Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 November 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING.

By Lottie Braham.

CHAPTER Vll.—(Continued.) The library at the castle opened op to the grand hall. Until five o’clock, when afternoon tea was served in the great ball on the return of tihe sportsmen, Miss Hatton was free. She drew a great highhacked chair up to the hearth and sat 4own, crossing her little feet on the fur cug, and looking dreamily into the glowtag fire. Perhaps it was because Lord Keith’s presence harmonized so perfectly with her thoughts that she gave no start of surprise when, ten minutes later, he came up to the tall mantelpiece, nnd gazed down at her with a very tender look as his blue eyes met her dreamy glance. “You eame home early,” she remarked, ■otieing that he had changed his shooting garb, and wore a loose brown velvet •ait which was both picturesque and becoming. , . “Yes,” he answered, in rather a low tone; "I left the others. I hoped to see you alone.” , . She began to tremble slightly; and her heart throbbed heavily; but she preserved her outward calm. Lord Keith saw that she put aside the hand screen she had been holding, and that the little jeweled Ungers were unsteady. „ “I do not wish to distress you, he •went on, with a tender intonation, hw handsome face very earnest, as he leaned forward in the firelight. "But I have been very patient, Barbara. It is three tong weeks since the earl gave me permission to speak to you on a subject veir wear my heart; but you have put me off; you would not let me tell you how dear you have been to me ever since I first met you. But my patience is exhausted wow, Barbara. 1 have borne the suspense •a long as I can bear it, and I have come go you for your answer, deer.” Barbara hesitated; she had grown very Cle now, and her lips were quivering. »rd Keith waited in silence, but eonft4ently. He knew all he had to offer, he felt that many a man iu his position •would have hesitated before offering Bar'bara Hatton what he offered her. He himself, in his family pride, had hesitated • little at first; but he loved her, and she •was very beautiful. “You know?” the girl said faintly, after more than one effort to speak; and her eyes, halt wistful, half proud, were raised to his. “And you—you do not mind?” “I know,” he answered, gently; and from his tonb the girl felt assured that he did mind. “I know, I love yon, and you will be my wife?” “You are generous,” she responded; ’•‘and I ” . “Be generous, too, my darling, he •truck in, leaving his chair nnd eoirfing •ver bo her side. “Give me the little hand ( want. Is it mine, Barbara?” he added •oftly, as she put her trembling fingers Into his- “Is it mine, dear?” k “If you care to have it,” Barbara whiskered tremulously, feeling as if heaven opened before her dim and dazzled , eyrw, and Lord Keith stooped and kissed * ■ the irttJc hand which rested in his, then v released it. A. As they stood thus a servant came ncrdKktbe hall and announced that a lady was asking for her—bogged to see her, Indeed, having walked from Stourton for the purpose. She gave her name as Miss will go to her, ’ the girl said; then, the servant went away, khe turned to Lord Keith with a charming affectation of humility. “May I go?" she asked, demurely.

“I suppose I must let you,” lie answered, with a long sigh. ‘‘Dismiss her as •oon as you can, darling, and couie back to me. 1 am jealous of every moment of your time which is glreu to any one else." .She smiled as she passed him and went "to the morning room, heedless that the - #nvelope and inclosure which the earl had . given her. which had fallen from her ; {and, had been caught by some of the . cascades of lace on her gown and was •till clinging to their frail support when •he crossed the lmll and entered the morning room.

CHAPTER VIII. '‘You wished to see me 7" ’'Barbara's low, languid voice had in it *• touch of haughtiness ns she spoke, and Iter visitor, who had been bending over a j photograph on a table, by which she stood, turned quickly with a start of «larm. She was a slender, fair-haired girl two or three and twenty, dressed in black; her face was small und thin, lighted by two gray eyes set rather widely •apart She had a small, nervous mouth, and Barbara thought that her gray eyes gave her a strange, startled look. She came forward timidly, looking at Barbara with surprised admiration as she •tood stately and beautiful In her tawny .plush gown. ‘‘Miss llatton?" she said, in a low, •weary tone. ‘‘Yes, 1 am Miss llatton! You wished to see me, did you not?" “If you please." There wus something so strange and depressed and nervous in her manner, that Barbara, looking at the small, aliabbily dressed black figure which contrasted •o forcibly with the costly if simple furniture of the room in which they stood, ■felt something like compassion. Her •Banner softened slightly when next she •poke. “Will you not ait down?" she said, graciously. “You must be very tirpd if you walked from Stourtnn. 1 think the servant said you had." "Yes, I walked,” the girl answered In « low voice, her eyes glancing at everything save Barliara’s face, which they •reined to avoid. “It is a long way.” The compassion lu Barbara’s face deepened. She sat down and motioned her visitor to a rfiair near the lire. “Con 1 do anything for you?" Barbara •then asked.

“I came to ask of you a great favor.” “Yes?” said Barbara, looking at her visitor with a kindly smile. “My name is Alice Courtenay,” continued her visitor. “I—l am acting at Stourton, at the Theater Royal.” Strive as she might, Barbara could not help the change which came into her voice as she remarked: “At the Theater Royal? Is that the principal theater at Stourton?” “Yes,” Miss Courtenay answered, quickly—she was looking at Barbara now, and seemed more at her ease—“the largest. It is a fine building.” “So I have heard,” said Miss Hatton, carelessly. “Only hoard?” the young actress exclaimed, in a disappointed tone. “Have you not boon to the theater then?” “No. We have been at Elsdale only a short time,” Barbara answered. “I\rny tell me what is it you wish me to do?” Miss Courtenay’s wandering gray eyes rested for a moment on Barbara’s face. “My mother Avas an actress,” she said slowly; “but she cannot act now; she is an invalid and dependent upon me, and-r” She paused, still 1 looking at Miss Hatton, who was very pale, and whose hand, as she replaced her cup on the gypsy table near her, was n trifle unsteady. “You want me to help you?” Barbara finished for her. "I shall be glad to do so. I ” “No; I do not ask you for money,” the actress put in quickly. “We are poor, of course; but we are not in need. What I want you to give me is your patronage. I am to have a benefit on Thursday next; do’you know what a benefit is, Miss Hatton?”

“Yes, certainly,” Barbara replied, unhesitatingly. “Then you know, too, perhaps, how important it is for me to have a good house,” Miss Courtenay continued rapidly. “If you would prevail upon Lord Elsdale to extend his patronage to me ” “And take tickets? Certainly. He will do so, I am sure.” “Not only take tickets,” the actress said quickly, “but allow me to announce that the performance is under his patronage and that you will be present. People will go to see you, Miss Hatton,” she added, hurriedly, “if they go for .nothing else.” “I can hardly credit that,” Barbara said, smiling; “but, if you will excuse me for a moment, I will ask the earl if he will allow me to accede to your request. We have a large house party just now, and I do not know whether it will be pleasant to our guests. I will do my best.” Barbara promised, as she turned and left the room; while Miss Courtenay, who had risen, went back slowly to her chair and sank down into it again.

“It is impossible,” she murmured, pushing her veil further back off her pale face; “he must be mistaken. She looks like a queen; and yet”—she slipped her hand into the bosom of her dress and took out a letter she had secreted there. It was the letter which Barbara had received, and which, having caught in the lace of her dress, had fallen unheeded by her to the floor. Miss Courtenay, unseen by Barbara, had picked it up and hidden it. “It is his handwriting and addressed to her,” she added, ns she examined it. She placed the envelope back in its hiding place, and, rising, began to move restlessly about the room, looking with envious eyes on the comfort nnd luxury about her, contrasting her own shabby form, reflected in one of the mirrors, with Barbara’s radiant loveliness and exquisite attire, nnd returning hastily to her seat, when the soft rustle of Barbara's skirts sounded on the polished oak without. She came in smiling. “The earl is quite willing to lot you use his name, if it be of any advantage to you to do so,” she said, grueiously. “And. although ho will not be present himself, I will come, Miss Courtenay; and several of our guests have also promised. Mr. Sinclair will see the manager to-morrow and procure places.” “And yor* will really come?” the actress asked, eagerly.

“Yes. I will come. I will not fail. What piny do you act?” " ‘The Lady of Lyons.’ ” ‘‘l am very glad. It is a favorite play of mine,” Miss Hatton remarked. “I have ordered a carriage to take you home," she added, kindly. "And perhaps you would like a few flowers to take to your mother.” In almost absolute silence Miss Courtenay followed her into the conservatries, while Barbara, with many .kindly questions about the invalid mother—who had no existence save in the actress’ imagina-tion-put together a great hunch of sweet flowers and gave them to Jipr with her prettiest smile; and perhaps it wa t liecause the flowers tilled both her hnuds that the actress feigned not to sec Barbara’s outstretched hand when she bade her farewell and left her to the care of the servants, who led her out to the waiting brougham which Miss Hatton had ordered to take her lau-k to Stourtou. Through the chill autumnal evening Miss Hatton’s visitor was driven rapidly toward the large and busy town of Stourton, where the lamps were all lighted, ynd the cuthedral chimes were sounding. At the tutsklrts she dismissed the carriage—see peed trouble them no further, being at linn.e. she told the servants, and, when | they had driven away, she hurtled nu foot to a small, mean-looking house in the heart of the town. .lust as Alice Courtenay stopped at the door, it was opened from within, and a man. coming out hurriedly, met her face 1 1 lace and uttered an exclamation of pleasure, at which the girl’s face brightened. “Well,” he asked, eagerly, “have you succeeded?” The tarnslent glenni of pleasure died out of the girl’s pale face. • Yes," she answered drearily, taking a sheet of paper from the folds of her gown, while a sob rose in her throat, "I have succeeded.” CHAPTER IX. The evening at the castle paused much ns other evenings had. 'l'here were cards in the card room for those who cared for them; there was music In the drawing room, and careless clmtter. Lord Keith’s sweet tenor voice rose, singing Olivette’s ballad with such expression that Lady Rose Parley whispered to him, smiljng. that it* sentiment evidently harmonised with his mood.

would hare been charming If Cap* tain Adams had not interfered with the harmony by crackling that tiresome newspaper and making subdued remarks ” she said, plaintively. “May one inquire what you have found so interesting in the Stourton Evening Star, Monsieur le Cantaine?” “The finest thing I ever read, by Jove!” promptly answered the young man, his face glowing wish admiration as he looked up from the newspaper. “Deserves the Victoria Cross if ever a man did!” he added, in irrepressible excitement. “Let me read it to you. Miss Hatton, may I? It is by long chalks the finest thing I ever heard of.” “Let us have it, by all means,” said Lady Rose Dariey, merrily, “I hope it is not poetry. Barbara, my dear, have you any objection? None? Then pray proceed, Captain Adams; we are all most eagerly attentive.” Lord Keith had moved half round on the music stool, letting one hand still linger on the keys as he turned his face toward Captain Adams. Lady Rose had assumed an attitude of comically subdued attention. Barbara had come nearer also, and stood with her fan unfurled, the soft lamplight gleaming upon the great pearls about her throat, and the silver threads in the folds of her gown. From her chair near the hearth Blanche Herrick looked at her with an angry glitter in her blue eyes, aud even in her jealous pain she could not deny the wondrous beapty of the girl who had supplanted her. With a slight tremor in his voice, the young officer read the paragraph which had excited his enthusiasm. It was an account of an almost everyday occurrence which had been raised from the commonplace by a brilliant display of heroism. The reporter of the Stourton Evening Star had had his soul stirred within him by the bravi* deeds he had witnessed, and in words eloquent from their simplicity he described the fire which had broken out in a many-storied house in one of the densely populated poorer parts of the city, a hojuse in the upper rooms of which children were shut up during the day by the fathers and mothers whose labors as bread-winners kept them out and forced them to leave their little ones alone for many long hours. Graphically the paragraph described the thronging people, the fierce flames, the little, terrified faces at the upper window, the hysterical swooning of mother, the father dazed and helpless with misery in the crowd below. Deliverance seemed impossible. And then what even the brave firemen dared not do one man in the crowd had done. An actor, Mark Robson, bad forced his way through the volumes of derase smoke to the room in which the children were, whither he had been led by the whining of a faithful little dog. The reporter went on to relate how Mark Robson had, at the risk of his life, saved the children, and then how, notwithstanding entreaties and remonstrances, burned, suffering, half stifled as he was, he had again risked his life with reckless gallantry to rescue the faithful little animal, and had staggered with him in his arms from tb*» burning building, to fall insensible in the street. Captain Adams’ voice was very husky as lie concluded his reading. The groups at the other end of the room, who had not been listening, were laughing and chatting. Lord Keith’s face was grave and moved as he turned to the piano; Lady Rose’s bright dark eyes were dim with tears. Barbara stood, her face rigid nnd colorless, her lips parted, staring straight before her with a fixed, unseeing gaze; then suddenly a great trembling seized he, her hands fell helplessly ait her side, the heavy white lids drooped, the room seemed to turn round and round, there was a sound of rushing water in her ears. „

“Barbara!" Miss Herrick’s voice unusually loud aud shrill, broke upon the Bilonee. “Look —she is fainting!” But something in the speaker’s tones dispelled the creeping faintness. Even before he could reach her, Barbara had raised her drooping head and smiled with pallid, trembling lips and dim eyes at Lord Keith, who had sprung to her side. "It is nothing,” she said rather faintly, but quite calmly. “1 am not ill. The account has shocked me—that is all. It mnst have been terrible! He —he is very brave. I—l hope he is not hurt.” "Heroism becomes ‘plivk’ in this nineteenth century,” observed a gray-haired artist who was staying at the castle painting a portrait of Lord Elsdale’s niece. “Well, whatever it is called, such conduct is not so common in so selfish su age as ours.” “And it is equally noble under any name,” Lady Rose declared, her face flushed with enthusiasm. They talked of the occurrence for some little time longer, the remainder of Lord Elsdnlo’s guests joining them, anxious to hear what had caused such excitement. Barbara took no part In the conversution, but stood with blanched checks and parched lips, seeing the whole scene clearly, trembling, quivering in every limb, thrilled to her inmost being with the heroism of the deed they discussed; and, remembering her own debt to him who had done this noble act, she felt ashamed of her own disloyalty, at her own cowardice; that she dared not own that debt before them all. "It was like him to go back and save the dog.” she said to herself. “He was always pitiful to all thiugs.” "You seem dazed, Bnb.” Blanche Herrick’s mocking voice said; and, as Barbara raised her eyes with a start, she met the steel-blue eyes tixod upon her face ! with a keen and unkindly scrutiny. "One would think you knew this hero, aud had a personal interest in him." As Barbara looked up she felt rather than saw that Isml Keith’s eyes were tixod upon her face, and that their anxious tenderness of expression was (hanging slowly into questioning surprise. "Is one only to honor heroism when it is shown by personal friends?” she asked, with tlie languid haughtiness which became her so well, as she looked Mis* llerrick full in the face. "No, of course not," Blanche answered, with sonic embarrassment. "Rut you seemed so moved, 1 thought you knew him." Barbara mnde no reply, but stood proud and indifferent, toying with the white fan in her hand. She spoke so easily, so carelessly, so frankly, that not even Blanche Herrick suspected that she did not speak the truth; hardly were the words uttered when she repented the base, cowardly falsehood with which she had stained her lips; and the bitter tears which she shed that night could do nothing to efface the memory of it. (To be continued.)