Jasper County Democrat, Volume 3, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 October 1900 — Twixt Life and Death [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Twixt Life and Death

BY FRANK BARRETT

CHAPTER XXll.—(Continued.) One afternoon she came into the room iwhere Nessa was sitting alone, in a paritJcnlarly ill-humor. Nessa could get no (acre than a nod or a shake of the bead 'tn reply to her observations; yet it was •bvlous by her manner that she had brought her knitting with the set purpose of staying there. Tt had occurred to Nessa on this very afternoon that she had never told her friends who she really was, and how she had come to be nn equestrienne. It •truck her now. that they must attribute her reticence to a want of confidence in them, qr to her having done something which she was ashamed to reveal. The possibility of being so misunderstood made her checks burn, and she resolved that, on the very first occasion, she would tell the whole truth about herself. She expected that Grace would be dreadfully •hocked to hear that she bad run.away from school, and got into trouble witli the police at St. John’s Wood, and been hnnt•tf out of Brighton; hut she felt, sure that Dr. Meredith— that dear, generous friend —would make allowance for her ignorance and simplicity, and sec that she was not really guilty of dishonesty. And in her heart of hearts she was elated with the hope that he would like her better for knowing that she was well born, and the victim of cruel persecution, and heiress to a large fortune. This pleasant reflection was hrightenln< her cheeks when Mrs. Blount broke •lienee. “I’ve sent ’em out . for a drive,” she •aid. Nessa looked up from the page on which her eyes had been resting while h«r thoughts wandered elsewhere, and •aid she was glad; it was such a lovely afternoon for a drive. "Yes; but he’d have been sitting in this room as if it was raining cats and dogs If I hadn’t spoken out,” said the old lady, in a tone of vexation. "It’s the first time Pve ever had to tell him what he ought to do. He’d hare found it out for himself a month ago.” Nessa, wondering, looked with wide, inquiring eyees at her companion. “Oh, I suppose you have not noticed any more than he has.” "Noticed what?” inquired Nessa. "That my dear Grace is growing quieter and quieter, more thoughtful, more gentle even than she ever was. You haven’t noticed that she don’t watch by the window for her sweetheart to come, that she slips away- from the room when be is here, that she is growing old-maid-Uh in her ways. I have. And it made my heart ache when I see 'em through the blinds as they started off in the pony chaise, for they didn’t look smiling into each other’s face; but he looked up at this window, and she looked straight before her as if she had no lover in the world.” “Oh, do they not love each other now?” Nessa asked, with a. trembling voice. "What is the matter?” "What is the matter?” echoed the old nurse, laying down her knitting. “Well, my dear, if you don’t know—and I will •«y this, 1 believe you are innocent—if you don’t know, it’s my duty to tell you before things get past mending. You're taking Sweyn’s heart away from my poor Grace! He’s fallen in love with you - that’s what's the matter!" This news so shocked Nessa that even before Grace returned from, her ride with fijveyn she persuaded Mrs. Blount to take her with her to Brixton, if Dr. Meredith deemed her well enough to go, and, in fact, sh e received this permission a few days later.

CH APTER XXIII. Several weeks later Xeasa received a letter. It gave tier quite a Hutter of excitement, s<> monotonous and dull was her eventless life at this time; but her heart beat quicker still when she perceived by the postmark that it must be from Dr. Meredith. She opened it with a feeling of hope which it would have been impossible for her to explain, having nothing to hope for. Sweyn inclosed u letter with a couple of lines: ’“The inclosed letter," he wrote, “mines to you by a roundabout route, as you will see. You have not forgotten your promise to write to me if you need your doctor and friend. "SWEYN MEREDITH." The communication was studiously brief. He could scarcely have written less: yet N'cssa was not disappointed, and la the pleasure of reading it over- nnd oyer again forgot the mclosure,. It was clear “he must acknowledge the letter, and feeling that she cpuld thi’iik of nothing else until she had written she sat down to the tusk nt once. She wrote the first words that camo from her heart: •/’Dear Mr. Meredith; I thank you for t£e letter. I think 1 can never be so ungrateful as to forget yoyr friendship and iflbdness. v. Rhe could not »ay less than this, and •be dared not Bay more, and so, with a ■Jgh of regret, she put up the sheet of paper in an envelope and addressed it to the doctor. flint she went out and pouted her letter with a* much care as if the happiness of her liter depended on it. This mighty business, witli the flood o<..coujectures and bitter sweet recollection It brought upon her, so engrossed her thought that only 1 when she got homo to Myrtle CotJjtuv and set herMIC resolutely to think of gometbiug else she remembercjLtb« Inclose*] letter. Tt was addressed,, “Miss Viola E>aacn»ter, Arcndia, West TCeustugfoh'’* re-nd-dreused, “J. Fergirv Esq.,-InHTnutlonid. .again. "Cure of Dr. Ttferedith, Grafton Road, Himmcrsmlth, London;” and finally re-addressed. "Leston Park, Bartoni, Yorkshire." Opening the letter, Nessa, with nwak•ning curiosity, turned to the signature, •nd found with surprise that the writer via Maud Redmond. It was dated 29 Murdock Square, Euston Road, Tuesday, (nd ran on Urn: j ; r I 1 s "My Darfacf Wsaat I 40.4dt .JuwW’

whether you are living or dead. For the last week I have been in London, seeking you everywhere in a state of mind perfectly Indescribable. I have suffered tortures since that dreadful night. I must have been mad to run away as Igdid; but what wonder when Fergus told me I had killed you! I.own that the fear of being publicly accused of murdering my darling friend terrified me, and I ran away to save myself. Whatever faults I may have, no one can say I am a fool, and only an ffiiot could have attempted to injure yon in my [icsltion—l had everything to lose, and nothing to gain by it. For did yqu not share all you had with me, aud did I not give up my home, position and everything else for your sake? But why should J seek to clear myself from such a monstrous charge when I am sure that you would be the last to harbor an unjust thought or ungenerous reflection? No, darling, whether you live or whether you are in that state where all secrets are known, it is all the sajtne;. you know that I am innocent—you know that I mil to be pitied. ”1 shall send this letter to Arcadia in the last hope that it mny he forwarded to jon if you live. 'And, oh! for pity’s sake, write to me if you receive it and put nn end to my agony. Let me come and look at your sweet face once more—let me slave for you—help you in some way to show how truly I love you, and would repair the chances I have lost. It is the last kindness I ask of you, my darling. Your most unhappy "MAUD REDMOND.”Mrs. Redmond had not yet risen from her bed in the second floor back of 29 Murdock square—it was not yet midday—when her landlady, entering the room without ceremony, jogged her shoulder and said, hurriedly: “Here- get up! The young lady’s come! Drove up in a hansom!” “I's she alone?” asked Mrs. Redmond, springing out of bed with blinking eyes. “Yes. You ain’t goin’ to have her up here, are you?” The place was sufficiently wretched and squalid to excite compassion, but the general effect was not picturesque—not the picture of distress which an experienced stage manager would set before his audience, and Mrs. Redmond knew her business and the character of the girl she had to play to its well as anyone. The crust of a pork pie, the remains of last night’s supper, stood on the dressing table with a bottle of hair-wash, a saucer of violet powder, and a paper of rouge. On the ta-ble-drawn up for convenience to the side of the bod was n lamp without a shade, a tray with the remains of the morning's breakfast, a pile of hairpins aud some odds and ends of finery. "I’ve showed her into the front sitting room,” said the landlady, “but she ain’t sent away the cab, so you’d better look sharp, my dear. YVhat are you looking for now?” “My shoes. Look under those things on the chair. That's just the way when you want a thing ’ “You are such an untidy lady. Here, take mine, my dear; they’ll do to slip down in.” "Dip the corner' of the towel in the water jug. Where's that braided jacket? Never mind; give me the towel. Now look about for that waterproof.” “Here it is, my dear —all creased up, anyhow. You ain’t going to put any stuff on your face, are you?” “Not likely,” replied Mrs. Redmond, as she stood before the glass wiping her face with the towel. "Mind, you'll have to get some money out of her somehow. You promised me that, you know, when she came ” “Oh. that's all right. Yon shall have it right enough. I tell you I can twist her round my finger, and, yon see, she's come just as I syid she would, and the hansom shows she has got the money. How do I look?” She turned, assuming a woe begone expression. "You’re as good as a play,” chuckled the landlady, with her hand to her mouth. "You'll do." Entering the sitting room where Nessa was sitting by the window, Mrs. Redmond started as if she had seen a wraith, and then tottering forward a few steps she fell on her knees, and stretched out her hands with an imploring cry. Nessa went quickly to her side and put her arms round the woman's neck. "Nessa, my darling Nessa,” gasped >frs. Redmond, taking the girl’s hand and smothering it with kisses. "Oh, tell me that you forgive me. No—l will not rise till I know I am forgiven.” "There is nothing to forgive. Yon did not mean to hurt me. Oh, I am sure of that as you yourself must be.” “Thank heaven for this!” murmured Mrs. Redmond, devoutly, bending her head and clasping her hands. "But I forsook you when 1 should finve stood by you—think of that." "I would rather think of anything else —Of how, for instance, you stood by me when I wns in greater need. There, do get up. It distresses me a great deal more to see you like this than to think of your running away.” Mrs. Redmond allowed herself to be comforted, and gradually came round to a. stute of mind less embarrassing in Its effect upon Nessa. "You have given me strength." she said, faintly; "in a little while I shall lie able to look for work." The hollowness of her voice frightened Nessa, "Y uu were Very poor when yon wrote to me. Have you had anything to eat to-day? she asked. Mrs. Redmond shook her head, with a plaintive smile. “But I had some tea and bread last night," she murmured gratefully. “I feared It was Ml ,“ sa i,| Nessa, "and I have kept the hae»oia..waiting. will go out-and mH some dißDerZ’-iu "I can’t, pur darling. Ila M nkthidg butilhe thing* t stand In 1 haVr Wn J tak>fc by the woman of this bouse for my rent, and I have nothing to redeem them.”

——see. Mr. Fergus paid me two hundred pounds and I have brought half of it for you.” CHAPTER XXIV. Since her first call on Mrs. Redmond Nessa made several others, sometimes in the afternoon, but more frequently in the evenings, and, though she seemed feverishly excited when she returned to her home, she would vouchsafe no explanation to Mrs. Blount. One afternoon, while she was thus absent, Grace called to see her, and Mrs. Blount, uneasy at Miss Lancaster's behavior, told Grace about it. The latter, scenting some grave and unknown peril to Nessa, left Mrs. Blount, almost abruptly, and from the nearest postoffice ■dispatched the following telegram to Sweyn; “Come at once. You are needed.” Nessa was dressing to go out the next morning, when the maid knocked at her door and said: “Please, miss, will you come into the sitting room, Missis says, before you go out.” “Yes. I will come,” Nessa answered, “almost directly.” Mrs. Blount had told her briefly, when she came in, that Grace had called in the afternoon to see her, and now she expected to be scolded for her irregularities. She went downstairs painfully conscious of her faults, and hoping that Mrs. Blount would forgive her. The sitting room door was partly open; she entered, closed the door, and, turning to the table where Mrs. Blount invariably stationed herself on serious occasions, she started with an exclamation of astonishment. Sweyn stood before her! For a couple of moments they stood silent, and still facing each other, and marking the change a few weeks had produced. But her wonder was greater than this, for Grace had prepared him for what he saw, while she was ignorant of the struggle which had exhausted him. The boyish gayety was gone from his face, the carelessness from his manner; he looked quite old and severe, despite the softness in his deep eyes. “You have come to scold me," she said, in a tone of contrition. "Yes—partly,” he answered, but there was no anger in his voice, and, taking both her hands in his, lie held them as if he meant to keep them forever, looking into her eyes the while with such tender earnestness and deep solicitude that her heart fluttered with a wild, uncontrollable joy. ' . "Don’t y.ou think I ought to scold you?” he asked, aftei a moment’s pause, still holding her hands in his. "I have done wrong,” she said, thinking of -the pain she had given Mrs. Blount; "she has been very kind to me, and I have tried her patience shamefully; and, instead of asking her to pardon me, I hare been silent and morose, not treating her as a friend at all.” "Is she the only one yon have failed to treat as a friend? Have you kept your promise to me? Why didn’t you write to me and say 'I want your ad"But lam quite well now. There is nothing the matter with my health.” "Ah, you will think of me only as your doctor. Well, as your doctor, let me assure myself that I can do nothing for you. Sit down- no. not there, with your back to the light; here, where I may see your face.” He seated her, and, still holding her hands, stood before her, looking down. "Your eyes are sunk, your check is thin; there are signs of suffering, pain, fatigue about your mouth,” he said. "It is fatigue. I went to the theater lilst night with a lady friend. It was very late when 1 came home.” "Yes. It was nearly one when you put out your light.” "You have heard all about me.” "No, not all. I know that you hav« been seeking happiness and found but a very poor substitute for it, I know that, poor as the substitute is. It makes you for a time forget some great trouble; but, I can only guess what that trouble is, and I must make sure of it before I’ dare to prescribe a remedy.” She trembled under his fixed gaze. (To be continued.)