Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, April 27, 1901, Page 6

A SPIDER. CHAPTER XIII. (Continued.) The oily sweetness had gone from @adame’s manner, as she put the ques- tion. A new expression, jarring to the iri's car, was in her tone.” She glanced quickly up. Her face, too, had grown hard and cold. A sud- en chill ran through Beatrice’s frame. As madame had received her story, @e@ would the world receive it. “To do?” she repeated. “I came, ma- @ame, to ask your counsel, and appeal €e your portection, until I can see my way clear to act. I remembered your find interest, and the promise I so @ladly gave you when I graduated, that 2 would always regard you as my friend.” “Quite right, my dear—quite right; fut such a situation as this is most wnlooked for—most unexpected. I—I @carcely know how to act, or what to advise. Why should you leave your fhome, Beatrice? Does you cousin drive gou from its doors without suitable pro- vision and support? Surely, he is most freartless!” Beatrice raised her head proudly, and @ haughtiness worth her old position as fker father’s heiress and Grey Oaks’ q@istress marked her manner. “I left Gery Oaks of my own free will, madame. The same roof could no long- er shelter Chester Randolph and my- eelf. Pardon me that I erred in my ap- @eal to you.” She rose, as she spoke, to her feet, but was compelled to stretch out one hand em the back of the sofa for support. Bfadame rose, too. “J—I am truly sorry, Beatrice,” she gaid. “But you must see, my dear, I @.ust think only of the pupils confided @o my care. They cannot be guarded @oo carefully against association. Of @eurse, this unhappy story ,sooner or #ater, must come out; and, under the @trcumstances, should I receive you, I might be considered unworthy their guardianship. The world is so heart- fess, my dear. I—I am most truly sor- @y—and—and—as your present means are limited, you will, I am sure, allow me to offer you a loan?” And she drew out her purse as she @roke. Fer a moment the hot, red blood @yed the girll’s beautifull face to whom @he offered this last crowning insult. With a superb gesture of disdain she ehecked the Frenchwoman’s motion to ‘anfasten the purse. “Madame!” she said, and in her woice rang a cold scorn which made ‘eer listener wince. She uttered but the one word, but ‘it was more eloquent than any further @peech. Then she moved toward the door. “Your bag, my dear Beatrici said @adame and touched the bell. “Eu- gene, mademoiselle’s bag,” she order. ed, as the same servant appeared who fad admitted her. “You must not feel aardiy, Beatrice,” she added, as he dis- @ppeared on his errand. “I should fmave guarded you as carefully under everse circumstances.” But for once, Beatrice did not even @ear. The words mingled with the out aide din of the street, as Eugene held epen the door for her to pi Mechanically she received the bag from his hand; mechanically descend- @d the steps and turned to the right, father than to the left; mechanically went on, neither knowing or caring ‘whither her steps led her, until she found herself in the midst of the bril- fiant scene Fifth avenue presents to wards the close of a bright October day. She saw it as those who look upon a picture or a scene upon the stage, tak- (mg no part in it themselves. She heard the light laughter bub- piling from happy women’s lips; saw the horses dyawing the luxurious car- eiages in which they reclined go dash- 4ng past; but could not realize that she erself was amidst it all. She stepped town from the curb toward the street. An elegantly-appointed T-cart, in which sat a young man with no com- panion save his groom, was being rap- fly driven down the avenue, when a warning shout rang in the air; but she te whom it was directed neither heard wor heeded. A moment later there was a sudden e@emmotion, and the crowd thickened. A white, lovely face, with its veil @ern from its protecting duty, lay in the dust. The girl had fallen directly beneath the horse’s hoofs. CHAPTER XIV. Waultlessly-shaped, white and soft as ® woman's were the gloved hands that feeld the reins gniding the superb fhorses bencath whose hoofs Beatrice ferkham lay in her helpless uncon- @ciousness; but they possessed a @trength as of iron. She had not heard the cry, but it had @eached Allen Layton’s ear, and his quick eye had noted all the danger. With the swiftness of thought he wound the reins about his wrists. The frorses reared back on their haunches, feut one of them, throwing out his leg, qrazedsher head with his iron shoe. Fortunately, the hat and thick hair @rotected her head from fatal injury, although a tiny stream of crimson blood erickling down her white face, intensi- Ged its pallor. All was over in a moment. But for elmost incalculable skill, she would eave been trampled to instant death. Throwing the lines to his groom, the qoung man sprang from the cart, and, as though by right of having wrought ‘the ill and by the equal right of a cer- @ain masterfullness inherent in his na- ‘@ure, he thrust the gathering crowd aside, and stooping, lifted the girl's un- gonscious form and rested her head pon ‘his arm. His handsome face softened to an in- @auite regret, as he noted the exquisite IN THE WEB OF tx. | Layton,” said the doctor, endeavoring, LILLIAN GILLIN. beauty of the face the movement re- vealed to him. It was perfectly color- less, save for that tiny, trickling stream of crimson, and the dark fringe of lash upon the lovely cheek. With his disengaged hand he drew a small silver flask from the breast pock- et of his coat, and, holding it to her lips, he forced a few drops between her shut teeth. At the same time he beckoned a po- liceman to approach, “Call a carriage,” he said. Then, when his command had been obeyed, unassisted, he lifted Beatrice and placed her within it. Giving an address to the driver but a few blocks distant, he took his place beside her. She was yet unconscious when the carriage stopped before a large and handsome house. Springing out and running lightly up the steps, he drew a latch-key from his pocket and opening the door, disap- peared within. The butler stood beyond the vestibule. “My mother, Andrews—is she at home?” “Mrs. Layton and Miss Cora are both out, sir.” The young man looked perplexed. What would his mother say on her return to find an invalid enforced upon her care? But what else could be done? However littlle he could hold himself to blame, he was the unhappy cause of Beatrice’s accident. Her beauty and her youth had rendered it impossible for him to leave her to strangers. He remembered now the white face, as it rested against the cushions of the carriage, as a moment before it had rested upon his drm. As soon as she recovered conscious- ness she could, of course, give the ad~ dress of her home and friends, so that his mother soon would be relieved of any care. At any rate, he would not hesitate now. The wound on her head demanded immediate attention. “I have brought home a young lady, Andrews,” he said, “who, in crossing the street, was kicked by one of my horses, and is badly hurt, I fear. She is in a cab outside, and quite uncon- scious. You must help me to carry her in, and then go yourself for Dr. Har- vey. He or his partner must come at once!” “By Jove!” it is a strange adventure,” thought Layton, as, fifteen minutes lat- er, he paced up and down the luxuri- ously-appointed chamber, glancing fre- quently towards the bed, where lay Be- atrice Markham’s senseless form. One or two of the maid servants bent over her and gently bathed the blood from her brow. They had unfastened the hat and taken it from her head, re- vealing more fully the glorious beauty of the red-gold hair and the whiteness of her forehead, where it rested in tiny, floating rings, except where the life-fluid had dampened it. But all their efiorts brought back no signs of life. An awful fear shot through the young man’s heart—that this was death on which he looked. He drew nearer the bed. At the same moment the physi- cian entered the room. “You have come, doctor—thank God!” he exclaimed, fervently, hastening to add an explanation of the accident and its results—the doctor, meanwhile, carefully examining the patient and the wound. “It has been a narrow escape,” he said, after a few moments; “but Iam inclired to believe there is more trou- ble behind. The wound of itself is scarcely sufficient so long and death- like a swoon. You say this young lady is a stranger to you, Mr. Layton? Had I not better send for an ambulance, and have her at once removed to the hospital?” Move her in this condition? Surely, doctor, you are jesting. Besides, one glance will show you that she is a lady Think of the anxiety her friends must be suffering! As soon as she can speak they shall at once be sum: mored. But, meantime, I beg, doctor, for the sake of my unhappy share in this business, that you will do all that lies in your power.” “That, of course, I will do,” replied the physician, who had been applying different remedies, even while the con- versation was taking place. Fully fifteen minutes, however, had elapsed before the dark lashes slowly lifted themselves, and the beautiful gray eyes looked wonderingly about the room. Then an expression of acute pain swept over her face, and she made a gesture to lift her hand to her heaa, only to let it wearily drop—its weight too great for her feeble strength. “We must ascertain at once who she is,” said Dr. Harvey, in a low aside, to Layton. “Her pulse is rising rapidly, and delirium may set in-at any mo- ment.” “Speak to her, then, doctor. You are less likely to startle her than I.’ “You are with friends, my child,” the physician then said, turning toward her. “Will you give me your name, that I may send word to your home?” Beatrice mutely shook her head. “You cannot speak?” questioned the doctor. “J have no name—no home,” she re- plied, in low, distinct tones. “Let me go!” And she made an effort to rise, only to fall back in a second swoon. The answer fell with startling dis- tinctness on both her hearers. “Tm afraid you've acted rashly, Mr. for the second time, to rouse her. “She knows not what she is saying, doctor,” answered the young man, in- dignantly. “Besides, this responsibili- ty is mine. Look at that face! I would stake my life upon the purity of that woman’s character and soul!” But even as he spoke, there was a sudden rustling without of silken skirts, and a tall, elegant woman ap- peared on the threshold of the room— a pretty, girlish face peeping over her shoulder, from where its owner stood, otherwise hidden behind. “Allen,” said the first comer, “what does this mean?” “It means, mother,” replied the young man, calmly, “that in driving to- day, this young lady fell almost direct- ly beneath my horses’ feet. She is badly hurt, and, in common humanity, I brought her here.” “Common humanity!” lady of the household. hospitals in New York?” “Look at her mother. You can bet- ter understand then why I felt the only place for her was my mother’s house.” Mrs. Layton, half-hesitatingly, ven- tured a step within the recom, but mo- tioned her daughter back. “Don’t come one step further, Cora. It’s only another one of Allan’s unac- countable freaks. For all I know, the girl may have just been dismissed from a@ smallpox ward.” But Cora's curiosity was not thus to be restrained. Step bp step she came on behind her mother, until both had reached the foot of the bed. “Oh, mamma! Is she not perfectly lovely?” exclaimed the girl. And even Mrs. Layton could raise to the question no dissenting voice. In her helplessness and unconscious- ness, Beatrice’s beauty appealed to ev- ery heart. The unmistakable stamp of refine- ment was impressed upon every line of the exquistite figure—every feature of the colorless face. But Mrs. Layton was not wholly con- quered. “Leave the room, Cora! Do you not hear me?” she cried. “The girl may be suffering from some contagious dis- ease. Besides, we know nothing about her. Perhaps Allen can enlighten us.” “Mother!” exclaimed the young man, reproachfully, “she is a stranger to me as to you. But, surely, you must see, in bringing her here, I did the only thing that could be done. As soon as she recovers consciousness we will learn who are her friends, and so the responsibility will be no longer ours.” “And what do you think Edith will say to this?” asked Mrs. Layton, up- lifting her brows. “Edith will hear the story from my lips before to-night—” “Who is taking my name in vain, and what is all this commotion about?” called out a gay voice from the door- way-—a voice whose possessor, a beau- way—a voice whose possessor, a beau- tiful brunette of some _ twenty-five summers, considered among the chiet of the many attractions which had made Allen Layton a suitor for her heart and hand. Sornehow, in this moment, it jarred upon his ear. A sudden realization dawned upon him that his explanation might be made an unpleasant task. The physician, turning, held up a warning hand for silence. “Some one is ill?” inquired Miss Lor- rimer, advancing into the room. ‘Who is she?” And the black eyes fastened them- selves inquiringly upon the beautiful face, colorless as the linen of the pil- lows on which it lay. But, drawing her hand silently with- in his arm, Allen led his betrothed from the room, his mother and sister fol- lowing. Concisely he related all that had tak- en place, but in vain scanned Miss Lor- rirmer’s features for any sign of soften- ing or sympathy. “T fully agree with Mrs. Layton,” she said, when he had finished. “I am quite sure the hospital was the only place for her, and that she should be removed there within the hour.” gasped the ‘Are there no CHAPTER XV. November was half gone, and the chill breath of winter was in the air, before Beatrice, weak and wan, emerged from the mists of fever and delirium which had made the passing weeks an utter blank. Notwithstanding Miss Lorrimer’s flat regarding her, her eyes wonderingly opened on the same scene on which they wonderingly closed. Where was she, and who were the friends who had watched beside her? Gradually all that occurred came back to her, until the moment of leav- ing Madame Clair’s house. From then on all was a blank. She had, indeed, fallen in a swoon beneath the horses’ feet, and had been wholly unconscicus of her peril. But when, at last, she was permitted to- exchange /her*bed for the couch, Sister Mary asked her, one morning, if she would see the master of the house. She bowed her head in assent; then, resting wearily on her pillow, she closed her eyes and sought to overcome the deadly, faintness of fear stealing over her. ‘Whom was she to see? Could it be that Randolph Chester had followed her, and, taking advant- age of her helpless unconsciousness, again, had made himself the arbiter of her fate? Better had she been left to die in the streets than this! The door opened. “May I enter?” asked a voice, in a gentle courtesy—a voice both strange and unfamiliar to her ear. The blood surged back to her heart in almost an ecstacy of relief. She lift- ed the heavily-fringed lids and looked at him who spoke. ‘ He was'a stranger to her—a man young and handsome—but the Sister had spoken of him as the master of the house. “You mzy, indeed, come in!” she an. swered. “How heavy a debt of grati- tude I owe you! Oh, will you not tell me how it happened that I am here and with strangers, who yet have proven kinder than friends?” “You are strong enough to hear about it?” he asked, taking the little white hand one moment in his own, then seating himself in an arm-chair drawn close beside her couch. “T feel quite strong,” she answered, “and my brain is tired with ceaseless wonderment.” : “Tt was this I feared,” he replied; “put first let me introduce myself.” And drawing from his pocket his card case, he took from it one of his cards and laid it on her lap. She glanced at the name. It, too, was strange to her. In a very few words he told the story of the accident. “Inasmuch as I was its untfappy cause, however innocent,” ‘he conclud- ed, “I could do no less than retrieve it | by any means within my power; there- fore, as I could not, ascertain the ad- dress of your own home, I ventured to have you brought to mine. One thing only has given me uneasiness, and that is my inability to find any trace of your friends and relieve the intense anxiety they must have experienced concerning you.” The hot blood flushed the beautiful face on which Allen Layton looked. His words brought back a wave ot memory. His card lay in her hand. It was now her turn to speak—her turn to tell who she was, learned how her story had been re- ceived even by those who had known her well? 3 Besides, she never again would ac- knowledge her old name until the world, too, had acknowledged her right to it—that was dead and buried in the old life. But his eyes were resting wondering- ly upon her. He was waiting for her to speak, “Words are very cold, Mr. Layton,” she said, in a voice so sweet, so low, that it fell like ripples of music on his ears. “Yet I thank you the more be- cause you have »pened your home to one who herself is*homeless. You look surprised. Yet i+ is true. My friends have felt no anxiety concerning me. I have no friends. Had your horses trampled me beyond recognition be- neath their hoofs, believe me, it would have been better sc—” “Hush, child! Such words are mad- ness,” he interrupted. ‘The fever has not yet left your brain.” “Ah, yes! the mists of delirium have wholly cleared. I have neither, father, mother, home nor friends. Such wo- men are, in the world’s sight, not re- spectable—it it not so? You ‘see, Mr. led you astray in offering to such an one your hospitality.” She spoke bitterly, her words at strange variance with her youth, her beauty and her winning grace. Mr. Layton rejoiced that neither his mother nor his betrothed had heard them. Cora, his little sister, he could better trust, in her quick sympathy. He was silent a moment, revolving in his mind her words, when she spoke again: “I will not trespass much longer,” she continued, taking up the sentence where she had left it. ‘In a day or two I shall be quite strong—indeed, by effort, I might almost go to-day.” He listened with a strange sense of pain. Had he not done all, and more, than was required of him? Why, then, should the thought of this girl leaving the shelter of his roof cause him so much misgiving? From the moment that he had looked into her face, as it lay upon his arm, he had felt that he could never again be indifferent to her existence. It was this that had made the thought of the hospital so repellant to him. It was this which now forbade him to look on the sad picture she painted of her desolate future. “My child,” he said, gently, “you are very young and very beautiful. It is impossible for you to face the world alone, and I am quite sure, if all you tell me is true, that the experience is new and untried. For some reason, and through no fault of yours, I am sure, you have left your home; but you do not know the world, or you would have hesitated before taking such a step. I would not force your confi- dence—I have not earned it; but you will remember that while Allen Lay- ton lives, you can be no longer friend- less?” Tears sprang to the lovely eyes, the first that had come to soften their bit- ter misery. Impulsively she out- stretched her hand. “You are very noble, very generous,” she said, “and the memory of your words will make all my future bright- er. I wil! go away to-morrow, Mr. Layton. I cannot tell you more about myself now, but the day may come when you will know and understand all. Will you, until then, think of me as kindly as you can?” “But your name—may I not even know that?” She shcok her head. “I have no name,” she said. “Ah, Mr. Layton, you see it was, indeed. 2 waif whom you picked up in the street. The next wind will blow her away, and you will forget her.” “She is not yet blown away,” he an- swered, smiling. “My child,” he con- tinued, seriously, ‘you have neither friends no money—pardon this latter discovery made in the necessary search for some clue to your identity. How, then, can you fight the world?” “There are some jewels in my bag,” she answered. “Your bag?” he questioned. “Had you one? If so, it must have been thrown from you when you fell, and stolen by some of the crowd. Were the jewels valuable?” “I believe so; but it does not mat- ter,” she said, listlessly impossible. ranged whereby, for the present, we must keep you with us. But pardon me one necessary question. My moth- necessary that they should share this confidence. Tell me what name I may give them. clothing is marked ‘B. M.’” “and my name is—Beatrice Mont- rose. You have a sister, Mr. Layton,” she added; “and yet you ask me to re- main, with all my life a mystery?” ‘My sister needs a companion near her own age—some one to read and study with her. If you will accept the position, I offer it to you.” Impulsively Beatrice leaned over, and, catching his hand, raised it im- pulsively to her lips. “I do accept, Mr. Layton, and I will prove myself worthy of your generous trust. But your mother—your sister— will they share your noble confidence?” “All unconsciously, you already have quite won Cora’s heart. My mother’s favor may be more difficult. But I can scarcely imagine any one, Miss Mont- rose, whom, by a slight effort, you might not win. I leave it all to time and your patience.” He spoke lightly, but he well knew he had set himself a hard and bitter task. (To Be Continued.) You can take out a patent in Belgi- um for $25; in France, for $50; in Rus- sia for $95, Yet how could she? Had she not | Layton, your generous impulses have } “Tt only renders your desertion of us | Some plan must be ar- | er and sister share my home—it is not ; They tell me that your , a sad picture. It is usually this way : encing severe headache and and is exceedingly nervous. ness, and feeling is dreadfully wearing. complaint is established. accurately locate her particu! rendered them. ‘his same woman in the land. Mrs. pain in my please her I IMRS.WINIFRED_ALLENDER which will be testimonial is “ Dear Mrs. Pryewa: and tell you of the benefit I have received from your wonderful remedies. Before taking Lydia E. = ham’s Vegetable Compound, 1 was a misery to my- self and every one around me. much that I continued its use. weigh more than I ever did in my life."—MRS. WINIFRED ALLENDER, Farmington,IL REWARD deposited with the National City Bank, o} writer’s special ‘When a cheerful, brave and light-hearted woman is sud- rpon f plunged into that perfection of misery, the blues, it is She has been feeling out of sorts for some time, experi- backache; sleeps very poorly Sometimes she is nearly overcome by faintness, dizzi- alpitation of the heart; then that bearing-down Her husband says, ‘‘ Now, don’t get the blues! You will be all right after you have taken the doctor's medicine.” But she does not get all right. day, until all at once she realizes that a distressing female She grows worse day by Her doctor has made a mistake. She loses faith ; hope vanishes ; then comes the morbid, melancholy, everlasting -blues. just what the trouble was, but probably information from the doctor, who. therefore, is unable to Sho should have been told she withheld some ar iilness. _ Mrs. Pinkham has relieved thousands of worhen from mt this kind of trouble, and now retains their grateful letters in her ie as proof of the great assistance she has assistance awaits every sick Winifred Aliender’s Letter. —I feel it my duty, to write I suffered terrible back, head, and right side, was nervous, would cry forhours. Menses would appear sometimes in two weeks, then again not for three or four months, sleep nights, sharp pains would dart through my heart that would almost cause me to fall. “My mother coaxed me to try Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. I had no faith in it, but to I was so tired and weak, could not did so. The first bottle helped me so I am now well and Owing to the fact that some skeptical people have from time to time questioned the genuineness of the testimonial letters we are constantl; iblishing, we have Lynn, Mass., $5,000, y person who can show that the above OF was published before obtaining the ‘Lypia E. PiInkaam MEDICINE Co. paid to not genui permission. The real worth of my 83.00 and 3.50 shoes ualled at any price. make Welt (Hand-Sewed Pi Prove that my statement is not true, with name and price stamped on bot¢om. loes not keep them and will not direct from factory, enclosing price an: Over 1,00¢,000 satisfied wearers. Fast Color Eyelets usedezclusively. W. L. W. L. DOUGLAS & $3.50 SHOES 6 other makes is $4.00 to 25.00, My 84.00 Gilt Edge Line cannot be ‘Best in the world for men. sell more men’s fine shoes, Goodyear recess), than any other manufac. turerin the world. I will pay $1,000 toany one whocan (Signed) W. I. Douglas, ‘Take no substitute? Insist on having W. L. 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