Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 4, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 September 1898 — DOUBLY WEDDED [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

DOUBLY WEDDED

BY- CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

CHAPTER XlV.—(Continued.) "Can I speak to you, sir?” was Willie’s §rst shot as the squire rose from his ehair and was fumbling in his pockets for the marked catalogue of the sale, his thoughts full of a certain bay colt he knew a neighboring farmer was “sweet Upon.” “Sp£ak to me, lad?” The squire could not find the paper, and was racking his brains as to where he could have put it. “Why, I’m off to the stables; but, if you like to walk down with me Bless me, there’s the thing!” he said, diving into his breeches pocket and drawing out the catalogue. “Here, come along, lad!” he went on, going out in a tremendous hurry. “What is it? Going home?” “Not to the home you mean, squire, certainly!” said Willie. “It depends upon, you, to a certain extent.” The squire, who was going steadily down the path that led through the orchard to the stables, his empty pipe between his teeth and his hands in his pockets, looked round somewhat startled. ' “What are you talking about?” he asked sharply, thinking that when he said to himself the lad was daft he might not have been so far from the mark. “I want your consent to my marriage with your /laughter —Mrs. Drew,” said Willie, slowly and distinctly. “Bless my soul!” exclaimed the squire, eo taken aback that his pipe dropped from his mouth and shivered into pieces on the gravel without his noticing it. “You don’t mean to say as you want to marry a married woman—a widow, I mean —a boy like you? There, hold your tongue like a sensible lad, d’ye hear? I’m not angry,” | he added pacifically, looking askance at j Willie as he took off his hat and mopped his forehead. “I know you’ve got your senses all right enough, except just where the horse —mischievous brute! —kicked you. He’s left a bee in your bonnet,” he went on, with confused compassion. “It’ll be all right when you’re home with your own folks. Only, for mercy’s sake, don’t go talking like that to the women! D’ye bear?” The squire was* forming vague plans of sending for the rector to convey this young madman away at once —away anywhere, out of the women’s way. “He’ll be asking me for madam next, or the child!” he thought.' “I have spoken to Mrs. Drew,” said the young man, quietly, “and she was aware that I was about to ask you this. It is a mere matter of form, of course; she is of age.” . “Upon my word!” cried the squire, his temper rising as he began to recognize that this was something more than a freak of an injured brain. “I wish to heaven the colonel was here to take ye to task for a piece of impudence! Marry you, indeed! Why, my darter, if ever she marries again, ’ll marry her cousin, Colonel Ware —my heir! But what am I thinking of, parleying with a young fellow who comes to me and dares say my Lillian’s a jilt! There’s many a man u’d knock you down, sir, for less than that. But 1 don’t forget you're my guest; only, if you don’t give me your word that this fool’s talk don’t go any further— There —what am I talking of?” he went on, looking bewildered. “You say my only gal—my own gal—has told a boy like you to come and ask me to let you be her husband—my gal, who’s never done anything that wasn’t ■ensible, whose opinion I’d ha’ taken oi\ any subject before that of any man 1 kno*w, girl though she is? You want me to believe she’s been playing fast and loose with her cousin? Why, her marriage with my nephew' the colonel’s been the talk of the country round!” The ■quire paused, breathless. Willie felt a jealous pang. His love for Lillian Drew was too passionate not to be keenly—ay, and even unreasonably—jealous. It was this first attack of jealousy which led him into an unchivalrous action. He took Lillian Drew’s rings from his pocket, and, holding them out, said significantly: “I see, sir, you require proofs that 1 am not a liar!” There lay poor Lillian’s pearl nnd diamond circlet glittering in the sun. The ■quire rk:ognized the ring at once; his expression changed. “Now, sir, perhaps you believe me,” ■aid Willie, repocketiug the rings. “No, sir, I den’t,” blurted out the squire “I remember seeing a play once where a poor innocent girl come nigh to her death through a villuin hiding himself in her room nnd stealing off her arm while she lay asleep a bracelet her husband had given her. I’m not one certainly to say as stage plays and real life’s the same. But what can hnppcn in one can come to happen in the other. I don’t say as you’Ve stolen my gal’s rings—far from it; but I do say—nnd I mean—as I won’t take any man’s word against any of my womenfolk—no, not if it was a king on his throne! And. if you've got a spark of a man left in you after betraying my gal to me by showing me rings which, if she had ’a' given them to you, ought to ’ve been kept sacred between your two selves, you'll come back to the house wi’ me now and let me hear what she's got to say in the matter!” “Willingly,” said Willie, turning and keeping pace with tlie agitated old man. “Why, if it isu't your father back again, and in one of his tantrums!” suid Madam Ware; while Mrs. Drew rose and opened the long window. The squire gave her a look of nngry inquiry; then he turned to his wife. “I’ve come back,” he said. “This youpg gentleman here has scared me finely, coming after me with a rare tale. Egad, my girl, I don’t half like to tell ye! Here!” he went on. turning to Willie, “I’ve no time to spend on follies. Out wi’ the gal’s rings and beg her pardon!” Then he ped short. “ Mrs. Drew bent her head; she was red to the roots of her goldCmbrown hair. So the murder was out! She could imagine that her father had disbelieved Willie till the rings became a necessary piece of evidence. “Why, /on don’t mean to say ns it’s true?” The squire’s blue eye# blazed as

he looked from the young man, who seemed stalwart and strong, despite his late weakness, by the very force and strength of the position he assumed, to Lillian, ashamed, drooping. “Well!” The “Well!” was a concentrated cry of wonder, disgust, disappointment. After one glance of mingled pity and anger at Mrs. Drew—he could not bring himself to look at the young man who had quietly walked in between his hopes of Lillian’s marriage with the colonel and their fulfillment—the squire turned to Madam, who was looking through her glasses, wondering and guessing, and suid: “I leave this precious pair of fools to you. P’r’aps, being a woman, you’ll understand them—l can’t. Here, you two!” he went on. waving his hand toward the eulprits—he could no( bring himself to look at them. “Years ago, Lillian, when you came back hero to the old home, I swore to myself 1 wouldn’t be the one to cross your woman’s whims. I knew you’d have your whims, or you wouldn’t be a woman. Well, 1 never thought you’d get it into your head to marry a boy, or I’d never ha’ swore that oath; but, having swore, I’ve got to stick to it; so I can’t prevent ye, though in my opinion you’re going into the blazin’ fire after being well nigh frizzled to death in the frying-pan. There —I’ve no patience to talk about it! I wash my hands of ye. Madam there can take the matter up if she likes. I’m off” —and he made for the window and strode off, muttering to himself, to the stable.

CHAPTER XV. The colonel was staying at one of the old-fashioned West End hotels. He had rushed across France, had spent a few days in Italy, and feeling the hot sun and the new customs and foreign chatter irritating rather than soothing, had gone on into Switzerland. Here the cold silence of the snow-tipped mountains, as well as the fir woods and the grassy meadows, recalled the Neilgherry Hills, the scene of his first short love season. He wandered about the quiet valleys, and watched the goats brow’sing on the heights far above him. There, listening to the silvery tinkle of the bells in the stillness, he thought of his old love and of the new; he thought of his past barren bachelor life and of the happy future he might spend with his cousin Lillian as his wtife. He would be a father to Lilith, and a son to the squire and Madam. Then, should he and Lillian have a son, the estate would really and truly pass on to the squire’s own' heir. Surely Lillian would consent —it was such a desirable marriage for all parties concerned. Yet, even while Colonel Ware persuaded himself that he would shortly be an engaged man, he had his misgivings. He went in and out of the Swiss inns, and wandered so aimlessly about that he was called “the restless Englishman." At last he started for home all in a hurry, and, directly he arrived in London, telegraphed his town address to Mrs. Drew, adding: “I wait to hear from you.” This was early; London was asleep under a pale blue sky; scarcely a smoking chimney broke the morning clearness of the summer air. Colonel Ware telegraphed from a central office, where the redeyed night clerk was just going off duty, and was surly at being detained; then he drove to the hotel, where he waited for a telegram from Lillian, and revived an old and conquered habit of unlimited bran-dies-and-sodas and cigars. He had still the remnants of imagination hanging about his somewhat ordinary brain, had the colonel; for he fancied how he would open the yellow envelope and read, in that peculiarly careless and jaunty handwriting affected by telegraph clerks: “Come to us as soon as you can”—or somewhat to that effect. “I have a conviction that she will telegraph,” he thought; so he lounged about the hotel in a vugue manner, every now and then gazing out of the window and turning red when he caught sight of a telegraph boy, as he did once or twice on that long summer day, during which he began to think the odor of soup and cutlets more disgusting than the odors of Eastern towns, and the street cries and rattle and traffic of London the,most wearying; clamor he had as yet heard. But no telegram came. That night he scarcely slept. Toward morning he had argued himself into a resigned mood; therefore, when he was awakened by the man with hot water and one letter, he opened the one letter with composure. “I thought so,” he said to himself bitterly. “My luck!” • Lillian wrote:

“You would not accept my answer, dear cousin. How I wish you would never have spoken to me about my second marriage. How am I to tell you what has happened? Let me begin by reminding you of our conversation the evening before you left us. We were speuking of love; and it was while we were speaking, I think, that I felt that I dearly loved some one, and that this some one was not you. At thut moment, if I could have told who that some one was, or what would happen, 1 would have gone away—anywhere—l know that! But he came shortly after, nnd he has asked me to marry him. nnd I am pledged to do so. When I think back upon it all,-it seems sudden, rash, but irrevocable. 1 dislike writing this to you, dear Geoffrey, because I think you will despise me for my weakness; but, remember, you are my nearest nnd representative relative after my parents, therefore I rely npon your countenance of this engagement. If yon really intend to marry, you will find so many better, prettier and younger wives than myself that I almost congratulate you on your escape. lam alwuys “Your affectionate cousin, “LILLIAN DREW. “P. S.—His unme is William Macdonald.” At first the colonel had a good, honest fit of disgust; he was disgusted all round —with himself —as he saw his bronzed face and short gray hair reflected in the glass, Jie could have throttled himsglf for what he called BIS “Idiotic Lillian, for being such a fool as to be in love “at her age, with a grown-up daugh-? ter”—with Heathside Hall and the rec-

tory, for having cajoled him into a silly state—with France and Italy and Switzerland for not having cajoled him out of it—in fact, with the whole world. Then came the inevitable reactionary mood. His feelings of the last few weeks were reversed; he began to think that bachelor life in London was rather a good sort of thing in its way. He ordered his luncheon with epicurean care, then he went to his neglected club, the East Indian, and met one or two old cronies. He dined there, and afterward played whist, winning largely. No man, however rich, objects to victory at cards. The colonel pocketed his winnings with a pleasant sensation that, while cards remained, all the joy in life was not yet over. And as he strolled back to his hotel through the quiet streets he said to himself: “Lucky in cards, unlucky in love,” and that perhaps it was better to cling to cards. You could always leave off playing cards, but if you had a wife and children you could not rid yourself of them, however much bother they might be. “I don’t suppose they could make up a whist-table within a half dozen miles of the Hall,” was his concluding and consolatory reflection as he re-entered the hotel, and the night porter told him that a gentleman had called who seemed vegy anxious to see him. “The card is on your taljle, sir,” he added. When the colonel reached his room, he found it, and read “William Macdonald, Prince’s Square, Bloomsbury.” On the back of the card was a penciled message—“My Dear Sir —I am sorry not to find you. Will you make an appointment to see me? Yours, W. M.” The colonel retired to rest, declaring to himself that he would have nothing further to do with his Cousin Lillian or her future husband, or her affairs. But during the. night he dreamed of the old place. He dreamed of Madam Ware, then the sweet young mother with the baby Lillian in her arms, sitting on the tabouret in the quaint old drawing room at the hall; he dreamed of the sweet-smelling hayloft, and of tumbling in the hay—of his childish escapades, chasing frightened rabbits, defying the turkey-cocks, charging among the sheep—all the jolly-boy-days at Heathside; and, when he awoke, he told himself that there should be no more folly, and that he would be son nnd brother rather than nephew and cousin, but that all evanescent “nonsense,” as he chose to call it, should be smothered there, then, once for all. He wrote a kind little note to Lillian: “My Dear Cousin—Of course you can rely upon my ‘countenance,’ such as it is. Let me know when the wedding is to be. I am too old to be your groom’s ‘best man;’ but I shall hope to be present. Who are your trustees? I will be one with pleasure. Yours always, “GEOFFREY WARE. “N. B.—LoVe to all.” The first time the colonel had surrendered was when he was a subaltern, and had to follow the lead of his supmor officers. Then, as he gave up his sword, he had felt a choking in his throat. On the occasion of this second and more graceful surrender he felt a similar sensation. “All that is over,” he said, as he sealed his letter with his signet. “Now about this fellow” —taking up Willie Macdonald’s card. “The affair is sudden. H’m— I think I ought to look him up and see that Lillian is well done by. It is my duty.” So he took a handsom, and in a quarter of an hour Was in Prince’s Square. The family were at luncheon, the butler informed him, as he showed him into the library. He had scarcely glanced round at the grim old room with the rows of ancient volumes and the one long window commanding a view of the narrow black back gardens, when Willie Macdonald came in. He looked radiant, glowing. He came forward with a half-deferential, half apologetic air, and warmly shook hands with the man whom Lillian had confessed to be a rejected suitor. There was a slight aw'kwardness between them at first; but before ten minutes w'ere over the colonel had rallied from his semi-vex-ation, and they began to talk of the approaching marriage. This was to be in a short time, before the autumnal weather set in.

“Lillian does not believe in showers of wet dead leaves upon a bride,” said Willie; “and I am bound to acquiesce in so innocent a superstition.” Then he asked Colonel Ware if he would be his “best man” and trustee to the marriage settlement. “The last, with all the pleasure in life,” said the colonel; “but for ‘best man’— well, the bridesmaids wouldn’t thank you to introduce an old fogy like myself. No; ask one of your younger friends.” “Somehow I have an objection to any but old friends at a family gathering,” said Macdonald. “However, there is plenty of time to think of minor details.” Then he asked the colonel to conic upstairs and be introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Law and to his mother, and the colonel, full of forebodings as to the future, followed him.

CHAPTER XVI. “Do you happen to remember meeting a young man on the P. and O. steamship Olympia, of the name of Druce, A few years back?” asked Willie Macdonald of Colonel Ware, us they went up the staircase of the house in Prince’s Hquire, past the old windowsoat with the blue cushions. “If you do not”—for the colonel, after searching his memory, shook his head —“he remembers you; for he said, ‘By Jove, if it isn’t Ware!’ when you got out of the hansom, while we were at luncheon.” “Druce, Druce?” repeated the colonel. He fancied that he remembered the name. “A young painter-lives in Paris. Seems to have u name for tropical landscapes. They are certainly very fine, if a little wild in color,” said Willie. “I showed hint a sketch of Lilith's, and he thought great things of it. Ah, there he is!” The drawing roo* door opened, and Mrs. Law came out, followed by a tall young man. He was neither fair nor dark. His skin was tanned, his eyes were a dark hazel, and, when,he tossed aside a thick crop of straight hair of a brownish neutral tint, they gleamed or shone in the light. As he saw Willie nnd the colonel, he drew back; but Geoffrey Ware recognized him as a young fellow traveler who had greatly interested him on his journey outward to India some years back. “You were but a lad then,” said he to Druce, after he had spokeH to Mrs. Law, “but an enthusiastic lud. You were a painter even in those days. Ah, we must meet again, and talk over old tirnps!” There was a half shyness, half sentimentality about this young artist which sometimes clings to the disappointed. He told Colonel Ware, as they stood talking on the staircase, how it was he did not live in Engh»4- J3very one k*d scTkied

to discourage his natural vlfews of color. He had displeased masters, critic* and students in the legitimate or accepted schools. That he had failed in getting his pictures into any of the exhibitions went without saying. “But from the moment I set foot on foreign soil everything was changed,” he said, in a voice which was slightly affected by foreign pronounciation. He had found a painter in Antwerp to give him encouragement. Having means of his own—his father had made a comfortable fortune in India, and had been an old friend of Mr. Law’s —he went to Munich, to Dusseldorf, and other art centers. “And this year his great Nile picture a conspicuous place in the Paris Salon.” said Willie. Then an appointment was made for the colonel to visit Druce’s house and to see some paintings he had with him, and they parted. “Of course, I must go,” he said to Willie the next morning, “although I had an appointment with Gen. Blackett at the club at one.” “Well, we need not stay long at Druce’s,” returned Macdonald; ‘‘and his studio is hardly a stone’s throw out of our road.” Then they talked over the settlements und other business, till the coachman turned sharply out of the main road into a lane where there was no stone pavement, where trees flanked the walls of square gardens, and the houses, few and far between, were of all sizes and shapes. They stopped before a square, red-brick house half hidden by trees. This belonged to Druce’s mother. She met them at the door. A pretty, little old lady in black satin, with a high cap and a huge muslin collar, and with a deep courtesy, informing them that they were welcome, led them into a drawing room still quainter in its bygone fashion than either Heathside Hall or the house in Prince’s Square. Then Druce, the Angle-Frenchman, came in. He wore his white painting suit. He looked bored, or sad. Still he welcomed his guests with a sort of careless grace. “I have been putting m.v pictures in the best 1 light.” he said, “and my mother has been preparing breakfast; so I hope you will stay.” “I want to see your pictures very much,” said the colonel. The artist turned the canvas on the large easel in the center of the room. The picture made two distinct impressions, one upon Macdonald, the other upon the colonel. (To be continued.)