Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 83, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 June 1899 — HIDDEN TERROR [ARTICLE]

HIDDEN TERROR

CHAPTER Xll.— (Continued.) "Father, do forgive me, but I cannot say *Yes.’ I know,” added Mabel earnestly, "that you would not associate with bad people—we never thought of that—but 1 ■do know your voice, and I know, too, that there is a secret. Yes; I must tell you all. A little while ago, in the library at home, when 1 was sitting there one day behind the curtains with a book, you and Uncle John came in; and I heard you say to him that there was a secret —something that we were not to know. When all these other things happened I connected it with them—l could not help it. And now, father—now, when Neville has asked me to marry him —it seems frightful to le: him think himself engaged to me if there is any dark secret mixed up with our family .history.” Mr. Charlford listened, with a smile. "My dear Mabel,” he said, “you are very zyoung, and you have all that dplicate care for one you love which your dear mother possessed in such a marked degree. I ought not to be displeased that it is such a feature in your character, though in this instance it has told against me. Well, I forget the particular occurrence you allude to, but I do fully remember speaking to your Uncle John in the library at home, on more than one occasion, too, about a ■circumstance which has annoyed and troubled me a good deal, and which I certainly never intended either you, or even Dick, to hear of. It grieves me to mention it mow, but, after all you have been imagining and suffering, I am constrained to tell you plainly. You remember that woman Farley who lives in the cottage just outside our park gates aud to whom you, Mabel. were always going with some gift or ■other?” “Yes, father,” answered the girl. “You may remember, too, that I forbade you to go to the house any more, or to give her money or anything else —for which I •am sure that you thought me very tyrannical!” • “Yes, father,” she faltered. “Well, my veto was not uttered from a 'tyrannical motive, but because of the {knowledge that she, the mother of eight •children, was behaving very badly indeed —very disgracefully. She has now run off with the village carpenter, leaving her husband to shift for himself and his eight boys and girls as best he can. And, as if ■this scandal was not sufficient, Mrs. Farley's eldest girl—not yet sixteen —has gone off with a married man who has two chil•dren. I am sorry enough to have had to mention such a subject to you, Mabel, and to have shocked your delicacy as I see I have done, but you left me no alternative. Well, what will you do? There is really •nothing more that I can say. But there is -a thing which I must do. If you yourself •do not tell Lord Wynmore all this, I must. On no account would I allow a daughter Of mine to form any alliance, no matter with whom, unless it was warmly desired. We will have no concealment from Lord Wynmore, and then there can be no reproaches afterward.” Mabel heaved a deep sigh, and remained lost in thought. “It was your voice I heard, father,” she •aid. raising her head; “but of course underhand dealings with people of no character would be abhorrent to you; still I thought that something disgraceful—something which happened long ago, and with which you might have had nothing to do —clung to our family name.” “And you are not yet convinced to the contrary? Well, Dick, is your opinion unchanged?” “No, father. I ought to tell both you and Mabel that I think it very possible she has made a mistake. At the same time there is a good deal of foundation for the mistake. Probably someone did personate you for his own safety. Perhaps those men had a plan for robbing Uncle John's house, or, as you have said, Mab, who was very much agitated, may have fancied that one of them resembled you. Again, the resemblance may have been real enough, but of course a chance resemblance. Mab, dear, I wish you could think as I do.” When she heard Dick reason thus, she wavered for the first time in her own firm conviction that it had been her father, and ■no other, whom she had encountered by the pool, and her heart was lightened of a load that was almost too heavy for her to bear.

CHAPTER XIII. Mabel had accepted the happiness which had been held out to her—accepted it, (however, with timorous uncertainty, as if she feared that it would be quickly taken from her; for all the while an uneasy feeling of trouble lurked in her heart —a secret • questioning as to whether the things she would fain believe were indeed true. But she had agreed to wed her noble adoring lover; she had brought back joy to his soul in consenting to be his; it was impossible that she should now refuse. No—for weal ■or woe she must go forward; she prayed heaven that it might not be for woe. In •bout one year she was to be married—•he, Mabel Charlford, whom no one save Dick had ever thought much of—she was to be Viscountess Wynmore of Wynmore Manor. She saw Neville one day while they were in London, and Uncle John sent her .and Dick a most flattering and courteous invitation when Mr. Charlford and his ■family returned to the country—indeed it ■was couched in such pressing, and affectionate terms that Mabel consented to go for a fortnight—days which Were full of -•unshine, for every day Neville rode over from the Manor to pass the hours by her •ide. Mabel was almost sorry when she bade adieu to Uncle John, so agreeable had he made himself, so much had he done to efface former painful impressions. When Dick and his sister reached home they learned that their father had gone to London —an ordinary occurrence of which ■no one thought anything. “Mr. Charlford asked me to say, ma’am, that he did not think he could return tonight, and that no one was to sit up for him. If he gets back, he will let himself in with his own key,” said the butler, addressing Mabel, though Caroline stood by. "“And, if you please, sir,” added the man, given you im-

“Mab, I must go to the Rectory tonight. I am so sorry! But they have a dinner party, and two men who were expected have suddenly failed them, so they want me to fill an awkward gap." “Yes, you must go; but I am very sorry, Dick. Don’t you remember we were to have gone together to hear the nightingales sing? However, we will go to-mor-row,” she added. “To-night I will run only to the summer house and listen for ten minutes. There is sure to be a nightingale singing in the shrubbery.” Mr. Charlford and Dick both being absent, Miss Gray, with Netta and Bella, joined Caroline and Mabel at dinner, and they were all merry save Caroline, who had never been merry since her accident; but even she smiled now and then. After dinner, when Netta and Bella wei-e playing a game of besique and Miss Gray was talking to Caroline, the windows being all wide open, Mab passed out softly on to the lawn. In a happy dream she went on toward the arbor, walking in the shadows over the lawn. When within sight of the summer house she paused and looked up at the sky, listening all the while for a nightingale; but everything was strangely still. All at once she caught sight of a figure moving along the greensward toward the arbor. “It must be Dick,” she thought—“ Dick come here to see if I should be out! But how early he has returned! Certainly the Rectory people are always early.” In another second she would have called out “Dick, Dick!” and then her fate and that of all belonging to her would have been far different. But, as her lips parted to utter her brother’s name, a sudden sharp and well-remembered fear shot through her heart, and she stood still waiting for what might happen; for she had just distinguished another figure—that of a man —her father’s surely—creeping toward the summer house. Two men, as there had been, not here, but miles away, on that often-recalled night when she and Neville had first met! Yes, there were two men, and one of them was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. With fast-throbbing heart she stood for some moments like a statue; then, whispering to herself, “It is for Neville’s sake,” she moved forward and paused in the shadow of an overarching bough just outside the entrance to the arbor. At that instant a voice came from the summer house: “So you were here first!” The words meant nothing in themselves, but, oh, the terror with which they filled the girl! For it was unmistakably her father who uttered them, distinctly but cautiously. A voice replied to him out of the gloom: “First? I am always first.” Great heaven —the second man's voice she also recognized! Had she not heard it on an occasion that she could never forget? It was the very man who had met Caroline who spoke those last words —it was the same man who had also met her father by the pool. In that bitter moment Mabel felt as if wounded to death; instinctively she divined that something was about to happen which must separate her from Neville. Her father’s firm denial of ever having met anyone in the boathouse at her uncle’s or elsewhere by night or in secret rushed to Mabel’s memory as she heard Mr. Charlford speaking again while she crouched in the shadow. “Be as brief as you can, Lane,” he said. “What is it you want of me?” “I cannot be brief to-night,” returned the man. “I must recapitulate a little. It is of no use to tell me to be brief tonight.” “Then for heaven's sake do not speak here!” cried Mr. Charlford. “Would you imperil your own safety as well as mine? Yon declared in the strongest terms that you would never do anything which might put a stop to my—to Mabel’s marriage!” “Don’t lose your head and your temper together, Filton,” replied the other. “Speak I must —where is, it to be?” “To-morrow, then, a couple of hours later than this in my study,” returned Mab’s father, hastily. “There will be less risk there than in meeting at an inn, for, of course, I am known all over the county.” “You will let me in by the window? It will be late,” said the man. "You will come in by the side door. Pay attention to what I am saying to you,” said Mr. Charlford. “My family will expect me to return from London by the midnight train to-morrow. It is not my custom to keep any one up to admit me — niy own key does that. Refreshments are therefore placed ready, and every one retired. Come to supper if you will, and we will settle business definitely. Even you yourself must admit the danger of these meetings.” The other did not answer, but glided out of the arbor, aud disappeared across the lawn. Mab stood as if petrified. In one brief moment she had passed out of the sweetness of life into the horror of death. In the stupor which fixed her to the spot she observed her father come to the entrance of the summer house and heard him call softly after the man who had just quitted him. But the man did not hear the call, and her father did not repeat it. “No matter,” he muttered—"no matter!” —and then a sound of fearful laughter reached her ears. There was such menace distinguishable in the sound that Mabel shuddered. “Let him come at 1 o’clock to-morrow; I shall be glad to see him!” The words were muttered in the same tone as before, and then the speaker moved away and was lost amid the shadows of the night. But he did not go toward the house; he stole away in the direction of the long avenue which led toward the high-road. With straining eyes Mabel gazed after the vanishing figure which had taken away all her young life’s joy. Mechanically she turned her steps toward the house, passed in at the hall door and up to her own room, hearing as she went the merry chatter of her younger sisters over their game—chatter which jarred upon her at that moment. She rang the bell, and when a maid appeared she sent a message to her brother —her love, and would he speak to her directly he came in froin the rectory. "Oh, if you please, miss, then you haven’t heard the news from Mr. Dick!

The rector’s brother has had a paralytic stroke, and the tidings came by telegram just in the middle of the dinner party. The poor rector was so overcome that he was almost helpless, and Mr. Dick hadn’t the heart to leave him, and offered to go up to town and see him safe. And he mayn’t be back till to-morrow or the day after. He sent his love to you, miss, and is very sorry.” Dick gone—Dick! Then she must do what she had to do alone! And perhaps it was best so, after all. Was it not more fitting that she, who had lost all that life had to offer, should be the one to make the discovery? Yes —yes—so let it be. “If I can only live through to-morrow!” she moaned, as she sat crouched against the bed, without a thought, however, of seeking her usual rest.. An hour previously vistas of pleasure and of radiant happiness had opened in endless measure before her; now her horizon was bounded by the thought of living through the morrow. Presently she rose, secured her door, lighted a taper and unlocked her desk. Lovingly she took out Neville’s treasured letters and kissed them, and then went to a cabinet in which she kept the presents that her betrothed had made her. They were costly and beautiful —several books handsomely bound; a diamond pendant, which had belonged to his mother; a lovely suite of pearls—necklace, eardrops, ring and pendant ; a sapphire brooch and bracelet; some glittering Indian ornaments and other jewels. Hastily she placed them together in a small traveling bag, locked and addressed it to Lord Wynmore, and fhen hurried to her table and wrote, tears dropping meanwhile upon her betrothal ring: “My Own Dear Neville —Something very terrific has happened—something which makes me sure that my fear of bringing trouble upon you if I married you was not without foundation. I write while I yet have strength; to-morrow might be too late. You will understand that in writing this I feel that I renounce life. Oh, Neville, if there were no such thing as duty, I should marry you and hold my peace; but to deceive you would be torture even greater than bidding you farewell! Your mother’s ring and all your dear gifts to me I return —all except my betrothal ring. There is no reason why I may not keep that. For I am yours in heart and soul, though we are parted. I shall not dare to wear it, Neville, but I will keep it in fond remembrance of you, and you shall take it again when I die. And so heaven bless and guard you, dearest Neville! Do not seek to see your broken-hearted MABEL.” “His letters are mine, too! No one else has any right to them,” she said, pathetically. The clock over the stables struck three. Mabel fastened her letter, placed it on the traveling bag, and then took off the evening dress that she had been wearing. “It is the last time that I shall put on such a dress—the last time that I shall wear an ornament,” she thought, removing the jewels that she had worn all the evening. Then she searched in her wardrobe for the plainest black dress she possessed. Henceforth her dress should accord with her altered life. When she had done all this she sat down, waiting for the day. Four o’clock —five —six! And with the summer morning sounds of life and movement awoke in the household. Mabel roused herself from her stupor of grief to meet the immediate requirements of the day. A maid would soon present herself to bring hot water, to draw back the curtains, and to inform her young mistress that it was seven o’clock; and, as she intended to remain in bed in order to avoid comments on her altered appearance, she undressed hastily and buried her sad face in the pillow. Thus broke the day that was to mark the turning point in her destiny.

CHAPTER XIV. Midnight! Each of the twelve slow strokes seemed to steal away a portion of Mabel’s young life. But the time for action had come. An hour since she had listened to the closing of doors and windows which told her that the household, had retired to rest. At half-past twelve, robed in her black dress, she stole down to her father’s study. In a few minutes more he himself would be there. Cold refreshments, wine and fruit had been placed on the table. Poor child —she little dreamed in what manner she was to remember this forever! Casting a wild, hurried glance round the apartment, she muttered: “Oh, hfeyille, it is for your sake —for all your safes—that I do this!”—and then, crossing the room, she ensconced herself in a recess close to which stood a cabinet tilled with choice Oriental china. Click! A door was swung back on its hinges—a footstep was audible; her father had returned. The hour she had waited for had arrived. She heard him come in; through the narrow slit in the hanging drapery; she saw him approach the table on which the supper was spread. Then he laughed sardonically, and savage words broke from his lips: “Now let him come! He has gone too far!” Mabel, filled with a new and awful dread, watched and listened. “Ha, ha!” continued her father, taking a small object from his pocket. “He will learn too late to beware of the anger of a . patient man!” Good heaven! what did he mean? What was he about to do? The dreadful thought which flashed into Mabel’s mind paralyzed her. Her father held up to the light a tiny vial, poured a few drops of the liquid it contained into a glass, then swallowed some champagne and dropped into a chair. In an agony of despair Mabel clinched her hands, saying to herself, as she looked at her father: “I will save him! I will save him yet!” At that instant the quiet was broken by 'a cautious tapping without, and the clock struck one. “There he is,” said her father, muttering the words savagely; “but he can wait a moment.” Then he poured yet another drop of the liquid into the glass, set it in the place meant for his visitor and made his way slowly to the garden entrance. Mabel glided swiftly from her hiding place, seized another glass on the table, substituted it for the one into which her father had poured the liquid—which she drained into the shavings in the fireplace —and was back again in the recess while her father was still at the outer door.* She had done all in a restrained frenzy; and now she had passed into a new stage of emotion —she no longer felt that life was over for her. Happiness was gone, but she must live to lead her father back to repentance. “Go in—you know your own way,” were the first words which struck her ear as the unwelcome visitor was ushered in.

“I am, as usual, the soul of punctuality,'* returned the other. Both men spoke in a cautious undertone, even after the door was closed and they had seated themselves. “Well, which is it to be—business first and pleasure afterward, or vice versa? If you have walked far, you would like supper first.”" “No—business first,” replied the man, insolently. “Now, then, Filton, are you prepared to act on a proverb which in bygone times you used to quote to me —‘A word to the wise is enough?’ If so, our interview will be as short a one as you could desire and our farewell a final one. I want ten thousand pounds; and it is worth your while to give it to be!” Mr. Charlford appeared overwhelmed. “Ten —thousand—pounds!” he repeated slowly, as if he could not believe his own ears. “You are able to give it to me, Filton, as you know well enough. What —you have a fair daughter”—he laid a strange emphasis upon the “daughter”—“about to wed a noble lord, and do you hesitate? Why, she will pay you five hundred a year if need be to keep all dark, if you go to her when she is ‘my lady,’ with a tale plausible enough! But that is your affair —the reimbursement! Why, the money I ask is nothing to a man with your resources! What I ask for is too little—l must really make it fifteen thousand.” “You cannot mean it!’ exclaimed Mr. Charlford, raising his head. “I do mean it, though; and I shall stick to it! What is the use of haggling over a paltry extra five thousand?” “Fifteen—thousand —pounds!” fell slowly from the lips of Mab’s father. “Fifteen —yes, that’s the figure!” laughed the other man. “Well, how much of it am I to have to-night?” “The utmost I can do -is five thousand down; and, to scrape that together, I have borrowed of John Charlford, and sold out some of-my stock at great loss. You must see that I am doing all I can,” said Mr. Charlford, as if in desperation. “What you have to compass is—all that I want!” rejoined the other, with a disagreeable laugh, low and distinct, like his utterance. “You were willing a little while ago to take ten thousand, and now you demand fifteen!” exclaimed Mab’s father. “Yes —now I demand fifteen! Moreover, I mean to pocket it! You’ve kept me waiting, you see; and, besides, you are about to be connected with a man who cannot count his gold. Of course I increased my price, as you would have done in my place.” (To be continued.)