Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 November 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING.

By Lottie Braham!

CHAPTER X. “Good morning, Mrs. Evans. How ie n»jr patient this morning? What kind of a aigfat has ho had?” **A quiet night, sir, for aught I can tell the contrary,” answered tihe pretty stark-eyed Welshwoman who had come to <6e door of her little semi-detached villa to answer Dr. Foote’s knock. “But he is «fce patkmtest creature I ever saw,” she wet on, as the young surgeon entered; never complains.” "And yet he must be in great pain,” €fee doctor said thoughtfully. “He is •lone, I suppose, and in bed?” “In bod! Bless you, no, sir!” she relied, “He got up as usual Hus morning, and Evans helped him to dbnwc He wanted to go to the theater, ft job’U believe me, sir; and I doubt we •feotsld not have prevented him, but that lie was that faint that he chuld not ready walk across the room.” “Tfccyr must do without him at the theater,” the doctor said, decisively. “He wiS not be fit to act for some days. I Obi I? Stave to frighten him into obedience, t foresee,” and he went quietly up the ■tairrase and knocked at a door on the first floor. As be did so, the sound of voices within •eased suddenly, some one said, “Come faS” and, when the surgeon entered, he ftond two men in the little sitting room, one standing by the table in the center mt the room, the other leaning back wearfy in a great armchair, carrying his right arm in a sling. He rose on the doctor’s entrance, and greeted him with a smile aad bis outstretched deft hand, for which In apologized with a significant glance at Ms right. **ls this .the way you obey me?” the jposng surgeon began, his keen perception Mine him plainly that the two men had been discussing some exciting and disagreeable topic before his entrance. “I ardervd you to remain in bed and keep .perfectly quiet,” “If I had remained in bed, I could not bare kept quiet,” Mark Robson replied, moiling. “I am much more comfortable •p, doctor. Let me introduce Mr. Walter Bryant to you, Dr. Foote; his name lapevhaps familiar to you.” doctor bowed civilly but coldly. Vie bad been playing at Stoutton; but be was not prepossessed in his favor. Mr. Bryant acknowledged the introduction In a somewhat sullen and indifferent suiDßfr, and took up his hat from the table near which he stood. “11l look in again presently,” he said, I with a sod. “We must settle that matter, | Robson— and the sooner the better.” '*l don’t quite see what there is to settle; It concerns neither you nor me,” Mr. Robots returned quietly; but Dr. Foote noticed bow the pulse under his fingers (oiekeaed and saw the little frown of pain which crossed the actor’s face. ' ***J must exercise my professional authority,” "he said firmly, turning to Mr. Bryant, “and insist that you defer any baseness, pleasant or the reverse, until Bty patient is more fitted for it. My proflemdoiLal reputation is at stake,” he addad. with a smile, "and an obscure medico ■be myself dares not risk it, you know.” Mr, Bryant looked annoyed, but bowed carelessly and left the room. As the door «ijbwd upon him, Mark Robson gave a mgh of relief; and the surgeon smiled as he relinquished his patient’s hand. “I whdi 3 had insisted on taking you home writb nrn?, - ” he said kindly. "I am sure my •faster and I would have kept you quieter than you can be here. You are more flrmnririh this morning thun I expected to flad you.” And then very gently and skillfully, he traded the actor’s wounded arm and oho aid it, dressing it tenderly with deft •ogera; and his eyes brightened as he aaw the expression of relief which appeased in the dark, grave eyes of the inJared man, whom he had never seen bofbrr the previous day, but in whom he had taken a strange interest—an interest wait* apart from the gallant deed that had aaade them acquainted with each oth*ar. “Is that better—easier?” he asked, as ißabaam «uink back on the cushions of his dab with a long-drawn sigh of relief. “Much better, much easier, doctor," the •otar answered cordially. “Thank you, gator. When shall Ibe able to go out?” “That will depend in a great measure •o yourself,” Dr. Foote replied. "If you harp very quiet, you may be able to get a boat in a week." “la m week ?’’ “Yea, in a week. You look and streak as if you were rather disappointed; but I •aware you you may consider yourself ftMteantc if 1 allow you out theu.” “Bid it is impossible,” Robson-exclaiiu-ad la mane agitation. “I cannot possibly

•“1* will be impossible if you agitato yai—ir to much,’’ interrupted the surg»«p. "The week will grow into a fort**Jkwe yon speaking seriousJy, doctorV” "Mart seriously," was the prompt an* Her. “Your hurt is. although not dau* igprsaom, a serious one. and you must be antfsl. or I will not answer for the eon* T%* doctor lingered a little longer, stayhaa against his better judgment, for his ■atieat eecraed languid and weary. But M was a great temptation to Rrnest Foote 4a have a quiet chat with n man so cut* fniil and intellectual as Mark Robson. IB* had a singular charm of manner also, Wag graceCbl and dignified, yet cordial. TOda was very fascinating to the young who, well-horn and cultured him* had suffered not a little from the aasf mi congenial society In the busy ■■MMlactarinf town. Their conversation snaadhaw drifted to Lord Kladale’s niece •ad hairess, Miss Hatton, and the doctor •hated that there was a rumor that ahg ass cagpagsd to young Ixml Keith. Oa his way out Dr. Foot* saw lira-

Evans, and impressed upon her that every care should be taken to keep his patient 1 undisturbed, that no visitor likely to disturb or annoy him should be admitted; and the little Welsh woman, having promised obedience, returned to her work of cooking her husband’s dinner, leaving the duties of concierge to her small maid-of-all-work. In the sitting room Mark Robson had dropped his head upon his hand and sat motionless where the surgeon had left him; but, quiet as he seemed, his thoughts were busy—busy with the past, the present and the future. After a while he raised his head, and, rising languidly, began to walk with uneven steps up and down the room. Weak though he was, the fever and distress of his mind would not let him rest; the old wound so roughly torn open was bleeding afresh, as if it had been inflicted on the previous day, instead of years before. He knew that, when he gave the child whom lie had loved and succored to the uncle who had claimed her, he had given her up forever; that, great as was his love for her, he could be nothing to her in the new life to which she went; that between an actor, even were he great in his profession, and Lord Elsdale’s niece, yawned a wide gulf which nothing could bridge over. He knew that, however sincere her affection might be for him, new ties would win her from her allegiance to him, and that, although he had been much to her in the past, he could be nothing in the future. It seemed to him, as he paced with faltering and uneven steps up and down the little room, that in those minutes he became an old man —a man in whom all hope of happiness was dead, all love of life was extinct. “Well, it is betteT so!” he murmured after a while, as he went back again to the armchair and sank down upon it, with a groat sadness in his face, a great weariness in his gray eyes. “He is worthy, and they will be happy; and—and I am content.” A soft knock at his door made him raise his head with a start, and his muttered “Come in!” had a touch of impatience in it. At first it seemed unheeded; then the door opened softly, and the girl of whom he had been thinking entered the room. Closing the door after her, she came forward to where he sat still and motionless, wondering dimly whether this was a waking dream, an apparition conjured up by tihe fever caused by the pain of his wounds and the excitement of his restless night. When half-way across the room, she hesitated, trembling somewhat, and very pale. He looked at her in silence, without a word of recognition or greeting. There reigned a stillness so profound that the girl’s hurried breathing was distinctly audible—a silence which he would not, and copld not, break.

CHAPTER XI. “Do you not know me?” The words, spoken half incredulously in Barbara’s sweet, tremulous voice, broke suddenly upon the silence; and Mark Robson started to his feet, recalled by their sound to the reality of the moment. But even then he made no movement toward her, but stood with his uninjured hand upon the table, looking at her with a strange expression of mingled gladness and pain. “Do you not know me?” the girl repeated. “Oh, Mark, have you forgotten Barbara?” “Forgotten!” There was something in his voice as he littered the one word which brought the color to her face, and her eyes sunk beneath liis gaze. “How could I tell,” he asked, quietly, “how I was to greet you? The Inst time we met it was you who did not know me. I waited now to know whether, as was natural, you bad not forgotten me.” “How could I forget you?” she asked unsteadily. "But I have been forbidden; and you bade me be obedient." “And you have remembered my bidding,” he said. “That is well; but how is it that, remembering it, you are here?” “Because l could not rest without knowing.” she returned hurriedly. "I heard of your heroism, and I " “My heroism!" he echoed, with a low, gentle, mirthless laugh. "Have the papers been exaggerating, ns usual? There was ik> heroism—-no need for your solicitude, although”—his voice softened—“l am grateful to you for it.” Barbara drew back a little, keenly hurt. It had been so difficult for her to come; she risked her uncle’s anger, Lord Keith’s displeasure; she had stooped to deception to explain her visit to Htourton; she had seen something like suspicion in Blanche Herrick's glance at her when she had laughingly declined her company for a drive; she had suffered so much anxiety during n long sleepless night that she felt n sense of injury and was almost angry with him for bis cold reception of her. "But you were hurt,” she suid, hurriedly; “you are suffering much. You look ill —you are so changed!” “Am l? The paaangc of years changes every one. Time has ehauged even you," he'retnrned. “Am 1 changed?” she queried, a faint blush tingling her cheeks. “So changed that, if 1 had passed you unrecognised, it would have been but natural. “But you suffer." she murmured, tremulously; “you were hurt.' The istpcrs said nothing about thut. and —" “My hurt is slight; it is not worth mentioning. Does Lord Elsdale know that you are here?" A gleam of terror flashed into her eyes. “No—oh, no! He would not have allowed me to eoiue, and I knew it wus useless to ask his permission." "Then you hare come secretly?” "Yes—l was obliged to do so; and ” “I did not think you would stoop to deception.” She flushed deeply, then grew very pale. Deceit, was not unknown to her in her new life; but, remembering the high sense of truth and honor which had always guided him. she fell shamed that he should kuow of her untnithfiiliiesa. “I must not deism you,” he weut on qdietly. "Your riait here, without the earl’s knowledge and sanction, is an imprudence of which I had not supposed you could be giuMf lam uot unmindful of

the kind thought which prompted it; but I cannot encourage you to deceive your uncle.” C With a passionate gesture of offenee, she moved from him; then almost immediately her old reverence for him came back to her. She .turned to him again, her eyes bright with tears. “Oh, Mark—oh, Mark, forgive me!” she cried passionately. “There can be no such word between us, Barbara,” he said, with quivering lips, calm as his voice sounded. “You passed out of my life entirely when you left me, and I Was content to have it so, since it was best for you. I would not willingly have crossed your path again, and but for this accident I should not have seen you now. I am sorry, though I think lam glad that you remembered me kindly and retained sufficient interest in your old friend to come to me—just once.” As he held her hand in his, his eyes rested on her with the look of love and tenderness which had never left them. Hers sank before it; she felt herself so false to him, so Unworthy of his esteem and regard. “Tell me of yourself,” she went on softly. “Have you been well? Are you suffering much now, Mark? Were you much hurt? It was so terrible to think of your danger.” “Was it? No, lam not much hurt; and there is nothing to tell you, Barbara. 1 have been well, and ” “And Mrs. Clavering—she is living still? And She is well? Dear Goody!” “Very well.” “I am glad of that. Where does she live now?”

“At Rose Cottage,” he replied, musingly, as he looked down on the tear-stained face which was eagerly turned toward him in her fast-awakening interest in her old life. “At Rose Cottage still?” “Yes, still. She is keeping a home for me there, if at any time I should be unable to work.” Barbara’s eyes met his for a moment; she knew well enough what his words meant, how he concealed his own generosity under a fancied obligation to another. “Tell me of yourself, Barbara,” he continued. “You are happy in your new life?” “Yes, I think so—very happy.” “Lord Elsdale is kind to you?” “Very kind, Mark. He loves me very much, I am sure; he tells me often that lam his sunshine.” “That is well,” Mark observed. “But I have heard it whispered, Barbara, that he will soon lose his sunshine.” The girl’s agitated face flushed like the heart of a rose. Mark’s lips trembled a little ivith a slight spasm of pain. “Is it so, dear?” he asked, watching her with keen, earnest, tender scrutiny. Barbara’s head drooped until it rested on the arm of his chair. “Yes,” she replied softly; and there was a long silence between them. “You love him, Barbara?” the young man asked presently, in a low voice, which he vainly endeavored to steady. “Yes,” the girl whispered again; and Mark Robson’s left hand closed tightly over the arm of his chair.

Again there was silence. Mark made an effort to speak, but his voice failed him—the words he would have uttered died away on his lips. Barbara waited; then she raised her head. “He is so good to me,” she said, tremulously, her face beautiful in its tenderness. “He knows all, and he still loves me.” Murk Robson started, looking at her with eager, questioning eyes. “All? What do you mean, Barbara?” he asked. “What is there to know?” “About my mother being only an actress, you know,” she answered. “I thought at first he would mind, because he is so proud and his name is so stainless; bflt Uncle Norman tokl him everything, and it has made no difference to him. He says, that nothing could come between us.” “Nothing?” Mark repeated, smiling faintly. "That is as it should be, Barbara. lam glad he loves you so well.” “If 1 had dared, 1 would have asked him to come with me to-day,” she continued, eagerly; "but I was afraid he would have tried to prevent my coming, and ” Rlie broke off suddenly as the clock in the neighboring church tower struck twelve, and hastily drew her furs about her. “I must go," she exclaimed, nervously; “it is so late; yet ” He looked so worn, so haggard, as his tired eyes rested upon her, that the girl felt that it was impossible to leave him thus. “Can I indeed do nothing for you?” she inquired, going to his side. “You are suffering greutly, I can see. Mark, 1 cannot leave you like this.” lie roused himself with an effort, smiling at her with pale, quivering lips. “There is nothing you can do for me, Barbara,” lie replied, as cheerfully as he could, though he was faiut and exhausted with pain. “And you must not come again, dear!” “All, do not say so!” she cried, hastily. “I will tell Uncle Norman, he is not ungenerous, and ” A fltn»b rose in his pale face. "Barbara, 1 can accept nothing from iAird Elsdale,” he interrupted, in a tone, tihe intense quietness of which showed how deeply in earnest he was. "And, if yuu Imve retaiced any of your old regard for me, you will show it by not mentioning my name to him. Our lives are imrted completely, utterly; let it be so. I am willing, and you are so also. The only service you can render me is to kc<>p silence.” She strove to speak; hut no words came. When they had last parted, Hhe had elung to him with tears, and Ilia quivering lips had touched her brow. The remembrance of that parting was with them both now when her blind lay passive in his. "Be very happy, my Barbara!" he said softly, gently loosing her hand: and. moviug toward the door, he opened it for her. She lingered a moment, looking up at him with great wistful eyes shining through her tears; then, without a word, she passed out of the room and went hurriedly down stairs. Midway on the narrow •taircaae a man met her, and stood snide to allow her to pass. Barbara inclined her head slightly in recognition of the courtesy, but did not look at him as she weut by, while he, wirh au eager light iu hia eyes, looked keenly at her. hesitated for a second, then foHowed her downstairs, hastening after her to the hall door. “Will you allow me to catl your carriage?” he said in a pleasant, retined ton*; and Barba'' * with a Util# atari, glanced

at him, and then swiftly averted her t&ce. “Thank you—there is no need,” she answered, W'ith so rapid an assumption of her usual languid manner that it deceived even the man to whom she spoke; and, passing him with a barely perceptible inclination of the head, she walked swiftly away. He, standing in the doorway where she had left him, looked after her with an evil light in his eyes, and smiled complacently as he turned back into the house. “Another winning card!” he muttered to himself coolly. “Very soon I think the game will be in my own hands!” (To be continued.)