Rensselaer Democrat, Volume 1, Number 9, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 June 1898 — A TANGLED SKEIN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A TANGLED SKEIN

MRS. ALEXXANDER

CHAPTER VIII. Guardian and ward had a long, delightful ramble. They discussed books aud people and future plans. Standish was unusually sympathetic, and not the smallest catspaw of difference rippled the smooth surface of their confidential intercourse. Standish parted with Dorothy at The Knoll's gate, and she entered the house with a profound sense of depression weighing her down. To-morrow! How lonely and empty to-morrow would be! What months must come and go before she Should enjoy another uninterrupted talk! But she was too silly and weak! She must learn to be sufficient to herself! In an absent mood she went to her own room and laid aside her hat and mantle, and hearing from Collins that Mrs. Callander was out, she descended to the drawing, room determined to occupy her mind by an hour's diligent practice. As she approached the piano, which stood near one of the windows leading into the veranda, the sound of voices, speaking low. met her ear. She thought she distinguished Egerton's, and paused to make sure, intending to retreat if convinced that it was. Then some words caught her ear which seemed to turn her to stone and for a moment to deprive her of volition. “You know I love you,” he was saying, in low, deep’tones, full of passion. “But how intensely, how wildly, your nature, perhaps, forbids you to comprehend.” Then Mabel's voice murmured something, and Egerton replied: “No, Mabel, 1 will not be fooled! You have let inc see that I am of importance to you. You have given me hope.” “I fear you, I do not think I love you,” said Mabel more distinctly, “and I cannot, dare not cut myself off from everyone, everything that makes life worth living. No, no, I cannot,” her voice broke off into sobs, suppressed sobs.

“You will drive me mad! Existence is torture! The thought of your husband makes me capable df any crime, to think of your belonging to another sets my blood on fire! Yon are miserable, too! He is cold and indifferent. Leave him! Listen. Rather than suffer disappointment—rather than sec you his, I would crush out your life, beloved as you are!’’ The tone of his voice was deadly. Dorothy’s senses came back to her with a wild thrill of horror, of rage against the man who dared to insult and threaten her sister. And Mabel listened to him—had listened to him! How strange it seemed that she now felt what the formless shadow was which had lain upon her. What should she do? She must not drive that fierce, bad man to desperation. She must ap;>eal to Mabel, and strengthen her —save her. She stole softly away, and stood for a moment by the stairhead window. The sound of the outer gate closing loudly roused her, and, starting to the window, she saw Egerton walk rapidly away towards the town. Dorothy did not delay a moment. Running down stairs, she tried to enter her sister’s room. The door was locked. “Let me in, Mabel. I want you. lam ill—oh, very ill!” In another moment Mabel opened it. Dorothy closed and re-locked it, then stood an instant, gazing at her sister, whose eyes had a terrified, strained look. Her face was deadly white. Then, clasping her closely, she exclaimed, brokenly, with heaving breast, “Mabel. what are you going to do? Could you let that devil draw you to destruction? I have heard him just now —1 wish I could have struck him dead!” “Heard —what—where?” stammered Mabel, her eyes growing vacant, as if too overdone to understand anything. “There in the drawing room, when you were in-the balcony.” “He said there was no one there,” gasped Mabel, and she trembled so violently that Dorothy hastily led her to a chair lest she should fall. “I came in and heard enough, Mabel! What are you going to do?” “I wish I were dead. I do not want to yield—l—oh, Dorothy! can you bear to look at me —to touch me?” “I love you with all my heart and soul!” cried Dorothy, kneeling down and clasping her waist, while she laid her head against her bosom, “and before that vile wretch succeeds in his sorcery, I would kill him. You are not yourself, Mabel; you are under a spell. Throw it off; defy him! What Scan he do? Would you forsake your own true husband for a traitor tike this? Where are your senses'? Forbid him to come near you. Let me be •with you every moment of the day, and I will exorcise this unholy spirit.” “I am unfit to stay with my husbandray children,” sobbed Mabel. “I ought scoot to have listened.” • “You are fit—qiffte fit; I tell you so. You are not acting by your own will; you are under the will of another.” “1 do not want to go. Oh, Dorothy, help me. Randal Egerton always inter- , ested me, and I can scarcely tell how 1 /came to like him. I fear him now. I wish I had never let him mesmerize me. But if I refuse .him, what—what wiirhe do? anything for revenge—even something desperate to Herbert.” “No, Mabel; he dare not.' Never fear to do right. Tell him to leave you; that you have come to your senses. I will give him the letter.” “I have Written to him, yesterday, and he came, you see, all the same. Ob, you ‘<do not kuow him!” “If you are true to yourself. Mabel, you can shake him off!’\cried Dorothy, rising and stamping her foot. “How dare he persecute yon? How dare be practice hts villainy on you? Write again, Mabel* I will give the letter into his hand.” “Let me vollect myself a little airir you shall help me to write jt. Now, ft yon stand by me, I shall have strength to do right. But the idea of having so far lost myself will poison all my life.” * ,

“Mabel, dear, put your hand to the plow and never look back.” “If—if only Herbert never suspects, I will devote myself to him. Oh, can I ever atone?” Some more energetic persuasion on Dorothy’s part, a few’ word's here and there indicative of reviving hope and courage on her sister’s, and they started to find how late it was. “We must try to look as usual,” said Dorothy. “If .roti would like to keep quiet and not see any one, I will darken the room and say you have a headache. I can face them all for you, sweetest, dearest Mabel.” “Ah, yes; do, Dorothy.” With the strength and firmness which true affection gives, Dorothy prepared herself to play the part of hostess at dinner. . She was infinitely helped by a message from Egerton to the effect that he could not join them. Colonel Callander said he would not disturb his wife as she was trying to sleep. Dorothy wished he would. A few tender words at this juncture might, she felt sure, produce a great effect. Dinner passed heavily. Then came the moment of parting. Colonel Callnnd-T excused himself with, what Dorothy thought, cold politeness, from accompanying Standish to the station. “Good-by, my dear ward,” he said, pressing her hand in both his own. “It seems to me that you have been a good deal disturbed by something. There is a tragic look in your eyes. Will you tell me when we meet again?” “Perhaps so,” said Dorothy, trying to smile. “Oh, lam so sorry you are going!” Standish bent down and kissed the wavy braids into which her hair was divided above her brow, kissed her lightly and tenderly, and was gone. The next day Colonel Callander stayed indoors for the greater part of the day, writing and arranging his papers. This gave the sisters time to study what was best and strongest to say in Mabel’s note to Egerton. “You must got it from him as soon as he reads it,” was her final injunction to Dorothy as she put it in her pocket. “Oh, Mabel, if you think this necessary, how could you dream of deserting us all for him?” “I cannot tell. I—l was not myself. I fancied I saw a change in Herbert. If he suspected me, I could not face him. Ever since we spoke of that tour, Randal was like a madman.” “Don’t call him by his Christian name. Did he make you refuse to go?” Mabel bent her bead, and then covering her face cried quietly and bitterly. “Do not despair, all will be well yet, Mabel, if you are firm now.” “Can I ever regain my self-respect? Oh, Dorothy, let us try never to name him again." But Egerton did not present himself on this day nor the next until dinner time, when he and Miss Onkeley joined the party at The Knoll.

The presence and vivacity of Miss Oakeley, seconded as she was by Egerton, helped to cover not only the taciturnity of the host and hostess, which was not unusual, but Dorothy’s remarkable absence of mind. At last Miss Oakeley had exhausted herself and her subjects, and departed. “What a dark night,” she said, as Egerton and Callander assisted to put her into her carriage. “Yes, dark as a wolf's mouth,” said Egerton. “Tfcv moon will be up later,” said Callander. “Can I give you a lift, Mr. Egerton?” “A thousand thanks, no.” “Are you going?” asked Callander. “Yes, I want a smoke. Something stronger than a cigarette; and Callander, do you feel all right? You seem to me not quite yourself.” “I have rather a bad headache,-but lam subject todhem since I came home. A good night’s rest will be, I hope, a cure." “Then I wish you a very good night. Make my excuses to Mrs. Callander, ’ and Egerton set out into the soft darkness of a balmy September night, and not long after the lights disappeared from the windows of The Knoll, from nil, at least, save that of the nursery, where the careful Mrs. McHugh kept a shaded lamp burning through the silent night wato’ies. The next morning broke fair and bright. Colonel Callander rose, as he generally did, at cock-crow, and, wrapping himself in his dressing gown, sat making entries in his journal, and adding a few pages to a work begun long ago on some military subject. Gradually the sounds of movement below told him the household was astir. Presently the Colonel's factotum brought him his early cup of tea. Colonel Callander laid down his pen and slowly drank it. He rose, land was moving towards the door, when it wns suddenly dashed open by Mrs. McHugh, her eyes wide open as though strained with horror, her outstretched hands shaking, her whole aspect disordered. “Oh! sir! Come, come! My dear mistress is lying dead, murdered in her sweet sleep, and us lying deaf and dull and uselees all about her!” “Woman, you are mad!” exclaimed Collander, in deep, hoarse tones. “Come and see. Oh, would to heaven I were in her place!” and turning, she went rapidly away, followed by her incredulous master. « CHAPTER IX. When Callander reached his wife’s room he made at once for the bed, where she lay upon her left side, with* one white band slightly clenched outside the clothes. He bent over hot and looked Intently Into her face. “She seems to sleep,” he said hoarsely t» Nurse, who followed him. “But,” touching her hand, “she is quite cold.” “Ah! cold enough. Look, sir. Don’t move her. Come round here. Look, where the villain struck her!” With a

trembling hand she pointed to • deep wound in the back of the neck,, just below the skull, from which some blood had flowed—not in any large quantity—upon her nightdress and pillow. Callander uttered an Inarticulate exclamation, and kneeling beside the bed, gently turned back the clothes and felt her heart; then, with a wail of despair: “Oh! dead! dead! dead!” he cried. “My beautiful darling! my pearl! No evil can touch you now; none can hurt you!” He pressed his brow against the bedclothes, and muttered, “None to save her though in the midst of those who would have given their Jives for her!” He stopped as if choked. “Ah, sir, It’s plain enough how the wretches got in. The window is open, and we used to leave the middle bit of the outer shutters open, with the bar across inside —she always wanted air. Seel the bar is hanging loose, and there is the ladder they got across by.” Callander rose and followed her to the window—there, across the area which surrounded the house, resting on the top of the bank at one side, and the window ledge at the other, was a ladder—a ladder which Nurse recognized as belonging to the place. Callander dropped into a chair and, covering his face with his hands, moaned piteously. “They have made a clean sweep,” she continued, looking at .the dressing table; “she laid her rings and watch and chain and puree there last night, for I brushed her hair for her, my poor, dear lamb, and they were there when I left her. Why, why did I ever leave that shutter open?” and she rung her hands. “What are we to do, sir?" But Callander was past heeding her. He rose, and again threw himself upon his knees beside the bed, his face in the clothes, while deep sobs shook his frame. By this time the whole household had crowded into the room and stood with bated breath. “Qh! don’t stand there doing nothing,” whispered Nurse, in great agitation, to Collins—“ You run and tell the police. Don’t you see the poor master has lost his head, and no wonder.” ‘TH run, Mrs. McHugh, and fetch the doctor, too. Here” —in a horrified voice—"here’s Miss Dorothy!” “Ah, don’t let her in, for heaven’s sake!”—But Dorothy was in their, midst while she spoke. “What can be the matter?” she asked, in her usual tone, “every one seems running. Oh, Mabel,” interrupting herself, “is Mabel ill? Why, Herbert!” Callander never moved. Before they could prevent her, Dorothy rushed forward and laid her hand on her sister’s brow; then drawing back with a look of wild terror. “Is she dead? Nurse, dear Nurse, is she dead?” “Ay, my dear, it has pleased God to take her to Himself,” said Nurse, breathlessly, striving to keep the horrible fact of the murder from her. “It was awfully sudden; but we have sent for the doctor, and don’t you stay! Y’ou just look the children a bit, Miss Dorothy, for I’ll want Hannah to help me.” While Nurse spoke, she pushed her to the door. “Why do you try to send me away?” cried Dorothy. “There is something you do not want me to know.” Breaking from the agitated woman, Dorothy caught sight of the blood upop the pillow. With a scream, she darted to the bed, and clasping her hands above her head, cried, “She has been murdered —basely murdered! Oh! my sister! my sister! was there no one to save you? Oh! come back to me! Oh! Herbert, is she quite, quite dead?” Still Callander remained in a kind of stupor. “We can't rightly tell till the doctor cornea, and this is no place for you, tny dear young lady. I’ll tell you the minute I know what the doctor says. You can do her no good. My own head is going round and —Mary! Mary! help me to hold her, will you?" (To be continued.?