Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 437 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

* - . - , *> ‘wa * w" ) Deep Duke, the Silent Sleuth. criminal. I must see Mr, Woodside and have this explained.” ‘¢ Shall I call him now?’ “Tf you will.” Claudia went away, while Ralph remained in deep perplexity. fessor objected to him, but anything like this had never occurred to him. He was touched in a sensitive part, and felt that he would not breathe freely again until his name was cleared of the blemish imputed to it. In a few moments Claudia returned, and after her came the professor. The latter seemed to have recovered his calm- ness, and when Hathaway arose he motioned him back to his chair, but himself remained standing. ‘*T suppose Miss Woodside has explained the purport of what I have to say,” he abruptly be- an. ‘* She has, sir, and I must say that I am great- ly surprised and—” “That is quite that you know alla ssible. It does not follow ut your family history; I don’t assert that you do. I should be the last man to bring up unpleasant things of the past, but it is imperatively necessary now. If Miss Woodside unites her fortunes with yours she will lose her position in society, and her friends will turn from her as from one smitten with a deadly fever. If you respect her, you should save her from that, if for no other reason.” ‘* But, in heaven's name, what is it that would cause all this?” cried Ralph, excitedly. ‘* What is this blemish on my father’s name?” ‘You must go elsewhere to learn. I regret that necessity has compelled me to say as much as I have; it is painful to tell a son that his father was not a worthy man. Particulars I will not give. I called you here merely to say that if you were to marry Claudia you would drag her down hopelessly—ruin her and blast her future—and baving said this I am done.” Woodside bad pronounced these words stand- ing as stiff as a soldier, and he now turned to leave the room. Claudia sprung forward to intercept him, but he raised one hand with a commanding gesture. ‘‘T have nothing to add,” he said, and walk- ed from the room. . He left the young couple in despair and per- plexity, but the first step out of the difficulty seemed plain. { ‘*My mother!” exclaimed Ralph. ‘I will go to her at once, and this horrible mystery shall be explained.” He went with Claudia’s kisses still warm on his mouth, and with her undying constancy ringing in his ears, but with a mind sorely beset by Rat resentiments. Claudia was his wife— his for life and death—but to what fate had he dragged ber down? e found his mother—a tall, pale lady, whose face bore mingled traces of beauty and trouble d began pouring his story into her ears. ‘ Mother,” he said, vehemently, ‘‘ [ ask your forgiveness, but circumstances have led me to conceal an age fe pe fact from you. I have won the love of a noble girl and made her m wife—yes, my wife; we are irrevocably married; but now her father objects to me. hy? Be- cause he says my father was a dishonorable man—a criminal. Tell me it is not true!” Wonder, surprise, dismay and anger by turns appeared on Margaret Hathaway’s face, and she answered much like a machine: ‘* Who is this ere Ee + ara of your wife— the accuser of your father “ His weltenih t Ralph replied, is ‘* Archibald Woodside.” Mrs. Hathaway recoiled. ‘* What?” she cried. ** Archibald Woodside.” ; Margaret Hathaway clung to the table with one hand, while the other was pressed over her heart, and upon her face was a look Ralph never forgot. She had grown pallid, and in her eyes was the light of a terror which awed and startled Ralph. He felt that some awful'calam- ity_was about to occur, but what it was he had no idea, ‘And he—this man—you have married his daughter?’ brokenly geumped Mrs. Hathaway. ‘Yes; it is true; but, oh! what is wrong? What is this mystery, this secret—” ‘* Unfortunate boy,” the mother interrupted, in a husky whisper,” may heaven have mercy on you and help you to bear the blow, but you had better have died than to marry that girl. He—Archibald Woodside—is the murderer of your father!” —_—— CHAPTER X. A TRAGEDY OF THE PAST. RALPH HaTHAway recoiled. He had been eagerly seeking for information, but this reve- lation had been wholly unexpected. The blow fell with a force which was for the moment al- | most overwhelming, but he did not at first think so much.of the side of the affair which had so | impressed his mother. ‘“ My father murdered?” he finally echoed. Margaret Hathaway spoke the one word faintly. y ‘** And by Archibald Woodsids?” / / He had known that the pro- | SO ll nn a rrr aa cs Yes,” ‘¢ And I have never been told of it? And the assassin remains unpunished? Why is this? Why has not justice been done? Thank Heaven, I know the truth at last, and I will see that the law has its due!” ‘* Ralph, you forget. Yousay that this man’s daughter is your wife. Oh! unfortunate boy, why did you not confide in me? I would have saved you from this, but now—now she is your wife. And her father murdered your father!” Ralph’s face became very pale. He had a finer, more sensitive nature than most men. From his mother, whose every emotion was acute, he had inherited peculiarities which had been strengthened by her training. His was not the nature to bear such a revelation calm- ly. Other men might have hated the assassin of their parent, but his all-absorbing feeling was one of horror. At that moment he loathed Archibald Wood- side as he would a hideous serpent, a vampire or a cannibal. If Margaret Woodside had never told him the dreadful truth, sbe had in- directly taught him to regard the matter as she regarded it. if he had never met Claudia before, and had met her then, he would have shivered and shrunk from her with fear and horror. Her matchless beauty could not have offset the fact that her father had murdered his father. Strong man that he was, the teaching of his youth swayed him then as the wind does the reed. ‘*What cruel fate pursues us?’ continued Mrs. Hathaway, withashiver. ‘‘ lt was a mad, mad marriage.” ‘*T did not know,” said Ralph, through white lips. MT was your fate, but a cruel one. And that girl—she cannot be evil, or you would not have cared for her.” ** She is the noblest of women.” ‘* Poor child! poor child! She is the instru- ment of fate to bring punishment on her father, but it is hard that she—and you—should suffer for another’s sin.” Ralph did not answer. He was staring gloomily atvacanecy. He believed that he knew now why Professor Woodside had refused to explain, and why he had so vigorously opposed the marriage. It would have been better for all parties if he had spoken plainly at first, it would have averted the blow which had fallen, ** Tell me how you married her,” said Margaret Hathaway, breaking the silence. Ralph told the story in few words. He had met Claudia when she interested herself in the misfortunes of a poor family. Their only sup- rt, the aged father, was ill, He had been alph’s fellow employee. From that meeting had come the love existing between him and Claudia, and that he had not told his mother anything was owing to the fact that he thought it would worry her to know that he had to do his wooing secretly. Poverty was the responsible agent, as it is re- sponsible for much trouble and crime, ‘*You must never see her again,” said Mrs. Hathaway, abruptly. rs oe see Claucia?” cried the young man, * No, ‘* But she is my wife.” ‘* And her father is your father’s murderer.” ee barely repressed a groan. ** You have not told me how my father died,” he said, suddenly arousing. ‘“‘I must know now.” : ‘You shall know. My object in keeping the truth from you all these years was that I could see no good to be derived from telling you, and I thought you would be happier if ignorant of the truth. I never suspected that you would meet his daughter.” ' For a moment Mrs. Hathaway paused, and as her mind went back to the dark past she shiv- ered pitifully. Her voice was firmer than might be expected, however, as she began her story. ‘* Your father, Temple Hathaway, was a na- tive of New York city, and it was there that I met and married him, I need scarcely say that 1 thought him a king among men. Dark clouds have since risen, and harsh, black things have been said about him, but my opinion has never changed, I know that he was a strictly honor- able man. ‘* He was a man of some means, and, just be- fore our marriage, he became the junior partner of a firm doing a wholesale business on nard ‘t. ‘** All went well for two years, and when you were born we thought ourselves favored above all other people. Our home was- happy, and business was good. But we little suspected what was in store for us. ‘‘ After atime your father began to mention the name of Archibald Woodsid» frequently, when § g of his business. I knew nothing about business, and the few questions I asked gave me but little light, but [ understood in a | gg: way that Woodside was a man who had lai before the firm an idca—one so bold that they hesitated to adopt it—by which he claimed to be able to make them all independently rich. ‘*One night my husband did not come as was usual, and I went to thestore. I saw a light sess SN >> ie a . ’ os 9 ee burning in the office on the second floor. I tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked, I entered, and went up-stairs.” The narrator paused, shivered, and her face grew paler and a pitiful light appeared in her dark eyes. ‘* What I saw in that office,” ste resumed, ina husky voice, ‘‘is ineffaceably branded on my memory, but it would kill me to describe it mm detail. On the floor lay my husband, apparent- ly senseless, and covered with blood. 1 uttered a wild cry and flung myself down beside bim. “Then his eyes opened and he looked at me intelligently. e feebly raised his arms and put them about me—feebly, for the cruel wound on bis head had nearly foknn all his strength, all bis life, ‘**T amdying,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘Goat once for help, and let me make my last statement un- der oath. It will clear my name, and yours, and our boy’s.’ ‘*T do not know how I got strength to under- stand and obey, for my heart seemed breaking, but I started from the office. He called me back. ‘**Tf I die before you return, remember this: The affairs of the firm may be found’ in an em- barrassed condition, but | swear by all my hopes of heaven thut I have done no dishonorable thing. I am as free from guilt as youare. More than this, I die at the hands of a cowardly assassin. Archibald Woodside shot me down in cold blood like the demon he is, Now go, go for help, I must swear to this.’ ‘*T went, but when I returned he was senseless. He was revived only after some trouble, and was then evidently at the point of death. They asked him for the statement he wished to make and he looked at them with fast-glazing eyes. 1 shall never forget his answer. ‘*** T want justice done to all. ted suicide. Put it in writing.’ ‘Plainly I heard these words, but I was so filled with grief that I did not think what the difference of the statement implied. The paper was prepared, but as they turned once more to- ward your father he turned his eyes toward me and whispered two words: ‘**Tn heaven!’ he said, and then his eyes closed and he was lying lifeless in my arms.” Tears were falling thickly from Margaret, Hathaway’s eyes, and she paused several mo- ments. hen she resumed her voice had grown firmer. ‘When the funeral was over a thunderbolt fellupon me, It was announced that the firm was brankrupt; that your father had speculated without the knowledge of the other partners and ruined them all by so doing; and that when ex- pase and disgrace stared him in the face he had illed himself. ‘*T told my story, but it availed nothing. No- we but me had heard Temple say that Archi- bald W oodside murdered him, but they had heard him say that his own hand had done the deed. Circumstances confirmed this statement, and the coroner’s jury gave a verdict to that effect. ‘*T made a bard struggle. Iknew that mur- der bad been done, and that your father never did a dishonest thing, but it was allin vain. The other partners denied that they had ever had any talk with Archibald Woodside, and knew no such person, and [ found nobody to believe what Isaidand thought. Every one pronounced the worst verdict possible, and rumors became afloat to the effect that my lost husband had been shockingly dissipated. ‘‘ This | forced the worst of bis enemies to ad- mit as false, but the lie would notdie. It was started, and plenty of mischievous tongues re- peated it—the stories told and retold were som thing terrible. | ‘*] finally became so broken down in health, that I had to accept defeat and go into strict re- tirement, I went, leaving a heartless world to say the worst, but well aware that Temple Hathaway had been a thoroughly honest man, and had fallen by an assassin’s hand. ‘‘It was several years before I heard any- thing of Archibald Woodside. Then he settled where he nuw lives. People said that he had been abroad; that he was rich, respected, and influential. ‘For a time I was undecided how to act, but when I looked at you, then a boy of about ten years, I found a counselor in my heart. Poverty and obscurity could not hope to fight wealth and prosperity successfully, while if I made any stir my enemy might take you from me. ‘Knowing this, I settled back and followed the Bigg of silence, but I little suspected what would be the result. Ah! merciful Heaven, why did I not suspect? Mil did I allow you to rush blindly upon your fate?” There was a sharp agony in the closing words, but Ralph Hathaway took his mother’s hands and kissed her with calmness not to be expected. ‘“‘ Why should you blame yourself? You have committed no fault; I sup fate willed that it should be so. Do not grieve, I implore you.” ‘* But you are married—to his daughter,” ae fe shivered. His nature and his teaching placed a terrible significance upon the words. He felt that he ought to hate and loathe one re- re fe Archibald Woodside—and Claudia wos is wife, — = =com I have commit- JOO ’ (E S * rw A’ ‘ss . ‘J