The Independent. (Cashion, Okla.), Vol. 3, No. 17, Ed. 1 Thursday, September 1, 1910 Page: 6 of 13
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SERIAL
STORY
^V.V.Y.V.'.V.WAV/.V.V.'.J
| The Master j
Iof Craven!
liy Marie Van Vorst
Author of
" A morula of the Mill."
"Miss Desmond,"
etc., etc.
V.V.V.'AV.V.V.V.V.V.'.V.VA
Copyright 1M&, by J. 11. Llppincotl Couipiuijr.
12
SYNOPSIS.
Basil Tempest, world's greatest poet
and novelist, refusing further to be lion-
ized, shuts himself up in Craven, his
country home. His gloomy meditations
nre broken by the admission of an Amer-
ican, Lucy Carew, who has conn to Kng-
land to get a study of the author, but
more especially a synopsis of his new
suite of poems. Tempest, angry at being
disturbed, declares he will write no more
and rudely asks her to go. Repenting of
his rudeness he apologizes and offers to
dictate to Lucy, who sits spellbound as
nhe writes. Tempest induces Lucy to re-
main and read her manuscript to him.
Their Interest In one another grows. Tem-
pest burns the photographs and letters of
Lady Ormond, with whom his name has
been associated. He takes great pleasure
In Lucy's presence, as their work pro-
gresses. Tempest tells his housekeeper
that he Is going blind and that the asso-
ciation with Lucy must cease, that she
must tell her to go for her own good.
The housi.Uei per tells Lucy.
CHAPTER VI—Continued.
"If thero were only someone who
cared for liiin who could save him."
She whispered the words. She in-
stinctively felt the pride in the wom-
an beside her whose clasp 011 her
arm did not lessen. She did not ven-
ture a further plea on the part of
one who should make the pleas for
himself.
Miss Carew said very slowly, with
effort and in a voice so low that Mrs.
Henly could hardly hear:
"If there were someone—w ho would
en through the world blind in his
stead—suffer in his stead—bear all
the burdens—near him (if she might
In* so blessed)—and if not, then far
away would bear it all the same—
could such thing be—even if he were
never to know it?"
Mrs. Henly watched her fascinated,
a great hope dawning in her heart.
"Oh," she said, "1 think he cares
for the one too much to take her
with him on his way, and so much
that he would try to thrust her from
him and go on alone to spare her—
and him loving her dearly all the
while "
The girl with an Impulsive gesture
threw her arms around the old wom-
an's neck, hiding her face on the
motherly bosom. Perhaps she cried
softly there tears whose source was
not all pain, for her cheeks grew
warm and red, the strained white
look had gone from her face when at
length she lifted it.
"How good you are," she whis-
pered. "What a mother you have
made."
"My poor boy," sighed Mrs. Henly.
She kissed tlie girl, pressed her hand,
and found that her late flow of elo-
quence had deserted her—she had
nothing more to say. She felt all of
a sudden that further words would be
inappropriate. Once more she dried
her eyes, drew down her veil, and
rose to go.
Miss Carew led her to the door,
clinging to her arm.
"You liavfc not told me yet your
n < rise," hal' smiled. "I think
Mr. Tempest bade yon to send me
away?"
Mrs. Henly smiled faintly, and in-
stead of answering said impressively:
"He's all alone, and he doesn't
know what I know, miss, and—"
Miss Carew caught her arm, blushed
furiously, and commanded:
"Not one word to him, Mrs. Henly."
"Oh, of coi rse not, miss, how could
you think—"
"Or 1 will be gone forever from
Craven—to-night—tomorrow."
"Don't go, miss," cried the house-
keeper in great distress. "1 give my
sacred promise."
"I trust you, dear," said Miss
Carew, tenderly, "but," and she ques-
tioned with her eyes as well as with
her words, "are you quite sure, Mrs.
llenly?"
The other's face saddened at once.
"Sadly sure, dearie."
"Ah, not that; I mean—about his
caring so—that he would spare her—
at any cost?"
Mrs. Henly took the slender, cold
hands between both hers:
"Quite sure," she said.
When she was left alone she found
herself shut in with a new world.
So full of bewilderment and con-
fusion of sorrow, and dawning joy of
doubt and love and despair, that she
pressed her hands to her heart and
prayed Heaven for strength to carry
her through and for wisdom as to
what course to take.
She found herself stifled with the
thoughts and doubts that rose.
It was not enough for her that a
woman should come to seek her and
with her own fond eyes read Tempest,
and with the skill of selfish love draw
from her a confession she never
thought to make—even to the man
she adored. She required more tang-
ible evidence from him, and as if to
corrode and harm the love that welled
up for him, the day at Penthuen came
forcibly to her mind. With just as
much delight as she remembered her
hours with Tempest, with just so
much distaste did she recall Lady Or-
mond. She cried to herself:
"I must be sure indeed—very sure;
he must want me very much in-
deed."
After a sleepless night, she let the
following morning go by with no
word or sign to Craven. When the
last of the interminable hours had
dragged themselves to their end Polly
Ramsdill brought her a note from
Mrs. Henly.
"You can't have gone, miss! You
couldn't go, I am sure. Remember,
he is all alone."
With her heart on the rack, her
steps turned time and again Craven-
ward, and a spirit, if unworthy, cer-
tainly very feminine, pulling her
back to reason and to patient wait-
ing for some sign to come to her from
mfrr*- - "//.m Y
Lying as she wa«, sfoe could see tn
the little mirror the bit of 6ky, the
meadow tn the mist*, and the road.
She saw too the rider who came at a
mad pace and drew rein—Tempest
himself, his soft hat pulled well over
his face. He spoke a second with
Mrs. Ramsdill and left a package i>
her hands and, turning, rode off as
madly as ever knight could from a j
belle dame sans merci. The mists
clouded the glass, and Lucy Carew
was weeping when Mrs. Ramsdill
came with the parcel for her. For a
long time she held it unopened, not
daring to break the envelope. She
knew that whatever the contents
might be, the rest of life would be
for her henceforth as they should
read.
Some dozen sheets of manuscript
fell into her hands. She bent over
the difficult handwriting—that of one
who has written in his sleep, or who
rises in the night to transcribe his
thoughts in the dark. The uncertain
aspect of the lines moved her with a
great wave of tenderness that car-
ried her to him like a sea, and. as
she followed the wonderful words she
sat as one held in a spell—marvelling
—confused—overwhelmed. One after
another the famous sonnets to Lucia
fell under her eyes. It was the con-
clusion of the old, beautiful theme.
The series was complete—the suite
had reached at last its mature and
mellow—its perfect—conclusion.
The verses she beheld were immor-
tal—they were luminous; in spite of
the trembling transcription, they
shone and burned on the pages in the
girl's hands. They were all for her—
all for her.
She rose unsteadily with burning
cheeks and eyes that glowed through
the tears. She started as she was to-
wards the door with the fluttering
papers in her hand, as though she
would rush to him; then she caught
sight of herself in the glass in her
nightdress, her disheveled hair.
She remained musing before the
glass, the papers now held to her
breast. "A hand he could love to
guide him," Mrs. Henly had said—
guide him! He was her tyrant, her
master! Rut he would be blind. At
this thought and all that the verses
meant, written half in obscurity and
yet so illumined—she realized by
reason of her love more perfectly than
the man had been able to do the hi--
ror of his destiny.
The glass reflected her serious and
lovely face, and gradually the sun,
for the only time during that long
day, came out from behind the fog
as the sunrise sent one burst of bright-
ness against the clear glasr. It
startled her—dazzled her—full as her
eyes were of visions, and the glorious
luminenee hurt her with its cruel
beauty.
"On, light for you—light for you,
liasil," she breathed. "If I could make
myself into eyes and vision and sight
to be transformed into you and so be
forever lost!"
Gradually the brief sunlight passed
and the melancholy aspect of the
cloudy day definitely filled the room
and the glass ceased to be enchanted.
But the modern Lady of Shalot
mused:
"I saw him ride across it, and it did
not 'crack from side to side.' How-
can there be 'a curse' upon us?" and
she turned away to dress in the old,
plain dress she wore when she first
braved the doors of Craven.
The Horse Was Suddenly Drawn Back
Until He Almost Reared.
the master of Craven, she let pass
three dreadful days. They marked
her life with suffering. At the third,
on its early morning, she woke to
hear a horse coming up. It was gray
dawn, no more, hardly light, and her
window was clear of shade or blind.
CHAPTER VII.
Miss Carew habitually came to
Craven across the front lawns and
terraces, but this day she changed her
routine. She made the parks by way
of the main road as she had done on
the stormy night several weeks be-
fore, when she sought Craven for the
first and so boldly demanded inter-
view with its master.
As she followed the avenue in the
cold morning she walked through
mist. It cleared only to let her fig-
ure cut the vapor, which directly
closed behind her again into one of
the fogs in which winter England
is mysteriously veiled; before her the
shapes of trees Indistinctly designed
themselves like seaweed in a maco
sea.
A little more than three-quarters
of the way up the drive she heard
the trot of a horse's feet, and before
she could step aside to permit, as
she supposed, some groom from
Craven to pass her, an equine head
and body loomed so close that she
gave a cry, and the horse was sud-
denly drawn back until he almost
reared.
The hand on the rein was a wom-
an's, the rider a woman, her tri-
cornered hat and coat aud lips and
cheeks all scarlet. She exclaimed,
half frightened, half annoyed:
"Heaven! I might have hurt you!''
and stared down at the roadside en-
cumbrance—and at sight of Miss
Carew nodded a sort of good morn-
ing; an expression of quick curiosity
shot across her handsome, mocking
face—"hurt you or been thrown my-
self. You're not startled?"
The rider held her horse quiet In
the fog, and mercilessly scrutinized
the young woman, who, dark and
slender, of a loveliness no less marked
than her own, of a grace no less
seductive than her ladyship's, ap-
peared to have miraculously unfolded
into existence in the elm avenue
and to have taken form out of fog
and mists. She presented a problem
—suggested manifold possibilities and
at least commanded attention.
Without excuse or preamble;
"You're walking up to Craven
castle?" the rider asked her.
"Yes."
"You're nearly there, however, but
perhaps you know the way?"
"I think I shall find it."
The pedestrian's dress was exces-
sively plain. In her hands she car-
ried a little packet which looked like
a note-book. She had doubtless a
Baedeker up her sleeve.
"You're an American?"
A slight smile touched the grave
f°atures of the younger woman.
"How did you know?"
The other laughed frankly.
"The same language, so different In
transatlantic mouths. 'I mean to say
you speak American.' Craven isn't
open to visitors, like Penthuen and
the neighboring castles."
"No?"
"It's shut and barred, I might say.
You won't get in. But I expect you're
a hero-worshipper and are going to
try for a glimpse of the great writer?
Your country people are hero-wor-
shippers."
"I think we are."
The lady's horse stretched his long,
shining neck. The smoke from hia
nostrils blended with the mist and
stirred the vapor that flew away be-
fore his breath. It flew too around
the head and form of the American
girl and the trim red figure of the lit-
tle equestrienne, to whom the mono-
syllables of the stranger were baffling
and because of her rival beauty an-
noying.
She gathered up her slackened
reins. "I've been following the
hounds," she vouchsafed, "and I've
cut through Craven by mistake—in
a few minutes 1 shall hear the horn."
She leaned on her pommel, her mind
traveling back to her last interview
with Mr. Tempest at Penthuen, and
suddenly she exclaimed with a sharp
"Ah!" of enlightenment, and as
though she did not relish the discov-
ery:
"Why, I've seen you before."
Miss Carew, who knew as well \a i!
she had seen her daily for years, said:
"1 think never."
"But yes—a day or two ago—you
wore a red dress—you were driving
with Mr. Tempest in a motor. I wan
driving behind you to Penthuen."
(TO BR CONTINUED.)
Boredom Long Existent.
Boredom is the oldest symptom In
the world. It came into existence
with man, though it was a woman who
first recognized it.
Uncle Ezra says:
"Laugh an' grow fat is mighty good
advice, but a feller kin laugh a hull
lot better when the pantry's full,"
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Barnard, W. F. The Independent. (Cashion, Okla.), Vol. 3, No. 17, Ed. 1 Thursday, September 1, 1910, newspaper, September 1, 1910; Cashion, Oklahoma. (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc106912/m1/6/: accessed April 25, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.