Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 38, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 October 1898 — A Dangerous Secret. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Dangerous Secret.

BY FLORENCE MARYATT.

CHAPTER XVIII. Angus does not reappear, and though Delia feels his absence to be the greatest relief, the day passes as thougb*iherc had been a death in the house. By the time Delia has completed her preparations for a decided departure, and written the letter which shall explain her temporary absence to Angus (the epistle, by which he will learn how much his mother is ready to sacrifice for him will be dispatched from Antwerp), she has fairly wept herself dry, and is waiting in her sitting room, helpless and hopeless indeed, but calmer than she has been all day. She has been expecting Angus to return each hour, and every fresh footstep that has sounded in the marble corridor has been a fresh disappointment to her, but uow that she believes he has come she feels as if it were impossible to meet him. She stands by the door, breathless, nndecided whether to remain or fly, as the manly step strides up the corridor in the direction of her room. The Flemish wench appears first, grinning from ear to ear, as she endeavors to make her understand that the Baron Gustave Saxe desires to have an interview with her. “I cannot see him. 1 cannot see any one!” exclaims Delia, hastily, but the order comes too late. The baron has followed the servant to the door of her apartment; lie is even now standing before her; she has no alternative but U> receive him. “Entrez, monsieur,” she says, courteously, but all the color has forsaken her cheek, and she trembles so that she almost totters back to her seat, “To my regret I find madame on the eye of departure,” says the baron, “but I trust it is not for long. Your determination has been sudden, surely. I met Monsieur Moray yesterday, and he said nothing of such a plan to me.” He is a fine, soldierly man in appearance, this Baron Gustave Saxe, with "blue eyes and brown hair, and a heavy mustache of reddish tinge, that droops over his mouth. In age he may have numbered about five-and-forty years, but he carries them bravely, and has i?.l the bearing of a young and gallant man. He is an Austrian, and a colonel in the army, the brother-in-law also of the Chevalier de Landry, in whose house Delia has advanced to considerable terms of intimacy with him. And his presence has the power to make her quail at the idea of the step she is about to take as she never quailed before. “My departure is sudden, monsieur,” she falters in answer to the baron’s question. “I have friends in Bruges who wish m(j to accompany them to Antwerp for a few days. It required no consideration. It—it—is nothing, you know—only a trip of pleasure.” “Then we shall see you back again soon —on which day, Monday, Tuesday, Thursday? I believe my nieces return from the country on Thursday. You will be here to receive them, will you not?” “You are very good, monsieur. Your kindness increases my. gratitude. I am perfectly aware of the difference in our stations in life, and that I have not even the commonest claim upon your consideration. Hence it becomes all the more valuable because undeserved.” “You have the commonest and yet the highest of all claims to myself and everything I possess,” replies the baron, “the claim of a woman upon the l&an who loves her. Ah, madame! pardon me if 1 am too abrupt, but for many weeks I have tried to say this to you, and now that you are about to leave us, I can no longer hold my tongue. You must have seen my love, my devotion. You will not despise me when I confess that you fill all my thoughts, and that I have but one earnest desire in life —to make you my wife!” In his ardor and foreign sense of chivalry he has thrown himself at her feet, and Delia has no escape from him. Here, on a level with her own face, are the impassioned eyes and glowing visage of the Baron Saxe, while both his strong arms are clasping her own as in a vise. And the temptation of it! If this offer had but come a month before, from what suffering might it not have saved her! As the wife of this gallant Austrian soldier and noble, who would have dared to assail her fair fame, even though she had been mad enough to play with it as a child plays with a vase of inestimable value, never caring if he femashes it or not in the encounter. “You are an Austrian noble,” says Delia, drawing her hand away, “a man 1 of high position, and great wealth. I am a penniless widow, neither young nor handsome—the governess of your sister’s children. You shall make no mesalliance for my sake, Baron Saxe.” “And who dares to say it will be a mesalliance?” he exclaims. “You are of gentle birth—l can read it in your voice, your shape, your manner—and I am no more.” “It is true I am.what you say,” replies Delia, with a touch of pride; “for my father was an officer in the Royal Navy of England, but I was uot educated in the same class as you have been. I was early left an orphan, to depend on my own resources, and for many years I was nothing but an actress on the public stage, sipging, dancing and playing, night after night, for the sake of the bread I put into my mouth. And an actress is no fit person to place in the enviable position of the Baronne de Saxe.” “And I respect and admire you for the strength of mind you showed in working for your independence and that of your child. It is your bravery that first drew me to you! Do you think I want a silly idle girl for my barqness—who shall be able only to look pretty aud simper, and dress in a new costume each day? No, Delia! I want a friend—a companion—a woman! just such a woman as you are—who has the strength of purpose to do what is right, and the strength of mind to confess it! And now that that matter is settled between us, you will tell me 1 shall have what I want?” It seems very hard to refuse him—very hard to shut her ears against the pleading of his voice, her eyes against the pleading of his eyes, bnt it must be done. So she turns her face to one side, the better to escape his observation, and answers, sadly: “No, baron, it is useless for you to plead thus any longer. There is an obstacle between us that no arguments could overcome.” “Tell me what it is.” “I cannot, because it involves others as well as myself. You must take my word for it that reasons exist against the idea >f anything like marriage between us that, if you knew them, would make you shrink from me as if I were a snake with the power of sting.” , “I am willing to take you, Delia, without learning these terrible reasons, which have no concern for me.” “I cannot be your wife.” “Then you have ruined me!” he exclaims, as he paces with agitation about the room. “You have smiled upon me and given me hopes, only that you may have The delight of crushing them!” “Oh! no, no! do not judge me too hard:y. I thought—l was not aware—l did not suppose ” she stammers. “You women are all the same!” he interrupted her, angrily; “you encourage our attentions and return our glances, and then, when we ask you for that to which we suppose 700 have entitled as, 70a torn

about, and say, ‘You thought—you were not aware—you did not suppose ’ And so is the child uot aware, as he plays with the butterfly, that each touch of his finger maims a limb or creates a wound. Madame, I thought higher thiugs of you. I believed you to be above the usual trifling of your sex. I saw iu you noble actions—unselfishness, bravery and perseverance —and 1 credited you also with perfect truth.” “Indeed, I have been true to you “Too true, I think so! But not true to yourself. But I will go, madame; you shall no more be subjected to the discomfort of my presence, and 1 pray you to forgive me for the inconvenience I have unwittingly caused you. Farewell, and may the good heaven bless you!” And without a second look at her, the baron seizes his hat and rushes from the apartment, and down the corridor into the open street. CHAPTER XIX. Angus frets and fumes over Delia’s absence, and has half a mind to follow her to Antwerp, and tell her all that is in his heart, so much does he miss her daily offices of care and affection. But on the third day he receives her letter—a letter to tell him that she is gone from him, and that he will never see her in this life again -—that he may give out to the world that she is dead, and wear mourning for her If he chooses, since a separation like death will be between them henceforward. In a moment he has seized his hat, and is on his road to the house of Dr. de Blois. Delia has mentioned iu her letter that she has written to her old friend to claim the fulfillment of a certain promise he has made to her, and that Angus will hear all about it upon application to him. He rushes impetuously into his consulting room. The first sight that catches his eye is the portly figure of Mr. William Moray. Angus makes as though he would fall upon him then and there. “It is well I have met you,” he exclaims, angrily, as, with disordered hair and flaming eyes, he marches up to his uncle’s side; “for I should have followed you until I had, in order to make you answer for the infamous lie you told me the other day!” “Dr. de Blois, I do not understand the attitude this young man has assumed toward me, and I appeal to yojjr protection,” says Mr. Moray, as he gets behind a chair. “Angus! Angus! be reasonable’, and remember where you are,” interposes the calm voice of the Abbe Bertin, and then Angus looks up, and sees that he is surrounded by old friends. The doctor and his cousin, the abbe, are seated together at the table with William Moray, while near them lounges the Baron Saxe, looking very thoughtful and perturbed, and pulling his long mustache continuously with his hand. In the doctor’s grasp Angus perceives an open letter, and recognizes the writing of his mother. “Dr. de Blois, and you, Monsieur l’Abbe, I beg your pardon if my words have appeared unreasonable; but they are true, and I cannot but be glad that I have had the opportunity of saying them before witnesses.” “Courage, my child!” says the abbe; “there is not a soul here who does not believe your mother’s story. She is unfortunate, but she is not criminal. I fdr one would stake my life upon it.” “Thanks, mon pere, and you, too, baron, for the kindly expression of your feeling in this matter. I understand by it that Dr. de Blois has heard from my mother, and that you know all; how she has left me, and the home to which she is so much attached, forever, rather than bring a stain upon my name and mar my happiness.” “Left you -forever!” exclaims William Moray. “Yes, sir!” replied Angus, fiercely. “She has left me, or rather she has been driven away by the cruelty with which you needlessly raked up this old story against her.” At this moment the door of the surgery opens, and the sunny head of Gabrielle appears in view. She has also been weeping, poor child, for the events of the last few days have told hardly upon her; but at the sight of her young lover her face brightens, although she does not venture to advance further into the room. “Gabrielle, come to me,” says her father. She comes forward then, though timidly, not knowing what is about to happen, and stands there, encircled by her father’s arm. Angus turns his head away. He is afraid to face the sorrowful eyes and downcast visage of his little lost love, lest his courage- should break down and add another laurel to the malicious triumph of his uncle. “When your mother came here, Angus,” says Dr. de Blois, speaking as solemnly as though he were alluding to the dead, “she asked me if she were the obstacle to your engagement with my daughter, and I was compelled to answer ‘Yes.’ ” “Then I don’t think you had any right to do so,” interposes the Abbe Bertin. “Do you mean to assert, mon cousin, that I should have been justified in telling the poor lady a lie upon the subject?” demands the doctor with mild surprise. “I think you might have held your tongue altogether,” grumbles the abbe, as he pulls Gabrielle toward him, and strokes her disheveled tresses. * “If you knew more of women, mon cousin, you would not have suggested such an impossibility. Madame Moray would not permit me to hold my tongue. She put to me a question: Were she gone out of sight, so that her boy would never hear of nor see her again should he marry Gabrielle? I could not imagine to what she was alluding, except her death; and to pacify her I said ‘Yes.’ ” “Then you’re bound to keep your oath,” says the Abbe Bertin. “Mon cousin! you are very hasty with me this morning. It was just what I was about to say. Of course 1 know I am bound to keep it. As soon as I received Madame Moray’s letter I guessed the reason of her expatriation. She has sacrificed her own happiness to obtain that of her son; and I cannot go back upon my word to so good a mother. Angus, mon fils, I give you Gabrielle! She is your mother’s parting gift to you. Take her—and be happy! In giving her to you, I give the best thing I have.” He draws the young girl away from the abbe’s embrace as he speaks, and having kissed her fondly on the forehead, pushes her gently toward Angus. But the young man makes no advance to meet her, and the doctor thinks he could not have understood his meaning. “Do you not hear me, Angus? Your noble-hearted mother’s sacrifice is not made in vain. She has devoted the remainder of her life to an expiation of the ■in she committed by telling a falsehood, and it shall not be without its reward. You shall have Gabrielle for your wife, and may the happiness of your married lives exceed that of your parents F Still Angus does not move nor speak; and Gabrielle’s eyes, which have been dancing with delight, begin to assume a perplexed and troubled expression. At this juncture Mr. William Moray’s voice makes itself once more heard. “Gone for good is she?” he exclaims. “Well, I don’t wish to say anything unpleasant, bat l reall7 think it’i the bent

thing she could hare done, and I'm wffl. ing to renew the old offer, and place you in the position of my son, with a share in the partnership, on which to maintain your wife now, and a good lamp in prospect when I shall be gathered to my fathers. And that’s all I have to say upon the subject.” '“A noble offer, monsieur!” exclaims thedoctof, elated at the prospect of his daughter’s good fortune, as he shakes hands with the wool merchant, “and for which you must allow me to thank you in the name of Gabrieile, as well as that of Angus.” “Let us hear what our children hare to say,” says the abbe, dryly. “Speak, Angus! Your good uhcle waits your answer,” says Dr. de Blois. Gabrieile says nothing, but clings the closer to her father. Her feminine instinct warns her of what is coming. “My answer!” cries Angus, starting as from a dream—“it is soon said—it is contained in one word, ‘No.’ ” “No. No, to what?” asks his would-be father-in-law. “No, to everything. I do not despise ease nor affluence, and I love Gabrieile de Blois more dearly than she will ever know, but 1 prise my mother’s love before everything else in the world, and I will do nothing to make her ashamed of me.” “Bravo! bravo!” cried the abbe, patting the young man on the back. “You are a son to be proud of, Angus; and your worth raises your mother’s to twice itr value.” “Mon cher, Angus, I honor and respect you for your noble words,” says the Baron Saxe, graspjng his hand afresh; “and every one of them is true. You do right to be proud of your mother. I, too, am proud of her —proud of her friendship—and I wish to say before all these gentlemen that, had ahe but consented to my suit, 1 should have been proud to make her my wife.” “Your wife, baron?” “My wife, Angus! I asked her, over and over again, but she refused! I now know on whose account. Judge, then, mon cher, what this mysterious disappearance is to me.” “Let me thank you, baron—not so much for the offer you made her as for the generous avowal you ljave given it here. The woman who has not been deemed unworthy of the noble position of the Bar oune Saxe may to laugh at the sneers of a William Moray.” (To be continued.)