Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 September 1898 — A Dangerous Secret. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Dangerous Secret.

BY FLORENCE MARYATT.

CHAPTER XIII. Dr. de Blois is in his consulting room, which is also his surgery, compounding some mixture for the benefit of his patients, and thinking deeply the while; More than ohce hfe has spoilt the mixture he is brewing by adding wrong quantities to it, and had to throw the whole mess away. His brows are contracted, and every now and then he pushes his glasses up to his forehead and rubs his eyes in a puzzled and perplexed man; ner, as though he would make his mental sight clearer. He is engaged in this way when Gabrielle pushes the door open; hnd, finding her father alone, walks boldly into the (surgery. “You there, my bird:” says the doctor, peering at her above his spectacles; “why are you not off to your convent? It is past nine.” “Yes, papa; I know, but I waited to see you; I thought you might be coming up stairs again, papa; 1 wanted to ask you something very particular —something about Angus!’’ “Gabrielle, did Angus Moray accompany you home from the convent yesterday ?” “He did, papa!” “Well, you must discontinue the practice. You must not walk with Angus any more from to-duy. Do you understand me?” “Yes, papa! only—if—if ” “If what? I cannot have my daughter talked about because she walks out with a young man who is no relation to her.” “Felicite Duprez walks out with Ernest Haure whenever she feels inclined,” says Gabrielle, in a low voice. “They are fiancees. That makes all the difference.” “But if—if •” falters poor Gabrielle again, “if I were fiancee to Angus, papa ” “Gabrielle,” says Dr. de Blois, walking up to the girl and looking her straight in the eyes. “You will never be fiancee to Angus Moray! You must understand that plainly. I have let you see a great deal of one another because you have played together from childhood, but now that you are growing up it must be altered. I will not have your name linked with his. I have other views in the future for you.” “Very good, papa!” says the poor child, sorrowfully, as she turns away and commences her walk to the convent. Meanwhile Angus is walking with a jaunty, not to say confident air, in the direction of the doctor’s dwelling. Dr. de Blois is still in his consulting room as Angus ’taps lightly at the halfopened door with his cane, and then, without further preamble, steps into the room. The young man, as he stands there with his handsome features flushed by excitement, in a light gray suit—almost bridal in his dandyism—and a rose in his buttonhole, makes so pleasant a picture that the doctor forgets fox* a moment what he has to say to him, aud recalls it with a bitter sigh. “May I come in, doctor? You are alone, I see.” “Certainly, Angus! You are early this morning, my boy—anything unusual going on at the office?”

“No! everything concerned with it goes as smoothly as possible, thanks to the character the good abbe was pleased to give me. You have heard, have you not, that I have been selected to lay the new line of railway between this and the Walion? It is an excellent appointment, and will bring me in nearly double pay during the period it will occupy. Dr. de Blois,” impetuously continues Angus, “do not think me presumptuous; but will you, who have in your hands the choice of Gabrielle’s husband, choose me to fill that position? She is not too young to love me—for she has told me so.” The doctor tries to affect surprise at this appeal, but signally fails to do so. He is no actor, so he only knits his brows fiercely together and says: “You have mentioned the subject, then, to my daughter.” “Forgive me! 1 could not help it.” “Angus,” says the doctor slowly, “1 cannot give you my daughter.” “You will not give me Gabrielle?” cries Angus Moray, in real distress. “I cannot! There are -reasons, many and grave, which render such a marriage impossible.” “Has it anything to do with my income ?’’

“Nothing whatever! I never coveted riches for my child.” “Is it my character, then?” “No, Angus. No one has a word to say against that in Bruges, or elsewhere.” “What is the mystery, then? I am young, active and healthy, and I love her like my life.” “Poor boy! poor children!” says the doctor, wiping away something very like a tear, “I feel for you both deeply. But I will never give you Gabrielle. I will shut her up in a convent first.” “At least you might tell me on what score I am condemned.” “Ask your mother!” “Does she know?” “She ought to. If not, she cannot fail to guess. Angus, my dear boy, do not blame me too much for this. lam shocked, grieved and upset by it all. If, with a clear conscience toward myself, and others, I could give you my daughter, I would do so gladly. There is no one 1 would sooner embrace as a son than yourself. But I owe a duty to my family, and to the sainted dead, which ” “Enough, Dr. de Blois!” says the young man, straightening himself to his full height. “I understand your insinuation, though I have no notion of the cause of it. I and my mother have been considered good enough for you to associate with and make use of when it suited your convenience to do so; but when it comes to a question of uniting the families by marriage, you profess to think us beneath yourselves, because, I presume, we came to Bruges without our pedigree in our hands, and have taken no trouble to boast of it since. But I would have you know, Dr. de Blois, that the name of Moray stands as high in its own country —perhaps a great deal higher—than that of De Blois in Belgium. I feel the slight you have cast upon my mother’s connections and my own more deeply still; and I shall never forgive it uor forget it to my dying day!” And with this poor Angus, unable longer to trust his voice or his eyes, rushes abruptly from the surgery into the open air. Dr. de Blois looks after him with a troubled air. “Poor boy!” he says, regretfully. “Heaven knows I would have spared him if I could, but it was quite impossible. How could I let him marry her after what I have heard? How bring his mother into my family to be a daughter to my father and mother, a sister to my sisters, a mother to my child? It is not to be thought of. All Bruges would rise up in condemnation against me! No! this is the right hand that has to be cut off, the right eye that must be plucked out, at whatever cost to myself or to Gabrielle. I may break my heart and her own—but it shall never be said that Andre de Blois was the one wantonly to disgrace a family of which he is already but toe unworthy a member!” CHAPTER XIV. Angus’ first impulse is to rush home to his mother and tell her everything, but he finally decides not to go home until Kb usual hour, and passes a miserable

morning in the attempt to distract his thoughts from Gabrielle and Dr. de Blois and fix them upon engineering calculations and accounts instead. He had made so certain of success in his suit; tJy the time he usually breaks off office wbrk to take his lunehedii; Angus has nearly worried himself into a fever. He has no appetite—only a burning thirst upon him, and he rushes into the first bar he comes across to satisfy it. It happens to be the bar of the Hotel Belgique. The girl who serves him asks him if it is any relation of his that they have the honor of housing at the Hotel Belgique at thgt moment. “I do not understand you, mademoiselle,” stammers poor Angus, whose thoughts have been recalled by her question from something far different. “We have a Monsieur Moray, who spells his name like yours, upon our books at the present,” she answers. “Jacques! fetch me the visitors’ book from the salon,” and opening it at the last page of entries, she shows Angus, in all its glory, the inscription: “Mr. and Mrs. William Moray, “The Firs, Godaiming Park, “Westborough Road, Brixton, “London, England.” “It is strange,” says Angus, thoughtfully, “that my first name should be ‘William’ like his. What is this gentleman like in appearance?” “He does not resemble you, monsieur. He is stout and big, and with a face fiery red, and a loud voice, and ” “Stay, mademoiselle!” cries Angus quickly. “Was the lady taken ill while driving yesterday?” “She was, monsieur, but how did you come to hear of it? Ah! Dr. de Blois must have told you, for he brought madame home again, and stayed with her some time afterward. She had swooned with the heat—l do not wonder at it. She is as fat as monsieur, and she eats—ma foi! how she eats!” “This is a wonderful coincidence,” says Angus. “1 met these people out driving yesterday, and when the lady had just fainted, and it was I who directed them to Dr. de Blois’ house. The gentleman in consequence asked ir.e to call on him here this afternoon, but I had no idea his name was the same as mine. It is only chance, however. I know he cannot be any relation to me.” “Ah, well! you be advised by me, monsieur, and take the chance. Chance is worth all the relations in the world. Everything we get is by chance, and it is seldom our relations give us anything. And this English milord is rolling in money. I know, for I have never seen madame wear anything but silk and satin, and it must take as much stuff to dress her as to clothe three ordinary sized women.” “It is past two. Have Monsieur and Madame Moray lunched ypt?” he inquires. “Yes; their lunch was served nearly an hour ago.” “Then will you send up my card and ask if I can see them?” The young woman complies with his request, and in a few minutes an answer is returned in the affirmative. As Angus is ushered into the private sitting room occupied b.v the Moraxs he perceives that the lady, by virtue of her late illness, is reclining her portly figure upon a grimcrack sofa, far too small for it. Mr. William Moray is standing by the window, picking his teeth. Angus stands on the threshold bareheaded, and William Moray cannot but observe, with greater force than yesterday, the striking likeness he bears to his dead father. “There is no question about his being poor Jem’s son, whether his mother was married of not,” he thinks to himself, as he turns round slowly and regards him. “Well, and so you’ve kept your appointment,” he commences, in the unpleasantly unpolished tones he uses to everybody. “Monsieur desired me to call upon him. I should not have dreamt of intruding otherwise,” returns Angus, with a touch of his mother’s pride. . “Ah, well —it’s the same thing. You’re here —this is my wife, Mrs. Moray,” continues the stranger, with a jerk of his head toward his recumbent partner. “I trust madame has recovered from her late indisposition,” says Angus. The lady does not deign to notice the observation of the “hactress’ himp” except by a solemn nod, performed with closed eyes, but her husband answers for her. “Yes, she’s better. I had a long talk with your doctor yesterday. He speaks English wonderfully well for a foreigner.” “He does,” replies Angus, with a deep sigh, as the allusion recalls the misery of the morning. “He is an old friend of yours, he tells me.” , “A very old friend, monsieur.” “So am I. You needn’t stare. I dare say you have forgotten me, but I knew you long before this Dr. de Blois did, and a nice time I had of my acquaintanceship with you, too.” “Monsieur overwhelms me with surprise,” says Angus. “Your father, James Moray, was my brother, and I sent for you here that I might tell you that you’ve no more right to bear the name you do than the waiter downstairs has. So you may put that in your pipe aud smoke it!” “No; that you haven’t—no more right than a hinfidel has to salvation!” interposes Mrs. Moray from the sofa. Angus thinks the portly Englishman must be traveling for the good of his mental health. He does not understand him. He! to be told by a stranger that he has no right to bear the name of his own father and mother! The man must be mad to think of such a thing! and Angus manages to get a chair between them before he ventures on a reply. “I don’t know by what right you address me in such a strain, monsieur; and I can only imagine you must have mistaken my identity. Every one in Bruges knows my mother, Mrs. Moray, and myself; and, as I have never even heard your name mentioned before, you will pardon me for requiring a little further evidence before I believe what you tell me on your own account. I cannot accept every man as my uncle who chooses to say he is so.” This independent answer stirs up all the vials of Mr. William Moray’s wrath, as he recalls the last time his brother’s son and he were face to face, and the disappointment which then ensued to all his hopes of making him his heir. “Himpudence!” exclaims the voice from the sofa, as the words fall from Angus’ lips. K j “No, madam, not impudeD.e, but independence! My mother has reared me by her own exertions solely, and taught me to lean for support or patronage upon no man. So that, though I should have been glad to welcome any relation of my dead father for his sake, lam not bound to take an insult quietly even from hjs brother. And if you are his brotlier,” hje continues, turning to William Moray, “how can you tell me I have no right to bear his name?” “Because your mother was never mattied to him!” says his uncle, coarsely. “If you want the truth, you’ve got it!” t Apgus springs from bis chair—everpr vein in hb lace swollen with excitement k

—and advances with a clinches fist toward William Moray. “You lie!” he exclaims, closing in upon him. On observing the action of young Angus, Mrs. Moray Sounders off her resting jxlace with a scream and the elder man does not quite Kke the aspect of affairs. He is fat and puffy, short-winded, and not used to pugilistic encounters, and the youth bearihg down upon him looks dangerous. . > “What would yoti do? What are yon thinking of?’ he says, loudly, backing toward the doot. “I have Said nothing but what i can ptOve.” “You shall prbte it, then; and before wfe part company to-day, or I will make £ou eat j’our words. My mother not married to iny father! Why, all the world knows she is MrS; Moray, and receives hei - as such I” “All the wbrld Of Bruges, you mean!” Sneers the Othei*. “Now ; look here, young man, I don’t mean to stand any btillying on your part; so, if you wish to hear your own history, you’d better unclinch your fist and listen quietly; if not, I shall ring the bell sot the waiter to conduct you down stairs again!” William Mbray wipes off the perspiratioti which tear has called to his brow and addresses his nephew from behind the shelter of the sofa, on which his wife has rearranged herself. “Young people are mostly quick to disbelieve anything they don’t like,” he commences, “but Mrs. Moray and I have cause enough to remember the disastrous circumstances of your birth and your father’s death!” “Cause henough hindeed!” comes from the sofa. “However, your mother will be the best referee regarding the truth of any statement I may make to you. If you doubt any part of the story, ask your mother!” “Ask your mother!” the same words Dr. de Blois had used to him iu the morning. (To be continued.)