Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 30, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 December 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING.

By Lottie Braham.

CHAPTER XXI. —(Continued.) “May I trespass upon your attention ifor a moment, sir?” Lord ElsdaJe said Suddenly addressing the coroner with his taual urbane courtesy. “The secret to {which my adopted daughter alludes is Unite a family matter, of no interest to Eny but ourselves. My daughter feared that, if it were made public, it would (cause me much annoyance; therefore she tried to induce Mr. Walter Bryant to keep ■ilent. Lord Chevele? will, I dare say, Certify to the truth of my assertion.” “There is no need, my lord,” Mr. Derlington answered courteously—“l willingly accept your explanation; still, if Miss Hatton has sufficiently recovered to answer them, there are a few other questions I must trouble her with.” ■ “I am at your service, Mr. Derrington.” I “That you were in the neighborhood ts the spot where the body was found we ave most positive proof,” said one of the furymen sternly. “Did you see any one here?” “I saw nobody,” she said quietly. j There was a moment’s pause; then, seeling the incredulous expression on the jCaces around her, she started and rose to (her feet. I “Do you not believe me?” she cried, in a tone of intense anguish. “It is true —I taw nobody; I went out—l can hardly tell why; I was restless, anxious, unhappy; the light and noise seemed to distress Jne. Earlier in the day he—Walter Bryant—had told me that he would be there, and something —I hardly know what — jmade me ” Her voice failed for a moment, the slenifler fur-clad figure swayed 8 tightly, and ftjord Cheveley moved hurriedly toward Bier; but ere he could reach her she stood proud and erect again. , “I ran out—l was faint and feverish,” 'she continued, in spiritless tones—“and, hardly knowing what I did, I went there. It was dark —I could scarcely see anyIthing; and I knelt down —and then my hands touched —I spoke— I tried to lift him; but he was cold and dead.” , She stared straight before her with a wild, terrible gaze; it seemed as if it were, all present to her again—the chill night, the shrubbery so feebly lighted by the Stars shining in the wintry sky. her own Eiisery, the cold upturned face with which er hands came in contact as she knelt, and the wild, awful fear which had held her chained there for some terrible moments. “Why did you not call for assistance?” asked a juryman, quickly. “He was dead.” “But it would surely have been natural to call some one, to say what had happened 1” “It would have been of no use,” she responded, mechanically, understanding ©nly the words he had spoken, not the thought which had prompted them. I “But it would have been the right ■course, and would doubtless have prevent•<ed the escape of the murderer,” said a .juryman sharply. “It seems most incomprehensible that you should have re-enter-ed the house, changed your attire, and danced when you knew what had occurred. The idea is preposterous! No one would credit it, unless you had some ■trong motive for doing so.”

“Yes—it—to—true." With n pause between each the words came from her colorlesa lips; a grip like that of ice cold fingers seemed to be tightening about her heart; the faces In front of her, eager, incredulous, compassionate, were fading in the darkness which was dimming her eyes. But she stood erect, •till facing the eager eyes which looked nt her so significantly, and which saw’, instead of a loving woman trying to screen one she loved, a desperate creature striving to conceal her guilt, having spoken words, forced from her, which had stunned even those who loved her best. For a moment she stood pressing lx>th hands against her heart; then they fell away suddenly, her head sank forward upon her breast, and Janies Francis, who was among those present, springing forward, caught her ere she fell.

CHAPTER XXII. The dim gray dawp had not long glimmered in the eastern sky when James SFraneis appeared on the platform of Arlington Station to await the arrival of the Special train which was bringing his father from London. It came slowly into the station, its red lights glowing in the chill gray of the morning; then, as it stopped a door was hastily opened, and a tall man sprang «ut and turned to assist Mr. Francis from the compartment, and the old lawyer caretully dressed, rtnd as fresh-looking as if he tad not passed a restless and fatiguing night, stepped on to the platform. “Whom in the world has he with him?" muttered James Francis to himself as he •went forward to meet them. “Surely I have seen that man before! Of course I (know him; it is the actor Robson. By 3ove, this will be a blow to him, or I am ivery much mistaken!”

“You have not forgotten Mr. Robson, Sarnes?" the old lawyer said, as his son greeted him. “He accompanied me from town. We left Lord Elsdale's secretary ht Stourton.” “I remember Mr. Robson perfectly,” an•wered his son. holding out his hand to Mark, who looked pale and worn and anxfotui. “There is a carriage waiting," he added hastily. "Lord Elsdale is at the hotel here.” “At tha hotel?" echoed Mr. Francis, in some surprise. “Yea. There is terrible news for you. We would not telegraph. Come!” Taking his father's arm, he hurried him out of the station, too eager and excited to notice the amused, almost stupefied look on the station master’s face ns he saw [Mark, who followed them in silence, while the old lawyer’s grave gray-haired valet brought up the rear.

The town was but just waking up. Yawning shop boys were taking down the shutters; sleepy looking maids were sweeping the door steps; in a few of the wipdows the blinds were drawn up; here and there two or three persons stood gossiping, regardless of the cold, about the prevailing topic. It was half past seven by the town hall clock as the carriage pulled up at the arched entrance of the Royal Hotel. In the hotel the signs of life were more numerous. The landlady bustled forward to greet her visitors; a chamber maid or two, busy in thediall, glanced curiously at the newcomers, then resumed their work. James Francis, with his father’s hand upon his arm, went slowly up the stairs, signing to Mark to follow them, and opened the door of a sitting room on the first story. There was a cheerful fire burning in the grate, and James Francis, having assisted his father to remove his overcoat, led him to an armchair by the hearth. “Did you say that Lord Elsdale was here?” Mr. Francis asked, as he sat down. “Yes; he is resting, I hope. He has had a terrible blow.” Mark looked up quickly; the old lawyer’s sightless eyes turned in eager anxiety to his son's face, almost as if he were trying to read what he had to say. “What has happened?” he asked. “He wrote to me after Miss Hatton had told him of the mistake which bad been made; but he wrote calmly, not as if anything had happened which had distressed hjm much. But, whatever it be,” he added, “what I have to say will be sufficient to remove all other trouble.” “I doubt it,” James Francis muttered gloomily; but his father was too elated and triumphant to heed. “You remember this gentleman, Jameshe said, indicating Mark with a gesture of his hand. “Certainly,” young Francis answered, thinking of the spring day when Mark had come to the offices in Lincoln’s Inn, and wishing with all his heart that that visit had not been paid, or that such terrible consequences had not followed it. "You are perhaps at a loss to explain his presence here?” “Not at all,” was the quiet answer. “I am only sorry that ” He paused and turned quickly as the door opened and Mrs. Fairfax appeared on the threshold, courtesying with stately, old-fashioned, respectful dignity to the gentlemen. “His lordship begs that Mr. Francis will take the rest he ” Then she stopped short, as Mark Robson turned and looked at her, with a smile in his darkgray eyes. “What is it, Mrs. Fairfax?” the ol(J., lawyer asked, guessing with quick intuition what was passing before his sightless eyes. “Has anything startled you?” The housekeeper did not answer; she was trembling, and had become very pale, staring at the grave, proud, moved face of the young man. Mark Robson came forward and held out his hand. “Do you know me, Mrs. Fairfax?” he asked, a trifle unsteadily. “I remember you as well as if only days and not years had elapsed since we last mot. Nay,” he went on hurriedly, putting the old woman into a chair, “it was unpardonable to shock you so. Forgive me, old friend.” He was kneeling beside her now, holding the trembling hands in his, while her eyes rested upon his face with a look in which wonder and fear and joy were strangely mingled. “Not dead—not dead!” she ejaculated faintly. “Oh, my dear young lord —not dead!”

"You know him then, Mrs. Fairfax!” said Mr. Francis, rubbing his hands triumphantly. “What do you think of that as a surprise for the earl? The loss of a niece will be more than compensated for by the recovery of a son.” But the old woman seemed not to hear him; her eyes were fixed upon the anxious face bending over her. "After all these years!” she exclaimed, with quivering lips. "Oh, my lord, why did you let us think you dead? After all these years!” “It is a long story, dear old friend,” the young man answered huskily—“too long to tell you now; you have much to forgive me. My father, where is he? Do you think ho will be glad ” “Glad! Oh, my dear, if you could knowhow he has mourned for you! He has never been the same since. Do you knowwhy he loved Barbara so much? It was because, as he often said to me, she reminded him of you in so many things.” As the faithful old woman, overcome with joy, burst into tears, the young man raised her hand and touched it with his lips, ami the tears wore thick in his own eyes ns he bent his head over hers. “What is the meaning of this?” James Francis muttered, as, with puzzled, bewildered eyes, he stood looking on. “My dear father, do enlighten me. I feel as if I were assisting at a play! Who is that individual over whom the earl’s house-

keeper is going into raptures?” “Ixtrd Hatton,” answered Mr. Francis quietly, helping himself to a pin>’h of snuff with admirably feigned indifference, which, however, did not deceive his sou. “Ix>rd Hatton!” he repeated, in a lowtone, which, low as it was, was full of amasement. "Yes, Lord Hatton. My dear James, I am an old man, and used to the vagaries of my fellow men; but I have yet to understand why a man who is heir to an earldom and a substantia) rent roll should prefer earning his bread upon the stage to enjoying the undoubted advantages of his true position."

“But I thought he was dead—killed in the railway accident? You —” "Yes, I know," Interrupted the old lawyer quietly. "But he has hardly the look of a dead man, has be? 1 think I can imagine the earl’s delight. The young fool—he was ohd enough to know better — left home in a fit of rage or pique, and let himself be thought dead; and then, when he wished to return, he heard of Lord Elsdale's second marriage and the birth of the other boy, and decided to remain dead. The strangest part of it all is that he should have had the care of the girl who — By the bye," he asked engerly, breaking off as a thought struck him, "what was the result of the inquest? I had forgotten all about that." "The result is anything but satisfactory,” replied the young man gloomily. "Murder against ’’ I “Against whom?" interrogated his fath-

er, wondering at his son’S'gravity and the lack of excitement he had shown in his reception of the startling news that he had imparted. “Against— Confound it all, father, you will have to know it Sooner or later—and so will he!” he added ruefully, as he glanced over at Mark, who, with the old housekeeper’s hands'in his, was waiting until she had recovered from her agitation. “What is it, James? They have not accused the earl, I suppose?” he inquired, With a slight smile. “They might just as well. They have accused Barbara Hatton!” CHAPTER XXIII. With a shocked exclamation of surprise the- old man sank backward, staring at his son with wide, sightless eyes, which even in their blindness the young man could not meet. He knew only too well what a cruel blow this would be to the old lawyer, who was jealous for the honor of the family whom he had served so long and so faithfully; he knew that his father would have preferred any personal sorrow to this disgrace which had fallen upon a name that he honored and loved. “It is impossible!” he muttered, after a painful pause—“impossible. What proof can they haVe? The jury must have been mad, James! Is she under arrest?” “Yes,” replied the young man. “Where?” asked his father, in a tone of surprise. “Here. That is why the earl and we are here.” But his son’s thoughts were not so much for the old man as for the young one, who was so little prepared for the terrible blow about to fall upon him. Long before, on that bright spring morning, he had guessed That Mark Robson—or, to give him his true name, Newell Hatton—felt for the girl who had been so long under his care, and he realized that the thought of her guilt would be an unendurable agony to the man whose mistake —a natural one certainly—had been the cause of so much suffering. How could he bear it? James Francis wondered; and his sorrowful eyes met Lord Hatton’s as he approached him with outstretched hand. “This must be a surprise to you, Mr. James,” he said, smiling. “I had some difficulty in inducing your good father to believe in me at all; but, when I did succeed in proving my identity, he was generous in according me forgiveness for what I now see was worse than folly. Heaven knows that I am ashamed of myself for a course of conduct which was most reprehensible!” Then he added, after a pause, “Let me thank you for your kindness to my father. This has been a shock to him, I fear.” James Francis started, and looked at the speaker questionihgly. “I mean of course the mistake which has been explained to him. His letter to your father spoke so kindly and tenderly of his dear adopted daughter that I cannot but feel that the mistake has not been altogether a disastrous one. But you look anxious. Do you fear for him the shock of my return ?” “Joy never kills, my lord.” • “And it will be joy to him?” “Who could doubt that?” James Francis responded, looking at him in some surprise; whereupon the other smiled and pushed back his hair from his forehead with a gesture familiar to the young lawyer. “I am glad you think so,” said Newell Hatton gently. “I hardly dare to hope so yet. We parted very strangely, and it is so many years ago. Is he well?” “I believe so —he has been.” The voice which James Francis had vainly endeavored to render careless failed him. “He is not ill?” Lord Hatton asked quickly. “No—no; but be has been troubled and anxious, and ” “Ah, true —I had forgotten! I forgot everything,” the other interrupted, with a little impatient laugh. “And now as to that wretched man Bryant—how did the inquest end? In a verdict of suicide, I suppose ?” “No.” “In what then? Murder? Impossible! Why, there was no one there when I left him!” "When you left him!” echoed Francis, in intense, overpowering surprise. “Yes; I met him that night in the grounds, by his wish,and What is the matter, Mr. Francis?" “Then it was you whom she wished to screen!” exclaimed the young lawyer, a sudden thought causing the blood to rush to his face, then recede. “It was you she ”

The words were arrested by the ogiening of the door. Both young men looked toward it, and both turned very pale as they saw who entered. Mrs. Fairfax rose to her feet, trembling in every limb, unable to speak in the intense excitement of the moment. Mr. Francis alone sat quiet and composed, his face bent upon his hand. Lord plsdale came forward quietly; he looked pale and haggard as he stood in the strong morning light which flooded the room. “Francis,” he said huskily, "I am glad to see you; you are an old friend, and ” He stopped suddenly; his eyes had fallen upon his son, who stood, pale as death, incapable of speech or movement. There was a moment’s intense silence. The blind man had risen, and stood grasping the arms of his chair with either hand, longing as he had seldom longed in his contented years for the power to see. “Who is that?” the earl asked tremulously, his lipa working convulsively, his eyes seeking his son's with a wild, pitiful eagerness. “Francis, who is that? Surely—surely— Ah, no—the dead never come back—the ” “Father!” "Newell! my son Newell!" And reverently, with noiseless step, the others went away, leaving father and son together, the one incredulous, the other penitent, in the sacred joy of their reunion—a joy which, unhappily, was dimmed when Newell Hatton had to be told by James Francis that Barlmra was a prisoner in the station charged with murder. When he hoard the astounding news his first thought was for her. "Can I see her?” Newell asked, a tone of suffering in his voice. "She is here, you said.” "Yes," James Francis answered. "She Town Hall.” Newell looked across the market place, which was covered with snow, to the Town Hall; then he turned to James Francis with tears in iiis eyes. “Come!" he said quietly; and they went out together. i (To be continued.) About all you can say in favor of an officeholder is that when he begins he has the beat Intention* Lu the world.