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THIS BOOK MUST NOT BC TAKEN OUT OF THE ROOM. ]mMf^^^ 4prll X o XfX4 > ' NORMAN STANLY'S ■»iii """ 'iii ■« CRUSADE; .^s p-'^l OB, THE DUNKIN ACTIN TURNIPHAM. T.^l ir ARTHUR W. MOORE. •4: > •A / MONTREAL : JOHN DOUGALL & SON, ff . 1 -"-f iVffl 'm,( ^ .'•'' /' 1,1 '". \ ^K ■f ^f /^ 7 ^iH- X \. i?3r (> >>**■ ftt'i T^i'^'^ ,r'v NORMAN STANLY'S CRUSADE. CHAPTER I. 3 The door of the tavern opened atid a man staggered out into the darkness and the fall- ing snow. " Better not go home to-night, Sandy, it's dark as pitch," cried the tavern-keeper; " lots o' beds 70U know.*' « Oh ! I'm aU right ! " cried a voice from the dark road. YeBf Sandy was all right, he thought. He had been enjoying himself. He was " full as tick," as his tavern associates laughingly re- marked after he had left their company. He was " all right,"--he could navigate. " You can't kill old Sandy ; he knows what he is about," said they. And so, Sandy Bobbers trudged througih t^ snow on the highroad that led to his .1; ■v* I* If' 4 NOBMAN STANLT'S OBUSADB. farm, situated some two miles away. The snow fell fast, and the wind seemed to blow from all directions at once, sweeping round him and drifting the snow in eddies about his legs as he stopped ever and anon to gain his equilibrium^ (for though Sandy was " all right,'' his legs on this occasion did not seem to heed, as they should have done, the superior promptings of his brain) . For half a mile he made a zig-zag course in the proper direction, diverting his loneliness with alternate snatches of songs and vituperative diatribes against those ** rascally Dunkinites ; " for the occasion of his prolonged visit at the *'l! armer's Rest" tavern had been to raise his voice, along with a number of congenial spirits, in condemnation of the Dunkin Act, which it was proposed to bring into force. There had been a jolly time — the j oiliest time that had been known for a long while — at the tavern. The speeches had been, Sandy thought, the best he had ever heard, and he had felt so much impressed with the importance of the cause as to make a speech hixxiself, in which A OAUFAIGN 8T0BT. 5 he denounced in the strongest terms those Dunkinites, who, in their fanaticism, wished to deprive Canadians of their birthright and freedom. Indeed, Sandy had made a very- violent speech against the Dunkin Act, and pledged, with many a whiskey toddy, his word and his means to overthrow it at the poll. In concluding his speech, he had said : *' Gentlemen, I am not in favor of a man's getting drunk. I say suppress drunkenness by all means, but do not at the same time prevent decent people taking thdir social glass by an arbitrary statute. We are he ^ gentlemen, to-night having a quiet drink together. None of us are groing to commit murder or thrash our wives, nor starve them. No ! we are here, and can take each other's hands in friendship, and stand up together for British freedom." Sandy Bobbers had taken his seat after this speech amid great cheers. But Sandy is on his way home ; the darkness intensifies around him, and the blinding sleet hisses in his face as he breasts the storm. The great stark limbs of the giant pines moan in the midnight blast ; still, Sandy staggers on, 6 NOBMAN BTANLY^S OBUSABE. undismayed by the weird aspect of the sur- roiindiug gloom and storm. Bu^ at the pchool- house gate, which stands in a lonely spot, he pauses a while, and, turning his back to the wind, takes from his breast pocket a black quart bottle. He draws the cork, and hold- ing up the bottle, in the attitude of a man about to propose a toast, says : " May every Dankimte around In his favorite dnnk be drowned ; May every man drink what he wishes, And teetotal folk be food for fishes." ";V. Highly amused at his own impronl|>tu dog- gerel, Sandy laughed, lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long draught. He tried to re- peat the verse that had so suddenly emanated from his brain, but he could not. Sandy was "all right." He had a drop or two, it is true, but to his own way of thinking, he was a long way from being drunk. He was jolly. What cared he for wind, snow, and darkness ! So taking another pull at the bottle, he exclaim- ed, "There, that 'U see me home all right." He again took the road. His footsteps WEM HH't mi ' • , ;-i;%*^%klsai^«ir'-^sttni»»». «--- A CAMPAIGN STOBT. were more unsteady now ; somehow or other, the stoppingc for a rest at the schoolhouse gate had numbed his feet, and he muttered to him- self, "Old Sandy, yovi begin to feel your oats/' There was the long wooden bridge ahead with its high sidewalk planks. Now, if Sandy had only kept to the middle of the road he would have been all right, but he did not ; he walked on to the high footpath, and when in the middle of the bridge he tripped over a broken plank and ielh into the deep, rapid cur- rent beneath. There was a loud splash and a smothered cry, which ominous sounds were soon hushed by the midnight blast as it sang its solemn requiem amid the skeleton woods which skirted the river, spectre-like, leafless and black. A light shines through the window of a comfortable farmhouse a mile further on from the spot where Sandy Bobbers, in the tvnnk- ling of an eye, went to meet his God. Oh why did he not keep to the middle of the road on this dark and stormy night, by doing which he might soon have entered into the light and warmth of his own home, where l^s .'♦tl - 8 NOBMUr ST^NLT S OliUSADE. good wife and two daughters sat knitting and listening to the reading of his stalwart son Hugh ! Alas, poor Sandy Bobbers ! he will never sit by his cosy fireside again. Very cold he lies now in the rigid embrace of Death, firmly embedded under the ice and snow far down the swift-rolling river. The clock strikes twelve at the farmhouse, and Hugh Bobbers puts aside the book he has been reading. " How late your father is !'* says Mrs. Bob- bers at length, " I never knew him to stay so long at the tavern before," said Hugh. " It is very stormy out,*' said Mary Bobbers, who peered through the window into the dark- ness. **0h ! ho will not be long now." . " You know there is a meeting at the 'Farm- er*s Rest* to oppose the DunMn Act," said Hugh. " Oh yes," cried the girls, "that keeps him." ** Oh d«ar !" cried Mrs. Bobbers, "I only wish the Dunkin Act would pass in this town- ship Though I have no fear of your father's going bad through drink, there's many an- ▲ CAMPAIGN bTOBY. other man, Phil Doran, for instance, who is going fast enough to rack and ruin. It'^ not erery one who can take care of himself like your father. He i8 a moderate drinker. He knows when to stop." " Oh yes, father knows when to stop. He likes a hit of fun sometimes, but I never saw him real tipsy ; but still, somehow, I wish he would go right over to the other side, and de- clare for temperance,** — said the son thought- fully. ** How anxious the minister was that day when he was here, for father to sign the Dunkin petition !*' cried Ellen Bobbers, the youngest of the two sisters. " Oh, wasn't he !** replied the elder. ^*And do you know, at one time father wavered ; I thought he was going to sign, sure,'* said the other. " Yes, I thought so too, when the minister spoke about the good that would come, and the great example father would set to the other farmers. But farmer Joyce soon knock- ed that out of his head when he came and talked about British liberty, and the right f-*^"\:. 10 N0£1CAN STANLY B CBU8ADE. eveiy man had to his glass if he wanted it. Your father was almost persuaded though, if Joyce hadn't popped in,*' said the mother. " Almost," cried Hugh. " There was a long pause, after which Mrs. Bobbers said she would go to bed. Another hour passed. Hugh Bobbers went to the front door of the house, and looked out. Snow, wind and darkness confronted him, but throu]gfa the gloom no welcome footstep fell upon his ear. He went into the room again, and sat with his sisters before the glowing embers of the fire. The faithful house dog looked into his young master's eyes with a troubled and anxious look. The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour of two. *'' Father never was out so late in his life before," said Hugh. *^S3mething must have happened him. I'll saddle Peggy and go and meet him." " Yes, do," said the girls. Hugh took a lantern and went to g^t the pony out of the stable, and in a few znoments was on the way to the tavern. When he ar- rived there the house was in darkness, and , .is'6'teN,-A'«4;*'-W* ' "'"*' A CAMPAIGN STORY. 11 whioh Mrs. it was a long time before he could make the inmates hear. At last a window was thrown up and a voice enqviired what was wanted. " Is father here?" asked young Bobbers. " Is that Hugh Bobbers ?" enquired the voice at the window. « Yes," replied Hugh. '" Your father left for home more than two hours ago. Hold on, I'll be down in a moment." The window closed, and soon the door of the tavern was opened by the landlord. *' Father's not come home yet, or hadn't when I left,*' said Hugh, as he entered the house. ** Not home yet !" cried the landlord in amazement ; "where can he be ? He was all right when he left here, more than two hours ago. He couldn't have stopped at any place, could he ?" continued the landlord, over whom a certain dread fear wal^ coming. " I guess not, — but he might. He must be somewhere. He's not on the road," said Hugh. " Not on the road ? Oh no, he can't be on the road," murmured the landlord, who seem- f? 12 NOBICAN STANLY 8 OBITSADE. ed somewhat fuddled with drink, and who seemed determined to clutch at any straw to save himself from being overwhelmed by his own vague suspicions of disaster — disaster, too, from his own house, as it would be, if any- thing had really happened to old Sandy Bob- bers. " 1*11 bet he's called in at Dan Humphrey's, or Joyce's, or Barton's. He's all right I'll warrant. Come, take something to warm yourself up this cold night," said the landlord, who began to be nervous with his own fore- bodings ; for he could not but confess to him- self that of all the many years of his acquaint- ance with Sandy Bobbers he had never seen him get so full of drink as on the occasion of this anti-Dunkin meeting. For Sandy was looked upon as a very model of a moderate drinker — one who took his glass, one, two, or three as the case might be, and then went on about his business like a decent, sensible man as he was, and supposed to be none the worse, but all the better for what he had drank. If anything should have befallen this model of a customer, on this the very first time of his having taken just perhaps a drop \--^m»i-,m' bad to the taste. That's the first time I ever drank brandy, — is that what it is P ' " Yes," said the landlord, "that's the best N.- 4 14 NOBMAN STANLT 8 OBUSADE. y cognac brandy, and very exiiensive. I only keep it for my friends." " It's real splendid !" said Hugh; and in the same breath, "I wonder where father can have got to !*' "I'll tell you what I'll do," said the landlord, after he had taken a large drink of brandy, " I'll ge with you to the neigh- bors. I wouldn't have anything happen to your dad for the world. We shall either find him there or at your house. I'll put your pony into my sleigh and we'll drive." The two drove back towards Sandy Bobbers* farm, and called at every house and scrutinized the wayside as they went along. They even went for miles on the road beyond Sandy's farm, but only to return in consternation at his ex- traordinary disappearance. Every part of the farm, the outbuildings, &o., were thoroughly ext&mined, and long be- fore daylight the neighboring farmers were on the search after the missing man. Men went in all directions — some to the market town of Blankham, and the day wore on and still there were no tidings of Sandy Bobbers. So much snow had fallen during the night that aU ,i||&:^ai5:^«i^^' X A CAMPAIGN STOBY. 15 footprints were obliterated. It was no use looking for tracks. Great was the excitement at the Farmer^ s Rest tavern on the daj and night following Sandy's disappearance. The woods for miles around were scoured by bands of men who volunteered and organized themselves into parties over their glasses at the tavern. Some declared Sandy had been kidnapped by the Dunkinites ; others that he had run off to the States ; others again thought he had wandered away into the woods and frozen to death, and that his body would be found in the spring. Some one suggested that he might have fallen into the river, but that idea was soon dis- missed as being absurd. No sane man need fall from such a substantial and wide bridge as the one over which Sandy had to cross. Others again suggested suicide, and in the course of time peox)le got so accustomed to Sandy's ab- sence that his mysterious disappearance be- came only an occasional topic of oonvezsation, — so soon do we mortals adapt ourselves to life's ever-changing scenes and continual be- reavements. ** 16 NOBHAN STANLT8 0BU8ADE. , There was one, however, who never ceased to look for the return of the missing one — his widow. When advertisements and offers of re- ward were seen to be of no avail, and as day by day passed and there came no tidings of her hus- band, she began to pine away with grief. Had she known the worst, she might have resigned herself. But a continual hoping, and a con- tinual disappointment, soon brought her to a bed of sickness. In the meantime, the landlord of the Farm- er's Best, whose name was Dick Stacy— or more legally, Biohard Stacy — was doing a very lively businese. His tavern was the re- sort of all the farmers for many square miles aroup>d, and w V . 20 NOBUAN STANLTS OBUSADE. and his pipe, never stepped beyond the bounds of moderation. Like a '^ fine old English gen- tleman of the olden time/' he daily took his *^ quantum" of beer, "wine and toddy ; but no man ever saw the old Squire drunk, and his sudden death one day was attributed to apo- plexy. The title of Quaker had been attached to the old man's name, and it seemed to fall naturally upon the son when he was left alone in possession of his father's wealth and influ- ence. Though partaking of his father's character in some things, Quaker Bamaby difPered very much in one essential point — sobriety. He inherited his father' EC*Telish for a glass of li- quor, though not the necessary discretion in its use. But this latter failing was not ob- servable for years after he had laid his parent in the gprave. Being accustomed to see intoxi- cating drinks upon his father's table from his earliest recollection, and never having been brought face to face with the evils that arise from their use, Quaker Bamaby made no en- deavor to shield himself from their power. He was one of those powerfully built men, obese, double-chinned, and fiorid-f aoed. Fond ■.ij.jjii.'liwii^'"""'*''''''''''' ▲ OAXPiJON 8T0BT. 21 of sporting, a good judge of horses, dogs and cattle, a thorough farmer, and passionately fond of good cheer, it is not surprising that he was considered a prince among his fellows by all who knew him. It was quite a windfall to Dick Stacey when the Quaker's fast team was pulled up in front of the tavern and the port- ly form and round, red face of the Englishman entered the bar-room. It was a windfall also to thirsty mortc^s loafing for a drink. The Quaker, whip in hand, would jocosely lash up all hands to the bar counter, and with sten- torian voice bid the landlord " Set 'e*m up for the crowd." When Quaker Bamaby took a "drinking fit'* he set every body at the Four Comers drunk for days together. He was so jovial in his cups that his invitations for people to join him in his carousal were quite irresisti- ble. It was delightful to the loafers to see the jolly stout Englishman bring out bank notes by the fistfull and pay for drinks. It was de- lightful to them, also, to see the Quaker offer to wrestle any man in the crowd and to see his chall^ige accepted by some one who knowing- ly went to grief for the sake of the treat it ■y 'h: )l 22 NORMAN 8TANLY S CRUSADE. would obtain (for the Quaker always treated • the crowd after throwing iiis man) ; and there were men always hanging* around the tavern who would take a thrashing for a drink at any time. Nothing pleased the Quaker more than to get a lot of these loafers into drunken fights. He was always ready to pay damages and liberally reward the combatants with all they could drink. It was always known when the "Quaker was on a spree/' and farmers from all around came to enjoy the fun at the Farm- er's Rest tavern, where they would enter in. to the spirit of the Quaker's enjoyment and feast upon his liberality. All kinds of mad freaks emanated from the tavern on these bacchanals. No.w it would be a bare-back horse race down the road, or putting horses to high jumps, or racing after a pig with a greas- ed tail, the man who could hold it by that slippery appendage to own the animal ; or there would be a dog fight or cock fight. While the Quaker thus acted at frequent in- tervals, his young motherless daughter, his only child, would be anxiously awaiting his return home. Young as she was, only twenty, ▲ CAMPAION STOBT. 23 she fully realized the downward course her father had been taking for several years. She first comprehended her father's altered charac- ter on her return from boarding-school a year or two back. Then, for the first time in her life, she had seen him drunk, and since that time very frequently. It was something very shocking for thia young girl, fresh from the nursery of all the virtues, in Vhich she had been taught to abhor, not only intemperance, but every other vice, to behold in her own father, whom she idolized above all others, a victim of strong drink. Her innocent mind had never once suggpested danger, as from her childhood upwards she had daily seen her parent use beer and wine at home. She had never noticed the glowing liquids paralyze his faculties or unnerve his gait. He had always risen from the table in her presence with firm, manly carriage and lively, oheerful intellect, and Rose Bamaby was proud of her father — proud of his fine, portly, handsome person and the loving, generous impulses of his heart. His love for his child partook of the same passionate force that had marked his love for her mother. In his fair child he again saw ■■/":■ 24 NOBIIAN STANLY S OBUSADE. his youthful bride ; but though the form was there, accompanied by the sweet and gentle nature of his departed wife, the tender influ- ence of nuptial council was forever gone. What Quaker Bamaby might have been had not death deprived him of his wife, it were not difficult to conjecture. He possessed in a remarkable degree all the attributes of a noble nature, and while his wife lived, he stood forth before the world, if not a moral star of the first magnitude, at least, a very bright one. His brief married life had been one uninter- rupted joy. As his gamers were filled with harvest treasures, so was his heart with love overflowing when he had carried to his home the object of his first and only passion. The young wife clung to her wealthy and robust lord as the ivy clings to the sturdy oak, with all the fervor of a wife's sacred love, and her young life seemed sheltered from the stormy vicissitudes of earth by the stalwart husband who stood to her a very bulwark of hope, love and t-trength. Yes, Quaker Bamaby was strong, healthy, rich, handsome ; his wife was young, beautiful, accomplished and true to him, and what is more she was a Christian. A OAlCPAiaN STOBT. 25 He possessed more blessings than generally falls to the lot of man. One thing he lacked, however, which converted all his worldly ad- vantages into snares. Quaker Bamaby was without religious faith. He stood in his own strength. So one day in the midst of sunshine on a summer's day, when flowers decked the earth in wild profusion sending rich perfumes through the open windows, when birds were carolling their merriest, when his hopes and spirits exulted as they had never done before as- he held to his heart for the first time his triimiph of love, his newborn child, there came through the summer zephyrs, from the un- known realms of eternity, the subtle and in- visible messenger of death. " There is a reaper whose name is Death, And, with bis sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath And the flowers that grow between." The Reaper came and gathered the flower of Quaker Bamaby' s love. His happy home be- came desolate, and he mourned as one without hope. The youthful wife and mother had seen the remorseless reaper as he entered the threshold of her home ; she had taken his hand 26 NOBMAN STANLY S CEUSADE. and calmly and peacefully gone with him into the ** valley of the shadow of death," without fearing, for she kne at that the Prince of Peace had sent the messc nger. " My lamp is trimmed and I go to meet the Bridegroom," she had »said to her husband. But he, poor man, be- held darkness and despair. He understood her not. His heart, untutored in adversity, rebelled wildly against the divine decree which paralyzed the even tenor of his prosper- ous career. Th^ death-blow rendered him for a time oblivious of the parting blessing his wife had left him — his motherless infant. Not until she grew up to be an interestiLg prattler did his heart disoover the riiih treasure that Heaven had blessed him with in his dar- ling child. But the intervening years between his wife's death and his daughter's early maturity, when the outlines of the departed one began to dawn in Rose Bamaby , had deaden- ed the nobler elements of his nature. Instead of bowing in submission to his bereavement and seeking the Christian's never-failing con- solation, he endeavored to glean comfort from the wine-cup and convivial company, and drifted on with a hardened heart and a com- A CAMPAIGN STOEY. 27 plaining spirit to his soul's unrest. And as time passed, his intervals of calm sobriety ^- minished. Sobriety brought reflection, and this he could not bear, for his thoughts would then go back to his idol in the grave. This mourning without hope was the rock upon which Quaker Bamaby's life was wrecked. Nothing but strong drink and the companion- ship of drinkers seemed left for him to fall back upon for comfort. Like most men in mental distress through bereavement who fly to drink for comfort, he magnified his own sorrows and made himself a sort of martyr, and people would say who watched him in his debaucheries, " Ah, poor man, the loss of his beautiful wife makes him carry on so ;" and the maudlin condolences of his tipsy associates, who, strange to say, had, all of them, similar bereavements or other catastrophes to bemoan, only added to his own convictions of having been cruelly wronged by Heaven. He might have entered into the trustful enthusiasm of the bereaved poet who, instead of hardening his heart against the dis- pensation of Heaven, took comfort and at even- tide saw in spirit bis loved ones, ■'^Ji y ■m / 28 KOitMA:^ Stanly's obusadb. " Enter at tbe open door, The beloved, the true-hearted Come to Tisit me once more. And with them the Being Beanteoas, Who nnto my youth was f^ven, More than all things else t J lo?e me, And is now a saint in heaven. Oh, if oft depressed and lonely. All my fears are laid aside If I but remember only Such as these hare lived anl died." Quaker Bamaby might have easily adapted the exquisite lines of the American poet to his own case had not the demon Drink stood sen- tinel over the citadel of his soul and quenched from time to time the sweet messengers of peace and hope that tapped faintly at the cas- tle gate. And this constant quenching of the Heavenly Spirit which strove for entrance into his soul, left it at length in total darkness. There was nothing left for him but the fleet- ing joys of the world. His earthly advantages and wealth became so many mockeries luring him on to future woes. ^ CHAPTER III. About half a mile from the Farmer's Rest tavern is situated the once substantial, but now dilapidated residence of Philip Doran. It had once been considered the most desirable house in the neighborhood, being built of st< ne and surrounded by highly ornamented double verandas, about which clinging vines spread their leaves and flowers during the summer time, while beautiful flower beds ornamented the grounds in front. But at the time of which we write, the verandas were a total wreck, and as though ashamed of their com- panionship, the floral creepers no longer em- braced the trellis work, but left the ruin in its naked deformity to the uncharitable criticisms of an uncharitable world. There were no longer any visible signs of flower beds, the whole approach to the house being choked up with sunflowers and other weeds **unprofita- bly gay," amid which, in the absence of fences, vagrants of the barn-yard insolently stalked. *; 30 NOBMAN STANLY S OBUSADE. Sitting on the floor of the dilapidated veranda, leaning his back against the door of the house, was Phil Doran, the presumed owner of the pre- mises. He was embracing his knees with his hands and looking dreamily into the chaos of rauk, worthless vegetation which usurped the horticultural splendors of bygone days — his father's days, when he, Phil Doran,was a bright- eyed boy, when the Doran farm was a farm and no mistake. For thirty years Phil Doran had been won- dering how it was that since his father's death nothing but bad luck had come to the farm. His father died and left him the property ir splendid condition, when he, Phil, was only twenty* two. At twenty-three he had married, and for a while continued in the steady foot- steps of his father, prospering to his heart's desire. In those days there had been no tavern nearer than the village of Boxton, five miles away, and Phil had never h&d r^y i^te for tavern loafing then. But when the Farm- er's Best was established he, like a good many of his neighbors, went there, first out of curiosity and to patronize the new under- taking, and then for company's sake, until he A CAMPAIGN STOBY. 31 soon got into the habit of spending most of his valuable time there. For the first year or two these visits of Phil Doran to the tavern did not very materially affect his worldly pros- pects, for he was well off, had money in the bank, lots of horses, cattle, sheep, hogs, and a well-cultivated farm, all his own. His wife was affectionate and thrify. But life at the tavern was costly ; throwing dice and playing cards for drmks took both time and cash, and as Phil Doran drew monej" from the bank so did strong drink draw energy and vitality out of his body. As time flew on, seed-time and harvest-time found him less and less anxious for active duty, and less capable. The whiskey bottle went with him into the field of labor, and that WdS the last of his successful farming. The time came when he would not work, so he hired more help. This did not pay. Then the live stock began to dwindle. A horse was sold, and there was a spree after it. Then a cow went, and there was another spree, and so on until there was nothing left but the bare ground and farm-buildings. Then these were mortgaged, and finally everything went that ^ V 32 NOBKAN STANLY S 0BT7SADE. ii% >[. m ■ t could go, and for years past he had been struggling to satisfy his cravings for drink, to keep his family in food, and pay the interest on his farm mortgage. But the worst is not yet told. Phil Doran became a perfect brute. From being a kind-hearted and pleasant-spoken man, he became an unfeeling and abusive wretch, spending most of his time at the tavern^ from which he would return daily to his home like an infuriate demon. J^d now, as we write, thirty years after his father's death, he sits a lazy, bloated, soulless, good-for-nothing man,gazing vacantly with be- clouded intellect at the great sunflowers that seem to mock him with their gaudy and brazen faces. Nothing torments him so much as being sober. A tear of such a calamity over- coming h im must have caused him to suddenly shout out " Blinkey ! O Blinkey ! I say, you Blinkey," as he sat in a half -drunken reverie. At the sound of his hoarse voice a grotesque figure appeared at the door of the house. A youth with hardly any forehead, an enonnous mouth, whose skull seemed to go to a point at the top, and who was nearly naked, came shambling forwards, crying, A OAUPAIGN STORY. ** Boo-boo-boo-bubby-bubby-boo." " Bring black jack, you lubber, or I'U boo- boo your ugly head off," shouted Phil, "Boo-boo,'* cried his idiotic son, as he re- treated into the house and returned in a mo- ment holding " black jack," otherwise a bottle of whiskey, in his hand. The man snatched it, and as there was not very much in it, drained the contents and placed the bottle in his bosom. Bising from his sitting postur^^ he entered the house, his idiot son running away from him as he ap- proached, as though afraid. G-oing into the kitchen where his poor sick wife was sitting making baskets for the maintenance of her children, Phil demanded of her the price of a bottle. " Phil, you know I cannot give you a cent ; indeed I can't,— don't ask me," said his wife tremulously. • " Give me a quarter or I'll pull the house about your ears ! I know you have it ! I know Miss Bamaby gave you five dollars the other day, and I only want a quarter. Do you hear P A quarter, or m kill somebody ! ni— ril— Fll B y* ' "S 33 ," ''* T»n 1 < a:, ! •"M . 4 ■ ' 1 1 m fl 1 ' "'' 1 II I ^^^^1 ^^B ',■ 1 ■1 W - ^H ^^B ' ■ i ■ 1 i i 1 11 ^H 1 ^B H ■ wm il 1 f' '^^^H ■ M . { I fc.. ■/ ■». . •'. < . 84 NOBlDr STANLBY 8 OBUSADB. sell the pigr ! I'll get rid o* the cow !*' cried Phil Doran. ** Ah, hut the cow is already mortgaged. If that twenty dollars is not socn paid, old Snod- grass will fetch her away," replied the wife mournfully. " Who cares for old Snodgi ass ? I'll aell the cow to-day ! I'll drive her to Box- ton I Give me a quarter, I say, or I'll shake the light out o' you ! Do you hc'ir ? A quar- ter ! Come ! a quarter before the house tum- bles down on yer !" said the inhuman hus- band. " O Phil !" cried the wife, getting up from her seat and walking towards the door, " I have only half a dollar left, and I wanted it for medicine ; but I suppose you tcill have it, so there's no use in talking to you. I'll go and get it." " You're always buying medicine. A few good hookers of wh'skey would set her all right," said Phil. When his wife went upstairs to her secret money box, the wretched man turned towards a girl who stood in rags at the back door of the house, mattering to harself some uninteUi- tf'H^^^j ▲ OAMFAIOV 8T0BT. 35 gible gi rgon, and sliakmg a stick with apiece pf cloth tied at the end in a meaningless way. This poor creature was another idiot child of PhilDoran's. Taking hold of the girl's hair he whispered fiercely, " Wher6*8 the eggs P eggs P eggs P where'a the eggs?" "Oh chick, chick, chick,-eggy-eggy-mow- mow," muttered the girl and going into an out house and delving among a miscellaneous collection of old boxes, pots and pans, ujicover- ed a dingy receptacle containing about two dozen fresh eggs. Phil reached his hand forward, carefully took them out and deposited them in the several pockets of his coat ; then shaking his fist at the idiot girl and making signs mysteri- ous to the uninitiated, he said, " rU bum your tongue if you tell ! Mind me ! Any more P" " Chick, eggy got none," responded the girl. With a parting threat, the father returned to the kitchen and after getting the quarter from his wife, sauntered off cautiously (for tl / '^ BOKMAN STANlVS CBUSXI-E. ii : ' I 36 fear of damaging his preciou. freight) to the Farmer's Best tavern. ^^^^ When he had left th^h^u-,^^^^^^^^^^^^_ ^ent up «^;Xf accumulated Borrows and b^Uenwxthyear^ot "f ill treatment and nearly half her Me ^^^^ ^^^^^^^ neglect. Yet, stm ^^ ^ aUve Uon of a ''»*«- *;;™^wch thirty year. within her bosom the love ^. ^^^ ago, she Uviehed upon ^he one wn L«.a her life a continual sacrinw, i>, '^"^rti inhuman conduct as a husband^ seltisli ana ii^ chambers of ^^'^ r' Id dug do-, buried her face the house and, ^e^ung ^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^r o:;rt'rmiht have patience and rJ' that if it ^ere His wUl to take every faith,-that u .^ ^j^.^ ^^_.i^^ „„, °**'; Thtt rto her-Faith. And when 'rw tko^ his, she arose and went into she had askea I ^^ j^^^. ^j^^ another ^^^ C Tretched upon a bed of "°^ '^ sTe had been the mother's one solace ?The Wtter We experience, her pride and )oy ^ th and her couuseller, friend and com- pact S^years. Ofthesixchildrenl.m A CAMPAIGN ETOliY. 37 of Mrs. Doran this one only had brought her joy. Of the others, two were dead, and three were idiotic ; poor, unaccountable beings, harmless, tender-hearted, frightened creatures, totally unfitted for the stem battle of life. "Mary, my child,*' said the mother as she sat at the bedside, ♦ * could you eat anything this morning P' ** O, mother," replied the sick girl," I think not; I have no taste for anything. It pains me to eat." " Try and eat something, my dear, if only just a little to keep up your strength. Let me poach an egg for you,'* said Mrs. Doran. " Perhaps I might eat it ; I don't know. Yes, mother, I \ hink I could eat an egg, I will try. The doctor said I should eat eggs,** said Mary. " I will go and prepare one or two for you, and I will beat some up into a nice drink for you with some milk," said the mother. *' WhereJa father to-day ?'* asked Mary. **He went out, my cliild, a while ago ; he will not be long," replied Mrs. Doran. " 0, mother, if father would only — " and ii\ ■'<■ 38 N0E3CAN STANLY S CBUSADB. then poor Mary stopped short, and tears filled her eyes. *' Don't trouble about your father. I will take care of him/' said Mrs. Doran, wiping the tears from her dying child's eyes. " Oh, I should die happy if I only thought he would give up the drink, — if he would only 4;ry just to make an effort. Ask him, mother, if he will come and see me ; he has not been to see me for over a week now," and Mary sobbed. Mrs. Doran could not speak ; her heart was too full. She, poor soul, knew how far beyond human aid Phil Doran was. She knew how she had struggled for years and years, by kindness, by prayers, by entreaties, by tears, by toil, by sacrifices to reform him, and all her lo\dng solicitude had been absolutely in vain. Mrs. Doran left her daughter, and, going down into the outhouse looked into the place where she kept her eggs, but found none there. " Oh dear," cried Mrs. Doran, wringing her hands, " I wish he had left just one, for now the poor girl is expecting an egg, and I must disappoint her." She well knew where they were gone to— A CAMPAIGN STOBY. 39 that Phil, whenever he could find them, sold them for whiskey. Mrs. Doran, however, be- thought herself of the nests, and going to the different places, obtained two, and with these she prepared a repast for the invalid. As Mrs. Doran sat at Mary's bedside while the latter tried to eat, a light footstep was heard on the stairs, and a moment after a gentle knock at the room door. "That's dear Miss Bamaby," cried Mary, and in a moment more the bright and beauti- ful form of Rose Bamaby entered the apart- ment. Full of life, rosy and smiling, her sud- den presence seemed to fill the sick chamber with sunshine, and to inspire the forlorn in- valid with fresh hope. " How kind of you to come. Miss Barnaby !" cried Mary, as Rose went up to tho bedside and kissed her. "I have brought you some grapes, dear Mary, and am going to stay with you this morning," said Rose as she seated herself at the bedside. *' 0, mother," cried Mary, *' I can eat no more egg, now there are grapes. I am so fond of grapes ; they are what I have been ''<'Bt'J m i-i 1^' • Mb r« ! 'I ,■ . 40 NOlvMAN STANLY S CBVSADE. longing for ; they^will quench my thirst." So saying the poor girl ate some of the deli- cious fruit, while Mrs. Doran took away the ' tray and left the two girls alone. Rose Bamaby and Mary Doran were nearly of the same age, and in early life, long before Rose went to boarding-school, a strong at- tachment had sprung up between the two which had been cemented into the fondest affection by a most touching incident of their lives. That which would have been the means of destroying the friendship of most women, in this case brought to light the noblest qualities of the human heart. Rose Bamaby, th^ beautiful, refined and wealthy, whose society every one coui-ted, and whose love half the young men of Tumipham strove to obtain, was herself deeply in love with Hugh Bobbers. It was a love that had grown up from infancy, when she and the bright handsome Hugh were playmates. But never a word of love had passed between them. Hugh Bobbers had never dreamed of love in his childhood companionship with Rose ; he had never dared to lift his aspirations so high as the wealthy Quaker's daughter. Though A CAMPAIGN bTOEY. 41 as children they had played tog-ether and met frequently in matnrer years in the social circle and at churchy the social line of demarcation between the Bamaby and Bobbers families I was very great, and it became greater every time Itose had r<9tumed with fresh beauty from the fashionable boarding-school at vaca- tion time. The innocent and joyful companion- ship of childhood gave place to the convention- al decorum of young ladyhood, and in the transition Hugh took his place among the or- dinary throng of respectful admirers, little dreaming that he, of all men in the world, reigned supreme in the heart of the beautiful Rose Bamaby ; and so in course of time it came about that Hugh fell in love with some one else, and that someone else was poor Mary Doran, when she too was beautiful if not so rich and refined as Rose Bamaby. Poor Mary! she was in health and strength when Hugh told her how he loved her, and she had lived in the light of his earnest first love. The darkling shadows which intemper- ance gathered around her home, through her father, had been partly dispelled by the know- ledge of Hugh s love. She had peered beyond r 4\\ i' ^i ♦v(l) 42 NOBMAN STANLY S CBUSADE. I the gloom of her own desolated home to a brighter home with a noble, temperate and in- dustrious husband, and had built ''castles in the air," — not idly, nor dreamily, but with hope exulting over present misery, and buoyed up with earnest action and a noble resolve that the comforts her mother and hapless brother and sisters lacked under their natural protector's indolence and shame, should be, in a measure at least, supplied by the fruits of her own in- dustry. She had hoped that in striving to merit Hugh's love, she might lead him, also, to pity and protect the helpless ones. The disgraceful character which Phil Doran had won for himself by his ungovernable love of drink, had almost severed all ties of friend- ship and respect with his neighbors, far and near. Nor did he go into this social isolation alone. He dragged his family with him. Under these circumstances the course of love between Hugh and Mary did not run smooth- ly. Hugh had been ashamed to tell his own family of the relationship he was going to establish with the generally condemned Dorans. So the secret was kept between themselves, and no one heard that Hugh and Mary were A CAMPAIGN STORT 43. engaged. But one friend proved true to Mary Doran through all the trials, disgraces and sufferings brought upon her family through her father, and that was Rose Bamaby. As we have said, their friendship had begun in early childhood, and had increased as the years rolled on. Previous to Mary's sickness, she had been a frequent guest at Quaker Bamaby' s house, during the vacation ; ostensibly, she went fco do sewing for Rose, and the world of Tumipham approved of her visits in this light. Quaker Bamaby would not have approved of Mary Doran as an associate and companion for his daughter ; but as a seamstress, her presence in his house was not only approved of, but highly commended. It would never do for the daughter of that drunken vagabond Doran to be called the friend of Quaker Bamaby* s daughter, although the latter fine gentleman often sat cheek by jowl with Doran in drunken sprees at the tavern. So the world knew not that Mary Doran was the friend and confidante of Rose Bamaby, and that the frequent mess- age " Could Mary Doran please come and do a little sewing for Miss Bamaby" was only an innocent excuse for the two to get into each other's society. >i m *>, fil .3' <« X 44 NORMAN STANLT 8 CRUSADE . And Mary was well worthy of the great love of her friend, for a truer- hearted and more gentle creature never lived. She had soft, qiiet, winning ways, was ladylike in her man- ner, and of modest, timid bearing, which latter trait was, doubtless, the result of a constant life of dread at home. Having withal deep religious convictions, she was well worthy of any one's love and confidence. Of all Rose Bamaby's lady associates there was not one in whom she could trust like Mary Doran. To her she confided all her little anxieties, and for a long time, Kose had longed to pour out to some one the grand secret of her life, her unconquerable love for Hugh Bobbers. S^e had met the young man at different places, the church, Sunday-school and meetings, time and again, since she had grown up to woman- hood, but always as the Squire's daughter, and he as the ordinary farmer's son. She was too well bred and modest to even think of making any show of her love for him. No, she had rather avoided looking at him, but the efPort had been painful. She had tried to outlive what she considered a hopeless affection ; for even had Hugh made any advances, she felt A CAMPAIGN STORY. 45 that her father would never sanction their union. But she loved him, nevertheless. It was a pure and holy love, enhanced by the re- membrance of early associations. Rose Bamaby little thought as she sat one day talking quietly to Mary Doran that she was conversing with Hugh Bobbers' betroth- ed. The two girls had been busy sewing ard chatting as was their wont together, and at length the conversation touched upon the sub- ject of love. In answer to Mary Doran's question as to whether she had ever preferred one gentleman to another Rose ^ ^d replied, " One alone has had possession of my heart from childhood." This had naturally aston- ished Mary, and as she h -d been in early life one of Rose's most constant playmates, she be- gan to wonder who the youth could be that had so favorably impressed her companion. She thought of all the boys with whom they played since children. The most likely one to have made such a remarkable impression was Hugh Bobbers, and Mary paled somewhat as she thought of this, but dismissed it from her mind as quite improbable. "You say one has had possession of yonr (ul ill i / 46 NOBMAN STANLY S CBUSADB. ^1 heart from childhood, dear Miss Bamaby. It cannot be any of our old playmates/' and here Kary repeated the names of several, but had not the courage to mention Hugh's. After a pause, Mary said, " I have no right to pry into your secrects, but I hope whoever it is that you love will love you in return." " I would sooner tell you my secret than any one else, dear Mary," said Roae. " You are kind to place so much confidence in me," replied Mary. *• I hope your love is not unworthily placed, and that it will prove a blessing." " My love, I doubt not, has been for years past placed upon one whom I consider worthy of any woman's love. He is handsome, honor- able and if not rich and highly cultivated, is I think, manly and industrious," said Bose. "IshetaU?" asked Mary. " Yes, he is tall and fair," replied Rose. Mary's heart sank within her and she falter- ed out, " Has he blue eyes ?" Bofie said he had blue eyes and curly h>iir ; and then Mary, with a slight tremor in her voice, asked, ▲ oampaxgk stobt. 47 « Is lie a farmer P'* When Rose answered, " Yes, he is a farmer, and lives near by," Mary became conscious of the fact that they both loved the same man. For a few moments there was a silence, and during this interval many conflicting emotions arose in the mind of Mary Doran. She loved her friend Rose, next to her mother, more than any woman in the world. Her love and ad- miration were strongly imbued with gratitude towards her benefactress, who had stood by her through all the retrograding fortunes of Phil Doran, her father. While the world had neglected her and tamed the cold shoLlder she, the beautiful, rich RoseBamaby, had per- mitted the friendship of childhood to grow into the fondest adult affection. And now, as Mary reflected upon the extraordinary condi- tion of affairs concerning their mutual love for Hugh Bobbers — for she felt quite sure now whom Rose lo 7ed — she determined that not even this should break the bonds of friendship be- tween them. Having considered for a few moments, Mary acted under her naturally honest and straightforward impulse and said, ** I too, dear Miss Bamaby, am in love, and #1 '• 1 It I »^^kc« # 48 NORMAN STANLY S CBUSADE. > with one who is tall and fair, and who has blue eyesy and is a farmer, living in the neigh- borhood." **Doe8 he know you love him ?*' cried Rose eagerly P ** Uhyes, dear, he knows I love him, and I know that he loves me," said Mary. " O, Mary, you are engaged and never told me ! You love and are beloved, and I too love, but dare not tell my love. Oh ! how happy you must feel I" exclaimed Hose pas- sionately ; and then in a more subdued tone, she asked, " And now, dear Mary, since you have told me of your happiness, tell me who the fortunate one is that has gained my friend's neart. Come, I will keep your secret." " It is Hugh Bobbers, " faintly' cried Mary. Had the darkness of midnight suddenly obscured the summer sunshine which illumin- ed the earth, it could not have produced a greater shock upon Kose Bamaby than this unexpected intelligence. In all the perplexi- ties of her strong love for Hugh Bobbers, it had never occurred to her that he might have loved another. She had hoped that her friend Mary might have suggested some honorable A C.VMPAIfiN STORY. 49 means by which her sentiments could with propriety have been made kn wn to Hugh ; that Mary might have smoothed the way, by some to Rose, as yet, vague, undefined mea- sure for a happy issue in her heart's dilem- ma. Poor Bose turned very pale and did not speak ; and Mary too was pale and silent. Rose walked to the window and looked out upon the landscape. Mary followed her and placing her arm round her friend's neck said, " Dearest Rose, look into my face, let me look into your eyes." Rose looked up into Mary's face ; her eyes filled with tears, aSd then putting her arms around Mary sobbed. " 0, Rose," cried Mary, " I see it aU,- I am ready to make the sacrifice ; I am not worthy of his love ; you can make him happy, — you can lead him on to honor and riches, and I can only drag him down into the dust. Oh, yes, dear Rose, I will close my heart against him ; he shall soon forget me, and when he knows that you love him, he will be happy — far happier than with my poor love. I will learn to love and respect you both.'* Rose lifted her head from Mary's shoulder and said, .J- u ! f i ■'ijj M£ -I 60 NOBMAN STANLY S CEU8ADE. " There ! dear Mary, it is all over now^. I have had a cry and I feel better now ; I have been very foolish, and you have been very foolish also, to talk about giving up his love, that I might win it ; but, my dear, you do not know your friend Rose yet, I see. If I have "been foolish, I am not selfish, and if I cannot live in the sunshine of Hugh's love, I can, at any rate, bask in yours, dear Mary. Do you know what your statement has revealed to me, — what it has made me bcv^ome consoious of ? I will tell you. It has revealed to me God's disapproval of my laying up treasures on earth. I am conscious now of having worshipped an idol. Hitherto the image of Hugh Bobbers has been foremost in my mind. From this time, dear Mary, I will supplement it with another iiuage — the image of Him who know- eth the secrets of all hearts, and who has said, * My grace is sufficient for thee.' I have been dreaming and living in an ideal world instead of acting and living the real, earnest, matter- of-factlife,such as our religion demands. I will now humble myself and accept with meekness this Divine rebuke, and instead of repining, endeavor to make my future life more accept- able to Him." IK A CAMPAIGN STORY. 51 And Rose l:ept her word. She dismissed, as far as she was able, all thoughts of Hugh and strove in every way she could to convince Mary of her unalterable esteem for her. And Mary, in return, looked up to Rose with in* creased admiration and love. Time passed, and the two young girls were much in each other's company. The world seemed very bright to Mary, as she thought of her friend's generous conduct and of Hugh'& love ; but a great change came suddenly and when least expected. Mary had returned home one day from a visit to Bamaby Grange,, as Quaker Bamaby's residence was called, full of hope and gladness. It was in the autumn, when the nights were cold. She and her mother had been sitting up late waiting for Phil Doran's return. They were about to re- tire to bed when they heard him approach the house. He was cursing fearfully, and when he entered the door, his wild look frightened them. He was highly intoxicated and began abusing his wife and daughter. The two women tried to pacify him and persuade him. to bed, but kind words only seemed to add to his fury. He threatened to kill them, and t^ f I' ''• 'i.'il m , .'II 52 N0RMA2J STANLY S CRU3ADE. ill •\... i Ml\ rushing to the table, dashed it over. Then seizing a meat hatchet threw it at his wife. The dreadful missile failed to strike the intend- ed victim, which seemed to further exasperate the drunken man, who, with curses, said he would " do the business with the axe." He staggered towards the outer kitchen for the purpose of getting it and while doing so, Mrs. Poran and Mary fled and hid themselves in the bushes some ^^istance from the house. The madman endeavored to find them and roamed about, axe in hand, going once or twice very near to their hiding place. No one can ima 't I ^M -I' l>''i\ ■■ . '-M n\ 60 NOBHAN STANLY 8 CKUBACE. by means of the Dunkin Act. He knew that, in some respects, the act was faulty ; but still it was the only legal weapon at hand. Scattered among his flock, here and there, were certain temperance men ; these, backed by the influence of the female population of the township, he determined to enlist in the cause by obtaining their signatures to a petition to the Council, asking the adoption of the Dun- kin Act in the Township of Turnipham. Hav- ing prepared the petition, he set about obtain- ing signatures thereto. At flrst he was much encouraged at the willingness of the people to sign, meeting with little or no opposition dur- ing his first and second day's canvass. But, having commenced operations among those farmers living at the greatest distance from Boxton, he every day drow nearer to his enemies, who would oppose the temperance cause with all their power. One of his first disappointments occurred upon his visit to Sandy Bobbers. The minister had a very high opinion of Sandv, who was one of the oldest and most respected farmers in the township, and who was always ready to promote the welfare of the community in the matter of church, schools, A CAMFAION STOBY. 61 roads, or any worthy object. He had always kept himself so sober and respectable that it had never occurred to Norman Stanly that the worthy farmer was in any danger through drink. He carried his liquor so well that even the tavern-keeper who sold it to him had been struck with admiration at his undeviating course of sobriety. He might easily have been taken for a strict prohibitory man by his conversation and demeanor at times ; and the minister, who had, Sunday after Sunday, seen Sandy and his family at their places in church, had no reason to doubt but that he was the friend of a good cause. So he entered the farmhouse of Sandy Bobbers, several weeks previous to that imfortunate man's death, fully anticipating the enlistment of another impor- tant recruit in the temperance ranks. When Norman Stanly informed Sandy Bob- bers of his errand, the latter looked at the petition for some moments in silence, stroking the top of his head with one hand, as was his habit in reflection. At length he said, " Ah, Mr. Stanly, I admire ycur zeali n some respects, but do you think it is right to insie^*; upon everybody being teetotalers when they '•■V •*/■■ 62 KOBHAN STANLT8 CBUSADE. ■s ^-r. " perhaps don't want to be P You want to keep folks sober by Act of Parliament, eh P'* and Sandy laughed good-naturedly. "The Dunkin Act will never compel a man to cease drinking unless he wishes/' said the minister ; "but it will remove one great source of temptation/' and then he enumerated to Sandy Bobbers many of the evils arising from the use of drink, and how necessary it was, if only for the sake of the rising generation, to suppress the liquor traffic ; and pointing to his son and daughters, he continued, "What would you say, Mr. Bobbers, if any of these dear ones were either to become slaves to drink or be allied to those who, through that g^eat curse, blasted their prospects in life and brought them to beggary and shame P Yet all this is possible, though it now appears improba- ble." "Impossible !" cried Sandy Bobbers ; "they have been taught their duty." "Yes, they have been taught their duty," re- plied the minister; "I believe that, and you have reason to be very proud of them. It is for this reason you should exercise your in- fluence in driving from the land an evil that A CAHPAiaN BTOBY.'v 6a might perchance wreck their happiness and render fruitless all the moral and intellectua seed that you have implanted in their hearts. I solemnly warn you that none of us are safe so long as the traffic in drink is legalized. If the curse of drink does not attack us in a per- sonal and direct manner, it is liable to do so indirectly . I could point out a nimiber of cases within my own sphere of observation where the most innocent people have been brought to ruin by the indirect onslaughts of the drink traffic. Let me beg of you, as you value the welfare of your children, and as a responsible member of society, to aid, with your name at any rate, in suppressing this giant evil, which threatens to paralyze the moral and physical development of Ontario's youth. It is the great question of the day, and one of those un- dertakings of tremendous import which calls for the investment of the talents spoken of by the Redeemer, and with which all men are more or less endowed.'* As one argument after another was eloquent- ly brought forward, Sandy Bobbers looked earnestly in the face of Norman Stanly, and had the minister been ready with a pen and \ f : m^ 64 NORMAL STANLY S OBUSADl*:. ink, there is no doubt he would have gained the farmer's signature to the Dunkin petition. But at this critical moment another person joined the company. Farmer Joyce, a neighbor, called in to have a chat with Sandy, and very soon he was made acquainted with the object of the minister's visit. "Well, parson," said Joyce,** I have no ob- jection to temperance, but when you come to trample upon British liberty, as this Dunkin Act will, why, I will not go in for it. It is a dangerous thing to trifle with the liberty of the subject. I have a perfect right to my beer if I want it, or to my glass of grog." And then Norman Stanly went over his argument again in favor of the Act. But farmer Joyce was immovable. He would, he said, fight against the bill to the last in de- fence of his British hberty. He became so eloquent upon this point of liberty, that poor Sandy Bobbers lost what little sympathy he had in the temperance cause. The minister, unable to obtain the signatures of the men, departed. No sooner had the good man left the house i ,1 A CAMPAIGN STORY. 65 than the two farmers went jVito t^nother I'oom and Sandy Bobbers going to a cupboard brought forth a small demijohn of liquor. ** It's the real Scotch," said Sandy as He poured it out and handed the tumbler t< his friend with a very significant wink. ** "Why didn't you ask the paroon to take a drop ?" asked Joyce with a merry twinkle. " He is a v«ry decent fellow, that Stanly," said Sandy, " and he is right in a jeod many respects. It would be a good thing for the rising generation, this Dunkin Act, but of no good to us old chaps ; you cannot teach an old dog new tricks, and we l^^ve no very bad tricks. We take our horn, and I suppose we always shall. If we can't get a supply of liquor in Tumipham , «/e can at Bldnkha.m, so it will not matter to us much." "Oh, but it will," replied Joyce; "these horrid fanatics will ruin the country ; they will pass the Act all over, and eventually the grain trade will go to Blank. Why even in Tumipham, if the Act passes, it will put a stop to all business. Where are we to trade and water our horses if there are no taverns ? Besides, man, it's all moonshine about the C i f 66 N0E3IAN STANLY S CEUSADE. evils of drink — all moonshine. Nobody gets hurt by drink, only now and again. The blamed fools deserve to die if they drink more than is good for them. I mean to oppose the Act and get everyone I know to do the same. They are a mean, treacherous lot, those tem- perance chaps. They cry to undermine those who are opposed to them. I tell you, Sandy, it will be a good deal of money out of your pocket, and every other grain-grower's pocket, if these Dunkinites succeed in closing the taverns in Ontario. They will not stop at Tumipham. If they succeed here, it will en- courage the fanatics in the neighboring town- ships, and they will never cease until the whole Province is under the tyranny of Dunkin. Besides ruining the commerce of the country and impoverishing the revenue, it will start a lot of tyrannical innovations, foreign to the spirit of the British ConsKtution. "We shall be back in the dark ages before we know where we are." " I believe you are right," said Sandy Bob- bers, thoughtfully. ** It will certainly have a bad effect on the grain-producers. I never looked at it in that light before. I shall cer- tainly oppose it with all my power.'* A Campaign stoey. 67 As Sandy finished speaking, a buggy was driven up to the door and two stalwart, hand- some young men alighted and entered the house. One was a son of farmer Joyce, nam od Edwin, and the other William Dale, a farmer's son living in the neighborhood. They were the affianced lovers of Sandy Bobbers* two daughters. It was evening, the labors of the day were over, and the two youths had come to take their sweethearts to the town of Blank- ham, where a grand concert was to take place that evening. This was three weeks prior to the mysterious disappearance of Sandy Bob- bers. i h U |..|V «■«««-.»- CHAPTER V. Nothing daunted by his ill success with farmers Joyce and Bobbers, Norman Stanly visited every farmer in the township with his petition. Many were the reproaches he en- countered in his unthankful mission, but still each day brought him signatures and *^ God speeds'' from earnest men and women. The women especially were anxious that he should succeed, for they too well knew the great im- portance of the temperance cause. The dear- est interests of their lives hung, as it were, in the balance. Many of them had intemperate husbands, who, at times, made their homes in- supportably wretched by their periodical orgies. None so well as the drunkard's poor t 'fe can fathom the depths of misery that «^ 'se from the liquor traffic. The outside world may, at times, be shocked and express its pity for the innocent and miserable partner of the ^ A CAMPAIGN STOEY. 69 inebriate, but it knows nothing of the revolt- ing details wMch day by day, week by week, and year by year, are enacted at his home, and which, in the aggregate, would form a sum- mary of horrors too shocking for mortal mind to contemplate unawed. Only one refuge stands open for the victimized woman, — ^the grave, with its friendly shadow, seems to her devoid of terrors — seems like the " shadow of a great rock in a weary land," where she may rest ani sleep awhile on her pilgrimage to the better land beyond. Yes, the grave seems friendly to the poor, long-suffering drunkard's wife, and she would gladly go but for the little hand, perchance a Nellie's, or a Tommy's, which seems to hold her back ; but for this ten- der link she would long ago have sank, ** weary with the march of life." Only for the little one's sake she clings to life. Norman Stanly had about a dozen such heroic women in his ministerial circuit (which extended beyond the Township of Tumipham) . Poor Mrs. Doran was one of these. How the minister's heart bled whenever he entered her desolate home ! — that home which he remem- bered as a boy t? have been so beautiful and Sfl ' .1 lit' '■4 I'M 70 NOEMN STANLEYS CEUSADE. thrifty, when Phil Doran, in his early man- hood, had not yet lost all his self-respect. Thfi minister called with his petition and showed it to Mrs. ."^oran. ** I dare not sign it, hut oh, Mr. Sfcanly, I will pray earnestly that /ou may succeed. My hushaad would Mil me if I signed it," she said. Other good women similarly situated as Mrs. Doran said the same. They were afraid of their husbands. "Tt would be as much as my life is worth," said one. " I whould be signing my death warran*-," said another. But Mary Doran signed the petition. ** I shall soon be beyond all human censure, and I will at least leave one feeble protest against a traffic that has robbed me of life," said she. Norman Stanly, having obtained all the signatures he could to his petition by canvass • ing, determined to make a last grand effort to arouse the temperance people to their duty by calling a meeting in the village of Boxton. The town hall was crowded to excess on the occasion, but the proceedings were much in- terrupted by the presence of a number of the men opposed to temperance, who took the usual course of endeavoring to break up the meeting. A CAMPAIGN STOET. 71 The petition was presented to the Township Council at its next sitting, and the discussion thereon occupied that grave body for several hours, bringng into play all the elocutionary powers of the members. It was finally resolv- be settitAiA iiuestion of the Dunkin Act should this method of evBm^Ke councillors takin/r taching to it. In the meantime ^..-i^^y.. of temperance, seeing the existence of tnetx drinking haunts menaced, rallied their forces for the combat. The two tavern-keepers at Boxton suddenly became exceedingly generous. All the village bumnBrs and topers were con- tinually being requested by the respective Bonifaces to coms up and " have somifchiag." Penniless loafers at maal times were gently slapped on the back and told to go in and get a bite. Passing farmsrs and teamster** were told to'* never mind'' when they put down their money in paym'ent for drink. Dick Smithors, proprietor of the Bjxton Hotel, was particularly kinl to all who called upon him. He made up a huge quantity of a new kind of drink composed of whiskay, cider and sugar, in which floated a nuaibir of roast - 72 NOEMAN STANLY' S OEUSADE. i ed apples, the whole seasoned with nutmeg and cinnamon. To this beverage he gave the name of " Dunkin FUp." Being a facetious gentleman, he dealt out this gratuitous re- freshment to his patrons, accompanied with some very doleful jokes concemiTio->^ upon to ence they would T^—^^^^ed regimen of the ^. .. -.XX3T}. Placing his rubicund face be- mnd the bar counter Dick Smithers would put himself in the attitude of an orator, and rap- ping vigorously upon a tin quart measure with a funnel to gain the attention of his audience, Invite them to step to the front. Whereupon there would be a general rush to the counter, of farmers, teamsters, and the usual comple- ment of idle vagabonds, and then the proprie- tor would deal out his Dunkin Flip wi^h a harangue somewhat as follows : — "Gbntlembn, — It having just been dis- covered that the residents of the Township of Tumipham are not competent to take care of themselves in the matter of what we shall eat and drink, it is proposed, by a number of high- ly intelligent old ladies, to take us in hand. We are going to be looked after. In a little A CAMPAIGN STORY. 73 while old Dunkin will reign supreme in our midst, and woe be to you, Tim Flanigan, and you, Ike Bibber, and you, Bill Swales, if ever you are caught sniffing the balmy breezes for a smell of old rye ; for, if you do, you'll be transgressing the law, and the majesty of the law will have t > be vindicated, and the old lidies will see to it. I therefore warn you villains to commence tapering oft' in your drinks. You must prepare to jump down from * whiskey straight' and its convivial at- tributes to the frigid commonalities of the pump. Under these circumstances, and fully mindful of the many joyous hours we have passed together beneath this roof, and your generous patronage since I have had the honor of presiding over the Boxton Hotel, I have thought it appropriate, as a fitting memorial of past joys, and to assist oui descent into the methodistic existence which has been marked out for us, to brew, concoct, compound, create, execute and prepare the . beverage which you now hold in your hands, and which I have taken the liberty of naming after the autocrat who is in future to govern the destinies of the Tumipham farmers. In the Dunkin flip, i; ^ m 74 NOBMAN SVANLY S CEUSADE. gentlemen, you will find, I tnist, an agreeable stepping-stone from the "whiskey bottle to the pump.'' However absurd such a speech may appear to the reader, he may rest assured that the guests of the Boxtoti Hotel could find in it sufficient wit and wisdom for their high ap- preciation. Loud roars of laughter would follow, and the "Dunkin Flip" be in great de- mand. Venerable-looking farmers would look knowingly at ea* h other, and one wisely ex- claim, " That's a smart man, that Dick Smith- ers ; its in Ottawa he ought to be." " Yes," says a notorious loafer in the hearing of the proprietor, " I alius' sed ther war a good mem- ber o' parlimint spoiled in Dick Smithers;" and then, to use a familiar Ontario tavern phrase, there would be a **high old drunk" at the Boxton Hotel. While the two tavern-keepers at Boxton were engaged in courting public favor by their interested generosity, Dick Stacy was pursu- ing the same strategy at the Farmer's Rest tavern at the Forks. He controlled a very powerful influence with the better class of farmers, among whom may be mentioned the A CAMPAIGN STOBT. It 76 11 great Quaker Bamaby. The tavern, as we have before said, was advantageously situated at the jointure of three highways, and conse- quently was much frequented by transient customers. It was a famous place for water- ing teams and whiskeying their owners, and Dick Stacy lost no opportunity of bewailing the misfortune that threatened the travelling public by the contemplated closing of his house of entertainment. Liko his Boxton brethren of the taverns, he brought the Dunkin Act into ridicule whenever a customer appeared at his bar counter. He dilated with mock en- thusiasm upon the generous nature and soul- inspiring qualities of pump water, its cheap- ness and profusion, its efficacy in dispelling sadness and alleviating colics, cramps, and the thousand other ailments of poor humanity. He delighted in getting a poor trembling drunkard, eager for a drink, in front of his tempting counter, and dwelling upon the good things in store for him upon the passing of the Dunkin Act. " All, my fine fellow," Dick would say (and truly too), "you will never have any more snakes in your boots under the Dunkin Act ; I 7G NORMAN Stanly's oeusade. you will acet all your drinks for nothing then. You will only have to go to the pump. Go and vote for the Dunkin Act ! Don't stand shaking there — do something for your coun- try ! Pass the whiskey, do you say ? How can you ask me for whiskey and you a Dunkin man h" And in this tantalizingly facetious manner the landlord would toy with the burning appe- tite of his impa lent customer until the latter wo aid almost shriek for his whiskey and cry, " Blank the Dunkin Act and all who are in favor of it !" and then, filling up a bumper of the liquor, quaff it with nervous avidity, as though afraid that Dunkin himself might come and snatch it from his lips. By such strategy as this, man}^ times employed during each day, Tfr^ould Dick Stacy exasperate his alcoholic slaves into the bitterest opposition to temperance reform : while to such men as Quaker Bamaby, Sandy Bobbers, Farmer Joyce and other prominent farmers, he would assume the character of injured innocence. ** They are going to take the bread out of my mouth,'* he would say to them, " and I leave it to you, gentlemen, to say whether I ▲ CAMPAIGN STOEY. 77 k^ have not striven hard to accommodate the public in every way since I opened this tavern. In winter I always kept good fires going for the travelling farmers to warm themselves by, alwaflTS had good beds, good table, and the best of liquors, and now that I am getting old, and unfit to begin life again, my house is to be closed and I am to go and earn my bread as best I can." But Dick Stacy said nothing about thie houses and land that he owned, the wealth that he had accumulated by his infamous traffic in liquor ;~ nothing about the fortune he had helped to deprive Phil Doran and a score of other farmers of. It was a fact that the miserable Doran had spent the bulk of his worldly substance at the Farmer's Rest tavern. For twenty-five years had Phil Doran been a regular customer at the tavern, and, little by little, he had exhausted there in drink the wealth that should have established his family in life, and their descendants, for aU time to come. Aye, more than his worldly goods did Phil Doran dissipate at Dick Stacy's bar. He wrecked his robust constitution and bartered off his soul I And who shall deny that the m 78 N0B2IAN STANLY S CBUSADE. germs of idiocy, which bore fruit in his un- fortunate offspring, had their origin there? If we cannot positively affirm it, we can, at any rate, see the present deplorable ruin, and picture in imagination what might have been the result of thirty years, steady, temperate in- dustry on the part of Phil Doran. In the men- tal retrospect, we behold the plodding man of temperance beginning life for himself with a farm unencumbered by debt, and with over a thousand dollars in the bank. Year by year his wealth accumulates, he becomes the father of beautiful and healthy children, to whose in- tellectual and physical wants it is his joy to daily administer. His loving. Christian wife adorns his ht'usehold with a thousand loving tributes, the work of her own and her chil- dren's hands. By his wealth, his children are enabled to taste the joys of music, art and science. The honest, sober farmer enters his home at eventime, when the labors of the day are over, and, amongst his cultivated children> he lifts his soul upwards beyond his daily drudgery — he is happy amid music, books, flowers and children. And still his wealth increases, blessings pour down upon him daily. ▲ CAMPAIGN STOBY. 79 His children increase in strength and stature. They rise up and call him blessed. As old age creeps on apace, he is undismayed at the approach ot* death. Having p ovided for his family, and been steadfast in the duties of life, with a lively, Christian hope, he stands ready to enter into his rest. Such might have been the retrospect of Phil Doran's life, had it not been for the Farmer's Rest tavern. Dick Stacy, as he recapitulated his griev- ances to Quaker Bamaby, Sandy Bobbers, and others, said nothii.g of all this ruin that he had helped to create in their midst, and they — blind fools that they were! — condoled with the poor tavern-keeper in his misfortunes. Nothing would do Quaker Bamaby but a meeting of all the anti-Dunkinites in that sec- tion of the township, to be held at the Farm« er's Best tavern, which proposition was back- ed by the promise of a good dinner on the part of Dick Stacy. Accordingly, the meeting took place several weeks prior to the polling day, and the only circumstance of importance that •ccurred, apart from the speech-making and drinking, was the mysterious disappear- ance of Sandy Bobbers, with whose untimely death the reader is already acquainted. CHAPTER VI. r'4, m In his endeavors to disnnyer some clue to his father's disappearance on the night of the anti-Dunkin meetings Hugh Bobbers was a frequent visitor at the Farmer's Rest tavern, waere, if he did not gain any satisfactory in- formation by which he could solve the mystery, he met with abundance of sympathy. He was looked upon as a sort of hero by the lower stratum of society there, while the better class farmers, his own social equals, treated him with marked consideration. He was consider- ed an admirable subject for frequent treats- solemn treats, when the whiskey would be gulped down in silence, and on the part of some with tears— expressive of regret at the aching void in the Bobbers' family. And Hugh, in the early bloom of manhood, inex- perienced, a«4 yet, in the evil ways of the world, but with a leaning towards conviviality, was coijscious of a certain vague pleasure in his A CAMPAIGN STORY. 81 frequent visits to the tavern. It being winter time, and with him, a very extraordinary time, he had not much to occupy his attention upon the farm. Indeed he had been travelling in search of his father ever since the disappear- ance, and the end of every journey, whether to the town of Blankham, the village of Boxton, or anywhere else, brought him and his sleigh to a tavern. But of all these places of resort, there "v^as none he felt so much at home in, as the Farmer's Rest. Here, he could get that splendid drink which Dick Stacy called by the very innocent name of "lemon smash." To the, as yet, unperverted palate of Hugh Bob- bers this preparation of brandy was most ac- ceptable. He had never forgotten the first taste he had of it da that memorable night when he drank it for the first time at the invitation of Dick Stacy. Sweet as honey, pungent with lemon and spices, and dangerous with brandy, the Prince of Darkness himself jotdd not have invented a more fatal and subtle fluid Tvith which to stain an unsuspecting soul. It seems strange — ^nay, ominous — ^that upon the very night of his father's destruction by drink, Hugh Bobbers should have travelled through the wind and storm to his first temptation. 82 NORMAN STANLY S CEUSADE. Hugh Bobbers had always been a dutiful and affectionate son and brother, and he was much admired, not only for his manly beauty, which was very marked, but also for his noble disposition. He was a good lad in all respects. He had behaved very nobly and tenderly to his poor sweetheart, Mary Doran, since her illness up to the time of his father's disappear- ance ; but after that occurrence his visits to her bedside had not been so frequent, and this had seemed quite excusable to Mary under the painful circumstances, and she had not murmured. Her love for Hugh as she lay upon her deathbed had assumed a character sublime and spiritual. He was her first and only love, her ideal of the good and true, the honorable and temperate. All hopes of her recovery had long ago vanished, and she only wanted to die in the light of his love. But how was it with Hugh? He was yet too young to comprehend the mag^tude of a woman's love, and as the beauty had gradual- ly faded from Mary* s face under the stern dis- cipline of disease, is it to be wondered at that the ardor of his first affection became f^ubdued, and that pity, intense pity, u'^urped the place A CAMPAIGN STOEY. 83 of love ? But his heart was tender, and she never knew that his sentiments had changed. He always had the same smile for her when he came. Oh, if she could only have passed into the spirit- world ignorant of the new-born vice that was to mar his charp'Jter ! She would have died happier. Poor child ! it was not to be. It seemed as though the scofirge of that neighboring tavern was not only destined to blast her short life, but to intrude its venom into the Very grave. The day of death came to poor Mary. No one thought it was her last day. 'Rose was at her bedside, where she had been daily for some time past. Towards evening Hugh Bob- bers came, and Kose, hearing his footstep, re- tired into another room. In the twilight, Mary could not see that Hugh's face was €ush- ed; nor did she mistrust his unusual reticence of speech. He had bent over and kissed her forehead and sat down at the bedside and took her hand in his, as was his wont. There was no word spoken until Mary broke the silence. -* Oh, Hugh, my love," she said, " I feel that I shall soon leave you ; but before I go, I want to tell you something, and I want you to pro- mise me something, will you, dear?'' ^ I V* '^5 84 NOEMAN STANLY S CEUSATE. Hugh asked her what it was. "Oh, m7 love, promise me that you will make one effort to redeem my father from the drink ; do it for my sake, and if I can look down from heaven upon you or hover near you, I will bless you forever — and if it is poBsibld for me to scatter blessings in your path, I will do so." Hugh, Httle dreaming that he was speaking with her for the last time, and being under the soul-blunting influence of Dick' Stacy's ** lemon smash, answered, somewhat evasively and not in such gentle tones as he would have done but for the brandy, " How can I help him P" Mary pressed Hugh's hand, tears filled her tiyes, and she kept silent. At length, Hugh said he must go. "Let me whisper something to you, dear," said Mary. Hugh bent his ear over the girl's lips and heard these words, "When I am gone, try and love Rose Bar- naby for my sake ; she will make you happy." "Rose Bamaby, the Quaker's daughter !" whispered Hugh in amazement. A death- m- ■«^'.;-".W. A CAMPAIGN STOBY. 85 like pallor and a wild, startled look overspread the features of the dying Mary Doran. Full in her nostrils had come, in the eager breath of Hugh Bobbers, the pungent odor of brandy. The abhorent fumes of the subtle demon that had robbed her of Ufe, coming as it were from the very fountain of all her earthly joy, filled her soul with dismay. "With the quick percep- tion of a departing spirit, she comprehended the awful truth — her idolized, her honored and respected Hugh had also come under the spell of the great destroyer ! ^ Hugh, too amazed at what Mary had ftaid regarding Rose Bamaby to notice the dread- f ul change that came over her, pressed his lips to her forehead. He went and stood at the foot of the bed. The light from the window shone on his face a moment. Mary saw the flush upon his countenance and swooned in silence as her lover left the apartment. When Mary awoke to consciousness she found herself in the arms of Kose. Mrs. Doran stood by in tears, for she thought her daughter hid sunk into her last sleep. And Mary's hor r had indeed come. She tried to speak at times, but her voice seemed to fail her, l\ 86 NORMAN STANLY' S OEUSADB. Bad "Rose watched the pallid face and half- oloped eyes. At length, the countenance of tL« dying one became suddenly animated. It was the last effort of the imprisoned soul. Tinge bent over to listen for her friend's last words. " Save father and Hugh from the drink." That was all she said, and then the spirit of Mary Doran fled forever. ^ ^' ^.the foe of liberty. The religious fanatics are striving to overpower us. If they succeed, we shall be- come slaves. We shall not be permitted to meet together for social intercourse as we are to-night. We shall never be allowed to drink anything stronger than tea or co£Pee, unless we go to the vinegar bottle ; and who do you think started all this fuss in our midst ? Who do you think it is that is the very life and soul of this temperance movement F' A CAMPAIGN STOEY. 91 Here Dick Stacy par ♦^d, and his tipsy audi- ence demanded the na. .e of the agitator. " Is it the Boxton parson r" asked one ; "Is it Mrs. Pippins ?'* enquired iinother. " No, no," re >lied Dick Stacy, " you never 'ian guess, for c he party has been sneaking around -working on the feelings of your wives and daughters when you fellows have been away from your homes. It's a dirty old nigger woman that has made all the fuss !'* ** A nigger woman !" shouted a dozen voices in amazement. " Yes," said Dick Stacy, "a dirty old nigger woman ; and that very nigger woman is now a prisoner in this house !" *' Bravo !" shouted the crowd, ** let us have the old wretch. Bring her out ; bring out the old nigger V* At this moment, the landlord rushed in to the next room and dragged out the be wildered Phil Doran. His sudden and most ridiculous appearance was the signal for the wildest up- roar and excitement on the part of the audi- ence. The Quaker was so overcome with laughter that he rolled over the table. But if some were very meny at the sight of Phil ^, iaS» "Vvi" :<^.W. s^.Z^ ▼-„ rre are none so vilo, none so cast down, but mav hope for it." « O, Mr. Stanly, if Phil could be saved, if he could be redeemed, I should die happy. I could be joyful in the midst of my desolation if I thought my poor Phil could be brought to salvation,*' said Mrs. Doran, sobbing. "But oh! sir," she continued, **I dare not hope so long as the taverns are allowed to sell the drink ! When men are so far gone in drink as Phil, the only way to save them is to put them out of the reach of the accursed liquor. Take it from them —by force, if you will.' ' Norman Stanly spoke words of hope and con- K' ii' i . V ll 100 NOEMAN STANLY* 8 CEUSADE. eolation to the unhappy woman, and engaged to bury her dead the following day, then took his leave. His face had a stem, almost angry look as he drove through the wretched track in front of Phil Doran's house to the high road. He did not turn towards Boxton, but in the direc- tion of the Farmer's Rest tavern. There are times and circumstancep in,the lives of godly men when the adage, "Be angry and sin not/' may be carried into practice. Norman Stan- ly was angry. Well was it for him, and well was it for those against whom his anger was justly kindled, that his passion was governed and influenced by the spirit of his Divine Master. Had it been otherwise, had the spirit of evil influenced him at that time, it would have fared badly with Dick Stacy and some of his friends, for the minister seemed instinc- tively to cast upon them the responsibility of Phil Doran's dangerous condition. Arriving at the Farmer's Rest tavern, Norman Stanly fastened his horse to the hitching-post and walked fearlessly into the bar-room. The place was full of loungers, Quaker Bamaby, Hugh Bobbers and Edwin Joyce, being among the number. A CAMPAIGN STORY. 101 As the minister entered, a sudden silence fell upon the company, and all eyes were turn- ed upon him. It was a scene worthy the pen- cil of some great artist. The tall, stalwart figure and honest, fearless face of the temper- ance champion bearding the drunkards in their own stronghold. Fixing his gaze upon the landlord, Norman Stanly said : " Kichard Stacy, will you please tell me what has become of Philip Doran ?" " No, I can't," replied th^ landlord in surly tone. ** When did you see him last ?" enquired the minister. ** I tell you I know nothing of that drunk- en old fool. He was here yesterday, bumming around, and I was glad to be rid of him. He's a regular nuisance, and brings discredit on my house. I don't want ever to see him roimd here again," replied Dick Stacy. " Answer me, ' ' said the minister, emphatical- ly : "When did you see Philip Doran last ?' * ** I reckon it's none of your business when I saw him last,'' replied the landlord, doggedly. '* You will find it to be your business if you are charged with the crime of murder or man- 102 NORMAN STAVLY S CEUSADE. slaughter,*' replied Normar Stanly, pointing his finger at the landlord and looking into his eyes. A deadly pallor overspread the features of the landlord, who, paralyzed with fear and prompted by a guilty conscience, trembled visibly. ** I ask you again,*' repeated the minister : **"When did you see Philip Doran last ? when did you send him forth maddened with drink, blackened and disguised ?'* Thrown off his guard in a paroxysm of fear, the landlord answered, '' It was only a joke, and / did not blacken his face.'* The minister had gained his point. He now knew for certain where to lay the responsibili- ty should Phil Doran' s accident have a fatal termination. Following up his advantage, the minister determined not to allow the op- portunity to pass without administering a moral castigation of the utmost severity. He had often longed for such a chance as now presented itself of bringing home to the enemies of temperance some of the dreadful consequences of their much-petted vice. t A CAMPAIGN STOEY. 103 " You did not blacken his face !'* cried Norman Stanly, with a vehemence that start- led his audience. "Wretched man that you are, you have blackened his soul ! For twenty-five years have you been luring him on towards the fiery wrath of eternity ! Your liquor traffic has robbed him of his earthly possessions, robbed him of his manhood, robbed him of his paternal love, robbed him of his children, robbed him of his reason, robbed him of everything that the world holds dear ; and now that he has nothing left, when he is re- duced to beggary, maddened with your drink, a castaway, you tell me that you do not want to see him again ! You may not see him again here, but you will see him perhaps here- after — aye, you may see many in that dread- ful hereafter, that second death, in which your victims shall rise up in judgment against you. Think not that j ou can escape the Divine re- tribution. You shall one day account for every soul that you have lured on to destruc- tion by your liquor traffic, unless you repent.'* Dick Stacy stood mute with horror as the minister spoke. Hugh Bobbers, Edwin Joyce, and several others slipped out of the room. ^ y fi t.i ?i •I 104 NOEMAN STANLY S CRUSADE. At length Dick Stacy, clutching at his last and only moral straw, cried : ** I have done nothing against the law. I have a license to sell liquor, and it is not my business if people drink more than is good for them. The law sustains me." " Yes,** replied Norman Stanly, **the pro- vincial law may sustain you in your wicked traffic, but there is a higher law to which you are amenable, and to which all human law- makers are also amenable. You may violate this higher law with apparent impunity, the awful judgment may not strike you in this world — it often does, however; but depend upon it, Richard Stacy, the Divine wrath des- cends sooner or later ! To-morrow I am called upon to commit to the earth another innocent victim of your liquor traffic — one who, but for this cursed tavern, might have been in the en- joyment of health and strength and the light and joy of a happy household.*' *'You lie!'* shouted the tavern-keeper in desperation. "This tavern has never been the means of killing any one !** " Come, come, Mr. Stanly, I think you are drawing it pretty strong,*' said Quaker Barnaby. / -^i.*-.. A CAMPAIGN STOEY. lOS ** No, Mr. Bamaby, I am not oyerdrawing the picture of desolation that has been caused by the liquor traffic of this tavern. It would be impossible for me to do so. I can only point to death and the grave as the limit of this tayern havoc ; but the deso- lation goes farther than the grave in ^ome instances, thoug-h happily in the case of Mary Doran the drink scourge can go no further. She is beyond the evil influence forever." " Mary Doran !" cried several voices. "Is Mary Doran dead ?'* ** Yes," replied the minister, "Mary Doran is dead. She died from the effects of that night's exposure in the cold when she and her mother were driven from the house by Phil Doran while under the influence of liquor obtained at that bar counter ! There is the history of her case in few words. Is there a man here who dare deoy the truth of it ? If so let him speak.'* There was a dead silence. " Let me warn you, Richard Stacy, to quit the liquor business at once. I have shown you some of the evils arising out of your trade. '■'f, .. ;"l - v S^M i; U 1 u * ;! 106 NOEMAN STANLY' S CRUSADE. It now becomes me as a minister of the G-os- pel to draw your attention to the promises of God in His H9ly "Word He desire^ not your death, but your salvation. Turn from your liquor traffic, repent of your sins and make amends for the past*. You can do it if you will. Remember it is never too late to mend. The few remaining years of your life may -be made a glorious contrast to the past. You may yet find peace of mind. I will tell you where Philip Doran is. He is at my house in a dangerous condition. He met with an ac- cident last night after leaving this house. God grant that he may recover, for his own sake and for your sake, because look at it in whatever light you may, should he die from his injuries, his death must be laid at your door." Norman Stanly then left the tavern and drove to his house in Boxton. \ CHAPTER IX. When Hugh Bobbers and Edwin Joyce stepped out of the bar-room during the minis- ter's harangue they did not leave the tavern. The solemn truths uttered by Norman Stanly made a deep impression on their minds. They were not yet so far debased by the use of liquor as to be callous to the promptings of conscience. Tt was different with Quaker Bamaby and some others, who were present at the minister's visit to the tavern. They were perfectly hardened against reproof and warn - ing — indeed, they rather enjoyed the excite- ment of Dick Stacy's discomfiture at the minis- ter's sudden attack. Nothing would have given them greater delight than to have seen the landlord strike the pastor. Hugh Bobbers and his companion lingered near the bar-room door in the outside passage. They could hear Norman Stanly quite plainly, and they stood mi k M 103 NOEMAN STANLY S CRUSADE. y breathless listeners as he spoke of the recent death for which the tavern was accountable ; and when Mary Doran's name was spoken poor Hugh was so overcome as to nearly faint away. The minister's words were coming quite home to him, and he felt a sort of guilty consciousness of having favored the dreadful agency which brought about her death. He had not expected Mary to die so suddenly. He little thought that his conscience justly accused him of hastening her death, by the mere contact of his breath, poisoned by the fumes of Mary's direst enemy — ^brandy. Of course Hugh Bobbers must be accounted in- nocent of her premature death before the world. It must merge into that countless number of unseen influences for evil that daily arise from the liquor traffic throughout the length and breadth of our land, adding an- other proof to the already abundant testimony of the fatal consequences which emanate from that dangerous source. It might have been supposed that the minis- ter' s visit to the tavern would have awed the frequenters into something like decency for the remainder of the day, but such did not I A CAMPAION STOBY. 109 prove to be the case. For a momeut, the sun- light of hope had beamed upon Dick Stacy as the minister took his departure after his last friendly warning. The tavemkeeper felt awfully his sense of guilt ; he knew every word Norman Stanly had spoken was truth, and in his wretchedness the hope of pardon and a new and better life for the future came across his mind like a lovely vision. The peace of mind, the sense of forgiveness, which might be his for the asking; the complete riddance of all his mental agonies, which troubled him in more sober moments ; which he might accomplish by an effort — all this flashed through Dick Stacy's mind, and had some friend stepped up and said, ''Be a man and quit the business,'* it is very probable the landlord would have there and then chosen the better part. But evil spirits were around him, and the promptings of his better nature, the gleam of heavenly light upon his scul, was, quickly dis- pelled by the sudden antics of Quaker Bam- aby who, after a long pause, during which every man had a somewhat forlorn expression of countenance, jumped from his armchiar, I IH! 110 NOEMAN STANLEY S CRUSADE. and catching hold of a riding whip hegan to crack it vehemently at the legs of the bar- room loungers. Crack, crack, crack, went the whip. "Hi ! hi ! there you murdering rascals. Out o* this, you varmint ! Skin out 'o this, you blubberly whiskey-suckers. How dare you kill people with your liquor traffic ?'*^ shouted the Quaker, jumping round with great celerity, causing the crowd to rush from place to place in order to avoid the lash. "Every man to the front I" again shouted the Quaker. "All hands and the cook to the front !" and running out, he drove all the loungers around the tavern into the bar. "Set e'm up for the boys, Dick Stacy !*' cried the Quaker, "and let every man drink a bumper. Close the doors ! A bumper, mind you. Every man a bumper I No half glasses ! Now then, fill up to the brim ! The man that backs out has to take a licking from me ! Which is it to be, boys, the whiskey or a licking ?'' " Whiskey ! whiskey !" shouted the mob, in high glee at the Quaker's sudden flow of gen« erosity. " Let no man drink until I give the word ! Form in line here, as you get your glasses. A CAMPAIGN STORY. Ill I t filled ! Now then, fall in ! fall in ! I am going to have a dress parade ! Here you, Sirakins, toe the line, and keep your nose out of your glass till the word is given. Fall in the rear, you bummers, there, — fall in!" shouted Quaker Bamaby. Everybody in the room became extremely hilarious. The minister's visit passed from their minds completely. There was much loud laughing, hooting and yelling. ** Order ! order !" shouted the Quaker. *'Come out from behind that bar, you, Dick Stacy, and bring a bottle with you, and take your station as adjutant ! Kemember, I am Falstaff, and you fellows are my army of beggars, which I intend to march to the Dun- kin polls next week. Now then, inspection arms !" and the Quaker walked down in front of the double row of men and examined their glasses to see that every one was filled to the bnm. " Now, then, battalion, attention ! Eyes front ! Prepare to drink ! Drink !'* Every man emptied his glass. " Now, then, Dick Stacy," cried the Quaker, "fetch your fiddle !'' The landlord fetched his fiddle and began 112 KOBMAN STANLY S CBUSADE. {* ri rvi 'M " :i ft; ■!! playing a lively air, to which the now highly stimulated crowd danced. The landlord, who had regained his spirits by participating in the revelry, assumed the command of the Fal- staffian army, and cried with a loud voice : " Battalion, halt !*' There was a cessation of dancincr and frolicking. "Fall in !" again commanded the landlortl. "Right wheel to the front ! Halt !'* All hands were now again up to the bar. "Fill up your glasses ; it's my treat this time,'* cried Dick Stacy. Everybody drank again more of the fiery liquid. Hugh Bobbers and Edwin Joyce, electrified by the sudden burst of hilarity, joined in with the revellers. Nothing but whiskey was al- lowed to be drank, and the two youths gulped down the burning poison in company with the rest. Then some one started the familiar drinking song : " Come, landlord, fill the flowing bowl Until it does mn over." Then the men began to treat by turns, until the tavern resounded with the noise and clamor of drunken men. .1 A CAMPAIGN STOEY. m As the evening drew near, Hugh Bobbera and his companion left the tavern. Both were un- der the influence of their strong potations, but not sufiiciently so to be noticeable by any save^ perhaps, their loved ones. Edwin Joyce tried to persuade Hugh to defer a visit which he wished to pay Mrs. Doran. " Don't go until to-morrow," said Edwin. " Oh," said Hagh, "I must go now ; it will look disrespectful if I do not go to-day.*' " Well," said Edwin, "I don't know how you feel, but I just feel about half tight." " I feel jolly," said Hugh ; **I know what I am about, though." So the two drove up to the house of Mrs. Doran. Hugh went in, while Edwin stayed with the horse. The first person he met in. the desolate-looking house was Miss Bamaby. She looked very pale and very sad. Hugh colored highly as he saluted the young lady, who in return was very courteous and sym- pathetic. After some conversation Rose said, " It is very 3ad for you to lose poor Mary Doran. I loved her more than I can tell. Have you seen the body since her death?" " No," stammered Hugh, **I have not yet seen her." • ' 3 ml ^i k -, 114 NOBMAN STANLT S CBITSADE. ** Mrs. Doran is upstairs with some visitors who are looking at her now. "Will you come up alFo ?" asked Hose. #* Hugh complied, and Rose led the way. As they arrived at the room where the body of Mary was laid out, Mrs. Doran and the ladies were just coming out. Hose approach- ed the bed and uncovered the marble-like fea- tures of her departed friend, aiid Hugh gazed into the tranquil face of the dead. Hugh Bobbers was moved to tears at the shrunken form of his once loved Mary. Had he been quite sober, he would no doubt have been moved also, but his emotion would have been free from a certain maudlin sentiment which now characterized his grief. As Rose Bamaby stood holding the comer of the sheet iihichshe had drawn from the features of the dead, she became suddenly conscious of a strong spirituous odor — the unmistakable whiskey odor she had learned to ha^e so much of late years. She looked at Hugh Bobbers with the utmost amazement. Was it possible, thought Rose Bamaby, that Hugh Bobbers too had become a victim to the curse that had desolated the life of Mary Doran ? 4 A OAHPAION BTOBT. 115 'ihe dying words of her friend recurred to Rose as she stood watching the emotion of Hugh. ** Save father and Hugh from the drink." She had hardly comprehended the meaning of the low-spoken death speech*, Had Mary mentioned her father's name only in her dying request, it would have seemed less extraordinary ; but to have associated Hugh with her incorrigible parent had seemed strange. But now, Bose saw the meaning of Mary's parting words. He whom she thought so hon- orable, good, temperate and true, had indeed come under the shadow of Phil Doran's curse ! Rose felt that she could not be mistaken. No, the strong odor of whiskey which seemed to fill the air was from the breath of the youth she had loved from childhood — the youth she still loved in spite of all her resolu- tions to forget him for her friend's sake. Rose looked down into the dead face, and all the remembrances of the happy past seemed to flit through her mind. She remembered poor Mary's offer to endure the sacrifice of Hugh's love that she, Ro8e,m^'ght win it. She remembered, too, the sad story of her death blow, and as she thought of the cause, the ever-curs- It .1:' I' i> •fej ij n 116 NOBMAN STANLY 8 OBUSADE. ed drink, and of the dying girl's request, Rose determined, at all hazards, to warn Hugh aguinst the dangers that threatened him. She would put aside all false delicacy and there and then speak out her warning, and thus fulfil a duty she felt she owed to the de- parted friend. Turning towards Hugh when he had become somewhat composed, Rose said, with tenderness : " Poor Mary is happy now, Hugh Bobbers ; but oh ! how cruel it seems that one so young, so kind, so beautiful, should have sufPered so much during her short life! To think that drink was the cause of her death !" Hugh Bobbers looked at Rose in astonish- ment. " Yes," cortinued Rose, "it was drink that indirectly robbed poor Mary of life. Did you never hear how it happened P" " I heard something about her catching cold,'' said Hugh Bobbers. " I will tell you the whole circumstances ; I feel that I ought to make you acquainted with them," said Rose ; and then timidly, "It will perhaps be a warning to you, Hugh Bobbers, to avoid, above all other things, the temptation to drink." • A CAMPAIGN STORY. 117 And then Rose told the whole story of the occasion when Mary and her mother lay through the long, cold autumnal night in the open air. " What an awful thing !" exclaimed Hugh, solemnly, when Rose had finished the recital. **What a perfect brute that Phil Doranis T* " Yes, he may deserve that name now,'* re- plied Rose, "but I am told that when he was your age he was admired and loved by all who knew him for his kind heart and pleasant way ; but you see, he became a slave to drink, and that alone has made him what he is — poor, degraded, despised. O, Hugh Bobbers,** she continued, throwing her beautiful form into an attitude almost of supplication, * 'if you loved poor Mary Doran, if you cherish in your heart the remembrance of the strong love she bore for you in life, let me implore you to signalize it by a promise here in the presence of the dead.** There was a solemn pause, and Hugh gazed wonderingly into the face of the beautiful Rose — more beautiful than ever now as her features seemed to pale with a lofty spiritual earnestness, partaking for a i^'i ril I > >J- >l 118 A CAMPAIGN STOEY. moment somewhat of the pallid transparency of death; and in the stillness of the chamber, Hugh again seemed to hear the low whisper of his Mary Doran, telling him to love Rose Bamaby ; and as he gazed upon the dead face of his once-loved one, he for the first time comprehended the magnitude of Mary's love ; he felt his own un worthiness, and from the depth of his heart he exclaimed, " Miss Bamaby, I will promise whatever you ask !'* *^ I thank you in her name,'* said Hose. "Promise, then, Hu^^h Bobbers, to help poor Mary's father to overcome the temptation to drink, and promise to do the same yourself/' *' I do promise," said Hugh. Then Rose bent down and kissed the cold forehead of Mary Doran, and said, "He has promised, dear Mary." " You must forgive me, Hugh Bobbers, if I hive been somewhat unreserved. I felt I had a duty to perform, and now that it is over, I feel somehow as though a blessing will follow. I shall daily pray for it. Oh, yes, I shall daily pray that poor Mary's dying request may be granted ; for oh, only we women can know the A CAMPAIGN STOBY. 119 full extent of the miseries arising from the drink — the accursed drink ! Its curse follow- ed poor Mary to the very confines of the grave, and her last words were, *Save father and Hugh from the drink."* ** Did she say save me from the drink ? Were those her last words?'* asked Hugh. ** Yes," replied Rose, "her very last words were of you." Hugh Bobbers rose from the bedside on which he had been sitting, and extending his hand to Rose, who took it said, ** Let me thank you, before we part, for all your goodness to my dear Mary ; let me thank you also for the kindly interest you have taken in regard to her last request. Rest assured, dear Miss Bamaby, that I will use my best endeavors to keep my promise. I too have a dying request from dear Mary — ^her last words to me were of you.'* " Of me !' exclaimed Rose Bamaby, in sur- prise,*' but looking calmly into Hugh*s eyes. "Poor Mary, we loved each other so.'* <* Yes, I know that Mary loved you, and her last words to me prove the disinterested- ness and depth of her love ;'* but I cannot tel - l.'t i vj' r " iL>/. 120 NOHMAN STANLY S CEUSADB. you what it was now. Perhaps I may tell you some day, if you will let us be friends." "While Hi;gh was speaking poor Rose sud- denly became aware of the very awkward position in which she had placed herself. She had forgotten entirely until this moment that many months previous she had entrusted the great secret of her life with Mary Doran, and now the conviction arose suddenly in her mind that Mary had divulged it, and a burning sense of shame and humiliation seemed to pos- sess her. She dropped Hughes hand, and re- curring to his last remark, said timidly : " Oh, yes, Mr. Bobbers, we may be friends for poor Mary's sake;'' and then, as though a sudden determination to know the worst ac- tuated her, and looking calmly into Hugh Bobbers' face, she asked : " Did Mary Doran entrust you with any secret concerning her own or my past life ? If she did, do not be afraid to tell me," and Rose, with a fluttering heart, waited Hugh's answer. It was a trying moment to the poor girl, for she felt that if Mary had indeed informed Hugh Bobbers of the state of her (Rose's) heart towards him, it were better that she / A CAMPAIGN bTORY. 121 should know it from Hugh's own lips at once, than that she should live in doubt regarding it. She could not live under the sense of humiliation and shame which would possess her at the thought of Hugh Bobbers being master of her great secret, and for the first time in her life she began to doubt the honor of her dead friend. She imagined that Mary, with a misplaced zeal to insure her (^Rose's) happiness, had confided the secret to Hugh and begged of him to reciprocate the love. The thought was agonizing to Rose Bamaby, and she bitterly repented of having made Mary her confidant. But all the fears of Rose subsided when Hugh Bobbers looking kindly into her eyes, said, ** Mary Doran never in her life divulged any secret to me ; indeed, Miss Bamaby, I never recollect her ever mentioning your name to me until our last interview. Perhaps," continued he, with some hesitation, and in a confiiSed manner, *'I had better tell you now what she said. It will be best perhaps. We , may never have another opportunity. It may make you despise mo ; but it was not my fault that she said it." W.I t t^i M I' i?fS i- v\ /^ 122 NOBMAN STANLT 8 >CBUSADE. i. " Do not say that I shall despise you, Hugh Bobbers,*' cried Rose Bamaby. "T al- ways respected you, even from the time when we were playmates, and I shall always think kindly of you for the dead one's sake." Thus encouraged, Hugh Bobbers proceeded : " The last words Mary spoke to me were, *Try and love Rose Bamaby for my sake.' " He did not complete the sentence, "for she will make you happy." Poor Hugh, feeling that he had given of- fence to Rose, hastily added, ** Forgive me for telling you. I am sorry, very sorry, that I told you. I do not blame you now if you despise me. I was as much astounded as you are when Mary told me, and I thought she must have been out of her mind at the time. " Do not say that, Hugh Bobbers; she was not out of her mind, and I am not ojff ended. Let me be frank with you ; it is better to be honest and straightforward. I do not despise you — on the contrary, I admire and respect you ; but I never could accept the love of any man who uses intoxicating drinks of any kind — ^never ! I think wo understand each other now. I must now say good bye." A CAMPAIGN STORY. 123 Bose extended her hand, and Hugh pressing it said, passionately, <*Miss Bamaby, I will keep my promise, with the help of God." Ft , i ■ .!;,'.J:,./'x' jg afia •■^ r CHAPTER VI. Tlie cause of Sandy Bobbers* sudden disap- pearance was still surrounded with the deepest mystery. He had vanished and left no sign. His widow and children had " left no stone un- turned" in their endeavor to trace him. Smart detectives from Blankham had taken the task in hand, but the only fruit of their in- vestigations amounted to this — that Sandy Bobbers was last seen leaving the Farmer's Rest tavern on his way home in health and strength. The woods, bushes and open coun- try, for miles around, had been searched in vain. The river had been dragged and ex- amined for a distance down, until tho ic^ barrier prevented their further scrutiny. The total absence of any trace of the missing one gave rise to numerous controversies regarding the x>os8ibility of Sandy Bobbers having, for some extraordinary reason, taken a notion to .' 8l A OAHPAION STOEY. 125 abscond, and as time advaneed, this theory be- gan gradually" to appear more tenable. Dick Stacy, upon whose conscience the un- known fate of Sandy Bobbers hung like a pall, was glad to foster the idea of the latter's hay- ing absconded. The fact of the farmer having gone to his death from the festive board at the tavern made the landlord feel very uneasy. At first, he had hoped that Sandy would turn up somewhere, from a protracted spree ; but he knew the farmer never went on sprees that would make him forget his duty to his family. Dick Stacy would have given a very large sum of money if Sandy could have been f oimd alive and well, or if he had never visited his house on that fatal night. Beally and truly the landlord was convinced that Sandy Bobbers was dead — nay, more, he felt sure that he had fallen into the river. . What made the reflection of Sandy's death more harrowing to the landlord's mind, was the fact that upon the night of his disappear- ance, he, Dick Stacy, had resorted to one of those contemptible methods which liquor- sellers possess, of making his customer drunk. He had mixed up Sandy Bobbers' liquor so ■*!« 'J f :l .' 126 NOBMAN BTA17LY S OBUSADE. that it might " bring him out" a little for the extraordinary occasion. There are certain mixtures and decoctions of liquors known to bar- tenders and tavern-keepers which, when ad- ministered, will have the result of intoxicating almost imperceptibly. In the guise of whis- key toddy, Dick Stacy gave to Sandy Bobbers one of these decoctions, and for the first time he had beheld the farmer " tight ;" not so *^ tight" but that he could walk, but that con. dition of inebriety which loosens the tongue and generates the desire to keep on stimulat- ing. The landlord's dose had leaped into the brain of poor Sandy Bobbers and fired his soul into eloiguence against the Dunkin Act. It made him crave more liquor than he usually drank at one sitting — and, as the reader knows, sent him to his death. Had Dick Stacy not given Sandy that fatal cup of intoxication, that doubly poisoned cup, he might have been satis- fied with his ordinary quantity of liquor and have reached his home in safety. It is a fact that can be demonstrated any day by watch- ing in a bar-room, that at a certain stage of stimulation there comes over the drinker a 4 A OAMPAiaN STOBY. 127 strong desire for more liquor. A man may take one drink, and, feeling satisfied, leave the room and go on about his business — he may- even take a second or third drink and have a desire to go about his work ; but if he gets to that "certain stage of stimulation'* the desire for more will attack him, and he will, in nine cases out of ten, keep on drinking until he has lost all control of his actions. It was the habit of Sandy Bobbers always to ke'^p below this " certain stage," and that ac- counts for his always having been able to take good care of himself. The crafty landlord knew this, and on the night in question, with criminal cunning, launched him with one fell draught of poisoned liquor above and beyond the stage of safety. Sandy Bobbers thus un- knowingly betrayed, for once, drank more than was good for him. This had caused great de- light to Dick Stacy at the time, who beheld with a feeling of satisfaction the success of his secret scheme. Sandy Bobbers not only was the life and soul of the meeting by his abundant good humor and eloquence, but re- peatedly treated his friends to more drink, and on taking his leave had accepted with plea- ■ i u i '^-i 128 NOBMAN STANLY S 0BU8ADE. sure the proffered bottle of "Ai« best'^ from the landlord. The gentle reader, to whom the veil of ob- scurity has been lifted from the past lives of every character in our story, and to whom the divining power has been granted for a brief season, can with justice trace the death of poor Sandy Bobbers to the hand of Richard Stacy. Disguise it as he would to Ulq outer world, the landlord's soul was filled with un- utterable dread at the unknown fate of the farmer. His conscience accused him of mur' der. It had been the mention of that horrid word by Norman Stanly that had so much terrified him upon the occasion of the minister's visit. In his anxiety regarding Sandy Bob- bers, he had never once thought of his des- truction of Phil Doran, and still less of his daughter Mary. But now, in his calmer mo- ments, the day after the minister's visit and the subsequent carnival of drunkenness, it be- gan to loom up like a thunder-cloud over Dick Stacy's horizon, that he had two deaths to ac- count for, and probably three — ^three certainly if Phil Doran died; And then, too, there rose up before him a goodly number of those who, A CAMPAIGN STORY. 129 ere they had departed this life, were among his regular and frequent customers — those who had squandered their money and wrecked their bodies and souls at his bar counter. The thought was horrible even to the hardened Dick Stacy. Old age was coming on him, and as he glanced back over his past life, he look- ed in vain for one consoling deed unmarked by selfishness and greed. In his agony of mind he yearned for some avenue of escape from the impending wrath which his conscience vividly portrayed. He turned his longing, trembling soul to- wards the bright vista of hope and peace which the words of Norman Stanly had held in prospect. He looked and paused ; he would have gladly, joyfully exchanged all his wealth to have gained that tranquil goal ; but rising in his mental path there stood the remorseless giant of Despair. He saw beyond, far out of his reach, the supernal realms which might have been his to enjoy. He had gazed upon the same vision many a time before, when the three angels. Faith, Hope and Charity, stood ready to guide him to the better land ; but one by one those guardians of peace had fled. F « 130 NORMAN STANLY S OBUSADB. 'V P The one to linger last was Hope ; and it, too, vanished at last — never more to return. For the first time in his life Dick Stacy real- ized the fact that he had grieved away the Holy Spirit. His conscience hed smitten him thousands of times in regard to the wicked- ness of his traffic, but he had continually pro- mised himself to attend to the promptingfs of that conscience at some future day. He had, like a vast number of his fraternity, always looked forward to the day when he should re- tire from the business, when he should be able to attend to his moral obligations ; but now, without any warning, at a moment's notice, he finds himself already launched upon the vast, shoreless ocean of his doom ! The still small voice of Conscience, which had once pleaded with gentleness, love and forbearance, now assumed the character of an inexorable tormentor. In the first agony of mind at dis- covering his deplorable situation, he cried, "Lord, have mercy upon me !" but the only response seemed to be the mocking laughter of invisible fiends. In this condition of mind Dick Stacy flew with avidity to the only sources of comfort that remained for him — t A OAMPAIQN BTOBY. 131 tjtrong drink and infidelity. He could yet find gome consolation in the bottle. By means of strong drink he could buoy up his desponding spirits. The hope that intoxication brought, of there being no judgment hereafter, lulled his soul into a fatal repose. The warnings of Norman Stanly had come too late for Richard Stacy. The day of salva- tion was forever passed. For the last time conscience had made a stniggle and left his soul to perish in the bleak wilderness of infi- delity and despair. He had made one final supplication to the throne of grace, but the prayer had been in vain. Giving himself up to the evil influences of his master the Devil, the landlord soon dis- pelled from his mind the last vestige of good that lingered in his heart. He became terri- bly hardened, and stood boldly forth before the world as the enemy of God. He nourished his soul with the literature of atheism, and subscribed for notorious infidel journals from the United States. He dabbled in spiritual- ism, materialism, and gloried in everything that cast dishonor on the Church of Christ. He succeeded in gathering a certain amount of m. m 4 [)' '< -.; S 132 NOEMAN STANLY 8 C3RXTSADB. jH n^' comfort from all these things, and ^th the help of strong drink, flattered himself that he had been unnecessarily alarmed in regard to his accountability. With all this false comfort, Dick Stacy still dreaded the issue of Sandy Bobbers* disappearance. He was no longer fearful in regard to the fate of that man*s soul <»r his own responsibility therefor. What he dreaded now most was the public rebuke and indignation which might arise upon the dis- covery, some day, of Sandy's body; for he felt sure it would be found when the ice melted away. If the fate of the missing man could forever be bound in mystery, and the public be persuaded into the belief that he had vol- untarily deserted his wife and family, it would be a great relief to Dick Stacy ; and thus ru- minating, a villanous and cowaidly scheme suggested itself to his mind. What if he should cause a letter to be writ- ten to Mrs. Bobbers from some remote part of America informing her of her husband's im- f aithf ulness and desertion P The countenance of the landlord brightened at this idea. Nor was he long in putting his evil defign into execution. Seizing a decanter of brandy JL CAMP4J&N STORY. 133 be poured himself out a tumbler full, and hav- ing drank it, went to his desk at the end of the bar. Here he opened a box containing papers, and taking out one, examined it care- fully. It was the handwriting of Sandy Bob- bers—a bill, in fact, for grain. Taking a pen in his hand, Dick Stacy imitated the writing. "Capital !" he exclaimed at length. "No one could tell." He then searched for a piece of writing paper without any marks on it. The paper in his possession had a mark in the cor- ner, the stamp of the manufacturer. It would never do to use that — it would endan- ger the scheme. After much searching, how- ever, he found among a pile of old papers a sheet of perfectly plain paper of a blue color. Taking his pen in hand he wrote as follows; ITew York, My Dear Eliza,— -Yovl will never see me again. By the time yon get this, I shall be on my way to a foreign country with one I love. Sandt Bobbbbs. Placing this in his pocket, and putting up his papers, he called for his son. " Get the horse and cutter ready for me ; I am going to Blankham," said he. * ; ■ i m m m I r1^ -^ i % ; ! I ! -i ! I 134 NOBHAN 6TANLT8 CBTJBABB. " Can I go along too, father?" cried the son. ** No, you must stay and attend the bar/' replied the father. The tavern-keeper was not long in driying to Plankham with his fast-trotting horse, and was soon the centre of a throng of admiring friends at the Anglo-American Hotel, where he was in the habit of staying whenever he went to town. He was requested to drink the moment he put his foot in at the door. Having accepted the invitation, he excused himself for a short time, saying he had *^ busi- ness of importance up the street.'* He went to a stationer's shop and purchased a perfectly plain and ordinary envelope, and also moie writing paper and envelopes^ to take back to the comers with him. Entering another tavern, where he was not known, he obtained pen and ink, and taking the letter he had written from his pocket he placed it in the plain envelope, and addressed it in the hand- writing of Sandy Bobbers, as follows : MBS BOBBERS, TuRNiPHAM Township, County op Blankham, Out, Canada. I' f;: A CAMPA-ION STOBT. 135 H-V: Taking another sheet of paper, he wrote : — TURNIPHAM, Ont. Dear Jaek, ^WiW jon oblige me by stamping and posting the enclosed letter in the New York office at ODoe. I am having a bit of a lark with a widow woman here. Don't yon open the letter, yon rascal I I will tell you all aboat it when I come to New Yoik. I expect to pay yon a yisit this summer, Don't men- tion the matter to any one, and I will make it all right with you. Yonrs in haste. *. R. Stacy. Enclosing the letter for Mrs. Bobbers with this, he addressed it to Mr. John Dawson, Proprietor Ship Hotel, Canal street. New York. Having dropped this precious piece of villany into the post-office, Dick Stacy chuckled with satisfaction. " That wiU settle it — JacK Dawson will not go back on me. He knows nothing about Tumipham Town- ship, anyhow,'' thought he, as he returned in high spirits to the Anglo-American Hotel. The first man he met at the hotel door was Edwin Joyce. « Hollo, Dio^ Stacy !" cried Edwin, « what brings you to town, eh ?** " Business, my boy — ^nothing but business ':■■* 136 NOBMAN STANLY S CRUSADE. brings me here. Come and take a drink/' replied Dick Stacy. They entered the bar-room together and saw Quaker Bamaby and Hugh Bobbers. The Quaker was persuading Hugh to drink, but the latter was firm in his refusaL "What's the matter, Squire?" asked Dick Stacy as he approached the bar. " Why, this milksop refuses to drink," said the Quaker. " Refuses to drink !" cried Stacy. " Why, bless me, he must be crazy ! Who ever heard of a Tumiphamboy refusing his bitters?" * I tell you I will not drink," cried Hugh, " and there is an end of it." " Oh, well," said Stacy, good-humoredly, " don't get mad about it." " Oh, I'm not mad,--only firm. IVe quit drinking," said Hugh. " That's all right," said Stacy, touching the youth in the ribs with his forefinger play- fully and winking. " You needn't drink any- thing strong; but to be sociable, like, why, you'll just take a temperance horn of cider- pop, made out of tartaric acid and sugar. That won't hurt you," and winking aside at ■■It JL OAMFAIQN STOBY. 137 the bar-keeper he said, " Give Mr. Bobbers a glass of that temperance cider ; mind you, stonefence cider,'* " Oh," said Hugh, "of course, to be friendly, I'll take a temperance di'ink.'* Alas ! poor Hugh, he did not compreheikd the bar parlance of stonefence^ oS) at the men- tion of that name, he would have been on his guard. The bar-keeper, u^erstanding the wink of Dick Stacy, took a large tumbler ^ and placing it under the counter, poured in a wine- glass-full of whiskey, and then taking a bottle of cider, uncorked it and poured the foaming liquid into the glass also. As Hugh Bobbers took the effervescing draught into his hands Dick Stacy cried, *' Drink quick while it fizzes, or it will epoU r Hugh unsuspectingly drained the goblet to the bottom. We must give Hugh credit for his ignor- ance of the character of this highly intoxica-- ting drink. He had no idea of the trick that was being played upon him. Not until a few moments after he had swallowed the oison did he perceive the stimulating effects *"■ V f ■» 138 NOBMAK STANLT B 0BU8ADB. I\ I ; I of it, and it was bo pleasurable to his feelings that if he did guess its character, he said no- thing about it. When he drank the second glass, howerer, which sent bhe hot blood mounting to his brain, he knew the beverage was in- toxicating, and when Dick Stacy slapped him on thd back and said, ^^How's that for a tem- perance drink, eh F" poor Hugh felt a sense of shame overcom^him as he thought of his pro- mise to Rose Bamabj in the presence of the dead Mary Boran. Like thousands of other men who unwittingly break their pledge, Hugh, upon realizing that he had done so, had not the moral courage to promptly tear himself away from dangerous companions. He thought it would not mend matters now, to make any fuss about it, and that this should positively be the very last occasion of his ever drinking strong liquor. One thing, however, troubled him. He fear- ed the consequences of retaining in his breath the smell of liquor, for he had promised thai same evening to meet — Rose Bamaby. CHAPTER XI. "We have anticipated the events of our story somewhat and must, for the present, leave Hugh Bohbers and his compamons in the bar- room of the Anglo- American Hotel, and return to the society of the gentle Rose Bamaby. After her interview with Hugh Bobbers in the death-chamber of Mary Doran, Rosens mind was thrown into a state of bewilderment by many conflicting emotions. The unexpected discovery that Hugh drank strong liquor was a g^eat shock to her. She had somehow or other always associated him with temperance, and everything that was manly, noble and good. It seemed as though her idol had been dashed in pieces. The interview with Hugh seemed like a dream to her, as she returned to Bamaby Grange that night. To her love for Hugh there was now added another and very noble sentiment. She felt that he was in K1 140 NOBMAN STANLY & CBTTSADE. 1 >5 { 1 I ■•■ danger, and that it was her duty to save hun if it lay in her power She would saorifice anything that she might be called upon to do honorably in order to s^ve him from the dan- ger of drink. She wondered how it was that Mary Doran had not spoken of Hugh's dan- ger before her last moments. Shf had often spoken of him to her as she lingered on her deathbed — had hoped^ now she was going to die, that Rose would love him in her stead, and accept of him if he shoidd ever seek her hand in marriage. As she thought of her dead friend^ Kose blamed hernelf for having, for a moment, doubted her discretion in regard to her secret concerning Hugh. She saw now in how delicate a manner Mary had turned the current of Hugh's love towards her, and she determined that if he ever sought her love un- der the . conditions she had proclaimed that day she would aceept it, and, with a wife's devotion, make him forever steadfast in tem- perance. But she determined also, in spite of her af- fection for him, that nothing should induce her to marry Hugh unless he became a strictly tem- perate man. His solemn pledge to eschew ▲ CAMPAIGN STOBT. 141 drink forever would be sufficient for her. She had unbounded faith in the honor and manli- ness of his character. Her Jove was enl anced by the fact of his danger, and the delicate manner in which he had imparted Mary's last words, and she was willing to risk a good deal to gain Hugh's love. All these things occu- pied the mind of Rose in the interval that passed until the two met again at Mary's funeral, on which occasion Hugh acted as chief mourner in the absence of Phil Doran. He looked very handsome in his suit of well- fitting black clothes. His features were un- sullied and his breath unpolluted with drink now. In the calm dignity of sobriety he look- ed like one of God's nobleman, as indeed he was, and as Rose gazed at him with a look of love and pride, the overwhelming dread cross- ed her mind : ** What if he, with all his man- liness and beauty, were, after all, to be crushed by the demon Drink ! Oh," she thought, "I would lay down my life if it would save him from that awful destiny !" and in that mo- ment all the yearnings of her long-buried love, which she had striven to overcome for Mary Doran's sake, came back with redoubled ardor. I 142 NOBMAN BTANLY^S OBUSADE. P Ah the mournful cortege left the house, the sad and earnest gaze of Hose Bamaby met Hugh's glance; It revealed in plainer lan- guage than words the state of her heart, and Hugh, as he fo low ed the ashes of his departed Maiy, now comprehended her dying speech. It had been her wish that the void in his heart's affection should henceforth be filled by a faith- ful friend. , When the last sad rites had been performed over the body of Mary Doran by Norman Stanly, Hugh returned to the house of mourn- ing, and spoke words of comfort to Mrs. Doran. All the noblest qualities of Hugh's nature seemed to mark his conversation with the be- reaved mother. •* Be comforted," he said to her. " This heavy stroke may be the means of redeeming your husband. I will do all in my power to assist him in throwing o£P the yoke of intem- perance. I will go this day and visit him, and as he grows stronger in health (and the minis- ter says he has hopes of his recovery now), I will hel^i him in every way I can." Mrs. Doran thanked Hugh and blessed him for hia promise. A OAHPAiaN STOBT. 143 ** May I drive you to Bamaby Grange in my sleigh P" he asked, turning to Bose. " If it will not be too muo^ trouble, you may, thank you,' replied Rose. The t\v o entered the sleigh and Hugh drove slowly (the weather being mild). It was the first time he had ever driven side by side with Rose. There Aeemed to be a mysterious link between them since Mary's death, which, for a while, caused each of them to be silent. The conviction that he might win the beautiful Rose Bamaby filled Hugh with a strong emotion of pride and pleasure not unmixed with fear — pride at the thought of having for a wi(*j one so beautiful, accomplished and wealthy ; pleasure at the thought that it was the dying wish of Mary Doran, and fear at the difficulties he saw in the way of their union. In his mind's eye the figure of the great Quaker Bamaby awed him. He knew that the Englishman, in spite of his convivial dis- position, was proud and haughty. He knew that the Quaker would have very high notions regarding the qualifications and wealth of his daughter's suitor. Biit Hugh felt that he 144 NORMAN 6TANLY 8 CBU^ADE. i i I could brave all the Quaker's wrath if he only knew for certain that Rose loved him. In the impetuosity of youth, he determined to dis- cover the position in which he stood to her without any delay. He felt that it was better he should know his fate at once. He did not wish to rush immediately into an engage- ment of marriage — delicacy forbade that. It would be time enough in a year hence for them to be openly, engaged, and he would nt 7er have had the bad taste to speak of love so soon after Mary's death, had not the senti- ment h£^d its origin in that very occurrence. It was a growth of Mary Doran's own planting, the last design of her life. Thus ruminating, Hugh at length broke the silence. "Miss Bamaby," he exclaimed, **the re- quest of poor Mary Doran for you to save Phil Doran and me from the drink, shall, as far as 1 am concerned, not give you any further trouble. I am never going to drink anything strong again. I never have drank much in my life. I only took it for company's sake at the tavern when stopping to water my horses or going on business to see other farmers, and this only since the disappearance of my father. ▲ CAMPAIGN STOBY. 146 It was only since he went that I ever drank at all, but I never mean to again — never ! And what is more, I mean to talk to Phil Doran about his drinking if he gets over this accident, and, if he will te advised, I will help him to get his farm in order again." " O, Hugh Bobbers, what a noble follow you are ! You are the same kind-hearted man that you were a boy when you used to carry us little girls over the brook, swing the gate, climb the fruit trees, and do all sorts of kind things for us children," cried Rose in admira- tion at Hugh's speech. '^ We were all children in those days," said Hugh, thoughtfully ; "they were happy days too. I often think of them." Rose was almost saying she had thought of them too, but checked herself. She felt that she had, in the exuberance of her gratitude, already said too much. "Yes," said Hugh after a pause, "you may consider that your commission from Mary has been fulfilled, for I will look after Phil Doran ; and if you will permit me, I will from time to time inform you of his progress." " Oh, thank you. Bo by all means let me 1^ 146 '„' NOBMA27 BTANLT S OBUSADE. know how you suooeed with him. Of oourse it would be very difficult for a girl like me to try aud influence him, and I feel that you have taken the task out of my hands. It is so good of you !" replied Rose. '* But my commission/' Hugh went on — '< the request Mary made to me — what is to be _said about that P'' and Hugh felt his heart sink within him and his lips quiver as he paus- ed. " What is to be said about that, Mi&s Bamaby P May I tell you P Don't think me too presumptuous. I know you will despise me for telling you ; but I must tell you, even if you killed me for it. I must tell you that I have already fulfilled the dying wish of Mary Doran, who asked me to love you for her sake. Yes, Miss Bamaby, you know the truth now. I, the common farmer's son, rough, uncultivated, love you — love you more than X can tell. I do not ask you to return it — I cannot expect you to do so ; you are too good, too beautiful and too well bred for such as I," and Hugh, flnding that he was begin- ning to lose the control of his speech, paused. '^ Let me tell you, Hugh Bobbers," said Hose Bamaby, placing her hand gently on his ▲ CAMPAiaN STOBY. 147 arm, " that so far from my depreciating your love, I feel that you have done me the highest honor. I will be frank with you. Your words make me happy — ^more so than you can think." " Can you love me in return, then P" cried Hugh, in rapture, clasping her hand. " Yes,*' answered Rose, " I love you." ** Then you will be mine, dearest Rose," said Hugh, passionately. " Only on one condition," replied Rose. " I will sacrifice love, riches and life itself rather than link my destiny with a man who is in danger of becoming a drunkard !" " O Rose, how can you say that ? I know the condition you refer to. Have I not already told you that I never again mean to drink — never, so long as I live P" ' " Do you promise in the face of Heaven, be- fore the throne of the Most High, ^that you will never drink intoxicating liquors again as a beverage P" cried Rose. " I do solemnly promise," cried Hugh. "Then I am yours, dear Hugh," replied Rose. It Was a proud and happy moment for Hugh Bobbers. He had not expected Rose would 148 NOBICAN STANLT'S CBUSADE. ■*4 if have encouraged his suit. He had imagined that she would, in her quiet, lady-like way, have thanked him for the compliment and de- clined being anything more than a friend to him. " She can but say, No," he had thought to himself, *^ and it will settle the matter at once and forever." But she had said " Yes," and now Hugh was almost delirious with joy. " Oh, if my father could only be found," he thought to himself, *^ how proud he would be of my fortune in gaining the hand of Quaker Bamaby's daughter !" *^ I can scarcely believe that you have pro- mised to be mine, dearest Rose — I suppose I may call you Rose now, may I not P" exclaim- ed Hugh in his delight. " Oh, yes, you may call me Rose, and I will call you Hugh," said the happy girl ; " but for the present I would rather that our en- gagement may remain a secret between our- selves. I wish this out of respect to dear Mary's memory. We shall meet occasionally, and I am not doubtful of your love, neither need you be doubtful of mine. I trust you implicitly, dear Hugh. I believe that you will keep your solemn promise, and that you ▲ CAMPAIOK STOST. 14^ will make me very, very happy, all in Gk)d'& good time. We are both young, and in due course our engagement shall be made public^ and, I hope, with my father's consent/' " I will do anything you wish, dearest Rose,'* said Hugh. " It will be better that r. 1" engagement be kept a secret for the pre- ** I can ask you to perform the duties of a brother, may I not P*' asked Rose, looking into his face with a bright smile. " Oh yes, dear, I will be your own brother until you become my own wife." *< Then let me tell you, brother, that I have a great trouble in our own household," and here poor Rose faltered a moment and then contin> ued. ** You know, my dear good father some- times is tempted io drink more than is good for him. But oh ! he is po kind to me ! — he is not abusive as some are under the in- fluence of drink. But he is getting old now^ and I am so afraid of some accident befalling him, and to-morrow he has to go to Blank- ham on business. If you could only manage to go with him and watch over him. He al- ways speaks very highly of you. Could you goP" 150 NOBMAN STANLY a OBUSADB. "Yes, dear," said Hugh, " I can go, and I will be only too happy to be of service to him for your sake." " Thanks," replied Rose. " Father U at home now — he will see you driving up to the house ; you must come in, and I will manage the rest." They soon arrived at thd hall door of Bar- naby Grange, and Hugh alighted and then assisted Rose from the sleigh. Quaker Bamaby saw the sleigh approaching, and opening the front door stood upon the verandah to receive hi^ daughter. Rose ran up and kissed him and said, <* Mr. Bobbers has been kind enough to bring me home in his sleigh." ** Come in, Hugh Bobbers," cried the Quaker, " and warm yourself awhile. Much obliged for bringing Rose home." Hugh crossed the great hall way and en- tered the magnificently furnished reception room and took a seat near the fireplace, while Rose gave the father the sad particulars of Mary Doran's funeral. The Quaker treated Hugh Bobbers in a very cordial and friendly manner, little suspecting that he was entertain- A CAMPAIGN BTOBT. 151 ing his future son-in-law. Even had he suspected it, we question very much whether he would not have been quite proud of himr for Hugh was a gentleman hj nature. His splendid) tall figxire was well sustained by a quiet, unassuming self-possession seldom seen among country-bred youths. ^ His gentleness of manner was no doubt the result of the companionship of his sisters, who, in the ab- sence of brothers, had been his playmates from childhood. ^^ Mr. Bobbers is going to Blankham to* morrow, father. Why can you not both go to- gether, and then you can drive by turns and be company for each other P' ' exclaimed Eose during a pause in the conversation. ** Why, that will just suit me,** cried the Quaker. " I shall be glad to have your com- pany, Hugh Bobbers. I am going to bring back a large sum of money, and you would be handy in case we met highwaymen,'* and the Quaker laughed. " All right, sir, I will call for you with my sleigh," cried Hugh. *' I will drive our fast bays." " Oh yes," cried the Quaker, " I have never 152 NOBMAN STANLY S OBUSADE. sat behind those famous bays of your father's — ^by the bye, nothing about your father, eh ? Very strange about him — very strange, in- deed r ' and then in a lower tone, *^ He couldn't have been murdered, could he V* " Who would murder him P He had no enemies, and no money on him at the time of his disappearance," said Hugh. " That's true," said the Quaker, reflectively, " who would murder him ?'* After some further conversation, the Quaker went into another room to get his pipe. *^ I will take good care of your father to- morrow, dearest," said Hugh, as he stood up to take his leave. He placed his arm around Bose, and she looked up trustingly into his bright handsome face, and thanked him. Pressing her to his breast, he kissed her forehead. " Oh, my dearest," he cried, " you have brightened my life with the sunshine of your love, and it shall be my highest earthly aim to make you happy in return." *!' I should be happy. I can only pray for his recovery — only pray. God has taken others, perhaps He wiU spare me this one, that I may lead him to salvation." Hugh Bobbers was much affected at the earnestness of the minister, and felt abashed at his own deceitfulness in permitting the good man to remain under a wrong impression re- garding his intemperate proclivities, and like a man, he at once told Norman Stanly all about his drinking experience and his deter- mination never again to drink. " Oh, my dear Hugh, it is just like you to be A CAMPAIGN STOEY. 167 honest, and confess yoiir shortcomings. I can only hope and pray that you may never again fall into temptation. You may feel quite safe noW) but let me warn you that you cannot overcome evil by your own. streiagth. You may sign ten thousand pledges, but unless the Spirit of Christ dwelleth in you, you are not safe. With His Spirit you are safe — quite safe." Hugh had never looked at temperance in this light before. He had thought it was enough if a man made a promise and tried to keep it. Alas, he was soon to discover that the wiles of Satan call for a stronger safeguard than his own strength. a •m * CHAPTER XII. We must now take up the thread of our narrative by going to Blankham. The reader has already seen the Quaker and Hugh Bob- bers in the company of the vile Dick Stacy, and is acquainted with the manner in which that wicked man has decoyed Hugh Bobbers into taking strong drink within a few brief hours of his promise to Rose Bamaby to for- ever abstain therefrom. As we have already said, Hugh was not to be blamed for drink- ing what he considered a harmless tem- perance beverage. He must be blamed, however, for drinkingta second time of nhat he had discovered to be intoxicating. But such is the subtle power of alcohol, that the moment it obtains a hold on the human brain, that moment the victim loses his powers of abstinence. In the twinkling of an eye al- most, as the liquor is imbibed, there come a ▲ CAMPAIGN STOBY. 159 thousand plausible pretexts to ( msile the stricken oonscienoe. As we have already seen, the oonsoience of Hugh Bobbers was smitten after his second draught of the eider atonefenee ordered by the infamous Dick Stacy. But the geneyii^i warmth of the brain -inspiring drink dispt^lled his compunctions for the time. He began to feel in high spirits, and entered into the jovial conversation of his companions. He consc lod himself at last with the thought': ^*I am only drinking cider anyway ; I*m not breaking my pledge, — and Rose shall never know about it. I called for a temperance drink, ^.nd it is not my fault if it makes me tight. Amid the boisterous mirth of the bar-room he had no time for reflection about his h^viag and trust- ing Rose. Crowds of people came in and drank with Quaker Bamaby, who in turn treated all hands; Dick Stacy also did the same, •and as the afternoon advanced all the drinkers — Hugh Bobbers and Edwin Joyce included — were more or less intoxicated ; the latter less l)han the others, it is true, but still sufficiently so to be plainly noticed by anyone. The time came at last to start home again. 160 NOBMAN STANLY S CBUSADE. Hugh Bobbers brought his span of bays to the front of the hotel, and the Quaker staggered into the sleigh. Edwin Joyce, who had come to town with another team which had since re- turned home, took a seat in Hugh's sleigh also. Dick Stacy got into his own cutter and drove ahead of Hugh ; but presently the latter with his fine team passed him on the road, and ar- rived in Boxton a few minutes ahead. The Quaker insisted upon getting out at the Boxton Hotel and obtaining more drink. Hugh tried in vain to dissuade him. 'Ihere was great excitement at the hotel over the approaching Bunkin poll, and Dick Smithers was doing his utmost to obtain voters against the Act. Only a few days remained now be- fore the resuH of the contest would be known. The temperance people, under the leadership of Norman Stanly, were preparing for the fight. The good minister had emissaries in all direc- tions, working for the good cause. It was no wonder that Dick Smithers was delighted upon the arrival of the great Quaker Bamaby and the scarcely less distinguished Dick Stacy at his hotel. Of course the drink begun to flow freely ; it was treat, treat, treat, one after the other. A. CAMPAIGN STOBY. 161 The enthusiasm that prevailed at the Box- ton Hotel upon this occasion would have been rather discouraging to the temperance men could they have witnessed it. Arrangements were made for supplying conveyances to take people to the polls, and for a plentiful supply of good things to eat and drink while the vot- ing lasted. Quaker Bamaby pledged himself in the sum of one hundred dollars towards the expenses of the occasion. Parties were to be formed to go through the township with a band of music and flaming placards warning the people against voting for slavery and des» potism. Edwin Joyce promised to take an active part in the business, and Hugh was so- licited to do the same ; but somehow Hugh Bobbers seemed to have lost his gay spirits during the ride from Blankham. He had had time for reflection, and felt bitterly the de- gradation of his fall. He was also much an- noyed at Quaker Bamaby for his persistence in lingering at Boxton while he knew Rose was waiting tea for them. He would have driven off to Bamaby Grange without the Quaker only for two reasons. One was, be- cause he felt sure Rose would detect hie hav- G ■-*; I pi ill vU i^ !*.: 162 NOBMAN STAI7LY8 CBUBABE. ing drank, and another because it would seem as though he had abandoned the Quaker. la his unhappy frame of mind he could do no- thing but walk up and down in front of the tavern. He repulsed, somewhat savagely, the frequent invitations to drink, and often urged the Quaker to leave for home. But it was not until ten o'clock at night that the Quaker made a move to go. He was quite drunk, and so were Edwin Joyce and Dick Stacy. Hugh's mettlesome team had been pawing the ground in their impatience for a long time before they started and when they once fairly got on the road, it was with the utmost dif&- oulty Hugh could hold them in. Quaker Bama- by and Edwin Joyce, in their drunken mood, in- sisted upon yelling and singing at the top of their voices. Ju vain Hugh begged of them to stop their noise. The Quaker only made the more, and as though determined upon his own destruction, snatched up the whip and with a loud yell struck the horses heavilyy which, unaccustomed to the whip and frighten- ed at the noise, ran away at full speed. The night was very dark, and the road in bad con- dition, consequent upon a recent heavy thaw. A CAMPAiaN STOBY. 16a The horses became utterly unmanageable in their mad career. In vain Hugh pulled on the reins. On, on they sped, like the lightning. They came to a narrow part of the road, on one side of which there was a steep, precipi- tous bank. It was a difficult descent to guide horses down, even in broad daylight. In the darkness it required g^eat caution. On to this dangerous place the two bay horses of Hugh Bobbers dashed with the speed of the wind ; the sleigh came with fearful velocity in contact with a huge boulder which stood upon the edg^ of the embankment, and the three occupants of the sleigh were hurled with great violence high into the air and over the steep bank, while the horses, with the wrecked sleigh timbers striking against their heels, k<^pt on at a furious pace down the roa^k into the darkness beyond. ■V ■•■ ■ vT?. .tpi\^ "^ JIj \h- CHAPTER XIII. I t 4 Rose Bamaby, after the departure of her father and her trusty lover Hugh in the morn- ing, had been very happy all through the day. She was happy in the thought that at last by the wiU of Providence, as it seemed to her, she had been blessed with her heart's desire— the love of Hugh Bobbers. It had been her dream since childhood, and now that it was realized she gave herself up with a woman's devotion to all the transports of a newborn joy. Many months ago she had, with the truest heroism of a woman's heart, endeavored to crush out from her breast this love for Hugh for Mary Doran's sake ; and she hacf disciplined her heart to struggle successfully against her hopeless passion. She had become quite re- signed to her fate, and was prepared to do honor to Mary's wedding whenever it should take place* It had been a hard, a bitter strug- gle, for poor Rose was only human after all ; 15? jtl 3- il A CAMPAIGN STORY. 165 but her humanity "was governed by the pre- cepts of her Divine Master, and this had given her the power to rise superior to an earthly passion. But Mary Doran, as she gradually sank towards the grave, had bid Rose not to crush out this love for Hugh. " It is the only bequest, dear friend, that I can leave you,'' Mary had said, six months previous, in speak- ing of Hugh's love. " If you will marry him when I am gone, I will, if possible, hover near you in spirit and bless you both." Many times since then had Mary spoken upon this subject, and now that the poor girl was gone forever it seemed to Rose a sort of comfort to know that in gaining her own heart's (desire, she, at the same time, had fulfilled an oft-repeated , wish of her dear friend. Anl no'v Rose Barnaby was happy. With a light heart she bounded from room to room in her fathers luxurious home, now feeding the canaries, and again talking blithely to the little bullfinch, or running her fingers over the piano and sing^ag some old song ; then she would saunter through the conservatory cull- ing flowers for her hair and to adorn the table. With a woman's tact she beautified witli flowers 166 NOBMAN STANLT S CSUSADE. the sitting-room, where she knew her father would sit with Hugh when they returned. Anon the dinner hour came, and at her solitary meal the old waiting woman, who had been lier mother's maid, tended with loving hands to the wants of her young mistress, whom she had nursed as a baby, and to whom she had stood in the position of a parent ever since. And Bose talked gayly with the kind woman, and put her arms around her and called her ^* a dear old nurse." As the hour approached when Quaker Bar- naby and Hugh might be expected back from Blankham, Bose went to her room and prepar- ■ed herself to receive them. She looked very lovely as she came down stairs in her black ^ilk trimmed with pearl grey velvet, and amid the luxurious tresses of her dark-brown hair A sweet namesake, a white, hot house rose ; while a confused mass of white illusion half •concealed her snowy throat. She stood in the great hall and looked at the clock on her way to the drawing-room. It was four o'clock. Bhe could hardly expect them much before £ve. So she went to the piano and played Awhile. ^ ShewasnotaverybriUiant performer, A CAMPAia:^ STOiiY. 1G7 m but hor pla3rmg was marked by a correctness and delicacy that revealed the tnie musician, and showed at once that she had been care- fully instructed. Her voice was low, sweet, and rich, and well adapted for her favorite airs. She seemed to have struck into a minor strain as her fingers ran, in a familiar way, over the keys. She ceased playing after a while, and went to the window and looked over the bleak wintry landscape. It was growing dark, and there was no sign of the absent ones. She looked at her watch. Twenty minutes to five. A sigh escaped her. Was it a fore- shadowing of disaster that caused her to go slowly back to the piano and sing that pathe- tic song of Charles Kingsley*s ? '* Threo flshers went sailing out iLto the west, Out into the west, as the sun went dowD, Each thought of the woman thht he loved best, And the children stood watching them oat of the town. For men most work and women must weep. And there'sl ittle to earn and there's many to keep, l.nd the harbor bar is moaning." She sang the whole of the plaintive melody, and an air of deep sadness seemed to possess her voice. She closed the piano and went and 168 NOBMAN STANLEY S CBUSADE. ■ i I sat near the grate, looking' infcu the fire-light as it flickered. Presently her old nurse came in with lamps, and she bade her sit down and talk awhile. Six o'clock came and still no sign of the expected ones. " I hope the tea is quite ready," said Rose at last, " so that they will not have to wait." " Every thing is ready," answered the good nurse. Seven o'clock struck, and poor Rose became very wearied with waiting. ** You had better let me biing you a cup of tea, dear," said the nurse. **No," replied Rose, "I will wait a little longer. They may be here before you can bring the tea. Something may have detained them." Eight o clock came and still no arrival. Then when the clock came round to nine Bose took a cup of tea, but her appetite failed her. She thought of the highway robbers that her father had spoken about. Was it possible that Hugh and her father had been waylaid and killed for the sake of the money P Hose told the nurse to fetch the groom and the gardener. The two men soon appeared. The faithful A OAHPAIQN 8T0BY. 169 old gardener, who was tised to the late hours of the Que^er, endeavored to dispel the fears of Rose by quoting the number of instances in which her father had not returned until midnight when he had journeyed from Blank- ham. - " But he promised to be home at five o'clock/' said Rose, '^and he has a large sum of money with him. I am afraid of foul play. If they do not arrive at ten o'clock you must harness the horses and drive in the direction of Boxton." Ten o'clock passed and still the loved ones were absent. Rose rang the bell, and when the servant came she said, *^Tell John to bring the horses and sleigh to the door at once, and tell fche gardener to come to me." The old gardener came, and Rose told him to arm himself and get one of the farm hands mounted to accompany her in search of the missing ones. The old man was about to expostulate. " Gk> at once, David," Rose said. ^'I have made up my mind that something has happened. I have reasons for thinking so." In a few moments Rose and her nurse were well wrapped up and seated in the sleigh. The groom drove, and the gardener sat at his side, while one of the farm hands, mounted on ■f. '.^ 170 NoiiM^N Stanly's obusadb. a cob, rode ahead. They had not proceeded far when a Lorseman met them and enquired if they had seen anything of Hugh Bobbers, as his team of bays had gone back to the farm with the renmant of the broken sleigh dragging after them. This int( ligence made it quite dear to all that somo dreadful accident had happened. Rose ordered the g^oom to drive on and keep a good look out as they went along the road. At lengfth they came to the scene of the disaster, where, by the light of the lantern which the gardener carried, they descried a buffalo robe lying off the road partly over the embankment. They now heard a faint cry for help some distance down the bank. Alighting from the sleigh, the gardener looked down the steep embankment and saw by the aid of his lantern two prostrat'' forms lying on the snow. Cau- tiously stepping down the rugged slope, he came first upon the body of Edwin Joyce. He was quite deaid. Still further down was the portly figure of Quaker Bamaby. He was breathing heavily. In the meantime the cry for help came at intervals from some distance below, and the gardener answered saying he X S A CAMPAloi, STOSY. ' 17 j would be there direotlv Wui. . . «me, the farm hZT^ ^°"* losing any tl-e voice, aaICaH:kVt '^*''''' °* been crawling doi i "^i^ ^•^^^*"' ^^° ^ad reach the wad mTh I"^ *°"^*»^°' *» below. SiThXA ""^"^ *" '''^ ^»Uey tWca.etoSh^e^ir..^^^'"^- ^e^ "nta you have taken a I ^''^"' ""^d "^e M;i:srrfx^r "-- -dwrappTn^^l^^f •^*'''''!«alorobe «-7 position, andlfrhii'^tf^ ^ '*'» -orepreasingdemandsoTtSal, '"*"*''^ tended to. It wa« ^. -j ? ^"*^*' ''ere at- -vo time, while the w b"^' ^ °'"^«' *- ' Bamaby GranB.e T . "*"* returned to -^^^HurhiJrrCht^^^-^^ force waspIaoetL;^a^,tt h'^l ' " ^"^^^ «^e other cc.eyedHuXBotbtrtrHr'"^ -• 11 172 NOEMAN STANLY'S OEUBADB. When Rose first became aware of the ex- tent of the disaHter, and saw the prostrate form of her father carried to the sleigh, she had fainted away, and had not returned to consciousness until the sleigh was well on its way to Boxton. It was midnight by the time they arrived at the house of Dr. Abbott, and when that gentleman had carefully examined th^ body of the Quaker he shook his head and said there was no hope. Pointing to a heavy clot of blood upon the side of Quaker Bama- by's head, the doctor said, "There is a fracture which alone would cause death, and there is another injury over the region of the liver which would do the same. It is only a ques- tion of an hour or two. No power on earth can save him.'* In the early gray of morning. Rose Bama- by with her faithfulnurse and meU'Servantsb' re back to the Grange the lifeless body of Quaker Bamaby. It is not necessary for us to dwell upon the grief that took possession of poor Rose as she mourned over her dead. She could have found consolation for the loss of his presence here on earth, had there been but one faint hope of a reunion in the better land beyond ^M&m ▲ OAIIPAION STOUT. 173 the grsLYe. She Had heard more than enough to convince her that the deceased had met his death when awfully unprepared. It had got ahroad) as such news always does, how intoxi- cated he and Edwin Joyce had been at Box- ton; and in explaining at the inquest how the accident occurred, Hugh, in self-defence, had to state all the facts of the case — how the horses had become unmanageable by the shouts of the deceased men and the lashing of Quaker Bamaby. The cross-questioning of the coroner, who was a temperance advocate, had brought out these unpalatable facts before the public, and the evidence went to show that strong drink was at the bottom of it alL Luckily for Hugh Bobbers, it also came to be known that he had persistently refused to drink at Boxton when constantly urged to do so ; and more than this, it was shown that he had used every endeavor to get the deceased men away from the Boxton Hotel. All this came to the ears of Rose Bamaby. How shall we describe the grief of far- mer Joyce and his good wife over the destiny of their only son ? And who shall assuage the anguish of EUen Bobbers at the loss of her affianced F in 174 NOBMAN STANLY S CBXTSADE. Bnt the demon Drink, as tliougli not yet satifified with the number of its victims, strikes another fatal blow upon the innocent. The- grave has scarcely closed over the bodies of Quaker Bamaby and Edwin Joyce when it again yawns to receive the widow of Sandy Bobbers. The fatal forgery arrived in due- time from New York, informmg Mrs. Bob- bers of her husband's infamy. She read the letter and let it fall from her hand. She never spoke afterwards. When loving ones gathered around her chair, she was deal. Br. Abbott attributed the cause of her sudden death to paralysis of the brain. *■ n CHAPTER XrV, The first day of polling the votes for and against the Dunkin Act arrived at last. The anti-DunMnibes had felt severely the import- tant loss in their ranks of Quaker Bamaby's influence. Indeed the recent sad catastrophe had been very disastrous to their cause. The hundred dollars he had promised had not been forthcoming, and as this money was to have gone towards paying for the band of music from Blankham, that important feature in their demonstration had to be abandoned Another very important sympathizer had been lost to their sidce Farmer Joyce, no longer doubt- ing the horrible influences of the liquor traffic, the scourge of which had visited him in such an awful manner, went over to the temper- ance standard. This departure threw the liquor- sellers into consternation, for Joyce had been one of their most eloquent and able ad- vocates. / 176 NOBMAN STANLY 8 OBUSADB. Norman Stanly, with a party of the most influential temperance men he could muster, drove rapidly from point to point in the town- ship and made speeches. Every woman, with- out a single exception, in Tumipham Town- ship, hecame eager to see the Dunldn Act in force. Kose Bamahy sent to Boxton every availahle horse and sleigh on the estate, and bid Norman Stanly use them in aid of the temperance cause.. She also sent one hundred dollars to the minister and bid him expend it in supplying tea, coffee and delicacies to the people from a distance. Accordingly the good man purchased enough meats, bread and pastry to compose an elegant cold collation, which he caused to be served in the school- house, and of which all were invited to par- take. Around the room a number of temper- ance mottoes were displayed, while in front of the building, in large letters, was painted **Vote for temperance, happiness, health, wealth, peace and plenty." The nearest voting place to Dick Stacy's tavern was the school-house. Here again, could be seen the kind forethought of Hose Bamaby. A log house near the polling place ho desired could enter and refresh themselves free of charge. This refreshment plac^ was under the superintendence of William Dale, the lover of Hugh's sister. The late terrible dis- aster had been' the means of warning him to forever set his face against the demon Drink. Dick Stacy and the two tavern-keepers at Boxton, had been busy driving from place to place to look for voters. They carried in their sleigh loads of whiskey , brandy and beer, bottle after bottle of which they gave away in secret to their emissaries and voters. Towards the hour for closing the polls a large number of men were under the influence ol liquor, but the pre- sence in strong force of a number of the wealthy temperance men in Boxton awed the drinkers into decent behavior. It was evident that the contest was going to be a very close one. At 5 o'clock the polls closed for that day 178 NOSMAN STANLY S CRUSADE. and the anti-Dunkinites were five votes ahead. The roaring, shouting and yelling on the part of the drinkers apon the receipt of this intel- ligence knew no bounds. This boisterous demonstration did not dis- courage Norman Stanly. On the contrary, it brought into full play all his moral and physi- cal energy. Small handbills had, during the day, been freely circulated among the people, bearing these words : "Meeting to-night at 7 o'clock at the Methodist Church, Boxton. ^Rally, friends of temperance !" As the hour for the meeting drew near the commodious church began to fill with well- dressed men and women from all parts of the township, and at 7 o'clock precisely, when the building was filled to overflowing, the choir of the church, accompanied by the organ, sang "Eescue the Perishing" with such fine effect as to caU forth the emotion of a large number of the audience. On the platform was the tall, stalwart, manly figure of Norman Stanly, looking like the very bulwark of a noble and holy cause. By his side sat other ministers from Blankham. Nor- man Stanly opened the proceedings with V A CAHPAION STOBT. 179 prayer. It was the spontimeous outpouring of an earnest soul, praying for blessings upon ids encr:iics. After this, the meeting was address- ed by the visiting ministers, interspersed with music. The last speaker of the night was Norman Stanly. We cannot report his powerful speech. It defied the art of the stenographer. He painted two word-picturt s — the drinker's progress in life was one, and ^he abstainer's progress the other. In his description of the downward course of the drunkard he spared no one's feelings. He commenced at the cradle ard followed with remorseless accuracy the unuttvory details of a profligate and wast- ed life. He took the audience, in imagination^ into the revolting labyrinths of misery and woe through which the dnmkard passes in worshipping at the shrine of the demon Drink. He took them into the deso- lated home, and detailed with a startling minuteness tho agonising tortures (f the wife and children, the nionotonous round of outrages they had tO" suff or, day by day, week by week, month by month, and year by year, at the inexorable bidding of the tyrant Alco- ' 180 NOBJt'iN STANLY S OBUSADE. hol. He took them to the sick chamber, the bankniptoy court, the poorhouse, the mad- hour: ^ one gaol, the gallows, and tearing away f,Lo hWik. pall which covers the grave, he fol- io^'ol the victim of strong drink into the eter- •a^ CHAPTER XV. The setting sun sheds a golden hue over the rich summer foliage and waving grain which beautify the valleys of Tumipham. The vil- lage of Boxton in the distance, with its snow- white houses nestlirg beneath the shady trees, and the bright gleaming spire of Norman Stanly's church, shining like a pyramid of molten gold in the sunset, seems like a haven of peace and happy contentment. A year and a half has elapsed since the passage of the Dunkin Act in the Township. We look in vain among the happy countenances of the inhabitants for one line of sorrow, which, according to the prediction of some, was to signalize the tyranny of Dunkin' s reign in Tumipham. As we enter the pretty village a score of healthful children frolic on the green, while their fathers, free from the curse of the demon Drink, rest peacefully in the even- tide in the full vigor of their God-like facul- r'J»--*». A CAMPAIGN STOBT. 187 ties of mind. With unfettered intellects and ' the healthful vigor of their iinpoisoned sys- tems, life is doubly sweet to them under the beneficent influence of temperance, llie vil- lage blacksmith, vrho, two short years ago, had no home to call his own, and whose scanty earnings in his lucid intervals of drunkenness had never sufficed to satisfy the greedy claims of the taverT»; has now not only a home of his own, but savings in the bank. His wife, who had gone home to her father for support, has now returned to comfort and help him in his life labors, and she sings blithely in her neat cottage, happy as the day is long, thank- ful that her husband has been brought back to reason and to Qod. The Boxton Hotel is still in existence, though no longer imder the su- perintendence of the facetious Dick SLJthers, who long ago left to ply his vocation in u. jnore promising field. The hotel is much changed since he left it, the new proprietor having converted the lower story into a spacious re- freshment room and stationery store, where ices, lemonade, cakes and fruits, and all the latest journals and books can be obtained. Here the tired traveller can stop and find a 188 NOBMAN Stanly's obusade. comfortable reading-room in which to rest his weary limbs, and, if hungry, he has but to step into the dining-room and give his orders, when, for a reasonable price, he can have his wants supplied. The Dunkin Act has not in- terfered with the supply of water, as had been so much dreaded by the anti-Dunkinites. The pump is in its usual place, and every man is perfectly at liberty to use it free of charge. The farmers* teams therefore have not suffered, as anticipated by the enemies of temperance. A number of excellent bedrooms are still at the service of the travelling public, and dur- ing the winter months a good fire is kept for their convenience. It is satisfactory to be able to state that the Boxton Hotel under the new management is a financial success. The other tavern in Boxton has been discontinued and the premises converted into a cabinet shop and manufactory. The effect of the Dunkin Act has been to decrease the amount of dDmestic misery in many family circles. Men who had been in the habit of spending their small change at the tavern bar now pause before they invest the amount necessary to purchase five gallons. CAMPAIGN BTOBY. 189 Some haye tried the five-gallon business, but it proved such a source of annoyance and utter wretchedness from the continual flow of beggars, who would smell it out and hang around while a drop of it lasted, that men be- came disgusted and bought no more. The consequence is that these good fellows do with- out their whiskey altogether, and forget it for other and more profitable diversions. Men in their leisure hours look after their gardens, or busy themselves with domestic and house- hold improvemunts ; and whenever Norman Stanly has an entertainment to offer them, either in the shape of a lecture or concert, it is always well attended. The week day services also are more regularly visited by the heads of families. Children are sent to school better clothed and with better books. Men get into the habit of reading more. A circulating li- brary is now established, as also a debating club. The lodge of Good Templars also is re-es- tablished. There are frequent gatherings of the village people at the church schoolhouse, where they have music and recitations. So much for the village of Boxton imder the reign of tyrant Dunkin. 190 NOBMAN STANLTS OBUSABE. A great change has taken place also at the conibrs, where once flourished the Fanner's Best tavern. A fearful retribution came at last to Dick Stacy, to whose hand the sudden death of Mrs. Bobbers was also traced in the f(^owing extraordinary manner : A certain detective in Blankham, who had been engaged by Mrs. Bobbers to trace out the mystery connected with her husband's dis- appearance, had been much chag^rined at his iU success. This officer, during his enquiries into the case, had been from the very first under the impression that there was foul play somewhere, and from certain imaginary in- consistencies in the statements of Dick Stacy (who had not treated the detective with very much courtesy), his suspicions had point- ed to the landlord. He determined, therefore, to have an eye on Dick Stacy's movements. He had seen the landlord, on the day of his visit to Blankham, enter the stationer's shop, and after he had left it, the detective kept his eye on him unobserved. He saw him en- ter the tavern. The officer then went to the stationer's shop and found out what the land- lord's purchase had been. There was nothing A CAMPAIGN STOBY. 191 le S very extraordinary about the transaction, but still, with the dogged inquisitiveness of the detective's nature, he followed up the actions of the landlord. He entered the tavern and learned that the stranger had asked for pen and ink. This circumstance naturally direct- ed the detective's thought to the post-office. He went there and obtained permission to watch for his man. He had not long to wait. He saw the letter drop into the receptacle of the office and copied the address in his memo- randum book. There was nothing particular- ly suspicious or extraordinary about all this, nor the subsequent conduct of Dick Stacy dur- ing his stay in the town. It was merely an item for the detective to reflect upon and to retain, with a thousand other apparently trivial jottings which his memorandum book contained. But when, in a few days after, the news arrived that Mrs. Bobbers had received a let- ter from her husband dated at New York in- forming her of his desertion, from the effects of which intelligence she had suddenly ex- pired, the detective turned to the address he had written in his pocket-book and he began 192 NOBMAN STANLY* S CBUSADE. V to consider the item an important one. The deteotive lost no time in going to Hugh Bob- bers and asking to see the letter. He asked Hugh if he thought it was his father's writ- ing. '*It looks like it," he said. The officer then asked that he might have the letter for a day or so, which was granted. Betuming to Blankham, the detective went to the station- er's shop where he had seen Dick Stacy make his purchase. He asked to see every kind of envelope they had in the store. It was not long before he found similar ones to that which had come from New York. The blue paper, however, puzzled him. But still he thought he had sufficient clue for his purpose. He determined to visit Dick Stacy, question him and watch the effect it would have upon him. When the detective confronted the landlord, the conversation opened upon the subject of Sandy Bobbers. At length the de- tective boldly said, *^A forged letter has been sent from New York, and a man named John Dawson, proprietor of the Ship Hotel, Canal street. New York, has been arrested as the forger of the document ; so that matter will soon be cleared up.** The detective saw ▲ OAHPAION BTOfiV. 19^3 at once in the terrified look of the tavern-keep- er that his suspicions in regard to the author of that letter were correct. And now it remained for him to discover if possible the motive for the forgery. It seemed to him now that Dick Stacy must, for ^ some cause or other, have been concerned in the death of Sandy Bobbers. The detective, as though determined to further harass the land- lord, brought out the forged letter and look- ing at it said, '*Itis a very good imitatitn, but it is not Sandy Bobbers' writing." Putting up t^e letter agpain and placing it in his pocket the officer then returned to Blankham to rn- quire further into the mystery. But the en La of human justice were baffled by Dick Stacy ; for, driven to bay by the detective, and tor- mented by the upbraidings of his guilty consci- ence at being the cause of so many oalamitleSy he, by his own hand, sought refuge in the obli- vion of the grave. With a fatal pistol shot he put a period to his wretched life. The forgery was afterwards clearly traced to the hand of Dick Stacy, through the evidence of John Dawson, and though the body of Sandy Bobbers, with the fatal bottle of Dick H t *1 T ' >, %'! AT* iH ITOBkAN 6tA17Ly's OBtrSADB. Stacy's ''best" still in his pocket, was discovei^- ed miles away down the river, at the breaking up of the ice, the real circumstances in con- nection with his fatal fall into the dark waters would forever have remained a mystery had not we, with our powers of divination, been en- abled to shed a light thereon. Bose Bamaby was the sole inheritor of her father's wealth. The Quaker's will left her everything. She thus became the richest woman in that township, if not in the county. One of her first acts when she had in a mea- sure recovered from the grief at her father's death, was to take Phil Doran by the hand. She advanced the money to pay the mortgage off the farm, and had the whole of his affairs put upon a sound footing. His land was ploughed and seeded down, the rubbish clear- ed from his front door, and the garden reclaim- ed. The house also underwent a thorough re- pair, and many comforts were placed therein. She also purchased the Farmer' s Rest tavern, and had the whole building scrubbed, painted, and whitewashed, and a large sign painted, on which were the words '^Temperance Hotel." Furnishing the house throughout with all J^'s s^ y:-^ ^ . ▲ CAMPjUON stoby. 195 the necessarieH for aooommodating the travel- ling public, and converting part of the lower flat into a store for the sale of groceries and dry goodii, and devoting what had served as a bar- room into a sitting and reading room for the public, Rose Bamaby put the establishment unde^ the management of her father's oldg^ar- denei as a reward for his long and faithful services in the family. Hugh Bobbers, after the awful experience of that fatal night, never sullied his lips with strong drink again. He married Rose Bama- by two months ago. The wedding was con- ducted in a very quiet manner, Norman Stan- ly officiating. They are home at Bamaby Grange now, and Hugh fills his new and impor- tant position admirably. He is a magistrate, and his name ismentionedin connection with the prospective vacancy in the House of Commons, the aged county member lying very low with a fatal disease. Though Hugh will never forget so long as he lives the delicious effects of **lemon smash,*' which is destined to prove a temptation to him upon many future occa- sions, he feels that having with a faithful and trusting heart implored the aosiatwaoe of a m •-■* A: '■ ■.'■J t--,'i'a|R-| .*>►*■' »:: f^ .1 4 ■• , r ■>.' 196 NOBXAN Stanly's obusadb. /^ r. i- mni tf^ 11^ S«f-' higher power than his own, he shall be en- abled to overcome the allurements of the tempt, er. The influence, too, of a loving wife may help to keep him steadfast. Let us hope and pray that it may. We must take another peep at Phil Doran before closing our narrative. The sudden transformation of his premises seems to dazzle us as we pass through the brilliant display of flowers which beautify the front garden. The house looks more like it did in old farmer Doran' s days. There is an air of comfort and beauty about the place this summer evening that is indescribably charming. Poor Blinky, who is comfortably clad now, is watering the garden plants. The benign influence of the Dunkin Act seems to have been extended to this poor boy, whose distorted reason, in the absence of cruel treatment, has grown more comprehensive of Ufa's duties. Out in the farmyard, busy with his stock, is Phil Doran, whose bright eye kindles with a friendly re- cognition at our approach, and though his hair is silveredand his brow is wrinkled, the grasp of his hand is firm and strong, indicative of a hale old age. He brings us into the presence of hia •'f •' JL OUiFAlOV 8T0BY. 197 -''/L' loving and now happy wife, who, through all the self-imposed desolation of his misspent life, clung to him with the Christian's fortitude and love. Ever faithful, ever trustful, she hoped when all seemed hopeless. In the dark- est hours she never lost her faith. And now behold her in the evening of her life ! The darkening shadows have been dispelled, the ourse of her husband's life has been removed, the demon has no longer a lurking plaoe upon the highway. She is comforted at last. Even as she contemplates the affliction which it has pleased the All- Wise to cast upon her offspring, she is comforted ; for as they kneel by her side in the eventide and listen to her simple story of redeeming love, the light of understanding seems to kindle in their eyes, and this fills the mother's heart with joy and peace. i,;^ ^.% - t;, « .. r-4 1 l' -4 THB END. ^^ -S^ li' f rlnied by John poagall It Son., Witkbsb Publishing Honae, MontreaL * i^ !.«*f A ;.'■>• Published by John Dougall Vl1 i.l-^.-r.v'njw-.'J!^*:^" Iff * 1.%?*^ i 6'' 'C ■'mt. Published by yohn Dougdlt 6f* Son, Montreal, Montreal Daily Witness SENT TO ANT ADDRESS FOB ^3.00 A Year, including Postage. The Business Man's Paper. -* >•> »■ Montreal Weekly Witness SENT TO ANT ADDRESS FOR Ji.oo A Year, Including Postage. The Family Paper. The Canadian Messenger SENT TO ANT ADDRESS FOR 30 Cents A Year, Including Postage, The Young People's Paper. 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