Between Two Sins.

Golden Bay Argus, Volume IX, Issue 100, 4 May 1905, Page 3

Between Two Sins.

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By BERTHA M. CLAY ™"' % I* *** i . • PART 3, CHAPTER YX. %, t The enti of the month of May ' rra - a hear, and during all thi# time I not seen one visitor at the hall. Just as we were when the Christmas snow fell, so were we now that the rosea and llllies were beginning te bloom, save that the outer world was like a paradise. The lake-country is, to my thinking, thae fairest part of England, with its tors and fells. Us mountains and vales.

, i shall never forget the sunlight on the hills, the blue deep waters, the winding streams, the laughing green valleys.

' I had longed for years to sfee an English May. and now my desire was gratified; I had never dreamed of anything one-half so fair. And this May was the true month of the poets, sweet and smiling. Pink and white hawthorn grew in the hedges ; the lilacs and laburnums were all in flower ; the fields were ae bright with daisies and buttercups that they appeared carpeted with silver and gold, and the handsome spiketa of the chestnuts were out In profusion.

Lady Culmore had steadfastly refused to see a doctor.

| “Why shoud I try to preserve my Ife ?" She said, when X spoke ef one. “I had one great hope, but it is dying slowly and surely. When It is quite dead. I shall die too. What is there In my life to make me desire it?" she cried passionately, “Christmas snow, March winds, summer flowers, would come and go; I should be eating my heart away."

“But, Lady Culmore/ 1 X said, "why should you feel and think In this way? ,Why should not life be bright to you as It la to others? Tou are so unhappy that I dare to talk to you as I would not to anyone else. Why need you despair? You are young and beautiful and wealthy; you have a husband who might Well, perhaps I had better not speak of that/'

i “You do pot understand," she said. "I made a terrible mistake once In my life—a most terrible mistake. I see it now. He will never forgive nor forget If."

i "How did you make W?" X asked. “Trough love of him," she answered. “Heaven knows I speak the truth. I never thought of the right or the wrong; I only thought that it was all for him."

“Can you tell me what It was you Aid?" 1 asked. She shrunk from roe. trembling, with an expression of utter despair. St teemed to me that I was about to solve the mystery at last. But she cried out: i “No—a thousand times no! The words would scorch my Ups. I did not see then as I see now."

, “And you iay Uvu this mistake of your* that estranged your husband from your* I asked.

“Yei. He sold he would never forgive ne, and I begin to think that he never will. I had hope once, but now I have none. So I pray that I may die, for the silence of death is sweet, and life Is all bitterness to me."

“I could not press the question. ] could not force her to tell me this secret which was corroding her very life.

As the spring grew wanner, she had fewer distressing nights. I urged her to come out of doors, -I tried to Interest her in the beauty of the mountain and valley, of flower and tree, but in vain.

i “My heart Is dead," she said to me one morning—l had taken her to Esthwaite Water, and we were sitting on a grassy bank. “You see the beauty of the sunlight and the flowers; I do not. Everything Is alike to me—a dull, hopeless blank."

| “Do you not think you ought to try to rouse yourself?" I asked. "I know there are inourable sorrows, but yours can hardly be one.”

| She loaked at me with a faint gleam of hope in her eye*.

i "What do you call an Incurable »or* row. Kate?" she asked—we were so much together, and she had grown so fond of me, that she generally used fry Christian name.

i "An Incurable sorrow means, I suppose, a sorrow which there seems no hope of assuaging," I replied. | "And what should you think would cause such a sorrow as that?" she asked.

I thought deeply for a few minutes; then I replied: ' “There are very few reasons for an incurable sorrow. Death would not be one, for there ie the hope of meeting again in heaven; sicknees that has no Remedy would not be one, for, patiently borne, it brings a blessing of its own; loss of money is not one, for life holds plenty of happiness without wealth, and hard work hurts no one. I am puzsled to imagine what can eauee an incurable sorrow. The only thing I can think of is the doing of an evil deed for Which there is no remedy."

"You admit that there is a ground for sorrow that can never be oured?"

Looking at the beauty of earth and iky, of the gleaming waters kissing the green banks, of the myriad* of wild Bowers and ferns growing around us, I was puzaled again. All this was the work of the great Creator. Would He who clothed the lilies, who fed the sparrows, give to one of Hie creatures pain that could not be cured?

"I am beginning to think that there is no such thing ae an incurable sorrow," I said slowly. "We agree that evil deeds, sin, crime, are the greatest sources of sorrow. There is no sin, no crime, so great but that Heaven will pardon it." "Do you think so, Kate?" and the mournful blue eyee sought mine with the first gleam of hope that I had ever seen In them. "I am sure of it," X replied. “There is no sin so great, no crome ee horrible but that Heaven will pardon, if pardon be asked.”

“But man,” she said—"why does not man forgive?" "Man acts with human power, heaven with power divine. Men in this world Judge, reward and punish according to human laws." “Then it happens sometimes," she •aid sadly, "that while heaven pardons men punish?" fa* | aaidL "Take a thlet

Ibr Instance! He may repent ot nm sin, and may ask pardon for it with prayers and tears; all the same, men must punish him. He must he imprisoned, and made, if possible, to give back his ill-gotten goods. So with all other sins. 1 am quite sure of one thing—that, no matter what men may do, heaven always pardons a humble and contrite heart.”

“Yet,” she said despairingly, "my husband will never forgive me. Why should he be less pitiful, less merciful than heaven? If I knelt and prayed to him from sunrise to sunset, he would wave me away with the same cold gesture. Oh, Kate, Kate, do not be shocked, but I think—nay, I am sure—that I would sooner have my husband’s forgiveness than the pardon of heaven." And her eyes sought mine with a wistfulness that made my very ftchc* “No, you do not mean that, Lady Culmore. for in that case you must have loved your husband with a greater love than you have given the Creator."

“I did," she gasped—“hence my sin, my terrible sin! I will be wiser, Kate. I will weary heaven with my prayers for pardon; and, when It Is granted, X will not cease to aeekqny husband’s forgiveness. Oh, my sin, my sin: It was all for love of him. I would have gone through fire and water for him; and now—’* I looked at her in wonder and amazement. What had she done? What was the sin of which she spoke? There were traoea of great sorrow on her beautiful face, but no traces of sin. A few questions from me then, when her heart was softened, would have drawn her secret from her; but I would not ask then. After we had talked for some time, she sat In silence, watching the golden light that played amongst the trees and shone upon the waters. Then she spoke again. “ Kate," she said, “ If you loved anyone very much —so much that you forgot everything else In the world, so much that you forgot all about right and wrong—and you committed a great sin for the sake of the Btan you loved, should you not think would find It easy to forgive ?'* “I should think forglvensss would de-

pend entirely on what the sin was, Lady Culmore.” The words seemed to strike her like a fctew. She wept silently, bitterly. “ Whatever wrong you did. Lady Culmori,” I said gently, “ you have suffered enough." •* I shall suffer until I die 1" she moaned. X left her a few minutes afterward to go In search of some rare ferns, and when I came back she was lying with her face on the grass. She was sobbing—- " Forgive me—oh, forgive me. It was all for him ; I loved him so.” And I wondered more than ever what was the mystery of this woman's life. CHAPTER VII. •• Miss Forster,” said Sir Rudolph, ore morning, “will you take a message from me to Mrs. Harper ? I promised to be at Bernham Woods by eleven o’clock, and It is nine now ; so that I have not time to see her myself." “ i will take any message you please, Sir Rudolph," I replied, grieved that he altogether Ignored his wife, who was present. She looked up, with a deep shadow of pain in her eyes. “Tell Mrs. Harper that I expect my brother. Mr. Ulric Culmore, this evening, and that he wll 1 remain a few weeks. I should like the blue rooms to be prepared for him." The blue rooms were two very charming apartments in the west wing, near to Sir Rudolph's ; one was used as a sit-ting-room, the other as a sleepingroom. “ Ask Hrs. Harper to see that a writing-table is placed In the sittingroom," continued Sir Rudolph ; "my brother will want to study while he Is here."

He bowed and went away. Lady Culmore came up to me, and once more I noticed the excessive whiteness of her hand, the palor of her face. She clutched rather than held my arm. "Kate," she cried, in a low, terrified whlßper, “Kate, what doeß this mean? ’ “I do not understand you, Lady Culniore," I said. “Why Is he coming, of all the people in the world? Ulric Culmore— why Is he coming? I—l am sore afraid." "Afraid of what?" I asked. "Surely not of Sir Rudolph’s brother?” "Yea, of him," She said. “What is he comlug for?" “To see Sir Rudolph, and to rest most probably," I Bald. "Do you think so?" she cried eagerly. "Do you see nothing else in it?' "What else could there be?” I asked. "He Is a barrister, and yery clever,” she said. ‘■That has nothing to do with It,” I answered, laughing. But ehe continued to tremble, and I left her to attend to Sir Rudolph’s orders. "Mr. Ulric Culmore coming !’* said the housekeeper. "I am glad !" "Do you know him ?" I asked. "Yea. miss. He came to Brooke Hall while I was there, and I liked him very much. I am glad he Is coming. He will be sure to bring some kind of change to this miserable house."

"TJhen he has never been to Ullamrre ?” I asked.

“No," she replied. "The last time ha c.imo to Brooke was to attend the funeral."

A funeral Is an every-day matter, and It did not occur to me to ask whose it was.

"When he was at Brooke Hall, all was right between Sir Rudolph and my lady,” continued Mrs. Harper. “I remember that they both drove with him to the station .He will be surprised Indeed when he sees how matters stand here; but I think he will improve them. Both Sir Rudolph and my lady are much attached to him.”

I remembered the white face and the trighitfled .eves of Ladv Culrpore, and

I doubted if this were the far as she was concerned.

On the evening of the 27th of May I went out for a short stroll through the grounds. DinneT was delayed until half past eight, on account of Ulric Culmore’s expected arrival. I wandered down to the lakeside, and st<od there watching the gold of the laburnum, the blue of the lake, the rippling green foliage, the brown distant hills, until I was lost In admiration. It was the chill breeze coming from the lake that roused me. I had been absorbed In trying to penetrate the mystery of the baronet's household, and I found that the time had passed on rapidly. I hastened back to the house; and, as I stood outside the porch, which w r as hidden by great masses of white Jasmine and climbing roses, I heard a strange voice say : “You- have visitors at Ullamere, Rudolph ?”

“No," was the quick reply, "we have pot."

“There wag one of the loveliest girls I have ever seen In my life down by the lakeside," added the strange voloe. “I saw her as I was crossing the bridge—a brunette, perfect In her way.’’ “Miss Forster,” said Rudolph, quietly

"And who Is Miss Forster V Asked the unknown.

"She is, as you say, a most lovely girl, and she Is as good as she is lovely. She lives here at Ullamere as companion to Lady Culmore/* Then I heard a light laugh. "I should not have thought you would have allowed that. You were always companion enough for her.'* I hurried away, the conversation was not intended 'for me; aad surely he, the stranger, must have been mistaken in calling me a lovely girl! Why. at school the other girla were always teasing me about my dusky hair and dark eyes ! Of oourse this must he U:rio Culmore. I longed to see his face, for his volco was rich and musical. I was young, and no one had ever praised me. no one had ever paid me any homage. My heart thrilled with delight at this tribute to my beauty. ~ , . Then the dinner-bell rang. I felt shy and embarrassed; but I had no time to think of myself. Lady Culmore came to my room. “Kate," she said, "let me go down with you.” She wore a rlah sapphire velvet, with a parure of fine pearls. “Do I look nice ?” she asked eager-

lv. “You look perfectly beautiful.’* I replied. “That is a dress fit for a queen/* "But my face ?" she said. "Kate, If you saw my face now for tha first time, should you think that I had anything on my mind, that any secret was eating my Ufa away? TeU me truely, Kate. Do I look like a woman with a secret?” I turned so that I could Bee her plainly. The magnificent drees, falling la graceful folds, suited her to perfection; the pearls shone round her white grtoeful throat and in the ooUa of her fair hair; a sweet subtle odor w&a ■wafted to me. No figure, no Pace could have been more beautiful; but, alas, she was right—it was the face of a woman with a secret! The eyes and Ups betrayed It—they were so constrained, she kept such a guard over them. She stood watching mo anxiously, as though her very life depended upon my answer. For a few moments I was silent.

"And you do not wish Mr. Ulrlc Culmore to find it out?" was all I could bring myself to say. “I da not," she replied. "Then you must let your faoa relax. There Is a restraint, a tension about it, that tells the Btory." "Hew shall I shake It olf?" she cried, suddenly clinging to me. “You are so kind to me, so good to me, tell me—how shall I shake It off?" "Forget it." I said. I regretted my words as Boon as they were uttered. She flung up her arms with a terrible cry. "Forget it! Oh, Heaven, if I might, if I could but have the power to forget It for one hour—only one hour!” I saw that one of her fits of violent excitement was impending, and that she would not be able to go down to dinner unless it was averted. I talked to her, reasoned with her, admired her dress—admiration of Bueh a kind, poor lady, always pleased her—and, by the time the dinner-bell rang, I had quite forgotten my own little gleam of happiness in having been called lovely. I went into the room with Lady Culmore. She trembled so that she could hardly hold her fan In her hands. Bom one came to meet us as we entered; some ono with a handsome face end winning voice took Lady Culmore’s hand in his and said : "Why Neat, you are not looking well ! What is the matter ? Will you Introduce me to Miss Fprster ?’ Ah, me ! the thought of the rapture of that moment will oause my heart to thrill with ecestasy until I die !

Never till then shall I forget his first glance. So I m»t my fate —the love that was my doom ! It came to me when Ulric Culmore looked Into my face for the first time. I remember It was only a momentary glance; but my heart beat fast, a mist came before rr.y eyes, a vague something stirred In my heart: one glance from those beautiful eyes had suddenly roused my whole being Into new life.

When I was myself again, he was talking to Lady Culmore, and there was evident anxiety in hte voioe. “I cannot think what has changed you so completely, Nest," he was saying. "You had two of the most delicious dimples in the world, and they have both disappeared. I remember thinking to myself that, when I married, I would.choose a wife with Just such dimples.”

How terribly awkward it was! Just as he said those words I wondered if I was blessed with such charms. I raised my eyes suddenly; and fbund that he was looking at me. I felt as though I had been detected in some

terrible crime, and blusbed to the very roots of my hair. Sir Rudolph came Into the room and went to speak to his brother. I turned to Lady Culmore, who looked very pale and agitated. “Pray forgive me, Lady Culmore,” I said. “What was the pretty name by whioh Mr. Culmore called you?’’ A sad, sweet smile came over her beautiful face.

"Nest," she replied. "It is a Welsh name. I can not tell why it was given to me. It brings back so much to my mind. I have not heard the name for a year—for a whole year. I had almost forgotten it." Then I looked up in wonder, for I heard a sound that was quite novel to me—Sir Rudolph laughing, actually laughing in the most light-hearted fashion. How completely that laugh changed the expression of his face it would be impossible to tell. I had been at Ullamere from Christmas Eve until now, the end of May, and such a thing had never occurred before. "Kate," said Lady Culmore, "do you think that Ulrlc will notice Sir Rudolph's manner to me?" I felt sure that he must; but I did my beat to comfort her by saying that we would talk so much that It would not be perceived CHAPTER Vm. >'o*l

The dinner that evening was, for two of us at least, an anxious interval. Lady Culmore evidently did not wish Mr, Culmore to see the peculiar footing on which she stood with Sir Rudolph. He himself did not change his manner In the least. Except for the needful civilities of the table, he did not address his wife. She spoke to him several tiroes, and between us we managed to hide from the visitor the terrible state of things that existed. Yet I saw him once or twice look from one to the other with strangely wondering eyes, as though he could not quite Understand or make out how matters stood. He was bewildered and puzEled. And, though it was a delight to me to sit there at table with him, where I could see the handsome face and listen to every bright, cheerful word that fell from his lips, I was glad when we went away. It was such an effort to keep up conversation In the circumstances. Mr. Culmore held the door open for us aa wo passed through. He smiled at Lady Culmore. “We stall not be long, Nest,” he said “It is a barbarous custom for men to linger over their wine.” But I felt sure Sir Rudolph would not Jo,in us; It was not his custom. Lady Culmore could not rest. "Play to me, Kate; sing to me," she said, when we reached the drawing room. "Do something that will bring them here; I dread leaving them alone.” She was pacing up and down the room, her hands clasped, here eyes full of wistful sorrow. "Sing something that will attract them,” she entreated. And I song my best songs, French and English. They did not come. I knew they would not. Her agitation Increased every moment, until it became almost hysterical. "What will he think. Kate? What will Mr. Culmore think? He must see—he must notice the change. He will never rest until he knows the cause.” "You may be quite sure that, if Sir Rudolph does not come to spend the evening with us, he will not spend it in talking about you." I read her fear. Whatever the secret of her life was, she dreaded lest her husband should reveal it to his brother. I knew Sir Rudolph was Incapable of that

I continued to play and sing; but the dock had struck 11 before they came, and I saw that the gloom and the shadow had spread to Ulric’s handsome face and rested there. Yet I felt sure that Sir Rudolph had not betrayed his wife.

Mr. Culmore looked wonderlngly from one to the other.

"You must not blame me, Nest. It is not fair to telJ tales out of school; but Rudolph would not come. He would have all my bar stories over again. I told him it was not polite/’ Then he came over to me. He talked to me, and the sound of his voice was sweet and pleasant to my ears. Yet I was not so much engrossed but that I saw Lady Culmore go up to her husband and speak to him. She folded her hands, as though she were uttering a prayer, but she did not offer to touch him. I knew afterward that ahe was pleading with him, in tones that might have melted any heart, that he would be Just a little merciful to her while Ulrlc was here. And he had answered;

"A contract is a contract. Oura can not be broken.”

The gentlemen remained in the drawing room for half an hour, and the puzzled, bewildered look in Ulric Culmore's eye« deepened. In his happy, cordial way he made an effort to bring them together. He asked If we should like a game of whist. Sir Rudolph said ''No.'* In his conversation he appealed from one to the other; but Sir Rudolph was Impenetrable; cold, impassible—nothing stirred or moved him; and, when Mr. Culmore found this to be really the case, he was too much of a gentleman to persevere. He let matters take their own course, and looked on In alienee.

When something or other happened that revealed the gulf between this haplesn husband and wife, I saw his eyes fixed on me queetlontngly; but no words crossed our lips.

Sir Rudolph seemed devotedly attached to his brother; the love that should have been lavished on his wife was given to him. It was delightful to Bee them together; he was so amiable, so attentive, Ulric so bright and kindly. *ut Lady Culmore was sorely pained. I did not remember ever to have seen her look so unhappy, ylric made no change In his treatment of her. He was kind, attentive and affectionate to her. Either he knew her secret and thought nothing of it, or did not know and retained his old affectionate respect for her. Mr. Culmore came to breakfast with us the next morning, and was startled at not finding hia brother there. "Whore Is Rudolph?" he asked. "Ho seldom takes breakfast with us,’’ replied Lady Culmore, her face flushing painfully. And Ulric, seeing it, said no more.

So the days passed, and, though Ulrlo’a presence seemed to have brought light and sunshine, it wrought no change in the unhappy relationship which existed between husband and wife. He never alluded to it; he seemed gradually to fall into our Btrange ways. He was kind and loving to both, Ignored the estrangement as much as possible, took the part of neither, and behaved as well as any man could possibly have behaved In the clrcum* stances.

After a few days Lady Culmore recovered herself, finding that her broth-er-in-law merely wondered and looked puzzled. How am I to tell what next happened! What words shall I find sweet enough,

faif EHpugrh f-Sf my etory? Cfh Christmas live, leaning over the stile that led into the anow-olad meadows, looking up to the night sky where the stars shone, I had prayed heaven as a Christmas gift to send me some one to love me; and with the budding of the green leaves, with the Binging of birds and the sunshine of May, my prayer was granted.

I seemed to be standing outside the gates of some wonderful land, when suddenly they opened, and the golden light fell upon me, blinding and dazzling me. At first I thought of Ulric Culmore simply as a Bcholar and a gentleman; later I began to look upon him as one of the handsomest, noblest, most generous of men; finally I found that his presence greatly effected me. Why should my heart beat fast at the sound of his voice? Why should my face burn at the sight of him? Why did I tremble like a leaf In the wind when he spoke to me? Why did every nerve and pulse thrill at the bare mention of his name? My heart told me it was because I loved him.

I gave him the whole love of my heart, and I never thought of Its being returned. It waa happiness enough to me to love him. I never thought of past or future; the present sufficed for me. Heaven knows that I was not presumptuous in my love. To live where I should see him, to do all In my power for those he loved, to live loving him, to die breathing his name—l had no greater ambition, no more fervent hope. To me he stood quite apart In the world of men —there was none like him, none equal to him; that he should ever dream of placing me by his side seemed almost Improbable. So the lovely month of roses came round while the heart of the child changed Into the passionate, loving heart of the woman, and I waa a child no more. How I loved him! And it was no wonder. I had seen so Httle of life. He was really the first young, handsome man I had known. That beautiful June was the happiest month of my life; not that I forgot the troubles and sorrows of others, but that the glamour of love’s young dream was so strong upon me that my heart was full.

Ulric Culmore liad oome to Ullamere to study and to rest, yet how often In the early mornings, when the lake waa like a sheet of molten gold and the rosy light lay on U»e distant hills, I found him in the grounds or down by the water side! And I had not the faintest idea that he came because he wished to. *alk to me. The knowledge that I foVed him with a full and perfect love that was to be my one secret in life, gave me, strange to say, perfect ease in his presence, perfect confidence while with him. Bo we talked in the early morning hours, under ttvc stately trees, and down by the river side, the birds singing to us, the flowora sending ua their sweet perfume, the sun shining down upon us. Mr. Culmore liked talking to me. He always took breakfast with Lady Culmore and me. He very often came during the morning to read to us as we sat In the shade of the great speadlng trees; he followed us always into the drawing room after dinner; he accompanied us in our walks and drives. “How much pleasanter a house is when there is a gentleman to take an interest In matters!” I said one day thoughtlessly to Lady Culmore. I re-

pented the words the moment I saw her face grow pale. One morning UltLc and I were together amongst the rosea. He pluoked one and gave It to me; it was a lovely moss rosebud just peeping coquettlshly from its green leaves. ‘‘Do you know what this means?’' he asked^ I said "No." that I knew nothing of the language of flowers. You do not know what a moss rosebud symbolizes?" he Questioned. “Promise me to try to find out." Was it the warm sunlight that dazzled my happy eyes? I could not look at him. I took the rosebud and ran awav shamefacedly.

(To be continued.J G3B,