San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1889-11-19
CHAPTER VI.

Inc anger OF lIOfu ldrlSWOOu, WHEN ne
heard of his daughters elopement, was
something terrible to witness. She had
written to him-smiling as she wrote,
thinking only of the novelty, ignoring the
terrible consequences that might follow
telling him that she had found that the
happiness of her life depended entirely on
her love, and that, before he had read her
letter, she would be Thornton Cameron's
wife.
lie read her words with frown, and
took an oath never while he lived to look
Upon her face again-an oath which he
kept unbroken.
He might have taken dozen different
methods of furnishing the man who robbed
him of his daughter; he adopted none of
them. He contented himself with casting
her off forever. She was no longer a
CarlswOod; his love for her changed into
bitterest hate. She had broken the long
spell-he could never say again that no
Carlswood had ever contracted low mar
riage; he could never boast that the name
was unsullied. She had stained it by run
ming away with a low-born stranger; moth
| ing could restore its luster, nothing could
| give back its lost glory. His anger was
something terrible-terrible in its depth,
| its silence, its intensity. To himself he
said that if she were lying at his feet dy-
| ing Of hunger he would not give her bread.
He made no loud complaints; he never
| mentioned her name. If anyone attempt
ed to condole with him, he held up his
| hand with a stately gesture that enforced
| silence. His scorn, his anger, his terrible
| Indignation, lay too deep for words. He
went at once to Bralyn, where all the
| household were prepared to defend them
selves; but he did not condescend to ask
| any questions. His gamekeepers wished
| to tell him of rambles in the woods, of
stolen meetings in the grounds; the
| naughty nObleman refused to hear a syl-
liable.
He dismissed the governess with a sar-
dOnic compliment lie gave orders that
everything which had ever belonged to
the unfortunate Katrine should be re-
| moved from the house; he refused to say
| where they were to be taken to or any
thing about them, and they were ulti-
mately deposited in the gate-keeper's
lodge.
Despite his pride, his sternness, his ter
rible contempt and scorn, there was some
| thing pitiful in the proud mans silent,
solitary despair. He took down the record
of his children's births; he read over the
names of his boys; and then q great mist
of tears seemed to hide the word Kat
rine" from him-burning tears, all the
more painful because since his wife's death
he had shed none. He sat alone in his
library, and before him rose like so many
| ghosts all the hopes he had conferred in
that beautiful daughter; he remembered
her as lovely laughing child-as a lovely,
high-spirited girl. He thought of the dead
| mother who had loved her so dearly, and
a deep, bitter sigh came from the depths
of his overcharged heart His daughter
| his daughter!
Never more was he to hear the CAV
! young voice-never more to watch the
beautiful face; she was worse, ten thou
| sand times worse, than dead. Dead, he
| could have loved her still, he could have
visited her grave, he could have spoken
of her; but she was dishonored and dis
graced, she was unworthy of regret-she
who had brought the first stain upon the
name of Curlswood--she who had stOoped
| to deceive him.
Slowly he opened his silver inkstand,
| and drew his pen through her name
III.
One by one the letters disappeared be-
meath his heavy stroke, and when they
had all disappeared it seemed to him that
his daughter lay dead In silence more
bitter than the silence of death he laid his
face down on the obliterated words.
Presently he arose and closed the record,
drawing his stately figure to its full
height.
II have mourned my dead" he said to
himself; now ii remains for me to forget"
And forget, to all outward appearance.
he did. He called the butler, who, from
having been so long with him, was raised
to the dignity of confidential friend.
You know Mrs Cameron's handwrit-
ing" he said. BE good enough for the
future to look over all letters before I see
them; and, if there are any from her, de-
stroy them"
And after that time Lord Carlswood
lived as though he had no daughter. Only
/ the butler knew how many heart-broken
letters came to Bralyn, how many pathetic
appeals, how many cries for help. Even
If Lord Carlswood had known, it would
have made no difference-he would rather
have died than have yielded.
so time passed on, and the name of the
young girl who had been the pride of his
race was never even heard; all trace of her
had disappeared, and the servants had
ceased, even in whispers, to refer to her.
Lord CarlswOod grew prOuder than ever.
Il have three sons" he would say to
himself, "and they will do honor to my
name"
People said afterward that he was Justly
punished for his nride The thraa yo,no,