Lakeland Evening Telegram Newspaper, October 1, 1913, Page 7

of Cartain Porsens Whe e e o e e ARsmance of Colorado s Y CYRUS %WNSEND BRADY §f The Riog aod he Man* egeneration, ,of Regenenticn, " The "As the Sparis Fly Upward.® s Bastrations by Ellsworth Yoang . N (Copyright. 1911, by W. G. Chapman.) (Continued from Page 2.) “Tgke off your coat,” she said gent- * approaching him. “Here, let me slp you.- Do you realize that I have sen here over a month now? I want » have a little talk with you, I want Ju to tell me something. CHAPTER XVI. The Kiss on the Hand. “Did it ever occur to you,” began nid Maitland gravely enough, for she uite realized the serious nature of 10 impending conversation, “did it wver occur to you that you know prac- cally all about me, while I know 4ractically nothing about you?” The man bowed his head. R «You may have fancied that I was Got aware of it, but in one way or nother you have possessed yourself t pretty all of my short and, until met you, most uneventful life,” she ontinued. Newbold might have answered that here was one subject which had been | vuually fntroduced by her upon one “ceasion and to which she had never _galn referred, but which was to him “"ho most imporiant ol all subjects con- leeted with her: and that was the na- ure of her relationship to one James armstrong whose name, although @ had heard it but once, he had not orgotten. The girl had been frank (ess itself in following his deft leads vhen he talked with her about her ‘elf, but she had vn the same re- cence in recur to Armstrong he had displayed in questioning rg' gbout him. The statement she * school Books and School Supplies * | with the bolduoess T had just made as to his acquaintanoe with her history was therefore svffi- ciently near the truth to pass un- challenged, and once again he gravely bowed in acquiescence. “I have withheld nothing from you,” went on the girl, “whatever you want- ed to know, I have told you. I had nothing to conceal, as you have found out. Why you wanted to know about me, I am not quite sure.” “It was because—" burst out the man impetuously, and then he stopped abruptly and just in time. Enid Maitland smiled at him in a way that indicated she knew what | was behind the sudden check he had imposed upon himself. “Whatever your reason, your curi- osity—" “Don’t call it that, please.” “Your desire then has been grat- ified. Now it is my turn. I am not even sure about your name. I have seen it in these books and naturally 1 have imagined that it is yours.” “It {s mine.” “Well, that is really all that I know about you. And now I shall be quite frank. I want to know more. You evidently have something to conceal or you would not be living here in this way. 1 have never asked you about yourself, or manifested the least curiosity to solve the problem you present, to find the solution of the mystery of your life.” “Perhaps,” said the man, ‘you didn’t care enough about it to take the trouble to inquire.” “You know," answered the girl, “that is not true. [ have been con- sumed with desire to know.” “A woman's curiosity ?” “Not that,” was the soft that turned away his wrath. She was indeed frank. There was that in her way of uttering those two simple words that set his pulses answer bounding. He was not altogether and absolutely blind. “Come," said the girl, extending her hand to him, “we are alone here to- gether. We must help each other. You have helped me, you have been of the gre to me, 1 can't | begin to count all that you have done for me; wmy gratitude 1 fOnly thatd” at is all that you have ever expected,” answered the young woman in a low vo whose est xervice not. at all ac. and courage of the gentle tones did speech, “You mean?" asked the man, star- ling at her, his tace aflame, 1 “I mean,” auswered the ‘I\ wilfully mixi t Swift- turn- terpre \ ) ~ Tablets, Pencils, Ink. Crayons, Lunch Baskets, Book-bags, Etc WE CAN SUPPLY YOURWANTS Benford - A\ .. LAKELAND BOOK STORE & Steitz Start that checking accoun® and save yourself the risk, annoyance and inconvenience of carrying money about and of paying bills, ete., with cash. The check book 18 sure to bring the enocomy that doesn’t pinch and will relieve you of many wo.ries. Your account licited. is respectfully so- THE STATE BANK || OF LAKELAND FLA. TAg His H#lf Spoken quesiion &nothér way, “I mean that I am sure that trouble has brought you here. I do not wish to force your confidence, I have no right to do so, yet I should like to enjoy it; can't you give it to me? 1 want to help you, I want to do my best to make some return for what you have been to me and have done for me.” “T ask but one thing,” he said quick- ly. “And what is that?” But again he checked himself. “No,” he said, “1 am not free to ask anything of you.” And that answer to Enid Maitland was like a knife thrust in the heart. The two had been standing confront- ing each other. Her heart grew faint within her. She stretched out her hand vaguely as if for support. He stepped toward her, but before he reached her, she caught the back of the chair and sank down weakly. That he should be bound and not free had never once occurred to her; she had quite misinterpreted the meaning of his remark. The man did not help her, he could not help her, He just stood and looked at her. She fought valiantly for self-control a moment or two and tion—the moments were (oo great for he falterad. “You mean there is some other wo- man?"’ He shook his head in negation. “I don't understand. There was some other woman?" “YI'S." “Wlhere is she now?” “Dead.” “But you said you were not free.” He nodded. “Did you care so much for her that now—that now “Enid,” he cried desperately. lieve me, I never knew what was until I met you." The secret was out now; it had been known to her long since, but now it wus publicly proclaimed. Even a man as blind, as obsessed, as he could not mistake the joy that il- luminated her face at this announce- ment. That very joy and satisfaction produced upon him, however, a very different effect than might have been “le- love anticipated fad be been free, in- deed, he would have swept her to his breast and covered her sweet face with Kkisses {roken by whispered words of pussionate endearment, In- stead of that he shrank back from her &1 “You say that she is dead,” she be- gan in sweet appealing bewilderment, “and that you care so much for me and vet you—" “0ld Kirkby, land, told me that you had d haunts of men—" “And they were right. was there for me to do? uncle Robert Mait- they sald appeared from the What else Although in- I was mad. No punishment could be visited upon me like that imposed by the stern, awful, appalling fact. I swore to prison myself, to have noth. fng more forever to do with mankind or womankind with whom I was un- worthy to so associate, to live alone until God toock me. To cherish my memories, to make such expiation as 1 could, to pray dally for forgiveness, I came here to the wildest, the most range. No one ever would come here I fancied, no one ever did come but you. I was happy after a fashlon, or at least content. 1 had chosen the better part. I had work, I could read, write, remember and dream. But you came and e that time life has been heaven and hell. Heaven be- cause 1 love , hell because to love you means loyaity to the past, to a woman who loved me. Heaven be. ause you are here; I can hear your s, I can ur soul is spread out be In its pyrity; hell because I am falge ee you, then, utterly obliviousto the betrayal of her feelings involved in the ques-| consideration of such trivial matters | and it was ¢ who was forced to take up the hurden of the conversa- | tion. “I am a murderer,” he broke out | barshly. “There is blood upon my hands, the blood of a woman who loved me and whom, boy as 1 was, I | thought that I loved She was my wife, I killed her” “Great G ricd the girl amazed | or exnectation by al which she had cted, and r hand instinet- | to the bosom of her dress Ley t goiled, water wket of leiters, “are you “I am the man that did that thing, but what do you know?’ he asked quickly, a ed in his turn. nocent of crime, I was blood gullty. | inaccessible, the loneliest, spot in the | re in its sweetness, ! THE EVENING TELEGRAM, LAK ELAND, FLA, OCT. 1, 1913. to my determination, {6 my vow, o the love of the past.” “And did you love her so much, !then?” asked the girl, now flercely jealous and forgetful of other things for the moment. “It's not that” sald the man. ‘T was not much more than a boy, a year or two out of college. I had been in the mountains & year, this woman lived in a mining camp, she was & fresh, clean healthy girl, her father died and the whole camp fathered her, looked after her, and all the young men in the range for miles on either side were in love with her, I sup- posed that I was too and—well, I won her from the rest. We had been mar- ried but a few months and a part of the time my business as a mining en- gineer had called me away from her. 1 can remember the day before we started on the last journev. I was going alone again, but she was so un- happy over my departure; she clung to me, pleaded with me, implored me to take her with me, insisted on go- ing wherever I went, would not be left behind. She couldn’t bear me out of her sight, it seemed. I don't know { what there was in me to have in- spired such devotion, but I must speak the truth, however it may sound. She scemed wild, crazy about me. I didn't understand it, frankly I | didn’t know what such love was—then —but I took her along. Shall I not be honest with you? In spite of the at- traction physical, I had begun to feel even then that she was not the mate | for me. I don't deserve it, and it shames me to say it of course, but I { wanted a better mind, a higher soul. { That made it harder—what I had to do, you know" “Yes, [ know." “The only thing I could do 'when I came to my senses was i to sacrifice myself to her mem- ory because she had loved me so; as it was she gave up her life for me: \l could do no less than be true and | loyal to the remembrance. i as soon as you opened your eyes ang storm upon the rock to which T had carried you after I had fought for you, i T knew that T loved vou. I knew that | the love that had come into my heart was the love of which | had dreamed, that ever :» that had gone before was noth that | had found the one woman wWhose sonl should mate with mine,” “And this before 1 had said a word | to you?” “What are words? The heart speaks to the heart, the soul whis- pers to the soul. And so it was with us. I had fought for you, you were mine, mine. My heart sang it as 1 panted and stru ' over the rocks carrying yvou. It said the words ¢ and again as I laid you down he thig cabin. It repeated them over and over: mine, mine! It says that every day and hour. And yet honor and fidelity bid me stay., 1 am free, yet bound; free to love you, but not to take you. My heart says yes, my con- sclence no. 1 should despise myself It I were false to the love which my wife bore me, and how could I offer you a blood stained hand!" He had drawn very near her while he spoke; she had risen again and the She Seized His Hand and Kissed It. two conironted each other. e stretched out his hand as he asked that last question, almost as if he had offered it to her. She made the best answer possible to his demand, for be- fore he could divine what she would be at, she had seized his hand and kissed it and this time it was the man | whose knees gave way. He sank down in the chair and buried his face in his hands. “Oh Oh, God!” he cried in his humiliztion and shame, “if I had only met you first, or if my wife had dled as others die, and not by my hand in that awful hour. | can see her now, brokeh, bruised, bleeding, torn. 1 can hear the report of that weapon; her last glance at me in the midst of her indescribable agony was one of thankfulness and gratitude. I can't stand it, I am unworthy even of her.” “But you could not help it, it was not your fault. And you can’t help— caring—for me—"" “I ought to help it, I ought not love you, I ought to have known that I was not fit to love any woman, that God! I had no right, that I was pledged | like a monk to the past. 1 have been L fool. I love you and my hone I love you and my self-respect goes, [ love yo d my pride goes, Would to God I co y I love you ind my lif He ! 1 There i one tion in it all, ¢ dded. 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