The Argosy — page 124: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Village Blacksmith. 10g Ryot-Tempest still keeping one hand on the chimney-piece, but turn- ing her graceful figure round so as to face her husband, who sat look- ing up at her in amazement. “In this house? Impossible! My dear Poppy, Iam quite sure none of the other servants would have done such a thing ; they are as honest as Mark himself.” ** Possibly ; but it was not one of the servants who shot him,” said Mrs. Ryot-Tempest coldly. “Then who was it? Where is the fellow?” *‘ It was not a fellow; it was Vera.” “Vera! What do you mean?” exclaimed the Archdeacon spring- ing to his feet as if he, too, had been shot. “I mean what I say. Mark surprised Vera handing my jewel- case to some accomplice outside the window, and she shot him.” ‘“Who—who—who has dared to say such a thing of Vera?” stammered the Archdeacon, beginning to walk rapidly up and down the room in front of the fire, his excitement preventing him from standing still, but fear of his wife moderating his anger. “Mark says so. Moreover facts are facts, Ryot. Painful as it must be to you to be told such a thing, we cannot get over these facts ; the jewel-case is gone; Mark is wounded ; and Vera fright- ened, no doubt, at her own wickedness, roused the rest of the house Dy her screams, and fell fainting into your arms when we returned.” “All that may or may not be true, but that Vera should attempt to steal your diamonds is simply impossible. She is my daughter and a Kyot-Tempest, therefore the accusation, if not so monstrous, would be ridiculous. It is quite possible that Mark was wounded by Vera, who probably mistook him for the real thief—indeed, it is possible he is the culprit,” said the Archdeacon. ‘“How can you be so uncharitable, Archdeacon? Surely you cannot accuse a faithful servant of such a crime, even to screen your own daughter P”’ The Archdeacon, who had been pacing restlessly up and down the large rug in front of the fire, now stopped suddenly before his wife ; the colour left his cheeks, he grew as white as his collar, as he grasped the full extent of the calamity which had overtaken him. _ This woman, whom he had made his wife, actually dared to believe that a Ryot-Tempest, and that Ryot-Tempest his own daughter, would stoop to commit a robbery, and dare to shoot a man who had discovered her in the act. He felt as if he had put his hand in his bosom and grasped a snake; a chill sense of horror crept over him, such as one feels when accidentally brought in contact with a reptile. His face betrayed this sensation, and Mrs, Ryot-Tempest, well-versed as she was in the feelings of men, knew her husband had entered on the stage of death in his passion for her. For the history of passion is the same as the hintoite of life. If it be true that worlds, like living creatures, have their periods of birth, COnnICloOoks (SO) am