Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 August 1898 — A Dangerous Secret. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Dangerous Secret.

By FLORENCE MARYATT.

\ CHAPTE& Yll—(Continued-) | “Am I Mrs.. Jpmris Moray, or am l not?” says Delia as' she' con£xdnt|| her-brother-iiutaw boldly.: ?>!>- ? / {■. Mtealiy! this is an excessively awkward predicament, - ’ he stammers in replJSr “I will not leave the bouse,” sbe says, defiantly, “until you answer my question, and give me back my boy. Am 1 your brother’s wife, or am I not?” . • “Well —of course—at lea§J James insures me,” he commences, still utterly at, a loss to know..how to get out of tin: dilemma. Mr. Moray!” exclaims bis better half, “do you.mean to tell me there’s huuy doubt upon the matter, when you’ve bassured dimes' liout of number, that your brother his’a widower and the boy a borphan?” “‘Tbeii’Be lied to yoii,” says Delia. *‘He « brother had a wife, lie bus -everting after evening at our room::, out with nay uhfortunate husband, drinking and otbcy you says Moriy! “this woman Is miy- lifoftiW’sr WiftH but,' knoVfnir ‘the objection you would natUik'liy .toward, her . profession, 1 thought it best not to let' you" Bear the truth,’ especially as I have ndeeided to adopt the“iittte hoyl” . . “Iladopt the little hoy!” exclaims Mrs. Moray.- “I’ll allow you to - do’ no such thing. 'Whptf yhu expect me to hact the part of mother to a baetress’ himp? Never! The very hidea makes my blood curdle.” “A mother to my boy!” cries Delia, in her turn. “I would like to see you or any other woman dare to try it. I am his mother! Wliere is-my child?” she continues fiercely, as she turns upon William Moray; ‘(where is my WiJly? (live him back to nle-or -I’ll go straight to the next magistrate and tell him the whole story beginning to end.” Bm at thpjgoupd of his .mother’s voice uttering his name, and as though to summon him, little Willy has gdt-down from las chair at the luncheon table, and, ji*\V,' ajmei&ring at,the drawing room door, llk-g. with .a cry* of pleasure, into Delia’s • exclaims, “my own, own child! Let tjupse take heed who would try to tear you frpm me again.” “But, under the circumstances, I shall no*:be in permitting you to re- ■ mqU’ft: from my care,” interWijfiam rlforay nervously. “His fafhfeii hilff with me, and unless the -law you have no right to take him away. In fact, I will not let him go!” : : : “If you don’t, I’ll turn him hout hon the doorstep,” snys his wife. “If you don’t, I claim my right to remain by his side till the affair is settled,” says his sister-indaw. William Moray is like a man between two fires. He really is to be pitied the most of the three. He does not know which of these women to conciliate first, nor on what tack to steer so as to make his peace with either. “I took the child from your lodgings with the best intentions,” he says to Delia. “You cannot bear the whole burden of liis support in ease of anything happening to my brother,, and it was my intention to help you by adopting Willy as my son.” j“-Yon shall never haye him,” she cries, Indignantly. (Mr. napes Moray his coming hup the liavonue,” just here announces Jeames Plush, hastily. . It is evident that Mr, James Moray is nq welcome visitor at the Firs, since the servants have been .ordered to giye warning of his approach. But his presence at this particular moment is a real relief to his brother, who. gives a ready order for his admittance.- At the intelligence of, her husband’s Delia turns veiry pale, and clasps the boy tighter to her bosom. But she does not quail, nevertheless. “That low creature here hagain?” ejaculates Mrs. Moray, “with his drunken habits awl-his hunpleasant, cunning eoun.teimncei! '""Well, there's a nice pair of you,. Tuid tlM’s my hopinion, and his I’d known hit would come to this, I never would -.have demeaned myself by hentering such a family—no, neveiT’ : you- majt-Vtifink, be good th Keep it to yourself for the prescirt,” replies'her “My, brother’s coming is most relieves my mind of a great responsibility,H e . can now do what he thinks Best with his own child,” • ; - ' - ' “He shall never take him froni me again,” says Dclih,'as 'she holds the Boy close—close against her throbbing heart, and nerves Jierself for the coming interview; ' > ' " CHAPTER VIII. James Moray enters the drawing room at the Firs with anything but an assured countenance. He is perfectly sober, but not at all certain of the reception he will get at his sister-in-law’s hands; .For the fact is, he has only entered the house twice before this—once when his brother introduced Willy to the notice of his wife, arid again when the-' child was hastily conveyed from the lodgings, at Holloway to Brixton, and some false excuse was made for taking him there at that time of night.- !' - He has thought to make Willy’s presence at the Firs an excuse for inquiring after the child, in hopes his brother may ask him to stop arid' take his Sunday dinner with them. Little does he think whom he will encounter’ in Mrs. William Moray’s drawing room. As he enters at the door, he makes his way at once up to her. lie holds out h!s hand to her almost deprecatingly. She reject’s it coarsely. “Don’t hoffer your hand to me, feif you please, Mr. James, for I have found hout hall your deception for myself.” “What does it mean?” he asks, turning to his brother, and in turning he sees his wife and child. Then there is no need of explanation. “So you are at the bottom of this, are you?” lie says, angrily. “1 might have guessed as much. What do you mean by . coming up here without my leave? How flare you intrude upon my relations in this way?” “I came here for my boy,” she answers, boldly, “and if you had placed him in Buckingham Palace, I would have forced myself into the very presence of royalty in qrder to feet him back again.” “‘I , i*m tffippped if you shall keep him, though!” exclaims her husband, as he makes a'yfei'nt of wresting the child from her grasp. “The boy is mine, and I shall dq exactly as I choose with him. The law is on. my side.” ’’’ “You’ll riot leave him here, Mr. James, ndt for -hariothor hour, for I refuse to k«iep hiiri,” interposes Mrs. William Moray. ‘ “Hit was never represented to me, when I consented to hallow the child to remain bunder my roof, that he was the hoffspring liof a hactress.” The start of surprise and disappointment with which James Moray receives this announcement is’ not lost upon sharpsighted Delia. She rends its motive at a glance, and lakes advantage of it. If Willy is discarded by his aunt, the burden not only of the child’s support, but his own, must fall upon her husband. She remembers Mrs. Hephzibah’s last words, and throws dowu her next card boldly. (“Take- your son, .ttyen,’’she says, in a loud voice, But with’ trembling lips, as she Hfr*bas W’illy toward his father, “If you

are to have the sole disposal of him, so must you take the sole responsibility. 1 W|ll go out into the world alone and suppc«± myself.” - ' But this unexpected move upon the mother’s part startles William Moray.-He advised the recapture of (he boy solejy to compel Delia to follow* him. -If- she is too far, and deliberately deserts teF child, the support o t both brother and nephew will come upon himself. And he is not prepared to undertake it. Therefore he quickly interposes to check the angry rejoinder that he sees upon James’ lips. “Stop, James! pray stop! Yon are going too far! What has your wife done that you should threaten her with the loss of her child? This matter only requires a little settlement. Cannot we talk it over together and come to some amicable arrangement?”“Oh, all right,” says James Moray, mystified by the other’s change of tactics, “but I thought you said——” “Never mind what I said. We were both put out at the time by finding Mrs. Moray had deserted you. But now that she has come back, we must try to patch up this little disagreement. What is it, Sirs. Moray, that you require my brother to dq for you?” ... , , . ; *!.• “Simply this: To treat me decently!; To let me lie down and get up in peace, aqd retain possession of my own child. 1 want no love from him. I have ceased to expect it for years past, but if h’e will only promise to refrain from striking me and Willy, and to leave us together, I will work for him, as I have done, until I can work no more!” “Well, I think that is a perfectly fair proposal, and one to which my brother should be pleased to assent. What do you say, James? Have you any further remark to make upon the subject?” “Does she mean to come home with me and do her duty?” demands James in a sullen voice. “I have already said I will. But I alon’t consider it my duty to submit to be treated like a dog rather than a woman. I can support myself, and you can’t. 1 am willing to support you on certain conditions; but the next time you force me to leave you, 1 shall go, not to Holloway, but straight into if police court, and see if I cannot get satisfaction from the law.” “Let it be peace, James,” whispers his brother; “it is the best policy, at all events for the present.” “We will have peace, then,” says James Moray, as he holds out his hand to Delia. Their hands meet, but there is no life in the clasp that unites them. The James Morays return to their comfortable home almost iu silence. Delhi sits in one corner of the third-class railway carriage, with Willy held tightly in her arms, and her eyes fixed apparently on space. But as her husband glances furtively at her, every now and then, he perceives by the stern expression of her mouth and the gravity of her countenance that she is perfectly determined and fearless. There is nothing to eat in the house, and neither James nor she has dined. She orders something to be prepared for them as soon as possible; and Willy is delighted to be allowed to walk round with Mrs. Timson to the butcher’s and try and persuade him to cut a steak on Sunday. The dinner appears and disappears. The husband and wife sit down together, and eat at. 4he same table; but they do not address each other, except in the most formal manner. But the boy is present and talks for both of them. Once Moray harshly bids him hold his tongue in the old fashion; Delia does not resent the order, but she just raises her eyes and looks him steadily iu the face. It is sufficient. In that determined glance he reads a reminder' of their agreement, and Willy is. permitted to chatter unrebuked. But the hatred with which Moray has commenced to regard his wife waxes stronger with each proof of her power. He is in the position of a madman bound with fetters, from" which there is no possibility of freeing himself, lashing out in impotent fury, and foaming with rage because he cannot reach tho passers by. He would like to murder Delia. Those 'cunning, pale blue eyes of bis have a dangerous light in them as he watches her every action. But she. takes no notice of his mood, believing that it is but' the natural consequence of the unpleasant scenes they have gone' through, and that it will cure itself with time and-reflection: She is perfectly fearless of him. With the evening comes his brother William. Delia litis retired to bed; in tho first place, because she is very weary; in the second, because she has no wish to encounter her brother-in-law. The conversation which ensues between the brothers relates solely to the little boy, whom William, notwithstanding the opposition he is likely to encounter from his wife, has taken a great fancy to adopt. He wants to persuade Janies to make a will, appointing him sole guardian of the child, subject to no control whatever of the mother, in the event of which he promises to make little Willy his heir, and bring him up to the profitable business of a wool merchant. “And so I will byme—bymeby ” asseverates Jeinniy, Who is beginning to be slightly incoherent under the influence of tho brandy. “Better do it at once,” urges his brother. “I .have drawn up a paper that wifi answer all the purpose, if you will just write your name at the bottom—here. Stop, though! we must have a witness. Will yoiir landlady officiate, do you think?” “Dunno,” says'James. “Well, we can but try,” replies William, ringing the bell. When the landlady answers it, he meets her on the threshold. “Mrs. Timson, will you oblige us by witnessing my brother’s signature? (I have been inducing him to make a proper provision for Mrs. Moray in case of his death,” he adds in a lower tone, "and really his health appears to be breaking up so fast, that I think the sooner it is all settled the better.”) “With pleasure, sir!” replies Mrs. Timson. ■ _ James Moray just manages to sign his name legibly, and when his brother’s and Mrs. Timson’s autographs have been added to it, the ceremony is complete. Then the landlady retires, and James Moray applies himself afresh to the brandy bottle. “I don’t think you had better drink any more to-night, Jem,” says William, as he buttons up the paper that has just been signed in his breast pocket. “W’hy not go to bed and sleep? You’ll be another man to-morrow morning. I’m afraid 1 can’t stay any longer.” “It won’t be long before you’ll have played out your little game, and I shall be able to claim the boy as my own,” he thinks, as he makes his way down stairs with the paper securely fastened in his breast. Strange to say, the thought giveri him the greatest pleasure. He does not love the child, but he covets him. James, meanwhile, with the brandy bottle still close at his elbow, sits and ruminates over the events of the past day. He is not quite certain as to what he has committed himself by placing his signature. to that paper, but he remembers it was something to “vex” his wife, and tbfet idea a lona is sufficient to give him

, ' 1 .. . , _ . - If she were only gone new—out at the way—unable to trouble him any more! The wicked thought presses on the burning brain, more than ordinarily confused by the approach of Alness, until it gains the ascendency, and that tfhieh appeared an impossibility ten minutes before, seems the easiest thing in creation now. If he only had a knife—a sharp, good, knife that he could trust—she is sleeping soundly, and it would be over before she could awake. The man rises and gropes his way in drunken blindness to the cupboard, whence he draws an ordinary knife and regards it stupidly. It is dreadful after that to see him kneel down by the fireplace and sharpen the blade upon the hearthstone, drawing it deliberately backward and forward, while a malicious smile plays about his -countenance. Then he tries the instrument upon his own finger, and drawing blood with the action, laughs softly to himself, and having opened the door steaßhfly, makes his way into the next room. Delia is sleeping soundly. She does not hear her husband’s step. Nothing disturbs her rest, until she feels the pressure of a hand (ipon her body, outside the bed clothes, as it is feeling its way up to her throat. She fetirs —the hand is still; she asks “Is anyone there?” The only answer she receives is the falling of a heavy body against her in the dark, while a hand grasps her arm and something sharp and cold is across her unprotected shoulder. In an instant the truth flashes upon her mind—that her husband is attempting her life. With a scream for help that rouses half the household, she wrestles with, the arms that attempt, ineffectually, to hold her down; then leaping from the bed, makes for the door, and throws it open, letting the full light from the gas upon the landing stream into the joom. There he stands—a detected criminalshivering like a wretch upon the brink of the gallows, with the knife still in his hand. Mrs. Timson, clad in a mysterious brown garment which she always dons in cases of emergency, jj as coine ap the stairsi to inquire ; what the disturbance is about. Delia is about (o denounce him when both women start back with horror and surprise. l He stands where Delia saw him last, but now the knife has fallen from his grasp, and he is shaking violently from head to foot. His countenance, usually so pale, has assumed a dark purple tinge, and works violently, his eyes protrude, arid the foam is bubbling round his lips. “James! James! speak, for mercy’s sake!” exclaims his wife. “I forgive everything—l will be silent ns the grave— I ” But before she can conclude her sentence the wretched man, after one or two ineffectual efforts to retain his position, falls forward with a gurgle and a groan upon the floor, and is writhing in a fit at her feet. Delia is beside him in a moment, loosening his cravat and necktie. In a few minutes the convulsion abates—only, it would seem, to allow the body to gain strength to meet the much worso attack that immediately succeeds it, and after which James Moray, with his shirtfront covered with blood and foam, lies quiet and struggles no more. “He is dead!” says Delia, iu a low voice; and she is right. When the doctor, who has been summoned by some of the lodgers to his aid, arrives tipon the spot, he confirms her verdict. The drunkard has been overtaken by the fate he was attempting to compass for another. (To be continued.)