Lexington wheatfield., April 11, 1907, Image 6

THE CHARITY GIRL?
J By EFFIE A. ROWLANDS I
CHAPTER VIII. (Continued.)
When Frank was gone, at first she felt
as if she must rush madly after him,
but she restrained herself ; and fortunate
ly she got her father's permission to re
turn to her aunt, and try to cheer the
poor woman up. Roderick was back at
her home, and proved a courteous and
kind friend to his brother's wife. He be
sought her not to speak to her father
about the marriage, urging all sorts of
reasons for the delay. Roderick also ad
vised her not to confide in his mother;
and, bearing in mind Frank's wishes, she
did all the young man advised.
So the days went by. Four months
were spent ; the time was drawing near
for her father's annual winter, visit to
Hip Riviera, and Constance felt she ought
to accompany him, when suddenly the
current of her life was changed by two
events, the first of which brought the
color to her cheeks and the thrill to her
heart, the second of which plunged the
girl's soul into the deepest, darkest mis
ery a woman can ever know. ' '
Just as the letter in which she had
. written, in timid, gentle words, the ma
ternal hopes she might assure herself of,
a blow fell upon her which all but
crushed out her life, as it successfully
broke her heart. One day a woman pre
sented herself at Lady Anstruther's house
find asked to see Miss Gascoigne. Mar
shall, who guarded and shielded her
young mistress by every means In her
power, would have refused this woman
admittance, but Constance took the mat
ter into her own hands, and a meeting
followed.
When Marshall went in to look after
the girl, thinking she had given the
stranger enough of her time, she found
Constance standing before the fire, her
face ashen white, her eyes staring and
expressionless, like the eyes of the dead.
"Marshall," she said, with tones that
v.ere husky with emotion, "Marshall, I
I have been deceived. 1 am not Frank's
wife!"
"Not Mr. Frank's wife! Oh, come,
Miss Constance, you are altogether
wrong! Why, didn't I see you a-stand-ln'
before the altaj with my own eyes,
and didn't I hear you swear to belong
to each other "
Constance put out an icy-cold hand.
"Dear, true friend," she whispered,
between her pallid lips, and then she
tok up a pie? of paper and gave it to
Marshall.
"Read that, and you will see I am not
wong," she said, with a wintry smtle.
"The wedding you assisted at was only a
farce. Heie is the certificate of Frank
Aristruther's first marriage, ay, first and
oti'.y one, for that woman who has just
left mp is Ins lawful, legal wife."
"I will not believe it! I will not be
lieve It!" So cried Marshall over and
over again, while the poor girl crouched
down by the fire and rocked herself to
and fro, asking herself In a wild, mad
way. what was to become of her.
"Mr. Roderick will put this straight,"
was Marshall's verdict, and for a brief
time a flame of hope sprung up in the
wretched creature's breast ; but alas ! it
soon died down and was crushed out for
ever. Roderick took the matter up Immedi
ately. He sought out every clew, follow
ed the truth up to the bitter end, and,
lastly and sorrowfully, had to own his
brother a liar and a villain.
Constance seemed turned to stone. She
shed no tears, she made no moan ; she
bore h.-rs( If with a pride that was some
tIJnif marvelous.
"What was to become of her? What
of her child?" The question haunted her
day and night.
Fortunately, her aunt's health became
ho bad, she was permitted to stay burled
in the country house without further mo
lestation from her father, who went off to
Monte Carlo and enjoyed himself, doubly
free from his daughter's presence. Letters
arrived, from Frank by every mail, but
they were tossed into the fire unread.
"I leave you to communicate with
your brother," the girl had said In hei
one and only interview with Roderick,
and the hot blood of triumph had surged
into his veins.
How well his evil, jealous plan had
worked I . Better than he could have
hoped or' dreamed. Frank was miles
away j he could not stand forth and re
fute the horrible lies. Constance, bound
up in pride and misery, refused to do
a she should have done, write to him di
rect, and so learn the real truth. His
two puppets worked at his will and hast
ened his revenge.
Revenge on the brother he had always
hated ; revenge on the woman he had
loved in a wild, unreasoning, passionate
way, and who had shrunk from his very
friendship in a manner that had chilled
him(to the heart. It was a cruel, wicked,
unmanly act the act rather of a demon
than that of a man.
As day after day went by, the time
approached for the birth of Constance's
nameless child. She had made no plans,
airanged nothing. Roderick did every
thing. He it was who guarded the girl
In her mother's house, where, with no one
about her but Marshall, not even a whis
per of her condition caught the wind;
he surrounded her with every comfort,
every care, but he never saw her, and
she sent him no thanks.
The day her child was born, Marshall
came to him; she had no liking for Rod
ericj in fact, so great was her anger
and hatred toward poor Frank she could
scarcely brinf herself to address any one
connected with him ; but there was noth
ing else to do, and even the old woman,
in common justice, admitted that Rod
erick was acting with more thnn a broth
er's love to the unfortunate girl,
"She refuses to see the child," Mar
shall said, "and when I urge her, all she
says is, 'Let it die! Let It die!' We
can't do that, you know, sir. What are
we to do?"
Roderick had already foreseen this con
tingency and was prepared.
"The child must be removed. I know
a woman who will take it and be thank
ful for the money. The mother will
never ask for it, never wish to see it."
And thus, despite Marshall's longing
to keep the helpless, hapless child, was
the matter arranged. ' Constance never
asked after her baby, and when she was
told by her faithful maid what had been
done with it, she made no sign, either
by word or look. The doctor who attend
ed hei. had, been taken into confidence by
Roderick,' and he pitied the poor young
mother from the bottom of his heart, for
he saw that a blow had been struck
which could never be healed.
Constance , was scarcely convalescent
before she received a visit from her fath
er, whp was in a state of much perturba
tion. "Knew how it would be," he said, when
he first saw the girl's white face. "Boxed
up here with a dying old woman enough
to kiil you in reality. And who could
hnve put this into the papers? Anstruth
er gays It must have been some officious
person in the village who thought you
were ill, and must needs kill you."
Constance took the newspaper from her
father's bund, and read the announce
ment of ber own death in a short para
graph. She 'was silent for a; moment,
and then, as she handed It back, she said,
w'th a faint smile :
"It is a pity you have to contradict
it, father."
"Eh ! What nonsense ! Now, Con, I
shan't let you stop here any longer. I
never saw such a change in any girl !
Pack up jour trunks at once and come
away ! Why, you look forty !"
IIi w little did poor Constance think,
as she journeyed to London with her
fath?r. that at that very time Frank
Anst rather was reading the account of
her death, not only in a newspaper, but
in a loving, tenderly Indited letter from
h's bi other Roderick, who had hit on this
idea of separating Frank from his wife
as being the best. If he had hinted at
nnyihirg else, Frank would have rushed
back to England at once, but with Con
stance dead and buried, what was there
to bring him back?
Roderick's shrewdness was verified ;
Frank never came home. And when the
London season was at its height, and
Constance Gascoigne was winning fresh
laurels for her beauty and wit, the news
arrived of an outbreak of fever in Bur
mah, and Frank Anstruther's name wag
among the dead. They called him a hero.;
they sent home accounts of his courage
self-sacrifice, and bravery, and Con
stance's heart turned with a despairing,
yeurning agony to the man she had loved
so well, and she longed to be buried wirh
him, shut out of the world forever. She
saw Roderick as little as she could. It
was from his lips that she learned of her
child's death ; the woman who had taken
it had reported always how delicate it
was, and the end, always expected, had
come at last.
Then it was that Roderick spoke; that
he showed himself in his colors. He
pleaded for her love ; he told her how he
had adored her ever since their child
hood's days; how he had given place to
Frank against his longing, and entreat
ed her to forget all and become his wife.
When he left her that day Roderick
knew his plan had failed; come what
might,' Constance would never be his wife.
To lend aid to his final coup he had lied
to her about her child. He knew that
it lived, although if neglect and poverty
could have killed it the poor little thing
had its share. Stung to the quick with
the bitter words that came from Con
stance's lips at his offering of love, he
determined she should never be told the
truth. He had one interview with the
woman who had charge of the child, and
after giving her a large sura of money
and sworn her to secrecy, he went out of
England, and was lost to the world that
knew him forever. He had lived for one
thing only during the space of four years,
and when he knew he had lost his tri
umph, he cast the dust off his shoes nnd
vanished.
Then came the time of George Fraser's
wooing, the miserable hopeless time when
CoiiBtnnce learned that her hand was the
price of silence over her father's dis
honor and dishonesty. The rest we know
up to the day that Audrey came to Din
glewood as maid to Sheila Fraser.
CHAPTER IX.
"And you are my mother?" They
were the only words Audrey could utter.
She was bewildered, amazed ; her heirt
was beating with a nervous excitement,
in which pride and joy mingled largely.
Shu felt as though she were in some
sort of dream, or waking trance; every
now and then she passed her hand over
her eyes as though to clear away the con
fusion that existed.
She was kneeling beside Constance
Fraser's slender figure, the pretty, white
hands were clnsping hers, the soft, mimi
cal voice was ringing In her ears. And
thin was her mother! She Audrey
Maxse the waif and stray, the nauieles
nobody, the was this delicate aristocrat's
child !
"You are my child, my darling. My
own, my very own!"
Audrey gave a little cry and nestled
close to her new-found mother.
"It is too beautiful, too beautiful to
be real !" was all she could Bay ; and
then, as she felt the soft, tender Hps
pressed to her brow and cheeks, she be
gan to wake from her dream.
"Tell me, tell me how It nil happened,
how you found that 1 was not dead."
"It was your face that first seemed to
whisper hope," Mrs. Fraser replied.
"When you came in that morning it was
as though Frank stood before me again.
You have his very eyes; the expression
in thein is exnetly what lived in his. I
began to wonder, to dream. I was not
hnppy till I had learned your history.
Now you know why I have had so many
long chats with dear Mrs. Thorngnte. I
determined to confide in her ; I knew I
could trust her, as, indeed, that has been
' proved. At once she took matters Into
' her own hands. She communicated with
her husband, who made every Investiga
tion ahput you, my darling, and discov
ered, thank heaven ! that when you were
placed in the home through the influence
of , Sir Henry Bulstiode, certain things
belonging to the woman supposed to be
your mother were deposited In the care
of the matron, Miss Irons. I examined
these few poor things an old satchel,
a Bible, a bundle of old letters ; and in
the satchel, hidden away in the lining,
we discovered the certificate of your birth,
together with vthe last 'letter Roderick
must have Written to the woman before
she died. Oh, my darling! my darling!"
she cried, holding Audrey pressed close
to her. "How can I ever describe the
exquisite joy 'that cams to me when i!
knew what heaven had sent me? I
seemed to live again to grow, as I once
was, strong and full of courage. Kiss
me, my child, my baby ! Kiss me, and
let me hear you say you hflve forgiven
me for my cruel desertion of you !"
"Forgiven , you ! Oh.v my poor, dear,
sweet, new mother, don't say such a
thing ! When I remember how you must
have suffered, . how cruel that wicked
man has been to hide me from you all
thfse years, J feel almost mad."
That eventful night ended In more ex
citement, for the report spread to the
house of the discovery of Jack Glendur
wood, insensible and horribly wounded,
and in the tumult that ensued Sheila
worked off some of her violent feelings.
She broke in abruptly upon the length
ened conference betwen Audrey and her
mother, and blurted out the news with
out any warning; bet her eyes glistened
gladly as she saw the color leave Audrey's
face and lips, and heard the moan that
came from the sorrow-stricken heart.
Constance Fraser turned pale, too, but
the sight of her child's face gave her
courage. As though she had read it in
large letters, she knew the truth then.
"It may not be so bad, Sheila, These
things are always exaggerated," she said,
us she put her hands tenderly on Au
drey's shoulders. "It seems to me in
credible that Jack should have been at
tacked like this. Surely sucii man can
have no enemies."
"He has ben robbed of all the jewelry
and money he had onthat will be a clew,".
Sheila said, apparently with indifference,
but watching Audrey keenly as she spoke.
All at once she seemed to realize that
things were not so bad for her. This
sudden illness of Lord John's might,
after all, prove a good friend to her.
At any rate, it would separate him
from Audrey, and that was a great deal.
She noticed with the keenest pleasure
young girl's face. She must not let her j
step-mother notice her hatred of the girl j
that had stepped in between her and her :
happiness.
"But I am forgetting," she said, in a'
frank, pleasant manner. "I have to offer
all sorts of congratulations to you, mam
ma. Why, it is like a fairy story. And
so this pretty little girl is to be my
sister?" She had come up to the slender
drawn-up figure. "We must be good
friends, you and I, Audrey," Bhe said,
gliblly. "Let us seal that bargain with
a kiss." v
Constance Fraser's delicate face flush
ed. This was not what she had expected ;
her generous, noble heart was deeply
touched and she trembled visibly.
, "Thank you, dear Sheiia,1 was all she
said; but she gave the girl a look of
unutterable gratitude. "You have al
ways been kind . to me. I I should
lika to think you and my Audrey were
friends." )
Sheila stood silent for a moment, then,
laughing softly, she pressed her lips to
Audrey's cheek. .
"There! It is done!" she said. "And
now for the latest news of poor Jack.-'
Audrew had stood motionless all
through this little scene ; but her mother's
hand felt the tremble that ran through
the young frame. She fathomed only too
well all that her child was suffering. As
the door closed on Sheila, and they were
alone once more, she wrapped her arms
round the slight figure.
"My darling!" she said, in tones of the
deepest tenderness.
Audrey gave a little cry, and turning,
clung to her new-found comforter and
protector. i
"Oh, mother, mother!" she whispered,
brokenly ; "and I I love him so ! What
shall I do If he dies?"
Then, with those loving arms still
about her, she wept out the story of her
simple love. It was an old and a new
story; and though her heart was torn
with anguish at this calamity that had
befallen her beloved, the girl's sorrow was
inexpressibly soothed . by the remem
brance, that the heart Bhe leaned on now
beat only for her, and would be hers
henceforth and to the end.
(To be continued.)
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ood
f;("
Self-Defenae,
"I'm surprised at you," snld Jlgley,
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fellow Ilarduppe. You're surely not In
such nwful need of money."
"No," replied Shrude, "but I felt
sure Ilarduppe was. Anticipated hlin,
that's all." Catholic Standard and
Times.
Juvenile I den.
Little Johnny (In cemetery) 5ny,
paw, why didn't the man who Is bur
led here go to heaven?
1 I'mv Perhaps he did,. my son.
' Little Johnny But It says on h!s
tombstone, Tence to his nshes,' nnd It
must be a hot pluco where thero's
nshes.
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Mm jSBw
g$ JACOBS -figm
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Collinion Not Collusion.
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The Wife Collusion? No. It's been
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Pittsburg Gazette Times.
Immune.
Elsie Oh! you better leave thoro
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Tommy I know, but I ain't wearln'
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Catholic Standard and Times.
CATARR
Circumstances nre beyond the con
trol of man, but his conduct is in his
own power. Beaumont
BLOOD
1 DISEASED
AND SYSTEM DISORDERED
Catarrh 13 not merely aa inflammation of the tissues of the head and
throat, as the symptoms cf ringing noise3 la the ears, mucous dropping back
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tarrhal poison affect3 all part3 of the system. The head has a tight, full
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I had Catarrh for about fifteen fSCtf dise"Se; fc ol .
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blood must be
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same time
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