Exeter Advocate, 1906-10-11, Page 6 (2),
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OR, A SAD LIFE STORY
• CHAPTER II.
'There is no 'reason why we shonld
• net go home now; are you ready?' cries
Brown. bustling up to his friend, who
tias not waitea for this question to wake
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 unconsciens irony of this
inquiry if he had heard it; but lie has
—a not, his attention being otherwise direo-
te,clea -thcsanle un119.11,e!,14eft1Mte -10 •
• °Iiiingelf, being helped on With her mack-
intosh by one of the two men wino had
accompanied her, a pepper -and -salt -
haired, sturdy gentleman 01 an ob-
• viously unacademic cut, • Ls the lady
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 thanthat she should
turn her eyes full upon, .him. They are
very fine eyes, though" far from young
ones. Ls it a trick of his imagination,
or does .he see a look of half-regogni-
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 each 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 tie him that she hurries
on her preparations with added speed,• ,
and ` walks out into the night accom-
panied by her double escart before him -
The weather has changed, and for the
better, • The rollicking wind has lulled,
the pattering ram ceased. Between the
reggecle 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 meetinge Le not only
possible but easy now, ad Brown Is
evidently greatly' inclined for it. Bur-
goyne, on the otherahandeliad natter felt
more disinclined. It i. not so rntieh that
he . out of humor with hi tiresome
friend, * though he. is that, too, .as that
'ads whole mind is, centred on making
his memory give up the secret .of that
.face that has come baok to him out of
Eome vague cavern of his past.
Wbee is the woman whom he knows,
- and Who knows him? Yor, on reflec-
tion, he is sure that that look of hers was
One of hal!—of mare alien ha1h-recog7
mitten, and yet whose place in • his his-
tory, whpse - -Very t name he seeks so
vainly. She, does not belong to his Ox-
ford days, as .he has already ascer-
• tattled. • He has learnt from Brown that
she does notrbelongto the 0xford 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-ehis school time, the six months
.he spent in Devonshire with a .coach be
he came up to oNew. • A,ht he has it
—he has It at last I Just as they have
reached Brown's docile while he is furri-
laing with his latch key for the keyhole,
linprecating the moon for withdrawihg
her Shining at the very instant he meet
reeds, het, Burgoyne has corrie up with
the • shy object of his chase. It is con-
jured baelt into his mind by the word
Devonshire. '
• el have it," he says to himself; ;oiler
hairhas tUrned, white, that was Why I
dId , not recognize her, it, used le be
raven-hlaok. But it is She -sof course It
1.9 she To think 'Of my not knowing
her again 1 Of course it is Mrs. Le
Merchant."
•
• What a • door into the distance that
tame hasopened 1—a door through
which he ipasses Into a. Devonshire gar-
den, and romps- with rosy faced Devon
-
Mire children. The very names el those
• children are coming back to hiin.
and Charles, those were the schoolboys;
Bose and Miriam, and—Elizabeth. He
recalls—absurd trick of freakish mem-
cry—those children's pets. Tom and
Charles had guinea -pigs; Miriam had a
,while rat; Itose—what had Rose? Rose
must) have had something; and Elizabeth
had a kangaroo. ElizabetWe 'kangaroo
WaS short-lived, poor beast - and died
about hey-tinee; the guinea-pig e and the
White rat have been dead too for .agas
elow of course. And are Tom and
Charles, and Ros'e .and Miriam, and
height Elizabeth dead also cie Absurd 1
Why should they be? Kothing more un-
likely 1 Why, it is 'only ten years ago,
after all
.0
Ile is 'roused from his meditations by
trowtirS voice;, to find hiriiself in i3rown's
study, where its owner is filling himself
a pipe, and festally offering' him whisky
and water. I3ut it is on 13? 'ail abstracted.
attention that 13urgoYnce lends. either to
the whisky Or the veliteliy4s master: and
his finswt)res are sorsiettmeS inattentiAly
beelde the mark, to talk, which indeed is
not witlioutsionee, likenese to the boasted
exploits in Cletpent's Inn,et id the .affece
tionate inquiridee after .3an NiglitsVoric,
of a more fathotts fool that' he. '
It is a relief to file, gileSt when, earli r
than lie teed expected—a ble.oirig' he, it O
doubt, owes , to Mee. lirOivri—hVI host
breaks up the setmoe• and le is:free to
retire to lib Own room. At once he is
Wel: in tliat, Devenelitre Sfaidene lie ie
there alniollt all night, between, r31eep and
walce. It 13 rittanfle, that pervons mit
Citetimetalleee b3UifkittAct from his meal' voiee:"
ory for tea long years should rush ba
• with such tyrannous insistence now.
Such silly recollected trifles, crowd
back upon his mind. The day 'on which
Tom nearly choked himself by swallow-
ing a barley beard; the day on which the
lop-eared rabbit littered—ah, rabbits of
course 1 Those were What Bose had 1—
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, embarrasserby hernewly-length-
et
eaga petik,a;Weie9'. ),IFERIP_Aeat 419kete
in races, in climbing apple zees Eliza-
beth was sixteen; he remembers the
fact, because her birthday had fallen
two daye 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 seethat
small middle, anger now. Elizabeth
• must now be twenty-six years of age.
• Where is she? What 18 she—maid, wife
or widow ?
And why hes Mrs. Le March.and's hair
turned snow-white? Had It been mere-
ly grey he would not have complained,
though he would have deplored the loss
of the fine smooth inky sweep he renum-
bers. She has a fair right to be grey;
Mrs. Le Merchant m.ust be about forty-
six or forty-seven, bien .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 Merchant, not the Mrs. Le Mer-
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-
goyfte cermet being himsetf 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 way. How can it be
otherwise, when all day long he strays
among the unaltered buildings 111 the
sweet sedate college gardens, down the
familiar "High," where six years e ago,
he could not take two steps' withoutbe-
ing hailej by a jolly fresh voice, attain_
ing his company fOr some new pleasure;
but where now he walks' ungreetecl,
where the smooth -faced boys he meets,
and who strike him as so much more
boyish than his own coriterriporarie.s had
done, pass him by indifferently, un-
known to the wholetwo thousand as he
is. He feels a sort of irrational anger
with them for not recognizing hirn,
though they have never.seen hirn before.
Yee, 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 1111 up the
time before the hour for college 'chapel.
Yea, there is mo place where men so„goon
turn into ghosts: 'He, has been knocking
up against them all day at every ,etreet
corner; they have looked ciut at him
from every grey window'in the Quad at
New—jovial, athletic young ghosts
so rn.uch paiefaller to 7/f1eet than rusty'
century worn old ones. ,They are rather
less plentiful in Mesopotamia than else-
vhere; perhaps, because in his daY as
now, Mesopotamia on * Sundays Was
given over to the -mechanic and the per...
ambulator. 01i, that I4eaven would put
it into the head of some Chancellor of
the Excheqber' to lay a swinging tax
upon that all -accursed vehicle L But not
even mechanic and perambulatorcan
hinder Mesopotamia from being fair on
a fine February day, when the 'beautiful
floode are out, the &meld that the
Thames Conservators and the Oxford
authorities have combined to put down,
as they have most other beautifill' things
within their reach. But they have not
yet quite succeeded. To -day, for in-
stance, the foods are out in might.
Burgoyne is pacing along a brown
walk, like a raised causeway, with a
sheet of White water an 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 bushes, with a surprised
look at finding ' himself turned into 4
sea -bird. No sun; an even sweep of
dull. silver to right and left. Ne. sun;
and yet as* he rooks, after 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 -ger -pearl --
a sheet of opal stretched across the
droeened meadows; the distance opal
too, a delicate, dainty, evanescent loveli-
ness snatched from the ugly brown
jaw S of winter.
Burgoyne is leaningover, the wooden
bridge beneat'n which, in -its, normal
state. the water of the lather rushes
down, impetUously; but is now raised to
such a height, that it lies level, almost
flush with the planking. Ile is 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 hie
breath, "everybody is dead; and I am
dead; and Brown is deader thanany
one. 1 ani glad that you, at 'east,' are
Mill alive!"
Are these more ghosts coining '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 woman 208
eomething—something about the floods
--to her companion, and at the Panned
Iflurgoyne startb.
"She did' not speak last Itiedit:nif She
bad spoken 1 should have knelvti her at
once.•She always had: Allah , sweet
1
Eto miss) hie mem freen the Isehlge-
bD, and tunmel, meek) them faee to
faee, eye Vc 0,Ye and in (Inint h
hrat,3 seen that beth L'eCOCIAige him. At
the same inelant ho s =eve of a einiul-
taneous inelination on the part of mon
and wife to avert their hcede, and pees
him without claiming hi9 aequeintanee.
Perhaps, ,if he had had• time to retied,
ho would have allowed them to do so,
but tho impulse of the moment forbide
IL ,Why should they wish to eelt
wha ho S he dono to deneeVe it? Ten
years ego they were hise very gooct
friends, and he 174'as :the familiar com-
rade', of their childre'n, the daily guest at
their table. - What' has the unavoidable
'Vec of those year Otte to. make idea
less fit for their company at teventy-hine
than he was at nineteen? There must
be somemisconception, which a moment
will set right.
9 am afraid that you do not remem-
ber rne, Mrs. Le Merchant,' he says,
lifting his hat.
This is not quite true, as he is per-
fectly convinced that they are as much
aware ot his identity as he ia of theirs.
But whet formula has a Man to em-
ploy In such a ease? They both look
hack at him with a aid of irresolution.
To his astonishment, in their eyes is a
etelletty of -fl1ght, but. apparently she—
women's minds moving more quickly
*than tierits—ie 'the 4Irst,4 To''retilte'that
flight LS out Of the question.
• I am sure that YOu have no intention
of cutting me,'' Jim goes, an, with a
smile, seeing that she is apparently
struggling with a difficulty in utter-
ance; "ate least,- you must be very much
changed from what you were ten years
'ago if you have. My name is—"
"1 know—I know 1" she interrupts,
finding speech at last—speech low and
hurried. "I remember perfectly. . You
are Mr. Burgoyne," ' •
Her confusion—she ahvays used to be
such a placid, even -mannered vvonaan—
tis so patent, bora of whatever unac-
countable feeling it my be, that he now
heartily wishes he had let the poor wo,-
man pass unmoleSted. But such repen-
tance is too late. Ile has arrested her;
she is standing on the gravel path before
him, and though he feels that her extra-
ordinary shyness'— mauvaise h.onte,
whatever it may be—has infected bine.
self, he must make some further remark
to her. Nothing better occurs to' him
than the obvious one-- .
• "It is a long lime—it is ten years since
we met," • -• ,
"Yes, ten years; it mit bo 'quite ten
years," she .assents, .evidently making a
great effort to regain her composure.
She”does not feign the iiightest plea-
sure in the meeting. and Burgoyne feels
that the one thought that occupiee her
mind'is how she can soonest end it. 'But
his roused curiosity, together with: the
'difficulty of parting' without further
observatien after having forced his pre-
sence upon them, combine to prevent her
suceeeding.
'And how Isthe Mat?" he asks, re-
flecting that this,, at least, is a safe
question;, a brick and mortar house, .at•
all events, cannot beedead. "How is
Devonshire?"
Apparentlk, it is not so harmless a
question as he had imagined; at least
Mrs. Le Merchant Is obviously quite in-
capable of answering it. Her husband,
for the first time, comes to her rescue,
• "The Moat- a- let," he says, in a dry
voice; ewe have left Devonshire a long
while—nine, nine and a half years
ago."
• The Moat let! Judging by the light of
that Windsor Castle had been turned
Into a Joint Stock Company Hotel.It
Is probably, 'then, some moneyetroulde
that has turned Mrs. Le Marehant's hair
waite—snow7white, as he now sees it to
be. But no, he rejects tile explanation
as insufficient. She is not the woman
to have taken a diminished income So
much to heart. '
Good manners forbid him to ask,
"Why is the Moat °let?" So all thet he
says is, "Nine and „a half years ago?
Why, that must, hate- been very soon
after I left Devonshire." ,
He •addresees his remark involuntarily
rather to the wife than to the husbffnd,
but she does not answer • it. Her eyes
are fixed upon the bubbles sailing se fast
upon , the swollen river, which is dis-
tinguishable,onli.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 take
breath, fills up the silence, shoutipg
soma/here out of sight among the black
clouds:, in and out of whieh the uncere
tain sun is plunging. Whether of a
moneyed nature or net, there is evident-
ly something very ,unpleasant connect-
ed with allele leaving their native come -
try and their imm,emorial home, so he
'muninnoirimpainuortmlirit
he Better
Way
The tissues of the throat are
inflamed kand ir rit a te d; , 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
OTTS
MULSION
an.d it , cures the old. 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 thept back
o thei natural strength. That's
il
OW S pteeEmulsion deals with
sore 'throat, a cough, a cold,
or bronehitis. '
WE°11. MUD YOU
A SAMNA FOC&
SCOTT & 110W114
Wlel bettor rzet away from the .5nIzlect
03 vo,„siblc.
'Anyhow.r' ho says 1with a rathep
nervos, snub. 1 hope that the world
has been treating you kindly—That
things have gono well with you since
those dear4old days when you were ,so
good toarne."
There is on lastant's pause—perhaps
he would not have noticed it had not
his suspicionbeen already arousyd—
berOre the husband, tjgain aking upon
hirn the task Of replying, answerj, With
sort of laboriki gareiteSsness—
!`Oba Yos, ottialike; we do not cern-
plain. It has not been a very rosy time
tor landlords lately. as you are aware."
"And ,you? cries thO wife, striking in
with, a species of hurry in ,her voice—a
hurry due, as ids instinct tells him, 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 etillylive with your--"
She stopssibruptly. n is apparent, that
she has entirelk forgotten what was the
species af 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 "anat." And,
after ell, le had forgotten her name;
why should not she forget his aunt?
-
With my aunt? Well; I never.exactly
liVed-with her; I made, and makenay
headquarters there when I. aril In Eng-
land, which Is not Very often. I have
been a rolling stone; I have rolled pretty
well round the world since we petted."
They do not care in the least where he
has rolled, 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 thern
slide out of his life again. for another
ten—twenty years • perhaps, without,
finding out from them something about
his five nierry 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?" he says, with
a certain wi.stfulriess lurking in the
different banal phrase. "Dear me, what
a jolly party wee used *tp be! I suppose
that—fh,at they are allout in the world
now ?"
His eyes are fixed apprehensively upon
the mother of those young comrades, to
whom he thus cautiously alludes. Per-
haps, earefully, as he has worded his
question, • ho may have touched some
terrible raw. Her fitee.is turned aside,
presenting only its profile to him, but she
answers almost at once—.
"Yes; we , are 1 all scattered new.
Charlie is planting oranges in Florida—
he des not mind the heat; yon know he
always said no weather could be too hot
for him; arid Torn has an ostrich farm in
Australia, and -Rose has been marrid
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 tone of wonder. "Miriam with a
husband instead of a white rat r'
The •mother -laughs. It is the first
time that he has heard her laugh, and
she used to laugh ese 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.
inammerssmarh,
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"And Elizabeth?" • She was the eldest.
She would naturally have been men-
tioned first; but aeither 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 le dead—
bright Elizabeth, the beauty and the
pet I
Is it only faucy that he sees in the eye
of• Elizabeth's mother a dread lest he
ehali ask' tidings Orher, ta§rffict' aaYs;
hastily, and with a smile, "Well, I am
afraid we fnust 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 ihe,
Wfllow „Walk with a sort of sadness in
Ids heart.
"Elizabeth is dead Elizabeth isun-
doubtedly dead,. I"
•• (To be continued).
004...o.•••,..04...m.poorromusd
Hostess—"01 * course. you'll have a
piece of cake, Johnny." "Johnny—"Yes,
'm, an' please gineme the biggest piece."
Hostess—"Why, Johnny, I'm surprised!"
johnny—"Well, rna told me not to ask
for a second piece."
"Far heaven's sake, help me quick!"
Absent eniaded Doctor—"Why certeid-
ly—let's see—tongue cbated, rather fev-
erish, take one of these powders every
two hours and nt call again in a day
or two. .
SEVEN YEARS' WALK.
Man of Seventy-eight -Trying to Clove
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 oflice recently, oiler tramping
during the day > from Canterbury, a clis.
tance of 56 miles,
'fleAlt,-whaastatect his task on Atigtt8V-
6, 1900, hes, been promised $2,500 if he
completes it, Up to the present he hoe'
walked 51,750 miles.
His travels have been by no means
devoid of incident. He has been lost in
snowdrifts five times, he was struck
down by lightning Id Marseilles, wed
stoned and shot at in Germany, All
wears a 'Union Jack tied round his arm,
and to it he eaributes his ill -treatment -
In Germany. - 0
He has not got on so well sitice he
lost his bulldog Business three years
ago. The dog walked 21,000 miles with
him, and the old man 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 Marseilles."
All has earned $875 at his trade in
various places while on his walk, and
has also received $225 in gifts. He has
worn out 39 pairs of boots.
He has toured the British Isles seven
times, and has also, been • through
France, Spain, Portugal, flatland,
Switzerland,' Italy, and Germany, whi-
ther he returns after three days' rest in
London. He hopes to be allowed to
walk through Russia.
• --•4•-,
--
FOOLING HIM. •
Casey"Ye're a har-ci worruker, Doo-
ley. How many hods o' morther have
yez carried up that ladder th' day?"
Dooley—"Whist, man! I'm foolin'
th' boss. I've carried this same hod-
• ful up -an' down all day, an' he thinks
l'rn worrukirel"
:
AN ACCIDENT. •
Bystander—Com, cheer up, old man.
You may not be so badly hurt after
an:
• Victim—How can I tell how badly
hurt I a.m until after I have seen my.'
lawyer.
Yenst—"What happens
wife loses her temper?"
—"Oh, I' get it."
when your
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STOOK , BROKERS
itxrb(aiige.
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