FOR ANOTHER'S SIN

Bush Advocate, Volume XXII, Issue 213, 13 September 1910, Page 3

FOR ANOTHER'S SIN

(Continued.)

Rapidly, in the meantlime, Sir Walter rode to his misery'—his fate, has throbbing brain full of terror' for her he loved. Illness, death, he beliievi ed, could" alone explain such a note as the one he had received on> this,

Juliet's weddling day. ,_ As li-e reaic-'hed- the end of tlhe high his glan.ee rested on tlh'e..)i?assplate bearing t'he name of Tk. Bel'ton. A bitter expression swept over his countenance. Then he muttered : "There are other troubles besides that—others of which, 'lie .and his are innocent." He rods on, quitting the town, and leaving the doctor's liouse behind hint, unlike .several Who were wondering 'at the circumstance—unobservant that the shuitlters- of the surgery door and window yet rem a hied closed, ■tihough nearly ten o'clock. H© was equaliy unobservant of everything, even to the unusual occulrireaioe- of the ledge- gates standing wide open,, and that the lodgeheeper never appeared, as lie passed tlhrongh. He onily rejoiced at mo delay being placed in his way, and dashed on up the -avenue, from the arching trees of which bright ice drops, like Dryads' tears, fell on him as he went. On the broad marble steps <a. groom was awaiting hiin. No other domestic was visible, though curious eyes belonging to sympathising hearts wiattahed him from upper windows as lie dismounted, themselves unseen. "Tlie Squire is in the library, Sir "Walter," said the groom. Without answering, the baronet, casting the rein oyer the horse's week, entered the liouse. A strange silence, the heavy weight of dire trouble, hung in tire air, unconsciously filling Mm with a yet sense of depression. I

Crossing tlhe hall, he opened the library door, went ini, and closed it behind liim. He saw lie was a'lome with the Squire. Then all liis strength, ail *fche, till now, cnl-mness of his outer bearing, itVa'e rigidity of his features, gave way. His tongue was loosed,, his anxiety, 'liis grief burst forth, and, advancing quickly toward tine Squire., who, his back to the ilight, came to meet liim, he exclaimed : "Uncle', tell 1 me of her—of Juliet—of my darling! What is it ?Is she ill—dying ?'' "Dying!" broke forth, tlhe old m.an, liis voice urn steady with the passion he could no longer suppress. "Dying, Walter? Would to Htsiave-n it was l that! Would to Heaven I could see her now lying here dead at oar feet. Better —far better that-! I'M—dying ! Nk>; she lias gone ! —she has left us!" "Gone!" echoed the amazed baronet, his dark eyes fixed in bewilderment, Mended with a- fearful dawniing of the truth upon the flushed, wrathful features of his companion. "Whati do you mean, uncle?" he proceeded, almost fiercely. "Juliet dead! Howdare you speak thus of her? Say, what lias happened ? What do you mean?" "Thafti she, my daughter, her daughter," ejaculated the Squire., eaidh nierve convulsed with anger, ' 'has gone—that she- eloped last night wiltlh Lioneil Bed-ton! She has rejected your love, for his. She has fled to his arms!''

TOi© baronet spoke not a word. A bluish, stony-white hue spread rapidly over bis countenance, even to the lips, white every nerve, in his strong frame seemed painfully contracted as the sensitive plant sbrinilcs under the rough touch of man. His only action was to fling out his arms, apparently with .'the intention of checking those awful sentences —of pluckiang downs the unpraised hand that oatMled' Heaven- to witness .a father's curse upon his only child. Then, without >a single warning tremor, his tall figure, with a crash, fell prostrate * , ©ss the carpet. "It! lias slain him!" ejaculated the Squire, bending over his nephew. "It is'her. work; the work of her we have so loved and cherished. The our&e lias already commenced; his death is oar her head!''

CHAPTER VIII

DARK HOURS

Tfhe Squire had risen 'that morning brighter, more genial than even the sun. His eyes sparkled, his cheek glowed: as though, the frosty air of a hunting morn had been brusliing it. But< this was better than a, hunting morning. It was the morning of the confirmation of his fondest hopes—his daughter's union with itho maun he most esteemed and honored on £arth, his nephew. When the hour arrived for a. father to soir-rcnder the child whose existence is dearer to him than his own to the protection of another, w : hose disposition he only can believe he knows, Ms mind is visited by painful doubts and forebodings—doubts whether his estimation: of 'his future son-in-law is correct; amxieties whether possession may not produce indifference, a,nd wea riiniess succee d. The Squire was spared amy of these sensations. He knew the 'baronet's mature thoroughly, aaid was aware that, a.s tenderly and a-, faithfully as he had loved Juliet's mother, Sir Wali ter loved Juliet.

"What a dull, lonely time it will for mo here when the child is he reflected, as he dressed. I must be content inn the knowI 'ledge that she is happy, and settle ™ quietly down by my own. rhinmiey uook or beg a corner at theirs when," he added, wit ha merry smile winch sent myriads of wrinkles about the cornea's of his- month and eyes, "it is mot the hunting season. Jackson-," lie- continued, aloud, to his valet, "go to Miss Seb worth's apartments, and, Avith my love, ask how she is this moralng; also give her this.''' He took a jewel casbot from tii ■- table, and, opening it, stood a few seconds, a sadness stealing over Ids features, silent!y contemplating the diamonds within. "I resign them to her only at the last moment." he murmured, beneath ]i-is breath. "She will look as beauti-

By BERTHA M. CLAY.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

rivl in them as did her poor, unfortunate mother. Poor JMsw-g.arxj.-t ! .Ji'eayen sav-. Juliiet from so cruel a fate !'* He closed the lid jsighiug deeply, and, in riving, placed it in the valet's hands.

"T"ke tin's to- my daughter, with my lo.ve, Jackson. Tell her to obligr me by wanu-Mui and nock•l.fet. to.-day' ; " added to himself, '"her mother •■■ore them on her wedding. This wo v. id have been a proud, a happy hour for dear Margaret, cou'ld she have lived to see it!"

Brushing his hand across his eyes, by an effort he banished thoughts that were too gloomy for the present occasion, and completed brushing his hair, a portion' of his toilet 'he never committed to liis valet.

One, two, three, four, five minutes elapsed, and ignorance of the truth was yet granted him. Then the old valet, scared, and 1 not ready nor willing to- meet his master's eyes, re-en-tered, the casket stili in his hand. "Well, Jackson;, how is my daughter?" asked the Squire, catching a glimpse of him in the gl'ass, before which lie stood, vigorously using the hairbrushes.

"Why, Squire, if you- 'please, I—l fear there is something wrong. 77

i "Wrong!" and the Square swung around on his heel—"wrong! What, in Hiea vena's name, dices the fellow mo am? How you look, nian ! Speak !" he added', abruptly, and changlng color. "Is my daughter i!'I ! ?" "No, Squire'"; but I'll just tell yon, Squire; I met the housekeeper as I went to Miss £;e'bworth.'s apartments. She too', was .going there, being surprised that Susannah Wei drake 1 had not come as usual to fetch Miss Juliet's chocolate, which was waiting." ' 'Well, well—go on ! Heavens ! what a woman's tongue f.cr verbosity you have, Jiackson.! To the' point, man—to the point;!'* ejaculated the Squire, imiiatienitly. "My daughter !'' "I w-efl.it with the- housekeeper," proceeded tflie valet, apparently willing to 'delay the intcffigemce, and' by no means 'Hiding his position. "She knocked, Squire. No one answered. She knocked again—twice—thrice ; then entered, for the door was unlocked " "Well?" "The room was empty, Squire, and " "And what, man?" cried his master . "Mass Sebwoirth and 'her maid are nowhere to be found." For a moment the Squire stood gazing at the speaker, as if he were some curious species of humanity which he had never before beheld. Then a convulsive tremor ran through him, and he made one or two efforts before he mulfctered /hoarsely : "It is false! She would not!" The valet made mo answer. There was another pause, then'; the Squire str'odle rapidly from the apartmemit toward his daughter's room. The few servants to whom curiosity had given, courage to approach, crept quickly from his path, terrified by his expression. At the door he encountered the housekeeper. "Oh, Squire " she began, in tremulous tones of sympathy. But lie put her aside by a motion of the hand. "I tell you it is false," ho said, sharply. "I'll not believe it! Let no on© else do so !" Entering the room, -he looked around. -The bed, with its rich draperies, had surely never been slept in. Signs, indicative of haste and disorder, were everywhere; but mo sign of his daughter. Walking to the windows, he tore aside the- curtains, 'letting in the sun*, light-, then- went to the toilet table—a gem of silver, ivory and lace. Upon it was a letter addressed to himself. The housekeeper had already discovered it, but had left it for him to find.

The Squire was a. good, kind master, consequently there was not one who willingly would have been the bearer of bad news to him.

As he. raised it, his hand was observed to shake, and he began to tremble, violently; his ruddy cheek paled under the foreboding of coming evil. He stood" an instant undecidedly fingeviing the letter; afterward, crossing to the door, he closed, and locked it.

The servants and housekeeper heard the key turn., and eagerly drew within listening distance. Meanwhile, freed from witnesses, the Squire went back to the table, sat down on the chair placed before it, and, with fingers so unsteady that they could hardly perform their office, opened the letter. The contents weire passionate, mournful, heaa'tbrokem ; but no intelligence could they have conveyed more terrible to the reader. The letter ram:

"Deadest father- : How can I, a daughter of so unworthy of, ao ungrateful for, your love, fiinid courage to address yiou ? The sans© of my imgiiatitu-die overwhelms me. Severely may you blame me; your, blame canvil ot equal my own:. Whatever terms you use in speaking of me I deserve ; ftiicy will, not outbalance those I heap upon myself. Ingratitude, deception, cowardice, and your unfortunate daughter's name must henceforth in your mint?, be synonymous. Deception! YesV I have been a. hypocrite. £bw';-n;n"l' write it ■? that my secret should be'Tli.se ore red, I promised to wed my'- cousin; poor Waltieir, too good, too noble for one such as I. My secret—the secret that my heart was already irrevocably given ells ewhere !