Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 34, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 December 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING.

By Lottie Braham.

r CHAPTER XXVI. i Lord Keith, tired of his restless wanderings, came home to Firjiolme on a fair (May day, and rode over to Elsdale on the next morning, and half an hour later Barbara, sitting alone, listless and idle, in her own room, was startled by a request from (Lord Hatton that she would go to him in this study. ■ 1 “Tell his lordship that I will come at |Once,” the girl replied; but it was fully ten minutes before she could muster courtage enough to go down the corridors and the winding stone steps leading to the (room which Lord Hatton had taken once snore for his own special use. I When she entered, he was standing by Se fire, apparently in deep thought; and e girl stood for a moment unobserved, trembling very much and pale to the lips. As she stood, a slender trembling figure, he turned and saw her, and, with an exclamation, went forward, holding out his hand to her. She put her own little fingers into it without a.word. ’ “I hope I have not disturbed you,” he began gently, looking down at the girl’s lovely face. “Oh, no! I was doing nothing.” .-“Thie is the first time yori have honrored my den with a visit, is it not?” he Tasked, as he pushed a great armchair to Ithe fire, and put her gently into it. I “Yes, I think so." . I “That is not very sociable, is it? Goody jcomes every morning with some fresh ■flowers to brighten it a little.” , , I Barbara's pale lips quivered slightly, |dt>ut she said nothing. morning I had another visitor, ||||M||m| was very glad to sei-—one who MHHbe a constant visitor in the old BHHKkBhi we were boys together." BHMH&Aw' wii.ni h- nieaiit. and be saw ■' 11 ‘-h nV... ri.so in her pale did; but she still kept silence. JB?” visit was hardly so much to me you, Barbara,” the young man conÜBraed, resolved that the girl should not at the pain he suffered just then. “To me?” she cried, with a little start; ’ and Newell Hatton saw that she clasped jher hands tightly together in her lap. “Yes, td you.” There was a slight pause; then Newell bent forward and took her hands in his, as he sat opposite to her on the hearth. , “I do not wish to distress you, Baribara,” he went on; “nor does he, I am gure. But I must ask you to give him a patient hearing. I think there is no anger ** -4n yoti\heart toward him, my child. You said, when I spoke of this to you before, that he was right in acting as he did; he thinks otherwise now, and he has repented deeply and sincerely. You have forgiven, Barbara?” “Yes —oh, yes!” “Then”—he released her hands and sat erect again—“will you tell him so, my child?” “Is he here?” ; She started, looking wildly at him. “Yes; he wishes most earnestly to see you, to hear from your own lips that there is no anger against him in your heart, »to tel) you himself what you will see plainly enough, how he has suffered in this separation from you, and to ask for the forgiveness which I think you will freely give -ihim.” Barbara rose unsteadily, her eyes, wild and troubled, fixed upon him. “I cannot see him! Do not ask me!—l ' cannot! lam not angry—l have no right to be —but 1 cannot see him—indeed I cannot!” “Why?” Newell asked simply. “There cannot be anything that he need •ay to me," she went on, shivering as •he pressed her hands together in her intense agitation. “There is no need that ■we should meet. Oh, I have suffered surely I have suffered enough! him to spare me.” no wish to add to your suffering. my child,” he urged. “His only wish, and mine also, are for your happiness. He is true and noble, and he loves you sincerely. Forget that he failed you for a moment, and let things be as they were between you.” She shuddered at the bare idea of it; death itself would be easier to her, she thought, wildly. Once more the young man took her hands in his. They were burning now’; when he had held them a few minutes before, their touch had been like ice. “Dear,” he pleaded, "speak to me frankly—speak to me as you would have spoken to the Mark of those happy old days which •eem so far away from us now. Yon had no secret from me then, Barbara; have itone now. If my name is changed, dear child. I am the same man whom you trusted then, and you are as dear to me as—nay, dearer, Barbara, than you were then.” “What do you want me to do?” she asked, faintly. “To see him,” he answered; “to let him plead his cause with you, to listen to him patiently, to answer him as your heart, and not your pride, dictates.” He released her hands with a slow, lingering pressure, and moved toward the door. With a sudden, impulsive movement she took a step forward and grasped his sleeve; he turned at once and stood still. For a moment they stood thus, ho looking at her, she with her head lowered on . her breast; then she released him, and, turning away, covered tier face with her hands as she sank into her chair. For one instant he looked nt her. a strange questioning expression in his face; then he turned away. When Barbara raised her head, she was alone with Everard Keith. CHAPTER XXVII. There was a short, embarrassed silence; tjien Barbara rose, nnd, steadying herself by the arm of her chair, held out her hand tp Lord Keith; and he took it in bis own ■with an exclamation of intense compassion. « “Am I so changed?” she asked, smiling

faintly. “You need not be troubled; lam quite strong now.” “Strong! Looking as you look!” he ejaculated unsteadily. “Oh, I am not very substantial yet!” she returned, with a faint little laugh. “Newell told me you were better,” the young man said, staring helplessly at her. “I am not better —I am quite well,” she declared almost impatiently. “Will you sit down?” He sat down obediently; Barbara was, trembling so much that she was glad to return to the depths of her capacious armchair. “Barbara,” he said abruptly, turning away from the fire and rising restlessly from his chair, “I have come to ask for what I dare hardly hope to receive—your forgiveness; 4 can never forgive myself for my brutal conduct to you; but, if you can forgive me ” His voice failed; and he turned from her, covering his eyes with one trembling hand. “There is nothing to forgive,” the girl answered tremulously. “You could not have done otherwise. I did not blame you, dear Everard, for a.moment.” “But you despised me?” “Why should I? I had no reason. We can be friends still.” She put out her hand to him. He seemed to hesitate before he took it; then he caught it in both his and threw himself on one knee beside her chair. “I cannot be your friend,” he cried passionately—“l cannot be satisfied with your pardon only! Barbara, is there any hope for,me? Will you let things be as they were between us?” She shook her head sorrowfully. “Then,” he cried angrily, “it is because you have ceased to love me!” She answered nothing; but the little hands in his began to tremble. He drew a long breath as he held them even more closejy in his own. “If that be so, Barbara,” he went on hoarsely, “it is no reason for sending me from you. Oh, my dear, let me win back the old love! I can do it —it cannot be so completely d£ad that I cannot revive it!” “Was love so easily killed ever worth possessing?” she asked faintly. “Everard, I think we both made a mistake; neither your love nor mine could bear the test to which we put it.” “Mine bore it,” he said eagerly; “it is stronger than ever. It was yours—oh, Barbara, it was yours which failed!” “It was mine which failed,'she repeated mechanically after him, with colorless lips; and, as he looked at her keenly, the blood rose in a crimson tide and spread from chin to brow. His grasp tightened upon her hand until it almost hurt her. “There is some one else!” he cried hoarsely. She tried to answer him, but her voice was choked and she could not speak. He dropped hpr hands and broke into a bitter, mirthless laugh. “I have made a mistake, in truth,” he continued fiercely. "I trusted to a woman’s love, a woman’s vows; and now I find them written in sand!” She raised her sweet, wistful eyes to his; they were bright with tears. “I did not know!” she faltered. “I think I loved him always. Forgive me; I am not worth a regret.” Something in her look, in the utter hopelessness of her broken voice, cheeked his anger. “I shall never cease to regret you,” he said gently. “Oh, Barbara, is this the end?” “Is it any consolation to you to know, that my love is hopeless, that it will never meet.with any return?” she faltered. “If it is, you may have that consolation.” He smiled slightly. “Is it any pleasure to you to know’ that I suffer, Barbara?” he asked, in reply. The sun shone steadily; the fire grew dull beneath its bright light. The lovely gray eyes of the crayon portrait seemed to look down compassionately on the two pale faces; the chased silver frame on the writing table glittered in the sun. Lord Keith looked his last upon the face of the woman he had loved and lost.

CHAPTER XXVIII. It was never very clear to Barbara whether a long or a short period of time elapsed before her head was gently raised by two strong, tender hands, and her tearblinded eyes looked up half fearfully into the face which was so familiar and so dear to her. Newell Hatton, looking down, saw a very woe-begone little countenance, pallid and tear-stained, with ominously quivering lips, and, as he raised the girl to her feet, he noticed that she trembled violently. He put her gently into a chair and took one of .the little hands and held it tenderly in his firm clasp. It was some minutes before Barbara had sufficiently recovered to realise that she was alone with Lord Hatton; but when she did so she rose unsteadily and tried gently to disengage the hand hfe held. Her effort was vain, however; he held it tenderly, but firmly, in his grasp. “Stay one minute, Barbara,” he said. “I need not detain you longer, perhaps.” “I —I am not well,” the girl urged, feebly, again trying to disengage her trembling hand, while her heart was throbbing violently with mingled joy and pain and fear, for there was a tone in his voice which had never characterised it since be became Lord Hatton, but which had often softened it in the old days at Rose Cottage, when he had been her guardian and she his ward. “I will no't distress you, dear.” he assured her, in bis gentlest tones; “but, Barbara, this is a matter of such supreme moment to me that I must be selfish and disregard ypur wishes. Why have you sent Everard Keith away so unhappy?’ A slow tinge of red crept into her pale facet the long, dark lasses lay upon her cheeks as she looked down nt the Indian prayer-rug on which they stood. "You have seen him?’ she asked, falteringly. “Yes, I have seen him. dear. Have you no other answer to give him? He is very unhappy." Rhe shook her head. “What has dictated your answer, my child?’ be continued. “You are not letting any wounded pride stand between you and your love, Barbara? If you are, you will be sorry when perhaps it will be too late." Again she shook her head. "He has gone sway not ea£f unhappy,

Barbara, but he has .given up any hope that by and by you will change thia decision which has affected him so deeply. Do you wish him to be hopeless?” “Yes.” “And” —he breathed monyquickly now as he bowed his head lower over her—“you are sure, quite sure, that time will bring no change to you?” “Yes,” she answered again. “How can you be sure?” he asked abruptly. “A few weeks ago you loved him, did you not? You had promised to be his wife.” “I do not love him,” she said almost sullenly. , “You have soon changed.” “I think I never loved him,” she responded, with sudden passion. “I thought I did once; or, if I ever loved him, my love is dead. But I did not love him, I did not love him!” “You are sure?” “Quite sure?” The room was dark around her as she raised her eyes to his with one wild appealing look which told him all; but the place was full of light and joy to him as he caught her in his eager arms and held her close to his heavily beating heart. “Barbara—my darling—is it so indeed?” he murmured, his face transfigured in his great joy; and for a moment Paradise itself seemed open to the girl in his arms. Aftefr a brief pause, she tried to release herself. “I am not worthy,” she murmured, looking up with dazed eyes into the passionate adoring face bent over her.” “Worthy!” he repeated fondly. “Oh, foolish Barbara!” “But it is true,” she murmured. “Mark, thing of what I am; think of the shame upon me; think of the disgrace I brought upon you. Ah, none knows better than you all my faults, all my pride! You must despise me—you cannot love me—it is pity.” “Then it is pity for myself,” he responded tenderly. “Barbara, when you "left me years ago—nay, love, I do not blame you, I never blamed you—l loved you. When you came to me in your sweet pity when I was injured, I loved you. When I knew that which really has no shame for you, my beloved, I Ipved you even more deeply, more tenderly. I loved you so well, iqjr dajtling, that, because I thought your happiness depended on Everard Keith’s love, I rejoiced when he came back to you penitent. Sweet, why do you struggle so? I love you! I love you with all my strength!” “Father,” said Newell, half an hour later, as he led Barbara into the library, where the earl was sitting alone, “I have brought you a daughter who is just a little bit afraid of your reception.” The earl lobked from his son’s radiant face to the lovely, downcast, tremulous countenance of the girl whose hand he held, and his eyes brightened. “Has she ever had reason to doubt that reception?” the old man asked, holding out his hand to her. “No,” she answered, tremulously, smiling at him, although her eyes were dim with tears; “but she has never aspired so high before, and she knows her own unworthiness so well!” “That knowledge is confined to herself,” rejoined the earl, smiling; and, as he laid his hand upon her head and kissed and blessed her, Barbara’s lingering doubts left her, and she was perfectly, supremely happy. (The end.’)