Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 26, Number 24, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 7 December 1895 — Page 6

But for the remainder of those long summer afternoons and evenings the sad look was always banished, and Mr. Dymooke would sit amongst us in the garden, smoking and real In g, or talking, first to one and then the other, entering into all our plans and amusements, hearing the news of the day's events—what little news there was—helping with suggestions about this or that, and generally making his presence felt in a manner that was very agreeable to all of us—not excepting the boys, with whom he was already established as prime favourite. On wet or dull evenings we would make him play to us on the piano while we worked.

Matters were progressing thus pleasantly when one afternoon about three o'clock, while sitting in the garden as usual—just mother and I alone, for Lesbia was out and the boys at sohool—a visiting oard was brought on the tiny silver salver by our rosy-cheeked abalanded with muoh ceremony to tne

'Mlfts Stanhope,*" I read. "Oh, take the card'to your mistress, Jane, it is not for me. Who is your friend, mother?" "The lady said most pertikkler, Miss Minnie, as how it was Miss Trevor as she wanted to see." ••Oh, it Is some mistake," I answered, airily. "You bad better come with me, mother, It is you she wants, most likely after all. Is she a lady, Jane?" ••Yes, miss—leastways I suppose so, though she is dressed rather queer like, I must say."

Our ouriosity decidedly aroused, mother and I entered the drawing-room together,sligh tly uncertain as to whether we should find the unknown visitor had taken advantage of being left for a few moments alone to decamp with the family treasures scattered here and there, or even with the silver spoons from the pantry near the hall.

A tall, gaunt female, with a white, sickly-looking face, and dressed in mourning garb—old-fashioned, but decidedly good of its kind—rose from the sofa on our entranoe, and looked uncertainly from me to mother, and back again. •'Miss Trevor?" she asked me, then. ••I am Miss Trevor," I replied, "I thought perhaps it was my mother you wished to see." "No, it was you—that is to say—" and here she stopped and hesitated, seeming unable or unwilling to prooeed then with an effort she Jerked out abruptly: "That is to say, if you are the young lady who—who—caused that poor murdered girl's body to be discovered at Wnyborough, about three weeks ago."

Ah, it had come at last, then I was not to be allowed to forget I Minn Stanhope turned her haggardlooking eyes away from us as she spoke, and beoame, it anything, paler than before, •'I can answer that question," interposed mother, while I was considering what best to say. "My daughter has had nothing to do with any dUoovery, dreadful or otherwise."

The woman uttered an exclamation of surprise, or disappointment, I oould scarcely tell which. •\t was given to undenttiiad—" she began, but then I Interrupted her. "Before I give you an answer," I said, "will you tell me why you want to know about that poor murdered girl?" "She was my only slater," she gasped, and then suddenly buret into a passion of heavy weeping—weeping that shook her frail body to the oore— that was both alarming and sad to see and hear.

Her only slater) This gaunt, middleaged woman, sister to that beautiful young girl? Impossible? Shocked and difttreesed beyond measure at the sight of her awful grief, and scarcely know* ing what I Mid, I attempted some olumsy word# of consolation, which, however, ahe did not seem to bear. Then, turning hurriedly to mother, I asked her to fetch eome wine, meetlne her horrified, incredulous look with a hasty whl*per. "It Is true enough, dear I did help t»» discover the girl's body. I'll t»U you an about It later my reason for being allent was the fear of frightening and worry ing yon—and—I did not like talking about it—It was too horrible."

(^WNWfr-^ ,-s^SS

The Six=PointedStar.

Sg By H. F. Baly, Author of "A Little Mistake-,"

4,An

CHAPTER V. THE SISTER'S VOW.

As I might have foreseen, I was not long able to keep the knowledge of my dream and of the succeeding events at Way borough, a secret from my family Indeed, butfortbe fact that we had so few callers in those days, and those few not of the gossiping order, my mother would probably have been interviewed and questioned long ago by curious friends' although it is also possible that the reiof their reticenoe lay in the faotthaV |ln reading the acoount of the strange

Hscovery of the murder they had not nnected the name of Trevor with our if family. For a week or two after my re|turn things went on much as usual, exapt that by the end of that time seemed to have known John Dymocke all our lives, so easily and rapidly did he slip into our ways and good graces. He generally went out for a few hours every day, occasionally returning to our early dinner, though more often than not he eame about four o'clock in the afternoon Once or twice he seemed much depressed in spirits when he returned, as if tired out in mind or body, and mother, on the second occasion, gently rallied him about It, saying that if going to his ohambers fatigued him so muoh he ought to give it up for a time and take a thorough rest. "So I ought, Mrs. Trevor," be answered, "and so I will when my present work is finished—If ever it is finished," he added under his breath, but not so low that I did not oatch the words. "I wonder what it is he has to worry him," was my thought as I glanced at the sad-looking face.

ishing Gods," &c.

TERRE HAUTE

Artful Little Game," "The Van-

[Copyrighted, 1885, by M. F. Baly.] "I did not mean to break down like this," she sobbed "but I have been III

lately the sight of that ghastly acoount in the papers. No, I shall not—I will not give way again—I have too muoh before me." And she gazed in front of her wltl a far-away look, seemingly forgetful of where she was. 'iHow did.you dlsoover my address?" I asked then." "I wrote to Madame jC—•, your employer," was'the aqawer. "If you remember, theptfpera mentioned that you travelled for her House. I should have come to you la^t week, only, reading— that—made,me ill, and I was only^able to oommumoate With Madame i^dgjrs ago, and reoeived her answer yesterday. Host rijo time in coming to you, although ^jJI^ travel."

The trembling limbs and voice, and the pallor of the thin cheeks, bore abundant testimony to the truth of her words, had any testimony been needed. "And now that you have come how can I serve you?" "I wanted to ask you for more particulars. The newspapers were so vague. I thought you oould tell me what he was like, that—that coward." "The man who aotnally committed the murder, do you mean?" •Yes, the murderer—SuBle's wicked husband—you saw him strike her down," "Yes, I saw that in my dream—but he, her husband? I fanoied it was the masked man—the man with the star on his wrist." "So it was—the man with the star—I said so, didn't I? Susie had told me all about that star, and It was by that mark that I knew who the murdered girl was." "But," said I, "In my dream the man with the star was not the murderer—he was only the passive Instrument of the crime. It was the man called Mike who seized the masked man's arm, and caused him to deal the fatal blow." "Even supposing that it was as you say, and that the husband involuntarily oaused his wife's death," said tho woman. "Why did he afterwards disappear? Why did he not denounce his wife's murderer, even at the risk of losing his own life? No. I hold Edmond Dalton equally guilty with the brutes he evidently shields." "Perhaps," I urged, "he is dead. If those other men found he was likely to betray them, thoy would make short work of a dangerous witness," "It is possible—yes, it is possible—but somehow, I do not know why, I feel so strongly that he still lives, and I came to you, hoping that you oould fully describe his appearanoe to me, so that I can give It to the police." "I oould not, indeed. You see, he kept his mask on all the time. All I noticed was that be was tall." "Tall and fair-haired—Susie told me he had fair hair—and that star on his arm. Surely that ought to find him," she murmured, half to herself. "But, pardon me, how Is it that you do not know what Edmond Dalton was like better than I can tell you?" I asked, with a ouriosity natural enough In the olroumstances.

r'"'

f.%

"Ah, I thought you would ask that. I had better tell you the whole story of the marriage from the beginning, then you will see how it is that I know so lit tie of my sister's husbanfl."

She took a sip of the second glass of wine, which I had insisted in pouring out, saying it would do her good, "My name," she began, "isStanhope^ Althea Stanhope—and Susie was my half-sister. Our father was a well-to-do farmer in the north.of England. When my mother died I was a slender girl of seventeen, quite able In my own estimation to manage my father's house for him. No doubt I should have done so until his death or my marriage had he not, just twelve months after his first wife's death, married a pretty girl of nineteen, from the neighboring town of Althorpe. I was intensely jealous and angry on hearing the news, as you may imagine to think thatlshonld be superseded In the housekeeping by a girl little older than myself! However, as time went on, I got to be very fond of my sweet young stepmother, and when she died, two years later, she left her little Susie in my sole charge. I gave up everything—my lover, all my hope of domestio happiness in a home of my own, for the sake of that dear child. Why did I not take her with me to that new home when I married, you will ask Well, for one thing, my father would never have consented to part with the child—she was the house's sunbeam. Then, my lover, I don't know why, seemed jealous of her I think he fanoied I loved Susie better than I did him. It was not so, but I oould not be untrue to the trust reposed in me by Susief dying mother—not, at any rate, until the ohild had grown out of mere babyhood. I counted the cost deliberately, and made my oholoe between my lover and my sitter. We—my lover and I—parted in anger, and 1 continued at the old home, getting over my disappointment as bent I might, and finding my reward at last in the love and affeotlooate devotion of my dear ohild."

The wine seemed to revive the poor too good for 8a«le, and we wanted her to creaturea littie, and a more healthy tint [be a eat above the farmers' dalighters oame into the faded oheeks,

Miss Stanhope paused here for a few moment*, as though inwardly dwelling on the remembrance of that past happy time. "So long as we were all together," she continued, "no three people oould have been happier, no home more united would that we eon

Id ha*e remained thus

and that no fatal thought of sending Susie away from us had entered our mind'* But the time came at last, when the child was about sixteen, and as pretty and uraoeful a girl as oould be found in the three kingdoms, that my hither and I both oame to the idea that a year away from home at a foreign boarding school would do our darling a world of good in the way of fintshingoff her education You see, we thought nothing could he

round about. So it was settled for her

tJStwTV i,

SATimDAY

to go to Parle, for a year's 'finishing lessons,' and although the dear girl protested at being sent away from us, say* ing that theeduoatlon which had sufficed for me would surely be good enough for her also, yet I oould see that she was secretly delighted with the Idea of the change in her quiet life. Her delight would orop up at odd times, In little snatches of song when she thought we were not listening, and in various other fashions, all 'under the rose,' as It were, for fear of hurting our feelings. The parting was sad enough, you may imagine how muoh sadder if my father and I had either of us divined that It was to be the last time we should either of us set eyes on our darling 1 Yes, it is tru —we never saw her again! As form dear father, I thank God that he was spared further sorrow through the inter vention of kindly death, though when that happened I felt It hard enough, goodness knows, to be left alone in that great house, bereft both of parent and sister. Father was already very old, and in the spring, only three months after Susie went away, he oaught a cold one wet Sunday, and was dead In four days. "Susie wrote in grfat distress, offering —nay, insisting—on ooming home at once to bear me oompany but I on my part insisted also, pointing out the folly of cutting short her studies prematurely, when a few months at the latest would see her at home again. She gave way reluotantly to my wishes, andall through the ensuing summer her letters were full of loving thoughts and ardent desires for the time to go by quickly and bring the hour when she could return to me. Then, one day, oame an account of how she had been taken by a sohool fellow to call on her (the schoolfellow's) parents, who were passing through Paris, sightseeing. These people took a great interest in my little Susie, and they received permission from the schoolmistress to keep her as a visitor for the few days they remained at the capital. It was Susie's first taste of gaiety, and she enjoyed it to the utmost, sending me, in my lonely home, long, glowing acoounts of how they had been to this or that theatre, or concert, or other plaoe of amusement. "She mentioned, oasually, one day how they had been accompanied once or twioe to the theatre by a Mr. Edmond Dalton, a young gentleman of apparently no particular occupation who had been introduced to the Macwares, the schoolfellow's parents, by a mutual friend. Then in another letter she told me how they had been to a dance, and how this oharming Mr. Dalton had danced with her several times, and had whispered in her ear that he considered her the belle of the ball. I was glad for the ohild to be enjoying herself, but did not take particular notice of her talk about Mr. Dalton, thinking it only a girl's raptures over everything and everybody. Besides, as Susie mentioned soon after this that the Macwares bad left .Paris for a prolonged tour in Switzerland and Germany, taking their daughter with them, I should have ooncluded, had I thought of this matter at all, that Mr. Dalton bad departed also in any case I imagined Susie safely baok at sohool, so did not trouble my

head

Write and say yon forgive your happy, loving Susie. *P. S.—Address poste reetante,

ieu |kt ylQ

further about the young

gentleman." Miss Stanhope paused again, and opened a bag which she carried on her arm.. "I can make the rest clearer to you by reading out parts of Susie's letters. I brought them with me, thinking that perhaps.the description of Edmond Dalton might refresh Miss Trevor's memory* This one"—taking a thin letter out of its envelope with a trembling hand— "was the bombshell which in a moment rudely shattered all my fond and cherished hopes of a happy and united home with my darling child:— "'My own dear old Sis,—Now, don't be angry with your little Susie when you hear what I have gone and done. It is of no use beating about the bush, so I will 'fess to you at once that I aiy married! Yes, the murder is out—married! Add to the dearest, darlingest, best man in the whole world. Now don't shake that wise old head of yours and say you know better—for it will not be true. Why did I deoelve you so, and get married in this underhand, hole and corner way, you aaic? Ah, that is more difficult to answer,—and yet, Althea, dear, I think there was some excuse for me. No doubt we ought to have waited until I got home, and Edmond oould have pome to woo me in orthodox fashion but when be told me one day that he was obliged to return to England at onoe on pressing business—that he loved me more than his life and could not live without me—finally, when he entreated me to fly with him and be married privately in London, because the nature of his business would not allow him to fix a time, either to return to Paris or to follow me to my homeafter all this, Althea, what oould a poor girl do but give way? For I bad grown to love him, Sis, oh, so dearly—you could never understand the depth of our love for each other. If I had lost my Edmond I should have died. I am sure of that. In the end he persuaded me to go away with him that very night, aod we crossed over by the Calais boat and were married by license In London this morning at 8u Boniface Church. "•Do not blame poor Madame she was under the impression that I used to go out to see the Srnalltole*, friends of the Macwares. My Edmond—you will have guessed ere now that my dear bus band Is that Mr. Daltoo, of whom I have so often written—my Edmond promise* that he will bring me to see you as soon as be oan g*t a little more leisure to do as he likes but he says that his present business Is so urgent, and yet so tedious in the working, that It may be months before he oan get free. I wonder what It Is, this business? When we were in Paris, Edmond never seemed to have anything to do. This morning I asked him, after we oame from church, but hp only pinched my ear and said, "Don't trouble your pretty head about it, little girl"—and I don't. "Now darling. Sis, you are not to "worry about me, for am very, very happy. The thought of having deceived you is the one bitter drop in my cup of happiness. I am counting the days un til my darling brings me to see yon.

lVETftNG MAIL, DECEMBER 7,189?

Marylebone Post Office. Edmond says we shall bd moving about so much just now that it will be useless to give any fixed address.'" "You see, even from the first, she is mysterious shout her whereabouts," saM Miss Stanhope. "Setting aside my natural distress and sore feeling at the want of confidence shown me by my ohild, at the bidding of a man she had scarcely known three months, that keeping baok of their address and the vague air or seoreoy as to the nature of Edmond Dalton's occupation alarmed me. I resolved, ere answering Susie's letter, to go at onoe to Paris, and try to find out something more definite about he man she had married. I oould of course not undo what was done, but I might be able to set my fears at rest. 1 found, on arriving at the French capital that I was the first to carry the news of her pupil's elopement to Madame The poor little woman was quite overwhelmed with shame and horror at the discovery,, 'The well-oonducted mees, who had always been so oomme-il faut, eO gentil, and bad ever demanded so prettily to be allowed to visit her obere Madame Smalltoles, and had always been fetched and brought back again by suoh a n^at looking bonne, the very pink of respectability. And on that last fatal oooasioTi, four, fivedays ago what aohar mant petit billet did roeou send from berfrle house, demanding permla slon to extend her visit for a d*y or two, as Mad tine Smalltole, who was un peu malade, bad need of her company. And to think that aimable enfant was so full ofdeoeit—so intrigante—it was too, too trlste.' "Of what use was it to heap reproaches on poor madame's head when the thing was done beyond recall? She—madame —oould tell me nothing of what I had journeyed so far to learn, namely, some particular* of Edmond Dalton's antece dents and mode of life. No one, it appeared, oould do that. Mrs* Smalltole was discovered to have left Paris the day before I went there. The adddess of Susie's former schoolfellow, Mary Macware, was unknown, and all my efforts to obtain some definite information proved futile. "Disappointed and baffled, I crossed to England, and proceeded to London— first, however, writing to Susie, at the Marylebone post-office, a few short words expressive of my combined sorrow and forgiveness. I told her I was coming to town, and what hotel I should be at, finishing with a request for their address, as I wished to pay them a visit. When I arrived in London I waited indoors for more than a week, in the expectation of a call from Susie, my hope growing fainter and fainter with every passing day, my heart more and more

[CONTINUKD ON THIRD PAGE.]

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