Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 40, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 October 1898 — A Dangerous Secret. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Dangerous Secret.

BY FLORENCE MARYATT.

CHAPTER XXII. Delia makes her first entry into the fottages which have been allotted to her care with some degree of eclat. It is not everybody who can get on with the poor. It requires more than a desire to do them good to be able to effect it. Delia possesses the essentials of a very sweet voice and affable manner that makes her appear even more interested than she ia when discussing matters that do not concern herself. She will not carry tracts nor Bibles nor any of the formula of parish visiting in her hand. But she takes one or two illustrated papers from Mrs. Hepbzibah’s drawer, and a few roses out of the cottage garden. She will not enter the house without knocking, but stands on the threshold until she has received permission to enter. The old people and the children stare at her at first with the uncouth breeding of the lower orders, but although she is so unused to their society, she makes them feel at home with her at once. Her secret is a simple one. She treats them as though they belonged to her own rank of life, and takes no liberty with them that she would be ashamed to do with ladies and gentlemen. So that even on that first day she receives many a cordial invitation to return soon, and has engaged herself to read the news, once a week, to such of her friends as may be active enough to assemble in one place to listen to it. Mr. Le Mesurier laughs loudly when she reports her early efforts to establish a club in Cloverfield, and how it has set her thinking that if he can procure her a vacant room for the purpose, she might add to the pleasure by giving the old people tea or coffee, and permitting them to smoke while she reads to them. “We shall have you setting up a ‘free-and-easy’ next, Mrs. Manners, nnd presiding at the piano and the bar yourself. What a dreadful mistake I have made by setting you, with all these loose continental notions in your head, to run riot among my innocent parishioners! Have you been able to make anything out of old Strother?” “Not yet. He would not even look at me, far less speak. But I hope that may not last. Is he as surly with you?” “Far worse! He has taken a hatred, or fear, of me—l cannot tell why—which has prevented my visiting him for a long time. lam afraid he is not a very amiable old person. I wish he had never come here.” “He is not a native of Cloverfield, then?” “Oh, no. He is a Scotchman, the father of Mrs. Kennett, who died many years ago. His daughter undertook the charge of him when he became a widower. I consider the old man to be quite mad, and advised Ivennett to place him in the county asylum; but it seems that he promised his wife upon her death-bed not to do so. So he will be saddled with his support as long as he lives, w r hieh must be very inconvenient, as he requires constant watching.” “His granddaughter, Patsy Kennett, complained bitterly to me the other day of the confinement it entailed on her.” “Poor Patsy! Yes; she is a fine girl,” replies Mr. Le Mesurier, with a slight increase of color. “She appears devoted to you.” “It is all fancy, I assure you. She suffered terribly from neuralgia a short time since, and I w'as foolish enough to try if mesmerism would relieve her. The attempt was successful, but the natives do not understand the meaning nor the effect of such a cure, and I had great reason to regret having used it.” “Ip wiiat way?” “It attracted my patient too much toward me, and my motives and actions were altogether misinterpreted. That is one reason that I seldom cross Kennett’s threshold now unless I am obliged to do so,” “You are a practiced mesmerist, then?” “Yes, yes. But pray don’t speak of it. The subject is an unpleasant one to me, and I would rather not discuss it. Shall you see old Strother to-day?” “I think I shall not find my way up to Kennett’s farm until Monday.” “Monday will be the day of the school feast, when I had hoped to have had your assistance in the field.” “If you will excuse me I would rather not be present. Mrs. Bond intends to be there, I know, with a sackful of toys and sugar plums; but I cannot play at children’s games, and shall be more usefully employed elsewhere.” In the matter of the school feast, she is determined not to be associated with him, because the affair itself is so thoroughly out of her line that her friends will of necessity think she has taken part in it W'ith the simple intention of pleasing him. So she remains firm in her refusal; and on Monday afternoon, when the tent is pitched, and the flags are flying, and the village band is making most discordant music in the vicar’s field, and the school children, with their tin mugs hung round their necks, are marching two-and-two up the laureled drive, Delia is half a mile toiling along the lane that leads to Mr. Kennett’s farm. As she enters the long, narrow garden that fronts the house, she becomes aware of loud voices engaged in altercation and making themselves very audible through the open window. “Now, then, Patsy!” exclaims Farmer Kennett, “off with all that fal-lal finery, and sit down to your work agen, as I tell ye. Why, where wad ye be runnin’ to at this time o’ the arternoou?” “I’se going to the school feast, to be sWe," replies the girl. “Ay! I guessed as much. A follerin’ the parson agen! A bleaten’ arfer ’im like an unweaned lamb! Now, I tell ye, once for all, I won’t have it! There's the old man’s meals to be got, and he to be looked arter! nnd the parson may go to blazes before you uhall neglect your proper work to run arter him! We’ve enough o’ that already, I tell ye.” “Mr. Kennetty” exclaims Delia, unwilling to hear any more of the conversation without making her presence known, “is Mr. Strother indoors to-day?” “Sure, ma’am, I was just having a talk with Patsy aboot him as ye came up.” “And how are you, Patsy?” “I’se well enough, ma’am, thank ye!” “She’s put out because I can’t spare her to the school feast, and leave the old gentleman to himself all the arternoon, ma’am.” “But can’t I relieve Patsy for an hour or two, Mr. Kennett? I don’t care about the school feast; and if you will let her go, I will stay here and try to amuse Mr. jtrother till she returns.” “You’re main good, ma’am,” says the girl for the second time, as she takes advantage of. the permission extended to her and runs down stairs, leaving Delia alone with old Simon Strother. CHAPTER XXIII. As soon as Patsy has disappeared, Delia attempts to ingratiate herself with her surly companion. “Shall I read to you, Mr. Strother?” “What’ll ye be arter readin’?” he asks. “I will read anything you please, Mr. Strother. Do you take any interest in the news? I have to-day’s newspapers with me.” “Na, na! I care nobbut the news.” “Would you like to hear a chapter out Of the Bible?”

“Na, na! I care nobbut the Buik.” “What do you care for then?” “I care nobbut ae thing. Ye’d best gang your, way.” - “But I have promised not to leave you alone, so I must stay here till Patsy returns.” “Ay! Dinna sash me then!” And the old wretch places his elbows on his knees and his head npon his hands, and closes his eyes in intimation that he considers the interview, so far as conversation is concerned, to be concluded. By and by Delia recalls Kennett’s assertion that the old creature frets sorely after his native land, and makes a second effort to interest him. “You have been in Scotland, Strother?” “Aiblius I have—conseedcrin’ it’s my ain country.” “Do you like it better than England?” “Mabbe I do.” “Would you like to go back again?” “Ay! but there’s nane left at hame as ken me noo.” “Ahl that makes a great difference, does it not? But you have good friends here to love you and look after you, and a beautiful place to live in. Do you ever go to church, Strother? or to the kirk, as you eall it in Scotland?” As she puts this simple question, a transformation seems to pass over the old man. He has been ordinarily intelligent hitherto, but now he suddenly collapses and becomes incoherent. His little bleared eyes roll wildly; his hand is clinched; nnd the saliva bubbles from his mouth aud drops upon his grizzled beard. “The kirk—the kirk!” he utters, excitedly, “wha’ll harm the kirk? Muster Gray maunna do it, and the storm maunna do it, for the water will come doon and pit it oot. And the poor mun, wha’ll dream the puir auld mon wha’s been twenty year aboot the place and been main car’ful, and aye dune his duty, could mak a meestake at the lfiirst. Ye saw Muster Graw do it, didna ye noo?” he exclaims, making a dash at Della, who is backing toward the door, with serious thoughts of beating a retreat downstairs. “Ye maun say ye saw the carle do it, or I’ll mak ye greet for the day we ever met.” “Of course I saw him do it—everybody saw him do it,” she replies boldly, for she can gather his meaning without eomprehe ding his words; “but don’t excite yourself in that way, Mr. Strother, or you may make yourself ill.” ..“Ill! ill!” he ejaculates, slowly, as.he wipes the sweat off his forehead with aragged cotton handkerchief. “Hae I been weel sin’ the day? But ’twas an awfu’ starm surely. Eno’ to burn the grondest edifeece that mon ever raised. And puir Simon was only the clairk, aud coqldna be expected to ken the reason of the fire. ’Twas an awfu sight to see it burn, with the flames leekin’ oop the rafters and the roof, and cracklin’ through the beeldin’.” “Of what are you speaking?” says Delia, curiously. “Have you ever been in a fire, Mr. Strother?” ' The old man eyes her suspiciously, and becomes silent. “Do tell me all about it,” she coaxes. “I love to hear a story, and you tell it so well.” “Ay! But ye want to drair the seecret frae me, and ye wullna do it, na! na! Simon’s a puir auld mon, but he can keep a seecret wi’ the best o’ thum,” “Indeed! I don’t wish to know your secret, Mr. Strother. I only want to hear about the fire. Was it in Scotland?” “Na! na! ’twasna in my ain country, but ’twas an awfu’ fire. But Muster Gray did it, and ye saw hipn do it, and ye canna go back frae your spoken word.” “Of course not! I do not wish to do so.” “Weel then, ye maun be content. If ye saw the carle do it, ye ken a’ aboot the fire, and need nane to tell it ye,” She laughs quietly at the trap the cunning old creature has set for her. and returns to the contemplation of her book, little thinking of the import of Mr. Strother’s secret is to her. Presently he fidgets about on the top of his bundle, and she asks him if he is comfortable. “Why don’t you sit in a chair instead of on that great packet, Mr. Strother? I’m sure it must be a very hard seat.” “It does weel eno’ for me.” “But it would pack away so nicely under the bed nnd your room would look all the tidier without it.” “Ay! but I consider it’s best whar’ it is.” “I suppose there’s a box inside that wrapping?” “Aiblins!” “A box with clothes in it. Do you never take off the covers, Mr. Strother?” “I' no need to tak’ them off.” “Do you never want to look at your treasures, then?” “I dinna ken what you’re speakin’ aboot.” “Do you ever look at the things you’ve got in that parcel—well, the books, or whatever they may be?”

CHAPTER XXIV. Simon Strother springs up from his perch like a jack-in-the-box, and comes down again upon the packet; glaring at his visitor. “The bulks! the buiks! what do ye ken aboot- the buiks? I was main car'ful of them. The fire burned the kirk, but it couldna harm the buiks, because the puir auld chiel carried them safe to his hame. He lo’ed the buiks better than his bairns, and the awfu’ fire daurna burn them! Hoot! see the lightnin’, and listen to the peals of thoonder! The puir lassie ’ull be skeered wi’ the flashes and the rain. Dinna greet, my puir, wee thing! Dootless but theer’s haird times before ye, but willna hae your wits burned oot like puir auld Simon, wha saw the whole edifeece come to the groond. But he saved the buiks—the gude auld buiks that had sairved the peerish for so mony years. Ay! he was main car’ful of the buiks, and nane could thraw bleeme upon him becaise the buiks came to hairm!” The books! the fire! the kirk! Something like a gleam is dawning upon Delia’s mind. It cannot be! It is altogether too unlikely—yet if it were! , “Mr. Strother,” she cries, “what was the name of the place where the kirk was burned down?” “What! ye saw it dune, and ye canna remember the name of the place!” he returns, with a cunning leer, “Was there a girl married ou that day in the church? Is it the storm at Chilton in Berwick you are speaking of? The lightning that burned Chilton Church to the ground twenty years ago?” “Cheelton! Cheelton!” screams the old man, “wha daurs to mention Cheelton, in Bar wick to me? I ken naethin’ of tne toon. I dinna ken if there is a kirk in Cheelton or no. I’m a Heclandmon, I ken naethin’ of the Border-land, and if any say I do, they lee. I tell ye they lee. Get oot!” he continue#, angrily, to Delia; “ye’re a leear, I say—a leear! and naethin’ in this paircel but ft peer o’ breeks. What would ye be luikin’ at the auld mun’s breek for? Get oot, I say, and leave me to mysel’; I willna hae ye speering aboot my room in this shameless manner. And ns for the paircel, it’s my paireel, and ye shall na hae my breeks; I’ll see ye dee fairst.” Delia, now fairly alarmed, rushes toward the door, amt stumbles down the narrow Staircase, where, to ber infinite comfort, sbe encounter# Patsy Kennett,

who, much flushed and smiling, is mount*' ing to reliere guard. “O,‘Patsy! I am so thankful yon hare returned. Yonr grandfather has frightened me out of my senses.” “Has he, now? It’s just like him! The old hunks can’t keep a civil tongue in Jus head for ten minutes together.” “I want to ask you a few questions. How long is it since your grandfather left Scotland T “A matter of five year or more, ma’am.” “Is he mad, Patsy?” “Bless ye! ye% ma’am! as mad as a March hare.” “But what drove him out of his senses, Patsy ?” “ ’Twas a big fire, ma’am, and he was terribly burnt in it. You can see the scars on his breast and shoulders now. You see, grandfeyther he was parish clerk at a place called Chilton ” “Not Chilton in Berwick, Patsy?” “Yes, ma’am! that’s the placer’ “Gracious heavens! is it possible? But Mr. Strother denied just now that he'd ever been there.” “Ah! that’s his cunning! He won’t bear the least talking to on the subject. But there was an awful fire there that burned down the church and the parsonage, and no one ever knew how it happened; but grandfeyther lost his situation, and took it so to heart that he’s never been right in his head since.” (To be continued.)