The Penn's Grove record., 1885-05-23
~ cannot help it,

commercial difficulties at hand. You
do not understand these things, but !
may tell you that, unlts IS some powerful
aid is %inteTpOsed, | shall he ruined; |
shall not have more than the miserable
beggar who Graves aims from door to
door,
Constance turned white and trembled.
"And my marrlage-what a 1t have
to do with this2'
Everything. With ready money at
the time when it will be wanted, shall
be saved; with the owner of four hun
dred thousand pounds at my back, all
will be well; If not But mol dare
not think of that
Constance was trembling In every
limb; not only the magnitude, but also
the i~ndefiniteness of the calamity fright
ened her.
"And does it all depend upon me2"
she fattered.
"All," returned her father sOlemnly,
eff | marry Laurence Markham"
You are going to consentl My own
sweet Constance, | knew that | sh uld
not appeal to you in vainl Yet, believe
me, my beloved child, had the man been
other than what he ls, never should |
have asked you to consent. But you
will be the adored wife of an upright
honorable man; you will have saved
yourself from sufferings that you can
not imagin; you will have saved your
father from a dishonored gravel My
Constance, how can | thank your"
But" she protested, with one last
effort, Il have not consented yet"
But you will, my own sweet girl; !
know you Will Still | do not wish to
appear unreasonable, Constance, mel.
Their would Mr.. Markham. BY his par
ticular and | will say. most considerable
wish you will have three days to think
over it.
'Iknow, | know" she interrupted,
''but, oh, papa, leave me now."
And what then2"
Il will do my best" she replied.
Next day the thought of the man who
would be her husband came prominently
before her; and this by no means les
ened her trouble. Constance had nev
liked Laurence Markham, but she could
assign no reason for her dislike; no one
had ever by the slightest word assailed
his character-even Wilfred himself had
sometimes taken his part. Her father
had spoken truly of Markham's love for
her; she had long known of it-and per-
haps it would not be such utter wretch
edness after all, she thought.
Wednesday morning dawned-rainy,
foggy, and pitilessly cold. even with
great fires in every room. she shivered,
then wondered how she could ever Lear
the hardships of a poverty so great that
it would possibly not admit of a fire at
all. A nan in ragged garments passed,
looking blue and wretched; she remem-
bered what her father had said of beg
ging aims from door to door. Another
idea here intTuded, and demanded con.
sideration.
Since Monday forenoon Mr.. Joyce
had never once alluded to that which
was uppermost in her mind; but on
this evening he said, as she rose from
the dinner-table-
SAT nine Laurence Markham will be
here; my Constance, what answer shall
| give him2"
"Send him to me, papa, and l will
answer him"
"YOu will say -" With an ex-
preston of painful anxiety he looked
into her face.
81 shall not fall you, papa; do not
ask me to say more"
"My beloved Constancel Was ever
man so blessed in his child?"
But no ray of brightness cleaned
from the pale still face as Constance
went quietly out of the door and up
stairs, past the brilliantly-lighted draw
ing room, to her own boudoir, where,
in darkness, but for the bright fire, in
silence, save for the ticking of the clock,
she waited with the calmness of despair
for the hour of her doom.
Ting, ting, ting-a quarter to nine
footsteps in the passage outside the door.
He was before his time. All, well, what
did it matter2 1t was only fifteen min
utes less of sickening suspense.
The door opened-he was in the room;
but she did not turn her head. His steps
came nearer, he knelt down beside her
still she did not look; then "a voice
that was not Laurence Markham's
breathed her name.
"Constancel'
She looked now, looked right into the
loving brown eyes she knew SO well,
and heard the soft tones that were TO
her the sweetest music in all The world
muTmur-
MY darling Constance, mine once
more; now we shall never part againw
=
The three weeks that had been so try
ing to Constance Joyce had been little
less so to Wilfred AInslie. Mr.. Joyce's
question of "What can you do?" had
presented itself to hun in many and
various forms, if not iii actual words.
''If you were younger, Mr.. Ainslie,n
''If You had eveT had any business
training, Mr.. Ainslie," were the words
which grew too familiar TO his ear, and
never failed to send a cold chill to his
heart. Only II opening presented it
self through the efforts of Mr.. Parker,
the family lawyer, he was offered a elias.
steal mastership i'll a school near Lon
don. Workman Academy seemed to he
his destiny, for nothing else presented
itself 50, on the. evening of the day
that Constance had made up her mind
to ave her father, he slowly wended his
way towards Mr.. Parker's Office. to tell
that worthy gentleman to inform Mr..
Grindboy that Mr.. Ainslie would accept
the responsibility of instructing the
youth Of Workman Academy i'll that
most useful branch, a knowledge Of the
tongues of Greece and Rome.
1t was not a very brilliant prospect
certainly; and Wilfred, with that in-
stinctive putting off of the evil day
common to all, let it be rather late in
the evening ere he presented himself at
Mr.. Parker's Office. So late was 1t that
he feared, as he knocked at the door,
lest Mr.. Parker-enthusiastic worker
though he was-should have gone away.
such however was not the case; never
theless something wonderful had hap
pened-the old gentleman had fallen
asleepl The consequence of this un-
heard-o of event was that, when Wilfred
entered the room, all was dark, save for
the hight Of the fire. Mr.. Parker started
from the depths of his easy chair as the
door opened, and the light was bright
enough to enable han 10 recognize his
visitor.
s.Al Af,.lfa - l., ,t,xf NN,H .,a.A