Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, September 26, 1903, Page 6

Barbara Bretton’s «« Ambition~ ~ CHAPTER XXXIV. A Haven of Refuge. No further word was spoken be- tween Avice and her former maid un- til they reached the outer door, when Marie handed her a hat and wrap and made her quickly assume them. At the corner of the street a cab stood in waiting. Marie gave the word of command to the coachman, then took her seat beside the trembling girl. “Have no fear,” she said, reassur- ingly, “I take you to your friends.” “Alas, I have no friends,” Avice re- plied, and sank back, despondent. The carriage stopped before a large and elegant house. There was about it to Avice a familiar air, but she} could remember little. Marie threw a | veil over her features. “Come with me,” she said, and in a few minutes they were admitted into the house. Florence St. John sat alone in her dressing room, when a shadow dark- ened the threshold. She glanced quick- ly up, but started with joy as she rec- ognized the red hair and familiar spec- | tacles of Avice’s maid—Marie having again assumed her former disguise. But to Miss St. John’s amazement the maid, drawing near, quietly removed the wig and glasses, thus disclosing a rather pretty face, though robbed, seemingly, of ten years of its exist- ence. What did this masquerading mean?” “You bring me news of Miss Mere- dith?” she cried excitedly. Marie bowed in acquiescence. “Oh, teil me, is she safe and well?” “Yes, mademoiselle, both safe and well, so far as safety to the body, but she has been very ill, and her mind has not yet regained its balance.’ “Where is she? Take me to her!” “Nay, mademoiselle, I have brought her to you.” But at that moment a white face, so worn, so changed, that Florence could scarcely recognize it, glanced in at the open door, and a piteous voice said: “Have you, too, cast me off?” Then she opened wide her arms, and Avice fell sobbing into their embrace. When she turned to look for the woman Marie had gone. No trace of the maid remained, but Avice was with her, a living presence—Avice, who had come to her first in her dream, but now in very truth—Avice, yet not Avice. What must the girl have suffered to have brought about this fearful change? “Avice, my darling,” she said, gen- | tly, “where have you been? Oh, we have had such a cruel search for you!” “Where have I been?” Avice an- swered, wearily. “I do not know. And you have searched for me? Oh, Fior- ence, they told me you had cast me off forever!” “Cast you off! Who told you? What do you mean?” “I do not know,” Avice again an- swered. “I know nothing. Florence, 1 have been mad. Do you think I am so still?” “No, my darling—a thousand times no! You are back with us once more. You will have rest and quiet and all will be well. I will send for Travis and Milton to come to us at once.” “No, no!” the girl clung to her in an agony of terror. “Travis if you wiil, if you must—he was, I remember, to have been your busband; but not Mil- ton. It was he who wrote me that cruel letter. I have it yet here,” point- ing to her heart. “I never want to see him again. Promise me that you will not send for him.” “I promise you, dear, anything; but what letter do you speak of? show 1t | to me.” Avice shook her head. “It was the truth,” she said, sadly. “But 1 would not have held him to his promise. He might have trusted me.” Unconsciously she used the very words he had cmpluyed in reference to her, in his interview with Barbara. Florence rose and, crossing to her writing table, penned a few hasty | lines, which she addressed to Travis Meredith, then, ringing the bell, she dispatched them hastily by ber serv- ant. Avice had sunk baci, pale and list- less, upon the couch. Trembling with excitement, Miss St. John awaited the return of her mes- senger. An hour passed slowly away. Avice had fallen into a dreamless sleep; the long lashes lay on the marble cheeks, a sigh now and then fluttered from be- tween the parted lips, but the bloom and brightness had fled from the young and exquisitely lovely face. Would they ever return to it? Was there happiness in the wide world? Florence asked herself, remembering how short a while ago both she and Avice were butterflies dancing in the sunshine of to-day, ignoring the exist- ence of the storm of to-morrow, until —poor little fluttering motes—it had burst upon them, and the bright col- ors of their wings trailed in the rain, beaten to earth—-until, heavy with its accumulation, they could no longer soar, but droop and die. Was there happiness in the world, or had only she and Avice missed their way in pursuit of it? 1 DEFECTI | the quick, firm tread for whose comi- | The same question was in Milton Lennox’s heart as he entered Travis Meredith’s room to say that he had fulfilled his vow—that he had found Avice; but how? but where? Bravely he told the story through, then his strength and his manhood gave way. He leaned his head vpon his folded arms, and sob after sob rent his chest and echoed through the silent room. “I could better have seen her dead,” he said, at last—‘at peace in her coffin, than kneeling at that man’s side, praying that he might live whom I had sent to his death. I am gomg away, Travis,” he continued, master- ing himself by an overpowering effort —‘far away from this accursed land, whose very air breeds falseness. I would stifle did I breathe it longer.” “Oh, Milton, it cannot be true—it cannot be true!” “Cannot be true? What further proof do you want? Are we to be such dolts, such fools that we still pin our faith upon one that every sense we have proclaims unworthy? God knows that I have clung to hope as the drowning man to a straw, but now I am cast adrift in the seething current, and ask only for forgetful- ness.” He had barely finished speaking { when & knock sounded at the door. Travis opened it and took from a man, whom he instantly recognized as belonging to Miss St. John’s house- hold, a dainty note. He tore it open, then started back aghast. “Travis: My dream is fulfilled. Avice is safe with me, but so changed you will hardly know her. She needs all our protection, our tenderness, our love. She has been the victim of some cruel wrong, which has for the lime unseated her mind, though she recog- nized me and talks of you. Mr. Len- nox she will not see yet, believing he has in some way injured her. Come to her and me at once. —‘Florence.” “Read!” gasped Travis, and he placed the note in Milton’s hands. “Let me go with you?” pleaded Mil- ton, after reading it. “I promise she shall not see me. Else I believe it all adream. Think, Travis—think! Sup- pose it all has been some _ horrid nightmare, from which we shall awak- en in the broad light of day to laugh ya “We shall never laugh,” \answercd Travis, solemnly, “but per¢hance some day we shall fall on our bended knees and thank God it has, passed. But come, we have no time to lose.” An hour later the two friends stood in the same house which shelteréd Avice. She had awakened, and was: lying, her eyes fastened upon Florence's face, when she heard without the door ing she had so often listened. Her face grew deadly pale as the door swung back and her brother en- tered the recom. She made no cry, no motion, but when he released her from his close and silent embrace they found that she had swooned upon | his breast. CHAPTER XXXV. With Richard Hayes. Barbara was alone when she recov- ered from that long and deathlike faint. She dragged herself unassist- ed to her feet and tottered to the door. When she had gained the outer hall sbe rang for assistance. Marie appeared in answer. Barbara darted a quick glance of suspicion at her maid. Since that midnight scene by the bedside of Avice she had distrusted her maid, and would willingly have removed Marie from her household, but that she dared not. It would be an immeasurable relief | to her when Marie claimed this long- coveted reward, let it be of whatever magnitude, and left her service. But Marie’s face was an impenetrable | mask as she approached her mistress, with an air of anxious solicitude, and said: “You look ill, madame, you are so | very pale. You have overtaxed your strength in nursing the doctor.” “Yes, that is it, Marie—only that,’ assented Barbara, feverishly. “My strength, on which I boasted, has given way. Give me your arm and as- sist me to my room.” But once on her couch Barbara zrew more restless. She lay idle, inactive when every moment, perhaps was precious. Could she trust this mgid | yet a little longer? Marie had a quick { mind and might be of assistance to her. “Marie,” she began, “you thought my illness just now was the result of overwork. Not so; it proceeded from agitation. For some time Miss Mere- dith has been my guest, but owing to the unfortunate condition of mind into which she had fallen we found it nec- essary to confine her to one suit of rooms. She was, you know, for many days utterly mad. Latterly she has had glimpses of reason, but at rare intervals, although Dr. Hayes has hoped to effect her entire recovery. I found, an hour or two ago, on going to her apartments, that she had left them. She must be found at once.” “And, madame, would you have me VE PAGE try to ascertain the whereabouts of this poor girl?” “Yes, Marie—yes.” “I have not forgotten, madame, the night that—” “Hush! no more. I wish to find her for no evil end. You were mistaken then. I do not wish her Iife, although you know I have no reason to love her. You are a woman, Marie; you can understand my motive. You will help me to find her?” “Yes, madame, I am a woman, trav- eling on one trodden path,- with ono end, one object in view, like your- self. Suppose, madame, our paths meet, and only one of us can pass?” An evil, malignant light glittered in the French woman’s eyes, and Bar- bara shrank from it, a premonition ot future ill creeping over her. “I will step aside for you,” she a» swered, with forced lightness. “Where am I to look for Miss Mede dith?” questioned the maid. “I do not know. Only find out if she has returned to her friends, and let me know. I can then better shape my plans.’ ’ Left alone, Barbara rose, and with weary steps went into the adjoining chamber. Richard Hayes had awakened, and his eyes lighted as they rested on her face, though he quickly detected 1is glance of suffering. “Barbara,” he said tenderly, “you have been ill again. Will you never take warning until it is too late?” She made an impatient gesture as she answered him: “Tt is nothing. I wish you would not always hold up a dangling skele- ton hefore me—a skuli and cross- bones. It is dreadful!” “I have been so near the Valley of the Shadow,” he replied, “that I do not seem to fear it, though I was not ready to die. A half inch closer and Milton Lennox’s bullet would have done its work. Does he regret it, | wonder? Barbara, would you have remembered it was for your sake?” She shuddered. “Don’t talk about it, Richard;” then she added, in a low, thrilling tone: “What could I have done without your help—you, who have been so good, my faithful friend? Richard, I have something to tell you, something which is to give you back your heaitn and strength. We need not seek the aid of the iaw to make me free; I am free already.” “What! Travis Meredith is dead?” “No; Tavis Meredith is alive. But I am not Travis Meredith’s wife, and | never have been—not for one single hour!” She uttered the words in triumpa, | with a low. mocking laugh. Richard’s face grew pale to gray- ness. “I said some cruel words once, you remember. Perhaps you have not yet forgotten them. You shall both fo:- give and forget them, for I am going to prove how little they were meant. I am almost through my journey, Richard, the goal is almost reached. You have but to hold out your hand to bring me safely to its end, and | then—and then I will give that hand | to you. I swear it!” One vivid spot of scarlet flamed on her listener’s cheek. His eyes dark- ened with excitement. “Tell me, Barbara, quickly, all you | mean. I cannot bear this suspense!” “IT mean—think of it, Richard, every word—I mean that in that far- off time when I abandoned my child because I believed her worse than | fatherless, and when his treachery drove me to madness and the deed— that then, even then, had I but known, I might have held high my head and defied him. He thought the bond be- tween us a mockery: he had planned that it shovld be so. He had gold. Could it not buy him whatever he would wish? So he reasoned; bul the man—the hireling—to whom he fn- trusted the commission and the exe: cution of tke foul deed betrayed aim. | He paid no simulated clergyman, but one ordained by the church, to do the | deed, and I became his wife, not onty in the sight of heaven, but in the sight of man. He is dead now, and his tool, who has kept silent all these | years, has at last spoken. Richard, I | am free! Tell me, are you glad?” Ere the physician answered, a vi sion rose before him. He saw two women, in the silent night watches, standing face to face. He heard one say, in a voice whica thrilled him now | as it had thrilled him then, these words: “All other men—all other women— are as but tools in my hand to achieve my one great end. Even the poor fool who lies there sleeping, and murmurs | baneful light when they handed it to my name in his sleep.” | Aye, a fool! She had spoken truly | —a fool, who had well nigh died for | her—a fool, whose pulses beat, exult- | antly at the wild, sweet hope held out | to him. | But there was a price attached. He | knew it—knew it without need of words. In what further depths of vil- | liany must he plunge to work her will?” “Why do you not speak, Richard? | Have I lost my one last friend? “Not while life lasts, dear! I do} not know if all men love as I do. If| so, it must be the crowning bliss and torture of their lives. So it has | proven with me. In a tew days I hépe to be strong again. How can I serve you, dear?” “Avice has fled,” she whispered. An expression strangely like relief flitted over the man’s face. “It is best so,” he answered. “It saves us the task of restoring her to her friends.” “Best so,” she repeated scorafully. “Is it fur this, think you, I have plot- ted—to give her back to those who have done me deadly wrong, and who are yet ready to believe in her inno- cence—to have her dawning reasou | time had rested so heavily upon her return and the true story of these weeks unfolded? What would your life then be »vorth, Richard Hayes? and what, think you, would mine pe without you?” Her voice changed, trembled and sank as she asked the latter question. “We can leave Paris,” he said, in answer. “You can go with me, as my wife, my dear, to find the forgetful- ness and rest which you so greatly need.” “And which you shall give me, Rich- ard when—you hear me—when I haye won the race. There is but one way, Richard—but one.” She looked about her with a star- tled air—they were alone. She bent lower and whispered in his ear. CHAPTER XXXVI. Marie’s Declaration. Days merged into weeks, but in Miss St. John’s household was no note of time, for the life which had been restored to them hung in the balance, and bunt a featherweight would turn the scale. There were anxious watchers by the bedside where the slight form lay, and her piteous cries for help—her thrilling appeals to those she thought had forsaken her—told them the story of her suffering. Then, too, an awful doubt was with them—would reason return with strength? The physicians gravely shook their heads. White there was life there was hope. They would say no more. But there came a day when the dark eyes unclosed and rested first on one then on another of the dear faces about her bed, with a something in their glance which told them that the veil had fallen, the mists had cleared—the brain was unclouded. i But one was absent who had been the most anxious among the watchers. ; They dared not let her see him yet. | She seemed to miss him, for she! closed her eyes without a word, and | a tear stole down her cheek. | “Florence’’—it was three days later that Avice tremblingly uttered thai name—“how came I here?” “Hush, dear! You are not strong enough yet for questions. Can you remember nothing?” “Not yet, except—except that nor- rible time when, instead of the con- vent, I found myself a prisoner. Ok, Florence, I shall now know how to feel for the poor creatures who live in cells. I wonder that I did not dic. Sometimes I wish I,had.” Little by little, as Avice grew stronger, memory returned. The time of her madness was a blank. All else grew clear to her, and little by little | the story was unfolded to Travis and Florence, as they gently drew it from her, even to the day she knelt, py Barbara’s command, by Dr. Hayes’ bedside. In all this time they had not men- tioned to her Milton Lennox’s name; but when they had undressed her, to put her into bed, on the day of her re- turn, they found .he note pressed to her heart through which Dr. Hayes had decoyed her from her home. Into Lennox’s eyes had crept a him, that he might read it, and he} felt that, should the writer cross his | path, heaven would this time speed | the bullet to its mark, and that marx | would be the scoundrel’s false, treach- | erous heart. | “Avice,” Travis said one day, when she was sitting up for the first time, | leaning languidly back in a great arm | chair, “you have suffered terribly, I| know, but there is one who has sui- fered even more. Can you “not guess?” A timid blush overspread the pale face, which she had hidden between her trembling hands. “Say no more, Travis. When I am stronger, dear, I am going into the convent, to try to find forgetfulness. Ah, if papa had known all, he would have left me to die on the steps of La Madeleine. Poor little nameless waif! What right had I to took for happiness in this great world?” “That is folly, my darling. You are my little sister, fond and true. Do| you think I will ever yield the claim? | Never until I can place you in a no- bler keeping—the heart of a man more true, more loyal, than truth or loyalty itself! Avice, have you ceased to love Milton?” “Ceased to love him?” she echoed. “Would that I had! Oh, Travis, I have loved him always. As a little girl, he was my hero. Did he not once save my worthless life? But it was he, Travis (I have never told you), who cast me off. He would not give his | proud name to such as me!” “Would he not, my darling? That is false! Milton Lennox never wrote the note that villain handed you. He loves you, Avice, as few women are loved by men. Tell me, may I send him to you?” Avice made no answer as Travis silently left the room; but down her cheeks tears coursed like rain, and, as she wept, the weight, which all this heart, was lifted, and she seemed to see the bow of promise shining through her tears. A step crossed the room. Still she sobbed on. ‘Some one stood beside her; some one whose quick, hard breathing she could plainly hear; some one whose arms stole about her; some one whose voice whispered one word only into her ear. But at, the sound her pulses leaped to life; youth and hope and happiness returned, as, with one glad, impulsive cry, sne nes- tled against Milton Lennox’s strong and faithful heart. ““My own—my very own!” he whis- pered. “My own little Avice! Look up! Let me be sure that it is no dream.” And the sweet, flower face uplifted itself in answer, while great tears trembled on the long lashes as dew- drops in the sunlight. | everyone.” “You will be my wife at once, Av- ice?’ he questioned. “I must have you to guard forever, dear. Then we will go home together.” “God knows I do not begrudge them their happiness,” said Travis, a few days later, as he stood disconsolately in Florence St. John’s morning room, “but it makes my own life so much more barren in contrast. I cannot bear it, Florence,sit is killing me. In another month Avice will be Milton’s wife. Then I shall go forth into the world a wanderer. Oh, my love, my love! will you let me go forth alone?” A dry sob rose in the girl’s throat. The temptation came over her with maddening force. She was but hu- man—but' a woman—and she loved this man with all the strength of her nature, and only an empty form of words was the yawning gulf between them. One moment the delirious bliss of the might-have-been swayed her, as the whirlwind sways the slender sap- ling in its force, and then it passed and left her, tempest-torn it is true, but with her resolve unshaken. Her pure womanhood had conquered. “My prayers, my love, go with you, Travis,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “My love that will never change, my prayers that will find for- getfulness. I may die in the struggle, Travis—the struggle that rends my soul from my body—but I shall die at my post.” “And I—I cannot die!” he answered. “I live, I breathe; I even drink, and sleep and eat! This wretched body obeys its cravings as though my soul were not writhing in torture. Flor- ence, if you loved me you could not reason thus calmly, thus coldly; you | could not bid me leave you—could uot condemn me to my hopeless life!” If she loved him! The girl’s heart thrilled at the cruel doubt, but her womanhood held firm. It was the | anchor which held fast the poor little tessing bark upon this wide sea of trouble which had engulfed it. Then, crossing the room, she Jaid her hand upon his shoulder—‘Travis, do not take from me the one last drop of comfort in my cup,” she pleaded. “Leave me your belief in me. I shail be so lonely without you, my love. Tell me you will never doubt again.” For answer he clasped her to his heart, and held her there as though he could not let her go. (To Be Continued.) IT WAS AS ORDERED. Tme Man Who Was Not Looking for Medical Advice. Among the senators in Paris is a certain doctor who has a private dis- pensary. His dignity does not pre- vent him from taking care of the needy sick, and his consulting rooms remain open as usual. A few days ago two persons entered, one of whom complained of pains in the chest. “Undress,” said the medical senator, and a few minutes later* he was busy examining the heart and lungs of his visitor. Wanting to save time, he caiied to the other man who was waiting: “You had better undress in the meantime.” The man began to say something, but the senator cut him short. “Never mind, just do as I tell you and I will be with you immediately.” When the doctor finished the exam- ination of the first patient he turned to the other, who had complied with his orders— “Is it your lungs, too?” inquired the senator. “No, sir, I just came to see if you could help me to a government clerk. ship.” The doctor-politician’s answer is not recorded.—Casell’s Journal. No Insinuation Meant. The gray-haired stranger bent over the desk. “Are you the society editor?’ questioned. “T am.” “Are you the person who wrote up the account of the Munn reception?” “Yes, anything wrong with it?” “That's what I want to find out. Look here. You notice that in speak- ing of my daughter you use this para- graph: “She swept about the room with an inherited grace that caught Now, what was your pur- pose in writing that?” » “Why, it struck me as a first-class chance for a neat compliment to her esteemed parents; that’s all.” “Sure you didn’t mean to insinuate that her father laid the foundation of his fortune by selling brooms?” “Certainly not.” “Because I did, you know.” “I didn’t know it.” “Then that’s all right. Good day.’ he Circumstantial Evidence. The editions with the result of the great Perth walk had been sold out, and the boys were calculating their takings. “Hullo!” said Jimmy, in alarm, “I’m ’a’penny short!” “Well what’s the use of ’arnin ’on it?” » growled Dick, as he calmly cracked a nut. “You don’t think I took it, dc you?” “No, I don’t say you ’ave,” said Jimmy, slowly; “I don’t say yeu ’ave. But there it is. I’m ’a’penny short, and you’re a-eating nuts, yer know!”—Scottish American. 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