THE STORy-TELLER.

Waikato Times, Volume XII, Issue 960, 17 August 1878, Page 3

THE STORy-TELLER.

"BV ' the author 6i ' " Doha Thobne," "On 1 Her Wedding 1 "MoftN;" "Redeemed by Love," : " A' Woman's (Continued, ;frpm Last Saturday s issue). .... CHAPTER XXVI. Then; one . by / one— slowly, sadly j j surely— a whole host of circumstances recurred to his mind, making confirmation strong. He remembered well— oujytop weljr— the scene on the balcony. , He .remembered the pale star- .... light,; the ;Hght.'icarf thrown over ' Pli{iipf»a!s ; shoulders, even, the very perfume that came from the flowers in . v her- hair. ., He. remejnberedi how her ■'\^"^oice" ; '^a4,trem^le'd,'liQw i( her'face had r stiohe 'in the "fainf ! evening light./ When she 'had icjubted the words of Priscilla.thG loveliest maiden of Plymptitß^slie Md tteant : th6m as appli- ' "cafele'' to flier 'own caste^'Why don't ? 3 f6% 'spt at |or y our s'ei f , John ?' They came back to him with a fierce, hissing sound; mocking his despair: She had loved him through "all; this beautiful, proud, brilliant woman, for whom men of the highest rank had sighed in vsin, had, loved him ijiroiighaU. 'How cleverly, how cruelly Philippa had deceived both Madaline and himself. He could see now a thousand instances, in which he and the girl he ' had married had played" at crosspurposes—a thousand instances in ' which the poor girl had alluded to her parent's sin, and he had thought she • ; was speaking of her poverty. .It was a cruel vengeance, for. before he had reading letter through, he knew flat, if. the story were correct, Madaline would bo"fliß'wife in name only. Qh, Heaven^ ihe thought was galling that the name and race of the Arleighs should l^ave been contaminated by a connection so disreputable., Had he known the real truth, he would have died sooner than a word of love should have escaped his lips to her. Lord Arleigh became almost frantic when he realised the. dreadful fact that; for a successor io a noble line of ancestors, he had secured the daughter Ifcpf a felon. But it would not be for long— it could not be for long; she must not remain. He fully determined that, if he went childless to the • grave, the daughter, of a felon should not be the mother to his'. children. Better,: that; his ■ name , were extinct, better that the race of Arleigh should die out, than that his children should be pointed at as children with tainted blood, She ninsfc be his wife in name only., / ■ ;■! ' ■ ; ; >. ; ..:. - l! - i; ; He sobbed bitterly when he thought of . how ; dearly : he . loved her, and of how they must stand relatively in future ;. wife in name only. The sweet face, the graceful figure, the tender ljps were not for him,,yet he loved her with' tke whole passion and, force of ils>| soul. Hearing, as footstep, , he raised his head ; she was returning. Great, drops of anguish fell from, his, ibr^W,^afid^ef^il^iidsome^face had „; c ome a terrible change.' ■ "-• ',[' \ liO<)feing>up^ hesawherr^Bhe at the other find oi §fiUery. ; he 8»w. the tall, slender figuie and the sweepibg-dresti-^---he saw the wbite arms with their graceful contour, theg[oidenhaii, the radiant face- • and he grddiJed kldud : he saw her looking np at the pictures ab 'she passed slowly aloDg— the ancestral Arleighaof whom he was so proud. " If they could have spoken, those noble women, what would they have said to thiß daughter of a felon V She paused for a few minutes to look up »t her favorite, Lady Alicia, aud then sh(c ; came up to him and stood before him in" all the grace of her delicate loveliDess, in all the pride of her dainty beauty. She was looking at the gorgeous T|tian-near him. - ' >Nbrtaan,' she said, 'the 3un has turned ihose rubies into dropsof blood. 1 —they look almos6 terrible on the white, thr9at.' What » strange picture! What '• tragical face ! ■■-' '. Suddenly "with armache ' - fell on ner 'knees at hia side, ; ' ,!..;..>; • Oh. my darling," what has happenea ? What id tha matter ?' She fisid been away from him only half an hour, yet, it .seemed to him ages siuce he had .watched her leave the gallery with ; a smile on her Hps. : ' 'What is it, my d.arfi n g.?' she cried • again. . 'Dear Norman, you look as though the shadow of death had passed over you. What is it?' ■ ; In another moment she nad flung herself on hi* breast, claßped her arms around his neck, and was kissing his pale changed face as Bhe had never done be- • Norman, my darling husband, you are • ill ' she m\&— 'ill, and you will not tell me. That is why you sent me awayA He tried to unclasp her arms, but she clung the more'cloße'.y te him ' You shall not send mo away. You wish to suffer in silence! Oh, my darling, my husband, do you forget that 1 am jour wife, for better for worse, m sickness aud in henllh ? You shall not suffer without my knowledge. , : ; *I am not ill, Madaline,' he s#id, with ,» low moan. . ' It is not t«ia\' ' Theq- .somefchmg has happened— you ■ rhm,bm frightened;'

Ho unclasped her arms from his ueck — their careßS was a torture to him. •My poor darling, my : poor wife, it is far worse thrn that. Ho mau has ever seen a more ghastly spectre than I have seen of death in life.' She looked around in quick alarm. • A spectre !' she cried, fearfully ; and then something strange in hie face attracted her attentions She looked at him. :,-' Norman,' she said, slowly, 'is it — is it — something about me ?' i How was he to tell her ? He felt that it would be easier to take her out into the glorious light of the sunset and slay her than kill her with' the cruel words t,h*t he must speak How was he to teli lier? No physical torture could be so great as that which he must infliot ; yet he would have given Mb life to save her from pain. llt is — I am quite sure,' Bhe declared, ' something about me. Ob, Norman, what is it ? I have not been away from you long, yet no change from fairest day to darkest night could, be so great as the change iu you since I left you. You will not tell me what it is — you have taken my arms from your neck — you do not love me?' ♦■Dp not torture me, Maolaline,' he said. 'lam almost mad, I cannot bear much more.' • But what is it ? What have I d^ne ? I whom you send from you now am the same Madaline whom you married this morning— whom you kissed, half an; hour since, Nbrmnn, 1 begin to think that I am in a terrible dream. ' . . ; ; •T Would to Heaven that it were a dream. I am unnerved, unmanned — I have'Joat iny strength, my patience, my hope. Oh, Madaline, how can J tell you » The' sight 1 of "this terrible agitation seemed to calm her ; die took his hand in herß. • Do not think of me,' she said—' think of yourself. ' "I can bear what you can bear. Let me sbare your trouble, what ever it may be, my husband.' He looked, at. the. Bwcet, pleading faco. How oiinld he ' dash the light and th e brightness from it? How could he slay her" with : the cruel 'story ho had to tell ? Then iu a low, hoarse voice, he said — • You must know all, and I cannot say it. Read this letter, Madaline, and then , yon will understand.

To be Continued.