A Dead Man’s Vengeance.

Fair Play, Volume I, Issue 16, 17 February 1894, Page 22

A Dead Man’s Vengeance.

By EDGAR FAWCETT.

[Copyright. All rights reserved.] this kind was eagerly and longingly expected. Louis' appearance and deportment were meanwhile dejection itself. He showed no longer a sign of fondness toward Natalie, and Brenda perceived that her sister-in-law labored under visible annoyance or worriment, it was hard to tell precisely which. “I —I can’t believe this,” faltered Louis when she had finished. He looked steadily into his sister's face for an instant. “And yet, Brenda, 1 have always known you to bo so truthful!” “I swear to you,” said Brenda, “that 1 have told you nothing but the absolute trpth!” tie caught her hand in his own thin and feverish one. “Oh, forgive me!” came his response. “1 have been unjust to you! Perhaps your fears, your doubts were, after all—but no, no!" be suddenly broke oil, and then for a moment be covered his face like a man iu very great agony. “Ah, my God!" he soon pursued, “if it were possible that she is faithless to me! But, Brenda, not a syllable to her! Promise me this! It may be that Bhe is altogether innocent. And yet she has told me so much—everything, in fact —about her past, and I have never even heard her mention the name of ‘Archibald’—yes. I am certain of it. And pray. Brenda, keep silent. Say nothing whatever, leaving all to me, and —and forgiving me, 1 hope, as I—l do not deserve to be forgiven!” For answer Brenda impetuously threw both arms around her brother’s neck. “Oh, Louis,” she cried. “Heaven knows that I’ve hated to tell you these things! I have no wish to quarrel with your wife. I should so have loved her. Louis, if only —but never mind. You have my promise. And yet if Natalie should attack me I can't be sure just how calmly l shall receive her.” But Natalie made no attack. Whatever soon passed between herself and Louis was spoken behind closed doors. “She will tell him some falsehood, no doubt,” mused Brenda, “and he will believe it and turn once more against me.” For two or three days poor Brenda waited some such development, but none came. Louis failed to give her the slightest confidence on the subject of his wife’s avowals, though an interview of

Shortly after dinner time one sultry, lifeless evening * servant came to Brenda and told her that Mr. Bond had suddenly been taken very ill. Hurrying to her brother's apartment Brenda found him stretched on a sofa near one of the windows, looking pale as death. His Wife sat beside him, chafing one of his hands between her own, and seeming to be overwhelmed by distress. •‘lt’s his heart,” she whispered to Brenda. “He has had one or two illnesses like this before. They are usually followed by faintness, just as you see, though this is no more severe than any other that has yet visited him.” T shall send at once for Dr. Southgate,” said Brenda, with decision. She promptly went toward a bell and rang it. Natalie looked at her with an abrupt, challenging stare. “Louis does not need a doctor,” she said. “He is better now. Besides,” she went on with an obstinacy that bore strange contrast to her former mien of grief, “a rural doctor like that might do him’ more harm than good. Tomorrow, if he is strong enough, we will go to town and see some physician of authority.” Brenda gave a slight sarcastic smile. *1 disagree with you,” she said, “and shall send for Dr. Southgate.” Natalie rose haughtily from the chair beside her husband. “You shall not set your will against mine,” she said. “You are alwa3 r s delighting in opposite views to my own. Ever since 1 married Louis you have seen fit to treat me with either concealed or open insult.” Just then Louis opened his dark eyes and Brenda saw, as they fixed themselves on hers, that they burned like diamonds. ‘Louis!" she exclaimed, hastening tovard him, “do not you sanction my jedding for Dr. Southgate?” "‘No,” he answered. But while Brenda n-arted back in despair at this unwelcome reply he put forth his hand with a slight, unmistakable motion. Brenda at once seized the hand between both her own and sank down at his side. She perceived the next instant that he was more ill than she had ever seen him. Across Brenda’s shoulder he looked at his wife. ‘Natalie,” he said, in a voice that was husky, and yet contained a ring of command, “1 wish to speak a few words with my sister You yourself can go and tell them that the bell which 1 heard Brenda ring need not be answered. Do you understand me? 1 hope that you do.” Those last two brief sentences had not a sign of menace, and yet there was something in their low emphasis that made the color slip from Natalie’s cheeks. “Dear Louis." she broke forth a moment afterward, however in tender, persuasive tones, “you had best' not talk with any one this evening! Tomorrow” “Do as 1 desire you,” Louis interrupted. His voice was not much above a whisper, but Brenda recoiled from him as she heard it, so unlike his usual self did it seem, so compelling, so commandant- and yet so terribly tranquil-

Natalie went to one cf the doors and slowly opened it. She disappeared slowly, too, as if some magnetic form were insisting upon the exit. Louis’ hand trembled a little now in Brenda’s hold. But soon it lay there quite still again. He presently spoke, but as if with intentional caution against a possible listener. Brenda, leaning forward sq that his breath almost swept her cheeks, was just able to hear each word as it fell from his pale and slightly twitching lips. “My sister —I have wronged you very much. Yes—l see this —now, when death has laid hold of me and there may be only a few hours left me to live. Brenda —don’t start like that—it is nothing, this change we call death. But to die as 1 am dying is an exquisite comfort. 1 would not live on, Brenda, for an empire. My part of life is done—utterly done. 1 have loved that woman, Natalie Leveridge, with an immense passion, an immense constancy. WJiat I forced her to tell me the other evening there is no need of my telling you. You are a mere girl; you could not avenge me. But all has grown clear to me, and I know beyond a doubt that some one else will.” ‘Some one else? Oh, Louis” ‘Hush, Brenda. You see how weak I am. My brain seems to swim now. There is a paper here in my breast pocket. Reach up your hand. Take it and hide it as though your own life depended on its jealous concealment. Have you found it, Brenda?" ‘Yes, Louis, yes.” ‘Have you hidden it?” ‘Yes—yes.” ‘Now, remember When 1 am laid in my coffin—not until then —get a chance to place it against my-heart just as you found it placed a minute ago. Don’t let her see you. But Gerald will come; he will come the day of the funeral. even if something should delay him from the funeral itself. And then os soon as you and he shall meet tell him where you put the paper. Will you *wear to me, Brenda, that you will carry Out this wish of mine?” “Yes, Louis, 1 will swear with my whole soull But”- — i “The paper is sealed close, as you will Bee, and bears no inscription. It is something 1 wrote yesterday. I have been in fearfnl suffering for hours past, but 1 have guarded this even from her. And don’t grieve much for me, Brenda. I’m a thousandfold happier at going than Itaying. To live now would only be one prolonged anguish. Some day 1 think that Gerald will make everything clear to you. He will find out. Never mind how. He can’t tell you yet, even if you ask him He will simply listen to you when you tell him what you have done.” Perhaps Louis might have gone on. speaking in his faint, yet clear heard voice, if the door had not now been suddenly opened and Natalie had not swept into the room. Brenda at once realized that she had

tried to listen and failed. The girl rose from, her brother’s conch, still holding hie hand and facing the intruder. Natalie at once spoke, before Brenda had time to do 1.0. “My place is here at my husband’s side, and here I shall remain,” she said. “Oh, 1 know why you came in like that!” now broke from Brenda. “You were afraid to let us be alone together 1 You were afraid of something he might tell mer Natalie bit her lips, and shot such a look at her husband’s sister as might have flashed from the eyes of a striking inake. But at this moment a long, heavy groan burst from Louis. Brenda flung herself once again at his side. His face had now grown bluish, his eyelids were Btrangely fluttering, and at the verges of his lips had collected a slight wreath of foam. “Louisl” called Brenda wildly. “Louisl speak to me!” But she had heard the sound of his voice for the last time in life. About two hours later he died, besieged by recurrent spasms of what appeared keen suffering, though old Dr. Southgate, summoned at last, and watching him with deepest attention, declared that, being wholly unconscious, he escaped all pain. CHAPTER IV.

1 The White Sulphur Springs had bored jGerald Ravelow severely for a number of weeks past. He saw in a hundred of the (pretty girls that haunted the lawns and piazzas of the hotels a resemblance to vague yet irritating. He avoided (all chances of being presented to any of these damsels, and soon won. in conse.quence, the name of woman hater. This put him into a still more unpleasant humor, from which his only refuge was found in taking very long horseback rides among the breezy Virginia hills. Mean-

while his mother’s health had unproved but slightly, although her malady was fraught with no symptoms of danger. Learning by accident that a New York physician of note chanced to be at a small hotel about ten miles distant, Gerald persuaded his mother to accompany him thither. They retained their former apartments at the hotel, which they now temporarily left, and to which they proposed returning in at least three days from their time of departure. As matters arranged themselves, however, the new quarters proved charming, the new donor a very agreeable man and the new project a most unforeseen success. His mother seemed so much brighter and stronger that Gerald determined to give up his apartments at their former hotel and remain for an indefinite space in the spot whither he had drifted. With this purpose he sent for whatever letters that might have arrived at their recent abode, directed either to himself or Mrs. Ravelow. Several letters had arrived and were duly sent. Among them was a telegram from Miss Brenda Bond telling of her brother’s death. Gerald was horribly shocked. For the first time since boyhood his mother saw him weep. He bitterly reproached himself for having seen his friend so seldom of late; he pitied Brenda with a lover’s exorbitant power to pity: and finally he told his motaer that it would be imperative for him to leave on the next northern train. “Of course, my son,” she acquiesced. “I would not have yon remain away from the funeral for worlds—that is. if there is any possible chance of you reaching it in time." Gerald did his best. But the journey was long and Brenda’s telegram had been cruelly delayed. When he arrived at Shadyshore the funeral ceremony had been over about three hours. Brenda, clad in the deepest mourning, met him with a sob and a little cry. “My poor girl,” lie, said, and took her in his arms. A servant had just glided from the drawing room, leaving them alone. Gerald’s lips found their way to hers, and the kiss that followed was one of betrothal, as both silently* understood. “I have so much to tell you,” faltered Brenda, looking about her with nervous glances: “But there will always be the thought that she is listening. It is such a lovely afternoon. Let us walk out under the fir trees.” ' Their walk lasted until nearly dusk. Finally, with a blinding headache caused by grief and excitement, Brenda redirected her steps toward the house. “Amd you tell me,” said Gerald, as he walked ruminatively at her side, “that Dr. Southgate declared your brother died of heart disease'/’’ “Yes. He'wrote that on the certificate; I saw the two words myself.” “But you yourself think” “Oh, I think nothing, because I’ve not a vestige of proof.” Gerald was silent for some little time. He would have liked to tell Brenda the reason her brother had caused her to

place that paper in his coffin, but remembrance of liia oath forbade. After once having made the midnight visit to Louis'tomb he would; be privileged to speak of it, but before .doing bo the terms of that curious, whimsical compact precluded all reference to his intended act “You, too, soemed mystified by his having bid me to conceal that paper inside liis coffin,” said Brenda. “You cannot guess, can you, Gerald, what it contains?" “No, I can not,” roplied Gerald, glad to answer so directly. “Unless," he went on, “a list of accusations against his wife is to bo found there.” “Oh, I have thought of that," said Brenda, “but surely if Louis had wished that you should see tho paper he would dot have” The words died on her lips, for just then, while they were ascending tho piazza steps, Natalie caino forward from the inner hall. Her mourning did not become her as it did Bronda, and, beside tho extreme pallor of her face, there was a certain wildness noticeable in her odd hued oyes. Slio dropped her gaze before Gerald’s direct one. A significant silonco now ensued, which Bronda suddonly broko. She put out her hand to Gerald. “Goodby,” she murmured; "1 am worn out for today. I must lie down. You will come to-morrow?" “To-morrow—surely," lie said, pressing her hand. Slio at onco glided past her sister-in-law and disappeared into the hall. Gerald waited a moment for Natalie to speak; then, seeing that she looked both embarrassed and agitated, he said: “1 was very sorry not to have seen the last of poor Louis." Natalie seemed furtively to gnaw tier under lip. Then she threw back her delicate head with a little blending of scorn and sadness. “Oh, if yon had but come hero a few hours sooner, Mr. Ravelow,” she exclaimed, “I beliove that even you might have consented to side with me—yes. mo, tho wife of your friend—against tho treatment I have been forced to receive from Brenda.” - “What treatment?” asked Gerald. “1 have heard that you wished to keep a physician from visiting your husband, even while you lenew him to be in the agonies of death." j July. j July was tho fifth month in the Roman calendar and was culled Quintilas, the fifth. Originally it contained 80 days, but was reduced by Romulus to 81, by Numa to 80, but was restored to 81 by Julius Caesar, in honor of whom it was named July on account of his having been born during this month. It was also so called from th* goddess Juno.