A SCARLET SIN.

King Country Chronicle, Volume III, Issue 170, 5 July 1909, Page 4

A SCARLET SIN.

< U.r, i:: • • : ■ :::'

a row i:i;i'i;l STORY.

Hy AUCi: -ir I 'T.U'PK ASKIAV. Authors of ' Th- ;-h';;.i.;r,U..>." "Ando of th'.- i'Uuns." <fcc, &c 4

TW IXFTII IN ST A LM BXT "H'm. till me. Pamela, have 1 bom raving imich—talking wild nonsense ? Have th«? fieoplc here mode any remark.* to you on the subject : JPerrint. for instance, or the nurse ?"* Pamela glanced at her father apprehensively, then derided that it wos. lietter perho|>s. that he should know the truth, wiser that she put him on hi* guard. "Darling father.** she answered, gently. "I won't deceive you. In your delirium you have l>een talking very wildly. Why. even just now as I entered the room, you woke from your sleep railing out something aboMl a held of blood."

CJeorge Mortindnlc's face turned a ghastly white. "I was dreaming of such a field." he answered— "a red field, full of dead men's bones. And what do you think come up at harvest-time in my dreams. Pamela ? " "I don't know, father." answered the girl. She was trembling from head to fool. "A harvest of dead hands—hands pointing to the sky—thin, skeleton fingers."

t'eorge Mart indole spoke in short, jerk.v sentences, then ne gave a littlo choking lough. Hut it is only a dream. Pamela—onh a dream." Y.s. dear." she added, stroking his gre> hnir. her eyes* dim with un--,h.-4 tears—"only a dream " H> r reply seemed to comfort him, for he «*i» quiet for a few minutes. 'h.-n he glanced up at her nervously. IVrrint * Hoes* Perrint seem to think my ravings might lie founded «n fact ? What sort of a man i.s he?" "A dangerous man." Pamela took her lather's hands as she spoke, and pressed them in hers. "Hut do not Ik- afraid, dear." she whis|>ered. "He shan't hurt you. No one on eorth shall harm you." She said the words very calmly, but there was a curious note of strength in her voice, of [tower, teorge Mart indole smiled. *J must rest." he said —"rest : but you Mill sit l>y my side. Pamela, and you won't let any one coma neor "me. I might talk in my sleep again." Pamela nodded her head, and after a little while her father fell into a quiet Hut when he woke up a few hours later he was wore his old self again, and im|tcrolive in his command that she .should go and lie down.

"I am ns well os I hove ever lieen in my life." he exclaimed—"that's to any. mentally ; but y»i| look—you look like a ghost, child." He wo* so determined that Pamela w»* obliged '«• olwy him. but »he tt-tt quite juirf that she would not hj- rtofe to go to sleep. She was fattoo anxious and troubled in her imnd. for one thing ; and for another a storm was sweeping up from the moors—a wild tem|«est of wind ami rain.

She could hear the low. melancholy sighing nnd howling of the «*iHd. and its shrieks like a soul in pain, ami wheels »f rain kept dashing against the windows, time »»r tttir.ii .■*h** heard the sharp thud of hailsit one?!.

Sh'- lay «n her lied. wrop|ied in n dr!'*.»i.ng-gown. *«ir she hod* only removed her skirt nnd bodice, feeling that ot any moment she might Ite rated Imek to h-r father, ami so it troubl lie better nor to undress. Hut e»he h»d comlied out ami brushed her hair, ior the hairpins made her head nrhi-. ami mm it gleamed over her shotiblers. like a cloud of soft, floss silk •Witches and warlocks might lie orir tonight." the girl multer.il aloitd ns she listened to the wild fury of the gale : then she glanced nervously nl>out the large, unfamiliar room. A turf-tire burned upon Ihe henrih. and its worm, red glow lit up Ihe room, and Pamela felt thankful for ihe tirvlight. She hod lit her candle* but I hey had flickered *o owing t«> th« wind that she had put them OUt. I ran"! sleep: It's no good." Pamela moved from her l*d as sho spoke, and moved to the window. rolled up ihe blind, and gaml out. The dawn was altoul to break—th< cold grey dawn of a gloomy wet day —and the entire countryside was wrapped in heavy vapour, while the mist spreading itself in a cloud over the tree?* in front of the house, made them look twice their natural size. Kven the bushes and shrubs had token unto themselves a fantastic and weird sha|>e. Pamela felt as though she was gazing out into a grey and phantom country—a country gt&n w*'er to lo*t souls. The wild wind van shrieking and howling horribly, and the rain, ns it dashed by, made her think of spectral visions. Mtv> p-dJvd down the blind again, ,uid turned from the window with a shucr. thinking it would lie better to i-riwrh down in front of the fire. Una gj>t,c into its warm, comforting gt»*w IVrhap* «»*»» tffjwbl sw drenm faces in it—Hasll'si bvse." ftfjjj knefl down on the rug In front ot tha life' urnf stretched out her hands to lh<> warmth, but her thoughts flew to the story that IJddy had told her, nnd of which she had not yet heard thu end. "Hut I know the end." she muttered to herself, turning pole as she said the words. "There is no need for Liddy to tell me more. My father killed his sister's betrayer." She pressed her hands to her heart then t»4Mldenly sprang to her feet. erect, determined.' The murdered man is buried in fh-' feld—the field of blood !" rh•' words fell slowly from her ;;.. h"f face grew rigid with horror. Thar is why father wanted to '.'r. Metherly." she muttered, "so r. if his crime might never fce dis.iivr.'il. Ami now th'-y will dig ami litiil—tlitr and t\i\d ' '■'

She repeated the words in dull, monotonous tones : th'-ri of a sudd n sh" threw h'-rse|f on Jut knees, and luirvt into a floorl of tears. 'V. hat have l done '. " she inut-ti-red. "Oh. what have I done'.' 1 ought never to have written to Hasil Fnrroday. f ought to have .stuck to my resolve, and not allowed myself to have conic in touch with him again till I knew the whole truth. For I cannot marry him now." she continued ; "there is a gulf between us which neither he or I can span : for ir it is true that I am a murderer's child." she went on low, heart-broken tones. ''l must give up all thougnls of love and marriage, for 1 should dishonour any man who wanted to make ine his wife." Her bosom heaved with sobs ; her whole body shook and trembled. "The sins of the fathers ! " she muttered in low tones. "Oh. why hove the children always got to suffer for the sins of the fathers? " The wind shrieked round the house with redoubled fury, and the rain kept lilting down but no other answer was vouchsafed to Pamela's miserable question. "It seems so unfair," she moaned so hnrsh. so cruel. Why should Hasil and I l»e made miserable liecausc of my father's sin ? "

She forgot for the minute that if she were right in her surmises her lover's mother was implicated in the same terrible tragedy : then, os she knelt, sobbing and weeping, she suddenly heard n sound which made her start to her feet and stand up in the attitude of a listener—the sound of a man's heavy footsteps slowly descending the creaking stairs.

"That's Hob Perrint's trend." muttered Pamela to herself. "I should know that strong, determined trend of hi> among a thousand." She ran to the door, opened it and stood there listening, as motionless as a statue. "He's gone to my (a titer's room. I am absolutely convinced of that." As the thought passed through the girl's brain she grew pale as death, for she had spoken the truth when she said she was des|ierately afraid of the strong, red-hoi red Scotchman —the man who hud lord her she could shut his mouth with a kiss. She crept softly out of her liedroom. and leaned over the banisters, thankful for the gloom of the early dawn. Yes. she was right. It was Hob Perrint himself who was slowly tiesrending the stairs, carrying a small oil-lnmp in his hand, and he halted ptst ns Pamela had felt convinced he would, outside her father's door. th--n lieiit down and placed his ear to the keyhole.

•'He's listening. The mean, treacherous man .' Hut he will hear no more wild ravings." Pamela smiled with faint triumph, then she held her breath in startled suspense, for Hob Perrint, rising from his crouching position was turning the handle of the Itedroom door and n moment Inter he had entered the room.

Pamela paused irresolutely. What was she to do ? She was certain that Hob Perrint had some evil purpose in seeking out her fqthcr, aid she wondered if she had octtet make her hasty way downstairs and .•liter the sick room herself.

Whilst she del literal ed the doot opened again, and this time it was old Liddy who came out, She hntl evidently stolen back to watch het patient directly Pamela had taken her departure upstair*, ami hntl now been turned away by Hob Perrint.

The old woman looked (tale and enensy. nnd walked slowly and uneasily up the oak staircase, starting back with a low cry when she caught sight of the white face peering through the banisters.

'lh;>r lassie, "lis never yon ! " she muttered. "Oh. gong back to ve room, an' let me M) tne talk wi'

"Yej». I will," whisjtered Pamela, t.idtly by now wns abreast of her. "Hul tell me first." she asked laying a trembling hand upon the old woman's shoulder, "what is Hob Perrint doing * ill my father's room at Ihis hour? Has he gone there as friend or foe 1 '■' . "I dinna ken. ! I dinna ken." I .it lily shook her grey head. "Hut r marked how his e'en glowered and his lifts wort- an unco strango wiile.

Pamela shivered slightly. "Would you Ite frightened for anyone in Hob Perrint's power?" she asked. "Tell me ihe truth. Liddy : 1 must know the truth." "Krichtened '. " The old woman threw tip her thin, claw-like hands.

"Ph. lassie, lassie, why dp you ask me sich a question ? Dinna force jiie to answer ye." She gave Pamela so penetrating and sorrowful a glance, that the girl felt that there was n'u further need for question*.

"I understand." Pamela murmured "I quite understand, l.idilv. Hut. all the some 1 am not afraid—not really afraid. Hob Penint shall never hurt my father."

CHAfTKII XVII.

THK STOHY OF KLSIB.

••And wherefore should he liear to grudge against your father ? " lddi|>- glanced tip apprehensively as she H|H*ke ; then she shook her head. "I can guess—l can guess," she muttered. "Ye're ower bonnie. lassie ever to hae come into this house, an' J can read the thought In your heort. Yc're a/eared that if ye luik coldly at Rob Perrint he'll find a means of hurting one wha is dear to you." "Yes. that's my fear—that's my ijrcajl," ejtejaimed Pamela. Then »ho clasped "lJ<(il>- by the hand. "L'omn back into my room." she sold, "for I want to talk to you. I wonder," she added, hesitatingly. "If I ought not to go down and ask Hob Perrint to leave my father, though ? He has no business—no right—to lie talking to a sick man at such an hour. Was father awake when he came in ; and what excuse did he offer ? "- "Little or none," Liddy answered, slowly. "He Just walked up to the bed where your father lay awake,, dear lad. and unco restless, and said he wanted to s|»eak to him. Your father noddeii his head, an' then Hob IVrrint ordered tne frae tho room I k'-n r.i- nioi-i-."■ I.i'i-I-. w.•'-..- ::. ■/:■■ u/.imp'Ting

"I shall go down to my father at once," she .said. "Nae, nae," Liddy laid a detaining hand on the girl's shoulder. "Dinna be ower fash an' offend Hob. Tck. an ould wife's warning, an' let slecpin' dogs lie. It may be that Uob thinks it better to hev' a quiet talk wi' yer father. He may ha' guid reasons o' his owjj, dearie. Anyway don't rouse him to wrath." "Perhaps you are right," muttered Pamela. She sighed wearily and then allowed the old servant to lead her back to her bedroom. The fire was out by now. and the one solitary candle gave but a feeble and uncertain light, so Pamela crossed to the window and drew up the blind.

The dawn had broken and shafts of lemon light were streaking over the wind-tossed, angry sky. The mist was beginning to curl away, but the rain still fell in sheets and the wind howled horribly.

"What a grey, miserable day ! " shivered Pamela with a glance over her shoulder at Liddy. "Tell me the rest of the story," she said—"the story of my father and his sister. tt'e were interrupted, you remember, {ust when you were relating how Klsie rnmc to you in her shame." "Had I got to that ? " murmured Liddy. "Ah, lassie, then we're close to the terrible part o' the talc. The horror o' that nicnt I'll never forget till I die." She paused, then sat down in a large chair and rested her puckered withered face upon her hands. Pamela came and crouched at her feet, watching Liddy intently, her heart iM-ating wildly, though she felt in the secret depths of her heart that there was nothing touted her—she knew all. "The next day," Liddy began, •Klsie wrote to her brother —to IJeorge up in Loudon an' what she put in her letter, the puir brokenhearted lassie. I ken only guess. A :luy an' another day passed, an' nae tidings came frae (.'eorge. Puir Klsie whenever the post man passed wi'out leavin' her a letter, grew white to ier lips, an' moaned out that even ier brother had forsaken her now that he kenned her to be shameless an' vile. Hut we had one visitor a' Ihe same. Luke Farraday cam' up to the cottage and would ha' speech wi' Klsie. I left them together in the parlour, an' by-and-by I heard a sound o* pitiful weeping, an' I guessed that Klsie had found courage to tell her lover the story of her ruin. An hour later 1 cam' back to find Klsie alone. Her, face was drenched wi' tears. "Oh, Liddy,' she cried. 'why does a wonian never find out the* truth till too late, for the man who has Just left me is worth all tho men in Scotland—in the world ? Ho has offered to make me his wife, knowing what he knows —to take me abroad with him to-morrow, to save me from shame and reproach.' " " 'Ye'll- consent. Klsie,' I cried. 'an* just thank God for this on your <nees.' But she shook her head. 'I must see the other first." she said, 'for. bad as he is. I love him. I must sec Clinton I*eelc again.' " "Poar g'rl." interrupted Pamela. "How she must have adored the wretch !"- Then her eyes filled with tears as she listened to the rest of the story. (Jeorge had appeared next day but had said nothing to Liddy on the ptibject of his sister's betrayal.; but the old woman guessed from certain remarks which had passed between the brother and sister that a meeting had been arranged between (Jeorgc and Clinton Pecle. They were to meet on the moor at nine o'clock at night. Liddy felt very. anxious ns to tho result of the interview for- fche knew how hot-tem-pered tJeorge could be, ami his face had gained a singular hardness of expression which went far to frighten her. He looked as if he would ]>•• cafiablc of any ilovd of violence and she wondered fearfully what would happen if Clinton Pecle refused to, marry Klsie.

She sat up praying and. weeping in her little liedroom that evening, tlvj pri-y of anxious forebodings. ({cargo set out early to keep his tryst, and after a while Liddy heard Elsie- creep softly out of the cottage, and she guessed that she intended to be a spectator of the scene, a witness to the interview between her brother and lover. Also Liddy reflected to herself that it might be as well, perhaps, for if the two m,ei\ came to blows. Elsie would, bo at hand to part them. Hours passed, and Elsie was t-hc ft r,s -V t»» return to the cottage.Liddy heard her run upstairs to her bedroom, and then the girl appeared to, abandon herself to a passion of ie<ws and sobs—terrible, heartbreaking. Lid,dy knocked in vain for admittance, but Elsie refused to open the door, and begged the old nurse to go back to her lied. Liddy went down to the kitchen. however, and sat there waiting for (Seorgc to return, feeling that she could not rest till both her nurslings were safe under the cottage roof. He came back at midnight, a white-faced man who took no notice of the old woman crouching before. the fire. He strode slowly hen room, and there was a IppJt on his. face that made Liddy sick with terror, feftrful ftf what might have happened^ Hhe went up stairs and preyed for the dawn : but the dawn, when it came, only ushered in a day. of trouble and dismay ; of despair and tears.

Elsie was not to be found in her room. She had evidently left the cottage early in the morning, leaving a tetter pinned to the pillow oS, her Ik>«l—a letter addressed to Lido.\ in which the girl explained ihut life tuvd, becupv? too uiiscmble and hopelesft to endure, and that death was now her only refuge.

Lidcly brought the letter to George who was still in bed, and looked as if he had not slept during the night. He read it through and then he crushed it tip in his hand.

"Perhaps she is right," he said. "Poor, unhappy Elsie may havo acted wisely, for Clinton Peel© won't marry her, Liddy."-

He then wen,t on to explain how he flnil his sister's betrayer had met the night In-fore —had met and* parted, finally and for ever. Then the voting man abandoned himself to a passion of sobs, lamenting the fate of his sister whom he had loved ami of .whom he was so proud, cursing the man who had brouirlu hev to her end.