Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, September 19, 1903, Page 2

i Barbara Bret-ton’s ~Ambit.ion= ~ Soi “Sir Gerald Lysle,” Feline answerec. “Then it was for his earldom, tor wealth and land and tities, he bartered my love. And you have known his existence all these years and have not told me! He died and I was not revenged!”” In frantic excitement she sprang from her chair and paced to and fro within the confines of her room. “He is dead,’ she repeated to her- self; “and these lying, flattering lines are written of him. How do you know, Feline, it is the same?” a sudden doubt crossing her mind. “I have followed him, madame, for many reasons, through his course. Madame has been kind to me,” Feline continued, “and I have thought I might serve her interest.” “But he married. This article does not mention his wife.” “He never married, madame. The young lady to whom he was betrothed died a few weeks before the ceremony was to have been performed. It was a fortunate escape for her, since the earl was already a married man.’ “A married man!” She smiled bit- terly. “Yes, tied to a woman by an empty mockery of form, annulled as easily as the air that blows across one’s face and is forgotten. My lord was high in power. He could even play at marriage.” “A dangerous game, my lady. Edge tools require careful handling. The watch-dog follows close on his mas- ter’s track, even though he is only thrown the bones from his master’s table. I was your watch-dog, Madame la Comtesse.” “Madame la Comtesse?” she repeat- ed after him. “Feline, have you gone mad?” “No, madame, that is left for the poor girl upstairs. It is your rightful title. You were the Earl of Bertram’s lawful, wedded wife. You are his law- ful widow.” Barbara’s face grew aslen, her eyes dilated, her frame quivered with ex- citement. “You have known this all these years and have dared to keep silence! You let me suffer through all that wretched time when by a word you might have set me free—might have given me my _ rights—might have saved the life of my child and. his- Wretched man! Were you my enemy that you should do this thing?” “No, madame; your friend. Else why should I now confess to you the truth? Besides, madame, he would have killed me had he known the trick I played him. I pretended to be his tool, his dupe. He thought so; bus the man who married you was no sham clergyman, hired by his gold to per- form a mock ceremony, to satisfy, as he said, your foolish scruples, but a clergyman ordained by the church. [ did not keep any of his gold—I gave it all to the holy father. He looked in maze at the liberal offering, but he asked me no questions. I knew he mever would acknowledge you, but I kept the certificate for the child's sake. Then she died, and I dare not tell you, until yesterday I saw in the newspapers that he was dead and my secret burned in my breast. All night a voice said to me, ‘Tell her—tell her!’ | until I was forced into obeying it:” “And I have been an earl’s wife and am an earl’s widow—I, Barbara Bret- ton, the actress—aye, an actress still! My moment for announcing my proud station is not yet at hand, but it is drawing swiftly on. What need have I now of the Meredith name or money? I can forego them both; but not yet— not yet can I restore to Travis Mere- dith his coveted freedom.” She had forgotten the presence of the servant as she thus communed with herself. Suddenly she turned toward him. As you have kept my secret thus far, keep it yet a little longer,” she com- manded. “Now you may leave me—I would be alone.” CHAPTER XXXIL Convincing. Miss St. John’s carriage stood wait- {ng at her door, and waiting also was a woman, ‘walking but a few paces, then retracing her steps, a thick veil con- cealing her features. At length the great door was thrown open. Florence St. John, still weak from her recent illness, came slowly down the steps, her cheeks robbed of their color and her large eyes larger and darker still. The woman darted forward, pressed a piece of paper into her hand and walked rapidly away, giving Florence no time to recognize who it was. In- deed, she forgot the bearer in the mis- sive. Something told her that the paper would give her news of Avice. Nor was she wrong. It was from Avice herself, though written in a hand that seemed to tremble, as if ill- ness or trouble had overtaken it. “Florence: Have you cast me off with the rest? If not, save me. They tell me I have been mad, and I think I have—I can remember so little of the past; but I am here, shut up in this big house with my beautiful jailer, and I think I am dying. Come to me, Flor- ence—come to me! Travis ard Milton have left me to die; they do not care. Perhaps you may not, either. You know where I am. They told me you all knew. I do not know myself, but oh, I shall count the hours until I can see you. “Your unhappy —Avice.” What could this letter mean? The memory of her dream swept over her. It was she whom Avice had begged for safety, but what could she do? How powerless she felt! how hopeless it all appeared- At that moment she spied Milton Lennox on the boulevard. Quickly she pulled the check rein and motioned him to her side. He read the note which she handed him with knitted brow. “Can you understand it?” she ques- tioned. “Clearly! Avice has been the vic- tim of a plot. 1 see it all!” he cried, desperately, “and every moment is time wasted. In some way, she is in that woman’s power. “Give me that note, Miss St. John; it may be of serv- ice to me. Before another sun rises and sets, I swear that I will find my darling. Put me down here. To-mor- row I will bring you news of her.” Calling a car, as Miss St. John’s car- riage rolled out of sight, Milton gave | orders to be driven to Barbara’s house. It was Marie who announced his presence to her mistress, whom she found seated by the bedside of Dr. Hayes, whcse wound was slowly heal- ing. Barbara quickly rose, a flush creep- ing to her cheeks, a new light into her eyes, as she softly descended the stairs to meet him. In her heart was a glad triumph. If in reality all that had happened the night before had not been a dream—if it were true that Mil- ton’s search for his betrothed had been through duty, not affection---if she might indeed win him back to her standard—whes a new wonderful life might be opening for her! She could then drop the mask she had worn all these years—could cease this schem- ing and counter-scheming, and go away with him to some land where they could begin life together. Her hand trembled as she pushed away the portiere to enter. A sense of almost shynass crept over her. It was the one great passion of her life, which all his neglect, his scorn, his contumely had failed to kill. He stood at the furthest end of the room as she entered, his arms folded across his chest; but her color faded, the light died from her eyes as they met the glance he fixed upon her. The role he had assumed was odious to him; he could not counterfeit it an- other moment. The honest nature of the man rebelled. In the beautiful yisicn before him he saw Avice’s be- trayer, and his sou! loathed her. “Milton,” she said softly, “what has happened? Ah, it is for me to ask this time! Have you no welcome for me?” “Since I saw you I know positively that you have full krowledge of Miss Meredith’s whereabouts, and that you deceived me when you denied it. Why did you do this?” In one moment Barbara’s quick mind understood that she must strike the last blow. a did know, it is true,” she assent- ; “but jealousy and fear of wounding ea kept me silent. The girl’s un- worthiness of the love I thought you bestowed upon her was so convincing that I thought it as well that you should not know it. I told you fi would ascertain for you is she were already married to Dr. Hayes; and, if not, I would force him into righting her. You may wonder how I could do this. Enough to say I have done it. Avice Meredith is now his lawful wife. He is still very ill and may not iive. She is in attendance upon his sick bed.” Milton groaned. “She is married to vim, then?” and in his heart he added, “And lost to me! What Nemesis is this that I should have widowed her? Let me see her. Tell me where I may find her, and I will then leave Paris forever!” “She has been very ill; the agony of this hurt for a time unseated her mind. But perfect care and quiet will restore it. Your presence would undo all.” Again a quick suspicion crossed his mind. “How do you explain this note?” he asked, placing the missive Avice had written witb such feverish hope into her hand. Barbara’s face paled, but she re- turned it smilingly. “It was one of her delusions during she added more softly, “and in watching her delirium. “I went to her,” her she perhaps thought me her jaile?. I once thought to hate her because— ah, you know the reason, and I need not pain my heart by the recital! But that has all gone by. It was, you know, your cruelty which drove me to it.’ How much of truth, how much of He deter- acting, was in her words. mined upon one last effort. “I tell you I have sworn a vow to see Avice. be hateful to her. I will not intrude it. Let me see her watching by the bed- side of the man you call her husband, even though she does not know it, and I will ask no ‘more at your hands.” like a cloud. braids far below the slender waist. whispered. disturb her; ’twould be at the peril of her life. Come with me!” lips. he staggered like a drunken man to- ward the stairs. sank down upon a couch. knew of the hope which had upheld him You say my presence will through Barbara’s mind, but she soled and grasped it. “Wait here a moment,” ghe said; then she fled, with swiftly flying feet,. up the stairs, Hastily she reached that silent and deserted hall and once more stood in thg suite of rooms which constituted to Avice a prison. Avie lay, pale and listless, in a great arm chair, striving to recall the past, which all seemed veiled in mist. “My child,” said Barbara soffly, “when you were ill, Dr. Hayes, you remember, saved your life.” “Would that he had not,” Avice an- swered. “Listen to me,” Barbara continued. “He is very ill; it may be that he will die. He feels that he has wronged you and would ask yqur forgiveness and try in some way to restore you to your friends. Will you go to him? He is here in this house.” “Yes,” Avice answered; “I can for- give him if he has wronged me. I do not know—I cannot 1emember in what way, except that his face returns to me in connection with the darkest hours of my life.” “Come, then, with me,” and taking her hand, Barbara led her through the rooms and down the stairs into the chamber where the sick man lay sleep- ing. “Kneel beside him, Avice,” Bar- bara murmured. “Remain thus quict- ly kneeling so that when he opens his eyes he may know his prayer is an- swered.” Avice went softly forward and fell on her knees beside the bed. The white dress she wore enveloped her Her hair fell in two Barbara swiftly descended the stairs and beckoned to the man who waited. “You have asked for proof,” she “You have sworn not te Silently Milton Lennox followed her. Opposite a door she paused, and novise- lessly raised a curtain that he might see within the room. A pale, suffering, drawn face lay upon its pillow, the eyes closed in slumber, while beside him, as though in the act of praying for his recovery, knelt the girlish fig- ure of long-lost Avice. ation strong as Holy Writ! Truly, confirm- A deep groan burst from Lennox’s Barbara dropped the curtain, and CHAPTER XXXIIl. Scorned. The door of Barbara's boudoir stood open. She motioned Lennox in, and he obeyed, simply because his strength had failed him. A door of communica- tion also led to the room they had just left, but he did not notice it, as he He now in all this dreary search—knew it by the hopelessness of his despair, while Barbara watched his anguish with the | exultation of triumph. At last—at last she was nearing her goal. She was doling out to Milton Lennox’s heart the suffering he had meted out to her, And yet—and yet she loved him—loved him, with a des- ecration of the word, it is true, with a passion morbid in its intensity, tut scorching, withering in its heat. His very pain was pleasure to her. It seemed to bring him nearer to her—to level the barriers that had separated them; she exulted while the mad, sweet hope she had thought buried for- ever rose from its ashes—ihat he might yet turn to her. For many minutes neither spoke; she gently crossed the room and laid her hand softly on his bowed head. “Milton, I would have spared you if I could,” she whispered. Her tone thrilled with pity. “You would have spared me!” he an- swered hoarsely—‘‘you have fulfilled your vow. Let me leave this accursed house!” he cried, starting to his feet. She threw herself upon her knees, her beautiful arms upraised, clinging to him. “Not until you have heard me,” she said. “You shall do me justice. Did I not want to spare you? did I not en- treat you to go away? Oh, Milton, ior- get the one rash vow I made long years ago, and believe that it is not through me that you have suffered!’ The perfect head drooped tow; her voice quivered with unshed tears; her attitude was perfection, in its dejec- tion and despair, Full well Milton Lennox knew her art, yet instinctively the strong mai’s nature pitied the seeming weaknéss of the woman. He spoke more gently. “I am going awry,” he said, “back ta my native land to try and find forget- fulness. Will you say to Avice that she might have trusted me—that I would have given her to this man, whom, perhaps, I have taken from her forever. and that she might have teen spared the knowledge that she hal married a traitor to his friend and to his trust. Tell her that I refused to believe until—until I saw! But what am I doing—sending a message to her through yeu? No! I will see her—tell her for myself,” starting toward the door. “You shall not! What was your vow worth to me? I tell you it wouil kill her. As yet her reason has not re- gained its strength. She kneels as you have seen her, praying for his life, per- haps cursing his murderer!” The words were well chosen. They stung like so many poisoned darts. It ‘was true; he had given his word; he was powerless. | Not. so! : ‘Muiiton,” she said, a sudden thought ey through her brain, and bring- ing with it a sudden e mem- ory of the news Feline had so siort 2 ton, will you not let me comfort you for her loss?” The question maddened him. It was like pouring a smarting fluid into a fresh-made wound. All the misery which had come to them—all through her who still knelt at his feet—re. turned to him. “You?” he said—“you comfort me? Does one turn to the nightshade for healing? Does one seek the poppy, ex- cept to drown sorrow in eternal sleep? Does one, robbed of the soaring lark, with its sweet notes, ask comfort of the glittering serpent, whose colors led it to its doom? So might I come to you, in your bewildering beauty, which once enthralled me, and which leads men to perdition. You say you loved me! Aye, with a passion which has coiled itself about my life, crushing from it hope and happiness, all but life itself. Woman, why have you spared that? Why have you not taken that, too?” 3 His words came forth with the fren- zy of despair. “Pierre! Pierre!’ cried Marie to her- self, as she stood without the door, her ear to the keyhole. “You will bear me witness—I am avenging you through him.”, Then she turned, and, entering the sick room where Avice still knelt, she touched the girl on the shoulder. “Follow me,” she commanded gen- tly. And in another moment the two forms had glided past the boudoir door. For a moment Barbara cowered be- neath the storm of words hurled at her; then she rose, very pale, to her feet. “You scorn me,” she said, brokenly, “and I cannot return your scorn. You hate me, and I—I would crawl on my knees for one crumb of your love! Milton, is it likely that I would, then, have brought this misery upon you if I could have averted it? Oh, my love, my love, speak to me! Give me one word—one little word of comfort!” But the man’s heart was steel in his breast. “As you have dealt with her,” he replied, “so may God deal with you!” Then, leaving her as though turned to marble where she stood, he opened the door, went down the stairs and out of the house. She listened until his footsteps died away, and long, long after stood mo- tionless, a living statue of loveliness. Then varying expressions swept across her face, merging into one of deadly, malignant hate. In sight of her goal it had escaped her. Not yet, not yet! This girl was in her power; this girl’s name hers to brand! this girl’s very life at her mer- cy. How beautiful the girl would look in death! Was she, too, going mad? She was a countess, the Earl of Bertram’s widow, and they had thought her scheming for the poor little Meredith title and fortune. But that had served her purpose well, as it should serve it yet a little longer. Now this girl was the one obstacle in her path. The girl must be removed from it forever—forever! She repeated the words, then glided to the door between the rooms and threw it open. Richard Hayes still lay sleeping, his expression even in sleep showing something of his suffering; but the place beside his bed was empty—Avice was not there! For a moment an awful fear was in Barbara’s breast; then she laughed at her idle folly. “She has returned to her rooms,” she murmured to herself. “I will find her there.” Up the stairs, along the silent hall, she sped, fighting against the dull pre- monition born of her fears. The door leading into the smaller corridor was open. The silence was oppressive. Barbara’s heart beat in suffocating bounds as she stole swift- ly into the exquisitely appointed rooms over which brooded the air of deser- tion that comes only from solitude, that cannot be simulated even when one hushes one’s breathing, a silence that exists, that is a thing palpable, undefined, but almost human in its im- fluence. Ere she crossed the threshold Bar- bara knew the truth, yet she searched through every portion of the empty rooms, her heart and brain sickening with the mortal terror which possess- ed her. The cage was empty—the bird had flown. Where? With this question ringing in her ears until it seemed shrieked aloud by a thousand demons, all pressing on her heart until they suffocated her, she gave one gasping cry and fell prone upon the floor. Different Now. Mistress (finding visitor in kitchen) —Who is this, Mary? Mary (confused) — My ma’am. Mistress (suspiciously)—You're not much alike. Mary (stammering apologetically)— We were, m’m, but he’s just had his beard shaved off, and that makes him look different, m’m.—Tidbits. brother, Of Course. Tinkle—Oh, yes, the West is wide- awake and full of vim; but still, West- ern men are not what they once were. Wrinkle—No? And what were they once? Tinkle—Boys. When Luck Is Good. “Do you have eny luck at picking winners?” “Yes, indeed. I have astonishingly good luck—when I have no money up, ' SCIENCE. Combined Cane and Chair. While there really seems comparatively little use for the in- vention we illustrate in the picture, yet the designers of novelties continue to turn them out, each a little differ- ‘ent from the other and more or less cumbersome and unhandy to carry about. The chief difficulty in a: de- vice of this character is to supply a Seat of sufficient strength to support the person, without at the same time involving the addition of so much ma- terial to the cane that it becomes too heavy to be conveniently carried about in the hand. The favorite meth- od of designing this combination is to split the stick and utilize the parts to support a canvas seat, the latter being folded up and contained in the upper part of the cane. In the design here shown there is no cloth used, nor is it necessary to use wood in the staff or seat, the whole being prefer- ably constructed of light steel, which combives strength with neatness, and lacks the bulk necessary in wooden construction of the same rigidity. The staff itself is slotted for a portion of its length and carries a siiding Metailic Construction Throughout. sleeve, to which one end of each seat (for there are two seats provided for in this cane) is attached, the outer ‘ends 6f the seats being supported by ‘separate braces, pivoted to the staff ‘below the slotted portion. When in a ‘closed position the sleeve lies in prox- ‘imity to the handle, and the seats ‘parallel and conceal the slots in the staff, while the braces lie close ‘against the lower portion. H Robert C. Dulin of McKeesport, Pa., is the patentee, Motor for the Bicycle. The large majority of those who a few ycars ago took up cycling as an amusement have been unable to re- Place the bicycle with the automo- bile, now that the latter has made its appearance, and have had to be con- tent to stick to the wheel or find some other form of pastime to afford exer- ‘cise and occupy their spare moments. ‘As a slightly cheaper vehicle than ‘the regular horseles carriage, and a ‘number of these machines may be jseen every day in populated districts, ;but heretofore no provision has been ‘made for attaching a motor to the old bicycle and it has been necessary to provide an entirely new frame to car- ry the engine which propels the cycle. The usual method of mounting the motor for running the two-wheeled machine is to place it in a circular frame in the position occupied by the crank shaft in the regular bicycle. However, this is made unnecessary by the invention which we illustrate, Can Be. Attached to the Old Frame. which makes possible the use of the old machine with motor attachment. We would suggest, nevertheless, that the rear wheel be replaced by one of slightly stronger build, as the in- creased weight and the force of the motor: will: soon.expose any weakness which may exist in spokes or rim. As the motor is show# there is little, if any, added strain placed on the tubu- lar frame, which is a strong point in its favor when the attachment to old bicycles is considered. The driving hub should be provided with a coaster brake, and a second sprocket wheel is necessary to connect with the mo- tor, while the gasoline reservoir and electric outfit can be arranged as usual on motor cycles. Stephen Nechlediel of Newark and John Pawlitschek of Orange, N. J., are the patentees. Good Argument for Wireless. The army officer in charge of the sovernment telegraph lines in Alaska has reported the destruction of no less than 100 miles of the 1,800-mile stretch of wire by forest fires. The system was in operation only four days when the fire broke out, and to be communication® between Good Pastor and Fairbanks has been €ntirely shut off. It seems hardly necessary to re- mark that this would have scarcely occurred had the installation com- prised the wireless system, to say nothing of the labor expended in set- ting the poles and stringing the wires, which must be maintained in good condition throughout the entire dis- tance, whereas only stations would need attention under the newly dis- covered method of conveying mes- sages. Electricity Replaces Medicine. A cable dispatch from Paris states that the famous electrotherapeutic specialist, Dr. d’Arsonval, lecturing on the effect of electricity on living beings, expressed the belief that the world was on the eve of a therapeuti- cal revolution, electricity being the medicine of the futute. He said also that a strong continuous circuit through a patient could produce local anaesthesia, permitting slight surgic- al operations without narcotics. Dr. d’Arsonval demonstrated the utility of electricity in skin diseases. Telegraph Wires as Barometers. A new use has been found for tele graph wires. Dr. Laska, a Polish meteorologist, has studied the hum- ming sound they emit ‘occasionally, and has found that it is not caused by the wind, as commonly suppoSed. Eydam’s observations, extending over several years, show that these sounds always indicate the approach of rain, snow or a storm, and Laska inclines to the belief that they are in some way caused by terrestial vibrations induced by meteorological changes. Hand Spraying Machine. One of the principal benefits de vived from the government experi- ment+stations and the different col- leges of agriculture has been in aid- ing the farmer in combating the in- sects and fungi which prey upon his crops. Years ago when the fruit trees were affected by scale the advice gen- erally given was to cut the tree down; but now the farmer is taught how to save the tree in many cases, gaining several years’ growth over the time required to grow a new tree to replace the one destroyed. One of the most popular and practical methods of treating fruit trees is to spray them with a liquid mixture containing poi- son, and in numerous instances whole For Treating Small Shrubs. orchards have been saved by this pro- cess. The apparatus required con- sists of a force pump and large reser- voir, and is usually transported on a farm wagon or vehicle built for the purpose. On the same principle, though designed on a smaller scale, ‘s the device shown in the picture, which is intended for spraying berry end currant bushes, as well as plants end small shrubs generally. This sprayer can be carried about in the hand and its contents discharged from the spraying nozzle at the end. To put the liquid under pressure and con- trol its flow a piston has been at- tached to the sprayer, located in such 9 position that it can be manipulated by one finger of the hand which car- vies the machine. Upon applying the nozzle to the affected plant or bush and pulling the lever a few times with the forefinger, a jet of the spray- ing liquid is forced out. The inventor is Alonzo O. Freeman cf Ionia, Mich. Science and Health. That a great majority of all deaths occur between 1 and 8 o'clock a. m. was shown by the record of 5,000 cases presented to the British Medi- cal association by Dr. Haviland. Forty per cent more deaths occur in the fifth hour of the morning than in the tenth hour. The X-ray operators at Guy’s hos- pital, London, where the most extens- ive use has been made of X-rays in the treatment. of disease, suggest that the sovere disturbances reported by Mr. Edison as coming from the X-ray are really from the ultra violet rays, for in their large experience in the application of X-rays in skin diseases ro such accidents have occurred. Acetylene Gas. While acetylene gas has proven wonderfully effective for many forms of lighting, the same success has not attended its use for power or fuel pur- poses, this being due to the fact that its heating value is out of Proporgion to its cost in comparison with other fuels. Should carbide undergo the material reduction in price which is pig's for, it may bring about a in this direction, however, and e practical use of this gas for both fuel and power purposes. — ie ‘casa phe Rubber, ie Uni tates now takes the worid’s crop of rubber. © betas