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The Exeter Times-Advocate, 1930-12-25, Page 2wcraow as, im THE EXETER TIMES-ADVOCaTE RUBY M. AYRES WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE sets out to in- re- ' Giles Chittenham make Julie Furrow love him, tending to throw her oyer in Tenge for the suicide of his young- ■ er brother Rodney, whom Julie , had cast off. He succeeds, but finds that he has fallen desperate ly in love with her himself. Then lie discovers that it was not this Julie Farrow, but her cousin of " the same name, who had driven his brother to -death. But Giles ' is married, to an American girl ‘ named Sadie Barrow, with whom he has not lived with for a long time. Sadie unexpectedly turns up in London at a part.v at Giles’ mother’s house, but both keep sil ent about their marriage. Julie, disillusioned, enters in to the wild night life of London to try to drown her anguish. Law rence Schofield wants to marry Julie. Lombard, who had first introduced her to Chittenham, de mands money from Giles with the threat that if he is not paid he will tell Schofield that Chitten ham and Julie spent the night to gether on the St. Bernard Pass. Later, Julie confesses to Chitten ham that she loves him. At a spiritalist seance at1 Giles’ mother’s house Sadie Barrow, his wife, suddenly goes blind,. She calls to him and he responds, re- ‘ vealing the fact that she is his wife. Julie, who has .sent Scho field awajr because of her love for Chittenham, goes home in despair, Chittenham follows her, but she sends him away and decides she will accept Schofield. She goes to •Schofield's hotel. Fie is out, but she leaves a note for him. Schofield’s reply is to return Julie's note unopened. Later he calls on Chittenham and tells him * that Lombard has told him of the night that Giles and Julie spent together at St. Bernard. He be-, lieves the worst of Julie. Giles throws Schofield out. So that is what the world believes about the girl he loves! She never thought of Schofield—it was to her a bitter memory. He' Jiad been the rock in her sea of dis tress to which she had always un consciously dung, and he had failed Irer even as everything else had fail ed her. And then one evening as she was walking along by the sea with the sunset light i’ll her face, she met him. Be looked ill, she thought, and old! And as her eyes searched his face, Ft seemed impossible that only a few Bays ago she had been with him and talked to him—surely months mud- have dragged away since she told liim he must go. out of her life. And Schofield gripped her wrist with fingers that bruised, as he said hoarsely—“Thank God—I’ve found you at last.” & Julie managed a laugh. “Do you know that you actually .sound sincere?” she taunted him. “I was never more sincere in my life. Where can we go to be alone? $ have so much to say to you ..." Julie glanced down the almost de serted sea-front. “If you have anything to say that ■roust ■ be said, I hardly think any one will overhear you. But I am in a hurry ...” Her voice broke ang- Tily. “Why are you here at all?” “We have been hunting for you ever since you left London.” His agitation was unmistakable; she could feel liow his hand shook as he 'held her wrist. Julie laughed again. “We.” she queried. “Yes—Giles Chittenham and my- ®elf.” “Giles Chittenham?” The colour •died from her face. “I am indeed honoured,” she said with a bitter sneer. .Schofield winced as if she had hurt him. ■“Don’t talk like that. If you only knew . . . Oh, Julie, let me explain —let me try to explain—” “There is nothing to expain— frothing I want to hear." “You don’t Jike you to be hard and cruel- She tried to “Let me go. jshed with each other.” “Yes.” He released her wrist, but now she made no effort to leavd1 him; there was a haunting sadness •in bls eyes that held her against her will. “But there is still Chittenham," Jie said very quietly. Julie tried to speak but no words would come, and before she could freslst he,had drawn her down to <«it beside him on one of*the seats coking tilt* sA'flu ctnd, Weis 5ttg her hand in -both his. “We've been searching for <day and night, Julie—-it seems a 4ime since you went away—"”. Her Ups curled scornfully. “A lifetime! only two weelts-—" “Sometimes two days can be. art ^•.ernlty/1 he told her with unusual eloquence. He did not heed when sslie tried to interrupt him,; he went rapidly; “So milch scorns io have bappeiwd ;(i$lnce • . < since you and I parted. mean that—it’s not>> free herself. You and I have fin- hoi fl yon life You know—” he stopped abruptly, only to go on again with quiet de liberation. ‘.'Chittenham’s wife is dead—.Chittenham is free.” Julie tried to speak', but her lips felt too cold to frame anj’ words. She sat staring before her at the fading sunset with a sense of numb ed reality, Chittenham’s wife was dead! Sadie dead! Sadie! , . Stadie to have died like the butterfly she had been, after a few short hours of vain fluttering in the sunshine. Like a voice in a dream she heard Schofield speaking again. “We’ve searched for you every where-—-Miss Lenuox—** “Oh, —Bim!" Bim had never failed her—the only friend who had not. Fie went on without' noticing the interruption. - “We’ve searched al most everywhere—Miss Lennox an'd Chittenham and I. It is pure chance that I came here today, something seemed to force me to come , . ." “Poor Lawrence!” Julie whispered He winced and turned his face away. “I’ve fault . . for me, that you never cared. “I don’t care for said harshly. “I will : any one again. It hurts too much— it’s not worth the little happiness one gets flung to them in return.” They were both silent for a mom ent, then she broke out feverishly: “Why did you send my letter back to me? why were you so cruel?” Fie told her unhesitatingly: “A man named Lombard ... a man named Lombard came to me with a lying story about you and . . Giles Chittenham. He said that you and he spent the night together on the Bernard . . .” He turned his face to her. “Forgive me, Julie must have been mad to 'believe t heen a fool- . and yet- Julie ... I ■all my own ■you never cared always knew anyone,” she never care for St. sad —I it.” “Forgive you? I don’t under stand—what do you mean?” Then suddenly she knew, and the blood rushed in a burning tide to her face. “You thought that!” she whisper ed. “Yes.” The last streak of sunset warmth had faded, and there was a chill wind blowing in from the sea. Julie shiv ered and rose to her feet. “It’s cold. I must go,” “Let me come with you, Julie. Now I’ve found you—don’t send me away like this—without saying you forgive me.” “It cannot matter to you whether I forgive you or not—” - “It matters everything in the world, Julie, if there is anything I can do for you—anything, anything to make amends for the past . . . ” Juie half smiled as she looked at him. It mattered so little to her that he had been unjust; he had never .had any real power to hurt her; forgiveness between them would be an easy thing. She touched his hand with sudden kindliness. “Don’t let us say any more about it, Lawrence. It’s over and done with. We’ll part friends, shall we?” “And you will come back with to England?” he asked eagerly. Her face grew cold. “Come back to England . . never want to go back again.” “But, Julie—your happiness . . ” She laughed mirthlessly. “There is no happiness for That’s all finished. Don’t tragic. We must all live lives and work out our own salva tion.—if there is such a thing. I’m glad to have seen you again—it hurts the way you sent me about my business ...” “I shall never forgive myself, Julie.” “You must; there isn’t anything really to forgive. I wasn’t too kind to you either, Lawrence—” “You gave me the only happiness I have ever known, and that is why I want to give you your happiness.” .She drew back sharply, . “Why—what do you mean?” “That I want to take you back to Chittenham. He’s a fine fellow, Julie, and you mean everything in the world to him. There was a time when I hated him, b,ut lately, now we understand each other—I can see why I never stood a chalice when he was concerned—” “What do you mean? How dare you say such things to me?” “I dare anything if it means your happiness.” “My happiness is no concern of. yours-™” She turned and began to walk away from him. Her heart was beating fast and her eyes burned With the let fall. In the the little bunch of roses and he kissed her •hands as she took the flowers fhhm hint, “Say you forgive me, Julie?’ “Of coui’se I forgive you." in her heart she know that If had cared for him, forgiveness would not have been possible. “Of course I forgive you," she said again with i me . I me. look so our own tears which she dared not evening Schofield called at hotel. He brought a large Blit she effort:In return you will must you» an promise me something Lawrence?" “If I can—you know I will." “Then promise me that you will not telf any one in London where I am." He hesitated, and she said again sharply; “Most of all you must' prom- : ise me not to tell Mr. Chittenham.” iSchofield looked away from her, 1 “I have already wired to him. : wired this evening after you left me iShe drew a deep breath, her heart . was beating so fiercely that it seem ed to choke her. ■ “You think . . do you think he will come here?” she asked. “I am sure he will come.” “Yes . . . yes, I suppose so.” She touched his arm. “And you are the s good Samaritan who will bring us - together again,” she said, and he did I not hear the mocking note in her i voice. ; -But whenylie had gone she shed no tears. She went up to her room, L leaving the roses he had brought ly- s ing on the table in the deserted sal oon. She dragged her few clothes l from the drawers in the little painted I chest, and hurriedly packed them. ' “It’s all over, that part of my life —it’s finished for ever,” she told > herself over and over again. “I don’t ■ want him now—I don’t even want to . see him! I could never forgive or , believe in him again.” She told her landlady that she was ■ going back to England, but at the station she took a -ticket to Lausan ne. “He will never think of looking for me .there,” she told herself exult antly. “He will think it is the last place I should ever go back to.” ■She changed her name to Langdon and took a room in a little old-fash ioned chalet overlooking the lake, • and when she found the time begin ning to hang impossibly on her hands she advertised for pupils to "whom to teach English. For one thing she needed the money, and for another, .she felt that she would go mad if she could not find occupation. But except at intervals she was not unhappy. And so the late summer and the autumn passed, and the cold winds came, and the grey days, and the mountains were hidden in veils of mist. What was Giles doing? One night she dreamed of him so vividly that she was sure he must 'be somewhere, near her, and for two days she afraid to go out for fear that might meet him. “I will go home,” she told self, and tried to believe that it sheer longing for England that drew her, and that the presence of Chit tenham made no difference. “I will go home for Christmas,” she decided, and her .spirits rose, the house smiled change in her. “She has had toid one another, . chat it was an unhappy love affair ihat had hitherto caused the sadness in Julie's eyes. And then a week before she was. to leave, Julie suddenly felt a great ■ longing to climb the St. Bernard once more. » >She made inquiries and was .told that she could not go without a guide . “It is a dangerous time of the year,” she was warned. It was the same day in the list- of visitors in the paper who were ex pected at the Palace Hotel Caux tor Christmas that Julie saw Giles Chit tenham’s name. She was glancing down the list without much interest, wondering if any one she had known in England might by chance be mentioned there,’ when suddenly his name seemed to leap out at her in letters of fire. “Mr. Giles Ch.ittenli(ain and. his fiancee Miss Beatrice Neale—” There followed a little chatty para graph' about them—but Julie read no more. She stood with the paper clutched in her hand, cold to the lips. He had forgotten her. so soon-—he was to be married to another wo man. Him had often' said bitterly that no man could be faithful and Julie had not believed her. Well, she be liever her now—and such a tide of hatred and despair rose in her heart that she was afraid. Three times Giles had struck at her—three times he had made her suffer beyond all endurance, and now, she would suffer no more. She put on her thick boots and her warm est coat and went out. At the front door she met the woman who kept the house. “You are she glanced not go far. come, much “I am not and hurried on. The woman closed the door went back to her warm kitchen told her husband who was sitting smoking his pipe by the stove, that it was* a good thing Miss Langdon was leaving—not that she wished her to go for fshe liked her well enough, but because now she could get three I was she her- was from that moment and the people in when they saw the good news,” they and were quite sure going out?" she asked: up at the sky.” I should There is more snow to more snow..” , going far,” Julie said and She A‘* times as much money for her room. There was a knock at the front door and she broke off in what she was saying to see who the visitor might be. A tall man in a big overcoat stood there—he asked for Miss Langdon. He spoke eagerly as it excitement. “Shb has but a moment if Monsieur would put the great trouble of coming in to wait." “I will certainly wait." It had begun to snow afresh, and the shoulder’s of Chittenham’s coat were white as- he, stepped into the little hall-way. • He haU been visiting some people in London whose daughter had com*) home for the Christmas holidays from school in (Switzerland. 'She had been showing amateur photographs of her school friends, and amongst them was one of Julie. Giles had been bored by her chat ter, and had pushed the photographs aside "when she pressed one more upon his notice: “That’s Miss Langdon, who comes to teach the Swiss girls English. She’s’a darling ...” And he had looked down into face of Julie . . . And now he was here—in a moments he would be with her, holding her in his arms. He walk ed over to the window and looked out. Flow long would she be? Every moment' seemed an eternity. “I will wait here till [Miss Lang don 'comes in," Giles said obstinate ly. But at ten o’clock she had not' re turned. 'Giles went to the front door and looked out, followed by Adolph. The snow was falling so thickly that one coud hardly see a yard ahead; there was a deep menace in the unbroken silence. Chittenham looked at the man be side him. “Well?” he said .sharply, struck by something in Adolph’s eyes, “Ft' would be good now to look for Mademoiselle;” Adolph said. I have friends'—good fellows all. If Mop sieur wishes it—” “Let us in. "He was heart; he irig but despair when an .hour later he was stumbling along through the blinding clogging snow with Adolph and half aAdozen other men. The lanterns they carried shed weird, dancing shadows on the white ness of their feet; the flakes whirl ed in -their faces half choking them. It was as if all the human forces had ranged themselves an enemies against .them, he thought, as. he bent’ to ask Adolph, in which direction they were going. ■ His heart seemed to stand' when the answer came. “It was to the St. Bernard Mademoiselle wished to go. •with great gone out-— himself to the few and start at once,” Giles broke afraid of the fear in his was unconscious of noth- known—-might have guessed. It seemed now to his dispair that he hud been a blind fool not to realize from the beginning that she would come to this place, that lie had ever needed, a chance photograph to guide him. They trampled on in a silence which Chittenham broke at last to ask curtly; “Is it ever possible to find any one who gets lost on such a night?” “They have been fouiuP-often—" “Alive?" Adolph did not answer this, and Giles dared not press the question. It was not until early morning that the isnow ceased falling. It was getting light then—the faint out line of the mountains began to stand out against the darkness as if drawn by a ghostly hand. Chittenham was nearly but he refused to go back, although the others often to do so. “Further on there is an inn where he can rest—the people who- keep the inn are friends of mine," Adolpli said. But it was half an hour before they reached it'—-a small, unpreten tious little building of wood, stand ing back from the roadway and half hidden by great drifts of snow. Adolph trampled up to the door and knocked; there were lights in several of the windows, and the door was opened almost immediately, to admit the men into ‘ the warmth, stamping the ■ cak'ed snow and ice from theiV boots. ■Chittenham dropped on' to nearest bench. It so much as despair him. ■Like Adolph coffee, his eyes, ing about him; it was .only the rough but kindly touch of Adolph’s hand on his shoulder that roused him. “Mademoiselle is here—with my friends,” he said. “Here!” Chittenham stared up at the man’s kindly face with daz ed, unbelieving eyes. “Here .... Oh, for God’s sake, if it is not true is quite true—they found her the road last night—in the She was lost—the poor lady! brought her here and put her worn out, or to rest urged him He followed the daughter of tlicj house up the narrow, creaking: wooden stairs. There wqs a shaded, lamp burning on a bedside table*, and its light fell on her face which- was half turned from him. Chittenham gave one glance— “Julie! Oh, thank God!’’ „ He bent his head and pressed his lips to her hand again and again*, kissing her fingers, and wrist',, ami. soft warm palm, till suddenly sh©' stirred restlessly and turned. For a moment she lay quite still*, staring up at him with far-away, dreaming eyes, then suddenly the tears welled up into them, and her lips quivered as she said in a voice all broken and sobbing: “.Oh, you belong to me-—you be-,- long to me—” “Always—always ..." She began “You were —I thought more.” “Julie— slipped an arm beneath her head, drawing it to rest against him, ■She drew back a little, the tea-rs wet' on her face, her voice broken with pitiful’ sobbing as she asked once more: “Oh, do you still belong to mei?” . . . and Chittenham answered her again as he bent to find her lips— “Always, always . . . always.” •to cry weakly. so long coming to me you didn’t cure any His voice broke; he The End Foster T. Fowler, of McKil- the was hot fatigue that had beaten a man in a calling for He leaned Everything seemed whirl- dream he heard brandy and hot back and closed Mr. ___,, _______ _ . ___ lop, who has been the'teacher at No, 2 for the past half year and who hag been the local agent for the Ontario Equitable Insurance Co., has been appointed manager of their new of fice opening in Sarnia. “it along snow. They to bed, ibut she is ill . . Chittenham staggered to his feet. “Let me see her-—let me be sure *> *• ♦ • ............................................... ............. This is a good time to fill up your coal bin with D. L. & W. / . Scranton Gfoal \OR WITH / A GRANTON. ONTARIO Dr. wood’s Dry» Hacking Cough, J Caused By a Neglected Cold ^Mrs. James A. Stewart, Stellarton, N.S., writes:— “For some time I was troubled with a dry, hacking cough V y . caused by a heavy cold I had, at first, neglected. Ai / friend told me if. I would take Dr. Wood’s Norway Pm*’ Syrup it would help me, so I got a bottle and it did reliever my cough. ' “I am the mother of six children and use it for ever* one of them, when they have colds, and find it alwajw g'ves relief, and I would not be without it in the houoer r anything.” Price, 35 cents a bottle; large family size, 65 cental at all drug and general stores; put,'up only by The Milburn Co., Ltd., Tomato, Ont. still that For days she has talked of nothing else I told her she must ‘take a guide—- she was disappointed but' she said she would let me know.” “To the St. Bernard!” Chittenham stifled a groan. might' have Norway Pine Syrup TRANSCONTINENTAL BROADCAST MARKS SEVEN YEARS FOR WORLD PIONEEFt IN RADIO ON RAILWAY >1 So On New Year’s night, the Cana dian National Railway system, first railway in the world to equip its trains with radio and to build up a chain of broadcasting sta tions, will celebrate the seventh anniversary of its service to thou sands of unseen listeners. Tile event will be marked by a concert, broadcast from Montreal through sixteen Canadian National and associated stations froth One end ox Canada to the other. Sir Henry W, Thornton, Chair- and President of the Railway, K «e2*V6£,a shJ2rt address, and W. D. Robb,, Vice-President, who has jurisdiction over the radio nctivi- ties, of the system as well as over other departments, will speak briefly in French. It is not ehsy for a railway presi dent to make personal contact with his hundred thousand employees, ■but every year Sir Henry delights m the opportunity he has Of ad dressing directly the members of What he calls his “family0 in all corners of Canada. His voice will be heal’d in greeting by officers in Halifax as Well as Vancouver, by section Workers along the line in Manitoba, by agents at lonely out posts in the woods of Quebec and Ontario, and by tens of thousands of others, nd matter what depart ment ox the widespreading railway a or whethOi* they live undo’o Atlantic Time, • Eastern, Central Mountain or Pacific Time. bvTJ eT°rCSS-ra ,bc “ndueted'. ye^Hnown Mont-. and the soloists will. be Joan Elwes, the celebrated bd?ndhtSan%aiLd Henri Ponfr““ oiiancl, tenor, who has a high re— tt°nSStebs?th <■& S. above on the left/jota Elw“ fa' on the upper right, and the othen two photographs are, left to right,. Heim Pontbrmnd and J. J, Ga gmen. . v ir ♦