New York Dispatch

He is silent now. pain and surprise—for he had looked for success in his wooing—combine to make him so.
"It is not because I have not for you warm liking, respect, esteem, that I cannot answer you as you wish," she goes on brokenly, her tones telling of her pain, "but because I am not worthy of the honor you would do me."
"You not worthy to be my wife," he cries, with a long-drawn breath of relief, "Sybil—only I—not because of any disgraceful or shameful act of mine." she interrupts, and her head is proudly erect, "but because that past, of which you know nothing, was shadowed by the sin of another."
Something in her manner awes him, silences the torrent of remonstrance that rises to his lips, so that he contents himself with the utterance of two simple words, which take the form of a question.
"Your husband?"
"Yes; and yet—you will believe me, Mr. Harrington, he was greatly to be pitied, his life was one long repentance."
He kneels beside her. he takes again her shapely hand and holds it tight.
"Sybil," he says, softly, "do you think the admission has any weight with me? It is yourself that I want—yourself whom I have known so many years, and for whom I have so high a reverence that I feel myself most unworthy of the gift I ask."
She is silent, her face troubled and perplexed.
"Your life has known sorrow heavy and deep," Cedric Harrington goes on, "of that I am aware; but I am firmly convinced that no act of yours has merited it as just punishment. I do not ask to know what it was that Alan Leicester did amiss; as you say, if he sinned he also suffered; let the dead past bury its dead, Sybil."
Still, silent, and troubled, but his pleading moves her. Oh, how her heart would rejoice to rest in this haven offered to her!
"If your past is shadowed by the sin of another," he urges, "so also has mine been. Its memory should not blot out all happiness from the future."
She looks into the grave, earnest face. In the companionship and tenderness of this man she would surely find the fullness of contentment, which her life had hitherto lacked.
Shall she refuse the cup of blessing when it is pressed to her lips? Oh, if she dare but drink of it!
He reads upon the expressive face the signs of the conflict; he does not fear the result.
"I never thought to speak of that dreadful blot upon Alan's life," she says, at last; "but I will tell you of it, and leave you to judge for yourself whether I am not right in my decision. I will tell you, and then—"
A blush steals over the face, which is beautiful with a beauty it never wore in its earlier days.
"You will leave me to decide for you," he says, taking up her incomplete sentence, and finishing it after his own fashion; "I am more than content, Sybil; say on."
"Alan, my husband, was a murderer."
She proclaims the fact in a harsh, strained whisper, her eyes tell of the pain and shame she feels.
And Cedric, too, is painfully surprised, but he restrains all signs. If this be true, all the more need that he should show her tender sympathy, so he holds her hand only the more firmly.
"Is it really so bad as that?" he asks, and something in his voice cheers and comforts her, "My dear Sybil!"
"Alan was rich when I became his wife," she says, her voice tremulous, but no longer harsh, tears filling her beautiful eyes. "Yet it was not for his wealth that I married him, but because I loved him very much."
Again she pauses, but the touch upon her hand re-assures her; the pain at her heart seems wearing away with this certainty of sympathy.
"I must tell you the whole story after my own fashion," she goes on presently. "Richard and Alan Leicester were the nephews of a rich neighbor of my father, who died leaving the bulk of his property to Alan, although Richard was the older of them and had been with the old man from childhood. Some act of his had given offense to his uncle, and he was not one who lightly forgave, therefore to the nephew who had been to him as his own son, he left but three hundred per annum. Richard showed no sign of envy or ill feeling; Alan and he became inseparable, rarely were they to be seen apart. One day Richard asked me to be his wife; it pained me to inflict pain, but my heart was given away to Alan, and, as gently as possible, I told him so. Soon after this Alan and I were married; Richard was still his most close and inseparable companion, and so kind and courteous was he to me, so considerate for me in every way that I could not wish it otherwise. We had plenty of money at our command; we liked change and travel, and wherever we went there also went Richard.
"Alan was fond of pleasure and excitement. he lacked strength and stability of character: I thought that Richard's influence over him was for good, and insensibly I began to look to him for advice and help when any little emergency or trouble arose through Alan's weakness of disposition. It was in Brussels that my great trouble came upon me. Almost imperceptibly Alan had acquired a strong passion for wine and gambling. Night after night was spent at the tables: each morning saw him brought home insensible from drink. In vain I pleaded with him, he gave me his promise only to break it; he vowed he would retrench, and the same night would find him gambling more recklessly than ever." Misery and pain was my portion; ruin of soul and body I saw staring him in the face: Oh, Mr. Harrington, those were wretched days!
There misery seems to arise very vividly before her! the hand which his own clasps is shaking, her face is gray and old in comparison to what it was an hour ago.
"My poor Sybil!"
"One night," she goes on, "there arose a quarrel at the gaming tables; Alan was mad with wine and excitement, he drew a knife and stabbed a man who had accused him of unfair play. I shall never forget his coming home, I shall never forget my horror—it haunts me to this day."
"Do not dwell upon it," Cedric says, gently: "tell me as briefly as possible what you wish me to know."
"Yes, yes."
But she is silent for a while, living again in the pain and terror of that time of which she is telling.
"I could not clearly comprehend his meaning" she goes on presently, "his manner was so wild, his words so incoherent. Save me, Sybil—save me!' he kept repeating; and while I was striving to understand his meaning, Richard came.
One look at his face confirmed my worst fears. Briefly he put the matter before me. He had gone in search of Alan, and found him at his usual resort; he had striven to induce him to come home, but Alan would not listen. He drank heavily, and when a man with whom he was playing accused him of cheating, he seemed instantly to lose all control over himself, and snatching up a knife which lay close to his hand, stabbed him with it; then, as though the horror of what he had done suddenly burst upon him, he fled instantly, before any one could detain him. The man was not yet dead, but there was no hope of his life.
"My heart died within me as I listened to Richard's quietly-spoken statement—grief seemed to rob me of all sense and power of reasoning; my father was dead, I was entirely without relatives, only those who had become so by marriage.
"What shall I do?' I cried to Richard; 'Richard, help me to save Alan!'
"I was guided by him in all things. Alan was incapable of thinking or acting for himself—remorse and terror rendered him helpless. Early the next day we left Brussels, and, acting upon Richard's advice, proceeded to Paris, where, after a time, he joined us.
"The man was dead, he told us, and the police were making diligent search for Alan; there were large placards out offering a reward for his apprehension, or such information as should lead to his apprehension. He showed us a paragraph in a daily paper announcing his death.
Acting upon his advice we remained abroad, staying first in one town, then in another, resting in no one long, and a year of wretchedness and misery, so dreary that I wonder how we lived through it, passed away. We were alone now. Alan and I; Richard had returned to England.
"One day he came unexpectedly upon us at Genoa. We were in great perplexity and depression; we were afraid of sending to England for remittances—that would be running too great a risk, we thought; we had long been living upon the proceeds of the sale of such valuables as we possessed, and now poverty was staring us in the face—poverty, when a rich estate and handsome income was of right Alan's!
"It was long since we had looked upon a familiar face, and we welcomed Richard gladly, but the pleasure his coming brought was but of short duration.
…I need not dwell upon that time, nor the bitter awakening to the truth that we had trusted implicitly in one who upon the slightest provocation would turn against us, our bitterest foe. I need not tell you how he played upon Alan's weakness and fears until he compassed the end he had in view. He regained more than his old influence over him, and finally wrested from him the inheritance bequeathed him by his uncle. Useless were my expostulations—that was the price demanded for his continued secrecy; nothing would satisfy him but he would see that Alan needed it—living, but, for our sakes as much as his own, those were the terms by which he had determined to adhere. Alan was supposed to have died abroad; it were better for his sake that such a supposition became a confirmed belief: he would certainly see that it did.
"I brought Alan back to England; we sought some humble lodgings in the outskirts of London, and there it was that I discovered my powers of story writing. Occasionally Richard sent us money, occasionally he visited us, but his visits always brought some new trouble and humiliation, and I longed for the time to come when I might escape from him and carry Alan away out of his reach.
"I worked hard, and succeeded beyond my hopes, all the time keeping my work and my success a secret from Alan, lest he might speak of it to Richard, and so destroy my hopes and plans."
"Did he—your husband—busy himself with no kind of work?" Cedric asks, suddenly. "Did the burden of his maintenance fall entirely upon you?"
"Harrington, from fear and remorse—he was incapable of working."
Whatever may be Cedric Harrington's thoughts upon the matter, he keeps them to himself, and Sybil proceeds.
"Alan's unhappiness seemed to rob him of all his powers of thinking and reasoning as well as acting; he was simply passive in the hands of those who chose to exercise any influence over him, unless any reference were, by chance or design, made to the past; then his terror and excitement amounted to a frenzy, pitiful to behold.
"At last I found myself in a position to put my long-cherished scheme into operation. I brought Alan to Hawthorndell. Fortune seemed to smile upon my endeavors, and there ensued a time of comparative comfort, shadowed only by the recollection of past troubles and Alan's increasing infirmities.
"Then came my acquaintance with Flossie and yourself, and you may readily believe how welcome was your friendship to me, yet while prizing I feared to cultivate it. If you only knew all, I thought, how you would shrink from us, and any chance might reveal to you that which was hidden in our lives. You remember how unexpectedly Richard came to us at Hawthorndell; my heart died within me at the sound of his mocking voice, at the sight of his mocking smile; the old persecutions were renewed, and insults added to them, for unfortunately he overheard a conversation between Flossie and myself which gave him a hold upon me. You remember the hundred pounds I borrowed; it was for him."
"But he is rich—he could not need it—and from you!" Cedric cries.
"He demanded it as the price of his continued silence," she answers; "I am sure he did not need it, only he thought fit to exact it, and nothing remained for me but to satisfy his demands. Oh, Cedric! but my heart was heavy indeed, and my pride brought very low, when I came to you that day."
It is the first time she has called him Cedric, and the sound is pleasant and most welcome to his ears. Oh, he will guard her tenderly if only he can win her! In the peace of that future which she shall share with him, she shall surely find compensation for the trials and sorrows of the past.
"Forget it," he whispers; "Richard Leicester will vex and annoy you no more, take my word for it, Sybil."
A sweet sense of comfort steals over her; it is pleasant after years of bearing the burdens which should have fallen upon the shoulders of others, to find sympathy and help upon which she may surely rely, strength in which she may safely shelter and rest.
"Sybil," he goes on, "what was his errand to Briarcourt the evening when I found you grieved and distressed in the avenue?"
Again her cheek crimsons, but now it is with anger and indignation.
To insult me—he wanted me for his wife.
An angry exclamation escapes Cedric, but he checks himself and listens.
"I must make a confession to you," she goes on, hurriedly, shame upon her face, pain ringing in her tones, "as I did to Flossie, and which, unfortunately for me, he overheard and understood, although I withheld all mention of any of any names. Although I disliked and despised Richard Leicester, there were times when I was conscious of a strong sense of attraction toward him.
"You could never have loved him!" Cedric interrupts.
A swift glance from those brown eyes answers him as no words could do.
"No," she says, quietly. "that would have been quite impossible. But there is much that is strong and powerful in his character; he has rare gifts, only perverted to evil purposes; and at times these contradictory phases became very apparent, and I could but admire him as possessing them. You have had some experience of his powers of fascination, Cedric."
Ay, he had—powers which could sway a multitude at his will—powers never exercised for any good purpose.
"And, after all that had passed, he had the audacity to ask you to marry him?"
"Yes. But with Alan's death, my fear of him died also, and I defied him to do his worst."
"And that would be?" Cedric begins, questioningly, and then he pauses.
"To bring shame and contempt upon the dead he could do nothing more. And I have always supposed that he kept our secret, because secrecy answered his own purpose. He would have lost position a little himself had he delivered Alan over to justice."
"So I should imagine," Cedric Harrington says, dryly, and then lapses into thoughtful silence.
"Sybil," he asks, suddenly, "will you answer me a few questions?"
"Certainly," she tells him.
"You are quite sure that Richard Leicester, to answer some end of his own, has not been deceiving you all these years, and trading upon your fears."
Startled and anxious she looks at him, as though she understood him not.
"You are quite sure that the man, you have not told me his name, really died?"
"Quite; we saw the account of his death in many papers."
But you made no personal investigation or inquiry?
"None; of what avail would it have been? We should only have incurred additional danger."
Again there is silence—silence presently broken by Sybil.
"I will tell you the name of—the man whose—whose death lay so heavily upon Alan's conscience," she says, her voice faint and tremulous, "I will hold back nothing from you—it was—Walraden—he was Paul Walraden's father!"
"My dear Sybil!—my poor Sybil!"
He takes her in his arms, and she makes no resistance; her head finds a resting-place upon his shoulder; he speaks no other words, but his tone and the action fills her with peace indescribable; his hand gently touches the mass of silvery curls. From henceforth there will be no more walking alone and loneliness, his love will guard her, his strong arm protect her.
"It was terrible to meet him at first, and know that but for Alan he might not have been fatherless. Cedric, sometimes, since comparative peace has been mine, I have wondered how I have borne my sorrows and lived."
Ay, so does Cedric Harrington.
"God has surely helped me," she goes on, tremulously, shedding tears which are not all unhappy, upon the pleasant resting place to which he had drawn her.
"As He at all times surely helps those who trust in Him and strive to do right," he says, reverently, "Sybil, with His blessing, I will so strive to make happy the future that in it will be found no place for dark memories. You are not afraid to trust yourself to me?"
"Afraid? Oh, no!"
Softly upon the hush of the room steals the faint chiming of those distant bells; to the two standing there whose hearts have been tried in the fire of discipline and sorrow and pain, they seemed to bear a sweet message of hope and mercy.
Another sound mingles with the bells, drawing nearer and nearer until it drowns the fainter one.
It is the children," Sybil says, a soft blush stealing over her face as she reflects how, from this time henceforth, hers will be the right to speak of them as "ours." "How pleased they will be when they find you here."
He kisses the flushed, earnest face, so pleasant for any man's eyes to rest upon in its noble, matronly beauty.
"How pleased they will be when I introduce to them their new mother!

CHAPTER XL.

"AND THE CLOUD HATH PASSED AWAY."

Early the next morning Paul Walraden was surprised by a visit from Cedric Harrington—a surprise which, however, found no outward manifestation.
The gentlemen talked of many things after a desultory fashion—trade, politics, the state of the town, mutual acquaintance; it was not until Paul Walraden spoke of the demands of business upon his time that Cedric Harrington broached the subject which had brought him hither.
"I heard some painful news in connection with you," he began—or rather, perhaps I should say, in connection with your past, wish I had learned it earlier, that I—"
For once Cedric Harrington was embarrassed, and the puzzled expression of Paul Walraden's face in no wise assisted him to regain his composure.
"I know of nothing painful connected with my past," Paul Walraden said, "other than that which is already known to you. To what do you allude, Mr. Harrington?"
"Your father's untimely death—forgive me for alluding to it."
There was a moment of bewilderment and silent surprise on the part of Paul Walraden, and then a light seemed to break in upon him.
"I understand!" he cried. Wherever did you hear that absurd report, Mr. Harrington?"
Then your father was not killed at the gaming tables by an Englishman?
"He quarreled with one, and was stabbed, but the wound was a trifling one; he lived many years after."
"Is it possible?"
"Possible, and quite true. We were annoyed and grieved to find so garbled and exaggerated an account circulated in the papers, and most emphatically contradicted it."
He saw an expression of positive relief pass over Cedric Harrington's face, and wondered at it; but it did not depress his boldness, and so he forgot the expression and the conversation.
"What shall we do to him?" Cedric Harrington asked.
He had told, and she had listened, with a heart whose thankfulness was indescribable, of the interview between himself and Paul Walraden.
"Nothing," she answered.
"Nothing, when he has robbed you of home and income, and, above all, your peace of mind for many years? Nothing, Sybil?"
"I would not touch the inheritance of which he defrauded Alan even if I might," she answered, a thrill of pain and passion in her voice. "It could not give me back the freshness of my youth—it could not repay for the pain and weariness and heart-burning of years. Cedric, let him go!"
But he deserves punishment."
"In punishing him you would but cause most vividly to arise within me memories which I would forget forever. Let us forget him, Cedric."
And to all his remonstrances she returned similar answers.
"We are rich enough, Cedric, and even if we were not, I could never bear to touch one farthing derived from an estate which had once owned him as master: and for punishment let us leave him to Heaven and his own conscience."
"But you surely would not have him remain ignorant that you have learned his horribly cruel treachery and deceit?"
"No," she said, her eyes flashing, her face crimsoning, "I would not."
So Cedric Harrington wrote to him a long letter, which must have stung Richard Leicester to the soul to read, whose accusing words must forever have haunted him, sleeping or waking, but it won from him no answer.

CHAPTER XLI.

"ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL."

The town of Queensnorton continues to improve in size and importance. The operatives now who fill the factories and work at the looms are, as a body, intelligent and reasonable; a marked contrast to their fathers, the fame of whose coarse riots and passions fill them with disgust to remember—a marked contrast to the infuriated men and women who, as with one voice, cried, "Away with him!" when Cedric stood before them, their representative and friend—who hesitated not to send one poor woman to her death because their wishes were opposed, their hopes defeated.
The town of Queensnorton is a rising and prosperous one; new factories are springing up on every hand, and over the gates of one is the name of Paul Walraden.
Paul is happily married now; a plain-looking sensible English matron calls him husband, a tribe of children salute him as father. Verily things have prospered with Paul Walraden.
And at Briarcourt tranquil joy and fullness of contentment reigns. Cedric Harrington has won a place for himself in the hearts of the people of Queensnorton, because by his every act he evinces that he has learned the grand lesson which teaches that justice, to be perfect, must ever be tempered by mercy. Peacefully happy are the days at Briarcourt; in her husband's entire love and strength Sybil has found sweetest peace. Husband and wife are mutually proud of each other. If he has won fame as a politician, she has won no less as a writer: and of her home she is the very life and light.
One day there comes to her a letter, in which a dying man prays that she will visit him; he is lying sick unto death in the very lowest and poorest quarter of the town; but Sybil is never deaf to the call of suffering, and, leaving a message for her husband, goes at once; she knows no fear, for the people of Queensnorton speak her name with reverence.
So she goes, and finds there one upon whom dissipation and want have set their stamp, and yet whose face is strangely familiar. He is past connected or fluent speech, but the woman of the house tells how, on the day previous, he had come to her, faint from hunger and thirst, worn out with disease, and prayed her to give him shelter.
"Sybilla belle Sybil."
She knows him then, and she shrinks back with loathing and horror.
"Don't turn away—without a word," he gasps.
"Forgive!
In her heart she has forgiven him, she can cherish no anger against one stricken with death, but her tongue refuses utterance.
"The wages of sin," he pleads. "Sybil! I have loved you madly all—all my life."
So he has always protested; but with what an unnatural passion!
"How came you in this state?" she asks, pityingly. "What has become of the wealth you had once?"
"Squandered away! I was reckless. Oh, my God, the life I have led!"
Ay, truly it must have been an awful one to have brought him to this condition!
"Forgive—Sybil—forgive!"
So she, knowing full well that the day must surely come when she too must pass through the Dark Valley—when she too will need mercy—bends over him.
"May God forgive you as I do, Richard."
Cedric meets her as she walks homeward, and listens to the story she has to tell, and its conclusion finds them in the churchyard where lies poor, hapless Nathalie, standing beside her grave.
"I passed through on my way to meet you," he says. "Sybil, my wife, every day of my life I find greater cause for thankfulness."
"And I," she says, her pathetic face raised to his, her brown eyes adding more than her tongue utters: but Cedric understands, and can read well their language.
Not a sorrow has been sent me but for some wise purpose. I dread to think what I should have become in the sunshine of continual prosperity and unbroken happiness—arrogant, overbearing, unmerciful, mistaking hardness for justice."
"Blessed are the merciful," Sybil says, softly.
"So I thank Heaven most reverently for my crosses as well as my blessings; above all, I thank God for my sweet wife and helpmeet."
She is leaning upon his arm, her heart, too, swelling with thankfulness.
But in the contentment of the present the remembrance of the past finds a place; he bends over the grave, and plucks therefrom a simple flower, whose hue reminds him always of the eyes of her who gave her life for his.
"FORGET-ME-NOT," he says, giving it to Sybil.
THE END.