Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, March 23, 1901, Page 8

IN THE WEB OF sv....... A SPIDER. LILLIAN GILLIN. OHAPTER LIL. (Continaed.) “Consent to what?” thundered her father, in his wrath. ‘0 your mar- riage with an adventurer and a for- tune-hunter? Have I not heard how already he schemes for money to aid kim in his plans? Leave the room, Be- atrice. Return to your own. So long es you are daughter of mine, you have fooked your last on Bertram Talbot's face!” The girl fixed her eyes one moment full upon the speaker, then bravely, resolutely, she approached her lover. “Good-bye, Bertie!” she said, sadly. “God only knows how long our good- bye may be, but were it through time and eternity, my love can know no wa- vering.” Even as she spoke she lifted her lips that they might meet his own. For a moment he held her close in his embrace; but, releasing her, he stepped between her and the door, “I must be the one to leave, Beat~ rice,” he said. ‘You will bear me wit- ness that I have accepted silently, for your sake, the insults your father has effered me. Within one year he shall acknowledge them unjust, or I will vol- untarily forfeit my claim upon your love. If gold must buy you, then I must have gold. For one year, then, farewell!” The door closed, and the father and Aaughter were alone. She turned to leave the room, when the silence struck her strangely. She looked toward her father. There was an ashen pallor on his face, and his lips were trembling. Forgetful of ail but the devotion she had ever lavished upon him, she sprang toward him. “Papa!” she cried, ‘you are ill!” “Leave me!” he gasped, as if breath eame with an effort. “Leave me—un- grateful girl!” “Oh, papa! let me stay! Forgive me! A little color crept back to his cheek. his voice sounded stronger. “No, Beatrice,” he said; ‘I am better mow. Go to your room, child. In the morning we will both be calmer, and then—then I have something to tell you which the past five minutes have taught me must not be delayed in the telling. We—we never quarreled be- fore, darling, and you will not refuse me obedience now. In the morning we will see what can be done.” CHAPTER ITIl. It was long ere Beatrice sank into a troubled sleep, and scarcely, it seemed te her, had her weary lids closed than again she widely opened them in dread eensciousness of something wrong. Then, one by one, the events of the evening shaped themselves before het. Were they not sufficient to account for this terrible weight upon her breast, this deadly sinking at her heart? Deep silence rested on the househola. Within, without, there was no sound. Even the ordinary voices of the night; @eemed hushed. She could almost fancy herself the enly living thing in that awful solitude | trembled. She It was nerv- ef space. Her limbs felt her flesh grow cold. ous folly, of course. She remembered } ence, as a tiny child, how she had wak- ened from a nightmare with something ef the same sensation of fright, and called from her little crib for her fath- er to comfort her. How tenderly he had answered her cry—how he had ris- en, and coming to her, held her in his , arms and soothed her to sleep upon his breast! She was not a child still to be soothed to slumber on his heart, but a great) fenging seized her to feel once more about her the dear, protecting arms. The impulse was too strong to be re- sisted. She sprang up, and, throwing ea a warm wrapper and thrusting her feet into slippers, she hastened to her father’s door. Once, twice, she knocked for admis- gion. No answer came back. She tried, and found it yielded to her touch; but a glance within the moonlit room showed her its emptiness. Her father must still be below. It was not so late, then, as she had fancied. But, half-way down the stairs the si- lence was broken. The library door was violently flung e@pen, and a man, white and trembling with excitement, rushed forth. It was Bertram Talbot! He cast no glances toward the stairs er the white apparition standing there, but rapidly crossed the hall, opened the euter door and went out into the night. ‘What new and terrible scene had been enacted? Shivering as if winter were pon her, she hastened down and en- tered the library. Not until she had crossed its thresh- hold and caught sight of her father, sitting in an easy chair before his open desk, did she realize just what she had feared. “Papa!” papa!” But she seemed speaking to deaf ears. He neither spoke nor moved. In an instant she was beside him. “Merciful heaven! What terrible thing is this?” The ashen pallor, which once before @he had noted on his face, had deep- ened. He was gasping, painfully, for breath. His eyes, with all anger fled from their depths, turned toward her, with the old, worshipful fondness. “Papa!” she screamed—“speak to ‘me! Oh, what has happened? Help! Will no one come?” and she sprang up to pull the bell. Then, by effort almost superhuman, qesping words answered her piteous ap- peal: “I—I—have—been—robbed! —proof—I—consent—” “Robbed, papa! Who has robbed qgou?” she cried—‘dear, darling Bertram! But ere he could reply the outer door was thrown open, and Randolph Ches- ter, fully dressed, preceded two men, the gardener and the coachman, while between them, as if in their custody, stood a third. Randolph Chester cast toward Mr. Markham one penetrating look, and saw that his moments were numbered. “We have caught the thief, sir,” he began, with a significant glance toward Talbot. But as the insult escaped his lips, the latter made a spring toward him. The two men caught his arms and held him ‘It is only necessary for you to ident- ify him,” continued Chester, coolly. Mr. Markham’s power of speech had nearly gone. He pointed toward the three, but his glance and finger were directed toward the coachman, who grew ghastly white. “Bertram!” he gasped—“‘Bertram— proof! I consent! Beatrice! the will the papers—you will find—the secret— He could say no more. His head fell back. An expression of acute pain swept over his face, succeeded by per- fect peace. Donald Markham, Oaks, was dead Randolph Chester bent over the dead man a moment, while a swift expression of triumph passed over his face; then he went toward Beatrice and tenderly took her hand. master of Grey “Come away, my child,” he said, gently. “Your father is dead!” “Dead!” she moan: “No, no! Oh, God! how could he die, when so little e ago we were talking of to-mor- ? , papa! speak to me!” it was heart disease, Beatrice. He had known for four yars that any ex- citement would bring on death. He had kept it a secret from you, fearing to cause you unhappiness.” “And this was what he meant to tell me?” sobbed the girl. “And it was 1 who killed him—I, who loved him bet- ter than my life!” “No, Beatrice; there stands his mur- derer! Look at him!” and he motioned toward Bertram, whose white lips met in one straight line, but who made no further effort to escape from the de- taining grasp of his two guardians. “Bertie!” cried the unhappy girl, “Bertie, why do you not speak to me? What is he saying? Oh, my brain is reeling! I am going mad!” “Go to your rcom, dear child!” plead- ed Chester. ‘‘All this is more than you can bear. To-morrow you shall know all.” “To-morrow! No!” she answered, firmly. ‘To-morrow is already to-day, and I will hear now—now, all that you have to say! But what is this you say of Bertie? I cannot understand—" “Yet to-night you heard him boast that gold should buy you. How could he gain that gold? He stole back into the house he had left; entered the li- brary by an open window, while your father had gone for a moment to his room, leaving open his safe, at which he had been examining some papers, A pile of bonds and notes were lying there. These he seized, and was just about making his escape, when your father entered. I was standing outside the window, an unseen witness to all that followed. I had been restless, could not sleep, and the beauty of the night had tempted me to enjoy it more perfectly outside. Your father’s ex- citement had passed away, and he asked him, quite calmly, why he had re- turned. He began to speak, when your father’s eye fell on the safe, Instantly he knew that he had been robbed, and that the thief stood before him. Old man as he was, he sprang toward him, but with a swift movement Talbot eluding his grasp, turned to escape by the window but, see'ng me, fled through the door. I lost no time in pursuit. I could not dream that Cousin Dorfald was so ill. Tyrrel I met in the grounds. He was just returning to his rooms from the village. Gray, I knew, was sitting up with his sick wife. One mo- ment sufficed to call them both. We had little difficulty in overtaking and capturing the cowardly criminal. Be- atrice, it cuts me to the soul to tell me this, as you stand by your dead fath- er’s side, yet a moment ago you heard from his lips a confirmation of my sto- ry. You saw him identify the thief.” “Thief, do you say?” she questioned, interrupting for the first time, while her glance one instant fell on Bertram Talbot's face, and met the answering glance from the clear brswn eyes which met hers so fearlessly, and mutely seemed to ask, “Beatrice, do you be- lieve this lie?” “Whoever calls Bertram Talbot thiet —lies!” she said. “Bertram, why do you not speak?” “Words are uscless, Beatrice,” he an- swered. “Let this villain work his worst—my explanation and my pres- ence here to-night is not for his ears!’ “Nor your explanation of how these came into your possession?” questioned Chester, scornfully; and he drew from his pocket a package of bonds and notes. “Tyrrel, explain how and where you found them?” “Mr. Talbot threw ‘em away, sir, as we came up to him; and I, thinking they might be of some value, picked ’em up.” “You see, Beatrice, these are the stol- en bonds. Do you wish more proof?” asked Chester. “More proof? Yes!” she cried. “I wish proof that you are the thief, and these men are false witnesses! Oh, papa, speak! Open your dear lips! I need you—more than ever in my life 1 need you! Papa, papa, come back to me!” An expression of hate and bitter de- termination swiftly passed over Ran- dolph Chester’s face. Then he forced a smile of forgiving pity to take its place; but the evil light lurked in his eyes, and would not be hidden. “Beatrice,” he said, “you will regret these words when you are calmer,” But even while he spoke her lovely face blanched to the lily’s whiteness, and, stretching out her arms toward her lover, she fell senseless at her dead father's feet. Chester made a motion to bend over and lift her up, but Bertram Talbot sprang toward her, In vain the men sought longer to hold him back, He flung them both from him. With white face and set teeth he and Randolph Chester stood face to face, while between them lay the senseless form of Beatrice. “Touch her at your peril!” whispered Talbot, in a low, distinct tone. “Lay your finger on her, and by the God above I will make good the name you called me, for I will kill you!” “Gray—Tyrrel!”’ screamed Chester, springing back, ‘‘do your duty! Arrest this man!” And, springing toward the bell, he pulled it violently. CHAPTER IV. But for once Randolph Chester’s com- mand was unheeded, his behest un- obeyed. No one interfered as Talbot lifted in his arms the lovely, senseless form, and bore her tenderly to the couch, upon which he laid her, chafiag her cold hands and moistening with water her pale lips. Tyrrel, meantime. had slipped from the room and roused the sleeping house- hold. One by one its startled members came, awe-struck, into the presence of death. Thus reinforced, Chester recov- ered himself. He beckoned Tyrrel to him, and whis- pered afew words in his ear. The man listened with an expression of wonder- ment and fear, then disappeared, and soon on the silent night was heard adown the drive the swift gallop of a horse’s hoofs. A grim smile wreathed his lips as he caught the sound. He could afford to act now, and, pointing to Talbot as he bent over Beatrice, he made a silent command that they should seize and overpower him. Absorbed in his care of her, he had forgotten their presence, until both arms were caught from behind, and he found himself in the sturdy grasp of three strong men. One of them tore from the window its fastening, and bound it about his wrists. He stood there, fettered and helpless, and Beatrice lay, unconscious of his de- gradation. One desperate effort he made to free himself. Then he saw its uselessness and forced. himself to be calm; but the countenance of the dead bore no more ghastly pallor than his own, when Randolph Chester ap- proached the couch and, lifting the senseless burden he had deposited there, bore it from his sight and from the room. Nor did he return for full an hour, and then Tyrrel’s errand was explained, for with him were two officers of the law. He pointed to Talbot. “There is your man,” he said, and though he strove to give his voice the accent of calm and sorrow, it held the ring of his triumph and rejoicing. ‘“We can prove him a thief,’ he continued. “His own soul brands him assassin, since the excitement of this night's work has ended my cousin’s life.” The officers approached. Talbot made no resistance as each laid a hand upon his shoulder. It seemed to him as though he were living some ter- rible nightmare; but, as he passed Chester in their custody, he fixed his burning eyes full upon his face. “Coward and perjurer!” he said, in low, trenchant tones. “One day we shall have a heavy debt to settle, you and I—nor may you hépe to escape its payment.” Then, in silence, he permitted them to lead him from the room and the house. It was long ere Beatrice waked from her swoon; and when, at last, the beau- tiful eyes slowly unclosed, and a long, fluttering sigh heralded her return to life and consciousness, it formed itself into Bertram’s name. But only the physician, whom Tyrrell had summoned together with the offi- cers of the law, bent over her in re- sponse, “Calm yourself, my child, and try to sleep.” His voice but roused her further. raised her head from her pillow. “Send Bertram to me!” she said, im- peratively. The doctor, misunderstanding her command, and knowing that any oppo- She | sition in her present state would be hurtful, beckoned her maid, who stood weeping by the window, to approach, and whispered a few words in her ear, The girl ‘hesitated an instant, then hastened from the room. “T have sent for him, dear child,” said the physician, soothingly. “But when he comes you must not talk.” “Papa?” she murmured, as if still trying to clear her brain of some linger- ing doubts. “He was ill—he is better?” “He is out of pain, my child.” The answer seemed to satisfy het. She turned her head toward the door, and fixed her great, dark eyes upon it. At last it was opened, but it was Ran- dolph Chester who entered. His face was very pale and his mouth twitched nervously; but he struggled hard to appear at ease. Beatrice shrank away at sight of him, an awful scorn playing in her eyes, Sudden strength seemed to come to her, as though born of hate. Memory asserted itself. The scene in the library returned to her. She remembered that her father was dead; she remembered that he had been robbed. There was a faint memory, too, that in some way Bertram Talbot had been connected with the robbery. “I sent for Bertram, not you!” she said, in tones which evidenced the ef- fort it cost her even to address him. “Where is he? Why does he not come?” “Bertram Talbot is in jail,” he an- swered, bitterly. ‘Do you still wish to see the thief, the man at whose door lies your father’s death?” “In jail?” she repeated, in a low whisper, striving by ber repetition of the words to better realize their ‘im- port. To her excited fancy jail meant stone walls and stone floors, with a wretched pallet to lie upon and bread and water for food; and to such a place her lover had been taken and accused of such a crime. “Coward!” she exclaimed, raising herself from her pillow and fixing her burning eyes upon his face. ‘“‘No need to ask who has wreaked this wrong Is it thus that you would slake your hate? But he must be freed at once. Papa, come to me! Help me! Oh, my God, you have taken him from me, too! I am indeed, alone!” And, with a long, shivering sigh, she again relapsed into unconsciousness. A moment, while the physician strove to restore her, Chester stood motion: less. Her scorn, her anger, had kindled to fiercer heat the passions that swayeé him. “You shall yet come a suppliant to my feet, fair cousin,” he whisperea, though only his soul caught the whis- per and import. ‘You shall yet wask out with your bitterest tears the words that you have let drop to-day. You shall yet acknowledge me, in all hu- miliation, your lord, your master and our husband! Ah, fate is kind to me! It has placed you in my power!” CHAPTER V. Three days later, and Donald Mark- ham was laid to his last rest, with all due pomp and honor, in the family vault; opened for the first time since it closed on the body of his young wife, twenty long years before. But Beatrice still lay unconscious of all that was taking place about her. The terrible strain upon her brain and heart had been greater than her strength, and brain fever had been its consequence, Day and night her cry was, altern- ately, for “Papa and Bertram.” Once or twice her cousin had ventured into the sick room; but, however in- tense her delirium, his presence always irritated and excited her. He had recovered, however, his usual calm, He listened, even to her bitter denunciation of him in her ravings, with a smile of irony. In the household he asserted the place of the dead master. On the second day after the tragedy, when Mr. Markham’s lawyer came down from the city, he assisted him in his search among the dead man’s pa- pers for his will. “There were two I drew up myself,” said the lawyer—‘one when Beatrice was a baby, and one not more than three months ago. In both she was left the undisputed heiress of all his prop- erty, except for minor legacies and be- quests, since in law, in any case, she in- herits as next of kin.” To all of which Mr. Chester smiled assentingly. But the search for either will was vain. “You say there were two wills made?" asked Randolph Chester, on the day following the funeral, when once more he and the lawyer met in his uncle’s library. “Perhaps one is among Mr. Markham’s papers at your office, and you have overlooked it?” He asked the question with an in- drawing of his breath, but drew a sigh of relief at the lawyer’s answer. * “T drew the will here and left it in Mr. Markham’s own care. By the way, Mr. Chester, you are somewhat the los- er, for it is no breach of professional secrecy to tell you that in it you were named to the extent of $50,000. He owed you that, your cousin said, as some recompense for having married again, and so cheated you out of your otherwise natural rights as his heir.” “By the way, Mr. Arnold,” interrupt- ed the listener, somewhat abruptly, “speaking of professional secrecy, there is one matter on which I wish to speak to you under its seal. Did my cousin ever enter into any particulars with you concerring his marriage?’ “Never; excepting to refer to it as a short dream of untainted bliss. Once, I remember, he laughed and declared the only act of impulsive folly he had permitted himself had turned out the wisest action of his life. I believed he referred to his marriage then, but I asked no questions.” “Yet your conclusions were right My cousin, Mr. Arnold, is my affianced wife; therefore you can comprehend the sacredness of the secret I am about to confide to you. Of course, her mar- riage to me will do away with any fur. ther necessity for its revealing. My cousin’s marriage was, indeed, an act of folly. In fact, it was no marriage at at all!” The lawyer’s professional calm, for the first time in twenty-five years, de- serted him as these words fell upon his ears. He sprang excitedly from his chair. “What are you saying, Mr. Chester?” he asked, excitedly, indignantly. “I am asserting a truth, Mr. Arnold. or, rather, I am betraying a confidence, for I am but repeating to you a story I gleaned from my cousin's lips.” “Years ago, while traveling in Italy, he wandered one night into the opera house at Florence. A young and beau- tiful woman was to make her debut as prima donna, and the house was crowd- ed from pit to dome. “She made her entree in the middle of the first act, and, as she glided upon the stage, my cousin told me he held his breath. It seemed to him an angel stood there. The plaudits and welcome of the people restored him’ to earth, and brought him down from the realms of heaven, where his fancy had led him. “Then the house grew silent. “The low strains of the orchestra an- nounced the prelude to the song. The debautante stood facing the people. She opened her lips, but no sound came forth. “She had been struck with stage fright, and her voice had deserted her. “It was an awful moment, and the Italians, always excitable forgot her youth and beauty, and let hisses take the place of cheers. “It was more than she could bear. She grew deathly pale, and beat a has- ty retreat from the stage. “Some one was found to take her place, and after necessary delay the opera went on, but to my cousin its charm had fled. “Of course, the poor girl’s career was ended. She had ‘already received her discharge from the manager. “Whgn, next morning, my cousin discovered where she lived, and went in person to her lodgings to offer her sympathy and support, he found her bathed in tears, but more beautiful than smiling in the glare of the foot- lights. (To Be Continued.) The misery, children make for their parents is well known; the misery parents make for their children not s¢ well. Nervous Prostration. — A Noted Boston Woman Describes its Symptoms and Terrors.—Two Severe Cases Cured by Lydia E. b ya am isn’t a well inch in my body. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. i ADELE WILLIAMSON. _\\ “J am so nervous! no one ever suffered as I do! ul There I honestly believe my lungs are diseased, my chest pains me so, but I-have no cough. 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