The Herald, 1907-11-22, Page 3ellYMAXXXXXXXXIMMOZIMMEaltt
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CHAPTER XIX.
"I am pleased that you have brought
this sweet little girl home with you,
Augusta," said Daniel Hunter, as he re-
ceived his wife, adopted daughter, and,
lastly, little Maud ---taking the latter
tenderly by the hand, and leading her in-
to the sitting -room. rIe drew her be-
tween his knees, and untied her hood,
and laid it off, while Mrs. Hunter and
Miss Honoria went upstairs to take off
their bonnets. The tea table was prepar-
ed in the room, and Mr. and Mrs. Lovel
were present, and spoke kindly to the
little visitor.
"A companion for Honoria, I suppose,"
said Mrs. Lovel, while Mr. Lovel bent his
serious blue eyes earnestly upon the
child.
"Yes, I suppose. so. I hope so," replied
Mr. Hunter. "Mrs. Hunter has brought
you to spend. some time with us, my dear
—has she not?"
"The lady brought me to stay a week,
sir," replied the child, who, instinctively
meeting his tenderness, nestled closely in
the embrace of her unknown father.
The entrance of Mrs. Hunter and Miss
Honoria gave a new impetus to
the conversation. Mrs. Hunter
partially explained the motive of
her bringing the little girl
over to the hall. And Miss Honoria rang
for tea, which was soon brought in.
The next morning Daniel Hunter rode
over to the north side of the mountain,
to see a quarry, from which his laborers
were digging stone, to build the new
school house.
Mrs. Level and Miss Honoria, attended
by Mr. Lovel, drove up to the Summit,
to make some purchases and to bring
the letters from the post -office. Mrs.
Hunter commissioned them also to buy
come ginghams, Swiss muslin, lace, rib-
bon, and a little Leghorn hat, but she
did not say for whom these things were
intended.
When all had departed, the lady and
the child were left alone in the sitting -
room. Maud was seated on a little cush-
ion, examining a book of prints that had
been put in her hands. Mrs. Hunter sat
in her large lounging chair, contemplat-
ing the little girl, in silence. Presently
the lady left the chair, and went and sat
down upon a low ottoman, and called
the child to her side, and tenderly en-
circled her with ono arm, and softly
smoothed brad: the burnished auburn
curls from her fair brow, and earnestly
gazed deeply down into her beautiful
countenance. The child's eyes were
raised in unshrinking, perfect trust to
hers. And anyone might have taken
them for mother and child. Different as
their complexions were, there was the
same queenly turn of head and neck; the
same graeeful, gracious, noble air and
expression. For a moment only the lady
gazed thus, and then she bowed her regal
head until all the long black ringlets
swept around the child's bright hair, and
pressed an earnest, lingering kiss upon
her brow. Then lifting her head again,
she began in low, soft tones to ask her
about her parents—whether she remem-
bered them—whether she loved them.
And Maud, leaning trustingly against her
unknown mother'* bosom. told her all
she had heard of what she supposed to
be her real story, and how her mother
and father were emigrants, on their
way to this country, when a contagious
fever broke out in the ship, and how
they died of it, just as they were coming
into S—; and how, as the city author-
ities would not let them land dead
bodies who had died of the fever, her
father and mother had been buried in
the S—. e
The lady's eyes were streaming with
tears.
"Why do you weep, dear lady? Not
for them—they have been in heaven this
many a year."
"My child! my child! I, too, have lost
a treasure in the sea—a treasure, Sylvia,
that will lie there till the day when the
0
Lord shall command the sea to deliver
up its dead!"
"Was it* your father and mother, dear
lady?"
"No, Sylvia—yea, my dear father was
lost in a storm on the Chesepeake Bay. I
Sues with him, and was saved by Mr.
Hunter. 1 mourned for my father many
years, brit 1 got over it at last. That
was not what I meant. The sea has
been very fatal to me! Oh, my baby!
my sweet! my beautiful! my loving
Maud!" exclaimed Augusta, dropping her
head upon the. child's shoulder, and sob
bing as she had not sobbed for ten years.
The little girl.wound her arms around
her neck, laid her cheek to hers, kissed
off the tears as fast as they fell, caressed
her tenderly, familiarly, yet so strange-
ly!
"Such a beautiful child she was, Syl-
via! Such a sweet, heavenly child! Such
an angel! And she was drowned! she
was drowned! Suffocated in the cruel
waves, with none td'save her—while I—
I, who ought to have been watching her
—I was idling on the deck! My child!
My beautiful, sweet, lovitig child!"
All the wounds of her heart seemed
torn open, and bleeding afresh—her grief
seemed positively as keen as upon the
first day of her bereavement.
And the little girl sought to comfort
her.
She tried to comfort her—earnest}y,
because her sympathy was so sincere—
silently, because she knew not what to
say—clasping and kissing her neck—
pressing her face to her cheek—kissing
away the flowing tears, and, finally,
dropping her head upon her bosom, and
weeping, because she could not prevent
her from weeping. At last the lady's
passionate fit of sorrow spent itself ,and
she raised her head and wiped away the
last traces of her tears, and, kissing the
child, she said:
"Little comforter, I have not wept so
much for many years, and there are none
that I could have borne to see me weep
as I have you.
"Little comforter, I have shown you
the very weakness of my heart, as I:
would not show it to any other; and
while I hold you in my arms, and press
you to my bosom,` a peace and rest and
contentment come to be as perfect as it
is "incomprehensible; but I an :afraid
that while you eomfort me,'I e
you; that must tot he t e goltio,'
go with me, and I. will show yott
dear child's portrait and all her little
things."
And Mrs. Hunter arose and took the
child's hand and led her upstairs—first
into a large, handsomely furnished bed-
room, where she said, in passing, "This
is my chamber, SyIvia," and thence into
a small, well -lighted, beautifully arrang-
ed room, furnished with a child's pro-
perty.
"Come in, love. No one enters this
room but myself; they cannot bear to
do it, they say. Here are all little Maud's
things. That is her portrait. They can-
not bear to look at it, or even at any-
thing that belonged to her, because they
loved her so much, and grieve for her
so much. People must be very different
--for I loved her more than anyone else
did—I mourn her more than anyone else
does. ` I have never ceased to love cad
grieve for her. Yet -it is here, among
memorials of her, that I come for com-
fort—that I come to pray. Look at her
little girl! Is she not lovely?" said Mrs.
Hunter, leading Maud up in front of the
table, and directing her gaze to the/
portrait above it.
It was a charming picture, a picture
of the mother and the ohild. But the
mother was purposely thrown into the
background, and into shadow by her
dark ringlets, dark complexion, and dark
drapery, and her attitude in holding the
child. Maud gazed at her own unknown
portrait with the strangest sensations;
and as she looked into the bright depths
of the pictured eyes, until they seemed
to be living, conscious eyes, returning
her gaze and laughing at her, a smile
stole over her features.
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"Why do you smile, Sylvia?"
"I don't know, lady; only it makes me
feel so strangely to look into her eyes,
and to feel her looking back; her eyes
look as if they knew some secret that I
don't, and were laughing at me about it
—and it seems to me as if I had seen her
before, somewhere—in a dream—I don't
know where—and somehow it does not
seem to me as if she--"
"Why do you stop, my dear?"
"I was running on so foolishly, lady."
"What were you going to say, love?"
"I was going to say -Amt it was so
foolish—I was going to say I did not
think she could have been drowned."
The lady trembled all over—she took
the child's hand and led her to a chair,
and sat down and encircled her with one
arm, and dropped her forehead on her
hand, and remained so several minutes;
at last, without raising her head, she
asked, in a low voice:`
"What made you think so, child?"
"I do not know whether it was the
picture or not, lady—but as I looked at
it I did think your 'littIe child must
be still alive!"
CHAPTER XX. •
Ellen, in her little ' parlor, sat and
wept. An open letter was in her hand;
it was from Father Goodrich, in answer
to hers asking his counsel as to whether
she should accept Daniel Hunter's pro-
posal to put her sonto school.
Father Goodrich directed her to accept
the offer in the same spirit of kindness
in which it was given. "Would you," he
wrote, "prevent a man from making re-
paration for his sin—were it even a sin?
How much leas should you hinder him
from repairing what was his own, as
well as your, calamity?" Arid further
down the letter, he wrote: "But why do
you keep the secret: of his father's fate
concealed from Falconer? He is now
fifteen years old; tell him how his fa-
ther died, and why; tell him at once;
if you do not, some one else will, in a
less tender and truthful version."
That was the reason why .Ellen wept,
that .she• must turn back for Falconer
this dark page in their life's history.
Maud, full of happy reveries, had gone
:Herbed. The colored. �pt?ople were nodding
vrue'r their evening ,'r{ Oli. is the kitchen.
`rslconer, who had gone, to the Summit
that afternoon, had not yet returned.
Ellen was waiting for him—resolved to
take that opportunitye of quietness and
solitude to tell him of the mournful
past. It was early yet, not eight o'clock,
and she heard the quick tramp of the
boy's feet as he came running and
bounding up the rocky ascent to the cot-
tage—he threw the door open, and en-
tered with a face radiant with youth
and health and joy.
"It was so pleasant, mother, to see the
light of the little cottage window,
streaming across the water as I came
along. Did you expect me sooner, mo-
ther? I should have been here half an
hour ago, only I met Mr. Hunter at the
Summit, and he engaged me in a talk,
all about my wanting to be a sculptor,
you know! And, mother, he did not
talk as you and Aunt Abishag do about
it! He didn't call it foolishness, but he
talked wisely; he said it was a passion
and a talent given me by the Creator
for good purposes, that I must be faith-
ful to it, and—and—he gave me these,"
said the boy, throwing a packet of hooks
on the table. "Why don't you ask me
what they are, mother? What makes
you so unsympathisingg?"
"I am not unsympathising. .I am glad
to see you so happy. What is it, then?"
"'Cunningham's Lives of the Painters
and Sculptors,' mother . And Mr. Hunter
told me to pay close attention to the
early struggles and perseverance of all
successful artists." And Falconer put
away his hat and gloves, and sat down
and began to untie his books.
"Put them away now. I have some-
thing to say to you, my dear Falconer."
The seriousness of her tone struck him;
he looked up, and for the first time no-
ticed the deep mournfulness of her coun-
tenance—it impressed hint so painfully
that he jumped up and put 'away his
books, and was at her side in a moment,
full of affectionate attention.
"My dear, dearest mother! You are
iii trouble, and I have been rattling on
se', What is it? Is it the grocery bill?"
"No, Falconer."
"'inlet, then—the taxes?"'
"No, no it is nothing like that—"
then, after a pause—"Faleoner, did you
never wonder about and want to hoar
the history of your father?"
In a moment the boy's: face was as
grave, as solemn, as her own.
"Say, Falconer, do you never think
about him?"
"Mother, as far back as I can remem-
ber, I recollect missing him --and 'being
ill—and losing you for a time—and
having you back again, but all - that is
like a very long past, eonfused dream.
And much more distinctly than that db
I remember Aunt Abishag telling me I
must never ask about my father, and
never its much as name hire before any-
body, much less before you, She has
continued to tell inc soall my life, but
she never would tell me why. Now,
dearest mother, open your hear!; to me—
tell me all about it. Is he living? Did
he go away and leave you? Open your
heart to me, dear brother. I will be so
•
prudent, Say, did he deceive and leav
you?"
"No—no, boy, you blaspheme! He w
a saint; an angel, was your father—tl
greatest blessing and glory of my lit
but he was sacrificed, Falconer, he wa
sacrificed --do you understand me?"
Falconer did not. He fixed his lar
.eyes searchingly upon his mother's sou
tenance, but could not make out he
meaning.
"Sacrificed!" he repeated, vaguely.
"He—your father—innocent—estim
able—excellent—he died on the seaffol
for another's crime." •
The boy bounded like a wounded pan
then . •.
Ellen dropped her head upon he
hands, sobbing convulsively, and so pas
ed several minutes, until from the oppo
site side of the room name a slow, heav
step, and a husky voice, saying:
"Mother! tell ine the whole story."
Ellen repressed her sobs, calmed her
self, and mournfully prepared to rela
the dark and dreadful tragedy.
ralconer n the flbo
ather feet, tdropped his hrew fh toaand throb
bing head upon her lap, and prepared t
listen.le
Eln told the story of her husband'
arrest, trial and conviction, upon sir
eumstantial evidence.
Falconer listened in stern silenee, un
til this part of the tale was finishe
when he broke forth, bitterly:
"And these are the laws of a model r
public. So imperfect as to immolate th
innocent and let the guilty escape!".
Ellen next spoke of her journey to
--to intercede with the governor fo
her husband's reprieve.
Here Falconer listened with the keen
est attention. Ellen spoke of the grea
interest everywhere testified by the peo
ple in William O'Leary's fate; of th
powerful intercessions made in his be
half; of her own and his mother's in
terview with the governor; and of th
total failure of every effort to obtain
reprieve; and she dwelt with unconseiou
injustice upon the conduct of Denle
Hunter.
And again Falconer broke forth i
passionate indignation:
"And this is the man the demigod
who has the whole nation at his feet. 0
I am but a unit in many millions --I am
but a boy but here I consecrate mysel
with all my faculties of mind and hod
to the vindication of my father; to' th
overthrow of this people's idol; an
perhaps—perhaps to the remodeling o
this imperfect law!"
He exclaimed and gesticulated like
rash, presumptous, vehement, passionat
boy as he was—yet, nevertheless, hi
sudden indignation and hatred were no
the less strong, earnest, profound an
enduring.
His gentle mother was distressed—no
that she imagined her poor boy coul
ever, even if he lived long enough, ac
eomplish any Of the Quixotic vengeanc
threatened upon the world -renown
statesman; but she waa alarmed for he
son's, immediate interests; she feared
thatFalconer, would spurn all the offers
of Daniel Tlunter to assist and advane
hiin. She dared not now even mentio
Mr. 'Hunter's wish to place her boy a
college—she only ventured to suggee
that in refusing to grant a reprieve t
O'Leary, Daniel Hunter had acted from
a high sense' of duty—and that sine
their bereavement he bad been very kind
to the family -a suggestion that was
met by the excited youth with such a
torrent—such a storm of impetuous, im
passioned denunciation and invective, as
terrified the weak mother into silence.
In striding distractedly about the floor
Falconer's eyes fell upon the packet of
books given him that afternoon by Mr
Hunter—his eyes flashed forth again—
he seized the parcel exclaiming:
"To degrade rue by an- obligation. like
this. To degrade me. Shall I throw them
into the fire, or send them back to him."
He held them poised in his hand a few
moments and then cast them upon the
table, saying, "I will send them back
to him," And then, exhausted by the ve-
hemence and impetuosity of his passion,
the boy flung himself down upon a stool,
and buried his face in his open palms
and sat silent and motionless until El-
len lighted the candle and placed it in
his hands and bade hien:
"Good -night."
Then he arose, and put his arms
around his mother's neck and kissed her
and silently went to his room. And El-
len retired to hers, where, sleeping the
sweet sleep of peace and innocence, lay
Maud.
* * * * *
The next morning early, as Ellen,
Maud and Falconer were seated at the
breakfast table, there was heard a rap
at the door, Ellen said:
"Come in."
And the latch was lifter, and John
the messenger from Howlet Hall, en-
tered, bowing.
Falconer started violently, grew red
in the fact and looked threateningly at
the messenger.
But John passed him respectfully, laid
Mr, Hunter's note before Mrs. O'Leary,
bowed, and stood, hat in hand, v.iting.
Ellen took up and reed the nole with
a softening countenance. It requested her
decision upon the question of sending
Falconer to college and en immediate
answer. She finished it and handed it
over to her eon, saying:
"These --you see what Mr. Bunter is
anxious to do for you, and the assistance
and patronage of a man like Daniel Hun-
ter will make your fortune."
Falconer received the note, and with
lowering brow and curling lips glanced
over its contents. Then springing up, he
turned to the messenger and fiercely ex-
claimed:
"Go and tell your master that my ans-
wer is this!" He cast the note beneath
his feet, and set his heel upon it, and
ground it to the floor.
The man stared in astonishment; El-
len heard in grief and trepidation And
little Maud in wonder and sorrow.
"Yes!" continued Falconer, "go tell
ldr. Hunter that last night, for the first
time, I was made acquainted with. all
my family's 'wrongs. Last night. 1learn-
ed for the first time, that through his
obduracy alone my guiltless father died
a felon's death --lies in a. felon's grave
and his poor old mother lingers out her
wretched days in a mad -house. Nor are
my mother's nor my own wrongs tote
gotten—not the least of which is, that
he tries to force upon us obligation
which, coming from him, would degrade
us. Tell hint that I am his bitter, im-
placable enemy. Tell him that I live to
vindicate, to avenge my family. He
may laugh at that, for ho is a great
politician—I—a poor boy. Let him laugh
now; the time will come when he will
not laugh!— for let him remember; that
while he is growing old and weak, I
am growing strong, and let him be-
ware 1"
All were silent except Maud, who in
a complete chaos of sorrow and amaze-
ment, stole from her seat to her brother's
side and clasping him in terror, said:
"Oh, no, "no—don't send that message
—don't. What do you mean."
Falconer put his hand round her and
drew her head under his arm caressing-
ly, proteetingly, but did Trot otherwise
answer her, or even Iook at her, or for
an instant sheath his flashing glance,,
that was still turned toward Daniel
Hunter's messenger.
And Maud stole her arms up
round his neck and pressed her head to
him and entreated:
(To be continued.)
4
BADLY RUN DOWN.
Dr. Williams' Pink Pills Came to the
Rescue After Doctor's Treatmet
Failed.
The life of any constant traveller is
always a hard one, but those whose
work compel them to take long tire-
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ed to all conditions of weather, are
in constant danger of losing their
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What is needed to withstand this
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alone can make. These pills are the
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I returned home from one of these
trips last summer very much fatigued.
I was overheated and tried to
cool and rest myself by lounging on
the verandah till late at night. I
caught cold and the next day I did
not feel at all well. I had a head-
ache, pains in my stomach and was
very weak. I went to see a doctor
but he said I would be all right in a
day or so, so I started on another
trip. I had not gone far before I
felt very ill and had to return .home
and go to bed. I had chills, head-
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neys. The doctor came to see me
and he said I was overworked. He
treated me for several months, but
instead of improving I continually
grew worse. r wasted away almost
to a skeleton and really thought I
was going to die. One day my wife
returned from the village with a sup-
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urged me to take them, as she said
they had been very highly recommend-
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time I had taken four boxes I felt en-
ough benefit to decide me to continue
them, and I took about a dozen boxes.
They fully cured nie, and to -day I am
able to go about my work without feel-
ing fatigued."
Fatigue, or the least exertion, is a
sign that the blood is poor. Replace
the bad blood with good blood and
labor will be a pleasure. Dr. Wil-
liams' Pink Pills make pure, red
blood. That is why they cure anaemia, _
rhelunatism, kidney trouble, indigestion,
heart palpitation and the nerve -Tacking
ills of girlhood and womanhood. Sold by
all medicine dealers or by mail at 50
ce.ts a box or six boxes for $2.50, from
The Dr. Williams Co., Brockville, Ont.
Defenders of Switzerland. ,+Jp1
The report of the party who went •
from this country to study the militaryr. , .v
system of Switzerland
y will doubtless be.
r
',\ •$:e
\, S
e.
that age for four years they4pligee ve'4o , '>' .+a "\
take up rifle shooting in a.:r'rs'', ' , t'p v Aci r
gymnastic training. Every r �,, I,'�&
his twentieth to his forty -fp �' e x 14,:t,...,;.,.
liable to military training. ;hr ee e i efut' , it 1`?c
work is accomplished in wit s y f0. ` n
rifle clubs. which are enraged` b'tvis ah °
State for the purposecke,pAt im oo g'r �sm
marksmanship. The potil"4i' is u 4e eJe,
three and a half millilen ere �dg� e' '
3,500 such associatioije ith Onage' ,- 0 2015•� ,
e9
000 members. On tf(.e. is s?e 'dhouicf
have over '2,500,000, '�lo}nihpxs vie `v ;• 'So
clubs instead of itb ne l401➢Q.-- erre ',,,,'0,,,„,
Journal.
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No mother ,;a 0 xpPi t °' erg $loan Tics �''''s 4
to escape all �hhavni9nottilnis oP.¢ii51d'oy'�r,� �c,��
hood, but she �,e r�a.�O�rt�U"y'.y''t�vi�'p� ��9r;' r�� `<
that her e'hild''�v� 14 ';der Tea
gives it anc4licasiS , e1. ll '• 4p mr,'� , .
Tablets. 'aa.01' she cemin.' t •r� '-' .r . Wb
unanimous on one point—that wee
much to Learn from the little rem
From the age of ten all boys go tleP;liif{
a compulsory physical and gyy t
course until they are sixteen, tffi
HELP a' s *'� r ' e'r'r °
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safe in 1 .vin .this c�} '
the gun a4 e cis gover tt� 11:0ly�
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