Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 October 1898 — A Dangerous Secret. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Dangerous Secret.

BY FLORENCE MARYATT.

CHAPTER XXIY —(Continued.) “Parish clerk of Chilton in Berwick!” murmurs Delia; “how wonderful I should have met him here, Patsy! 1 was married at that church on the very day it was burned down, and your grandfather mast have been present at the ceremony. “How strange! And now I come to think of it, ma’am, he often talks in his ravings about a young lady—a ‘lassie,’ he calls her —who was married in the midst of the storm. Bless me! that is queer/’• “Patsy, what has he got iu that bundle?” “Ah! now you beat me, ma’am! No one, not even poor.mother, ever saw the inside.” “Couldn’t you find out, by nny means, what is in that parcel, Patsy?” Delia has become wonderfully curious about the old clerk’s worldly possessions. “I dursn’t, ma’am. Feyther would nearly kill me, and the old man would quite. I’d sooner walk np and scratch the nose of Farmer Simpson’s mad bull.” “Ah, well! I dare say there’s nothing of consequence in it. How did the feast go off?” /‘Beautifully, ma’am; and I’m obliged to you for letting me go. Delia hurries from the farm parlor as she speaks—her head in a whirl of excitement—her heart not knowing what it dares to hope so mind filled with one thought, the wish to meet and tell all to Mr. Le Mesurier. At the end of the long lane that precedes the village road she sees him, walking thoughtfully to and fro, and.evidently wailing for her. She at once tells him all she has learnsd, anOher new-born hope that the parcel, which the old man so carefully guards, contains the parish books of the church at Chilton, and in them the registry of her marriage. “And so you think the books must needs be tied up in his old bundle,” says Mr. Le Mesurier, smiling, as she finishes the tale. “I feel sure of it! Oh, don’t laugh at me. Think what a change It will make in my whole life, if the idea only proves true. I must see the contents of that bundle. I shall never be satisfied till I hav« convinced myself one way or the other.” “How do you propose to accomplish it?” “I cannot decide yet. Patsy says the old man sits in the garden when the afternoon is fine. I could get up by a ladder and smash in the glass if I find it fastened.” “You’ll be indicted for housebreaking wlfh burglarious and felonious intent, if you don’t take care, Mrs. Manners. And when you have opened the bundle, at the risk of your personal safety, perhaps you will find a mass of filthy rags.” “I care nothing about my personal safety—l care only to find my unfortunate marriage certificate. Do you think I might give old Strother a glass of wine with something in it to make him go to sleep?” Mr. Le Mesurier laughs loud at the suggestion. . “Don’t kill him outright, or you may be indicted for manslaughter along with the other misdemeanors. I am laughing, Mrs. Manners, but believe me how sincerely I am interested in this new hope of yours, and how rejoiced I shall be at its fulfillment.” “And believe me, Mr. Le Mesurier, that I will not rest hand nor foot till I have reached the bottom of that mystery, be it what it may!” CHAPTER XXV. The most natural thing to suppose is that Delia runs straight home, after her interview with the parson, to repeat the discovery she has made to Mrs. Bond. But, strange to say, she does nothing of the sort. A hundred times during the evening is it on the tip of her tongue to tell it, and a hundred times her courage fails her, and she decides she will wait a little longer and discover a little more, before she makes her friend the recipient of her confidence. The next day she anxiously awaits the coming of Mr. Le Mesurier, who has promised to show her the vestry books in the church so that she may know what such books look like and be better able to recognize them should she find any in old Strother’s bundle. When the parson comes she prepares to accompany him at once. “What queer-looking things!” she says, as she examines the rough, brown leather covers in which the volumes are bound; “and the ink in which the first entries are made is quite faded and pale. Fifty years ago, Mr. Le Mesurier. Is it possible this book has lasted all that time?” “Quite possible in Cloverfield, where we do not celebrate half a dozen marriages a year. What is it, Mrs. Webber?” This last question is addressed to the pew opener, who is employed in cleaning the church, and now beckons him mysteriously to her side from the open vestry door. “Excuse me for a moment,” Mr. Le Mesurier says, hurriedly, to Delia, as he passes into the chancel. She continues to turn over the record of the Cloverfield marriages with a sort of undefined curiosity. As she does so a name catches her eye—one name among the hundreds she has gazed upon mechanically—and she reads the record. On such and such a day, “John Le Mesurier, bachelor, of Dublin, to Adelia Coombes, spinster, of Southampton.” She looks at the date; it is that of fifteen years ago—five years before the present Mr. Le Mesurier came toTeside in the parish. Still, it seems strange that he should not have noticed the name being similar to his own; but perhaps, she argues, clergymen never take the trouble to read the records of marriages that occur before they had charge of the parish. “Is this a relation of yours?” she asks, promptly, as her friend returns to the vestry. “The name is precisely the same, you see—John Le Mesurier; but he was married five years before you came here, so perhaps you never saw the certificate.” Pointing with her finger to the entry, she tifrns to confront the clergyman, and is amazed to see the pallor that has overspread his face. “Mr. Le Mesurier! are you not well?” “I am quite well, thank you! Have you finished examining this musty old book? Then I think we may as well lock it up again! About Mr. John Le Mesurier, who appropriates my lawful cognomen! Yes, I believe he must be some sort of connection of mine, becanse the name is not a common one; but I never knew him, *nd, as you say, the event happened long before I ever saw the place!” But he is very pale still, and tho muscles of his face are working nervously. “There are no Coombes living about here now,” remarks Delia, thongbtfully. “Oh, no! There is nobody of the name here. There never was!” replies Mr. Le Mesurier, in the same agitated ami uncertain manner. “Now, you are quite sure you Will know a vestry book again, to swear to—won’t you?” he continues, with a sickly attempt to smile; “and be able to tell at once if old Strother’s possessions are the property of the church or bis own?” “Oh, I think so; and, Mr. Le Mesurier, I assure you his parcel is just the size to contain three or four of these books—making allowance for all the wrappings they are sewn in.” “Whan do you intend to make your

first raid upon these wrappings?” “To-morrow, I think; but I shall not go unless it is a really hot afternoon, that will tempt the old man to sit out for some time in the garden. Do you not come my way?” “No, thanks! I have a visit to pay to the Temples, Good afternoon.” He raises his hat and strides off abruptly. Delia is just wondering what can be the reason of his sudden alteration of manner, when he retraces his steps and overtakes her. “Mrs. Manners, when you told me a secret that affected your daily happiness you relied on me for respecting your confidence and keeping it sacred, did you not?” “Certainly I did.” “Have I ixriied your trust?” “I am sure you have not.” “Then may I ask you a favor in return, not to mention to any one the record you saw just now of my—my—relation’s marriage? He is not a person to be proud of, and the marriage was strictly private, and for many reasons it is desirable it should remain so. I know you will oblige me in this particular. Good day.” And, raising his hat onee more, Mr. Le Mesurier leaves her again without waiting for the assurances he has so earnestly required, CHAPTER XXVI. Della does not know what to think of this little episode, but she has always considered her clergyman friend to be rather strange and erratic in his moods, and ascribes his anxiety on the subject of the marriage reeord not being mentioned to some fad of his own, certainly not to anything that can concern her. She has so much to think of and plan for herself at this moment that she has no leisure to speculate upon the actions of her acquaintances. She ponders hour after hour on the best means of conciliating old Strother, and rendering her voyage of discovery easy; but she reaches Ivennett’s farm the following day without having arrived at any definite conclusion as to what course it will be better to pursue. It te a broiling afternoon, and Delia has felt the trudge up the long lane very trying; but she is rewarded by the first sight that meets her eyes being that of the old Scotchman sunning himself by the beehives. He looks only a trifle less offensive in the open air than he did in his close bedroom, anil he receives his visitor with no greater cordiality. But she is delighted to see that he is smoking his pipe, and she has a little flask of Scotch whisky hidden away in her pocket. “What a lovely day, Mr. Strother. I am so glad to find you out. Where is Patsy ?” “I dinna ken.” “Does she find it too hot in the garden? I almost think I do. May Igo round and ask her for a glass of water?” “You eanna sash me wi’ what you do.” Accepting the ungracious permission extended to her, Delia walks up the gravel path to the farmhouse. Her object is twofold —first, to find out where Patsy may be, and, secondly, to obtain a glass of water in which to put the whisky. At the open door she meets a servant girl. “Is Miss Patsy in, Jane?” “Well, she ain’t azactly in, mum, but she won’t be long. She’s only rin out the back way to meet a friend, and I’m keeping watch in case the maister should return and make a rumpus about it. Poor Miss Patsy’s got very little time to hersel’, mum, so ye meant tell the maister of her.” “To be sure not, Jane. I have only come to beg a glass of water. The day is so hot, and I am very thirsty.” The farm maiden lifts down a mug from the nail on which it hangs and makes her way out into the,back garden. “The poomp’s at the back,” she says in going. Delia follows her. To examine the back of the house is her desire. She finds that the “poomp” stands in a wilderness of currant bushes and raspberry canes, now stripped of their fruit, and the wall of the house is thickly covered with a vine of many years’ growth. On either side of the back door are windows with latticed panes and broad sills; the lower one to the right is the scullery window, the one above it she believes to belong to the bedroom of old Strother, aud it is fastened open by an iron hook. “Is that the old gentleman’s room T’ she asks indifferently of the servant. “Yiss, mum, that’s his’n, and ’twull be a good day for all concerned when he’s laid out in it.” Delia walks up to the window sill and finds it is amply wide enough to stand upon. In the scullery are a set of steps with which she could easily reach the upper window. Given ten minutes to herself, she feels sure that her work would be accomplished. She is active and lissom still, although the mother of a man. The worst difficulty will be to get the servant, who appears to be the only person within hail, out of the way. But Delia has her purse in her pocket and knows the power of money. She has no fear, when the time comes, of not being able to get rid of Jane or to make use of her. She returns to the old clerk full of hope for the success of her project. But, to her surprise, she finds he has left his seat and is peering in at the open front door. “What air ye speerin’ sae lang wi’ the lass fur?” he asks, in his usual suspicious way. “I was only gettin’ some water to drink, Mr. Strother,” replies Delia cheerfully. “I find n little weak whisky and water the most cooling drink possible on these burning afternoons.” “Whusky! What can a leddy ken aboot whusky?” “Oh! don’t I ‘ken’ about it? You forget I have lived in Scotland, where everyone acquires a liking for it, and my friend, Mr. Bond, has some of the finest Scotch whisky in his cellar you ever tasted.” “Ay! It’s mony a day sin the like 0’ me tasted whusky.” ' “Mr. Strother, I want you to taste my whisky, and if you think it good I shall bring you a bottle for yourself.” “A hale bottle o’ whisky to mysel’? Ay, but ye’re the richt sort o’ leddy to veesit a puir auld ehiel like me.”

With his old tongue he commences to lick his lips as she produces the spirit flask, and the wrinkled hand he extends for the glass trembles visibly. Delia has taken care to make the dose a potent one, and Strother took it down at a draught. “Ay, that’s summat like whusky!” ejaculates the old sinner, as the lash drop trickles down fris throat, Delia placed the flask itself ip his hands. Old Strother’s bleared, eyes light up with sensual pleasure as he applies his lips to the heck of this little bottle, and expresses his satisfaction at its contents by loud and prolonged smacks. But he does not grow sleepy so soon as Delia expected. Either he is more accustomed to drinking spirits than he will acknowledge or his head is very strong; but though be becomes less loquacious and makes absurd faces to himself in the air, his eyes do not show any disposition to close. Finally, however, his bead has fallen forward on his breast, and he has commenced to nod, with those short, uncomfortable jerks that assail one when sleeping In a chair, Delia crawls up and down the path a

little longer, and then, seeing that all la safe, skims past the sleeping old man noiselessly, and rushes to the back ot the garden. There is no time to waste now; she must do her work rapidly and without delay. “Jane,” she exclaims, going at once to the point, “here is half a sovereign for you. I want that set of steps placed agaii&t this wall. 1 have a great fancy to gather some of the bunehes of grapes that hang up there by the second window.” > £- Jane, who probably has never possessed half a sovereign all to herself in her life, stares at the coin as if she were in a dream. “I must have it at once; do you hear?'’ repeats Delia, “or it will be of no use to me.” “Sure, ma’am—but they isn’t ripe yet.” “Never mind that. You bring the steps.” The girl has them iu her arms as she speaks, and places them against the wall without further remonstrance. Delia mounts them like a squirrel. “What a quarc fancy!” thinks the servant, as she watches the lady’s ascent. But she has a half-sovereign in her band, and she cares for nothing else. (To be continued.)