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Exeter Advocate, 1906-10-11, Page 6DARE 1113? OR, A . SAD LIFE STORY CIIAPTER U. ory for ten long years should rush back 'There is leo reason why we should net go home now; are you ready?" cries Brown. bustling up to his friend, \V O. has not waitea for this question to nralce straight,as the needle to the pole, for the corner where the collected umbrellas stand in their little area of lake. Burgoyne would probably have laughed at the unconschres irony of this inquiry if he had heard it; but he has not, his attention being otherwise direc- ted. On the same umbrella quest as himself; being helped on with her mack- intosh by one of the two men who had accompanied her, a pepper-and-salt- haired, epper-andsalt-haired, sturdy gentleman of an ob- viously unacademic cut, is the lad, whose face had flashed upon him with that puzzling sense of unfamiliar famil- iarity. Since they are now -in close proximity, and both employed alike in. struggling into their wraps, there is no- thing more natural than that she should turn her eyes full upon him. They are very fine eyes, though far from young ones. Is it a trick of his imagination, or does he see a look of half-reoogni- tion dawn in them, such as must have been born In his own when they first alighted on her? At all events, if there is such a look of half recognition in her eyes, she Is determined that it shall not have a chance of becoming a whole one. Either he is mistaken, and she has not recognized him, or she is determined not to acknowledge the acquaintance, for she looks away again at once, nor does she throw another glance in his direction. Indeed, It seems to him that she hurries on her preparations with added speed, and walks out into the night accom- panied by her double escort before him. The weather has changed, and for the better. The rollicking wind has lulled, the pattering rain ceased. Between the raggedy black cloud -sheets star -points shine, and a shimmering moon shows. her wet face reflected in the puddles. Talk, which had been impossible on their way to the meeting, is not only possible but easy now, and Brown is evidently greatly inclined for it. Bur- goyne, on the other hand, had never felt more disinclined. It is not so much that he is out of humor with his tiresome friend, though he is that, too, as that his whole mind is centred on making his memory give up the secret of that face that has come back to him out of sone vague cavern of his past. with such tyrannous insistence now. Such silly recollected trifles crowd back upon his mind. The day on which Torn nearly choked •himself by swallaw- Ing a barley beard; We day on which the lop-eared rabbit littered—ah, rabbits of course! Those were what Rose had !— the day on which Tom pushed Miriam into the moat, and Elizabeth fell in, too, in trying to fish her out.. Eliza- beth, the eldest, the almost grown -Up one, embarrassed by her newly -length- ened petticoats, so harrassing at cricket, in rapes, in climbing apple -trees. Eliza- beth was sixteen; he remembers the fact, because her birthday had fallen two days before his own departure. He had given her a gold thimble set with turquoises upon the occasion; it was not a surprise, because he recalls measuring her finger for the size. He can see that small middle finger now. Elizabeth must now be. twenty-six years of age. Where is she? What is she—maid, wife, or widow ? And why has Mrs. Le Marchand's hair turned snow-white? Had It been mere- ly .g:ey he would not have complained, though he would have deplored the loss of the fine smooth inky sweep he remem- bers. She has a fair right to be grey; Mrs. Le Marchant must be about forty- six or forty-seven; been sonne. But white, snow -white -the hue that one connects with a venerable extremity of age. Can it be bleached? He has heard of women bleaching their hair; but not Mrs. Le Marchant, not the Mrs. Le Mar- chant he remembers. She would have been as incapable of bleach as of dye. Then why is she snow -haired? Be- cause Providence bas so willed it is the obvious answer. But somehow Bur- goyne cannot bring himself to believe• that she has come fairly by that white head. With the morning light the might of the Devonshire memories grows weak- er; and, as the day advances, the Oxford ones resume their sway. How can it be otherwise, when all day long he strays among the unaltered buildings in the sweet sedate college gardens, down the familiar "High," where six years ago, he 'could not take two steps without be- ing hailed by a jolly fresh voice, claim- ing his company for some new pleasure; but where now he walks =greeted, where the smooth -faced boys he meets, and who strike him as so much more boyish than his own contemporaries had done, pass him by indifferently, un- known to the whole two thousand as he is. He feels a sort of irrational anger with them for not recognizing him, though they have never.seen him before. Yes, there is no place where a man is .so quickly superannuated as in Oxford. He is saying this to himself all day, is saying it still as he strolls in the after- noon down Mesopotamia, to fill up the time before the hour for college chapel. Yes, there is no place where men so soon turn into ghosts. He has been knocking up against them all day at every street corner; they have looked out at him from every grey window in the Quad at New—jovial, athletic young ghosts, so much painfuller to meet than rusty, century -worn old ones. They are rather less plentiful in Mesopotamia than else- where; perhaps, because in his day, as now, Mesopotamia. on Sundays was given over to the mechanic and the per- ambulator. Oh, that Heaven would put it into the head of some Chancellor of the Exchequer to lay a swinging tax upon that all -accursed vehicle I ' But not even mechanic and perambulator can hinder Mesopotamia from being fair on a Fine February day, when the beautiful floods are out, the floods that the Thames Conservators and the Oxford authorities have combined to put down, as they have most other beautiful things within their reach. But they have not yet quite succeeded. To -day, for in- stance, the floods are oat in might. Burgoyne is pacing along a brown walk, like a raised causeway, with a sheet of white water on either . hand, rolling strong ripples to the bank. Gnarled willows stand islanded in the coldly argent water. A blackbird is fly- ing out of the gushes, with a surprised look at finding himself turned into a sea -bird. No sun; an even sweep of dull silver to right and left. No sun; and yet as he looks, alter days of rain, the "grand decorateur," as some one happily called him. rides out in royalty on a cleared sky -field, turning the whole drenched country into mother-of-pearl— a sheet of opal slretehed across the drowned meadows; the distance opal too, a delicate, dainty, evanescent loveli- ness snatched from the ugly- brown jaws of winter. Burgdyne is leaning over the wooden bridge beneath which, in its normal state. the wafer of the lasher rushes down impetuously; but is now raised to such a height that it lies level, almost flush with the planking. Ile Ls staring across the iridescent water plain • to where, in the poetic atmosphere of sun and mist, dome, and schools, and soar- ing spires stand etherealized. "Dear old place 1" he says. under his breath, "everybody is dead; and .I am dead; and Brown is deader than any one. I am glad that you,' at least, are still alive t" Are these more ghosts earning round the. corner? A man and a woman ghost strolling along, and looking about them as strangers look. When they are with- in a pace or two of him the women says something—something about the floods —to her companion, and at the sound r3eu.'goyne starts. "She did not speak led night; if sho bad spoken 1 should have knave her at Who is the woman whom he knows, and who knows him? For, on reflec- tion, he is sure that that look of hers was one of half—of more than half-recog- milion, and yet whose place in his his- tory. whose very name he seeks so vainly. She does not belong to his Ox- ford days, as he has already ascer- tained. He has learnt from Brown that she does not belong to the Oxford of to- day. being apparently a stranger, and, with her husband, a visitor to the Warden of — College, in whose com- pany they had arrived. He explores the succeeding years of his life. In vain; she has no place there; in vain he dives and plunges into the sea of his Memory; he cannot fish up the pearl he seeks. He must hark back to earlier days—his school time, the six months he spent, in Devonshire with a coach be- fore he came up to New. Ah! he has it —he has it at last! Just as they have Peached Brown's door, while he is rum- pling with his latch -key for the keyhole, nprecating the moon for withdrawing her shining at the very instant he moot, needs her, Burgoyne has come up with the shy object of his chase. It is con- jured back into his mind by the word Devonshire. '"I have it," he says to himself; "her hair has turned white, that was why I did not recognize her. tt used to be raven -black. But it is she—of course it b she 1 To think of my not knowing her again 1 Of course it is Mrs. Le Marchant," What a door Into the distance that name has opened l—a door through which he passes into a Devonshire gar- den, and romps with rosy -faced Devon- shire children. The very names of those children are coming back to him. .Tom and Charles, those were the schoolboys; Rose and Miriam, and—Elizabeth. He recalls --absurd trick of freakish mem- ory—those children's pets. Tom and Charles had guinea -pigs; Miriam had a white rat; Rose—what lied Rose? Rose must have had something; and Elizabeth had a kangaroo. Elizabeth's kangaroo was short-lived, poor beast. and died about hay -time; the guinea-pig and the white rat have been dead too for -ages now of course. And are Torn and Charles, and Rose and Miriam, and bright Elizabeth dead also? Absurd 1 Why should they be? Nothing more un- likely ! Why, it is only ten years ago, after all! Ile is roused from his meditations by Brown's voice, to find himself ;in Brown's study, where its owner is filling himself a pipe, and festally offering him whisky and water. But it is only an abstracted attention that Burgoyne Tends, either to the whisky or the whisky'e master; and. his answers are sometimes inattentively beside the mark, to talk, which indeed18 not without some likeness to the boasted exploits in Clement's Inn, and the affee- ttonate inquiries after Jane Nightwork, of a more famous fool than he. It is a relief to the guest when, earlier than he had expected—a blessing he, no doubt, owes to Mrs. Brown—his host breaks up the seance, and he is. free to retiree to his own room. Al once he Is back in thatDevonairire garden,. he 18 there almost all nigh!, between sleep and Ile raiseshis arms froth . the bridge - top, and turning, nioets thein [ace to face, eyo to eye, and in an instant tie has seen that both recognize. Litter. At. the san.e instaut he is aware of a situUl- taneous inclination on the part of man and wife to avert their heads, and puss him •without claiming his acqualntance.. Pet'ltaps, if he had'liad time to reflect, he would have allowed thein to do so, but the impulse of the moment forbids it. \Vhy should they wish to cut him? What has he done to deserve it? Ten years age they were his very good friends, and he was the familiar com- rade of their children, the daily guest at their table. What has the unavoidable lapse of those years done to make hire less fit for their company at twenty-nine than he was at nineteen? There must bo some misconception, which a moment will set right. "I am afraid that you do not remem- ber me, Mrs. Le Marchant," he says, lifting his hat.. This is not quite true, as he is per- fectly convinced that they are as much aware of his identity as he is of theirs. But what formula has aman to em- ploy in such a ease ? They both look back at him with a sort of irresolution. To his astonishment, in their eyes is a 'velleity of -flight, but apparently she— women's minds moving more quickly than men's—is the first to realize that flight is out of the question, "I am sure that you have no intention of cutting me," Jinx goes on, with a senile, seeing that she is apparently struggling with a difficulty in utter- ance; "at least, you must be very much olianged. from what you were ten years -ago if you have. My name '"I know—I know !" she interrupts, finding speech at last—speech low and hurried. "I remember perfectly. . You are Mr. Burgoyne." Her confusion—she always used to be such a placid, even -mannered woman— tis so patent, born of whatever unac- countable feeling it may be, that he now heartily wishes he had let the poor woe man pass unmolested. But such repen- taelce is too late. fie has arrested her; she is standing on the gravel path before him, and though he feels that her extra- ordinary shyness — mauvaise honte, whatever it may be—has infected him- self, he must make some further remark to her. Nothing better occurs tce him than the obvious one— "It is a long time—it is ten years since we met." "Yrs, ten years; it mist be quite ten years," she assents, .evidently snaking a great . effort to regain her composure. She does not feign the slightest plea- sure in the meeting, and Burgoyne feels that the one thought that occupies her mind is how she can soonest -end it. 'But his roused curiosity, together with the difficulty of parting without further observation after having forced his pre- sence upon them, combine to prevent her succeeding. "'And how is the Moat?" he asks, re- flecting that this, at least, is a safe question; a brick and mortar house, at ell events, cannot be..dead. "How is Devonshire?" Apparently it is not so harmless a question as he had imagined; at least T,Irs. Le Marchant Is obviously quite in- capable of answering it. Her husband, for the first time, comes to her rescue. "Tire Moat is let," he says, in a dry voice; "we have left Devonshire a long while—nine, nine and a half years ago. . The Moat tett Judging by the light of that Windsor Castle had been turned into aJoint Stock Company Hotel. It is probably, then, some money' trouble that has turned Mrs. Le Merchant's hair white—snow-white, as he now sees it to be. But no, he rejects the explanation as insufficient. She is not the woman to have taken a diminished income so much to heart. Good manners forbid him to asic, "Why is the Moat let?" So all that he says is, "Nine and a half years ago? Why, that must have been very. soon after I left Devonshire." He addresses his remark involuntarily rather to the wife than to the husband, but she does not answer it. Her eyes are fixed upon the bubbles sailing so fast upon the swollen river, which is dis- tinguishable only by its current from the sameness of the surrounding water. A. lark—there is always a lark in Mesopo- tamia -a tiny, strong -throated singer, that never seems to have to stop to lake breath, fills up the silence. shouting somewhere out of sight among the black clouds, in and out of which the uncer- tain sun is plunging. Whether of a moneyed nature or not, there is evident- ly something very unpleasantconnect- ed with their leaving their native coun- try and their immemorial hone, so he had better get away from the subject as Must as passible.. "Anyhow," he says, witls a rather nervous senile. "I hope that the world has been treating you kindly --that things alive gone well with you since those dear`old days when you were so good to'ene," Mere is an instant's pause—perhaps he would not have noticed it had not his suspicions been already aroused— before the husband, again taking upon hint Lite task of replying, answers, with a sort of labored carelessness-- • "Oh,. yes, thanks; we do not com- plain. It has not been a very rosy time mor landlords lately, as you are aware," "And you?" cries the wife, striking in with a species of hurry in her voice—a hurry due, as leis instinct tells hhn, to the fact of the fear of his .entering into more detailed inquiries. "And you? We must pot forget you. Have you been well, flourishing, all this long time? Do you still live with ycur=" . She stops abruptly. It is apparent that she bus entirely forgotten what was the. species of relation with whom he Lived. There is a little tinge of bitterness in his heart, though not in his tone, as he supplies the missing word "aunt." And, after all, he had forgotten her name; why should not she forget his aunt? "With my aunt ? Well, I never exactly lived with her; '1 made, and make my Headquarters there when I am in Eng- land; which is not very often. I have been a rolling stone; I have rolled pretty well routed the world since. we patted." They do not care in the least where he has relied, nor how much nor how little moss he has collected in the process. They are only thinking how they can best get rid of him. But the past is strong upon him; he cannot let them slide out of his life again for another ten—twenty years perhaps, without finding out from them something about his five merry playmates. His inquiry must needs be a vague one. Who dares ask specifically after this or that man, woman, or even child, when ten years have rolled their tides between? "And you are all well 7" he says, with a certain wistfulness lurking in the different banal phrase. "Dear me, what a jolly party we used 'to be 1 I suppose that—that they are all out in the world now 7"' His eyes are fixed apprehensively upon the mother of those young comrades, to whom he thus cautiously alludes. Per- haps, carefully as he has worded his question, by may have touched some terrible raw. Her face is turned aside, presenting only its profile to him, but she answers almost at once— "Yes; we are all scattered now. Charlie is planting oranges in Florida— he does not mind the heat; you know he always said no weather could be too hot for hen; and Tom has an ostrich farm in Australia, and Rose has been married two years—she has a dear little baby; and Miriam is married, too; we have just come down from her wedding." "Miriam married 1" repeats Burgoyne in a torte of wonder. "Miriam with a husband instead of a white rat 1" The mother laughs. It is the first time that he has 'heard. her laugh, and she used to laugh so often. • "I think she likes the exchange. There is another little pause, again filled by the lark's crowding notes. There are two words battering against the gate of Burgoyne's lips for egress - two words that he dares not utter. water. It is strange that persons and eeeer She always had ;succi 0, sweet orrcuenstances bariiahA4 from his mein- voice+" n: The ii etter Way The tissues of the throat are inflamed i:and irritated; you cough, and there is more irrita. tion—more coughing. You take a cough mixture and it eases the irritation—for a while. You take COTTS EMULSION and it cures the cold. That's what•is necessary. It soothes the throat because it reduces the irritation ; cures the cold because it drives out the inflammation ; builds up the weakened tissues, because it nourishes them back to their natural strength. That's how Scott's Emulsion deals with a sore throat, a cough, a colds or bronchitis. WE'LL SEND YOU A SAMPLE FREE. ' FOTT a 4 VT'NLr C tO w Ni 0 ADULTERATION OR COLORING MATTER IMPURITIES OF ANY KIND IN IC i;LYLON NATURtL fi,Ytl EN `TEA. Put up in sealed lead pacltets to preserveits many excellent qualities ,{oc, 5oc and 6oc per ib. At ad Grocers HIGHEST AWARD ST. LOUIS, 1906. "And Elizabeth?" Stio was the eldest. She would naturally have been men- tioned first; but neither first nor last is there any speech of her. She must, then, be dead—dead long ago, too; for there is no trace of mourning in her perents' dress. Elizabeth. Is dead bright Elizabeth, the beauty and the petI Is it only fancy that he sees in the eye of Elizabeth's mother a dread lest he shall ask tidings of her, as she says, hastily, and with a smile, "Well, I am afraid we Must be going; it has been very pleasant meeting you again, but I am afraid that the Warden will be ex- pecting us?" She adds to her Darting hand -shake no wish for a repetition of that meet- ing, and he watches them down the Willow Walk with a sort of sadness in his heart. - "Elizabeth is dead It ~ Elizabeth is un- doubtedly dead!" (To be continued). Hostess --"Of course. you'll havea piece of cake, Johnny." Johnny -"Yes, 'm, an' please gimme the biggest piece." Hostess—"Why, Johnny, I'm surprised!" Johnny—"Well, ma told me not to ask for a second piece." • "For heaven's' salve, help me quick!" Absent-minded Doctor—"Why certain- ly—let's see -tongue coated, rather fev- erIsh, take one of these powders every two hours and I'll call again in a day or two. SEVEN YEARS' WALK, Man of Seventy-eight Trying to Cove 60,000 Miles. Mark All, the old man of 78 who is attempting to walk 60,000 miles in seven years, called at the London Ex. - press office recently, after tramping during the day from Canterbury, a dis- tance of 56 miles. All, who started his task on August' 6, 1000, has been promised $2,500 if he completes it. Up to the present he has walked 51,750 miles. His travels have been by no means devoid of incident. I -Ie has been lost in snowdrifts five times, he was struck down by lightning at Marseilles, and stoned and shot .at in Germany. All wears a Union ,Jack tied round his arm, and to it he attributes his ill-treatment in Germany: He has not got on so well since he lost his bulldog Business three years ago. The dog Walked 21,000 miles with him, and the old roan felt his loss keen- ly. "I lost my best friend when Busi- ness died," he said simply. "I carried him a day before I could bring myself to bury him. That was in Marseilles." All has earned $875 at his trade in various places while on his walk, and has also received $225 in gifts. i•Ie has worn out 30topairs of boots. He has ured tho British Isles seven limos, and has also been through France, Spain, Portugal, Holland, Switzerland, Italy and Germany, whi— ther he returns after three days' rest in London. He hopes to be allowed to walk through Russia. k -- FOOLING HIM. Casey"Ye're a har-d worruker, Doo- ley. How many hods o' mortirer have yez carried up that ladder th' day?" Dooley—"Whist, man! I'm loolin' th' boss. I've carried this same hod- ful up 'an' down all day, an' he thinks I'm worrukin'1 AN ACCIDENT. Bystander—Come, cheer up, old man. You may not be so badly hurt after all; Victim -How can I tell how badly e hurt I am until after I have seen my•, lawyer. Yeast—"What happens when your wife loses her temper?" Crinisonbeak —"Oh, I get it." 'w;.'y vas: i Are awakening to the possibilities of profits in the alining industry. Watch the market nciw. We have been recommending the purchase of some .of the mining stocks, among them being Consolidated Smelters, Can. Gold Fields Syndicate, Sullivan, North Star, Dominion Copper, Granby Smelters, Nipissing Mines and a number of other British Columbia and Cobalt stocks, and we have consistently and persistently recommended hite in ti We want you to associate the name of Fax & Ross with White Bear, and remember we have said repeatedly we believe " Fortunes will be made in White. Bear shares by purchasers who get in. NOW" before permanent shipments commence, We Have Buyers and Sellers for California, White Bear, Cariboo . McKinney, S'al- Iivan, North Star, Grant, Novelty, Virginia,' Monte Cristo, Rambler, • Can, Cold • Fields Syndicate, Consolidated Smelter, Granby SmeltersrNipis- sing Amalgamated -Co- balt, Co-balt, Albert, University, Foster. Colonial invest- ment & Loan, Dom. Per- manent, Trust & Guar- antee, Sun Hastings. Write or wire us about ANY Mining or indus- trial Security. Do not fail to write or wire us TO -DAY. WIRE OFD:iRS AT OUR EXPENSE. ,50X & ROSS STOCK BROKERS Members Standard -Stock Exchange. Standard Stook Exohange Building Cori Scott and Colborne Streets, TORONTO' Main 2765 --ESTABLISHED 1887..