Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 November 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING.

By Lottie Braham.

CHAPTER XlV.—(Continued.) ‘ A abort silence ensued. Barbara’s hand afsaed over her fan, and her head had ■Hifk forward upon hoi - breast. She knew that the secret of her past, which Kiord Klsdkle’s influence had caused to be •» rigidly kept, was at this man’s mercy. She must purchase his silence if she could. She raised her head and looked at him; eke was deathly pale, but she was calm end composed. “You have finished?” she questioned. “You have said your say?” He looked at her sharply. She would be ■a coward foe, he felt, as he met the proud defiance *in the beautiful lustrous eyes. “I do not say that,” he answered with a smile. “But if you have anything to eny to me, I am ready to return your eaortesy and hear you.” “What can I have to say?” she rejoined mretessly. closing and unclosing the ivory Ou». “I did not remember having ever seen you before; I did not associate you with my past life.” “Yon are not glad to do so?” She shrugged her shoulders with a gestare of supreme indifference. *XSlad? Well, no. My uncle does not wish it known that my father so far fortgot his rank and position as ” A chill, mocking laugh broke in upon the words and silenced her; her eyes flashed as they met his. “Pardon me,” he said, leaning forward aflqtfitly, with the mocking smile still on bis tips; “I could not help laughing. Your tether forgot his rank? I see. The Honorable Newell Hatton was a man of dissoflete life, false and cruel, with no honor, & respect for a woman’s reputation. He got himself so far as to marry Stella Orde, a woman of great beauty, of talent which would have made her famous in faradou, had she ever been willing to act teere — of unswerving purity of life, whose flhand he, Lord Elsdale’s brother, was not worthy to touch.” He spoke quietly, without a trace of warmth, vehement as the words were. The displeasure deepened in Barbara’s «yes. Although she felt keenly the truth ■es bis words, they angered her. “If I suppose myself born of such a Sather and such a mother,” he continued easily, “it is of my father I should be eshamed, of my mother I should be •rosdr There was silence. '"You knew my mother well?” Barbara the anger had died out of her cyea, there was even a touch of friendliweos in her look. “I kaew her well once, before her niarciage; and after it I lost sight of her for a year or two. The Honorable Newell Hatten soon wearied of his low-born wife, and —in a man of his rank it was but natural yethnpo— deserted her. When we mot . again, she was on the stage, earning a t-Abving ter herself and her infant child.” IBarharr started and looked at him . <uickly. In the last few moments some • Of her anger against him had faded; he bad spoken kindly of her mother, the > sweet, pretty young mother whom she re- > ■sembcred but dimly—perhaps he had > wren hem kind to her when she was left a-iflure lo’baffle with the world. v **You saw me when 1 was a baby, ttrnT' she said, forcing a smile. “Nft," he replied, “I never saw you teen.” He looked at her steadily, vyith ••XBrlhing almost like cruelty in his triwwrfihant expression, “I never saw you tken.”

'“Have you forgotten?” she asked, Shrinking against the velvet cushions as o&e marked his expression and tried to ■■demand it. "It is so long ago—you ■Must have been quite young then—nineteen years ago!” He smiled again, looking at her still in gfce same cruel, triumphant fashion. ■"lt is twenty years ago,” he declared, «ool)y. "I was twenty-one then, and -Stella Orde was the same age.” “Bat I .am nineteen,” she said, in sur“That is quite possible,” he rejoined, ■mtlinx- “You are not yet old enough to Cake off oven one year.” “But you say The words died away on her lips; she ■at looking at him with a great nameless terror in her eyes. “I say that I am entirely ignorant of ywir age,” he replied, "because Stella Orde' a —or rather Stella Hatton’s—child was not a daughter, but a son!” For a moment her eyes rested upon him with a look which showed that she did amt anderstand him; then her face changed slowly, nnd she fell buck against the window frame, staring at Mr. Bryant with •yes in which horror and denial and scorn were auogled. Her lips parted as if to ■peak. lai t, before she could do so, there «anx* the rustle of a silken robe; the quick patter of little heels on the oaken floor, ■nd Lady Rose Harley's clear voice broke tin upon them. “Are you having a rehcnrsnl? That is ®rrfe«-t, Barbara mine. Such a pose would bring \lowu the house! Is that how Lilian looks when Brown tells her he is >ruined ?’ "The pose is perfection," Bryant said, coming with perfect ease and composure ■at of the recess —“perhaps a little too full ■f horror for the occasion. The loss of a tevrr ia not such a terrible thing, you kaow; it is a loss easily replaced. Miss Hatton's attitude would do for an oeca■ton when not only lover, but wealth, poaltioa, rank, were all lost together. Still ' Miss Hatton has great capabilities; she Is an admirable actress.”

early that none of the lady’s maids even had as yet made their appearance,, and the house maid smiled slightly to herself as she resumed her work, and wondered a little at a great-lady having such a curious and unaccountable liking for early rising. But, early as it was, Barbara Hatton was not the only one of Lady Rose’s guests who apparently enjoyed the fresh morning air, for she had not gone many steps when a man - who had been leaning against one of the great trees in the avenue stood up and came forward to meet ■her, lifting his hat and bowing with extreme deference. “A pleasure as great as it is unexpected!” he said, smiling. “It was not unexpected,” Barbara replied, in a tone of extreme displeasure. “I came because I thought it better. What have you to say to me?” “Stella Orde —that name is more familiar to us both than that which was legally hers,” he said—“was, as I had the honor of telling you last night, an old acquaintance of mine; she was the daughter of a country surgeon, who died, leaving her and her sister at the mercy of the world, penniless and friendless, and, so far as they ever knew, without a relative in the world—a sad position.” Barbara’s heart echoed the words. A sad position indeed! But for the kindness and generosity of .one man, her own position would have been as sad! “Both girls were very beautiful; the elder was named Barbara. Why do you start? ‘Barbara’ is not so uncommon a name. ‘Barbara Orde’ does not sound amiss. They were beautiful and talented, and both went on the stage. Stella left the boards to marry the Honorable Newell Hatton, who had seen her act and had fallen a victim to her beauty. The tnarriage, as you frnow, was a secret one. Barbara "went to live with her sister. Are you faint?” he asked abruptly, as Barbara swayed slightly and caught at the back of the garden seat near her, as if for support, then stood erect again, drawing her breath as with an effort. “Shall Igo on? Are you able to hear the rest?” he asked. “You are very pale, and a swoon here would be of all things most inconvenient.” “I shall not swoon," she assured him, adding, in a faint tone. “Go on; I am listening.” “Well, the Honorable Newell was deeply in love with his charming wife for at least six months; she, I fancy, was perfectly, blindly happy. Her sister was probably less so. Vicarious happiness is not always pleasing, and billing and cooing, however charming to doves themselves, becomes a trifle monotonous to the spectators. Barbara Orde, herself a woman of untfsual beauty, ambition and passion. found it so, and, having endured it as long as she could, left her sister and returned to the stage. Months passed; the devoted husband grew less devoted. When ho deserted his wife, it must have been a relief to her, although his desertion left her alone, save for the child whose birth she expected, which took place a few weeks afterward. Her husband had left her sufficient money to last her with care until she had sufficiently recovered to be able to work for herself, and when she was strong enough she returned to the stage, playing under the old name, knowing only too well that her husband would not trouble her again, and feeling that there was a chance that her sister would find her out and join her, although she herself entirely failed to discover Bari bara’s whereabouts. She had heard nothing of her sister when, a few months afterward, her child died; and she bore that sorrow alone. She buried her little son, registering his death as that of the son of Newell Hatton.”

Barbara’s trembling knees refused to support her; she sank down upon the garden seat, her lips trembling, her hands pressed against her heart, as If she were trying to still its suffocating pulsations. "After the child’s death she returned to the stage—she was not rich enough to indulge in the luxury of grief; and a few months later, when she wks playing in a provincial town where the theater was well patronized, her sister came back to her, bringing with her an inffmt child—a daughter.” “Ah!” the exclamation broke from the listening girl like a cry of pain; every shade of color had died out of her lips, all light had faded from her eyes; but even now she was not prepared for the blow he was going to inflict upon her. “Shall I tell you hoW she came back, this proud, beautiful Barbara?” he continued, dwelling upon his words with a strange appreciation of the terrible story ho was telling. “Stella Orde returned home one night from the theater to the humble lodging she occupied. The night was cold nnd wot, and she had come from the theater in a cab—oven then her chest was delicate, and she was obliged to take every precaution. As she dismissed the cab and put her key into the door a woman came up to her and muttered a few inarticulate words, then fainted nnd fell at her feet, making a desperate effort to save the child she carried from being hurt in her fall. IliLstily pushing open the door, Stella Orde knelt down and lifted the woman's head upon herXnee, nnd n great and terrible cry escaped her, a cry half of joy, half of anguish, as the light from the-hull lamp fell on the ptue, Worn face. She had found her sister!/ "How did yTmnknow nil this?” she asked suddenly, in a strained voice. "How did I know nil this? Well,” he rejoined carelessly. "I belonged to the company which followed the one to which Stella Orde belonged, and I wns her successor in the lodging where Barbara died.” "Hied!” “Yes. They carried her into the house that cold, wet night, and took the child from her arms. It was warm aud dry, for she had wrapped her shawl around it. and it wns flushed nnd rosy in its sleep. When they gently disengaged it from its mother's feeble clasp, n gleam of returning consciousness made her try to retain it. When she recovered from her swoon, her first words wereW it; hut, when she saw It In her sister's arms, she seemed satisfied. The woman of the house where they lived never spoke of that aceno without tears.” Barbara's head dropped; nn icy chill benumbed her limbs; She shivered under her sealskins. “They took her scanty clothing off her —she wns wet and chilled to the bone; then they liftod her into bed, she but half

conscious the while and swooning from sheer exhaustion and fatigue. They gave her every care; but it was too late. Her strength was too much reduced; exposure and want had done their work but too I well; she was dying, and glad to die, so far as she could be glad of anything, poor girl!” There was a tone of real feeling in his voice; the woman of whom he spoke he had known in her radiant beauty; it touched even him to think of her in her agony. “There was no wedding ring on the fourth finger of her thin hand,” he continued; “and, when the faintness which for some hours obscured all her senses ceased, she was able to tell her sister what little there was to tell. She, too, had been betrayed—she was a mother—she had never been a wife. She managed to tell so much of her story; there was no need to tell more. Her child had come into the world nameless, without a claim on any one save on the mother who bore her, and, for the mother’s sake, on the aunt who sheltered her.” “It is not true! It is not true!” “What I have told you is true. If you do not believe me ask Mark Robson; he ” “He does not know,” she interrupted, in a voice full of pain. “He knows now —I told him before I came to Darley. He did not know before, of course, for he is a man of too high a sense of honor to have connived at such a deception,” he added, with a slight sneer. “Go to him; he will tell you whether I have spoken truth or falsehood.” “I will ask him.” She turned away with her usual stately grace and dignity; save for her intense pallor, there was nothing strange in her appearance. A gleam of admiration came into Bryant’s eyes as he followed; .she was brave, and he, base though be was, respected courage. CHAPTER XVI. Barbara had no difficulty in leaving her rooms unnoticed and meeting Bryant at a short distance from the lodge gates; but the deception was abhorrent to her; she hated and despised herself only less than she hated and despised the man who forced her to it. The Royal Hotel was a substantial and prosperous looking house standing in the market square of Arlington and facing the town hall, a fine modern building. As they drove up the clock in its tower struck the quarter to four; the market place was almost deserted save for cabs on the stand and a few little children playing about a drinking fountain in the center of the square. A hostler came out of the hotel and stood at the horse’s head while Bryant sprang out and held out his arms to Barbara; but the girl drew back with an irrepressible shudder and just touched his hand lightly as she sprang down unaided. He looked at her with a sarcastic smile. “You will not always despise my assistance,” he said, meaningly, as they passed in under the arched entrance of the hotel, Barbara keeping her veil closely over her face. “I must see him alone.” “Certainly!” he returned, smiling. “I will go and see to the welfare of Lady Rose’s chestnut and be ready for you. You need not announce us,*’ he added to the waiter, who bowed and disappeared with the stolidity of. expression usual to his class, while Bryant waited a moment, then sauntered back down the corridor ‘again.

For a minute Barbara stood trembling and irresolute Ixofore the closed door of the room which the waiter had shown her. She longed yet dreaded to enter it; she felt that, if Mark confirmed Bryant’s statement, she would have lost all hope of happiness in this life; there would be nothing left for her but death. Making a desperate effort to regain her self-con-trol, she pushed open the door, and, entering, closed it softly after her. A minute passed ere Mark raised his head. When he did so, his eyes rested on her for a moment without recognition; then he rose quickly. “You sent for me,” he said, after a panne. “I was sorry to have to ask you to meet me here; but —but there were reasons why 1 could not go to Darley Hall, and there appeared to be no other way of seeing you but this. Had you much trouble in getting here?” “Oh, no!” Her mouth was parched and dry, her lips were trembling, so that even those two short words were difficult of utterance. “You nre in trouble. Barbara,” he went on, kindly. “Tell me what it is, dear; and if I can help you, you may be sure that I will do it.” "I know,” she responded, in a hoarse whisper. "But you can help me only in one way.” "And that is?” "He told me. Is it true?” she said. “Is it true?” Her hands clasped his with feverish strength, her.eyes looked up warm with an agony in them which rent his heart. “He swore to me that he would not tell you!” he muttered, a great anger flashing fo r a moment into his dark-gray eyes. “Then it is true?" she questioned, her hands slackening slightly their clasp of his, her body swaying backward a little, but her great wild eyes never leaving his face for a moment, as she stood waiting for his reply. "It is true, dear,” he said, in a voice full of sorrow and pity. The low, moaning sobs ceased at last from the girl's sheer exhaustion; then she raised herself from the cushions nnd sat upright. Her face looked gray and changed in the dying light of the wintry day, and when she spoke her voice was like that of one enfeebled by long illness nnd physical suffering. "You knew this when?" she asked. "A short time ago. He told me, and when 1 heard it I could only bhtine myself for the mistake which 1 made." “You have—you have verified the truth of his assertion?" "Yes. Barbara, I would give my life to have known this three years ngo," he said, hurriedly, his voice shaken by emotion. "Why did you not tell flic yourself?" she moaned, feebly, raising her head for a moment, then letting it drop again upon her arms. "Becnuse I did not menn that you should ever know," he answered, in a grave and tender tone. "I saw no need--perbups I was wrong; but since by holding your position you wronged no one, since Lord Elsda’.o loves you. and you are a pleasure and solace in his lonely life, since there is no other claimant for the wealth you enjoy. I saw no good or sufficient reason for telling you the truth." There wns a long silence. “How did you come?” Mark asked, glancing out ci the *,yw-re where the

lamps were already gleaming in the winter dusk. “He brought me,” she answered* “He? Who?” “Bryant,” she answered drearily. “Did you not know ? If was he who telegraphed to you. He is at Darley Hall.” “As a guest?” “A guest? Not exactly. Why are you so surprised ? Lady Rose is going to have theatricals, and he is there as stage manager, and he is a gentleman by birth, is he not?” “Yes. And he told you there?” he asked*. “‘Yes. And —and —nothing will ever kill me, Mark, since I live still!” A mist rose in his eyes at the words; he loved her so tenderly, so unselfishly; yet he was powerless to help her in her sorest need. “Will they not miss you?” he asked. “You return with him, of course? Does your hostess know ” “No, no, of course not. She thinks that I am lying down in my room. And now, that I have seen you, I must go; and 1 yet to go back there knowing what I know— Oh, it is horrible—l cannot do it! And yet I must—l must!” (To be continued.)