Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 August 1898 — TANGLED SKEIN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TANGLED SKEIN

MRS. ALEXANDER

CHAPTER XXIII. Standish found when he reached his looms the next afternon among the notes and letters which had come since he started in the moraine, on unusually thick envelope, directed in Callander’s handwriting. | This changed his plans. It would be folish to start before reading wb|t Callander had to say and doing so would compel him to lose the train. He opened the letter, glanced at it, find ringing for the man who waited on ttm, hastily directed that no visitor should be admitted. Then, drawing his chair near the window, he began, with interest which deepened at every word, to read the long epistle addressed to him. “I have been going to write to you, Standish, ever since Dorothy proved to me how greatly I have wronged you in my mind. I have begun once or twice, but, somehow, my brain would not keep dear or steady. There is such a cloud troubling and confusing me; but last night, as I lay awake, battling with my thoughts as usual, something seemed to break away in heart or head, and light came to me. “I don*t think I am mad, but I am not what I used to be, and there is a strange spirit—not my own—urging me at times, with a force I cannot resist, to do many things. Ever since Dorothy showed me the truth, I have wanted to tell you everything, for you loved her, not as I thought, but as a true elder brother, and you wig understand me—perhaps you will help me., ’’When she left me in India it was a rueful day. Then I was ill; after, I recovered. Her letters were not the same; they were cold, constrained. How I grew, with an agonized longing to see her again, to hold her in my arms! My mother wrote often. She did not like you < Ido not know why, but she did not She was always repeating how pay darling and Dorothy preferred being with" yon to anyone else, even to Egerton, who was so superior. It was a long time before she roused the devil within me, but she did at last. Then I came home. “It is a long, weary tale; it seems to me that I am writing of another, and I pity him profoundly, as I should never pity myself. My hatred of you grew deep and cunning; there was no base, cowardly act I would not have done, could I have tortured you without bringing disgrace on my own name. But all through my curious, agonizing mental struggles, I remembered that my name belonged to my children.

“Brooding, haunted by a hideous vision of being compelled for my honor’s sake to put away my wife, to drag her through the mire and filth of legal proceedings, of the opprobrium of society, of moral annihilation; something whispered to me, ■have the courage to save her from all this —let the icy hand of death send her unsullied to a better world, where the Allseeing alone can judge her.’ The idea would not, did not, leave me! It had an extraordinary fascination for me; even now, though I know my suspicions were wrong, I believe I did my best for her under the circumstances. “It was not murder, no—lt was the act of tenderest love. I wanted no revenge on her—l only wanted to save her from shame and bitterest grief. I resolved to send my beautiful Mabel to heaven, even while I affronted hell for her sake. My logic is sound, Standish, is it not? She would have gone hence blameless! From me an inexorable judge would have demanded the price of her blood, and for her sake I am contented to pay it! “This idea fascinated me. I had, from the fear of doing dearest one harm in some ungovernable fit of despair, remained in my own room, on the plea of indifferent health, and there I thought out my plan. One night, just after yon had gone, I had put on my smoking jacket and sat down to think, but I could not smoke, my mind was a sort of fiery mist, all the past unrolled itself, the happy hours, the sweetness and purity of my darling; should I allow ahame to touch her? A voice said to me, *the hour has come, let it not pass.’ I rose up, and took a long keen knife, which Egerton had given me as a curiosity; it was fine and sharp. I went softly but boldly to her room. I did not fear to meet anyone. I was not overstepping my right. The door opened without noise. “Now, I have nearly told you everything, Standish. My brain is growing dull and dreamy. I have always wondered why Egerton shrank from me. Dorothy has explained why* She has restored my faith in yon. When I knew the truth it made me pitiless. The irreparable evil wrought by mother Infuriated me. I rushed to her and told her that, thanks to her cruel tongue, her son was what she would call a murderer. I wonder it did not kill her! My sufferings have been great, though I have had long spells of torpidity. Since I came down to Fordsea i have been conscious of an awful, Irresistible weariness of life. Like the unhappy Moor, whose story is so like my 1 own, ‘My occupation’s o’er’—no, not yet! I must settle my account with Egerton. I cannot rest till that is finished.” Standish was very white and his teeth were set when he laid down the last sheet of this long, sad, startling letter. It was too true, then. Dillon’s clever disentangling of the puzzle! What a terrible tragedy, this destruction of two lives! His generous heart ached for the ruin, the injustice, wrought by a spiteful tongue, by the selfish recklessness of a man too absorbed in a guilty passion to hesitate at the sacrifice of friendship, honor, loyalty ♦or even the happiness of the woman he professed to love. It was brutal, insatiate, but Standish had no time to think of Egerton now. QaL lander’s case was a serious one. He must not be suspected; the terrible truth must not leak out For the unfortunate criminal himself Standish felt the most profound pity. He could not look on him as

responsible. Disease was fast gaining upon hint but a jury would probably take a very different view of his condition. Come what might, he must be shielded from the consequences of his desperate deed. “I waste time pondering here when I ought to act,” be exclaimed, and, taking Callander’s long confession, he inclosed it in a fresh, strong envelope, sealed it, and, writing on it his own name, he added: “To be destroyed in case of my death.** Then, with a heavy heart, he put a change of raiment into his bag, apd, having snatched a hasty meal, drove to Waterloo Station. He was rather too soon for the eigbt-tMrty train to East port, so he sat in the corner of the waiting room, his lege stretched out, his hands deep in his pockets and his traveling cap over his eyes. It was past eleven when Standish reached the Well-known Pier Hotel at Fordsea. Col. Callander, the waiter said, had gone to his room some time before. So Standish would not hear of disturbing him. “1 can see him to-morrow morning,” he said. “At what hour does Col. CaUandef breakfMt?” "Nine sharp, sir. He goes out to boat or bathe very early, and comes in about eight-thirty—to-night he ordered fish and kidneys, for breakfast, as jge seemed to expect you might come, sir. “Oh, very well —give me some brandy and soda and I will go to bed, too.” It was some time before Standish could sleep—when he did, fye slept heavily. When he awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and sparkling brightly on the rippling waters of the bay. When dressed and ready it was nearly half-past eight, and taking his hat he sallied forth—thinking it might be less oppressive to meet Callander first in the open air. As he strolled slowly toward the hut where Old Jack, the boatman, sheltered himself among his boats, drawn up beside It—every step recalled the happy hours eh had spent on the beach with Mabel and Dorothy, the previous autumn. Standish found Old Jack seated in the stern of one of his boats, smoking a very black pipe, and looking out so earnestly toward the east headland that he did not hear the approaching step. “Good morning, Jack.” “Eh? Mr. Standish! mornin’, sir—haven’t seen you down here this many a day, sir!” “No, I’ve been too busy to take a holiday." “Not much of a holiday for you to come down here, sir!” said the rugged old salt with feeling. “That’s true!” There was a pausethen Standish asked. “Has the Colonel gone out to bathe to-day?” “Yes, sir! He goes a fishing ongbathing every morning when he is down—sometimes I go with him; but, bless your ’art, sir, he never catches nothing! Forgets he’s holding the lines most of the time! He ought to be coming in about now,” putting a battered glass to his eye; “I see no sign of him yet; When he gets the oars in his hands, he rows sharp enough. You sit down a bit, sir—he’ll aot be long—he went away tow’st the Head, where the ladies*used to like to row in the morning lest autumn! Ah, well!— the ways of Providence are past our knowledge!” With a sigh and a wise shake of the head, Old Jack resumed his pipe.

CHAPTER XXIV. Standish accepted the old man's invitation, and, lighting a cigar, took his seat beside him. A long spell of silence ensued. Time went very slowly, and Standish was quite surprised when half-past nine chimed from the clock of the old town church. “I thought it must be ten at least,” exclaimed he impatiently. “it’s pact his usual time,” said Jack, putting up his battered glass agaip. “He went only for a dip,” he said. “If it’s your will, sir, I’ll just pull out to look for him if we see no sign of him in ten minutes.” “Do,” said Standish eagerly, “and I’ll come with you. You may have a long pull.” Standing up, old Jack Goold shouted long and loud the name of the boat taken out by Col. Callander that moralng, “Lively Peggy, ahoy!” In vain; there was not even an echo to reply. Then he returned to his oar, saying simply, “Let’s make straight for the Head.” So they rowed on and on, and round and about, but no trace of the Lively Peggy nor her oarsman was to be seen. Never did Standish lose the profound impression of that weary row, the sickening fear which grew upon him, the hopelessness and sinking of the heart. At lost Jack Goold said sullenly and hoarsely, “We’d best get back, sir. I ion’t see how we can do any good. We’d best speak this tug I see coming along on onr tack. If you promise something of a reward, they’ll keep a lookout. There’s no knowing where the boat’s drifted.” “The boat, man!” cried Standish, in much agitation. “You don’t mean to say you do not think Col. Callander is in her?” "I don’t mean nothing, Mr. Standish; only it looks baddigh seeibg no sign of w* > The old man presently hailed the tug, which ran down to them. Standish clambered on board; but the old boatman thought it better to return to Ms station, in case they had, by any accident, missed the object of their search, hoping to find Ms boat and its occupant alike beached and safe. - If would take much time and space to describe the growing fears with which Standish paced the tug’s dirty deck, or stood eagerly scsjding the face\of the waters, as they steamed slowly to and fro. ▲t length the skipper remarked that If

they stayed thereabouts till night they would find nothing, adding, not without feeling, that he would not give much for the gentleman's chances if some craft Had not picked him up before this. Standish agreed with him, and the master, bringing his vessel to as near the Head as he could safely go, sent his passenger ashore in one of the tug’s boats. The spot he landed on was a small rocky projection, not far from a stretch of fine sand which filled a slight indentation of the shore, where Standish had often found Dorothy, with Nurse and the children, bunting for shells and seaweed. A long walk, however, was before hfon, and bis mind was too profoundly disturbed to allow of tender memories. Be pressed on at a good pace, thinking hard what was best to be done if Callander had disappeared, or if he returned alive. Both contingencies had their difficulties. It was a long, painful progress. .Nearing the common, he diverged from his direct road to pass Jack Goo Id’s hut The old man was on the lookout and, perceiving his approach, came rapidly to meet him. “What news?” shouted Standish, before they were within speaking distance. Jack shook his head, and as soon as they stood face to face said, in a low voice, “Bad—couldn’t be worse. A chap has just come down to tell me that my boat has been picked up by the fishing smack Mary Jane, with the Colonel’s clothes, his watch and chain and purse. The poor gentleman is lost, that’s plain enough. Likely got cramp and went down for he was a strong swimmer.” ■ Standish stood still and silent. Was this the end of the story—the last act of a pitiful tragedy to which two innocent sufferers had been driven by hlind fate? “I suppose it is foliy to hope?’ he forced himself to say at last “Ay’ no good at all, sir. I don’t see as there is a spark of hope, nohow!” As there was no more to be done at present, Standish, though greatly shaken, was obliged to think of bis own duties, public and private. His temporary leave wa9 nearly expired, and his chief had shown him so much consideration, that he was anxious not to outstay it Then no one save himself must break the sad news to Dorothy. How would she bear thl< jast blowj , . •-■ ' He therefore telegraphed to Col. Gallander’s solicitor to come down himself, or send some capable employe to be on the spot, should action of any kind prove necessary, adding that he would wait his arjjval. A reply wire soon reached him, to the effect that Mr. Brierly himself would come down by the 3:10 train. Standish was thus enabled to confer with the greatly distressed lawyer (who was also a personal friend of Callander’s) before he started for town. It was nearly nine o’clock when he reached his rooms, and he debated with himself whether he should attempt to see Dorothy that night or no. “No,” was his conclusion; “she shall have this night, at least, undisturbed.” Indeed, after the tremendous strain of that trying day, he felt quite unequal to meet her. Before tasting food he penned a few lines to Henrietta, which he marked private, saying that he would be with her immediately aftft breakfast next day, and entreating her to keep all newspapers from Dorothy till after be had seen her. Then he rang for the man of the house who usually waited on him, and ordered him to deliver the note at once. “Very well, sir,” replied the man; “and I beg to say Mr. Egerton called this afternoon. He said, as he could not find you at the club, he came on here. He seemed surprised to hear you had gone down to Fordsea, sir.” "Mr. Egerton?’ repeated Standish, his brow contracting; there was another task. “I shall probably meet him to-morrow.” “Any answer to these, sir?” taking the notes. “No—none.” The man left the room, but returned almost immediately. “Mr. Egerton is below, sir. Shall I show him up?” “Yes; show him up,” said Standish, sudden vigor and fire replacing his exhaustion at the sound of his name. He remained standing, and the next moment Egerton entered. (To be continued.)