The Carbon advocate. [volume] (Lehighton, Pa.) 1872-1924, 1879-09-13
THE STORY OF A MARRTAGE-BVB.
ny KARL DRURY.

| Ao-morroW is my wedding day." said
Viola Clayson softly to herself at seems
so strange. Aid yet how happy the thought
makes mep
She was seated in the sumptuous draw
ing room of her fathers handsome country
mansion as these words left her lips.
1t was still early evening, and the lamps
had iust been lighted. Their mellow luster
played richly on Violas starry-eyed, olive
beauty.
NetEf had her face worn so charming
look as tonight, because never had the fu-
ture seemed to Her so delciously full of
promise.
Roy Melf6td, the brilliant young New
York lawyer, was match worthy of even
Oscar Clayson's precious only child, whose
days had been made thus lar enviable by
every fond indulgence
But meditation does net always increase
contentment. Some famous writer once SAID
that to think is to become miserable.
A shade of care certainly dHrEened Viola's
lovely face, as she now moved forth upon
the broad moon lighted piazza, where fra
graitce of June honeysuckles terfumed the
silvery dimness.
"Poor Mark sitelairp her thoughts pres
emily ran. "I know he is wretched tonight;
| can't help but pity him. Surely it was
not my fault that could only give him pity
in return for his deep, unconquetaBle love.
And how oad that he should BE Roy's init
mate friend, and yet that Roy has never
suspected his secret Well; it is better as it
is, perhaps. Mark is a noble fellow. He
suffers still. / saw it in his eyes when he
called with Roy yesterday. And tomorrow
he will be his friends best man at the we'd
ding, and no one will dream of what an or
deal he is passing through pshaw l
must not think of these gloomy things ;
time will bring Mark consolation. And
after Roy and are married shall make it
my sacred duty to find him some lovely,
true woman for wife. He deserves it, If
ever man did p
Shortly after making these rather girlish
and impulsve reflections Viola clipped down
across the lawn, passed out of its front gate,
and entered the grounds of a fine estate ly-
Ing opposite, where dt7elt her friend, Kate
Chartphey.
Kate was to be one of Viola's bridesmaids
on the morrow, and naturally the two friends
would rot be at a loss for Viyacous chat
together.
Roy Melford had sent Viola note that
afternoon saying that he would call at nine
| o'clock this same evening for his farewell
visit in the capacity of her tutor.
There were still two hours and half be-
fore that hour, and Viola's restless mood
needed some kind of occupation during the
intervening period.
Meanwhilej about half mile away, in
one Of the lower chambers of that com fort
able, old fashioned homestead which Mark
Sinclair had recently inherited from his
dead father,a very different scene was being
enacted.
Two men sat here ogether-Markj the
host, and his friend, Roy Melfotd, to-mor-
rows prospective bridegroom.
Marks grave, rugged, manly face looked
unusually serious. Roy, who was speaking,
wore on his delicate, fine-cut features an ex-
preston OF melancholy distress.
"Mark," he Vas saying, "the woman who
now waits outside on the porch is infe&ible'
She says Chat she will show those very let;
ters to Oscar Clayson this very night. You
know what highstrung, honorable he is.
He once said to me, just after my engage
thent to Viola: "Roy Meliord, if there were
the least stain upon your name you should
never have MY daughter. grSe her to yoG
only because believe your record to be alb
solutely aawless.' When the sister of that
dead girl shows him the ardent love-letters
which once wrote her, and which, as she
says, are the proof Of my gross iufidelity to
poor Sara Wilmot should not be surprised
if Violas father Srathfully forbade our mar
riage, even at this late hour. Oh, Mark,
can hothing be done to prevent this unhap-
py scandalP"
Mark Sinclair was Silent. Roy had COW
cred bis face with both hands. The big old
clock in the corner licked solemnly.
Presently Mark spoke
You treated Sara Wimot shamefully
Roy" he said. al never knew about those
letters till nov but remember that sum-
mer very we'll, when we both went together
to D for the shooting. Poor Sara was
simple country living in tl1st lonely
little cottage with her aged mother. You
made her believe that you meant to marry
her. And afterward you kept up the de-
cePtion. Oh, it was base unmanly p
Roy sprang to his feet.
"Not so hase or unmanly as Il looks,
Mark" he cried. 81 was almost a foolish
boy at the time. For little while believ-
ed that did really care foI the girl. Then,
when we left D., my brief iuiatuation
died. Pity made me write those letters.
shrank from telling her the truth. Her
death aetuslly stabbed me with renforse
when chance brought me the sudden news
81 it. All the memory of MY weakness,
fault, sin, or whatever name you choose to
call it by, has haunted me bitterly enough
ever since. And now, Il am to be so fright
fully plnished-if am to lose Viola on our
wedding eve-the chastisement will be hand
er than can bear. Mark, it will kill me p
] The last words were baoKenly uttered