Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 December 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING.

By Lotttie Braham.

CHAPTER XlX.—(Continued.) . Barbara went swiftly to her own rooms, where a pile of folded garments occupied every available chair. A white Velvet gown elaborately embroidered with pearls lay on the sofa, while Barbara’s maid and one of the house maids were busily employed in packing. Barbara glanced around her in dismay; she had forgotten for the moment that the rooms would be so occupied, and she felt wild with longing for a few moments of privacy. She passed the women without a word, and went on intb her dressing room, which was empty. Stae opened the window and leaned out, letting the snow fall upon her burning brow and disordered hair. “Pardon, mademoiselle, her maid’s voice said at her elbow. “This embroidered shawl —does it belong to mademoiselle? I do not remember it.” The girl turned languidly. Hortense stood holding the white shawl which Lord Keith had brought Barbara on the previous night. She looked at it vacantly. “I do not recollect it among mademoiselle’s things. It is a beautiful shawl; but it has been stained.” * There was a greenish-brown patch on the delicate shawl, marring its purity; it looked as if it had been thrown on damp earth. An expression of terror dawned in Barbara’s eyes. “It is not my shawl,” she said at last. “Put it up with my things, and I will return it to the owner." “Yes, mademoiselle. And this —am I to pack this also? Mademoiselle will see that she will not be able to wear it again.” “What is it?” Barbara asked, leaning against the window, vaguely conscious that only the cold air kept her from Bwooning. “The dress mademoiselle wore in the comedy last night. It looks as if the skirt had been wet and muddy. How coukl it have happened?’ “I walked on the terrace last night,” Barbara explained. “Yes; put it in, Horfense. I will keep it as a souvenir of a pleasant evening.” “A pleasant evening!” the woman muttered, as she went into the other room; and for a few brief moments Barbara lost all consciousness of her surroundings in her overpowering terror. When knowledge of outward things returned to her, she was still standing by the window, leaning against the heavy oaken frame, her hair, and the laces on her gown wet with the falling snow.

CHAPTER XX. Lord Keith came to Elsdale Castle from Arlington the following evening to inform Lord Elsdale that the inquest was adjourned until the morning and that the coroner insisted that Barbara ought to be present. “Barbara!” the earl uttered, in a tone of intense surprise and annoyance, as he dropped the hand which shaded his face and looked at Lord Keith. “Yes —Barbara,” the young man said moodily. “Some of the servants have been chattering, and they seem to make out that Barbara saw Bryant on that night either just ,before he went out or met him in the grounds. Indeed I had hardly patience to heed what they 6aid!” The earl made no remarks; he had leaned his head upon his hand again, and his face was very pale. “Nothing has as yet been discovered, I suppose?” Lord Elsdale remarked, after a pause. “Very little. Sir Anthony Bryant is abroad; but his eldest son will be at Darley to-morrow. So little is known of the unfortunate man that it is impossible to conjecture whether he had an enemy or whether death was caused by some strange accident. The only fact of any importance is this, that no weapon of any kind has been found in the grounds, but the bullet which has been extracted fits a small pistol of foreign workmanship which is in a collection of arms at the hall; and, on being examined, it was evident that tlie pistol had been lately used, traces of powder having been found in it.” “Then it that the murderer was under Lady Rose’s roof!” exclaimed the earl. “How very strange! Has the pistol been found?” "Yea; it was with the arms, but not in its usual place, I ltelieve." "The mystery thickens!” the earl remarked. “What kind of i>erson was the unfortunate man?” “Very handsome, and gentleman-like, of course, ns he came of good people. But I never liked him. I don’t think he wus on very good terms with his futher.” “llow old was he?" Inquired the earl. “Five-aml-thirty or forty, I should think.” “Burl>ora has something to tell yon, Everard,” the old |K*er suid gravely—“something I learned only this morning. That it will pain you very much I know; thnt to ray poor child herself it is a terrible trouble 1 have seen. Forgive her if for a few brief moments she tried to hide it from you; if she herself had decided not to tell it you, you would never have found it out. I think I need not ask you to he gentle to her." “She has my love,” the young man responded gravely and proudly. “You need hardly bespeak my gentleness for her.” The curl’s pale, sorrowful face brightened. “That is well,” he said. “I myself would have spared her the pain of telling you; but she would not let me do so—and she was right. It is better that you should hear it front her lips—the truth which she tells you for the truth's sake. That site Is worthy of your love and of mine I think you will fully own.” Lord Keith felt sorely puzzled and bewildered ns he left the library. * A servant Waiting in the inner hall came forward and Iml the way to the winter drawing room, and Ixird Keith followed him in silence. ’Die room was empty. There was uglow from the blaring lire, and the wax

candles shed a soft light; a faint, sweet odor of stephanotis was in the air, which reminded Everard of the flowers which Barbara had worn in her gown on the little bijou stage at Parley so short a time before—how far distant how it seemed! The young man threw himself rather wearily into one of the great plush covered chairs near the hearth, and rested his head against the cushions. Lamp light and fire light fell fully upon Barbara as she came slowly into the room, a beautiful and radiant figure, her eyes shining like stars in her pale face, the satin folds of her gown gleaming softly as the light touched their richness. How she told the story she had nerved herself to confess she could never afterward remember, but it was out at last and Lord Keith knew that 6he was a nameless child. “I have no right to the name of Barbara Hatton,” she said faintly as she concluded her pitiful tale. “I have borne it in ignorance of the truth; if I bear it for the future, it will be because Lord Elsdale is generous, not because I have any right to it. If he keeps me in the position I have lately held, it is because he loves me well enough to overlook my disgrace, not because I am his niece.” “Why does not the person who acquainted you with these facts make me acquainted with them.also?” “He cannot,” she said faintly. “And why? Have you bribed him to silence?” “No. He is dead.” “Ah! Who was he?” “The man who was shot in Darley Park.” “Great heavens!”

It was well that Barbara misunderstood the exclamation, and never guessed the awful thought which had flashed across his mind, to be instantly dismissed. "He gave you no proofs?” “He gave me none; but I obtained proofs.” “From whom?” “From Mark Robson.” “And who is he?” “The man upon whose charity I lived for so many years.” “And he was a party to the deception?” "He?”—with a faint smile which seemed to say how impossible it was for Mark to be a party to any deception. “He? No; he knew of it only a few days before I did.” “And from the same source?” “Yes.” “Then how did he give you proofs?” “He went to the places named; he found the registry of death of the boy who had been born to Newell Hatton’s wife, and that otfibr registry of the birth of the girl who had ho right to any name but her mother’s and ” Her voice failed her; her strength was failing her likewise —every minute it grew less equal to the strain upon it. “Where is this man to be found?” A sudden gleam of terror flashed into her eyes. “I—l do not know,” she faltered. He lookoibat her with quick suspicion. “You are sure?” “Have I given you cause to doubt my word?” she said, with a dignity which would have touched him at any other moment. “And he can tell you nothing.” "How do you know? You were his charge for years.” • “He thought that I was Newell Hatton’s daughter; his wife had always called me so; and, when she died, Mark applied to Lord Elsdale on my behalf. The application was refused, and he sheltered and fed and clothed me of his charity.” “And you have seen him since you knew this awful thing?’ Lord Keith asked hoarsely. “Yes —once.” “And he corroborated Mr. Bryant’s statements?” “Yes.”

“There is yet one other thing I would tell you,” she said, after a long pause. “It is due to you to hear it; I think it will make no difference. For a few mad, miserable days I thought to keep my secret from you and from the world; but I was mad then. I soon came to my senses. I knew that, if I told you, I should lose your love, and I was certain that, if I could win him to keep silence, Mark would not betray me. And then, when death silenced the man Bryant the temptation grew even stronger. Ah, you cannot despise me more than I despise myself for having yielded to it for a moment! But as I said, I was mad.” He made no remark, he gave no sign that he even heard her broken, piteous words.

“Ah, think," she continued, “what lam hiking! Have some pity on me! The blow which hns struck you fell upon me first ami bowed-me to the ground. Your pain only adds to mine.” “I know —I know!” he cried, hoarsely. “Barbara, eun you think that I do not pity you?" A fnint gleam of hope brightened the girl’s sad eyes; she crept nearer to his side, and put her hand timidly on the arm of his chair. “If wp had hut known before,” he exelnimed passionately, “or if you had kept it from me still! Why did you tell me, Barbara ?” "I think because I loved you,” she answered faintly; and in the silence which followed she drew off the diamond ripg she wore and laid it on the table by bis side. “I think the shame of it will kill me!" he exclaimed, rising from his choir. All that the next few days must bring etune before him the gossip, the conjecture, the wonder at the broken engagement "Oh, love," h«* cried, suddenly bending over her and lifting her from the ground, “why has this trouble come upon us? We were so happy T* He held her in his arms as the broken, despairing words escaped him and looked down with intense sorrow at lu*r deathlike fucc. "We were so happy!" she riqiented faintly! “But—that must be over now.” “Yes!” Sadly the word fell from his lti>w, and, as lie uttered it. he closed his eyes to sliut out her despairing face. Without a word, she loosened her clasp upon his arm. and he walked away. As he reached the door, he turned and looked at her; she was standing where he had left her, erect, motionless, her hands at her sides, her eyes resting upon him, the heavy folds of her silken robe, with there

somber edging of fur, gleaming in the firelight. And as he saw her then he saw her often afterward in the life which they had hoped to spend together. CHAPTER XXI. The dining room at Darley Hall had been the scene of many a gay banquet, stately dinner party, and lively ball supper, but it had never witnessed so strange an assemblage as on ;the morning when the adjourned inquest was reopened by the coroner Mr the district and his jury; and the faces round the long table and in the old room were all grave and serious, very different from the smiling faces of the convives usually gathered there. A great fire of logs made the room bright and warm, and brought out the rich hues of the hangings aud. carpets, and was reflected back from the antique Benares salvers on the carved sideboard. Outside the whirling snow obscured the windows and mantled the terraces and grounds. Unfavorable as the weather was, Lord Cheveley had Tejoiced in the heavy fall of snow which had prevented any from attending the inquest save those who were perforce obliged to be present. Quiet as they had striven to keep the fact of Miss Hatton’s attendance as a witness, it had become known, and many would have come from Arlington to be present but for the weather, which made the country roads almost impassable. Barbara was wrapped from head to foot in the rich dark furs in which she had traveled, and against which her pale face looked colorless and pure almost as the falling snow-. She inclined her head to Mr. Derrington, with whom she was slightly acquainted, and sank rather heavily, Lord Cheveley thought, into the highbacked chair pushed forward for her, sitting motionless w'hile the young gardener who had found the body of the unfortunate man was giving his evidence. The earl watched her with an anxiety which was at least equal to the curiosity of the less interested spectators, and yet even he had no conception of what she really endured. Never in her life to come would the girl forget that terrible hour, during which she sat there so calm and still, but with every nerve thrilled, as she waited to be called to give evidence as to the death of the man who had brought her the most terrible sorrow she had ever known. They had found her on the previous night in the winter drawing room at the castle, lying in a heavy swoon on tha floor amid the long folds of gleaming satin and dusky fur, and, although they had revived her speedily, she had remained for some hours sunk in a deep stupor. From this she had passed into a heavy sleep of exhaustion; and, when she had aw'oke, Mrs. Fairfax, who had watched by her all night, found her calm and apparently quite recovered, while the languor of her movements and her deathlike pallor were easily accounted for by her illness the previous night. No explanation had taken place between her and Lord Elsdale. Lord Keith’s hurried departure from the castle had told the earl all, and a great anger and a great sorrow filled his heart; but Barbara herself said nothing-still the look of patient resignation in the girl’s lustrous eyes wai terrible to see. The coroner began his questioning of Barbara. “You were acquainted with the deceased gentleman, Miss Hatton?” he began. Barbara inclined her head in the affirmative. “You met him?” said Mr. Derrington in a tone of interrogation. “I met him here,” Barbara answered firmly and quietly. “You did not know him before meeting him at Darley Hall?’ “I did not.” “Had you ever seen him previous to that time?” “Yes' I had seen him.” “May I ask where?” “At Stourton. He was acting there.” “Did you recognise him when you came to Darley, or did he recall the circumstance to you?” “I recognized him.” “Did you have any private conversation with him?” “Yes.” Barbara answered steadily, although her lips were parched and her heart was throbbing to suffocation. “On more than one occasion?” “On more than one occasion.” “Did your conversation relate to the play?” “It did not.”

“Can you tell me to what it related? You must pnrdon the apparent intrusiveness of the question, Miss Hatton, but 'my duty is Imperative.” “lie spoke to me on an entirely private matter,” the girl replied, raising her eyes frankly to Mr. Derrington’s. “It concerned ourselves alone.” “Then are we to conclude that you were on rather intimate terms?” “No,” Barbara answered, mastering her emotion only by a strong effort of selfcontrol, “we were not on intimate terms, Mr. Derrinton; but an unlucky chance had put Mr. Walter Bryant in possession of a secret of mine, and on more than one occasion he threatened me with its exposure.” “He threatened you?” questioned Mr. Herrington. “Yes,” Bar Ist ra answered cnlrnly. “Then you did not wish the secret to be known?” said Mr. Herrington. “It was a secret," the girl replied, with another faint smile. “Which would ha,ve harmed you If It hail been made public?" “Yes,” Barbara answered; then suddenly the significance which her hearers would give to her words seemed to strike her; she began to tremble exceedingly, and snuk backward in her chair, staring helplessly at the coroner's grave, disturbed face, and her breath coming in quick, hurried gasjis. In intense alarm Lord Elsdale bent over her, while 'Mrs, Fairfax drew near; hut almost immediately the girl rallied and sat erect again. "Thank you," those nonr her heard hcT say in faint but steady tones, "I am not faint —I need nothing." (To he continued.)