THE LODGES OF DESTINY.

Lake County Press, Issue 1063, 7 May 1903, Page 6

THE LODGES OF DESTINY.

i OJM RIGHT.

11V J MONK FOSTER. CHAPTF.R XXII. "UKNDKU TIIERFFORE UNTO U.ESAR." Man hj had come in, and a roaring aMiI was tearing over the land, loud«u«ittlied as a blustering braggart, and «••! emingly as eager to keep up an almost vanished reputation. It was evening—idght, one might have sail, from the rattling artillery of the fitful gusts, and ifie prevailing darkness out of doors. Inside the big dining-room at Pavklitirst House all was bright and cosy enough. A great tire blazed and roared in the grate, as if in rivalry of the wind outside, the big gaselier over the neat table burnt clear and brightly, and John Blandford and his second son were enjoying the post prandial hour after their own quite fashion-now sipping a little decent pott, anon pulling peacefully at their capital cigars, and then rising into fraanientary chat or lapsing into momentary silence, GeoUrey was dining elsewhere that evening with rome of his more ambitious acquaintance; and neither father nor brother seemed to deplore his absence greatly. A little while after the meal was cleared away David had brought his fiddle, aud now and again had touched its vibrant strings to music. Again in a space of conversational silence he turned to his instrument. The mood moved him now to the playing of some ancient nocturne—a sweet, quaint, dreamy thing in keeping with his own thoughts, and, had the musician but known it, in touch also with the trend of his father's retrospective reverie. The younger man was dreaming then of his own ill-starred passion for a woman who did not love him; the elder one was passing in swift review the hopes and ambitions, the resolves, realisations, and emptinesses of his past life. The wind howled at the windows, and the piping of the strings sobbed eerily inside. It was a strange piece, into which some old master of Music seemed to have put his soul. There was passion and pathos and infinite regret in the voices or the strings. The fiddle seemed to have a life story in it—a little human diama which David was translating into soft sounds. The nocturne seemed to punctuate every phase of feeling through which the cotton-master was mentally treading his way, and win n the music surged fiercely, ere it sobbed out into silence, there was strange thoughts in the minds of each. John Blandford gazed at his son with the eye of a satisiied affection. Ho loved David in a way that was quite unlike the regard he gave his elder son. fn Geoflrey the father could Bee all his old passions reproduced. He was selfish, masterful, ambitious ; he was swayed by the desire to make footballs of all men and the world. David represented the quieter and letter part of his nature. In him all those qualities had beeu developad which the mill-owner had allowed to rust —or at best only fructify late and bear meagre crops. The elder son was typical of the father's early days—the younger son of htr- latter ones. " David," the sire broke out suddenly from his moody silence, "have you never though of marrying and setting up a household of your own. my lad ? " " x have thought so often of late, father." " And now ? " •* And now I have made up my mind never to marry." " Never ? " " Unless the apparently impossible becomes possible." " Why the change ? " " The woman I wished to make my wife said ' No,' and that put an end to my dreams in that direction." " You aimed too high, perhaps, David ?" " Surely not—at least not in the way you mean, father. She is a girl who works in a cotton mill.' •' And yet you are eligible in every way—good-looking, of domesticated habits, good prospects just the man for making a model husband and family man." " Unfortunately, all those strong oualitications were of no avail in my case." There was an infinite regret in David's tones, but no bitterness. " You will love again, David ; and if • ou do, marry the woman you love. Never mind what her position may be—marry her. Nay, I think I should be Tetter pleased to see you marry a poor girl in preference to n rich one." ' Why ? Because my own position as jne of your sons makes a rich wife unnecessary ? " the sou asked. " No ; but because a poor woman who loves you expects so much than a rich wife who does not love you. And I esides, my dear lad, I cannot hope to leave you wealthy." There was something in John Blandtord's tones which caused his son to lower the ci«ar he was lighting and bend a somewhat inquiring look upon the other; yet when he spoke his voice was only pleasnntly iucredulous, "' Wealthy!" he remarked, with a quiet laugh. " Not wealthy as the LloydY/illiams and Knowltons -great iron. founders and colliery-owners -read the word, but rarely wealthy enough for my poor an J unambitious self, father ?*' " You are thinking now of that thirty odd thousands in the bank. David; and oi the mills as well," the elder man Tied, a grim, half-cynical look about his mouth. " Of both, most assuredly. How was 1 to help that ?" •' (r-ut twenty thousand of that money 'tr« not mine, my lad; nor can you ever ho «m to inherit any part of it." ' f /en if it goes to G.'otlrey. father, 1 tj'f : never have oe<-«<v.>n to do utlur vise :i'an bless you- -••ne." •• j>i.i i! cannot go to your brother either. Did I not tell you thai the sum ] named is not mine ?" " Not your-, father? How? What ? 1 The sou paused, curing hit question*,

instead of phrasing them, and the ither coughed, passed his hand across his brow, drew his chair nearer the lire ;;nd his companion ere he proceeded in explain the puzzle. " It's the truth. David ■>■ • -oing to tell you all about it. ; ange story, and it was that quni music of yours which made me resolve to speak to you now. Many years ago. actuated by many evil feel in es, I allowed myself to commit a great wrong. It was a crime even—for which the law could have branded me as a common felon: but through some chance I escaped not only punishment, but prosecution also—ay even detection, it seems." The young man could not speak, and John lilandford only paused to moisten his IiDS with wine. Then he went on again in the same dry voice. " I was guilty of one of the greatest and cruellest iraudsa man could perpetrate. I had a friend—a dear friend, aud the best- of men—and I deceived swindled, ruined him! fie had confidence in me, and I abused it grossly. He trusted me as few men would care to trust even a brother, and in return for that loving trust I ruined him, killed him, and built up a position for myself on the plunder." " Father! Father! you cannot mean that!" " It's the God's truth, David!" and the grim look on the elder man's face dispelled the last doubt from his son's mind. " I was selfish, brutal, bestial then; a bundle of all the grosser passions; and it was years before I saw myself in my true light. But 1 killed him, I know, as surely as if I had driven a knife through his heart, or shot him. What became of his family I never knew—never even thought of making inquiry. But ten years ago my iniquity came home to me in all its devilish sinfulness, and since then I have been a changed man, with but one thing to live for!" " Atonement ! Redemption !" fell lowly from David's lips. " The words that are written on my very soul! Atonement for my sin—redemption of my crime." " And these thousands are for that holy purpose?" •' That holy purpose! I thank you for those words, David!" " He was married then ?" "Married and a widower. But there was one child whom the years have swallowed up. Even now it may be too late to remedy the wrong. What if his child be dead arid there is none remaining to take this blood money from mo before I die!" " Let us hone for the best, /ather!" said David, solemnly. "I am honing. But you ? What must you think, my son. of all this ?" " Even at the eleventh hour it is not too late. God knows that I honour you and love you more now than ever I did before." " And the money—the fortune you had a right to look upon as part your own ? Will you not regret that, David ?" "As Heaven knows my heart, no! Do right, though the Heavens lall. ' Rendei thereforeunto Uaisar the things which are C.'esar's and unto God the things that are God's.' Do this thing to which you have set your hand, father, and so wipe out all theagouy of the past. You must do it now!" " As God is my judge, I will!" " If I can help you in any way, father, you have but to speak." " Y'ou can help me at present only by keeping your own counsel. Geoffrey I mast tell, but not yet. lie is tilled with his dreams and schemes of self-advance-ment, as 1 was at his age, and will take it bitterly enough, I daresay. If he were as you are, David, it would not be so difficult to break the matter to him. Some day I will tell him, but until I do, say nothing."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE OTHER LAW OF SELF. It was about a week later, and again the head of the house of Blandford and a son were sitting in the big dining-room at Parkhurst enjoying the post-prandial cigar and glass of wine. But it was Geoflrey this time, and there was no music, neither was there to be heard without the blustering roar of the lionmouthed March wind. Another of Mr. Beaumont's musical parties was responsible for David's early withdrawal from home, and in his absence the talk had drifted to an event of the day previous. Then our aspiring friend. Geoflrey Blandford, Esq., had been elected by a good majority to the local chamber of representatives, and since that event had borne himself as a man must who has just set his foot on the first rung of the ladder of fame. " And that reminds me, Geoflrey, of some conversation we had a few weeks ago." " Why should- it ? I forget anyhow why it should," was the nonchalant answer. "Surely you have not forgotten your own programme. You were to enter the Town Council, become Mayor o Spindleford, mairy well, and then settle down as Member for the Borough, ere you made un your mind what other social heights were worth climbing." There was an air of banter about his father's utterances which the son did not altogether relish. Geoflrey's brows contracted, and he bit the- end of his cigar savagely ere he responded. " Of course, I remember, and am still of the same mind. That runaway race yesterday only shows how easy things are when a man makes up his mind to do them and sets about the business in the right way." " True. A great spirit carries a man far—especially when he believes in himself, as you do." " Why shouldn't I ? The world very often takes a man at his own price. If it didn't where would some of the world's big bugs be, I wonder!" " And your next move —to return to your programme—what is that to be, pray. To become either Mayor of the town or M.V.for Spindleford will require a few years' work, I should imagine. And there only remains the high marriage of which you spoke.'' John Blandford's voice was semihumorous still, but there was a note in its under-current which Geotlrey could not quite comprehend. He looked his father full in the eyes for an instant through the smoke wreaths, bat the cold, hard face gave up none of its secrets then. " Honestly, father, would yon like me to marry ?" " Honestly, Geoflrey I should—provided that the match was worthy of you, and in keeping with your ambitions. Luckily, you are blessed with good looks, are clever, too, aud have all the ambition and dash so many women care for. As for wealth and high commercial connections, one does not requite to go outside our own town. There are many marriageable ladies among the LloydWilliams and the LLuowltons, and I hear you are a great favourite with them all.'' " Oh. I get along splendidly with all the crowd of them." was the young man's careless response. " I was at the Knowlton's dinner party just a week since, yon know. But the gills are an awfully seedy-looking lot, you know, and, besides, there's oceans of time really for all that soil of thing yet." '• There is really no time like the present, I leottrey!" liis father remarked in his dry incisive way. " A year or two - even a few months time—may bring ab'.ut a vast difference in your position and prospects."

"JiHiwliat 1 think, father; and l.enei there is no occasion for the least hurry

Time ran only improvo ray public position in the town, and ho f shall bo able to pick and choose whei" ! fart- todo bo," •' lint what if time worsen* your position instead of improving it, Geoffrey ?" John Blandford said. Hienittcantly. •• Surely then* is no need to apprehend that?" Kveu his father's pointed tone and words had not yet swept away the son's assurance, hut tho next sentence set him wondering. " Most assuredly there is. Today yon are looked upon as the elder eon and co heir of a factory master who may he worth anything from fifty to a hundred thousand pounds. Really, you are aware that I am worth about one-third of that in hard cash, apart from the mills. And of that thirty odd thousand a sum of twenty thousand ran never be either yours or David's. Ho far as things stand at present, all I can hom-Mly hope to leave you and your brother will run to some, five or six thousand apiece, and an equal share in the mills. " That twenty thousand ?" Those three words fell from Geoilrey's lips in u hot rush and with a whirlwind of wonder behind them. Kven yrt he j-.earce knew whether to net down his father as (.razed or but jesting. Meanwhile, he stared at that enigmatical lace in front of him, and could only see in it a grimmer earnestness than ever, "That twenty thousand! Thereby hangs a tale. It is much too long to bore you with now, hut I may tell you this much. lam setting that sum aside for a great and worthy purpose. My honour, my honesty, my manhood —all our good names-have been in pawn for twenty years, and at last I intend to redeem them all. What nobler and holier purpose in life can a man have than that, Geoflrey ?'" " How can L say ?" the younger man mumbled sullenly, " when I am still groping in the dark F If you desire my honest and plain opinion, father, speak no more in parables, I pray you, but in straightforward English!" •• L will then. >'otall the stoiy will I repeat, but enough to enable you to comprehend. At your own age I was poor, and had no prospects. I had married a second time—not for love—and a bank crash had thrown me. not into the gutter, but near it. At that moment of need a friend stretched out his hand aud heart to save me. And how did I repay his goodness and trust? I swindled him—ruined him: and lie ended his days as a bankrupt suicide. And I escaped scot free, to build up a position and a fortune on the proceeds of my fraud. That is the tale, in brief, of my own iniquity-with this addition: The man I crushed in the dust left a child behind him, and [have never stretched out a hand to help it. Living or dead L know not, what became of it—all 1 know is this, that to the child belongs of right the best part of the fortune, which my boiis have so long regarded as their own." " But why should you reopen, after all these years, that turned-down page in the book of your life ?" Geotlrey asked. '• The world, you say, never heard of your—yonr mistake, and why should it barn now ? Even the child may be dead, and forgotten too. Why shame us all now. and pauperise your sons by making this belated redemption ? Is it necessary ? Will it be vYe.il to do this thing ?" " God knows I must. Better late than never, you know, my son. Even at the eleventh hour there is forgiveness, redemption, salvation, for those who confess and atone. This thing must be. Eor ten years I have dreamed of it. Now it must be done!" " You are disturbed now. Let us say no more for the present. In a while you may change your mind," Geoffrey suggested in his suavest tones. '• 1 shall never change," was the father's firm response. " LJetter to confess and make reparation now than to be discovered, exposed, and degraded some day." " I should urge delay and further consideration, father." . " When I have already well-nigh worn out my scul by sleeping and living with this thing for twenty years ? No !no ! My mind is made up. Alrerdy I have taken steps to unearth the one person to whom reparation is due. I have warned you of this, Geoffrey, so that you may frame your life in accordance with my plans." " Who was this man 't " li .Someday I will tell you. But enough of it now. Breathe no word of it all to a living soul ! Mention it not even to your brother. Let us keep the truth to ourselves till we are ready to give it to the world." ' 1 am not likely to let anyone know of my own pauperisation!" the son muttered, savagely sullen. "If the world has to wait for the story until it hears it from my lips it will never hear it at all." " Your pauperisation!" the father hissed, passionately. "If I give can I not take away 'i But I might have known what to expect from you. Y r ou are the slave of your own selfish aims as I was at your age. But the die is cast now, and there must be no turning back. But, Geoflrey, think less of wli3t you aie losing and more of what I have given you—and can give or keep! You are young and have your ambitions, and no past to damn you. With a few thousands and the mills what is there that you and David cannot do ?" But the son Hung out of the room in a white heat of mute fury. The dead cigar fell from his teeth bitten in two; and the other could only smile to himself in his grim way as the door closed on Geoflrey.

CHAPTER XXIV. STANDING ON THE VERGE.

For several day 3 after that nsver-to-be-forgotten inteiview with his father the bulk of Geoflrey Blandford's reflections were not of the most comforting kind, The bitter knowledge lie had gleaued then had taken the savour out of his own supreme self-contentment, and for the time being his ambitions, passionate desires, social schemes, lost their grip upon his thoughts. That John Blandford fully intended to carry out the scheme of redemption set forth by himself, bis elder son hnd perforce to believe. That bis father's selfimmolation of himself, his fortune, and his children's interests, was the very quintessence of all that was foolish, absurd, and quixotic, the son swore again and again: but all the swearing in the world on Geoffrey's part would not alter the fact, much less destroy it; and it really only seived to accentuate tho difficulty. To Geolirey, also, it seemed especially awkward that the confidence of his parent had been given to him at that particular moment. There was the youngest daughter of the wealthy Knowltons, with whom he had been coquetting of late, to be considered; again, there was the one woman for whom he had ever really cared—Doris Lonsdale—secretly engaged to him; then there were his own projects of self-advancement and aggrandisement to be borne in mind; while last, and worst of all. was the startling discovery that grim-faced, closefisted, ehary-tongued John Blandford meant to hand over to some person or persons unknown the snug fortune of twenty thousand pounds in orjer to salve his conscience respecting some dead and long-forgotten crime. from the first Geoflrey had realised the futility of attempting to change his father's mind by any course of reasoning. Of old he knew that stubborn and indexible will. Had he not been entirely dependent, on his parent's bounty for his living, there is nosaying how mercilessly he would have lashed with his tongue his sire's unspeakable silliness; bathe had gone as far as he dared when he dung from the room in suppressed dia-

gust, and since then the subject had never been returned to by either. One dav. while • ondertng all these tilings, a curious i a flashed through Geoffrey's brain. 11 is father had stated that he had already taken steps to unearth the heir or heirs to whom the great reparation was to be made; and thinking of that admission, a recollection of the vagabond, Levi Crane, had rushed upon him. Two days after that brief colloquy and curt dismissal on the steps of the hotel. Geoffrey hud learned of the lanky tramp s appearance ut Parkhurst House. A word dropped by thepnm-visaged house-maid, Miss PJimmer, had set his wits to work; a question or two after that had led to the discovery that Crane bad been to the house twice—first torn-down, hungrylooking, shabbiness personified, as Geoflrey had lirst seen him. and next day ever so decent, as he Iwid passed by scornfully in the town. In a Hash the mill-owner's son had put two and two together This Levi Cfano was connected in some way with his father's past. Hadn't he asked for his address ? Hadn't he even hinted that his business was with John Blandford alone, who might not be pleased to hear it ? And after that his parent's confession and Levi Crane's disappearance! One thing seemed plain as a pikestaff. The man with the black pitch on his ugly and sinister face was playing jackal to his father's wishes. John Blandford had fed and clothed Crane; had given him money; and now tiie vagabond was scouring the corners of the eartli in quest of the relatives of the man ins father had ruiued. The host of thoughts engendered by that inspiration were still simmering in his quick brain, when a note from Doris Lonsdale reached him. The tone of the girl's communication was curt, peremptory, ominous to his secretly cherished schemes. She desired to see him at once—that evening—and she named a place where she would be at eight o'clock. At the time named, Geoffrey strode to the place of assignation, glad of an opportunity to meet the fair weaver, yet somewhat uneasy as to the meaning of her arbitrary summons. To the edge of the town, where the public park stood, he made his way, and presently he came upon a cloaked and veiled woman standing under the bare trees lining Barkroad. It was Dons, he knew, and he greeted her warmly. " Good evening, Doris. How are you ? So glad to get your note, but why do you wish to see me ?" He offered his hand, with his customary eagerness, and herownwas extended coolly. But she did not raise her veil, and he had to question her again ere she vouchsafed him a word. " I wanted to tell you something I have heard," she remarked. " You were at Yyldon Hall last week. I heard all about it, and I want you to tell me what it means." " What means ? But what have you heard —and how ?" They had moved on a few pares slowly, and were now standing in the shadow of a clump of trees which stood inside the park rails. Iu front were scattered trees also along the roadside; taint gaslamps twinkled here and there and a group of semi-detached villas was visible on the other side of the thoroughfare, a stone's throw farther. " My friend, Daisy Hay, has a cousin in the service of the Knowltons, and she told Daisv about you being at Tyldon Hall the other night." " Well, what of that ?" he asked boldly. '' Because 1 love you, am Ito cast oft all my old friends. Doris ?" •' But Nance Ray says that you arc setting your cap at Miss Gwendolen Knowlton—says that it is openly rumoured among the servants that she and you are to lie engaged shortly. " What nonsense," he cried with a low laugh. "My dear Doris, have you ever seen this Miss Gwendolen Knowlton ? She is one of the least beautiful of all the plain-faced Sisterhood of Spinsterdom. Not a patch in any way, my dear Dorrie. upon your own glorious self!" " But it is said that everyone of Jonathan Knowltons sons and daughters will have ft hundred thousand pounds on their marriage day. Besides, why pay such attention to this woman aslo getjourself talked about if you do not care for her, Geoflrey ?" " There is something in what you say, I admit," he responded gravely, " But you don't know all, dear!" he urged, almost passionately. "On I lie one hand the urgings, persuasions, and advice of my father and friends drive; me to .Miss Knowlton; ou the other I am swayed by my love for you. T could tell you much; but you, Dorrie. must help me to master and put this great temptation from me!" " How can 1 help you ?" she cried. " T love you, Geoffrey! I have promised to become your wife. lam wearing your ring! What more can Ido ?" " Marry me at once, darling! Only by promising to do that can you save me from myself and my friends! Will you do that ?" (To be Continued.)