MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE.

Lake County Press, Issue 2491, 14 August 1913, Page 2

MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE.

CHAPTER 1

Lesbiu counted the three sovereigns as slowly as one can count so small a sum, and she found that the silver in her little purse came to 17s. 6d., then she read the ticket that the man at the pawnshop had given her, «ith unabashed interest. It was obvious that her education had been on unconventional lines, for she was not at all ashamed of the little bit of paper, nor had anything prompted her to hesitate before going into the shop, over the entrance of which three gilded balls had hung. Three pounds seventeen and sixpence, Lesbia told herself, was not really wealth. The warning was necessary in order to stifle reckless longings for such needless extravagances as penny bunches of violets, and tea at a shop where the teacups were not of thick pot, and very much chipped at that.

"No; it's not really much," she said again; "but it's quite enough till they pay me for the Christmas cards, and after that there's 'The Italian Baby's Picture Book.' Someone is sure td accept it soon."

So, quite convinced that all was well, and that if the sun was not shining very brightly that day, it would probably do so to-morow —fortune, like the English weather, being variable— Lesbia Fane, "artist/' with the smallest of a's, pressed more closely against the side of the cheerless station shelter at Snow Hill, Holborn, and tried to believe that the jacket which, three years ago, had been warm enough for Florence, was a suitable garment for a. foggy November day in London.

Even a pawn ticket does not provide soul-satisfying literature, while newspapers and penny magazines are only for the comparatively affluent, which is why the advertisements at stations have a value quite other than that intended. Actually one may not be in urgent need of a grand piano, a motor-car, or of soap which renders washing-day a jocund festival; yet it is interesting to note just where such articles can be obtained, while the newspaper display-bills, if read with a little imagination, are more easily digested than leading articles, and frequently as enlightening. And then there are the people, the real, living characters which pass up and down the stage of life. Lesbia had long since determined that only the very foolish must waste money on cinematograph displays, since the greater and far mote enchanting cinematograph of London is always working, and is free to all. . It was not working very satisfactorily that afternoon, however, in Snow Hill Station, though a "Palace" train came in, and people jumped out of it and hurried along the platform, just as they do in the moving pictures, and porters slammed doors with real, instead of make-believe noise, and the train puffed out again, leaving a haze of smoke behind it. Then the officials disappeared, and Lesbia had the station to herself save for an oh! • gentleman who was walking up and down. The girl watched him with interest. and she decided thftv he was a very handsome old man, and of the sort which is found exclusively in London. He was clean-shaven, and his hair was white ,his tali hat was as glossv as those in the shop windows, his overcoat of dark grey frieze was perfectly cut, while his gloves and ivory-handled umbrella, his immaculate boots and spats served to complete a picture of prosperity. As Lesbia's glance followed him admiringly, she determined that this very nice old gentleman had probably an extremely prosperous family of well-clothed sons and daugh-

Splendid Serial by a Popular Writer.,

RALPH KODD, author of "The Hand on the String*." •• Mask*,"' "An Interfering Englishman." ■•Splendid Pauper*," "The Crime Club." "The Queen of the Thamea," .. For Honour," -A Millionaire'* Love Affair," &c, &c [COPYRIGH T.J

tens, but that if so, none of the latter had ever experienced the joy of pawning an ugly old bracelet for three pounds. She was a philosopher, and realised that life has its compensations.

She was smiling at her own thought, when suddenly, all in an instant, ' . o her eyes there sprang a startled look of bewildered terror and protest. 1. was only afterwards that she found hj difficult to decide precisely what it wa; that made her act as she did. Ai the moment she had no hesitation at all.

"Dorf't!" she said. "Don't do it! Things can't be as bad as that. Oh! pleaso don't do it! Indeed, you mustn't!"

The old man turned, and it flashed through the girl's mind as a strange thing that she had thought of him as strong, prosperous and placid, for in that instant Lesbia saw him as he was —a terrified, weak and shrinking human being, a lost soul groping in the gloom which borders the Greater Darkness.

"Don't do it!" she repeated. When first she heard her own voice she had been shocked at her temerity, but now that she had seen his face she was not afraid at all; it was her womanly compassion which made her strong. There are moments when the years make no difference; fear and trouble and despair may bring the strong man to the level of the weeping child. "You'll only make someone dreadfully miserable, and it can't really do any good to try to run away from trouble in that way." "You don't. know what you're doing." the man whispered in low, strained tones. "You mustn't try to stop me."

"I can't help, you must know I can't help it." Her voice was more indignant than pleading ,hev hand was on his wrist, the strong little lingers were gripping it, it was instinct told her that a decisive touch may do more than words. "You'd stop anyone yourself," she persisted. "You couldn't let anyone throw away their life before your eyes, not though you knew they were ever so unhappy." "Only the heart knoweth its own bitterness," said the man. Lesbia's face grew a little less resoli to. Just now the stranger had been as a frightened child,, but that weakness had gone. She was face to face with one who bad come to a deliberate decision, one who had determined that the burden on his shoulders was too heavy to be carried any longer. "It's cowardly," she persisted, "and it's selfish." "That's what everyone say.s until they come to it themselves. Maxims are fingerposts, but they are put up by those who have not y<-t reached the end of the road."

She felt that they were less close than they had been, the utter weakness that had bridged the years between them had passed away, his cynicism baffled her as no outburst (if anger could have dona "But you won't do it," Lesbia urged once more.

"No, uo"—impatiently. The very question seemed to Morven t'nwin absurd, it was one thing, alone and iinwatched. to take that last plunge, another to do so before the girl, who would scream for help, perhaps risk her life, certainly give everyone a lull account of what had happened. It is the presence of an audience which makes most men act their parts in a seemly fashion.

There was a rumbling sound of an approaching train, Lesbia and her "companion standing at the extreme edge of the platform, close to the level crossing used only by the officials. With increasing noise the monster came towards them, hl^k.

massive, relentless. It never slackened speed as it thundered past them, and all the while the man's eyes weie fixed on just the spot where he had lain but for the girl's interference. As she watched him she saw in his white, strained face the awful last agony of a man in the throes of a violent death. In a sense they were each of them watching the same picture, though from different si midpoints. The man saw the hideous vision of his own mangled body there on the metals, the girl saw something more dreadful; he was held spelllx by the realisation of the unsightly part of the tragedy, she shuddered as in fancy she saw a live soul plucked from the crumbling earthly temple, plucked to be borne away in triumph by the Spirits of All Evil".

"Child—child—l'm sorry." The man had awakened. "Girl—for heaven's sake, don't cry." Despair and cynicism had both gone. Morven Unwin was only conscious of shame because he had made this pretty, shabby little girl cry. She was not standing there with tears of sympathy in her eyes, she was leaning against the massive stonework, her face was covered with both hands, and she was sobbing unrestrainedly. "Child, I've frightened, terrified you. I'm so sorry. I had no idea you were there. There's nothing to cry about now, it's all over, you've done your part, you've got your own way." And he tried to keep the resentment from his voice. "Promise you won't do it another time," she pleaded through her sobs. "No, no, of course I won't," soothingly. The girl took her hands fiom her face, the tears were real enough, but at least they had not drowned its charm, they had only added undeniable traces of sympathy and compassion. "It doesn't mean anything to speak to a woman like that just to stop her crying," with unexpected worldly wisdom. "Promise faithfully, promise!" Her tone was growing imperious. "Give me your word." And then Lesbia made a little gesture eloquent with womanly pleading. "I'll never sleep or be at peace again if I'm always thinking that this"—she glanced at the level crossing—"may be happening. Walking or sleeping, I'll always be haunted." Her tone was tragic.

The man was half irritated by her persistency, a little touched, perhaps even a little amused. So far from feeling any gratitude for what she had lone, he wished with all his heart that she had not been there; yet in some inexplicable way it seemed t-J him that the crisis was over. He was no uicidal maniac to snatch at death in any form. That clay he had made minute preparations, had prepared in every way for the "accident" which was to end his troubles, but now that Fate had denied him what he sought, it seemed that the matter was over. Life must go on, no matter how ardently be longed for the last chapter. And then there was another reason scarcely less potent, certainly more definite. Mis death was to have been the result of an "accident," he was extremely •anxious that no-one should guess the truth, yet now this girl knew his secret, and she was capable of using her knowledge in order to thwart him, while in any case, when the inquiry which must follow his «udden decease was held, this girl •night volunteer information which would render all his precautions fruitless.

"You don't know how big a thing it is you're asking."

He had made up his mind already, "but caution told him lie must not promise too easily "But not too big," she urged. "I'd •do just anything hi return."

Instead of smiling at the vague offer, Unwin seized on the words for his own purpose; he must satisfy this persistent child, he would do so the more readily by dignifying a mere promise with the name of a compact. "Would yoti?" he asked gravely. •'Then that shall lie our bargain. 1 will give you my word, and in exchange, if ever I should have to ask a favour of you, you will grant mo it." And again Morven Unwin was tempted to smile because- it was so very unlikely that the lonely man, who was laughingly called the "Hermit of Lincoln's Inn," would ever have a favour to ask of the shabby little girl against who'ii he cherished a great resentment.

A train drew up at the platform. Lesbia had been so engrossed in what her companion had been saying that she had never even heard its approach. "I promise," she said very gravely. To her there was nothing ridiculous in the words, but the man only nodded curtly as he turned away. She was a little hurt that he should be so anxious to leave her. but the next instant she saw the cause. At the window of a first-class carriage a girl was beckoning, only Lesbia never thought of her as a girl, but always as of a beautiful, brilliant woman, one of those fortunate beings who dress exquisitely, and wear rich fuis in winter, all in a happy, careless fashion, suggestive of accustomed wealth.

"Uncle Morven," Lesbia heard her call, and the voice was partly drowned Ivy tin 1 furious barking of the tiny Pekingese spaniel on her knee. "Uncle Morven, come in here." The watcher wondered whether it was just her fancy, or whether the man really glanced to right and left in a furtive way, as though he would have slipped away regardless of the summons. Sin was certain lie hesitated, yet when he turned to the carri- ' age it was with some show of pleased surprise. "Why, Auriel." she hoard

him say, "who would have thought

But then the train began to move, and when Lesbia caught her Jast glimpse of the man for whose life she had struggled, it seemed to her that he was not the would-be suicide at all ; ho was once more the handsome, well-groomed old gentleman she had seen. He was quite in his right place in the comfortable compartment, it was more fitting that, instead of a little artist in * very shabby jacket, he should have as his companion the niece so well named Auriel. She was beautiful and dainty, everything about her bespoke luxury: Lesbia had even noticed the pile of magazines and papers, but most of all her eyes had feasted on the bunch of Parma violets nestling in the costly furs. It was bigger and better than a dozen of the bundles the girls were selling on the Viaduct.

The tail light of the train disappeared round the curve, one of the moving pictures had gon«; but the Cinematograph of Life w«nt on.

CHAPTER II

Felix Cnwin played the andante movement of the Moonlight Sonata, a few bars of Chopin's Funeral March, and then he settled down in earnest to the score of the latest George Edwardes production. He played with a touch that was easy and practised, if liot brilliant: given a piano. Felix could always amuss himself, and the instrument in the present instance was of perfect tone. It would certainly not have found a place in Paul Demsdorff's room otherwise, for the major was one of those men who have not merely a liking for perfection but a knack of acquiring it, and the little flat in Victoria-street, of its kind, was above reproach. Most rooms may be described by giving an inventory of their contents; in the present case to have done so would have been insufficient. To say that there were books and pictures, a few well chosen objects of art, comfortable chairs, well shaded lights, that the colouring was a perfect harmony in mauve, would after all give but a poor idea of the major's snuggery; it was the indescribable touch of skilled fingers, the rare gift of taste which gave distinction to the whole. The very perfection of his surroundings half irritated Felix; it was ridiculous that a bachelor's little twopenny-half-penny flat should bo more beautiful than' a duchess's drawing-room, more tasteful than even Auriel's sanctum.

And Auriel's signed photograph was there on the mantelpiece. Ever since ho had entered the room, her foster brother had been conscious of its presence, end now, though he sat with his back to it, he still seemed to see the lovely imperious face, half mocking, half scornful, but always very, very beautiful. It was as though Auriel were really there, scrutinising with disdainful aloofness the room and its inmates. It vexed the man that the portrait should be thero ; angered him, in a way and for reasons he could not describe.

The player glanced at the owner of the room; or rather at his reflection m the looking-glass which hung over the piano, and ho admitted to himself, a little grudgingly, that Major Paul Demsdorff was very much in keeping with his surroundings. Even those who were jealous of Demsdorff's popularity, and no one was more universally sought after, could deny that the man was extraordinarily handsome, while they were forced to admit that it was not merely Ilis face and figure which had carried him straight to social success on the crest of a wave of popularity. Demsdorff might bo handsome, but Demsdorff was a sportsman; ladies of the old school might enthuse over his tact and courtesy, hostess choose him as the leader of overy cotillion; yet the men had to admit that the major could "play the game," whether it happened to be a "quick thing" with the hounds, a hot corner out shooting, or a polo match at Ranelagh, and all this though Demsdorff, as he himself was fond of saying, was just "one of those alien paupers your government passes the bills about."

The pauper, decided, as he took another glance at him in his severely plain evening clothes, looked much more of a gentleman and unquestionably more distinguished than the unwholesome youth of three and twenty who sat opposite to him at the card table, yet the latter was a peer of the realm.

"Had enough?" queried the host. mind if your man gets me another Benedictine," drawled the Karl of Lavingford, as ho helped himself to a cigarette. "I was referring to our game," explained the other, with a partially suppressed yawn. No one could have said thai ho showed more interest in the cards than his opponent. The youth picked up the liqueur <j;!ass Ford—tin* major's servant—had placed on the table, and then ho p.iused to light his cigarette at the cigar lighter the man held for him.

"Have to lie going, promised the old woman I'd look in at one or two shows. Rotten waste of time."

Felix was playing softly, ho had dropped into the very newest of "dreamy" waltzes.

"0 hang it all, one can't sit over the lire playing cards all night at your age," laughed Demsdorff. "Why I'm going to the dance at Lady Mary's myself soon." "You're such a deuced energetic chap. always rotting about: bad as Felix there he's never still, and if he is still lie's making a noise." (To be Continued.) *