The Miller press. [volume] (Miller, S.D.) 190?-current, 1907-08-22

But Wneu MdrJOTle ndu come 10 Her'
self again and the doctor had been
summoned to treat her for a nervous
shock, she found her mother once
more the kindly and loved parent OF
old. Lady Poole had been frightened
at her own violence, and repented bit.
terly for what she had said. She tend.
ed and soothed the girl In the sweet
est and most motherly way. And with.
out Disgusting from Marjorie the bit.
Ter blow the girls decision "a to her,
she told her that she was prepared to
accept the inevitable, and to reorgan-
lie all her ideas for the future.
And then had come the black mys-
terry of Gerald's utter vanishing from
the world of men and women
Lady Poole had always been fond of
Gerald Rathbone, and now, by a curl
GUS contradiction of Nature, when she
had schooled herself to realize that 1t
was on this man her daughters life
was centered, the old lady was terri
bly, and genuinely affected at Gerald's
disappearance. No one could have
been more helpful or more sympathet-
lie during those black hours, and she
gladly left Curzon street for Brighton
in order that she might be alone with
her daughter, and endeavor to bring
her back In some measure to happi-
ness, to interest In life.
Soon after Marjorie had written her
lnffnn IN lin NUiIItann 7 nA,r DaaIo hnI
received a reply from the scientist, en-
closing a short note for her daughter.
1t had been a wonderful letter. The
writer said that he could not disguise
from himself that he had seen, or at
least suspected, the way things were
going. Terrible" he said, "as this
letter of your daughters has been to
me, 1t would yet i'll become me not to
receive 1t as a man. / had hoped and
believed that a very happy life was in
store for me with Marjorie, and for
her with me. Then l saw that 1t was
not to be, and Marjorie's letter
as no surprise, but as only the definite
and final end of my dream. Dear Lady
Poole, do realize that, despite all this,
1t will always be my duty and my priv
ilege to be the friend of you and Of
your daughter IL you and she will per-
NIT me to be so. l have told her SO
often how l love her, and l tell her so
wen now But love, as I understand
1t, should have the element of self
sacrifice in II, II 1t is true love. will
therefore say no more about my per-
sonal feelings except In one way. Just
as my whole life would have been de-
voted to making your daughter happy,
so now feel 1t my duty to devote my
self as well as I can to making her
happy In another way. She has chosen
a man no doubt more worthy TO be
her husband than l should ever be.
You will forgive a natural weakness
IL say no more on this point, but the
great fact Is that she has chosen.
Therefore, ! say that my only wish is
for her lifelong happiness, and that all
my endeavors. such as they are, will
be still devoted to that end. Let them
be happy. let them be together. And
II can promote their happiness, even
though my OWE heart may be broken,
believe me, dear Lady Poole, 1t is my
most fervent wish.
will you give Marjorie the en-
closed little note of farewell? l shall
not trouble her more, until perhaps
some day In the future we may still
be friends, though fate and her decis-
lon have forbidden me to be anything
more to her than just that.
Believe me, my dear Lady Poole,
In great sorrow and In sincere friend.
ship,
William Gouldesbrough."
So the two ladies had gone to
Brighton, and while the press Of the
United Kingdom was throbbing with
excitement, while hundreds of people
were endeavoring to solve the strange
mystery Of Gerald Rathbone's disap.
pearance, the girl more nearly inter.
ested In 1t than any n else in the
world stayed quietly with her mother
at the pleasant seaside town, and was
not molested by press or public.
Marjorie had become even in these
few days a ghost Of her former self
The light had faded out of her eyes,
they had ceased to appear transparent
and had become opaque. Her beauti
fully-chiselled lips now dropped in
pathetic and habitual pain, her pallor
was constant and unvarying. She
drank in the keen sea breezes and
they brought no color to her cheeks
she walked upon the white chalk cliffs
and saw nothing of the shifting gold
and shadow as the sun fell upon the
sea, heard nothing of the harmonies
Of the channel winds. Her whole
heart was full of a passionate yearn
ing and a dull despair: she was like
stately flower that had been put out Of
its warm and sheltered home into an
Icy blast, and was withered and black
ened In an hour.
Kind as her mother was, Marjorie
felt that there was nobody now left to
lean upon, to confide In. A girl Of hel
temperament needs some strongel
arm than any woman can provide t.
help and comfort, to keep awake tho
fires of hope within her. and nothing
of the sort was hers. In all the worlt
she seemed to have no one to confdt
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