The Argosy — page 84: what you’re looking at

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

71 eee, EVE OF “ST. “PARTRIDGE. By JEAN MIDDLEMASS. a ERE is much talk of guns, and bags, and birds, and keepers, among the men assembled in the smoking-room at Fotherington Manor on the last evening in August, but expectant though they all are, and excited about the morrow’s sport, the name of Mrs. Bulmer wanders in among their sporting conversation very frequently. Who is Mrs. Bulmer? is a query that passes from lip to lip. Yet no one in the room can answer the question, unless it is a grave, dark man who sits smoking by the window, and has not vouchsafed a remark. That Mrs. Bulmer is beautiful, very beautiful, no one seems to gainsay, and that she is a widow they all seem to be agreed, since their hostess has told them so; but where she has come from, and why none of them—men about town though most of them are—have ever seen her before, is a mystery which perplexes them not a little. She does not look more than nineteen, has fair hair, the softest blue eyes, a smile that has already driven Algy Merrick, of the Life Guards, so crazy that, crack shot though he Is, it will be strange if he does not miss more than a few birds to-morrow, and she is dressed with a perfection that proclaims her a woman of many resources. After, Who is she ? comes the question, What has she? But a satisfactory reply was as far off as ever. ‘The dark, grave man smiled as if his own thoughts amused him, but he did not speak. Algy Merrick, however, observed the smile, stealthy though it was. ““Come, come, Arthur, you know all about her. Give us, without further delay, the history of this charming Mrs. Bulmer.” Arthur shook his head. ‘“ You fellows have been amusing me for the last half-hour, trying to make a mystery where none exists. Julia Anson, one of the prettiest girls in Cum!erland, was married at seventeen to old Bulmer, of Bulmer Court. It is the old story—she married him to save her father, who was a terrible spendthrift, from him, and the old fellow rewarded her by dying atthe end of six months, and leaving her a widow with five thousand a-year.” ‘Five thousand a-year!” The words acted as an electric shock. _* Ay, clear,” went on Arthur, taking a long whiff at his meerschaum. “She has no children, and having mourned in privacy for the last eighteen months, she has been induced to accept our hostess, Mrs. Taunton’s, invitation, and visit Fotherington Manor for the Feast of St. Partridge.” “And you have known her for a long time?” GonmilGaooks (CO)