Lakeland Evening Telegram Newspaper, April 21, 1915, Page 6

“The Trey O’ H e S By Louis Joseph Vance RO RO RN ONORCD Perhaps (she reasoned) the weath- er was responsible for this feeling, in some measure at least. The day had been unconscionably hot, a day with- out a breath of air. Now, as it drew toward its close, its heat seemed to be- come more and more oppressive even as its light was darkened by a por- tentous phenomenon—a vast pall of inky cloud shouldering up over the mountains to the music of distant rum- blings, - Within gWother ten minutes the man Judith loved with all her body and soul would be the husband of her sister. She had told herself she was re- signed; but she was not, and she would never be. Her heart was break- ing in her bosom as she sat there, watching, waiting, listening to the ever heavier detonations of the ap- proaching thunderstorm and to the Jubilant pealing of a great organ down below. The had told herself that, though resigned, she could not bear to wit- ness the ceremony. Now as the mo- ment drew near when the marriage would be a thing finished, fixed, frretrievable, she found herself un- able to endure the strain alone. Slowly, against her will, she rose and stole across the floor to her fa- ther's chair, His breathing was slow and regu- lar; beyond doubt he slept; unques- tionably there was no reason why she should not leave him for ten minutes; even though he waked it could not harm him to await her return at the end of that scant period. Like a guilty thing,on feet as noise- less as any sneak thief's, she crept from the room, closed the door si- lently, ran down the hall and de- scended by a back way, a little-used staircase, to the lower hall, approach- ing the scene of the marriage. Constructed in imitation of an old Spanish mission chapel, it contained one of the finest organs in the world; at this close range its deep-throated tones vied with the warnings of the storm. Judith, lurking in a passage- way whose open door revealed the altar steps and chancel, was shaken to the very marrow of her being by the majestic reverberations of the music. Since they had regained contact with civilization in a section of the country where the Law estate had vast holdings of land, the chapel was thronged with men and women who had known Alan’s father and wished to honor his son. . . . Above stairs, in the room Judith had quitted, Seneca Trine opened both eyes wide and laughed a silent laugh of savage triumph when the door closed behind his daughter. At last he was left to his own de- vices—and at a time the most fitting imaginable for what he had in mind. With a grin, Seneca Trine raised both arms and stretched them wide apart. Then, grasping the arms of his ehair, he lifted himself from it and stood trembling upon his own feet for the first time in almost twenty years. Grasping the back of the wheeled ehair, he used it as a crutch to guide his feeble and uncertain movements. But these became momentarily stronger and more confident. This, then, was the secret he had hugged to his embittered bosom, a secret unsuspected even by the at- tending surgeon; that through the motor accident three days ago he had regained the use of limbs that had been stricken motionless—strangely enough, by a motor car—nearly two decades since. Slowly but surely moving to the bureau in the room, he opened one of its drawers and took out some- thing he had, without her knowledge, seen Judith put away there while she thought he slept. Then, with this hidden in the pocket of his dressing gown he steered a straight it very deliberate course to the door, let himself out, and like a materialized specter of the man he once had been, navigated the corridor to the head of the broad central staircase and step by step, clinging with both hands, negotiated the descent. The lobby of the hotel was deserted. As the ceremony approached its end every guest and servant in the house was crowding the doorway to the chapel. None opposed the progress of this ghastly vision in dressing gown and slippered feet, chuckling insanely to himself as he tottered through the empty halls and corri- dors, finding an almost supernatural strength to sustain him till he found himself face to face with his chosen enemy and victim. The first that blocked his way into the chapel, a bellboy of the hotel, looked round at the first touch of the claw-like hand upon his shoulder and shrank back with a cry of terror—a | cry that was echoed from half a dozen throats within another instant. As if from the path of some grisly visitant from the world beyond the grave, the throng pressed back and cleared a way for Seneca Trine, fa- ther of the bride. And as the way opened and he looked up toward the altar and saw Alan standing hand in hand with Rose while the minister invoked a blessing upon the union that had been but that instant cemented, added strength, the strength of the imsane, w2& given to Semeca Trine. When Alan, annoyed by the dis- turbasce in the body of the chapel, v accompanied the shattéring of 'a huge stained-glass window. A bolt of bluish flame of dazzling brilliance slashed through the window like a flaming sword and smote the pistol in the hand of Seneca Trige, discharging the weapon even as it struck him dead. ' As he fell the bolt swerved and struck two others down—Alan Law and the woman who had just been ! made his wife. The Wife. Again three days elapsed; and Ju- dith, returning from the double fu- neral of her father and sister, doffed her mourning for a gown less somber | and more suited to the atmosphere of a sickroom, then relieved the nurse in charge of Alan. ' i CHAPTER LIV. = He remained as he had been ever since the falling of the thunderbolt— in absolute coma. But he !ved, and—or the physicians lied—must soon regain eonlclonlneu.l Kneeling beside his bedside Judith prayed long and earnestly. When she arose it was to answer a tap upon the door. She admitted Tom Barcus and suffered him to lead her into the recess of the window, where they conversed in guarded tones in spite of the fact that the subject of their communications could not possibly have heard them. “I've come to tell you something,” Barcus announced with characteristic awkwardness, “I've known it for three days—ever since the wedding, in fact—and kept it to myself, not knowing whether I ought to tell you yet or not.” He paused, eyeing her uncertainly, | unhappily. I “I am prepared,” Judith assured him calmly. “You're nothing of the sort,” he countered. argumentative. “You couldn’t be. It's the most amazing thing imaginable. . . . See here . . .” “Well?” | “You understand, don’t you, that, Alan must never know that Rose was killed by that lightning stroke?" “What do you mean?” | “I mean,” the man floundered mis- erably, “you see, he loved her so—I thought—I'm sure it would be best— ! if you can bring yourself to it—to let him go on believing it wasn’t Rose who was killed, but Judith. And that's skating so close to the truth that it makes no difference: the Judith Alan ' knew and the Judith I knew in the beginning is gone as completely as though she and not Rose had been killed.” After a long pause, the girl asked him quietly: “I understand. But is it possible you don't understand that, it I were to consent to this proposi- tion, lend myself to a deception which I must maintain through all my life to come—Alan would consider me his wite? “Well, but—you see—you are his wife. . . . Oh, don't think I'm off my bat. I'm telling you the plain, unvar nished truth. You are Alan's wife. . No, listen to me. You remem- ber that day in New York when you substituted for Rose, when Alan tried to elope with her, and you went with him to Jersey City, and stood up to be married by a preacher-guy named Wright—and Marrophat broke in just at the critical moment and busted up the party?” “Well?” she demanded breathlessly. Barcus produced a folded yellow pa- per from his coat pocket and prof- fered it. “Read that. It was handed to me as best man, just before the cere- mony. Sceing it was addressed to Alan and knowing he was in no frame of mind to be bothered by telegrams, 1 slipped it into my pocket and forgot all about it temporarily. When I came to find it, I took the liberty of reading it. But read it for yourself.” The typewritten lines of the long message blurred and ran together al- most indecipherably in Judith's vision. None the less, she contrived to grasp the substance of its meaning. “WHY DIDN'T YOU WIRE MB SOONER,” it ran: “MARRIAGE TO ROSE IMPOSSIBLE. REV. MR.! WRIGHT INFORMED ME YOUR MARRIAGE TO JUDITH LAST WEEK HAD GONE TOO FAR WHEN MARROPHAT INTERRUPTED. JU- DITH LEGALLY YOUR WIFE.| WOULD HAVE ADVISED YOU SOONER HAD YOU LET ME KNOW WHERE TO ADDRESS YOU. HOPR TO HEAVEN THIS GETS TO YOU BEFORE TOO LATE.” ‘The message was signed with the name of Alan's confidential man of business in New York. When Judith looked up she was alone in the room, but for the silent ' patient on his couch. Slowly, almost fearfully, shs crept to his bedside and stood looking down into the face of her husband. And while she looked Alan's lashes fluttered, his respiration quickened, l' faint color crept into his pallid cheeks —and his eyes opened wide and; looked fato hers. | His lips moved and breathed a word of recognition: “Judith!” With a low cry of tenderness, the girl $ank to her knees and encircled his head with her arms. “Judith,” she whispered, hiding her face in his bosom, “Judith is no more . . .” A pause; and then the feeble voice: “Then, If I was mistaken, if you ' I She said steadily: “I am your wife.” His bands fumbled with her face, upon her cheeks, lifted her her eyes must look into deep Into the soul of the quietly hesald: “Tknow . THE END. | plained after he had kissed her. port. He bhad opened it in the fall and now it was spring. He looked at the landscape com- placently well pleased with himself for various reasons. In the first place, coming from the south, he had shiv- ered and shaken all the cold morth- ern winter; but the warm May weath- er suited him. The freshness of everything, the little yellowish green leaves, the smell of the lilacs and the made Fordport | real love so eastly. Rose felicity was block down to be done but the trimming, patat The minute he saw Rose, Eric made Few girls would have been proot against the slege he immediately lald to Rose’s favor. His southern accent i marry Tom Lyle. l and excellent taste in clothes, whlcll - set off his tall slender figure, made ! bim favorite with all women. Eric showered gifts of candy, roses, books and music on Rose, who re- fused them all at first—then accepted a few flowers reluctantly and finally, overwhelmed with many attentions, | succumbed completely. Then she nndl Tom quarreled and that was exactly what Eric wanted. They were soon engaged and Rose was seemingly hap- py. She was the envy of all the Ford- port girls. The corner house in the row was to be hers when they were married. Eric gave her to understand that be- fore she had accepted him, She joked at home about loving the house as much as she loved Eric. The house began to look different from the others in the row. The porch was extended around the side and made two feet wider than the other porches. Rose, busy with her trouseeau, ap- peared to be very happy and the wed- ding was a month eway. She seldom saw Tom Lyle. He was spending most of his time now at the farm a half mile from the village. She con- gratulated herself that she had es- caped a life of monotony in the coun- try. Town life suited her. One day the met Tom driving two strange men toward the farm. He seemed to be explaining something to them and merely nodded at Rose. She went home thoughtfully. He evi- dently was not unhappy. The day following this meeting with Rose, Tom hitched his little black mare to the runabout and drove over to gee his chief councilor and confessor, Aunt Polly Goodwin. She was taking a “nap” in her sitting room when Tom drove in at the gate. “What news, Tommy? 8it right down here. ‘Now tell me—is there much coal on the farm?” “Yes, Aunt Polly, acres of it they say. Congratulate me. I am a rich man.” less your heart, Tommy,” said the old lady, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. “I am so glad, 80 glad for you.” “Thanks, Aunt Polly, but riches do me little good now,” he returned a little bitterly. The old lady looked at Tom keen- ly. “If you don’t mind me mention- ing it, Tom, I have been doing a lit- tle thinking lately, since you talked of finding coal. May I suggest a Iit- tle plan? You used to take my advice.” “Fire away, auntie, that's what 1 came for.” “Well, it 1s this way. I hate to see a fine girl ltkke Rose Marshall throw herself away on that southern dude, and ruin her life at the same time. Her heart 1s in the right place, but her head has been turned by Pres- cott’s attentions and his house. Now that you have some money—" “Money!" he interrupted impatient- ly. “If you mean that Rose will mar- ry me now that I am rich—" “Hush, Tom!"” she said softly. “Now listen to me. Rose is not to know a word about your good luck. Neither is anyone in town to know it for a little while. This is my plan.” Tom left a half hour later thinking what a wonder Aunt Polly was and with a determined set to his lips bod- ing good or 1ll for someone. One day, a week or so before the wedding, Rose stopped in to see Kric at his office. “I've come to ask about the window seat In the dining-room, Eric,” she ex- “I do not want it varnished. Did you tell Simmons?" Eric looked uncomfortable for a minute, then walked to the window and looked over at the house. “Do you like the place so well, Rose?” “I love it. Why?" “l have just sold it.” “You what?" “Sold 1t.” “That house! Sold it!™ “Yes.* Our house! Mine! The cherus girl dines one day ea @ erust and the next on a crustacean~— Hy U 8B offer to refuse. A firm in the city Offered me ten thousand for it and wanted an immediate answer. You were in Foxburg yesterday and | could not wait to ask you. So 1 wired ‘Yes’ You didn’t care so much as that for the house, did you? We can put up another.” She rose unsteadily, the tears start- ing to her eyes. “I must think it all over, Eric. | am a little upset. Good- by.” Alone in her room, Rose began to think as she had not done for months. The sale of the house, his wedding gift to her, had given her a sudden joit. But after all a house is only a house, her common sense kept telling her. She must do nothing for feeling for Eric seemed dead. Surely his thoughtlessness could mnot kill sat and thought it all out. Then she realized for the first time that her feeling for southerner was not love at all. She cried herself to sieep that night thinking of Tom. “Oh, what bave | done?” she moaned. “I have spoiled his 1'fe and mine, but I would rather live in a cave with him than in a pal- ace with Eric.” In the morning she awoke clear- headed and courageous. Before she dressed she wrote two notes, one to Eric breaking the engagement, and & very short one to Tom, merely asking him to come to see her as she bhad something to explain. Tom went to Rose’s house. He had not been surprised to get the note. Rose, trying to look matter-of-fact and dignified, met him at the door.. And Tom pretended not to notice her burning cheeks and eyes which threatened to run over. “lI will just keep you a minute, Tom,” she sald simply, “but I wanted you to know something. It 18 due you. You were entirely in the right when we quarreled and I am very sorry. | was wrong and I want you to know fit. | And another thing—" She stopped suddenly, then caught her breath and the color left her fave. *I have broken ' iy engagement to Mr. Prescott. 1 tnink you should be the first one to know it. 1 discovered quite accident- ally that 1 did not love him. That is all, Tom,” she said, rising and holding out her hand with a smile, “except that mother and 1 are going away to- morrow for a month or two and 1 will say good-by. Do say 1 am forgiven. | 1 would feel better about it, you know." Tom looked at her steadily, then took her little pink hand in his. Slow- 1y he reached for the other and got it. “Rose!™ i Rose dropped her eyes and turned crimson again. *“Rose, do you love me?” No answer. “Tell me. Do you love me?" ' “Yes, Tom,” almost inaudibly. He gathered her in his arms nndl kissed her. “Dearest,” he said a little later. "1, too, have something I must get off my mind. I thought I would beat Eric at his own game. ‘All's fair in love and war,’ he used to say, and so it 1s.” Rose looked startled. He went on. | “Did Eric tell you he had sold the house?” “Yes." | “Well—1 bought it. The farm bas valuable coal on it, Rose, and 1 sold the rights. No one knows It, but | am rich now. I bad an idea you did not love Eric Prescott and I deter. | mined to try him, too. I got an uncle of mine to make an offer for the house to see if.he would sell it. Pres- , cott sent the answer by wire in less than five minutes. Now am I for- given, dear? The house is still yours, | you know. Rose put her arms around his neck. “You are a dear, but I would rather live in the country,” she sald. —_—_— | QUICK WIT SAVED SlTl.lATlONI French Audience, True to Natural Characteristic, Mollified by Poor Attempt at Joke. Mr. Harry Fragson tells a good story of an experience he had while on a tour in France. It was about Christmas-time when he found himself at a small town where he was billed to sing while he played a grand piano. In French a grand piano is a pilano & queue, and when he appeared on the stage with the only thing avail- able a cottage plano, the audience were fairly emphatic in their request to know where was the plano a queue. i Mr. Fragson could see that unless something were done there would be trouble, and a bright idea came to him. On the following evening, when he appeared on the stage, the loud mur murs were renewed, and the same question asked with, if nothing, more emphasis. Then Mr. Fragson walked to the front of the stage and informed them that he was very sorry the small space would not admit of anything larger than a cottage plano. “Still,” he sald, “if you must have & plano a queue, you shall have it. There is the plano,"—pointing to 1t— “and here"—as he produced a horse's tall—“is the queue!" Fortunately the jest was taken well, and a flasco, perhaps even a riot, was avolded. A Success. Husband—How was seasion? Wife—Best time 1 ever had. the woman's 1 was ! scientific explorations in Nicaragua ;.year later brought him to the city of By VICTOR REDCLIFFE. O AB0000CCO000000000000 hapman.) 5. by W. G. CI (Copyright, 1915, by W “as you “Well,” faltered Cynt};‘la," have seen the photograpi— i “Yes, of Richard Graydon—go oD, dear,” pleaded Leila e:g.?rly. f “We—we are engaged. | lnline_lprlng up with a wild ghriek | of joy. She clasped her arms abolut Cynthia, her eyes dancing with sin- cere approbation of the anmounce| t ” m?'l(l)h, my dear, I am so delighted! she sald. “I was afraid you were go- 1pg to fade away into a gettled old widow.” 1) “I have been one for two years, y know,” intimated Cynthia, and there was a specles of anxious entreaty in her voice, “and, Leila—I was starving for love! love! love!” Her very inmost soul burst thell leaden trammels of years at this wild outburst. Cynthia fell to weeping in the arms of her pitying and loyal friend. o “No woman was ever a truer wife, said Leila earnestly, “your new hap- piness is your reward.” It seemed true. Four years pre- vious, through the arts of a maneuver- ing mother Cynthia had given up her girlhood’s fondest dreams and had married Professor Russell, a wealthy old scientist. There was no love in the union. The professor was ab- [ sorbed in his work and was away traveling most of the time, but he was very proud of his beautiful wife. Cyn- thia was a faithful helpmeet and duty made up for the lack of affection. Two years passed by when Cynthia found herself a wealthy widow. Pro- fessor Russell had been making some when a rebellion broke out. He and his valet, one Dorkins, were reported killed in an ambush. Cynthia felt that the freshness and joy of life were past until she met Richard Graydon. It had been a case of love at first sight. It seemed as if the subdued affection of her repressed nature budded all at once. to be a quiet wedding and Cynthia and Richard felt that the fullness of lifc Itad come to them at last. Never were two persons more fitly mated. Cynthia was in the prime of young womanhood, Richard was a model of perfect manhood. Blissful happiness and peace seemed insured for those two ingenuous beings when the unexpected came with the sudden- ness of a thunder crash. A hasty agitated call came over the telephone to Richard one day. “It is Miss Lane,” was spoken in fluttering accents. “Please come to my home at once.” Richard found the friend of his flancee in a distracted state. She was pale and trembling. She simply handed him a telegram. It was from Tehalca, Nicaragua. It was signed James Russell and it ran: “Escaped after dreadful peril. Wire me five hundred dollars to return.” “Then—then he is alive,” hoarsely uttered Richard, white to the lips. “Yes,” replied Lella, and she pitied | the strong man battling to show com- posure. “Oh, Mr. Graydon! 1 have just come from Cynthia. She is crushed, she says she must see you.” “I do mot dare!” spoke Richard, his hands clenched to emphasize his strong resolution. “Tell her, the true faithful wife, the good woman that she is, that it is duty now—clear and sufficient. Tell her I have gone away —not to forget, but to cherish!" Then Richard Graydon became a wanderer. He wondered if it was a trick of fate that his journeyings a BB BB BBl B bt B BB OB S BB Tehalca. He stood near its prison flelds gloomily regarding a fille of shackled convicts pass by. One only of the number was not a native. “Who is that man?” Richard casual- ly asked the guard. “Ah, that?" volunteered the volatile | official. “It is Dorkins—he of the Rus- sell case. Both he and his master were supposed killed in the revolu- tion, but this one escaped after rob. bing his dead employer. Later he sent a false telegram to the wife of Professor Russell to secure money and Wwas unmasked.” “Then Cynthia is free!" breathed Richard, and that night a telegram | flew North bearing the simple words: | “Shall I come to you?" | One day, two days—no reply. Had | Cynthia forgotten him? Ah, she might write! A week passed by. Richard gave up hope : One afternoon a servan at his room, where he sa subdued reverfe. “A caller, below, sir," vised him. t appeared | t lost in a " the menial ad. | 10 greet V in his “Richard!" The vell was thrust aside tended arms and beaming e !hh"llu.uell confronted him. “You! You'" gasped, grasped at the arm of lpchnir to steady himself. It was like some fleet. ing radiant vision. In ay her loveli. | ness there greeted him his heln'ul‘ | With ex. ves Cyn. only love. “You came all this —to me!" he breathed th’l‘:en his hands met @ honored memory of James R [ e ussell - mind, he folded her within his “Oh, my love! love!™ and his reward hd.’enno... distance—alone a3 in a dream e ——— = Expensive Wood, One of the most expensive woods used regularly in an established ip. Qustry in the United wood, the favorite ma carving. It has been quoted at | Cents a cubic inch, and lboullllr;:: by the thousand board feet ! | States is bogx. terfal for wood } — After ports rather walls on which it &rows b, supert vl y drawing ® trom them, There wag w WHO CET? THE MOREY YOU ERRN? DO You Gerqy DOES'SOM EE0)Y ELSE WHO DOES NOT EARN 117 YOUR “EARNING POWER™ CANNOT LAST A" whys, WHILE YOUARE MAKING MONEY BANK IT AND!pg FOR OLD AGE. JUST DO A LTTTLE THINKING. WE PRY 5 F ERICENT INTEREST ON TIME DEPOSITS, American State Bonk ““BE AN AMERICAN ONE OF us.” is the Time to Lay In a Supply F 98 Ib. Sacks Best Plain Flour 24 1b. Sacks Best Plain Flour 12 Ib. Sacks Bist Plain Flour 98 Ib. Srlf-Rising Fiour —————— L. 6. IWELDLLL PHONE 59 338 1.00 50c 40 e “It's a Wise Head that Builds a Shed” . Some one, also wise, has said,— To protect your tools from dew and du-t And the ravages of rain and rust” Plenty of Shed Room On a Farm Is pretty gooq evidence of economical and Successful management. During the trial of some Charles Lamb remar! he “should ke to Kno¥ them to dinner.” “T% with them?" asked solemnly. “Yes, I would sit ¥ thing but a hen or a tallor”