Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 January 1902 — NORA'S TEST [ARTICLE]

NORA'S TEST

BY MARY CECIL HAY

From Darkness To Light

CHAPTER Xlll.—(Continued.) But Corr saw cml£ that it had done the deadly work he had meant it to do, -and that the man who had been writing had fallen forward on the table now, and was utterly still —aa no human form could be if life, however feeble, were not extinct. “Dead enough!” muttered Shan, creeping backward into the darkness, but keeping his gaze to the last upon the work which he had done so skillfully and effectually. “We shall have no more of his " A sudden start and turn, as —in a lightning flash —he became aware that he was not alone in the confederate darkness. A sudden wrench as he felt a touch upon him, and Instinctively tried to shake it off in dread; and the next instant he was pinioned, and half a dozen men stood watching that wild stare of his into the face of Mr. Poynz, who had been the first to seize the murderer, and was now standing before him in the full light. “Mr. Poynz,” shouted the lawyer from the open lighted doorway, ns the armed constabulary marched their prisoner down the avenue, “he ought to have come in first to see his victim. Shall the officers bring him back?” “No," said Mark, coming up to the door, and wondering much at the strange exultancy in Mr. Doyle's tone, which seemed to him untimely. “But he ought,” the lawyer went on. his voice raised as if he would like it to travel as far as possible. "By all means he should have seen his victim—shot through the heart. A man likes to bring down his game fairly, and always likes to see how dead it falls. Besides that' the old gentleman's excitement increased now with every word —“his bullet has done further mischief, which I would like him to see. By Jove! his face would have been a study, the rascal, when he saw what good he had done us all, instead of harm. I long to show him how the bullet, which was to have brought down the owner of Traveere, after passing easily through our straw contrivance, aped on its kindly way, and revealed to us the hidden fortune of old Col. St. George. You look fairly incredulous, sir, as Englishmen always do over everything, but by all the saints in Ireland, it's true!” The Yicar of Kilver had rarely been roused to a state of excitement; but on the morning after the chance discovery of old Col. St. George’s hidden wealth, his calm and patient little wife caught herself watching him in mute astonishment, as he paced restlessly about the breakfast room, giving no order for the bell to be rung for prayers, though it was nearly an hour beyond the usual time. “Perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Pennington, a little amused by this conduct, “the girls will not come in until they hear the bell. Nora has been out for hours, I hear, and when Celia finds her, they will probably loiter together until they are summoned.” “All in good time,” the vicar returned. “Doyle will come down presently. He warned us he should sleep late after such a night. Did you notice, my dear, what spirits he was in? You may depend that, careful as he was not to show it, his guardianship rested heavily upon him so long as Nora was unprovided for.” "How strange it all was!” observed Mrs. Penaington. “I can hardly believe It even yet.” “Nor can I. And I’m sure Nora cannot.” “Oh, Nora will soon adapt herself to her new position!” said Mrs. Pennington, with a smile. “Call to mind how often she has longed for money, and how little ahe has ever possessed. The wildest of those old dreams of hers seemed easy of fulfillment to her, 1 dare say, just in that first hour.” "Possibly,” allowed the vicar, reflectively; “yet something else was more dominant in her mind, for I never saw anything more pitiful than her gaze at j that ridiculous straw figure, and the, shudder that ran through her frame at sight of the spot.where the bullet had j pierced it.” “It's a pity,” observed Mrs. Penning- j ton, in her simple, practical way, “that ' the shot should have spoiled a coat, but still ” “But still,” said the vicar, interrupting her with a laugh, “it did so much good after spoiling the coat, my dear, that, if ; I were Nora I should have felt more in- j dined to preserve the bullet than to turn j away from it as she did with such unutterable repugnance. Dear me! dear me!” he continued, “what could have induced ' old Col. St. George to conceal his savings so effectually?” “There is no difficulty in answering j that,” was the prompt and unexpected reply, as Mr. Dbyle entered the room through one of the low windows which , opened to the garden. "The inherent j suspicion of a miser had a lively time of : it, you may depend, in the old man's brain at the very last; for, from whiil I gathered last night, it would be only on the very night before his death that he hid his hoardings so skillfully behind the wainscot that, but for this attempted murder they must have remained there undiscovered till doomsday—or, rather, till the old house fell wholly, hs it fell partially, on the night after he had so cleverly effected the concealment.” “But how," inquired Mr. Pennington, “can you tell that he did it on that night, or that he suspected anyone? Whom could he suspect? lie had no one about liiin but those two old servants—both as honest as they ur<{ ignorant—and Nora herself." “He did not suspect either of those,” •aid the lawyer, with a liugh; “but Kitty told us at the time of old Col. St. George's death, If you recollect, just what she repeated last night—that on the night previous to the fall of the chimney, while lying awake in alarm, she heard her old master walk many times backward and forward between bis bedroom and the sitting room—where we found the money — and that Dr. Armstrong was staying in bouse that night, and had rather a . -eene with the oIA man before .*’**• especially, I believe, • ■nT.ir IM * goh ' K fltogWl. Nora aerseii told us the rest, arid how her jnStti ■■■ . .3

grandfather said he had something to confide to her next day.” “Then you think he meant to reveal to Nora the hiding place of what by his will she now inherits?” “I do, indeed. I believe for some cause —conscience, a grain of real affection for the girl—he hdd determined she should be rich, and that his pretense of sending her to England was merely to lead Armstrong off the scent, and also entirely to blind Mr. Poynz as to her possessing a penny. That’s my cnclusion, Pennington, and I’ve thought these things well over since dawn to-day.” “I’m afraid,” said the vicar’s wife, speaking rather low and timidly, “that Dr. Armstrong will try now even more than he did at the time of her grandfather’s death, to assert his right of guardianship over Nora.” “Then he must fail again even more signally than he failed then," returned Mr. Doyle, promptly. “Until she is of age, I will stick to the task the old man left me. I thought last night how much easier it would be, now she is well provided for; but I declare the conviction has since then dawned upon me that a beautiful, restless girl with wealth at her command will be still harder to manage, and will soon bring my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.” “I am afraid so, indeed,” said the vicar, with a laugh. “I suppose to-day you will have the notes and money counted.” “Yes; but we may be pretty sure they are exactly as they are labeled. Each of the fourteen greasy rolls of notes has ‘Five hundred pounds’ written on the wrapper, and each of the twelve old canvas bags has ‘One thousand pounds’ written on the paper under the seal. The old man left it as securely as he had held it.” CHAPTER XIV. Through many hours during that day were Nora’s plans discussed at the vicarage; but it seemed as if every proposal must be followed by the recollection of a drawback, and almost more than in the days of her unnoticed childhood did the girl feel her loneliness just then. But no one gutted this and Celia was not the oqly; -ohe who said Nora’s sudden access of fortune had evidently put the finishing touch to her happiness. Yet Mrs. Pennington once or twice detected a note of sadness in the pretty voice, and Mr. Poynz caught himself looking now and then into her restless eyes, as if he tried to trace some shadow which lay there below their laughter. Sometimes the girls themselves escaped from these constant debates, and laughed more merrily than they did; or sat upon the uncomfortable green seats, and formed wild plans of future greatness, until they were called in again, perhaps to hear what was Mr. Doyle’s last proposal. And then Nuel Armstrong crossed the room to Nora's side, and told her peremptorily that he must speak to her alone. “I am going to Rachel Corr's. Will you come part of the way, then?” asked Nora, with a determination to hide from all who were present her involuntary reluctance to have him with her. She looked back as they passed through the vicarage gate, and returned Celia’s smile; but I)r. Armstrong never turned his head. Nor, though he looked straight before him, and had not yet glanced into Nora’s face, did he lose the furtive, concentrated expression in his eyes. So they walked on in silence, until they were nearly half way across the bog. Then Nora, a little amused by being summoned to a conference and never addressed, inquired, rather lazily, if Nuel had said all he meant to say. “It is not often I demand to speak to you in private now, Nora,” he began, his voice as concentrated as his gaze, "but when I do, it is for some purpose, you may be sure.” “Nuel,” she said, thoughtfully, “it seems Just as if the old time had gone from me to-day—suddenly—forever. I don’t know why, but It is so; and I've no words to say of it. even to you, that might hold it back for only one other hour. But perhaps you have.” She stopped and stood leaning against an upright cutting of turf, as if she tried to feel that their conference was over, and to prevent his going further. “Nora, you recollect that Royle holds a letter of trust given him by your grandfather?” “Yes.” Bran had laid himself down at her feet, and her hands were linked before her. She stood the very picture of idle content, Nuel thought, as, under the tilted brim of her hat, he saw the happy dreaming of her eyes. "Nora,” he said—and for a mevnent his hand went out ns if he would have drawn her to him as he used to do in that uncherished childhood of hers; but in the next his hand fell, and even his eyes turned from her as he spoke—“did you never feel anxious to know something of your parents?" She turned from him in unfeigned surprise, for had he not for years always silenced her on the subject? “Oh, Nuel, I long and long to hear of them! Ever since I can remember my best dream has been to find some one who will tell me of them. You never would; grandpa never would let me even utter iu his presence the—the words that other girls say so often. Father! Mother! I have whispered them to myself in the night, or out here alone upon the bog, but no one ever listened if I tried to win a faint, faint meniory to hold in my heart Have I felt anxious to know? you ask All, you could never, never know how anxious! Are you—are you going to tell me now, Nuel?” “If I knew, I would,” he said, the dusky color rising slowly in his face under the longing, questioning glance. “And, ns I have long felt that the mystery ought to be traced for you, and you ought to know what your grandfather had no right to keep from you, I am going to, do you that service, Nora, No, don't thank me, dear," he added, hurriedly, ns ho feigned to mistake the sudden question in her eyes; “I will not be thanked for doing a simple duty. When I bare done it, you . .v?.’ *.■ r „tw .*< •* * V

shall thank me as you will, and repay me as your kind and generous heart dictates. No longer than I can help shall you live as you are living now, Nora—under a name to which you have no right. No longer,” he reiterated, with slow significance, as she started up with brilliant, Hashing eyes. “What do you mean, Nuel? Speak plainly. I am a little bewildered to-day. What did you say about my name?” “Nothing against it, my dear,” Dr. Armstrong replied, with his stiff smile, “for it was your grandfather’s, and, of course, your mother’s.” “My father’s, you mean,” Nora corrected, slowly. But her fingers had grown a little nervous now, and she pushed her hat from her forehead, as if its light weight oppressed her. “That,” said Nuel, pointedly, “is what your grandfather chose that you and every one else should believe; but that was not 'the truth. Your father’s name, for some reason which the old man best understood, was kept secret. Possibly it may have been best to do so; but perhaps there is justice yet to be done to his memory, and I, who love his child so devotedly, will do it. Hush! Don’t thank me, darling, till I come to you some day and tell you of your father, bringing you his name, without a stain upon it of dishonor or of—crime.” “What?” The girl’s cry was sharp and sudden, as now, with both hands, she pushed her hair from her temples, and the white fingers clung there as if their hold sustained her. “Yes,” said Nuel, “though Col. St. George died in the fullest confidence that your father's name would disgrace you, Nora, it was perhaps only because he did not love you enough to trouble himself to investigate. That is left for me; and to-day, when I heard that at last the wealth is yours which you so well deserve, I determined that your own name should be yours, too. I determined that I would restore this to my love, and then I should have no wish unsatisfied; for you would be honored in the world, as well as wealthy and happy.” “Perhaps no happier,” put in Nora, low and dreamily, as if she uttered the thought unconsciously. “But you must be happier, dear,” said Nuel, meeting her eyes fully for the first time. “Your, grandfather’s name, of course, is a good and honest name ” “Yes, he always said so,” Nora remarked, quietly, in Dr. Armstrong’s inexplicable pause. “Ami you shall bear that till I bring you a still higher. If I cannot find it pure and respected, you must be sorry for me, Nora, for I shall feel, even more keenly than you can do, the disappointment for you. Then I shall lay my own name at your feet, and you will take it, and no one will ever hear from me a secret which is ours alone.” “Not mine!” cried the girl, passionately. “No secret that is yours is mine!” “Then tell the world,” rejoined Nuel, icily, "how your grandfather would not let you be known by your father’s name, because he thought it disgraced; but that, as you wish and choose to bear it how, you would drag the poor, forgotten, discarded name even to the light of a criminal court.” “That is what—you offered to do.” “What I offer!” cried Nuel, bending to look into her face, with a smile, which she did not attempt to return. "My darling, you know me better than that, even in the moments when you are coldest to me. No; listen a moment, and 1 will explain what I will do for the one I love so entirely, and have loved so long. You will keep your own name at present, and everyone will love and respect it for your salee. But, as it is not yours—as it is not yours,” he repeated, emphatically, while her' wide, gray eyes were still upon his face, “by any legal right, I shall spend that time in seeking for you the one which is your rightful inheritance. If it is stainless, you shall bear it proudly then, my darling. If not, you and I will keep the secret well, and go together from the society which always looks so coldly and cruelly on disgrace. Nora, your grandfather never guessed that I should boldly undertake this commission for your sake; but, my darling, he always wished you to trust your fortune to me, and died iu the full confidence of your doing so.” "He never said so,” Nora Interposed, wearily. “He said so to me often —almost every time I saw him,” said Dr. Armstrong, his thin lips closing now and then over the slow lies. “Oh, you will obey him, I know, presently, Nora. I shall not hurry you, dear; I have never hurried you, because I felt so sure your grandfather’s wish would be fulfilled, and you would be mine at last. Not”—his breath grew just the least bit labored and uncertain here, but Nora did not notice it—“not because it is impossible for you to marry legnlly and honorably In the name you bear, but because I shall have given you then the truest possible test of a man's love. Nora, if I resign my practice here, and for the whole summer pursue this one aim, you cannot,refuse me my recompense when I succeed. Darling, is not that a fair love test? Could you yourself give any lover a more trying one? Acknowledge, Nora, that the man who would do that must love you beyond measure.” “Yes,” said Nora, answering absently. “And could you do less for your father’s memory than give yourself to the man who clears his name from all reproach, and gives it to you? Let it be Yes, and then see how eagerly I will go to my task.” “And if —anyone else could fulfill it?” interrogated Nora, her eyes far away, and her voice low and troubled. “I—well, I will stand tlie chance,” said Dr. Armstrong, with a sudden unaccountable buoyancy. "Who else is likely? Young Foster would blunder and fail in the first attempt. Poynz would not attempt it at all. The very suspicion of any degradation attached to your name would prevent his ever raising his hand to help you or yours, for he is only an indolent, self-engrossed man of the world. What is it, darling? Why did you start?” he asked, adroitly intercepting and misunderstanding Nora's impetuous, scornful dissent. “So let him think you Miss St. George still, and then he will remain your friend os much as he has ever been; though, ns I understood from your grandfather, on the night after be had seen Mr. Poynz at Traveere, It is in some way owing to his family that your childhood has been so solitary and hard.” “I will ask Mr. Doyle.” For one second the veins rose like cords

in Dr. Armstrong's forehead, and the brows came down over his eyes, as a flash of fear and anger darted from them; but in the next he was laughing a little, and then he answered, in his lightest and easiest tones: “Ask Doyle, with pleasure, dear, if you choose to make this pitiful subject town talk, and the name of your dead parents a by-word. If you think that is how you can best honor them, ask Doyle, by all means. Ask old Pehnington, too; ho is even better than Doyle at probing into other men’s business, and then laying it open to be piously discussed and ridiculed. Oh! ask them all. Ask Foster; ho may not be such a fool as people call him. He may even suggest that his mother protects and pities you, and his sisters bestow their generous patronage oh the girl who owns a questionable name. Oh! tell them all—if you think that better than being an equal among them, as you are now.” “I am going on,” said Nora. “You have said ail now, haven’t you? I am going on so Rachel. No, I - would rather you didn’t come. There is no need to say more to-day; I know it all. I know it aa if we tyad—had stood here for weeks, talking it all the- time. I shall never stand just here again, I hope, as long as I live. Come, Bran.” Blind as he was in his passion for her, Nuel Armstrong was yet too shrewd not to see that he would injure his own cause if he forced his companionship upon her longer; so he bid her good-by quietly, and forebore to add one other word. (To be continued.)