Democratic Sentinel, Volume 4, Number 52, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 February 1881 — WAS HE MAD? [ARTICLE]

WAS HE MAD?

BY CHARLES E. GOLDEY.

In visiting the south of England, have you ever gone out of your way to enjoy a few hours in one of the nuiny delightful, thriving towns which are scattered like corn throughout that sunny land? If not, then it has not been your fortune to view the sparkling landscape of Hazelton, a quaint, quiet village, with modest little homes, whose white paint glistens in the sunlight, and whose gardens, trimmed and orderly, exhibit blushing roses and sweet-scented flowers peeping from midst dense masses of green foliage. Some twenty years back, there was situated on the outskirts of Hazelton, a gljoomy-looking mansion, surrounced by a clump of oaks and cedars which well nigh hid the edifice from view. Bolton Hall had stood the storms of many centuries, but time seemed only to deepen the gloom of its surroundings. The house was square in form, with a tilfreted wing attached to its eastern wall. This wing exhibited great signs of decay, and its moldering walls and prison-shaped windows enhanced the general gloom surrounding the whole place. In this wing were the fortunes of the Bolton race made; here were formulated those thoughts whose execution bad raised Peter Bolton, gentleman, from comparative poverty and insignificance to wealth and knighthood; and here was the splendor of the same maintained by a long line of descendants, terminating, at the time of which we write, in Sir James Bolton. Sir James was a man who had just turned his fiftieth year; of tall stature and well-rounded form, with a face whose keen black eyes could either twinkle with humor or sparkle with the darkest of passions. He had evidently lived well in the past, and his close-siting vest betokened a rare appetite for the delicacies of the table. Sir James was a widower, his wife having died shortly after their- marriage leaving her blessing in the form of a new-born babe to her youthful husband. Twenty-four y< ars had transformed the babe into a broad-shouldered young man with blue eyes brimming over with good-nature, while mouth and chin betokened the resolution of the soldier. Arthur Bolton had met Lucy Grey while visiting a village friend, and enjoyed her society in many little picnics and par ties gotten up in the neighborhood, and had declared his love and been accepted. And now, the two young hearts were patiently waiting for the day that . would bind them together in unity and love. It was a beautiful spring morning. Crisp winter had lifted her fleecy covering from oil the fields and flowers, and nature was once more re-asserting her lovely sway, breathing sweet odors through the sunny atmosphere. Arthur Bolton was strolling through the gardens, idly puffing clouds of smoke into the air, and giving liimself up to the sweet reflections which love might beget in such rosy bowers. A rapid step sounded behind him, and turning, he beheld his father. “Good morning, Arthur!” said Sir James, in a cheery tone. “I am glad I have found you.” “Why, my dear father,” replied Arthur, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, “do you sec your wild son so seldom that the parternal heart is warmed at beholding him enjoying a cigar amid the sweet perfumes of your garden?” “Ha! ha!” laughed Sir James; and for a few moments both gentlemen indulged in considerable merriment. Sir James’ mirth finally ceased, and a look of deep seriousness settled over his countenance. Arthur turned around, and thoughtfully studied the old house which he had never called home. “Father,” he exclaimed, wheeling back to his former position, “why do you not have that old, broken-down tower torn away, and erect a modern wing in its place? I have often thought that it oast a gloom over our home, and this morning it seems really forbidding.” Sir James raised his black eyes swiftly to the face of his son, and darted a keen, suspicious glance at him. Seemingly satisfied with his inspection, he replied in his usual tones—“No, Arthur, your father has too few moments of seriousness to remove, at this late hour, thejonly objects that chain his thoughts to tne past. But, Arthur, my object in meeting you here this morning is of far too serious a nature to wait longer. To-day, Arthur Bolton”—and his voice became low and earnest—“the fate of your father and your home lies in your hands!” “ What!” “ I am ruined, unless—” “ Good heavens, father, what do you mean?” exclaimed the young man with startled eyes and excited tones. “ Unless,” passionately continued Sir James, “you save me.” “ Thank God, if it lies in my power!” was the glad response. “But how is it to be done?” “My plan is very simple. My creditors are beginning to push me to the wall. I can stave off the event for a month, and in the meantime you can hasten to my plantation in Cuba—my last resource. Straighten out its affairs, which have through my carelessness become very much confused, and sell it for what it will bring. I have no doubt but the sum realized will cover all my debts, and leave a handsome margin. ” A look of glad resolution lightened the face of Arthur as he replied: “ I will run over to the Meadows and see Lucy to-morrow, and then away!” Sir James turned slightly pale. Shading his black eyes with his hand from his son’s gaze, he said: “ Miss Grey left town this morning, to visit her aunts in London; and besides, Arthur, it is of the most vital importance that you should depart this very afternoon.” “This very afternoon!” Arthur involuntarily murmured, in a tone slightly saddened, for his thoughts were rapidly traveling toward Lucy, his love. Rousing liimself from his gloomy reverie, he replied, with force of cheerfulness: “ Very well, father; I will leave a note for Luoy in your care, and this afternoon shall see me off. ” And with these words on his lips, the young man retired to prepare for his journey. For a few moments Sir James Bolton pulled desperately on his cigar. He was reflecting, and, as the thoughts chased each other away, the varying expression of his face was marked and serious. “ He is my son,” he broke out fiercely, throwing his cigar far from him, “ God knows I love him, and fain would spare him, but the hand of fate is closing about me, and I must succumb. Heaven!” he groaned, pacing up and down the path excitedly. “What I suffer! And for whom, for what? For Arthur! Ah, if it were any other human being, I could crush him to the earth from my path with exultation! But now,” he cried pitifully, the color coming and going from his face, “1 must stab my own son’s heart to the core. Must I? Oh, how the chains drag me so the ground! And

yet I must have her. Love, love!” he continued, passionately, breaking from his strain of remorse. “ What power is this, what chains are these, that binds me to dishonor! Love and honor should go hand in hand, but not with me—not with me! By Heavens!” he cried, raging fiercely up and down, “I shall have her!” And, with a glance toward the blue sky above he fell on his knees and hissed, “I swear it!” chapter n. There was nothing particularly beautiful in Lucy Grey’s face or form—that is, no physical beauty but there was a stamp on her countenance which God alone had placed there—the stamp of purity, truth, and virtue. Since the sudden departure of Arthur Bolton, a pensive sadness had weighted the general buoyancy of her spirit; ever since Sir James had called, and, taking her hand in his own, had gently said: “Lucy, I have sorrowful news to impart—news that will break your heart, unless you boldly bare your shoulders’ to the burden. Prepare yourself, my dear friend, to hear what I must tell you. Arthur Bolton has robbed his father, and deserted the girl he promised to make his wife!” “I can not, will not, believe it!’ she cried, with head erect and eyes aflame. “Why should I—his father—say it. unless it were the bitter truth ? he reproachfully asked. . “Too true—too true!” she wailed in her heart; and from that hour her cheerfulness was gone, and a subdued sadness took its place. It seemed but natural that Sir Janies Bolton should often call, and exert himself to cheer her; but when, several months later, he had gently asked her to forget the disgraceful conduct of his son. and become his wife, she resolutely declined. “Never!” was her quiet reply, and that was the last she thought of it. Sir James returned home from his last visit in a very moody frame of mind. For several hours he remained closeted in his room, while a fierce battle raged within his breast. He had injured his son—had sent him on a wild-goose chase into the very midst of danger—had told his intended wife the double falsehood that he was a thief and a villain—had detained, read, and destroyed, the loving letters directed to Lucy in his care, and now should he renounce his purpose or consummate his villainy? His crime had brought suffering with it, for the light-hearted easy-going gentleman of two months previous had changed to a haggard, morose, and passionate man. “Shall I give her up now,” he cried, his bloodshot eyes straining straight ahead, “renounce her now, now when I have consigned my son to misery for her sake? No! Deprived of her and of my son, what is left in life for me ?” It was nearly two weeks after this event that Lucy Grey received a note requesting her to call at the residence of Sir James Bolton, as he wished to see her in regard to an important matter, but was too ill to leave his house. The note also stated that, as the subject of his interview would be his absent son, it would be wise to keep the knowledge of her call strictly private. This note quite astonished Lucy, but as she did not know what importance might be attached to it, she determined on acceding to the request. It was about the hour of dusk that Lucy Grey, with a cloak completely enveloping her. presented herself at the door of the Bolton mansion. The servant had evidently received his instructions, for without a word he led her to the favorite sittingroom of his master. Before a low table whose marble top was hidden beneath gilt-edged Volumes and musty papers, sat Sir James. His face was sljghty pale, and his eyes shone with unnatural brightness, as, rising from his seat, he cordially extended his hand toward his visitor. “You cannot imagine, Miss Grey,” he said, in soft, melting tones, “what pleasure it affords me to have my request promptly granted. My deaf girl, you have suffered now for a long time-suf-fered through the cruelty and brutality of—” “Stop, Sir James!” flashed Lucy, confronting him with scornful eyes. “I did not come here to hear his name dragged again in the mud, nor do I ask tor pity. lam a woman, sir, and as such you should respect the motive which prompted me to come here. Now, Sir Tames,” she cried, advancing a step forward, while the color dyed her white cheeks at the thought of her rashness in being drawn into so delicate a position, “you have stated that you had something of importance to communicate to me. What is it?” Boldly her blue eyes met the piercing gaze rivited upon her. For a moment Sir James paused; then, with an impetuous spring, he caught Lucy by the hand. In vain she strove to wrench herself from his grasp. “Cease!” he cried, in husky, passionate tones. “You must, you shall hear me! Miss Grey—Lucy—darling—” and his hot lips almost touched the cheek which had become as alabaster; “my Bon has deceived, deserted you—trampled upon the tender love of your heart, and not only yours, but mine—his father’s. Heaven!” here the strong man shook as with palsy. “That my son should be so base, so cruel! Lucy, the sympathy which I, as his father, have felt for you has turned to love—idolatry.” “Monster! away!” she gasped, with a convulsive spring backward, while her eyes flashed, her cheeks crimsoned, and her hands were clenched. “You—his father—to insult me—let me pass!” “Never!” he hissed, springing to her side again. “If not with your will, then without it, you shall be my wife!” And, snatching a moistened handkerchief which had been lying on the table, he pressed it firmly to her nose amt mouth. In a few seconds Lucy Grey sank senseless to the floor. Gently lifting her in his arms, Sir James carried his senseless burden through the gloomy, intricate hallstill he stood before a heavy door rusty with age. Unlocking it, he entered a large room with diminutive windows, through which a single ray of light threw its halo over swords and weapons mouldering into dust. Depositing his burden on a large square bed standing in a corner of the room, he silently withdrew, and, an hour later, was strolling moodily through the garden below. CHAPTER HL “Good morning, father!” exclaimed a hearty voice, and, glancing up, from his paper. Sir James Bolton beheld his son. Springing excitedly from his seat, he. exclaimed—- “ You, Arthur? Where—” “Why, father,” cried Arthur, “you do not seem very glad to see me. ” But Sir James, recognizing his rashness, had recovered his self-control. Extending his hand, he exclaimed: * ‘Pardon me, Arthur, but your return was so unexpected, and so welcome, that I—” “Enough, father dear,” the young man gently returned. “I know that ! am welcome, especially when I have a satisfactory report of my work to hand in. But’ I can not stay with you long. Associations here are too sad, too bitter.” And his blue eyes looked inconceivably unhappy, for he was thinking of her who had written him soon after his arrival in Cuba, one short, cutting note, declining his love. . So it was arranged, greatly to Sir James’ satisfaction, that Arthur should start the next morning, to spend a few years traveling in the new world It was evening. The clear blue sky was studded with twinkling stars, whose sof| glimmer melted into the stronger

halo of the moon. The garden of the Bolton mansion was bathed in a grayish mist, which flickered among the tai: trees, and cast weird shadows on the old castle. , , A ... Arthur Bolton was slowly strolling through the deep paths leading in and out among the shrubbery. The fire of his cigar burnt fiercely as he pulled nervously away at it How often he had walked here with buoyant steps and light heart, looking toward the future, when Lucy Grey was to have become his wife! “How cruel!” he murmured. “Cruel cruel! Oh, how shall I bear it—how shall I endure? Would to heaven that here and now I could lay down the burden of my life and sink into oblivion! Lucy, who was my life and love—who is, and' ever shall "be, my love—is not false—but the note!” Hour after hour passed away, and still he staid. It was about midnight that he stopped opposite the old tower. ‘TSark!” he exclaimed, springing forward and assuming a listening attitude. “Arthur! Arthur! Save me!” Like lightning his blue eyes sent a gleam up to the window above. A white object fluttered a moment, and then fell at his feet. Picking it up, he read in faintly penciled characters the following: “To the person finding this handkerchief. For the love of all you hold dear in this world or the next, take this to Dr. Grey of Hazelton, and tell him that 1 am confined a prisoner, by Sir James Bolton, in the big room of the old tower, and that he swears I shall not receive my freedom until I become his wife.” Without reading further, Arthur Bolton sprang like a blood-hound toward the house. He knew it all now. Sir Jama, was suddenly awakened that night by a terrible crash, and hurriedly throwing on his clothes, he rushed toward the big room in the old tower.

Crash! With a wild shriek, he sprang forward. Crash, crash! And down flew the door, rotten with age, and Sir James arrived just in time to glare through the open space on Arthur and Kucy, fondly clasped in each other s arms, while the young man’s hot kisses were raining ovei the brow, cheek and neck of her who was his life and love. “Fiends!” screamed Sir James, while the blood rushed in torrents to his head. With one wild bound the old man attempted to reach the pair, but, falling short, he tottered, fell, and remained as one dead. Tenderly he was laid on the bed. Already Artnur and Lucy had forgiven him, and for mafry a week, hung over his pillow; and when he became convalescent, none were happier than they. But the punishment came. £sir James’ sight had gone in his illness, and henceforth, all that made life worth the living to him, was to sit bet ween Arthur and Lucy, who had become man and wife, with a hand of each clasped tightly in his own, and hear them declare their forgiveness and love. __________,