Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 May 1892 — HEARTS OF GOLD OR THE HEIRESS OF MAOLE LEAF FAEM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HEARTS OF GOLD OR THE HEIRESS OF MAOLE LEAF FAEM

BY GENEVIEVE ULMER.

CHAPTER 1. WHITE VIOLETS.

Maple Leaf Farm lay bathed in the golden sunlight of a rare autumnal day. They had named the place well those sturdy old Forsythes who, for three generations, had drawn from its soil the rich fruits of an inexhaustible fertility, redeeming the broad acres from the wilderness, and building and improving until the square mileof field, timber and brookside resembled some notable English grange. Where the many gablgd house stood, the thrifty maples shut it in to a nest< floored with golden-hued fallen leaves, and fanned by crimson beauties still pendent to the mothej stem, flaunting their gay tlntings like vart-Colcred banners. It was now, when the glories of the harvest still lingered, when each field looked like some swept lawn, and the barn groaned with golden store, and nature, man and beast seemed resting fu* a later battle with winter and storm, that Maple Leaf Farm looked its best, and it was now that stalwart, iron-knit John Elliott, gazing across the fenced-, in paradise of his hopes and ambitions, thrilled proudly. Ten years agono he had brought his motherless child, Ruth, to the farm, to be welcomed by old Geoffrey Forsythe, his dead wife’s bachelor brother. “I wrote for you," the ead-faced recluse had said, “because the farm was going to ruin, and you have the vigor and the ambition to redeem it. I am failing daily. I give you the use of the place as virtual owner while y u live. After that”—and he gazed affeeil nately at golden-haired little Ruth—“she shall be my hpiress, and her husband shall carry on the work you begin.” And then Geoffrey Forsythe had kissed the wonder-eyed child who so resembled his dead sister, had retired to the gloomy etone residence he owned in the village •of Ridgeton, a mile distant, and dropped out of their lives as fully as though he had gone to foreign parts. A recluse, an invalid, once a year ho came to thh farm, once a month Ruth visited him in the hermitage, where ho se<smed to dwell only to brood over a broken past. They told of a love episode in his career that had left him in its wake only heart-wreck and sorrow. She had jilted him, but he could not recognize the coquette in the fair being who seemed an angel to his blinded, longing gaze. She had wedded another. They had both died, leaving a son, Ralph, and when John-Elliott came to the farm old Geoffrey had said to him: • “I make but one restriction to your exclusive control of everything. A sense of duty impels me to keep her boy out of the poorhouse. You are to take Ralph, make a man of him, and some ■day, may be, he and Ruth ” Glim John Elliott understood, and Ralph had become a member of his family, to all eyes, except the blind ones of Geoffrey Forsythe and John Elliott, developing traits of secrecy, cunning and that carried out the defective training of a deceitful mother and a reckless, unprincipled sire. Since then the years had gone on, each one adding to the beauty and value of Maple Leaf Farm, and John Elliott might well experience a flush of joy as he surveyed his goodly heritage that bright, glowing afternoon. “It took time to get the hang of things,” he murmured, with self-gratula-tion, “but I managed it. There isn’t a farm in a day’s journey that equals this. The last year has mended every broken fence, propped up every crooked barn, and the profits—l shall be rich before I die, very rich!” Farmer John spoke truly. The last year had been a golden one indeed. In his stubborn pride he took all the credit for it, but his was not the hand that had wrought the change. He half guessed it, as a tall, manly fellow of about twenty-five Came from one of the granaries. “Mr. Elliott, the wagons will be here for the wheat to-morrow,” he remarked. “Very well, you can attend to it. And, say, Dalton, we had better cast up accounts to-night.” The young man bowed with a dignity that told of a past career considerably above the level of farm culture. Farmer John turned and watched him with a calculating eye as he strolled toward the road. “I can’t make him out,” he muttered. “I never could. I never will. He came here, quiet and gentlemanly, a year ago, and asked for work—no friends, no references. He thrashed like a bound hand, but I’ll wager he never saw a flail before. Then I put him in charge of the men. Then he began to help me out with my accounts, and he’s been a jewel, earning double his wages, saving me four times as much, and always the quiet, gentlemanly, unassuming fellow —Great Goshen! it never struck me before. But suppose it is him him that’s at the bottom of the new mischief I’ve scented!” Farmer John brought his sinewy fist down on the fence till it quivered, under the force of a new and overwhelming idea. Black as a thundercloud grew his broad, bronzed face, so lately wreathed with smiles of satisfaction. “Some one is at the bottom of it. Some one’s robbing me systematically. It can’t be him, but—who knows? He’s a stranger; he knows where the keys are, and—l’ll watch!” Muttering, black-browed, the farmer took his way slowly towards the house. The* sun had gone under a hazy cloud, the first forerunner of damp weather. Nature was in sympathy with the dark shadows that the impression of a wilful suspicion was about to cast about the peaceful home. Paul Dalton, the young superintendent, all unconscious of the web with iron warp and woof of steel that fate had just begun to weave for him, walked on till he reached the grove of maples lining the road. Farmer John adjudged him a mystery, and Farmer John was right. One glance at his expressive face, intelligent eyes, expansive brow, daintily shaped hands, told that he had not always been a tiller of the soil. Something in the half-veiled eyes

spoke of a hidden past, of ambition ! thwarted, of a soul bound to iron-like, ; uncompromising duty for the sake of j others. Something, Joo, just then awoke the ’ sentimental in the heart of the inexplicable mystery of Maple Leaf Farm that would have made hard, practical Farmer John stare in wonder, had he i been there. Whistling softly to himself, Paul Dalton, glancing down, saw some tiny flowers growing at his feet. He leaned over and picked two of them. They were violets, late stayers, sheltered by the protecting hedge and nourished by the rich damp soil around them. “White violets,” he murmured with a bright smile, “the first I have ever seen, though, from the dairymaids’ talk, they are common enough to the faithful lover. Little of that for me,” he sighed grimly, “but what superstition shall I fit to them. “Cross the stile with violets white, Your love shall pass that way ere night I’ll pave the way for some loyal swain. Here goes.” » He smiled dreamily, the poet’s reverie in his fine eyes, as he bound the two pretty flowers with a thread of grass and caught the brittle stems against a splinter in the slanting rail. Then, more serious, as some duty of labor was suggested Jo his mind by observing the workmen idling about a hay-mow, he crossed the field. Half way thither, turning he saw Ruth Elliott passing the spot he had just left, a book in her hand, her steps directed toward the grove. A faint glow came into his cheeks. Perhaj s he thought of the violets, and the superstition his ready mind had associated with them. At all events, he thought of the pretty, wild-rose face, and the trim, dainty form, for his eyes grew somber, and he directed the men at their work in a preoccupied, mechanical way. Some fascination of destiny came into his cheerless life as, at liberty again, he’ wended his way toward the grove where Ruth had disappeared. His heart gave a quicker bound as he caught sight of her pretty blue dress through the shrubbery. Then a frown darkened his brow, bitter and distrustful, as he observed that she had a companion. “That idler, Ralph Prescott!” he murmured. “What does Mr. Elliott keep that man about here for?” An unwelcome .companion was the favorite of old Geoffrey Forsythe just then to the dainty Ruth, however. Paul Dalton knew that a moment later. For, as he was about to retrace his steps, a fluttering, indignant outcry reached his ears. “How dare you, sir!” Ruth’s mellow tones, robbed of their usual gentleness, spoke. The reply grated harshly. “Dare? That’s good, Ruth! Give me the books, I say! I saw; I was watching. You’ve got them between the leave. You won’t take a keepsake from me. I ain’t handsome enough for that, but some other fellow—l will have them!” “You cowardly spy!” gasped pretty Ruth. “Oh, I hate you! I hate you! Help! You shall not have the book!” “I will!” In half a dozen sturdy strides, Paul Dalton reached the spot where the altercation was going on. An exciting scene greeted his vision. The great rough Ralph had just torn a book from Ruth's hands and she was striving to recover it. “Give it to me!" she cried, her eyes flashing, her face aflame. “Oil, if I were only a man!” “Miss Ruth, here is your book.” Quick as a flash, Paul Dalton had acted. How it was ever done the confused Ruth could not tell, but the next moment his athletic form had sprung through the shrubbery, the book was snatched from the astounded Ralph Prescott’s hands, was tendered to its-owner, and Ralph himself lay prostrate, ten feet away, seeing stars. With a growl of rage and muttered threats he limped out of reach of his indignant adversary a moment later. “What was it?” querried Paul, solicitously; “you will pardon me, but that great rough fellow ” Trembling all over Ruth Elliott confusedly turned over the leaves of the book. “I—l had something; it is lost,” and then she burst into inexplicable womanly tears. “Was it something of value?” asked Paul, gently. “Perhaps I can help you find it.” “No, I have found it.” Paul Dalton started as from a shock A tell-tale blush on her face, hastily, guiltily, pretty Ruth Elliott had picked up at her feet the object missing from her book, the cause of all the exciting episode of the moment. Two white violets bound with a thread of grass. Comprehendingly, quivering with nameless emotion, Paul Dalton recognized them, and as she, shame-faced, fluttering, dropped the flowers again, he regained them and tendered them to her with earnest, searching, hopeful glance. Their hands touched as she took them —and she trembled! Their eyes met as he realized that they were precious to her —and he thrilled! CHAPTER 11. PLOTTING. 111-favoied, sullen-hearted Ralph Prescott nursed his swollen cheek and his impotent rage in silence and solitude the remainder of that eventful day. He did not appear at supper time, and the ensuing day he mounted a horse early and gave Maple Leaf farm a wide berth until after dark. Farmer John met him the next forenoon, and asked him what was up, but he evaded a direct reply. Pretty Ruth only laughed slyly when interrogated. He was too happy; she saw too much of brave, earnest Paul Walton those days to get even the officious Ralph into trouble by betraying his rudeness. Once only she met the surly Ralph face to face. “I’m watching and I’m thinking,” he told her in tragic accents of mysterious import. “You won’t keep up your flirtation very long.” “Poor Ralph!" she replied banteringly. “Don’t think! The effort might bring on brain fever!” , “ Don’t fret! ” flashed out Ralph fiercely. " You’ll see what kind of a man this new lOver of yours is soon. You’re mine, by rights; it was always so understood, and —l’ll have revenge.” Happy Ruth laughed at the dark

threats and blushed at the idea' of a lover. Ralph evaded Paul Dalton, anathematized him nt a distance, refused to break bread at the same table with him, and the third night after the altercation stole cautiously into the house at dusk, stole guiltily out again, and made for the distant village much with the excitement and haste of a midnight assassin. “I’ve done It,” he chuckled, gleefully. “Old Elliott has been suspicious for a week. He’ll miss it, sure, and the way I’ve fixed it ” Crafty Ralph seemed to feel very sanguine and very joyful over some plot that bid fair to materialize ere the evening had passed away. He reached the village and proceeded straight to its tavern. Arrived, it seemed necessary for him to prop up his courage, for he drained several glasses at the bar, and then, retiring to an inner room, sat at a table lost in reflection. “I’ll give it time to come to a focus,” he soliloquized. “In about an hour I’ll go home and witness the explosion. Paul Walton, you crossed a bad man’s track when you crossed mine!" More meditation, the crafty face expressing varied and fleeting emotions, and, then Ralph drew two photographs from his pocket. At one he gazed fondly; it was that of Ruth. At the other he glared venomously—hatred and jealousy held in thrall in one concentrated look. “I stole it from her room. He gave it to her,” hissed the self-confessed thief. “How I hate him!" Paul Walton’s placid eyes gazed up from the picture. Their earnest glance maddened his infuriated rival. He spread it out upon the table; he struck it; he spat upon it. Then, taking out his pocket-knife, he began to jab at it. “How I hate him!” He burrowed out one eye. “I wish it was his real throat.” And the envenomed plotter described a skillful swoop across the cardboard. “There’s his miserable heart!” Jab, jab, jab!—the blade quivered in the innocent picture, until it was perforated like a bullet-riddled battle flag. “Hello! Queer amusement, Isays.” Ralph Prescott started violently. Turning quickly, he observed a tramp-ish-looking fellow at his elbow. “Who are you?” he demanded, angrily; what business " The stranger leered craftily at the picture, unmoved by Ralph’s blustering manner. “Queer amusement, I says,” he repeated, insolently. "Is it apy of your business?" demanded Ralph, hotly, securing and hiding the photograph. “Oh, no,” retorted the other, coolly; “only I can guess the truth—you hate that man.” Ralph gritted his teeth vengefully. “And you haven’t got pluck enough to deal with the real fellow as you do with his picture.” “See here ” began Ralph, furiously. “No, you see here. I’m a keen one, I am. Mebbe I can help you. That man is a rival, eh?” “Suppose he is?" “And you want to get even with him?” “What if I do?” “Well, I know something. It’s curious how I know it, but I happen to, all the same. You want revenge. Tell me your story, all about that man, and I’ll tell you something in return that will make your eyes snap. I’ll show you a way of revenge that will make you just get up and howl with delight. ” o “Do you mean it?” muttered Ralph, dubiously. “Treat me right, promise me enough to pay a night’s lodging and keep, and see if I’m boasting." Over their glasses Ralph Prescott reluctantly awarded the confidence demanded. “Now, then?” he cried expectantly, glaring in eagerness at his companion. “Now then it is. When I saw that picture I was sort of startled.” “Why?” “I know that man.” “You know him?” “Yes.” “What of it?” “His name begins with a W, first name P—Paul. Is that a clever guess? and how’s Dalton for the rest of it?-” “I don’t see anything wonderful in that. Everybody about here knows that.” “Yes, but I don’t live about here. Never was here before, and didn’t know that Paul Dalton was within a thousand miles of here.” “Well, knowing now that he is, what of it?” “What of it!” repeated the other excitedly. “This of it. If I can tell you something about that man that will sweep him from your path like a hurricane, if I can prove certain facts that once known will drive him from Maple Leaf Farm like a flash, what then?” Ralph Prescott’s face was white with eagerness and hope. “Can you do it?” he panted. “lean. Is it SSO if I do?” “Yes, a hundred. Out with it. What do you know of this man, Paul Dalton?” The tramp leaned over. His blowsy lips touched the ear of the eager Ralph. He whispered seven words words freighted with an intelligence that meant ruin and disaster to the innocent Paul Dalton—heart-break and misery for the girl with the trusting heart and the wild-rose face. Palpitating, his eyes glowing luridly with mingled joy and hate, Ralph Prescott sprang to his feet. “Prove that!” he gasped, hoarsely. “Prove it, an.d I’ll give you, not fifty, not a hundred, but five hundred dollars. Oh, the luck of it! Oh, the joy of it. Paul Dalton, I have you in my power at last!” |TO BE CONTINUED. |