THE LOOMS OF DESTINY.

Lake County Press, Issue 1064, 14 May 1903, Page 6

THE LOOMS OF DESTINY.

COPYRIGHT.

BV J MONK FOSTER. CHAPTBR XXV. TlMv MAN IN Till': DARK. " Geodrey! Oh, Geoffrey, what can yt.-n mean ?" Those words were wrung from the girl a lips by the nature of her lover's totally unexpected declaration, and the eweet uplifted Face and wide, Questioning eyes mirrored the wonder she felt. " L mean exactly what 1 way, Doris, dearest! To save me from myself—to bave ua both, there i» nothing bat an immediate marriage. That is wliat I mean," They were still Btanding near the tall iron railings of the public park, and with a gentle hand he drew her nearer them and deeper into the shadow of the trees. The road was deserted; not a footfall was to be heard along its length: across the way in the middle distance some of the lower windows of the villas shone out duskily, and beyond them—around, was the peaceful silence and darkness of the nightfall. " But think of the talk—the sensation—the trouble to yourself Buch a course will create!" she cried lowly, as her lips were freed from hi* caresses. •' lean only think of my danger and youi own," ho said, with a qniet, yet arm, gravity which impressed her greatly. " It is of ourselves we must think now." . The danger is all youra, Geoffrey, not mine!" " If so then all the greater urgency for what I advise. If you do not agree to marry me soon, think of all the temptations I am called upon to face! My father knows that I haw bat to speak to this woman in order to win her, and all her thousands; and. Doris, he is perpetually urging me to declare myself to her. Some day my ambition to possess so many things that wealth brings may overmaster my love for you, and then there is nothing for us both but mtereet disaster. That temptation is so strong sometimes that I almost tremble for myself, but so far my love for your dear self has conquered. Still, it may not prove so always. I am only human, and the daughter of a millionaire, even if she bo ugly as sin, is a powerful lure. You must save mo frcm myself by consenting to our marriage!" He had delivered that long harangue in a low, swift whisper which was vibrant with passion; she had listened, and had thrilled at his words, and yet a vague uneasiness overshadowed her happiness. That unrest found an unconscious utterance in her answer. " But if your father urges you eo strongly to marry Miss Knowlton, what must be his anger and disgust when he discovers you have ignored all his wishes and married instead one of his own mill girls!" " That is the very matter I desire to discuss with you, my dear Dome!" he cried, readily. " For our own sake* it has become absolutely necessary that we become man and wife as soon as it is possible, and I have thought out a plan which will enable us to take that step without incurring the spleen of my excellent father or the criticism of my good friends." " Bat how? how, Geoffrey?" she murmured, wonderiugly. " The moment our contemplated union is made public or announced in any way the whole town will ring with the newß." *' But why make it public at all?" he suggested, &$ he bent and kissed her warm cheek. " To do that would set the whole place by the ears, and upset everything. And really thexe is no need for such a thing. We can be married in some other town or city, twenty, fifty, a hundred miles away from here, and no one will be any the wiser—till such time as we care to speak." "Oh, Geoffrey!" There were reluctance, pathos, distress in those faintly intoned words, and she drew herself involuntarily from his clinging hands, while her rare face grew pale and serious under bis keen gaze. M But, Doris," he urged tenderly, " there is really nothing to fear. I knew my prooosal would startle yon, and yet there is nc good reason why it should. Besides,what other coarse can we adopt? If I do not bind myself to you for ever I am afraid that I may drift into the hands of that woman with all her thousands ; if we marry openly you may judge what the consequences would be. Jdy father is a stern and passionate man when he is crossed, and he might not only take it into his head to ruin all my prospects by cutting me out of his will, bat might also go to the extreme of dismissing me from my position at the mills!" "But a secret —a clandestine marriage, Geoffrey!" she gasped in tiore distress. " Better far to wait, dear, until we can marry in sight of the whole world." " Have I not pointed out the danger of waiting ?" he exclaimed, petulantly, " If 1 marry that woman J shall ruin both our lives! You will never forgive me if 1 do, nor should I ever forgive myself. And to marry openly is to court disaster of another kind. Cannot you trust me, Doris, in this supreme crisis of our love ? Do; and 1 swear before heaven that you never shall have cause to regret your trust." " I cannot do it, Geoffrey! J cannot!" she murmured, thickly, torn by a thou, sand vague doubts and fears. " Do not press me further! Let us wait. Make an appeal io your lather! I feel certain hje—-" He laughed coarsely, brutally at her word.-i, ere he dammed their flow by his passionate interruption. " Appeal to my father!" ho almost hissed in her face. " When you know him better you will understand how foolish—suicidal-such an appeal would be. I intend to appeal U> him, but ouh when wo are man and wife. Then he may bow—will bow-his head to the inc. 'able. But before you do as I wish you 1 will not go to him, no matter wha happens!" Doris had drawn down her veil again, and was m w crying softly behimi it. i».i theotiu: >idc ul the load a couple of lovers were sauntering by, and from

their laughter and k>od gossip, one ooald judge them as mill-lapses ami rniner-lada. Blandford turned Ins back to them arid shrank farther into the shadows, and for a moment or two he watched the distressed girl in silence, a hard cynical look overspreading his dark handsome face. " I suppose it is only what I might have expected," he remarked, in an ostentatiously bitter vein, quoting flippantly:— " All thy passions matched with mine Are as moonlight unto sunlight, as water unto wine." " Here am I," he went on, " ready to stake everything I have in the world for your sake, Hnd beeamt 1 ask, implore, pray you to do something—not wrong, but only a trifle unconventional—you recoil from me in horror. 1 would dare everything for love's dear sake; yoa dare do nothing, it seems!" •' There is nothing I dare not do for your sake, Geoffrey!" she cried, softly passionate then. •« Nothing save that which i ask you to do!" he retorted. " Are you a child to be frightened at a shadow?" " I fear the world's judgment—mine—your own!" she responded firmly. " What will the world say if I marry you as yon wish me? That I trapped yoa into a secret marriage because I feared your relatives and friends would otherwise have persuaded you from such madness. You are a mill owner's son, I am one of hi 3 ' hands ' who contrived to trap you into a mesalliance by means of my good looks and artful ways. That is how the world will lcok at it. and that is what I am afraid to face, Geoffrey!" " So that you fear the world more than you love me?" he retorted triumphantly. " No! No! Not that!" she cried. '* What shall I say to make you understand?" •• Say you will marry me—and snap your fingers at the spiteful world!" " That I cannot do!" she whispered. " You wish to drive me to that hateful woman's arms!" he thundered at her ear. " No! No! I wish to keep you for ever, Geoffrey!" she cried in an appealing voice. ", But," she added, •• I want to keep you in such a way that I shall never be ashamed of it, dear." " Look here, Doris!" he muttered sullenly. "1 am tired of this, aud we had better understand each other clearly. I have told you what I wish you to do and yoa refuse to meet me. If Igo away without your promise you will not see me again, for to-morrow 1 will go straight lo Gwendolen Knowlton and ask her to be my wife! As true as the stars are shining there I mean this. Now am Ito gor" " Geoffrey ! Geoffrey I Do not go ! " She was sobbing again now ; sho had held out her hands to him, and seizing them he hud drawn her to him. Then as he raised her veil from her white, tearstained cheeks and kissed her passionately he said. " You know what it means if I stay ? " Yes ! Yes ! I cannot let you go ! " " And you promise to marry me, Doris? " " Whenever, wheresoever, aud howsoever you choose ! " He look her in his arms then and tried I o kiss her tears away. Later, when she had dried her eyes, and was composed again, he rallied her lightly on her fears and over considerate scruples. " And I thought you so romantic,'' he urged playfully. • " And 10, I find you prosaic enough to shudder at the thought —not of an elopement —but at the suggestion of a merely quiet wedding. Surely the spirit of old romance has departed from our maidens when one of them fears to wed her lover because the whole world can't be there or hear of it." " 1 am alone in the world, dear," Doris whispered. " and L was frightened at first by the thought of a secret, marriage." " But afraid no longer now ? " " No, Geoffrey ; not now ! " But she was trembling still, and her voice lacked the spontaneity and warmth he hungered for, " Well, there is nothing to fear, anyhow." was his ready response. " Now you have consented to marry me the manner of ouur wedding may be left very much to your own choice so long as the ceremony takes place somewhere sufficiently far removed from Spiudleford. There are the Registry Office and the Church—the marriage by banns or license " " Not the office, Geoffrey, surely ! " Doris said, with a pretty " moue " and a slight shudder of disgust. " Hardly that, dearest," he said quickly. Marriage without a clergyman is half a marriage after all. and we'll have none of it. Anda license, special or otherwise, has its drawbacks. Now this is my plan, Doris. Suppose Igo to one of the nearest big towns on Saturday afternoon and make all the necessary arrangements. I can take apartments there, make all right, have Mie banns published in some little church where we are unknown, and then three weeks or a month afterwards youcantakeanholiday atthc week's end, we shall be married and come back without anyone being a pin the wiser. "If we must,l Buppose it will be better bo ! " she answered unenthusiastically. And, in the meantime, when you hear again anyone talking of myself and MiBS Knowlton you will not be so desperately jealous, dear. I may keep up my pleasant relations with that lady, bnt you will forgive me for doing so, knowing the end 1 have in view." " I could never be jealous of any woman!" Doris cried spiritedly. "And I shall pay less heed than ever to any gossip I hear." ** And don't forget this, Doris,'' he said, speaking in his most significant manner. '• Now, more than ever, it is imperative that we keep our love a secret. A hint might bring our plans tumbling about oar onrs. Now a kius and good night, for we mast not be seen together. I will write you later when 1 have arranged matters." They kissed warmly, whispered a »weet good night to each other and parted. He watched her speed alongside the park, her slim, darkly-clothed figure only a moving shadow among the fixed ones, and when she had vanished townwards, ho turned in the contrary direction, a gay snatch of a popular air on his lips. Geoffrey vanished among the shadows. too; the echoes of his sharp footfalls dwindled away in the dusky stillness; and then another sound wa3 heard close by the spot where the lovers had atood. There was a rustling in the grass behind the iron rails, the thick leaves of a clump of rhododendrons parted, and a man raised himself slowly to peer after the mill-owner's son. "The cursed wastrel!" the man growled. " What a fool he is making of that lass! But I'll spoil his sweet game!"

CHAPTERXXVI.

THE UK ART OF TUK STORM. For several days after hrr last meeting with her sweetheart, Doris lxmsdale liveq in (|uite a new world of her own. To all about her .she was scarcely diHerent than of old; was a hit more chary of her gentle words and sweet laughter, had a countenance usually grave enough for a much older uomun; yet if Bhe thought much, she. v\as amiable of manner, and soft of speech as ever. At first there had been a swift reaction in the girl's thoughts. Then the step sh-j and Oeotirey contemplated taking seemed fraught with many dangers. A clandestine alliance would make them the target of Ihe town; he would bfl subjected to the scorn and raillery of his set, «he wnuld be nlaeed in the pillory by her own acquaintances; and out 01 [\\f seciet match every manner of evil might liotr,

So she pondered for hoars, and then her communings flew to the opposite point ni •• mental compass. They loved each otin 1, and their circumstance justified any harmless subterfuge adopted in self-defence. If they were not quite fiank with the world, it was because the world had not made plain dealing either pleasant or expedient in their case. And, after all, what had the world to dc with herself and Geoffrey P They asked nothing from it. were taking nothing, therefore, why shouldn't they please themselves in the ordering of their own lives ? Thus Doris argued in mitigation of that meditated assault on conventional custom, and, after the manner of womankind, plucked some thin pleasure from the process of convincing herself that all was right Still, deep down in her heart was the desire that this thing had not been necessary- that the realisation of her own and Geoffrey's affection had been attainable by ordinary means. Then, two or three days after that last interview with her lover, came another letter. The handwriting was not on the face of it Geotrrey's; it was cramped and strange, and she apprehended a purposed disguise, adopted in order to hoodwink curious eyes. She opened the letter, and her annue was intensified a thousand-fold; before she had finished reading it she was floundering blindly in a morass of mental despair. Other communications had startled her into feelings of deepest wonder and exquisite delight, but thiß nameless and unsigned epistle crushed her into the very dust. It ran as under: '* Misa Doris Lonsdale, *• I feel it my duty as a man to tell you something of a very unpleasant nature. You will not thank me for telling you; you will not be glad to hear it; bat some day, I think, yoa will thank God and bless me for what I am doing now. What I have to tell you will seem to be a pack of the blackest lies, but in spite of that I swear it is nothing but the truth. Before writing this I have opened my Bible and kissed it; and I ask you if you think an honest man would do that if he meant one word of a lie to come from his pen ? Now for what I have to say. " You are going to many Geoffrey Blandford quietly. Ycu have promised to do it, and I daresay you intend to stand by your word. I know this because I heard it from your own lipa on Thursday night. It does not matter where I was then or who I am. You met him near the Park, and I made a spy of myself to watch him and hear all. I had my own reasons for doing that, just as I have my reasons for writing this letter, yet keeping my name out of it. I know you and respect you as much as I respect the biggest lady in all the land. Hut Geoffrey Blandford I hate—because he is a vile scamp who is not tit to apeak to an honest and beautiful woman like you. " I heard him persuade you to marry him Becret.'y, and I heard as well all he had to say about his father and his friends and that rich lady he could have for the asking. I did not believe a word, but you swallowedall. Hemay raeantodeal fairly by you, but I doubt it. If he does you will be luckier I ban one girl 1 know who believed in him. But my belief is that he means to deceive and betray you. " f know how good and refined you aie, and that makes it more difficult for me to tell you all. But this much 1 mav tell you. A year or two before you came to Spiudleford, a young woman named Ethel Carington worked at the Swan Meadow Mills. She was a weaver, too, and very beautiful —almost as clever as you are; was a good deal above the other girls in manners and dress, and could speak like a born lady. " Geoffrey Blandford saw her and fell in love with her—or at least said so. She was vain and foolish. The rest you may guess, for he did not spare her. She was not a Spindleford lass—she came from a town called Lllsbury. I have heard—and when she disappeared nobody bothered their heads about her. But this man knows, who has got you to agree to a Becret marriage, and I know. If you want proof 1 will get to know where this Ethel Carington is kept now by the man you are expecting to become your husband. " But there is no need for you to either soil your fingers or mind in this vile business. All you have to do is this. Meet Geoffrey Blandford again at the same place near the park, aiid ask him what became of Miss Carington. To save yourself from dishonour and erpose him as a scoundrel you must do this. If you do not you will only have to blame yourself for any disgrace and sorrow which may follow. But you are a true woman and know what to do. " If he denies his guilt I will not only make known to you who I am, but will get for you the address of Kthel Carington. I do not know it now or I would send it; but I have heard where she went and might trace her. All that, howevei, may prove unnecessary. When you show the villain that you are aware of his black record he will very likely cringe before you, show himself in his true colours, and beg you lo keep his shameful secret. Anyway, you need not be afraid of the truth. Every word, I swear again, is as true ab gospel. If you wish to write to me about anything the following address will find m<: ' Mr. Cato Caradoc, care of Mr. Sam Flint, Bull and Dog Inn, Ix>rd Nelson-street, Spindlc.iord.' That is not my name, and no personal inquiries will find me. 1 am not afraid of you; in fact, if I did not respect you very much I should not have taken all this trouble on your account. But I am afraid of Geoffrey Blandford. If he knew me he might get me Btopped nt my work, and perhaps injure me in other ways. If ycu do show him this letter—and you can if you want to—first copy the false name and address for your own nee, and then carefully scratch it out. •' So much as that I think you owe me. You once bedewed a great kindness upon me, and 1 feel sure you would not care to harm me now. But if the worst comes to the worst I will meet both you and Blandford and prove that every word written here is the honest truth. " An Honest Man." Luckily for Doris Lonsdale, 't was Sunday morning when the foregoing long, rambling, and damnatory communication was placed in her hands. She had breakfasted without reading it, and then, as was her custom of late days, had withdrawn to her own room to read the letter there, alone and fcllbject lo no curious stares. It whs noonday ere she descended again. Toiler landlady's daughter she hud pleaded headache—had asked that a book might be brought her-and so had obtained the isolation slu desired. And there she had tossed all the hours of the morning, more miserable than ever she had been in all her joung life before. At dinner-time food had been sent to her, but, was scarcely touched. She had noapnetite for aught save misery, and ol that she drank her till. The afternoon spent itself aH the morning had done, and when evening came she roused herself with an eOort, not (XMiug

to let kindly-aooled Mrs Fletcher tee how sorely she was stricken. But the solitary walk that followed a perfunctory and quite savourless meal at tea-time, only added to the bitterness of her feelings. The sight of other lovers parading the quiet streets lent another pang to her woe. How happy were so many in their affection, and ehe so despairing. How mach better for her it would have been had she been destined to love a lowly man instead of one so much above her. It almost seemed to the sorrowing lassie then that her pride was responsible for her misery. Had she looked less high for a matebeen satisfied with a lover out of her own class, she. would never have been called upon to po through such a fiery ordeal. Only for the briefest period had Doris dreamt of questioning the veracity of her an known correspondent. Then she had vowed to herself that Geoffrey was the noblest and truest of men, and that she would never believe ill of him. But even while she was protesting his manliness and fidelity with her lips a cankerous distrust was gnawing at her very heart's core. And so in the slough of despond two days, three days went by. Sad-eyed, sore-liearted, even afraid of looking straight before her, the girl fretted herself to the verge of a real illness. She knew not what lo do or think. The truth or fHlsity of the charge laid against Geoffrey was capable of easy proof. All that was requisite was action on her part, but she dared not move for veiy tenor of the worst. Then a move on her focused lover's pirt made her into a woman again. A note came to her, charging her to meet him that evening. He had been away as agreed, had made all the necessary arrangements, and she was to see him without fail, that he might tell her all he had done. As they could not afford to bs reckless now. she was to meet him at nine o'clock prompt, beside Tyldon Station,where neither of them were likely to be known by anyone who chanced to see them. That note settled the matter. For good or evil she was resolved to learn the troth now. His curt command braced her as a strong tonic might have done. No longer the simple-loving girl, but a cool, clear-headed woman fighting for her love and good name, she went to meet him, probably for the last time she thought. They met as arranged, and he was effusive as usual. She was veiled as before, and her greeting was ?nore formal than it had ever been. She did not even take his offered hand, and not heeding that signal he poured out his budget of news. Ue had made everything right; in a fortnight they would be married; all she had to do was to tell Mrs. Fletcher that she was going to spend the week-end with some friends at a distance —anywhere ahe chose—and there they are. " So you are quita- determined to carry this business on then ?" she asked quietly. " Determined ? Of course! What have I been doing since we last met ? And you, Doris? Surely you have not changed your mind at the last moment ?" " I hive made up my mind never to marry any man secretly! If lam not good enough to be wed in face of the whole world, 1 will never be married at all!" "Doris! What does this mean ? Now when all things are arranged will you fling me into the arms of that woman ?" " For Heaven's sake enough of that!" ahe cried sternly. "If you fear to make me your wife openly, go your way and I will go mine! " What haa changed you so, Doris ?" " This! Read it under the lamp and tell me if it is true." She thrust the sheets of the letter in his hand and almost dragged him to the foot of the nearest gas-lamp. There he read and fumed and cursed in his throat with her eyes upon him. " It's a lie!" he gasped, hoarsely, with livid cheeks. *• A foul lie someone lias forged against me. You cannot believe this, Doris ?" " How do I know whether it is false or true ? if it is not true you will face this man!" " What man ? Who is the scoundrel ? Tell me his name that 1 may kill him." " Will you drop melodrama and talk common-sense:-'''she asked, with cold but biting sarcasm. " YoU understand that this man fears you only because he is poor, but in ease of your denial of what ho stales he is prepared to face you!" " I ask who he is? Yon must know! You have written to him, and you take his word rstlier than mine," he cried, fiercely, " 1 do not know who he is. The address obliterated there I have kept, but 1 have not yet written to him. Shall I do so ? Dan* you face him ? That is the one question on which everything depends now." •• I will not see this spy!" he hissed, white to the lips with passion. "Why should I allow your private a (lairs and. mine to be dragged before this nameless scullion ? If 1 had him hejx- I'd tear out the knave's lying heart as easily as 1 rend his foul letter into fragments!" He tore the sheets into minute shreds, tossed the fragments this way and that, watched thrm swirl, eddy, drift in the wind. His act destroyed the last rumnantof hope in her soul. With a little shudder she drew her skirts around her. •' I arn satisfied." Bho said, in a cold, hard voice ho scarcely recognised. " That, ends everything between us. Mr. Blandford, I wish you good-night." " You must not go! You shall not! In heaven's name. Doris, listen to me. When can I see you again ?" " Do not touch me," she cried, so sharply and acidulously that his outstretched hands dropped. " As to seeing me again, perhaps you may, when you are prepared to speak the truth Goodnight. And lujtm is the ring I have Bhamed myßelf by wearing." " Doris! Doris! I will tell you —" He spoke to the wind. She had flung his jowelled gift nt his feet and wa.s scurrying homeward, sobbing bitterly beneath her veil. (To be Continued.)