"I WILL GO TO THE OLD HAUNTED MILL," SAID KATHLEEN, BRAVELY.
"We must love and unlove and forget, dear,
Fashion and shatter the spell
Of how many a love in a life, dear,
Ere we learn to love once and love well."
Kathleen Carew sat in the library of Helen Fox's home, with her cheek
bowed in the hollow of her delicate hand, and a very sad expression in
her downcast eyes. She was thinking of the tragedy of two weeks ago, by
which the prison walls had been rent asunder, sending so many wicked
souls to their account with God.
"And in that awful wreck Fedora perished--poor guilty soul!--and
with her died the secret I would have risked so much to know. Now I
shall never know it; but Ralph, dear Ralph, I must trust you blindly.
I must not let this dark cloud of suspicion drift between us. But,
oh, Heaven! that it might have been lifted!" she half sobbed, in her
self-absorption.
In those two weeks many things had transpired of interest to Kathleen.
The Carews had gone abroad, and, although Kathleen knew it not, they
had faded forever out of the life that they had done so much to wreck
and ruin. Uncle Ben, as he still called himself, had not yet disclosed
his identity to his daughter, but kept up his _incognito_ for reasons
best known to himself. The grand Carew mansion remained closed and
silent, and people said that Mrs. Carew and Miss Belmont intended to be
absent for years.
Ralph Chainey, under the magical influence of renewed hope, was fast
recovering his health again. Kathleen and Helen had been to see him
several times, and, although no tender words had been uttered between
them, Ralph no longer feared and dreaded handsome Teddy. He fancied
that all would come right between him and his darling.
But Kathleen was very sad at heart. She had the greatest esteem and
regard for her betrothed, and shrunk from telling him the unflattering
truth that her heart belonged to another man.
"He has been so good and kind to me, how can I grieve him so?" she
thought.
The ring of the door-bell startled her from her sad thoughts.
Several letters were handed in. On one she recognized the writing of
her cousin Chester. She broke the seal with eager impatience, and as
she read on smiles began to dimple her scarlet lips.
Helen, who was reading her own letters, was startled at a gay
exclamation from her friend.
"Oh, Helen! good news! Chester and Daisy are--engaged!"
"But I thought it was you he loved, my dear."
"Oh, a mere fancy! It is that dear, darling Daisy Lynn he loves. And
she--there's a little note from her, too--she has forgotten or outlived
that old love--gives her whole tender heart to Chester. Listen, Helen,
how he writes me--apologetically, you know, fearing I may think him
fickle."
She read aloud, with a mischievous smile playing round her lips:
"'Both born of beauty at one birth,
She held o'er hearts a kindred sway,
And wore the only form on earth
That could have lured my heart away.'"
Helen smiled in sympathy.
"Poor boy! I'm glad he's to be made happy," she said. Then she
nervously fingered a letter she held.
"_Mine_ is from Loyal," she said, bashfully.
"From Loyal? Oh, Helen, is he ever coming back to America? You cruel
girl! why did you send him away?"
"I did not know my own mind," the beautiful young girl answered, in a
low voice, and then she added, softly: "You remember those sweet lines
of Jean Ingelow?
"'Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail
To the ice-fields and the snow;
Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail,
And the end I could not know.
How could I tell I should love thee to-day
Whom that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee away,
When I did not love thee anear?'"
"Oh, you darling, I'm so glad!" cried Kathleen, springing to her
friend's side and giving her a girlish hug. "That dear Loyal Graham!
I always thought he was perfectly grand, and I know you will be happy
with him. Does he _know_ yet, darling?"
"Yes; and he is coming home to _me_;" and her soft blue eyes drooped
with a loving smile to the dear letter.
Ah, the gladness, ah, the madness, ah, the magic of a letter!
And Helen recalled the beautiful lines of Adelaide Proctor:
"Dear, I tried to write you such a letter
As would tell you all my heart to-day.
Written Love is poor; one word were better--
Easier, too, a thousand times, to say.
"I can tell you all: fears, doubts unheeding,
While I can be near you, hold your hand--
Looking right into your eyes, and reading
Reassurance that you understand.
"Yet I wrote it through; then lingered, thinking
Of its reaching you--what hour, what day;
Till I felt my heart and courage sinking
With a strange, new, wondering dismay.
"Then I leant against the casement, turning
Tearful eyes towards the far-off west,
Where the golden evening light was burning,
Till my heart throbbed back again to rest.
"And I thought: 'Love's soul is not in fetters,
Neither space nor time keep souls apart;
Since I cannot--dare not--send my letters,
Through the silence I will send my heart.
"'She will hear, while twilight shades infold her;
All the gathered Love she knows so well--
Deepest love my words have ever told her,
Deeper still--all I could never tell.
"'Wondering at the strange, mysterious power
That has touched her heart, then she will say:
"Some one whom I love, this very hour
Thinks of me and loves me far away."'
"So I dreamed and watched the stars' far splendour
Glimmering on the azure darkness start,
While the star of trust rose bright and tender
Through the twilight shadows of my heart."
"I must go and tell mamma that I shall marry Loyal, after all," said
the blushing Helen, gliding from the room; and then Kathleen turned to
her other letter.
It was superscribed in a strange hand--feminine, yet bold and dashing.
"It is a strange hand," Kathleen said to herself, as she tore it open;
but stranger yet were the words it contained--strange, few, mysterious:
"If you wish to have full proof of the guilt or innocence of the
man you love, come alone at twilight this evening to the old Cooper
saw-mill, where I am dying. I can not survive the night. Do not
hesitate about coming. I know that a beautiful young girl like you
will do and dare all for love and happiness, and it is all-important
that you should know what I have to tell you. If I die with the secret
untold, you will forever rue it. Come without fail, secretly and
_alone_. Destroy this letter.
"ONE WHO KNOWS ALL."
Kathleen read and reread this strange letter with fascinated eyes.
"I know the old Cooper saw-mill," she murmured. "It is on the old
country road where we used to drive so often, near the glen and the
waterfall. I have seen old Myron Cooper, too, that strange old man with
his long gray duster. People said he wrote poetry as wild and gloomy
as the glen where he lived. Yes, I will go, although they say the old
mill is haunted after nightfall. But my unknown correspondent is right.
A young girl will do and dare much for love--love, that mighty passion
that moves the whole world."
She spent the remainder of the day in restless thought, longing for the
hour to come when she should go upon her strange mission, and yet half
ashamed of the longing to know all the truth about her lover.
"Why is it that I can not trust him wholly?" she asked herself; but
the reckless curiosity of a woman's nature drove her forward on that
perilous quest fraught with mystery and danger. "I must _know_!" she
declared, passionately, to herself.