|Newspaper Title||Evening News (Sydney, NSW : 1869 - 1931)|
|Trove Title||Mystery of the Red House: An American Story of Thrilling Interest|
M y ster j of the Ked Home j
All AM EK 10 AIT STORY OF THEIL LING lHTEBEST.
JBt Mart B. Bbyan.
(Commenced in the Evening News of Sep tember 20 J CHAPTER XXV Continued.
St. Peter V7&3 playing a lively waltz, and ice paopie be^an to gather in. I'ront of. the door to listen Kildee, anxious tc show off her proton cs, gave a little, low whistle, and Zacli, who had been peeping from his hiding
piaee in the saint's shirt-bosom, poppea cut ai-d bea;«u to dance The crowd in front of tbe door began to listen ; M. Jean clapped tis hands ia delight. ' 1 like to hire tee fellow to play for me/ lie said. ' lie would bring1 tee people,' said prac tical imidame, pra: arinj to answer a demand for candy and peanuts irom boys who wished to sea the marmoset eat 'He is an old friend of Kiidee's,' said the mayor ; 'and insists on staying where she does. He is half-witted, but. harmless as a cbild Couid yon iind a cuddy hole for him to sleep in r' ' Ceriainemenu/' assured monsieur. ''We weel tak em, we \yeei tak bof of tree Come iiere, petfte, w'at can you do ?' 1 1 can make flower- baskets and sell oranges, monsieur ' ' Ah, tat is in madame's line. You like to teend roses and psenks, eh ?' ' Dearly monsieur.' * You can sing ? ' 'Pretty- well.' ' And dance ?' « Ah, yes!' 1 And'make tea, ?' j ' I can do that bent of all.' ! ' Tres bien ! You do for me eeiact. She j veel mek tee eld folks merry, eh ! Angeline?' ' It 13 net better to be merry,' said the doll didactically, bat she smiled kindly at Kildee, as she filled numerous brown paper hags with fruit and candy for the customers I St. Peter's music had enticed into the shop I ' And now for my figs and oranges,' said Eeathcilff. | While she was putting them up she I askei ?. I ' Hfti la petite any people — relation ?' I ' JTone, s»he is alone in the world. She I has become separated through no fault of I hers, from tlie friends who brought her up.' I ' She is about so. old a? Eosie would haf I been — ma pauvre Eosie,' said Mme. Jean, I her eyes a;rowin£f wet cs she looked at the [ girl who was talking to delighted M. Jean. I ' She might iiaf Hosie's room ; nobody haf I sleep tere since Hosie ta'-:en away. Monsieur I le Maire, 1 weel tak tee leetle one ; maie I I can pay her but three or four dollar a week I and her bo&r.i t I ' Very well ; I care more far getting her I a home and occupation than anything else. ? And about her old friend, the old. musician. ? If you enn give him lodging and food, I will I see tkr-t you are paid for if.' I ' It ia all reefc, Monsieur le Maire,' said I madame, nodding until her little grey curls I quivered. I ' You .ire regularly installed here if you I fvishjt, little maid,' said the mayc-r Turning 1 to Kildee ' And now,' he added,, to cut I short; her thanks, ' you shall have your I heart's desire—'4 work at once ' Come, sell I ne tbe prettiest bouquet you can pick out. I -CHAPTER XXVI. I People in general called HeatnclifE cold. I Society ladies who had tried to entice him I to dinuer-partie3 spoke of him as a c mere I money making machine/ political cliques I that had failed in their efforts to use him I characterised him as a * hard-headed cuss,' I enthusiastic spinsters 'whom he bad. treated I brusquely when they had urged him to con I tribute to refurnish the church altar and I draping the pulpit in sky blue, to match the I color of tiie young minister's eyes, voted I him a stiugy curmudgeon But von would I not iind this verdict endorsed in the poor I quarter of the town, or by the better labor I in=r class. They would tell you thatHeath I cHff was an inflexible business man, strict in I his dealings exacting the fair day's work I for the fair da3r's wage3, frowning sternly on I dissipation and lazines? ; but they would ? tell you that when sickness or accident ? brought want into their homes, the troable I Was often lightened by the money and even I the personal attendance of the so-called I laughty mill-owner. I Bat it was seldom that Heathcliff 's interest I and sympathy had been so stirred for anyone ? as for the --irl be had found upon Aphrodite I Island. Such a friendless young creature, I £o earnest and simple, so child- like, yet with ? a certain dignity and practical wisdom that ? the mayor Thought very quaint. There vra,3 I Ho common blood in her veins ; he felt sure I of this, and one of his reasons for wishhiz I to find Mrs. Gonzalis was to try and get I from her the secret of the girl's parentage ? This was in his mind when be hurried to I the depot after leavng Mme. Jean's fruit I shop. I it wanted but half an hour to eight Two ? trains for different roads were under the ? great turtle-shapei dome of the lighted I depot waiting to have their engines attached. I Heathclifr went into the ticket-office and I called the young asent aside. I % ' Dyke,' he said, * Lave you sold a ticket ? in the last , hour to a iady, unattended ; ? gracef nl, slender shape : dressed in black ; ? a brunette ; very handsome, though faded, I and wearing a veil f ' '. I 'Yea, I sold a through ticket to St. Louis I to just such a' woman half an hour ago I Shouldn't remember, maybe, only she hadn't ? iconey to pay for fche ticket in full and I ttanfced me to take a ring— turquoise I think, ? she said — for the rest Of course I didn't,; ? though tiering ;was. worth more. I expeet, I than the balance She went off and realized ? °n it somehovr, I reckon, for she eame back* ? and bought the tipkei. . She ia in the car I next the sleeper ? L sa\v her go in.' ? Heathcliff made bis way to the car, and I Walking through. ? it . soon discovered the I object of his quest. The evening was very I ^arri, she had thrown her veil back, and ? leaned against the open, windew, Beeming I faint and fattened. A white, weird beam I from the electric illumipation outside struck ? across her face. Heathcliff stopped and I looked at her for a second. This was; the ? lace that had nearly crushed his life -when, ? tbat life was ia Its early bloom. Cruelly ? changed; but lovely -stiil-l He stepped near ? to herystili-tranoticed; and bent over': ? Zulimee I' , ? She started and tamed a 'Vfili, frightened ? look upon him. Her hand went at jonce to
' Is ii you ?' she panted. * How you startled me ! I thought — I mean, I was not expecting to see yon.' ' ^Sor desiring to see nae,* he said, seating himself by her, * !No ; -why should I ? I do not desire anything that makes me look back- I live only for the day. And we are never glad to see one we have wronged.' ' I have forgiven the wrong you did me, Zulimee. It was a hard blow at first, but it did me good in one way. It destroyed crude illusions and cooled my boyish blood. I oi?re my worldly success to it in a measure. From the furnace and sledge blows of that trial my soft iron came out steel.' 1 I am eiaa \z any good came out of evil. But no thank3 were due to me. The deed was one of the many I don't like to think over. I, a woman, ripened by fiery experi ences, set mysclt to winning a boy's fresh heart through mere feverish restlessness and desire to drown reflection. But God knows I nerer meant ifc to go so far I never thought it could hurt you as it did; I never dreamed you could care for me so, you were such a boy.' * Love ripens a boys heart fast enough — particularly a romantic, inexperienced boy such a3 I was. And you ware so lovely ! Do you remember it is just twelve years yesterday since I saw you first — that summer afternoon when I walked in the woods on the Orran River, wrapped in. a dream, that was broken by the galop of a runaway horse. In another moment I saw yon clinging to the oak limb you had grasped when your horse ran under it — hanging there by your white arms in a cloud of loosened hair. How lfeautiful you were !' * For God's sake don't recall it. Don't recall anything. That beauty was my curse. But for it I mie:h.t be sitting to-night by a happy hearth, instead of going out under the shadow of darkness, where I don't know, nor care — a wretch, forsaken of G-od and man, with not one tie nor one hope on ear in.' Her low tones were tense with feeling, they -went to Heathcliff !s ? heart. He was moved to say ; * Zulimee, you hare a near tie. Your son — the child you once spoke of to me, and wept so — /our child lives ' * You have seen him ?' she asked breath lessly. ' Yes ; you remember that on that bitter day when yoi told me that yon had only played with me, you eaid you had no love to give, it -was all crushed out, and there was nothinsr but a wild longing for your child that had been taken away from you. You gave ma then all the clue you had as to what had been done with your child. I followed up that clue — I found»the boy at last in good hands — but you had disappeared. I lest sight of him until not two year3 ago, wnen I met him face to face and knew him by his likeness i:o you. After circumstances confirmed me . He lives, you can see him to ni^ht — this hour.' ' Ah— he is here ?' Her breath came short ; her hand clutched her heart, ' Is he well ? — is he happy ?' ' He is in full health — buoyant, ambitious. jM.en predict his success. Will vou see him ?' ' I — will — not see him now — nor ever.' ' Why ?' ' Can you ask ? Do you not feel why 1 cannot see my boy — and have him — blush for his mother ?' Her featnres^qaivered convulsively ; then, as the tears came, she said, softly, ?* My sweet boy — my beautiful ! Oh, I was innocent when I last held you in my arms !' She rung her thin, ungloved bands to gether and looked at HeathcliS with, burn ing eyes. * Ira Heathcliffc, -why do you come here to torment me ? Was this all you sought me for ? Only to recall that past I try to trample upon and bury out of Bight ! Talk of something else. _ I thought, when you came, you wanted to ask me about that island affair. Tell me. have you taken the girl away from there ?'? , . * Yes ; she is with good people who will care for her.' ' Thank Heaven for that ! Oh , I wronged that poor child J Would to God I could make reparation !' € Will you tell me about her ? She is not your child, I know. How did you come by her ? Who are her parents ?' * I cannot tell you' ' You will not make lier that much amends?' ' 1 cannot, I tell you. Fear keeps me from it — fear stron - er than the fear of death. Jn my last hour I will tell whose child she is — not till then.' The train, began to moye, HeathclifE flung the package of: fcuit and the flowera he had bought at Mme. Jean's into Zulimee's lap ; he wrung her hot slender hand, and left her. — ' ? She buried her burning face in the cool flowers; a piece of paper touched bercneek; she drew it out and held it toward the lamp. It was a bank note for five hondred dollars. She burst into tears. * Oh, I wish he had not given it,* she said to hsrself . ' It hurts me to take money from him. He wais bo true and grand, even as a boy— and I did him such a cruel wrong.' (to .be coNTiinrED.) ' '.'???? A portion of tie xppo wiich Banged Major AridxS, the British spy, in the Was :OE Independenoe, ' owned by a New Yorker, whoiaajmoMtoooUeot the remaining fragments. ?:?; The \piia.'yfho took the rope from Andre's reok after t&eAxaoationvat it intx) lengths, and gam sway the pieces aa . mementoB, bat kept a record of their destination; three going to ,£i^land, one io Turkey, «nd so on. NowihepKaent owner, to whom it has deBoerified, irfdie* to le-nnite ttezoj^.and^veittoalaatorlojiBinileBni. Knowiedsre will.not 'Iba *oqnlrrf ^aont pi«M Jmd