Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 November 1892 — TRUE AS STEEL [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TRUE AS STEEL

MRS ALVA(?) JORDAN GARTH.

CHAPTER I. love’s youno dseam The sky was a vault of fleckless blue, (the sun a great gleaming sapphire, the air bracing as pure wine, and the rate autumnal day was drawing to a close. Hopedale was a peaceful hamlet, but beyond its kind in certainly one progressive point—it had a young ladies’ seminary of unusual excellence, and a young man of more than usual acumen was enjoying the beautiful day and taking in the distant mrrets and peaks of the institute of learning in question at that eve«itlul hour, for him, when our story opens. He had the look of an artist, and the equipment of an'artist sunounded him. He had chosen the slope of a woods 1 grove for his camp-stool, and had set his easel facing the village. The flaming leaves of a broad-spreading tree sheltered him. Air, earth and sky were in harmony with the artistic impulse, but just now he seemed in a thoughtful rather than an active mood. His brush had fallen to his side, and the canvas showed only a few lazy patches of color. It seemed as if ho had come out to paint Nature and had been shamed from feeble effort by the glorious brush of Nature itself. The sun, which dashed the white villas with pale gold, made the sumacs a great ensanguined blur of crimson, and, mingling with the vari-colored treetops, produced those exquisite shades and alternations of color and beautiful effects which no pen has ever yet described, no brush ever yet delineated. “I wish she would come,” he murmured. “I wonder if she will come?” His words were a sigh of longing and anxiety, and he continued to gaze at the distant turrets as it' “she” was a fairy, with power to fly straight through the air to his side. , There was a rustling among the dry twigs back of him, but he did not heed it. Then there was a quiver of branches overhead, and down ,came a hundred fluttering leaves. “Caught in a shower, Mr. Dreamer!” laughed a bright, bell-like voice. “Is this the way you work at the great picture that is to charm the world?” “Edna!” Over went stool and easel as the young man sprang to his feet, as if from an electric shock. Red as the red, red leaves strewn about him flushed the handsome face, and' brighter than the crystal rays of sunshine glowed his pi oud-looking eyes down into responsive ones brighter yet, while he clasped the hands, both hands, that had shaken the bough overhead, sending earthward the fluttering messengers of mischief. “I so wanted to see you!” he breathed, thrilling at the trustful glance of those pure eyes. “And I so wanted to see you, but— Raymond!” He was a privileged character, this athletic, handsome-iaced young fellow, all soul, all love, for they were affianced, yet-jher tones w ere a tender reproach, a mock serious mandate, as his eager lips came a trifle dangerously near sweeping her velvety cheek. She had managed to shrink back and disengage her hand, and with the tip of one pearly pink linger she pointed back the way she had come. There was a roguish twinkle in her eye, as Raymond Marshall stole a quick glance in the direction indicated. He frowned and groaned, dolefully but; submissively. His visitor had not come unattended. Back in the grove, a girl of her own age was toying with the rattling tops of the blanched golden rod. 1 “Was it necessary,” he began, and then he uttered, quite testily: "Always, that girl!” “Raymond! how dare you’” came the spirited interpolation, and Miss Edna Deane showed the fire of her quick nature in a sudden, Indignant flash of those captivating eyes. “Beatrice Mercer is my friend.” “I wish she wasn't. Of air your associates I distrust her the most,” ventured Raymond Marshall. “You ought to be ashamed!” commented Miss Tyrant, severely, “and you ought to feel grateful to her, instead of otherwise.” “Grateful?” “Yes; that is if you really care about seeing me. You know the rules of the seminary. No young lady may leave its sacred precincts unless accompanied by one of the teachers. Poor Beatrice has to teach for her tuition, and they invest her with the dignity and judgment of a duenna. So, when I told Miss Chandler, the principal, that I had the headache, that I thought I spied you so lonesome and industrious over here, and felt that the encouragement of my criticism on your beautiful picture might hurry up its completion, she reluctantly admitted that such a proceeding would be quite proper if Beatrice accompanied me. ” Raymond Marshall winced at the thrust at his indolence. He brightened up, however, as he "Nevermind. All that will soon end, and soon we shall have no friend, chaperon or duenna to mar the completeness of happiness. Eh, my little love?” Edna’s head had dropped on her breast, and she shook her head slowly. “If dply—if only Miss Chandler would speak ” “Yes,” inter;upted Rayncond. excitedly; “if she would only speak. Just look at it! Here we are, two loving, harmonious souls. I think the world of you, and you take pity on me, and hope to make me famous some day by marrying me and securing the right to order me to work. My family are delighted with you. Even prim Miss Chandler acknowledged it would be cruel to part us, but—that dreadful mystery! She cannot consent because she is not a relative. She cannot secure a relative’s consent, because she does not know any such. Was there ever - such a stickler for propriety—was there ever such a maddening muddle?” Edna’s hand rested consolingly on her lover’s arm, as hs face clouded. “Oh! it is not quite desperate,” she spoke cheerily. “Let us go over the real facts of the case, Raymond, and be patient. Here I am, a nobody, a girl from nowhere. I seem to have been placed at the seminary here at 10 years of age, without a memory of early childhood. Miss Chandler says a mysterious gentleman brought me here, paid ten years’ tuition and board in advance for me, and—that's all.” “Not a letter since—not a visit since?” “Not even a hint. Here I was left. Was I an orphap, was I abandoned here, or was the rtfvel’erious gentleman my father, who, loHack of a dead mother’s

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care, placed me here for safe keeping/ and going out Into the world to forget his sorrows or win a fortune, died with the secret of my identity looked in his own tosom?" - “And now?* murmured Raymond, his loval heart beating wdh renewed sympathy for the friendless girl who seemed to deserve all the love and care ne had vowed to her. “Now, Miss Chandler says we must wait. I am virtually her ward. She dare not sanction our union. Any day my father, or whoever my mysterious relative may be, might appear to claim me. What would he say if helound me married to a_ painter who won’t paint, an artist who talks more love than art?” “Wat!” Raymond, impatiently. “For how long? The ten years have two to run yet. ” “Yes, but I am eighteen to-day—of legal age. Miss- Chandler says she verily believes that some word or direction will come soon.” It was an old story gone over now for the hundredth time, but there was new interest in discussing it. They talked of their plans, of their hopes, of the golden future life seemed to presage. “I must go now,” spoke Edna at last. “Why! I have been here nearly half an h.iur. I wanted to tell you about the reception to-morrow evening. Mil Brinsley is to take me. He is Miss' Chandler’s cousin, and I want to please her.” Raymond’s eyes showed a rising token of jealousy, but he was prudently silent. “If he does not go I shall write you, and you must be my knight-errant. I hope he does not. Good-by. No! Beatrice is looking this way. Be patient, Raymond, and above all, do make some progress on that tiresome, never-to-be finished picture." She wasjjone as she had come, like a flashing, dainty sprite. Raymond Marshall followed her with his eyes, until the bushes shut out the remotest view of her pretty, nodding cap. “Picture!" he murmured, with a sigh, as he packed up stool and easel. “Who could paint with such a face haunting every glance and thought? And she bids me wait! Wait, to be tortured every time I see her in the company of that fellow Brinsley, or making a confidante of Beatrice Mercer. How I distrust her! ’’

Yes, Miss Beatrice Mercer was a thorn In the artist’s side. Why, he could scarcely explain. She was pretty, young, apparently.devoted to.his fiancee, but more than onee he had caught her eyes fixed on Edna with a latent, baleful light, upon himself with a passionate, pleading expression that mystified, repulsed him, he knew not why. But all this would soon end; ah, yes! it must soon end. The mystery of his fiancee must some time cease to be a mystery. It was not an unusual case. It would probably have a very prosaic conclusion, with the long-lost father returning, and explaining that he had placed his daughter in Miss Chandler’s charge because she was motherless. Then they would marry, and life would be worth living, and all the distressing trifles of the present would vanish. It must be so. Edna had predicted that word must soon come from her mysterious relative. Her faith as hopeful as his own, Edna locked her arm through tnat of her companion, and did most of the chattering •the way back to the seminary. Miss Mercer went Straight to hor own room. It Edna hal s.en h-,r as she threw herself on her bed and lay cou,vulsed in a paroxysm of tears, rage, and emotion for over an hour, she might not vainly have guessed at the cause of the varying moods of this strange creature. . As to Edna, she studied for an hour t and started to find her friend again, blinking of Raymond’s handsome face despite herself, and Raymond’s anxious wish that the obstacles to their union were removed—that “word would come,” and the suspense of waiting be alleviated. “Oh, Edna! Miss Chandler wishes to -see you at once,” spoke a fellow-stu-dent, as Edna crossed the hall. “Particularly?” murmured Edna, with a smile. “Very much so. She sent me for you, and seemed greatly excited. Something has happened; I don’t know what, but she acted very much agitated.” Yes, “something" had happened, and Edna Deane knew what, a few minutes later. Something had happened in a way directly in accordance with her thoughts and Raymond Marshall’s impatient desires. “Word” had come!

CHAPTER 11. FROM THE PAST. Edna Deane’s heart quickened its pulsations as she started for the reception room.. The m ssage brought her bore a token of excitement. Her mind upon her lover, upon the myst'ry of her fair young life, she vaguely dreaded to trfke the step across the threshold that might portend revelations that would distress her. A glance through the vestibule doors showed a close carriage with two reeking horses, a driver on the box. Had this unusual spectacle someth ng to do with the summons of the moment? “You sent for me, Miss Chandler,” spoke Edna, inquiringly, as she entered the reception room, and then paused abruptly. The face of the lady principal was pale, her manner agitated. She half arose, as if moved by a sudden impulse, to greet her favorite warmly, sympa>thetically. Then, checking herself, she sad, in a muffled, indistinct tone of voice: “Yes, Edna. This gentleman has come for you. ” At the gentleman in question the wondering, perturbed Edna was starin g. He made a sl'ght obeisance as she appeared. Now, stiff, prim, severe, his sallow face and nervous eyes rather depressed her. “It is—it is about ” stammered Edna. “Your past? your friends?” murmured the principal, brokenly. “Yes, Edna, I am very sorry', but your schooldays are over. ” “Oh! Miss Chandler, don’t say that!" Edna gasped the words. She comprehended that the consummation so devoutly desired by her mystifleJ, impatient lover and herself had arrived. But the shock of the announcement, a realization of how sunny and happy ha 1 been her life under the tender care cf the school guardians sent the quick tears to her eyes and the warm color from her face. Then eagerly, longingly, piteously, she glanced at the man before her. Was he the relative she had so oiten dreamed of—the mvsterious censor of her fate? “You are not—my father?” she began, twisting her hands in nervous confusion. The strange, mobile features never changed. Staring stra’ght ahead of him like some automaton, his face most resembling that of a man in Hl-heal h, suffering but silent, schooled against

the betrayal of the least emotion, ng answered solemnly, but not unpleas* ingly: “I? no. I am only your father’s friend —his servant—his messenger.” “And—he has sent for me’” Every word was a throb of suspense and painful uncertainty. A father! Then she was not utterly friendless? A father! But why had he left her loveless, neglected, all these years? “Miss Chandler will tell you," answered stranger. “She recognizes the authority by which I appear." “Dear Edna, let it be smiles rather than tears,” spoke Miss Chandler, coming to Edna's side and p acing a caressing arm about her. “It is all quickly told. You have a father, and he has sent for you.” “But ” “I cannot tell you more. This gentleman not only binds me to secrecy, or, rather, leaves me in complete ignorance of the motive for all this mystery, but insists that you shall leave kt once. Of one thing be assured, however. lam satisfied that you-are going into kind hands. All will be well. This letter will convince you. It is from your father.” And Miss Chandler nodded to the stranger, who handed Edna a sealed missive. She barely glanced at it through her blinding tears. She read only the first few lines, beginning: “My child, there hava been vital reasons for my seeming neglect of you, there are still vital reasons why suddenly, abruptly, you must sever your connection with your dearesb friends and hasten to me. When I expla'n you will know why no one must know " Edna crumpled the unfinished missive into her pocket at this stage, for Miss Chandler was giving her directions to go to her room and pack up hurriedly. In that apartment Beatrice Mercer joined her. With a strange, wondering light in her eyes, she listened to Edna's story of the sudden summons. “Oh! I shall surely be allowed to write to you, to explain everything when I find my father," sobbed Edna, as she clung to Beatrice in a fervent embrace. “Beatrice—Raymond?” The scintillating eyes of the dark beauty flashed wickedly, but the expression was veiled from poor Edna's tearblinded sight. “I shall tell him ” “That I could not bid him good-by; they would not let me. Tell him I will get him word as soon as I can. Oh, this mysterious haste unnerves me! I do not even know where I am going. Good-by, dear friend. Good-by, goodby.” A clinging kiss emphasized every word. The tearful Miss Chandler waved her a last adieu from the door. Her somber companion helped her into the carriage, and the wheels grinding down the soft road seemed to be tearing her very heart-strings, as Hopedale faded from view in the distance and the vehicle bounded forward, carrying innocent Edna. Deane to meet a strange, solemn mystery. Twilight closed in about the landscape, as the carriage dashed across the country for the nearest railway station. Twilight, folding Its mystic shroud about the old seminary structure, was shut out securely from one room at least. .With locked doors and shades drawn,Beatrice Mercer sat at a table in her apartment, poring over a letter, studying it. analyzing it, re-reading it. it was ths crumpled missive, half read by the distressed Edna. How had it come into her possession? By design, the gleaming, calculating eyes told, for those eyes had the mask down now, all alone by herself. [TO BE CONTIXUED.J