Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 January 1893 — TRVE AS STEEL [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TRVE AS STEEL

BY MRS ALVARI JORDAN GARTH

CHAPTER XIV. false: “There, there, dear! don't be alarmed. Sou’ve just woke up from a nice, long sleep. ” “Sleep! Then the bridge, the storm, Raymond! No, no! it was all- true. Oh! where am I? Who are voV? How came I here, in this strange place?” “You are among klild, true friends, dearie—kind, true friends, and you must not get excited, the doctor says.” Kind-hearted, motherly 'Did Mrs. Blake, the farmer’s wife, stroked Edna Deane’s brow as she her startled charge sank back~Vnong the pillows, moaning with weakg§ss, mystification, and anxiety. , jf, A long sleep, indeed, jffhdit been; for two weeks had passed away since honest Farmer John had dragged her from the snowdrift at his cottage door, ran for the doctor, and, with’ his solicitous wife, had worked all night long to revive her well-nigh exausted vitality. Since then, in dose and delirium, the poor child had lain, and this was the first awakening to consciousness. She listened with a shudder to the story that her motherly nurse told her of their finding her that weird snowy night. She cried softly as she told her, too, how’ they came to love her bonny, innooent sac if she was homeless, friojadiess, they would gladly make room for her in their home and their hearts, bereft only a short year since by the death of their own darling child. They asked her no questions as she grew stronger daily, and Edna di.d not enlighten them. It seemed as if a'pall. never to be lifted, hung over her young life. She remembered all that the messenger her father had sent for her had imparted to her—that he alone had placed her at the seminary years agone, and with him had perished the mystery of her young life, all hopes of establishing her identity, of finding her father. She had been cast u; on the world alone, with no claim upon her past life, and the mystery of her true identity was a mystery still. No claim, save one—Raymond ! Her heatt beat anxiously as she thought of him. How he would worry over her sudden departure, her strange silence. She must write to him, to her dear friend Beatrice Mercer, at once. No, she remembered all her guide had told her. She must never communicate w.th any of her oil friends until she saw her father. It might mean peril—trouble for him. Oh! how the perplexities of her situation fretted her A week passed by. She was strong once more. All one day Edna reflected seriously. That night, glancing lovingly at the faces of her kind friends, she told them of her resolve. “You have, been like an own father and mother to me,” she murmured, gratefully. “I <an never forget you—never cease to love you, but—l am going awmy. ” “Going away!” sighed the kindly Mrs. Blake.

“Yes; I must ses some friends. Then I will return, then I may be grad of your happy, happy home. Please do not question me, but I must go. Reluctantly they bade her good-by the next morning. The farmer drove her over to the railroad station. In the new garments with which her'old torn and - bedraggled attire had been replaced, no one recognized her as the supposed victim of the bridge disaster, an event strangely that Mr. Blake had not heard of. Edna had a few dollars in her pocket. She bought a ticket taking her half way tb Ilouedale, kissed Jjtafgtherly farmer good-by, promised ro write or return within a few days, and the train whirled her away. At the terminus she sold her watch. This gave her ample means to continue her journey. All the way she was thinking of what she should do. Something in the memory of her guide’s strange warning about the mystery that clouded her father’s life impelled her to secrecy in all her movements, and when she reached Hopedale at nooh she trusted to her attire and a lieavjtiveil to conceal her identity. She haunted the vicinity of the seminary. ,She would try to get word to Beatrice. Finally, she addressed a strange student. The reply to her questions chilled and disconcerted her. Miss Mercer had left the seminary two weeks previous. 1 r

.Then Raymond—she rnqst find him now. She could tell tymeverything. While he endeavored tojret some trace or her father, she wouia’Vefbrn to the Blakes and make her lioitife s with them. It was just dusk when she finally rang at the door-bell of the Marshall residence. A servant informed her that Mr. Marshall was not at home. He had gone to the hotel with his father, the colonel. “What shall I do? Oh! lam so fearful of making a mistake, but I must see Raymond. Who else cau I appeal to in my uncertainty?” Dubiously, undecidedly, Edna walked towards the village hostelry. ■ It was quite dusk, aud she was very tired when she reached the place. Mechanically, almost, she ascended the stairs leading to the ladies’ parlorj? and sank to a cushioned ,chair, thinking, wondering, hoping she was doing what .was eminently proper, ftttd for thebest. Footsteps on the stairs brought her to her feet. If it was a servant, she would ask her to try and find Mr. Raymond Marshall and his father, and send them to her—but it was no servant. The familiar form of Doctor Simms passed the door, and following him was a clericallooking man, and the former was saying: “Mr. Marshall is waiting for us. This way. sir.” Mr. Marshall—Raymond! He was in the hotel, then? What meant the words of the Doctor.' Why was the ministe-rial-looking man here? For a few moments the perplexed girl lingered. Then, involuntarily, she stole from the room and down a corridor.

Tne sound of voices through the open door of a darkened room drew her to its threshold. It was the parlor of the suite occupied by Beatrice Mercer. The half-open door of the communicating apartments admitted the sound of solemn, impressive words. Was she dreaming? Half-stunned sh« staggered across the room and peered into the next. Beatrice —Baymond—a minister—Colonel Marshall. The two former with hands united, one lying on a couch,,the other, she fancied, bending tenderly toward her. Oh! surely, this was some delirium of the senses, her old fever returned. No, for just then came the solemn,

somber words from the Ups of ttouelergyman: - * m “And you, Raymond Marshall, do take Beatrice Mercer as your legally wedded wife, to cherish and protect while life shall last!" The unhappy girl reeled where she stood. Her senses seemed deserting her. Clinging to the door-knob for support, peering, horrified, pulsating, she dr sL th s\ d w oo liay^nd H^i^yn;« stare, recoil—he alone. Her senses took in the scene as the crowniilg'tableau of a set of' scenes In her ything life that had brought wreck, heartbreak and disaster to her fondest hopes. Then she turned and fled, sick at soul, affrighted, appalled. A voice seemed to call her, but she heeded it not. Out through the portals of the hotel she sped, dowm the street like one mad, past the limits of the town, into the somber forest. At the foot of a giant oak she sank all of a heap. Its leaves were green in the olden days when it had been a trysting-plaee for happy hearts, but now blighted, laded, fallen, crushed under feet. Her life seemed ebbing, her heart was breaking, her vision shrank appalled from that last vivid picture of treachery and faithlessness. “Oh, let me die,” the unhappy girl, burying her face' in, hdi* hands in an agony of heart-break'/ u ?sr , 'Baymond is false! false! false!”

CHAPTER XV. IN PEtllL. By the old oak tree Edna odane fingered until the silence of midnight had fallen over the scene. She took no note of time; she was only vaguely conscious of her surroundings. Here she had loved and trusted, her heart had broken, and th,© cruelty of a treacherous friend, the fAjlhlespl ness of a flighted lover, had crushed all the joy and hope out her fresh young life. f: Those silent, anguished hours, how-1 ever, could not endure forever. Likd on ordeal of fire, they tried her soql, but It fainted not. The rare purity of her sweet nature kept her from utter despair. She was crushed, but duty lay still before her. A barren path the future, but she must tread it alone. She must make no sign as the cruel thorns pierced her tender heart; she must drain to the dregs the cup His hands had tendered, without sigh or moan. • Looking upon the blurred fabric of hor girlhood’s love-dream as a shattered stately palace, hoping that fate would lead her to the father whose love and sympathy she so craved in those hours of darkness and gloom, she arose at last, and with set, silent face, turned her steps away from Hopedale, she believed, for the last time and forever. She reached the railroad town across country, and took the first train for home. Home! Yes, her heart thrilled at the name. Home was where loving hearts encompassed quiet, even duties. There she would be welcome. Mr. and Mrs. Blake would receive her as a friend, as a daughter, and some day she might tell the kind-hearted farmer’s wife her sad, bitter story, and learn from her lips how to bear her cruel harden and suffer In silence.

She did not try to comprehend how all that had transpired had come to pass. The one glaring fact confronted and appalled her —she had arrived at Hopedale to see her lover wed another. No excuse of time, of absence could condone such epeedy transfer of affection. He was shallow-hearted, disloyal, insincere, and she, Beatrice, a ing siren. r “Mercy, child! how white and frightened you look. But, never mind. Thank heaven! you have come back. John has been so lonesome for another sight of your bonnie face, that he hasn’t eat, slept or smiled since you went away.” That was Mrs. Blake’s cheery welcome, and it warmed and comforted the homeless wanderer. They asked no Wt the keen motherly eye of the fafmer's’ wife seemed to intuitively take in a true conception or a shrewd guess> of the true state of affairs, and without actually intruding on Edna’s grief, she spoke many a quiet, effective word of consolation, tried to lead her guest’s thoughts to other themes, as the days went by. Thus it was that in less than a week Edna had settled down into a life peaceful, happy, indescribably so, only when that dark shadow of the past haunted her heart like a pall. Her new friends had talked plainly to her. They liked hes; she filled a dead daughter's place in their hearts. She was welcome to remain with them as guest or adopted child as long as she chose.

The little household duties she engaged in busied her thoughts. She saw a new mission in life in making the declining years of these two friends happy with her presence,’ heHaid and her smilps. lii.'ow ei: Indulgent Farmer JoKnObrought her new dresses, trained htenbest pony tor her use in riding and driving, and insisted that she try to woo back the roses to her wan cheeks by a scamper over the moors and down the river path every day. The first fierce snow of autumn had melted beneath the warm sun, and November seemed like May. only for thp red fallen leaves and the crisp, bracing air. One afternoon Edna set fqrth-.i.’l Ijie little phaeton for a drive over Uie hills'.' The gentle pony answered to" tihe lightest direction or the lines; the carriage dog, Bruno, trottei placidly behind, j She could think in these peaceful drives, and there was a somber satisfaction! in brooding once in a while over the past. This especial day Edna prolonged ker drive beyond its usual limits. She drove clear to and beyond the next vil-ccl lage, and only realized that she would have difficulty in reaching home again before dusk, when she looked up from a sad reverie to find that the short afternoon was waning fast. The sight of a flaming bush of a variety quite rare in the vicinity of the Blake farm attract© I her attention, however, and she alighted from the phaeton. Mrs. Blake had a hobby of pressing pretty leaves, anrf Edna remembered that she particularly treasured this variety. Here they seemed to grow in profusion, and she decided to gather quite an armful of them. She kept wandering through the little wooded stretch where they grew, allured by the distant sight of a still prettier clump of bushes, until, fairly loaded, she looked up. intent on retracing her way to the phaeton. “Dear!” she uttered with a little start, “where is the road?” She penetrated the brambly jungle in two directions with no success, noting with a slight thrill of dismay that dusk i was fast approaching. Where was the road, the phaeton and j

Bnrno? Oue shs called the name o| the latter, But she decided she must be quite a distance from tho spot she had started from, for usual prompt appearance of the faithful .animal in response to such a cal! was racking. Throwing down her leiVijs she ran through the, bushes ahead, came to a high stone wall, and catching -sight of the towers of a pretontious structure beydnd it, lined the mosscovered barrier until she came to a brokon gate set in the wall. All w r as silent and forbidding about tho old structure, but there was evidence of odWlimhcy in the curtained windows, and she fancied' she caught the glimmer of a dress on the lawn some distance away. “I will find some one about the house and inquire nay way to the road," reflected Edna, timorously. She picked her way across an uneven, ill-kept garden, once so nearly falling into a trap with great extending jaws, evidently set for tramps or thieves, that she shook with apprehensive terror. “Oh! there is a lady. I see her now. I wttt ask her. Mercy!” On the verge of some pit or excavation in the garden, Edna wavered, trlod lo draw back, and then, losing her balance, plunged forward. She fell fully fifteen feet. Her head grazed the board side of tho pit, and half stunned her. Dimly realizing that the hole, covered over with branches, was a trap for Intruders, she looked blankly up at tho top with a shudder, comprehending that she could never scale the steep. “Help! help! help!" Thrice the cry rang out, with all the strength of her bell-ltke voice; Hopefully Edna looked up as the branches overhead were parted. “Who is there?" spoke a woman’s voice. “I have fallen here," cried Edna; “please help me. Mercy! It cannot be ” Her gasping ejaculation died to a hollow, frightened murmur as she peered at the face that looked down upon her. For its fair, false owner rice Mercer! , , ' '• |TO BE CONTINUED. |