The morning call., 1894-07-29
THE FATE OF GREGORY HUME.
"a Fingers Touch and the Thing Was Done.
Had Sold My Soul for You, Edth.''

II ought to go! But I can't bear to
leave you, Edith" said the man.
"You must leave me. And does 1t mat
Ter whether it's to-day or tomorrow?
said the woman.
The sooner the BETTER" he rejoined
gloomily. "It was bad day for me that
l ever came here"
The woman did not answer. She might
have retorted that il was bad day for her
that brought Mark Rutford across her path
again, "after many days" 1t was an old.
old story-the story of might have
been''-one of those too common stories to
which the refrain tolls like knell. Too
late-toO latp!'
Mark Rufford's eyes turned to the yacht
that was anchored in the little bay, rock
ing softly on the gentle swell of the waves
that were scarcely more than ripples. Its
sails tapped lazily in the light breezs.
cleaned white in the glare of the south
ern sunshine. from which he and Edith
were partially sheltered by the scant
shadows OF the palmetto grove. Sometimes
it seemed almost like dream to them
both that they should be together among
the palm trees Of this semi-tropical south
terday, and yet it was years agol among
the northern pines. Yes, wears ago. But
Ruined love when it is built anew
Grows stronger than at first.
And so il had proved in this case. now
that gulf vawned between them that it
would be sin and shame to cress.
lie looked from the little FiTefly dancing
on the ripples to the woman's face. On
that side Law duty-nn this, temptation.
Edith. will you miss me?'' he said, ab-
ruptly.
Her far face was sternly set as she
gaZad out to sea.
Il shall be glad when you are gone" 3"
she answered slowly, with certain inten-
sitv Of emphasis.
A dark flush rose in his sunburned
cheek, his eyes flashed upon her as he re-
torted impetuously:
"Be glad, then. ! sail to-day. l did not
know my presence had been such burden
to YOU. You should have told me before,
Edith. I would not have inflicted myself
on YOU for so long"
She did not turn her eyes toward him,
but he, bending to look searchingly in her
face. saw them fill slowly with tears, saw
the full, red lips Quiver.
'Don't cry, Edith" he said hastily.
almost harshly. with thrill of suppressed
passion in mis- tone. you must not cry.
If vOu do II can't answer for myself"
of tears" she said, controlling herself i'm
mediatelv, with a watery smile.
81 can't stand the sight of yours" he
replied. "Other women may cry their
fill-but you! You will miss me. Filth
You have not forgotten! You are not one
of the women who forget"
THE worse for me" she said bitterly.
"Why should it be the worse? Look
things in the face. Edith" he added. with
sudden abandonment, as if desperately
dashing aside and casting off a restraint
till now all powerful. I'VE are cheated
cut of each other! We know that now.
You were stolen from me by false pre-
lenses. And Until this hour I've hon
estiy meant to go; to leave YOU as l found
you-in this drPaTy exile, to this hard life
for which you are 30 unfit! You are deli
cately reared. is no life for such as
YOU! You cannot bear 1t much longer.
See how these few years have changed
yonr'
yes, am changed" she said, sadly.
u wonder you care at all about NE still"
81 care more than ever. l will care more
and more as the years go on-if YOU will
let me. My Edith-you were my Edith
once! If We are true to the past why
should we make our faith, our truth, a
curse? 1t VIII be a blessing if you will
have the courage to make it so. There
lies the Firefly ready TO sail back to our
own lsnd-our own world. Edith. why
should | sail alOne?
Because" she answered firmly, ''we
must dree our weird And the bittereSt
hour of my hard fate is this. that you
have spoken such words to me-" she
added. with a thrill nf reprOach II have
trusted you, Mark; l have built on YOUR
faith and honor as On a rock. l had no t
thought that you would prove unworthy
OF my trust"
Nor am unworthy of it." he replied.
proudly and even a little resentfully. Il
give you faith as true as your own truth.
I offer YOU lifelong love that will shield
you from every care. | will take you from
this hard life TO one of comfort, in which
you shall never know a hardship. You
would have been my wife if he had not
come between Us with his lying tales.
You shall be yet. if YOU will trust 10 g
now. Hume will appeal to the law, and it
will free YOu."
You must not-vOu shall not-speak to
me like this. Mark 20 she interrupted him.
81 will hear no more" Her tone softened
as she added: Would you spoil even the
memory of these last few weeks? Leave
me at least this remembrance as an IN
bIotted pageP
II.
The swift tropical light was falling like
a veil over land and sea. Edith Hume
stood at the open door, looking out across
the strip of clearing that surrounded the
house, her ewes searching with some
anxiety the deepening shadows of the
woods, the silent, lonely woods that
stretched for many a mile broken only
here and there by a patch of clearing. a
garden, orchard or Seeding grove sur
rounding the house Of some enterprising
settler but these spots Of cultivation were
few and far between, for this was pioneer
settlement of the far South where Gregory
Hume had chosen 10 pitch his tent II
was a lonely life for a woman and there
was a pathetic suggestion of loneliness
and Weariness about Edith'S solitary
figure as she stood on the threshold of
her silent home. There was a step in the
distance, a stir in the shadows. The rust
ling of tae scrub" sounded clear and loud
in the stiffness of the evening air. A man
emerged into the clearing gun on shoulder
and game IN haud-a man, but not the
one for whom Edith was watching and
waiting.
"Have you seen Gregory" she asked, as
Mark Rufford drew near
Gregory! Isn't he at home" was the
counter question.
No; he has been out all the aftern oon.
He is very late"
I've brought you couple of squirrels
ana a crane" said Ruffnrd, abruptly,
Indifferent to Mr.. Hume's unpunctuality,
as he deposited the spoils of the chase at
her feet