Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 87, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 July 1899 — HIDDEN TERROR [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HIDDEN TERROR

g OBAPTBR XVL—(Continued.) Lord Wynmore denied himself to all | Visitors, and laid aside all his usual oceu-K-pations. lingering on, a forlorn and unF apeakably wretched man, at Wynmore K Manor. f In the cottage itself Mabel was hardly |tnore secluded, more entirely shut out from the world, than was Neville Wyn-f-anorr, the wealthy, courted young peer. I One day, as she whom he mourned and remembered so faithfully stood watching I. tbe trees swaying in the wind, she suddenE ly resolved that she would go home. “Mary,” she said, in her usual quiet ■ tones, turning to the maid, who generally i- «at working in the next room, “I have de--1 cided to go home. Will you pack up my - things to-day, as I shall write to my fathp <r to let him know that we may be exKpected to-morrow?" Mabel was surprised to notice a supEoressed smile on the maid's countenance, | but she rose, folded up her work, and an- | ;>wered: P “Very well, miss.” •‘I shall leave by the two o'clock train—- ' 4hat will give you and Jane plenty of £ 'time," added Mabel. EU “There's sure to be time enough, miss,” ■ replied the girl, turning away her head. I Mabel thought the servant’s manner ■odd, but proceeded to write to her father ; —never without a shudder difl she so name him — then packed up a few books and •Other valuables, and spent the rest of the i -day till nightfall gazing sadly from the I window *at the swaying trees and the t leaves whirling in the wind. The thought of her return home kept I her awake, and she did not rise till late / the next morning. Before leaving her < room she noticed that her trunks were not packed. “How is this, Mary?” she asked. “You have got nothing packed, and it is now jadeven o’clock.” K “No, miss,” answered the woman, some- ■ . what confusedly; "but, if you please, > aniss, if I were you, I’d wait and hear ' what Mr. Charlford says. No doubt he’d dike best to come and fetch you; and, be7»des, there isn’t a train at two o'clock.” “You are mistaken —I have looked at Bradshaw; and my father begged me to feeturn at any time I wished. And, as I 'Shave written to him, I shall go to-day.” P “Oh, indeed, miss, I can’t get your .trunks packed till to-morrow!” declared ■Jthe maid. * “Then I shall go without my luggage, , -and it must be sent after me. I cannot ' Understand why you should try to defer my journey,” rejoined Mabel, wondering - at the girl’s conduct. “Well, miss, your papa’s orders are most r that we should take the utmost •care of you in your weak state; and the -station is a place you couldn’t in no wise <o to — it’s too noisy and bustling. You'd ’•best walk in the garden, or somewhere where it’s quiet.” V Mabel looked at her fixedly. A whirl of -emotions overcame her. What was the meaning of this? Was she then a prisoner? She sat down, completely prostrated by the frightful and sudden conviction that .’if she was not allowed to leave the house it could be only by her father's orders. He ; ibad not scrupled to deceive her as he had •done before. Oh, heavens! had he deceiv--ed ter in that other matter which concern-j •ed a fellow creature’s life? 'j • The very thought was so terrible to Mattel that it rendered her speechless for the moment, and the woman slipped away to avoid further questioning. “Whatever happens, I will escape—l will escape! To stay here after this would be too cruel a fate!” she thought. “But I rmust mislead them, or all hope is past.” f This fixed resolution supported her. She | must seem to acquiesce—she must rei -strain herself, and be quiet and gentle, f allowing it to appear as if she awaited the arrival of her father to take her away. She caught a glimmering of the truthsail her attendants in the house —all her •old friends and acquaintances—Miss Gray, her sisters, Dick himself, Neville . even, believed that she was deranged. She was lost to them because they had • been induced to believe that no love —even I -such love as theirs—could reach her. Oh, | ’terrible moment! If her present awful captivity was ever to be changed, it must ? be by assuming the state of mind with < which all about her credited her; but if she could only see Dick she could open his ■ eyes. As for Neville, had she not re- , mounced him forever?

CHAPTER XVII. At midnight all was quiet in the cottage, •nd soon Mary’s deep breathing told that •he slept profoundly; but Mabel could not rest. Detained there a prisoner, accounted insane by the world, what hope in life was left her? Surely it was better that she should die and leave this cruel world altogether! •, “Oh, Neville, Neville!” she cried, in the <depths of her soul—“oh, that I might ■clasp your hand in mine before I die!” 1 It became so intolerable to her to lie there in the deep stillness that she rose •oftly, and, feeling in the darkness for her -dressing gown, threw it round her, and went to the window; then gently drawing back the curtains, she looked oat at the night. It was moonlight; but there were no ' confusing shadows. The wind had gone down; the trees were still. She could distinguish the faint outlines of the paths in ■the garden and the place where a few -hours before she had paced up and down, ■i guarded by Mary. How many times would ■ she be forced to walk there again, caring ■ only that the heavy minutes might fly by •nd deliver her at length from her captivity? f She sat for some moments with her face 'buried in her hands, with a restless move/ment, gazed once more over the landscape ' without. As she did so, a faint cry almost ♦escaped from her, for she distinguished the figure of a man, with his arms folded, .leaning against a tree, who was fixedly regarding the cottage. Her first feeling of fear quickly gave place to one of additional dejection. k, “This man evidently has orders to ■Watch the house in order to prevent my escape—that must be the explanation of his ISAace. Who is he? Is he my uncle or Hither, or is it the gardener?” Ofjftrertheless a wild desire arose within escape, and she began to plan how K wight accomplish it. She trembled

as she pondered the matter. To try and to fail would be too terrible. To try and succeed would render her almost helpless, and that at a time when she would have, to battle at tremendous odds with the world. She decided, however, to undertake the task at all risks; and as she sat in the darkness she made her plans. She would go to New Zealand—she would place the distance of half the globe between her and her father; and from the antipodes she would send him a few words, telling him that she desired only to die out of his sight. She would write to Dick, too, but in very different fashion, and to Neville; and perhaps, after many years, when in the course of nature her father should die, she would return, a grave and altered woman, to her old home —return to find Neville wedded to another, and herself forgotten. Mabel went to her trunk, tossing aside things that she had formerly valued for their tastefulness. Then she took up dresses that were underneath the laces aud lighter things. There were four pretty costumes which were still quite fresh, and which fitted her as if made but recently. She had not grown more robust during the last few mouths.

One quiet gray gown called up recollections of that day from which all her troubles dated—the day when she first discovered that her father had a secret to hide—the words she had overheard in the library, the scene near the boathouse, the interview with her uncle, then with her father, the plausible explanation he had given her, and, last of all. that never-to-be-forgotten scene in her father’s study, when, as she believed, she had been the means of- averting a fearful crime. Her parting from Neville had followed, then her separation from all her family; next her imprisonment in the cottage. She continued to handle the gray dress without thinking of what she was doing, and in this state of mind she unfolded it, shook it, and held it up before her; and, as she did so; her hand came in contact with a thin and crumpled piece of paper in the pocket of the skirt. What could it be? For she had not worn the dress since that day, so vivid in her memory, on which she had taken it off before her father went to Germany, or was supposed to go there. Instantly there flashed across her mind the little scene in Netta’s bedroom, when she had been so agitated about the paper which fell from the pocket of this very dress, and she had believed herself about to obtain a clew to the secret which had ever since eluded her. This paper contained an allusion which had been a key to a part of the deception which she felt shrouded her father's past. She had been deeply disappointed at first, and then intensely relieved in mind, at missing what she had aimed at in snatching the piece of paper from her father’s drawer, and she had gone away from home the next day in the belief that the secret still lay hidden in the drawer of her father’s writing table. Never since that day had she worn the gray dress, which was not stylish enough for any place but the school room; and during all the stirring occurrences that followed—her visit to her uncle’s, her brief, happy engagement to Lord Wynmore, when new garments were ordered for her, and she was emancipated from the school room—she had never had occasion to wear this particular dress, for, after her engagement to Neville Wynmore was broken off, illness ensued, and her fancy for black garments grew upon her, so that this costume had lain unthought of at the bottom of her trunk now open before her. Now swiftly came the startling thought that here, at this unexpected moment, the mystery would be laid bare to her—the hidden thing be made clear. She felt assured that she was about to lay hold of that which had hitherto eluded her. How painfully her heart beat as she drew out the thin foreign sheet, smoothed it with tremulous agony, read in German: “Frankfort, June, 18—. “Your last letter was so unsatisfactory that I will answer it in person. It is of no use to beat about the bush with me; and you ought to know that, if I ask a good deal, it is worth your while to pay it. I must write a long letter, but every word will have to be reckoned for.

“It is too ridiculous for you, Charlford —or rather Filton —to tell me, Horace Lane, that you cannot afford to pay twice over for a secret such as I have in my keeping. If you paid for it a dozen times, it would be better than spending the rest of your life at the public expense in one of her majesty’s prisons. You think to blind me? You have reckoned without any real knowledge of the man with whom you have to deal. “Your reputed brother takes advantage of a series of fortuitous circumstances, of my own skill in imitating any handwriting, of my presumed dying state, of the death of Mrs. Charlford in her husband’s absence, of an attack of yellow fever which rapidly carried off the real Richard Charlford during his visit to the West Indies—l say he takes advantage of all these circumstances to forge a will bequeathing to himself the immense fortune amassed by his cousin, which would otherwise have gone to Richard Charlford, and at his death to his children. He draws up the will; I write it out, signing it with a forged signature on consideration of receiving for my penniless child a sum of eight thousand pounds. lam supposed at the time to be in a dying state—John Charlford thinks that dead men tell no tales. “Your price had to be settled. It was a heavy one—no less than that the man who had planned to take all the late Mr. Charlford’s property should make a new will which should bestow half the wealth on yourself, in order to do which securely it was necessary to palm yourself off as Richard Charlford, the father of his dead brother’s children. “Why not? The wife was dead, the baby children had not seen their father for a year, and the yellow fever was reported to have wrought a great change in him. “John Charlford resisted as much as he dared; but he found himself caught in a snare. The will was never questioned; John Charlford informed his companion in Iniquity as to a few important by-gone events, and the deception succeeded. Ever since you have held up your head with the county gentlemen of England—yet you

demur to pay a few thousand pounds more. Refuse if you dare! “Meet me at John Charlford’s, by the boat house on the estate he got by fraud; there we will settle terms while every one supposes you to be abroad. Yours, in amity if you will, ' . “HORACE LANE.’ r A wild thrill of horror and joy ran through Mabel—horror at the deep iniquity, joy at the great deliverance. What possibilities of happiness opened before her now! For the crimes associated with the man who had usurped the name of Charlford laid no stain upon her father. Her uncle had indeed disgraced his name and kindred; but yet it was not like having to blush for one’s own father. Nor was Uncle John her father’s own brother —he was the son of a second marriage.

CHAPTER XVIII. Midnight! Would Jane never put down the book? Was she going to sit up all night? The sound of the clock striking the hour seemed at length to rouse her, and she went on tip-toe across the room, softly withdrew the key from the lock, and soon afterward extinguished the candle. Presently her measured breathing told that she was fast asleep. Then Mabel sat up and listened in the silence. It would not do to move just yet —a little more time was needed to let the maid fall into her usual heavy slumber; but, oh, how terrible to have to wait like this, while the minutes were flying by, bearing with them perhaps her chance of escape! To lose this opportunity must be to lose all. Not one of those surrounding her would consent to post a letter for her; and she had no money at hand with which to bribe anyone. Her father—no, no, the man who dared so to call himself! —would be with her with the morning light, and then how should she evade him? But there was another thought mingled with all this dread in Mabel’s mind —a thought which set her heart beating with hope; for, if her surmise was correct, the way was open for her. Jane had certainly carried away the key carefully slung upon her finger—Mabel had not only heard but seen the woman do so, for she had watched her furtively as she crossed the room —but, so far as Mabel saw, she had not locked the door before withdrawing the key. Was it that she was too much absorbed in her book to notice the omission? Or had her sudden consciousness of the lateness of the hour flurried her? Surely Mabel herself had made no mistake' about this —surely the door was not locked! It was not only Jane who was late in retiring to rest, thought the tortured girl, who was waiting for her guardians to be wrapped in slumber before she dared make her venture; Mrs. Jones did not come upstairs till it was nearly midnight, shutting the door somewhat noisily after her—indeed, the woman appeared to have been opening and shutting the doors all the evening. At length silence reigned in the cottage, and Jane’s deep breathing, amounting now to heavy snoring, announced that there was little danger that any ordinary noise would disturb her. Now was the time—now! Hardly breathing, Mabel slipped from the couch, and in the dim light went softly across the floor and turned the handle of the door. Oh, what a moment was that in which she tried the lock and found her conjecture right! Jane had not locked the door, after all! It opened softly, without noise, without difficulty! Mabel, trembling with hope and fear, could see into the dim passage beyond. Tic, tac —tic, tae —tic, tac! How loudly the hall clock seemed to tell out the minutes! Mabel listened only to assure herself that Mrs. Jones was in her room, then in extreme agitation put on her dress, drew on the cloak containing the precious letter, and, without looking for hat or bonnet, glided toward the stairs.

Hush! Was that a movement below? For an instant she gasped with maddening fear, then recovered herself, feeling that her excitement confused her. Courage! In a little while she would stand at the house door; there would be only the opening of it! She cast one frightened glance at the room which she had just quitted; then, the balusters, descended to the ground floor. She had gained the hall, walking with slippered feet, when in an instant she became aware, by the smothered murmur of voices, that there were others awake besides herself—two persons at least in the little room which opened out of the hall, close to the spot where she stood! Then, by one of those swift intuitions which come in moments of supreme danger, she divined the truth. Her father, so called —her dreaded father—had arrived unexpectedly, bringing her uncle with him. They must have come that evening, after she was supposed to be sleepingafter Mrs. Feathers and Mary had started. No doubt Mrs. Jones had told some plausible tale concerning the absence of the housekeeper; and the sudden arrival of the two men was the cause of the constant shutting and opening of the doors which she—Mabel—had heard in her room! All this flashed through her mind in a second; her intense fear made her deliberate for a moment, and in that pause the handle of the door turned. They were coming out—they would meet her face to sac was no time to retreat! With the calmness and hopelessness of ; complete desperation, Mabel took one step backward, hiding herself behind several long cloaks that hung from the pegs in the hall. The man calling himself her father came first; her uncle followed. “Wait one moment,” said he, as the reputed Charlford was about to walk toward the stairs. “Don’t do anything rashly. You seem to me to be losing your head.” “Boldness is best in such a case,” hissed the other. “Let me get her safely out of England, and she shall never eome back to scare me!” “And suppose her sisters are importunate and insist on seeing her? There is Dick, too, on your hands; you cannot keep him away forever.” “I will!" broke savagely from the lips of John Charlford’s companion. “It will be awkward," said the other.. “And what is to be done with Lane? You are mad to think of eluding his demands." “Leave him to me!” said the presumed Charlford. “Take care what you do!” urged Uncle John. “Where is he at this moment?*’ “At the old lodgings—nor is he likely to leave them till he either pockets the whole of his money or comes to my terms,” was the answer, I“What are your terms?’.’ asked John Charlford. “Leave that to me!” rejoined the other.

“Filton, you alarm me when you adopt that tone!” said Uncle John. “Do I? Then you had getter go to bed —there is at least no cause to be alarmed to-night. Here we are under a snug roof in a free land; and, as we both mean to satisfy Mr. Horace Lane, we are secure, your lovely niece slumbers above. What a joyful surprise for her when she meets us both at breakfast in the morning! Come, John, let’s to bed; there is enough to do to-morrow, as you know. Lane is up to something which even I cannot fathom. He will want more gold from us—se« if I am not right—and I mean to stop it.” Again John Charlford responded with the words: “Filton, you alarm me,” and again the man so addressed laughed a low laugh of mocking defiance. “Well, you must keep Lane quiet till I have disposed of Mabel. I’m off to bed; I shall have a journey to-morrow. Goodnight.” (To be continued.)