Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 46, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 December 1892 — TRUE AS STEEL [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TRUE AS STEEL

BY MRS ALVA(?) JORDAN GARTH

CHAPTERll—Continued. One hour went by—two. The supper hell rang, but Beatrice never left her ■task. She was writing now. A singular feature of chirography, hers, it .■seems, for she wrote with a coarse pen, in a bold, masculine hand, and then with a fine -one in delicate Italian •characters. : She manipulated the two letters, so -dissimilar in appearance, folded them, placed them in an envelope, car.efiilly added the superscriptions, and then, •stamping the envelopes, put oh her •cloak and hat and stole from her room. Down the dark hall, through the front portals, out into the road, and townwards she sped. At the village post'■offlce she paused to drop the letter into the box there, and a faint gleam of a lamp near by showed the address plainly—“Mr, Raymond Marshall." “Done!” she murmured, breathlessly, ■as she hurried homewards. “Circumstances, accident, all are in my favor. I could not have endured the confidences that broke my heart, much longer. Edna will never write, her father’s letter tells me why. She will never see her old friends again. Raymond Marshall will forget her in time—l will be his friend, his consoler, and then- •’" The dark eyes glistened, the fair face was sentient with vivid emotion. Then! Ah! balm for the hungry heart, love for tne starved soul, peace for the self-tor-ture, for word and feature betrayed the •secret of a woman who could suffer, ■conceal, and plot as well, to consummate the hopes dictated by hatred, jealousy, and love! 9 CHAPTER 111. TWO LETTERS. “Two letters, Mr. Marshall.” Raymond Marshall took the tendered missives from the hands of’the antiquated postmaster of thrust ■one, an ordinary business missive, into his pocket carelessly, but the other—his eye brightened and his pulses camo ■quicker. “From Edna,” he murmured, recognizing the handwriting on the envelope. “Something about the reception tonight. I hope that tiresome Mr, Brinsley is not to be her escort. It is too precious, too sacred to read here. ” He reached home and went to his room with a gay song on his lips. The memory of the girl he loved was always with him, the possession of a shy, dainty epistle from her enhanced its sweetness. “Rather bulky,” he commented, as he carefully cut open the envelope, as if ■every scrap of paper her hands had touched was pre'cions. “Mr. Marshall—why! what is this,' Oh, Edna! a joke, a. cruel hoax, surely.”' The words died in a gasp. With staring eyes Marshall surveyed the letter before him. Then staggering to a seat, he sat glaring at it with colorless face and chilled heart. A formal dismissal, a cold, precise disavowal all the past, the cruel ■words seemed icy fingers reaching for his heart, to blight all the faith and love of his nature with a single touch. , Edna had written it—her slanting, Italian style showed in the chirography. There could be no doubt of that, but the language!—oh! what did it mean? Briefly it addressed him as might one "a stranger. Circumstances, the latter said, had in an hour changed her destiny. All was over between them. It was better so, since fate ordained it. Remember her as a friend, their brief “flirtation” as a wayward caprice for passing the summer months away! “False! Deceitful! I will never believe it," panted the petrified Marshall. “Why! yesterday—the ring I gave her, the pledges we made —oh! this is some farce, some hidden dream! What is this?" Mechanically turning the wretched missive over and over in his nerveless hands, Raymond Marshall observed for the first time that it was comprised of two sheets of paper. And striving to separate them, he ascertained that stray patches of mucilage held the lower page to the other. In a few minutes he discerned that it could not have been the intention of the sender to inclose the second sheet. That was accidental. It.had stuck to the top sheet and had been folded in with it by a hasty, careless hand. It bore writing—not Edna's writing. A dagger seemed driven to Ray Marshall’s heart as he tore it free, and the bold, masc uline chirography danced before his vision. If he had been startled before, every pulse stirred with fierce Are now. The letter had evidently been received by Edna the day previous;., and was signed with the name of the only rival in her affection to whom he had ever given a thought, Miss Chandler’s cousin, Edna's announced escort of that evening—Barton Brinsley. The letter of an accepted lover to the •woman be loved, it betrayed decided ■on ouragement frsm Edna. It even bore a slight ridicule of Marshall’s pretensions. Edna had endured this! Edna ■had played him false, and while her shy lips were tesponding to his ardent expressions of devotion her hypocritical heart was thinking of Barton Brinsley. The complication was maddening. With eyes dashed with the insanity of despair the tortured artist looked up. He clenched the tell-tale sheets in his hand as if they were the false heart of the girl who had jilted him, and that o" the man who had stolen away her love. “I—l will kill him!”he choked out, his soul ablaze. And then, realizing the folly of such a. sentiment, the right of any man to honorably strive for a woman’s preference, with the bitterness of death comprehending that the woman was the deceiver, remembering his mother’s taunt once made that he bad better inarry some one besides “a nameless, homeless, nobody," he calmed down, put on his hat, and walked from the house like one in a dream, his lips firmly set. but sick at heart. He went straight to the seminary. There was that in his heart so manly, so straightforward, so inclined to doubt the falsity of the woman he had to .blindly trusted, despite the terrible evidence in his hands, that, though the meeting killed him? he was determined 10 have the matter settled now and finally. He would demand to see Edna —he would show her the letters. His philanthropic friends had more than once told him that all.womankind were changing butterflies of sentiment. If she had indeed only played with his heart he would leave her presence and the place forever; w.thWit a' word accept the bitter lesson as a warning againat tru-tiug

l

all humanity, and In silence and distancewait for the end of a life blighted, profitless, unendurable. A servant admitted him and took his card to the lady principal. Miss Chandler lookec serious as she entered the room, but greeted him with the geniality she always bestowed on Edna’s friends. She started at the sight of his wretched face, however. “Miss Chandler,” he spoke, in his misery and agitation neglecting to take her proffered hand, “I wish to see Edna— Miss Deane.” “Edna?" ejaculated the lady principal, wonderlngly. “Why! did you not know ” “Know what?” he oemanded, sharply, his heart taking a new alarm. “That she is gone?” “Gone!” he repeated,blankly. “Gone? When, were, with whom?” “She left us last evening. Poor, dear Edna; her happy school life is over, and—why, Mr. Marshall!” He had arisen to his feet at her first startling words. He felt his senses reeling now, and swayed wher'e he stood. The sight of such vivid emotion in a strong man alarmed the gentle lady. “Go on!” he choked out, waving his hand agitatedly. “It is nothing. The sho. k, the suddenness-: —” “Surely she wrote you that she was going?” “Ko. That Is You say she went last evening?" “Yes." “Alone? Why did she leave so abruptly?” His heart hung on the reply. Miss Chandler’s face fell. “Mr. Marshall," she said, in a low, subdued tone, “you must not ask me. I have pledged myself to make no explanations. In fact, I know very litt.e. She left in safe hands, of that I am assured, and she will never return to Hopedale. It has depressed us all; but surely she will soon write to you and explain.” "Miss Chandler, I must know where Edna Deane has gone. You must tell me more!” His voice was husky, but it bore a ring of sharp, lacerating anguish. “I cannot I never break a promise once made, Mr. Marshall,” spoke the lady, with dignity. ' “"You may see Miss Mercer,lf you choose. She was Edna’s most intimate friend. She may have the right to tell you, but I cannot. Edna may have left a message with her." “Allow me to speak with her, please." How strained and unnatural were his tones! How like a man marching to his doom he followed Miss Chandler down the broad hall and to the door of the office of the seminary. “Miss Mercer is in there aloqe, I think,” spoke Miss Chandler. ?Yes. Beatrice, Mr. Marshall.” And the principal opened the door and closed it upon Raymond Marshall and the woman he so disliked and distrusted.

CHAPTER IV. HIE TRUTH REVEALED Beatrice Mercer was seated at a desk correcting some exercises of the pupils, her own portfolio spread out before her. The color died from her face as she recognized her visitor, then it turned deep-red with reactionary emotion. His thoughts were too full of Edfia to allow of his reading aright the tremulous emotion, the half-repressed fright that his hostess betrayed “Miss Mercer,” lie spoke, hoarsely, “I have come to ask of you the irformation that Miss Chandler refuses. Why did Edna Deane leave the seminary? Where has she gone?” “I cannot tell you." His eyes flashed excitedly. He clenched fill hands in an excess of suffering and suspense. “You must!” he gasped,' frantically. “Do you understand what I am enduring? Doubt —anguish—heart-breaking!” From beneath her veiled the girl studied his working face. Craftiness was there, but well masked. A sinister triumph in her heart gave her strength to simulate. “I pity you,” she said, would be glad to tell you all, but it is useless.” “Useless?” “Yes. She has left the seminary, Hopedale, her friends, forever. Sh<S has gone to her relathes under a vow never to reveal her true identity. Happy in her new life, with golden promises of wealth, you must not blame her, impetuous nature if she finds new friends who make her forget the old." How well the shaft went home! The blank despair, the settled conviction of faithlessness in the man’s face was pitiable to witness. “She left no word for me?” he forced himself to ask. “No. She wrote a letter to Mr.'Barton Brinsley, but it is unmanly for you to have me betray my friend.” “Speak!” ordered Marshall, fiercely. “Do you not see that this suspense is killing me?" “Then know the worst,” answered Beatrice, bulking all her fancied power on a final venture. “She wrote to Barton Brinsley. This morning he lelt Hopedale. Miss Chandler says he has gone away on business. I think it is to see Edna’s new relatives and frees his suit there. Mr. Marshall, oh, why will you force me to tell these bitter truths? Forget her—she is unworthy of you. She never knew her own mind. There are truer hearts, hearts longing for a love they would cherish and never betray. ” His head had sunk on his breast. He believed now, and his heart was broken. Beatrice had drawn nearer to him. Her eyes aglow, her cheeks throbbing, her hand upon h's arm, heart and soul breathed forth the secret that had .made her life one great void of misery since she had first seen his handsome, earnest face. With a shock he looked up. Wonderment, intelligence in his glance, it 1 drove her back abashed. Her face betrayed her secret, she loved him! His face told unmistakably that he read that secret aright. “Oh! how could I? But I pity you so! Think me unwomanly, but if your heart is breaking so is mine. Go, Mr. Marshall—Raymond—go! and leave me to the wretchedness of the secret your suffering has wrung from my lips.” . She was sobbing, shrinking, now. In consternation her companion regarded her. She loved him! This had been the secret of her wayward moods. Despite himself a great wave of pity swept his chivalrous heart. “lam sorry," he said brokenly. “A true woman’s regard is better than a false friend’s treachery. Miss Mercer, when I leave you, it is never to know happiness again, but I may know the peace of having done my full duty if I trace this affair down to ihe last. I must see Edna— she shall tell me from . her own lips what I already know! i Then ! am content to cherish my misery •in Silence. Speak! Win my gratitude, s at least, by telling me whithsr she has , gone."

There was bo reply. Only the subdued sobs broke the waiting silence. “You know where Edna is?” persisted Marshall. “Yes, I know!” cried Beatrice, lifting her face, flashing with jealousy and emotion; “but do you think I will tell you—send, you to beg at the feet of a woman unworthy of you? Leave me! If you are suffering, I am tortured. Oh! cruel! cruel! cruel!" Her frantic hands swept the open portfolio across the desk as she shrank 1 from him, hiding her humiliation, her jealousy, her love in hot, burning tears. About to speak reassuringly to her, to plead with her anew for the knowledge he so craved, Raymond Marshall started as if dealt a sudden blow. His eyes happened to fall to the open porcfolio. He recoiled, stared, closer, and then sprang to Iflß feet with a wild, intelligent, hopeful cry. For upon a sheet of paper, written there indubitably by the woman who had just so,sbame-facealy confessed her love, was the record of hatred and i treachery that had so nearly blighted I his life. There were the first experiments of j the clever iorger to simulate Edna i Deane’s handwriting. There was a ; copy of the miss.ve he had received that ! morning. There, too, was the draft of : the more masculine epistle that had acj companied it. Beatrice Mercer had looked up at his strange cry. Her eyes met his, followj ing their glance to the portfolio, and , then, shrinking back, her guilty face . told the truth. I "You wrote that —you wrote those let--1 ters!" fairly shouted Marshall. “Oh, I blind, wicked that I was, to doubt my I true-hearted darling! It was a cruel 1 forgery—a plot. Speak, Beatrice Mercer! All jou have told me, all tnose letters told, was a falsehood." Beatrice had snatched up the portfolio. Defiance in her face, she panted like a tigress at I ay. | “If I did," she cried wildly, “it was I only to save you a fruitless chase. I ! alonp know where Edna Deane has ! gone. I know that she will never dare write to you or see you again. Y’ou hate me, you spurn me —you, for whom I would have given a lifetime of devotion. Then find the pale-faced child you dote over, but never with my help.” A great, joyful glow sprang to the face of Marshall. “So be it!” he cried. “Knowing her to be true, knowing all this forgery to be a lie, love will find a way. Revealed in your true colors at last, I know what to expect of you; but, as I live, I vow never to rest till I find the woman I love, the victim of some dark plot, if I pursue her half the world over!” He strode from the room and the presence of the woman of whom he had made a relentless enemy as he spoke, strong' in the consciousness of love’s mighty power. Yes, he would find the woman he loved, though peril, privation, death barred his way, and cruel schemers wrought dangerous pitfalls for his eager feet at every step he took! All these might be evaded. PestiI lence might pass him by, perils graze him unscathed, death Itself be warded back by the love that knew no obstacles, but. more weird, more tortuous than he ever dreamed was the path that was leading him to that far day when, once again, standing iace to face with Edna, he should shrink before a mystery and a plot that would daunt, appall, and bailie even his bold courage and try his loyal soui a; by an ordeal of fire! Ito be continued.!