Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 November 1898 — A Dangerous Secret. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Dangerous Secret.

By FLORENCE MARYATT.

CHAPTER XXIX. But after he is gone Delia comes to the conclusion that she has been very selfish. Why should she let this man, on whom she has not-the slightest claim, run about after her business, while she sits idle in the hotel? There is a cawing of rooks to fee heard from the Close, near at hand; and, lured by the sound, and the reports she has heard of the beauty of the grand old cathedral, Delia turns her feet after awhile in that direction, and, passing under the arch of St. Crispin, finds herself in one of those solemn, peaceful inclosures that surround most of the ancient ecclesiastical edifices in England. It seems as though in a moment she has passed out of the working world into a city of the dead; and she sits down on a fiat tombstone, almost awe-struck by the thought and the feeling it brings with it. Not everyone, though, is of the same opinion on entering the Cathedral Close. Two dirty urchins are playing ring-taw on a stone slab close to her, while a third is making the welkin ring with his melancholy howls. “What are ye cry in’ for, Bill?’ demands one of his companions at last, impatiently. “Mother’s ’it me!” “Why for?’ “ ’Cause I stoned an old beggar on Martyrs’ Worthy Road.” “What beggar?” “An old tfiief with a pack. I tried to hustle ’is pack, and ’e growled at me, so I ’it ’im with a stone; and then one of them wimmin in a black gound and a white cap come out of Frushwood Farm and blackguarded me, and I tried to ’it ’er; and she tuk ’old of me and led me ’ome to mother and got ’er to wallop me. And ain’t she done it neither!” continues the boy, and laments anew. Delia is listening to the recital with all her ears. “What’s the good of ’itting a beggar for nothin’?” demands one of the young philosophers engaging in ring-taw. “ ’Twarn’t for nothin’. I wanted a bit of the leather off ’is pack to cover my ball’. So I just give a grab at it, and the old feller come arter me; so I threw stones at ’im. But I got the bit of leather,” he adds, with a sly grin»of satisfaction, as he thrusts his hand into his pocket The treasure comes to light. It is a morsel of worn American cloth, just like that which covers old Strother’s parcel. Delia trembles all over at the sight. “Come here, boy!” she says to the blubbering urchin; “I want to speak to you.” The child appears very shy of coming within the range of her hand. Perhaps he anticipates another cuff; but the sight of a shilling has a wonderful effect in clearing up his doubts and allaying his fears. “Be that for me?” he asks, cautiously. “It shall be yours if you will answer me a few questions.” At this wonderful announcement all three lads stay their occupations and gather round her. “What was this old beggar like and where did you see him?” “He were a little un, all crumped up like, with white ’air and a big pack on ’is back; and I see’d ’im on the Martyrs’ Worthy Road ’alf an hour agone.” “If I give you this shilling will you take me to him?” says Delia eagerly. “We’ll all take you to ’im, mum,” cry the boys simultaneously, as, forgetful of tears and whippings and ring-taw, they prepare to form themselves into a guard of honor for the lady who has shillings with which to reward their services. Delia tears a leaf from her pocketbook and writes on it: “Follow me to Brushwood Farm, on the Martyrs’ Worthy Road;” then rising, she leaves it at the George Inn door for Mr. Le Mesurier, and prepares to follow her young guides wherever they may lead her. She has found the old clerk again. She feels sure and certain that she has found {him. The Martyrs’ Worthy Road appears to jbe.a long way off to Delia, dragged there [hurriedly as she is by her impetuous little outriders. ‘'“This is the shortest cut, mum.” “I don’t care which way I so so that you take me there as quickly as possible,” says Delia in her turn. On the road she makes the whipped boy repeat, again and again, his description of the old beggar. “And who was the woman who took you to her mother?’ she asks presently. “She’s a beast, that’s what she is,” replies the urchin determinedly. “I know ’er,” says one of the others; “she’s staying with Farmer Coombes at Martyrs’ Worthy. She’s what they calls a ‘sister.’ ” “I’d like to ‘sister’ ’er,” interpolates the injured boy. “But what became of the old man when the ‘sister* took you home?” says Delia. “Oh, she took ’im into the farm’ouse fust, and she’s there with him now.” “Only show me the house, and you shall have your shilling and be off. What name did you say?” “Farmer Coombes of the Brushwood Farm.” .Codmbes—Coombes! Where has she heard that name before? She has scarcely time to ask herself the question before she is there. > It is a large, spacious house, much added to and improved by modern skill, the house of a gentleman fanner rather than the every-day, business-like residence she had expected to see. But here, having arrived at her journey’s end, and the little lads being quite certain that the “woman with the cap” took the “old beggar” in there, she dismisses them with a shilling apiece, in the possession of which they run shouting back to the sweet-stuff shop. At another time Delia might have felt timid of intruding upon the privacy of strangers, but now she feels no repugnance, no fear ,only> the intensest desire to learn if her surmises are correct She walks straight up to the hall door of the Brushwood Farm, and rings the bell. It is answered by a country maid. “I beg your pardon,” commences Delia, in her sweet low voice, which even excitement is powerless to render coarse or common, “but is there an old beggar man anywhere on your premises—an old Scotchman, with a pack upon his back?” The girls stares at her. “I think you’d better see the sister,” she replies. She ushers Delia into the sitting room, where in a few moments she is joined by a lady in the garb of a Sister of Mercy—a lady in every sense of the word, from the calm yet respectful manner in which she receives her visitor to the courtesy with which she enters the room and demands the stranger’s business. “I hope I am not taking a great liberty,” says Delia, “but I have been told that you have a poor old man under your roof r-one whom you saw being stoned by some rough little urchin—and as I have come to Winchester solely in search of such a person, I considered myself entitled to make inquiries of you.” “Your end justifies the means,” returns the sister, gravely, .bowing her head. “It is true taat we have offered shelter to sinch a poor old creature as you describe, but I inust know more before I can identify him with the person of whom you are in search.”“Themafal mean is a Scotchman—very old and decrepit—not quite right, more-

over, in his mind. He has white hair and a freckled skin —wears a velveteen suit, and had a large parcel on his back con* taining books of great value.” “It has not been our province to examine the contents of his luggage, madam, but as far as the remainder of your description goes, I think I may say it tallies with the stranger at present under our roof. But pardon me for asking if this poor creature’s condition is of any moment to you?” Delia blushes. “I will be frank with you. His personal safety is of no more moment to me than of any other old man; but the contents of the parcel he has carried away with him •” “I see! Then I need have no hesitation in telling you that he is in a very critical condition. He had a fit outside our house, which was the reason I had him carried in, and the doctor, who is with him now, thinks very badly of him.” “O! how I wish Mr. Le Mesurier were here!” cries Delia, impulsively. The sister starts and looks at her earnestly. The action causes Delia to regard her in return. She is a very pretty woman, notwithstanding her unbecoming dress, and cannot have seen more than five-and-thirty years. But there are traces of past pain or sorrow upon her face which no comfort arising from the knowledge that she is leading a pure and religious life has had the power to efface. “Would you like to see the old man? He is unconscious, but it may be a satisfaction to you,” says the sister after a pause. “No, thank you. I would rather wait. But it would be a comfort to me to explain the reason of my presence to you.” And whereupon Delia discloses as much of her past history as is necessary to account for her present interest in old Strother, and the sister listens, as it is her mission to do, with all a woman’s sympathy. “There is no doubt that, under the circumstances, we shall be justified in searching the contents of this parcel,” she replies; “and how sincerely I hope it may prove to contain what you are looking for! You must have suffered greatly. Heaven send you the reward of your patience and affection.” Delia’s eyes fill with tears. At this moment the servant thrusts her head into the opened doorway. “If you please, sister, there’s a strange gentleman wants to see yer.” “Perhaps it is my friend,” suggested Delia; and at the sound of her voice Mr, Le Mesurier steps forward, saying: “According to your directions, Mrs. Manners, I ■” But as he has got so far a low cry from the Sister of Mercy arrests his sentence, and he turns hastily to confront her startled face. At that sight all composure deserts him. Delia, watching his countenance, sees it change with the rapidity ol lightning, as a dozen conflicting feelings pass over it in quick succession; then he darts forward, as though to clasp the stranger in his arms, but checks hlmsell suddenly, to exclaim in a low voice of bewildered surprise: “Adela, is it you?” “Yes, yes, it is I,” cries the woman. “But this meeting, as you must suppose was completely unpremeditated. Now lel me go without further questioning.” She attempts to leave the room, but he bars her exit. “I cannot-let-yufi go without an explanation. for fourteen years we have beer separated, and my existence has been i living grave without you. I have tried tc overcome my love for you without sue cess, and now that we have met again, il the past can never be renewed, at least let me have the privilege of counting you among my friends.” “It cannot be. You ask what is impossible. lam not worthy.” “Have our miserable, separated lives then, had no power to wash out unworthiness? You know how mine has beer spent. I see now how you have employed yours. I have forgiven. Let us both strive to forget.” “No forgetflness can wash out crime,’ she answers. “Mr. Le Mesurier, had I not bettei leave the room?’ asks Delia, to whom this scene, though inexplicable, is becoming very painful. “No, do not leave us. Adela, this ladj has been one of my best friends. To hei I have been able to confide a little of ths trouble which I have borne silently foj so many years, and she has sympathize**; with and pitied me. She will tell yot how, in consequence of our sad separation, my conduct has been misunderstood and maligned, and my life compelled tc be solitary and loveless. She, too, has known sorrow for herself. Shall she quit the room, or shall she stay and hear what I have to say to you?” “Let her stay. I can trust her as 1 would yourself.” (To be continued.)