The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1897-04-10

you or-or your little sister"
You mistake" she says, a little proud
ly. "She is not my sister-she is my
| daughter"
PART II.
Her daughter He is so astonished by
| this announcement that it is only after
| ward-when she is quite gone, when not
even a fold of her white gown is to he
| seen through the trces-that he remem-
| bers two things. First, that her tone
when she acknowledged the child as hers
had been triumphant; and second, that he
| himself had experienced after that decla-
ration a most extraordinary feeling of
sudden desolation.
"Bonner!'
The old soldier arrives at once, saluting
who Is the lady who lives in Elm cot
| tage?"
Tall young lady? Mother o. missy
| She's a Mrs. Wilmot, sir and a wildly.
| Widdies are dangerous, Captain. Give her
plenty of room. Take tothor side O. hedge
| Captain"
This, no doubt, was excellent advice
but who takes kindly advice? Not Sir
John in this instance, anyway. He sharp
| ly turned deaf ear to it and went down
to the Elm cottage the morning following
Margaret, you will marry met His
voice is low but full of passion. He has
| both her hands in his. 1t is two months
| since that first meeting on the veranda
and now he has laid his heart beneath
her feet. VIII she trample on it?
| you ask me--of whom you know moth
ing-to be your wife! She is very pale
81 ask you that, Margaret" lie is quite
| as pale now as she is.
| Impossible"
at cannot be impossible. You tell me
| your husband is dead.
| "YaS but wait. No, listen to me- y
She turns upon him a face full of misery
You compel me to speak. Well, hear me
| though God knows it draws blood from
my heart to put my dreadful story into
words"
"You shall not speak, Margaret. Dc
| YOU" with sudden passion, think me Sc
selfish a devil that l would ease my owr
mind at the expense of yours?
81 shall speak, however" says Margaret
land you shall hear. 1t is an old, ole
story. 1 married him, the man l though
my husband-not loving him-but because
my father urged me to 1t. l had no on'
| to warn me against him except cousin
and she was of no Importance then though
she is a very great lady now, | hear
She was fond of me, and / of her, but
was afraid of my father, and l consented
|
she cast me off. l thought her hard thel
but now-I know how very kind sh
meant to be-"
"Your cousins name"
"To ask me that is to ask me every
thing"
"Well! Why not? Look here" says he
"do you suppose the present life of your
can go on forever without questions
That no moment will come when you'll
wish 1t altered?'
mot one," firmly
mot even" quite as firmly, ''whel
your little girl is a big girl"
She hushes-falters,
-"You see," says he. triumphantly, 'yo,
had better tell me everything"
81 cannot" family, land, besides" re
covering herself, when my Margie is
big girl there will be all the more reaso
for concealing from her the unhapp
fact that" She pauses. "Well--well,
signing heavily, enough of Margie!
have told you that my cousin objected I
my marriage with my husband-and tina
| though her unkind then. | don't thin
that now. She knew. He-he- All!
sharply, 81 cannot so into that with yo
even! / endured it all. But found ther
was more to be endured. At the last-th
very last-when he lay on his deathbet
he told me"-she grows very white-"h
told me what has made an end of tn
sweetness and loveliness Of life for nj
forever"
"He told you"
"That | had never been his wife! Th
truth! A man, dying, to lie like that
No! on his deathbed he spoke bitterly
for the first time, the truth to me I
make worse, even worse, the life befor
me than that had led with him. He de
clared distinctly he had been married be
fore. He showed me the certificate"
"Bruter says Blount, between his teeth
yes" with terrible calmness, 'he wa
that. However, the injury to myself
could have borne, but-the child! Oh, no
oh, nor she breaks off, shivering, catch
ing her hands together little wildly
"Oh, my Margie! That the curse shoul
fall on her!"
Margaret, what has all this to do wit
YOU and me?" cries Blount. passionate
ly. "Give yourself to me and lose a
memory of the past in our marriage
For a moment she looks at him. Their
, is the saddest, the most absorbing Low
and reverence in her gaze.
"And you?"
"And I-shall be the happiest ma
alive"
Married" slowly. 'to the most selfis
woman alive. Oh, no." she throws ou
, both er hands. 'I have known so muc
misery myself that l swear" vehement
! ly, II will never be the cause of miser
to another"
: Listen"
I mo, no. little wildly, II will not
10 you think that afterwards-later on
you would not feel-feel though you Nigh
never say it-that the mother of you
children had cruel story attached to he
neme-a stain upon it?'
THAT is harsh judgment, Margare
: Have | given you cause for it?"
Never, indeed! But still, would yo
| be proof against the worlds cruel vel
: | dict?'
, THE world would judge you as l do"
) "Ah! You little know it. And wha
of my child? Would it be fair to her
: How would you think of her?"
! "As your daughter" firmly
"Ah! She makes a little aEoniZe
, ! movement to him to- be silent. Margi
l indeed, has just pushed open the door an
is coming towards them, her hands file
with her own flowers-her marguerites.
"Come here, Margie," says Blount,
little desperately, land comfort me. You
: mother has been unkind."
S "Heres moonies for 'oo," says Mis-
I | Margie, holding up her bundle of maj
Guerites as slave for her mother
, cruelty.