People's Pilot, Volume 5, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 May 1896 — THE NEXT HEIR. [ARTICLE]

THE NEXT HEIR.

# A Thrilling Recital es Adventure and Loye. Founded on Actual Occurrenew In American Life.

Back numbers of the Pilot containing this story will be kept on hand at this office. New subscribers can begin theijr time with the first chapter of story and receive all back copies. Ten cents pays for the Pilot thirteen weeks, from April 30 to July 23 inclusive, to new subscribers only. i “It could not impair her position afterward,, to live so,” he said, eagerly. “She is my lawful wife.” 4 “Most assuredly. It is necessaay to live so, or to live apart, unless you desire your rhutual ruin. Pardon me, my dear fellow, if I say that you are almost too sensitive about your wife.” Cyril threw himself restlessly into his seat again. “She is so innocent, so pure. It would be such a foul crime to cast a shadow on her. No, she is safer in her father’s care, until I can claim her openly. I will risk nothing, Fred, she shall be secured at all costs. I have been away nearly two weeks. At the end of the month perhaps ” A servent interrupted him. “Mail, sir, for you,” said he, and left it on the table beside him. Some half a dozen letters. P rom the batch he snatched one eagerly—a little, pink-tinted affair, addressed in a delicate and rather tremulous hand. “From my darling,” he said, smiling as he opened it. The smile died from his lips, a look of rage and jealousy flashed into his dark eyes. “Confusion!” he exclaimed, fiercely. “Fred, hear this. “ ‘My Love, My Husband,— Come to me, for lam in despair. Frank has returned and expects to marry me. Oh, what have I done, what shall I do? I dare not tell him the secret that is known to ourselves alone —that I am, and shall evag be, your true , wife, DollY.’”*"' The two men stared into each other’s faces in blank dismay for a moment. Fred gave a long, thoughtful whistle. “Things are culminating quickly,” said he, anxiously. “What’s to be done with Dolly now?” CHAPTER VI. “I LOVE YOU JUST THE SAME.” “I fancy I see a change in Dolly,” said Frank Osborne to his expectant father-in-law, one morning shortly after that one on which my story opened. “I don't speak of her appearance; alteration there was to be looked for of course, and has only increased her loveliness; but is she not strangely quiet and sad for one so young? And is it usual for a young bride elect to be so indifferent to the preparations for her marriage? Sometimes”—his handsome face grew pale, and a cloud of pain darkened his kindly eyes—“sometimes I almost fancy that she shrinks from me.” Mr. Lisle took alarm upon the instant. “Possibly so,” said he; “but nothing to be alarmed about. Dolly is a sensitive child, fanciful and romantic, and no doubt her imagination invests the new untried life, on which she is about to enter, with a sort of vague terror and doubt. It will be for you to dispel those fears, Frank, when she is once your own, and teach ner—as I am sure you will—that the very happiest lot that can possibly befall a woman, is to become a loved and loving wife.” He spoke feelingly, and the young man’s face cleared a little. “You should know her best,” he said, wistfully. “I know but little of women—my love for her has closed my heart to all the rest of the sex; and besides, a sailor’s life is a lonely one. But it has been different with her. Here she has known others; who must needs have admired her, and whom she may have compared to me. lam not such a fool as not to know that I am like enough to suffer by the test. And yet,” he said thoughtfully, half to himself, “she did not seem to say so when I asked her.” Mr. Lisle drew along breath of anxiety and fear. I “You asked her? How foolish! How imprudedt, my dear l?o.y; a girl should not be humored so; it spoils her. But what did you ask, and what did she reply, pray?” And inwardly he thought, “I must watch him closely, or his own unsuspicious candor will spoil all.” “I asked her,” answered Frank, honestly,

“why she seemed so sad at times—so little like the sunny, joyous Dolly of three years ago. She supposed it was because she was a woman now, older and wiser. ‘Surely you were a wise little girl,’ I said, ‘as well as a sweet and dear one, seeing that you chose me for your husband.’ ‘You chose,’ said she, ‘you and papa. I was only a baby.” Then I asked her if she was sorry for our choosing. ‘For, said I, ‘I know well .that I’m not worthy of you, dear, and never can be, although I’d die for jou.’ Aud at that she began to cry, and said it was herself that was unworthy. You are good and true,’ says she, ‘and I—what am I? Oh, it is I who am not worthy!’ which was nonsense, of course, father-in-law; but it made me feel bad, somehow. And then I asked her to tell me plainly, once for all, whether she had ceased to love me?” “And what did she reply?” asked his listener, eagerly. “She looked up into my eyas—God bless her! —with the innocent tears in her own, and said: •I love you just the same as I have always loved you. Forgive me if it is not enough,’ and I caught her in my arms and kissed her before she could say another word, and told her I was satisfied and happy.” “You did well,”safdMr. Lisle, greatly relieved. “The child has been reading some nonsense, no doubt, and her tender conscience pricks her because her affection for you dosen’t come up to some wild, tigh-flown ideal. But the quiet love lasts the longer, Frank, and outlives the mad passions in the end; therefore, they are safest to marry on. As for comparing you with others—there isn’t a man in all Greendale whom, she’d exchange you for, I’ll swear! And she has never been out of the place, so judge what you have to fear from rivals. She said truly that she loves you just the same as of old.” The young man appeared reassured. “But I* won’tj have her hurried into marriage against her will,” he persisted. “I can wait for another three years rather than pain her; -wait until she comes to me of her own sweet will. It is the prospect of an immediate marriage that alarms her, I fancy, and that’s what I want to speak about to you to day.” M.. Lisle prepared himself to listen and arrange. I think.” Frank went on, “that she may wish to postpone our marriage, but hasn’t courage to make the proposition. It can’t come from me, you see, without offense. In this dilemma no one can help us so well as you.” Mr. Lisle inclined his head. “Only teach me how,” he said, pleasantly. I’ll arrange all for you.” “This way then.” said Frank, eagerly. “If you invite her confidence she will give it, of course, because you are her father. Find out what her wishes really are, so that I may gratify them. Good heavens!” he went on, with sudden emotion, “how can she have any fear of me, who would die to do her service?” But the more he pleaded on poor Dolly’s side, revealing with every sehtence, every thought, the depth and sincerity of his affection for her, as well as his own real worth, the more resolved did her father grow that Frank alone should be her husband. , “I will secure her happiness and welfare in spite of herself,” he thought. “The day will come when she will thank me.” But he promised readily all that Frank wished, and said he would seek Dolly out immediately. He did so, coming upon her seated in the old orchard, in a favorite resort of her; of late. “Well, my dear, is the wedding dress 'nearly ready?” he asked, pleasantly. He had seen her hide something in her bosom as he approached, but he deemed it best to take no notice. “Some souvenir of Vernon, probably,” he thought. “She’ll discard it of her own accord when she marries Frank. I’ll say nothing about it.” And he seated himself, smiling pleasantly. “Scarcely two weeks from your wedding-day now,” he went on. “We shall show Greendale such a bride as is seldom seen. You are a fortunate girl, and will have a husband to be proud of.” Still no reply. Her lips were white, and she clutched at the hidden treasure in her breast almost unconsciously. Her father watched her askance for awhile, in silence. “I came,” said he, “to congratulate and praise you for the brave fight you have made against an unworthy weakness, the admirable resolution to do your duty, which your conduct shows. And also for the discretion with which you answered Frank, and dispelled those suspicious bf your affection for him to which your conduct had given rise. Had you acted and spoken otherwise, you would have lost me—nay errand here would be to bid you farewell instead of to

pray God to bless you. And He will bless you,” he continued with earnest emotion. “The blessing of Heaven belongs of right to the obedient and dutiful child.” She turned her face to him suddenly now, a kind of horror looked out of her blue eyes. “And what of the disobedient and undutiful?” she asked him, almost wildly, “what of her?” He looked at her in surprise. “What?” he repeated. “Yes, yhat? What of a child, a daughter, who disobeys her father’s will and. disappoints all his hopes; who breaks the heart of a true lover, the best and noblest, and abandons him to despair perhaps; who, when the choice was put before her by her own father, chose to abandon home, and friends, and all, and cast her lot with a stranger? The blessing of Heaven would hardly belong to her, I think,” and she laughed bitterly. Her father regarded her with uneasiness aud alarm, but nevertheless he answered calmy: “Its curses rather. But why do you talk of such things? You, thank God, made a better choice when it was placed before you. You will be the wife of a good man, and, when you are older and wiser will thank me for the severity which secured your truest happiness. You are my own true child.” * He put his arms around her while he spoke, and she burst into a storm of sobs and tears upon his bosom. s, “You love me,” she cried, passionately; “even if I had been undutiful and disobeyed you, -you would have loved me still. Oh, father, you nfver would have cursed me, would you, whatever I had been tempted to do?” The idea shocked him, her vehemence moved him. “Curse you,” he cried, earnestly. “Never, child, Dever! It is not for a man to curse his fellow-being, least of all when that being is his owil child. Never fear that from me—never!” came a time when he remembered his own words.

CHAPTER VII. As soon as her father had left her alone, and even the spund of his footsteps had died away, Dolly drevf her hidden treasure front h«r bosom. A letter in Cyril’s handwriting; but Dolly gazed at it with a sad, abstracted air, as if its contents brought her more of pain than joy; and as she put it softly to her lips, a sudden rain of hot, swift tears fell over it. “Poor papa! Poor papa! If I could only tell him all!” she cried. “But now.—although he will never curse his child, his child will break his heart, perhaps! I would have told him the truth,” she went on again presently, and with a despairing look and tone, “told him the whole truth and thrown myself upon his mercy. I meant to do it to-day, but this letter came, and now it is too late!” Her tears broke out afresh. “I have ruined all whom I love!” she wailed, throwing herself upon the ground, “Papa, Frank, myself—even Cyril, too—all, everybody,” Presently she began, for the twentieth time, to read Cyril’s letter. It ran thus: “My Best Beloved and Sweetest, —My heart aches, thinking of your distress and trouble, but do not fear; I am coming to you. “I wish to Heaven that I had taken you with me when I left; such a course would have spared us both much pain and annoyance; and it would have amounted to percisely the same thing in the end, since it is impossible now, as it was theji, to disclose our marriage. * “The secret must be kept for a year, darling; affairs which I cannot explain to you here make such a course imperative; and do not reproach me for it; I am as ahxious as you yourselffcan be to claim my precious wife before the world. “I am preparing a charming little nest for my bird, where she can dwell with me, hidden safely from every care. Next week I shall come for you; but I must come in secret. “I will let you know when to expect me, the day before. I perfer to wait untill the moonlight nights are gone, for you must leave no clew behind you, and therefore I must not be seen. Have everything prepared beforehand for flight, so &s to los£ no time. “I do not ask if you will consent to this course. You are my wife and I have a right to take you; but I am sure my Dolly’s heart is mine—she will not even wish to forsake me. “And in this way, only, can we be united now. “If it were not for this fellow’s return, I would have left you with your fathm* till I could claim you openly, but now all is changed; my wife cannot dwell under the same roof with her former lover. “Let them continue their ridiculous preparations for a marriage that can nevelr take place,

and say nothing to excite suspicion. I will be with you in time. “Adieu, my own —my love —my wife. Adieu for a brief season; and when that is past we have done with parting. Your loving husdand, Cyril.” Her tears fell fast as she kissed the signature, and hid it again once more in her bosom. “If it were not so,” she sighed; “if he were not my husband, I should never have the courage or the cruelty to cling to him, and break my father’s heart!” “And yet,” she went on, musing, “was it not papa himself told me, ‘a woman should love her husband first of all.’ Ah, I did not understand him then!” She arose and paced slowly up and down under the old trees. “The blow will be a heavy one to Frank. Poor Frank —he loves me so devotedly. But Cyril never cares for that. He speaks of Frank bitterly, always—surely that is cruel.” * And then she shrank from her own thoughts, that had dared to suspect a flaw in her idol. But all the same it was impossible to hide from herself the fact that Frank was being foully wronged; and less by the change in her breach of faith, than by her deception now—the bouying him up with a false hope, which she well knew, though he suspected nothing—must fail him sudaehly and utterly. “God forgive me, it will break his heart!’ she thought, and remorse and pity made her manner as gentle and kind that the young man took fresh courage and forgot his former doubts of her love. “You see I was right,” said Mr. Lisle to him. “The girl loves you, but is timid and shy. Rather hasten the wedding, my dear boy. than talk of putting it off; you'll never learn the child’s true heart till afterward." But he did not dream how true his own words were. “And when you spoke to her did she wish for no postponement?” asked Frank, eagerly. “Never dreamt of such a thing, I assure you. Indeed the dear girl is too sensible, and her marriage day so very close at hand.” I Ciose at hand indeed. The days and weeks nad fled away more swiftly than ever before, it seemed to Dolly; there wanted but four of the fatal one that, one way or the other, was to break up the happy home, and still Cyril did not come. The girl was half crazy with terror—terror of which she dared speak to none—a thousand fears tormented her. , “What if something had happened to Cyril? What if he should not come? Must she marry Frank? No—that was impossible—yet what else could she do?” She grew pale and thin under the influence of this ceaseless, torture. Frank and her father regarded her with anxiety; she shrank from their kind eyes, lest they should read her secret, and even while her heart seemed breaking forced herself to smile. “I am about to leave my father and my home,” she answered truthfully, when Rose, their old servant, who had known her from a child, ventured to question her. “Is it not natural that I am quiet and grave?” “But all girls leave their fathers when they marry,” argued Rose. “You oughtn’t to fret and pine for that, Miss N Dolly. And you wouldn’t either, if you loved the man you’ll wed.” “I do love him, oh, how dearly, how well!”o She made the answer with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, that saw .in imagination Cyril, It was of him she thought and spoke, not dreaming that Rose could suspect it; but Rose had seen and thought a good deal of late, and was far shrewder than her mistress fancied. “She used to blush and sparkle like that when Mr. Vernon was here,” thought Rose, “and never since. Can it be him she’s thinking of? I’ll watch her.” And she did. The result of her care being many sighs and head shakings on her own part, and a silent but deep conviction that “Something’s going wrong.” “But I’ll find out what it is,” she resolved energetically. “Neither Vernon nor no other man shall wrong the little lamb while I stand by. He, indeed! Mr. Frank’s worth a dozen of him. but then there’s no accounting for a girl’s heart—l’ll watch them all.” It was in the fulfillfnent of this resolution that, on the very day before the wedding, she suddenly left her pies and cakes and the other important culinary operations in which she was absorbed, to use her own expression, “up to her eyes,” and darted out to follow, silently and at a distance, a little ragged boy, who had passed carelessly by the front gate, and gone whistling down outside the orchard. “Dick Ferret,” was her mental remark. “He used to run errands for Mr. Vernon * when he was here—he told me so; he’s been here with messages from him. Never since then till to-day. “Something’s going wrong— l’m sure of it.” And she slipped in among the lilacs, unseen and unheard, but where she herself could see and listen. Dolly was garden only a few yards off. Poor child, the spirit of unrest had possession of her, so that she could not remain indoors, the burden of her anxieties and .fears had become

too great, she felt as if she-must sink' beneath them. Frank s tenderness, her father’s evident anxiety, were each a separate torture; to escape them she fled to the garden. “I can breathe here.” she said, “it feels like freedom. Oh, Cyril, Cyril, why don’t you come? Only another day and night, and then, if you fail me, oh. what shall I do? What must become of me?” She was so young, and inexperienced, that she had actually formed no plans. At first a blind confidence in Cyril had sustained her, and now when that confidence almost appeared misplaced, she knew not what to do—the magnitude of her trouble bewildered she was like one who struggled vainly in a dream. She had seated herself, weary with the weight of care, with sleepless nights, and additionally discouraged by the fact that her solitary walk to the post-office that morning had been unrewarded by the long-looked-for letter, she had seated herself upon a rustic bench just at the entrance to the orchard, and there, leaning her bright head on her little hands, was trying sorrowfully to plan and arrange some course of conduct, when suddenly, upon her painful musings, broke a familiar sound. A boy’s whistle, loud and shrill and clear piercing the air with the spirited, lively tune of “Yankee Doodle.” Dolly sprang to her feet. Light flashed to her eyes, color to her pale cheek; the dimples stole back to the red lips that parted breathlessly. “Dick!” she whispered. gazing eagerly around; “it’s Dick.” “It was Dick, staring in at the great yellow apples on the tree near which she stood, and whistling vigorously. No song of nightingale was ever half so sweet to Dolly’s ears as the shrill notes of that familiar melody. “What brings him here?” she thought. “I’ll speak to him.” But Dick was too quick for her. He had come there for a purpose, and needed no one’s help to carry it out. “Miss,” he called to her, softly, and glancing around to see if any other was within hearing. “Good mornin,’ miss. Them's good apples, them yaller ones. Maybe you’d give me one to take with me to school.” Dolly sprang up on the bench and plucked two apples. Rose, from her hiding-place, made a threatening gesture at the unconsicous whistler’s head, “School, indeed!” she muttered low. “A devil's school you were raised in! I’d school you if I could!” And then, watching closely, she saw him take the apples, and slip a letter into Dolly’s hand. “No answer,” she heard him whisper. Then aloud he said: “Thank ye, and good-monin,’ miss,” and marched off again, whistling “Yankee Doodle” as merrily as before. But Rose no longer noticed him. Her eyes and thoughts were given to Dolly. The poor child stood, all bright and flushed and smiling, like one almost transfigured by the influence of a great and sudden joy. The relief was so entire and so immense. Believing herself alone and unobserved, she had opened the letter at once, and learned that Cyril was in the villiage now, and would come to her at night. She put the letter to her lips and breast, and raised to Heaven a face that glowed like a star. “Thank God! Oh, thank God!” she said. And Rose heard her. Watching and listening still, as the girl sat down to read the note again more calmy, Rose heard her whisper to herself, “To-night, to-night!” Then she arose, placed the letter softly in her bosom, folded her little hands over it as a dove folds its wings above its nest, and stole away, smiling happily, to her room. While Rose, without a word to any one, returned quietly to the kitchen and her work. Her honest heart was sore perplexed, and her healthy, rosy face dark with anxiety and care. “Something’s going wrong,” she muttered, “terrible, terrible wrong; and I don’t know how to mend it.” Should she go to Mr. Lisle and tell him what she had seen? Would not that, perhaps, be to wrong Dolly? Should she tell her? It might drive her to some rash step, perhaps; besides, she had looked so divinely happy for one moment, after being so wearily sad for weeks, Rose had not the heart to dash her joy; and above all, she was ashamed to own that she had played the spy upon her. “She’d never trust me again if she knew, never!” Presently she remembered that one whispered word—“to-night.” “What did she mean by that word, I wonder? It was something she read in th 6 letter—something that somebody’s going to say or do tonight. I’ll find that out before I say one word.” Her face brightened and grew resolute and clear. “If she’s going anywhere to-night, I’ll go to,’ she thought. “If there’s a meeting with her sweetheart, I’ll be there.” To Be Continued .