Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 10, 1903, Page 2

H ‘eheek; with its great purple-blue eyes, | A aaretias and et, short, proud, smiling, scarlet lips. Ten- = Curs x . o Carrington : By K. TEMPLE MOORE. She’ stood in the radiant sunshine and watched him go out of sight. The starry eyes shone through a mist of tears, but the bright lips were smiling. Fainter and fainter grew the steady tramp of feet, the hoarse roll of drums, the throbbing of the music. Fainter and fainter grew a girl's brave heart. The last gleam of scar- let in the distance vanished. The last note faded on the air. Ah, could her lover but have known the dark leaf Fate was even then if she pleases. I inclose you a check prepare her suitably for her depart- ure. My property is large. It com- prises the house and estates in Sur- rey; shares in various London com- panies, besides a fair showing to my account at the Bank of England. These will I bequeathe to your daugh- ter if she, on acquaintance,prove un- like her father.” “I won’t read any more!” Laurie cried, indignantly, flinging down the letter, her eyes purple-black with ex- citement, her cheeks like scarlet pop- | oot; and in it I saw, passing quickly for two hundred pounds, with which to | from the shadow to the light, a white, shapeless, crawling figure. — “For a moment I was stunned—sim- ply stunned. Then I called aloud to my friend. No answer. I sprang up and ran across the dividing threshold where last I had seen that strange vis- itor of mine disappear. My friend was in bed and—asleep. The next morning the doctors tame. He was quite out of danger, they said. So, after seeing a suitable nurse in- stalled, I departed on my pleasure trip. “That evening, as I stepped off the A Close Call. First Tramp—Wot are yer so happy about? Second Tramp—I caled at a wid- der’s house fer something to eat and Be He eK MH MKT KHER ER RK ER GH turning in the happy life of the girl jpies. “I won't! It's shameful— train at Desere, a gendarme laid his | the woman ‘most killed’ me with a he left behind him! he shameful! How dare he?’ hand upon my shoulder. I resented | club. CHAPTER |. | Fourth! ' But your furlough fs not half he ics we “My darling,” her father sald, de-|the outrage. 1, under arrest, I? “Don’t see nothin’ in that ter smile expired.” if CHAPTER II. preciatingly, and laid one wasted hand “We shall see!’ my captor mut- | over.” The Girl He Left Behind Him. “Is it not?” with a bitter laugh. “You Are the Child of a Convict.” on her head—“my darling, this is only | tered. “I wos jus’ thinkin’ wot an escape “Oh, my Nora Creina, My gentle. ful N Beauty lies in many But love in thine, oh, sang Laurie Lisle. She came running lightly down the shallow stairs, through the wide hall, out into the glorious summer morning. Such a morning—blue, clear, brilliant! Overhead yellowest, most dazzling sun- shine; underfoot mossiest, greenest turf. And all around fiowers—pink and white, and crimson and damask, lifting their flaunting heads to gaily nod the sun “Good-morrow.” Flickering through the hawthorn branches, down by the gate, gleamed a spot of color. For just beyond the hawthorn some one was standing, and watching, and waiting—had been standing, and watching, and waiting for an hour or more. ‘He had come to know the old house by heart—every inch of it; and it was well worth studying in its quaint pic- turesqueness. It was long and low } and rambling; it had diamond-latticed | and lozenge-latticed windows; it had queer-peaked gables. It was covered from cellar to roof with ivy—darkest, yes, Nora Creina!” “What do you mean?” she cried, sharply, a dim premonition of danger chilling the symmer air around her. “What do you mean?” “Only that I got my walking papers last night—only that I am ordered to India with my regiment—only—” with a sudden burst of wrath, “that I am the most miserable wretch on God’s earth to-day!” Through every nerve of his listener thrilled a vibrant, overwhelming shock of pain. Every trace of color faded from her face; it grew ungirlishly white and rigid in the hot sunshine. “II do not think I quite under- stand,” she said, slowly, like one in doubt. “Will you tell me again?” “I am going away!” helplessly. “I am going away from Cragton; I am going away from the cottage; I’—de- sparingly—I am going away from you!” A bit of gold lace on his coat caught a stray sunbeam'and blazed bravely against the scarlet. “You are going away!” she echoed, blankly, that treacherous color stjll truant from her cheek. Then, with a great effort, she recoy- ered herself, and held out a little, shaking hand. “IT am very sorry,” with a wan smile; Looking down, she saw the flowers, plucked so blithely but an hour ago, lying bruised and trampled at her feet. Were they an omen of her old life, shattered forever? A strong chill passed through her, making her shudder sharply. She turned and went slowly up be- tween the giant hollyhocks, a rounded, graceful, girlish figure. She passed through the short, wide hall and into the breakfast room—a small, cosy, unpretentious apartment, flooded with mellow sunshine. There was a great bunch of verbenas and scarlet geraniums on the little table; a pretty glow of color above the snowy cloth. In a low, cushioned chair by the open, green-bowered window, a gentle- man was leaning—a gentleman indis- putably. He wore a dark dressing zown cord- ed with crimson silk. A bright smok- ing fez rested jauntily on his fair, loose hair. But his face—you looked twice at that. It was so handsome, so white, so haggard. The blue, brilliant eyes were large and hollow. The well-cut girl cried, piteously. -what knowledge?” a preface. Sooner or later the knowl- edge would come from you from lips as cruel as the heart which here speaks—sooner or later, the blow would fall. Better now, while I am here to soothe the pain, and tell you the truth. Goon; you must read a few lines more. They will suffice.” “I don’t know what you mean,” the “What blow— “Read,” he murmured, with weary brevity. , Again and for the last time she took the hateful letter in her fingers. “I am anxious to learn,” she read on, the cold disgust in ber voice mak- ing it sound strange and ungentle— “I am anxious to learn the result of your ‘training; to see with my own eyes how far association with a felon, a convict, has colored and tainted the soul of his child!” Now she could not have held the letter a moment longer if she would. It slipped from her nerveless hand and fell upon the carpet; and for a little while there was silence—tense, breathless, fearful silence. The sunshine streamed in through the simple muslin curtains, cheery and kindly as the smile of a friend. It fell upon the carefully arranged “He searched my trunk. The first thing which met his eye was a neck- cloth—a large, rich neckcloth, embroi- dered with my initials, which I had one day, when he admired it, given to my friend. It was swollen and heavy with glittering florins—several thou- sand, it seemed to me. “Well!” impatiently, “why prolong this wretched tale? I went back to Paris; I was accused of embezzle- ment; I was tried, I was sentenced. My friend had disappeared. “Three years I spent in the galleys —three years! I was young when I went in, but I came out an old man. Oh, the galling chains! the repellant work! the loathsome associations! “Three years! Oh, my God!” he cried, and bowed his head upon his trembling hand, “such years!” “Papa, papa!” The agonized ery recalled him to himself. He lifted his eyes and looked at his daughter. She was awfully, ghastly white, and trembling in every limb. He was not less pale, but his eyes— those blue, dauntless eyes—were glit- tering like coals of fire. “Now, my darling,” he said, in a strange, loud voice—“now you under- stand! You are the daughter of a felon—a criminal, a convict—a—” I had. She might a-took a fancy to me and married me.”—New York Weekly. . Disgraced. First New Yorker—‘“What has be- come of Delancy? I haven’t seen him for an age.” Second New Yorker—“O, he was run over by a street car in Philadel- phia.” First New Yorker—“What a dis- grace!”—Smart Set. Not With Him. Charlie—I knew a girl once what nearly died from eating too much ice glossiest, richest ivy—and would | we have had such pleasant times. Bon igs held a pheplish unas table, with its snowy linen, its pretty His head eran: doubtless have made an exquisite mor- | voyage!” s white and gold china, its bunch of is head swayed and fell heavily @ ae ! | He thrust open the gate and stood He looked up as the door opened scarlet geraniums; it fell upon the | back against the purple cushions of Jane (cuttingly)—How did you hap- Sel on canvas. But the gentleman | down by the hedge of hawthorn was | not an artist, not a poet, not a lover of romantic decay. Instead he was an ex- ceedingly handsome, exceedingly hot- headed, exceedingly miserable young man. | Just now he started with a look of | sudden animation, and abandoned his lounging posture, as Laurie’s white figure flashed out into the sunshine. Half-way down the path she paused | to pluck a great cluster of crimson roses; then she came slowly on. Her head wa sa little bent, as she thrust the flowers in her bosom and belt. She was still singing light-heartedly, as \ any thrush in the elm tree: before her. He caught the hand ex- tended in his own fierce grasp. His eyes—thcse black, lustrous eyes in- herited from his Italian mother—were lurid and passionate as he bent above her. “Don’t!” hotly. We must not part like strangers! Give me a promise— give me a memory to keep me strong till we meet again, Laurie—Laurie— Laurie! I love you—I love you!” Into the pale, drooping face flashed a glow, and a color and a light; into the compressed lips a sudden scarlet tremulousness. “Laurie!” he pleaded—“Laurie!” Slowly the bright head was uplfted till her glance mct his. And then he knew his fate, knew it with a fierce, and his daughter came into the room. There was quite a package of letters in his lap. One letter he held in his thin fingers. “Did you sleep well, papa? Are you better this morning? What—what is 1t2"" She had crossed the room to his side and was bending down for her usual kiss, when she noticed the strange look in his face. A queer, exultant, burning look, that spoke of inward fire. “The mail? I did not think it had come yet,” lightly taking the out- stretched letter and beginning to read. “It is from him, papa, papa!” “Aye, from him!” with rapid, con- ly, excited face with eyes full great trouble and a great truth. man’s thin, quivering face—upon the girl's white cheeks and trembling lips and dark, dilated eyes. “Papa!” she panted, and her voice was a whisper—a hoarse, straining whisper—“what is it? mean? convict? What does he Who is a felon? Who is a Who—” Her quick breathing choked her. Her father looked down on the love- of a “I, he answered her, “your father!” “You?” She had sprung to her feet, had fallen back a’ step, and was gazing at him with a face of helpless, white dismay. For just one moment she stood so— his chair. The girl sprang to her feet with a ery—a wild. thrilling, heart-broken cry of desperate despair. “Oh, my God! is he—fs he dead?” (To Be Continued.) Economic. Old Uncle Ben wanted to have his portrait painted, but e did not care ta pay very much for it. . “Surely that is a very large sum,” he said, when the artst named the price. The artist protested und assured him that, as portraits went, that was very little to ask. Uncle Ben hesitated. “Well,” he said at length, “how much will it be pen to hear about it? Fireworks. “There is going to be a fireworks display at one of the near-by summer resorts,” said the host. “My dear sir,” answered the visitor from Kentucky, “I get enough of poli- tics when I am at home. I don’t want to see or hear anything that re- minds me of an election.” Another Sherlock Holmes. . “Have you any evidence against the prisoner?” “None,” answered the detective. “Then why did you arrest kim?” “It's a great idea of my own. When the real criminal sees an innocent ee Beh Sint ceelnal exultant throbbing of his heart. vineing energy. “It has come at last, | 1, ionger. | Then she had flung ber | if I furnish the paint?”—Lippincott’s. | man in trouble, maybe he'll come for- ] Beauty lie: For flushing the soft cheeks, touch- | @fter so many years. arms round his neck and was raining The Shining Mark. ward and confess.” The song broke off with a sweet, startled laugh, as she caught sight of figure before her. . Her half-fastened flowers fell unheeded at her feet. The ing the lovely lips, kindling the lumin- ous eyes, was “the light that never lay on land or sea.” He put one strong arm around her She slipped down beside him on the crimson carpet, a little, breathless heap of snowy muslin and burnished hair. “What—what fond, remorseful kisses on brow and cheek “No, no, no!” *in quick, sharp denial. was I thinking of? When Aunt Kezia came with the clothes from the wash she brought the néws of the sudden death of a prom- inent young man well liked in the Unfortunate. Moneybags—How did your banquet go off, Banklurk? “ “Pa. ” young fellow towering above her, eagef | and’ drew her to him in swiftg word- Eanes she echoed . blankly. Pa: What—what was I afraid of? I—I | community. Banklurk—Not as well as it might. and handsome, and __ splendidly | tess ecstasy. He bent and laid his pray aes ps don't understand, at all! But it is all “It seems a very sad thing,” said | you know. The toastmaster called on strengthful, did not notice them either, | first kiss on her lips—love’s sacred She plead Pap cite es paler right, my dear—my dear—of course— | my mother. “He gave promise of mak- | 2 gentleman who had lost an arm and 7 i : : sal. * | of course it is all—right!” ing his mark in the world. He h s a He was looking down on the face be- | sea fhe‘read 4 aloud. slowly, word by course right aueestnine iene te Nitra a leg to answer to the toast “Our fore him. And what a witching win- some face it was! Delicately chiscied as though cut from a cameo, with a faint, soft rose-bloom tinging either shining, with its 'drils of bronze-gold hair clustered ound the broad, white brow; the rest was brushed away and hung in bur- mished braids below her slim, girl's waist. “Ah, my Nora Creina, dear!” Clive Carrington echoed softly, a queer, warm look in his dark eyes—a queer, She glanced up at him, her exquis- ite, childish face hot with blushes. “Clive,” she whispered, “am I too lightly won? I fear so; but,” simply, “I love you.” And then there flashed to her mind the memory of those tender, womanly words said long ago in old Verona. She laughed and quoted them, softly: “But trust me, gentlemen. I'll preve *~ra than those that have more cunning to be strange.’” But suddenty she started and stood trembling from head to feet. “Hark!” mere word, her color coming and going, her great eyes shining. Bending a little forward, his hands clutching the elbows of his chair, his whole face eager and triumphant, her father listened. “Laurence Lisle,” curtly and with- out other preface, began the letter, “eighteen years ago you did me a bit- ter wrong—you stole my daughter. You induced a confiding girl to leave | her home—a home of ease and luxury —to live with you a life of-misery and | Privation. Truly an honorable way of proving your boasted love! i And the panting voice broke down in fierce, hysterical sobs. “Don't!” Laurence Lisle said, gen- tly. and he drew her to his side and smoothed back the shining hair as tenderly as her mother might done—“Don't! listen to me, my pet!” have Listen to me, Laurie— The hoarse sobs ceased. She put two soft arms about his neck, and hid her wei face upon his breast as she knelt beside him. “It is a long story, little one. I will make it brief: “When IT was quite a young fellow— ist passed twenty-five—I occupied a out the accumulated brine. youth and bright prospects, and pa- rents who idolized him.” “Yes,” assented Aunt Kezia, with a dismal shake of the head, “hit do seem mighty strange that them yon analyze the most is usually taken fust.”—Lip. pincott’s. Potpourri “Rose Jar.” Gather the petals day by day, put into a jar and sprinkle with fine, dry salt. When you have enough for your purpose, turn into a colandar and press Spread upen dishes and toss with your hands Absent Members.”—The New Yorker. Thoughtful George. “George, dear,” asked the fair fe- male in the hammock scene, “was you ever in love before?” “Sure,” answered the masculine por- tion of the sketch. “You don’t think for a minute that Vd practice on a nice little girl like you. I hope.” A Difference im Necks. He smiled strangely at the sound of the half-terrified, gasping word. For down the distant road there came the tramp of marching feet, the sound of fife and drum. Is there anything more humorously pathetic, I wonder, than the change of a regiment in an English garrison town? The detachment of happy small boys who escort it, the many dis- consolate maidens who follow it ,till it steams out of the station, learning too late that a soldier like a sailor has “a love in every port”—are all worthy of curious, if half-cynical, regard. “Let that pass. On the bed she had made she lay. If the thorns pierced her, it was she who had chosen them. I have only lately heard she is dead, I never glossed over an unpleasant truth in my most gracious days; I wont’ do it now. I have heard also that you are dying. So am I. “To proceed: My child left a child. In defiance to me, I presume, she gave her your name—Laurence Lislé. Ah, she was my daughter, every inch of her—proud and obstinate as Lucifer— was “Margaret! Well, after she sect | off on her down-hill journey with her moved tone in his strong voice. “My gentle, bashful Nora Creina!” “ She heard the faint emphasis on the pronoun, and the rose in her cheek deepened to a rich carnation. She lifted her head quickly, with an air that was in reality a gesture of self- defiance. J “Well, where did you spring from-” fm gay questioning. “Do your friends traduce you? Capt. Hanley told me you never rose before eight, and here you are, more than a mile from the barracks, and it is not yet seven.” And even as she spoke, she realized to loosen the petals and prevent mass- ing. Put into a large bow! and season with this mixture: Powders—Violet, one-half ounce; or- ris root, one ounce; rose, one-half ounce; heliotrope, one-half ounce. Spices—Mace, one-half teaspoonful; cinnamon, one-fourth teaspoonful, and cloves, one-fourth teaspoonful. Essential Oils—Rose, two drops; chiris, five drops; melissne, ten drops; eucalyptus, ten drops; bergamot, five drops; alcohol, one dram. | This for half a peck of fresh rose | leaves. They shrink at least one-half | responsible position in a large whole- sale Parisian house. I enjoyed the | fullest confidence of the firm. As far as honest endeavor in their interests was concerned, | deserved it. “At the time of which I speak my health was becoming impaired by overwork and my employers offered me a brief holiday. To show my grat- itude and leave things in order, I ex- erted myself more than ever the week preceding my expected departure—so much so, in fact, that on Tuesday—I was to leave on Wednesday—I grew quite dizzy and reeled trom my desk. how well he looked, standing erect and Tramp, tramp, tramp, came the scamp of a lover, I married again—a ne Hors ‘ ieee Cay entaia a ; | cca bareheaded in the pure gold: of the |sound of many feet. And tramp, | widow with a grown-up son. A seule eon high let pitheaed Peas, at ier a i Be isto say early sunshine. He gave one the idea | tramp! went the pulse of many a “Think of il! She is dead. He is Ogee t TF eig! ‘isa caer 2 ial dar pear sisenadee of such muscular power, such royal | heart. prowling round like a vulture, waiting | 22¢ really mal Sse! of trouble getting collars high enough. confidant of in Paris, came to my aid. “*You are ill," he whispered. ‘Go home and tet me finish your work.’ “You are not going now?” Laurie Lisle cried in sudden fear—‘not now?” Parrot—That’s strange. Why don’t you patronize my haberdasher; he al- strength. But his comrades knew that in the for my money. He can hardly wait till T am cold. He is a greater scoun- A fauestion, “There is something I can’t under- “grieved embarrassment. gmessroom the most rollicking spirits, the most ringing laughter, were those of Clive Carrington. And his enemies felt, in hour of dan- ger or at knowledge of dishonor, there was no man in the regiment su terror- {nspiring, so wrathful, so unerringly swiA to dare-and do. But just now that face, which could break to boyish smiles or kindle to honest rage, was as gentle a sa wom- an’s. It was very tender and reverent. It was also strangely troubled and per- plexed. High in the branches of a tree above him a bird was chattering Its matins. Something in the pleasant, girlish voice had struck bim with an edd sense of pain. How blithe it was! And then he told himself, in swift reproach, that she did not know—she did not know! When she did, would she care? He answered her never a word. His grave, poetic face was full of “Miss Laurie!” He was still standing restlessly by the gate and was twirling his stiff mil- {tary cap round and round in his white, shapely fingers. “Mr. Carrington!” “The regiment leaves to-day.” “So I have heard” “So you have heard?” Already the regiment had come in sight, a brilliant, scarlet phalanx, with brass buttons glistening, colors flying, bayonets bristling. He took the love- ly troubled face in bis hands and kiss- ed it. “It must. But I will come back to you. Oh, be true to me, my darling— my darling! The knowledge of your love has softened the pain of depart- ure, It will help me, it will aid me, till we meet again. For meet again we will, as surely as there is a God above us! Good-bye—oh, my love, my dearest—good-bye!” He caught her in his strong, eager arms. He kissed the sweet, tremulous lips over and over. Ks “My love!” he whispered, “my wife, my darling!” Nearer and nearer down the smooth, hard road came the crash of the mu- sic. “Hark!” she breathed softly. “Hear what they are playing.” Closer it sounded, and more tri- umphant. The regiment was passing. Every hand was lifted in a mechanical salute to their officer as they marched by. One man, leading a great, black horse, paused beside the gate. A moment more, and Clive Carring- ton was riding rapidly away to the braying music of “The Girl I Left Be- _ She nodded, looking up at him with iting lips and sofity brilhant eyes. ores. How we shall miss the old DEFECTIVE PAGE hind Me.” He lifted his cap reverent- ly. “God bless her!” he murmured, with Re ee) drel than you were! He shall not reign iv the old home. He shall not— Bah, here’s the case in a nutshellt I have still some family pride left, though, God knows, Margaret did her best to humble it when she married you. Leave my fortune to utter strangers I will not! This reduces the case to a simple matter of two evils. I choose the lesser. I am go- ing to make your daughter my heir- ess, because I hate my stepson—my heir presumptive—not becanse I love her. But this, mark you, conditionally. I write from America—from Colorado —whither I have come for my health. Much as I long to die in the old home, I dare not again encounter an ocean voyage. They may take me back later. Then I shall feel no qualms.” “How horrible. Such grim, ghastly humor!” Even as she spoke, she caught sight of her father’s face. She drew her breath, gaspingly, so drawn it was, so white, with such feverish eyes. “Papa!” “Go on, dear,” in gentle impatience. Don’t mind me—go on!” Reluctantly her eyes dropped to the written page before her. “This, then, is my stipulation: Your daughter must come to me. One of my vessels will leave Livefpool in out the pay-roll. bills and workingmen’s lists. this box are several thousand francs for payment.” seen you do it scores of times. me make out the pay roll—there is no one here to be the wiser but our two selves—and you go home and have a good rest, or you will have no strength to undertake your journey to-morrow.” beard bim coming which communicated with mine. him in on a shutter. street he bad fallen and fractured a leg. spite his entreaties that | go to bed. about a month from the time you re- ceive this. She must come on that. It is a sailing vessel—what of it? She can bring a chaperone—half a dozen’ “*You cannot,’ I said. ‘I must make Here are the freight And in ‘T've Let “‘Let me do it!’ he pleaded. A few hours later I into his room, “I yielded. “ Well?’ I called ont inquiringly. . “He muttered a few confident, affirm ative words. he opened the door of my room and thrust in his head: It was quite dark when “‘T am going to the Comedie Fran- caise. Good night!’ “Half an hour later they- brought In crossing a I sat up with him all night, de- became “Toward morning he so fretful and feverish in his irritable petulance that to gratify him I went and lay down in my own apartment. I was falling into a light doze when the sound of a sharply drawn breath roused me to consciousness. “I sat erect. My room was in dark- ness; but from the adjoining chamber a subdued light stole through the open stand,” said the thoughtful * young scholar in Sunday school. “What is that, Robbie?” asked the | teacher, adjusting her spectacles. “Why everybody seems to commend George Washington for his conduct when he got mixed up with that fruit tree, and they condemn Adam for bis fruit tree experience. Didn’t Adam own up that be done it?”—Yonkers Statesman. For the Family Furs. When for the first time small Kath- erine witnessed a hailstorm, she was very much surprised. Almost without warning small white globules fell pelt- ing down out of the sky. Astonished Katherine, who was out of doors, lost no time in getting under cover. “Oh, mamma!” she exclaimed, rush- ing into the house, “come quick! It’s raining mothballs!”—Lippincott’s. Somewhat Penurious. A Slaterville miser starved his wife to death and died himself from walk- ing sixteen miles without proper nour- ishment to deposit $25. in an Ithaca savings bank. He left several thousand dollars and the record of being the meanest man in Central New York. When his wife was sick and the doctor ordered a mustard plaster, he would not buy more than a cent’s worth of mustard.—Syracuse Herald, Ways suits me? tn Pleasant Fields. “Yes,” mused the person who lets out an occasional audible thought, “he certainly makes hay while the sun shinés.” “What haymaker do you refer to?” asked his friend, who was afflicted with the rubber habit. “Why, the man who marries a grass widow,” replied he of the clamorous thoughts. Asked and Answered. “Look here,” said the bartender in a-wet goods emporium to a liberal patron of the lunch department, “what do you want for a nickel, anyway—the earth?” “Not guilty,” replied the hungry party; “it’s two-thirds water.” Declined with Thanks. Oldbeau—Miss Buddington—er— Claga, from our first meeting I have loved you. May I hope that you will some day return my love? Miss Buddington—Certainly, Mr, Oldbeau. AsI haven't any earthly use for it, I’) return it at once. < Backward. “I understand your husband is of a * retiring disposition.” ~“Ye-es, but usually not before 3a, m.”—Houston Chronicle,