Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 October 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING.

By Lottie Braham.

CHAPTER V. —(Continued.) ; They had reached the end of the platform by this time, passing the earl and his companion on the way. The latter glanced at them quickly, then averted his eyes as quickly, and a slight angry look crossed his face. Yet they were a handsome couple, pleasant to look upon and well suited to each other—Lord Keith tall, •stalwart, graceful, in his tweed traveling euit; the girl slender and charming in her simple gray gown; and, if they were uot agreeable in Mr. Sinclair’s sight, many an admiring, glance follow’ed them, as (hey sauntered slowly up and down, the young man’s head bent low toward Miss his blue eyes rarely leaving her beautiful profile. “My poor roses!” said Miss Hatton softly. “They are drooping for want of water, the poor, pretty things! Are they not fragrant?” ‘ “Very fragrant; but I am inclined to be jealous of them,” answered the young man, significantly. “Jealous of them —why?”—in a tone of surprise. “As to what?” “As to —forgive me—the donor of your roses.” She turned her eyes to his face with a quick look of questioning surprise. “The donor of my flowers?’ she said; and then she smiled. “Was it not from you they came?” she asked. “I regret to have to answer, ‘No,’ ” he replied, a shadow of regret clouding his frank blue eyes. “It was not you?” she said quickly. “Then I have been grateful to the wrong person all the day. The roses have been euch a pleasure to me! Are you sure you did not send them, Lord Keith?’ “Qpite sure. Who brought them to you?” “They were on the table of the, saloon’,” ahe replied slowly. “Some one had left them there for me.” A quick, angry flush came into the blue eyes again, and Lord Keith bit his lip with vejption. “Whoever sent them, I am very grateful,” she said, and raised the roses again to her face, inhaling their fragrance and •weetness. “It was someone who knows my tastes well,” she added, smiling. “I Jove roses.” ‘ Lord Keith’s blue eyes darkened with •annoyance; he who was so anxious to please her, ought to have remembered that also. ' “What a strange group that is yonder,” he observed, with an effort, but speaking in his usual light tone; “and how unmistakably their profession is stamped upon them.” “What group?” Barbara asked, rather languidly. She was beginning to weary of the grimy railway station and all her pretty color had faded. “That group to the left of those numerous imperials in which you keep the soiled gloves and tumbled dresses which are the only remnants qf a London season,” he >\ijTswcred, laughingly. “Do you see them i -‘-furaf men and thrgp yvqtnen'f ’ “Yes, t see them,” she replied, glancing at them with a look of indifferent disdain, as if the somewhat shabbily attired . group were beneath her notice. “To what 'Ororeßsion do you suppose they belong?” •“The dramatic,” he answered, “without (he smallest doubt.” “I wonder if we are to remain here all night?’ Barbara said impatiently, breaking in upon his speech. “It is too provoking'.” IHartaara looked round. The train had 'Come into the station, two or three passengers had alighted, and most of the people assembled on the platform hurried toward the carriages. Among the hurrying groups was that which had attracted Lord Keith’s attention. Barbara looked at them, and a contemptuous expression crossed her face as she watched the showily dressed, slovenly women, who eeetned just then to exercise a strange fascination for her. •“Hallo —where's Robson?" one of the •party asked, halting just beside her. •“He’ll miss the train! Where did he go?” “Into (he waiting room," the pretty, yellow haired girl answered as she went on swiftly. “Ah, there he is!” The train was a full one, and there was woine difficulty in finding places. Barbara Hatton stood motionless, holding her rote's to her z lips. Suddenly the flowers fell from her hand on to the dusty platform. She made no movement to pick them up, but stood staring helplessly before her. Lord Keith’s attention was occupied by a poor woman whom he was •Misting with kindly courtesy to find a ■•eat for herself and her little child, and in another moment the roses might have been trampled under foot had not a gentleman, in passing, lifted them, and, with a alight bow, placed them in Miss Hatton's trembling hand. Their eyes met for a moment as her lipa murmured a word of ■ thanks.

Wfhen, a minute later, Lord Keith re•furried to her side, Barbara’s fact* was Colorless; and. when lie bent toward her hurriedly, asking if she were ill, she look«d at him with blind, unseeing eyes, then •uuaed herself with a little start. “III? No; there is nothing the matter with me; but 1 am tired and— la that the carriage? Oh, 1 am so glad!” ( “Barbara,” the earl said, quickly, just •m they wore about to drive away, “have you lout your flowers?". “It does not matter,” she answered. “1 do not want them; they were fading." Hhc had resumed her graceful, languid manner now. yet her heart throbbed heavily, and her lips were quite steady under Che gray gauze of ber veil. The roses, with their fragrance and loveliness, recalled what she would fain have forgotten. all she longed to ignore and to forget; they had brought to her an echo of th*' past she wished to put from her for•evqr. Bo ahe had left the roses behind—they angered her; and memories they revrallrd had no part in her life now. It was only a trivial accident which had

delayed Lord Elsdale’s horses on their road from the castle, and it Was but a short quarter of an hour that Barbara Hatton had been detained at Stourton Station; yet that trifling accident and the short delay it caused changed her whole life in the time to come. CHAPTER VI. For two years Lord Elsdale and his niece had traveled in foreign lands, and at the end of that time they had returned to England. Miss Hatton had been presented, and had made her debut in the great world of rank and fashion, where she had at once taken her place as a queen of beauty, and received as much homage and adulation as even she could wish. The touch of mystery surrounding her early life added to Barbara Hatton’s success in society. Thus the girl was received with open arms in London society; and in her triumphs she forgot that these things had not been always hers. That she, Lord Elsdale’s heiress, clad in purple and fine linen, should have once owed her daily bread to charity was a thought that, when it came to her—which was but rare-ly-made her cheeks burn like fife, and the heavy black lashes droop over the proud dark eyes. And yet the thought had been with her during the past night; and in the darkness she had hidden her face in the cambric and lace of her pillows, ashamed to her inmost soul of the base disloyalty of which she felt herself guilty. The shamed thought had lingered with her during her toilet that morning, and it had made her even more distant than was her wont to her maid as she dressed her; and through all her reserve she had vaguely wondered what the woman would say if she knew that her mistress was the child of a provincial actress — such a woman perhaps as the painted women she had seen at Stourton Station on the preceding day. But in the stately old hall, surrounded by so many signs of greatness and wealth, these thoughts vanished; all her old disdain and languor returned, the pretty head was reared even more proudly than usual as she stood at the foot of the great staircase in her white gown, the old Flemish lace at her neck stirred by the quickened beating of her heart. As she stood in the subdued light of the great hall—upon the marble floor of which, here and there, large bear-skin rugs were thrown—subdued even on a summer sunlit day, and almost somber now that the skies without were lowering and overcast, her uncle’s secretary came toward her. “His lordship will be engaged until midday,” he said, speaking with the slight constraint which was always noticeable in his manner to his employer’s beautiful niece; “but he wished me to say that Mrs. Fairfax will attend you, if you care to go over the castle.” “Thank you; I will send for her,” Miss Hatton returned, quietly. Mrs. Fairfax, with admiration expressing itself in every glance of her kindly eyes, on every feature of her homely face, was delighted to be the first to introduce Miss Hatton to the beauties of her old home. From the great hall they passed the drawing room, with its silver moldings and maize-satin hangings and the priceless treasures of art in its cabinets, and next into the dining room, with its antique gold and silver plate and Limoges bowls and dishes, and the many lesser sitting rooms and boudoirs; and then they went up to the picture gallery, hung with dead-and-gone Hattons, whose eyes seemed to follow the beautiful girl who moved slowly down between them, pausing here and there as some pictured face struck her. And she paused and lingered before the portrait of a fair-haired, gray-eyed girl clad in the shining satin and filmy lace of her wedding dress. “How beautiful!” Barbara exclaimed eagerly; and Mrs. Fairfax gave 1 r a kindly glance as she told her that the portrait was that of the present carl’s first wife, who had died at her son’s birth. “It qiust have been a terrible blow to Uncle Norman,” Barbara observed. “Hiq lordjhip never really recovered from it, Miss Barbara,” Mrs. Fairfax said; somewhat tremulously. “For many years the sight of the poor young lord was unbearable to him. Indeed I sometimes think that he never felt like a father to him until they brought him home dead.” “Ah, that was terrible!” said Barbara, with a eatch in her breath. “He met with an accident, did he not?” “He was killed in a railway accident, Miss Hatton.” “Will you tell me about it, Mrs. Fairfax? I know so little of the family history. Is it true that he and my uncle were not on very good terms just then?' “It is true, I am sorry to say, Miss Barbara.”

"And was the cause of the quarrel a girl in the village?” "I have understood so, Miss Barbara.” “Who was she?” “The village schoolmaster’s daughter.” Barbara elevated her brows, while her lip curled with a slight touch of disdain. “Was she so very beautiful?’ she asked, negligently. Mrs. Fairfax looked at the girl’s face before her ere ahe answered: "She was not beautiful—she was very pretty. Miss Barbara." “And he was really in love with her?" “He thought he was, ina’nm.” Mrs. Fairfax answered gravely, wishing this imperious young lady would cease the questioning which revived such sad memories; it pnined the kindly woman who had loved him to touch on the unhappy story. "It was just an infatpation, Miss Barha ra." "Tell me all about it. Mrs. Fairfax. I have so often wished to hear.” "There is hut little to tell, Mias Barbara,” she answered. “He had some strange notions, had the young lord bo used to call himself n Radical; and he even thought he could persuade the cnrl to consent to a marriage between them. Lord Hatton was but a lad, you know, at the time. Miss Barbara.” she added njsdogeticnlly. “He might have known that such a marriage was impossible. His lordship was justly angry, and, If he spoke more bitterly, and showed more anger than he need have done, it was because the earl la a very proud man. My own lady, his lordship’s first wife, waa a duke's daughter.” “Qid Ix>rd Hatton persist?" “I never knew what passed, Miss Barbara— ne one did. There were high words

between them in the library; and that afternoon the young lord came into my sitting room, and said that he was going away, and wished me good-by. He looked very pale, poor lad—l held him in my arms when he was an infant, Miss Barbara, and loved him as I might have done a son of my awn—and his voice sounded rather husky. I asked him when he was coming back, and he laughed in a sad kind of way, and said he did not know; and the next day, Miss Barbara, they brought him home dead—crushed out of all recognition—l myself would not have recognized him.” “Whose picture hung there. Mrs. Fairfax?” Barbara asked, pointing to the empty panel. “The earl’s eldest son, Miss Barbara.” “Where is it now?” Barbara queried, curious to see what manner of man it was who had deemed the world well lost for the sake of a low born woman’s love. “It hangs in the boudoir where her ladyship always sat, Miss Barbara. No one enters thb room but his lordship and myself. Everything has been left as it was thirty years ago.” The musing gravity in Barbara’s dark eyes deepened. It seemed so strange to her that her proud, cold uncle should hide in his heart such a pretty, tender romance as this.

CHAPTER VII. “You quite understand me, Barbara?” “I cannot fail to do so, Uncle Norman; you have been sufficiently explicit.” Both voices were proud; but perhaps of the two Barbara’s was the prouder as she stood opposite to the earl in the library at the castle. It was late autumn; the earl’s reading lamp was burning on his writing table, and the blazing wood fire on the hearth was throwing a ruddy glare over the room, with its carved bookcases and groat chairs upholstered in embossed velvet, and upon the tawny folds of Barbara’s tea gown as she stood, her charming dark head held haughtily erect, but with her dark lashes downeast, hiding her proud, angry eyes. Lord Elsdale’s displeased face softened as he looked at her—at the beautiful girl who had brought back to him some of his own youth and hope. “Then I need not detain you from your guests,” he said, seating himself at his table. “Perhaps I have already trespassed too much upon your time.” “I have been here exactly fifteen minutes,” the young girl responded, quietly; “and my guests—those of them who are not asleep—can amuse themselves without me. Before I return to them, Uncle Norman, will you not show me the letter of which you have just spoken?” “To what end?” he asked, glancing up at her, “You will remember that, when I decided to return to England, I feared that this would happen—that, hearing of your residence here, they would endeavor to renew their old acquaintance with you, and ” “You cannot tell that they have done so,” she interrupted. “What else can be desired by the letter which Mr. Sinclair fortunately gave to me instead ” “Mr. Sinclair has taken a great liberty I” “By fulfilling my directions?” “The letter was addressed to me,” Barbara said, faltering a little. “In a handwriting which he recognized,” Lord Elsdale commented. “How should he recognize it?” Barbara asked quickly. “He has never seen it before.” “You are mistaken; I showed it to him, desiring him to notice it." “But”—Barbara’s dark eyes went quickly to his sac have held no communication with ” The earl averted his angry eyes ere he answered. “Pardon me,” he said coldly—“one communication passed between us. I sent Mr. —Mr.—what is this person’s name?— a check, and he returned it to me torh across and Is anything the matter, Barbara?” be asked suddenly, looking up at her as she uttered a faint little cry. “Are you ill? Shall I send for your maid or for Mrs. Fairfax?” “You sent him a check!” the girl gasped, with quivering lips. “Certainly—why not? Did you think I was willing to lie and to let you lie under such an obligation to a low-born actor? He returned it, and I shall not readily forget that insult.” “Of course he returned it!” Barlmra cried, bitterly, her face death-like in its pallor. “The debt I owed him was one no amount of money could repay. Did you not feel shame in offering it? The insult was yours, not his, Uncle Norman.” “You speak foolishly, and in error,” he rejoined, with chill displeasure. "The difference in our positions is so wide ” "That it might have made you more considerate!” she broke in passionately. "Actor as he is, he is a true gentleman, Uncle Norman. Let me have the letter, Uncle Norman; they may be ill—or in trouble; and —they were so good—so good to me!’! She held out her hands to him in eager entreaty, her fa<*e beautiful in its pleading and agitation. She was not all heartless, this lovely girl who had so easily learned a lesson of worldliness and ambition. As the enr) hesitated, glancing from her to the letter in his hand, she went on earnestly: "1 have obeyed yon only too well until now. Uncle Norman. I have put my jmst away so easily that the tbongbt of it makes me ashamed of myself; 1 have given them scarcely a thought for all their love and care; and that they write at all. believing me to be the base thing 1 am, must show bow good and forgiving they are." "This is childish, my denr Barbara," the earl said, in a vexed tone. "I hoped that in your poHition you will attain a prouder position ere long—you would hmru the folly of such weakness. Keith would ” "Despise me thoroughly if he knew the truth,” idie broke in bitterly. "Selfish, base ingratitude is hardly a quality to Is* desired in a wife, if he has any thought of making me such.” "Any thought!" the cnrl echoed. "You are speaking wildly, Barlmra. It is now three weeks since Evernrd asked my permission to jmy his addresses to you." If he has not spoken to you. it h» simply because you give him no opportunity, not been use hr is hesitating about that which might make other men hesitate." Barlmra glanced at him, her color changing. "You have told him?’ she queried faintly. “Yes, I have tol<l him—l told him when he spoke to me. Barbara. I congratulate you heartily oft the love you have won." Ax kfrain rtU,

white hand to her with a The girt put her fingers into it; but there was no answering smile on her lips'. “You will show me the letter?” she urged, and with a little gesture of annoyi ance Lord Elsdale dropped her hand. “It is impossible that you should hold any intercourse with these people,” he responded impatiently. “They would hold none with me,” she answered bitterly. “It would not appear so,” 'the earl remarked, significantly, glancing at the letter he held in his left hand, hesitating Whether he should give it to her or not. . “You will let me have it, Uncle Norman?” Barbara pleaded, with a humility foreign to her. “On condition that you do not answer it,” he returned. “I give you my promise,” the girl said hastily; “I have given you no reason to suppose that I would break it.” Standing in the ruddy firelight, Barta ra opened the envelope. The sheet of paper it contained was not a letter; it bore the date of the previous day, and these words only—“ Many happy returns of the day.” “I could not answer it even if I wished to do so,” she said, huskily, holding the paper toward him. “There is no address.” The earl glanced at it carelessly. “It appears to me that their friendship would be better shown by allowing you to forget what cannot be very pleasant to remember,” he returned. “You will be happier when you do so, Barbara. And now I will detain you no longer.” He rose and held the door open for her with stately, old-world courtesy, graceful, especially, from a man of his years and in his position to a girl in hers; and Barbara smiled slightly as she passed out of the library, and the heavy portiere fell behind her. (To be continued.)