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■*» .
HE MINISTER sat down again. The
news seemed to stagger him.
“I must think over it. I must pray
over it, Charles,” he muttered. “Os
course if you have given her your word
you must stand by it.”
“I must stand by it, certainly,” said
Charles, moving away.
As he turned around, he saw Sylvia
standing in the door way of the sitting room which
opened on the piazza. She stepped back into the
room and made a sign for him to follow her. He
obeyed.
She closed the door and stood before him. She
was white as though carved of marble.
Is this true —what you told your father just now?”
“It is true,” he answered.
“Oh, how could you do it? How could you break
the bond that bound you to Faith?” she cried, her
eyes flashing upon him.
“There was no bond between me and Faith. You
know that well. She refused to marry me a year
ago. Since then there has been no talk of love be
tween us. She, no doubt, cares for me only as a
friend.”
“You know you are saying what is false!” Sylvia
cried passionately. “It will break her heart. Oh!
I will never forgive you!”
“As you like,” he returned, coldly. “Only if you
are not pleased with my marriage, keep it to yourself,
and treat my wife with respect.”
He was turning away when she suddenly threw
herself on her knees before him and caught his hand
with both of hers.
“Oh, Charley,” she implored, looking at him with
appealing eyes—“Oh, my brother, don’t do this. Don’t
marry this strange young woman. She is not good;
she will not make you happy,. You will bitterly re
pent it —if you make her your wife. For your own
sake —for your father’s sake —don’t marry her.”
Tears were streaming down her face. Tears sprang
into his own eyes. Her words had fallen on his ears
like a knell. They had voiced the foreboding of his
own heart. But he answered huskily:
“It is too late, Sylvia; it is too late.”
He wrung her hands loose from his and turned and
left her.
Pierced to the heart, indignant and bitter, Sylvia
rose to her feet. She would not see this marriage,
she vowed to herself. She would not go to the
church. And Faith must not go. The unlooked for .
blow would kill her.
But Faith must be told at once. She would go to
her now and tell her since it must be done. She
would stay with her today, perhaps she would stay
with her always, for Sunset Lodge would never seem
like home to her again—not with Anabel Boylan as
its mistress.
She hurriedly tied on her hat as she made this
decision. She was rushing away, when habit and duty
asserted their claim. A sense of domestic re
sponsibility stayed her feet on the steps, and
sent her to the kitchen to warn the dusky
princess of that realm that it was necessary to have
something extra for dinner on this day—Charley’s
wedding day. Alas! she felt as if it were Charley’s
funeral.
“Aunt Clarissy,” she said, “you had better make
a chicken pie, and a pound cake, and some trans
parent custards for dinner. Send for Judy to help
you.”
Aunt Clarissy looked up from the frying pan she
was scouring.
“Now, what dat for, honey?” she remonstrated.
“Ain’t dere nice beef for roas’, and col’ ham and
apple pie? What for you want more?”
“Because Charley is to be married today.”
“Married? Charley gwine to git married today?”
The frying pan fell to the floor with a clatter, and
Aunt Ciarissy dropped heavily back against the
kitchen wall, where she leaned, rolling her eyes at
Sylvia in amazement.
“Lor’, chile, you jis’ jokin’, you shuah is!” she
ejaculated. “Why, Sis’ Judy was over here dis
TRIAL AND TRI UNPH
A Story of the Conflict of Good and ILbil —Mary E. Ury an.
The Golden Age for September 29, 1910.
morning’—come to borry my ’tater-grater—and if
Miss Faith had been gwine to git married today Sis’
Judy ’ud a-tole me, shuah.”
“It’s not Faith,” Sylvia said, curtly. “It’s the
young lady upstairs, who came from Altamont yester
day—Miss Boylan. Try to have a good dinner, Aunt
Clarissy. I sha’n’t be here. I’m going to Faith’s. I
will leave out the flour and sugar.”
She hurried out to escape the pain of listening to
Clarissy’s comments on the marriage.
“Well, I’m beat!” ejaculated that plump person
age, from the chair into which she had dropped. Her
palms lay on her fat knees, her head bobbed up
and down expressively. “Charley’s done gone crazy!”
she went on. “I toted uat boy in my arms when he
was a baby, an’ I ain’t never knowed him to do
a fool t’ing till now. Now he goin’ marry dat
strange, fly-away young ooman ’stid of Miss Faith!
What’ll folks say? I ain’t never goin’ to be riccon
cile to havin’ dat ooman for de mistis here; no, I
ain’t. An’ de poun’ cake ain’t goin’ to rise. I ain’t
goin’ make no rig’lar pound cake for her, nohow
Shet up dar!” she broke off, addressing her grandson,
Jake, who was making the cat dance on her hind
legs, while he sang:
“Marse Charley is gwine to git married today,
And we'se gwine to have chicken pie.”
“I’ll give you chick’n pie es you don’t git outer
here and fetch some chips, you black, lazy nigger!”
she vociferated, as she shied the frying pan at him.
“Who dat you call nigger?” he muttered, dodging
the pan and sticking out his thick lips.
"Shet up yer imperence! Es I hits you in de mouf
wid dis rollin’ pin, I lay I’ll knock eb’ry toof down
yer trote, yer triflin’ scamp!”
She flourished the rolling pin savagely, but Jake
only grinned and kicked his naked heels in the air.
He had long ago learned that his granny’s bark
was worse than her bite.
CHAPTER XI.
As she set out to go to Harland Cottage, Sylvia
encountered Charley. His pale face lighted with a
look of relief as he saw her.
“You are going to see Faith?” he asked.
“Yes,” she assented, without looking at him.
“I had just started to hee her; but —it will not
be necessary. It is better that you should tell her.”
“Better for you?” retorted Sylvia. “It will spare
you some shame and pain no doubt.”
“It will spare me some pain—and her, as well, I
think.”
“Oh! Faith will not break her heart!” cried Sylvia
bitterly. “There are such things as pride and con
tempt to hold a woman up, thank God.”
Her eyes were shining; a hot flush burned on each
cheek. It was the first time in her life she had ever
spoken unkindly to Charley.
He colored, then he quickly became pale and
grave again.
“I would far rather she felt contempt for me than
pain or heartache on my account,” he said so sadly
that Sylvia felt a twinge of remorse. He turned
back and she went on her way.
Ten minutes walk brought her to Harland Cottage.
She went straight to Faith’s room. The door was
half open and the picture inside was so full of peace
and sweetness that she shrank more than ever from
the task before her.
The room with its snow white bed, its blooming
plants in the w'indow, it’s dotted muslin curtains loop
ed back with primrose colored ribbon seemed a fit
setting for the neat figure and sweet oval face of the
girl who sat there in a low sewing chair, her work
box on the little table beside her, busy putting some
repairing stitches to a pile of shirts taken from the
basket of newly washed clothes at her feet.
Unconscious of the eyes that watched her, she
sewed away, humming an old love song that she
and Charley nad often sung together. Sylvia looked
at her and thought.
“That is her life. To be always busy with house
hold tasks—to make home comfortable for an un
worthy father and a wayward brother. Her love
for Charley and belief in his affection for her is the
one drop of sweetness in her cup—and I must tell
her what will turn that to gall.”
Then noticing Faith’s black dress over which a
little white sewing apron was tied, Sylvia remember
ed that today was a day of sad memories for Faith.
It was the anniversary of her mother’s death. She
had laid aside her mourning because it was abhorrent
to Claude. She wore black only on the annual recur
rence of the saddest day she had ever known.
“That day will have a new sadness for her now,”
said Sylvia to herself. As her mind framed the
thought, Faith looked up.
“What —Sylvia! you here!” she exclaimed in sur
prise. Are you not going to church today?” glanc
ing at Sylvia’s gingham frock.
Sylvia came up and kissed her with more than
usual tenderness.
“No; I am not going to church today,” she said.
“Nor are you going today, dear Faith.”
“Why not? What is the matter?” she asked with
a quick look of apprehension at her cousin’s pale face.
Has —has anything happened to Uncle —to Charley?”
“Something is about to happen to cnarley. I came
to tell you. It will give you pain, my dear one. It —”
Sylvia’s heart seemed on her lips, they trembled
so. She caught Faith’s hands and held them fast.
“Oh! Faith, Charley is going to be married today.
He is going to marry Miss Boylan.”
It was said —and the silence that succeeded the
impassioned utterance was profound. Even the ca
nary bird ceased to sing.
Faith stood looking straight into Sylvia’s eyes.
Every vestige of color had gone from her cheeks
and lips; her hands in Sylvia’s clasp had growth icy
cold. All at once, her slight figure began to wave/.
Sylvia caught her and seated her in a chair.
“Tell me —how it came about,” she whispered.
“I don’t know. There is some mystery at the bot
tom of it. Something must have been brought to
bear upon Charley, else he never could have done
anything so mad. When I got back to the park last
night, Miss Boylan was with him. He said she could
not go back to the city; she would stay with us.
This morning he told his father that she was to be
his wife and begged him to marry them in church
today. He said the cause for haste was that she
had no home, no relations, and that circumstances
made it unpleasant for her to keep her place on
the newspaper. That is all I know. She has be
witched him some how. She is a wicked, design
ing woman!”
Sylvia ended with a burst of indignant feeling she
had tried to restrain. “As for Charley, I will never
forgive him —never.”
“Hush dear! Don’t say that. Charley would not
do a wrong wilfully.”
“Faith! When he has done you such a wrong—
such a cruel wrong!”
“No—no; it is not so. He did not mean it so. He
was not bound to me. And Miss Boylan is so beau
tiful. He will be very proud of her. And I —l will
get over this —very soon.”
She was struggling with herself—fighting down the
anguish that well nigh mastered her. Presently,
she looked at Sylvia.
“I heard father come out of his room,” she said.
“Go, dear, please, and give him his coffee. It is
keeping hot for him on the stove—and his breakfast
is there.”
Sylvia understood. She knew the stricken girl
longed to be alone. She went out and closed the
door behind her. No sooner had she left the room
than Faith fell on her knees beside the bed, her
arms thrown out over the counterpane, her hands
tightly locked. The anguish of her soul found voice
in the broken prayer.
“Help me to bear it —O, God! help me to bear it!”
She repeated the agonized appeal over and over in
a whisper so deep and intense, it seemed a prayer for
life itself.
After awhile her tone grew calmer; another ap
peal was added.
“Show me my duty; help me to do it,” prayed
the girl.
(Continued on page 14.)
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