Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 July 1898 — A TANGLED SKEIN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A TANGLED SKEIN

MRS. ALEXANDER.

CHAPTER XX. Almost breathless, Dorothy returned to •the drawing room. Callander was standing exactly where she had left him. He ■stretched out his hand eagerly. “One moment, Herbert! There are one •or two things to tell first.” Rapidly, yet with a prudence which was almost i» epiration, she told of the curious mesmeric power which Egerton had gained •over her sister, of her dread that Callander might be suspicious, of Mabel’s confession of her unhappiness and fear of Egerton’s violence should she show affection to her husband. “Then she determined to end this wretched, contemptible state of things, and wrote this, which I was to give to him, but I never had a chance, for she died dreadfully a few days after.” She took the note from its outer cover, and gave it to Callander. He took it and looked curiously at the address with dilated, horror-struck eyes. His ■hands trembled while he tore it open. She watched him eagerly as he read the contents, every word of which was engraven on her memory—all fear, all personal feeling, lost in the intense desire to clear the two creatures she loved best from the terrible accusation in which Callander believed. “I cannot bear my life,” so ran the letter, “if you continue to exercise the extraordinary power I have let you gain over me. I told you this before ih the last lines I wrote. Now I will break my fetters, and dare to act as my heart and conscience dictate. My husband loves me; in spite of all you say, I believe he loves me, and I really love him. I only fear you, Randal, and I cannot understand how you gained the power over me which you have. lam determined to resist it. If you ever cared for me. If you have any principle, any sense of honor, leave me to regain peace and happiness. You can never persuade me to leave my dear, good husband. I shudder to think I ever listened to you for a moment. Show that you have some real regard for me by going far away, and earn the gratitude of “M. C.” Callander's chest heaved. He drew his breath in gasps. When he came to the end he looked up with wild, angry eyes, and crushing the paper in his hand, said, in fierce, quick tones: “Egerton was your lover —be wanted to marry you?” “He pretended it!” Callander dropped into a chair as If shot, sitting upright, motionless, like a creature turned to stone. Dorothy was terrified at the effect of her confession. What should she do? “Oh, Herbert! speak to met.” He started at her as if not understanding what she said, and covered his face with his hands, leaning forward until his brow almost touched his knees. Then he stood up, began smoothing out the letter, and kissed it. “She loved me,” he said brokenly—“she loved me still. I cannot speak to you, my poor child. I must go. I dare not speak. To-morrow —to-mor-row!” He staggered toward the door. “Oh, Herbert! Let me call Collins to go with you* you are not fit to be alone, dear Herbert.” He made a motion of refusal with his hand. “At you see that Paul Standish is not to blame.” “I have wronged hiw but I will write. Let me go! For heaven's sake, let me go’” He rushed from the room. Dorothy rang violently and then ran downstairs. “Oh, Collins, get your hat and follow him, there is something dreadful in his faceF’ and Collins flew to obey her. “Have I done right or wrong?” asked Dorothy of herself, while she wrung her hands tn despair. “What shall I do? Where can I turn? Oh, I must tell Paul everything. What will Herbert say or do when be has time to think, and connects this letter with the awful result? I did so hope to keep all a secret, for my poor darling's sake. Will he attack Dandal Egerton legally, and blazon out the whole dreadful story? I must see Paul, and be will be out now. It is nearly nine o’clock. He will be away, goodness knows where. Still Henrietta is safe away; it will be eleven o’clock or more before she returns. Perhaps Paul may be at his rooms. I will go to him. I don’t want to tell Henrietta more than I can help; but I must tell some one. Nurse will not say a word if I ask her;” and she mounted' rapidly to the peaceful nursery, where Mrs. McHugh, spectacles on nose, was reading a newspaper with a stern aspect, as if sitting in judgment on the world. “Dear Nurse, the Colonel has just rushed out of the house, In such a state of excitement that I am frightened to death.” “What’s put him out?” asked Mrs. McHugh, rising. “We were talking of—of the past, and he spoke of Mabel, almost foe the first time since we lost her, and got Into a state of despair!. I have sent Collins to try and find him. Now I want to see Mr. Standish. Oh, Nurse, I must see him at oncer lam going to him. Will you get a cab for me? I must go.” “Stay a bit, Miss Dorothy, it’s just a chance if be be at home. You stay here, I’ll go,” beginning to take off her cap as shq spoke. “I’ll bring him back if he is to be found. You write a line for me to leave.” “But, Nurse, I don’t want Miss Oakeley to know.” ’ “All right, Mias Dorothy, more reason I should go. No one will tejl on me, but Brown would be sure to say you had gone bj^j^urself— go write, my dear young “I will, and I will watch the children. You need not send Peggy up,” A short appeal to Standish to come to her early next day, at eight if he liked, was quickly penned, and then there was nothing for it but to wait. “Nothing but to wait!” What a terrible task, to be still and helpless while others are casting the shuttle of your life through the threads es inexoraWs circum-

How slowly the minutes went by! She sat watching the bands of the clock on the mantelpiece. Did time ever drive so slowly? At last steps approached, the door opened and Mrs. McHugh appeared, a little breathlees. “Welj, I’ve been pretty quick, haven’t I? But lam vexed he was out. He had gone down to some place down the Great Northern line, and won’t be home till tomorrow evening.” Dorothy uttered a faint cry and sank into a chair. “Don’t take on so, my dear! I just got his address and sent on your note.” “Thank you, Nurse! but he will not get it till mid-day in th® country. I must telegraph the first thing in the morning, that is all I can do.” “I suppose so! Write the telegram then, Miss Dorothy. I’ll see it goes as soon as the office is open. Hasn’t Collins come back?” Dorothy shook her head. “Dear, dear, that’s bad.” “Yes, very bad, I fear.” “I’ll go down and watch for him, and send Peggy up. It’s time she went to bed.” “I think I will go and wait for him in the drawing room,” said Dorothy, faintly. “I do hope he will come in before Henrietta.” This seemed a little strange to Nurse, but she made no remark upon it. Dorothy went to get a telegraph form, and wrote an entreaty to Standish to return at once. “Don’t go to bed till I come and tell you what news Collins brings,” she said to Mrs. McHugh. “You may be sure I will not.” Thesi she went away to “wait” again. This time she was not long left alone—a little before eleven Miss Oakeley returned. “Why, where in the world is Collins?” were her first words, “and. Dorothy, what is the matter with you? You look ghastly!” Dorothy gave the same explanation she bad offered to Nurse. “What a dreadful business! My dear child, he is as likely to throw himaelf into the river as to go to his hotel! What in the world did you say to him to drive him into such a state?” “Oh! it was talking and thinking of the past that upset him. Henrietta, you terrify me.” “I am afraid you were not very prudent, but don’t tremble so. I did not mean to frighten you. You had better go to bed, you poor little soul.” “Ah, no, Henriette-znot till I see Collins.” “I will go and put on my dressing gown —I wonder when that man will come back.” Dorothy sat with her head on her hand, her lips moving in silent prayer; she had stirred and risen up to seek Henrietta, unable to endure the solitude, when, to her relief, Collins presented himself. A glance at his face showed her that he had no evil tidings. “I’ve had a rare hunt. Miss Dorothy,” were his first words. “When I got out of the door ”

“Oh, good gracious, Collins, is he safe?” cried Miss Oakeley, coming in as he spoke. • . “Yes’m, he’s all right, I was a-sayin’, as I got out of the door I felt I was too late. I couldn’t see a sign of him. Maybe he’s gone to Kensington Gardens, thinks I, so I went there as as my legs could carry me, but as I saw nothing on the way a bit like him, I thought there’d be no end of looking for him under those dark trees, so I returned the other way towards town and got to the hotel. No sign of him! So I went back and up and down, and to and fro, all to no good. At last I went to the hotel once more, and there he was all right, just come in, and the waiter was going to take him a brandy-and-soda—so I made bold to go up, and ask if he had any commands for me to-morrow. He was lying back, dead beat like, in his ehair, and as the man picked up his boots to take them away, I saw there was some mould and grass sticking to the soles. He didn’t take much notice of me, but presently he rose up and bid me give him his dressing gown, and as I helped him off with his coat I*saw that the back and one side was all marked with grass and mould, as if he had lain on the ground, yet be didn’t look as if he had had g fit.” “A fit! What a notion, Collins!” cried Miss Oakeiey. “Did he say he would go to bed?’ “He didn’t say nothing, ma’am, except when I asked, be said I might come round in the morning, and I’m going early —and, if you please, I met Mr. Dillon coming out, and he had been down at Fordsea. He heard something as took him there, and he saw the colonel once or twice. He says, miss, as the colonel would kill himself if he were let go on the way he did. He used to go out bathing in thia sharp, cold weather!—out in a boat, bo fAr as I can make out, with the old boatman as used to row Mrs. McHugh and the children last summer—sometimes he went with him and sometimes without; but he was always saying it was hot, and how it set him up to have a dip.” “Will he ever be himself again?’ asked Dorothy, with a deep sigh. “Yes! I think he will,” returned Henrietta thoughtfully. “Men always recover. Now that we know he is safe, let us go to bed; I am‘most dreadfully tired. How I wish Paul Standish was not away!” “So do I. In fact, he must come back; I shall telegraph for him the first thing to-morrow morning,” said Dorothy decidedly. ,*T am sure you are right I shall be so glad to’ see him." “But, Henrietta!” began Dorothy hesi. tatingly, and nerving herself to secure a t*tee4O with Standish, which she felt

to be indispensable, “I hope you will nd think me unfriendly or unkind, but I must see Paul alone.” “Good gracious! Why?” “Because I must tell him some thing®— oh, some things that Herbert said to me about Paul in confidence, which I hope will make them friends again!” “And don’t you suppose they would both tell me as soon as they would you?” “Oh, very likely!—only for the present I want to say my say to Paul Standish alone. You know I have been accustomed to tell him everything from a child.” “Oh, very well!—but of course he wiX, pass it al! on to me. I suppose he cannot be here much before two! I’ll go over and lunch With my aunt, who does not seem to get over her cold; and no doubt when I return, you will tell me everything.” “Perhaps so,” said Dorothy, anxious to escape from the subject; but above all. desirous to secure a private interview with Standish. < Still quivering with the strain and terror of the last three hours, the question which last occupied her thoughts, above even her deep anxiety about her unhappy brother-in-law, was: “Can Paul Standish really confide every thought of his heart to Henrietta? Kind and true as she is, there is a crude realism about her that makes her take such matter-of-fact views about everything.” Fatigued by emotion, she at last dropped asleep, with this query unanswered.

CHAPTER XXI. What a long morning it was! Henrietta kept her promise, and went away to Mrs. Callander, having waited for a report of the Colonel from Collins. He seemed as usual, but said he had a cold, and would not leave the house. He had made Collins put out his writing materials, and said he hod much to do. “I think I shall go and see him,” were Henrietta’s last words. “I will talk to my aunt about it.” Dorothy went through the form of luncheon, but could hardly swallow; aqd then retreated into the study—the room she considered the most safe from intrusion. It Was nearly three o'clock, surely he might have come by this time? She had just turned from putting some fresh coal on the fire when the door was hastily opened, and Standish came in unannounced. She flew to him with outstretched hands. “Oh! thank heaven, you are come.” “Dear Dorothy! what is the trouble?” He drew her to him and pressed her hands against his heart, “I have a long, long story to tell. I almost dread to hear your judgment, Paul. I acted on impulse, but ” Then Dorothy began at the beginning, aitf described all that had taken place between her arid her brother-in-law. Standish put his arm around her when she had finished and pressed her to him. “This has been a cruel experience for you, Dorothy, too sore a trial for your young strength! But I scarcely know what to say to your desperate expedient of showing Callander that letter. In his frame of mind it is almost death to Egerton. Think of all it entails.” “I do think. I have thought, Paul,” she said, raising her eyes to his with a resole look. “I do not regret what I have done. I have saved you. He would have killed you, then I should have lost both you and Herbert. I could never see him again if he had hurt you. What is Egerton’s life to me? He deserves to die. But you, my best—A blinding gush of tears choked her utterance, and she hid her face against his shoulder. Sttfhdish pressed her closely to him, and murmured some half-articulate words of comfort. She felt his heart beating strongly against her own, and was conscious that she could stay in those dear arms forever, half because of the weary’s child’s desire to be comforted; half from the passionate woman’s love for the man who had been everything to her from her childhood. (To be continued.)