A SCARLET SIN.

King Country Chronicle, Volume III, Issue 168, 28 June 1909, Page 3

A SCARLET SIN.

(.mx itrurrrrf HKsr.uvnn.)

A POWERFUL STORY,

By ALICE and CL-AI'DE ASKBW, Authors of "The Shulnmite," "Ar nn of the I'lalos," &c, &c

TENTH INSTALMENT.

"This talk «»' the past is niekin* a dmsl gi-ii-f stir again." she muttered, then went on to relate how. about two years after CJeorge's hirth. hi.s father met with a fatal accident out •.hooting, and thus Iho windows of Koss Castle were darkened by sudden and uii«-x|"»-cn-d tragedy. The young wife was heartbroken for n tims*: wild In her protestations of grief, but the old man— George's unci*'—suffered in silence. His was the more abiding sorrow, though, far Mary Leslie, afier two year* of widowhood, married again. this tinn* a dashing young soldier, who had caught her volatile fancy during a month she had spent with some friends in Edinburgh, a handsome. |«ennile*s fellow, who promptly carried her off to the Indian station where his regiment was quartered. Perhaps he had expected Molwrt to make some provision for his niere by marriage, but the old man did nothing of the sort, merely oflering to provide for little fieorge. if Mary consented to give the child up to him. so that he might adopt the boy as he hail adopted his father.

Naturally Mary I.eslie consented, for it would have lieen impossible for her to take George to I rutin, and «he had imi money of her own. The Mart indoles could Imnsl more of their Mood Ihnn of their riches. Tragedy seemed In follow her. for the lost her second hustmnd within «nx months of I heir marriage. Hi" wax the victim of a sudden attack of cholera, and thus it came to paw* that. Mary, once more brokenhearted and desolate, tame hack to Ross Castle

A daughter won bom lt> her a few month* later, a posthumous child, but I.iddy's good nursing was not to prevail this time, for the daughter's birth cost the mother'.* life.

They tailed the little girl Klsle. S*he was extremely pretty, ami old Robert I.eslie took a curious liking to her at once.

Itiddy had got so far in the story when Pamela interrupted her.

"Klsle ! " she e.\cluimed. "Do you mean to say that my father's little half-sister v.ns called Klsie ? "

She rememlK'red the |>enrHled drawing as she spoke, the portrait she had shown Hnsil. and - whieh had home so woird'-rtid a resemblance to hi" mother's miniature, and her hracn whirled uiih the sudden jdea thu* pos,»ihty llnsil Farraday's mother ww* her farh.-r's half-sister, sthe rubl*>d hr r ey.-.. like one in a ttreoiit. and then rv|ieated her question.

- 'iHrrtl on' I do." returned I.iddy, with a nod of li:-r head. " "Pwas the name o" «[*• prrir lass that the ould lain! had loved, an" it rich* pretty It.llll". t«H>."

"Yes. yes." returner! I'nine! a : then slw l.tddy'r. hanrl in her own iiExl pressed it almost convulsively. ■'Tell me what hap;»-*n«il to Klsie." s»h«? »-\claiir.fe-d. "Oh. how wonderful that I s!iotdd h-s finding out all about my own p-ople at last ! Liddy looked at the girl pitifully, then lower d Ir r vo:ee to a whis|icr sis ;.h«' ronthiiitd the tale.

th-nrgr anil In** Midler passed a happy chlldtt.MFl at the Castle. Liddy *till occupying *§»" honourable position of thvir nurse. " ''l'hen. on time pass»nl on and Oeorge was sent to. Kt it", while govi-rni-wcs came to the rootle !«• undertake the education of liftl. I>isje, I-id'H look ii,' the duties t-t n h»>usek.*.-;*rr f and her little f.i.rj««(»- Iwtaui' a pleasant haven I...tie to the I'oy when fie chiiui back t»r e«(> holidays nn.l for Khde. lien*. Into l.iddy"* sympathetic r;n.v they poitrrd out the tale* of ilu ir )oyn and sorrows, always Mire ..! h.r warm interest, and of much letting and spoiling. Il was Ik' .'Oiti'. too. when f»i«orge m«« j;ri>wn into a hnmt.wiin' young tinoi wenl to Oxford. lie still ilh ttt'.i»'-«l «o tell l.iddy of all his doi oe,'"'. und Klsie. a beautiful girl of *rxt''er*. iKOur.fl all her innocent dreams and fanciest into her old Muse's ears.

Years rolled on. ami CJeorge. after having Oxford, elected to liecome a littrrislrr. (vr. unlike his father, ho was ambitious, and riexliwij ftpineItting more than to xpend his days in happy idleness in Hosis Castle. He pointed out to his great-uncle, nm| with softie justice, that there was. nothing for hlin to do on fh" ItiM pro|ierty. and the old man tinnllv gave way. and allowed tleorge t<> set »»[• In i-hamliers In the Inner TV in pie.

He frit curloin that Onorgn would hnv«» a future before him. lln realized ihnt thn boy had political ambition*, and that It would bn wrong to kirp hint loafing nt Sutherland.«li»m : also he had the companion>.htj» tv( Klstlii*. whom he had grown r.. ri-p*-»nl absolutely as. a grandliiri.glv«f'c pod of whose beauty ho

v.-*«. ,vi<n<>»t* proud.

, "v well all the country, but Jbfc !<• Tt i*-* , « *« U ' ' Ol, lf °«° "P ll '"*' «" th- Man he E>sle «o marry. Ih< rhoice had fallen on a certain l.»kr Parraday. a young man .whose inlhi* hod lieen hi* greatest friend, mitl who owned a small property known oh Motherly.

I.uke *i»4 JJUIe money, but he was <>l nn exceedingly gowil /atyijy. « l»" awl line-looking young man, 'ana, as I hi- old laird argued. Klste would havi* plenty of money herself, for it wa* hi.H intention to make an ample provision for hrr when she married : m whv shouldn't sh* marry the son of his old friend, and build up the Fnrradny fortunes? KJ«je" appeared fond of Luke, and a* to the young WW, he was devot* >ti i.> h«-r. fceart and. sou}. B'tf just as the whole .couuty 'Hntiche'(hat an engagement would i, . V Tin,»Hn»-.fl, Klsle appeared to tiro ..:■ hi t'»t*rti(rii Ut*t>f. Hhn treated ill With .■tVf.i'irUlH* t« Id«'.'»», ami • -l }.r..vi! [.> h -r er.-af-«inri>* to ■ ... r --.t-. 'M fi"- -.!!•■ ft .-..(utti.-t. an- ..! ■ ;..,.' -.>■ ti.i'i'; think s h>' I,;. ■-.-:■• .'.•■' ..->'■•!■ h

brother, and no more couJtf be wrung from her.

Shet was o lovely, swect-natured girl., with a Madonna-like cast of countenance, and great. dreamy, luminous eyes ; but for all her yielding manner, Elsie could be firm enough when she chose, and so Luke Farraday and her .great-uncle discovered. She shook her head alik* to lovers pleadings and the elder plan's protests. Her attitude to bujhwas incomprehensible, also to one day Elsie lot her into her secret, first making the old woman swear to keep what she should relate most strictly to herself. There was another man in the ca<*v It appeared, a young man called Clinton Pcele. a handsome but dissolute young fellow, who had beer, staying for some timVnt an inn not frtr from Itoss Castle, and who was supposed to l»e an artist. Nobody knew anything about him. and people wondered why he had taken up hi.s quarters at the inn. till he was discovered at his sketching : but Elsie roniiili .1 to Liddy with a hot blush and a smile that he was only playing a I being an artist.

lie was a man who had noticed her at a dam-e in Edinburgh and had not lieeu able to get introduced, hut who. having matle up his mind to see her again, took the trouble to who she was, and than to journey down to tfuthcrlamishire.

He had introduced himself to Elsie, coining across her one day during a ramble which the girl was taking on the moor, and first liegging her pardon, for addressing her. had then gone on to tell the startled girl how her beauty had so maddened him I hut he eould think of nothing ils.- but her face, ami had made the long y uruey to Sioneport in" ihi- vague ho|n- that he might find a chance of sfieaking to her.

Th-' rnmauce of the whole affair. Clinton I'i-ele's handsome figure and engaging manners, fought for him : and KliKie. instead of being intensely auimvcd. was graciously pleased to have quite at long talk with the young man. and to hold out soma faint hope.- of n future meeting. She was very young, very innocent and hopelessly ignorant of life. The knowledge of its seamy side had lieen carefully kept from her, and she acted as a child might—a child with no knowledge of guile or evil. She wanted to Introduce Clinton I'eele to her uncle, and gave him an invitation to come up and call at Koss Castle : but Clinton I'eelo knew liettcr. He told Klslc that he was quite sure the laird would bo furious with him for having dared to s|M'iik to his niece ; also he pleaded that they would Ik- far happier meeting each other on the moor than if they followed convention and met in the big stale drawing-room of Ho.-s Castle. "I*'t us meet with the hills for witnesses." he cried, '•the grand, purple hills, ami with the breath or heaven blowing mvivl and fn-sh on our fares. !>•! other talk and bow over \oiir hand in the tindraw ing-room of Hoss Castle, but poor Clinton Peele |ieefers to see you in th<» open, under the glitter of the sun.. the moor Ik- our meeU ing place ; th" l wild, lonely moor."

Sh • listened, and she thought his talk wonderfully line : also she liked the spire of adventure which went with tin's-- stolen meetings, for she counted nio.-s-troo|»ers amongst her forebears, and was a true daughter of romance and of the hills.

She diil not renli/e the harm she misfit be <li<ing to her good name. Shi* w«s like a child playing with fire—a naughty, charming child. Htil ol«l Liddy glanced at her nursling, distressed and aina/rd. when Klsie had at ln.«*t made her confession, adding, with a il.i |< and burning blush, thai she had learnt to love Clinton,

"One (if whom ye Weft nothing—a heebies* $• ranger laddie," Liddy remonstrated : but Klsie turned n deaf ear to hur nurse's reproaches displaying a new nud unaccountable wilfulness.

-•'lykhntildnH rare if• t'ljuton was a fa'ggfllr," she exclaimed with some delinirtk-. "lle'K Ju-il the lad 1 love, and that's enough ,for_ me. Liddy. One tiny, «»f course." I shall In? telling Uncle KolK-rt about binr. and we wllL have n line wedding, but not vet—not yet. It's so beautiful to love each otjher. and haw no one making n stir about us. and to meet on the moors as we do, and feel in the very heart of fairyland. There is nothing matter of fact about our wooing ; it's a poem, a dream." Liddy shook her head, but was wise enough to say nothing more for the moment realizing that if she did Klsie" wpuld" withhold all confidence from her in future; but sh,e deterinin.il, for all her prom' l *" «f confidence |o <he girl, that she would ci\v « hint < lf whal was ha ' H pening to the laird, ahd bid him follow Klsie the next time the girl went for n solitary rnmlue. She felt she must do this, even If it wn* treacherous towards Klsie, for the latter hod added, liefore she left Kiddy's little parlour, that Clinton was pressing her to a runaway marriage. "It would be so roniantir. so delicious." laughed Klsie. "ami we should escape all the fuss and stir of a modern wedding : and 1 would do it to-morrow, only I misdoubt my I'ncle Robert would In? so angry, and I wouldn't do anything that Would pcoJiy rjispjejisc hjm fpr tho world."

Shu hail tripped away laughing lightly ; but her careless words had made Liddy feel vers' anxious and disturbed. It was all very well for IJlsie to avow hvr determination of doing nothing that would annoy her uncle, but surely the girl ought to realize that these/ stolen meetings wwuTd uu|u awl iJ{«trx'f-s him. terribly. And who F0"'«1 *<" u how strong an influence Clinton I*w>« might not acquire ? No. the laird must be gtvoii a hint t»» wuich Elstc carefully. The child must not lie allowed to become the helpless prey of a hanilsome adventurer. Llddy's words of. warning were never spoken, howpver ; for when she went to tint! her master, with the Idea of discussing the mailer, she was alarmed ip'tlnd herself facing a half-distracted ol<l man. who stood clutching a teh-gram in his shaking hand. and glnrinj; impotently at any M ue who tried In . i»"«k > "•»«■ n f ,t>-.-rt n'"W» <A th>- - '"'.'ti ■•.!;••• »>: a v;i •■<■•• toiujiiutv In v '■■■■ •" ■•■■ : -'-' ■>•"'■"? "■' ■'

invested. He had lately been bitter with a dangerous mania of speculation, and confident that he would bf able to make his grand-nephew a millionaire, he had even mortgaged Hoss Castle, and the whole of his fine Scotch estate, so as to be able to invest some money in a companj which had now proved itself to be little better than a bubble mine.

116 was ruined ; and not only that, his adored children would be ruinec 100. They were now beggars instead of heirs to boundless wealth —!>eggars and ruined by the man who loved them.

The laird's despair was pitiful to witness, though Klsie tried in vain to soothe him. wired to her brother, and used her tendercst and most womanly arts to coax a smile from the old man.

"What did the loss of the money mailer ')" she argued. "Money was not everything. Ilesides, George wa> already beginning to get on well at the bar : and for herself " Here she smiled and dimpled. "AI. you must marry Luke Farra-

day '." These were the last words Robert Fx-slie addressed to his grand-niece, lie lefi the ropm as he said them, and took his way upstairs to his own bedroom. A few hours later, when the whole house was wrapped in sleep, e pistol shot broke the silence. Old Hohert I>eslie hod turned coward at last and put an end to his life, fearful of facing ii disastrous to-morrow. (Jeorge arrived' next day, and was almost heart-broken when he. heard of his frrand-uncle's rash deed, and it was pitiful to see the way he and his sister clung together, two desolate; young creatures, brought face to face for the first time with the stern realities of life.

They were bigirnrs, the two of them. Ho« ' Castle and everything r.iiit'll they had expected to be their.s had been swept away into the maw of relentless creditors. But George, after I hi* first shock of natural grief was over, was hopeful about the future, lie and Klsie would live together. He could manage to put her up in his chambers, unless she preferred to marry Luke at once ; for •veryone seemed now to think that I his was what Klsie would do. Farraday kept on imploring her to fix the day. her consent being apparently taken for granted.

Klsie astonished her world. She told Luke she could not think of marrying him. because she did not love him enough, and she refused to go and live in London with her brother. No. she would take a little cottage in the neighbourhood of Stoneport, she said, and live then with old Liddy to look after her. She had about seventy pounds a year for sole income, left her by her fathers and on this, she argued, she conld * live quite comfortably. Her brother's remonstrances and appeals were of no cfiWl. Elsie argued thut she could not be happy outside Scotland, and so George let her have her own way. l'erhaps he was hopeful, too, that she would end by marrying Luke I-'arraday. if allowed to remain in the .same neighbourhood with that constant and devoted lover.

Jt was Liddy who suspected that Klsie might have another reason for wishing to remain at Stoneport hut when she questioned the girl about Clinton .Peele, Klsie shook her head. He had gone* away, she said —departed hurriedly three days after her uncle's death, and she had never had a line from him. That was why, she explained, with bursting sobs, she wanted to remain near Stoneport, for she felt certain that Clinton would return, and unless she was still slaying in the neighbourhood, he would not know, perhaps, where to find her-.

A couple of months passed, however. liefore Clinton Peele made his reappearance at Stoneport, and. as before, his meetings with Klsie were stolen ones. He never came to the cottage, and where they kept their rendezvous was a secret.

Liddy watched her nursling with anxious eyes in those days, but it was useless to argue with Klsie. From a sweet gentle girl, she had suddenly turned into a strong determined woman—a woman ready to throw the world on one side for love.

Then one night—one terrible never-to-be-forgotten night—Elsie knelt, weeping and heart-broken, at Liddy's knee, and whispered a fearful' secret. Clinton Peelc had wronged her ',>»»= yoml redemption.

"Oh. it was piiifv,!—pitiful," old Liddy murmured, "to see that bonnic bairn, pale an' wacfu' as a broke/i flower, to hear the slow drip of her tears, an' listen to the. saughia' o' her breath ! I'd have- gathered her up in my arms, and he'd her to y\y HcatH but she cowered an'- clung to my feet."

"Oh. how terrible—how terrible:" muttered Pamela. Sho had grown white to her lips. (or she seemed to know how tragic story wotdd end. She felt convinced that she would hear that her father had wrought punishment upon his sister's betrayer. Yet who might blame Ocorge Martindale if he had ?

"I can guess the rest, Liddy," she whispered, pressing her warm lips to the old woman's hands. Then she suddenly started, for she. heard her father's voice calling cur. from the bedroom : *,iolii of blood ! The field of blood ! A lonjj fallowed his cry , • '-JTo's awake, an' he's ravin' a gen" Uddy spoke in tones of horror, then darting an anxious glance at Pamela, she ran swiftly into the darkened bed-chamber, the girl following her hurriedly. They found <»eorge Martindale sitting up in bed, his lean hands "gripping fiercely at the bcdclothe-;. tongue'of fire leaping up, iu »he grate illumined his \vi»to face, his tragic eyes, • They will dig, and they will find ' he muttered, "for the soil is red soil Olid murder must put ! "Father—father ! " cried Pamela. She sprang forward as she spoke and threw her arms about the shivering man. "Don't say such terrible such awful things,' l sfctj implpjxci. "You ure drefltulng—ivyake from yous jlreain u 4-he uian started. Then, of a sudden consciousness returned to hue, and he r. cognised his daughter, •'l'aHielft ! " he. e-xclamir-*! ana there h;is a note of consternation iU)<l hismay in his voic, "where am I 7 Who*.- house is this?" To 1 C'.ntiiiiif-—.