Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 September 1894 — UNITED AT LAST [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

UNITED AT LAST

BY MISS M E BRADDON

CHAPTER XXVlll—Continued. Mrs. Sinclair's telegram informing him of- her husband’s death, and entreating him to go to Marchbrook, disturbed the placidity of her father’s temper. “Poor Sinclair!” he muttered, with more fretfulness than regret. “Pity he couldn’t have died at a more convenient time. I hate crossing the channel in an equinoctial gale. And what good tan I do at Marchbrook?However, I suppo-e I must go. Women are so helpless. She never cared much for him. poor child, and there's Lavenant still unmarried and devoted to her. An excellent match, too, since he came into old Gr vftin’s money. Providence orders all things for the best. I hope I shall have a fine night for crossing. ” He was with Constance early on the following day, having lost no time in obeying her summons, but he was unprepared for the accusation she brought against him. “Upon my life, Constance, I was only a passive instrument in this whole affair, just like little Webb. It was put to me that this thing must be done to save your life, and 1 consented. ” “You let a stranger take my destiny into his hand:,?” cried Constance, indignantly. “He was not a stranger. He loved you dearly—was as anxious for your welfare as even I, your father.” “The German physician, the whitehaired old man who told me to hope? Why he had never seen me before in his life.”

“The man who told you to hope, who persuaded me to agree to the introduction o£ a spurious child, was no German doctor. He was neither old nor whitehaired, and he loved you devotedly for years. He heard you we e dying of a broken heart, and came to you in disguise in order to see if love could devise some means of saving you. The German doctor was Cyf rian Lavenant. ” This was another blow for Constance. The man whom she had believed in as the soul of honor was the originator of the scheme she had denounced as wicked and cruel, and yet could find no words of blame for him. She remembered the gentle voice that had penetrated her ear aid mind through the thick mists of madness, remembered the tones that had touched her with a wondering sense cf something familiar and dear. Ho had come to her in her apathy and despair, and from the moment of his coming her life had brightened and grown happy. It was but a delusive happiness, a false peace; and now she must go back to the old agony of desolation and incurable regret. “You can at least tell me who and what that child is, papa,” she said after a long pause. “Indeed, my love. I know nothing except that Uavenant told me she belonged to decently born people, and would never bo claimed by any one. And the poor little thing looked so thoroughly cleaned and respectable—of course at that age one can hardly tell—the features are so undeveloped—the nose more like a morsel of putty than anything human—but I really did think that the child had a thoroughbred look: and I am sure when I saw her last Christmas she looked as complete a lady as ever came out of our Marchbrook nursery.” “She is a lovely child,” said Constance, “and I have loved her passionately.” “Then, mv dearest girl, why not go on loving her.-” pleaded Lord Clanyarde. “Call her your adopted child, if you like, and keep her about you as your pet and companion till you are married again and have children of your own. You can then relegate her to her natural position and by and by get her respectably married, or portion her off in some way.” “No,” said Constance, resolutely, “I will never see her again. ” And all the while she was longing to take the afternoon train to Hastings and rejoin her darling. After this there was nothing more for Constance Sinclair to do but to submit to fate and consider herself once more a childless mother. Sir Cyprian wa3 away, no one knew where, ana even had he been in England Constance felt that there vvou d be little use in knowing more than she knew already. The know edge of the strange child’s parentage could be but of the smallest importance to her, since she meant to banish the little cne from her heart and home. Lord Clanyardc and the lawyers did all that was necessary to secure Mrs. Sinclair’s position as inherit r of her husband's estates. The Newmarket stables and stud were sold, and realized a considerable sum, as the training stable was supposed to be the most perfect establishment of its kind—built on hygienic principles, with all modern improvements—and was warmly competed for by numerous foolish young noblemen and gentlemen who were just setting out on'the broad road which Gilbert Sinclair had traveled at so swift a rate. Things in the North had been gradually improving: the men were growing wiser, and arbitration between master and men was tak : ing the place of trade union tyranny. Constance Sinclair found herself in a fair way to become a very rich woman, eating about as much for the money her husband had left as for the withered leaves that fell from the Marchbrook elms in the dull, hopeless autumn days. What was the use of wealth to a childless widow, who could have been content to live in a lodging of three rooms, with one faithful servant? ICHAPTER XXIX. AFTER YANV DAYS. A common specific for a broken heart when the patient happens to be a person of handsome fortune—for your pauper, hard work is your only cure is foreign travel. Lord Clanyarde, who hated Marchbrook, now suggested this remedy to his daughter. He felt that it was his duty to afford her the benefit of his protection and society during the first period of her widowhood, and it struck him that it would be more agreeable for both of them to lead a nomadic life than to sit opposite each

other on the family hearth and brood upon the sorrows of this life or read tne fami;y Bible. “It would be quite the right season for Rome, love, if we were to start at once,” said Lord Clanyarde, soothingly. Constance yielded' to her father's suggestion with a graceful submission that charmed him. She cared very little whither she went. The little girl was still at Hastings with hon?st Martha. She cried sometimes for mamma, but was hapny,upon the whole, Martha wrote: wondering very much why she and her charge remained so long away. Martha knew nothing of the change that had taken place in her darling s position. “Very well, dear,” said Lord Clanyarde. “You have only to get your boxes packed: and, by th'e way, you had better write to your banker for circular notes. Five hundred will do to start with.”

Father .and daughter went to Italy, and Constance tried to find comfort in those classic scenes that are peopled with august shadows; but her heart was tortured by separation from the child, and it was only a resolute pride that withheld her from owning the truth — that the little one she had believed her own was as dear to her as the baby she had lost. Lord Clanyarde and his daughter were driving on the Corso one sunny afternoon in the Easter week, when the gentleman's attention was attracted by a lady who drove a phaeton with a pair of cobs caparisoned in a fantastical fashion, with silver bells on their harness. The lady was past her first youth, but still was remarkably handsome, and was dressed with an at tistic sense of color and a daring disregard of fa hion of the day—dressed, in a word, to look like an old picture, and not like a modern fashion plate. “Who can she be?” exclaimed Lord Clanyarde. “Her face seems familiar to me, yet I haven't the faintest mea where I’ve seen her.” A few yards further on he encountered an acquaintance of tho London clubs, and pulled up his horses on purpose to interrogate him about the unknown in the Spanish hat. “Don’t you know her?” asked CaptainFlittsr, with a surprised air. “Yes, she s handsome, but passee; sur le retour. ” “Who is she?” repeated Lord Clanyarde. Captain Flitter looked curiously at Mrs. Sinclair before ho answered. “Her name is Walsingham—widow of a Colonel Walsingham—colonel in the Spanish contingent—rather a bad egg: of course I mean the gentleman.” A light dawned on Lord Clanyarde's memory. Yes, this was the Mrs. Walsingham whom peorle had talked about years ago, before Sinclair's marriage, and it wa * Sinclair's money she was spending now, in all probability, on that fantastical turn-out with its .lingling bells. Lord Clanyarde felt himself personally aggrieved by the lady, and yet he thought ho would like to see more of her. “Does she stay long in Rome?” he asked the club lounger. “She never stays long anywhere, I believe; very erratic; likes artists and musical people, and that sort of thing; has reception every Saturday evening. I always go. One meets people one doesn’t see elsewhere: not the regular treadmill, you know. ” Lord Clanyarde asked no more. He would be sure to meet Flitter at one of the artists’ rooms, and could a k him as many questions about Mrs Walsingham as he liked.

Tho two men met that very evening, and the result of their conversation was Lord Clanyarde's presentation to Mrs. Walsingham at her Saturday reception. Sho was very gracious to him, and made room for him on the ottoman where she was seated, the center of a circle of enthusiastic Americans, who thought her the nicest Englishwoman they had ever met. “Who was that lady in deep mourning you were driving with yesterday?” Mrs. Walsingham asked Lord Clanyarde, presently. “My youngest daughter, Mrs. Sinclair. You knew her husband some years ago. I think. He is lately dead. ” “Yes. I saw his do ith in the Times, in that dismal column where we shall all appear in due course of time, I suppose.” “Yes, he died in South America. You heard the story, I suppose. A most unfortunate business—his confidential solicitor shot in Sinclair's own | garden by a little French girl he had been foolish enough to get entangled with. Tho jealous little viper contrived to give the police the slip, and Sinclair saw himself in danger of being brought unpleasantly into the business, so he wisely left the country." “You believe that it Wd3 Melanie Dui ort who shot Mr. Wyatt?” Mrs. Walsingham exclaimed, eagerly. “What, you remember the girl's i name? Yes, there can hardly be a doubt as to her guilt. Who else had any motive for killing him? The creature’s letter luring him to the spot was found in tho park, and she disappeared on the morning of the murder. These two facts are convincing, I should think,” concluded Lord Clanyarde, somewhat warmly. “Yes, she was a wicked creature,”! said Mrs. Walsingham, thoughtfully: | “she had a natural bent toward evil.” I “You speak as if you had known ! her.” Mrs. Walsingham looked confused. “I read the account of that dreadful , business in the newspapers, she said. i “I hope Mrs. Sinclair has quite recov- j ered from the shock such an awful , event must have caused her.” ;■) \ “Well, yes: I think she ha 3 recovered from that. Her husband's death following so quickly was, of course, a j blow, and since then she has had an- | other trouble to bear. ” “Indeed! I am sorry,” said Mrs..Wal- i singham, with a thoughtful look. 1 I “Yes, we did all for the best. She 1 was dangerously ill, you know, about a year and a half ago, and we —well, it was foolish, perhaps, though the plan succeeded for the moment —we made her believe that her little girl had been saved from drowning at fechoenesthal, in the Black Forest. You may have heard of the circumstance.” “Yes, yes.” “It was quite wonderful. She received the strange child we introduced j to her with delight—never doubted ; its identity with her own baby—and all went on well till poor Sinclair s death; but on his death-bed he wrote a letter telling her ” “That the child was not her own!”* exclaimed Mrs. Walsingham. “That must have hit her hard." “It did. poor girl. She has not yet I recovered the blow, and 1 fear never will. What I most dread is her sinking hack into the state in which she was the winter before last.” “Where is Sir Cyprian Davenant?” ! asked Mrs. Walsingham, somewhat irrelevantly. “At the other end of the world, Isup-

pose. I believe he started for Africa last autumn.” “Was there not some kind, of early attachment between him and Mrs. Sinclair? Pardon me for asking such a question." “Yes, I believe Davennnt would have proposed for Constance if his circumstances had pei mitted him to hope for my consent.* “Poor fellow! And he carried his broken heart to Africa, and came hick to find a fortune waiting for him, and your daughter married. Do you not think, if he were to return now, Mrs. Sinclair might be consoled for the loss of her child by reunion with the lover of her girlhood?” “I doubt if anything would rec ncile her to the loss of the little girl. Her affection for that child was an infatuation. ” , A pair of picturesque Italians began a duet by Verdi, and the conversation between Mrs. Walsingham and Lord Clanyarde went no furthor. He did not make any offer of bringing Constance to the lady’s receptions: for the memory of that old alliance b3tween Mrs. Walsingham and Gilbert Sinclair hung like a cloud over her reputation. No one had any specific charge to bring against her, blit it was remembered that Sinclair had been her devoted slave for a long time, and had ended his slavery by marrying somebody else. As the weeks went round Constance showed no improvement in health or spirits. Pride was making a sorry struggle in that broken heart. She would not go back to England and tho spurious Christabel, though her heart yearned for that guiltless impostor. She would not suffer another woman’s child to hold the place of her lost darling; no, not even though that strange chile had made it elf dearer to her than life. Mrs. Sinclair’s doctor informed Lord Clanyarde that Romo was getting too warm for his patient, whereupon that anxious parent was fain to tear himself away from tho pleasures of the seven-hilled oity and those delightful evenings at Mrs. Walsingham s. “Our medical man threatens me with typhoid fever and all manner of horrors if I keep my dauglitsr here any longer,” he said, “so we start for Engadine almost immediately. You will not stay much longer in Rome, I suppose?” “i don't know, ” answered Mrs. Walsingham, carelessly; “the place suits me better than any other. lam tired to death of London and Paris. There is some pleasure in life here; and I should like to be buried in the cemetery where Keats lies. ” “Yes, it’s a nice place to be buried in, if we must be buried at all: but that’s rather a gloomy consideration. I should strongly advise you to spend the summer in a healthier climate, and leave the burial question to chance.” “Oh, I dare say I shall soon get tired of Rome. I always get tired of places before 1 have been very long in them; and if the artists go away, I shall go too.” ITO BE CONTINUED. |