Life — January 31, 1884 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

GINEVRA INFELICE STANDS AT THE HALF-~ RAWN DOOR OF HER MARQUEE TENT. ‘OT is better to be gloved at cost ‘Than never to be gloved at all.” She has been reading Tennyson, too. But what is her chief thought, after ‘all? I will boil down a page of my justly-celebrated analysis and find that she is thinking of her Cecil. She holds a cablegrain in her gloved hand, and, “ He is coming, coming, coming,” she softly sings ina throbbing threnody of joy. ‘And he shall find me ready.” She glances about her. ‘Queen Anne ; lawn tennis ;—what shall move his heart if these things fail, But they'll sof fail?” she concludes with vehement energy. Heaven help her ! ings of Shakspeare. She is remiss in none of the duties of hospitality, but hers are She had been attending some parlor read- the first ears that hear the approach of clattering hoofs, and hers | deck!" Aung her arms around the first eyes that catch sight of the solitary horseman drawing nigh. (‘‘Solitary horseman” is all right, Bret; quite in a family way.) The newcomer draws up sharply before the Queen Anne hitch- ing-post, and with a superb movement flings himself upon the ground. He is clad in a red shirt and a broad sombrero, his belt is stuck full of bowie-knives and revolvers. He advances toward the bar, flings down with a lordly air a fifty-rouble piece and a double handful of mixed Mongolian silver, and cries ina bold brash voice, ‘‘ Gentlemen, the drinks is mine !” Ginevra, spite his present guise, has recognized him, Faint and dizzy she clings to her tent door for support. And as he emerges from the house, wiping his moustache upon his elbow, he sees and recognizes her. One swift, mutual glance and then— and then— 63 PUBLISHER'S NoTE.—A difficulty not altogether unforeseen here occurs! Our two authors are unable to agree upon a suita- ble termination; each wants to end the story in his own way. We can only print the two versions side by side; you pay your money and you take your choice. | to the Be-Joyful Weep, weep, all weep; so | near together, and yet as far apart as ever. “Calamm !” he said, a thick sob choking his utterance. “Cecil !” she moaned, and wrung her gloved hands. “Oh!” she went on, “and is- it thus we meet?” (She had been taking lessons in ballad singing.) ‘ Mustall our mutual sacrifices count for naught ?— Heaven forbid. You have re- | turned to me expecting to find me ready, and so you shall.” The fire of her aboriginal an- cestors began to blaze in her dark eyes, and the rude speech of her unreclaimed childhood rose to her lips. “ Strike up that there music !” she shouted band en- camped upon the lawn; “I’m going to peel off !” In three quick yanks the work was done and the fine feathers of an effete civilization were stripped off and fluttered unheeded away. Beneath the sheeny satin appeared the old familiar calico, greasy and torn; from under the flaxen wig her midnight tresses once more came into view; the white gloves that concealed her dirty hands were for once and all cast aside; and the Calamity Jane of ‘Chap. I., crying, * Whoop-la, pard! I’m ail on her Cecil’s neck. Ready with the “tag” now and the “‘ drop.” “Two of a kind, at last !” he remarked sententiously, and clasped her to his heart. AND THE CALAMITY JANE OF CHAP, I., CRYING, “* WHOOP LA, PARD! I’M ALL ON DECK!” FLUNG HER ARMS AROUND HER CECIL’S NECK. Ido not invite your tears ;. I would rather be ambiguous than pathetic any day in the week. At last they stood face to face—as a novelist of the old school would say. “C'est bien matheureux,” said Ginevra. Nowadays, when she wanted to place her em- barassments on other shoulders she used French, “It’s ad—d shame!” bru- tally blurted out the enraged and disappointed young man. (He had left his French accent behind and was obliged to use common English.) ‘Fie, fie, for shame !” Such language before ladies! The question is, how is this extreme- ly awkward state of affairs to be remedied? The concessions that I myself can make will be very slight. I have tasted the sweet delights of culture, and cannot renounce them now.”’ ‘* Let the sacrifice, then, be mine,” rejoined Cecil with the well-bred: intonation that the word “culture” seemed to bring back to him. He cast aside his sombrero and began to pull his trousers out of his boot-legs. “ Desist, if you please,”” she said; ‘‘I dislike all scenes. Sweet are the sacrifices of love. Let the nobility of all this mu- tual anguish consist in a sweet and utter—ah—um,” ‘* Do you mean to marry me, or not ?”” he cried in a voice of bewildered, agonized entreaty. “Cela dépend,” she mur- mured softly to the slow waving of her swan’s-down fan. AutHor's NoreE.—The con- tinuation of this deeply inter- esting story will be furnished subscribers on application at my office, for their personal and confidential use. Also full analyses to accompany the present installment, which have been unavoidably crowded out. BF. A RussIANn Nihilist said re- cently that it was his ambition to be the ‘‘ check reign” of the Russian Government. This is said to be the sentiment of the whole N. G.—Nihilist Gang,