"Mrs Lorrimer's Folly."

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXV, Issue 10713, 15 May 1913, Page 2

"Mrs Lorrimer's Folly."

(011ß SbRIAL

By Charlotte M. Slam y. Author of "Edna's Yon," ""His C ountryCousin," "How an Oath Was Kept," "A Wo man Wronged."

CHAPTER Vl.—Continued

But no 0110" noticed Kied, and lie went upon his mischievous way unmolested and unchecked. His hasty preparations had not owupied nuiny minutes, and it was nol. vet much more than half past nine; hut ho reflected that iio must, give Mr Ellnn ger hi s itnswor at midnight, and before ho could do that lie must find a shelter For himself and the child for this night, at any rate. .But the. problem ol how and whole to tiiul such shelter did not puzzle him as Rose expected it would, not just at first, at loa.st. He Hid a cousin who had been married in England, .about a year before, ind had recently couio with her voting husband to New York. She lived at Harlem— something of a journey those days before the elevated road was thought of —and he started to tike his -son to her at once. That she would receivo it and care for it until he could take it witli him to England, he never doubted. A gen- ] tie, kindly, warm-hearted creature, herself —liV suddenly remembered — expecting shortly to become a mother, no doubt her heirt would open to this poor, motherless bahy of his at once. He started .off to find Bertha Saville, confident of her sympathy and aid. It wa s quite hilf-past ten when lie reached the house, and here check number one met- and rebuffed him. Mr and Mrs Saville had left the house, and,had gone to live at Chelsea, near Boston. "They've been gone more tha.n two months'," -said the landlady. "Mr Savi lie's started a sort- of i hotel there, I'm told," and here her eyes fell on the burden Fred carried so awkwardly and tenderly. "For the land's si lie!" she cried, "what's that you've got in your arms? Oh! sakes ; alive!" as Fred sadly showed the little face, "if it ain't a baby!" His own son, Fred explained to her, which he had hoped to place -in his coU'sin's care for a few days. And then he briefly and pathetically stated to this jolly looking woman the ] dilemma in which ho found himself i about keeping his appointment <that I ni R ht—tihe impossibility of keeping it., j the lost time in searching further for a lodging; the impracticability of keeping it with r.m infant in his arms! [f she, Mrs Benson, would take them in for that night, and take care of the baby for a couple of hours —and here lie looked at her pleulingly; and though she shook her head, as deprecating such a responsibility, it was evident that her heart inclined to him and the poor little child, "houseless by night." "It would hive to he 'jus't) 'for one night,' " she said, "for I'm leaving next week and all upset, and couldn't be bothered with babies. By the bye, your cousin, Mrs Saville, Ins a baby before this time. Well, you've no time to lose. I suppose I must oblige you; but" —as if with -a sudden thought—"has this little one 110 mother?"

That home question struck Fred Lorrimer like a knife thrust. Hp groaned and turned pale and shot her a glance of sad reproach. "Would ho be here now, without nurse or shelter at this hour if he had a mother?" said ho bitterly. "For God's sake never speak of that again!" And placing the child in her arms he was hurrying away when she stopped him to innocently administer to him cheek number two. "Shall I find litis bottle in your satchel?" s he inquired. "He's a bottle baby, of course, poor little clear, and should have his bottle the minute he wakes, which will be in about ten seconds, I think" —for the babe was stirring restlessly. "Where is his bottle?" Now, as a matter of fact), the little one was not ":i bottle baby" awl neither he nor Fred knew anything about that nicst useful and admirable and valuable of inventions —ci feeding bottle. Poor baby was in a fair way to milcc acquaintance with it however. As for Frod, a feeling of despair came over him. This difficulty seemed worse "than Bertha's being away. For a moment a vision of Lillian, with her lxiby at her breast, seemed to rise before him and inspire him with ,a sort of fear. . For an instant ho asked himself: "What have I done — what have 1 done?" He did not quite lose his presence of mind, however. Plieing a dollar bill in Mrs Benson's hand, he begged her to get what the child needed, and then, making his haste his excuse, hurried away, and s o avoided all explanations. But the child had begun to cry while he was speaking, and, mi = ■'' the usual fond maternal response, wailed loudly and sobbed bitterly. The cry rang in his e-irs and heart long after he was .seated in the car again, and—for he dearly loved the child — tortured him miserably. How bird it was to take this helpless creature from its natural nest and give it to the careless care of strangers. Again lie asked himself anxiously and sadly, what —what had he done? Hitherto the ini'mt had absorbed his thoughts, but now —as if nature made it its poor mother's champion——the chilcks grieving forced the thought of the mother's anguosh upon his mind. A sudden thrill of horror seized him. What would she do, what would she say? Say! He forgot tlm wailing of the ha lie—another kind of crying seemed to sound within his ears —"the. voice of Rachel mourning for her children, and will not be comforted." A .sitdden thrill of lovo and pity moved 'him. Oh, will lie yield to it. even now, while it <is not vet quite too late? Within his he:trt and soul

a voice seemed crying to heaven. ".My wife —my wife! My child! Oh, God, have pity on them ! What have 1 done to mv dear ones? What have T done —what hive 1 doner"' And conscience whispered : ''Turn back again, turn back. Oh, give your child back to its mother's arms before it is too late, quite too late." But he would not listen. Stopping the or, he dashed into the hotel where Mr Ellinger awaited him, and hurried to his room. And all the time that silent, sorrowful voice sounded within hi.s secret soul like an ec ho or a dirge, lamenting mournfully: "Too late! Too late! Too late!" CHAPTER VII. In a pretty, sequestered nook, at the end of a. green lane, nht a great many miles away from the least frequented portion of the beach at Chelsea, stood a comfortable and unpretentious house, called —rather ambitiously—"Seville's Hotel." Here iiiehard Saville —who wa s the son of an English innkeeper—and his pretty little wife, Bertha, hid set up their nest, and determined to try their fortunes. * They had been there scarcely three months, and yet, in that brief period they had experienced one of the sweetest, purest joys, and ono of the bitterest, keenest sorrow's that can fall to the lot of poor humanity. A child had been born to them, and after filling tiiN*. hearts and home with pride and happiness indescribable for a few short weeks, had: been called awav to its eternal rest in heaven. And this calamity had, by a strange and sorrowful coincidence, fallen upon that same eventful Saturday which had been so fateful to the Lorrimera in New York. Not alone in the humble tenement house sounded that piteous "voice" that Avas heard of old "in Itam ih weeping," from the pretty homo at Chelsea the same agonised cry of cruel bereavement mounted to the ear of Heaven, the lamentation of a mother mourning for her only child, and utterly refusing to be comforted. (To be Continued.)