HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Wingham Times, 1916-10-12, Page 7October 12, 1916
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THE WINGHAM TIMES
Page 7
S S'S SS T 6YeZ .S SSS
MUM
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WIFE IN NAME ONLY
MIEENIMMINAW
BY BERTHA M. CLAY
SuSSS SN
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Sri SES
EIROMMIZZaMlig
"Quito sure," was the hopeless re -
1
P "I can hardly understand the need
kr separation, seeing that the wife
I herself is blameless."
"In this case it is unavoidable."
"May I, without seeming curious,
ask you a question?" said the earl.
"Certainly—as many as you like." -
"You can please yourself about an-
erwering it," observed the earl; and
then he added, "Tell me, is it a case
• =of insanity? ' Has your wife any here-
• ditary tendency to anything of that
kind?"
"No," replied Lord Arleigh; "It is
nothing of that description. My wife
is to me perfect in body and mind;
I can add nothing to that." •
"Then your story is a marvel. I
. do not—I cannot understand it. Still
I must say that, unless there is some-
thing far deeper and more terrible
than I can imagine, you have done
wrong to part from your wife."
"I wish I could think so. But any
doom is fixed, an
• xe d no matter how
long I live, or she lives, it can never
be altered."
"My story is a sad one," observed
• Lord Mountdean, "but it is not so sad
:. as yours. I married when I was quite
young—married against's my father's
wish, and without his consent. The
lady I loved was like your own; she
as below me in position, but in no-
,
,thing else. She was the daughter of
clergyman, a lady of striking beau-
= sty, good education, and manners. I
need not trouble you by telling you
how it came about. I married her
against zny father's wish; he was in
Italy at the time for his health—he
had been there indeed for some years.
I married her privately; our secret
was well kept. Some time after our
marriage I received a telegram stat-
ing that my father was dying and
wished to see me. At that very time
we were expecting the birth of what
we hoped would be a son and heir.
But I was anxione that my father
s ould see and bless my wife before
re died. She assured me that the
gurney would not hurt her, that no
• evil consequences would ensue; and,
as I longed intensely for my father
to See her, it was arranged that we
• should go together. A few hours of
•the journey passed happily enough,
and then my poor wife was taken ill.
Heaven pardon me because of my
youth, my ignorance, my inexperi-
- ence ! I think sometimes that I might
have saved her—but it is impossible
to tell. We stopped at a little town
called Castledene, and I drove to the
hotel. There were races, or something
of the kind, going on in the neigh-
borhood, and the proprietor could not
•.accommodate us. I drove to the doc-
tor, who was a good Samaritan; he
took us into his house—my child was
born, and my wife died there. It
was not a son and heir, as we had
hoped it might be, but a little daugh-
ter, lair as her mother. Ah, Lord
Arleigh, you have had your troubles,
I have ,lead mine. My wife was bur-
,ied at Castledene—my beautiful young
wife, whom I loved Bo dearly. I left
my child, under the doctor's care, at
nurse, having arranged to pay so
much per annum for her, and intend°
ing when I returned to England to
take her home to Wood Lynton as
my heiress. My father, contrary to
the verdict of the physicians, linger-
ed for about three years. Then he
died, and I became Earl of Mount-
• dean. The first thing I did was to
hurry to Castledene. Can you imagine
my horror when I foundthat all trace
of my child was lost? The poor doc-
tor had met with; some terrible death,
and the woman who had charge of my
little one had left the neighborhood.
Can you imagine what this blow was
to me? Since then my life has been
spent in one unceasing effort to find
my daughter."
How strange !" said Lord Arleigh.
' "`Did you not know the name of the
nurse?"
"Yes; she lived at a little place
.tailed Ashwood. I advertised' for her,
I offered large rewards, but I have
er •--' eaned the least news of her;
-no one could ever find her. Her hus-
;b nd•_ It. m_wed, .lead Jeeat .-ataley
Unable To Seep
Or Do Any Work.
SUFFERED FROM HER NERVES.
Mrs. Thomas Harris, 8 Corrigan St.,
gston, Ont., writes: "I had been a
t for manyyears,with
constan. sufferer, o
my nerves, and was unable to sleep at
night, or do any work through the day.
I at last decided to consult a doctor and
find out what was really the trouble.
The first one told me I would have to go
under an operation before, I would be
-well, but I would not consent to this. Ohe
Clay 1 took a fit of crying, and it seemed
that if anyone spoke to me I would have
to order them out of the house. I must
have been crying two hours when my
insurance agent Came in. He advised the
to try a box of Milburn's Heart and
Nerve Pills, and I at once sent to the
drug store and got two boxes, and before
I had them taken I felt like a different
parson, , - I have told ethers about them,
and they have told .roe they would not
be without then. T era very thankful I
started to take Milburn's Heart and
Nerve Pills.
1vtilbnni's Heart and Nerve Pills are
50 cents per box, or 3 boxes for $1.25, at
.all dealers er mailed direct on receipt
of price by'C'u:'i'. Milburn Co., Lira ed,
_Toronto, Out.
of dime; ida-= aofilrilbefia fa et'ffaa-sere
poor woman fled in shame from the
neighborhood where she was known,
and that both she and my dear child
are dead."
"It seems most probable," observ-
ed Lord Arleigh.
"If I could arrive at any certainty
as to her fate," said the earl, "I
should be a happier man. I have
been engaged to my cousin, Lady Lily
Gordon, for four years, but I cannot
make up my mind to marry until I
hear something certain about my
daughter•"
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Winiston House was prettily situat-
ed. The house stood in the midst of
charming grounds. There was a mag-
nificent garden, full of flowers, full
of fragrance and bloom; there was an
orchard filled with rich, ripe fruit,
broad meadowland where the cattle
grazed, where daisies and oxlips grew.
To the left of the house was a large
shrubbery, which opened or to a wide
carriage drive leading to ' the high
road. The house was an old red brick
building, in no' particular style of
architecture, with large oriel win-
dows and a square porch. The rooms
were large, lofty, and well lighted.
Along the western side of the house
ran a long terrace called the western
terrace; there the sun appeared to
shine brightest, there tender plants
flourished, there tame white doves
came to be fed and a peacock walked
in majesty; from there one heard
the distant rush of the river.
There Lady Arleigh spent the great-
er part of her time—there shewore
her gentle life away. Three years had
elapsed, and no change had come to
her, She read of her husband's so-
journ in Scotland. Then she read in
the fashionable intelligence that he
had gone to Wood Lynton, the seat of
the Earl of Mountdean. He remained
there three days, and then went
abroad. Where he was now sho did
not know; doubtless he was traveling
from one place to another, wretched,
unhappy as she was herself.
The desolate, dreary life had begun
to prey upon her at last. She had
fought against it bravely for some
time—she had tried to live down the
sorrow; but it was growing too strong
for her—the weight of it was wearing
her life away. Slowly but surely she
began to fade and droop. At first it
was but a failure in strength—a little
walk tired her, the least fatigue or
exercise seemed too much for her.
Then, still more slowly, the exquisite
bloom faded from the lovely face, a
weary languor shone in the dark bine
eyes, the crimson lips lost their color,
Yet Lady Arleigh grew more beautiful
as she grew more fragile. Then all
appetite failed her. Mrs. Burton de-
clared that she ate nothing.
She might have led a different life
—she might have' gone out into so-
ciety ---she might have visited and en-
tertained guests. People knew that
Lady Arleigh was separated from her
husband; they knew also that, what-
ever might have been the cause of
separation, it had arisen from no fault
of hers. She would, in spite of her
strange position, have been welcomed
with open arms by the whole neigh-
borhood, but she was sick with mor-
tal sorrow—life had not a charm for
her.
She had no words for visitors—she
had no wish left for enjoyment; just
to- dream her life away was all she
cared for. The disappointment was
so keen, so bitter, she could not over-
come it. Death would free Norman
from all burden—would free him from
this tie that must be hateful to hien.
Death was no foe to be met and fought
with inch by inch; he was rather a
friend who was to save her from the
embarrassment of living on—a friend
who would free her husband from the
effects of his terrible misfortune.
When her strength began to fail
her, when she grew languid, feeble,
fragile, there was no sustaining pow-
er, no longing for life, no desire to
combat grim death, no hopeful look-
ing for the return of her old buoy-
ancy. Slowly, gradually, surely she
was fading away, after the manner
of a bright flower deprived of sun-
shine and dew.
Madeline had never sent for her
mother, not knowing whether Lord
Arleigh would like it; but she had
constantly written to her, and had for
warded money to her. She had' sent
her more than Margaret Dornham was
willing to accept. Another thing she
had done—she had mast carefully re-
frained from saying one word to her
mother as to the cause of her separa-
tion from her husband. Indeed Mar-
garet Dornham had no notion of the
life that her well -beloved Madaline
was leading.
It had been a terrible struggle for
Margaret to give her up. "I might
as well let her go back years ago to
those to whom he belonged," she
said to herself, "as let her go now,"
Still, she stood in great awe of the
Duchess of Hazlewood, who seemed
to her oho of the grandest ladies in
all England; and, when the duchess
told her that it was selfish of her
to stand in her daughter's light, Mar-
gatet gave way and let her go. Many
times after she had parted with her,
she felt inclined to open the oaken
box with braes elasps, find see what
the papers in it contained, but ft
nameless fear carne over her. She did
not dare to do what she had not done
earlier.
Madaline heel constantly writtentee
her, had told her of her lover, had '
described Lord Arleigh over and over
e oeto. L, .lilk1C. E't".,at•ll . d'
araig=cra`y,'i3ue litier riot foliallarst.
Of what use would it be to make her
mother even more unhappy than she
was—of what avail to tell her that
the dark and terrible shadow of her
father's crime had fallen over her
young life, blighting it also?
Of all her mother's troubles she
know this would be the greatest, so
she generously refrained from nam-
ing it. There was no need to tell
her patient, long-suffering, unhappy
mother that which must prove like a
dagger in her gentle heart. So Mar-
garet Dornham had one gleam of
sunshine in her wretched life.. She
believed that the girl she had loved
so dearly was unutterably happy. She
had read the descriptions of Lord Ar-
leigh with tears in her eyes.
"That is how girls write of the
men they love," she said—"my Made-
line loves him.
• Madaline had written to her when
the ceremony was over. She had no
one to make happy with her news
but her distant mother. Then some
days passed before she heard again—
that did not seem strange. There was
of course the going home, the change
of scene, the constant occupation.
Madaline would write when she had
time. At the end of a week she heard
again; and then it struck her that
the letter was dull, unlike one writ-
ten by a happy bride—but of course
she must be nustaken—why should
not Madeline be happy?
After that the letters came regular-
ly. and Madeline said that the great-
est pleasure she had lay in helping
her mother. She said that she in-
tended to make her a certain allow-
ance, which she felt quite sure would
be continued to her after her death,
should that event precede her moth-
er's; so that at last for the weary -
hearted woman came an interval of
something like contentment. Through
Madaline's bounty she was able to
move frora her close lodgings in town
to a pretty cottage in the country.
Then she had a glimpse of content.
After a time her heart yearned to
see the daughter of her adoption, the
one sunbeam of her life, and she
wrote to that effect.
"I will come to you," wrote Made-
line in reply, "if you will promise
faithfully to make no difference be-
tween me and the child Madeline who
used to come home from school years
ago."
Margaret promised, and Madeline,
plainly dressed, went to see her moth-
er. It was sweet, after those long,
weary months of humiliation and de-
spair, to lay her head on that faith-
ful breast and hear whispered words
of love and affection. When the
warmth of their first greeting was
over, Margaret was amazed at the
change in her child. Madeline had
grown taller, the girlish, graceful fig-
ure
bure had developed into a model of
perfect womanhood.• The dress that
she wore became her so well that the
change in the marvelous face amazed
her the most, it was so wonderfully
beautiful, so fair, so pure, so spirit-
uelle, yet it had so strange a story
written upon it—a story she could
neither read nor understand. It was
not •a happy face. The eyes were
shadowed, the lips firm, the radiance
and brightness that had distinguish-
ed her were gone; there were patience
and resignation instead.
"How changed you are my darl-
ing!" said Margaret, as she looked
at her. "Who would have thought
that my little girl would grow into a
tall, stately, beautiful lady, dainty
and exquisite? What did Lord Ar-
leigh say to your coming, my darl-
ing?"
"He did not say anything," she
replied, slowly.
But was he not grieved to lose
you?" -
"Lord Arleigh is abroad," said
Madeline, gently. "I do not expect
that he will return to England just
yet.,,
"Abroad!" repeated Margaret, in
amazement. "Then, my darling,. how
is it that you are not with him!"
"I could not go," she replied, evas-
ively.
"And you love your husband very
much, Madeline, do you not?" in-
quired Margaret.
"Yes, I love him with all my heart
and soul," was the earnest reply.
"Thank Heaven that my darling is
happy !" said Margaret. "I shall find
everything easier to bear now that I
know that.
.. CHAPTER XXXV.
Margaret Dornham was neither a
clever nor a far-seeing woman; had
she been either, she would not have
• acted tis she did. She would have
known that in taking Madalin . from
Castledene she was destroying her
last chance of ever being owned or
claimed by her parents; she would
have understood that,although she
loved the child very dearly, she was
committing a most cruel act. But she
thought only of how she loved her.
Yet, =discerning as she was, She
was puzzled about her daughter's
happiness. If she was really so happy,
why did she spend long hours in re-
verie—wliy sit with folded hands,
looking with such sad eyes at the
passing ebolds? That did not look
like happiness. Why those heavy
sighs, and the color that went and•
came like light and shade? It was
strange happiness. After a time she
noticed
that Madaline never spoke
Voluntarily of her husband. She
would answer any questions put to
her—she would tell her mother any-
Wag
ny-tb1 g ale desirceae Moe; bat elf
HAD KIDNEY TROUBLE
For SEVERAL MONTHS
[JOAN'S KIDNEY PILLS
CURED HIM.
Mr, >ired. Stevens, Raymond, Alta.,
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When you ask for Doan's Kidney Pills
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Doan's Kidney Pills are 50 cents per
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mailed direct on receipt of price by The
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When ordering direct specify "Doan's."
Icer own' accoru sire never once`narii-
ed him. That did not look like happi-
ness. She even once, in answer to
her mother's questions, described
Beechgrove to her—told her of the
famous beeches, the grand picture
gallery; she even told of the gor-
geous Titian—the woman with ru-
bies like blood shining on her white
neck. But she chid not add that she
had been at Beechgrove only once,
and had left the place in sorrow and
shame. She seemed to have every
comfort, every luxury; but Margaret
noticed also that she never spoke of
her circle of society, that she never
alluded to visitors.
"It seems to me, my darling, that
you lead a very quiet life," she said
one day; and Madaline's only answer
was that such was really the case.
Another time Margaret said to her:
"You do not write many letters to
your husband, Madeline. I could
imagine a young wife like you writ-
ing every day," and her daughter
made no reply.
On another occasion Mrs. Dorn -
ham put the question to her:
"You are quite sure, Madeline, that
you love your husband?"
"Love him," echoed the girl, her
face lighting up—"love him, mother?
I think no one in the wide world has
ever loved another better!"
"Such being_the case, my darling,"
said Margaret anxiously, "let me ask
if you are quite sure he loves you?"
No shadow came into the blue eyes
as she raised them to her mother's
face.
"I am as sure of it," she replied,
"as I am of my own existence."
"Then," thought Margaret to her-
self, "I am mistaken; all is well be-
tween them."
• Madeline did not intend to remain
very long with her mother, but is
was soothing to the wounded, aching
heart to be loved so dearly. Margaret
startled her one day, by saying:
"Madeline, now, that you are a
great lady, and have such influential
friends, do you not think that you
could do something for your father?"
"Something for my father?" re-
peated the girl, with a shudder.
`What can I do for him?"
A new idea suddenly occurred to
Mrs. Dornham. She looked into Lady
Arleigh's pale, beautiful face.
"Madeline," she said, earnestly,
"tell me the whole truth—is your fa-
ther's misfortune any drawback to
you? Tell me the truth; I have a rea-
son for asking you."
But Lady Arleigh would not pain
her mother—her quiet, simple heart
had ached bitterly enough. She would
not add one pang.
"Tell me, dear," continued Mar-
garet, earnestly, "you do not know
how important it is for me to under-
stand."
"My dear mother," said Lady Ar-
leigh, gently clasping her arras round
her mother's neck; "do not let that
idea make you uneasy. All minor
lights cease to shine, you know, in
the presence of greater ones. The
world bows down to Lord Arleigh:
very few, I think, know what his
wife's name was. Be quite happy
about me, mother. I ad, sure that no
ono who has seen me k ce my mar-
riage knows anything about my fa-
ther."
"I shall be quite happy, now that
I t naw that.." .sho clserved.
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Margaret debated within herself
whether sho would tell Lady Arleigh
her story or not; but the same weak
fear that had caused her to run away
with the child, lest she should lose
her, now made her refrain from
speaking, lest Madaline, on knowing
the truth, should be angry with her
and forsake her,
If Mts. Dornham had known the
harm that her silence was doing, she
would quickly have broken it.
Lady Arleigh returned home, tak-
ing her silent sorrow with her. If pos.
Bible she was kinder than ever, after-
ward, to her mother, sending her
constantly baskets of fruit and game
—presents "of every kind. If it had
not been for the memory of her con-
vict husband, Mrs. Dornham would
for the first time in her life have been
quite happy.
Then. it was that Lady Arleigh ue-
gun slowly to droop, then it was that
her desolate life became utterly in-
tolerable—that her sorrow became
greater than she could bear. She must
have some one near her, she felt—
some one to whom she could speak --
or she should go mad. She longed for
her mother. It was true Margaret
Dornham was not an educated wom-
an, but in her way she was refined.
She was gentle, tender-hearted,
thoughtful, patient, above all, Made-
line believed that she was her mo-
ther—and she had never longed for
her mother's love and care as she
did now, when health, strength, and
life seemed to be failing her.
By good fortune she happened to
see in the daily papers that Lord Ar-
leigh was staying at Meurice's Hotel
in Paris. She wrote to him there, and
told him that' she was dull and not
very well, and that she had a great
longing to have her mother with her.
She told him that she had desired
this for a long time, but that she had
refrained from expressing the wish
lest it should be displeasing to him.
"Do not scruple to refuse me," she
said, "if you do not approve. I
hardly venture to hope that you will
give your consent.If you do, I will
I
thank you for it. f you should think
it best to refuse it, I submit humbly
as I submit now. Let me add that I
would not ask the favor but that my
health and strength are failing fast."
Lord Arleigh mused long and
anxiously over this letter. He hardly
cared that her mother should go to
Dower House, it would perhaps be
the means of his unhappy secret be•
coming known. Nor did he like tc
refuse Madeline, unhappy, lonely,
and ill. Dear Heaven, if he could but
go to her himself and comfort her.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Long and anxiously did Lord Ar•
leigh muse over his wife's letter.
What was he to do? If her mother
was like the generality of her class,
then he was quite sure that the se,
cret he had kept would be a secret
no longer—there was no doubt of
that. She would naturally talk, and
the servants would prove the truth
of the story, and there would be a
terrible expose. Yet, lonely and sea
rowful as Madeline declared herself
to be, how could he refuse her? It was
an anxious question for him, and one
that caused him • much serious
thought. Had he known how ill she
was he would not have hesitated a
moment.
He wrote to Madaline—how the let-
ter was received and cherished no
one but herself knew—and told her
he would be in England in a day or
two, and would then give her a de-
cided answer. The letter was kind
and affectionate; it came to her hun-
gry heart like dew to a thirsty
flower.
A sudden idea occurred to Lord Ar-
leigh. He would go to England and
find out all about the unfortunate
man Dornham. Justice had many vic-
tims;
iatims; it was within the bounds of
possibility that the man might have
been innocent—might have been un-
justly accused. If such—and ah, how
he hoped it might be !—should prove,
to be the case, then Lord Arleigh felt
that he could take his wife home.
It was the real degradation of the
crime that he dreaded so utterly—
dreaded more than all that could
ever be said about it. He thonght to
himself more than once that, if by
any unexpected means he discovered
that Henry' Dornham was innocent
of the crime attributed to him, he
would in that same hour ask Mada-
line to forgive 'him, and to be the
mistress of his house. That was the
only real solution of the difficulty that
ever occurred to him. If the man
were but innocent he—Lord Arleigh-
would never heed the poverty, the
obscurity, the humble name—all that
was nothing. By comparison, it seem-
ed so little that he could have smiled
at it. People might -say that it was
a low marriage, but he had his own
idea of what was low. If only the
man could be proved innocent of
crime, then he might go to his sweet,
innocent wife, and clasping her in
his arms, take her to his heart.
The idea seemed to haunt him—it
seemed to have a fatal attraction for
him. He resolved to go to London at
once and see if anything could be
done in the matter. How he prayed,
and longed, and hoped! He passed
through well-nigh ' every stage of
feeling—from the bright rapture of
hope to the lowest depths of despair.
He went first to Scotland Yard, and
had a long interview with the de-
tective who had given evidence
against Henry Dornham. The detec-
tive's idea was that he was em-
phatically "a bad lot."
He smiled benignly when Lord
Arleigh suggested that possibly the
man was in " eent, remarking that it
was very kind of the gentleman to
think so; for his own part he did not
see the shadow of a chance of it.
"He was caught, you see, with her
grace's jewels in his pocket, and gold
and silver plate ready packed by his
side—that did not look much like in-
nocence "
"No, certainly not," Lord Arleigh
admitted: "but then there have been
cases in which circumstances looked
even worse against an innocent man"
"Yes, the detective ,admitted it,
geeing that for some reason Or ether
his lordship had a great desire to
make the man out innocent.
He will have a task," the de-
tective told himself grimly.
T4 tb ip.9lliV .tis- - :t1vehel
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.ti
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man Ilad-beeirgeffrout-Sfan re
answer was "No; he is at Chatham."
To Chatham Lord Arleigh resolved
to go. For one in his position there
would not be much difficulty in ob-
taining an interview with the con-
vict. And before long Lord Arleigh,
one of the proudest men in England,
and Henry Dornham, poacher and
thief, stood PutP to face."
Lord Arleigh's first feeling was one
of great surprise—Henry Dornham
was so different from what he had ex•
pected to find him; he had not
thought that he would be fair like
Madaline, but he was unprepared
for the dark, swarthy, gypsy -like type
of the man before him.
The two looked shadily at each
other; the poacher did not seem in
the IPnst to stand in awe of his visitor.
Lord Arleigh tried to read the secret
of the man's guilt or innocence in
his face. Henry Dornham returned the
gaze. fearlessly.
"What do you want with me?" he
asked "You are what we call a swell.
I know by the look of you. What do
you want with mer'
The voice, like the face, was pecu-
liar, not unpleasant—deep, rich, with
a clear tone, yet not -in the least like
Madaline's voice.
"I want," said Lord Arleigh, stead.
sly, "to be your friend, if you will let
me."
"My friend !" A cynical smile curl
ed the handsome lips. "Well, that h
Indeed a novelty. I should like to ask
if it would not seem rude, what kind
of a friend can a gentleman like yoc
be to me?"
"You will soon find out," said Lord
Arleigh.
"I have never known a friendshil
between a rich man and a ne'er-do
well like myself which did not end it
harm for the poorer man. You seal
us only when you want us and that
it is for no good."
"I should not be very likely to
seek you from any motive but the de
sire to help you," observed Lord Ar
leigh.
It is not quite clear to me how
am to be helped," returned the con
vitt, with a cynical smile; "but it
you can do anything to get me out a
this wretched place, please do."
"I want you to answer me a feu
questions," said Lord. Arleigh—"and
very much depends o,, them. To be
gin, tell me, were you innocent a
guilty of the crime for which you an
suffering? Is your punishment desery
ed or not?'
"Well," replied Henry Dornham,
with a sullen frown, "I can say jus;
this—it is well there are strong baro
between us; if there were not yon
would not live to ask such another
question."
"Will you answer me?" said Lord
Arleigh, gently.
"No, I will not—why should I? You
belongto a class I hate and detest -
a class of tyrants and oppressors."
"Why should you? I will tell you ui
a few words! I am interested in the
fate of your wife and daughter."
"My what?" cried the convict,
with a look of wonder.
"Your wife and daughter," said
Lord Arleigh.
"My daughter !" exclaimed the
man. "Good Iteaven ! Oh, I see! Well,
go on. You are interested in my wife
and daughter—what else?"
"There is one thing else I Ban do
which would not only be of material
benefit to them, but would make your
daughter very happy. It cannot be
done unless we can prove your inno.
cenee."
"Poor little Madaline," said the
convict, quietly—"poor, pretty little
girl!"
Lord Arleigh's whole soul revolted
on hearing this man speak so of his
fair, young wife. That this man, with
heavy iron bars separating him, as
though he were a wild animal, from
the rest of the world, should call his
wife "poor, pretty little Madaline 1"
"I would give, said Lord Arleigh,
"a great deal to find that yetis' cen-
victian had been a mistake. I know
circumstances of that kind will and
do happen. Tell me honestly, is there
any, even the least pmb&bilityy, of
finding out anything to your advstet0
arnZr,
-"Val," ell," replied Henry Dornhanae
"I am a ne'er-do-well by nature. Il
was an idle boy, an idle youth, ands
an idle man. I poached when I hada•
a chance. I lived on my wife's earn-,
ings. I went to the bad as deliberately,
as any one in the world ever did, but
I do not remember that I ever told,
a willful lie."
There passed through Lord Arleigh'a;
mind a wish that the Duchess c,f
•
Hazlewood might have heard thiat
avowal.
"I do not remember," the man said•
again, "that I have ever told a will-,
ful lie in my life. I will not begin
now. You ask me if I was really
guilty. Yes, I was—guilty just as my
judges pronounced me to be !"
For a few minutes Lord Arleigh$'
was silent; the disappointment wast
almost greater than he could bear
He had anticipated so much from
this interview; and now by these
deliberately spoken words his hopes
were ended—he would never be able
to take his beautiful young wife to hiss
heart and home. The bitterness of thej
disappointment seemed almost great
-j
than he could bear. He tried toe
''recover himself, while Henry Dorn -
ham went on:
"The rich never have anything toy
do with the poor -without harm comes
of it. Why did they send me to the,
duke's house? Why did he try to
patronize me? Why did he parade his
gold and silver plate before myl.
eyes?' -
The passion of his words seemecIl
to inflame him.
"Why," he continued angrily„
"should he eat frem silver while:l
others were without bread? Why'
should his wife wear diamonds
while mine cried with hunger and!
cold? I saw how unjust it was. Who;
placed his foot on my neck? What
made him my master and tyrant, pa
tronizing me with his `my good fel
low' this and the other? What right
had he to such abundance while L
had nothing?"
"That which was his," said Lord}
Arleigh, bluntly, "at least was not.
Sours to take."
"But I say it was 1 I helped my
self before, and, if I were out of
l
place, having the chance, I wou
help myself again."
"That would be equally criminal,''
said Lord Arleigh, fearlessly; and
again Henry Dornham laughed his
cynical laugh.
"It is too late in the day for Lae
talk over these matters." said the
convict. When I roamed in the w
as a free man, I had my own ideas
prison has not improved them. I
shall never make a reformed conic
—not even a decent ticket -of -lea
man. So if you have any thought o
reclaiming me, rid your mind of '
at once." 1
"It will. be best to do so, I per
ceive," observed Lord Arleigh.
had some little hope when 1
in—I have none now."
"You do not mean to say, though,
that I am not to be any the better
off for your visit?" cried the man. "�
do not know your name, but I care9,
see what yea are. Surely you willi
try to do something for me?"
"What can 1 dei" asked Lord Are
leigh. "If you had been innocent.
even if there had been what theycal1Y
extenuating circumstances --I would'
have spent a fortune in the endeavor
to set you free; but par confessior>t
renders nee powerless."
"The only extenuating circum-
stance in the whole affair," declared,
the man, after a pause, "was that la.
wanted money, and took what IT
thought would tieing it. So you would,
give a small fortune to cleat me,d
eh?" he interrogated.
"Yes," was the brief reply.
The man looked keenly at Irina.
Then yon must indeed have at
strong motive. It is not for my event
sake, I suppose?" A new idea occure
red to him --•a sudden smile curler
his lip. "1 have it . he said. "Tot's:
are in love With my---tny pretty li
Madaline, and you want to m"
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