. The shutters were bowed from the lowest to the highest story, and from each narrow aperture there streamed long broad bands of black crape ; there was no sign of mourning upon the bell - handle, so the funeral was over, but the •whole front of the house was dark and gloomy in .appearance. Mn Seymour's hesitation lasted but a few moments, and with a deep breath that was almost a sigh, he ascended the high broad :marble steps and rang the door -bell. A servant man opened the door, but in answer to his inquiry, "Is Miss Seymour at home ? " only stared vacantly at the speaker. With a little touch of impatience the 'question was repeated. "There is no one of that name lives here." " Is not this Mrs. Connell's ? " "Yes, sir. She died, you know, last week. Miss Helen Connell is the only m young lady here." gr " Will you tell her I wish to speak with ° her." "1 hardly think she will see you, sir. or She ain't seen a living soul since the old n in Leap Year. Helen, looking at the card, sent word td Mr. Seymour that she. would be with hid in a moment. It was not much longer • when she ene tered the door of the room where he sa ' waiting. rose from his seat when sli&; entered, arlirevaitedi'standing, whilst she crossed the long team. His artist•tasta; was filled and pleasecrwhile he watche hen•yet hisskindly eyes were full of Byrn, as she placed her hand in her uncle's "1 I.Vil,8- thinking of advertising for a situa- tion as a teachee," she said, "for I have no right to stay here. Mr. Putnam, my aunt's lawyer, told mel had a right 'to my wardrobe, and there is something left of my last quarterly allowance after my mourning is all paid for, so that I am. not actually destitute ; , but I was veiy lonely and almost despairing when you pathy. She was so . seems so new andstrange, beaggiful, with a difale and sad, so very? ified, graceful beau:i arid I loved her so much. No mother s ty rarely sten in one S3 young. lie tent death could be a greater loss:" slender figure in its close mourning) • There was a moment of eilence, both cirestowas full'of pliant grace, yet therea being too deeplynnoved to speak. Then wereesitality and:anergy, too; in the smalL Mr. Seymour rose." Whencan you be white hands now pressed closely togeth-i ready for me to call and takeyou halite?"' er, in the erect carriaee of the small headi he asked. • . , and the firm footfall of:the ltitle slip-, " Any time to -morrow." t pered feet. Her eyes bore merks of ex- "twill call, then about two.," cessive weening, yet evet-iiieretheir lare; , " ' will be ready." .., guor there were resolution' and will, ail '5te arose, too, now, and came to his the expressive mouth closed, firmly shceJ side. One pigment she looked wistfully Ing decieioninIte deiicate. curves. Sh crossed the room slowly and gracefull not pausing till eise stood facing Seymour, when he saw she still held- li card in her hands. • Making this his introduction. he said, gently : " my name is not unfamiliar to you, 1 presume ? " She motioned him to resume his seat, and sat down herself before she replied, in a )ow voice, musical and very pleasant to hear: "Until within a few days the name was a strange one to me, Mr. Sey- mour1 but I havelately learned that it is the only one ; have a right to claim." You were ignorant of this until a few days ago ? '1 he kid, in a tone of surprise. "Yes. I believed myself a neice of the late Mrs. Connell." ' "1 trust," he said . gently, "that my visit here will not prove an intrusion, but I understood you needesi a friend and protector, and I thought •your fath- er's only brother might claim it as his privilege to offer that protection and -A and affection." " You are very kind," she said :grate- fully. "1 do indeed need friends; and yet, beyond the mere fact that I am not, as I supposed, related to Mrs. Connell, and that no Will of hers can be foundi so that I am left penniless, I know nothing of wy own position." " What I know is soon told you. Your mother and Mrs. Connell were school -girl friends, companions in young lady plea- sures and pursuits, and finally married gentlemen as closely united to each oth- er by the ties of friendship as they were themselves. Mrs. Conn elPs son, and only child, I believe, was born soon afterher marriage; but it was nine long years be- fore my brother,had a child, and then your birth was followed in one short week by your mother's death, Mrs. Connell at once begged to take you, pleadingher love for your mother, her fondness for lit- tle children, and her loneliness, for she was then a widow, and her son too old• in his eyes, now filled with the most lov- ing sympathy, and then the proud, grace- ful hand sank down upon his shoulder, and she lay pass ive eels weary child in his close embrace, "My dear child," fnv dear Helen." , She did not weep nor sob as she lay !there, for over her poor sore heart there crept a sense 9f peace and comfort that he had not known. in all the dreary days f mourning. She had found a father, kind loving protector and felt he would rove true. When she raised her face o his, to bid him farewell, his beset welled with emotion to see the quiet, eaceful look in her dark eyes, and dark ow the.lines of keen sorrow were al- ady softening round her lips and lerow. It was not without many bitter tears, Itowever, that Helen Seymour gathered egether her personal property prepare- ory to leaving the home, which she had ntered when but onp week old. Every bject in her . beautiful room seemed ers by righ: of the most let iug eesoeie, tion. Every painting had been select- ed for especial gratification and improvee, ment, for she had early shown a talent for act that was encouraged by very lov- ing device. Those of her own execution amongst the pictures she felt she might take with her, but those only. It was a heavy day's work to select her own treasures from the many around her, but Sunday found her ready to start,and the next day, in spite of the bitter parting she had had with the nanimate oblints that made her home so precioue7faer uncle found her cheerful and quite ready to take, a sunny view of her new life. r. Putnam accompanied Mr. Seymour to take possession of the property until I the return of the heir from Europe, aud firstquestion to the startled girl was: a "Why didn't you marry Herbert Connel when he'asked you, and avoid all this fuse?" ITelen blushed, hut, in spite of her c coe.lusion del not answer. for belly caresses and cares. Your fath- " Oh I know all about it," said the old er willingly gave you to her loving pro- lawyer) "a pretty pucker his mother was tection. I do not know whether grief at in to see all her pet air castles tumbled the loss of a wife he idolized unsettled to pieces, for a girl's whim. And the my brother's intellect, but it is certain young fellow had to go off to' Europe to that soon after he began to neglect ins cure his broken heart." business, until he became bankrupt, and fly this time Helen's self-possession within two years followed his wife to her lied returned to her. "His heart was grave, leaving you with Mrs. ('onnell, who not broken, Me Putnarn," she said, with promised to love you and provide for you a touch of haughtiness in her voiee. "It as her own child." was his mother's will and not his heart " She kept her promise faithfully to the that dictated his proposal. We were hour of her death." brother and sister, that was all, and he "My brother," continued the old gen- went to Europe quite heart VF ho 1 e as tleman,'" was nearly twenty years young- fares I am concerned." er than myself, and very, very dear to left you so"— me. I could not but feel a tender in- . Connelwanted to merry your" " His mother wishelit uncle.' I May tell 'you without betraying confidence, that Herbert loved a certain pair of blue • ,eyesebetter than heever did my black on, but the blue eyes *ere owned by a little seamstress whoWorked for his. mother, and all her aristocratic blood rebelled.in the alliance. The blue eyes .disappeared, and Herbert was half coax - Ad and belf threatened into proposing to me. .1 knew , his secret, and refused. And uncle I think that is the secret of the lost yell, making our marriage same sort of condition in inheritmg her prop• erty, or, ifnohing more, Making Her- bort's share depend upon his eenoucing his love forabe little seamen: ess. .Now he, at least, is rich and free. 1 hope lie will return to Philadelphia and find his lost love." , "Lost? " .. - "I told yon she disappeared. She was a timid, conscientious little 'girl, and think Aunt Maria persuaded her that she would injure H erbert if she kept hirsi to his engagement." " Then they wete engaged? " "Yes,exchanged ringteill in due forna." . I wonder he consented to propose to you.' "Oh that was a regular conspiracy. had promised not to accept him," " WeJ, well! But it Would have pro- vided for you." " Tired of nie'alreadye'uncle? " "Dear child, I:would ask no greater happiness than to keep you by my side all your life. Bnt—hut, you, are accus- tomed to luxuries"— "See how well I can spare them. •Do you know, dear uncle, my heart is so much lighter since I know dear Aunt Maria intended to provide for me, that nothing disheartens me noise it was the pain of thinkingemyself forgoteeu, pee - naps as haviiii-Torfeitel -her love that grleved me. so deeply. Besides am 1 not young and strong, able to help you, per- haps, uncle? You have borne the heat and burden of the day,',you have suffered heavy soreow, who knows if God in his mercy has not ordered all this, that in your old age you might have a. loving daughter to cheer aud comfort you, when in. your noble kindness you meant only to protect and che'rish her." " He has been very gracious to his servant," said the old man, reverently but that would be e crowning mercy. But here we are at home." It touched Helen to tho heart when her uncle led .her. to the room he had furnished for her, to see how much lov- ng carehad been expended upon its rrangeneent. The carpet was only ngrain, , the , furniture a simple' cottage set, the curtains book muslin-, but.the colors in the carpet were deli - ate, an d tastefuf; the painted set mat - it prettily and a, few engravings in wallea little vase of green -house po,n the tablee ,. nettY fie terest in his child, perhaps increased by Yes, sirl" - „ ' the fact that my own wife and five little owgiemurely the girl says it. Well ones lie side by side in the graveyard. Setmour, you have secured a treasure; e good care of her. Good -by Mise Still I was conteni. to watch you from H en; think sometimes of your old u everything; and • and me Ile' war tg er,! hay; towe a anssin.1 atao househ n ye '1_7r y own humble station, glad to see you owing to beauty and happiness, with- ut forcing myself upon your notice. ad Mrs. Connell lived, had you married, been left wealthy, believe me, I should ever have made myself known to you, ut yesterday, Mrs. Connell's lawyer, a ithout any provision for your future ; ur friend's son absent in Europe, and, course, in the absence of a will, heir to 1 his mother's property." • "It is all true." "Then, my child, let me offer you a me. It will be a very humble one, r I am poor, end have no luxuries like ese surrounding you, but i; will give u shelter and protection and—and ed I say, a sincere fatherly love. Give me an uncle's right, dear Helen, and per- haps in time you may give me a father's place in your heart." The large tears stood in Helens eyes friend, told me that you were left lady was buried." Mr. Seymour hesitated; then taking a neat little card from his pocket -book, he tequested the man to carry that to his young mistress, and followed him to the handsome drawing room to await an an - friends, and I will Veep a lookout for thitt will, there was one, I know, for I Ovit up, but Mrs. Connel insisted upon krping it herself, and I suppose made a epnfire out of it, intending tO have a nt Iv one." b mutusi "Then she did not forget me? " w yo of al swer. The footman looked curiously at the card ; it bore the name " Robert Sey- ho inour," and below that, "Photographist," fo in small, neat type. " Wants to copy th the old lady's picture, I'll bet a dollar," yo was the footman's decision. " And I'll ne het another that Miss Helen won't see him." Fortunately for his puke, rio one was near to accept the last wager, for Miss "My dear child, she left you this house eane, everything in it, and fifty thous slid dol. y-oe'u"n, lars. The rest all goes to Herbert." takes away the sting. 1 can bear any u am glad she remembered me. It Hmfleealrke.enr thing, else now that I know it was not c ietentienal on her part to leave me pen- niless. I am ready, uncle. Good -by, ahTra ylit A.r. Putnam." 110 CO1T i" Good -by. 1'11 come to see you soon." her, bro Something of the abo ve conversation never wa Lingered on Robert Seymour's mind, for than that s metime after they were seated in. the little frame c rriage he hadbrought to take his niece • e wii' I me, he s