Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 32, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 December 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING.

By Lottie Braham.

CHAPTER XXIV. ■ “Mark!” she exclaimed, in a low hushed tone, then more loudly she repeated his name. “Mark —Mark—Mark!” she cried, and fell into his outstretched arms; and, as her head lay against his heavily beating heart, he bent his own over her in silence. Suddenly he felt her tremble violently in his arms, and heard her breathing come in low, hurried gasps. “Barbara!” he whispered anxiously, bending his head still lower over hers; and the girl slowly raised her face and looked up at him with blind, unseeing •eyes. “Mark,” she gasped, in almost .inaudible tones, “you have come to me!” “My darling, you might have known I would come,” he answered hoarsely. “It is so good to see you, Mark!” she whispered. “I have wanted you so often.” “Have you, dear?” “Yes. Why do you speak so sorrowfully, Mark? Have I vexed you? Are you unhappy about me?” She was looking at him with a faint, unconscious smile on her pale lips; then, as she met his troubled, anxious eyes, the smile died away, and was replaced by a sudden questioning look. Her eyes wanidered round the room, lingering on the 'bare walls, the high-barred window. A tang shudder shook her slender frame, and, with a faint, sobbing cry, she hid her face upon Lord Hatton’s breast. 1 “Mark,” she said presently, without looking up, and clinging to him with trembling hands, “I will never tell, dear, I will ! never tell! I know it was an accident, and ” Her words died away, and she pressed her head convulsively against him, as if ahe wished to shut out some terrible vision; but, as he was going to speak, she raised a trembling hand and touched his lips with her burning fingers. > “Hush! Say nothing,” she whispered feverishly—“it is not safe! You might be overheard. Mark, I understand! It was for me, dear—he had been so cruel! Ah! I ought not to have said that! He is dead! You knew, did you not? Ah!” —springing up suddenly, with a low, sharp, startled cry of dread. “Why did you come? It is not safe. Webster saw you, and Oh, Mark, go-go, dear! I am not afraid—l am not afraid ” “My darling, what is it?” Mark asked anxiously, catching the trembling girl in his arms. “What dreadful thought is in your mind? Do you think that I am guilty of that poor man’s death? Barbara, listen!” But she was incapable of self-control just then; she was shaking from head to foot, her eyes were burning with fever, her hands shook as if with palsy. “No —I cannot listen,” she said wildly. “Mark, you did it, did you not? He told me he was to meet you there, and I went; and when I got there, you were gone, and 1 never told, dear! They knew I had been out; but I did not tell them why—l would have died first! But you must go, Mark, lest they should suspect and ” The hurried, broken, disconnected words died away, her great wild eyes rested on his face in mute inquiry. “My darling, there has been some terrible mistake,” he said gently but impressively. “Dear, I am entirely innocent of what you suppose. I met him that night, as you imagine, but I did not harm him. I did not lay a finger upon him, sorely as I was tempted to do so; I will swear that, Barbara. You must believe me, my dearest.” “Yes,” she murmured feebly, leaning heavily upon the little deal table; *T believe you, Mark. I know you cannot speak falsely. And yet—and yet ” She pushed her hair from her forehead with a strange wild gesture, and stood staring straight before her for a moment; then, in a hoarse, trembling voice, she went on, In broken, disjointed sentences: “I went out. It was very cold and dark —so dark that I could see nothing; but he had told me that you would meet him there, and I thought you would help me, Mark—you had never failed me ” “I will not fail you now, my darling,” he murmured, a sudden fear striking him as he listened to the broken words and lookedsat the wild eyes which stared so blindly before hes. "Dear, you trust me, do you not?” “Yes,” she whispered. “Rut it is all so strange; I cannot understand. It is as dark as that night was! I went out, and 1 touched his face; it was like ice—and I was frightened: and then—oh. Mark, forgive me —I thought you had killed him!” “My poor Barbara!” he murmured huskily. “I did not know what to do. I had only one thought—to hide my secret until you could get away. Are you very angry with me. Mark? 1 thought it was an accident; but ” “Dear, try to forget it. Al! will be right soon.” “I have told you,” she murmured, pausing between each word in the faintness and exhaustion which were creeping over her. "It was dark and cold, as it is now. Mark--uh” —with a swift, Tow. shuddering cry: and she cowered in his arms as the door opened—"don’t let them take me from you. Mark —don't let them ” Her voice died away in an inarticulate murmur, her head fell l>ack upon his ehoftlder. with her face upturned, and sight and sense and consciousness all faded in a merciful insensibility. CHATTER XXV. Barbara’s eyes had closed to all outward things In the laire little room nt the police station in Arlington; but wtw-n, after a long period of insensibility, she opened them again, her languid gaze rested on the silken hangings of bed at Elsdale Castle, and then wandered slowly round the room. The winter day ’frns at its close; outside the dusk was deepening into night A soft light was burning in the pretty fragraat

room, a’fire glowed in the grate, and near the shaded lamp a lady sat busy w ith some fancy needlework, making a quiet, homely picture. Her head was bent over her work, and Barbara’s languid eyes saw only the soft filmy lace of her head-dress. The girl lay dreamily watching her, until she raised her head and saw the great hollow eyes, looking so painfully large in the worn, pallid face, open and fixed upon her. She put down her work and hurried to the bedside and bent over the recumbent girl. “You know me, Barbara?” a low gentle voice said, with a very perceptible tremor in its tones; and a faint wondering gleam crept into the dark eyes. “No; don’t try to talk,” went on the kindly tremulous voice. “Just drink this, dear, and go to sleep again, and sleep as long as ever you can.” She raised the pretty cropped head upon her arm, and held a draught to the lips which were beginning to quiver; and Barbara, too weak for resistance, swallowed it obediently, and as obediently sank to sleep again, a sweet, dreamless sleep which brought healing and strength with it. Having watched her long enough to know that the slumber was the natural sleep they longed for and not the swoon they dreaded, the lady went softly to the door and whispered a few words to an anxious watcher there, which sent him away with a feeling of unutterable thankfulness. And then she came baek and resumed the work she had thrown aside, a restful look on her kindly face replacing the anxious expression which had been habitual there during the long five weeks of oblivion which had been granted to Barbara Hatton —weeks during which those who loved her had mourned her almost as dead. When the languid white lids were raised again, the dawn of the following day was breaking in the eastern sky, the fire was burning brightly, the lamp was carefully shaded. Mrs. Fairfax, her white cap and kerchief as carefully arranged as if ahe had just left her room instead of having passed a long, anxious night, was seated by the bed; and then it seemed as if the kindly old face melted away to be replaced in a moment by the other kindly, tender face on which Barbara’s eyes first rested. “Goody!” the girl said; and, although her voice was very faint, it was quite audible. “Yes, dear. You have had a nice sleep.” “Am I at Rose Cottage?” asked the faint, low tones, while the dark eyes wandered feebly around the room. “No, dear,” Mrs. Clavering answered gently. “You have been ill, and I have been nursing you.” “Hl!” repeated the girl. “Have I been long ill?” "Not very long—a little while,” Mrs. Clavering answered soothingly. “We have been anxious about you, dear child, and you must get well quickly now and repay us for all our care. lou do not suffer now, Barbara?” “No; but I am so tired!” Barbara said wearily, as she let her white lids sink over her languid eyes; and Mrs. Clavering wondered if memory, with its attendant suffering, was coming back, and hoped and prayed with all her anxious heart that it would delay its return for awhile until the enfeebled frame was better able to bear the horror it might bring with it. But even now, though the fever had left her, and the great dark eyes were no longer bright with its luster, and the rambling, broken words which had been so terrible to listen to had ceasdd, there was the gravest cause for anxiety in Barbara’s intense weakness. She seemed, as the days went by—such slow, anxious days to the household at Elsdale —especially so to the two men who loved her so tenderly —to regain no strength; she lay with closed eyes upon her pillows, heeding nothing, mute and motionless, in semi-sleep, semistupor, which sometimes deepened into a long, death-like swoon which caused the physicians great anxiety, and made them wonder if she remembered the trouble which had preceded her illness, and was letting her misery retard the recovery for which they so earnestly strove. Mrs. Clavering and the kindly old housekeeper wondered also; but Barbara said nothing. The sweet sad eyes were rarely opened, and the pale lips were parted only to utter a few words of thanks or apology for the trouble she gave. “She must be roused,” Dr. Close said; “almost anything would be better than this indifference to everything. She is drifting away in spite of all our care.” Christmas had come and gone, and a new year had begun during those weeks of darkness and oblivion; and one morning Mrs. Clavering came into the quiet room where Barbara lay, bringing a bunch of fresh white snow-drops with their delicate greeli leaves, with which she touched Barbara's lips. The girl opened her languid eyes, and then brightened a little at sight of the sweet harbinger of spring. “Lord Elsdale has sent them, dear, with his love,” Mrs. Clavering said, in her most cheerful voice. “And Doctcw Close says you are to get up for a short time to-day.” "To get up?” Barbara questioned, a shade of fear coming into her eyes. Then she said pettishly, "I can't get up—l am too weak.” "Doctor Close says not," Mrs. Clnvering returned in her most matter-of-fact tones. “Ami, Barbara, there are one or two gentlemen very anxious to see you who are not to be admitted until you are in your dressing room. Lord Elsdale has some wonderful news for you, dear.” "But, Goody”—the frail little fingers let fall the snow-drops and closed over Mrs. Chivering’s hand in a fierce, feverish clasp —"if I get up, will they not come—and take me away?” And the words told Mrs. Clavcring what the girl had dreaded, and what had retarded her progress to recovery. “Dear,” she replied, "I have been 'ranting to tell you: but we feared to agitate you. All that is settled. There wns n t»rrlhk‘ mistake, which has bts-n fully cJearisl up; we need nut mind how just When you are stronger, you sluill know all ahwuit it." “And Mark?” murmured the sweet quivering lips. “Mark is well, and would be quite happy, Barbara, If you were better.” "Is he here?” "Ob, yes. of course he Is here!" replied Mrs. Clavering, smiling as she stooped and touched the sweet lips with her own. As Newell entered, she turned and saw him; and, by a grer' vsertion of b** r fwble

strength, she rose to her feet, steadying herself by a hand on either arm of her chair; then, as he came up to her, she fell with a little cry into his outstretched arms, and hurts into a passion of tears upon his shoulder, while the young man's eyes were dim as he bowed his head over hers. Mrs. Clavering went aWay quietly, leaving them together. Presently, when the passionate sobs which brought such relief to the overcharged heart had sabsided, Newell put her gently into her chair and knelt down by her side, looking at the sweet wasted face with eyes so full of tenderness and sorrow that the girl smiled faintly at him. “You must not look so sorrowful,” she said, in her pretty, pathetic tones. “I am getting better and stronger every day, Marti; and I am so ashamed of the trouble and anxiety I have been to you all.” “My darling!” he whispered tremulously, raising her hand to his lips. “Ah, you were always good to me, dear!” she said, putting her hand on his head, and pushing back the thick dark hair into which had crept many a silver thread during the last few weeks. “Your love has been a tower of strength to me all my life almost! Have you been very anxious, Mark? Was Iso ill?” “You have been very ill, dear,” he answered, “and we have been very anxious; but our anxiety is almost over now, and we are only waiting for you to be a little stronger before'*tt e take you away to some warmer clime where your roses will come back to you.” “Who are ‘we,’ Mark? You and Goody, or you and Uncle Norman?” “Does it sound very strange to you to hear me say ‘we’ when I mean the earl and myself?” he asked, smiling. “He has been very good to me, Barbara—far kinder than I deserved.” She shook her head with a faint, wistful smile. “Then you are friends, Mark?” “True friends, dear, for always.” She turned her face toward the window in silence, while two great tears rolled down her cheeks. With more than a woman’s tenderness the man at her side dried them and drew her pretty head upon his shoulder. “Are you able to receive any news, Barbara?” he asked then, forcing himself to speak lightly. “Did Goody tell you than there were some wonderful tidings which you had yet to learn?” “Yes,” she answered languidly. “What are they?” Having thus skillfully brought the conversation to the point he had been aiming for, Lord Hatton gently told her all the wonderful things that had happened since she had swooned at their previous meeting in the police station at Arlington six weeks ago. The murder mystery was solved by the confession found on the dead body of the man who had committed the deed. It was no other than Mr. Sinclair, Lord Elsdale’s private secretary. In his confession he had told of his secret, mad infatuation for Barbara, of his insane jealousy of Walter Bryant, his discovery of what seemed to be his intimacy with the young girl, his tracking him into the woods and there shooting him. AH this he confessed when he learned Barbara had been suspected of this crime, and then killed himself on the vary spot where he had committed his mad deed. But this was not all of Lord Hatton’s wonderful news. Before he left Barbara that day she knew that he was not Mark Robson, the actor, but Newell Hatton, the son and heir of the-Earl of Elsdale—the man whom she had believed killed in the railroad accident, the man whose place she had occupied as heiress and in the affections of her adopted father. (To be continued.)