Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 15, 1903, Page 2

pemacepy 4 Barbara Bret-t-on’s vo Ambition~~ CHAPTER XVII—Continued. He bent, in answer ,to press a pas- sionate kiss upon the head he had again reclaimed, while a moment's triumphant smile swept over the beau- tiful features ,to be again replaced by that look of tired sadness, as his eyes once more lifted themselves to hers. “But what am I to do?” he asked. “Women’s hearts are not always mar- ketable articles. Suppose I fail in this most herculean task?” “There is no such word as fail. 1 tell you this girl is a child, to whom life is an unsolved problem—who does not even understand herself. She canot love this man to whom she is+ betrothed; but he—he loves her. I saw it when, on that memorable morn- ing, I saw him spring to her side, as if to protect her from me; I read it in his eyes, his voice, his gesture. Let him guard well his pretty bird, but we will steal it, spite of his watchful care—then give it back to him when it shall have lost all value in his eyes. Win her, Richard, at any cost; and if it so be that you cannot win her by honeyed words, we will find other means to answer our purpose.” “And then, Barbara, you swear to grant me my reward?” “I swear it!” “That promise wili iend passion to my words and a truth to my utterance, even when spoken to another. Had you but set me to war with men, to hurl back in their teeth the insults these men have dared to deal you, how eager I should be for the fray! But warfare with women is a far more dif- ficult task, only to be undertaken for your dear sake and the reward I have 60 madly coveted all these years.” “There!” glancing at the tiny, jew- eled watch which hung from her side, “you must now leave me. Remember always, Richard, this girl is but the instrument of my vengeance. I care not that real wrong should come to her further than that the fruit for which his hand already is extended shduld wither beneath his touch—that more shame should come to the Mere- dith name through one who bears it lineally, than had it been intrusted, with due honor, into my keeping. Re- member, also, that Travis Meredith was but an instrument in Milton Len- nox’s hands—that it was he, and he alone, who brought this shame upon | me;‘and let this thought send any passing shade of pity from your heart.” “It does, my own—it does! Let me but strike at his heart—aye ,tear it out and trample it beneath my heel— and, though that moment were my last, I should not have lived in vain!” Then, with a light kiss upon the fair, white brow, he left her. She listened to his steps as he crossed the hall, until the door opened and closed behind him, then she wrung her hands together in a very passion of despair, while a look of misery swept across her beautiful face. “How easily he, too ,is duped! How readily he undertakes this task for the reward he will never gain! loves me, and his reward is worthless to me. I listen as a-child to a lesson already conned and grown wearisome. Strange, strange, that these men lay their all at my feet, and I cannot even stoop to pick it up. Yet the one at -whose feet 1 would crouch for a single «<rumb throws me instead his scorn, But he, too, loved-me once. Aye, and by the memory of that love, and my suffering, so shall he suffer! Milton! Milton!” she wailed, “I may bury the steel in your heart, but you have kept mine an open wound all these years.” Then, starting from her seat, she paced up and down the room, en- grossed in thought. As she had said, the goal was within her vision. At whatever cost she must attain it, with her true motive veiled from every eye —even from the man she made the in- strument of her retribution. Let him believe it was ambition which moved her. Let him believe her heart was his—the rest for which she sighed, rest with him! At a fitting time she would show him the folly of his pre- sumptous hopes. But the queen would haye come to her own again. Touching the silver bell upon the table, she ordered Marie summoned io her presence. “To-morrow,” she said, when the Frenchwoman appeared before her, “you enter upon your new service. Once a week you will report to me. You have just left the service of the Countess Rene, whose sudden depart- ure for England prevented her person- ally vouching for your character, but whose most excellent written testimo- nials leave nothing to be desired. You will use your utmost skill in’ properly fulfilling the duties of your office, and, of course, Marie, as you have not in reality left my service, I will continue your wages ax heretofore. You may now go.” The maid courtesied in recognition of her mistress’ generosity, but, as she reached the door, the clear, musi- cal tones ‘recalled her. A minor (?) point had been forgotten. “It would be as well, perhaps, Marie, if a week hence you brought me a page of your young mistress’ writing. I may find it useful.” For a moment the two women’s eyes met; then the maid bowed again and ithdre' i , eee 3 Yet he | CHAPTER XVIII. Marie’s Discovery. It was hard to recognize the young and lovely bride of a few months back in the sad-eyed woman who smiled a greeting to the girl entering her room. “Florence!” Avice exclaimed, spring- ing to her side, “you have been ill again, and have not sent for me!” “No, dear, not ‘very ill—not ill enough as to be go selfish as to take you away from your busy preparations to bring you here. You think of me too much, Avice. Oh, darling, let no cloud mar your happiness while it lasts.” “Don’t, Florence—don't! I wonder what right I have to happiaess when God has given me so much and sent you such misery? Think! All my life I have uever known a care, a Sor- row, except when poor papa died, and —and the sorrow that has come to you. Florence, will you not see Tray- is? He is so wretched.” “I cannot, I dare not! This fate which keeps us apart seems so terri- ble that (Avice, do not shrink away from me, dear) sometimes I feel as if I must brave all the world and fly to him—that.I care not where we go, so that I can feel his arm about me, and his lips once more pressed to mine. It is all a nightmare to me, and yet all so plain. I can recall every little word during our engagement, which I could not then understand, but which now is’written in fire before my eyes. The moment that. woman spoke I knew it was true, all true; and as the sudden darkness came over me I wished, even as I swooned, that I might never waken from it. Now, each moment, each hour, I live again that scene, untit I feel as if I should go mad. Sometimes I wonder, Avice, why I was not in your place on that day when Milton Lennox saved your life; why my horse could not at any time, without a guiding, saving hand, have borne me to destruction and dashed out my helpless misery against the stones!” The words had burst from her quiv-. ering lips, but now gave place to choking sobs. “Florence, darling, be calm. God will yet send a way out of all this mis- ery. Every night I can hear Travis } ter at what hour I may awaken, until it seems selfish in me to sleep while he is thus tortured. Oh, Florence, what have you both done that you should deserve this bitter punish- ment?” “He who has sent it knows, perhaps. But now, Avice, you can understand why I dare not meet Travis. He must have strength for both of us. But tell me something of yourself.” “What can I tell you, save that it is more like preparing for a funeral than a wedding? I do not. know that any- thing would have been in readiness | but for the treasure I have secured in | my new maid. She wears glasses and | the ugliest cap you can imagine, so | that her personal appearance is far | from prepossessing, but she is won: | derful. I hesitated at first about tak: ing her, as the lady who had last em- ployed her was not in town; but her recommendations were so excellent and she seemed so anxious to come hat I determined to try her, and have done nothing but congratulate myself ever since.” “How glad I am! change your mind about ding?” “No, I think not. most as anxious as Milton that it should take place. Poor fellow! No doubt he fears in some way his trou- ble may extend to me. It is scarcely worthy, however, to be called a wed- And you will not the wed- ding, since no one is to be present. I shall uot even wear white.” Florence shuddered, remembering her own wedding dress, laid away for- ever. Quick’tears of sympathy started to Avice’s eyes. “You see, dear,” she continued, “to talk of myself is ever to drag open your wounds. Besides, I loves me and I him. Yet his love for me I cannot understand. Lam such a child and he is so grand, so true, so noble! I miss him so sadly!” “Miss him?” “Yes, Did you not know he is away? but I expect him back in a few days now, and I am trying to learn my first lesson in patience. He said it was the last time we should be parted,” she added with a blush. “God grant it!” exclaimed Miss St. Jobn, solemnly. “Dr. Hayes is so often at the house now,” Avice continued. “Do you | know, Florence,” speaking in a mys- terious whisper, “that if he were not I should think he was in love with me?” The ingenuous confession brought a smile to her listener’s lips. “And if so, what then? . Do you think Milton would be jealous?” “I cannot imagine Milton jealous.” “But do you like this man?” “He fascinates and yet repels me. I cannot understand him; but—I shall be very glad when Milton comes home.” ‘And as she spoke she sighed. Yi pacing up and down his room, no mat- | Travis seems al- | take no | pleasure in any of it, save that Milton | Some business called him to Liverpool, ! such a dear and old friend of Milton’s, | had left unguarded for a time his sing-. ing bird, and the hungry trappers were not unmindful of the opportunity. All of that bright, sunny morning, Barbara, having given orders to be de- nied to all visitors, had bent over her desk. It was a strange task at which she was occupied. Before her lay a sheet of note paper covered with writ- Ing. A tracing paper was at her side, and the paper on which her hand rest- ed was covered with a copy of the handwriting before her—an excellent copy, too; so like tbe original that, unless one suspected mischief, they would have been fn total ignorance of any change. My Dear Milton.” These were the words heading the page, and Barbara smiled, a smile not altogether good to see, as she tran- scribed them, again and again, with that curious little appendage to fhe “M” which was so characteristic. So absorbed was she in her work that she did not hear the light tap at her door, or the soft footfall that stole across her carpet until the «words, “Beg pardon, my lady,” sounded close in her ear, uttered in Marie’s most re- spectful tones. Then she started and made a movement as if to conceal her work. “Has madame succeeded?” the maid questioned. ¥arbara let her hand drop, making no further effort at concealment, but glanced up haughtily. “T have made a wonderful discovery which may assist madame,” Marie continued. “A discovery, Marie? What is it?” “That which will give us most ex- cellent pretext for assuring Miss Avice that her lover wishes to rid himself of this marriage and thus inducing her to lend herself to our plans.” “Tell me it, my good girl, and your reward shall be doubled.” “T am not covetous, madame. I have already determined upon my reward and shall ask for nothing more. But, let me tell you, Miss Avice has seen fit to give me unlimited confidence, notwithstanding that I shudder when I look at myself in the mirror, so changed am I by my disguise. My young mistress likes me, and has even gone so far as to place her keys with- in my keeping—all save the key of her desk, which is kept locked by a tiny key suspended to her watch chain. 1 arranged it, however, that this key should drop upon the carpet. What more natural than that I should pick it up, to restore it to her at the earli- est possible moment? Meantime the opportunity was too good a one to be lost; at least I must try it in the lock at some fitting time, to see if it would fit. It turned easily—so easily that, almost before I knew it, the desk and its contents were laid open before my curious eyes. The desk had been her father’s. It was large and somewhat old-fashioned for a lady’s dainty be- | longings; but she prized it all. the more highly on that account. Well, I turned the papers idly over. There were a few notes from her brother, two or three old letters from her fath- er, and a little pile, tied up in blue rib- | bon, from her lover. This was all.” | “What, then, was your wonderful discovery?” her mistress asked, im- patiently. | “T am coming to that, madame. I | was somewhat disappointed at the re. | sult of my investigations, when I set about examining the desk more mi- | nutely. The bottom appeared to me | unusually thick; the idea struck me | that there might be some secret com- | partment. For a time it baffled all my efforts to discover it, until finally I couched a spring and a tiny drawer slipped out before my astonished | gaze. In it were two papers—one ad: | | dressed to his only and well beloved | | son, Travis Meredith, and one what | purported to be a legal document. | “Well—and then?” | “Phe legal document, my lady, was | | the formal adoption of a daughter by | Henry Meredith, Esq., bearing date | which would bring Alice Avice to her present age.” | “Her adoption, do you say?” Bar- | para almost gasped. “She is not, then, of his flesh and blood? You are sure of this?” “IT have brought the paper that you might examine it.” ‘With trembling fingers and white face, Barbara snatched the sheet and ran her eyes down the page; but, as she read, the pallor deepened, and her | head sank back wearily upon the chair, as though overcome with sud- | den faintness. The maid, watching her narrowly, handed her a glass of water. “It was from La Madeleine they took this child!” Barbara almost gasped, striving to recover her calmness. “Yes, madame. What of that? You | surely had heard of La Madelaine be- fore now?” *“Yes, yes! | course; but—” The sentence remained unfinished, | for Barbara had swooned away. The maid summoned no assistance, as she aided her mistress ‘return to | consciousness, though no tender gleam { of pity was in her ruthless and maiig- | nant glance. | “Ha, ha! my lady,” she thought. “I have struck home even to your heart, have 1? But wait until 1 see you | writhe beneath the knife of torture, whose keen blade I will bury deeper and deeper, until the whole truth, of which you so little dream, is revealed in all its fateful course.” “ah!” she said aloud, as the breath came fitfully once more through the white, gasping lips, “you are better, madame; I have been very much frightened.” “Yes,” answered Barbara, trying to smile, “I am better now. I have not felt well all day. This child, then, was taken from La Madeleine? So, so, Mr. Lennox, with your pride of name and e, do you know this secret?” it lost in | | | I have heard of it, of mee me thought, then turned with quick de cision to her maid: “Marie, will you write a letter at my dictation?” “Certainly, madame.” “Then take my place here,” rising. The maid seated herself at the desk, drawing off her gloves as she did so, and saying: “Miss Avice will soon be at home. I must hasten back lest she should miss me.” “I will detain you but a moment. You are sure your handwriting will not be known?” “Sure, madame.” “Very well, then. Begin: “A friend and well wisher would ad- vise Mr. Milton Lennox to consult well the records of La Madeleine be- fore further submitting to the imposi- tion being practiced upon him, The woman whom he would marry has no right, not alone to the Meredith name, but to any name she may acknowledge without a blush. For the proud honor of his own name, and the heritage of his unborn children, the writer is her proud pinnacle of happin css, care? Had there been no warning voice to tell her of this black, black cloud, which had hung, weighted with sorrow, over her? Why was it that her father had rescued her from that life? Her father? No, she had no longer the right to call him such. Who was her father? She shivered as she asked herself the question. And Travis—he was not even her brother. Then, for the first time, she thought of Milton Lennox. This man had said he was unworthy of her. What had this awful secret to do with him? A while ago Dr. Hayes had called the three days of his absence three eter- nities, and she had smiled at the ex- pression. Now she could herself so measure time. Was each moment laden, that it so pressed against her heart and brain? Was the air peo- pled with mocking voices, which shouted the story into her ear? “Does—does Mr. Lennox know of this?” she asked, at length. thus forced into unveiling- a crnel “He has just learned of it.” wrong.” “And he—” “That will do, Marie. Now seal, “Repudiates you.” stamp and address it. Then hurry “My God!” It was her heart’s one appeal to him who might fitly read its sufferings as her soul writhed under the lash of the words. Then pride rushed in to save her reason—pride and a _ wondering in- credulity. “It is unlike him,” she asserted. “I will hear it only from his lips.” “Will you not believe his written word?” “His written word? You have a let ter from him? Show it to me.” (To Be Continued.) home, since Miss Meredith awaits you.” x CHAPTER XIX. The Forged Letter. “Dr. Richard Hayes.” It was his card Avice Meredith held in her slen- der hand a few mornings later, with the knowledge that he whose name it bore awaited her presence in the draw- ing room. She went away slowly down the stairs, half glad, half annoyed, that he had come. The influence that this man exerted over her was a strange one. Away from him, she instinctive- ly mistrused him; with him, he fas- cinated her, while her heart never quickened by a single pulse. He rose now to greet her as she en- tered the room, and it seemed to her his face was paler than its wont. In- deed, now she looked again, she was sure that it was so,and that a sort of suppressed agitation marked his man- ner. y . “Tt seems very long since I have seen you, Miss Avice,” he said, earn- estly. “Pray, how. do you mark time by your calendar?” she responded light- ly. “By mine only three days have fled since that pleasure was mutual.” “Three days? Rather three. eterni- ties- Does my language appear to you exaggerated? Doubtless it does; yet how often do we throw away the drop of water for which men would sell not only their bodies but their souls! Avice, the man you love is unworthy of you, yet on: him you pour the treas- ures, one morsel of which I would guard with my heart’s blood.” “Unworthy of me, Dr. Hayes? And you, who profess to be his friend, come here in his absence to tell me this! How little could he whom you call un- worthy fathom the smallness of such an act? Sir, I must beg that you will leave me!” rising in her haughty an- ger, to her feet. “No!” he answered, also standing OLD TIME WHALING. The Profit Was Not Nearly So Great as Is jpposed. “The Emily’s cruise produced not far from $43,000 in oil, not counting what she’ sold on the coast of South America. The green hands who sail- ed on a two-hundredth lay should have received from this oil $215 each for the cruise that was forty-two months’ long, or $5.37% a month. From this, of course, they had to pay for the clothes they bought from the captain, or what is called the slop bill. Mr. Hale’s slop bill amounted to $25 a year, and, judging from the list, it is likely, that the forecastle men did not buy much less. “Capt. Luce, with his lay of 6 per cent, should have had due ordinarily $2,580 for the three years and six months, or, say, $64 a month, Mr. "Hale does not tell what his lay. was, but if he average $16 a month for the voyage he was doing as well. as third mates usually did. In considering these figures we remember, of course, that good mechanics used to work for $1.50 a day on shore previous to the Civil war, that the crew received their board in addition to their wages, and that even now in 1900 first-class farm hands work for $20 a month and board, and even less. “The owner’s share of the oil was two-thirds, or, say, $28,000, but he paid all expenses of the outfit. It is a fair surmise to say that he cleared $6,C00 before her. “I do not speak without | a year for the use of the ship, a profit proof; but such proof as will bring the | by no means excessive, even though first cloud upon the horizon of your | the vessel herself were probably worth happiness. Will you not trust meé, | no more htan half a year’s income, for Avice, without forcing me into dis- | the whale-owner had to take the risk closing all?” of a ship making or losing voyage.— “Never, sir! Say what you have to | Harper’s Magazine. say. I do but listen that I may the | better refute your malicious charges.” “As you will, then. You have never doubted, Avice, the fact of your parent- age?” Pure and simple amazement was in the glance lifted to his. “I do not understand you,” she said. “I feared that you would not, and I ; wish that the explanation had been left to any tongue but mine. You do not know, then, that by the law of na- ture you have no right to the Mere- dith name, although the law of man has given it to you.” “The law of man?” she repeated, her face blanching and her slender figure swaying like a reed. “You do not understand,” he con- tinued gently. “Poor child! It is simply this: You are but the adopted daughter of Mr. Henry Meredith.” “Jt is false! My father! my father! come back from your grave and refute this cruel charge!” . “It is true, Avice—as true as that my lips utter the words. I would to God that I might spare you, but it may not be. Henry Meredith adopted you when a helpless infant. He gave you | his name; he intended that the world | should never know; he was in every | sense a father to you.” | “The truest, the best that ever lived!” she sobbed. “But if this be true, whose child, then, am 1? What How Their Care Is Different From Any Other Kind of Chicken. Setting hens should be as well fed | as those that are laying, but the feed- ing should be different. Grain should be left where they can get it whenever they desire to come off the nest. This is done not only as a matter of con- venience, but also to insure the hens | getting all they want to eat, and also | to get them in the habit of coming | off regularly, which they will be more apt to do if they know the food is al- ways obtainable. It is beter to feed all whole grain in good variety, such as corn, oats and wheat. The reason is that all the food a setting hen needs jis for her bodily maintenance. She | is a non-producer, and wil! therefore be able to satisfy her needs without soft food, vegetables or meat, though | a little of these will be a benefit. The | danger lies in feeding so much vege- | table food as to loosen the bowels or | so much meat as to stimulate a desire | to discontinue setting and go to lay: | ing—Country Life in America. A Human Clod. Tess—Some men are awfully slow, aren’t they? Jess—Yes, and they’re so aggravat- |ing. There was one sat alongside of me coming down in the car this morn- r s I to him, that he gave me | i78- with him? The man was silent. Avice watched him, with an awful dread gathering in her eyes. She staggered forward teward him, and laid one little, trembling hand upon his arm. “What were my parents?” she said, | in a hoarse whisper. “If you have one spark of manhood in your body, an- swer me” “The records of La Madeleine give no names,” he answered: slowly. “You were left on its steps at night.” Quickly he threw out his arm, as he spoke; but too late—the girl bad fall- en senseless at his feet. With a certain tenderness, born of his professional skill, he lifted her to the sofa, and, with the aid of the rem- edies he drew from his pocket, soon saw the long lashes lift themselves from the marble whiteness of her cheeks—a long, fluttering sigh escape the ashen lips. Jess—Gracious! no; but ‘he was reading a novel, and he was never ready to turn the page when I was,— Philadelphia Press. Where to Find It. The man looked worried. “What are you seeking?” the wise man asked. “I am trying to find the Republican party of Cook county,” was the reply. “Look under the L’s in the city di rectory,” advised the wise man. “Pilly lives: somewhere on the West side.’— Womanlike. Mrs. Popley—What do you think! Baby spoke her first word to-day. Mr. Popley—Well, well! and it won’t be many years before she'll be having the last word.—Philadelphia Press. Wearisome Topics. asked Florence St. John why it was | that all her life had been without a — A Desperate Man. It was in a restaurant, and the young wife looked anxiously at her husband as he devoured a double por- tion of lobster salad. “I wish you wouldn’t eat that, dear,” she urged. “You know it never agrees with you, especially at night.” “Tt doesn’t, but I don’t care. “It’s my turn to take care of the baby to night, anyhow.” Hopes. Tess—“It was Dr. Killam who at- tended the late Mr. Oldgold, wasn’t bed Jess—“Yes. He was called in only a few days before the old gentleman died. Why do you ask?” Tess—“Old Mr. Roxley was taken slightly ill yesterday and his young wife sent for Dr. Killam at once.” A Decided “No!” “What's the matter, Reggie? You look as if ‘She’ had given you the mit- ten.” “The mitten? I thought it was a skin tight boxing glove.” A Position of Trust. “You say your son has risen to a position of great trust in the com- munity?” “That’s what he has,” answered farmer Corntossel. “The folks say they’ve made him custodian of their most precious treasures. He drives an ic wagon in summer an’ a coal cart in winter.”—Washington Star. a —___ As Advised. “Now that I have won your love,” said the young man who was trying to leap the matrimonial hurdle, “I suppose it’s up to me to interview your worthy sire.” “No,” replied the fluffy-haired maid, who had more than once seen the family skeleton on exhibition, “speak to ma. Pa doesn’t cut any congealed aqua pura around this joint. Particular. Mr. Con Seet—I suppose I'm what you might call a gay Léthario, Miss Pepprey. Miss Pepprey—Indeed? Mr. Con Seet—Yes. I’m attentive to a number of girls, but I’m not en- ‘gaged to any particular one of them. Miss Pepprey—Naturally, for how could she be engaged to you if she were. Quick Change. “Do you love me, Arthur?” “Why, my dear, haven’t I just told you so?” * “Yes—but then men are so change- able!” A Great Haul. “Young Briefly had only been ad- mitted to the bar a week when he made a fortune. He was caught in a railroad wreck in which forty people were injured.” & “And he was one of those w. damages?” Fr ie “He was all of them. He got all the victims to retain him.” ; ¢ Poor Boy! ? “Your new brother is the eleventh child in the family, is he not?” asked the caller. 4 “Yes, ma’am,” said the little gin. : ae sou named him yet?” » 1 + ink we're going to name hi Jerusalem. That’s what papa icallea him when he was born.” 4 The Sisterly Point of View. “Is this very clever Anna Smart- leigh a popular girl?” * “No, indeed. Everybody hates her— except the teachers and the boys.” Rodrick—Did you enjoy Mrs. Tick er’s reception? Van Albert—No, indeed. The men talked shop ead the women shopping. “La Madeleine?” she whispered, shudderingly, then covered her face with her hands. How long had it been that shy from i Truth Comes Out. “Are you blind by nature?” asked the charitably inclined citizen. “No, sir,” e fe