Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, January 30, 1904, Page 6

—T xe ~~ © CHAPTER XXXV. A Btory of the Past. A queer picture, that, framed in by the vast, wide, pillared hall—Cynthia Lennox, a Juno warmed to life, tall, majestic, just now beseeching; Mr. 6tack, smail, composed, resolute; and, looking from one to the other, in in- creduious, dismayed bewilderment, the lovely, childish face of Laurie Lisie. “What docs he mean?” she ques- tioned, and lifted her innocent gaze to Cynthia. “He means—don't be frightened, @oar—that there has been some mis- understanding, and that for the pres- ent he must detain you. He thinks you may know—have kriown—some- thing about this—affair!” “Why, } never even heard of it. What could I know? This was tie very first | knew of it—this!” She turned ber head away and point- ed with one Jittle, ttembiing hand to the spot where a gieam of sunshine flashed weirdly. “In deference to Miss Lennox,” Mr. Gtack went on, in his smooth, even no stronger measures will be o in this case for some time—at | feast not until more definite evidence srmined. In the me Miss may remain at Blackeastle, | though necessarily under — surve! - | tance.” ‘Under surveiliana she repeated. ‘} under surveillance? ¢ said, with just a touch of irri on, “De you not yet understand? You are arrested for thecrime of mur- der.” “Ob! Cynthia Lennox exclaimed with a sudden burst of indignant an- ser, “this is brutal—it is infamous! Why, she was miles from here at the | time! Besides, think for one moment of this chiid injuring a great, strong man like him! Why, the very sugges- lon Is preposterous!” And just then the undertaker and; his men escended the stairs. | “T am arrested for—-murder!” Laurie } KAsie cried, wildly, and put Ner hand i to her head in a dazed, confused fash- fon—L?"" 4. duli faintness stole over her. Cyn- thia noticed how heavily she leaned against her, so, tightening her hold. «he drew ber across the hal} and into | her own room, which lay beyond. The day was done-—the short Decem- ber day—and over the ruins of the} eastern tower, where for. weary hours «trong arms had labored and labored ! én vain to find the ghastly fragments | of that which had once been a man— @ver s¢ n and. stately Blackcastle— over the restless, crushed and aching hearts which throbbed within—night fell. Night, wh brought da but not obilvion- » not slumber— @ilonce, that was nct the calm of peace Eleven!—~and the house was veryi ell. In all the corridors the li burned dimly. in the library below, Gomething Jay vaguely outlined be-| agath a sheet—something which held | fn its very immobility an awe and a ehilling dread. Cynthia shivered as she went swiftly down the bali to my lady's room. She knocked, and im answer to a voice, went in. The room was bright with waxlight end firelight. Involuntarily she. glanced at the panel which she and Cyril had thrust aside with such tre- mendous eagerness some hours before. yt bad been pushed again to its place and now appeared only a portion of the carven wainscoting. ‘My lady was lying back in a low ehair before the fre. She had dropped, as a tired masker drops his domino, the cold armor of reserve which the world seldom penetrated. Here, with no unkindly eyes to pry or criticise, she looked what she was, and that only—an old, worn, haggard | woman. } She lifted her head as the girl en-; tered. “Siow is she?” she asked. “She is asleep at last!” Miss Lennox | answered briefly, and sank down cn a} crimson fautioul, with the familfar air | ef one too thoroughly at home to wait | for en invitation. i “Why did she come back? I wanted { to ask you earlier, but I had no op-} portunity of doing so before those oth- i er people.” “She came back because she thought Clive was here.” “Clive?” “Yes. She says he passed her yes- terday on board a train coming toward Curse « Carrington | wemen. | lt was a summer evening, and I was ‘and colored lights, represented, in its But for a second, however, a wild, 3weet dream had kindled to life in her brain. Now it was smothered in the “whitening embers.” Cynthia had leaned her elbow on her Imee, her head or her hand, and was looking into the glowing fire with great, burning, feverish eyes. She started when her companion spoke to her. “You must surely have come to some jecision by this time, dear. Do you chink she is really Laurence Lisle?” “Yes,” she answered deliberateiy, “1 do!” “It is kismet!” my lady murmured. “Tt is God’s will!” Cynthia respond- ed, reverently. “Do you mean that?” she cried, with more emotion than the speech in the question appeared to warrant. “Do you really believe that the fact of her coming to Blackcastle is to be con- sidered as an act of providence? Re- member, I speak, supposing she is whom she says she is—Laurence Lisle.” “I don’t see what very great differ- ence that makes. It seems no strang- er to me that she should be at Black- castle than I. We, neither of us, have really claim here.” 4 “You have!” Lady Carrington inter- posed, quickly. “You are the child of my oldest, dearest friend!” The girl gave a swift, upward glance. “And she,” in a tone of grave, sig- nificant reproach, “was to have beep you son’s wife!” * ‘For a few moments utter silence reigned. What I meant,” Cynthia resumed, “sas to deny that it was an idle fate, and that alone, which grasps tlie threads of many lives, and weaves | them in the selfsame strand.” “and when I said it was destiny meant-- Ah, you will not understand, , Cynthia!” she cried suddenly. “I will tell you--I will tell you now, that which I promised to repeat one week | from Christmas Eve. It is a long} story—a strange story—a sad story! | 1 will make it brief, and clear, and light as may be.” Cynthia slipped from her low seat | to the soic rug, and half-kneeling ,hait- sitting, leaned against her companion. She clasped her slight olive hands in fashion, and resting her arms on lady’s lap, lowered her head upon | them. “Well, dear, to go way back over years and years and years, to the time when I was a girl! I am an Italian, ana I come of a race known. and hon- ored throughout Italy-——a race fierce, | wealthy, powerful, proud of its ancient | glory, proud of its stainless escutcheon, i proud of its datntless men, its noble | And at the age of sixteen I/ waa left orphaned, the last of the | grand old name, I, a mere child, left maintain. that old pride of lineage, to maintain that boasted, storied honor. “We were in Venice just then, and there we remained, with me the wom- anv who had nursed me when a child, | new my duenna. One year—two, slip- ped by, and I began to think the world | } | \ | was not such a bad place to live in,} after all. J began to cast aside my | somber garments, to dress gaily, to go { out a good deal. “[ was young, you must remember, of irreproachable ancestry, with the hoarded wealth of centuries under my foclish hands. So they made much of mo—the great people of Venice. “[ had been brought up in ® seclu- siou so complete as to be almost im- prisonment, and this strange sense of freedom, this new revelation of life, | hela for me a charm irresistibly beau- tifui. “It was then, while I was still rev- eling my sweet independence, and flushed with all the glowing joy of yeuth—it was just then f met the man who changed the current of my lifo ferever—-Clive Carrington! “7 remember so well (am I wearying yeu, dear?—old memories are so strong to-night) the first time we met. out with a merry party on the Grand | cenal; and our gondola, bright with dcalpty dresses, and rich-leaved flowers gay freight, the young nobility and grace of Venice. ba “A white moon quivered slowly up the blue Venetian sky; and we drifted on, With song and laughter, under the grim and royal homes of the Foscari and the Cavalli, past the stately cam- panile of St. Mark’s, past the palace of the Doges. “Suddenly a gondola flashed out from beneath the Rialto bridge and sped by us. One of our number rec ognized a friend in the boat which had just passed ours, and he hailed him. The gondoliers drew their crafts to night 1 wore all scarlet and white, from the flowers in my hair to the gems on my hands. “That was how we met! Below, s broad, smooth, shining river on either side, historic homes, and pillared porches and princely palaces; and above a blue, Italian sky, star studded and star-zoned; and over all the moon- light falling a rain of silver. “Thus it began! Oh, God, how it ended!” . CHAPTER XXXVI. r A Secret. The glowing coals in the grate crashed together; a lurid flame up- leaped; they darkened down. Cynthia crouched a little closer against my lady, with a faint shudder. “How horribly I am digressing!” the latter went on. “Well, I will not pro long an account of the immediate weeks which followed. It was the old, cld story—to youth forever new! “He came to see me; he fell in love with me. I did not lack suitors. There was not a young nobleman in Venice I could not have married had I so chos- en;,;but I gave my heart, in impulsive, passionate trust ,to him. “It was a very sudden, reckless act for me—I was so intensely proud. I had heard strangers speak of me as ‘the proud lady of Venice.’ Now I only valued my position, wealth, honor, for lis sake. November. “As the time drew near, Clive used to fall into long lapses of thought, from which he would arouse himself pale and moody browed. “Well, we were married, and we went to Rome to spend the winter. I took with me my faithful duenna. One night, about a fortnight after our mar- visage, we were to go to a certain grand ball. I dressed, and came down stairs quite early. I wore my bridal robe of snowy velvet all caught with clusters of white roses, and lit with diamonds an empress might have envied. “{ heard the front door open and slam again, I remember smiling at the sound, for I thought of the tender admiration which would dawn in his eyes when he would first behold me. “He came hurriedly in and up to where I was standing by a huge, black marble mantel. His bright blonde face was perplexed and anxious. He caught my hands so fiercely in his own that the stones I wore cut my fingers. “‘T have been fighting a battle!’ he seid, and he looked indeed as though he had—‘a horrible battle, and I have ccme out defeated! Do you love me well enough to believe me when I say 1 was, am, more weak than wicked? Do you love me well enough to trust nme—in silence?’ “Of course I answered him, as would any young fool as blindly in Jove as I, and.more romantically pleased than dismayed at the suggestion of mys- tery. “Two years passed and we, weary of wandering, came home to England. Here, one year later, my son was born another Clive Carrington. You heard the incident of which old Guialetta to- day reminded me. Just then I was, I firmly believe, the happiest woman in England. I was handsome ,admired, esteemed. I had a magnificent home, ar. adoring husband, a beautiful child. One evening we were sitting alone in the library, my husband and I. The} windows were open to the floor. The mocnlight flooded the room. We had just sent Baby Clive to bed and were | recalling, with blithe laughter and bits of nonsense our first meeting below the Rialto when a servant brought in a | cluster of waxlights and the evening mail. My husband opened the bag and | I leoked over his shoulder as he drew ovt the contents. There was one let-| ter addressed to him in a_ gueer,| crampea hand, and bearing the post: mark ‘Paris.’ There was nothing for re, so I sat Gown and watched him | epen his mail. ; “As he took up the particular mis- sive I had noticed, he started sudden- ly He tore it open and was on his} | feet in a moment, with a half-repressed ery. The sheet in his hand fluttered to the floor. “ ‘What is it? I cried. is it? “Nothing — no one-—-on business,” he faltered. i “I stooped and snatched up the let- ter. “dT have a right to know!’ I said. J wilt know!’ “And before he could prevent me I had held it in the full candle light, and hac swept the page from the first word i to the last. But of all I read, one sen- tence, one only, was branded on my brain: "She with whom you left your) sor is dead. Shall we send him to} ‘From whom | you?’ | “] did not scream or cry out. I was tceo stunned for that. I have told you I came of a race proud and fierce. I could feel my face growing cold as the warm blood receded, but I could also feei every nerve in my body turning to.steel. I think he was afraid of me just then when I turned and faced him. “ ‘Now,’ I said, ‘tell me!’ “I never for one moment doubted the truth of the words I had read, not once. And he told me. We were to be married in} together ,and after that things ran more sm fj “One day, when the boy was about five months old, he came home to find lis wife running, shrieking ,about the room, and brandishing a long, slim knife above her head. “Swift as lightning all that which had bewildered and perplexed was rade clear to him. His enigma was solved. He had married a madwoman. “He called for aid. The servants hastened up. She resisted, frantically, awhile. Like a flash, before any one eculd interpose to prevent her, she had swung aloft the knife she held and had plunged it to the hilt in her own heart! “Ah, it was all such a wretched story! He left the child—whom his wife had insisted should be given his reame—in the charge of an old woman who, for a certain sum, paid promptly, agreed to care for+him. He went away, he cared little whither. “Later he met me—met me and Icved me with a _ passion infinitely deeper and stronger than any fancy he had ever felt for her. He knew how proud I was—that I would never mar- ry him if I knew. “So he played a cowardly part and hid all from me. He had tried to tei! me that night in Rome—had tried and failed. In time he no longer attempt- ed to do so. He ceased to torment himself. He simply had let himself drift on the current of fate. “He told me ail this as we stood and faced each other, both as white as ashes. “'Now,’ he cried, when he had fin- ished, ‘concealment is over. The se- ciet has been a heavy burden for me to bear. The skeleton has stalked out of its closet at last and is rattling its rusty bones.’ “*You should have told me!’ I cried, passionately. ‘You acted a cowardly lie—you deceived me!’ “*Yes,’ he said, “I deceived you. Had I told you that the heir of Blackcastle, who lawfully bore the same name that I offered you, and who would one day be master in your home, was the son of a ballet dancer—would you have married me?’ , “ ‘No,’ I declared—a thousand times, ne! I would have died first!’ “ ‘So I thought,’ he said, ‘and I could not give you up. Fou your sake I would have periled my soul’s salvation, I loved you so!’ “ ‘Love!’ I cried in scorn. ‘You never loved me. A man does not bring misery on the woman he loves!’ “‘Call it what you will,’ he said, ‘it is done!’ “At the very thought of all the wrong he had done me—of the dark possibili- ties the future held for my boy—I flared up in one of my terrible rages. “*aye,’ I answered him, ‘it is done, but reparation, as far as lies in your power, you must make to me and my child. You cannot for one instant im- agine that I will allow this offspring of a Parisian ballet dancer to take prece- cence of my son! You must disown him, deny him, ignore him!’ “tt is infamous!’ he cried. my legal heir. I will not!’ “You will!’ I said. ‘Ah, little you know the woman you have to deal with!’ ‘He is CHAPTER XXXVII. A Suspicion. “For awhile the storm raged fiercely. It was a bitter battle we fought there in the moonlight, he eager in defense of right, I strong with a mother’s mighty love. I conquered!” She paused as though exhausted. The girl at her feet moved with a rest- lees gesture. “Such victory!” she said, in a voice low, but hot with disdain—“such vic- tory! It sinned against every law of honor and humanity!” My lady caught her breath sharply, but she ventured no protest. She re- sumed the story. “The next day he started for Paris. He found the child and secured a guardian for him. He said he had j adopted the boy when quite a baby, and wanted him well cared for. He tried to persuade the lad to give some | other name than that which he had always borne—Clive Carrington—but in vain. So he told the man in whose care he left him that he had given the little fellow his own name. “He was to be boraght up in the be- | jief that he was an orphan, and when old enough was to be found suitable employment. “This done, my husband came home: Life flowed on, but never again the old | fe we had known. Letters. from Paris came at long intervals; from the | guardian, of course—never from him. | He was kept densely ignorant. My | husband used to hand them to me in| silence. In silence I would peruse | them and pass them back. My boy | grew up, handsome and noble, and | proud as a prince. The last letter | came about the time we sent him to| Fion. “It stated that the lad whom mon- | ssteur had so generously befriended, ! almost a man now, had entered a large Parisian establishment, and would be, for the future, independent of mon- sieur’s kind bounty. “One night, perhaps six months lat- er, a visitor arrived at Blackcastle. He The occupants of the gon- Biackcastle. She hoped to. find him gether. spe before her. Instead of that—you cole ‘hailed proved. to be a party of sw tho rest.” ycung English tourists. Mutual intro ductions followed. “An old Italian lady—my chaperone for the time being—turned to me. “Tet me present to you,’ she said, ‘Sir Clive Carrington!’ “He stood up and bowed low. He was about thirty then—a tall, broad- shouldered, handsome young English- @he bad spoken in a tone that was ajmost one of indifference. The fierce excitement she had so recently under- gone had exhausted her. “Qynthia,” my lady cried, half hope- fully. half-despairingly, “it—it is not— pannot be-—-truef She is—she must be mad!” mar. “Ot course.” was the weary reply.) «j noticed the quick flash of admira- “we know he is dead.” tion which lit his blue eyes as he saw She sank back in her chair with *} me, 1 was fair to look at. I can say tow so without fear of vanity now. I had “ all the rare beauty of my race—a beau- moan. ei" she said, slowly, “to our most ty which, later, descended to my son! bitter sorrow.” \ “Five years before he mot: me, be}-would not send up his name by the had seen on the. boards of a second-| servant, but we ordered him admitted: rate Parisian theater a girl with whom | He came into the Nbrary, a tall young he became foolishly, recklessly, infat-| stripling, with a pair of mild, nervous uated. She was very pretty, and very | eyes. graceful, and very ignorant. He mado “TI staggere dto my feet, stunned and her acquaintance, and in a moment of| heartsick. A great faintness erent | blind, boyish admiration, asked her to| over me. I clutched my chair for sup- marry him, She was only too glad of | port. | the opportunity to exchange her toil- “Whether it was the resemblance to some life for that of the wife of an| my husband I perceived, or merely a English baronet. So in all honor he | sense of sudden, foreboding conviction married her, and within 2 month after} which overcame me, I do not know. wee heartily sick of his bargain. He “He spoke, and doubt was doubt no eculd not understand her at times—-| longer. He walked up to the man to she acted, dressed, talked so strange-| whom he bere such a horrible likeness, ly. and held out his hand. ; “about a year after their marriage| ‘You are my father, I suppose. |Shake hands! I’m fyou, though I, must say you’ve acted ecnfoundedly shabby. Here I’ve been all my life blessing my disinterested benefactor. By the merest chance I’ve discovered that you’ve been defraud- ing me. Oh, you know me well enough. Don’t play virtuous indignation. I ran across a brother of my mother’s a few days ago, and he swept the cobwebs out of my eyes. It was a devilish neat piece of work, but now—now the fat’s in the fire.’ “One would never suppose he was a native of Franee. He spoke, looked, dressed like an ordinary young Eng- lishman. 3 “I’m not going to dwell on that scene. The bare remembrance of it makes me to this hour cold and weak. “It was no use attempting to deny him or to refute his charges. He was keen and sharp and dangerous as a Spanish stiletto. “‘T left that place where I was work- ing,’ he said, with the airy impudence which seemed a part of him, ‘because I stole a large sum of money. I con- trived to shove the theft off on another fellow, a roommate of mine, but sev- eral years older than me. He was ar- rested in my stead, and sent to Toulon. He is serving a sentence in the galleys at present!’ “And he laughed out as though it were a good joke and the most natural thing in the world. “What is his name?’ we asked him. “And he answered, ‘Laurence Lisle!’ ” “Laurence Lisle!” Cynthia Lennox interrupted, and fell back, staring at my lady. “It is awful. And she is his daughter—and he suffered in place of him—Laurence Lisle?” “Wait,” Lady Carrington said, weari- ly, “I must conclude as briefly as I can. It is a fearful test—this recital!” “But you made clear the case at once?” the girl insisted anxiously. “You had him released and—” But my lady put out her slender, snowy hand, with a fatigued, protest- ing motion. (To Be Continued.) She Was Engaged. A young woman answered an adver- tisement for a servant, and the lady of the house seemed pleased with her, but before engaging her there were some questions to ask. “Suppose,” said the lady—‘now, only suppose, understand—that you were carrying a piece of steak from the kitchen, and by accident should let it siip from the dish to the floor, what should you do in such a case?” The girl looked the lady square in the eye for a moment before asking— “Is it a private family or are there boarders?” “Boarders,” answered the lady. “Pick it up and put it back in the dish,” firmly replied the girl. She was engaged.—Cassell’s London Journal. Seeing Double. Edward Harrigan, the Irish come- dian, is occasionally guilty of an Irish bull, as this incident proves. He was seated at a table in a cafe with a fel- low actor. The friend had ordered whisky, and the liquor was served in a decanter holding enough for several drinks. They sat for some time talk- ing, and when the time came for pay- ing the Dill the friend informed the waiter that he had but one drink. “What?” said Harrigan, “only one? It seems to me you have had two.” “No, Ned, only one,” persisted the friend. “Well, perhaps you are right,” said Harrigan. “I'll admit I didn’t see you take the first drink, although I did see you take the second.”—Philadelphia Public Ledger. it Didn’t Come Off. The man at the rear end of the smok- ing car was holding his hand to his jaw and evidently suffering from toothache, He stood it about an hour and then rose up and demanded of the other twenty passengers in the car: “Ts there anybody here who says that Christopher Columbus discovered America?” No one answered and he sat down again. Ten minutes later one of the crowd made bold to ask him why he put such an inquiry, and he answered: “T’ve had the toothache for two ful! days, and I wanted a chance to call some one a liar and get up a fight.”— Cleveland Plain Dealer. Sometimes. Sunday School Teacher—Bobby, where do good people go when they | die? Bobby (glibly)—To heaven. Sunday School Teacher—Yes, that is right. And if a person who is wicked all the way through dies, where does he go? Bobby—To the police Woman’s Home Companion. station.— Not So Bad. The great man rushed out and grap- pled with the wild-eyed intruder. “What have you there?” demanded the great man. “A gun,” hissed the stranger. “Oh, then, it’s not so bad. I thought you had a camera.”—Chicago News. His Line. Master of House (to applying butler) —Can you open, a beer bottle neatly? Applicant—Um, not so very, sir. You see, I’ve lived mostly in cham- pagne families—Chicago News. : The Flute. “Pid Slickun’s house catch fire from a defective fine?” “No, an effective one. He had it In- sured for twice its real value.”—Cin- cinnati Times-Star. Well Worn, “His face has such a worn. look.” “No wonder. He’s been traveling on itfor nearly forty years.”—Puck. not ashamed of} mis is a remarkable offer the John A. Salzer Seed Co., La Crosse, Wis. makes. They will send you their big Plant and seed catalog, together with enough seed to grow 4 1,000 fine, solid Cabbages, 2,000 delicious Carrots. 2,000 blanching, nutty Celery, 2,000 righ, buttéry Lettuce, 1,000 splendid Onions. 1,000 rare, luscious Radishes. 1,000 gloriously brilliant Flowers. This great offer is made in order to i induce you to try their warranted seeds —for when you once plant them you will grow no others, and ALL FoR BUT 16c POSTAGE, Providing you will return this notice, and if you will send them 20c in post- age, they will add to the above a pack- age of the famous Berliner Cauliflower. CW. N. U) Ambiguous. Miss Marigold—How do you happen to be so much brighter than other peo ple, Mr. Author? Mr. Author—Well—er—you see, the criticisms of my books make me smart. pea Va AFA PATENTS. We List of Patents Issued Last Week te Northwestern Inventors. Ai. 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Sir Wilfred Laurier recently said: “A new stag risen on the horizon, anc it is toward it thas petg lager inp ire peeves the sae hie ancee rs to come and seek a home for himself new turns his gaze""—Canade. There is Room for Millions. ¥REE Homesteads given a ~ Bchooky Churches, Railways, Markets, Climate For a descriptive Atlas and other apply to Superintendent Immigration, Onavneee Governm Jecksom Street St Pau Miner ada, or authorized E. T. Holmes, 315 eee | +