Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 September 1898 — A Dangerous Secret. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Dangerous Secret.

BY FLORENCE MARYATT.

CHAPTER XV. The memory of them comes back upon Angus’ heart like a serpent sting. “Go on, monsieur,” he says in a low voice, trembling with passion. “Your father held a respectable position in Glasgow as clerk in one of the largest mercantile houses there, when he met your mother. She was an actress at some small theater in Scotland.” “My mother an actress! Never! You are altogether mistaken! This affair is becoming a farce.” “I hope you may find it a farce, young man. Your mother, I repeat, was an actress, known by the name of Delia Morton." “And her name is Delia!” murmurs poor Angus. “And a very low hactress, too!” chimes in Mrs. Moray; “who hacted hin the most hindecent dresses, hand ■” “My dear,” Interposes her husband “will you permit me to tell his story to the young man myself?” . “Have it your hown way, Willyum. I honly hinterfered for lia.ll your good,” she returns with offended dignity. “My poor brother James met her, and as I thought married her; at all events he managed to deceive me on the subject; he quarreled with his Glasgow employers, however, and brought you and your mother to London, where I met him again; James was then in a very bad state of health—fast dying, in sact —and I, having a large fortune and no family to which to leave it, proposed rather rashly to make you my heir, and adopt you on your father’s death as such.” “I—your heir!” stammers Angus Moray in incredulous amazement. “Certainly—and you would have been one of the richest men in London. However, your mother chose to interfere and prevent it!” “A merciful hinterference!” murmurs his wife. “How could she do so?” “By asserting her sole claim to you, on the score of your illegitimacy!” “O! monsieur! it is impossible! It can never have been!” cries the young man, distressed beyond measure, as he hides his face in his clasped hands. “It Is true as I. stand here! Your father died and I produced the will he had left in my possession, appointing me your sole guardian. I was about to put it into force, when your mother declared before witnesses she was not a married woman, and therefore had the sole claim to you.” “I cannot believe it,” says Angus despairingly. “Ask your mother, then. She had no hesitation in confessing it at the time, and her friend, Mrs. Horton, and a solicitor of the name, I believe, of Bond, heard her make the declaration.” “Mrs. Horton! Why, she is in Bruges at the present moment, staying with my mother —my mother, who is so loved and respected throughout the town —of whom I have been so proud. O, monsieur, I would rather have heard any news than this. You have given me my death blow!” “If Mrs. Horton Is here you can satisfy your curiosity upon the subject at once. Your mother is more likely to deny the truth now that it will militate against her feigned respectability! I trust you will not usurp my family name any longer, or you will place me under the unpleasant necessity of publicly proclaiming that you have no right to it. Your name is Merton. Be good enough to remember that for the future.” This last sting is the worst of all. “Your friend the doctor could hardly trust his own ears when I told him the story,” continues Mr. Moray, maliciously. “He was quite taken aback by your audacity 1” Angus stops short, wheels round, and retraces his steps to the center of the room. “So it is you that have poisoned the mind of my best friend against me—that have made him forget the affection and the trust of years—that have helped to mar the brightest hopes that ever a man held! I see it all now. It is your cursed malice that has lost me Gabrielle—and I will be revenged upon you for it; as there is a judgment seat in store for both of us, I will be revenged!” He rushes from their presence as he speaks, but he cannot rush from the desolation they have created for him. He tears through the vestibule into the open street, where the sunshine blinds him and the ordinary traffic sounds like the roar of thunder in his ears—without being able to stifle those three awful words that ring in his heart like a knell of death: “Ask your mother!”

CHAPTER XVI. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hephzibah Horton, sitting at luncheon with her friend Delia Moray, has a letter delivered to her, on the receipt of which she becomes much disturbed. “Folly!—idiocy!—dotage!” she exclaims at intervals, like so many successive pistol shots, as she peruses the missive in question. “O! I hope nothing is going to interfere with our holidays,” says Delia, anxiously, observing the ominous expression of Mrs. Hephzibah’s countenance. “That is not a business letter, is it, Mrs. Horton? Not a recall to London, or anything disagreeable of that sort?” “Not a bit of it, my dear; only that man Bond has actually followed me over to Bruges!” “Followed you here, Mrs. Horton—what for?” “What for, indeed? You may well ask what for. When he first heard I was coming to see you for a few weeks, he offered to accompany me. I said ‘No;’ decidedly and flatly, ‘No!’ What did he suppose I wanted a little idiot of a man like himself tacked behind me for? He told all kinds of lies to persuade me to yield to his wishes; said I oughtn’t to travel alone; I, Hephzibah Horton, aged 61, who have supported myself ever since I was 30! Faugh! Why, I should have had to look after him into the bargain!” “But it was a kind thought, dear Mrs. Horton, nevertheless. You have always been very good friends, Mrs. Horton, have you not?” “Well, I’ve helped him with his boys, and he’s given me the advantage of such legal knowledge as he possesses.” “And you wouldn’t let the poor little man come to Bruges with you?” “No! I wouldn’t—and what does he do in consequence? Here’s a letter written yesterday, not twelve hours after my departure, to say that he is just about to start on the same journey by a different route, and expects to be here this morning.” “Then he must be actually at Bruges this moment!’ 1 “That’s just it! Against all my orders, the man is actually in the place.” “And he has crossed for the express purpose of being near you and of use to you in traveling. It is a very kind and friendly act, Mrs. Horton. You must be very good to him in return.” “Good to him in return! What for? 1 shall be no such thing. I have a great mind to write to the Hotel Belgique, where he says he shall stay, and tell him that unless he leaves Bruges at once, I shall start for Antwerp to-morrow.” “Oh! that would be too cruel! Besides, you surely would not punish me for his offense. Think how long it is since we met each other. Why cannot make a pact with poor Mr. Bond, and

let him join us when we go sight-seeing? He will enjoy all the places we visit twofold if seen in yonr company.” Mrs. Hephzibah does not appear unwilling to be mollified. She sits there twisting the little lawyer’s note undecidedly round and round in her fingers, but the thought does strike the womanly part of her, that now that he has been foolish enough to make the journey on her account, it would be rather hard to shut him ont in'the cold. But if she yields to Delia’s request, it must be for Delia’s sake and not for her own. . “Well, my dear, if you wish it, of course, I am not the one to raise objections. lam your guest! I do not forget that fact, and you are at liberty to ask anyone to join our party that you like.” “For old acquaintance sake, Mrs. Horton. If you really want to show him a kindness it would be a great one to call at the Hotel Belgique as we go out this afternoon and take him with us.” Delia thinks that the little solicitor looks like anything but a shriveled-up nut, as, on receiving her card at the hotel, he descends with alacrity to the vestibule to greet Mrs. Horton and herself. He is a fresh-colored, pleasant, benevolent looking old gentleman, very neat and prim in his appearance, and carrying his 64 years bravely. His mild blue eyes seemed troubled also, as if his impending loneliness grieved him more than he cared to confess; and the eagerness with which he turns to grasp Mrs. Hephzibah’s hand proves where he looks for sympathy and depends upon finding it. “If you mean to walk,” says Mrs. Hephzibah, “you had better come at once, for the afternoon Is getting on, and we want to get on too.” Mr. Bond expresses his gratitude and promptitude to obey at one and the same moment by running upstairs to fetch his hat and stick, and the ladies step out upon the pavement in front of the hotel to wait for him. It is a bright, beautiful afternoon, and the street is crowded with pedestrians. Delia, letting her eyes wander at will, raises them to the hotel windows, but suddenly withdraws them with a sort ot frightened gasp. “What have you seen now, Delia?” “Look the other way, Mrs. Horton. O! how foolish I am! I know it is only some sickly fancy, but I saw a face at one of the hotel windows, and just for the moment it looked to me so like the face of William Moray.” Mrs. Horton laughs aloud. “What will you get into that silly little head of yours next? William Moray, indeed! I wonder what he would feel like set down in the middle of Bruges. Why, I don’t suppose he knows that such a place exists! Put him out of your thoughts, my dear. He’s safe enough in Cheapside, sorting his samples of wool. Take my word for it.” Mrs. Hephzibah and her little solicitor enjoy their walk exceedingly, and are full of regret when they find it is time to retrace their steps. But Delia hopes to see her boy, and the distance between the cemetery and the Rue Allemande seems twice as long as usual in consequence. But another disappointment awaits her at home. Instead of Angus’ happy face for greeting, she receives a note from him, hurriedly written, and inexplicably .mysterious. “I cannot attend the theater to-night,” it says. “You and your friend must go without me. You will find the tickets on the mantelpiece in my bedroom.” When she returns from the theater, and having bid good-night to both her friends, enters her own room—an explanation awaits her there. Seated by her table is Angus—haggard, pale and disordered in appearance; but as the door opens, he starts up from his chair and waits her approach. She is about to fly into his arms with an exclamation of pity and affection, when he waves her from him. “Mother,” he says hoarsely, “1 was obliged to wait for you here. I couldn’t meet you before those people doiftistairs.” “You couldn’t meet me, Angus! Oh, what is the meaning of this?” “No! Not until I had received an answer from ydu to a question that is eating into my very soul. Mother, I have heard that to-day which seems to have taken all the light and life out of my existence. I cannot believe it—but you are the only person who can thoroughly satisfy me upon the subject.” “Angus, what is it?” she says, trembling; “tell me at once. There have never been any secrets between us yet. There never shall be.” “My tongue seems to cleave to the roof of my mouth when I try to form the words, but they must be said. Forgive me, mother, if I wound you by the question, but think what I have suffered under the doubt presented to me. Were you married to my father, or were you not?”

CHAPTER XVII. For a moment her relief at finding that his uncertainty does not arise from any fear for the failure of his suit with Gabrielle, makes her forget everything but that she can answer his question with truth in the affirmative. “My darling child! yes! of course I was! Who has been so wicked as to try and make you think otherwise ?” “I knew it—l was sure of it!” exclaims the young man joyfully, as he catches her in his arms and kisses her. “What a fool I was to doubt you for a moment! Give me your certificate of marriage, mother, and I will flourish it in the face of that liar to-morrow, and tear his false tongue out by the roots afterward.” "My certificate!” she falters, but still without an Inkling of the truth; “I—l haven’t got it, dear Angus. I didn’t keep a copy.” “That is provoking,” he says, biting his lip, “because it involves delay; but it is not a matter of vital importance. A copy is easily procured. You must give me the exact date of your marriage, with the name of the church where it took place, and I will write a letter before 1 sleep this night, that shall set the matter right for us. I cannot have your good name lying under a false imputation one moment longer than is absolutely necessary.” Something of the danger flashes on her mind. “My good name! Angus, for the love of heaven, tell me what is all this about! Who has dared to asperse me to you, or to cast a doubt upon my respectability?” “My uncle, William Moray.” “Your uncle!” she almost screams. “Where have you met him? Not here? Not in Bruges?” “Yes—here! in Bruges.” Delia steadies herself by placing one hand upon the table. Something that has been knocking at her heart and whispering in her ears all day, rises up at this moment in a tangible shape before her. It was, then, the face of William Moray she saw at the hotel window. He and her boy have met! Angus knows all! “What does he say?” she whispers in a voice of fear. “He says that when my father died he left me to his guardianship, to be brought up as his heir, but that when the time came for asserting his authority, you set it aside on the plea that I was illegitimate, and no one but my mother had any claim upon me. And that, but for your declaration to that effect before witnesses, 1 should have been one of the richest men in London at the present moment. |s it true?”

“Forgive me, Angus'” she cries, as aha throws herself upon her knees before him. “I did it for your sake. Ah! you cannot know—you never shall know— the miserable life I endured before I was tempted to tell bo foul a lie. You were all I had, my darling! For you I had worked and labored through pain and wretchedness an(| discomfort, such as never woman endured before—for you I had suffered violence and insult and contempt. And then, when it was over—when at last heaven mercifully delivered me from an unholy bondage, and I was looking forward to devoting the remainder of my life to you—they told me that your father had made k will by which you would be torn from my l arms—never to be mine again in the sweet companionship of mother and child —and I could not bear it. The burden was too heavy for me, and 1 escaped from it±y the only means I could. I destroyed the certificate of marriage which I possessed, and denied there had ever been one.” “You blasted my whole inein i act, by falsely branding cte with illegitimacy.” “Angus! Angus! do not speak to me in that tone of voice. I did it for your sake.” “To gratify yont own wishes, you mean. Don’t say you thought of me in the transaction. My welfare was the last consideration you must have had.” “No! no! indeed it “was not! What should I have done without you? You wefe my all —my whole earthly possession. I loved you as my own life!” “And a nice way you took to prove it, by taking from me the only thing which I possessed—my father’s name. Do you know what that man said to me to-day? That my proper name was not Moray, and that if I used it for the future, he would publicly denounce me as an impostor.” “The wicked, cruel man! He knows you are his own brother’s child—and except in that one matter I have never harmed him—why should he rise up now ■ to destroy all my peace of mind?” “Because you put it in his pawer to do so. By this lie which you told him to secure a temporary pleasure for yourself, at the price of an everlasting shame for me, you placed a weapon In his band with which he can stab us both to his life’s end. Do you know the mischief he has done already with it? He has related the whole base story to Dr. de Blois, who has peremptorily refused, in consequence, to give me Gabrielle in marriage.” “Ah, no, no, Angus! it cannot be. You must be mistaken. Think how long we have lived and been respected in Bruges —what honored friends we have gained here. Dr. de Blois will never take the word of a stranger against the proof of his own eyes. He did not tell you so, surely ?” “To all my entreaties that he would explain himself more satisfactorily, with respect to refusing my offer, he had but one reply: ‘Ask your mother —she ought to know.’ ” “And would you rather, then, that I had let you go to your uncle, Angus?” she cries in an agony of pain. “Would you have given up my love and tenderness for all these many years for the sake of that man’s riches?” “I would have given them up for the sake of an honest name,” he answers quickly; and then, seeing how he has wounded her, he adds: “Don’t think I undervalue your love, mother; but you might have found a better way of showing it for me than you did.” And this is the end! This is the fruit of all those weary, tearful years—that cheerfully borne labor, and those cheerfully expended earnings, that her boy might have everything of the best that she could give him —Angus tells her that he would have resigned it all to regain that which her own hand wrested from him! “To think,” he exclaims, as be rises and paces the room, “that for a single lie, my life and my affections are blighted forever; that I have lost my Gabrielle and my good name at one and the same moment; that here in this city, where I have been reared to hold my head up with any man, I nAist slink through the streets with downcast eyes. I will settle up my accounts at the office as soon as ever it is possible, and turn my back upon the place forever!” “Angus—Angus’, where will you go?” sobs his mother. “Heaven knows—and I don’t care. Anywhere —so it be to a country where the disgrace you have cruelly tacked to me is not known, and I can begin life afresh under the only name you have left me the right to bear. Life afresh! What a farce it seems to me to speak so! Why, you have destroyed my life, with all that was worth having in it. I shall have no life henceforward, as I shall have no name. Oh, mother! mother! you may have called it love, but you are the bitterest enemy I have ever had.” So he passes from the room, leaving her, crushed in body and in spirit, on the floor, overwhelmed by the calamity of which she is the author, and seeing no way out of the thick darkness that enfolds her. (To be continued.)