Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 26, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 December 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING.

By Lottie Braham.

CHAPTER XVl.—(Continued.) She stood motionless for a few moments, iter face bowed, her hands pressed tightly to her bosom. When she spoke again her voice was comparetively calm. “Thank you for your patience,” she said, in a low voice, as she put out her hand to him. "What will you do, Barbara? Shall I •ee this man for you? I have no influence with him,” he added—“he dislikes me; but—” "You could do no good,” she interrupted. "I am grateful for the kind thought. I must have time to think. You are not •taying here?” "Oh, no! I play to-night at Leeds.” As fee took her hands in his and held them Cor a moment in farewell, he said earnestly, “Barbara, there is one thing I must •ay to you. Do not let this man influence you. He is unscrupulous and not to be trusted; he promised me that he would keep your secret, which he discovered by • succession of accidents. He saw you •nee at Rose Cottage, and again at StourCon, on ” "The day when I passed you by.” “You carried my roses —that was pleasure enough for me, dear,” he said, smiling «t her with dim eyes, while her own face Pushed with shame at the thought of the flowers she had let fall beneath the wheels •f her carriage. “He saw you that day, **t could not remember where he had •een you; he saw you a few days later, when your sweet compassion brought you Co my rooms; and he was certain then of what he only guessed before. It was he who sent Miss Courtenay, who was but « tool in his hands, to the castle to see .you, to make you promise to appear at the •theater, where he would have an opportunity of seeing if the unexpected sight •f me would make you betray yourself—he wished to make assurance doubly sure. And then, a few days ago, he' came to me, «nd told me that he knew the truth; he accused me of willfully deceiving Lord IBsdale, of putting you into the position you now hold, to share with you some of 4ts advantages. In short, Barbara, he accuses me of the unspeakable baseness of being bribed by you to let you retain your .position at Elsdale Castle.” "How horrible!” "Horrible, indeed!” Mark rejoined. “He has used his knowledge most cruelly and Ignobly. Do not let him gain more power •ver you; and, whatever you decide to do, my child, remember that I am ready to kelp you.” The tenderness of his voice, the clasp •f his hands on hers, almost broke down the composure she had striven so hard to regain. Great tears rose in her eyes and soiled down her cheeks. Then, as one in a dream, she passed out Into the corridor of the hotel, leaving him •lone in the dim room.

f CHAPTER XVII. ’ K ' “Yon lire satisfied, Lady Dnrloy?” 1 “I am more than satisfied, Mr. Bryant,” ' 'Lady Rose replied warmly. “Every one •ays it was an immense success.” The play was over; the brilliant nudi- «• on.ce who had thronged Lady Rose’s bijou ■xfheater were crowding round their hosjess, congratulating her and her friends •n the unqualified success of the play. The performance had been a very creditable one, and the piece had been put upon rtbe stage in a manner which left nothing to desire, so that Lady Rose tasted, or thought she tasted, the delights of a London aotrvss who has made a successful debut; and Mr. Bryant shared in the congratulations. The hall was quite empty—the household wore nil busy, the guests were in the ballroom and the conservatories. It was sufficiently isolated from the reception rooms to insure privacy, especially on •uch a night. The light was dim, the fire In the open hearth had sunk low; a faint •train of music from the ballroom reachad Barbara, softened by distance until the dreamy waltz tune sounded like n wail •f pain. The girl shivered ns she heard It—it sounded like u farewell. She had hardly strength to stand up, when Lord Keith appeared, and she let him wrap round her the soft white shawl that 1c had brought. “This is not my shawl,” she said, as she •ank down upon the settee again. “Is it not? It was the only one there,” he answered. “Are you so cold, love? I hope you have not taken a chill." .She smiled at him with dim eyes. ■“Oh, no; I shall be quite warm directly! But I have not finished my cross•xaminntion, Everard. Sit down.” “You are in a questioning mood, Barham." “Benr with me,” she said softly. "Just -wne or two more, and 1 have done. Do you remember the day we were engaged?” “Quite well, my dearest. It was a happy day for me.” She murmured a word of thanks, then -continued hurriedly—- “ You said that nothing could come bo- • tween us, Everard. lam foolish to-night; Jet me heur you say it again.” “You are nervous and overwrought, hear,” he said, gently. "Still, if it be hny pleasure to you, let me tell you again and •gain, Barbara, that nothing can coiue ifatween us while we love each other," As she rested In his arms, her aching head pillowed on his breast, his clasp snpCrting her, a wild wish rose in her breakl heart. If she could die now! If she could only die there! “I love you,” she murmured, with pallid, trembling lips—“l love you! Oh, Kwr•rd, always believe that I love you!" He soothed her gently ns she trembled fa his arms; he did not understand hers le coaid not guess nt the passionate wmnca*s weakness which longed to find •ti i until in the knowledge of his love ftw far; he could not know of the woman’s faart which hungered for one word of tenfaroeas and compassion and reaswnmee from him. She remained for a moment fanning against him, her eyes hidden, her ■bands clasping him with tierce stismgfa;

then she raised herself slowly, reluctantly, and disengaged herself from his arms. , “Shall we go into the ballroom now?” she asked. “I am longing for a waltz with you, Everard.” “Are you well enough, darling?” he asked. “Well? Of course I am quite well!” She threw off the fleecy white shawl and left it on the settee, then turned and took his arm. “I am much obliged to the owner of the shawl,” she said, with almost feverish gayety. “Come, Everard—it is my favorite ‘My Queen’ waltz. It would be a shameful waste of opportunity to miss it!” “Come, then!” “No step suits mine so well as yours,” she murmured, as they glided over the polished floor among the circling dancers, many of whom paused to watch them as they danced; and Barbara, even though her heart was breaking, danced as lightly and gracefully as ever. As the music was dying away Everard drew her cleverly out of the circle of dancers; he saw that her eyes were half closed, her colorless lips parted; he noticed that she rested heavily against his arm. “You are faint, love!” he said, anxiously, and, though the faintness of death itself seemed coming over her, she roused herself to smile at him. “Faint? Oh, no —a little exhausted! I shall not dance again yet. Take me back to the oak hall, Everard; I want a breath of fresher air.” Without any remonstrance he led her back to the quiet, dimly Lighted hall, and she sank heavily into her old place on the settee. “Now go back to the ballroom,” she said, with a pretty, imperious gesture. “You will find me here if you don’t betray my hiding place.” Half an hour later, when he returned to the oak hall, it was empty; the white shawl was no longer on the settee, and Barbara had disappeared. “I hope the child has gone to bed,” he murmured, as he turned, and 'made his way back to the ballroom, noting, as he passed through the conservatories which led thither, how dark the night was and how few stars were shining in the wintry sky. The dancing went on gayly, the soft, dreamy waltz music rose and fell; the brightness died out of eyes which a few hours before had vied with diamonds of purest water, the color waned in fair, rqjinded cheeks; and outside in the quiet shrubbery, in the chill darkness, a dead face lay upturned to the sky, serene and still, with a faint smile lingering on its livid lips; and but one man flow shared Barbara’s secret. She was no longer at, Walter Bryant's mercy.

CHAPTER XVIII. It was late on the morning after the theatricals when nn under-gardener in Lady Rose’s employ came upon the silent figure and upturned marble-like face in the shubbery; and, startled and terrified, he rushed to make known his discovery. In the great dining room Lady Rose’s large party of guests—those of them at least who had put in an appearance—were discussing their meal in a desultory fashion, and talking among themselves of the events of the previous night. Lady Rose, herself the brightest and freshest there, was presiding over the silver urn and hospitably intent on her guests’ wants. Breakfast seemed interminable to Barbara. Every time the door opened to admit one of the laggards she started and trembled; more than once a faintness made all things dim before her eyes; there were moments when she heard nothing that passed around her, when her senses spemed paralyzed, ns if a cold hand gripped her heart, numbing her every faculty. At last the long-protracted meal came to nn end; and the dining room was deserted. Ludy Rose nnd her guests sauntered into the hall, discussing plans for the day in a languid manner, as if no one had any great interest in what was to be done. They were standing round the great blazing wood fire in the hall when a servant came up nnd addressed Lord Cheveley in a low tone. “Mr. Howe wishes to speak to your lordship.” “Mr. Howe? What docs he want? I am engaged,” Lord Cheveley said, sharply—he was standing with Barlwra before an old Indian cabinet, showing her some of the quaint Indian idols it contained. “Mr. Howe desired me to tell your lordship that it was most important,” the man persisted. “He entreats your lordship to lose no time.” , “What can it In*? I’ll come, Parker. Excuse me for five minutes, Miss Hatton.” He hurried off. Barbnrn stood motionless by the cabinet, her head bent over one of the grotesque little figures she held. The guy chatter round the fire went on; little incidents of the previous night were being recounted, the comedy was being discussed, the arrangement of the lighting of the bijou stage criticised; Milvery peals of laughter echoed through the* hall, mingling with deeper tones; then suddenly the name was spoken which Barbara had been waiting for all the long breakfast time. Barbara put down a little idol and joined the group near the fire. Lndy Rose slipped her hand through the girl’s arm. In the agony of Husrpenae and terror Barbnrn was enduring the humau contact was very grateful to her. “I wonder if a drive or a walk would be the !>est ’pick-me-up,’ ” laidy Rose suid, yawning a little. “We all seem rather in need of one this morning. Don't you thing it would lie a very good plan to— Cheveley, what Is the mutter?” She broke off suddenly, uttering the question in on affright ml tone, ns her brother came into the hall, looking very much ihsturhed and pale. "Nothing particular," he nnswvred, trying to s(»euk twrelesHly. “Keith, Ilorton, will yon come out with me for a few moments? Rowe, will you take your friends Into the drawing room?" ’VWh»< is It?" li«dy Rose asked again, beginning to tremble—the bright little Indy was too used tq sunshine not to shudder at the shade. "You shall hear presently, dear,” her brother replied, soothingly, ns two or three of the gentlemen withdrew from the circle round the fire. “Yes, something has happened. You shall henr all presently. Yen ran do nothing now.”

Half an-hour passed. The startled and wondering women, gathered in the drawing room, waited in expectation, in spar of they knew not what. Lady Rose, agitated and feverish, paced up and down the room, or sat beside Barbara, holding the girl’s hand, as if the pressure gave her comfort. Barbara herself, prepared for the worst and nerved to bear it, was the calmest of all there; but, while the others spoke in low, frightened tones, she alone, beyond a soothing word or two to Lady Rose, said nothing. Meanwhile Lord Cheveley and his friends had hurried to the shrubbery, and stood with awed looks gazing on the motionless form lying there, on the upturned dead face which had been so handsome in life, which was so handsome in death— Walter Bryant’s face. « He had been dead many hours, said the doctor who had been hastily summoned from Arlington; death had been instantaneous and painless; the only wound was a small one by the side of the temple, where a small quantity of blood had coagulated. There was no trace of any struggle; the grass was untrodden, the dead man’s attire was in perfect order. He wore his evening dress, and the flower—a sprig of stephanotis—in the buttonhole was there still, faded and dead. The eyes were half closed; a faint smile hovered about his lips. So terrible an event necessarily led to the breaking up of the party; and before dusk the old house was almost deserted, save by a few of Lord Cbevelcy’s bachelor friends, Captain Adams among the number. Lady Rose was completely prostrated; she had fainted Upon Barbara’s shoulder, and had been carried to her own apartments, whither Barbara had followed her, herself pale as death, but quite composed and able to give Lady Rose the assistance she so greatly needed.

CHAPTER XIX. Early in the afternoon snow began to fall, and then daylight faded. When Barbara left Lady Rose’s room at four o’clock, the darkness without was as night, and for two hours the lamps had been burning in “my lady’s corridor.” For almost as long a time Lord Keith had been waiting there for his fiancee; and now, as she came slowly toward him, he rose from his chair and went forward with both hands outstretched. The girl put hers into them in silence. “At last!” he exclaimed, in a glad tone of relief. “I thought I was not going to see you My darling”—his voice expressing extreme concern and solicitude — “how ill you look! This has been terrible for you. I wish I had taken you away. You look worn out.” He put his arm round her fondly, holding her close to him for a moment; then he led her toward one of the cushioned seats in the window. But she drew back. “Not there!” she said, trembling in every limb. “Not there, Everard!” A look of surprise passed over his face. “As you will, my darling,” he said, gently. “Shall we go down to the morning room? There is no one there. Barbara, how you tremble, my poor child!” “Don’t,” she murmured, shrinking a little—“don’t, Everard, or you will make me cry, and I dare not ” The morning room, a large, low-ceiled room, hung in faded green brocade and with an old-world grace of its own, was bright with fire and candle light as Lord Keith put Barbara into a chair near the fire and rang for some tea. “You are cold and weary, dear,” he said. “We have neglected you, I fear.” Barbara smiled faintly, but said nothing; and there was silence until the tea was brought in. The slight refreshment revived her a little; she raised herself from the cushions and assumed a more upright attitude. When Lord Keith approached her with a second cup of tea, she thanked him, put the cup on a table by her side, and looked up at him with a faint smile. “Everard,” she said, toying with the great diamond ring on her finger. “Yes, my darling.” “Has anything been ” The words died away on her lips; but he understood how she would have finished her sentence. “Nothing has been discovered, love,” he replied. “The whole affair is wrapped in mystery.” “He was —quite dead?” “Quite dead, dear. Talbot says that death was instantaneous and painless.” “And —and —self-inflicted?” she queried faintly. Lord Keith’s grave face grew yet more grave. “No,” he answered. “We all thought so at first, unlikely though it seemed that a man so strong and well nnd apparently so free from care should attempt his own life; but that theory soon evaporated.” “How?” “There was no weapon found near hjm, dear.” “Ah. And it ” “It was quite impossible that he could have enst it away from him even to a distance of a few feet, for, as 1 told you, death was instantaneous.” “And he was lying in the little clearing in the shrubbery?” “Yes# Who told you that, darling? I thought you hail seen no one.” “I suppose I heard it somewhere,” the girl stammered, pushing the hair from her forehead with an unsteady hand. “Where is 111'?’’ “He was carried to the nearest gardener's lodge; the do<-tors are making their examination there. The coroner has been communicated with. What is it, Barlmru? Are you faint?" “No—oh. no! But it is so horrible!" She had half risen from her chair, then sank heavily down again, her eyes dark with horror. “Where will it take place?" she asked, after a moment. “What, my darling?" "The—the inquest.” “Where will it be held, do you mean? Here, I should think.” Barlmra started, nnd her great wild eyes went swiftly round the room. “Not here, love, of course. At the hall, I menu—not in this room.” "What is the inquest for?" s-he asked, ufter a few moments’ silence. “Is it necessary r "Most necessary, Barbara'. It is nn inquiry into the manner in which the deceased came by his denth. It is absolutely necessary to find out, or an innocent person might suffer for a guilty one." Her lips parted, but no words came: she took up the cup of tea near her nnd drauk of It eagerly, as if her throat were dry und parched. "Is any one suspected?" she aoked nert, as she put the cup aside. “My dear child, no, not yet. There is absolutely no clew to anything, and no one here knows anything about the unfortunate man's •ssteovlents. He may

hare some deadly enemy whom It win b» difficult to discover. The gardeners are full of importance because one of their number made the awful discovery; the stablemen are dazed. As for old Webster, Bab, he seems to be out of his mind.” ‘‘Webster? My groom?” the girl said, with a sudden start. ‘‘Yes. You ought to have a younger man to go out with you, dear. The old fellow is crazed, and goes about muttering in the strangest manner, saying that he has seen a ghost.and that the dead have come back.” “Webster is an old and valued servant," Barbara urged in his behalf. “My uncle has every confidence in him.” “I have not sufficient confidence in him to confide my most precious treasure to his care, darling.” “Does he say whom he saw?” she asked, after a moment’s pause. “Yes,” he replied reluctantly—“poor Newell Hatton. He was his favorite groom, you know, and most devoted to him.” “And he thinks he appeared to him last night?” “Yes. You will agree with me, my darling, that the beer in the servants’ hall was potent. And, after he had conjured up poor Newell, he might easily imagine he had seen a white figure.” Barbara shivered. “You are cold and tired, darling,” he said, looking at her anxiously, as she sank backward against the cushions. “I think, if you feel equal to it,-the sooner you leave here the better. Sinclair and the servants shall go with you. I wish I could accompany you, dear; but I do not like to leave Cheveley to-night. The detectives—forgive me, Barbara; I ought to have remembered that you were not equal to any further excitement or worry.” “The detectives are here?” “Yes, dear. It was necessary, of course. My darling, how pale you are! I only hope this horrible business will not make you ill.” “You need not fear,” she responded slowly, as she rose from the armchair and stood for a moment by the fire, leaning against him, and looking up into his face with a long, sad look whicih had in it all the anguish of an eternal farewell. (To be continued.)