Democratic Sentinel, Volume 3, Number 22, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 July 1879 — SAVED. [ARTICLE]

SAVED.

BY E. B. W.

“Miss Violet, will you give this letter to Mrs. Maltby ?” I had my hands full of drawing materials ; but I received tbe letter, and continued on my way to Mrs. Maltby’s dressing-room. The drawings were little studies I bad made while down at the seaside, where I had spent my vacation; made for Mrs. Maltby— to whom I had been “companion” for a year—and Mrs. Maltby had been interested in them, saying: “Tnuch them up a bit, Violet, and I will got a portfolio for them and keep them.” I usually sat with her, in her dress-ing-room, through the morning. And thither I now repaired to touch up the drawings, while she sat with her slippered leet on the fender, embroidering with purple and crimson wools. I gave her the letter, and went to a low seat in the deep bay-window. I sharpened a pencil, and then happened to glance towurd my companion. Her face was ashy white. Her profile was turned toward me. In its regularity and pallor it looked like a face cut in stone. But I had never seen it look so sharp and deathly. The letter was clenched in her hand. I had brought her bad news.

I was shocked, but silent. I tried to remember what I knew of her family relations. She was a handsome, blackliuirtd woman of 50, who had been early widowed, and returned to her father’s house. Her parents were dead. Her mother had died in her infancy, and she had been the mistress of Itedburn Hall ever since. It was not long, however, since her father’s decease. She had never had a child. She had no brothers or sisters whom I had ever heard of. I could not surmise what had happened. I saw her burn the letter; and then she rose and left the room. Aiterward I guessed whom that communication was from. A week passed. They were quiet and comfortable, but rather monotonous weeks, at Redburn. But, though young, I was Jess restless than most girls. I was not unhappy with M? - s. Maltby. Only sometimes I wished for a little change. Jt came—u most startling episode. We had company to dine—Mrs. Maltby’s lawyer and personal friend from town. I was dressing her hair, as 1 sometimes did, for she liked my arrangements—pronouncing them artistic. Suddenly, without knock or warning, the door was flung open, and a young man walked in. 1 felt Mrs. Maltby start under my hands. I, mjself, was frightened—the intruder looked so bold and reckless. He was very handsome; but ho seemed to mo to have been traveling long, or to have come out of some revel. His linen was soiled, his long, clustering hair unbrushed, his eyes bloodshot. Yet his appearance was singularly attractive. I had never before seen so high-bred and graceful a man. Mrs. Maltby did not speak to him. He seated himself before and not far from her, however. “ Go on, Violet,” she said. “ Certainly, let the young lady proceed with her task,” he said, quickly. “ What I have lo say need not interfere with her employment. I understand that she is your companion and confidante, though I have not had the pleasure of meeting her before.” The last sentence appeared to have been quite mechanically spoken, for he had fixed his eyes fiercely upon Mrs. Maltby’s face, and seemed to see only her. I went on, pinning up the braids of her hair as I had been bid; but my hands trembled. I could not see her face, but I think she met that look steadily. “You refused me,” ho said, in a far different tone from that in which he had at first spoken, low and concentrated. “ Certainly,” she answered. “Do you want my blood upon your head ? ” lie exclaimed. “ I washed my hands clear of you long ago,” fthe answered, composedly. “ Long ago,” ho repeated, and a wave of emotion that was inexplicable to me went over his face. Then he was silent. I don’t kno v why, but from that moment I pitied him. He got up, aud commenced walking the floor. “ I tell you, Winifred, I must have this money,” he said. “ I must have it, and to-night, to-night,” he repeated. Mrs. Maltby was silent. I caugnt a glimpse of her face. Flint was not harder. “ Let me have it, Winifred,” he said, pausing before her. “And I promise you it shall be the last time.” She made no reply. “ The last time. I mean it, Winifred.” His voice faltered. She did not speak. “ Will you ? ” “No,” she replied, with no emotion whatever. His face had been working with some strong, deep feeling. But that monosyllable seemed to strike him like a 'blow. He stood looking at her, his face still and desperate. “ I did not think God could make such a woman as you are,” he said, at last. I felt her shrink beneath the actual horror with which he seemed to regard her. But she spoke with unaltered composure. “ I told you, more than a year ago, . that I should pay no more debts of yours contracted in gambling, or in any other way,” she said. “ I meant it; you know that I meant it. I have given you fair warning. I shall not change.” He did not speak; his head was drooped upon his brevet; he was deathly pale,

“ I have done my duty by you, Guy— : you know that I have,” she added. “Yes, you have been just: but you j have never been merciful,” he replied, j “Oh, God I” He flung up his arms with a bitter cry that wrung my heart. I looked at her. No; she did not relent or go to him. He had flung himself into a chair, and, with his head dropped in his arms folded upon the back, was the most hopeless figure I had ever seen. She rose, for I had finirhed her hair, and took a seat nearer the fire. Her lips were gray, as if she were cold; but her face was still as inflexible as flint. He gave a groan and started up suddenly. “I am going,” he said. “ I ” He met her eye and asked, “Why do you not kill me? I was altogether in your hands once. You killed her, you will remember.” A slight flush stained her cheek. “You would have made her happy, I suppose, if she had lived,” she said, sarcastically. But the sting did not seem to reach him. “If she had lived? Oh, heaven, if she had lived I Winifred, may God deal by you as you have dealt by me.” “I am willing,” she answered. He remained but a moment longer. Wrapping bis cloak about him, he gave her one look of reproach, and left the room. I looked wistfully at her; she did not speak to me, and I, too, went away. She was ill the next day; but on the following day she appeared much as usual. Of all that I thought and felt, I, of oourse, said nothing. The matter was no affair of mine. If I had not understood it, Mrs. Maltby would have made me feel it. I understood that the two were brother and sister—that the voung man was named Guy Sedley—that he was dissolute aud in disgrace—that Mrs. Maltby had taken care of him in boyhood, bat now ignored the relationship I was in no way allowed to learn any more.

But on that second night I was awakened by a light shining into my chamber. It was something unusual, for the little clock on the mantle was chiming 12. After a moment, I slipped out of bed, and glided toward the open door. The long, embroidered folds of my nightdress nearly tripped me up; but I made no noise with my bare feet upon the velvet of the carpet. I don't know whom I expected to see—certainly not Guy Sedley, kneeling before a sandalwood chest, with papers strewn around him on the floor. A taper burning on the mantel showed his face perfectly cool as he wont on searching for something. He must have come through my room to reach the apartment, for it had no opeiiing but into my chamber. I was aware that the papers in the chest were valuable; that there was money placed there. I saw that he was robbing his sister.

I saw, too, a dirk-knife on the floor, close at bis side. I looked at him an instant—even then I remembered to pity him—then glided forward, snatched the knife, and leaped back to the door. I was mistress of the situation, for I had come from behind lnm, done all as in a flash, and,as he rose to his feet, I stood with a calmness that showed it was not my intention to immediately arouse the hoqse. With a presence of mind equal to my own, he put the roll of bank-notes he had been searching for into the pocket of his waistcoat, and, with a glittering eye, regarded me speculatively. I was petite, and I had not screamed. 1 know, now, that he was not much afraid of me. “ You have been robbing your sister,” I said; “ but if you will put the money back I will let you go.” His intense attention of me changed to a look of wonder. “You child, are you not afraid of me? ” he asked. “ No,” I answered, truthfully. “ But I watched you in your sleep, a moment ago, debating whether it were necessary to kill you or not.” “You must have been glad to find that it was not necessary,” 1 said. He looked more astonished than before; but I did not stop to think of that. “ Put the money back,” I said. “NoI” he said, firmly. “I will murder you first.” “ l)o not do that,” said I. “I am your friend. I was sorry for you that day.” He did not speak, but a troubled look disturbed the pule fixedness of liis face. “ How much money have your there V” I asked. “ One hundred pounds.” “ And you need it very much?” “ Very much,” he replied, with a bitter smile. “ Please put it back,” I said. “ She has been just to you; I would like to be merciful. I will give you the money.” “ You? ” “I have it—yes—here in my room. Let me show ’ oU.” I flung open the door, next to my writing-desk, and came back to him. “ These I will give you freely,” I said, opening the roll of notes. “ You said to her that it should be the last time, and I hope ” He had taken the notes into liis hand, looking at them in a kind of unbelieving way. “ You may hope that you have saved me,” he said, in a low voice. We were silent for a moment. “You know now that I was very sorry for you,” I said, with tears in my eyes. "Yes,” he said, gravely; “and I love you ior it.” He put Mrs. Maltby’s money back and rearranged the chest. I began to listen, nervously, for voices about the house; but all web very still. He locked the chest and gave me the key. “You know where it is kept?” “Yes; in a drawer in her dressingroom.” I wondered how he had obtained it. “ Hasten, and get away! ” “ There is no danger; I made my way hither carefully. Pure, brave little girl, how fearless you aro for yourself!” He looked at me earnestly, as if he wished to carry away a clear memory of my features; then he wrapped his eioak about him, flung up the sash and leaped soundlessly out in the darkness. 1 extinguished the taper, aud crept back to bed. I did not hear a sound about the house until daybreak. When I arose I saw the dirk-knife glittering in the sunshine near my writing-desk where I had lain it. Then I shuddered. A year later I was the mistress of Redburn ;*the beautiful house, the spacious grounds were all mine. Mrs. Maltby had died and bequeathed them to me. On her dying bed she said, “Violet, you are my heiress. There is only one living being who has my blood in his veins; him I disown.” She paused, and then went on: “You have seen my brother. I loved him; I was ambitious for him, but his natural bent was evil. We had a cousin, Flora, a child, who was brought up with him. They were engaged to be married. But I forbade , revealed to her his dissipation. I told her of his debts and deeds of daring. She loved him, she trusted him—but she was delicate, and died. He says I killed her.” She grew pale, even past her dying pallor. She vest on; •• \Vhen \ gaw

him last, the officers of justice were after him; he was a defaulter. He had stolen money to pay his gambling debts. He is probably lying in jad now; but I will have none of him. I was just to him, and I will never forgive him.” So she died, hard as flint to the last. And I was mistress of Red burn. I was young. I was fond of gayety. I had now the means at my disposal. Every summer my house was filled with guests. In the winter I was in London or abroad. And yet I lived only on the interest of the money bestowed upon me. Three years passed. I had never heard a word of Guy Sedley, when, one day, the Bromleyß of London, who were coming to visit me, asked leave to bring a friend; I extended the solicited invitation, and Guy Sedley came. It was a shock, but he gave no token of the past. Reclaimed from his errors, he was so refined and manly that he was the most distinguished of my guests. I loved him—but I thought, “He must hate me, the usurper of his rights. He is poor because I have bis patrimony. I have no right to Redbura, and I will not keep it. I will give it back to him.” An opportunity came. He was sitting on the terrace one bright evening. I went and took a seat near him. “How lovely this view is!” he exclaimed, pointing toward the distant hills. “Yes, and you shall wish for your right no longer, Mr. Sedley. Redburn is yours. I have no claim to it.” He did not speak, and I went on: “Your sister was just. And she would have made you the heir if she had lived to see you what you are to-day.” “But it was your mercy, not her justice, Miss Sedley, that saved me. Violet, I love you, and I will take Redburn with your hand, not else.” I put my hand in his, trusting him, loving him utterly, and proud, very proud, to make him the master of Redburn. Nor have I ever regretted it.