The watchman and southron. (Sumter, S.C.) 1881-1930, July 21, 1894, Special Rates Edition, Image 2

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Wyt tUatcfymnn iii Bmtlfxm. THE SUMTER WATCHMAN, established April, 1850. "Be Just and Fear not-Let all the Ends thou Aims't at, be thy Country's, thy God's and Truth's." THE TRUE SOUTHRON. Established Jone, 1266 Consolidated Aug. 2,1881. SUMTER, S. C., WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 1894. Sew Series-Vol. XUI. No. 50. ?k Mzitfami at? Saut?jro??. Published Every We?aes?ay, -BY 3M. <3k Osteen, SUMTER, S. C. TERMS : Two Dollars per annum-io advance. ADVERTISEMENT: One Square first insertion.......$1 00 Every subsequent insertion... 50 Contracts for three months, or longer will be made at reduced rates. All comm nc i cat io oe which subserve private interests will be charged for as advertisements. Obituaries and tributes of respect will be charged for. SpecialSliSi ???liRates For the remainder of the year. THE WATCHMAN and WM SOUTHROJV Will be sent to any address until Jany 1, 1895, -FOR 75 Cents? ? ?? > . / This offer is made as a special induce? ment We are go? ing to double our subscrip t i o n list within the next few months and we want the name of every man, who wishes to keep up with the times, on our subscription list. The Watchman and Southron is the biggest, best and newsiest paper pub? lished in this section of the State, and it should go into ^p* - - fl every household. ;Eight pages of all home print matter ellery week. Clubbing rates with all Agri? cultural Journals, Literary Pe? riodicals and Leading Metro politan Weeklies. This extra special four-page edition has been scattered broadcast throughout Sumter and adjoining coimties so that those who arc not subscribers may be made acquainted with this special offer. The Watchman and Southron wants a reliable Agent at every Post Office in Somier and adjoining counties. A i liberal commiesioo paid. Write for terms. COPYRIGHT. 1893. BY THC AUTHOR. CHAPTER L THE STORY OF THOMAS "WINGFIELD. L Thomas Wingfield, was born here at Ditchingham and in this very room where I write today. I am sprung from the fam? ily of the Wingfields of Wingfield castle, in Suffolk, that lies some two hours on horseback from this place. My grandfa? ther was a shrewd man, more of a yeoman than a squire, though his birth was gentle. He it was who bought this place with the lands round it and gathered up some for? tune, mostly by carefully marrying and living, for though he had but one son he was twice married, and also by trading in cattle. Now, my grandfather was godly minded even to superstition, and, strange as it may seem, having only one son, nothing would satisfy him but' that the boy should be made a priest. But my father had lit? tle leaning toward the priesthood and life in a monastery, though at all seasons my grandfather strove to reason it into him, sometimes with words and examples, at others with his thick cudgel of holly that still hangs over the ingle in the smaller sitting room. The end of it was that the lad was sent to the priory here in Bungay, where his conduct was of such nature that within a year the prior prayed his parents to take him back and set him in someway of secular life. Not only, said thc prior, did my father cause scandal by his actions, breaking out of the priory at night and visiting drinking houses and other places, but such was the sum of his wickedness he did not scruple to question and make mock of the very doctrines of the church, alleging even that there was nothing sa? cred in the image of the Virgin Mary which stood in the chancel, and shut his eyes in prayer before all the congregation when the priest elevated the host. -"There? fore," said the prior, "Iprayyou to take back your, son and let him find some other road to the stake than that .which runs through the gates of Bungay priory." It was believed both by my grandfather and the prior that the true cause of my fa? ther's contumacy was a passion which he had^cos?erv?d for a ghi of humble birth, a miller's fair daughter who dwelt at Wa ingfprd Mills. So tho end of it was that he went to foreign parts in. the care of a party of Spanish monks, whorBact journey? ed here to Norfolk on a pilgrimage*to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham. Thus it chanced thal; when he had sailed from Yarmouth a year and six months there came a letter from the abbot of the monastery in Seville to his brother, the prior of St. Mary's at Bungay, saying that my father had fled from the monastery. Two more years passed away, and then came other newsr-namely, that my father had been captured; that he had been hand? ed over to the power of the holy office, as the accursed inquisition was then named, and tortured to death at Seville. When my grandfather heard this, he wept. Still he did not believe that my father was dead in truth, since on the last day of his own life, that ended two years later, he spoke of him as a living man and left messages to him as to the management of tho lands which were now his. And in the end it became clear that this belief was not ill founded, for one day, three years after the old man's death, there landed at the port of Yarmouth none oth? er than my father, who had been absent some eight years in ali. Nor did he come alone, for with him he brought a wife, a young and very lovely lady, who afterward was my mother. She was a Spaniard of noble family, having been born at Seville, and her maiden name was Bonna Luisa de Garcia. There were three of us children-Geof? frey, my elder brother, myself and my sis? ter Mary, who was one year my junior, the sweetest child and the most beautiful that I have ever known. We were very happy children, and our beauty was the pride of our father and mother and the envy of other parents. I was the darkest of the three, dark indeed to swarthiness, but in Mary the Spanish blood showed only in her rich eyes of velvet hue, and in the glow upon her cheek that was like the blush on a ripe fruit. My mother used to call me her little Spaniard because of my swarthiness-that is, when my father was not near, for such names angered him She never learned to speak English very well, but ho would suffer her to talk in no other tongue before him. Still when he was not there she spoke in Spanish, of which language, how? ever, I alone of the family became a mas? ter, and that was more because of certain volumes of old Spanish romances which she had by her than for any other reason. From my earliest childhood I was fond of such tales, and it was by bribing me with the promise that I should read them that she persuaded me to learn Spanish, for my mother's heart still yearned toward her old sunny home, and often she would talk of it with us children, more especially in the winter season, which she hated as I do. Once I asked her if she wished to go back to Spain. She shivered and answered no, for there dwelt one who was her en? emy and would kill her, also her heart was with us children and our father. Now, when I was 18K years old, on a certain evening in the month of May, it happened that a friend of my father's, Squire Bozard, late of the hall in this par? ish, called at the lodge on his road from Yarmouth, and in tho course of his talk let it fall that a Spanish ship was at an? chor in the roads laden with merchandise. My father pricked up his ears at this and asked who her captain might be. Squire Bozard answered that he did not know his name, but that he had seen him in the market place, a tall and stately man, rich? ly dressed, with a handsome face and a ?car upon his temple. At this news my mother turned pale be? neath her olive skin and muttered in Span? ish: "Holy Mother, grant that it bo not he!" My father also looked frightened and questioned the squire closely as to the man's appearance, but without learning anything more. Then he bade him adieu with little ceremony, and taking horse rode away for Yarmouth. That night my mother never slept, but sat all through it in her nursing chair, brooding over I know not what. As I left her when I went to my bed so I found her vrSen I carno from if?t dawn, rc?n re? member well pushing the door ajar to see her face glimmering white in thc twilight of the May morning as she sat, her largo eyes fixed upon the lattice. t^You have risen early, mother," Ijaid 4 'I Tiavc~nev?r l?'i?Tdown, Thomas^1 ^he answered. "Why not? What do you fear?" "I fear the past and the future, my son Would that your father were back. " About 10 o'clock of that morning, as I was making ready to walk into Bungay to the house of the physician under whom I was learning the art of healing, my father rode np. My mother, who was watching at the lattice, ran out to meet him. Springing from his horse, he embraced her, saying: "Be of good cheer, sweet; it cannot be he This man has another name." "But did you see him?" she asked. "No; he was out at his ship for the night, and I hurried home to tell you, knowing your fears. ' ' "It were surer if you had seen him, hus? band. He may well have taken another nama" UI never thought of that, sweet," my father answered, "but have no fear. Should it be he, and should he dare to .set foot in the parish of Ditchingham, there are those who will know how to deal with him. But I am sure that it is not he. " "Thanks be to Jesu then!" she said, and they began talking in a low voice. Now, seeing that I was not wanted, I took my cudgel and started down the bridge path toward the common foot? bridge, when suddenly my mother called me back. 1 "Kiss me before you go, Thomas," she said. "You must wonder what all this may mean. One day your father will tell "Kiss me before you go, Tfiomas," she said. you. It has to do with a shadow which has hung over my life for many years, but that is, I trust, gone forever." "If it be a man who flings it, he had best keep out of reach of this," I said, laughing and shaking my thick stick. "It is a man," she answered, "but one to be dealt with otherwise than by blows, Thomas, should you ever chance to meet him." "May be, mother, but might is the best argument at thc last, for the most cunning have a life to losaV 44 You are too ready to use your strength, son," she said, smiling and kissing ma "Remember the old Spanish proverb, 'He strikes hardest who strikes last.' " "And remember the other proverb, mother, 'Strike before thou art strick? en,' " I answered and went. I never saw her again till she was dead. CHAPTER II. THE COMING OF THE SPANIARD. And now I must go back and speak of my own matters. As I have told, it was my father's wish that I should be a phy- j sician, and since I came back, from my schooling at Norwich-that was when I had entered on my sixteenth year1-I had studied medicine under the doctor who practiced his art in the neighborhood of Bungay. He was a very learned man and an honest, Grimstone by - .ame, and as I had some liking for the business I made good progress under him. Medicine was not the only thing that I studied in those days, however. Squire Bozard of Ditchingham, the same who told my father of the coming of-the Span? ish ship, had two living children, a son and a daughter, though his wife had borne him many more who died in infancy. The daughter was named Lily and of my own age, having been born three weeks after me in the same year. From our earliest days wc children, Bo zards and Wingfields, lived almost as brothers and sisters, for day by day we met and played together in the snow or in the flowers, Thus it would be hard for me to say when I began to love Lily or when she began to love me, but I know that when I first went to school at Norwich I grieved more at losing sight of her than because I must part from my mother and the rest In all our games she was ever my partner, and I would search the country round for days to find such flowers as she chanced to lova When I came back from school, it was the same, though by degrees Lily grew shier, and I also grew suddenly shy, perceiving that from a child she had be? come a woman. Still we met often, and, though neither said anything of it, it was sweet to us to meet. Thus things went on till this day of my mother's death. But before I go further I must tell that Squire Bozard looked with no favor on the friendship between his daughter and myself, and this not becauso he disliked mc, but rather because he would have seen Lily wedded to my elder brother, Geoffrey, my father's heir, and not to a younger son. So hard did he grow about thc matter at last that .we two might scarcely meet except by seeming ac? cident, whereas my brother was ever wel? come at thc hall. And on this account some bitterness arose between us two broth? ers, as is apt to bc the case when a woman comes between friends, however close, for it must be known that my brother Geoffrey al60 loved Lily, as all men would have loved her, and with a better right perhaps than I had, for ho was my elder by three years and born to possessions. Now, when I had attained 19 years I was a man full grown, and, writing as I do in extreme old age I may say it without false shame, a very handsome youth to boot. I was not overtall indeed, measuring but 5 jfeet inches in height, but my limbs were well mada and I was both deep and broad in the chart. In color I was, and, ?ny white hair notwithstanding, am still, extraordinarily dark hued; my eyes also were large and dark. _a?d my hair. _which was w avy, ' \v?s coalT??acTL ~7n my dei ment I was reserved and grave to sadr in speech I was slow and temperate more apt at listening than in talking weighed matters weil before I mad? my mind upon them, but being made nothing could turn me from that n short of death itself, whether it wert on good or evil, on folly or wisdom, those days also I had little religion, s partly because of my father's secret te ing and partly through the working my own reason I learned to doubt the i trines of the church as they used to bi out. On this sad day of which I write I k that Lily, whom I loved, would bo w ing alone beneath the great pollard c in the park at Ditchingham hall. E in Grubswell, as the spot is called, gi indeed still grow, certain hawthorn t that are the earliest to blow of any in tl parts, and when we had met at the ch* door on the Sunday Lily said that tl would be bloom upon them by the Wed day, and on that afternoon she should to cut it. It may well be that she sp thus with design, for love will breed c ning in the heart of the most guileless. truthful maid Then and there I vo^ to myself that I also would be gathei hawthorn bloom in this same place, ; on that Wednesday afternoon-yes, e if I must play truant and leave all sick of Bungay to nature's nursing. Mi over, I was determined on one thing-t if I could find Lily alone I would delay longer, but tell her all that was in heart, no great secret indeed, for thot no word of love had ever passed betw j us as yet each knew the other's hid i thoughts. Now, it chanced that on this af tern oe j was hard put to it to escape to my trj ! for my master, the physician, was ail and sent mc to visit the sick for hi carrying them their medicines. At last, however, between 4 and 5 o'cloci fled, asking no leave. Taking the N wich road, I ran for a mile and more ti had passed the Manor House and church turn and drew near to Ditchi] ham park. Then I dropped my pace t walk, for I did not wish to come bef Lily heated and disordered, but rat; looking my best, to which end I had ] on my Sunday garments. Now, as I wt down the little hill in the road that ri past the park I saw a man on horsebi who looked first at the bridle path that this spot tums off to the right, then bs across the common lands toward the Vii yard hills and the Waveney, and tl along the road, as though he did not kn* which way to turn. I was quick to not things, though at this moment my mi was not at its swiftest, being set on otl matters and chiefly as to how I should t my tale to Lily, and I saw at once tl this man was not of our country. He was very tall and noble lookii dressed in rich garments of velvet adorn by a gold chain that hung about his net and, as I judged, about 40 years of aj But it was his face which chiefly caug my eye, for that moment there was son thing terrible about iib. It was long, th and deeply carved. The eyes were lax and gleamed like gold in sunlight; t mouth was small and well shaped, but wore a devilish and cruel sneer; the foi head lofty, indicating a man of mind, a] marked with a slight scar. For thc rc the cavalier was dark and southern loo ing; his curling hair, like my own, w black, and he wore a peaked chestnut c< ored beard. By the time that I had finished the observations my feet had brought mc i most to the stranger's side, and for tl first time he caught sight of me. Instant his face changed, thc sneer left it, and became kindly and pheasant looking. Lil ing his bonnet with much courtesy, J stammered something in broken Englii of which all I could catch was the WOJ Yarmouth. Then, perceiving that L d not understand him, he cursed the Eni lish tongue, and all those who spoke i aloud and in good Castillan. "If the senor will graciously express h wish in Spanish, " I said, speaking in th? language, "it may be in my power to he! him." "What, you speak Spanish, young sir! he said, starting, "and yet you are not Spaniard, though by your face you we might be. Caramba, but it is strange! and he eyed mc curiously. "It maybe strange, sir," I answerer "but I am in haste. Be pleased to as your question and let me go. " "Ah," he said, "perhaps I can guess th reason of your hurry. I saw a white rot down by the streamlet yonder," and h nodded toward the park. "Take the ac vice of an older man, young sir, and b careful. Make what sport you will wit such, but never believe them and neve marry them-lest you should live to desir to kill them!" Here I made as though I would pass or but he spoke again: "Pardon my words; they were wei meant, and perhaps you may come to lean their truth. I will detain you no more Will you graciously direct me on my roa< to Yarmouth, for I am not sure of it, hav ing ridden by another way, and your Eng lish country is so full of trees that a mai cannot see a mile?" I walked a dozen paces down the bridl< path that joined the road at this place anc pointed out the way that he should go past Ditchingham church. As I did so '. noticed that while I spoke tho strange: was watching my face keenly, and it seem ed to mo with an inward fear which h< strove to master and could not. When J had finished, he raised his bonnet anc thanked mc, saying: "Will you be so gracious as to tell m( your name, young sir?" "What is my name to you?" I answerec roughly, for I disliked this man. "You have not told me yours. " "No, indeed; I am traveling incognito. Perhaps I also have met a lady in these parts, " and he smiled strangely. ?'I only wished to know thc name of ono who had done me a courtesy, but who, it seems, is not so courteous asl deemed." And he shook his horse's reins. "I am not ashamed of my name," I said "It has been an honest one so far, and if you wish to know it it is Thomas Wingfield." "I thought it, " ho cried, and as he spoke his face grew like thc face of a fiend. Then before I could find time even to wonder he had sprung from his horse and stood within three paces of me. ,4A lucky day! Now we will sec what truth there is in prophecies," ho said, drawing his silver mounted sword. "A j name for a name; Juan do Garcia gives i you greeting, Thomas Wingfield." Now, strange as it may seem, it was at ! this moment only that there flashed across ! my mind the thought of all that I had heard about lae Spanish stranger, the re? port of whose coming to Yarmouth had stirred my father and mother so deeply. At any other time I should have remem j bered it soon enough, but on this day I ! was so ?et upon my tryst with Lily and j what I should say to her that nothing else could hold a place in my thoughts. "This must be the man," I said to my? self, and then I said no more, for he was on me, sword up. I saw the keen point flash toward me and sprang to one side, having a desire to fly, as, being unarmed except for my stick, I might have done without shame. "But" spring" as T would I could not avoid the thrust altogether. It was aimed at my heart, and it pierced the sleeve of my left arm, passing through the flesh-no more. Yet at the pain of that cut all thought of flight left me, and instead of it a cold anger filled me, causing me to wish to kill this man who had attacked me thus and unprovoked. In my hand was my stout oaken staff, which I had cut myself on the banks of Hollow hill, and if I would fight I must make such play with this as I might. It seems a poor weapon indeed to match against a Toledo blade in the hands of one who could handle it well, and yet there are virtues in a cudgel, for when a man sees himself threatened with it he is likelv to forget that he holds in his hand a more deadly weapon, and to take to the guarding of his own head in place of running his adversary through the body. And that was what chanced in this case, though how it came about exactly I can? not telL The Spaniard was a fine swords? man, and had I been armed as. he was would doubtless have overmatched me, who at that agc had no practice in the art, which was almost unknown in England. But when he saw the big stick flourished over him he forgot his own advantage and raised his arm toward away the blow. Down it came upon the back of his hand, and his sword fell from it to the grass. But I did not spare him because of that, for my blood was up. The next stroke took him on the lips, knocking out a tooth and sending him backward. Then I caught him by the leg and beat him unmerciful? ly, not upon the head indeed, for now that I was victor I did not wish to kill one whom I thought a madman, as I would that I had done, but on every other part of him. Indeed I thrashed him till my arms were weary, and then I fell to kicking him, and all the while he writhed like a wounded snake and cursed horribly, though he never cried out or asked for mercy. At last I ceased and looked at him, and he was no pretty sight to see. Indeed what with his cuts and bruises and the mire of the road? way it would have been hard to know him for the gallant cavalier whom I had met not five minutes before. But uglier than all his hurts was the look in his wicked eyes as he lay there on his back in the path? way and glared up at me. "Now, friend Spaniard," 1 said, "you have learned a lesson, and what is there to hinder me from treating you as you would have dealt with me who had never harmed you?" And I took up his sword and held it to his throat. "Strike home, you accursed whelp!" he answered in a broken voice. "It is better to die than live to remember such shani, as this." "No," I said; 4M am no foreign murder? er to kill a defenseless man. You shall away to thc justice to answer for yourself. The hangman has a rope for such as you. " "Then you must drag me thither, " he groaned and shut his eyes as though with faintness, and doubtless he was somewhat faint. Now, as I pondered on what should be done with the villain, it chanced that I looked up through a gap in the fence, and there, among the Grubswell oaks 300 yards or more away, I caught sight of the flutter of a white robe that I knew well, and it seemed to me that the wearer of that robe was moving toward the bridge of thc "wa? tering," as though she were weary of wait ing for one who did not come. Then I thought to myself that if I staid to drag this man to the village stocks or some other safe place there would bean end of meeting with my love that day, and I did not know when I might find another chance. Now, I would not have missed that hour's talk with Lily to bring a score of murderous minded foreigners to their de I thrashed him till my arms were weary. serts. And, moreover, this one had earned good payment for his behavior. Surely, thought I, he might wait awhile till I had done my lovemaking, and if he would not wait I could find a means to make him do so. Not 20 paces from us the horse stood cropping the grass. I went to him and undid his bridle rein, and with it fastened the Spaniard to a small wayside tree as best I was able. "?ow, herc you stay," I said, "till lam ready to fetch you, " and I turned to ga But as I went a great doubt took me, and once more I remembered my mother's fear, and how my father had ridden in haste to Yarmouth on business about a Spaniard. Now today a Spaniard had wan? dered to Ditchingham, and when he learn? ed my name had fallen upon me, madly trying to kill me. Was not this the man whom my mother feared, and was it right that I should leave him thus that I might go Maying with my dear? I knew in my breast that it was not right, but I was so set upon my desire and so strongly did my heartstrings pull mo toward her whose white robe now fluttered on the slope of the Park hill that I never heeded tho warning. Well had it been for mc if I had done so and well for some who were yet unborn. Then they had never known death, nor I the land of exile, tho taste of slavery and thc altar of sacrifica CHAPTER HL THOMAS TELLS HIS LOVE. Having made the Spaniard as fast aa I couId7Eis~?rms~being Lound fo'tE?free behind him, and taking his sword with mc, I began to run hard after Lily and caught her not too soon, for in one more minute she would have turned along the road that runs to the watering and over the bridge hythe Park hill path to the halL Hearing my footsteps, she faced about to ! greet me, or rather as though to see wno I it was that followed her. There she stood in the evening light, a bough of hawthorn bloom in her hand, and my heart beat yet more wildly at the sight of her. Never had she seemed fairer than as she stood thus in her white robe, a look of amaze upon her face and in her gray eyes that was half real, half feigned, and with the sunlight shifting on her auburn hair that showed beneath her little bonnet. Lily was no round cheeked country maid, with few beauties save those of health and youth, but a tall and shapely lady, who had ripened early to her full grace and sweetness, and so it came about that, though we were almost of an age, yet in her presence I felt always as though I were the younger. Thus in my love for her was mlnglecl some touch of reverence. "Oh, it is you, Thomas, " she said, blush? ing as she spoke. "I thought you were Having made the Spaniard as fast as 1 could. not-I mean that I am going home, as it grows late. But, say, why do you run so fast, and what has happened to you, Thomas, that your arm is bloody and you carry a sword in your hand?" 441 have no breath to speak yet," I an? swered. "Comeback to the hawthorns, and I will tell you. " "No; I must be wending homeward. I have been among thc trees for more than an hour, and there is little bloom upon them." "I could not come before, Lily. I was kept and in a strange manner; also I saw bloom as I ran.:' "Indeed I never thought that you would come, Thomas," she answered, looking down, "who have other things to do than to go out Maying like a girL But I wish to hear your story, if it is short, and I will walk a little way with you." So we turned and walked side by side toward the great pollard oaks, and by the time that we reached them I had told her the tale of the Spaniard, and how he strove to kill me, and how I had beaten him with my staff. Now, Lily listened ea? gerly enough and sighed with fear when she learned how close I had been to death. "But you are wounded, Thomas!" she broke in. "See, the blood runs fast from your arm. Is the thrust deep?" "I have not looked to see. I have had no time to look." "Take off your coat, Thomas, that I may dress the wound Nay, I will have it so." So I drew off the garment, not without pain, and rolled up the shirt beneath, and there was thc- hurt-a clean thrust through the fleshy part of the lower arm. lily washed it w; t h water from thc brook and bound it with her kerchief, murmuring words of pity all the while. To say truth, I would have suffered a worse harm glad? ly if only I could find her to tend it. In? deed her gentle care broke down the fence of my doubts and gave mo a cou'-rige that otherwise might have failed me in her presence. At first indeed I could find no words, but as she bound my wound I bent down and kissed her ministering hand She flushed red as thc evening sky, the flood of crimson losing itself at last be? neath her auburn hair, but it burned deep? est upon the white hand which I had kiss? ed. "Why did you do that, Thomas?" she said in a low voice. Then I spoke. ,lI did it because I love you. Lily, and do not know hew to begin the telling of my love. I love you, dear, and have always loved, as I always shall love you" "Are you so sure of that, Thomas?" she said again. "There is nothing else in the world of which I ana so sure, Lily. What I wish to be as sure of is that you love :ne as I love you." For a moment she stood quiet, her head sunk almost to her breast. Then she lift? ed it, and her eyes shone as I had never seen them shine before. "Can you doubt it, Thomas?" she said. And now I took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, and the memory of that kiss has gone with mc through my long life and is with me yet, when, old and withered, I stand upon thc borders of the grave. It was thc greatest joy that has been given to mc in all my days. Too soon, alas! lt was done, that first pure kiss of youthful love, and I spoke again, some? what aimlessly: "It seems, then, that you do love mc who love you so well?" "If you doubted it before, can you doubt it now?" she answered very softly. "But listen, Thomas. It is well that we should love-each other, for we were born to it and have no help in the matter, even if we wished to find it Still, though love bo sweet and holy, it is not all, for there is duty to be thought of, and what will my father say to this, Thomas?" "I do not know, Lily, and yet I can guess. I am sure, sweet, that he wishes you to take my brother Geoffrey and leave me on on$ side." 41 Then his wishes are not minc, Thomas; also, though duty be strong, it is not strong enough to force a woman to a mar riago for which she has no liking. Yet it may prove strong enough to keep a woman from a marriage for which her heart pleads. Perhaps also it 6hould have been strong enough to hold mc back from the telling of my love."