Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 September 1898 — A Dangerous Secret. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Dangerous Secret.

BY FLORENCE MARYATT.

CHAPTER XI. “Some one has been taken ill,” says Gabrielle, with the quick instinct of her sex. She proves to be right. As the young couple near the vehicle a portly, pompouslooking Englishman turns to question them, disclosing the body of a portly, pompous-looking Englishwoman lying in a state of unconsciousness upon the carriage seat. The driver, knowing Angus by sight and being unable to comprehend a word of the stranger’s language, had wisely summoned him to his aid. “Do you know if I can get a doctor in this place?” demands the Englishman, curtly, and without removing his hat. “This lady, my wife, has been taken very ill, and I must get medical advice at once for her. “There are several doctors here, monsieur,” commences Angus, politely. “Well, well, well! I don’t want several doctors; I want one. One will do if he’s worth his salt and can understand English. Can you give me a name and address?” “Shall we send them to your father?” demands Angus in French of Gabrielle. “He is the only doctor in Bruges who can speak English.”. “Yes, yes,” replies the girl eagerly. “Papa will do all he can for the poor lady.” “Are you going to keep me standing here all day?” says the stranger, rudely. He is dark-haired, coarse and rather common-looking, yet there is something in his appearance that strikes Angus with interest. The interest seems returned, for, as the Englishman looks at the young man again, it is with considerable earnestness. “Dr. de Blois, Numero 10 Rue St. Augustin, is a very skillful practitioner, monsieur, and will do all for the lady that is possible.” The stranger gives the direction to the driver, and, nodding carelessly in acknowledgment of the services rendered, is about to enter the vehicle, when a thought suddenly strikes him and he turns round, with his foot upon the carriage step. “What is your name?” he says, abruptly. “Angus Moray, monsieur.” The Englishman descends to earth, again. “Angus Moray! Who is your father?’ “My father, James Moray, has been dead for a long time, but my mother lives here.” “Oh, your mother lives here, does she?” “Certainly. We have been residents in Bruges for many years past.” “Exactly. I understand all about it. Now look you here, Mr. Angus Moray, 1 happen to have known your father, and I should like to speak with you again. I ?an’t stay now, with my wife in this condition, as you may suppose; but I am stopping at the Hotel Belgique, and if you ike to come and see me there to-morrow afternoon, you can—if not, leave it alone. Good-day to you!” and entering the vehicle, the portly Englishman closes the loot and drives off, leaving the two young people standing in the middle of the Place staring after him. “What a curious adventure!” says Angus at last. “I wonder what the man can possibly want to see me for?” “It is unaccountable,” acquiesces Gabrielle. “And he has forgotten to leave his name, too! Tiens! but that is droll! For whom will you ask?” “There will be no difficulty in finding him, Gabrielle. There cannot be two such Englishmen staying at the Hotel Belgique.” “Suppose he should turn out to be a millionaire, and wish to make you his heir!” suggests the girl. “You would forget all that you have just said to me, then, Angus.” “Never, my darling! But suppose your papa saves the laidy’s life, and, in gratitude for his services, the millionaire bestows all his fortune upon him. One event is quite as likely to occur as the other. What would Madamoiselle Gabrielle de Blois have to say to her railway surveyor then, eh?” < “The lady is not ill enough for that,” replies Gabrielle, evasively. “She has only fainted from the heat and fatigue; and how the visitors here can go through the exertions they do, standing about churches and picture galleries all day, in the height of summer, always puzzles me! See, Angus, there is another Englishwoman in that fiacre. Ah, how droll she is! What a comical figure! Will she strike the poor driver in the face with that huge umbrella?” They seem destined to encounter surprises to-day, for as they look toward the person Gabrielle has mentioned, they plainly see the umbrella flourished in their direction with the evident design of attracting their notice.

“Another millionaire! Now we shall have one apiece!” exclaims Gabrielle, laughing, as the vehicle halts and they walk up to it; but this time it is In very tolerable French that the stranger asks if they can help her to find the address for which she is bound. “I have just come over by the Ostend boat to visit an old friend in Bruges, and though I have been corresponding with her for years past, I have never been required to put the number of the street in which she resides upon my letters; and this idiot on the coach box doesn’t appear to know the lady’s name nor anything about her!”

“Pardon, madame!” says Angus, as, with all the courtesy of his adopted land, he stands bareheaded before her. “Perhaps he is a stranger to Bruges. Will you favor me with the name of the lady you desire to find?” “It’s not a private house. It’s a lodging house in the Rue Allemande, kept by a Mademoiselle Steivenart.” “Ah, madame, I am fortunate! I can direct you wkbout further trouble. Mademoiselle Steivenart keeps the house at Nufliero 22.” .

“Thank you very much. I’m sure I’m infinitely obliged. This fool would have driven me about the town all day,” replies the stranger; and in another minute she has also driven out of sight. “What a funny looking lady!” exclaims Gabrielle as she disappears. “She wears a bonnet of the mode of ten years back, and a cloak like a man’s coat, and has such a loud voice. You would make twice as nice a woman as she is, Angus, if we dressed you up in my clothes.” But Angus is thoughtfully ruminating over some old memory, stirred by the stranger’s appearance and address. “It is strange she should be bound for Numero 22!” he says presently. “I wonder who she can be going to see there. The boarders r are all foreigners except my mother.” “And this lady is so much what my papa would call a ‘regular John Bull.’ But may she not be going to see your mamma, Angus? Madame Moray told me last week she expected a friend from England.” “You are right, Gabrielle! You have hit it!” exclaims Angus. “Everything assures me you must be right; and this Jady can be no other than my mother’s old friend, Mrs. Hephzibah Horton.” “Tiens! What a name!” cries Miss Gabrielle. CHAPTER XII. Mrs. Hephzibah Horton (for it is indeed

I she) is jolted rapidly over the uneven pav-ing-stones until she finds the vehicle stopped before a wide porte-cochere, carved in old black oak, with fieudish and cherubic faces, all sporting in inextricable confusion about the figure of the martyr St. Sebastian, with his gridiron ready in his hand. Mrs. Hephzibah is not given, as a rule, to embraces and tears, but she is surprised to find how emotional a meeting with Delia Moray has the power to make her feel. There is a moisture about her eyes that she cannot understand as she returns the younger woman’s kisses, and her hands tremble so that she gives the driver a whole franc over his proper fare —a circumstance which affords her a subject for regret during the remainder of her stay in Bruges. “And now that we are alone, let me have a good look at you,” she says, when, all such preliminary ceremonies as removing her traveling attire and taking some refreshment being happily concluded, she finds herself seated in her friend’s private room. Delia Moray stands before her, laughing. She was twenty-five when they parted; she is thirty-nine now, but the fourteen years’ interval of rest and quiet have passed over her lightly. Not a white hair shines among her smooth, dark tresses — not a wrinkle yet appears upon her forehead. Her cheeks are plumper and her complexion brighter than they were wont to be, and happiness is sparkling in her eyes and dimpling her mouth with smiles. “My dear, you look ten years younger than you used to. I’m much afraid you can’t say the same of me. Is it the air of the place that has done it, or have you got a Belgian Rachel to make you ‘beautiful forever?’ You have certainly got hold of some secret that half your sex would give their eyes to find.” “It is the rest and the content, dear Mrs. Horton. Oh! you cannot think what a peaceful life I lead here. I seem to have no care, no trouble. I make the little money I require for my own wants easily, and I have friends all over Bruges, and my boy is so good and generous to me.” “I am glad to hear that—very glad indeed. He ought to be a good son to you, Delia Moray, for you gave up everything for him.” “Oh, he is, and so clever besides, and getting on so well in his profession! He studied, you know, as a civil engineer and surveyor, and Monsieur l’Abbe Berlin took a great interest in him; and now, with the assistance of some of his relations, he has procured Angus an excellent appointment —the permanent charge of a new line of railway just opened between Bruges and some of the smaller towns in Belgium; and Angus is to receive three thousand francs a year as salary—that is, one hundred and twenty pounds of our English money—with an annual increase of ten pounds. That is not a bad income for a boy of twenty-one, who has had nothing but his own wits to depend on for a living—is it, Mrs. Horton? And it might be all for me if I chose to accept it from him. Dear Angus!” The mother’s eyes are dancing with pride and pleasure, and Mrs. Hephzibah cannot but catch some spark of her laudable excitement. “It is capital—it is first rate! and I congratulate you, Delia Moray, on the possession of such a son. I didn’t think he’d turn out so well—l didn’t, indeed. And so you call him ‘Angus’ now instead of ‘Willy.’ ” “Yes, and have done so for years; J think it best. It is his second name, you know, and the other is fraught with unpleasant recollections to me. I cannot bear the thought of that man, William Moray—even to this day. He who wanted so cruelly and basely to deprive me of my child—to take my only solace from me. It was a long time before I could forget the aversion and fear tfith which he inspired me, and even now I sometimes feel a dread lest his malice should find me out again, and urge him to revenge himself upon my darling boy.” “Delia Moray, I see that you haven’t given up -your old habit of talking nonsense. How on earth could this man hurt you or your boy, who is already of age? It is evident that you’ve grown no wiser during the years we have been parted.” “O! I know it is but a foolish fancy, but then Angus is so precious to me. And if anything were to come between us, or turn away his love from me, I think that I should die.” Mrs. Hephzibah was not destined to be Introduced to Mr. Angus Moray that evening. The hour for the table d’hote arrives and passes, and he does not appear. In fact, she has already retired for the night before the young man .pomes home. His mother waits at her open door to greet him with a smile upon her face, and he comes with a bright, pleased look to return her caress. “My darling boy! Where have you been all these long hours?” “Why? You have not been inconvenienced by my absence, surely?’ “I have, though! My friend Mrs. Horton arrived this afternoon, and I have been so disappointed at not being able to introduce you to her.” Angus gives a start of recollection and surprise. “I had forgotten her! Isn’t she a curious looking old woman in a black cloak, and a bonnet over her eyes?” “My dear! wherever did you see her?” “In a fiacre driving across the Place! She didn’t remember the number of the house, and I gave it to her. But I didn’t know, of course, that it was Mrs. Horton—only after she had driven away, Gabrielle said ” He throw’s his arms round her waist as he speaks, and leads her to the further end of the room. “There is nothing wrong, dear Angus, is there?” “On the contrary, everything is right! Mother, you know that for a long time past I have cared for Gabrielle de Blois/’ “And you have proposed to her, and she has accepted you! Oh! I am so glad!” cries Delia, with the truly feminine habit of leaping at a conclusion. “Well, you are correct so far. Gabrielle has confessed she likes me well enough to take me for a husband, if her father approves of the marriage. But there is the old doctor’s consent to be obtained.” “Why didn’t you speak to him nt once? He is so fond of you, he will pu ; no difficulties in the way, I am sure.” “I don’t think he will, and that is why I have been waiting about ais house till an hour ago, hoping he might return. But he was called off to visit a patient at Blankenburg this afternoon, a’nd has not yet come home.” “Dear girl! I will try to do my duty by her, and love her dearly for my boy’s sake. O! this is a very, very happy prospect. It is almost too good to be true.” She rises as she speaks, and they pass lovingly together up the stairs. As she dismisses him at her own door, Angus says to her: “By the way, I had such an adventure this afternoon m I was walking in the Place with Gabrielle.. Some Englishwoman had been taken ill, and the husband appealed to me for the address of a doctor. I gave him that of Dr. de Blois,

and then he asked me to go and see him to-morrow at the Hotel Belgique.” “What! the Englishman?’ “Yes; wasn’t it funny? I can’t imagine why he should wish to see me again.” “To thank you for your politeness, most likely—or to see if he can return it. What was his name?” “I forgot to ask.” “How will you find him, then?’ “Oh, I cannot mistake him. He is so big and fat and red in the face.” Delia laughs softly at the description. “Well, go to bed now, my darling, and sleep it all up again. Happy dreams to you. my Angus. Good night.” She accepts bis loving farewell with a smile. She little thinks it is the last goodnight that she will have for many a long day. (To be continued.)