jTHE CHARITY GIRL?
I By EFf IE A. ROWLANDS I
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Glendurwood carriage was stand
ing where Jack had ordered it to remain
when he arrived. Jack had thrown him
self back in his corner and had folded
his arms across his breast; Audrey sat
bolt upright, her two cold little hands
clinched tight together, her teeth set so
that the sobs that rose to her throat
should not escape her lips.
Who shall attempt to describe the
late of those two hearts, both wounded
to the very quick, both heavy with that
deep sorrow that comes when one has
been deceived where one loves best?
"Why did they take me to him? Why
was I married to him? I would sooner
have died than have listened to what
those women said to-night, and know
that he has never, never loved me," said
Audrey to herself, passionately.
"And so my happiness is over," ran
Jack's troubled thoughts. "Well, it has
not lasted long. Fool fool that I have
been, to believe that any woman could
be the angel I have pictured her to be,
end that she should love him him, above
all other men ! I feel as though his
very life's blood will not give me satis
faction." They reached the gates of Craiglands
at last ; a few minutes' drive through the
well-kept avenue, and then the door. Jack
got out, and then forcing himself by an
almost superhuman effort to appear nat
ural before the servants, turned to as
sist her. Audrey put her cold hand in
bis as she stepped out of the brougham.
How little did either of them think that
they would not clasp, or even touch,
bands again for many a weary day.
The fragrance and warmth of her bed
room seemed to choke Audrey. Hastily
flinging off her domino, Bhe passed to the
window and pushed it open, and then
stood by it, the sound of her own heart
beating in her ears like a sledge hammer.
Would Jack come? She waited several
moments. If he had come to her then
she would have done that which would
have put matters straight at once, for the
agony In her breast was urging her to
speak out to ask him why he had deceived
her, why he had married her? The hot
blood rushed to her cheeks again and
again, as she recalled me remarks those
two women had made, and realized how
cruelly the world judged her already.
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went
by, and Audrey still stood waiting for
the sound of her husband's footsteps on
the stairs and the passage outside.
I Her happiness was ended; Jack no
longer loved her indeed, had never loved
her. She was his wife, that was true, and
it must be her lot to bear with the diffi
culties as with the joys that fell to her
as his wife.
"Still," the child thought sorrowfully
to herself, "he has acted wrongly ; he has
been cruel to Sheila, to himself, to me.
I am glad he did not come in just now,
yes, glad, for it shows that he is tired of
deceit and hpyocrisy, and and I cannot
bear to think that the nature I thought
So honest should only prove false. What
was it that those women said? "The
worst day's work Jack Glendurwood did
when he married me.' People should be
careful how they speak out-the truth."
Her lips quivered, but her face flamed
with proud color. "The worst day's
work for Jack," she repeated slowly, "and
I am the one who has brought that to
him. I I who would lay down my life
lor him. Why did I ever meet him? Why
did I ever leave home? Why did not
heaven let me die before all this sorrow
came upon him through me? Jack! My
darling I My darling!"
Her hot, tearless eyes stared into the
fire, as if to seek some solution of this
painful problem there. In her loving gen
erosity Audrey made all excuses for her
husband now. She no longer blamed ; he
was still to her the dearest creature on
earth ; and yet so great was the agony at
thought of his deceit that, had he held out
his arms to her and called her tenderly by
name, she would have turned from him
end stood aloof.
CHAPTER XXV.
Jean Thwait was lying In a delicious
doze, half waking, half sleeping, on the
morning following the Dinglewood masked
ball, when a sharp tap at the door, fol
lowed by Audrey's rapid entrance, arous
ed her completely.
"What Is it, darling? Something has
happened?" she cried, hurriedly.
"Jean, can you pack up a few things
and come with me at once?" Audrey
spoke faintly, her face was deathly white,
she shook in every limb ; then before Jean
could answer, she went on swiftly, "My
mother Is very 111. She has telegraphed
for me. Perhaps even now I may be too
late; she may be dead. I have ordered
the carriage to be here in an hour, can
you be ready?"
"Yes," replied Jean, briefly. It needed
no words to tell her that more was the
matter than this telegram from Ger
many. Audrey had never spoken like this
to her before, had never looked as she
looked now.
Audrey made no inquiries about Jack,
although she knew she must acquaint him
with her journey before she started. Jean
found plenty to do in the time allotted to
her, but she was wonderfully quick, and
was In her fast and coat when she went
to the door to open It In answer to a
harp summons. It was Jack, also fully
attired In outdoor costume, with a rail
way rug over his arm.
"Good morning, Miss Thwait," he said,
hurriedly. "Please forgive ms for. this
onotremonlous intrusion, but I wan tad
to speak to you before I leave."
"Are you not going with us?" she ask
ed in surprise.
It was Jack's turn to show astonish
ment "Where are you going?" he asked husk
ily. Jean In three words, explained what
had happened, and then she knew some
thing was very wrong, indeed, by the ex
pression on Jack's face.
"Poor Constance !" she heard him mut
ter under his breath ; then he gave a
quick sigh. "I hope things may not be
so bad, Miss Thwait. It is quite impos
sible for me to get to Cronstadt yet."
"Does Audrey know you are not going
with us?"
"I have not seen her this morning," was
the answer, given with much evident
pain.
Jean clasped her hands suddenly. Then
her worst fears were realized, and some
thing more had, indeed, happened ; some
thing, too, very terrible, to work suoh a
change as this.
"Lord John," she said, Involuntarily,
"you must please forgive me, but is your
business so important that you are com
pelled to attend to it rather than accom
pany your wife on such a journey as
this?"
"Miss Thwait," he said as well as he
could speak, "the business I am going on
touches that which is dearer to me than
life my honor! I am sure that you at
least would not wish me to neglect any
thing with which that is concerned."
"I will answer for Audrey as for my
self," Jean said, hurriedly, "if your honor
is concerned, Lord John, no other reason
is needed ;.but is there nothing I can do?"
"Give this letter to Audrey, Miss
Thwait," his voice quivered as he spoke
his wife's name. "It is a sacred trust,
one that I would not give to every one ;
but I know you are her friend, you will
comprehend and sympathize with what I
am going to do."
"Stay, Lord John ; you must hear me !"
Jean's gray eyes were full of tears. "I
love Audrey better than anything on
earth. I do not ask to know the reason,
but I see, alas ! only too well, that some
thing has arisen between her and you. I
ask you now, and it is my love for her
that urges the question, will you not see
her yourself before you start on this
journey? will you not smooth away the
quarrel? She is in trouble will you not
take her to your arms?"
"It is impossible," he said quickly, but
with such determination in his voice as
made Jean shudder, and sent a thrill of
exquisite torture through Audrey's aching
heart, as she, at that moment, opened the
door in time to catch Jean's last words
and her husband's reply.
By and by, when they were speeding to
Dover, Jean and Willie Fullerton who,
when he found Jack did not join them,
insisted on going in a corner talking
earnestly, Audrey drew out her husband's
letter.
"Audrey In future, after, the events
of last night, it will be impossible for us
to live together. This, I take it, w'.ll be
as much your wish as mine. To corrtinue
to live as we have been doing would be
a mockery of marriage, a disgrace to our
race, a dishonor to our name. This, then,
is what I propose to do. There shall be
no divorce; the pride and honor of the
Harborough family protest against such
a course. After all, you are very young,
a mere child ; you may have erred through
ignorance, but be that so or not, from
henceforth you can never be my wife in
aught but name. My wife must be above
suspicion pure, sweet, true not a girl
who, before scarcely six months of her
marriage have gone, encourages a man
for whom she openly expresses horror and
contempt.
"As for Beverley Rochfort, before many
hours are over unless he be a cur, which
I take him to be he will have answered
to me for his own part in this affair.
Audrey, I am trying to write kindly; I
am trying to remember your youth and
the many disadvantages that have been
yours since the first, and you If you
nave justice and honesty In your heart-
you will recognize that I am not treating
you harshly. Tour future Is my care.
This morning I have made my will. I
leave you all the money I possess, to
gether with Minster, In Blankshire, the
property my father has just settled upon
me. Whether I live or die, I wish you
to make your home at Minster. I should
like to think Miss Thwait was with you.
Tour money will be transmitted through
my lawyers. I Intend to start at once
on a tour of the world, giving the condi
tion of my health as a reason for thus
relinquishing my parliamentary career. I
shall be absent, perhaps, two years, and
I leave It In your hands to judge whether
at the end of that time your conduct has
been such as to permit me to occupy the
same house as yourself, and appear be
fore the worldln my proper position as
your husband.
"JOHN GLENDURWOOD."
When Dover was reached a telegram
was brought to Jean.
"For Lady John Glendurwood," the
waiter said, Inquiringly. "Is that right,
madame?"
"Quite right."
Jean hesitated only a moment, and tore
it open. She gave a little sound of sor
row as she read. It was from Marshall
poor, faithful Marshall and ran thus :
"Mrs. Fraser died this morning. Her
last wish was that you should not travel
hers, but that she should be carried home
and buried In England. I, therefore, beg
your ladyship to obey this wish. 1 have
telegraphed for my poor mistress' lawyers.
"SUSAN MARSHALL."
Toor little Audrey I Robbed already of
the mother she had longed for so much,
loved so dearly, and possessed so short a
while 1
CHAPTER XXVI.
There was nothing to do. Audrey fell
Into a sickness that threatened Berious
consequences. Jean sent at once for Lord
Glendurwood and Fullerton, and he came
in hot haste from a vain search for Bev
erley Rochfort. There was nothing to be
done but wait. Audrey had fallen into
a stupor. Her dear mother was buried
without the presence of her beloved child.
For three days and nights Jean sat
beside Audrey's bed, watching and dread
ing for the moment when that fair, frail
face should grow even whiter, the faint,
low breathing even fainter. Three long,
weary days these were; but if she found
them terrible, how much more so did the
one who had nothing to do put to pace to
and fro In the wet, leafless garden, his
hungry eyes fixed alwnys on the low,
square window which hid his darling from
his view? The doctors forbade Jack Glen
durwood from entering his wife's sick
room. He had crept in for a few mo
ments the night he arrived no argument
or threat could keep him out; and as he
had bent over the girl's silent form, call
ing to her in his agony to speak to him,
she had opened her eyes, and at sight of
him she had given one little scream, and
then had relapsed into unconsciousness,
in which condition she had remained for
three days and nights. When reason re
turned Audrey was better, and Jean
sought out Jack and told the good news.
"And may I see her when?" he asked,
eagerly. "When may I see her? My darl
ing! My darling!"
"The doctor will tell you. Perhaps to
night !"
As Jean sat by Audrey's bedside that
evening, resting back wearily in the chair,
now that all extreme anxiety was gone,
a small, sweet voice came from the pil
low, and she was alert at once.
"Jean," she said, after a little pause,
"is Ja-r-is my husband here?"
"Tes, darling; he has been here nearly
all the time. Do you want to see him?"
"No, no, no ! I will not see him, Jean.
If you love me, send him away ! I shall
go mad if he is here ! Promise ! Prom
ise ! You must ; you shall !"
"It shall be as you wish, my dearest,"
Jean said, softly. "Tou can trust me?"
"Yes trust you always," she mur
mured, and in a few seconds she was
asleep. v
Constance Fraser had been brought
over to England and laid beside her moth
er in an old-fashioned country church
yard. It had been a simple funeral
enough, though flowers had come from
far and near. High and low, rich and
poor, one and all, had a sorrowful thought
for the sweet, gentle woman, who had
merited a better sojourn on earth.
Sheila was left to herself and her not
very agreeable reflections. The masked
ball had cost her an enormous sum. Lady
Daleswater had never offered to take her
away with her ; she had absolutely no no
tion of what had happened to Jack and
Audrey. Beverley Rochfort never made
the least sign, and to crown all, Murray,
the whilom maid ot Craiglands, and her
much too clever accomplice, took matters
into her own hands and bolted one night
with all the available jewelry and lace she
could lay her hands upon.
Enraged beyond all expression at the
loss of her property, Sheila at once put
the matter into the hands of the police,
and, in fact, was far more interested in
this affair than she was at the death of
her stepmother.
But a more disagreeable condition of
things than this awaited Sheila when
the report of Audrey's disappearance
spread to Mountberry. She was fairly
frightened ; ignorant of what might really
happen, she conjured up all sorts of evil
that would be visited upon her when the
whole truth was given to the world, as
it most probably would be. She eagerly
searched fer Rochfort, to force him to
exonerate her from blame in the mischief
they had brought about, but like a coward
he was hiding from its consequences.
Then one day she had a frantic visit
from Alice Fairfax, who was in great and
terrible fear lest something would hap
pen to her. She had seen Willie Fuller
ton, who had boldly stated that it was
Lord John's Intention to sift out the
whole gossip that had been spread about
his wife, and clear away much that he
could not understand.
"And If so, we shall be ruined, Sheila,"
sobbed Alice Fairfax; "but, anyhow, I
shall tell the truth, and say you asked
me to do "
"Tou dare to turn on me !" Sheila
flashed, furiously, white with anger, and
then she would have proceeded to fur
ther ebullitions of wrath had not the
door of her room been opened at this
moment and Mr. Fullerton announced by
the waiter. A glance at the two flushed
faces would have satisfied Willie as to
their guilt, if he had not, at that mo
ment, reposing in his pocket, a complete
confession signed by Murray, whom Daw
son, the detective, had easily found--this
had been done at Jean's suggestion and
who, discovering that her chance of a
brilliant career on Sheila's jewels was
briefly cut short, eased her conscience and
her spite by disclosing the whole plot.
Willie's interview with Sheila was
short and to the point; and when he left
the room he carried with him her signa
ture and a few words at the bottom of
Murray's confession testifying that all
the maid had written was true.
(To be continued.)
Convenient.
"So you have three pairs of glasses,
professor?"
"Tes one pair to read with, another
for near-sightedness, and a third pair
to look for the other two with !" File
gende Blatter.
(3REAT NEED OF WORLD.
By Rev. Henry Marsh Warren.
"Ye shall bo witnesses unto Me.
Acts 1:8.
While our Lord was upon earth the
disciples were not naked to be wit
nesses; they were simply to follow
their Master, to listen to His marvelous
teachings and to observe Ills wonder
ful works. "Ye are my witnesses.
Hereafter you must stand In my place,
take up my work, fight my buttles,
ninnifest my love and gather in my
lewels." In other words, He then In
trusted to Ills disciples and to Ills
church both the honor of Ills name
and the great work of redeeming the
world for God.
A witness for God must live a Christ
like life. It is far easier to stand up
and proclaim that Jesus is the light of
the world than It Is to live exemplify
ing the saying, "Ye are the light of
the world." And by the Christ-like life
we mean representing' Christ at all
times and in all places, not only In the
house of God on a Sunday, or In the
prayer meeting, but also In the home
and In business and social life.
Another way by which we may be
come faithful witnesses Is by direct and
zealous labor to help the many unfor
tunate people about us. I believe the
church falls in this respect more than
any other. Churches provide well for
the comfort of their members, and our
preachers are able and consecrated men
of God, but Individual lubor for the In
dividual soul Is lacking. It Is a wrong
Idea that personal labor and oral wit
nessing for God are for ministers only.
One verse In the Bible beautifully do
scribes the life of Christ, viz.: "He
went about doing good."
This should characterize the life of
His followers. We should "go about
doing good."
"But how," some one may ask, "are
we to do It?" Let me mention two or
three very simple and practical ways
by which we may do good aud In so
doing bring the world to know and fol
low God, and so prove that we are
faithful witnesses.
1. By helping those who need help.
There are hundreds and thousands of
opportunities In this great city and
over the world. Wljat they need Is the
helping hand. If the church Is to give
salvation to the masses who are out
side and are living lives of sin and sor
row, she must give her attention to
ministering to the needy.
2. By sympathizing with those who
need sympathy. Jesus was a man of
sorrows and acquainted with grief. He
had a heart of great sympathy and
never failed to express it when occa
sion afforded. The world's great heart
to-day longs for expressions of Chris
tian sympathy. Oh, the opportunities
we have of doing good In the way of
sympathy with those who need It If
we will put ourselves or our money at
His disposal, God will open some portal
through which we may enter and tune
the heart-strings of some discordant
life to play the music of heaven.
And then we may do good by en
couraging those who need encourage
ment A few years ago a big hotel
was burning and a young woman In
one of the upper stories would have
perished but for the cheers of encour
agement that went up from the crowd
of lookers-on. When the brave fireman
landed his prize safely be said: "You
have no Idea how near I came return
lug without her. It was the cries of
encoruagement that nerved me for the
task."
God only knows how many faltering,
trembling weak souls there are to-day
who need Just such a cheer. How many
times the clouds hang over us, with no
pillar of fire to guide. How many
times we stand by the waters of the
Red Sea, where the angry waves roll
and break, and there seems no way of
escape. Oh, that some strong hand
were then outstretched to save us, and
a kind, gentle voice' to encourage and
comfort us.
There are so many who could be
saved from great .mistakes and from
falling if the right thing were said and
done In the right way and at the right
time. God help us to be on the alert
for such opportunities of doing good.
WHAT IS VIRTUE P
By Henry 7. Cop.
"Adding on your part all diligence,
In your faith supply virtue and In your
virtue knowledge." II. Peter 1:5.
Who Is the virtuous person? What
la the virtuous life? Is he the bearer
of no more than spotless life? Is vir
tue the leaving undone of vice? Is It
negation and denial? Then Is the pol
ished marble more virtuous than the
fairest saint You cannot be measured
by the things you leave undone.
Is virtue, then, the clamorous erec
tion of some standard of living und
tlio duly advertised attainment thereto?
Is It even the secret, modest effort of
conformity to a fixed code or rule of
dally living the doing ' of certain
things In certain ways at certain times?
Is the virtuous life the ono that fol
lows precisely tho prescribed rules and
schedules of conduct?
The last Is the notion most generally
entertained. Yet how fallacious It Is.
It Is the secret of prlggishness; the
standard attained, we huve the sin of
self-satisfaction. It converts the man
into a blind machine; your mechanical
moralist Is no more virtuous than any
other machine. He lucks life and free
dom of choice. Virtue Is, first of all,
vital ; It cannot be found with tho eyes
shut nor with the will atrophied.
Virtue Is strength; It Is moral and
spiritual health. It Is not In doing or
loavlng undone; It is not In feeling
either good or bad ; it Is not In senti
ments or doctrines, elthor false or true.
It Is that perfect ordering, adjusting,
and outflowing of the whole Inner life
which In Its more material and evi
dent aspects we call health and
strength. Tho doing, feeling and think
ing flow from this right Inner, deter
minating tone.
The morally healthy man will love
the things that are good and pure ; he
will loathe the base and defiling. Only
a depraved appetite turns to the garb
age can when there Is a well spread
table waiting. Did we but understand
It we would despise and fear still more
that vicious Inner apiet!te that turns
the whole life toward things corrupt
and rotten when there awaits on every
hand In this fair world so much that la
beautiful and wholesome.
Have you ever thought how largely
health and strength depend on tastes
and appetites? Who can be healthy
with a perverted craving to which ho
yields? Such tastes depend on train
ing and cultivation. So It Is with vir
tue; strength of the soul, health of the
heart lies on the road of the choice of
things that are best is acquired by
the deliberate and constant choosing of
things that are right, pure, elevating.
Virtue, then, rests on faith, not blind
belief In certain dogmatic statements,
but the upward look, the noble aspira
Ion, the hlgh-mlndcdness that lifts up
the heart It takes this spirit this
faith, this confidence In things unseen
to enable us to choose the best to cul
tivate the taste for the true food of
life. Otherwise the heart that was
meant to feed on the Invisible bread
snatches the evident husks of earth,
and It dies.
There Is no virtue without this faith
In high Ideals, in things not seen. A
man may be Just, be may be honest
and upright for policy, because It pays,
but be cannot find virtue as a matter
of policy. It Is not In the market to
be bought It Is acquired only as we
set the heart on character, as we learn
to love the good and true for its own
sake.
This bealthfulness of soul comes also
through struggle. Vice Is made to
serve virtue as we strive against It
Using moral muscles, we find and hard
en them. He who flees temptation,
who shrinks from the soul searching
crises of life, misses the best that life
has to give. In the gymnasium of
temptation and trials the full strength
of character Is won. That does not
mean that one must seek out vice; It
means we must meet every foe to his
face.
Count him virtuous whose face Is set
toward the light; who Uvea on a grade
that leads up; who Is strong to servo
his fellows, to make a better world, to
face and fight all things that spoil and
mar ; who lives not for meat or money,
but for manhood, for truth and beauty.
For virtue Is that habit of the soul,
that health that comes from steadily
seeking things good and true, that
strength that comes from struggle and
service ; It Is the Inner life victorious
over the outer temptation.
Short Meter Sermons.
Kindness Is a seed that never finds a
barren soli.
Virtue for profit will become rice for
more profit
The best friendship Is that, which
brings out the best In us.
What we call destiny often Is only
a matter of determination.
If you would lose all force think
always of your own feelings.
The true man fears the power of
sin more than Its punishment
Mending your ways Is the best way
of mourning over them.
If you cannot hate hypocrisies and
evil you are not likely to love virtue.
Many a man who Is proud of being
wicked Is really only weak In the head.
It will not give you wings to have
your name on the fly leaf of the Bible.
An abnormal sense of your own
rights soon will hide your neighbor's
righteousness.
You can never meet the needs of a
thirsty world by packing water on
both shoulders.
It Is a good deal easier to preach
things heroic and divine than It Is to
practice things ' ordinarily human and
decent