Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, December 5, 1903, Page 6

» fierce explosion of her meager stock of ie oe = x = By K. TEMP. Curse « Carrington ? and its clear, warm flush fell full on | her face as she stood there. LE MOORE. CHAPTER XVII. (Continued.) Such a proud, grand face, for all its boyish brightness! A face full of rec- titude and honor, of firm, though gen- tle, resolve. A face with a well-cut mouth, mirthful and sweet as a wom- an‘s, wit ha pair of big, black, daunt- less eyes, flashing and spirited. For a long time she looked at it in sitence—looked at it as women look at that which is dearest to them in, life—with a reverence rife with pas- sion, and a calm, rigid and enforced. “There!” She turned suddenly away as she spoke, with a gesture that might al- most be called a wrench, so different was it from her usual stately move- ments. She began walking rapidly up and down the room. “What news will he bring me? ‘There! I am quite strong now—quite! What is that cynical thought which has been intruding itself of late?—that we are all fools, we women! Well, we can keep our own secrets—thank God for that!” Once she paused, and thrusting her hand in her bosom drew forth a gleam- ing object—a heavy, antéque locket of dull gold. It was a gift that Clive had brought to his mother on the evening of his | last home coming. Cynthia had found | it the morning after his departure— found it on the floor of the library, where it had been flung the previous | evening in bitter anger. She opened it now and held it in the full, soft candle light. She bent a lit- tle forward, and leaning her elbow on the table, her head on her hand, looked long and earnestly at the face it con- tained. An older, stronger, graver face than that which hung on the wall. A sweep- ing mustache shaded, but did not hide, | the fine lips. The clearly-defined feat- ures were decidedly handsome, the dark, eager eyes hawk-like and spir- fited. What was that—a tear? Miss Lennox started as that burning @rop feil upon her hand—started as though it had stung her. She clasped the locket hurriedly, and thrusting it in her bosom, recom- menced her restless walk. Hark! The great iron knocker was Sounding a summons on the hal! door. | A moment more, and she could hear | Mr. Bowers’ smooth ‘ones in the corri- dor beyond. “Present my compliments to Lady | Carrington, and inform her of my ar- rivai. What! Miss Lennox desires to gee me? The last room? Very well!” Cynthia was standing by the center table when he entered—an erect, ex- | pectant, quict figure. She looked un- commonly tall as she stood just now, clad in a high-thrgated, long-waisted gown of a peculiar, soft, rich violet. which fell to the floor in flowing and unbroken lines. “Good evening, Miss f.ernvox!” said ; the man of law, deferentia!ly, though his smile had lost much of its former unruffied serenity. “An «npleasant evening, {s it not? Our charming | weather could not lasi—a very un- pleasant evening!” The girl made a faint, impatient mo- tion with her hand. “That will do. Do not think me dis- | courteous, but we cannot discuss the weather now. Please sbut the door.” And when he had done so she whee!- ed suddenly round and faced him, in strong but restrained excitement “Now!” she cried-—“quick—tel! me! You have heard—you have news! 1 read it in your face. Where is he?— how is he? Quick!” The words, the tone, the manner of feverish eagerness, were so wholly foreign to calm, huughty Cynthia Len- nox that the person she addressed re- garded her a second in amazement. “Well?” she prompted He lifted his head with an air of sud- den, dogged resolution, and iooked her full in the face. And this time he did not try to smile. ° ‘Well, | suppose it is no use trying to break things to you,” he said, slow~| but ly. You are right—I have news! What | fs more—I have bad news!” He paused @ moment. “Go on!” He glanced up at her half-timidly. That lofty, imperial presence seemed | te] her. to dwarf the little lawyer mentally as well as physically. “for weeks I worked conscientiously and incessantly, and absolutely with- out success. I could discover no clue, no trace, no guide to Sir Clive Carring- ton’s whereabouts. I had decided to come down and tell you I must throw up the case, when, providentially and without any effort whatsoever on my part, that which | had been striving to elucidate was all at once made clear to me.” “Oh, stop!” Cynthia cried, with a patience. “You are not telling me anything. How is he?—wkere is he? I want facts—something tangible. ‘Words, words, words!’” Little she guessed the worst! He would tell her geutly, he would | ous shipping offices. } sh a very wealthy client of mine, Cuth- “pert Bracken by name—called at my office a few days ago, and in the course of conversation he alluded to his late and most marvelous escape from ship- wreck. Having leisure, I asked him to describe the scenes to me minutely. He did so. “‘How many perished on the burn- ing vessel?’ I asked. “‘T cannot be positive,’ he replied, ‘but at all events there were two per- sons. There may have possibly been more, but these I can remember dis- tinctly. They only rushed on deck as our boat—the last boat—was pulling off quite too late for us to render them any aid. One was my stepfather’s grandchild, Laurence Lisle!” “Laurence Lisle!” Miss Lennox had staggered back, with a hoarse catching of her breath. Laurence Lisle! Was not that the name of the girl whom Lady Carring- ton had mentioned as—Ah, what was coming? She was afraid—afraid to think. She stretched out her hand for him to proceed, with a wordless, imploring gesture. “Her companion Mr. Bracken did not know, beyond the fact that she ad- dressed him as—Clive.” “Clive!” Was it a word or a sob? “Yes,” he went on rapidly, “and foliowing the clue presented by the word, I, the following day, searched and examined the records at the vari- At one i came across the name of a sailor engaged to work his way across on board the Dolphin. The name was signed ‘Clive Stuart’—a family name of the Carring- tons, you will remember—Stuart.” But Cynthia Lennox did not hear a syllable. She was standing before the picture which hung above the mantle, her brown, blazing eyes literally de- youring it. Her face was white as ashes her hands were twisting and wrenching each other in cruel anguish. “So! He married her and they sailed away together!” she whispered to herself. “Ah, how I envy her—how I envy her!”: “Rark!” Again the knocker, wielded by no gentle hand, sent its brisk summons echoing through the house. The new heir! She dug ber nails into her soft palms to keep her from erying out in her wful pain. Go!” she said, huskily, and toward the door. Mr. Bowers bowed and went out in silence. She walked after him and turned the key in the Jock. Then she came slowly back across the room, and leaning both arms on the mantel’s broad slab, looked up till her eyes rest- ed on the smiling, boyish face above her. She was shaking violently from head to feet, as though chilled to the heart with bitter cold. “How I envy her!” she said, in a ft, panting whisper—“how I envy her!” nodded CHAPTER XVill. “Past All, Save Peace.” The dressing bell rang, and still that closed door at the end of the great corridor did not open. Throughout the vast old house the curtains were drawn in cosy and de- termined exclusion of the dreary night The fires were stirred to the lamps were without. ruddier radiance, burning clearly. The dinner bell was clanging out its summons, when Miss Lennox came into the hall, shutting and locking the door behind her. Her foot was on the first step of the stairs, when she felt a hand laid on ber arm, and turned to face Mr. Bow- ers. “Miss Lennox,” he said, in anxious perplexity, “what are we to do? Lady Carrington should know ofthis. It is right and necessary that she should be informed, and yet, how shall we tell her—who shall tell her? You,” in nervous insinuation, “are like her own daughter. Perhaps—you—” “Yes,’ ’in a low, rapid voice I will You need say no word to her—none. I will tell her—later.” She went swiftly up the wide stair- way, her purplish draperies crailing be- hind her. At the head of the Stairs she met the doctor on his way from the sick» chamber. He looked at ber keenly. “How is she, doctor?” | “Better to-night, 1am happy to say— much better! The fever. though very fierce, was brief. She will waken and be conscious about midnight; but she must not be allowed to talk, or be in any way subjected to excitement. But you,” with a penetrating look, “you are ill yourself, Miss Lennox. My dear young lady, you must be careful—ex- tremely careful!” One hand was resting on the carved balustrade, snow white against its pol- ished blackness. She tightened her prepare her, despite herself. ” He looked up, with a ceriain dignity of expression on his countenance. “Miss Lennox, you must let me tell you in my own way. The end will come rapidly enough. A gentleman— grasp with a slight nervous pressure as she spoke. “Oh, no! I am not ill, indeed—I am quite well.” Immediately above her a bronze Apollo reared aloft a globe of light, She did lo6k ill, indeed. All the ‘rich, exquisite color which lent her beauty of features its glowing South- ern loveliness, had quite vanished, leaving her pale with a pallor. “I will call again in the morning,” Dr. Adams said. “You had better re- tire early and take a good rest, Miss Lennox. I am afraid you young peo- ple exert yourselves too much in the pursuit ‘of pleasure. Too much fun is as injurious as too much work. Well, well, Blackeastle is very gay just now —very gay! I wish you good even- ing!” She bowed wearily as he went by her and then rousing herself with an apparent effort went on to her own room. Very gay! The house seemed like a yault—she could hardly breathe. Very gay—good heavens! She sent word down stairs that she had a bad headache and was unable to appear at dinner, but that she would come down to the drawing room later. A servant brought her up a dainty meal. She drank some strong tea fe- verishly, and sent the rest away un- tasted. In the intervals, when the door of the dining room below was left ajar, there floated up to her a cheerful, con- fused medley of sounds—the pleasant jingle of silver, the hum of conversa- tion, the popping of champagne corks and now and then a ripple of light laughter. She crouched in a low chair before the fire, and Icoked around and around her luxurious room with dazed, bewil- dered eyes, that saw nothing of its studied elegance. An apartment worthy of a princess of the blood royal, hers—all draped in ruby and gold and repeated indefinite- ly to the view by its mirrored walls. Hark! A rustle of silk, a louder mur- mur of languid voices—the ladies. were leaving the dining room. She arose suddenly across the room to a pier glass. lifted both hands and pushed and walked She the heavy hair off her temples as if its | weight oppressed her. She spoke to the reflection in the mirror in a whis- per, as she might have spoken to 2 stranger. “He is dead, Cynthia! That is the end! It is all over now—all over—and he is past ungentle reproach—past loss of birthright and loss of love—past all save peace!” She went to the wardrobe and se- lected a dress. Then she rang the bel! for her maid, and began her toilet with nervous fingers. And all the time she kept whispering to herself, in rapid, breathiess fashion: “] read of a woman once who drank a deadly poison—a poison which did not, however, produce fatal results for several hours after drinking it. She had taken it deliberately and wilfully, with a complete comprehension of its nature and effect. And when she had taken it she dressed and went to a ball and danced all night, and was the gay- est and most beautiful and most ad- mired lady there. And all the time the insidious poison was working in her veins. And toward morning, just when she was at the summit of her triumph—when her step was lightest and her laugh was sweetest, her cheek paled and her step faltered, and the blood at her heart turned to ice, and she grew stark and—Oh!” with a sud- iden sharp shudder, “am I like her? Yes, yes, I, too, shall go down and mingle with the rest, and laugh and talk, and all the time this awful poison will be seething in my soul.” Her maid came into the room, and with deft, familiar fingers, wove her hair into massive braids, and bound it in a blue-black coronet. But she cried out in horror as she saw the dress her mistress had chosen to wear. . “Ah, not that, mademoiselle—it is not mademoiselle’s color—not that!” Heedless of the girl’s dismay, Cyn- thia slipped it on and turned toward the door. It was a black gown of soft merino, fitting her superb figure as a glove should fit one’s hand. It was made with severe and most admirable sim- plicity and trailed behind on the rich carpet in extremely long and rich folds. The corsage, cut square and softened with masses of fine lace, showed the round and strongly modeled throat in exquisite relief. “Wear something else, mam’selle,” the maid cried, a piteous supplicant in the cause of artistic adornment—‘‘a few flowers, a jewel or so, to break the monotony—” Miss Lennox turned suddenly, and going to her jewel case took therefrom a set of flashing, brilliant rubies, which had been Clive’s gift to her the day she graduated, and which of late, in delicate consideration of my lady’s feelings, she had not worn Hastily she thrust the gleaming pendants in her ears, fastened the glowing gems about her throat, elasp- ed the heavy bracelets upon her arms. “That is perfect!” Elise cried, in an eestasy of admiration. And then Cyn- thia Lennox had swept out of her own apartments into the hall ana down the grand stairway. Something in the light, the glare, the brilliance, seemed to blind her for a moment as she came into the great drawing room—a sombre, magnificent, womanly figure. « Black was not her color, as Elise had said; but just now it seemed that no other coler became her half so well. Her eyes were sparkling and glittering as even they had never sparkled and glittered before. Into her cheeks had come their old, beautiful bloom—the coloring that Titian loved—brilliant, but delicate. There was something impressive about Miss. Lennox. The foaming cas- cade of elastic laughter sweet,’ fell with a softer and more subdued sound as she entered. And then they all broke out in a. trickling murmur of low-voleed condolence and well-bred commiseration. Standing in the center of the room, she saw, as through a mist, Lady Car- rington approaching her, a gentleman by her side. And then she became conscious of the words which the proud old voice was saying: “Cynthia, let me present you to my nephew, Cyril Carrington. Cyril, my ward and dear daughter, Cynthia Len- nox.” CHAPTER XIX. The New Heir. She bowed with grave courtesy, but did not offer him her hand. He was a very tall, largely built man of about twenty-nine, with features pronounced and regular. His once fair skin had been tanned to a rich bronze. His mouth was shadowed by a sweeping mustache and beard. His thick brown hair was cut close to his head. His eyes were cool, shrewd, calculating. They stoodafew minutes under the blaze of the chandalier, talking ani- matedly, and the others, watching them as they stood there, both so graceful, so finely proportioned, so proud of stature, turned to nod and smile significantly to each other. “Let me find you a seat, Miss Len- nox.” He drew a big crimson chair up against the soft background of a por- tiere, and made her sit down. He took his place on a low divan beside her, and began to talk as such men as Cyril Carrington do talk when their auditor is a beautiful woman, with a lavish flow of words, a smooth model- ing of sentences, an eager and slightly conscious deference of manner. Cynthia herself was a brilliant con- versationalist, and to-night, whatever strange spirit possessed the girl, she was at her best. She chatted on al- most feverishly in her rapid, easy, fas- cinating way, touching subjects famil- jar to them both with spur of elo- quence or the whip of satire. The vivid spot of color on either clear olive cheek deepened and burned. The intense brightness of her eyes in- creased with her speech. They looked at her in amazement. “How wonderfully well Miss Lennox lights up!” hazarded Freddie Lynn, in a ferment of feverish admiration. “Yes,” grudgingly assented Vera Cassard; “those large, brown-skinned women always do!” Miss Cassard, by the way, did not. “How lovely Cynthia does look!” Baby Earle whispered to her compan- ion, in a gush of hearty admiration. “And black is the last thing in the world to become most dark-haired peo- ple; but I believe she would look well in anything!” Oh, could they have but known the subtle poison which was fevering her veins, flushing her cheek, bringing that glittering sparkle to her eyes! The night wore on. Without, the rain still fell in torrents, the wind went by with a screech and a howl, the trees in the park lashed and rat- tled their leafless branches. Within was languor and warmth and comfort, the murmur of men’s deep voices, the soft rustle of feminine draperies, the sound of song and laugh- ter. Once Cynthia turned to her compan- ion with a sudden question: “Have you seen Lady Carrington pri- vately since your arrival?” He looked at her with suppressed sur- prise. “No, I have not.” “Then do not. Avoid an interview till to-morrow.” His surprise deepened, but he only bowed a grave assent. Some one came up to Cynthia with a request that she would sing. She had a powerful contralto voice and sang well, but she declined with a quick refusa) that was almost one of dismay. “Play us something, then, Miss Len- nox!” called out Will Warren, from his distant corner; “something brisk and brilliant in defiance to the rising storm without—a rattling galop, for instance.” P Something brisk and brilliant when her heart was throbbing to the dull measure of a funeral march! “No,’ ’she said, “you must pardon me. M?¥ head is still aching—slightly.” She rose with a sigh of relief as the nocturnal exodus began. “Will you come up to the smoking room for awhile before you turn in, Mr. Carrington?” asked Sir Jasper. “In a moment—yes,” he answered. He made his way to an adjoining room, where Cynthia Lennox was standing for the moment alone. She saw the large, somewhat heavy figure coming toward her, and felt a momen- tary sensation of surprise at the per- | plexed expression he wore. “Miss Lennox, I would like to ask you to answer me a question which has been disturbing me all the evening. If itis,asI fear, one of unwarrantable interference, I ask your forgiveness for the ignorance which prompied it.” She bowed slightly and smiled. “Tt is this. When I was being driven to-night up the avenue we passed a massive tower, which seemed, as well as I could discern through the rainy dusk, a part of Blackcastle. And just as we wheeled by I heard, apparently issuring from the building, such a strange laugh!” “You—you heard it, too?” She had fallen back a step and was staring at him with terrified eyes. “Yes; and I thought I would ask you—” “Don’t ask me!” she cried, in a low, passionate voice. “I don’t know! There is a story connected with tth place—a story which I have, all my life, considered a foolish superstition. All my life—tiii a short time ago. Then I heard that which you heard to- night!” He looked at her blankly. How sert- ously she was taking it! She had spoken in almost a whisper, but a whisper piteous aud broken. Her hands were nervously clasping and un- clasping each other as she stood be- fore him. “They say it is an omen—an omen ot evil to Blackcastle,” she went on, still in that hushed, pleading voice. “Ah, no greater evil can come to Blackcas- tle than that which has fallen—there, | system. there; what am I saying? Don’t ask me anything!” desperately. “I don't know!” She turned abruptly away from him and left the room, leaving her com- panion gazing after her with an expres- sion of bewildered discomfiture. “By Jove!” said Mr. Cyril Carring- ton, by way of confused and emphatic protest—“by Jove!” (To Be Continued.) WHEN BRAIN TRICKS HAND. An Instance of the Queer Things Peo- ple will do in Spite of Themselves. “There, I've made that same mis- take again. Queer, what tricks a fel- low’s brain will play him. I meant to direct a letter to a frien din New York who lives at No. 115 East 111th street, but what do you suppose I did?” And the tired man glanced at the ethcr, who was cutting the pages of a magazine. “You did just what I’ve often done— transposed the figures, I suppose. You directed it to’No. 111 East 115th street.” “I see you’ve been there.” “More times than I can count. It would take a fellow half of his time if he would stop to bother about his mistakes—” “He'd never carfy that message to Garcia, would he?” said the first speak- er, tossing the envelope in the waste basket. € “Garcia would fail to get that mes- sage, that’s all. Got it right this time?” “All right this time. No. 115 East 111th street. Look for yourself.” “Envelope is directed all right— sealed and stamped, too. Your friend will think you are trying to play an April fcol joke on him, though—” “Eh? What do you mean?” “Humph! I’ve made the same mis- take myself. There is nothing in this envelope, old man.” “What?” “Look in the waste basket.” “Well, I'll be hanged! I left the letter in the misdirected enyelope.”— DIRECTIONS NOT EXPLICIT- One Old Gentleman’s System for a Fight Would Not Apply. “Well, my boy,” said the old gontle- man, “I understand you've been fight- ing.” “TI was in something of a scrap,” re- plied the youth. “Well, I suppose"boys will fight, and there’s no use trying to stop it. You den’t look much the worse for it.” ‘Got off pretty light, sure,” said the boy. “Lick the other fellow?” “Well, hardly.” ‘ “Um, that’s bad. Did you follow your old father’s advice?” “Yes, sir.” “You struck the first blow?” “Yes, sir.” “And hit him hard?” “As hard as I could.” “Knocked him down?” “Knocked him flat.” “And that didn’t end the fight?” “Well, I shottd szy not.” The old gentleman looked puzzled. “That's funny,” he said. “I never knew it to fail when I was a boy.” “Maybe when you were a boy the other fellow didn’t fal! ou a brick pile and get up with a half brick in his hand and chase you a mile. That'll knock most any kind of a system sil- ly.”—Brocklyn Eagle. THE DRAMATIC MOTIVE. How the Plots of Plays are Figured Out. “How do you figure out the plots of your plays inquired the anxious novice. “Motive is the only key that openss! the portals of dramatic action,” said the popular dramatist. “And motive is best tested by the query, ‘Why?’ See how I have applied the principle in my latest work. Why are the chil- dren on the stage? Because the scene is a nursery. Why does the villain come to the nursery? Because he is pursuing the mother. Why is the mother in the nursery? Because she is attending the children.” “But why do you have a nursery on the stage at all?” queried the novice. “Why not something else?” “Because,” said the popular drama- | tist, proudly, “because I have a com- mission to write a play with a nurs- ery in it.”—New York Times. Bad for Bliffers. “How much credit do you give to Bliffer’s assertions?” “About as much as we would if he were running the massacre bureau in the Balkans.”-—Cleveland Plain Deal- er. Willie Sapphedd—No, I bwothers or sistahs. child of my pawents. Miss Oldestile—Dear me! And there are people who will persist in assert- ing that marriage isnt’ a failure--New York Times. have no Tm the only The Sincerity of Advice. Gabber—Are you going to house- keeping?” Benedict—(Answer passing car.) Gabber—That’s right; nothing like drowned by it. Haye your own— Benedict—I said I wasn’t. Gabber—Oh, well; that’s where you’re wise. You'll miss, etc.—Balti- more American. | Fearn fo Cumeer ms Becincss tn. the: Sold by al) prem Hall's Family Pi A Winner. “When you pucker your lips that way”, says the billiardist to his sweet- heart, “it is my cue for a kiss.” “Is it?” she smiles. “Well, I don’t care how many you take.” For she had not yet learned the ad- ditional interest that may be given the game by the establishment of a balk ,| line —Judge. A Rare Good Thing. “Am using ALLEN’S FOOT-EASE, and can truly say I would not have been without it so long, had ilmown the relief it would give my aching feet. I think it a rare good thing for anyone having sore or tired — Mrs. Matilda Holtwert, Providence. R. L”” Sold by all Druggists, 25c. Asi: to-day. A man never appreciates his insig- nificance until he attends his owm wedding. PUTNAM FADELESS DYES color more goods, brighter colors, with lesa work, than others. 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