Beadle's Dime Library, Vol. III, No. 29 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

——————————————— SS ee ee ee ———— a will not! Though the whole world turn against you, I will love yout will believe you innocent!”’ ‘“*T am innocent, Florence—I am innocent!”’ ‘*T kuow it! Iknow it! But tell me of what you are accused.” ‘*No! no! I could not bear to see your face pale with horror—to feel you withdraw in loathing from my arms!” **But, knowing you innocent, the hme of tle crim? alleged would make me cling all the close to you, the more you needed my love and con- lenea.”’ “No Go to my father. He will lay the matter before vou. Then, if you still believe, come back to me. When, stunned by the charge, I had scarcely power to deny it, my mother’s father—and he has always loved me only next to my own—maddened by what he thought my persistence in falsehood, cried, ‘It. is proved as clear as day! And yet he stands before us with the face of an angel of inno- cence, save for the pallor of confounded guilt!’ No flimsy evidence cowd convince him so positively.” ‘* But he is only your grandfather, Frederick, He had not a woman's love and a woman’s instincts to guide him. The evidence isfalse and must have some weak point. Trust me, my love will find it out. But though it be as inaccessible as the battlements of heaven, yet I will never be shaken by it. But tell me of what you are accused. I can bear it better from your lips.” **T cannot! I cannot! He will tell you all.” ‘* But how was suspicion thrown upon you?” “I do not know. But whatever be the plot, Cecil Beaumont is at the bottom of it—depend upon it, Cecil Beaumont is at the bottom of it! And when accused him of treachery, and he began some of his smooth hypocrisy, m andfather, blinded by the glamour of falsehood that he had cast before his eyes, cried: ‘Stop! An honest man must not stand on his defense before such a knave!’ ” “TI know that he hates you, my poor darling! and knowing it, I shall not be the dupe of his dissimula- tion. No, I will trace every thread of evidence to its souree, knowing that it must ultimately lead to false- hood. Let us delay no longer. Iam all impatience to begin the work, Every moment is an age of tor- ture!’ She arose eagerly. Fred arose also. ‘‘One moment, my darling,” he said. ‘Give me one moment of perfect love and trust. -When you have gone from me, how do I know that I shall ever ony another?” : e held out his arms. She sprung into them, cling- ing close to his neck, ‘Oh! when I oe yon so utterly, why do you doubt me?” she whispered. “ey will not! I will not!” he cried, with his lips to hers. ‘God bless you, my heart’s darling! and aid you in your labor of love!” : ; ” ‘Then he lifted her into her saddle, still clinging to her, as if he could not bear to part with her. A mo- ment she bent forward, and with her arms about his neck, blended caresses and words of consolation and hope. Tien she seneree up the reins. **Come to me to-night in the arbor,” she said, and was gone. Go to my father. CHAPTER XIV. A TRIAL OF FAITH. Joun Powe sat in his private room at the bank, forcing himself to attend to the business which his po- sition demanded of him, though his heart ached and his head swam with dizziness. He had schooled his features to hide from the world as much as possible the anguish that was tugging at his heart, yet there was a humidity of the eyes and a piteous curve of the mouth that were painful to behold. A che drove up to the side entrance, and a lady alighted and ascended the steps. She was dressed in dark robes, whose flowing grace lent majesty to her form. Her black hair was brushed back from a pure white brow; and there was a look of resolute purpose in her dark eyes and on her red lips, in keeping with her ae Charley Brewster met her at the door and*greeted ras: ** Miss Goldthrop!”’ * Show me to Mr. Powell, if you please,”’ she said; and was ushered into the banker's private room, passing the cashier without a look. Cecil Beaumont arose and passed into his bed- chamber. He dared not stay and risk the others’ seeing the flush of crimson that dyed his forehead, and the diabolical scowl that came to his brows de- spite his efforts to repress it. “Go on, my lady,” he muttered, between his clenched teeth. ‘A steady purpose has been form- ing in my mind with relation to you. Queen it while you may. You shall yet be my slave!’ But then his iciegeiunder were a sudden revolu- tion. The clenched hands relaxed; the flush of an- ger on his cheek gave place to the pallor of an inde- scribabl3 pain; the fire of rage in his eyes was drowned by a sudden h of tears. “Oh! I love you! love you!” he cried. ‘One smile—one touch of your hand in kindness—and I would drain my heart, drop by drop, before harm should come to a single hair of your head! But your scorn naddens me—makes me a devil!” Careless, as ignorant, of his emotions, Florence Goldthrop entered the presence of the banker, He arose, and with a courtly grace that was a Desvot his nature, led her to a seat, greeting her with a surprised yet welcoming 8. ‘* Mr. Powell,” she an, “‘I make no apology for calling upon you at this time and place with the business that calls me here, because I know that your interest in your son transcends that which you ay feel in mere business e ements. I should Shrink from os so pai a meet as this must be to you, but that my interest in is even greater than your own. To show that I have a right to know what lam about to seek, I will state that I am his plighted wife. Loving him and trusting him without a shadow of reservation, it is my purpose to acquaint myself with the crime alleged against him and the evidence sustaining the charge, and then to roceed to clear him from the cloud of suspicion now anging over him.” F There was a ring of confidence in her even, steady tones that thrilled Mr. Powell. But he saw in it the blind devotion of love, and would not let it avail against the convictions of judgment. More than | ¥ | Beadle’s Dime Library. that, she avowed herself ignorant even of the crime charged. ‘Miss Goldthrop,’’ he replied, in a feeling tone, “T am both pleased and pained at what you have said—pleased at the noble puspeee that does your heart so much credit; pained—and you can conceive what it costs me, as a father, to say it—pained that such a love as yours should be thrown away upon so unworthy an object.” ‘I sha]l not now endeavor to combat your opin- ion, sir, ough confident that it is fatally mistaken. ly first aim is to ascertain what is alleged against your son. The subject was too painful for him, and eé sent me to you.’ ‘*Miss Goldthrop, you will readily see that it can be scarcely less painful to me to go over this sad history. If you will not take it as a discourtesy, I would beg to refer you to Mr. Beaumont. He is wholly in my confidence in this matter; as thorough- ly conversant with all the facts as myself; and, be- ing less vitally interested, can lay them before you more coherently.’” “TI beg P head pardon, Mr. Powell,”’ said Florence with a sudden pallor of cheek and flash of eye; “Tt cannot explain at present, but I cannot meet Mr. Beaumont in this matter.” ‘I see, my poor girl, that Frederick has poisoned your mind against Mr. Beaumont; but I assure you 16 has acted, in everything, as a gentleman and as a friend to the best interests of my misguided son.”’ ‘Spare me this discussion, Mr. Powell. Is there no one else to whom I may go for the facts and alle- gations?” At this moment, a firm step and the regular fall of a cane was heard in the outer room. ‘Here is Mr. Carrington,” said the banker; and as he entered, addressed him: ‘‘ Father, you will bear with me if I shift a eo office to your shoulders. I am going out, and will leave you and this dear gi together. Tell her all that she wishes to know. ou will excuse me, Miss Goldthorp; I go to keep an appointment.” As the banker withdrew, Mr. Carrington laid aside his hat and cane, and seated himself on a sofa, Florence ran and sat down beside him. He removy- ed her hat, and drawing her head to his shoulder and kissing her tenderly on the brow, he said, while he caressed her glossy hair with his hand: “ Well, what isit, my little girl? What do you wish to know?” ‘Dear Mr. Carrington,” said Florence, with tears in her eyes, ‘‘what dreadful suspicion is resting against Frederick?” “You call him Frederick?” asked the old man, with a look of regret. ‘He is my affianced husband,” was the low reply. He drew her closer, and patted her head with a fa- therly caress that was like a benediction. “This is a sad world we live in,’’ he said, with tears in his eyes, and in avoice as gentle as a woman's. ‘** How little we canread the future. How little we | mie how many hearts will be blighted by one act | of sin.”’ **Don’t! don’t!’’ pleaded the girl, piteously. ‘I. can’t bear to hear you speak in that way. You are condemning him,”’ “Florence,” said the old man, “I need not now | tell you how Ilove you. Years and years ago, when your father’s father was a lad, we played with the same ball, eat from the same dinner-basket, and studied from the same books. The desire of our | hearts was not carried out. Our blood was not des- tined to mingle in the first generation, My darling Martha and your father did not love each other, as we prayed that ig might. Then my hopes center- ed in Martha’s child and in you. : ‘*T cannot express to you, my child, the joy of *» seeing the hope of a long life, once disappointed, at last approaching its fulfillment. With such emotions I noticed the boy’s growing embarrassment when alone in your presence, and the quick flush and pal- lor of your cheek, if by chance hand unexpect- edly touched yours. prayed that you might love ick other; I saw it SPproechinys day by ay and now, in the answer to my prayer I recognize the bit- terest blow of all. I sought to bless Charley’s grand- child; and ,in my blindnessI prayed for what will prove a curse!” With a tremulous cry, she put her hand on his lips. “Stop! oh, stop!’ she cried, wildly; for it seemed | as if he were cursing her lover. ou do not know! He is innocent! Oh, believe me, he is innocent!” “My poor, poor child!—Charley’s child! how my heart blseds for you!” murmured the old man, tears trickling down his snowy beard and falling on her raven hair. ‘Oh! will you not cease? Do not you see that you are tearing my heart by persisting in such inflexible | condemnation? Tell me of what he is accused. He could not, he was so cut to the heart.” “You have seen him?” “Yes: and so bowed to the earth beneath the load of injustice that even your cold judgment must have faltered.”’ de ‘* And did he not tell you his crime—nay, crimes? “Stop! I will not listen to you!”’ she cried, with a burst pet son gin indignation, ‘ You speak of him as a minal, guilty and coord convicted of the act. I didnot ask you for that. Tell me the accusa- tion—nay, the lying, villainous calumny that has been brought against him, and reserve your judg- ent! “Did not ee ge you the charges?” asked the old man, humo er. “No! I detent he could not! He was wild with ef and despair! Your barbarity had crushed im!” : “The boy has some. good in him. He could not bear to blast your ys aes with his own lips—or was it that he dared not?”’ His mind was not as flexible as a younger man’s would have been. Conviction was rooted deep in his nature, and he could not open his mouth without condemning his grandson. 4 | She stamped he foot in an ebullition of rage. ** Out upon you for a coward yourself! You pro- fess to love me for the sake of my father and of my father’s father, yet you mock my grief. It was by such cold, adamantine prejudgment that you goaded him to the verge of madness!”’ Then she broke down and fell to weeping hysteri- cally. “Forgive me! forgive me, my child!’ murmured | the old man, gathering her to his breast again. “If | _ es ate — a I am hard upon him, it is because my love for him was 80 strong, and this terrible blow has cloven clear down to the quick, I have embarked all my hopes in a single ship, and I see it before me a total wreck. Loving 1im as I do, could I do him an injustice?” ‘No, no; not wittingly. But you were blinded by appearances; you deemed him guilty ; and would not listen to what he ‘had to say.’ ‘‘He was dumb. He could say nothing.” “Stunned by the bitterness of your denunciation. But the charges—what are they?’ “I cannot bring myself to wound you by the re- hearsal of them.” ‘But donot you see that this suspense is killing me? I know that it is all a base fabrication—a con- spiracy to ruin him. I will bring the facts to light, and drag the infamous perpetrators to punishment. Tell me of what he is accused, I entreat you!” The old man shook his head in sorrow, as he yielded to her demand; and holding her hand in his, and regarding her with @look of almost infinite com- passion, he said: ** First, of drunkenness!” ** Impossible !’’ She started back with such a look of incredulity as Mary might have given, had she been told that the Son of God was an impostor. “ Itis bitter, heartrending truth!” said the old man, with his head resting in his hand and his eyes on the ground. , ‘* Who are his accusers?” ‘Do not put it in that way. They are near and dear ones, They would not accuse him, though they broke their hearts in grief over his sin.’’ ‘The witnesses, then?” ‘‘His father—his sister! He was brought to them almost insensible with alcohol]; he slept in their pre- sence like a brute!”’ **Oh, God!’’ She fell back against the wall, breathless, almost lifeless; and when he tried to comfort her, she wrung her hands, and wept and moaned as if her heart would break. “ Forgive me, oh, my child!” said the old man. “TI should not have yielded to you, I knew that you were not strong enough to bear it.’’ ‘i. No, no! I am strong—I will be strong! Tell me all—all:” “My r girl, do not pursue this further.’’ “Tmust! I will!’ she almost screamed. ‘ Tell me all! I will know all! What next?—do you hear? —what next?” ‘Gambling !’’ said the old man, in despair. “Never! Never! It is a base, infamous lie!” “He confessed it to his father!” She looked at_him in a deadly calm—a white hor- ror that froze her face to marble. She could not doubt his veracity; she doubted the evidence of her senses. ‘* What?” she asked, in a hoarse whisper. _“He confessed it to his father!” repeated Mr. Carrington, She said nota word. She sat rocking to and fro, staring dumbly, not at him, but away beyond him, into vacancy. The old man was awed by her unutterable woe. He was terrified by the unnatural calm that was up- onher. If she would weep and moan, it would re- lieve her. But this fearful tension—it could not last; she would go mad. , ¥ ieee! Florence!” cried Mr. Carrington, shak- ng her. : She looked at him without seeming to recognize him, as Peep gaze in their sleep. He shook her cy Sh “‘Tlorence, for God’s sake, arouse! Do not look at me in that way!” She recovered herself with a long-drawn sigh. She looked at him as quietly as before, but now with in- telligence in her eyes. “Thank God! you are yourself again!’ he mur- mured, fervently. ‘*Ts that all?’ she asked, in a quiet, even tone of voice, from which every vestige of excitement and passion had vanished. ** Desist, my poor girl. Give up this vain pursuit. It is beyond your strength, and can only end in wretchedness and disappointment.” : ‘Mr. Carrington, I am forced to credit what you have told me thus far; but these are not the only charges, and Iam resolved to combat this arraign- ment at every point. I will yield to nothing but ab- solute, indubitable proof. If there is the shadow of a doubt, it shall be viewed in every phase; it shall be sifted to its ultimate particles; it shall be followed out in every detail. As for the rest, nothing can af- fect me after what you have told me; I can now look ey ed ee this horror in its most monstrous forms; Is have strength to pursue it unflinch- poy a the end. Goon. What & next?”’ ‘Florence, I beg of you to let this matter drop. All of your noble resolve cannot alter the bitter truth. It can only fall back upon your heart in chilling de- feat and disappointment.” ‘Mr. Carrington, look at me!’ and she drew her- self up with flashing eyes and dilating bosom, a very queen in her indomitable strength of purpose. ““Do I look like a woman to be Nightly turned from the path which she has marked out for herself? I tell you, my heart and brain—my whole being is en- listed in this work. I will succeed! I know that I am in the right! Sir, he stood before me, and with a look in his eyes that guilt could never sinzulate, said: ‘Florence, I am innocent—I am innocent!’ Do you think that anything can shake my confi- dence in him after that? No, never! nothing but ab- solute, indisputable demonstrati I told fim that I trusted him as I trusted my God. I ce ia it—my confidence in him at this moment is as deep, as un- shaken as my belief in the beneficence of the all- wise Father!’ . ‘“And yet, can you tag g the fact of his drunk- enness—his gambling?” ‘‘He did not refer to these. There is some other charge, that so far has overshadowed them that they were not present to his mind when he spoke. And now, sir, if you refuse to enlighten me further, en again to his father; for know the rest, “It is useless to oppose you. I hesitated o through kindness.” “s nly “I believe you, sir; but it was mistaken kindness, Pray proceed. What is the next charge?" *Torgery !”’ : MICOOOKS (E©) (C (E©)