Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, September 5, 1903, Page 2

ee | GH Barbara Bret,-t.on’s CHAPTER XXVI. The Maid’s Interference. “How dare you!” hissed Barbara, from between her set teeth. But there was no flinching in the maid's eyes. “Madame,” Marie answered, “I have een your accomplice in all this, it is true, but not your accomplice in mur- der.” “Murder? Who dares say murder was intended?” “I do, madame! The life of this girl 4s hateful to you, perhaps because it feminds you of another life you sac- tificed in its young infancy.” “What! You know of that?” “Yes, madame—all. But have no fear—Marie will not betray you. Only this girl must live, or the cause of her death shall be made public. Madame fhates her because Mr. Lennox loves er.” “Be gone, insolent one!” Barbara commanded, pointing with one out- stretched hand to the door. But the maid stirred not, and again hher eyes unflinchingly met those of ber mistress. “You leave my service to-morrow,” Barbara continued. “Then Feline goes, too,” Marie re- plied. He wishes me to marry him. Perhaps Mr. Lennox will receive us both.” With a triumphant, malignant smile, she watched the effect of her words, as a cat playing with a mouse would | mbition~ ~ gloat over its helplessness. “No, no;” her mistress said. “I was angry for the moment only. Stay with ‘me, both of you. I have promised you reward for your, service—nay, more, have left it to you to name it. What is it to be, Marie?” “My lady is too good. I have not yet quite decided; byt—you hear me? Miss Meredith must live.” “Yeg she shall live—live to suffer, -but never to be Milton Lennox’s wife!” “Because madame loves him?” “Because madame both loves and “hates him!” answered Barbara, gcud- -ed on by her own desperate thought into some avowal—“because all other amen, all other women, are as but tools im my hand to achieve my great re- venge—all, all! Do you hear? Even >the poor fool who ties there, sleeping” —pointing to the adjoining chamber— ““and murmurs my name in his sleep!” A groan sounded through the room, ‘startling them both.” She turned, and in the open door- ‘way, with livid face, stood the man of whom she spoke—the man who had Said at her feet pride, honor and ambi- tion, to receive this as_a reward. All Richard Hayes ‘future punish- ment served as nothing compared to ‘the exquisite torture of that moment, -when the actress was forgotten in the ‘woman, and his eyes pierced the beau- ‘tiful mask to the soul beneath. “I did not mean it, Richard—I did mot mean it!” she cried, going swiftly forward and clinging to his arm. “Take wme home, dear. This girl’s madness thas gone to my brain. My good, my faithful friend, believe me—I am not go ungrateful as I seem!” True, he could not desert her. In all his sufferings his old loyalty to her asserted itself. So might the lion, ‘wounded to death by his mate, drag himself by her side to die. “Your wish shall be obeyed,” he an- a#wered, gently. “We will leave this place for Paris in the morning. CHAPTER XXVII. The Lover’s Demand. “Feline!” “Yes, Marie. What is it? ‘would you have?” The man turned, nervously, as he spoke, and his eyes dropped beneath xthe inquisitive gaze bent upon him. “Feline, you are a coward.” “A coward, Marie? Why?” “Because you dare not throw off this yoke of servitude—because you dare mot tell me where they have taken Miss Avice, and yet you know.” “How could I know?” “Bah!"—a world of scorn was in fhe ejaculation. “You helped remove her. Shall I teil you your precious secret?” She leaned close and whispered in What night, did they not? Come, throw your- self on your couch; but wait, I will bring you a glass of wine.” The valet obeyed, and in a few mo- ments the maid returned, bearing in her hand a glass—a glass into which she had emptied a small white powder before filling it with the red fluid. The man emptied it at a draught. “Tt tasted bitter,” he said, handed back the glass. “Nonsense,” she replied. But even as he spoke his head fell back on the pillow, and his eyes closed in sleep. A few moments she stood watching him, until his calm, measured breath- ing told her that his slumber was deep. “Sleep on,” she said, an evil smile playing about her lips. “Poor, weak fool! It.is for yeu to sleep, for me to work! You will not tell me your pre- cious secret, eh? Then Marie will dis- | cover it for herself.” With these words she crossed the reom, first taking from the pocket of his coat, which he had hung across a chair—a small bunch of keys, and ap- plying them, one by one, to the lock of a well worn desk, until one fitted, and she then opened, the lid. For half an hour she made Gareful search among the papers. Nothing rewarded her ef- forts. A few bills, a few notes from herself, some memoranda, were all that she discovered. “He knows something,” she mut- tered aloud. “There must be some written evidence of it. Where does he keep it?” Carefully restoring everything in its place, she again locked the desk and returned the keys, after which she ex- amined ,every pocket, even the lining of his coat. All in vain. A baffled look swept over her face. Had she administered the drug for nothing? Did he in reality know noth- ing more of Barbara Bretton’s early life than she knew herself? There was one chance left. She bent over the sleeping man and laid her hand softly on his heart. Was it imagination only which brought that rosy flush of hope to her cheeks, atid made her own heart beat in mad bounds? She felt something like a sheet of paper. He slept heavily on. Softly, skill- fully, she slipped her fingers beneath the linen. Yes,»the drug had served its pur- pose. She felt a paper in his touch; but it was sewed to his shirt. Nothing daunted, she severed the stitches, and in another instant had dragged it forth to the light of day. It was yellow with age, and but a single sheet, resembling parchment. Her whole frame trembled. She could scarcely unfold it. Feline had kept his secret well. At last it lay open to her inspection, but. her eyes dwelt on it long before her mind could grasp its meaning, for the written words attested to the mar- riage of Barbara Bretton with Gerald Lysle, in the little chapel at St. Ger- main. It was Barbara Bretton’s marriage certificate, duly attested. Surely she herself did not know of its existence. Could it be that she and all the world were mistaken, and that she had in re- ality been Sir Gerald Lysle’s wedded wife? And why had Feline kept this secret so zealously? “Ah!” a quick thought flashed across Marie’s mind, “if this be true, her hold over Travis Meredith is gone. She cannot be the wife of two men at once. Yes, my lady—yes! My turn is com- ing. The wheel grinds slowly, but it crushes, none the less.” “Then, with deft fingers, she re- stored the paper to its place, sewing it as before, so that it might be held secure—Feline’s regular breathing serving aS an accompaniment to her work. It was barely completed when mad- ame’s bell rang violently. Marie, com- posing her face into the. usual expres- sion, hastened to answer it. “Marie,” commenced Barbara, her manner betokening much agitation as the maid entered the room, “Dr. Hayes left me two hours ago, promisiing to return in a very few minutes. Some premonition tells me he has met Mr. Lennox. It may be that he was seen issuing from my house. Send Feline to me. I must ascertain the truth.” “Feline, madame, is sleeping. He as he this ear. ‘ “Hush, Marie—hush!” he command- ed. “In the fiend’s name, how did you @ind it out?” “Because it was the fiend’s work. Feline, have you ever thought what price we might command for reveal- Ang this secret to Mr. Meredith? Ah, how yellow the gold would look, piled high! And it would be ours, Feline— ‘ours—yours and mine; and yet I would give it all, all—do you hear me?—for ‘the moment of my triumph that is coming.” “Marie, what do you mean?” “Nothing, dear—nothing, except that a hate this woman who is our mistress. Sometimes I could find it in my heart ‘to destroy her beauty in her sleep—to disfigure her forever—but I let the temptation pass. The day will come “when she will wish to hide her face, -with all its loveliness. Feline, you are -very tired. If you lie down and take a little nap, I will watch and see that you are wakened if you are wanted. Poor fellow! they needed you last DEFECTIVE PAGE was quite ill, and I composed for him a soothing draught. Will you have him roused?” “No, let him sleep. But I must in some way end this suspense.” “Perhaps I can serve you, madame. ’ exultation. Tf so, command me.” “Go, then, to! Dr. Hayes’ rooms, and ascertain if he has been there, and at what hour he left them.” Marie courtesied and withdrew. Ten minutes later, her face entirely hidden by a veil, she emerged from the street door and walked rapidly away. At last she stopped before a house, where, on raising her veil, the con- cierge immediately admitted her. She ascended three flights of stairs before she paused; then, as her hand was raised to rap for admittance, she suddenly dropped it, and leaned her head in a listening posture. Loud and angry voices sounded within. “You hear me?” said a mam’s voice, have tracked you at length, first to drag from your false lips what you have done with this girl, then to si-| lence them forever! Speak, if one spark of manhood still exists in your breast. Where is Avice, and why did she leave her home?” * “Where she is I cannot answer you, but why she left her home you shall know. Because she hated you; be- cause the terms of her father’s will were odious to her; because she loved me, and because she besought me to save her from herself, Kill me if you will, and take the last drop of comfort from her cup.” A pause followed these words—a pause and then a groan. “Take me to her. If she corrobo- rates your statement I will go away and leave you both in peace; but, by the heavens above, I will keep my oath. I will meet her once more face to face and hear from her own Lips the truth or its falseness! Answer me, Richard Hayes—where is she?” “Calm yourself,” the physician re- plied., “I have: wronged you, Milton, inasmuch as we have both loved the same woman, but I tell you her act was voluntary, and I have sworn to her not to betray her hiding place. She fears to meet you or her brother. Leave her in peace.” “How can I know it is herywish?” A world of concentrated suffering showed in the forced calmness of the torte. “Did you not see the letter she left for her brother?” “Yes, and I do not believe her hand ever penned it. On the loyalty of the girl who was to have been my wife I will stake my life. A truce to parley- ing. As you value your miserable life, answer me ,e’er I wring it from your lying lips!” “Find her, then! Find her if you ean!” exclaimed Hayes, with mocking “She is nothing to me— you hear me?—nothing. Would you learn the truth from her lips? From night to morning they whisper mock- eries. Would you read it in her eyes? They glare into vacancy. Would you clasp her hand? Its nerveless fingers could not return your pressure. Seek the bride who deserted you. Would you wed her, to let your children claim the heritage?—for Avice Meredith is mad—mad, I tell you, hopelessly mad!” There came the sound of a blow, a deadly struggle. Marie burst open the door. Richard Hays lay prostrate upon the floor, and over him, with a face livid with passion, stood Milton Len- nox, one foot upon his chest. CHAPTER XXVIII. Travis and Florence. “Florence, this is no time for con- ventionalities. I must see you or I must go mad. Do not refuse my prayer.” These were the words written on Travis-Meredith’s card, and which fad just been handed to Miss St. John by her footman, enclosed in a sealéd en-" velope. And Travis was below, in the same house, breathing the same air. The thought was delirious in its ecstasy of pain. She had forbidden his seeking her, and he had obeyed her until now, when his strength had deserted him and forced him into penning those hasty lines. “I will see Mr. Meredith here,” she said, then she waited, pale and trem- bling, for his coming. It seemed to her the footman had hardly left her presence before she heard that quick, firm tread along the hall she knew so well. The door of her boudoir burst open and she was clasped close to her lover's heart. Gently she released herself from his embrace and motioned him to the chair by her side. “My darling, how pale you have grown! Oh, Florence, I curse the duy that I was born when I realize the suf- fering I have brought into your life! Your face haunts me, darling. It drives sleep from my pillow, it fills my wak- ing moments with remorse; and yet I kept from you the truth, only because I thought it would give you needless misery. As God is my judge, I be- lieved that woman dead.” “Do not speak of her,” the girl an- swered, shudderingly. “I cannot qiiite bear that yet. I sit here day after day, realizing that Iam separated from you eternally, yet not daring to ask my- self wherefore. Neither must you blame yourself, Travis. God willed it so.” “Ah, it is easy for you women to talk platitudes! ” he cried, with all a man’s injustice. “You see the iron heated in the fire until it becomes first red and then white—watch it seethe its way into the burning, quivering flesh, and calmly say that God has so ordered it—the God whom men call merciful! I tell you, Florence, for me to believe thus, to reason thus, would be for me to deny there is a God. As it is, my black, hopeless despair so hems me in that I cannot even see heaven’s light beyond.” “Don’t, Travis!. It only makes it harder for me to hear you talk in this way; but you have had so much add- ed trouble, poor fellow, that I do not wonder at your suffering. What mad- ness possessed Avice, Travis? Her action seemed so strange, so unlike herself.” “She is a woman,” he answered, bit- terly. “That explains all, everything, in a word.” “And am I not, too, a woman?” she questioned. “You? No; you are asaint, a being worthy of a shrine. Oh, Florence, could you have been my wife, could you have shared my life, I might have molded it to some great aim—might have led it upward from its groveling tendencies to something higher, purer, ‘better! Now I am robbed of every- thing. God knows I thought Avice’s heart as pure as the untrodden snow, and look how she has betrayed us.” “At first 1 thought so; but I have had time for thought in the past week, pand, Travis, there is much I cannot reconcile. Have you known Avice all these years only to so readily believe her capable of such an act? Last night I dreamed of her. She came to me in my sleep, her face so white, her eyes’ burning with despair. I thought I heard her say, ‘Florence, save me! I am dying!’ Then I awoke, but my dream was so vivid I could not ban- ish it from my mind, neither could I go to sleep again. It seemed to me as though we had all sat with folded hands and perhaps permitted a great wrong to be done. Soon people will begin to inquire into Avice’s absence. We must find out where she is. It was to say this to you, Travis, that I did not refuse you admittance to-day.” “Had you done so, I believe I should have put a quick end to all this con- centraed misery. Florence, what are the wretched conventiorlalities of the world that they should separate us? Which is my wife in the sight of God — woman who tricked me into a cere- mony or the woman before whom my soul bows in adoration? God knows I would not sully your purity by even a thought, but I tell you I cannot live my life without you. Oh, Florence, come to me—trust my love, and I promise you that my, whole life shall atone to you for the sacrifice.” vine pity crept into Florence St. John’s eyes. “T love you too well,” she said gen- tly, “to be angry at words you so soon will wish unsaid. You did not mean them, Travis. Say you did not mean them! It all seems very sad, very hopeless, but that would make it more sad, more hopeless still. No, my love! I may possibly never be your wife, but I shall ever try to be worthy of the place I would have held. Surely your hand would not be the one to drag me down into the dust?” “You are right,” he answered, hope- lessly; “and yet it all seems so hard, so cruel. How bitterly I am punished for one reckless act of boyhood folly!” “Poor, boy!” fondly stroking his hair as she spoke. “But we talk only of ourselves; let us rather think of Av- ice. Travis, there was some reason why she came to me in my sleep. In some way I can save her. Oh, if I could ascertain the way! Where is her maid?” “She disappeared the day after Avice’s flight. I thought it possible that Avice had bound her to secrecy and ordered her to foltow.” Florence shook her head. “Not likely,” she replied. “Avice was not one to calculate in regard to the future; and, indeed, had she really contemplated flight she would have been too agitated at the step she was about to take. No; we must find the maid. I saw her once; Avice sent er to me on an errand. I should surely know her again. Has Mr. Lennox no theory in regard to this?” “None; save that he refuses to be- lieve in Avice’s falseness—that he does not give up the search for her night or day. Florence, it is all too dreadful!” “We shall find her,” the girl an- swered, confidently; “I feel it—I know it. Trust to me, Travis, and try to be patient for a little while. We shall find her, and it will be our own dear little Avice whom we have so tenderly loved, so cruelly wronged. And you dear, shall be my brother, as well as hers, to aid me in the search.” CHAPTER XXIX. Lennox and Hayes. Milton Lennox looked up as Marie entered and in a moment had recog- nized her as Barbara’s maid. Her presence here was another link in the chain he was forging around the man whose form he still held to the ground. “Let him up!” Marie entreated. “You do not wish to kill him?” “No, Milton answered; “not yet.” The maid came closer ,and beriding low her head said in a swift, stealthy whisper, so low that it failed to reach the ear of the prostrate man: “Meet me in half an hour at the en- trance to the avenue.” Then aloud: “Let that man rise, sir, or I will call in the police.” “Fit protection for a coward,” scorn- fully replied Mr. Lennox, removing his foot and allowing the doctor, fairly livid with -passion and concentrated hate, to with difficulty drag himself to a standing posture. Then, throwing his card upon the table, he continued: “There is my address, Dr. Richard Hayes. { shall expect you to demand Satisfaction within twenty-four hours, or I shall force it from you.” “You shall hear from me,” the doctor hissed between his ‘set teeth, as Mil- ton tarned and left the room. “And it is for her I do this,” Hayes muttered to himself, as Marie, hay- ing delivered her message, had with- drawn also and left him alone. “For her, I play so traitorous a part—for her I so bitterly hate this man whom I once called friend. Ah, how long ago seems the night he and Travis Meredith entered the box at the thea- ter I already occupied! I read in that boy’s first glance that he, too, loved her; and my heart told me he would work me future ills. Love? Bah! As though so sickly asentiment were wor- thy of the name. What was his feeble, flickering passion compared to the flame which has consumed me—which has destroyed my reputation, stricken my ambition, palsied my honor, so that I but live and breathe in the sun- light of her smile? Is she true to me? Did I not hear her say that I was a fool? And yet—yet she needs me. Perhaps some day when it is all over she will cling to me for protection and est; perhaps then my faithful love il be rewarded, unless Milton Len- A look not of indignation, but of di-- nox’s bul'et cuts it all short. What will she say when she hears I am go- | ing to fight? What man in Paris ean 1 choose for my friend? Ah, it-matt4rs not! ‘I must avenge my honor—pcor, empty phrase, my honor! The honor of a man who has hounded ‘a girl to madness! Barbara, Barbara! Ail— all has been for your sake! I have lived for you my miserable life. What better can I do than die for you, and so end it.” But while Richard Hayes thus ealled up the spirit of the past, the present and the future, Marie waited impa- tiently for Milton Lennox’s coming at the appointed spot. She had not long to wait. “You would find Miss Avice?” she began, when he stood expéctantly be- side her. “Miss Avice? No, I am wrong. I should, perhaps, say Mrs. Hayes.” “She is married, then, fo that. man?” he questioned, with paling face. “I can tell you nothing,’ she respond- ed, shrugging her shoulders in true Parisian fashion; “but, monsieur, 1 can show the fox the way to the hen- yard. Once on the scent, he does not need further showing.” “And this way?” “Through madame; but not by war. Meet her with her own weapons. She loves you.” “Yes,” Marie continued, “it has grown odious to you, but it is the pas- sion of her life. Go back to her feet— assume love you do not feel—and you may learn her most cherished se- crets.” “And you would have me play this hypocrite’s part? The words would palsy my tongue. I, with love cf a pure, innocent girl in my heart, go to this woman, whom I loathe, with spe- cious utterances at my command! You are right; they are her tools, but I can- not use them,” “Then you will never find made- moiselle; there is no other way.” “There is one other way,” he an- swered. “You share her secret; name your price. Though it were half my fortune, you should have-it. Tell me where I may find her.” (To Be Continued.) Conflicting Emotions. The two girls—they were schonr- mates once and ate olives from the same jar and made fudge over the same gas jet—the two girls meet after the lapse of years, “Oh, you dear old thing!” is of course the first exclamation from eacn of them. The first confesses with some eim- barrassment that she has not vet been married. “Y am married, though.’ edges the second. “How sweet! ry?” “Tullyrand Stitchem, the famous ta- dies’ tailor.” “Tsn’t that grand! Now you can have all your frocks made for nothing.” “Yes, but think what is is to know that your husband is making gowns: for other women and may make one of them a handsomer one than he makes you!” At this the first girl is properly sym- pathetic.—Judge. * ’acknowl- Whom did you mar- This Was Pure Nerve. “Speaking about nerve,” said Fred Gilmore, “I met a man the other night who had it in colossal quantity. He was an old acquaintance and came to see me about two years ago, and after pouring out a tale of woe borrowed $50. A few nights ago I happened in the billiard room of the Fifth Avenue ho- tel, and I saw my debtor playing. When I learned that the stakes were $50 a game I sat down and watched the contest. My acquaintance soon had lost $150, and as he put up his cue I said to him: “Don’t you think you’d better have paid me that $50 than to have lost three times the amount here?” “He gazed at me for a few seconds and then took my breath away by re- joining: “‘Good lord, man, haven’t you for got that yet?’ “Now, that’s what I call nerve.”— New York Times. At the Minstrels. “Bones,” said Tambo, “I should like to ask you a hard question.” “Certainly,” responded Bones. shall be glad to answer it.” “Then what is the difference be- tween an-old pair of trousers and 2@ small boy who bothers a beehive?” “What's the difference, you ask, be- tween a small boy who bothers a bee- hive and an old pair of trousers?” “Yes, sir.” “Why, that is easy. The trousers are stitched and hung and the boy is hitched and stung.” “That's a weak answer.” “Well, then, they are each due to re- treat.” “Still wrong.” “I give it up, then.” “The trousers bag at the knees and the boy nags at the bees.” And the bass drummer sounded the toscan call, which brought forth Mr Everhard Pulsifer to sing his beautiful tenor solo, “Never Look a Dollar in the Face.”—Judge. “y Saved the Trouble. “And so Timmerly actually is map ried! I didn’t think he could ever muster up the courage to propose.” “Oh, he didn’t. He married a wid ow.” Sallie and Willie. “Willie, why is a man unlike @ hen?” “Giveitup.” “He can lay an egg on a hot stove without burning his feet and the hen can’t.” “Huh! Funny, isn’t it? Now you tell me, Sallie, of what use are an- kles?” — “Ankles? lie.” “To keep the calves from the corn.” —Roller Monthly. Why, I don’t know, Wil- But He Didn’t Catch On, Aubrey—Youah daughtah has con- sented to mawy me, and—er—I’d like to know if there is any insanity in youah family? Old Gentleman (emphatically)— There must be! Doing Time. “There goes old Skinner. beginning to look aged.” “Yes—he is old in years and older in sin. All his life he has been doing others, and now he is even trying to do Father Time.” “If he had had his deserts he would have been doing time long ago.” He 1s A Narrow Escape. She—Of course he bored me awfully, but I don’t think I showed it. Every time I yawned I just hid it with my hand. He (trying to be gallant)—Really, 1 don’t see how a hand so small could —er—hide—that is—beastly weather we're having isn’t it? How It Ended. Askem—What became of the newiy organized Honest Suffrage league? Newitt—Well, you see, the president of the league found ont that he had been mistaken, and that he really stood some show for a public office after all. So he resigned and the or. ganization disbanded. Often the Way. Harry—I want to discard that girl and don’t know how to do it. Walter—Why don’t you start in drinking heavily and she will be dis gusted. Harry—Oh, no. She’d want to marry me to reform me. No Good. Bertie—Did you hear my rich uncle was dead? 5, Gussie—Ne. What did he you? Bertie—Nothing! Zi Gussie—Well, what’s the good of his being dead? leave Rough on Romance. Romance and chivalry are not what they were, alas; Once the hero, hay- ing rescued the maiden from the tower, paused in his flight to exclaim: General Rebuke. “How old are you, my little man?” asked the oily visitor, and the boy grumply replied: “Old enough not to like to have peo- ple call me ‘my little man.’”—Somer- ville Journal. It is not always safe to judge of a man’s income by the cost of his bou- tonniere. “Hark! The hoof-beats of pur- sugrs!” . But now: “Smell! The odor of thy father’s motorcar!”—Stray Stories. Knew Several Ways to Use It. Julius—Would you like to live your life over aguin? Edgar—No, but I’d like te spend over again all the money Ive spent. | \ i | q \ a g + t é bf ry | ae See