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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Herald, 1912-01-19, Page 6s OR, THE MEMORY OF . A , BOY WITH DARK EYES. o CHAPTER VII.—(Gont'd) • I offer you of, my abundance I am - sea thinking how little pleasure or pm ais abundance Wali be to me' heneefor- rd. "I ask you, ate a favor to me, to t etc ,lend you what is lying useless. to e—if you will be so good." I use the word "lend" advisedly, us ore palatable to his pride than the ord 'ugive. " fe looks at me, shame' and 'arrow and regret struggling in his face.. "Alfie," he exclaims passionately, "is it can it really be true that you care for n unfortunate; good-for-nothing, unluckY retch like me?" It is my turn to draw back now—miser- bly; indignant. Yea dare to say this to ane, Gerard axter—to me?" "Bute half an hour ago—five zcirrntes go, you told me that you loved me," the oy says. 'a light of passionate triumph u his haggard eyes. "Eyen a woman can- ot love one minute and Irate the next!" "No," •I answer quietly; "I do not think. hey can.' He looks down into my eyes—looks, and urns his head away. Tothin& that I have lost you, Allle— ou whom ,1 love better than all the weal" Hush!" I exclaim almost vindictively. Think of the wretched child you have arried! Do not male me despise you— nd myself!" Despise me! he echoes withthe quick and laugh which is worse than a sob. I .wonder what else you can clo?" "I pity you; and, if you will let me. elp lxou--as if you weft my own brother I shall count it a kindners. And now must go; they will be calling for me." ' To lead the revels," he says bitterly; while I--" My heart bleeds for him, as I look at re strange, unyouthful expression ofhis ce:' at his threadbare coat. If I had. red, I would have offered him money; t I do not dare. You have spoiled the revels for me." answer bitterly, in my turn; and, as looks into my oyes, he seems to feel at I' speak the truth, for his own cloud ter. "I was not worthy of yon, Allier he vs brokenly. I have been justly pun- hed, though my punishment is more an I can bear. You are young- Gerard—the world is he- re you yet, • You shall make a fresh art. Want of means shall not drag' ecu own any more. You will be fana us, nd I shall be—your friend." He wrings nay hand, holding ills bead own—the dark head that need to be Pfd s0 high. • "Do not offer me money, Alfie; 1 could ever take money from von. iBut 1 will ake a fresh start—I will work heu•i! !or our sake, and some day or other we ay be—friends." They are his last words to nee. « * « * * * "We have been looking for you c�tay' here, into! They want you t-, give the rices to the boys who have wen tht see. Wha •Alfie have you an a ghost'? is �wllite as a slate, t!?' e : •max. ;rm round -nee and drawing min amty rem the melted group on the terrace, promises soon- to kip' equal to m- own; Would you' rather somabaty else gave but that makes no difference.^• Woodhay way the prizes, dear? f our 7 r cle Tod - ould do it just as well." Oh, I'll do it!" I answer feverishly. ''I vant something to de—I am tired.' Olive leads me into the house. The xcitement has been too mneh for roe— o everybody says. Olive takes off my at and puts pre on to the sofa, and I ie there quite quietly, holding her hand. he fete goes on merrily. I hear the usie and the dancing; it seems to come and go curiously, swelling and dying away. "Shut it out!"' I say wearily. "Shot the window, Olive. I am tired of listening to hat river, and the sunshine dazzles ane. And give me that sheet of music—I know Madame Cronhchn is waiting for me to sing." red:"Olive ' says, faittiak`her heavy' mornai<ri"'a of .crimson velvet, to the panelled wail, ,to the oil -painting ai�oye the paneling -a chorus of radlantly- beautiful cherub heads whose rosy. cheeks are only a shade • less:roe§:than"the hea- ven which forms their background. I am studying this last as if too were an unfamiliar thing, when the rustle of a newspaper at the other and of the room attracts my attention. I move my head languidly, burning down the corner of the pillow with my hand. Ronald Scott is sitting in the great red velvet chair.. by the window, reading, I have made no sound in turning my head. and • he. does not look round. And calmly and Bravely I study him, as I have studied the ,with thercold, unintein rested, almostoindif indif- ferent eyes. I know his face very well. Ire was at t he, vicarage when I first came down- stairs -had been staying there for. more than a fortnight. He is my cousin; his father and my father were first cousins —but I had never seen him before. Uncle Tod ,Tied met him as a lad, before he went to India, and had taken a fancy to him. And, hearing that, he had come back to Englandfora year's.holiday, he had written to invite him down to the vicarage, promising him the shooting of as many of my grouse and woodcock— and. T believe my hares and pheasants— as he chose to demolish. Be had not come down till I had begun to mend—the in- vitation had been given before I fell ill —and he does not seem to find life at Yet - tendon Vicarage dull, or to have grown tired of shooting over my lands, or cross- ing the brown brook to pay us a visit here at Woodhay,' to which I have come for change of air with Olive Aunt Rosa dividing her time impartially between the two houses, but being nominally on a visit with me. Studying hie face thus at my leisure, I try' to fancy what I would think of Ron- ald Scott if I had never seen him be- fore. It is a plain face, thin and brown, with a drooping brown mustache—a ra- ther stern face, as of one who has con- quered in the fight. Uncle Tod told me. when he heard of his coming home on leave, that Ronald Scott was a hard- working fellow,.. and would soon be at the top of the, tree. I remember quite well hearing of his going out to India, with very little interest and no capital, near- ly twelve years ago, and what a it • on the be ring ofgthe his Even then I had wondered if he wished there were no such person'in existence as the little wild girl at Yattenden Vic- arage. It seemed hard that he should have inherited nothing but the eueet title—sometimes I wished my father had not left Woodhay to me, but to him. But Woodhay was not entailed,,and my ra- ther cared for no one but mc.. Neverthe- less, as a child, I had often thought of my cousin, Sir Ronald Scott—wondered what he was like—and even made up my mind to marry him some day, and so repair the injury I had unconsciously done him. Now, as I Iie among my vel- vet cushions soberly regarding him. I ieethink me, of the resolution I baro _come to laLoiv^°'of Itia<vintr: a���s �..., 'Or when old Women: "tell .children they,: will soon cry, because they are laughing so much!" he adde, shrugging hie •slum), dere.. "That in another case iu point," "'I don't think you are merry enough now to dread any misfortune following on the skirts of your merriment? I glance at him, displeased: This blown eyed cousin of mine laughs at me, X; ; do not like it. "Yen will .. believe. me when we !fhear some bad news perhaps!" "I thought we were to have ridden Vaud; day, Rosalie.' A gallop across the mem,. would do away with a. great many of. your. previsions." • '"I felt . so tired, I did not care to ride."; I look into the garden again •indiifer- eptly.. I wonder what Ronald Scott:thinks of . me? I know my want of interest in *everything ; :puzzles him a little—be cam, not imagine •why„ ° do not. take any plea euro is' my woods,- my `, meadows..- myi horses, my doge, and my beautiful old house. Certainly I have been ill, but I am well now—so well that I have been, on horseback several tunes, and have driven Olive and myself all. about Tit,' tendon in my basket -phaeton. But people say my illness has changed me very, much; my face looks haggard, there are dark shadows under , my eyes. Nobody knows what I suffer; through all my wanderints I have never mentioned Ger- ard ,Baxter's erard.Baxter's name. I am surprised that I did not, be' is never out of my thoughts I have never heard of him since that day when we said good-bye to, each other Headaches — nausea— indigestion—muddy complexion—pimples— bad breath—these are some of the effects of con- stipation. The mild, sensible,? reliable remedy is ,. N^ �%,'�•,� V E i They contain the latest` discovered and best ev7iouant kriown,'which empties the bowels without the slightest discomfort and. without disr - turbing the rest of the system, Constantly increased doses are not necessary. x. Ifyour druggist has not et stocked them, send 25c. d w 11l mall them. 25. 2Se, a bo Sc1 Y e n and 4 tW Natianat Drip and Choniical.Company of Canada, 1Smiteel, Montreal. "Do you like Olive?" I ask quickly. glancing round at him- '. t'Qr do you like her too well to wish to ,see' her married, to me?" }'I think you are too'late to try for 'O^lv_e," I say, shaking •my head. ou would nut advise me to outer the li ie against Lockhart?" he asys, smil- inE: -rt1,'I think Olive likes him—a-little. she is such;a madcap—what she likes day she hates the next. in m leafy combo -not Dna single .words "'then, if she likes Lockhart to -day, I donotknow whether he Is dead or 1there may be some chance for loo to• morrow.' alive—Olive does not know. She has never spoken of him since that morning she told me all she know about him as we Dame through my wood. I do not think she suspects anything—she never thought 1 eared for him; but, if elle-had' heard anything about him, she would have been .sure to tell me. Ronald Scott has been very good to me in a brotherly kind of way—he and Olive treat me very ranch like a spoiled. child —sometimes I suspect he thinks me. any thing but an agreeable kind of person. I wonder if he ever cared for anybody himself—if he cares for anybody now. It would be impossible to tell from that grave ewhorwould have£ten fancy he is a "Two soul -sides, one to face the world with And one to show a woman when he loved ber" "Cousin Ronald,' I ask suddenly. with- out turning. my heed. "have yon any sweetheart in England?" "Why do you ask, Couein Roralie?" "Because I want to know, I suppose." "But I may not care to have you know that I am sweethcartlerr•." "Then you have none?" "Have you one in your eye for me? "I snnpcse you came back for a .wife, cousin?" "Why do you suppose so?" "You are a Yankee for answering ques- tions with questions! rimmed, when an Indian judge comes . back to England, everybody ]snows he comes back to look for a wife." "Then everybody is wrong, so far as S am concerned." -Because you know where to find her?" '"Because I did not come home on any such quest, Cousin Rerfali0." •• "Upon your word?" "Upon my honor!" he laughs, looking around at me. "Why, cousin, . I never thought you had a turn for match -mak - big!' I never thought so either, But I know. plenty of nice girls—Editor Deane and Ado, Rolleston and Katie." "Why do you leave out your own par, tieulax friend?" p. when I 'die. CHAPTER VIII. How eoftly the sunshine dreams along the terrace—how bright the flower -garden oolts, seen from the shadowy room! I have been asleep, I think; the light slants more from the west than it diet when Olive left me here to rest for a little, while she went out with Mr. Lockhart to play tennis after luncheon. The warns August air comes in through the open window; without turning my head, I can feel it breathing balmily on mo cheek. There are two windows to this quaint long drawing room of mine, one looking across the terrace in the limy- er garden, the other into the tennis - courts. My sofa is near the ixerden vvin- dow, which Olive hes elesed. But throaele the small old-fasbiorOed panes in their leaden setting I can see my flowers blaz- „tug in the eunshine, my pet 'peacock eaerched on the stone balustrade, ray three otowny lelack-faced pugs rolling over one another on the smooth gravel, the bosky teen of my woodland, and, far away. a high blue hill, so 'faint with heat that it eeems to lose its outline in the clouds. I look at the mall dreamily, with a eurimee kind of languid unconcern. It ought to eo with thce ecott e, as as gone for the last four or five hundrerl years. This Anagnanimouu artangenient fills me with no eorrow for myself as I lie among my cushions studying his worn Profile as it appears againet the sunny square of open window beyond. "You are awake: Rosalie!” Some oc- cult influence has drawn his look toward me. or perhape the magnetism of my own steadfast gaze. Ile throws down the newspaper and conies across the room. "I hope you feel rested, cousin?" "Oh. vee, thanks! Have I been long asleep ?" "I do not know—you were asleen when I came in half an hour ago—at least, I stumose so, for you were so quiet that I never knew you wore in the room till 31183 Deane came to the window to warn me in a whisper not to wake you." "I thought you were playing temais?" "X was playing; but I wanted. to read that article Omit Indian affairs in to - "Has Olive flubbed her game yet?" I glance at the table where Diggs has just deposited our afternoon tat -eves,. "I wish nhe would come in and give us some tea. "Shall I go for her?" "Oh, no; she will come when she is "You will feel lonely without your friend," he says, as Olire'S merry laugh mimes in through. the open window. Olive is going away to -morrow; Inner is not stronge, and wants her at home. "Yes, I answer, tears coming into my eyee—I must be weak yet, or I should not cry so readily. "They have Written for her; I &all miss leer very much." "You are going away yourself very soon, aim you not?" "They want me to go to, Monte Carlo; but I don't care about it.' "Yet am afreid you will 11nd this place dull in winter. "I never found Woodhay dull," I an - is eot evenknees or lazieees—for my ewer, lookuig out of the window. "I never etrength has quite come back to me, and lived here, to be stite—that I can remem- I never was indolent—but a straege feel- ber; but, then, even as a, child, I wan ipg of indifferenoe. which prompts me. to constantly coming and rang, and I loved lie still on my pillows and look about The shadows ereep round, followed by the sunshine: the peacock hops down and stalks away I know not, whither; my dogs have curled themeelves up and gone te sleep in the muusleine; a bee comes boom- ing sealest the glass and away again; a flight of crows (+ease the sky in the dis. tanco; hear Olive's voiee counting her tett:own ie wearing, away; and yet do not stile • There hes been hietus of six weeke in my life; and. now that I am ge then, nese again, it, ie with 'a curio -us nocota cern. a, wetit of energy, ,whieli taettblek Olive and 'Uncle Tod. 1 haVe been immeat dea,th'e door that it' seem Wag if , I tearee- lo eared. to take the trouble to mete beak again—ae if 7 hail liereehow gait outman the world's attraction, and, •were !loather anart in some, dreamy znid-regioneient of the reach of their sympathies. I feel as anything, to feel aft interest in anythr,. to eare r,o Tonne nryaele,,out Of the nearer Of la»guid indifference tote which I have fallen since that six weeks' fever. ont of which they thought I would never have The surdieht reeves' on—dies off the terrnee—edidoa to the ton ef my beaks, wood. The colors ,of the flowers in the warden are not bo riot) now a+ the cost- oktrros let iota the limner pent el the eteg's heed ebOve the elliehl with its lierron who it bet,,er than any ot er place in the "It is a line old place," he says, follow- ing nly look; "allY Ono might well be fond of it. I glance at his face: but it is perfect- ly unconscious—entirely tree from hat- red, envy, or any uuehaeitableness. Ile 'Meeks of Woodhaee Just as he might Of any of the neighboring places—the ToWeru of Dunstiodle. "I think one always eares for one's own property; very few petiole hate the place where they were born,' "Very few," he agrees readily. "No mat- ter how well people get on in India or or later, to igo home.' lnot ono man in a hundred would be satisfied to die in a foreign country." "Not oven a Chinaman!" I laugh. has lout caste. But they never do go home; if a, Chinaman by anal chance losee his pig -tail, he never goon home again." "Doesn't he?" I say, with nreeh inter - I have risen from my sofa- and ani later ding in the window. my betide claimed rat the beck of MY neck, 017 oVes the distant blue hill melting haSily into the bluer sky. Ronald is standing in the windew beside me, his hands in the pock- ets of hie gray tvveed coat. _ "1 feOT se if something were going to any it wee a thunderritoile, if that sir', did sot look so much more like wind. "vet erz ono men," he exiewere, "X should like• you and Olive to ea�c for each other," I say dreamily. I like her better than any other girl in the world,' •.'Then you must like me a little, to wish to :bestow her upon,me." "I .like you . very much, cousin. You havebeen very kind. to .me." !Rosalie, .do you like me well _ enough to care what becomes of me?" 'How can you ask such a foolish qucu- tiou?„ "As you said Suet now—because I want to know." "0f course I care. You are the only ceusin.I flare—it is not as if I had half a dozen,. or half score, like most .people." "And you care for me with all the car- ing that you might have divided among heti a dozen, or, perhaps, half a score?' do not answer. 'Rosalie, I did not mate back to Deg - laud to look for a sweetheart—or a wife. But do you think you could ever care enough for me—at any fu.ture time—to give me both?" I turn my head now to look at him. His grave eyes meet mine unwaveringly; his head is a little bent as he looks in- tentlyeinto my face. "No, I answer, in the same grave' matter-of-fact tone in which he has spo- ken, without any change of color or ad- ded pulsation of the heart. "I shall never °are for any one, ROnalci—I do not intend to gaarry any one. This peace ought to -have been ereurs—at my death, it will be- long to you." '4.1U Your death!" he repeats, with a shocked -look. "Why, cshild, I am ever so many years older than you are!" "Only ton. And, when one does not care to live, it makes a great difference—" "But you care to live! It is oniy some morbid faneY You have taken into your head—people often -take fanciee into their heads when they have been ill." "This is no fancy of mine—the stronger I get, the more I seem to see how little life is worth living!" "But you have so much to live for; you have everything your heart can desire'" Have I? I do not answer hem, my care are on the great pearly bank of cloud whose fringes are slowly turning from silver to gold in the light of the setting (To be continued.) We have to offer several first-class bond investments yielding 6 per cent. net, carrying our unqualified recom- NWRITE FOR FULL DETAILS -CANADA SECURITIES CORPORATION, LliiiITED 179 Jamas Street, Montreal. e • easee On.the Farm rRi V'�'e�"1►%11✓�b1• wrsirtii�►�'C ZEEP BARNYARDS CLEAN, It. has always been a, source ',of great' wonder to me how. any dairy- roan can expect to produce.go d milk when his cows are compelled w' ,,to wade through ntu'd and filth in,. the ' barnyard, Writes, 'Mr. J. B. ll Y. > Lyon. Even if the barn itself' is scrupu- lously clean -which it cannot be if the yards are muddy—the odor aris- ing from the filthy barnyard will offset all the efforts made to 'keep, the milk clean when it comes from. the cows. There is no one solution to fit all. barnyards. Each niust be' treated. by itself and to meet the• conditions• existing in it. If the yard is situ- ated on a gentle slope, all ithat will. be needed is tile drainage, placed. about six feet apart. Tile will keep, any barnyard perfectly dry,.but if there is only an -occasional low place in the yard the tiling -need not be placed so close together. In some yards a great deal of broken. "rock, gravel, and coal; cin- ders fire iiecesary •'to, keep the; ground in good condition. If -the e ground is a black heavy soil it may be kept reasonably dry by cover- ing it with these materials. The first. thing to be done is to remove the top soil to a depth of at least, six inches, then cover the ground with the largest broken rock. This may be in pieces of from -two to five inches in diameter. Large pebbles are excellent for this purpose • as they allow the water to drain per- fectly from the surface. The layer of large rocks or stone should be thoroughly tamped dower with a heavy tamping iron or rolled with a field roller. The second layer should be a lit- tle smaller and the third very fine crushed stone. The last layer may be mixed with cinders which make - a hard surface and if it is properly leveled off can after time easily be. scraped with an iron or wooden hoe. C3,f course, the. ideal barnya`r'd is one made of crushed rock and ce- ment, but this is quite expensive and is hardly necessary. With. a, clean: dry yard surro�.rnan u; dairy barn the milk c.,.. perfect condition as it is not, a ficult matter to remove every pit• titles of manure or mud from- the yard every day. I once saw in Pennsylvania a dairy consisting of GO cows .where the barnyard was as clean as the floor of the barn itself. The floor was cemented but the barnyard was finished with crushed stone and cin- ders, cement being mixed with the top layer all well smoothed off. Two men with a wooden scraper with a surface about two feet pushing them before them, cleaned up this yard thoroughly in 30 minutes twice a day. This was equal to two hours? of one man's time, but the dairy- man said he thought it time well spent as he never could produce milk absolutely free from odors un- til he had fixed his barnyard as de- scribed. KEEP MILD, CLEAN. .. Only those farmers who either fail to profit by the lessons taught in producing sanitary milk.: or who have never:learned such• .lessons, continue to milk in the old-fashion- ed open pail, into which falls filth from the cows' flanks and which al- lows the milk to absorb all . the odors that surround it. By the use of sanitary milk pails dirt can be kept out of the milk and that is the main, thing. It much easier to produce pure mi by keeping the dirt out of it tha to attempt to take it out after has once fallen in. But the sanitary milk pail aid will not give us clean milk. T cows must be thoroughly brush every day; and their udders wash and dried just before milking. :T milking must be done in absolut clean sheds or in the. open, Pref. ably on a grass,plot, and the m removed to . a, clean house, wh it can be, quickly cooled. One of these things ,is g enough in its way, but .all must observed if we produce an ail We will give this beamtiful prize, fred .1 all charge, to any girl or young lady vho will sell 40 sets of our handeotrui valentine, St. Patrick and other /me male at 10 cents a set (six beautiful carob' n each set). The Extensina Bracelet is of rolled gold eete, and fits any arm. SPritl us your nume and we will s.end eou tire cards. When sold send us the 34 and we will send you the brecelet. cid rtes HOMER -WARREN CO. Dent. 17. 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