The Union And Journal

Miscellaneous.

THE BLUE RIBBON.
OR,
RURAL
LIFE AND LOVE

Nature, not the schools, had made John
Evardale, a man. While other boys had
studied or played truant he had worked—
yet I venture the assertion that of ten col-
lege bred young men of his native country.
nearest his own age. not one could have
been found better educated, in a certain
true and practical sense than he, In the
absence of text-books he had thought for
himself. The calculus might be beyond
his comprehension, but he had learned long
ago the ratio of honesty to success, and
knew how to deduce from it the formula of
upright living. He could not read a line
of Homer or Virgil, but he did know some-
thing of the great works of those great
English thinkers, who have lain nearest the
world's heart, thus catching and perpetua-
ting its throbbings, and incorporating upon
their own page the best of all past and
present inspirations. A boy who kept a
leaf of Shakespeare folded in his vest pocket
to be taken out and learned by heart, as he
followed the plough, would not be likely to
grow up with tastes wholly uncultivated.

Yet John Evardale loved his work. If
all pathways had opened to him alike,
doubt if he would have chosen to be any-
thing else than the farmer he was. His as-
pitations though not grovelling in the soil.
still arose from it, grouping themselves
about a home and friends, untarnished name
and sturdy
services wherever needed
most.

He found himself at twenty-one in pos-
session of his patrimony. a small farm
heavily mortgaged. together with a title to
a tract of wild western land, This last, the
specious representation of an agent had in-
duced his father, always over, sanguine, to
purchase, only to find it quite useless there-
after, for any immediate adventure.

John saw years of hard work and close
economy stretching ahead before he could
hope to stand with unencumbered hold
upon his ancestral acres. No golden pros-
pect. certainly : but with his brave, hopeful
heart and rugged health, he saw it un-
flinching, Besides, he loved Helen Darrell.
From the time when he had gone, a boy,
to Darrell Hall, on his father's errands, and
the beautiful child, with her marvelous
brown eyes and golden glory of curls
had flown out to learn of him how to tame
the wild ponies her father bought for her,
until now, when her more mature loveli-
ness was the pride not alone of Squire
Darrell's heart but of all Shelbyville, he
could not remember when his love for her
had not seemed a part of his very breath
and being.

The fact was itself a key to his charac-
ter. If he had been less than he was he
could never have dared to love. Not that
he had any pulled up certainty of success.
but the manhood within him, humble, and
self-respectful, claimed for him the right to
love the woman who embodied his noblest
idea of womanhood, and to be judged by
her irrespective of any untoward indifference of outward circumstances.

He hoped for no pledge as yet—would
not if he could have exacted such, His
native sense of the fitness of things forbade
it, until his own hand, under kind Providence, should have carved out for himself
a more certain fortune. It might be a long
labor, but the years of waiting, like Jacob's
would seem as "so many days," if only he
were sure of Jacob's reward.

Meanwhile he wooed her at a distance.
and had the satisfaction of knowing that
at least she was not wholly indifferent to
him. How much her manner meant, he
did not dare to guess ; she was so kind to
all. Forgive him if he watched all other
admirers, jealously; he was but human, and
the daily fear went with him, "Will it not
be too late when my turn comes to speak?"

All Shelbyville was shocked one morn-
ing to hear that good Dr. Mattison had
been found quietly sleeping his last sleep in
his bed. Every family felt a keen sense of
personal loss in the death of the old physi-
cian, whose cheery presence and genial
sympathy had always brought a healing in-
fluence into their sick rooms quite inde-
pendent of his careful prescriptions, who
had presided at the birth of their children,
and whose tender hands closed the eyes of
some of their loved ones where human care
and skill could avail no longer

The people, who came in great numbers
to Dr. Mattison's funeral, saw in the place
of chief mourner, his nephew, Dr. Alfred
Lashly, who, it was understood, would
now leave his position in a city hospital. in
order to succeed to his uncle's business and
estate. The good old doctor had been
wont to speak proudly of this nephew, as a
young man of uncommon talent and thor-
ougn education : indeed it had been his
cherished plan to see his practice established in these younger and stronger hands
while he himself yet lived.

Dr. Lashley found a hearty welcome to
Shelbyville, for his uncle's sake as well as
for his own. As time passed, one and an-
other of the friends of Dr. Mattison called
to grasp the young man's hand and speak
words of hearty sympathy and encourage-
ment.

"Come up to the Hall whenever you
have time and inclination; the latch string
hangs outside," said Squire Darrell, with a
blunt cordiality, to which Dr. Lashley was
not slow to respond.

Calling soon at Darrell Hall, he met
Helen for the first time in some years. He
was quite unprepared to find her what. she
was,—the most beautiful woman he had
ever met—he settled that at a glance—cul-
tivated and refined, evidently, and yet with
a fresh spontaneous manner, as charming as
rare. How could she have kept this child-
ish simplicity, he wondered, through all
the flattery and caresses which must have
been lavished upon her. The truth was
that Helen Darrell had been praised too
much to be spoiled by it. There may be
an extreme of adulation which shall hold
in it itself the germ of its own antidote. The
homage which enveloped Helen like an
atmosphere, she accepted as a tribute of
love, rather than the reward of real desert.

Squire Darrell naturally spoke much of
Dr. Mattison, whom he dearly loved. and
Dr. Lashley responded with a fluency
which quite won Helen's heart. As
the conversation progressed he seemed
drawn unconsciously to speak of his own
plans and purposes of life; of his profes-
sion, which he considered second to none
in means and opportunities of good.

Alfred Lashley was not intentionally dis-
honest, but he had a marvelous power of
expressing more than he felt. Some tell us
that the absolute possession of any great
virtue is necessary to its real appreciation;
but this man combined with unbounded
aspirations after true nobility, a constitution ready to fail at the first great trial. He did
not know his own great weakness—would
never know it until some test moment came
suddenly upon him, and even then some
loop-hole of his expediency would perhaps
broaden before his distorted vision into a
great archway over the entrance of duty.

He knew how to use the words "work"
and "mission," in a way that suggested to
Helen's ardent imagination all the sublim-
est possibilities of moral heroism, while in
the same breath, he said he felt this to be
an age for saying little and doing much.

Helen felt, as did all others who met him.
the spell of his magnetic presence, the
fascination of his brilliant intellect and fine
culture. She sang to him, and looking up
between her ballads, saw his dark eyes full
of tears.

Poor John Everdale, riding slowly past
Darrell Hall, in the winter moonlight, saw
the new doctor's tall figure bend gracefully
in a parting bow to Helen in the doorway.
and started with a sudden pang, for which
he was angry with himself a moment after,
but the vague sense, of pain and loss was
repeated so often in the weeks and months
that followed, as to grow at last into a set-
tled sorrow, blotting out his hopes and
threatening to darken all his life. By the
time that the last snow-drifts had melted
away in the spring sunshine, John's dream
of love had vanished with them. No en-
gagement between Dr. Lashley and Helen
had been officially announced, but rumor
had settled the fact of such engagement
with quiet certainty

Night after night John Everdale lay
sleepless, facing his trouble, and waging
unequal contest with his own heart. He
believed in Dr. Lashley with all the force
of his generous nature, and his whole soul
ratified Helen's choice. He felt that he
could not willingly cast the temporary
cloud of a knowledge of his own unhappi-
ness across her perfect sunshine. So he
found courage to meet her at Dr. Lashley's
side, with his old, frank smile of greeting
though he was not strong enough to go
any more to Darrell Hall,

The summer heats came on with an in-
tensity almost unparalleled. "The very air
seemed scorching. and man and beast
drooped with exhaustion.

Shelbyville proper was built mainly upon
two hills, separated from each other by a
low marshy valley, now temporarily occupied by a collection of some fifty or more
wretched cabins, which had received the
name of "New Dublin." These huts were
tenanted by the families of a gang of the
lowest class of Irish laborers, then em-
ployed in excavating a tunnel for a new
railway.

An occasional breeze brought some fresh
vitality to the hillside air, but the stagnant
atmosphere of the valley was foul with the
fumes of a poorly drained soil and over-
crowded living.

"Such weather must breed sickness, Doc-
tor?" said Squire Darrell, to Dr. Lashley.
one day, as the two sat with Helen in the
porch.

"In the valley, undoubtedly." was the
answer. "The poor New Dublinites are
ripe food for fever. I should greatly dread
the appearance of any malignant form of
disease among them. Their ignorant and
unreasoning fears succumb to the first at-
tack, and there is no lever by which to lift
them."

"Can there be no means of prevention?"
asked Helen.

"Can be? Yes. Will be? No, I rode
down there only yesterday, and tried in
vain to induce an effort at something like
care and cleanliness. It's of no use!"

Dr. Lashley's fears soon began to be real-
ized in the breaking out of an obstinate and
contagious fever in the valley. Within
twenty-four hours after the appearance of
the first case, symptoms of the same dis-
ease manifested themselves in several others.
The poor people were thrown into the
wildest consternation, and showed the wild-
est inefficiency in ministering to the wants
of those already stricken down.

Dr. Lashley found the work which seemed
necessary among them in the last degree repulsive to his fastidious sense. He
was unwilling to acknowledge, even to him-
self, how much he shrank from uniting the
office of nurse to that of physician in those
miserable abodes. He was anxious to leave
nothing undone which duty and humanity
could suggest in the case; still, as almost
every day added to his list of patients, he
found strength and courage failing.

Helen, going into her kitchen one morn-
ing, found Bridget Mahoney, her maid-of
all-work sobbing bitterly over her wash
tub, and learned, on inquiry, that the poor
girl's father and mother were sick of the
fever. Helen made Bridget dry her hands
and eyes while she herself packed a huge
basket with articles useful in sickness
Then, having sent the girl to her home,
she put her own white hands in the tub, and
finished the week's washing.

At noon, Dr. Lashley made a hurried
call, looking sadly worn and harassed
Helen, even while she noticed the pallor of
his face, felt an indefinable disappointment
that he spoke almost as much of his own
sleeplessness and watching as of the con-
dition of the poor sufferers, some of whom
seemed vibrating between life and death.

"Tim Flaherty's child died this morn-
ing," he said, "and John O'Rourke, and
Pat Reagan are quite past help. Oh, my
dear Helen! I am utterly worn out with
what I have seen and endured in those
hovels:"

She did not see him again until the next
afternoon, when, standing at the gate, she
saw his chaise driving rapidly up the street.
He wore a linen travelling suit and a port-
mantean lay beside him on the seat.

"Not going away. Dr. Lashley?" she
exclaimed as he drew rein and sprang out
with extended hand.

"To the beach for a few days," he answered, without noticing the look of surprise in which she had spoken. "I am
very sorry to be obliged to leave now but I
have not been well for several months and
the strain of the last two weeks has been
terrible for me. I feel it to be an imperative duty which I owe to myself and my
work in life, to give myself the short rest
which alone can save me from utter pros-
tration."

"So you will leave those poor people to
die?"

"My dear Helen!" Dr. Lashley looked
both surprised and grieved. "Harris, my
student, will give them the closest attention;
besides—" he hesitated a moment—"there
is Dr. Arnam, you know, at the Corners.
"The one an inexperienced boy, the
other a heartless quack!"

"Helen! you are very hasty in your
judgment of Dr. Arnam, and as for Harris
—why Helen, he has shown most wonder-
ful ability in those very cases, and I have
spared no pains to make him understand the
treatment I wish him to follow. Remember
it is only a careful balancing of the apparently conflicting claims of duty which has decided me to go."

He spoke earnestly, and with a look and
tone which showed how entirely he felt
himself misjudged.

"There comes the train, Dr. Lashley—
you will be late!" said Helen, letting her
hand rest on his a moment, and then drawing it away.

He stood an instant longer, with an ex-
pression of painful indecision on his handsome face: then he said, hastily, "Good
bye. Helen! My dear Helen I am sure that
a moment's thought will convince you that
I am acting for the best?" and so was
gone.

Helen Darrell stood quite still for a few
moments; then she turned and walked with
a firm step up the garden walk, and through
the hall into the pleasant library, where her
father sat reading in his easy chair. She
stood behind him, and drew his head back
against her heart. looking into his eyes.

"Well, Lady Nell?"

"Papa, I am going to help nurse those
sick people."

Squire Darrell gave a start.

"Helen! Child! What are you thinking
about?"

She put her soft hand over his lips.

"Not a word. little papa! I'm your spoiled daughter you know. You can't deny
me anything—you have said so a thousand
times."

"But. Helen, this is worse than folly—
it
is absolute insanity! What could you?"

"A little, I hope; I wish I could do a
great deal more. Papa, some of them are
dying, and Dr. Lashley has gone away!"

"Gone away! and where?"

"To the beach—he's ill, he said, papa,"
In a low tone with her brown eyes clear and
steady; "if mamma were alive she would
have gone before this time. Sha'n't I go."

"My darling" said Squire Darrell, and
drew her down into his arms.

A few hours later John Everdale. tending over Pat Reagan, and trying to rouse
him from the deep stupor into which he
was constantly falling, looked up to see
Helen Darrell standing at the door. His
face grew very pale for an instant but there
was no other sign of surprise.

"Good afternoon Miss Darrell." he said
with his bright smile transfiguring all his
face. He did not say,
"You here, Miss Darrell?"
His whole
manner seemed to recognize her right and
pleasure to be there, and Helen felt that his
very silence paid her a truer and more delicate compliment than Dr. Lashley's most
elaborate periods could ever have conveyed.

"Tell me what to do, John," she said,
using the old, familiar address of her childhood.

"I fear I shall make but a poor teacher."
he answered : but if you could take my place here I would go somewhere else
where help is needed. "Poor Mrs. Reagan
is trying to sleep a little. Patrick is very
quiet, as you see; there is little to be done
beyond keeping his lips moistened with
this sponge—and pray don't let him sleep
too heavily."

Helen sat down by the bedside, and John
went out. but soon came back saying, "You
know where Mary Morrison lives, Miss
Helen? The next cabin but one is hers.
Her little child looks badly—head and
hands burning hot. If you could help her
get it a warm bath, and show her what to
do, it might throw off an attack"

Helen went gladly to do as she was bid.
den, and came by-and-by. laden with the
blessings of the anxious mother, to report
the child sleeping sweetly.

Wherever she went the praises of "Mr.
Everdale" were sounded in her ears and
she realized, as never before, how much
confidence and courage, a strong will, clear
head and warm heart may infuse into an
ignorant and suffering community

"I hope Dr. Lashley is not very ill?"
John said anxiously, as they parted for the
night ; and Helen felt her cheeks flush hot-
ly as she answered, "He will soon be able
to come back, I think."

That night a strong tempest tore down
from the mountains, terrible in the hour of
its strength and fury, but leaving the at-
mosphere cool and pure behind it. The
sick, except such as were past recovery, began to mend under the favorable change:
and fresh life and hope were astir in New
Dublin.

Those few days in which John Everdale
stood side by side with Helen Darrell at the
couch of the sick and dying had been days
of deep suffering as well as of cheerful work
for God and man. The old struggle in his
heart was aroused in tenfold strength by
the sight of her noble and untiring ministry
—the very touch of her hand and sound of
her voice had power to thrill him to the
very depths of his nature.

A sudden summons to the sick bed of
her father's only sister took Helen from her
self-imposed task, and she left Shelbyville
on the evening before Dr. Lashley, refreshed and invigorated, came back to his work.

Helen herself returned in October, on the
first day of the County Agricultural Fair at
Shelbyville, If any one of her accomplish-
ments could take precedence of another in
her father's eyes it was her daring and
graceful horsemanship, and to please him
she consented, year by year, to enter the
list of lady riders on the closing day of the
Fair.

"I am afraid Wisp will be in poor training, papa," said Helen, as the two sat to-
gether on the porch, on the evening of her
arrival at home. "And by-the way, have
you found a mate for Racer yet?'

"No, unless John Everdale should sell
me that gray of his. John is going to sell
out his farm and leave—did I tell you?
And sorry I am for it too, There he is
now! I'll call him in and ask him about the
gray."

Between the gate and the house John
Everdale steeled his nerves to meet Helen
calmly and achieved a brave success. If
he had been less pre-occupied with his own
emotions he might have noticed an unac-
customed tremor in her voice.

"So you are going away, John?" she
said, as her father went indoors for a mo-
ment.

"Yes, I am thinking of it." he answered,
"I hear that a real city is being laid out at
last on my Western—I had almost said my
Spanish estates," he added, with a laugh
that tried to be cheery, "and who knows
of the fortune that may be stored for me in
corner lots? At any rate I'm going to look
after my own interest on the ground."

"Why do you go away?"

He looked at her with all the hungry
hopeless yearning of his soul in his eyes, —
Sure enough? Why did he go away? Could
he breathe the same air she breathed—be
warmed in the same light that shone upon
her, and yet—

Dr. Lashley's chaise stopped at the gate
"Helen Darrell," said John, with a white
heat smothered in his eyes, and the veins
knotted on his forehead as if in some mortal pang, "I cannot—dare not stay!"

It was not Dr. Lashley, but young Harris
who handed Helen a note and a little package and then drove away again.

"What is it. Nell, dear?" said Squire
Darrell, coming out.

"Only a note from Dr. Lashley." answered Helen, speaking rapidly. "He has but
just heard that I am at home; would call
to night, but is sent for suddenly; will be
at the Fair Grounds to-morrow, and hopes
to see me wear the scarlet ribbon he sends
me—his favorite color!" Then turning
with a quick lowering of her voice. she
said, "What is your favorite color, John?"

It seemed a cruel taunt, but all John's
manliness and self-respect came to his aid
as he answered with a smile. "True-blue
Miss Helen!"

The next morning came without a cloud,
From far and near the country people
crowded to the Fair Grounds. A great
throng surged in and about the gaily decorated booths, and in the cattle yard the farmers were discussing the relative merits of
Durham and Devonshire, Old English and
Merino. At last the hour for the riding arrived. The crowd arranged itself as best
it might, surrounding the course, and the
Judges took their places on the stand.

John Everdale looked on wearily from a
distance as the riding commenced. Near-
er and nearer came the graceful riders—a
little girl in a green habit and plumed jacket taking the lead ; but just as they passed
him, rounding the curve, the grey Wisp
shot ahead with Helen Darrell. John's
heart gave a wild leap and stood still; but
it was not the matchless face. flushed and
eager, that had thrilled him so. He had
scarcely glanced at the slender figure holding its seat in the saddle with a pliant firmness wonderful to see. There streaming
backward from her throat, a single dash of
color on the black background of her riding
habit—not Dr. Lashley's scarlet token, but
a ribbon that might have stolen its azure
from some star-eyed violet in summer
meadows.

When Dr. Lashley made his way through
the crowd, mounted on his handsome black
and laid his hand, with ill-concealed vexation, on Helen's embroidered bridle reins—
the prize of the day's success—she bowed
her thanks, but said: "I have another escort, Dr. Lashley!" and so rode out of the
enclosure with John Everdale at her side.

Not a word was spoken; but as if by instinct they turned aside into a more unfrequented way, and as the trees shut out all
curious glances behind them, they turned
and looked into each other's eyes

"I love you, Helen! it is all I can do,"
said John Everdale, simply.

A bright blush spread over Helen Dar-
rell's upturned face. She touched Wisp
quickly with her riding whip, and as John
looked after her wonderingly, backward on
the breeze came the refrain of an old ballad:

"And I've no heart to give him,
For he has it now!"