Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 November 1901 — NORA'S TEST [ARTICLE]

NORA'S TEST

BY MARY CECIL HAY

From Darkness To Light

CHAPTER IV.—(Continued.) “In the pitch-darkness of the winter might I awoke in a great tremor, for some one had come noiselessly into my •room. I don’t know to this moment who it was; for the instant I heard the summons I rose and went to Miss Kate. Mr. Arthur had gone for the doctor. Miss Kate was pressing brandy through the ■closed teeth, the old nurse was chafing one hand; but I saw in a minute that -these things were too late. “ ‘When did it happen?’ I whispered to the nurse. And she whispered back, with her lips quite ■ white, ‘I was asleep. 1 shall never forgive myself.’ The doctor ■came and went through some forms, but ■we knew that nothing could be done now. But we all knew what it meant when he took up the.vial and found it empty. And when he looked from it down upon the old lady, we knew she had died of poison. “On the third morning there was an inquest called, and the young doctor made it all clear enough, and we were all made to help. I don't know what -was said, but everybody soon knew that Mr. Arthur was sorely in need of the old lady’s .money, and very tired of her tempers, and had to drop the poison because Miss Kate had fallen asleep. Something prevented its being possible to end the inquest then —either the great London physician hadn’t finished his examination, •or the sudden heavy fall of snow had kept away somebody who was important —at liny rate, the inquest had to be adjourned. When Mr. Arthur came in, latest of all of us. from this first inquest, I was in the little sitting room at the foot ■of that east tower, sir—you see the two narrow windows? —sitting with Miss Kate. When Miss Kate heard his step, she got up very quietly from her seat and stood with her face hidden on the chimney piece. ‘Don't go, Rachel,’ she. said, very low; but, though she’d been crying a great deal, I saw she wasn’t crying then. “Mr. Arthur came into the house silently, He entered the room slowly and quietly Ah! no wonder we'd all seen the last of any life or spirit about Mr. Arthur! He went up to the fire and. stood opposite Miss Kate, telling her What I’ve said about the inquest. I looked first at one pale face, and then at the other; and then I went out of the room without a sound, and shut myself in my bedroom, and cried for hours. “As I came down again from my room, I stayed at one of the windows on the stairs, and as I stood looking out, Miss Kate’s old nurse came gently up and stood behind me. ‘What do you see?’ she whispered, anxiously. I had seen nothing then; but it made me watch, and in a minute or two afterward I turned sharply round, and, passing her, ran noiselessly downstairs and into the little sitting room where I had left Miss Kate and Mr. Arthur. Miss Kate was sitting there alone, her face bowed in her hands; and when I told her, whispering and stammering, that the house was watched, she only raised it very slowly and wearily, and looked me in the face dazed like. ‘Please tell Mr. Arthur,’ I entreated; ‘please warn him.’ ‘You go,’ she said, almost in her natural tones. ‘He is in the library.’ That’s the room, sir, that I told you with the wide window opening to the steps. I knocked at the door again and again, but got no answer; so at last I tried the handle, and found the door was locked on the inside. When I went back to Miss Kate, I expected her to be nervous and frightened; but, somehow, 1 could not help fancying she was not surprised at all. But when I told this to the nurse, she cried like a baby. ‘lf he attempts to escape on such a night as this,* she said, ‘it will be as if he walked straight into prison of his own accord.’ “Of course I knew, just as well as any one, that no escape could be possible for Mr. Arthur that night. The snow lay quite six inches deep all around the house, and yet there was no hope of another storm which could hide the deep marks which any footstep must make. Hour after hour went on, and Miss Kate

seemed to have no thought of going to bed; so nurse and I sat up, too, listening keenly to every sound, yet dreading, above all, the opening of that one door Into Mr. Arthur's room. It was still about half an hour before the hour at which we had calculated there would be daylight, ■when a long, sharp ring at the hall bell startled us both. Miss Kate had drawn the bolts even before I reached it, and was standing there with the lamplight before her, with her head bent forward, listening eagerly to a man who had come up into the very doorway. I ■oon knew what it was. though I hadn't heard the first words. This man had, as he went round the house even before the. first glimmer of dawn, seen footmarks In the snow, and had traced them from that wide window of Mr. Arthur's room down to the lake. There were no prints of returning steps, and he must be allowed to enter that room. I don’t know what more he said, because that was such a terrible morning for us all. Mr. Arthur's door was broken open—for, though we could easily have walked in through the window, it was not allowed, because of those footprints in the snow—and the room was empty. "They dragged the lake and once, from quite the middle, they brought up Mr. Arthur's coat; but the body was never found. I remember Mr. Arthur's cousin, who came over soon after—he was the gentleman who got the estate and- all the money—said the body was never likely to be found, because the lake was full of ■uct dangerous holes, and I heard the magistrate say so, too. Years and years before one of the children from the Hall had been drowned there, and the body never found. That's the story, sir. Do you wonder that we few servants who had loved Mr. Arthur should have left when he died, even if we had had no other reason?'’ "And Miss Kate?” "Miss Kate,” returned the woman, ■aletly, "went away from the Hall with mt old nurse. I don't know where they •re now, I think her heart was broken. Poor Miss Kate!” ! “Was there no faint chance of thia rfime having been committed by Miss Kate or the nurse T' asked Mr. Poyns.

“They thought of that, sir, as they seemed to think of everything,” Rachel Corr answered, simply; “but they could not think it long.” “I will not ask you any more,” said Mark, his voice full of sympathy, as he rose; “and I am much obliged to you for interesting me so. If I chance to stay in Ireland over to-morrow may I call in again? I have a proposal to make to your son.” “To Micky, sir?” inquired the woman, with a smile toward the sick lad’s chair. “I shall be very glad, sir. He’s like my own, is Micky.” Mr. Poynz, leaning with one haiyi on the kitchen chair from which he had risen, understood, in this speech an unexpressed reservation with regard to her elder stepson, but did not notice it in words. “Then good-evening, now,” he said, and offered his hand both to Rachel and the sick boy. “Micky,” said his mother, after watching her visitor as far as she could in the gloom, “I like him—don’t you, dear? He didn’t look tired of me and my story.” “He knew the house, mother,” observed Michael. “His eyes went roightly to ivery spot afore you pointed it out. I watched him, and I’m sure —I’ve nothin’ to do but watch now. have I? Mother,” he -went on, presently, looking up at her as she stood beside him. “I’ve bin thinkin’ another thing while I listened to ye—it’s little I do but think now. Was that young docthor you’ve bin speakin’ of Docthor Armstrong?” “Dr. Nuel Armstrong—yes.”

i CHAPTER V. Mr. Pennington had performed the usual duty of driving his guest to Lough Erne, and Miss Foster had uttered the usual remarks on Irish lakes in general compared with the English ones, and expressed the usual admiration for both in a voice of calm indifference. And now, glad to feel that the duty drive was over and her box must be packed that night, she succumbed to an overpowering sensation of mental fatigue, and made Celia the recipient of many a languid sigh, as the two girls took their afternoon tea in the quiet vicarage drawing room. "You must come over and visit us,” said Miss Foster, languidly yielding her cup to Celia. "That will be a great enjoyment for you, and do you good.” Celia received this tempting proposal in silence. Of course it would be a gorgeous thing to drive in Hyde Park, and she should be sure to have new dresses to take, and Will was such an old friend; but the prospect had its drawbacks; and, besides that, she knew very well that her parents would not consent to send her, and could not well afford to do so if they wished it. So she only smiled a vague little appreciative smile, and let the subject drop as inertly as most subjects dropped between these two. “And yet,” Celia sighed to herself, “it must be my fault, of course, because Miss Foster is so clover, and so used to clever society, and could, of course, talk so well if she had anyone worth talking to.” A pleasant interruption came at last, and Celia’s first idea was that this was the very pleasantest interruption which could have come. Unheralded by the boys this time, Will came in and roused them in his simple, cheery way; but after the first minutes, while the blush and smile with which she had met him still lingered on Celia’s face, he went and stood at the window, looking out, his light words growing quieter and less frequent. “How very anxiously you have hurried your return!” observed his sister, preseently. “How exceedingly desirous you have been to make yourself agreeable to Miss Pennington and myself!” “Miss Pennington, have I been rude?” asked Will, in his frank, spontaneous way. He was standing opposite to her, and had need only to turn his eyes from the gate to see her face full of pretty, hasty dissent. “I am so used to being here, you see, Genevieve,” he explained to his sister, “that I fell quite naturally into all my old ways, and— — Celia understands.” “When a gentleman is ungentlemanly,” observed Miss Foster, “it is a pity that anyone should understand him.” “I think,” returned Will, “it is far more a pity to insinuate anything discourteous of Celia’s kindness to me.”

“If you were not thoroughly suspicious,” said Miss Foster, coldly, “you would not say such a thing as that. But you always were suspicious, Will.” Before Will’s second prompt rebuke was uttered, Celia had quietly left the room, conscious that family bickerings should, if possible, be conducted privately. “You seem to be watching very anxiously,” observed Genevieve, presently. “I suppose you are in a hurry to go back to What is the name of that Irish girl’s shabby old home?” “Traveere,” replied Will, with placidity. “I suppose you found the parting very hard to-day? Was the good-by exquisitely pathetic?” “I heard no good-by,” was Will’s careless retort. “I shall see Nora again tomorrow, and, beyond that, I hope and trust she is coming to London with us.” “Coming with us!” cried Genevieve, raising her fair, arched eyebrows, and speaking with slow, amused contempt. "There will be more voices than one required to arrange such a ridiculous plan. Do you suppose I would travel with that semi-barbarous girl? If her relations want her convoyed to England, let them pay someone else to see her safely there.” “Mother has given mo permission to invite her,” put in Will, his voice betraying all his own anxiety. .“I telegraphed to mother after you must have left home, and she answered most quickly and kindly. You have no Idea, Genevieve, how anxious I am for poor little Nora to have care and teaching for a time.” “Oh, yes, I have an idea!” returned , Miss Foster, scofflngly. “I am not quite

so dense as you hope. And as for mother, of course, if you took her unawares with a telegram, and put your story plausibly, she would do whatever you wished. You know how easily she is wound around anybody’s finger.” “Hold hard, Genevieve!” put in Will, good-humoredly. “She is our mother, you know, however flexible.” “Remember, Willoughby,” said his sister, with great emphasis, “if you utter a word of this absurd proposition before Mr. Poynz, I shall hold you up to the keenest ridicule.” Therefore the laugh was all gone when Celia came back, and she could plainly see what a relief her entrance was to him; while, in her innocent delight at seeing this, what wonder was it that the girl blushed in simple, frank confession of it, even though Miss Foster's eyes were on her? “See,” she said, as she came up to the window, “there is Mr. Poynz at the gate. I am glad,” she added, simply, turning to Genevieve, as Will passed through the open window to meet Mark, “I am very glad he came this evening.” “Are you?” questioned Miss Foster, concealing her own joy with admirable address. “You see, it is so natural to me to see Mr. Poynz dropping in at all hours for a little music with me, or a chat, that I never could be surprised, as I dare say you are.” By this time Will had hurried down the drive, and Mark, who was not hurrying by any means, had barely passed the gate when his friend’s eager question met him: z “I am glad it is well; I was rather doubtful about it myself.” ’ “No; but really,” persisted Will, eagerly, “what luck have you had? Will the old man listen to my proposal?” “You will see when you make it.” “But you pleaded my cause for me?” “Yes.” “Thank you, Poynz—thank you so much.” Something in the tone made Mark turn to look, and his idea was at once confirmed by Will’s rubescent face. “Not in that way, Will,” he said quickly. “I have only urged the advisability of Miss St. George going to England with you and your sister, instead of with Dr. Armstrong. I am not such a fool as to plead another man’s love-suit, remember that. I don't believe you would ask it of any man; but if you ever asked it of me, I should refuse without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Of course you would,” returned Will, rather dejectedly. “I really did not expect it, Poynz. Is Nora alone with her grandfather at Traveere to-night?” “No; Dr. Armstrong is there.” “You seem vexed about it,” observed hV’ill, astonished. “I should be sorry if she were alone.” “It is a trifling evil—to be alone,” returned Mark, coolly. And by this time they had reached the window, and he was greeting Celia, as she held it open for them to enter the room that way. The dinner at the vicarage on that evening was rather a silent meal. Never a great talker, there was about Mr. Poynz such a keen sense of humor, such quick appreciativeness, and such ready sympathy and clearness of thought that his presence relieved and brightened the most somber table. Yet on this evening Will was thoroughly aware that his silence was the silence not only of deep, but even of disturbed thought. And Will was yet wondering over this when he and Mark and the vicar followed the ladies to the drawing room. “As we have spent a whole day without you, Mr. Poynz,” observed Miss Foster, “you must do your very best now to make up for it; mustn’t he, Mr. Pennington?” she added, smiling at the vicar, and thinking how very little tact he displayed to come and seat himself in the vacant chair beside her. “We sleepy aboriginals,” answered the vicar, “who do not know what society is doing, and scarcely see the Times till it is a week old, can be but dull entertainers. I’m sorry Miss Foster has not had better amusement to-day than we could give her.. I trust you understand, Mr. Poynz, how glad we should have been to see you.” “Your generous hospitality tempted me to take that for granted,” returned Mark, pleasantly; “but, as you see, I am but a moody companion.” “Moody!” echied Will, in utter thoughtlessness. “I’m sure I saw no moodiness in you to-day, as we sat on that old pine tree —you and I and Nora.” If, from a wide repertory of remarks, Will had sought for the one most calculated to annoy his sister, he could scarcely have succeeded better than in selecting this. “Nora,” she repeated, turning to Celia with a smile. “Isn’t that the girl you told me of, who runs wild about the country, and scarcely knows good from evil?” “I —I think ” began Celia; but Will burst into the discussion. “Nora is one of the best girls I know, Genevieve. However she may have been trained, she is as good a girl at heart as ever lived.” “I did not ask you,” smiled Genevieve. “As I happen to have heard a good many stories of your pranks here, and of the similar tastes of this Irish girl, you cannot, of course, expect me to be much impressed by your view of the matter.” “She never did a thing that was wrong,” Will went on, with boyish vehemence; but Mark interrupted him with a quiet remark to Genevieve. "His evidence is nothing, is it, Miss Foster? They were confederates, and 1 dare say he felt his own inferiority, too; for aren't we told that women in mischief are wiser than men?” "She was a very small woman,” said Will, laughing now. “As a child,” observed the vicar, "such conduct was excusable in one who never was trained with any care or experience; but Nora is growing up now, and I should like to see a little more staidness and circumspection.” "I suppose,” remarked Miss Foster, with a smile for Mr. Poynz, “that this girl Ayfind some way of amusing you this morning? You are such a student of character.” "Am I? Then I most go again to improve my opportunities—especially with her grandfather." "He's a very wicked old man, I’ve heard,” said Genevieve, more cheerful now she had won Mark’s entire attention. “Tell me—does he look as curious for a man as bis granddaughter does for a girl?’ "Well, that would be saying a great deal—wouldn’t it? But still he has a curious appearance.”

? ‘Sometimes he wear* aa old browa coat, , Sometimes a pompadore; Sometimes ’tis buttoned up behind. And sometimes down before.’ ” “He’s a fright, of course;” laughed Genevieve. But Will, asleep to the hint so skillfully prepared for him, put in his interruption. “But surely, Poynz, you don't deny that Nora is very beautiful? Why, I never was so astonished in my life as when I first saw her to-day; yet I always fancied I knew how pretty she would be.” “As none of us,” returned Mark, perfectly aware in what mood Miss Foster awaited his reply, “have had your opportunities, Will, you must not expect us to see things exactly as you do. I will either politely adopt your opinion of Miss St. George’s beauty, or be silent about it —whichever you like.” (To be continued.)