Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 34, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 September 1898 — A Dangerous Secret. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Dangerous Secret.

BY FLORENCE MARYATT.

CHAPTER IX. On the following morning Mrs. Hephzibah Horton is seated in her own rooms at breakfast, in company with the solicitor, Mr. Bond. Before the meal is concluded, a servant brings a twisted piece of paper to present to Mrs. Horton. “Please, ma’am, a messenger has brought this for you.” “Dear friend,” it reads, “if you can some to me, pray do so. It is all over. He died last night, and I am left alone, and more in need of help from your strong heart and head than ever. Yours affectionately, DELIA MORAY.” “Make haste and finish your breakfast,” says Mrs. Horton to her solicitor, explaining the note. “You must come with me! Who knows what use your legal knowledge may be to the poor girl in this extremity?” When they reach the Morays’ lodgings Mrs. Timson, with the elongated face which she considers suitable to the occasion, precedes them upstairs with an intimation of their arrival, and Delia, very pale and very grave, comes out to meet her friend upon the landing. “It is so good of you to come to me,” she says, as Mrs. Hephzibah embraces her, “but I felt sure you would. I sent a telegram to tell Mr. William Moray this morning, and he has already arrived here; and—and —we don't get on very well together,” she concludes, with a look that says more than her words. “Well! I’m all the more glad that I was able to come, my dear, then, and to bring my friend Mr. Bond, whom let me introduce to you. Mr. Bond is my legal adviser—you have heard me mention his name before, I think; and I have told him all your history, so you needn’t mind what you say before him.” “Pray come in from this cold landing,” says Delia, simply, as, having bowed to the solicitor, she leads the way to the sitting room. The blinds are down, but there is a good fire in the grate, and it does not look more dismal than usual. The child is seated on the hearthrug playing with some books and toys, and William Moray, from his chair at the table, is watching him greedily as though he considers him to be already his own. He does not look particularly gratified when his sister-in-law re-enters the room, followed by the strangers. “Some friends of mine who have been kind enough to call and see me,” is all that Delia says in explanation, and then chairs are offered and accepted, and the party sit down together and feel uncomfortable, and don’t know how to begin the conversation. “This is a very melancholy occurrence, sir,” says William Moray to Mr. Bond. “Very melancholy!” is the rejoinder. “Who is to manage the business of the funeral ?” “I take that responsibility upon my own shoulders,” says William Moray. “I am glad to hear it,” nods the lawyer; “not but what it’s only your duty. This girl has kept your brother alive quite long enough, in my opinion. It would be rather hard if she had to bury him as well.” “My family, madam, is above leaving the funeral obsequies of any of its members to be performed either inefficiently or through the charity of strangers,” he answers, grandly. “Has your brother'left a will?” “O, no! He had nothing to leave,” replies Delia, innocently. “My late brother has left a will which was duly signed and witnessed in my presence,” puts in Moray. “Glad to hear it,” says the lawyer. “A will!” cried Delia. “I never saw it! Do you know where it is, Mr. Moray?” “It is in my possession.” As he speaks, he hands Mr. Bond the paper which James Moray signed the night before, and the solicitor reads it in silence. When he has concluded he looks at Mrs. Horton as much as to say: “The game is up.” Delia catches the look and rightly interprets it. “What is in that paper?” she demands, panting with excitement. “Tell me. 1 have a right to know!” “Now, my dear lady ” commences ’the solicitor. “Be calm, Delia Moray,” interposes Mrs. Hephzibah, “and depend on it we will see all your legal rights secured to you.” William Moray smiles furtively and says nothing. “How can I be calm, when I feel some further calamity is hanging over me? Oh! tell me what it contains, for mercy’s sake!” implores the mother. “Well, ladies,” explains the lawyer, “the gist of the matter is that this paper, signed by the deceased, aud witnessed by his brother and one Teresa Timson, deputes the sole guardianship of his son,-William Angus Moray, to his brother, William Moray, and that without any reference to or interference on the part of Delia Moray, his wife. Which means, ladies, that that gentleman standing there has the power to decide where and how the boy shall be boarded and educated henceforward, and that his mother has no power whatever to gainsay or prevent him.” “Infamous!” exclaimed Mrs. Hephzibah, energetically. “But, if the law can right her, it shall!” “The law is futile to interfere,” respnods Mr. Bond. “This is the law,” “Bah!” cries Mrs. Hephzibah, right in his face, to prevent the tears that have sprung to her eyes rolling down her cheeks. But Delia’s scared gaze is fixed upon him.

“What did you say?” she inquires softly; “I don’t think I quite understand it. My boy left to his uncle? To be educated, and fed, and kept by his uncle? Not to live with me, do you mean? Could he do it? Is that the law?” “It is the law, unfortunately, my dear madam,” replies Mr. Bond. “He shall not —he shall not! I defy him! Is it for this 1 have borne insult and violence and abuse, in bitter silence? Is it for this that my husband’s last act was to attempt my life? Oh! you cannot —cannot have the heart to take my boy from me?” she cries, turning to her broth-er-in-law. “If you could persuade your friend ” says William Moray to Mrs. Horton. “Don’t speak to me!” she answers abruptly. “I think the whole transaction infamous, and worthy of your brother and yourself from beginning to end. And if the poor girl had never been such a fool as to marry him he couldn’t have made her suffer like this to gratify his own petty revenge!” The woman on the floor seems to have been listening to Mrs. Hephzibah’s words, for as the last sentence leaves her lips she raises her head, and a look of fierce determination succeeds the despair in her face. What is it she gropes for in her bosom ? Does she mean to murder the man who threatens to rob her of her child; and is it a concealed knife for which she seeks? It might be, judging from the look upon her face. But whatever it is, as she gets hold of it she rises to her feet suddenly, and stands upon the hearthrug with her ■back to the fire. “Mr. Bond!” she exclaims, “is that the truth? Were my boy illegitimate, could they take him from inc?’

‘‘A strangb question, my dear madani; but certainly not—certainly not;” “Not by will—or otherwise?” “Not by any means whatever. It is only over his legitimate child that a man has any power.” Something held in the hands behind her back drops ynto the blazing fire, and is shriveled into nothing. As Delia gives a rapid glance around, and sees it has entirely disappeared, a beautiful courage—the courage of despair —gleams from her eyes like that which must have inspired the martyrs of old when they placed their naked feet upon the burning ploughshares. She catches up the child upon the hearthrug, and holding him tightly to her breast, advances to the table. “Then I defy William Moray, or any other man, to take my boy from me,” she says. “He is mine, and lam his. We belong to one another only. I was never married to his father!” At this announcement every one in the room is visibly startled. “Are you in earnest, madam ?” demands the solicitor, incredulously. “Delia Moray! for heaven’s sake, think what you are sacrificing,” whispers Mrs. Horton. But the animal instinct is roused in the woman’s breast, and she shakes off her best friend with fierce impatience. “Leave me alone!” she answers loudly. “I tell you ’tis the truth!” “It is not,” says William Moray; “it is a trumped-up lie to serve your own purpose. I had the assurance from my brother’s lips that you were his wife!” “Where are the proofs, then? Bring them forward!” “You must have a copy of the marriage certificate surely?” says the lawyer. Mrs. Hephzibah Horton remembers—and says nothing. “I have no certificate,” replies Delia. “That is of little consequence,” says William Moray, angrily. “A copy is easily procurable from the registrar’s books of the church‘where they were married. I am not going to be fooled in this way.” “But if we were never married in any church—what then?” says Delia defiantly. “But I say you were! You were married at Chilton, in Berwick. Now! are you convinced that it is useless to try and deceive me?” She laughs scornfully. “Go to Chilton, then, and get the certificate. There is no church there. It was burned to the ground the very time 1 stayed there in the place with your brother.” Mr. Moray starts. He has heard something of the occurrence before, and remembers it is true. He begins to fear she may outwit him. “This is child’s play!” he exclaims passionately. “There must be a copy of the certificate somewhere among my late brother's papers. -I shall go and search for it.” He leaves the room as he speaks, and Mrs. Horton approaches Delia. The mother’s face is very pale, and her lips are tightly compressed together, and as her friend grasps her hand she shrinks away from her. “Don’t touch me, or speak to me! Re--member what ! am!” “ — — “I do remember it, Delia Moray, and I admire your courage. But you cannot deceive me!” The girl’s eyes turn toward her with a look of infinite gratitude. “Don’t mention it now! For the next few minutes I must act, or fail.” William Moray re-enters the apartment. “Have you been successful, sir?” asks Mr. Bond. “No,” is the reply. “But I will prove the truth of the marriage yet, if trouble Or expense will do it.”

“Meanwhile,” interposes Mrs. Horton blandly, “you will have no objection, 1 suppose, to this lady returning home with me?” So Delia passes from the home where she has been so miserable, with a blight upon her fair fame, and a brand forever on her outcast child, believing that the joy she has so rashly purchased must outweigh the sufferings that accompany it. And this is Delia Moray’s lie! CHAPTER X. There are some places in this world of change—a very few —which look as if they had stood still since the day on which they attained maturity. No modern architecture has displaced the quaiut fashion in which their first houses were built; no innovations have been permitted to supersede the ancient customs. Such a place is Bruges; city beloved of devotees, refugees, and impecunious Englishmen. It appears like sacrilege to make those reverend archways ring with laughter, or the ancient stones clatter beneath running feet. But Gabrielle de Blois, even, great, tall girl of seventeen though she is, returning from her daily muic lesson at the convent school, has no scruples on the matter. She is a pretty, gypsy-look-ing creature, with dark hair hanging down her back in tangled curls, and bright eyes full of mirth and mischief, and a coarse straw hat pulled over her face. She looked as demure as a nun just now when she met the Reverend Abbe Bertin and answered some questions he put to her respecting her father; but, as she turned the corner and passed under the dark archway that will conduct her to the sunny, open Place, she caught sight of a wellknown figure advancing as though to meet her, and all her love of fun rushes to the surface. She darts like a swallow behind the' opened gateway, and waits in silent ambush the approach of the newcomer. In her hand she holds a branch of blossoming lime which she pulled carelessly from a tree on her way from school. The person she waits for advances unsuspectingly, believing her still to be some quarter of a mile ahead of him. He is a young man of one or two and twenty; slight, tall and graceful iu appearance, with delicate features, blue eyes, and fair, reddish hair. He does not hear the half-suppressed giggle with which his proximity to the gateway is saluted, but he does feel a long branch of blossoming lime tickle his neck as he passes through it, and in another moment he has detected the hidden culprit. The warm flush that beautifies his features as he does so, is sufficient to denote the interest he feels in her, while the burst of glad laughter with which she greets him proves that he is no unwelcome companion. “Gabrielle,” he says in French, re-, proachfully, “why did you not wait at the convent until I called for you?” “Because, Angus,” she answers in the same language, "the fact of your calling for .me so constantly has been observed, and papa would not like me to be talked about.” Both speak fluently, but there is just sufficient difference in their accent to show that Angus has acquired the language by education, and Gabrielle uses it as her native tongue. “What nonsense! when we have known each other from little children. One would think you were about to become a nun yourself.” “And who says I am not?” she returns, defiantly. “You look very like a nun in that costume, I must say. Much more like a wild Arab of tjie desert}”

“Now Angus that is very unkind of you, as well as impoHte, when you know my poor papa cannot afford to dress me any better.” " - , ' “Oh, Gabrielle! as if you did not look beautiful to me in any guise. Only when yod talk of becomifag a nun, it is too absurd.** . “Why should it be absurd? Both my atints are religieusefc and 1 have no mother to take charge of inCi should my poor papa die! 5 ’ “There is no chance of yotir father dying; but if there were, you should have some one better than a mother to look after you—a husband.” “You must not speak to me in that fashion, Angus. Papa would not approve of it!” “t must speak, Gabrielle. The time has tome for speaking. I only wait your permission to broach the subject to youi father. But though I know that, according to the custom of your country, 1 should do that first, I am too English in feeling to pluck up courage for it, until 1 am sure that his consent will be backed by your own. Tell me, Gabrielle, if your father says ‘yes,’ will you have me for a husband?” “Can you doubt it, Angus?” says the girl, softly. “If I went to your father and told him I desired to make you my wife he might give me his consent—do you think he would give me his consent, Gabrielle?’ “I do not know. I am not sure,” replies the girl, blushing violently; “but papa loves you, Angus. He has often told me how much he should like to have had a son just like yourself.” The young man is about to make some reply to her words, when the attention of both is diverted toward the driver of a fiacre, who is waving his arms and hallooing in their direction. “What can the man want?’ exclaims Angus, as he turns and sees him. (To be continued.)