Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 December 1892 — TRVE AS STEEL [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TRVE AS STEEL

MRS ALVAIL ELORDAM CIARTH.

CHAPTER VIII, ON THE THRESHOLD One thought had been dominant In Ihe heart of Beatrice Mercer since the moment that Raymond Marshall's discovery of her duplicity had crushed her with humiliation. A bitter, cruel resolve that, come what might, he should never again see the face of thfe woman he loved! “Patience!” her fierce heart had throbbed out. “He loves her yet; he knows her to be true. He despises mo, but—he shall yet love me. I cannot lose him. He shall never find or wed Edna Deane.” Then, calming her fierce, resolute nature to subtle, sinister regard of all the issues in the ease in which mingled love and jealousy involved her, Beatrice Mercer fell to studying the chances in her favor. She knew where Edna had gone; the letter tnat Edna had only half r:ad, amid her excitement and anxiety, had been conned over and over again by the plotting Beatrice. Its contents gave her an insight of the character of the father who had sent for his beloved child, into his secrets as well, and she knew that one of two things would happen when Edna reached home—her father would order her to forget all friends of the past, or, if any let*r or word was sent to Raymond Marshall, it would be through her friends. As the days passed by, however, and no word was received, she grew puzzled, disturbed, and finally anxious The evening preceding that upon which Raymond Marshall appeared at the Seminary to find her gone, however, she made a discovery that startled her into • new train of thought and action, unexpected, vivid, exciting. A student living, at quite a distance received regularly the weekly paper published at her home, and glancing over this, Beatrice felt the blood rush from her heart through icy channels, as she noted an item that told her intuitively that she ha 1 found a trace of the missing Edna at last. It was the record of the death by drowning of a than and a girl; the account of the scene at that broken bridge, where the two villagers had soen Edna Deane’s companion plunge to his death, and had accredited Edna herself with falling a victim to the same fate.

Within an hour, from a careful study of the item and from a knowledge of the route taken by Edna and her guide, Beatrice knew that she no longer had a rival. Edna Deane was dead! She knew something more. She knew that w.th the death of these two had perished a migLty secret —that somewhere —and she knew where, an anxious father was awaiting the return of his beloved daughler, to lay at her feet, as an atonement for the forced neglect of years, a royal fortune. The next morning Beatrice Mercer’s mind was made up. All night long she had plotted and planned. The jealousminded school girl of the night previous had become in % few brief hours a willful, wicked siren, imbued with schemes as bold and cruel as the hardest heart ever yet designed. She went straight to the town where Edna and her companion had disappeared. Within twenty-four hours she was satisfied that' both had met their fate in the turbulent torrent that flowed beneath the bioken rustic bridge. “For wealth—for Raymond Marshall’s love!” she murmured resolutely, as, a few hours later, she took a train for the next station. Evening shadows were creeping over the autumnal landscape as Beatrice Mercer loft the little depot and walked towards the outskirts of the village. In the dim light she made out an antique but magnificent mansion, occupying elaborate grounds, but surrounded by great, high walls. “So near to home and then to lose life, fortune, and love!" murmured the steely hearted siren. “Poor Edna! but I cannot miss this royal chance.” Her eyes sparkled as she drew from her pocket a little chain and locket that Edna had worn at school and which she had lelt behind her in her hurry to go to seek her father. She calmed herself, as if for a mighty ordeal, as she seized the bell-knob at the iron gate and sounded one resonant, discordant peal through the gloomy structure beyond. “Fairly on the threshold! ” she breathed wildly, yet exultantly, as she awaited a reply to her summons—“one bold stroke, a single resolute assumption, and I shall be mistress, of wealth untold, to ?ave the way to the heart of the man love —Raymond Marshall!”

CHAPTKR Bii SCCCESA “ A erabbedrfaced man answered the ring at the iron gate after a lapse of several minutes, stared at the veiled figure without, first penetratingly and then without suspicion, and asked, unceremoniously: “Who are you—what do yqu want?” Beatrice Mercer was an actress. She had come preparod to feign a part, and she did it well. All the fire and impetuosity of her passionate nature was subdued to the seem'ngly shrinking timidity of a shv young girl. She stammered out a frightened apology and clung to the iron gato as if weary and weak. “I have come a long ways,” she murmured, “and I must make no mistake. The gentleman who lives here—Mr. Caleb Marston. ” The servant or helper uttered a sharp' ejaculation of surprise and renewed suspicion. * Who told you that Mr Caleb Marston lived here?” he demanded. “I—l—does he not? Then I will go, if I am in error,” and Beatrice retreated. Quick as a flash the man unlocked the gate, seized her arm, dragged her inside the overgrown, ill-kept garden, and regarded her much with the angry glare of an enemy. “No, you don’t!” he said. “AVhefe did vou get that name—Marston? Who told rou? Speak! Have they guessed his fiiding-place again?” the'man half muttered to himself. “I got the name from a letter—a letter from Mr. Marston himself,” explained Beatrice. “Oh!” muttered the man. “I’ll guarantee he never told you to use that name hereabouts, all the same. Ralston, girl! Do you understand? Never whisper Maiston again, if you're friends »f ours. ”

“Can I see him?” ,v .- “Can you see who?” “Mr. Mar—Mr. Ralston? He sent for me. ” “He did?” “Yes. Take me to him. He will tell you it is all right. ” The man studied a bit. He relocked the gate and made sure that no one was lurking about the place. Then taking an enormous bunch of keys from his pocket, he led the way to the house. A massive, gloomy structure, th.o care he manifested in penetrating the doubly locked portals, indicated a jail or a castle of defense. It was richly furnished within, but the closed and barred windows and ohill pervading each apartment made the antiquated mansion seem somber, gloomy, and uninviting in the extreme. “You wait here.” Beatrice’s guide pointed surlily to a chair in a small waitifig-room, and disappeared through a door at its other end.

There was the low hum of conversation in the adjoining apartment. Her eyes glowing like two sinister stars of light, Beatrice glided noiselessly to the threshold of the door that had just closed noiselessly on her companion. Her ear bent, she strove to translate the gruff, explanatory accents of the man, the sharp, querulous, excited tones of his companion. When the door again opened, however, with the grace and agility of a panther she had regained the chair. “Go in,” nodded the keeper, and the door opened and closed after hfr, ushering her into a roomy apartment, and leaving her face to face with her fate Half reclining in an invalid chair was a thin, white-haired man. She. studied his working face from beneath her veil; she noted the nervous tension of brain and holy, for he was almost panting with excitement, his eyes wore keenly alive with unconcealed suspense. “My steward tells me you come here with a letter,” spoke the master of the mansion, in tones scarcely audible from emotion.

“Yes,” murmured Beatrice. “I have written but one letter —it was to one I have not seen for years.” “Ydur daughter, Alice Edna Ralston? lam she.. Father!" The plot, the fraud, the false assumption of the fair schemer was revealed at last. She had determined to personate her dead friend and schoolmate; and the stolen letter had well equipped her for the cruel imposture. “My child!” She had sprung forward at that wild, yearning cry. Not a heart-throb of pity for the fond, deluded old man, soulhungry for the love and sympathy of his long-absent child stirred her heart—only fierce, covetous joy and triumph. His real daughter was dead, a knowledge of that fact, in his evident critical condition of health, might kill him. Surely, it was a mercy to step into her place, to solace the last days of a dying man, to benefit by a fortune that, else, would go to strangers or sordid companions in his inexplicable exile. She knew she was safe in telling the story she had framed, and that circumstances would carry out her claims. She showed the letter she had stolen from Edna; she told how she und her guide had been overtaken by the storm at the broken bridge. He had perished, she had escaped, and she showed the newspaper containing the account of the double tragedy, unconsciously portraying what had really transpired, little dreaming that Edna Dearie of the past, the real Alice Edna Mars toil, or Ralston, had not gone down in that weird swirl of waters.

But there was much to learn. Her path was yet one of pitfalls, and she must be secretive, ana yet draw out the secrets of this unsuspecting old man who accepted her unreservedly as his own child, blinded by clever falsehoods, the changes or years, and her circumstantial narration of events he knew to have happened as she related them. “YVhen you enter this house,” he said, “you close a door on the past never to be opened. Fooi Rodney! he died in bringing you to mo. He was my best friend. All these years, amid my imprisonment, my fugitive wanderings, he has been true to me. He alone knew where you had been placed. Now, under a new name, you come to share my loneliness. Fear not! it will only be for a few brief years. Then, mistress of my fortune, you can go forth into the world and enjoy tho liberty denied me.” “Father, I do not understand,” murmured the false daughter. “Do not try to. An innocent man, I have yet been called upon to suffer the penalty of_ a crime unjustly laid to my charge. Even now, i am a fugitive from justice. Hunted down, a reward upon my recapture. I sought this secluded spot to die in peace. Here we will live in quiet contentment, your love and care tho solace of my declining years. Are you not content with that, Alice, my child?” “Yes.” murmured Beatrice, „since you will It so.” YVhy not? Life he~e, surrounded by every luxury, would not be so arduous that she could not find soriie enjoyment in it, and later on! —her eyes glowed with sinister triumph,—there was a farther plot to carry out, there was Raymond Marshall to think or, the man she was determined to win, come what might.

Imperfectly understanding the vague mystery surrounding Ralston, she yet realized that he was in danger of apprehension for some entanglement of thfe past. Some day she must possess that secret in full. It would give her added power to sway him to her will if ever her imposture were discovered. She could scarcely comprehend the rare success of her imposture as, later that evening, she sat in the boudoir of the suite of rooms apportioned to her in the old mansion. Not a breath of suspicion had been aroused. Placidly, unequivocally had old Mr. Balston accepted her as the child he had not seen since infancy. Her past, like his own, he would never seek to probe or revive. Yesterday was as dead and gone as the ages past. Here she could change her own identity in the undisputed possession of a royal fortune. Balston dead, that fortune acquired, and with her youth, beauty and intelligence, she could go out into the world and become a queen among women, tread a velvet path through life—she, the poor, obscure teacher on ha f-pay, the friendless drudge of Hopedale Seminary. lei there was a canker at the heart of the rose. Conscience did not trouble her. She even justified her fraudulent representations. No, all she thought of. all that disturbed her was a memory of the man she loved. How she loved him still! How the handsome, animated face of Raymond Marshall haunted her.

“For his sake I did it all!” she murmured, tumultuously. “He must fconeflb by it all. How.' Ah! patience, ray eager hear! I hold the strings of destiny!

If I make no misstep, fortune and love are both mine in the end. * Her rooms had been papered for her with infinite care. They were more than luxurious, they were elegant. The steward and a housekeeper were tho sole servants, but they attended like mute slaves to her ©very caprice as the days went by. Ralston was not exaoting. He asked an hour or two of her time each day to read to him in the garden, or play for him in the great,, somber drawing-room on the piano. Ever under the shadow of some great fear, he never leit the walled grounds of the estate, and requested her to confine her long drives to tho unfrequented roads leading away from the village. A week passed thus, then the novelty of her new life began to wear away. The false Alice Ralston, the real Beatrice Mercer, began to grow restless, anxious, moody. Then she fell to plotting. If she could only drag from that past life the object of her love. Raymond Marshall, she would be content. “You are getting wearied of the loneliness here, I fear,” spoke llaiston, anxiously, one evening. “No, father.” “ You are deceiving me. I can read It in your face. I caught you prying yesterday. Speak, my child, if you have any secret sorrow." The veiled eyes of tho siren glowed triumphantly. The hour had come for a master-stroke of finesse. “Shall I tell you the truth, even if it disturbs you?” asked Beatrice, in a low, purring tone. “Always, my dear.” “I am happy here, only there Is a chapter in my past that haunts me,” pursued the false-hearted Beatrice. “I have friends whom I love, whom I left in poverty, trouble. Father, if I had the means to visit Ihem, to place them in a position beyond want, I would return here satisfied, never to leave you again. ” “You mean this, my daughter?" “I in< an it, father.” “As I understand it, you wish to go to these friends—to bid them a final farewell, and to enrich them?” “Yes. ” He led her to a room guarded with an iron door. With a key he unlooked a cabinet. It was stored with money—• coin, bank notos, bonds. “Yours,” he sad generously: “all yours. Take what you want. I shall never ask how much, nor care. Deal as liberally with your friends as you like, only—must you go to them?” "1 must, father.” “Alone?” “I will be careful—nothing will happen to me.” “I shall worry—your absence will torture me.” “Not for long. Oh! dear father, you make me happy in enabling me to make my dearest friends happy. Let me go at once —to-night, to-morrow, in a week—two, at the farthest, I shall return. Then I shall forget them —all the world save you.” She had carried her point. The first impoitant step in the plot of her life was accomplished. ' r As the next morning, a, little moneyfilled sachel in her hand, she left the mansion bound for Hopodale, her confident heart told her that she would never return until she had won the man she loved. |TO BE CONTINUED. |