Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 35, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 December 1902 — The Iron-Worker's Daughter [ARTICLE]

The Iron-Worker's Daughter

BY HOWARD FORRESTER.

CHAPTER XVll.—(Continued.) “Pooh!” said Atherton, “anybody -with half an eye eould tell your business.” “And you two ain’t any smarter,” said Jones, scornfully. “Put up them foolish things, or if you don’t you’ll wish you had. Do you think he or I cares for them?” “We don't," said Atherton, smiling at the officers. “But there is no use making trouble in this man’s house —besides, as soon as 1 know what’s wanted. I'll go with you quietly. What are you arresting me for? '’What is the charge?” He glanced scornfully from one to the other, holding Ids head well up and back. The officer who had spoken put on a magisterial air, however, swelled himself, and answered in deliberate tones. “I arrest you on the charge of murder!” “Murder!” repeated Atherton, like one in a dream, but quickly recovering himself, he glanced at his companion meaningly. then added, with a light laugh: “Nonsense. However, I’ll go up the street with you—and Jack, you will see my friends at once—and tell Irene exactly what has happened. Now, then, I’m ready; and remember what I say—all hands had best go slow in this business, for if I'm not treated right, I’ll make it Warm for all concerned.” ------ And the ironworker walked out of the place as proudly as though he were taking charge of his companions, instead of feeing subject to them. “You’ve the nerve of a regiment,” said one of the officers. ly. “I've the rights of a better citizen than I know you to be, to maintain, as you’ll discover mighty quick if you either insult me or lay a hand on a man who is going quietly with you.” The officers held their peace after that ibroadside. CHAPTER XVIII. Mr. Gripp's fury was something frightful to behold when he returned to his Own office with the roll of drawings Irene had given him. He flung the paper on the floor—then kicked the roll across the room. “Curse him! I’ll pay him off for this. Oh, he’ll get pay—pay. I always pay my debts—don't owe any man a dollar—don’t owe any man an ill turn, either. And I’ll pay her off—won't I? Oh, no! Maybe I won't.” And so this quiet, well-dressed, properlooking person capered about his room. The world could not see him, and he had high jinks all alone. “And I’ll swallow that story? Not much. I’ll make him surrender his whole interest. He's got my note by this time if he gets home early—that’ll frighten him out of his wits. He'll dome down as gingerly as Crockett’s copn. Oh, he’s coming right down. And when he is on his knees to me”—another vicious kick at the roll—“ I’ll tell him —when he's made his whole interest over to me—l'll tell him he owes his precious neck to me.” And then the moat respectable looking, quietly moving man in the world struck out viciously with both hands, like a man hitting a hated object. This ebullition was at its height when a light, a very light, rap sounded at Mr. Gripp's office door. Now, Mr. Gripp’s office was in an out-of-the-way place. It was near the wharf, in a locality rarely frequented by the female portion of Pittsburg. So, when Mr. Gripp opened his door suddenly, and i beheld a woman standing before it, he was taken somewhat by surprise. “Well, what is it? What do you want?”

She was a poorly dressed woman, you may be sure, for Gripp always deferred to well-dressed people. “If you please, you are Mr. Gripp, ain’t you? My name is ” “No matter what your name is. Out with your errand.” The woman, whose features were partially concealed with a large sunbonnet, that looked very odd in that place in that season, bowed her head. “My boy is worried. Ever since he carried a message for you to Allegheny he’s been watched, he says.” “For me.? I sent no message to anybody. It's a mistake, I tell ybu.” “I know my boy is telling the truth. He can t be mistaken. He says you’ve Sent hint errands often. Now he’s afraid there’s danger for him. You send him an errand to-day. Now he says there's a boy haunting my house till he comes out—a boy that met him and seen him deliver the message. And you told him nobody in the world must know veu •ent it.” . “See here, now,” said Gripp. assuming an oily tone, “I never sent any message by any boy. Ido my own errands. Your «ni is lying; that's the truth. Now, you tell him not to lie any more. And don’t you worry about mes You take care of your son, or he may go to the penitentiary some of these days." He was on the point of shutting the door in her face, when she put out a hand. “You must listen to me. I am an honest woman, and I will try to save my boy. He may be bad; but he ia not as b«d as those who employ him.” Her defiant tone amazed and angered Mr. Gripp. “See here, my good woman •” "Silence! 1 am not your good woman, air." “Oh, you ain't. Then who are your’ The woman pushed her bonnet back, and looked him fearlessly in the face. Mr. Jackson Gripp recoiled-swidenly. He recoiled, and shrank as he recoiled. But he recovered himself Instantly, as mast brassy men do. “You are Martha Walters.” ' “Martha Walters that was—Mrs. Cole now.” *■ - “Cole—Cole!” Gripp stared at her, glared at her, then drew a long breath. “Yea. Now you see I kaow you. I warn you that my son will sot lie for you. He will tell the trutfi, the whole truth. You have had him run srith messages you charged him be mvs never reveal. You have frightened him. He is watched. I know R. If anything evil happens, he will tel) all he knows. I come to warn you never, never to employ my qss again. You know 1 am honest -no one knotes better. You know I could toll some strange things of you.

“Pooh! You and your brat must think I am a fool. What would I tell a boy? He can say what he likes; you can say what you like.” And he shut the door in her face. It was like Gripp, but it was the last thing he should have done. Martha Walters’ enmity was not a good thing for him, and when she fanned it until it blazed out into action it boded Mr. Gripp no good. She pondered a moment, then walked away with the firm resolve that Ms. Gripp’s mysterious errands should be sifted to the bottom, in order that her son might be exonerated in season,.if anything unlawful was afoot, and also in the hope that the experience would be a warning to him. He had not applied the pocket money he earned from Mr. Gripp to good purposes. But his mother had known worse boys to make excellent men. And she was determined to fight for her son. So she walked direct from Mr. Gripp’s office to the headquarters of the police, found the' chief in, and made her business so plain to him that he thought there must be something in it. Possibly htre was a clew to a very important matter, he said to himself as Mrs. Cole disappeared. And the sequel proved he was right.

CHAPTER XIX. Martha Cole’s son had reason to think he was shadowed. From the evening of the day on ■Which the* body of the murdered woman was round hanging to a hook in her room, to the evening of the day he delivered a note from Gripp to Miss Atherton, Bob Walters had a haunting fedr of trouble. Mr. Gripp seemed to be so resolute, so severe was his eye, and so impressive his charges concerning dead silence, that the boy began to think Mr. Gripp was either the master mind of some unlawful conspiracy or scheme, or chief of a band of counterfeiters. He confessed to his mother an hour before she called on Gripp. This was the direct result of Irene Atherton’s action. There was something in tfie manner of Gripp's messenger that excited distrust and suspicion. She hud, the moment the messenger disappeared, regretted she had not adopted some means of discovering whence he came. Accident enabled her to accomplish this object later in the day. A lad she well knew referred, in her presence, to the boy who delivered the mysterious note. Calling this boy aside, Miss Atherton said: “Do you know the name of the boy you met coming here?” “It was only Bob Walters.” “Then I want you to follow Bob —find him, if you can, but don't let him see you watching him. Follow him wherever he goes. If he goes home, stay near the house as much as you can, until it grows dark, or you have to come home. Then see what I will give you, if you do us I tell you.” This one of Bob Walters’ alarms. His sometime playfellow was more’to be dreaded than a ghost. Mr. Gripp’s dollar felt like a ton in his pocket. The other worse than khost was in reality a detective. A man who had no good reason to appear on the street, in that neighborhood, every other hour. A man Bob Walters had accidentally discovered was a detective on the regular police force. The presence of this mau in the neighborhood proved too much for Bob, He took his mother into his confidence in sheer misery. When Irene’s trusty agent reported progress she gave him half a dollar, whereupon he stood upon his head. Irene was glad she had discovered the whereabouts of the boy, on her father’s account. He had betrayed such alarm end agitation, that she surmised it must be a matter of the utmost moment to him.

She had washed and put the dishes away, swept the hearth, and made the living room tidy, when a rap at the door —an unexpected visitor evidently—summoned her to the parlor. When Irene opened the doar she was surprised to find Mr. Mayberry standing there. She did not, however, betray surprise. She placed a seat for her visitor, made some passing remark about the weather, and instantly Arthur Mays berry felt at home. “Was her father in?” “No. but he would be in probably in half an hour.” Mr. Mayberry talked about the Improvements in that portion of the city, of the last tragedian who visited the city, of the fashions, the pulpit orator whose name was uppermost, and suddenly, without the slightest warning, plunged into the subject nearest his heart. “Miss Atherton" —he had turned his face toward her, was gazing earnestly into her eyes—"l am indebted to you more than I can express. Mr. Mead was so impressed by your statement that he has told me he will give me the first hearing. in case I ever have any enterprise to suggest that promises well?’/ 1 , Irene was silent. What coufd she say? She could not' promise him the same her father had promised him. Nor could she refer to the unfortunate agreement. She was debating in her mind whether she should endeavor to excuse her father’s action. Then she reflected that the advice contained in the old saying, “The least said the soonejt mended,” should be her guide. So she remained silent. ‘lf you will not be offended,” said Arthur Mayberry, “1 will reciprocate; tho kindness you have shown demands some return on my part.” “I think,” she said, with a smile, “it is best not to endeavor to balance this account. One or the other will persist in returning the favor." But she was secretly gratified that the matter had taken a less disagreeable turn. "1 suppose Mr. Mead understands, and appreciates the value of my father’s inSntion?” she said presently; but Mr. ayberry evaded the question skillfully. He had a two-fold object. To see Atherton, possibly; but he was glad of the excuse to call on Miss Atherton, to nee and talk tn her. To aee if her intelligeaea and manners were as charming as her features. He was head and heels in love—he confessed it to himself | '.HI I Ur IJt? wflfl 4111 IP riMQSI

yond his depth until he wasp repared ta take the irrevocable plunge.* And all the while his eyes were devouring Irene. And Irene’s color betrayed her as plainly. It was just as if these two had said to each other: “You know it is absurd for me to pretend you are nothing to me.” The young man often avoided the woman’s eyes. The young woman as often averted her eyes. They caught each other’s glance, as it were by chance, to turn away again. Arthur Mayberry was talking of many things, subjects suggested at haphazard, and dismissed, while his heart was throbbing with love. His eyes, his manner conveyed his feelings; but now his lips were framing words he had not dreamed of uttering. He found himself suddenly looking into Irene Atherton’s eyes as he said: “Miss Atherton, do not misunderstand me, or think I am simply impulsive, but ever mnee I first beheld you, I have been unable to dismiss you from my mind. Ever since I beheld you, as I thought, doomed to instant destruction, I have thought of you so much in the little time that has passed, that I will ask you to permit me to be a friend.” K “I am not so rich in friends that I can refuse,” said Irene modestly. His speech was a-Confession of love. Her answer was a tacit admission of her recognition of the real position he must occupy hereafter. The moment the words were uttered Irene regretted them. Who was this young man? His friends would in all probability say he ought to look higher. She was only a puddler’s daughter. True—she thought, as long as she did not assume anything, she was just as good as another,- but she knew too well what the world said. And she knew, too, that it would be best for him and her; if they could not command the respect of the World at the outset, if they could not begin the world independent of the world, they would be subjected to unfriendly criticism. And why place themselves in a position that WSUid warrant that? The man thought only: How can I win this woman? The conversation drifted to things immaterial, remote; then suddenly the lovex surprised the object of his love by referring to a marvelous artist, one vhose name was known all over the world. Would she dp him the favor to accompany him? Now, the one longing Irene confessed to herself was the desire to see this famous artist. But would it be wise to accept his invitation? If she did, there could be no drawing back. It would be a great pleasure—but what might happen? or rather what might have taken place already? She had a vague impression that her father was ashamed tp meet Mr. Mayberry; that he was inclined to bow to wealth, spite of all his denunciations of overreaching, grinding capitalists. ' ~ ■ ■ .

He had labored years on his patents—he longed to see his process in operation, not alone for the money it would bring him; then, and not till then, could he demonstrate his superiority over those who knew nothing, and who, spite of their ignorance, sneered at him as a vision try. Yes, certainly her father would rather see her married to a man of means than any of his own class. Irene knew this. And now, when a young man well educated, a member of a family whose place in society had been recognized many generations ago, was brought near her by a strange chance, Irene somehow apprehended he would not be as cordially welcomed as one occupying a humble sphere. “You have not answered me,” said Mayberry, looking at her. “Excuse me,” said Irene, with an involuntary sigh. “I was thinking. No! I cannot go.” “Cannot?” “Mr. Mayberry, I think it would be best not to accept your kind invitation, at least until we know each other better.” “You mean, until your father approves my calling here.” He was as honest as she 'was courageous. “You have said the truth. We have no callers—unless I except one or two of father’s old friends.” “You are right,” said Mayberry. “I will wait until your father knows me better. I will wait—as. long ah Jacob served for Rachel." She blushed carnation atthat, and Mayberry, now that he had blunted out all that eye and tongue could utter in awkward confusion, suddenly reached out a hand imploringly. “I have said it, Miss Atherton—lrene, if you will not be angry with me—this is something I did not dream of saying, but I cannot help it. I have tried to keep it back.” “I do not see what there is to ask pardon for now especially,” said Irene with bright eyes. “You have been making strange speeches ever since you sat down.” Then he took one of her hands. She did not withdraw it; she simply looked aside. And at that moment, when Arthur Mayberry got his first glimpse.of the heaven of love, a loud knock came at the door. (To be continued.)