Omaha Daily Bee Newspaper, December 14, 1902, Page 23

THE OMAHA DAILY BEE: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14 1902. (Copyright, 1902, by T. C. McClure.) CHAPTER XIIL My Love. As s00n as Ambler Jevons had slipped out | through my little study my love came for- ward slowly, as though with some unwill- incness he was dressed, as at the inquest, in decp mourning, wearing a smartly-cut tallor-made dress trimmed with astrakhan and a neat toque, her pale countenance cov- ered with a thick spotted veil. “Ralph,” she exclaimed in a low voice, “forgive me for calling upon you at this hour. 1 knew it's tndiscreet, but I am very anxious to see you." 1 rofurned her greeting rather coldly, I am afraid, and led her to the big armchair which had only a moment before been va- cated by my friend. When she seated herselt and faced me I saw how changed she was, even though she did ot 1t her vell haggard and sunken, her cheeks, usually pink with the glow of health, were white, almost ghastly, and her slim, well-gloved hand, resting upon the chalr arm, trembled not come to me for two whole days, Ralph,” she commenced in a tone of complaint. “Surely you do mot intend to desert me in these hours of distress?”’ “I must apologize,” I responded quickly, remembering Jevons' advice. “But the fact 1s 1 myseit have been very upset over the sad affair, and, in addition, I've had sev- eral serfous cases during the last fow days. Sir Bernard has been unwell, and I've been compelled to look after his practice.” “ir Bernard!" she ejaculated, In a tone which instantly struck me as strange. It was as though she held him in abhorence. “Do you know, Ralph, I hate to thing of you Heor dark oyes seemed | account for her vielent hostility toward him. Such thoughts, with others, flashed through my mind as I sat there facing her. She was leaning back, her bands fallen idly upon her lap, peering straight at me through that spotted veil which, half-con« cealing her wondrous beauty, imparted to | her an additional air of mystery. ““You have quarreled with Sir Bernard, 1/ presume?’ 1 hazarded. “Quarreled!” she echoed. “We were never friends.” Truly she possessed all a clever woman's presence of mind in the evasion of a lead- ing question. “He was an acquaintance ot yours “An acquaintance—yes. But I have al ways distrusted him.” “Mary likes him, I bellev “He was poor Courtenay I remarked. most intimate | triend tor many year: “She judges him from that standpoint alone. Any of her husband's friends were d she was fully cognizant of Sir Bernard's unceasing attention to the suf- ferer.” “If that is so It is rather a pity that she was recently so neglecttul,” I sald. “1 know, Ralph—I know the reason of | her. No after development of character can then shake her faith, no ridicule or ex- posure can weaken her tenderness for a | single moment; while, on the other hand, | she who has blindly belleved her lover to | be witholit a fault, must ever be in danger | of awakening to the conviction that her love exists no longer."” “As In your own case,” I added, fn an endeavor to obtain from her the reason of | this curious discourse. “My own case!” she echoed. “No, Ralph. I have neyer believed you to be a | pertect ideal. know that you loved me. Our tastes are in mutual and our affection strong and ever- increasing—until—until—" And taltering, she stopped abruptly, with. | out concluding her sentence. | “Until what?" I asked. Tears sprang to her eyes. One drop rolled down her white cheek until it reached her vell, and stood there, sparkling be- | neath the light. | “You know well,” she sald hoarsely. “Until the tragedy. From that moment, Ralph, you changed. You are not the same to me as formerly. I feel—I feel,” she con- fessed, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly, “I feel that I have | lost you." | “Lost me! I don't understan: feigning not to comprehend her. “I feel as though you no longer held me in esteem,” she faltered through her tear “Something tells me, Ralph, that—that your love for me bas vanished, nmever to | return!” With a sudden movement she raised her vell, and I saw how white and anxious was her fair countenance. I could not bring myselt to belleve that such a perfect face " 1 sald, 1 have loved you because I | common, our admiration for each other la | | of the tragedy. The furniture at Rich- mond Rond had been removed and the house advertised for sale, young Mrs. Courtenay having moved to her aunt's house in the country, a few miles from Bath. On several occasions I had dined at Red- | eliffe Square, finding both Mrs. Henniker and her husband extremely agreeable. Hen- niker was partner in a big brewing con- cern at Caphom, and a very good fellow, | while his wite was & middle-aged, fair- haired woman of the type who whop of afternoon in Hight street, Kensington. Ethelwynn had always beem a particular tavorite with both, hence she was a wel- come guest at Redeliffe Square. Old Mr. Courtenay had had business relations with Henniker a couple of years bofore, and a slight difference bad led to an open quarrel. For that reason they had never visited at Kew. On the occasions I had spent the evening with Ethelwynn at their house I had watched her narrowly, yet neither by look nor by action did ehe betray any slgn of a guilty secret. Her manner had during those weeks changed entirely; for she seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed, and, although she alluded but seldom to our love, she treated me with the same sweet tenderness as before the fatal night of her brother-in-law’s assassination. 1 must admit that her attitude, although 1t inspired me with a certaln amount of confidence, nevertheless caused me to pon- der deeply. I knew enough of human na- ture to be aware that it is woman's metier to keep up appearances. Was she keeping up an appearance of innocence, although her heart was blackened by a crime? One evening, when we chanced to be left alone in the little smoking room after could conceal a heart blackened by the crime of murder. But, alas, all we men are dinner, she suddealy turned to me, say- ing: : : : : : : : : All Druggists. ERRTEREFAERR Back Ache suwmmwnwmnammm LR to blame nine times the trouble begins— ar troubles, dia Disease. Doan’s Cure kidney trouble of any kind. in Omaha every this claim it right here people indorse perience for the be case: Mrs. O. for two years. 1 tried diff until I procured Doan's Kidney Pills at Kuhn & Co.'s drug store, corner 15th and Douglas stre was relieved, and in a sho remedy, and you are at liberty to use my name for publication.” Fester -Milburn Co. Buffalo, N. Y. Price 50 Cents- Kidney Ache May as well call things by their right name. It is backache, to be sure—but the kidne, take the uric acid out of the blood—that's where You know the rest; A. Earl of 1203% South 11th street, Kidney Pills cured me of trouble with my back, which bothered me E : is s are s out of ten. They fail to backache, headache, urin- betes—and then, Bright's Kidney Pills Are doing day. Omaha and tell their ex- nefit of others. Read this says: “Doan’'s lerent remedies, but none gave me relief cots, rt Before I took all of one time cured. They are box I a grand ; : ; ; : - SHRE I WO G5 IO S TR 7 Sl MR S R = 0 _ cheer is taken seriously by romantic girls|of foolscap lay upon 1it, and curiosity [a moment later it was equally apparent who believe that to marry a doctor is to attaln social status and distinction. Heigho! When I think of all my own little love episodes, and of the Ingenious diplomacy to which I have been compelled to resort in order to avold tumbling into prompted me to glance at it. that they were mot on the most friendly What I saw puzzled me considerably, for | terms, for of a sudden the voice sounded beside the paper was a letter of my own | again quite distinctly—raised in a cry of that I had sent him on the previous day, | horror, as though at some sudden and ter- while upon the foolscap were many lines | rible discovery. of writing in cxcellent imitation of my own.| “Ah! T see—I sce 1t all now!" shrieked in assoclation with that man.” “Why?" 1 asked, much surprised, whils at that same moment the thought flashed through my mind how often Sir Bernard had given me vague warnings regarding her. They were evidently bitter enemies. “I have no Intention to give my reasons,” #he replied, her brows slightly knit. “I merely give it as my opinion that you chould e longer remain {n association with him." “But surely you are alone In that opin- fon!" I sald. ‘“He bears the highest char: acter, and is certainly one of the first physicians in London. His practice is, per- haps, the most valuable of any medical man at the present moment.’ don't deny that,” she sald, her gloved fingers twitching nervously. A man may be a king, and at the same time a knave." 1 smiled. It was apparent that her in- tention was to separate me from the man to whom I owed nearly all, if not quite all, my sucl And why? Because he knew of her past, and she feared that he might, in a moment of confidence, betray all to me. “Vague hints dre always irritating,” I remarked. ‘“Cannot you give me some reas son for your desire that my friendship with him should end?" “No. If I did you would accuse me of selfish motives,” she said, fixing her dark eyes upon me. Could a woman with such a Madonna. like countenance be actually gulity of mur- der? It seemed incredible. And yet her manner was that of a woman haunted by the terrible secret of her crime. At that moment she was seeking, by ingenious means, to conceal the truth regarding the it. She feared that my intimate friend- ship with the great physician might result in her unmasking. “I can't see that selfish motives enter into this affair at all,” I remarked. “What- ever you tell me, Ethelwynn, is, I know, for my own benefit. Therefore, you should at least be explicit.” “I can't be more explicit.” “Why not?" ‘“Because I have no right to utter a libel without being absolutely certain of the don’t quite follow you,” I sald, rather puzzled. I mean that at present the information I have 1s vague,” she replied. “But if it is the truth, as I expect to establish it, then you must dissociate yourself from him, Ralph. “You have only suspicions? “Only susplcions. 'Of what?" Of a fact which will some day astound you." Our eyes met agaln, a look of intense earn: me to wonder. be referring? “You certainly s my curlosity,” I sald, affecting a laugh. “Do you really think Sir Bernard such a very dreadful per- son, then?” You do not take my Words seri- she remarked. “l am warning you, Ralph, for your own benefit. It is a pity you do not heed me." “I do heed you," I declared. “Only your statement 18 so strange that it appears most incredible.” “Incredible it may seem, but one day ere long you will be convinced that what 1 say tonight s the truth.” “What do you say “I say that Sir Bernard Eyton, the man in whom you place every confidence, and whose example as & great man in his pro- fession you are so studiously following, is not your friend." “Nor yours, I suppose.” “No, nelther is he mine This admission was at least the truth, 1 had known it long ago. But what had been the cause of difference between them was hidden in deepest mystery. Sir Ber. nard, a8 old Mr, Courtenay's most intimate triend, knew in all probability of his en- gagement to her and of its rupture in tavor of hor 3 It might even be that Sir Bernard had had & hand in the breaking of the engagement. If so, that would well nd I saw in hers tness that caused To what could she possibly “I SAY THAT SIR BERNARD EYTON, T CONFIDENCE, I8 NOT YOUR FRIEND." HE MAN IN WHOM YOU PLACE EVERY it all,” she faltered. “I can't explain to you, becat it is not just that I should ex- pose my sister's secret. But I know the truth which when revealed will make it clear to the world that her apparent neglect ‘was not culpable. She had a motive.” “A motive in going to town of an ev ing and enjoying herseif!" I exclaimed. “Of course, the motive was to obtain relaxation. ‘When a man is mo han twice the age of his wife the latter is apt to chafe beneath the golden fetter. It's the same every- where—in Bayfair as in Mile End; in Su- burbia as in rural village. Difference of age is difference of temperament, and dif- ference of temperament opens a breach which only a lover can fill. She was silent—her eyes cast down. She saw that the attempt to vindicate her sister had, as before, utterly and ignominiously failed. ‘“Yes, Ralph, you are right,” she admitted at la “Judged from a philosophic stand- point & wife ought mot to be more than ten years her husband’s junior. Love which arises out of mere weakness 1s as easily fixed upon one object as another, and can- sequently is at all times transferable. It is #0 pleasant to us women to be admired and 80 soothing to be loved that the grand trial of constancy to a young woman married to an elderly man is not to add one more con- quest to her triumphs, but to earn the r spect and esteem of the men who is her husband. And it {s difficult. Of that I am convinced.” There was for the first time a true ring of earnestness in her voice, and I saw by ber manner that her heart was overbur- dened by the sorrow that had fallen upon her errant sister. Her character was a complex one which I had falled always to analyse, and it seemed just then as though her endeavor was to free her sister of all the responsibilities of her married life. Bhe had made the effort once before, prior to the tragedy, but its motive was hidden in obscurity. ““Women are often very foolish,” she went on, half apologetically. “Having chosen their lover for his sultability they usually allow the natural propensity of thelr youth- ful minds to fnvest him with every ideal of excellence. That is a fatal error committed by the majority of women. We ought to be satisfied with him he is, rather than imagine him what he never can be." “Yes,” I sald, smiling at her philosophy. “It would certainly save them a world of disappointment in after Nfe. It has always struck me that the extravagant investiture of fancy does not belong, as is commonly supposed, to the meek, true and ablding at- tachgment which it is woman's highest vir- tue and noblest distinction to feel. 1 strongly suspect it is vanity, and not affec- tion, which leads a womap to believe her lover perfect, because it enhances her tri- umph to be the choice of such a man. “Ah! I'm glad that we agree, Ralph,” s sald, with a sigh and an air of deep serious- ness. ““The part of the true-hearted woman 18 to be satisfied with her lover such as he is, 0ld or young, and to consider him, with all his faults, uficlently perfect for MOTHER'S ==\ nhn.eueoncodyhthdrhlm :\ this aid during the mother is the constant prop of the child 14 | the trials of As Mother's Friend before her N o weak where a pretty woman is concerned. After all, it s feminine wiles and feminine graces that rule the world. an is but a poor mortal at best, ily moved to sym- pathy by a woman's tears, and as easlly misled by the touch of a soft hand or a phs- slonate caress upon the lips. Diplomacy s Aoborn in woman, and although y woman {s not an adventuress, yet one and all are clever actresses when the game of love is being played. The thought of that letter I had read and destroyed again recurred to me. Yer she had concealed her secret—the secret of her attempt to marry Courtenay for his money. And yet if, as seemed so apparent, she bad nursed her hatred, was it not but natural that she should me a hostile attitude toward her sister—the woman who had eclipsed her in the old man's affections? Nevertheless, on the contrary, she was al- way# apologetic where Mary was concerned, and had always sought to conceal her short- comings and domestic infelicity. It was that point which so sorely puzzled me. “Why should my love for you become suddenly extinguished?" I asked, for want of something other to say. “I don’t know,” she faltered. “I cannot tell why, but T have a distinct distrust of | the future, a feeling that we are drifting apart.” She spoke the truth, A woman in love is quick of perception, and no feigned af- fection on the man's part can eVer blind her. I saw she read my heart like an open book, and at once strove to reassure her, trying to bring myself to believe that I had misjudged her. “No, no, dearest,” I sald, rising with a hollow pretence of caressing her tears away. “You are mervous and upset by the tragedy. Try and forget it all.” “Forget!" she echoed in a hard volce, her eyes cast down despondently. ‘“‘Forget that 1 can never forget it— CHAPTER XIV. In Distinetly Curious. The dark days of the London winter brightened Into spring, but the mystery of old Mr. Courtenay's death remained an enigma inexplicable to police and public. Ambler Jevons had prosecuted independent inquiries assiduously in various quarters, detectives had watched the subsequent movemente of Short and the other servant but all to no purpose The sudden disap pearance of Short was discovered to be due to the illness of his brother. The identity of the assassin as well as the mode in which the extraordinary | wound had been inflicted both remained | mysteries impenetrable. At Guy's we were a trifie understaffed and my work was consequently a trifle heavy, while added to that Sir Bernard was suffering from the effects of a severe chill and had not been able to come down | town for nearly a month. Therefore I had been kept at it practically night and day, dividing my time between the hospital, | | enay's sister, is doing? thought how strange you must have thought my visit to your rooms that night, Ralph. It was unpardonable, man."” t Sir Bornard?" I observed, laughing ‘es. But it appears that you have not heeded me,” she sighed. “I fear, Ralph, that you will regret some day.” “Why should I regret? Your fears are surely baseless.” “No,” she answered decisively. “They are not baseless. I have reasons—strong ones—for urging you to break your connece tion with him. He is no friend to you.” I smiled. I knew quite well that he was no friend of hers. Once or twice of late he had sald in that peevish, snappy volce of his: “I wonder what that woman, Mrs. Court- 1 hear nothing of her. I did not enlighten him, for I had no de- sire to hear her maligned. I knew the truth myself sufficiently well. But turning to her,I looked straight into her dark, luminous eyes, those gyes, thos eyes that held me always as “beneath a spell, saying: “He has proved himself my best friend up to the present. I have no reason to doubt him." “But you will have. “In what manner, enemy?"" She hesitated, as though half fearing to respond to my question. Presently she sald: “He Is my enemy—and therefore yours." “Why is he your enemy?” I asked, eager to clear up a point which had so long puz- zled me. “I camnot tell,” ehe responded. “One sometimes gives offense and makes ene- mies without being aware of it.” The evasion was a clever one. Another ilustration of her tactful ingenulty. By dint of careful cross-examination I endeavored to worm from her the secret of my chief's antagonism, but she was dumb to every Inquiry, fencing with me In & manner that would have done credit to a police court solicitor. Though sweet, in- mocent and intensely charming, yet there ‘was a reverse side in its character, strong, firm-minded, almost stern in its austerity. 1 must here say that our love, once so passionate and displayed by fond kisses and hand-pressing, in the usual manner of lovers, had gradually slackened. A ki on arrival, and another on departure, was all the demonstration of affection that now passed between us. I doubted her, and though I strove hard to conceal my true feelings, I fear that my coldness was apparent, not only to her but to the Hen- nikers, also. She had complained of it when I warn you." then, 1s he my | she called at my rooms, and certainly sho bad tull reason for doing so. of those who can fein love. 1 cannot. Thus it will be seen that although a cer- tain coolness had arisen between us, in a manner that seemed almost mutual, we were nevertheless the best of friends. Once or twice she dined with me at a restau- rant and went to a play afterward, on such occasions remarking that it seemed like “old times,” in the early days of our blis tul love. And sometimes she would 1 those sweet haleyon hours, until I felt a pang of regret that my trust in her had I am not one Some men can, Harley streets aid my rooms. I saw little of my friend Jevons, for his partner had been ordered to Bournemouth for his health and, therefore, his constant attendance at | his office in Mark lane was imperative, Ambler had mow but lMttle lelsure save | on Sundays, when we would usually dine together at the Cavour, the Globe, the Florence or some other foreign restau- been shaken by that letter found among the dead man's effects and that tiny plege of chenille. But I steeled my heart, be. cause I felt assured that the truth must out some day. Mine was a strange position for any man. I loved the woman, remember; loved her with all my heart and with all my soul. Yet that letter penned by her had rapt. s 1 spoke to him of the tragedy he would sigh, his face would assume a pussled expression and he would declare that the affair utterly passed his compre- hensiol Once or twice he referred to Ethelynn, but it struck me that he did not give tongue to what passed within his | mind for fear of offending me. Hie meth- ods were based on patience, therefore I | often wondered whether he was still secretly at work upon the case, and, if so, whether he had gained any additional facts. | i | shown me that she had once angled for larger spoils, and was not the sweet, un- | sophisticated woman I had always supposed her to be. It showed me, too, that in her heart had rankled a flerce, undying hatred. Because of this I did not seek her so- clety frequently, but occupled myself dili- gently with my patients—seeking solace in my work, as many another professional n does where love or domestic happiness is comcerned. There are few mem in my projession who have not had thelr affairs of beart, many of them serious ones. The | world never knows how difficult it Il‘ for a Of Ethelwynn I saw but little, making constant occupation Sir Bor- | .| She had taken war- square, at Slayed go the night | . | doctor to remain heart-whole. Sometimes his lady patients deliberately set themselves to capture him, and will speak ill-naturedly of him if he refuses to fall into their net, At others, sympathy with & sufferer leads into & firtation during comvalescence, and often & word apoken Io jest in order to He had been practicing the pecullarities the unknown woman. I know—only I wanted to warn you of that | pitfalis set by certaln designing daughters of Eve, I cannot but sympathize with every | ©! other medical man who is on the right side of 40 and sound of wind and limb. There is not a doctor in all the long list In the medical register who could not relate | strange stories of his own love episodes, romances which have sometimes natrowly escaped developing into tragedies, and plots concocted by women to inveigle and to al- | lure. It fs 80 easy for a woman to feign |V illness and call in the doctor to chat to her and amuse her, Lots of women in London do that regularly. They will play with a doctor's heart as a sort of pastime, while the unfortunate medico often cannot af- ford to hold aloof for fear of offending. It he does, then evil gossip will spread among his patients, and his practice may suffer considerably; for in no profession does a man rely so entirely upon his good name and a reputation for care and integ- rity as that of medicine. I do not wish it for a moment to be taken that I am antagonistic to women, or that I would ever speak ill of them. I merely refer to the mean method of some of the idling class, who deliberately call in the doctor for the purpose of flirtation and then boast of it to their intimates. To such, a man's heart or a man's future are of no consequence, The doctor 1s easily visible, and is, therefore, the easiest prey to all and sundry. In my own practice T had a good deal of experfence of it. And I am not alone. Every other medical man, If not a gray- headed fossil' or a wizened woman hater, bae bad similar eplsodes; many strange— some even startling. Reader, in this narrative of curious events and remarkable happenings, I am taking you entirely and completely into my con- fildence. I seek to conceal nothing, nor to exaggerate in any particular, but to present the truth as a plain, matter-of-fact state- ment of what actually occurred. 1 was & unit among a hundred thousand others engaged in the practice of medicine, not more skilled than the majority, even though | $ir Bernard’s ihfluence and friendship had | placed me in a position of prominence. But in this brief life of ours it is woman who makes us dance as puppets on our miniature stage, who leads us to brilliant success or to black ruin, who exalts us, above our tellows or hurls us into oblivion. Woman— always woman. Since that awful suspicion had fallen upon me that the hand that had struck old Mr. Courtenay wi that soft, delicate one that 1 had so ofterg carried to my lips, a blank bad opened M my life. Consumed by confiicting thoughts, I recollected how sweet and true had been our affection, with wkat an intense passionate love-look she had gazed upon me with those wonders ful eyes of hers; with what wild, flerce pas- sion her lips would meet mtine in fond cares Alas! it had al! ended. She had acted a le to me. That letter told the bitter truth. Hence, we were gradually drifting apart One Sunday morning in May, just as I had finished my breakfast and flung myself into an armchair to smoke, as was my habit on the day of rest, my man entered, saying that Lady Twickenham had sent to ask if I could go round to Park Lane at once. Not at all pleased with this call, just at a moment of laziness, I was, nevertheless, obliged to respond because her ladysmith wids one of Sir Bernard's best patients, and sufforing as she was from a malignant in- ternal complaint, I knew it was necessary to respond at once to the call On arrival at her bedside I quickly saw the gravity of the situation, but, unfor- tunately, 1 knew very little of the case, be- cause Sir Berpard himself always made a point of attending her personally, Al- though elderly, she was a prominent woman in soclety, and had recommended many patients to my chief in earlier days, be- fore he attained the fame he had now achleved. ] remained with her a couple of hours, but, finding myself utterly confused regarding her symptoms, I resolved to take the afternoon train down to Hove and con sult Sir Bernard. 1 suggested this course to her ladyship, who was at once delighted with the suggestion. Therefore,’ promising to return at 10 2'clock that night, I went out, swallowed a hasty luncheon, and took train down to Brighton. The house was ome of those handsom mansions facing the sea at Hove, and drove up to it on that bright, sunny afte poon it seemed to me an ideal residence for a man jaded by the eternal worries of o physician's life. The sea-brecze stirred the suublinds before the windows and the flow- ers In the well-kept boxes were already g with bloom. I knew the place well, for I bad been down many times before; there- fore, when the page opened the door he showed me at once to the study, & room which lay at the back of the big drawing | room. “Sir Bernard is in, sir,”” the page sald, “I'll tell him at once you're here, and he closed the door, leaving me alone. | 1 walked toward the wisdow, which lookod | out upon & small flower garden, and in so | doing, passed the writlng table. A sheet | | t my handwriting. nusual. But with what pur- pose was a profound mystery. I was bending over, the words and noting how caretully they had | been traced in imitation, when, of a sud- | den, T heard a volce in the drawing-room adjoining—a woman's voice. 1 pricked my ears and listened—for the | eccentric old fellow to entertain was most | closely examining He always hated women, because| he saw too much of their wiles and will- fulness as patients. Nevertheless it was apparent that he had a lady visitor in the adjoining room, and| me! Coward! “You have deceived You call yourself a man— you, who would sell a woman's soul to the devil!"” “Hold your tongue!" cried a v I recognized as Sir Bernard's. be overheard. Recollect that can only be secured by your secrecy.' clared. my chief in a tone of deflance. and condemn yourself.” (To be Continued.) “Tell ey On Crutches SUFFERING WITH RHEUMATISM acid, remove it from the system and cleanse the blood of all poisons. 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