Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 35, Number 82, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 June 1903 — WHO WAS GUILTY [ARTICLE]

WHO WAS GUILTY

A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE ... ••• - \ . , . -i f' t ' sil* ' - r •* .

CHAPTER V.—(Continued.) With my thoughts fixed upon the approaching crisis in my fate I wandered from my house, scarcely heeding the direction in which I was walking. I wished to be alone to indulge in my sad muslngs, and walked for an hour before I knew where I was. Thh gathering gloom recalled me to myself and looking around I saw that I was in ivybuah Lane. It did not and would 'not .have struck me that this was the place in which Samuel Fleetwood had informed me that Mile. Rosalie was in the habit of meeting some unknown man had It ndt' been that my eyes fell suddenly upon hep'-as I gazed around. She was standing at some little distance from me, and I must have come upon her and her companion unaware—for she was not alone; a man was with her whom I immediately recognized to bo Redwing. His arm wits around her and he was kissing her lips at the moment of my approach. They saw me as I saw them, and they fell apart from each other. Without a word I turned and proceeded in the direction of my house.' . ’ • • ' Now, at any other time I should have regarded this discovery as serious, and should not have allowed it to pass without asking Milo. Rosalie for an explanation, but I am constrained to confess that in my then mood I attached but small importance to it. In what way did Mile. Rosalie's love intrigues affect me and why should I add those to my already overpowering anxieties? That was the sense in which I viewed the adventure. But if I did not speak to Mile. Rosalie of the incident slie did. pot allow it to pass by i:i silence. It was night. Harry Clanronald had taken his leave and my wife and Eunice had retired to bed. Mr. Mortlock had also retired,- As for Mile. Rosalie, she had not ipaje her appearance in our family circle. " • ■ My wife and I being in our bedroom, I said that. I was not inclined for bed and that I would take a stroll in the garden and smoke a cigar. There was nothing unusual in this; I had often dbne the like. She bade me go and smoke my cigar, and handed me my cigar case, which I should have forgotten in my perturbation. The' case was one which she had presented to me in former years, and on its cover was my monogram, “R. P.,” in raised letters of silver.

CHAPTER VI. The night was dark, and I heard no Bound but that of-iuy footsteps on the graveled poths. Gradually I became more composed; the surrounding peace, the soft airT’and the echo of my wife’s words of comfort had their soothing effect upon me. “Surely all will be well!” I thought. “I am tormenting myself unnecessarily.” Suddenly I heard a sound that startled me; it whs the sound of a woman sobbing; a form glided from the shadows, and, falling at my feet, seized my hand, which became bedewed with tears. “Mademoiselle!” I cried. For it was. indeed, Mile. Rosalie who knelt at my feet and was holding my hand to her lip?. . “Pardon me,” she sobbed; “oh, pardon me! We are alone, sir. No one can see or hear us. Ah, sir, listen to me! As you hope for mercy yourself, grant it to a despairing woman! As you hope for peace, bestow it upon me!” “I do not understand you,” I said; and I~hhould have had a heart of stone in my breast had I not been touched by her plaintive voice. “I will listen to you —yes; but I must insist upon your rising.” She obeyed; but she trembled so ns she rose from the ground that she was compelled to cling to me for support. “Now, mademoiselle,” I said, “I will listen to what you have to say, if you Insist upon it.” “If you speak so harshly,” she murmured, “I shall die! I wish to implore your forgiveness, to recover my place in your eateem. To know that you have ceased to. respect me, that you think lightly of me, is more than I can bear. Your good opinion, your good word, is more precious to me than life itself. Ah, sir! How shall I confess it? I have deceived you.” “I know it,” I said. “You know it!” she echoed, softly. “And yet you have spared me! And yet you havo not driven me from your houro!” “For that, mademoiselle,” I said, “you may thank my wife and daughter, who have no suspicion that you are not what you represent yourself to me. You hold a place in their hearts which you have in some strange manner won. They have invariably spoken well of yob; 1 they hnve invariably defended you.” “Defended nje!” she exclaimed, nnd her voice expressed dignitiei remonstrance; “From wliat?from wfcom? Who has ddred' to vilify me, a defenseless woman, whose misfortunes entitle her to respect? Not you,: iir, not‘you! Do not tell me that you have done me such an injustice!” “Mile. Rosalie.” F said, somevvhat confounded by the attitude she assumed, “I have learned that concerning you which, I will npt disguise from you, has instilled doubts Into my mind; I have seen that which, you must yourself could not but strengthen those doubts.” "You saw me this afternoon,” she murmured, “in a lone spot, embracing a man." “A man,” I added, ‘‘who is nqw worktag for me in a menial capacity?’ “I deny it!” she exclaimed, with Indignation. “No lAbor Is menial which li honest. It'is not a proof how greatly you are prejudiced against me when you Cgji commit yourself to such a statement —you, whom I venerate as the personifi-, . cation •{ truth and justice? Ah, sit( confess thst you were wrong.” “Yes,” I said, abashed by the reproof, “I, confess it— l wM wrong. But neither you nor he cut deny thst he is in my em payment under false colors.” n • (l«uf iL.Qir myself and him. He •ought cewfdbMt' labor, and obtained it. What elae can yon bring against him? Yon hnve nos spoken to him, have scarcely seen hint; and yst yen, the radst just

of men, would blast his character. It is not for you, living in the lap of luxury, with unlimited wealth at your command, who have but to wish to have — it is not for you to know to what hard straits necessity drives a man. It is not possible that you should ever be driven, as he and I have been ariven, to seek, in a lonely lot and among strangers, for the simple necessaries of life. It is not pbisible that you should ever feel the world’s cruel injustice as we have felt it; that you should have to bear the anguish and the sting of unmerited misfortune; that the finger of shame and reproach should be pointed at you' —a man unstained by crime or dishonor! You stand above all this. Be merciful, be charitable, to those who are not as you are.” Had a vision of the future risen before me at that moment I should have stood appalled. As it was, I was powerfully affected by the appeal, and all my doubts of her seemed to melt away. “Mademoiselle,” I*said, “you have perhaps reproved me with just cause. But had I known that you had a lover ” “It is false!” she cried. “As I am an honest woman, it Is false! Cruel, cruel, that I should be so misjudged! There is but one man in the world whom I love, to whom my heart is given, for whom I would bear any hardship and sacrifice; and to him I dare not, I dare not confess my love.” Again she seized my hand; and in a fit of uncontrollable agitation pressed it to her bosom, to her lips. And then it was that I noticed, for the first time, that she was but loosely attired in, her dressing gown, which she must have hastily thrown on, I suppose, when she saw me from her bedroom window and hastened out to make her confession. As she held my hand to her lips she was seized with sudden faintness, would have fallen to the ground had I not supported her in my arms. What was it that glided past us? A shadow, or the form of a man, who, with his eyes turned upon us for one brief moment, sped swiftly on, and was gone? “What was that?” asked Mile. Rosalie, in a whisper, clinging closer to me in affright. A slight wind had risen, and the branches of the trees, gently swaying, cast shadows around, which a heated imagination could easily haye transformed into the shapes and forms of living creatures. I breathed more freely; what I had seen could have been nothing but a freak of fancy. “It is time that we should part, mademoiselle,’'’ I said, coldly. “It would have been better had you spoken to me in daylight.” “I should not have had the courage,” she said. “You must not leave me till you hear who this man is who is falsely represented as my lover. I feel that you are not alone in this belief; I feel that another shares it.” ' “Yes,” I said, thinking of Samnel Fleetwood, “my belief ,is shared by another.” “Will you tell me who that other is?” “No; I do not think I have the right; but it is a man.” “Will you see him again, sir?” “I shall see him, almost to a certainty, to-inorrow.”

“Tell him then, sir, from me, that the person he suspects is my lover, and whom you saw me embracing this afternoon, is my brother.” “Your brother! It is a simple, natural explanation; but what reason was there for secrecy, for concealment?" “I was fearful of giving you grounds to suppose that I had deceived you, dr. I did deceive you, but it tfas an unconscious, au innocent deceit. - When you first received me in yoty house I said I was an orphan, without a relative iu the world. Indeed, indeed, sir, I believed that to be the unhappy truth. My parents were dead, and the only brother I had was killed on the Vamparts when the Germans besieged Paris. He was but a lad at the time, and when they told nie he was dead I had no reason to doubt them. But instead of having been killed. he was only wounded and taken prisoner: and when he was released he went to America, intending to make his fortune there nnd return and throw it in my lap. He wrote to me, but I did not receive his letters. In America he was unfortunate. Trustful by nature, he was robbed and deceived; and, without n penny in his pocket, he made his way to JJnglund, little dreaming that I was iu this country. His sad wanderings, dU rceted by fate, brought him here—here, where I had the happiness of finding a home and sympathizing friends. We met by accident; my astonishment was great; it was ns if he had risen from his grave. What was I to do? I had solemnly assured your good wife nnd daughter that I was utterly; entirely friendless. I had not the courage to undeceive you; but after what you witnessed, sir, this atternoon, I could no ’longer remain silent. My houoir, my good fame, was at ctoke, and It must be vindicated—for what els«v' have I left to nerve .and support me iu the trials 1 may yet hnve to endure? I could not wait till to-morrow. About to seek my couch, I saw you from my bedroom window, and, blessing the chance, I hnrried down to make iny confession. Forgive me," sir; forgive me! uud assure me that I have regained my place in your esteem. Tell me you do not despise me.” • . ,“If your story Is true,” I said, “you are to be pitied, uot despised.” I saw no reason to doubt her further. Two angels, my wife and daughter, had full faith in her; why should not I? Injshat she had related there was not a flaw, there was nothing contrary to reason or opposed to the ordinary course of human motives. “Say you pardon me, sir," she pleaded, “tend give me your hand .as a token qt forgiveuess.” I gave her toy hand, nnd she -murmured, “I am happy, I am happy.” tffbp windoW'of my wife’s bedroom was thrown up, and., by the. aid of the light within the cMnwher » «ew the figure of, my wife, ciadt in white, looking out upon the grounds, I had been absent longer than the had expected, and she waa anxious about me. “Richard!” she softly

called; her voice was low and sweet, and fell distinctly upon my ears. “Hush!” whispered Mile. Rosalie, crouching behind me. not speak—do not move! She must not see me!” It. was perhaps.foolish on my part to obey her, but I was dimly conscious that an injlhrious construction might bp placed upon the circumstance of Mile. Rosalie and I being together at that time of night; therefore I held my tongue. For a space of nearly a minute my wife stood at the window, and for that space neither Mile. Rosalie nor I moved or spoke, she standing behind me, and Claspipg me, as if for protection. Then the window was gently closed, and the blind letjlown. “I am safe!” whispered Mile! Rosalie, kissing my band hnrnbly and gratefully. “You will not betray me —you will keep my secret?” “It should be told,” I said, “to my wife and daughter.” “Let me tell it to them,” she said; “let me choose the time! In two or three days I shall have courage. And you will not discharge my brother?” “No.” “How can I thank you? How shall I be able to repay you? Give me time to get back in the house. No one must see me—no one.” -Tt I looked after her ns she - walked through the shadows to the house, which she entered in silence. Soon afterward I followed her. My wife was stili awake. “It is a beautiful night, Richard,” she said. “Did you enjoy your cigar?” CHAPTER VII. In the, morning my wife and I had a conversation about Samuel Fleetwood. Desiring to pay every attention to Mr. Wilinot during his stay with us, we thought it would add to his comfort if we assigned to Fleetwood the office of attending solely upon him. With the intention of apprising Fleetwood of his new duties. I was on the point of summoning him when he made his appearance.

“Are you better this morning, Mr. Fleetwood?” asked my wife. He replied in a grateful voice that he felt easier, and thanked her feelingly for some soup and jelly which she herself had prepared for him. She gave him a compassionate look, and then, in her presence, I told Fleetwood what we had resolved upon with respect to Mr. Wilmof. lie expressed a cheerful acquiescence, and promised to do everything that lay in his power for our expected visitor. “He is an old gentleman,” I said, “and may require attendance in the night. You will sleep in the room adjoining his.” “Yes, sir,” said Fleetwood; and, this matter being settled, my wife left us, having household duties to attend to. “You have -something to say to me,” I said, observing that Fleetwood lingered. “I was coming to seek you, sir,” was his response. “I found these in the garden this morning.” He produced my cigar case, with its monogram of raised silver letters, and a lady’s silver back comb of peculiar design which Mile. Rosalie usually wore in her hair. “Why do you bring me this comb?” I asked. “It belongs to Mile. Rosalie.” “I know, tir, but the two were lying together,’ and I thought it right to bring them both to you.” His manner was not offensive, but it struck me as beinjf more than ordinarily sad. “There is nothing right or wrong in it,” I remarked. “It is a simple accident that these two articles were found together. I must have dropped my cigar case as I was walking iu the garden last night.” It impressed itself upon me here that speaking on the subject Was unconsciously causing me annoyance, and I said, a little o testily, “Take the comb to Mile. Rosalie, and tell her where you found it.” “I beg you to excuse me, sir,” said Fleetwood, respectfully, “and to give the task to another person.” I was reminded of the promise I had tacitly conveyed to Mile. Rosalie that I would set her right with the man who regarded her with suspicion. “Fleetwood, you do not like Mile. Rosalie? A short time since you communicated your dislike and suspicions to me. Time has not softened them?”

“It has strengthened them, sir. Perhaps I am wrong,” and here be hesitated with an expression of pain in his face, “iu speaking to you about Mile. Rosalie. The new man in the garden, sir— Redwing—is the man she meets in secret in Irybush Lane.” -“I am aware of it.” Hitherto liis eyes had been averted from me; now they were turned toward me iu astonishment “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “for interfering.” ’’There is no question of interfering, Fleetwood,” I said. “It is that we have done a yoqng lady an injustice. What I am about to confide to you is a secret; and, as it is not our secret, it must be respected. Mr. Redwing—it is, possibly, not liis real name, but, in tlie circumstance?, he piny be excused for using it —is not Mile. Rosalie’s. lprer. He is her brother.” > “Indeed, sir,” said Fleetwood, in a tone of constraint.. “She has disclosed to mo- certain particulars of her past life which have satisfied me that we have not done her justice —you and I, I mean. My wife and daughter are very fond of her. There is nq need to say any more, is there?” “No, sir; It is not for me to continne to harp upon the matter. But I cannot undertake to likd her.” With that he took his departure, with, ns I rightly divined, u feeling of discontent in his mind, which, I confess, was my feeling also. Fleetwood's manner had not entirely plea;ed me. Later in the day 1 gave Mile. Rosalie her silver-back comb. ’’Oh. thank you so much!” ahe exclaimed. “I was wondering what hatj become of It. \Vho found it?’ “Samuel Fleetwood,” I replied. “Ah!” she snid, thoughtfully; “he is no friend of mine, and would do me an injury If he could. But I am armed now,” she added, with a bright look; “you arc my friend.” . Day after day pacsed nnd we heard nothing more of Mr. Wilmqt. We were, however, quite prepared for his arrival. A suite of rooms was ready, nnd every Eunice placed fresh flowers in them. I heard her nnd Mile. Rosalie conversing about my tuiele. “This Mr. Wiltnot," said Mile. Rosalie. “i» hie eery, very- rich? A millionaire, perhaps ?” -•>' * v*», “Perhaps.” said Eunice, laughing. be tpry >bpo. All rich men must be. They- cannot help it.” '"This waa an unsophisticated view, and It brought a smile to my own lips. On the Wednesday in the following

week the three ladies and .1 were standing on the lawn in w frp»t of. the house Mr. Mortlock was absent,’ and we were not sorry, “Papa,” said Eunice, “is Mr. Wilmot ever coming? He seems to have forgotten his promise.” “Mr. Wilmot never forgets a promise, Eunice,” I said. As I spoke we all turned our heads In the direction of the gates, being attracted by the sound of animated voices and footsteps; and presently two gentlemen came in view—Mr. Mortlock and an old gentleman leaning on his arm. I knew my uncle instantly, although I saw at a glance that he had aged since we last met, and I hastened to meet him. “Have I taken you by surprise, Nephew Richard?” he asked. “But; Friend Mortlock knew. I was coming by' this train.” (To be continued.)