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TIE NEW YORK LEDGER.
NOVEMBER 26, 1892.
smart French poodle, with the air of a sol-
dier, erect and military, who scemed to say
with every glance of his keen dark eyes,
with every sensitive twitch of his coal-
black muzzle: + ‘1 am here to protect and
defend my mistress, Hands off—or be-
ware !” is dog was Caporal.
For many a day Geoffrey observed this
strange pair, and wondered who the girl
might be, what was her businessin the great
city, what her joys were and her sorrow, and.
unconsciously, for she was beautiful and he
was young, he grew to think more and
more of her every day. He cast about in
his own mind how he might make her ac-
quaintance, and could find no opportunity,
for she was reserved, and carried with her
rather of the air of a Sainte N’ytouche, and
he felt it would not do for him to address
a
- her, or he would assuredly lose his chance
forever. But *‘ fortune favors the brave.”
One day Geoffrey’s opportunity came and
in the shape of no less a person than Cap-
oral, the poodle. When I say *‘ person,” I
speak advisedly, for Caporal, with the ex-
ception of his one defictency, the lack of
articulate speech, was a wise and thinking
individual, a most sapient companion, a
most faith friend.
evening, then, Geoffrey was coming
home on the car, the fair unknown also.
The sky was black and gloomy; the air
was full of a thin, fine rain, that came slant-
ing down into the faces of foot-passengers
with a stinging sensation, as of a thousand
invisible needle points; the little drops
chased one another down the window-
panes of the car, criss-crossing in a net-
work of tiny rivulets, through’ which “he
gas-lamps and the light of the shop-win-
dows shone like a distorted blur; and the
wind moaned in a disconsolate way round
the corners of the houses and through the
tree-tops. Geoffrey looked to see if she
had an umbrella. Alas, she had! He was
feeling very melancholy and foiled, and
wondcring whether heever should make her
acquaintance, when, just as ‘they reached
the corner by the villa residences, the dark-
ness was divided by a long, shuddering
howl that cut, with a despairing intensity,
into the hundred sounds of the night.
The car stopped with a jerk. Tn an in-
stant the young girl was out and in the
road. There was even some slight com-
motion among the tired and sleepy passen-
gers, soon to be set at rest, however, when
they learned it was only a dog they had
runover. The bell rang, the horses gave
a start and a struggle, and presently Geof-
frey became conscious that he was stand-
_ing in a puddle, watching the fast-receding
lights of the tram-car, with a limp and
rain-soaked dog moaning in his arms and
a Deautiful girl sobbing bitterly beside him.
e stood bewildered, the
rain all the while drifting down about the
two of them, shutting them out from the
world, as it were, with a curtain of sheeted
gray. Then suddenly he realized that his
opportunity had come. He Jaid his hand
on her arm with a reassuring gesture. :
“Don’t cry so! Your dog is not dead.
He is moaning still. I think his leg is
broken.” Then more hurriedly: ‘‘Can I
not carry him home for you? Do you live
near here
“Yes; Campion Villas. _It is quite close
by. Ifyou would be so kind?” And s!
looked up at him witha world of thanks
and gratitude in her dark eyes.
“e ourse I will. We ought to get
him home and warm at Once, yand I can
see how much he is hur:
«Come, then.” And ‘with a ick, im-
perious gestures she led the wa:
They walked on in silence together
through ‘the rain. Geoffrey blessed the
dog. ‘He could hardly realize bis own good
fortune. Presently the girl paused in front
of a small, semi-detached house, and, pro-
g
o
“ducing a ‘atch. key, opened the door, and
in a moment they were standing together
inatiny hall. Then up a flight of stairs
and into a small, prettily furnished room,
She took the dog from him and tenderly
laid it upon the sofa. At this instant there
came a smart, tapping noise along the
d with a cry of: ‘Is that you,
passage, an
Hilda?” a small, bright-eyed child, of some z pO
twelve or thirteen, entered the r
was lame and used crutches, and “Geofirey
noticed a pinched look of suffering on the | me.
young face that smote him to the heart.
ooh pee. what is it? Is Caporal
hur! oh, poor, poor dog! Do you
think he will die? Pn “then, piteously turn-
ing to Geoffrey, the while the dog pain-
fully turns his head and strives to lick her
hand: ‘Tell me, will he die? Can you
save him ?”
“] don’t know, my dear child. 1 hope
so. I have a fricnd who knows all about
dogs, whom I will fetch, If any man can
save him, he can.” And presently, put-
ting aside the thanks of the two anxious
maidens, he has let himself out and_ is
running for the veterinary surgeon,
Luckily, he found that gentlemanat home,
and he pronounced Caporal’s hurt quite
curable, and in the course of a few wecks,
indeed, effected the cure. Meanwhile,
Geoffrey called often to inquire after the
dog, that soon became very much attached
to the young fellow, and gradually he grew
to be looked upon as a friend, too, by the
two girls, who had so few friends in all
that great city. He soon learned their
story. Hilda Bessenger’s father had been
rich, but, owing to unfortunate specylation
in stocks, ruin had suddenly overwhelmed
him, and he had taken the coward’s course
and committed suicide. His two mother-
less daughters were left almost penniless.
Hilda was proud, and rather than accept
the patronizing charity of certain well-
meaning but officious fiends, she had come
here to Richborough to try to make her
own way, She had secured a position as
proofreader in a large publishing-house,
and her salary, eked out by too frequent
drains upon her fast dwindling capital,
served to keep the small household from
actual want. She was, so she told Geoffrey,
writing a book—a novel—for which Lewis
& Co., the firm she worked for, had prom-
ised her something, should it be at all
up to their standard; and she had great
hopes of being able to earn a good living
in that way. Besides, the doctors had said
Alice, her little lame sister, must go away
south, if possible, that winter, out of the
English damp and cold, to Italy or France,
and she was in hopes that this novel she
was writing would give her the wherewithal
to take the child. Geoffrey and she soon
became great friends. Every morning he
would find her and the poodle waiting for
him at the corner, and often, too, he would
go home with her for an hour in the even-
ings and talk to little Alice, carrying her
small presents of flowers and ks. For
toys the child cared not, being older than
her age, save and except for her greatest
toy and perpetual delight, Caporal, whom
she loved with an almost feverish intensity,
and who never left her, save to accompany
Hilda to the car and meet her evenings.
And so the summer went on, and in the
early days of September, when all the
leaves were taking on their garb of russet-
brown, Hilda and Geoffrey awoke to the
fact that they loved each other. One even-
ing at the gate he spoke to her:
Geoftrey !” Unconsciously she
called him by his name, as did the child
a
ways.
“ Hilda, I think you know-—I am sure
you know—that I love you. Is it not so?”
“Yes, Geoffrey.” Very low and softly.
“And I think you care for me, too,
dear. Hilda, I care for no one, shall never
care for any one but you. Will you be my
wife 2”
At first she would not consent, urging
the inequality of their stations in life, his
grandfather’s probable opposition and cer-
tain anger; but at last he overcame her
scruples, and after a talk far into the night,
Alice having been put to bed, he left her.
**J will tell my grandfather to-morrow
morning, Hilda; and when he hears how
good and true and lovable you are, he can-
not help consenting. I will make him come
round himself and welcome you as his
grandchild. Until the morning, then,
sweetheart, good-bye ;” and he was gone.
The next morning she was up early,
waiting at the gate, but time wore on and
he never came. i that day she waited,
but no Geoffrey. He had bidden her good.
ee that night, and in her heartshe felt the
ood-bye was fated to be forever. His
grandfather had given him the choice be-
tween her and his wealth, and he had
chosen—the very thought ‘choked her—
not her, but the money! Poor girl! Her
very heart was breaking, and yet she went
about her daily work with a cheerful face,
and answered as best she could the inquiries
of the child as to Geoffrey’s whereabouts.
On the third day there came a letter with
the London post-mark:
*My DARLING: Isaw my grandfather. He ts
furious, He will never consent. He would cut
He insists
to best for us both.
You mui nat try to forgive me—better still, forget
-bye. “Yours, GEOFFREY.
<r think my heart Is breaking, Hilda. ‘Tove
you go, and yet I cannot come to you.”
She put this letter away and never ceased
to love him, even after the cruel way, the
cowardly way, in which he had treated her.
And he was happy, so he told himself, in
Italy; and her heart was slowly breaking
in England. For a woman never forgets.
CHAPTER IL.
The good old adage tells us that troubles
never come singly, and poor Hilda was
soon to learn the truth of this. She worked
on mechanically for some months after
Geoffrey went away, and then, one day,
when her small capital was down to the
last few pounds, Lewis & Co. failed, and
all her hopes went with them. She had to
give up the small house at Fairfield, though
it grieved her to the heart, for the child’s
sake, to do so, and to move into two little
rooms at the top of a high building in the
city. Fora while they managed to subsist
there on what she could earn by her needle,
working far into the night. She had n,
time to write the novel now. Then that
resource even grew uncertain ; > there were
so many women out of work, so many com-
petitors with her in the fierce struggle for
existence, and she was hampered with the
burden of a sickly child. Poor little Alice
never complained; but she would be all
day long on her bed, hour after hour, with
her arm round Caporal, and hardly speak
a word. -She had developed a hacking
cough that racked her little frame terribly
at times. grew more pale and wan,
to her sister’s intense distress, every day.
The only pleasure the child took was in
listening to the singing in the church over
against their dwelling, whose large, painted
windows rose almost at arm’s-length from
the tall and dreary tenement. At suc!
times, when they were holding service
within, and the blazoned windows were all
aglow with light and warmth, shedding
staing of blue and crimson on the eager
face of the child as she listened, sitting at
the high window with Caporal beside her,
his eyes looking far out into the darkness,
little Alice would forget ot, “poverty-
stricken surroundings and be happy. In
those long weeks of : sickness, distress and
pain, the church grew to be a very real
and tangible friend to her; and even the
elder girl, when she came in, wet and
weary, from a fruitless search afier work,
would for a moment forget her sorrows
as she sat hand in hand with her small
sister and listened, while the rich music of
the gran organ came swelling to
her ears, carrying on its bosom the sweet
melody of boyish voices; and her eyes
would fill with tears, and her heart grow
warm with the knowledge of an all-com-
pelling love, an infinite tenderness, as she
listened to the solemn music.
For a moment, the bare, little room and
the cheerless darkness of a winter’s night
became transformed into some fairy vision,
wherein she and Alice floated away on
clouds of golden splendor, amidst the
music of a thousand happy voices, in a
ream of happiness and peace. Then
would she hear the tones of that best-loved
voice of all, seeming to whisper low an
softly in her ear:
“‘T have sinned against love and you;
but Iam sorry for my sin. ui come to make
atonement. I come to bring redress.
ope on! IT have been weak and wicked.
1 will be so no longer. There is yet time
for us to be happy—divinely. ‘beautifully
happy. . There are worlds beyond this
world where, when I have ens atonement,
when I have expiated my sin, it shall be
granted me to hold full communion with
your heart once more, and where our spirits
shall find together an eternity of bliss.”
Poor girl! Had it not been for some
such moments as this she might have given
up the struggle sooncr. As it was, she
fought on manfully, hoping against hope,
until at last, one cold, stormy, winter even-
ing, starvation stared. her in the face.
Their fire had gone out; she had no
money to buy coals. Their rent was long
over-due. . Her little sister lay moaning on
her bed in the corner. She had not tasted
food that day, giving all she had that morn-
ing to the child. S ew not where to
turn, She had been vainly seeking for
work that day, and several days before,
and she felt she not the strength to
seek longer. Was the end come, then?
A dimness grew before her eyes; her brain
seemed on fire. Mechanically she put her
hand toherhead. The noise of the streets
outside,.the wailing of the wind and the
moans of the sick child seemed to mingle
in one long, sobbing strain of uttermost
despair. Suddenly Caporal rushed to the
door, scratched at it and barked vigorously.
The girl rose wearily from her chair and
crossed over to
‘“What is it, Caporal?
one outside?”
All his answer was a short, sharp bark.
The child moved uneasily on her bed and
cried faintly :
** Caporal !”
The dog looked wistfully across at her,
and then resumed his scratching at the door,
Hilda stepped forward and threw it open.
No one was there. But Caporal, with a
start and a scuffle, leaped through and in
an instant had vanished down the stair and
was swallowed up in the blackness.
She clutched at the banisters for sup-
port. What was this pain at her heart,
she wondered, and calle:
**Caporal! Caporal Y
Is there any
No sound; no answer.
one !
At that instant the child began to cry
for him, and would not be comforted. At
length Hilda, at her earnest entreaty, put
on her bonnet and shawl, and with a kiss,
and a hurried word or we of consolation,
hurried out into the nig
There was no sound ‘within the room
savé the occasional sobs of the child; no
sound save the moaning of the wind out-
The darkness grew deeper and more
intense as the minutes sped slowly on.
The church clock chimed the quarter and
then the hour. And now, at last, there
comes a footstep on the stair, anoise of pat-
tering feet outside. Then the door opensand
Caporal rushes in, with gleaming, exultant
eyes, and leaps upon the bed. A man’s
figure follows. He hesitates; then, as his
eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, he,
too, strides over to the bed. The child
raises herself, and with a smothered cry
falls sobbing into his outstretched arms.
“Oh, Geoffrey ! Dear Gookirey ! Iknew
you would come. I med you would
come! And—C, Caporal has fetched you. I
am so glad—I am so glad !”
The dog was
CHAPTER III.
When Geoffrey de Vigue told his grand-
father of his love for Hilda, the old man’s
anger was terrible to witness. There was
a short and stormy interview, and it ended
as such scenes always end, where one is
strong and dominant and the other weak
and plial
Geoffrey “consented to give up his love,
to go at once to Italy to study art.- This
was the bait the old man held out to him,
together with threats of immediate disin-
heritance if he disobeyed. The general
was victorious. Geoftrey went to Italy,
after writing that one, poor, weak apology
to Hilda.
For a time his fear of his grandfather
held him. Then again and again his love
would come back to him, with more and
more frequently recurring accesses of yearn-
ing for a sight of the woman he still loved,
in spite of the way he had treated her,
whose face would .rise before him in the .
still, small hours, and plead with him till
his very soul was torn because of her.
At length he decided to go back and
brave the old man’s anger, anything, so
only to see her once again and ask her for-
giveness,
The very day he made this resolve a
telegram came to him:
“Your grandfather is dead. Come home at
once.”
Next day saw him on his way to England.
He was a rich man now. He could find
her and make reparation. He could marr.
her and ake her happy, his wife in the
face of all me:
When he reached the small house in the
row of villa residences, she was gone.
house was empty. © The agent knew noth-
ing about her; she had completely disap-
peared. His anguish was terrible. He
advertised in the papers for her, but with
no success. For weeks he walked the
streets of Richborough, peering into every
face, seeking for her he had lo:
last t he went up to London, despair-
ing of his search. Then a sudden impulse
prompted him to return to Richborough.
But a few steps from the railway station he
felt ft Something tugging at his coat.
e lo own. It was Caporal.
th five minutes they were in the little
chamber, and he had little Alice in his
arms.- He soon obtained help and assist-
ance. Ina very short time he was sitting,
with Alice on his knees, in front of a roar-
ing fire, while the kind-hearted doctor
wrote out a prescription for her, and a
waiter from a restaurant hard by was set-
ting a warm dinner on the table, to greet
poor Hilda on her return.
Just asthe doctor rose to go there was
the sound of a fall outside on the landing.
The frightened waiter threw open the
door. Hilda lay stretched in front of the
threshold, her poor thin dress soaked
through and through with wet; her dark
air, escaped from its bands, lying round
her shoulders like a shroud, and yet withal
a_ look of inexpressible peace on her
pinched white face
CHAPTER IV.
Some two hours later, she layin a small,
white cot, in the hospital, as they all
thought, dying; but, whether because her
great love kept her back, or that the in-
tense desire of her soul drew her again to
him from the dim borderland, she slowly
rallied, and in a few days was pronounced
out of danger.
Gradually and steadily her health came
back to her. In the dawning of their new
life, as it were, Geoffrey tried to tell her of
\