New York Dispatch

THWARTED BY A CORPSE.

BY FRANK S. FINN.

It was evening, in that dull, dreary month November, that Ruth Steadman sat at the table in the kitchen of her father's house, in one of the New England States. Her eyes were wet with tears, for it was but a week since she had followed her father's body to the grave. His death was sudden, and was overpowering to every one, for he had always been remarkably rugged and healthy.

He had been through a great amount of personal danger during his lifetime, and had come out so unharmed that many supposed he bore a charmed life. But at last he was struck down at his supper-table, and carried to his bed, from which he was never removed until he was taken thence a corpse. Doctors pronounced it apoplexy, but there were certain persons who believed that Thomas Steadman came by his death by no fair means, and thought it would not be very difficult to point to the one guilty of his death, but they kept it to themselves from motives of policy. Why these persons had their misgivings it will be necessary for us to go back a year in our story in order to explain.

Thomas Steadman was out sailing on one of those rivers with a lengthy, unpronounceable name, when a wild storm arose, and he would doubtless have found a grave in the dark waters had he not been rescued by a young man who was in another boat, and who saw the danger he was placed in, for Steadman's boat had upset, and he was struggling in the furious waters. A strong and steady arm saved him just as he was going down for the third time. It was in Thomas's nature to treat every one well, and especially any one who had done him a favor; so it is not to be wondered at that he took an interest in his preserver, and learning that he was an orphan and without a home, took him to his own, and did for him as if he were an own child.

Motherless as was Ruth, she had been obliged to study character very keenly, and from the moment Gerald Turner put his foot over the threshold of the Steadman farm-house, she felt a dislike for him. There was a something in his eye she did not like; it was as though the orbs belonged to some wild beast eager to seize upon its prey.

Perhaps this feeling was caused by his appearing to her so unlike another whom she had learned to love, and who she knew to be the soul of honor. He was never known to say an idle word, or do an act unbecoming a gentleman, although he was covered in mere homespun cloth.

Had Arthur Whiting and Ruth Steadman been Italian lovers, they might have been more demonstrative. But in staid, sober New England they do not pour out their love in such passionate bursts of eloquence, as do the natives of the sunny clime. Their love, however, was as deep and pure, and if any man loved woman truly, young Farmer Whiting did Ruth Steadman, and until Gerald Turner became an inmate, he knew no rival. Gerald was one who could easily ingratiate himself into the good graces of Thomas Steadman, and, little by little, Gerald got what might be called the upper hand of him.

At length he proposed for Ruth's hand in marriage, and though refused by the daughter, was accepted by the father, for he valued his shrewdness, and could not see the evil.

Ruth told both of them she was betrothed to Arthur Whiting, and to none other would she wed.

A stormy scene followed, for Gerald did not hesitate to make up numerous calumnies against Whiting, and so incensed Steadman against him that he forbid him ever to step his foot inside his doors again, and told Ruth that if she would not consent to be the bride of Gerald he would disinherit her, make a new will, and leave all his property to the man he had chosen for her future husband.

Perhaps he would have changed his mind if he had lived two days longer, but that same evening a lawyer was called in, and the business settled. The next night his death occurred.

When the will was read, it was found that the entire property was left to Gerald Turner, and Ruth had nothing save the clothes she wore.

Like many a devil before him, Gerald assumed the face of charity, and told the poor girl he would allow her to remain in the farm-house for a week, until she could find something to do, while he took board for himself at a neighbor's. He had not given over his suit, but tried in every way to make her consent.

But she refused to listen to his words of love.

As she had no other roof under which to seek shelter, she felt obliged to remain until forced to leave the old place.

It had been raining all of the day on which our story opened, and she could see the river swelling and swelling.

Such a storm had not been seen for years.

At nine o'clock, the water commenced to pour in under the kitchen door, and in an agony of fear the poor girl rushed up to her chamber, fearful of being devoured, for she now learned the horrible truth, that the river had overflowed the banks, and was swelling through the road with great violence. As the night advanced, and the water grew deeper, Ruth trembled in agony, fearful that the house would be swept from its foundation.

In the midst of her alarm she saw a boat approaching, and felt that safety was near at hand.

The occupant of the boat proved to be Gerald Turner, who approached the window, and after tying his boat to one of the blinds, jumped into the room, exclaiming:

"Ruth, I have come to save you, but upon one condition alone. Consent to be my wife, and I will release you from your deadly peril."

"Back, back, base man that you are! Sooner would I perish in the dark waters that surround us, than wed the villain who was my father's murderer," answered Ruth.

"Ha! What mean you?"

"I mean that I have found poison in one of your old vests, in the closet on the stairway. I now feel convinced it was administered by you, for the sake of obtaining the property, fearing that he would change his mind, and leave it to me, who rightly should have it."

"Rash girl, you know not what you say. These are idle words, and uttered like a mad girl's frenzy."

"If I am mad it is you who have made me so, embittering my whole life, and taking from me a father who was always kindness itself until your vile spirit crossed our path."

"Mad girl, you have no proof of what you say!"

"Have I not proof? Look, here!"

As she spoke, she held up a small paper containing a fine white powder. Scarcely had she done so when it was snatched from her hand and thrown into the flames, and naught was left of it but a blackened flake of soot.

"Ha! ha! ha!" shouted Gerald. "Where is your proof now!"

"Villain, I know now, you murdered him. Oh! where can I turn for aid."

"Call on the father you pretended to love so much, and see if he will aid you."

"Wretch! Could he see the villainy you have planned, his spirit would come from his grave, and accuse you of his murder."

"Would it? I would much like to see it."

Even as he spoke, there came floating through the surging waters a large, black-looking box, formed like the last bed we ever lie on upon this earth; it came nearer and nearer until it made its way to the window, and rested underneath the same, the water being now on a level with it. Was it fate that sent this mysterious object between the daughter of its occupant, and the villain who would have rendered her life miserable?

"Look!" exclaimed the horror-stricken girl; "the dead has returned. My father has come back from the grave to stand between me and you."

Gerald turned and saw the coffin of Thomas Steadman.

"Tell her not!" shouted the frightened man, "that it was I who poisoned you—that it was I who poured the mixture in your tea."

There was another occupant of the room, and a witness to the confession he had made, in the person of Arthur Whiting, who bore the girl from her terrible danger.

The foiled and guilty Gerald threw himself into the seething waters, from which he never rose again alive. The freshet in its fury had unearthed the dead from the old burying-ground, and thus thwarted the villain and exposed his murderous secret.

After stormy days came those of sunshine and pleasantness. Ruth found that she was truly beloved by her preserver, who made her his happy wife; and he has never ceased to bless the day that gave her to his keeping, or the time he saved her from a wretch's arms.

Vice will ever find its punishment, but it is not every wrong-doer who is thwarted by a corpse.