Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, July 4, 1896, Page 2

: Professor’s Seeret. § CHAPTER XV. Love's Cross Purposes, ‘Amelia slowly and painfully with- drew from the banister and stood erect, the professor towering in front of her, ready, it seemed, on the least provoca- tion, to let his fury loose again. She saw her traveling bag upon the floor, and stooped mechanically to ptek it up. “Yake it with you!” snarled the pro- fessor, still keeping his voice down toa whisper. The unhappy girl looked and moved ie were bewildered. You have no right to keep me here,” she said, faintly. “I am not your daughter; you are no longer my legal guardian. 1 cannot stay here.” “You can stay here, and you must,” retorted Prof. Drummond. “Do you think I shall let you go out and publish your caluimnies against me? It is foul enough that you operate from within my own household.” Her eyes flashed a little at this, as if resentment were clearing the shadows from her mind. “Yes,” she answered, “I have done very wrong. That is why I am going away.’ The professor's face lit with a savage triumph. “I knew it!" he said, repressing his voice with difficulty. Then he took her by the shoulders and pushed her into the room across the hall from the dining room. She was not only incapable physically of res ng so powerful a man as her un- cle, but she was impelled by her pro- found regrets for what had occurred to refrain now from calling out or do- ing anything that might attract the at- tention of others in the house. Prof. Drummond could not have dreamed, much less believed, that Amelia was so determined as he that no further light should be shed upon the Fairview tragedy by any act of hers. Once with- in the room, and the door closed, he continued: “Who else but you could have set the Starkweathers to investigate an in- quest, eh? Tell me that.” “T did it,’ ’she responded. “You t. The professor raised both his hands, the fingers extended, and quivering to close upon her throat; his lips were parted and his passion essayed to find but he could not go beycnd the faced him with despairing ion. Her strength was as nothing compared to his, and yet he trembled before her with the very ex- cess of excited energy. he ently lowered his hands he muttered. “And add another to your crimes?’ added. ou lie!” he hissed, and as his rage again mounted to a fury, and he yet remembered how they stood there, in broad day, with others close at hand, he whirled about, strode across the room, and, catching up a walking-stick that leaned against the fire-place, twisted it in his hands until it broke in two. He looked vacantly at the fragments a moment, and then dropped them upon the hearth. ‘That might have been your body!” he exclaimed. “I wish it were,” said Amelia. The professor glared at her fixedly for several seconds, and a great revul- sion of feeling came over him. The fury died out of his eyes, and the pas- sionate quivering of his heavy frame ceased. “Poor girl,” he said in a very chang- ed tone, “you have been terribly upset, haven’t you? Too bad! Something must be done. Yes, of course you shall 9 away, Amelia, dear, but not now. Wait a little and I’ll take you.” He approached as if he would lay his and caressingly upon her. With real terror she started back. She feared fhis kindness more than his passion. “Go to your room now, child,” con- tinued the professor, unmoved by her aversion. “I will send for you before long. It will be much better for you that you should go away without the appearance of trying to escape. You'll see that yourself, I think, after you’ve had a little rest. Go now, Amelia.” He opened the door and stood beside it for her to pass. A very different moan the professor was at that moment from the maniacal fiend he had been but a few minutes before. Now he avas cool, imperturable, calculating, his familiar self, and Amelia knew that gave for the possibility of physical wiolence when he was enraged, he was mow most dangerous. His change of demeanor was but the outward sign of @ purpose conceived in the violence of dis passion, that needed quiet and un- bending resolution to accomplish. What that purpose was she could not guess, and she did not try to. Her own pur- pose remained fixed in her mind, and she, too, had Drummond blood and Sie Looked Vacantly at the Frag- ments. Mraummond will, perhaps also a trace ef Drummond craft. Slowly, with ber eyes fixed on his, as {f to read the sudden change to active hostility there, she passed in «front of him and went to the stairs. There she paused 2 moment. “You will let me go soon?” she said inquiringly. “Very soon, Amelia,” he responded. “I understand your feeling, and I ap- prove of your decision to leave, but it would have been better to speak to me about it. Never mind. I shall not reproach you. Go to your room and wait.” Amelia slowly and softly went up- stairs. Both could hear the rippling laughter of Louise, quickly recovered from the horrors of the inquest, as she pottered about Mrs. Williams’ room; from below stairs rose the faint drone of the serving women, as they discuss- ed household affairs. The exciting scene had passed without attracting the slightest attention. At the, top of the stairs Amelia turn- ed and saw her uncle watching her. Slowly. she turned toward her room, and a moment later the professor heard the door open and close. He drew a long breath, went into the din- ing room, threw himself into a chair and leaned his head on hjs hands. Louise and Mrs. Williams found him thus when they came down a few min- utes later. Mrs. Williams entered the dining room and Louise went to the front door. “Why, the door is locked!” she ex- claimed, turning the key; “how funny.” “I must have locked it myself,” said the professor, rousing. “I was preoc- eupied, and must have thought that it was bedtime.” He smiled good-humoredly. “You are fatigued from your jour- ney, I suppose,” suggested Mrs. Will- iams. “Preoccupied- I should say _ 680,” cried Louise. “What do you think you have done now, papa? What is it you have forgotten?” “What a question, Lou!” he retorted gaily. “If I knew what I had forgot- ten how could I have forgotted it? Puzzle that out, young lady.” “Oh, well,” said Louise, “I didn’t ask Cautiously Opened the Door. a riddle, and I won't try to answer one; but what about that immediate return to the village?” “My stats! I did forget that, didn’t 1?” he answered. “I shall have to start at once.” He went into the hall and put on his hat. 3 “Have you seen Amelia, papa?” ask- ed Louise. “Yes,” he replied. “I was just about to speak to her. I saw her while you and Mrs. Williams were busy. I ad- vised her to lie down, for she had a terrific headache.” “She fainted at that horrid inquest,” said Louise. “She did?” exclaimed Mrs. Williams, getting up. “I will go up and see what I can do for her. Why didn’t you speak of it before?” “I wouldn’t go up if I were you,” in- terposed the professor. “She’s proba- bly asleep and it would be better not to disturb her for a while.” “Papa’s given her a dose of his won- derful powder, I guess,” laughed Lou- ise, her eyes shining mischievously. “He gave me some once, and it didn’t work at all.” “She slept twenty-four hours, Mrs. Williams,” said Professor Drummond, “and never could be persuaded that she lost a day out of her life. How- ever, I must be off. I’ll step up myself and see how Amelia is and let you know.” He went up the stairs quietly and cautiously opened the door to Ame lia’s room. It was a large chamber with an alcove, in which the bed was placed. About half of the bed could be seen from the door. Amelia’s traveling bag was on the floor at the entrance to the alcove, and on the bed he saw her skirt with one shoe peeping out from its folds. The professor's face was suddenly distorted with passion and his body again trembled from the force of it. He clenched his teeth as he looked at his niece, so near and so helpless. As if instinctly, his fingers sought a pock- et and closed upon a knife. Then, with an impatient shake of the head, he drew the key noiselessly from the door. “The other way is better,” he mut- tered. He closed the door, locked it and put the key in his pocket. At the dining room he paused to say: “Amelia is sleeping from exhaustion. I wouldn’t go to her room for two or three hours. I shall be back before then.” “No sudden departure, this time, 1 hope, papa?” called out Louise. oe I’m home to stay,” he respond- ed. Prof. Drummond kept his word. He returned to Fairview about half an hour before dinner time. Not long after his arrival Dr. Williams came. He entered the house, as usual, with- out ringing, and paused at the door of the dining room, where his mother ge coe .Were busy with fancy wor! Peulncet BSae vas “May I speak to you a mement, Miss Drummond?” he said. Louise promptly laid down her work and went with him into a room on the opposite side of the hall. Mrs. Will- jams felt a sympathetic trepindation, well knowing the interview must be one of great importance to her son’s welfare and happiness. She bent more intently over her work, wonder- ing whether, presently, she would see two happy faces before her, two hands held out for her congratulation and blessing. The doctor had had ample time to prepare his speech, after the manner of young men who have affairs of the heart on their minds, and, quite con- trary to custom, he remembered his speech and spoke it most perfectly. “Miss Drummond,” he said, ‘1 shall be neither foolish nor unfair enough to pretend that I did not understand you in the court room this forenoon, I have no excuse to make for what 1 have done, no explanation to offer and none to demand. Some,men, perhaps, might be content to let the matter pass without further allusion to it. I cannot do so. I cannot be at ease un- less I know exactly where I stand. Let us have at least no more than one misunderstanding. I have called to ask whether you have spoken or writ- ten to your father about my proposal .to you.” “I haven’t known where to write to papa, you knew that,” responded Lou- ise. “Have you spoken to him?” “It seems to me you ought to do that.” The doctor bit his lip to suppress the retort that that had not been a part of their understanding. He had prepared other things to say, but Louise did not give him the proper cue. Other men have had such experiences. ‘I'he wo- man in the case seldom takes the view of it she was expected to take. “I am not here to argue,” said the doctor, after a moment. “I put my- self unreservedly in your hands. It you tell me to speak to your father, I will do so to-night.” Louise looked around her helplessly. “You may if you wish to,” she an- swered. “I shouldn't think you'd dare to face him if he knew what you said in that horrid court.’ “You may tell him, if you like to, Miss Drummond.” “I want to forget it.” “Does that mean,” asked the doctor, earnestly, “that you love me, and that you wish to forget what was painful to both of us?” Louise could not raise her eyes to his, and for a long time she could not control her quivering lips to speak. The doctor waited with growing tvon- der, not at her, but at himself. A loy- al man who has, or thinke he has, rea- son to doubt his own loyalty, suffers an agony that I think is not set down in therapeutics. It is not everybody that is capable of that peculiar sor- row. In days not so very remote, a few weeks, at most, Dr. Williams had said to himself that his heart never could fail to glow more warmly at a glance from Louise, that her presence neyer could fail to charm and relieve him. Te believed it, as all lovers do, and he had said to himself that his wee thus far had justitied his be- fief. So, indeed, it had, and yet, here he Was, unmoved by the distress of her whom he had asked to love him. Af- ter the misery of the inquest he had wrestled with himself alone, and had pursued the task of self-analyses to the extent of his powers. Reasoning as well as a physician might, he had said that his nature was suffering from shock and strain that dulled his sensibilities to familiar emotions; that presently all would be as before; and he further argued that the one tonic for his emotional disorder was a sight of Louise. With her, whether or not she reproached him with bitterness. he felt that he should find restored all that ardent love that had impelled him to do everything short of positive crime in shielding her father. ‘Lo feel again that intense, yearning affection and the craving for her love, would be better to him, even with disappoint- ment as its accompaniment, than this dull indifference. Well, here he was, and there was she, and his heart seemed like a black cinder from which the flames had long since passed away. Fearful of commit- ting the most disloyal act possible, he yet held himself at her command, pre- pared to carry out the programme of love in form, even if the spirit were lacking. “Miss Drummond,” said he, at last, “I cannot go to your father unless you tell me you Jove me. It would merely be postponing the end.” “Then don’t go,” she answered. He bowed gravely and held the door, ashamed, mortally ashamed, to feel relief instead of pain at his dis-’ “Don't Tell Me That You Have Re- jected Him.” missal. Louise passed him with down- cast eyes and almost ran into her father, who had just entered the broad hall. “Ah, doctor,” cried the professor, “be sure not to go till I see you. I must have a talk with you. Louise, I want you for a minute. Excuse us, doctor.” Regretting that his mother’s presence at Fairview made it advisable to re- main there longer, the doctor bowed his assent and went to the dining room. Louise returned to the room she had just left, and the professor followed. “Lou,” he began abruptly, “has Dr. Williams talked love to you?” She looked up at him, half in sur- prise, half in fright, for the question was unexpected, and her father’s tone was brusque. : “Answer me, Lou; you have nothing to fear.” | “Yes,” she faltered, “he has.” | “What have you told him, eh? Never mind, dear, I won’t press the question. All I can say is that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have you accept him. If there’s any doubt. in your mind, as there might be, for you are young, dismiss.the doubt on your father’s advice; make the doctor happy and please me immensely.” Louise was thoroughly frightened now. She tried to frame the words “I can’t,” but no sound came from her parted lips. A black frown gathered now on the professor’s brow. “Don’t tell me that you’ve rejected him,” he exclaimed in a hoarse whis- per. “If you have been so unwise go to Rim at once and take it back” CHAPTER XVI -- The Professor at Bay Louise was too frightened to sob freely, but the tears rolled down her cheeks and she trembled pitifully. he professor stared at her more in amaze- ment than in anger. “There seems to be some trouble here,” he said, less harshly than he had spoken before. “What is it, my child?” Somewhat reassured by her father’s He Stopped Abruptly When Half- Way Across the Room. manner and tone, Louise answered: “You should have heard what he said about you at the inquest, papa.” Prof. Drummond smiled grimly. “I wasn’t present, my dear, but I have heard about the testimony. As I understand it, Dr. Williams spoke nothing but the truth.” “He might haye left out some otf it. He didn’t need to make everything just as bad for you as he could.” Louise was gaining courage. The in- quest seemed to offer so ready an ave- nue of escape from the situation in which her father sought to place her. “Is that all, Lou?’ asked tke pro- fessor, with his best assumption of fatherly kindness. He dared not hint to his daughter what he had inferred to be the fact, that Dr. Williams, in his testimony, had told only what he had been compelled to tell, and that he was generally regarded as an unwill- ing witness who had unfortunately es- caped a severe cross-examination. The professor had heard the story of the inquest from Squire Taylor, who he had blandly called upon to ask about it. He had also picked up not a little suggestive information here and there from villagers with whom he had passed the time of day, and from that ready conversationalist, Mr. Philbrick. Prof. Drummond had made a point of making a semi-confidante of Phil- brick. “It's so hard, you know, Philbrick,” he had said, “to get a clear statement from country people.”’ And Mr. Philbrick, with his happiest smiles, had related the salient features of the inquest, dwelling with generous emphasis upon the coolness and “ap- parent cando’r’ with which the doctor had given his testimony. “There’s no use disguising the fact, professor,” said Philbrick, “that a good many of these yokels were dreaming evil dreams about you, and they ex- pected a good deal from the doctor. It put him in a hard position, born and brought up here as he was, and sensi- tive about his professional standing, don’t you know. It might have been a fine feather in his cap to present things in such a light as apparently to justify suspicion, but I happen to know that from the beginning the doctor has been very clear-headed about the whole matter. He has been deter- mined that no stupid misconception of the facts should be fostered by any words from him. He did remarkably well, professor. It was something like a lawyer refusing a fee in order to dis- courage senseless litigation.” Perhaps the genial Mr. Philbrick would not have been quite so generous in discussing his rival if it had not been that his watchful eyes had taken in that brief, incipient scene between Louise and the doctor in the court room. Seeing it, his intelligence would have been shamed had he not under- stood it. He could afford to be gener- ous, therefore, with his rival hope- lessly misinterpreted. i Prof. Drummond started for home after this conversation, satisfied of two things: it was not Philbrick who had removed the brass switch from the table leg, and Dr. Williams must be powerfully affected by some extra- enous impulse not to reveal what he new and surmised about the tragedy. The professor was not wholly certain that it was fot Amelia who had re- moved the switch, and it was clear enough for his purposes that the doc- tor knew more than he had told, and surmised more than he knew. So, when the professor asked Louise if the doctor’s apparent hostility to him was the only cause for her rejec- tion of the doctor’s proposal, he was confident that he would be able to smooth away that objection without compromising himself, for Louise had never been disobedient, and confidence in her father had been one of her best traits. He was, therefore, surprised and just a little dismayed when she shook her head. “Tell me, Lou,” he said, after a mo- ment, “is it another attraction?” Her downcast eyes answered him. It meant Philbrick, of course. ‘I'he professor was disappointed, and yet he quickly reasoned, it might not be so bad. The doctor was publicly com- mitted to a belief in the suicide the- ory. True, he had not unmistakably advocated that theory, but the public had accepted that as his explanation of the tragedy; he could not well repu- diate his course in not throwing all light possible on it in the start. Then, there was Philbrick. Little as the professor had seen of him, the man puzzled him. Why was he stay- ing on at Belmont after the summer season of outing had ended? Probab- ly because he was in love with Louise. What more natural? If it should prove to be he who had discovered and made off with the switch, there would still be ample reason for his speaking well of Dr. Williams, for the holder of that piece of brass had the professor in his power. He could dictate terms. It night, therefore, be well if Philbrick, whether he had discovered the switch or not ,could be held in subjection by love, and the doctor, whatever be knew, would-be discountenanced from any further revelation by the stand he had taken. This reasoning, of course, was some- what at variance with the professor’s convictions as he returned home, for he had then dismissed Philbrick as a probable danger; but as Prof. Drum- mond stood before his daughter and reviewed the situation rapidly, it seemed best to regard Philbrick in that light, and perhaps, after all, it was better that Louise fancied him rather than the doctor. It would not do, however, to proceed to a detinite course of action until he had been able to sound both men carefully, so he said to Louise: “Well, my child, much as I had hoped that you were pleased with Dr. Williams, I would not willingly op- pose the dictates of your own heart. We will tal no more about it now, but I must ask you not to take any tinal step without consulting me. The time may come when | shall want you to reconsider the matter with the doc- tor.” “I am not exactly displeased with Dr. Williams, papa,” responded Lou- ise, immensely relieved by the turn the conversation had taken. “I think he is very nice, but—”’ “But,” the professor finished for her, “there’s somebody else. Well, let us wait and see.” Yes, there was somebody else, and that somebody was, of course, the en- tertaining Mr. Philbricki But for his advent the doctor might have won his suit, for Louise was as near to loving him as she had ever come to the di- vine passion. Even when she post- poned her answer to the doctor’s ques- tion on the day of Philbrick’s advent- ure in the Miniski, she had done so with a trace of apparent regret. Weak natures love compromises, and Louise had been highly pleased with the com- promise she had effected with the doc- tor, for by it she retained her hold on him, while she also remained at lib- erty to sport with Philbrick. There had been no seriousness at first in her regard for him. He was fascinating, it is true; that is, she found him so; but it was a fascination of the sort that tempted flirtation, not to profound attachment. Louise had set her heart on humbling Philbrick, as she had humbled the doctor wen he told her about the fight. In all manner of ways she had tried to tease him into some reference to that mat- ter, so that she ‘could extort a confes- sion of his share in it. She had often pictured herself calling hot blushes to his cheeks, and she had cherished many a day-dream of the scene that would ensue when at last he would make his declaration. Philbrick had not declared. He had been assiduous in his attentions, and if love needed for its telling no more than langurous sighs and admiring glances, or even hasty pressures of the hand in passing he had proclaimed his passion a hundred times; but when Louise gave opportunity for words Philbrick had them not to utter. ‘here seemed to be no diffidence on his part, though Louise presumed that a trace of that might lie deep in his nature somewhere; it was more as if he were determined to make absolutely sure of He Seized the the Professor by Arm, his ground before speaking; a thing not so easy when a girl is vivacious, pretty, teasing, probably an heiress, two weeks. and a man has known her less than The upshot of it all was, therefore, that from a mere game of pleasure the chase, so far as Louise was concerned, had become wholly serious. She loyed Philbrick so much that she admitted the fact to herself, and that is saying a great deal. Now she waited with feverish anxiety for him to speak, and if she had not been more ready in dis- missing the doctor, it was because she had felt that he might be useful to her some day in stimulating Philbrick to utterance by a pretense of favoring Dr. Williams. Such, then, was the situation in hearts, so far as Louise was concern- ed. when she and the professor joined the doctor and his mother in the din- ing room. Mrs. Williams had glanced at her son when he entered and in- stantly bent again over her work. “She won’t have him!” thought the mother; foolish girl! My unhappy ‘boy! The only comfort is in the future, for it is all but certain that Louise would not make such a man perma- nently happy.” “Shall I call Amelia, papa?’ asked Louise, anxious for an excuse to be out of sight if only for a minute. Dinner was ready, and all but Amelia were at hand. “No,” responded the professor, “I'll call her myself.” The others sat at the table while he went upstairs. The door to Amelia’s room was locked just as he had left it. Accordingly he turned the key and knocked loudly. “Amelia,” he called, “dinner is ready and we are waiting for you.” There was no response by voice or movement from within, and after list- ening a moment the professor opened the door a few inches. He peered in and saw Amelia’s traveling bag just where she had left it, and on the bed her familiar skirt with one foot peep- ing out from its folds, just as he had seen it three or more hours before. : “How soundly she sleeps,” he mut- and he set on the door panel. it the tered, sation mendous rapp! ‘Amelia never stirred, and at! eager a idly towa: e - Bg embe s abruptly when half-way across the room and gave vent toa savage oath. The whole bed was in view from where he stood, and his niece-was no? Grasped the Professor by the Collar in it. The skirt she usually wore about the house was thrown over a pitiow, and an empty shoe at the bottom of it made the garment look exactly as if it covered her limbs stretched out in slumber. No pretense whatever had been made to supplying the upper part of a dummy, for from the doorway no one could have seen beyond the waist of a person lying on the bed. Amelia’s resolution to leave her un- cle’s house was not in the least shaken by either his violence in forbidding her to go or by his villainous simula- tion of tenderness in persuading her to wait until he could go with her. Her bewilderment, due in part to his feroc- ity and the shock of his assault, measurably diminished when shoe reached the head of the stairs. She had then gone to her room, taken the necessary articles from her traveling bag and wrapped them in a small par- cel. Having arranged the dummy as the professor found it, she went up to the top floor and out by the door that cpened on the ledge. She did not dare to proceed thence to the road, for that would have brought her in view of the house, and she knew that her uncle would see and pursue her. So she plunged directly into the woods that terminated at the Fairview property, intending to make a detour and come out upon the road or some road, by which she could reach the Belmont railway station un- observed. Once within the forest and for the time, at least, safe from pursuit, the inevitable reaction set in. Her mind became seriously dazed, and what with her exhaustion from the nervous shock she had undergone and her entire un- familiarity with making her way. through a forest, she lost her bearings, and after three hours of wandering she sank down helpless within a stone’s throw of the place she had started from. Amelia had deseribed almost a complete circle, as is gener- ally the case with persons who are lost in a snow storm, or, as she was, in a place where she could not identify points of compass or landmark, Un- consciousness speedily followed her collapse, and when the professor dis- covered her absence she was lying but a short distance away at his mercy could he but know where to go. For a moment the professor was dumbfounded. He did not need to be told how she had made her escape, and he cursed himself roundly for not thinking of it earlier. It troubled him that a second case of disappearance from his house should have to be re- ported. There was no escape from it, however, and every moment spent in reflections or regrets was dangerous to his already unenviable standing in the community. So he hurried down stairs and said with well feigned emotion: “Amelia, poor girl, has wandered away.” Dr. Williams felt a heavy weight at his heaert. Was it because he sus- pected the professor of another black crime? The ladies exclaimed hyster- ically, the professor looked confused and helpless, and the doctor promptly; took the initiative. “Her nerves have been badly shak- en,” he said. “When, where and how. did she go, professor?” “Out by the ledge door,” he replied. “I don’t know how long. What are you going to do?’ “Iind her! Come!” He seized the professor by the arm and dragged him up the two flights of stairs to the ledge door. She may not have gone far,” he cried, in a fever of anxiety, “for her vitality was exhausted. We may tind her at once.” “I am afraid not,” replied the pro- fessor, holding back, but the doctor dragged him on. He would not, for his life,-have let Prof. Drummond out of his sight or clutches. It was more than dusk but, without stopping to get lanterns the doctor led the professor into the forest. It need- ed not instinct to take him straight to where Amelia lay, for she was in the course that would naturally be taken by anybody who left the house to take a wally in the wood. “I told you,” cried the doetor, drop- ping on his knees beside the uncon- scious girl; “she lives! There is hope for her, but she must be taken to shel- ter quickly. Help me, professor.” The doctor had” started to lift Amelia. , “Not to my house,” said Prof. Drum- mond, harshly. “She left it willingly. Let her die here.” Dr. Williams stood up. There was light enough to see the brutal deter- mination on the professor’s face. The doctor felt as if the spirit of murder was in his own heart at that moment. Stepping across Amelia, he graspe the professor by the collar with o: hand, the other into a pocket and drew forth the brass switch. Holding and shaking it close to the professor’s eyes, he said: “Don’t tell me, Prof. Lrummond, if. that this girl shall not find comf and protection in your. house!” ee (To Be Continued.) Way Then Dia Wisi ° ; en How zles 5 ae Mr. Wiggles—Didn’t I tell you pt to tell Waggles that we were ng t move? I didn’t want him to know it and to-day he asked me when we were Ww. going to make the change. Mrs. Wiggles (indignant). 1 "1 say a word to him about et aa ville tell anybody but his wife,—: Journal, ig aA wite—Som a a