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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (July 20, 1899)
^ * * CHAPTER VI.—(Continued.) My heart sank as I remembered th3 incident of last evening, the evidently clandestine meeting in the shrubbery at Forest Lea. Could this Journey be conected with that meeting, and could the timid, modest girl I had known at Forest Lea be capable of planning and carrying out secret arrangements, sur rounded by so many difficulties in her circumstances? What did it mean? The endless green panorama still flitted by; not a sound, save the occa sional rustling of a newspaper, broke the silence of the railway carriage; the passengers were either sleepy or unsociable. An Irrepressible desire to speak to Miss Branscombe possessed me—I could bear the situation no longer. I turned toward her with the paper I had been reading in my hand. Intending to offer it to her. She was already occupied with a book—one of those thin paper-covered volumes bought at book-stalls—and she did not raise her eyes from It or otherwise appear to have noticed my movement. There was no doubt of her wish to ignore our previous acquaintance. And a conclusive further proof of her iden tity was given me In her dress, which I now had the opportunity of seeing more distinctly. It was of a brownish shade, and the pattern a little chock— a simple girlish costume which I re membered she had worn in the morn ing of the day Col. Branscombe died. Could I forget the least detail con nected with her? A sudden Inspiration flashed through my mind. Miss Branscombe had sought this method of communicating with me privately, away from her family circle, and the reserve she maintained was necessary for the moment in the pres ence of our fellow-passengers, some of whom might be known to her by Bight at least. When the proper moment ar rived she would explain herself. I “Young lady not coming back, air?" said one of them, a portly squire, with a humorous twinkle In the corner of his eye. "She's left her cloak and her book”—pointing to the latter where it lay on the floor. "Not coming back— eh!” "I suppose not,” I answered as In differently as I could, stooping to pick up the dropped volume. On the fly-leaf was written in pencil the name “Nona Branscombe." CHAPTER VII. “Five minutes past four,” I said to myself as I sprang out on to the plat form at Euston Station. "I shall Just have time to report myself at the of fice before Rowton leaves, get a feed somewhere, and catch the 6:30 back to Forest Lea. Here, hansom—as fast as you can drive to Chancery Lane!” My plans bad been rapidly formed In the time which elapsed between Miss Branscombe’s disappearance at Molton Junction and my arrival at Euston. If Miss Branscombe Intended to return to Forest Lea that night, reference to Bradshaw had shown me that it must be by the 6:50 train from town—there was no other stopping at Westford; and if she did not return from that mysterious errand—which I could no longer flatter myself wa3 In any way connected with me—then my presence at Forest Lea might be urgently needed. Such testimony as I could give as to Miss Branscombe’s movements might be of the utmost consequence if she was to be saved from some unknown villainy of Char lto Branscombe's. I shuddered at the thought of her possible danger in his handB, and urged my cabby to swifter speed over the rattling London streets. James Rowton received me with open arms. "Awfully glad you’ve come back, old man; the chief Is still laid up, and I find myself up to my ear3 in work.” ‘•IT WAS NO NA HERSELF.'.' knew what fruitless attempts she had ^lready made to enlist me on her side. This idea did not perhaps remove the primary and greatest difficulty of the situation, but I hailed It eagerly. It gave Miss Branseombe the loophole jwhich my love demanded. I was con tent to wait my lady’B pleasure—nay, 3 was more than content—I forgot all the doubts and fears which had har assed me a moment ago in the rap turous delight of the thought that she trusted me, she turned to me for help jn her difficulties. A man In love will jforglve any indiscretion of which he is himself the object and by which he profits. The train sped on, the afternoon shadows lengthened. The express stopped at few stations on Its rapid journey, and, as one after the other of these halting places was passed with out a sign from Miss Branseombe, I began to conclude that her destination was the same as my own—or, was she only sitting out the fellow-passengers, not one of whom had left us? The question was presently answered - In a startling and unexpected manner. Molton, a large busy junction, was reached. We were on the point of leaving it again after a three minutes' halt, when Miaa Branseombe, with a hurried glance at the platform, started to her feet, and before I could assist ox prevent her, she had snatched her bag from the opposite seat, beckoned tc a passing porter, and left the carriage as she had entered it—swiftly and sud denly. I sprang after her. -s. “Just starting sir—time’s up!” sailed the porter. I gave little' heed to the warning hut a stream of passengers Just ar rived by the branch line Interposed between me and Miss Branseombe, th< whistle of the express sounded, anc the remembrance of Col. Branscombe’i will, left behind me In the carriage recalled me to my duty. I dashed bad just in time, mad with disappointmen and baffled curiosity, and regained m: p seat in a condition which roused m; :: somnolent fellow-travelers. The junior was not fond of work. “There’s that case of Rose versus Em ery—you know all about it, I suppose, and old Mrs. Entwistle's estate, and Sir Everard Brlmbone's settlements— they are all on me like a pack of wolves. Morton, from Morton and White’s, has been in three times to day. Sir Everard wants the thing pushed on—marriage comes off at the end of the month. Wish people wouldn’t get married! Fagged to death—ugh!”—rising and stretching himself. “Well, what's your news? Old man dead?” "Yes,” I said laconically, for hl3 tone jarred upon me. "Colonel Brans combe’s will Is here”—pointing to my Gladstone bag. “We’d better take a copy, I suppose.” “Yes, I suppose so. What has the old fellow done—left everything to that rip of a nephew?” "No,” I answered unwillingly. Nora’s name had become a sacred word to me, and I hesitated to pronounce it In such a presence. "No? Then what has he done with the estate? I thought he had no other relations.” "He had a niece,” I replied, fumbling for the key of my bag. “Oh, here it is!”—taking the key from my pocket "Jennings must stay and make the copy, and send it down.” "A niece?” interrupted Rowton. "Who Is she? Never heard of her. What's she like? Young or old? Does she come In for the land and all? Why don’t you speak out, man?” “I—I will In a moment,” I rejoined. “What on earth is the matter with this key?”—holding it up to the light “Something in the barrel—dust, I dare say,” suggested Rowton careless ly. “But about the niece—I’m Inter ested, Fort. Is she young and beau ‘ tlful. and an heiress?” j “It’s the lock,” I exclaimed; “the 1 key’s right enough, and yet the bag 1 has scarcely been out of my sight What the—” I stared at my partner, ■ whilst I felt every vestige of color - leaving my cheeks. “This bag Isn’t ’ mine; It’s—It’s—look at this”—point ing to a half-effaced label of a foreign hotel adhering to the bottom of the Gladstone. "I have never been at Venice, and"—examining it more closely—“this la not my bag; the key doesn't fit.” “Whew—w!” whistled my partner. “A cass of ‘exchange no robbery.’ You've bagged somebody else’s, and he's bagged yours”—laughing at his own pun. "Awfully disgusted he’ll be when he sees the documents.” "It’s an impossibility," I ejaculated. “The bag was put into the carriage and taken out again by my own hands, and it never left my sight throughout the Journey. It was on the opposite seat. I can Bwear there’s been no mis take. It’s a robbery! Send for the police." The words died on my l'ns. A ter rible suspicion darted into my mind. Nona Branscombe had carried a black bag—a Gladstone, the facsimile of mine—and I had deposited it beside my own on the vacant seat. In her precipitate flight she had taken the bag, leaving cloak and book behind her, and, as I remembered now, ef fectually covering up the Gladstone she had left. In her agitation she had evidently exchanged the bags by mis take. “Robbery? Nonsense—it’s a case ol exchange!” persisted James Rowton. “Can’t you remember who had the other? Did he come all the way?” “Yes,” I said'confusedly, putting my hand to my head. “I remember; she got out at Molton.” "She!” echoed my partner. "Was,It a woman? And with a Gladstone!” VYes,” I answered, heartily vexed with myself for the involuntary admis sion, “It was a woman. I’ll go back to Euston and wire to Molton at once. The mistake may have been discovered and my bag left there; and I will fol low the message by the first train.” “Off again?” exclaimed Rowton rue fully. “There’s a week’s fag here”— pointing to a pile of documents which filled the table. “Can’t help it!” I retorted. “Tho funeral takes place the day after to morrow. I must be present to read tho will, take executor’s instructions, and so on; and there is other busi ness which must bo attended to.” "Can’t I run down?” proposed Row ton. “Is the heiress there? I should like to see her.” “I must find the will,” I replied. “There’s no time to be lost. The Col onel gave me special instructions; I am bound to be present—other things must wait.” “You’re off then?” said Rowton, re luctantly. “Well, ta-ta, old fellow! Wire when you’ve got the bag. It’s an awful joke, though—such a sell for the lady.” "Don’t let the chief hoar of it,” I stopped to request as I left the office, the fatal bag in my hand—“it would upset him.” “All right,” nodded the chief’s nephew. “It was an awfully flat thing to do, you know, Fort—to let a wom an run off with the old Colonel’s will. And a steady-going fellow like you, too! Now, if it had been I—” I stayed to hear no more. My han som was waiting, and my Jarvle cetved his instructions to hurry back to Uuston with the equanimity of his order. What did it matter if all the world had gone mad so long as his fare was a good one? My message was soon dispatched, and whilst I waited for the answer I made my way to the refreshment room. But, notwithstanding my long fast, I was too fevered and excited to eat, and could only swallow a glass of wine and break a biscuit. Then I hovered impatiently about the door of the telegraph office, musing on the complication which this unlucky acci dent had brought into- the whole af fair. (To be continued.) j -J .si ~ CARD-PLAYING STORIES. They Blust Have Been "Perfect Ladle**' In Those Days. One of the most notorious female gamblers of the eighteenth century was Miss Pelham, the daughter of the prime minister, says Temple Bar. She not only ruined herself at cards, but would have beggared her sister Mary as well had not their friends inter vened and insisted on the sisters sep arating. Horace Walpole gives a piti ful account cf “poor Miss Pelham sit ting up all night at the club without a woman, losing hundreds a night and her temper and beating her head.” Another writer says that the unhappy woman often played with the tears streaming down her cheeks. Lady Mary Compton, an old maiden lady, a contemporary of Miss Pelham and, like her, addicted to gambling, had the same propensity to tears. When she lost, we are told, she wept bitterly— “not for the loss Itself,” she was care ful to explain, "but for the unkindness of the cards.” Both ladles, when luck went against them, lost their tempers, as did many others, and among them Mrs. Clive. The actress, after her re tirement from the stage, lived at Twickenham, in a cottage lent her by Horace Walpole. The place had then a reputation for qeiet card parties. In Montpelier row lived four aged dames, known in the neighborhood as Manille, Spadille, Basto and Plmto; terms drawn for the game of quadrille. They were accustomed to assemble every night at each other’s houses to play cards. On the first of the month each in turn gave a grand party. A relative of one of the ladies has left an ac count of one of these functions at which he was present. Mrs. Clive was one of the guests and happened to have for her opponent an old lady with very white hair, who in the course of the game displayed two black aces. There upon Mrs. Clive flew in a rage and screamed: "Two black aces! Here! take your money, though I wish in stead I could give you two black eyes, you old white cat! ” CHAPTER VII.—(Continued.) My hitherto matter-of-fact life had suddenly received its "baptism” of mystery and romance; and with it an other initiation—that supreme revela tion which comes but once in a man’s life, and having come, leaves its mark upon it forever—the revelation of love. “Your message, sir,” said the tele graph clerk at my elbow. I tore open the yellow envelope, and read— “Molton Junction—No Gladstone bag left here, or inquired for to-day.” Then Miss Branscombe had not dis covered her mistake. Moreover, her destination was some point beyond Molton, or she would certainly have had time to detect the change of bag gage. I sent a message to Miss Elmslie at Forest Lea, announcing my return that night and requesting that if con venient a carriage might meet me at the station, and then I prepared to get£hrough as best I might the hours of supense which lay before me. My heart beat faster as the evening express neared Molton Junction. I was on the platform almost as soon as the train stopped. The station wa3 un usually quiet, and the platform clear from one end to the other; there was no sign of the slight, graceful figure for which I sought eagerly. I did not give up hope until the last moment. After a hurried Inquiry at the cloak room I lingered by the carriage door until the train was absolutely in mo tion, and then resumed my seat with a blank chill of disappointment. Miss Branscombe was evidently not return ing to Forest Lea that night. The loss of the will—serious as such a loss would be to me both personally and professionally—occupied no place in my mind as I traveled on toward Forest Lea. 1 believe I had entirely forgotten the lesser misfortune in what seemed to me the greater—the disap pearance of Miss Branscombe from her home. That she was the victim of some deeply laid plot on the part of her cousin I never doubted; the rec tor’s precautions had been taken too late. Possibly had I spoken of last evening’s discovery .Miss Branscombe’s can bear, she’s dying. She was a very old lady, and she’s been bad this six months or more. She was took worse tonight.” I groaned inwardly. Then the rec tor’s help was lost at this critical junc ture. It was a fatality; I must tell my story to Miss Elmslle, and that without a moment’s loss of time. From her I might gain the information nec essary to put me on the track of the misguided girl. Miss Elmslle met me at the door of the little morning room devoted to her use and Miss Branscombe’s; there was no sign of agitation or anxiety in her manner—nothing but cordiality and satisfaction at my appearance. “So good of you, Mr. Fort, to come back so soon!” she exclaimed. “And how tired you must be after your two journeys! I am glad you were able to return to us at once. . We need your help more thad ever, for we have had another shock tonight. The poor dear rector has been called away to—I fear —his mother’s death bed. Ah, the world is full of sorrowful things! But come in, Mr. Fort”—as I stood rooted to the threshold. “Come in to the Are. What—what is the matter?’ What, indeed? No wonder that I stared with dropped jaw and wonder stricken eyes, for In an arm chair by the fire, which the chilly evening ren dered comfortable, I beheld Nona Branscombe. CHAPTER VIII. Yes, it was Nona Branscombe in the flesh, and not a spirit, as in my first utter bewilderment I had half imag ined. She was wrapped In a light fleecy shawl; her face was pale as death, and her whole attitude full of listless weariness. She looked like one who had wept until she could weep no more, and had given up the strug gle with grief out of sheer exhaustion. I fancied that a faint wave of color stole over the pale cheeks as she held out her hand to me, but she did not speak, and sank back again amongst her cushions. Miss Elmslle pressed food and drink upon me with kindly hospitality, and talked in her purling cheery way, "IN AN ARMCHAIR NEAR THE FIRE I BEHELD NONA BRANSCOMBE.” guardians would have been on the alert and this evening’s escapade would have been prevented. A girl, inexperienced, innocent, confiding as, in spite of all, I could swear Nona was—might have been drawn into any step, however extreme—even into a hasty and secret marriage—by the fas cinating and clever spendthrift to whom she had given her girlish affec tion, believing him to be unjustly disinherited—in her own favor. Only a few hours had elapsed since her flight, however. Was it too late to save her? Hardly. There could be no marriage before the morning, if so soon. I would go at once to the rec tor and give him the clue I held. It was just possible—a dozen things were possible. The cool night wind blowing upon my heated brow, as I sat once more behind the splendid chestnut, seemed to let light and air together in on the subject and to lift me out of the trough into which I had sunk. Hope came to my heart. I was impatient to confer with the rector. No, it was certainly not too late, I decided. The rectory was close to the gates of the Lea. I directed my Jehu to stop there first. “I have to see the rector,” I ex plained. “They have not gone to bed. I see lights!” “The rector, sir?” said the man, pulling up, however. “Mr. Heathcote went to Howmere Just as I started to fetch you. He was sent for, and he’ll not be back yet, even if he comes to night. It’s a good ten mile to How mere.” “Sent for!”—then it was all right. I breathed a devout thanksgiving. Her guardian had followed Nona—she was safe. The man’s next words demolished this hope. “It’s his mother, sir. Prom what I whilst I listened and ate as in a dream. “It has been a long day,” Miss Elm lie said, “and there has been so much to do. I made Nona keep her room un til dinner time, and then came the shock of the rector’s summons. Dear, dear—to think that Mrs. Heath cote should follow the dear Colonel so soon!” She glanced at Nona, and changed the subject. “Had you a pleasant journey, Mr. Fort?” “Yes,” I answered, rousing myself with an effort, “it was very pleasing up to a certain point. Then a little ad venture befell me.” I had my eyes fixed upon Miss Branscombe as I spoke; there was no change in her attitude, no interest in her still, weary fnce. . “An adventure?” exclaimed Miss Elmslle. “What was it?” I determined to make a bold stroke. “I lost my bag.” I replied, watch ing the motionless figure in the arm chair. "Lost your bag!” echoed Miss Elms lle. “Dear me—I hope you found it again.” "No, I have not found it up to this time,” I answered. "I believe it was exchanged by a fellow passenger—a lady"—still no sign from Nona—“who left her own in its place.” “But the railway officials—the—the telegraph," said Miss Elmslie.who was always confused and helpless in emer gencies—“they can get it back for you. Have you made inquiries?” - “Yes.” I answered, steadily, “I have made inquiries, and”—with emphasis— “I think I have traced the lady.” Miss Branscombe lifted her band at this moment and leaned her cheek upon it, shading her face from my view. My shot had told at last. “You have traced her?” said Miss Elmslle. “Ah. then it will be all right!” “Yes. I hope It will be all right,” I echoed. "How very awkward,” said Mias Elmslie, “for the lady as well as for you! Dear me, Mr. Fort, I hope you will scon get back your own property. Can we send to the station In the morning? Or is there now anything you want for tonight. Austin can attend to it if you will ask him.” “Thank you,” I replied, "the bag con tanied nothing but papers.” “Papers!” exclaimed Miss Elmslie. “Then you must be very anxious, Mr. Fork Do let us send—or had you not better go yourself?” “Thank you,” I responded; have no doubt I shall recover everything— in the morning.” "How cool you are!” said Miss Elms lie. “I should be In a fever.” "I think I will go to bed now,” said Miss Branscombe, rising languidly from her chair. “I will come up stairs with you,” said Miss Elmslie, starting up and tak ing Nona’s arm In her own. "I shall not say good-night, Mr. Fort; you have not finished your supper. Please don’t hurry—I am coming back.” Miss Branscombe bowed and toeld out a limp, nerveless hand as I opened the door for her exit. She shivered just a little, too, and drew her shawl more . closely about her, but there was nei ther guilt nor confusion—only weari ness and sorrow—in the eyes which met mine for an instant. Then the two ladies crossed the hall and mount? ed the wide shallow stairs. Mis3 Elmslie came down presently. “Poor child,” she said, “she is abso lutely worn out! She has cried the whole day. i hope she wHl sleep now; that is the best restorer. She has had no sleep yet.” My first glance on gaining my bed room was toward the Gladstone bag which stood beside my portmanteau. NoDa had probably taken the opportu nity of making the exchange quietly In my absence—she had shown her self a person of resources, and I had little doubt that this would be her line of action. It would involve no explanation of awkwardness. I lifted the bag almost with a smile—the ad venture interested me. There at the bottom was still the half-effaced label —“Hotel —gia, Venezia.” Miss Brans combe then had in some way failed to be equal to the occasion; possibly she had been, as Miss Elmslie expressed it, too “worn-out” to attempt the transfer that night. I opened my portmanteau, and there amongst my own possessions lay the large light gray du3t cloak and the yellow paper-covered volume left be hind by my traveling companion; there were the penciled words, "Nona Branscombe”—tangible evidence that the day’s adventure had been no il lusion or case of mistaken identity, as I was half tempted at times to believe. I fell asleep, after much troubled toss ing, and dreamt of Nona Branscombe, at the Colonel’s funeral, wrapped in \ her gray dust cloak, and carrying in * her hand my Gladstone bag, with “Venezia” in large letters on it. (To be continued.) / INTERESTING ITEMS, Great Britain pays 190,000,000 annu>. ally to America and the English col onies for butter. The people who buy high-price butter want it sweet and, fresh, and this is possible only when the cows are eating spring grass. As it is not always spring in England it stands to reason that butter has to be brought from those places where; spring is. First the Londoner gets his butter from west England, Normandy and Brittany. Then the butter of northern Denmark follows and Austra lian butter comes next—English winter is Australian spring. In a recent lecture by Dr. Charles B. Dudley, chief chemist of a certain rail road, it is shown how the costs of the distinctively little things mount up in the offices of a large railway system. For instance, he shows that it costs the railroad each year about $1,000 for pins, $5,000 for rubber bands, $5,000 for ink, $7,000 for lead pencils, etc. The fact that it costs nearly as much for • stationery with which to carry on the business as it does for iron, as Dr. Dud ley asserts, is indeed startling. Some roads have realized the extent of waste in such directions and have, among other measures, ordered that a large part of the communications between their various officials shall be written on pads of manila paper instead of on regular letter heads. There is no one from John O’Broat's to Land’s End, England, who bestows more of his means to philanthropic causes than Lord Overtoun, to whom his father, James White, left a fortune, closely approaching $10,000,000. Sev enty-odd years ago the father of Lord Overtoun and his brother John took possession of an old soap and soda works near Rutherglen and converted it into a factory for the production of bichloride of potash. It is related of the founder of the business that he was wont to stand inside the gate of his works at night and if he found any particles of chrome—a chemical for which he received 20 cents a pound in those days—adhering to boots or clothes he would stop the man with the remark: “Hey, man! gang back and daud your shin. Dlv ye no see ye’re calrryin’ awa’ siller when ye cair ry crum on yer bitts?” John Camp bell White, the present owner of the chemical works at Rutherglen, was created first Baron Overtoun in 1893, taking the title from his estate in Dumbartonshire. He was born in 1843 and was educated at Glasgow uni versity. He is certainly one of the busiest men in the country, and besides being a deputy lieutenant and convener for Dumbartonshire, is president of in numerable religious and philanthropic societies. —4