ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 17, 22 July 1893, Page 13

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

Miss Jane .Beagle had lived. years enough in this wicked world to know that, even single blessedness is not always satisfactory to its possessor. When young, and in possession of her particular share of beauty, she had flirted with several admirers ; but she went too far when , she refiised Billy Winkum because, he was, poor and unknown, for Billy had in him that stuff which makes a man rise in some places —opinions of his own, a loud voice, a feeling that he was “ as good as anybody else, if not better,” and a talent for making speeches. So that in those years that had changed his old lady love from “ that there handsome Jane Beagle” to “Miss Jane Beagle that hasn’t ever married,” he had risen in the world, been an M.P., and was a person of such distinction that no one would have dared to call him Billy Winkum. Mr William Warrington Winkum was his designation ; and a finer coat, more watch chain, or a larger diamond in his his cravat, were owned by no one in Billberry. He had never married, but that made him all the more desirable to Billberry society. He met Miss Jane very often there; and now Jane would very willingly have proved to him’ that her decisive “Ho !” of fifteen years before had been repented of.

Alas ! either Mr William WarringTon Winkum no longer grieved over that “Ho !” or he had regarded it as final. “ And yet he hasn’t married,” said Miss Jane ; “ and he don’t flirt with the young girls, nor pay attention to the widows. I haven’t gone off as much as I might. He’s bald, and I haven’t a gray hair. He’s five years older than I am, any way. Suppose he should like me still ?” However, concealment did not seem to prey like a worm in the bud on Mr Winkum’s damask cheek. He built himself a house on the hill, wherein he. installed as housekeeper his remarkable old grandmother, who had outlived fourteen children, and at ninety walked, rode, talked,, and ate, with an energy not often met with in women of forty. Oh, that house, with its bright bricks, its new shutters, its elaborate roof, it’s stately chimneys, its balcony, and its interior of Brussels carpets, real lace curtains, and velvet drawing room furniture! How often Jana Beagle said to herself, “All. this might have been mine if I had had Billy !” She said it to herself very often one da}', about house-cleaning time, when she w r as doing her best with the shabby old house that was all her own now. One after the other had slipped out of it—some were married and some were dead—nobody remained. “ I don’t think I can stand it much longer,” sighed Jane; “ I must take lodgers, or something. Hobody to speak to all day long! If I feel ill, nobody to do for me.” Jane was down on the kitchen floor scrubbing as' she spoke. The rag carpet was hanging on the line outside. The cane-bottomed chairs, well-scrubbed, were turned up on the grass to dry ; every pan shone beautifully ; but the wood was wormeaten, and the smoothest whitewash wOuld not make the walls flawless. “ Heigh-ho !” sighed Jane; “ I like a handsome house, bit I shan’t ever have one.” ; I She said it aloud —a habit of talkinS to hei'self had growii updti her lately —-but to her surprise she was answiered on the instant. “ Why, who knows ?” said a voice, “ you may have the handsomest house in the town yet. Who knows ? Don’t you.'want me to tell you ?” “ Good gracious !” cited Jane, jumping up to her feet; “ who is that ?.” “It’s only me, iria’am,” replied a sfeat, d&rk with a big straw hat trimmecl with poppies on .her head, and with big rings of gold in her ears, who sat upon the .door-sill, and smiled up at her merrily. “ It’s ohly a pdbVgipsy wandering over the world to tell Yolks’ fortunes for 'em. Have yoUrs told, lady P” “.Mine'?” 'cried Jane laughing; “ why, I’m tOo old.” “ You are young enough for lots to be ahead of you, lady,” said the woman. “ Come, what’s a shilling to you to hear of all your good luck ?” Besides, luck is missed sometimes if we are not on the look-out for it.” What woman does not believe in her inmost heart that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in philosophy ? “ It would be awfully foolish,” said she ; “ but nobody will ever know, and 1 think I’ll do it.” She felt in her pocket for some change. It was not there. She had given it, she now remembered, to the man that had mended the tin pans that morning. And she went to the drawer-of the little bookcase with a sliding desk in it, which stood in the sitting-room, to get it. The gipsy followed her, chatting, laughing, and hinting at things that brought blushes to Jane’s cheek. She peeped into the .drawer. There lay the silver forks and spoons, the sugar tongs, a brooch set with pearls, Jane’s only costly bit of jewellery, and a purse full of gold and silver Miss Beagle drew her income once a quarter, and kept it in the house in fear of the savings bank, which had once ceased payment for a while. The bright eyes, set so close together in the gipsy’s head, saw all at a

glance ; and her smile was very bright as Miss Jane put the shilling into her hand. I've taken a notion of you,” she said, looking at the palm of the useful if not beautiful hand that la}* in hers. “ There’s luck afore you. There’s one that liked you, and that you liked, not far off. Kh r*” Jane blushed again. “ He’d give you a handsome house, and set you up in your carriage,” added the gipsy. “ Now, come, own it, lady ; }'our heart is towards him. ’ ‘He don’t care whethi r it is or not sighed Jane, unaware that she had spoken. ‘ Lady, ’ said the gipsy, solemnly, ‘ I have a great power. I can bring together the disunited. I can cure love troubles. Do as I tell you, and he will come to you again. ’ ‘What am I to do P’ asked Jane, carried away by her own emotions and the gipsy’s dramatic manner. ‘ I’ll tell you, lady, ' said the gipsy. Kneel down beside this chair, Let me cover your face with this handkerchief. Don’t be afraid ; it’s clean ; its a magic handkerchief. Now* think of him. Think of him you like, and don’t move until I bid you ’ People in love are generally a little mad, I am afraid, and Jane had been hopelessly treasuring the image of Mr. William Warrington Winkum in her heart for many years. She did what the gipsy bade her. The next moment she found the handkerchief tied tightly over her head, and the next her hands were tied also with a stout cord. She screamed, but some one was tying her feet together. ‘ It’s no use lady, ’ said the gipsy’s voice blandly. ‘ I’ve got the key of the drawer, and I sha’n’t hurt you. I’ll just help myself and go.' The spoons jingled. Miss Jane could not see, but she knew* that the contents of the datwer were being transferred into the gipsy’s pocket, and she screamed and struggled vainly. About an hour after the gipsy had left, Mr. William Warrington Winkum drove past Jane’s house in a little dogcart. He was fond of lilacs and stopped to gather a bunch that hung over the fence from a tall bush. In old times Jane had picked such lilacs for him from this bush. As he put them to his nose, a scream struck liis ear. ‘ Something is the matter! ’ he cried, and without waiting to tie up his horse, he ran into the garden, and up the path to the house. The kitchen was empty, the scrubing brush on the floor', the pail upset. The gipsy woman had done that before she departed. Another scream was bear'd. William x-ushed into the inner room, and foupd .Jane with her head tied up in a black silk handkerchief, and her feet and hands bound. In a moment he had her untied. The next she sat in hex 1 chair. ‘ Sxxch a sight ! ’ she said to hex-self ; but Mr. William Warrington Winkum noticed that she had nice plump arms under her tucked up sleeves, arid that her big frightened eyes were vexy blue indeed. Happily she had not shed a tear. ‘l’ve been tied here for I don’t know how long. Mi'. Winkum, ’ she said. ‘Oh how thankful I am you came by! I’ve been robbed—x-obbed of everything I have —my silver, my money, my jewellery. What I shall do I don’t know. ’ ‘ Unprotected women,’ said Mr. Winkum, serously, ‘ ought not to reside in any house alone. ’ • Sometimes,’ said Jane, ‘ she can’t help it. ’ It was so singular, in that old calico, with such shoes and no black braid—for that was hanging over her bureau glass upstairs —Miss Jones could never believe it ; but then and there William Warrington Winkum changed suddenly into only an older Billy Winkum, and said without an oratorical flourish or a big word —‘Jane, you don’t need to live alone. I’ve always liked you, and I sort of think, aftei' all, you’ve always liked me. Have me, won’t you ?’ ‘ Not even my black braid on,’

thought Jane, Beagle, afterwards. But all she said-was ‘ Ob Billy, I was such a goose fifteen years ago,’ ‘ I’m glad Billy bad sense to many a settled - old maid,’ said Grandma Winkum, at the wedding. ‘Gals is so bighty-tigbty, and widders is so kinder overrulin’ and upsettin’. Old maids is kinder thankful and willin’ to please.’ But Jane was too happy to be offended by anything any woman could say. —Selected.