The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1889-05-01

my eyes as she announced, TREMENDOUSLY.
"a gentleman, num-" and Cyril Holmes
walked in.
For one moment felt inclined TO laugh
and cry with delight; the next / remem-
bered that after this visit our poverty
could no longer be a secret from my rela-
tions and the words of welcome died on
my lips.
~ needn't ask how you are, Sylvia" he
said; "and L hope l shan't hurt your feel
ings il say you look awfully pale and
| thin"
"Do II" 1 tried to reply, briskly. "You
see, I've been rather i'll, and getting about
again tires me-"
"You look very busy, too, for a GONZALES
cent. Why on earth do you have all
these papers about, if you feel tiredP"
"Oh, must do something" answered,
mendaciously. at amuses me-"
"Does it? Perhaps it amuses you too
much. You ought to be glad that have
come to be substitute IN the way of
amusements."
He spoke gayly but there was some
thing troubled in his manner, which /, in
my pre-oceupation, put down to the i'm
| preston my comfortless home must be
! producing on his mind.
But when he began to talk and TO ques-
tion me about Duncan saw that the bur
den on him was not ours, but his own,
and that though he tried 10 appear in
terested in my answers to his questions,
his thoughts were straying to something
| else.
Presently he got up; walked to the
cradle and looked at my quiet, little, wan
/ baby.
"What have you called it, Sylvia?" he
asked. Then, before i could answer
almost in fact, as if he did not want an
answer-he went on: Audrey is not so
brave as you are, Sylvia"
l looked at him. l saw that he was
going to tell me his trouble.
at is strange that one so calm as she is
| should not be Drawer" he continued. do
you know why have come to see you?.
| Naturally you would not require any rea-
son, but there is one, and l am going to
tell you all about it. have grown tired
of waiting for Audrey. Perhaps you do
not know that she made me promise to
be my wife some day-long before you
were engaged to Duncan. She made
great secret of it, and said l must be
| patient Heaven knows | have not been
| impatient, but time is going on. | am
eight-and-thirty; Audrey is past her first
youth. What is the use of waiting? An
| drew Alison will never learn to like me
now. We are only wasting our lives. l
| have been thinking this out ever since
your marriage; and the other day l went
| to her, and asked her if she loved me
| enough TO keep her promise without de-
! lay. Sylvia, can you believe it%-poor
! Cyril his voice faltered-"You could not
| guess ?"
~ think I can," replied. 81 am sure
! she refused to."
"Worse than that
"You mean that she has given you up"
''She really has, Sylvia; l cannot be-
| lieve it; she gave me up as if it did not
! hurt her bit, and now -"
"You have noS come to ask me to use
my influence with her, Cyril ?" inter
rrpted,
He shook his head. "No, indeed, 1
haven't. ] have not allowed myself to
| cling to any vague hope l thought 1
should like to tell you all about it, and to
bid you good bye. Icouldn't STAY in Lon
don. have left Alison and 1 am going
| to America. l came just for old times
sake"
"You wouldn't care to tell me what she
| said?" l hazarded the words timidly; /
was, in truth, very eager to know how
Audrey could have accounted for her res
olution.
II will tell you all you care to hear.
| She said that your uncle had told her
| plainly that she might marry me as you
! had married Ferrars-against his will
| but she added, she had no mind 10 90 and
| live pauper's life-to be in debt; to be
| secuted by respectable people-good gra-
cious, Sylvia, what am | saying? / beg
| your pardon. Don't cry, dear; what a
| brute you must think me!'
But it was no use telling me not to cry.
/ was too weak to restrain the floods of
/ tears that lay so near the surface always
now.
"Who told them all that?'' l sobbed,
| "Who told them that we are in debt and
| that people are turning their backs on us
How could Audrey know it and never
| send me a word of sympathy How dare
Uncle Andrew know it and never send
us shilling? Oh, Cyril, he is a wicked,
cruel man. He has been the means of
breaking your engagement, because he
knew that Audrey was too cautious to be
driven into marrying against his will.
| His object is to avoid any necessity that
might arise for accounting for our fa-
theirs money"
had left off crying now-the anger in
my heart had scorched up my tears.
II do not think you are quite just in
what you say, Sylvia" Cyril said, as 1
paused Tor breath. - Ou knew YOU were
breaking with your uncle when you mar
ried. 1t is not likely that he will make
advances TO you; other men in his place
might, but he is too obstinate. AS to Au-
drey, 1 feel sure she is acting on her own
conclusions-her love for me has worn
out; perhaps, even. she cares for some
one else"
He spoke half interrogatively.
"That is possible" replied, "but am
rot in Audrey's confidence; l never have
been. i know this much about her
though il is a hard thing to say of ones
sister-she is very cunning woman; she
will stay with Uncle Andrew to the last;
she has no heart to break, nor will she
care if yours is broken. When she is
growing oldand worn out, Uncle Andrew
will die and leave her all the money he
loves so dearly-that money which partly
belongs to me. 1t is too shameful. II he
has heard of our poverty. does not his
conscience tell him that our creditors
have a righteous claim on that of which
he is defrauding us by a weak pretense? ?"
"Sylvia," said Cyril, very seriously, you
are i'll, and you are overexcited, and you
scarcely know what terrible things you
are saying. / don't like Andrew Alison
myself. / know him to be absolutely
without affection, and that he has a real
pleasure in tyrannizing over those who
are in his power, but have worked for