Jasper County Democrat, Volume 2, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 December 1899 — BETWEEN TOW LOVES [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

BETWEEN TOW LOVES

CHAPTER XL—(Continued.) Two more weeks passed, and by that time Martin Ray had grown warmly attached to the man whom he would call “young Glen." Martin himself was ill—his health was fast failing; and he clung to the younger mnn, so full of health, strength; and vitality—only a chance acquaintance, but one of the few ties that bound him to the outer world. One day Sir Basil, coming earlier than usual in the morning found him sitting by the ivy-covered wall, his face buried in his hands. When he raised it to greet him, the baronet saw plainly the traces of tears. As usual, Martin was cynical, even almut himself. "I am a very rueful looking patriot this morning,” he said. "I have been ill all night, and i am alone." Bir Basil glanced around. "Where is Miss Ray?” he asked. "My daughter is always busied about something or other; she has not much time to give to me. It was different once.” Hit- Basil felt indignant, lie knew that, no matter where llettie might be, she was working for him, and for no one else. think," he said quietly, "that Miss Ray gives you all her time. I have never ween a daughter so devoted.” “Khe is very good,” he allowed; and tbeu he added abruptly, “I had another daughter once.” It seemed as though some irresistible power forced him to talk of Leah. It was the first time he had spoken of her since the day she hnd left him, and, like peat-up waters suddenly let loose, his thoughts and feelings at once found vent, lie rose from his seat and stretched his arms out toward the great heaving ocean. “I made two idols," he continued. "The first was my wife—she died; the other was my daughter.” “Hid she die also?” asked Sir Basil, pityingly. "No; she is worse than dead—a thousand times worse than dead. If I could w<-ep over some green grave containing her I should be happier.” “Not dead?” said Sir Basil, wouderingly. “No; she deserted me; she east me off, much as you would throw away your old gloves. On the very day that I unfolded nty plans to her a stranger came among us—a man related to my wife. He was rich—bah! how I hate to speak of him!— and he wanted to adopt my ‘children. I refused his offer; he appealed to them. Ah, heaven, when I think of the scene! She, the duugliter whom I loved best, left me and went to him, this stranger, and clung to him. ‘Take me away,' she cried. ‘I have been praying to heaven to send me a deliverer from this furnace of fire!’ She went away with him, and I cursed her.” “And the other—llettie—what did she 4mf *Ak, good, faithful llettie, she came to ■te. I see the picture now, Glen. She put. her arms around my neck. *1 will love you and serve you nnd be true to you until I die,’ she said. And so we four stood looking at each other. Then the other two went away. Hettie and I have been alone ever since; we have never uttered her sister's name since the day she left us, and we never shall.” “I should hardly have thought that two sisters could have differed so greatly,” remarked Sir Basil, quite unconscious that by his own words he was condemning the girl he hnd asked to be his wife. He remembered the story when he saw Leah. So perfectly unconscious was he that she was the heroine of it that he had thought to himself how grandly Leah would have acted under the circumstances he felt that she, too, would have gone to her father’s side and have stood by him against the whole world.

CHAPTER XII. Hettie Ray was watching the atnl>or light. The king of day was sotting in royal splendor. Hettie. in her ol<! seat by the Ivy-covered wall, was tranquilly watching the lovely scene. “How strange!” she said. “I was just thinking of you.” He longed to tell her that there was no moment, night or day, in which he was not thinking of her, but he reatrained himself.. He was there to say good-by. He was on the brink; let him pause there, let him stand by her iu silence for the last time and watch the waves breakiug on the sands. “I was thinking of you,” repeated Hettie. “I knew that you would come.” “I came to tell you something, Miss Ray,” he said. “I know it will interest you. I am going away.” The western wind seemed to grow chill. Hettie’* heart was heavy with pain and fear. He had been so much to her, and her life was so cheerless. She thought of her sick father and her hard work, of her joyless, loveless life that he had so suddenly brightened. She thought of the happiness that had been hers so short a time, and then, with a passiouate burst of tears, she cried: * “Do not go away!” “I must,” he said briefly. “There is no choice left to me. I must go.” He saw the fair head bent until It rested on the ivy leaves. He was ouly human and he could bear no more. He drew closer to her. “Hettie,” he said—“let me call you Hettie for the first and last time-tell me. why do you shed these tears? Are they for me?" “I am sorry you are going," she sobbed. “Are yon really so grieved at this?” be asked. << Oh, Hettie, can it be true? What am I to you? Why should-you care?** “It le quite true that you are nothing to m% but you hare been hind to me and my life la lonely ” “Hettie, I will tell you the truth," he Mid. “Strange that there should be a scene like this between us—wM were streamers some weeks einoe—and you do "“No/* sbesald; “I hare never heard It Ify father always calls you Oleu. It ia singular, but ia that fleet hour that we * "

talked together I felt as though I hnd known and trusted you all my life.” “I ueed never tell you my name, Hettie. We must part to-night, and we must never meet again. Do not cry, dear. It is harder for me than for you.” She clung to his arm, still weeping. He felt the quick beating of her heart, and he stopped yet another minute before he said the fatal words which must part them forever. He felt in that moment that, if this grief of hers were caused by him, he deserved any punishment. 4 “Hettie, listen to me, dear. How we drifted into this matters but little, whether I have been blind or careless matters less; the fault must be mine. I ought to have resisted the first temptation. After I had seen you that first time in church I ought never to have seen you again. My sense, my honor, my conscience, tell me so.” “But why?” she cried in amazement. “I do not understand you. Tell we why.” "Because I am engaged to bo married, liecause I am bound by the most solemn pledge; and, because of this promise, I must go.” “Why,” she said in a faint low voice—“why must you go? If it be someone who loves yon, und someone whom you love very much, surely she would be kind, and let you stay—at least, while oiy father U ho ill. If he were well, it would all be different.” "Hettie,” he said, “I wiD trust yon aa I have never trusted even my own heart yet. I will say to you vrhat I have never admitted even to my own thoughts. l—ah, how shall I tell you? My engagement was less my own voluntary seeking than the consequence of circumstances. I can never explain. 1 did not understand the nature or the power of love— I know nothing of it; but she whom I am to marry loves me. Every arrangement is made for our marriage; and, oh, Hettie! listen to me —she loves mt, and if we were parted she would die. I must marry her; I am bound In honor and conscience. And let me tell you my mad folly. I have learned to love you. Ido love you. I may say it for thu first and last time* of my life. I love you with the whole love of my life, with the one loVe of my manhood. I may live many years, but I shall never love any other woman. If heaven helps me, I will do my duty;, but my happiness dies in the hour I leave you. Now you see that I must go.” Her head drooped until it lsy upon his shoulder, and she whispered something there—words that were both life and death to him. "Yes, you must go,” she sold; “I see it plainly. There is no help for it; you must go.” He wished that he were lying under the gray water, dead; the pain seemed greater than lie could bear. Then her soft, whispered words came to him again. “It will be the one dream, the one memory of my life,” she said. “On the shore of this sweet southern sea I have lived and died. Do many people throw away their lives like this?” “I cannot tell,” he replied, drearily, “nor can I tell why Fate has treated us so cruelly. If I had been free when I met you, Hettie, you are the one woman in the world I should have chosen to be nty wife.” “And I," she said, in a voice sweeter thau the cooing of a dove—“l should have loved you.” "It seems to me," went on Sir Basil, “as though we stood on either side of an open grave.” “That which divides 11s is deeper than a grave,” she said, with a slight shudder. “I shall never hear the sound of the waves again without thinking of this.” “Nor shall I. A man should be ashamed to confess cowardice; but I. own to you, Hettie. I hardly know how to take up the burden of life again.” Then, ns he was leaving her forever, the temptation became too great. He clasped his arm round her and gathered her to his heart. Once, twice, thrice he kissed her pale, sweet face, as one kisses the face of the best beloved before the coffin lid is closed. In silence then he put her away from him; in silence she sat where he had left her, and he went away over the great hill, which rose like a huge barrier between himself and that which was dearest to him on earth. 7T* ■■ 1,, . .... CHAPTER XIII. The last autumn flower had died, and over the earth had fallen the white robe of winter. Sir Basil was busied with the coming election, his marriage nnd his estate. Leah waa also engrossed in preparations; while the general rejoiced to see his niece so active and happy. One morning the general came down full of bright plans and anticipations. It was one of the rules of the household at Brentwood that the letters should never be opened until after breakfast, the general’s idea being that, if they contained bad news, it was better to delay it; if good, it would be tbe better for keeping. He took the bag in his hands, all unconscious that it held for him and for others a certain doom. “We have numerous correspondents this morning,” he said, turning out the contents. Some of the letters contained invitations and news from friends; others were circulars and charitable appeals. At last the general came to one envelope that seemed to puzzle him. He looked at the postmark and saw the word “Southwood.” “Leah,” he cried, “here ia a strange thing—a letter from Southwood! That is the plaee by the sea, is it not?” “Yes,” she replied; “but I have never been there. I did not know that you bad any correspondenta in that part of the country, uncle.” “Nor did I,” he said. “Thia letter is written by a lady, I am save. It is-sen' easy, elegant, flowing "hand.” ■■ He opened the"!envelope, drew. pUb.the letter.oodrend it Aa he did so, all the color died from his face and the smile from Ids lips. He perused it slowly and tfcenlMwt ftt Leah. “This concerns you, Leah,” he said. “It ia written by your sister Hettie.”

“By Hettie! Oh, uncle, what is its Tell me what It is about?*’ she cried, Ia distress. "Thia letter is from Hettie; and ska says that yonr father is very ill. and wishes to see you.” Leah clasped her hands in dismay. “Oh, uncle,” she cried, “I had so nearly forgotten that terrible past, that dreadful lifer* “Your father is dying, Leah, and ha wants to see you.” She hid her face in her hands, and he saw that she trembled. “Yon shall not go unless you wish,*' he said. “I must go,” she replied, looking up at him in troubled despair. “Duty, conscience, honor, all tell me I must go; but I shrink from it. Oh, uncle, I hated that old life to much!” Sir Arthur took out his watch and looked at it. “We can catch tbe midday express,” h* said, “if we lose np time.” But Leah seemed hardly conscious at his words. “Uncle,” she said, “there was a tins* when Hettie and I had but one heart and one life between ns. How strange the! we were so near, with only the great green hill dividing us! I wonder whig Hettie is like.” “She was a very sweet girl,” said tbtj general. “I wish she had chosen to com# with us; but I admired then, aa I do now, the faithful, tender heart. We must not lose time, Leah,” he added. They reached the station just in time to catch the midday express that would enable them to arrive at Southwood long before night. But, speedily as they had set" out, the angel of death had been swifter, and they arrived at Martin Ray’s cottage only to fiud him dead and Hettie lying in a faint on the floor. When Hettie opened her eyes it waa Leah who held her in her arms. One minute had passed, yet to Hettie it seemed many hours. «. “Too late!” she heard someone say. Then Leah placed her gently in the chaia and went over to her father. Bhe knelt down by his side, and a bitter cry came from her lips. “I am too late,” she said, “too late! Oh, Hettie, he has never taken that cruel curse from me! I am too late!” She took the cold, motionless hand in hers, and the silence in the room was broken only by her sobs. All the past, with its great dread, and her groat horror of it, passed over her as she looked ag hi* face—the face that would never smile or frown upon her again. The general, watching the scene, assured himself that it was better father and daughter had not met. There could have been nothing pleasant in the words they would have exchanged; there would have been no real affection. Yet he had a lingering, half-superstitious wish that the terrible curse Martin Ray had hurled at Leah when they parted had been take# baek.

“I am too late!” sobbed Leah. *'Oh, Hettie, if 1 had but spoken to him once! I have often thought of him, often been sorry; and now I am too late! Tell me if he spoke about me, if he said anything, if he wished to see me? He was my own father, after all.” Sir Arthur withdrew, signing the women to follow him. It was better to leave the sisters alone with their dead. An hour afterward, when he wen* back, he found them locked in each other’s arms, and he vowed to himself that they should not be parted again. Death had softened his heart, and had inclined it to the fair and devoted child of his dead sister. He resolved that, if she would, she should come away with him, and leave him no more. Martin Ray had left nothing bnt hit name. .In one sense his daughters were pleased that it was so. It disproved, thffi thought, most conclusively, many of the charges brought against him. He had not made money out of his starving admirers. The funeral was over, and the general nnd his two nieces sat in the little parlor, where the bliuds were still drawn and the gloom of death still lingered. Now that the last solemn rites had been performed, the general was anxious to return home; it was of no use spending even another hour in Southwood. Bnt he wanted to take Hettie hack with him. He asked her to return with him, to live with him as his daughter, and not to leave them again. He liked her all the better because she was in no hurry to accept the invitation. The girl's heart was still sore with the old pain. She could not forget all at once that this man who was willing now to make her his adopted daughter had denounced her father in the most unmeasured terms; she could not forget the scene in the gloomy little house in Manchester. In death, as in life, her heart was faithful to her father. Had he lived, she would have refused every overture from Sir Arthur; as it was, she was with difficulty persuaded even to listen to him. "Come with me, Hettie,” he said. “You shall be ray daughter. Leah is my heiress; but I will give you a fortune.” “I do not wish any fortune,” she answered simply; ”1 have no use for money. But I do want Lcnh. I would be Leah’s maid in order that I might be near her.” And Sir Arthur thought, as he saw the two sisters embrace each other, that it would be a thousand pities ever to part them again. It was after a long struggle. Hettie promised to make her home with Sir Arthur and her sister; and Leah knew that she would keep her word. It was arranged that they should go first to London, where a fitting trousseau and mourning could be provided, and the two sisters left Southwood with their hearts full of love for each other, but each keeping her secret. Leah had not told Hettie of her passionate love, her approaching marriage or the pain which weighed at times so heavily upon her, nor did Hettie tell Leah 0 f that episode in her life which was to her like a fair, sweet dream. (To be continued.)