The Caldwell tribune. [volume], June 03, 1910, Image 2

About The Caldwell tribune. [volume] (Caldwell, Idaho Territory [Idaho]) 1883-1928

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UPS
THAT WERE
, SEALED
ay
Alma Martin Estabrook
Author of "My Cousin Patricia"
i
Î PICTURES BY A. WEIL
(Copyright, by J. ii. Lippincott Co.)
or the delayed prosecution will beg't
at once."
Then he spoke. "You understand
what this in you ask of me?" ho Buld
thickly.
"Perfectly," she nodded, and her
tone was less unkindly. "If I did not
know just how sweet and lovely and
fuii of grace and innocence she Is, 1
might perhaps have stayed away and
left you to your wooing."
There was a long silence.
"You demand large interest, Mrs
Dines," he said.
"Accumulated interest is always
large," she retorted. "Hut I do not
wish to humiliate you any more than
is neci ssary. You must, of conr.ie,
bting to an immediate end this unfor
tunate engagement—I believe you
were to have been married at noon,
were you not?" She glanced at the
clock. You have not much time
Some part of the truth Miss Hem
lnj,ray must know. Rut you may make
your own explanation aside from that,
l only ( ;act tnat sr.e snail oe maae to
understand that whatever sense of
obligation may have entertained
for you is dissipated."
Ankony colored painfully and made
no reply.
"1 shall not intrude upon you fur
ther", she said; "but I desire you to
understand that I am prepared to do
all that I say I will do in case you
do not yield to my stipulation. I have
with me the papers which leave no
room for doubt as to your guilt. Shall
I give them to Mr. Twining, as your
attorney?"
"I am the attorney of the company
of which Mr. Ankony is the president,
madam," I said; "but in no case—"
"It is not worth while," Ankony in
terrupted.
Mrs. Dines bowed. "My own attor
ney Mr. Debn, has examined the pa
pers. and he will tell you—•"
"If he has not already done so,"
Miss Winstanley ventured, as her one
little shot.
"That I am able to carry out my
plans," Mrs. Dines finished. "But I
think you will see the • isdom in fol
lowing the less aggressive course."
"You leave me no choice in the mat
ter," he said bitterly. "I am the un
der dog in the fight."
"The under dog is often to blame
for the fight," she said, tersely.
She approached the door, and I
held it open for lier.
"Do you sail alone by the Deutsch
land, Mr. Ankony?" she asked, turniug
He smiled grimly.
"I shall sail alone," he said.
CHAPTER XI.
Once in the corridor Mrs. Dines put
out an unsteady hand to her friend.
"My tablets, Henrietta. It is so an
noying to be weak."
"Weak!" echoed Miss Winstanley;
"you were magnificent!" She clicked
open her bag and produced a small
w hite box, whose lid she quickly
slipped, extending it to the suffering
lady, while I begged them to come
into my office until Mrs. Dines had
rested and felt a little recovered. But
Mrs Dines declined.
"We must go to Barbara at once,"
ehe said. "Why, the poor child is
probably g. tting into her wedding
gown at this minute. Think of it!
Ankony will go to her, of course, with
some explanation ; but she must have
enough ol the truth from us to prevent
any further mistake."
' And oh. the blessed relief it will be
to her!' breathed Miss Winstanley.
"You forget that she may love him,'
I suggested.
Mrs Dines spun round on me at
that like a huge, laboriously spinning
top.
"You think that possible? Gracious
heaven. 1 hope not! 1 came to bring
her happiness, not to break her
heart."
"You need have no fear as to that,'
Miss Winstanley hastened, assuringly.
"You have done her a service beyond
words. You see, she has been very
clever in carrying forward her part
of the hideous program which she
mapped out, and her cleverness has
deceived Mr. Twining. 1 am willing to
stake everything I have that si ■
doesn't love Ankony, and that sl.e
does—" She paused, her sigaificai t
giance full upon me.
Mrs. Dines lifted her brows, an.:,
comprehending sudden'y, held out .1
hand to me with gratifying and unev
ptcted warmth.
"I hope Henrietta is right. Mr. Twin
ing." she said; "I do indeed."
"You cannot hope it as I do," I re
plied earnestly; "but I have none of
her assurance, and a great
doubts."
many
"We shall see," declared Miss Win
6tanley blithely
We went down to the carriage in
silence. There we found the Win. s tan
ley coachman about to ascend with a
telegram which a houan mrviuit b*j
jusi uro'jguc, Knowing nis mistress
was to make her first visit to Ankony
and hoping to find lier there. She
climbed into the carriage, opened the
message, read it. went so white I was
sure she was going to faint, and held
it out to me without a word.
I read it with amazement and a
conscience that gave me some decid
ed twinges.
"Married;" 1 exclaimed; "Bishop
Winstanley married! And to the
Stetine!"
"What!" cried Mrs. Dines; "did I
scare him like that?"
Her pallor gave way to a rush of
color, and. leaning back, she laughed
» , , , „
u I her eyes fairly brimmed with tears.
There was no attitudinizing about it; J
she was simply overcome with the
humor of the situation, and I hoped
earnestly (hat the bishop's sister
would gradually yield herself to it
also. At present she showed no signa
of it.
' Get in," she said to me; "we can't
iisciiss it here."
Obeying, we rolled decorouslj off.
Mrs. Din. s' and went out an 1 cov
ered her friend's.
"My dear, cat! you ever forgive me
for precipitating such a thing as this?"
= he asked iinxio'isly.
Miss Winstan'ey shook her head.
"You—you didn't do it," she mur- j
mured; "he h is been—been carrying;
pressed rost s; I suppose any one else j
v. ould have known what that meant,
b it I—dear heaven, how could I be- |
li vo such a thing?" she wailed. "And
to elope—oh. Hannah, think of it,
Charles to elope!"
Mrs. Dines' laugh rumbled forth so
tagiously that to save me I could
con
not help echoing it soltly.
"That's Just what I am thinking of,
drar," she said "To think of his imag
ining that he had to fly from poor me
like that! It's so funny! Oh. do try
to see how very funny it is, Henriet
ta," and she sobbed in her enjoyment
of the affair.
"It is absurd and unforgivable," said
Miss Winstanley austerely.
The large hand tightened over hers,
and Mrs. Dines' tones became serious.
"You are not to hold it against him.
Promise me that. Take it out of me,
but don't spoil his happiness by cen
suring him. I'm the one to be pun
ished, for anybody can see that the
hastening is entirely due to me. I
suppose if I had any vanity I'd be get
t ng my punishment right now, but,
i.ufortunately, my sense of the humor
ous outweighs my vanity and I can
only—only—oh, Henrietta, for good
ness' sake, laugh!"
A faint—a very faint twinkle lit in
Miss Winstanley's hurt eyes.
"It is absurd for him to run away
from us like this," she said. "For you
know, Hannah, I was arrayed with
you."
Her friend nodded, warmly, laugh
ter dancing over her face and in and
out among the copious chins.
"She is really a charming girl," 1
put in.
"Who is she, anyway?" asked Mrs
Dines. "To think of my not asking
that before!"
"Miss Streeter," said I; "a cousin
of Mrs. Jack Ankony."
"Not Cecelia Streeter! You don'l
tell me! Why, Henrietta, dry your
eyes; this match was made in
heaven. She was born for the bishop
ric. Think how she looks the part."
"So I am always reminding Miss
Winstanley," I ventured.
"Then that's all she ever does,"
wailed her sister-in-law miserably.
"Oh, by no means. You greatly mis
judge her," Mrs. Dines contended.
"She is calm, I grant you, but a bish
op's wife should be calm. No, really,
since your brother wouldn't have me,
I don't know where he could have
done better. Besides, she's prodigious
ly rich, you know. What! You didn't
know? Oh. yes, immensely so. My
poor little dot looks small beside hers
She doesn't talk about it, but—"
"Does she talk about anything?" 1
inquired.
Mrs. Dines shot me an amused
glance over her friend's head.
"Silence is an excellent qualification
for a bishop's wife, I'm sure, Mr. Twin
ing; then she isn't always getting her
self and the diocese into trouble
Now, see here, Henrietta, considering
her looks and her reserve and her
money, surely you might forgive her
for letting your brother run off with
her."
"It's very good of you to try to
cheer me up," Miss Winstanley re
sponded. vaguely.
"And it's downright foolish of you
to hold out against so beautiful an ar
rangement. To my mind this is as
admirable a match all round as I have
know n of in a very long time. So do
cheer up and be glad. Don't you
agree with me, Mr. Twining?"
"Most heartily, as Miss Winstanley
knows," said I.
That little lady was not, however,
ready to yield herself at once to the
sudden situation.
"To run away!" she moaned; "at
Charles' age!"
"But don't you see that it's a great
compliment to me?" smiled Mrs.
Dines. "Let me get that much out of
it, wont you? It shows how much
confidence he has in my getting what
I—want. You see, he didn't know
what brought me to America, and, fol
lowing on the heels of my proposal to
him, it really seemed, you know, that
I was coming to marry him, whether
or no. You can see for yourself how
the poor dear man must have felt
Did he imagine, I wonder, that if
everything else failed I should kidnap
him? Well, I forgive him even that
And I want you to forgive him, Heu
rletta. You must. That's a good,
sensible sister. And now it's quite
time we came back to our muttou
j
Tell the man to drive us to the Hem
ingrays', will you, Mr. Twining? If
you don't feel up to going in, Hen
rietta, I'll go alone, but one of us
must certainly see Barbara at once.
"Then you may let me down at the
Fifteenth street corner of the
Square," said I. "I'll get along back
to the office."
As the carriage stopped, Miss Win
stanley bent forward, looking eagerly
after a fast-disappearing figure.
"Isn't that Dan?" she cried. "Can
you overtake him? He is the one to
take her thf word."
I sprang out. and caught up with
him within the block, although he was
BWj , along at an uncû mfortably
hr , t
brisk gait.
"On your way to the house, are
you?" he asked when he saw me. "It
must be pretty nearly time for the
wedding, i was afraid I couldn't
make it in time, but I caught a flyei
within the hour after I had Barbara's
message."
"Miss Winstanley wants you," 1
said, nodding to the carriage, that had
turned and was bringing up to the
curb.
He was surprised to see Mrs. Dines,
and greeted her with a boyish affec
tion that must have warmed her heart.
All on the way to the wedding?"
he inquired after he had shaken
bands.
"There is to be no wedding, Dan,"
Miss Winstanley said, gently.
He had paled belore she could ex
plain.
'Nothings wrong with Barbara?"
he asktd, quickly.
"So, no; everything is just coming
right for her. Get in"—with a giance
toward the coachman. "We are driv
toward the coachman. "We are driv
ing *o the house now, and Mrs. Dines
will »xplain to you. Then you must
tell Barbara what is to be told We'll
wait outside, and if she wants us we 11
come right in. If not you must tell
us, aid we'll go away again. Don't
you—will you—"
"I must tell you good-by," I said.
As I started off across the Square,
Miss Winstanley called after me that
she would send for me later in the
day.
But I was too impatient to await her
summons, and four o'clock found me
at her door. As I turned in at the
steps, the door opened and Dan came
out, hurrying down and stopping at
sight o* me to wring my hand. He
was beaming. I had not seen him so
much like his old self in months, and
it did my heart good. Somehow it
also seemed to presage well for me.
All his buoyancy had returned, and
he was once more the charming, ir
resistible fellow we all loved.
"Everj thing's all right at last, Tom,"
he cried. "I don't deserve it, but I'm
down on my knees giving thanks for
it, just the same, and if ever—" he
lowered his voice, looking over my
shoulder at some one who was ap
proaching--"if ever I get any of you
into such a muss again, may I be
hanged! Oh, it's been awful! You'll
never know. But it's over, thank God!
And now it's up to me to make good.
And that's what I'm going to do, old
man. Who is this confounded fellow
coming? I wanted to talk with you a
minute, but I'll look in after dinner,
if you're to be at home. There's a
deal to tell you," and he was off.
An ecclesiastical-looking gentleman
mounted the steps with me, inquiring
for the bishop, while I went in to
Miss Winstanley.
She was flushed and smiling and
bright-eyed.
"Did you think I had forgotten you?
Bless you, no. But there has been
so much to do We only left Barbara,
poor child, an hour ago. There were
messages to be sent for her, orders
to countermand, and—"
"Then she isn't going with him?" I
broke in.
"Oh, did you think—is it possible
you gave her credit for so little—"
"If she loved ^im—"
She caught me up sharply. "Ol
course she didn't love him. I always
told you that, but you would go on in
your stubborn unbelief in my intui
tions, you foolish, foolish fellow. My,
but she was gallant, though! She had
me almost bewildered at first; but
the moment she found that she could
have done with all pretense and that
her fancied obligation to Ankony was
at an end, then how she changed! It
was pitiful to see her. One under
stood the terrific strain she has been
under. I'm not pretending to say
whether or not she cares for you, Mr.
Twining—that's for you to find out for
yourself, you know—but I think it is
only fair to tell you that she never
has cared for Ankony."
"Thank God!" I devoutly murmured.
She patted my arm and made funny
little dabs at her eyes with a dot of
a handkerchief.
"She is going out of town to stay
with some friends until the storm of
the broken engagement has blown
over, she told me. They go to-mor
row, she and Dan He will stay with
her a fortnight, until she is a little re
covered, for in spite of her wonderful
courage and poise, she is tremendous
ly undone by all this."
"And is there nothing—"
"Nothing Just yet," she smiled
"Now let me tell you what Dan and
I are going to do. You remember that
I have some undeveloped mining prop
erty in Montana. Experts have given
me a good deal of »ncouragement over
It, but I have been waiting to find jus"
the right man to put at the head «
the work. And now Dan is to under
take it. Oh"—at my glance—"it isn't
a philanthropic scheme. The boy
will give mo excellent service. If it is
a good thing for him. it's a better
thing for me. And I'm to go out with
him to launch the enterprise. I've
no notion of being in the way wlieu
j my brother and his wife return."
"But your brother can't do without
!you. You will always be as oecessan
î to him as bia wife."
"Eater, perhaps, but not Just at
first," she said. "We don t know
much about honeymoons, you and I,
Mr. Twining; but I'm sure you 11 agiee
with me that no man wants even his
beloved sister underfoot at that time.
So Dan and I are off in a lortnight.
"Good!" I approved; "and if things
don't go well with me i ll come along.
May 1?"
CHAPTER XII.
H rbara was away several weeks,
and :htn one day Mrs. Dines, meeting
;ne on the street, told me that she had
'•oiiH. back to town and that she was
v. el: and entirely recovered from the
effets of the unfortunate publicity of
her broken engagement.
I went to see her that evening. It
was just after dinner, and the maid
told me that Miss Hemingray was go
ing out, but that she would ask if she
would see me for a few minutes.
As we stood talking, Barbara came
down the stairs. She wore a rather
scru:.:ptious gown of white—oi>t from
«Ai
B:
I
'Avv
m
><L
"My Waiting Is Over," I Breathed.
her trousseau, I imagine, and the hope
went over me that it might yet fulfill
the purpose for which it had been de
signed. Her cloak was white too—a
velvety thing that I had not seen be
fore. It became her wonderfully, with
its bewitching folds and curves and
richness. And her brown head, lifting
itself with all its charming poise
above the new loveliness, thrilled me
while the eyes that looked down on
me were more like the eyes of the
Barbara I loved than they had been
for a very long time.
"Oh, you!" she exclaimed, from the
landing where she paused an instant
at sight of me.
"Going out?" I asked, lightly, as if
I were not dazzled and palpitant.
"To a very small affair at the
Averiiis'. Why not come along?"
"Because I'm not asked. But you
will give me a minute before you
go?" I pleaded.
She glanced at the hall clock.
'Yes, I think so. Hord Averill is
coming for me, tut it isn't time for
him yet."
"Annie," said I to the maid, "if Mr.
Averill arrives, show him into the
drawing-room and let him wait."
"You are very urgent," Barbara
said, with a rather uncertain smile.
I held open the library door and she
entered. She did not sit, but stood
half turning to me, leaning against
the corner of the table near the fire
place, where a low fire burned. I had
never seen her half so lovely, nor so
adorable.
"We have abused our friendship and
treated it shamefully," I said at once,
"and now perhaps I am about to
maroon it; but I must takë the chance.
Forgive me if I have come too soon,
dear, but I can wait no longer. I must
know—now that you are free to tell
me—whether I can ever hope that you
v\ ill care for me."
"Do you know all that has hap
pened?" she asked. She was as
white as her gown, and her eyes only
half lifted to mine.
"Yes, Barbara. Don't mind, dear.
Part of it I guessed and the other
part had to be told me. But I am glad
that there is nothing for you to tell
u:e—nothing but the one thing 1 am
so eager to hear. Yon won't keep me
waiting any longer, will you?"
"After all that has happened you
still want me for—your—"
"More than ever; a thousand times
more than ever!" I cried.
"1 don't understand how you can,"
she said. She turned her face from
me, leaning heavily on the table, the
soft firelight over her. "Could you
ever be sure of me? I have deceived
you so long,"
"You must deceive neither yourself
nor me now," I said, seriously. "I
want the truth, whatever that is. Ile
honest. Don't try to be kind to me.
You have had to make pretense so
long. Think only of yourself now "
I waited for her reply, but it was
long in coming, so long that my heart
sank.
"If I am to be honest," she began
"I must tell you that—that—"
^ »*.s . Don t be afraid, dear."
"That it would be foolish—foolish
for me to to try to—to care for you
for I—"
"Don't try to go on," I cried. "I see.
1 h ve been a fool to expect it."
A little sound of pain escaped her
I pulled myself together with an
effort.
"You mustn't worry," I said, dully
"I can't blame you, heaven knowi.! I
wouldn't have you come to me unless
you love me, you know that. A.id I
would rather go on—alone—than lia,,
you give yourself to me through i t]
"Oh, yes, yes!" she cried.
I stared into the tire. i hau
thought 1 was prepared!
(Continued on pare 7.)
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