Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 80, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 June 1899 — HIDDEN TERROR [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HIDDEN TERROR

! CHAPTER VIII. p /Breakfast was over, and Uncle John had Rivalled Dick into his gun room, leaving and Mabel alone to follow their ■titou devices. Now was the moment for P|H>eaking to her sister, Mabel decided; and, Bptowever much she shrunk from her task, B <ahc was resolute. Mab’s face was tearful and pleading | ’when she closed the door of their sitting EF'Weom, ana she sunk upon her knees beside i Jlier sister. ■ “Caroline,” she gasped out, “you will be || tihocked and pained, but it is my duty to I UU you! You have been deceived.” : “What do you mean?” asked the other, H turning somewhat pale. “I mean—l mean,” faltered Mab, “that H tile night before last Dick asked me to run i *4own to the pool and fetch a box of flies ipwhich he had left there, and which be- | Mongs to uncle; and. as there was no opIlqportunity to go before bed time, I went ■patter we had said good night to Uncle 1-John. When I got to the boat house I —l R'iwaw — Oh, dear Caroline, you can guess Eprhat is coming, can't you?” “No, indeed, I can’t, Mab,” her sister jgaaawered, in a cool, hard tone. “Pray ex- . plain yourself.” “What —you cannot guess what I saw?” pried Mabel, n a thrilling tone. “You do «Ot know? I saw a man, Caroline, and I ;-siw you—you!” s/ “Me?” said Caroline, in a perfectly nat!*mral tone of surprise. “What can you r «inean, Mab? I had gone to bed.” “Caroline, do you suppose I could make mistake in your identity—that I do not toiow your voice, your figure? Why, I ’was not two paces from you. Oh, don't ; <be afraid to trust me, dear, for I only wish ? jrou to be happy, and not to be cruelly de- | -eeived. And before you came down to the %oat house, when I was afraid to move out |«f the shadow for fear of being seen mywelf by that man, I caught the words he j ’Was muttering to himself about you; and t sfce is only pretending to feed adoration for tyou just for his own eads. He said ” But here Caroline interrupted her 1 -haughtily. | “Have you taken leave of your senses, : Mabel? Do you understand what you are me of —me —your elder sister? | How dare you say such a thing! Take peare, or I shall complain to my uncle!” Mab sprang up from her kueeling pospjfcure, facing Caroline with resolution. | “Oh, Caroline, you cannot mean to deny ntr “To deny what?” asked the elder girl. "That you were in the boat house with 1 that stranger —that you talked with him — '-that you spoke to him ns if you were affianced to him —that you promised to take ; something to London for him while he was !«abroad —that he spoke of coming to ask your hand of father, but not until his own ; <ti&nds were full of gold.” And, out of -breath with haste and painful emotion, / Mabel paused, looking entreatingly at her f -riater. But Caroline drew herself up with a disdainful air. 1 “I tell you what it is, Mab,” she said, \ “you will get yourself into trouble some I -day—real trouble —if you go running out at :: aught when you are supposed to be in bed, | in order to do Dick’s errands. What would f Uncle John say if he knew it? If you pre- ’ -nmo to say another word about me in I -connection with this absurd story, I shall fc *tell him what occurred. Be good enough *to ascertain the truth of a matter before r you run away with a ridiculous tale about your own sister.” f. “Oh, Caroline, Caroline!” was all Mab : could utter. “You will listen to me now, if you • please,” said Caroline, with a proud ges- ; -ture. “I shall not detain you long, I promise you. I have no doubt whatever I that you did actually see some man and I -come woman down by the boat house on b the night before last, and that in your | -fright and excitement —and you become : snore and more excitable every day—you ; connected the woman with me from some tfaucied resemblance.” , “Then you deny it,” gasped Mab —“you | -deny it all?” | ' Caroline gave her a look of supreme disI dain, but would not answer, and unhappy Mabel was left alone. Poor Mab! She was so young, so surrounded by impending troubles, and she bad no counselor but Dick. To him she had only time to whisper a sentence or two after the midday meal. “Oh, Dick, Caroline denies it all, and fc threatens to tell uncle! She insists that I f made a mistake; but it is no mistake.” s ; Dick had given her a trouhled look full 1 of sympathy, but had not been able to | apeak, for the others were within hearing; Stud, as she sat under a thorn tree on the tawn after they had driven away, she brooded sadly over what had happened. Oblivious of outer impressions, she did js not notice that a carriage in which were aeated an elegantly dressed lady and a l tall, handsome man, who was driving, had 1 turned into the park and was now near the g house. But the noise of the house bell i -sounding over the lawn and the grinding of wheels upon the gravel caused Mabel ; to become aware that visitors had called at her uncle’s. “What a good thing that I am not ‘out’ I yet,” she thought, “for I have no heart to l mee visitors!” | But, lest they should discover her, she left the shady seat beneath the thorn tree, and, sheltered by the bushes, gained the aweep of greensward where stood the summer house forever memorable in Mab's •eyes. “What a hero he would have been in olden times!” said the girl to herself, thinking of Lord Wynmore, while a glow «ame to her cheeks and her eyes bright--ened, notwithstanding her despondency. “Oh, I hope that I shall have a little talk to him again before we go home! What a pity that no one but Dick must ever know | Jpow good he was to me!” / She sat down on a garden seat, waiting | till she should bear the carriage roll away; And soon she caught the expected sound. £ Then, rising mechanically, she made her jkqray again toward the thorn tree. But she had not gone many paces when she heard her name pronounced behind her; and, trterninf in surprise, she came face to face IglFlth Lord Wynmore himself. K “How dh you do, Miss Charlford? Will you forgive me for entering by the green Mabel felt as if she could readily forgive If

him anything, but she only said, with a charming blush: “I did not know whose carriage It was, and so I got out of sight, for my uncle and sister are out.” “And you will pardon me for coming upon you like this?” he went on, holding her hand for a moment. “I am afraid I have presumed on your informal introduction in my anxiety to introduce you to my sister, who arrived unexpectedly last night, and threatens to remain with me only eight days, as she is going abroad. We are to hasten our fete; hence this visit to beg you to grace it with your presence as you promised;” and he looked anxiously into Mabel’s eyes for her answer. “Oh, I shall be most pleased to come,” she exclaimed, “if Uncle John permits it!” “We must manage to persuade him. But did he not promise? Without you there I should feel as if I cared nothing for the fete;” and Lord Wynmore spoke these last words in a tone which any girl so young as Mabel would have been sure to remember. “But there sits my sister waiting to make your acquaintance,” added he. “May I bring her in here?” “Your sister? Has she been waiting all this time? How rude I must seem!” cried Mabel, raising her eyes and perceiving that the carriage had been drawn up at the roadside, and that a groom in faultless livery was at the horses’ heads. In another moment she was faltering out her excuses to a fashionably attired lady very like Lord Wynmore, but a year or two older. Soon they were all seated in the shade; and in a minute or two a footman brought out tea and strawberries; then Mabel had to turn hostess for the first time in her life. They were still at their tea when the family carriage drove up. Uncle John approached his visitors with smiles of welcome on his usually cross face; nor did Caroline allow any trace of her anger against her sister to appear. Indeed, on this occasion Mr. John Charlford was quite gracious, and readily promised to accompany his nieces and nephew to the garden party. Even when the visitors had departed Uncle John’s good humor did not vanish. He called Mabel to take a turn with him up and down the terrace, and asked her questions about their visitors—how long they had been there before his return, how she had managed to entertain them, et cetera. Then Mabel told her uncle about the program for the fete and the concert on the water. Mr. Charlford smiled as he listened, nodded approval once or twice, and then inquired if Mabel wanted a new dress for the garden party. “I think I have all I want, thank you, uncle,” replied the girl. But here Caroline interposed. “Uncle,” she said, “I am sure you would not like Mabel to wear anything but a new dress on such an occasion; and she has nothing but a washing-silk that has been worn a dozen times, which is not at all the thing for a fete at the Manor. When a girl is not ‘out’ she has not a new evening costume always ready; so Mabel must get one at once, and I had better go to London and choose it for her.” “Yes, that will be the best way, Caroline,” replied Mr. Charlford; “and you will know what is suitable. Better go tomorrow.” “She has made my dress an excuse to go to London to do that man’s bidding!” thought Mabel, trembling, as she heard her sister’s words. The next day, when Caroline, with triumph in her eyes, had gone up to town, Mab and her brother felt that, as Uncle John had to meet his man of business, which would occupy him a large part of the day, they would have unwonted freedom from restraint, and could do what they liked and go where they pleased. “Isn’t this delightful, Mab?” said Dick, throwing his cap into the air with boyish pleasure, as he and she watched Uncle John out of sight, and realized that they could do just as they chose for several hours to come. “It would be heavenly,” replied Mab, “if I could forget about Caroline. But, oh! Dick, I am certain that she has gone to London on that stranger’s business! She still denies everything; isn’t that terrible?” “Yes. it’s pretty bad, telling a downright falsehood like that, and persisting in it,” said Dick. “Dear Dick,” said Mab. “Oh. what can we say to Caroline to convince her of the danger she is in?” “I don’t know yet, Mab; I’ll think about it,” answered Dick, rising with a suppressed sigh. “Let us go down to the pool now, Mab, and have a row,” he added; “there we shall be all to ourselves, i’ll pull you under the old willow tree on the other side of the water, and we will have a few hours’ pleasant idleness at any rate.” They walked on through the rich grass down to the pool. “Here we are!” exclaimed Dick, as he unmoored the boat, after having arranged the cushions for Mab. “Oh, Dick, I almost wish we had not come after all!” she remarked, in a troubled tone. “It makes me think so much of what I saw here that night!” Discuss the matter as they might, they could not get enlightenment, direction, as they sought. Caroline was the mystery. They decided to make another strong appeal to her upon her return. They were seated with their uncle that next evening, wondering why Caroline had not returned on the late afternoon train, when a bell echoed through the house, and immediately afterward Bailey, one of the men servants, entered and presented to his master an envelope on a silver tray. “It is a telegram! Oh, what has happened?” cried Mab, starting up, unable to restrain her anxiety. Mr. Charlford opened the telegram leisurely and read:# “House Burgeon of St. James’ Hospital to Mr. Charlford, of the Court, Milliton, Surrey: “A young lady, supposed to be your relative, lies at hospital. Brought in this afternoon. Picked up insensible near Westminster Abbey. Is recovering consciousness. Letters found induce this communication. Telegraph reply.” “Now, uncle, I must go!’ said Dick, vehemently. "My own sister lies insensible

at a hospital. Mab and I ought to go to her directly.” “One of you is enough at a time, thank you,” replied Mr. Charlford. “Of course, In the circumstances, I must permit you to go to town with me—a pretty annoyance, which might easily have been avoided. Caroline has been knocked down, I presume—an accident which woqld not have happened had she had her maid with her. Was she carrying out something underhand without my knowledge? The sooner your father comes back the better!” In half an hour Mabel was alone in the drawing room, weeping very bitter tears; while Dick was speeding toward London with his unpleasant companion. Nor were his musings a whit less anxious than were Mabel’s. Caroline found insensible! Why —why ? What an endless night it seemed to be to unhappy Mabel! She did not dream of repose, but wandered from room to room or sat counting the wretched momenta, watching for the lingering dawn and for what sunrise would bring. It came at length—came with Ineffable beauty. Once more the household was astir; there was a possibility of news of Caroline. Dick would be sure to send a telegram—he had promised that in the agonized brief farewell she took of him on the preceding night. And he kept his word. "Caroline much better. She knows us. She will be able to be moved back to-day. Don’t be anxious.” Mabel burst into joyful tears, forgetting for a moment all about the painful mystery which had yet to be solved.

CHAPTER IX. Mabel about nine o’clock that evening stood anxiously watching the approach of her uncle’s carriage—the carriage which was bringing home Dick and Caroline. It was coming along at an easy pace—and Mabel rushed off to meet it as soon as it entered the avenue leading to the house. “There is not the slightest reason for this excitement —your sister is pretty nearly recovered. Pray go indoors, and do not make a scene!” said Uncle John, in his harshest tone. Caroline, who was leaning back in the carriage, and who was somewhat pale, said, coldly, “How do you do, Mabel?” as if nothing of consequence had occurred since they had parted. Thus rebuffed, Mabel retreated hastily, but followed her sister eagerly upstairs as soon as Caroline had alighted. “Do leave me in peace to-night, Mab; I am tired with my journey, and have told uncle I would rather go to bed,” she said, speaking almost in her usual tone. “Mayn’t I come to you for a moment?” entreated Mab. But Caroline replied, ‘*Not to-night;” and the disappointed girl retired. She met Dick on the stairs. “Make haste, Mab!” he whispered. “Uncle John is raging for his dinner—he had nothing in town. There’s the first bell.” “I—l have dined,” she returned, hastily. “Never mind,” said Dick. “For goodness’ sake come in and talk—Uncle John will be furious if you do not.” The instant dinner was over she motioned to Dick to come and sit by her, but her uncle interposed. “Mabel,” he said, in bis clear, cold tones, “I see you are preparing to question your brother about Caroline, so I will inform you myself in plain words of what actually occurred, for it will spare me the infliction of hearing something very prosaic and annoying, and it will save him the trouble of replying to your needlessly anxious inquiries. After she left the dressmaker’s she took some insane notion into her head of driving in a hansom to Westminster Abbey in her spare hour. Just as she got out of the cab a brewer’s dray came dashing along; a sudden panic seized her—she swerved and fell. She thinks that someone as terrified as herself ran against her, knocking her down, but she remembers nothing clearly till she found herself in the hospital. The medical men think there is no cause for anxiety, but they advise me not to ajgitate her by dwelling upon its occurrence. Indeed, they impressed me with the idea that nothing must be said to throw her into any disturbance of mind till the shock caused by the accident has worn off. Very unwillingly, therefore, I have abstained from expressing what I think of her conduct; and you will also be particular not to say anything to her at present on the subject. At a future time both her father and I will represent to her what we think of her folly. Be careful to see that you obey my instructions. And now you had better say goodnight, as it will be necessary for you to go to London to-morrow—it seems that Madame Henriette wishes to fit on your dress —and you will go by the ten o’clock train, under Gordon’s escort. Good-night.” Thus dismissed, Mab dared not talk to Caroline that night; and she had only a moment to exchange a hurried sentence with Dick on the staircase. “Do you think it is true that that was the real cause of Caroline’s accident?” she whispered. “Who can tell?” Dick whispered back. “We’ll talk of that to-morrow.” When he was alone in his room Dick bolted his door, threw himself back in a chair and drew from a drawer the small box which Mab had brought in by mistake on the eventful night when she became so painfully impressed with the idea that her father had a dark secret to conceal. Since that night one event had followed another so quickly that Dick had not had an opportunity to examine carefully the contents of the box, which consisted of letters dated long previously; and the allusions made in them to certain unexplained events and circumstances filled the young fellow’s mind with the gravest surmises. “ ‘Filton’—did my father ever go by the name of ‘Filton?’” he muttered, passing his hand over his knitted brow. “But, if so, whv? And what is the meaning of this?” % And, with a hot flush, on his face, Dick read: “I have a thing to tell you which will make your hair stand on end! By heavens, the man is recovering! Who could have imagined such an unlooked-for contingency, even in one’s wildest dreams? He is recovering, I tell you—not slowly, not seeming to revive one day and slipping back the next, bat he is making a certain, easy, rapid convalescence! And of course yon know what will happen. Come back then instantly; for the moment I am paralyzed. We mast make terms —but what terms? Yonrs, A. FILTON.” “Good heavens! the handwriting is very like what my father’s is now!” gasped Dick, fixing his gaze upon the faded lines. "It must have been written years ago if It is his—when he was in the West Indies. Who coaid that man be who canned him such fear? Ought a Charlford to shrink from any man? What was the thing he

feared from the man who was recovering, and to whom was this letter written?” A number of letters had been put into one envelope, as if thrust together so as to occupy as small a apace as possible, and the envelope bore this superscription—"R. F. Jones, Esq.” By dint of careful scrutiny Dick made out that this thin worn envelope had once been posted in America to some place in London. “It must have "been my father who wrote these!” muttered Dick, starting from hia seat in violent agitation. “Did be write them to my uncle, sending them to him under an assumed name to an address agreed on between them? They were once both in the West Indies. Then Uncle John came back alone, and remained some months in England, after my mother’s death, before my father’s return. Oh, what does it all mean?” With difficulty Dick forced himself to peruse the other letters; they all related to the one subject, which had evidently created the wildest consternation in the mind of the writer. The man referred to was fast recovering; there was not an instant to be lost in arranging with him something not specified in the letter. Frantic appeals to return at once filled half the pages. And the name signed at the bottom of the letters was always the same—“A. Filton.” “I think I will show them to my father,” said Dick, speaking aloud mechanically, “and see what he says to them. But Mab had better not look at them—at least, not yet. She will imagine all sorts of things; she will fancy what I do.” And the tortured young fellow paced the room in deep reflection. . (To be continued.)