A MYSTERIOUS MONOGRAM.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXI, Issue 9617, 15 September 1894, Page 3 (Supplement)

A MYSTERIOUS MONOGRAM.

BY MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of "The Forsaken Bride," "Brownie's

Triumph," etc.

CHAPTER X.— Continued.

John Wellington lay upon the bed, jusb as he had breathed his last, and by his side, her head resting upon the same pillow, sab his wife, who had asked to be lefb alone with her dead for awhile after his great, true heart had ceased to beab.

" Mamma," said Dorothy, gently, as she glided to her side, and, laid her hand upon the woman's shoulder.

There was no response, no movement. "Mamma, Archie has come; will you not speak to him ?" But still there was no answer—no sign to show that Martha Wellington heard or comprehended.

With a face that had grown as pale as snow, Dorobhy benb down to look into the beloved countenance.

The next instant she started back with a low cry of anguish. The woman was also dead! The faithful, bub broken-hearted wife, had followed her husband to the better land, where, as always on earth, they would still be one in thought and purpose. She had been ailing all the spring, and although he had thought best not to alarm the family, her physician had feared that a serious heart trouble was being developed. Such proved to bo the case, and the shock of her husband's sudden death had been too much for her weakened constitution to bear, and thus, while praying beside her dead for strength to bear the heavy blow, her gentle spirit had taken its flight and gone to rejoin her loved one. It was a sad, sad house ab Sunnybrook, and the next few days were very trying to the two young people, who had been so suddenly bereft of their best earthly friends. Bub time stops for no man, and after John and Martha Wellington had been laid to resb beside those six little graves in the village churchyard, Archie knew that he must go back to Harvard, as commencement was close upon him, when he would take his degree, and he still had much to do.

Bub before he wenb, Mr. Wellington's lawyer told him that there was business which needed attention. He had bhe farmer's will in his possession, and he wished to have all matters pertaining to it settled as soon as possible. Consequently, on the morning set for Archie's return to college, the clergyman was invited to be present and the will was read.

The document had been drawn up fourteen years previous, and gave all his real estate and a certain amount of bank stock, to the testator's beloved wife, if she outlived him, and all other property to his adopted daughter, Dorothy Trevor Wellington. In the event of his wife's death everything was to pass to Dorothy. There had been no codicils added to the document since the date of its formulation, and thus Archie was left without a dollar in the world.

When Dorothy realised this fact—when it flashed upon her thab she, who had nob a single drop of Wellington blood in her veins, was the sole heir bo all John Wellingbon's large wealbh, while his only brother's son had nob even been romembered, she sprang to her feet, with a pained and crimson face.

" That is nob righb, Mr. Fairfield!" she exclaimed, "Archie should have shared in bhis will."

" Yes, I know that he should," the lawyer replied, "and I also know thab Mr. Wellington intended to bequeath something handsome to him. But this will was made before he came to live with his uncle, who neglected to add the codicil, which he often spoke of doing. We talked the matter over togethei many times, bub he kept putting ib off, as people are prone bo do, and thus everything is lefb bo you, Miss Dorothy." " Bub I will nob have it so, ib is nob righb," the young girl exclaimed in tremulous bones.

" No, it is not righb, my dear young lady, and I am glad that you view the matter in that lighb," Mr. Fairfield responded. "I am very sorry," lie added, turning to Archie, " thab your uncle did not feel the importance of adding something in your favour, as I have heard him say, times without number, that he intended to do." " Ib does nob matter," Archie gravely reburned, although he was very pale. " Uncle John has been very kind to me, and I owe him a great deal for the advantages I have enjoyed. He has fitted me for life, and now I can battle for myself; so do not, any of you, be troubled on my account," he concluded, turning, with a brave smile, to Dorothy. "I am troubled," she answered, with starting tears, "and I will nob have this undivided property. You, Archie, are the nearest of kin to papa, and the real estate, at least, should be yours. Oh, Mr. Fairfield, cannot something be done to right this wrong, unintentional though I am sure it was?"

"The will can be contested," said the lawyer, musingly, " for the law compels the mention of the nearest of kin in all wills, but—" "Nothing of the kind will be done in this case, sir," Archie here interposed, as he arose and stood proudly erecb. "My uncle'awill must stand just as it is, and you will please have ib probated at once." With this he quietly left the room, while Dorothy sank back into her chair and burst into tears.

" Do not grieve Miss Dorothy," said Mr. Fairfield, kindly. " I think, since you are so sensitive to the right and wrong of this matter, that it can be very easily arranged." Dorothy looked up comforted. "How?" she questioned. " By dividing your inheritance with your cousin."

"Have I the right?" she eagerly asked. " Certainly, everything is left to you unconditionally, and you are ab liberty to do with your own as you will." "Then it shall be done," Dorothy returned, with a heartiness that proved how glad she was to avail herself of the privilege, " and will you manage it for me?" " With pleasure," said the lawyer, " bub the will must first be probated; thab will take some little time ; meanwhile, I would advise you to say nothing of your intentions, and allow things to move on as usual here at Sunnybrook." Dorothy saw the wisdom of this advice, and nothing more was said about the will. Archie returned to college, while our young heiress, securing a motherly spinster, who lived in the neighbourhood, to come to reside with her as a chaperon and housekeeper, remained quietly ab Sunnybrook. She was very sad and lonely, bub she comforted herself by the thoughb thab Archie would soon be at home, when time would nob drag so heavily on her hands. The three remaining weeks of his course slipped quickly by, and the lasb of June found him back ab Sunnybrook; bub a change had come over him, Dorothy was quick to observe, for his manner toward her was characterised by a constraint and reserve which had never existed before.

" lb is all because of that dreadful will," she sorrowfully told herself, when, after their first, stiff, uncomfortable eveniug together, she went to her room for the night. " Oh ! I wish papa had not been so negligent! I feel like an interloper—l Bhall

never take any comfort until the property is divided."

The next day she came suddenly upon him, while he was sitting under a tree by the brook looking thoughtfully into the water.

" Ah, Archie, I have found you ab last !" she lightly exclaimed, as she leaned her hands upon his shoulders, and bent to look into his face with something l of her old fondness. " What are you thinking about so seriously ?" He glanced up with a smile, but flushed beneath the look in her beautiful dark eyes. " About my summer work, Doro." " Your summer work! Pray, haven't you done work enough for a while ! You know we always have such a nice long vacation at this season."

" Yes, but now that I am through college, I must begin to work in good earnest," said Archie, growing grave again. "I do not understand you," remarked Dorothy, slipping down upon the grass beside him, and losing some of her own colour.

*' I have made arrangements to go to the House at the White Mountains for the season."

" Thab will be lovely ! and, of course, I am to go, too," eagerly exclaimed the girl, but wondering what this plan could have to do with the work he had spoken of. "No, Dorothy," he answered, a look of pain Bweeping over his handsome face. " I am going there as a dining-room waiter—" " Archie 1"

" Yes," he wenb on rapidly, as if eager to have the confession over ; " you know I have my own way to make now. I think, later, I shall study to be a physician ; but I musb have something ahead to defray my expenses, so I am going to earn what I can during the summer, to help me on." "Do you mean that you feel obliged to earn the money necessary to meet the expenses of your medical education ?" Dorothy questioned, in a constrained tone. "Yes, 1—" " Archie, I think that would bo most unkind."

"How so?"

" For one thing, to leave me here alone all summer, when my heart is nearly breaking with loneliness and sorrow." Archie's face flushed hotly at this. His lips trembled with emotion, but there was a look of stern resolve in his eyes. "For another," Dorothy resumed, "there is no need of your doing such a dreadful thing; you know there is plenty of money, that rightly belongs to you, to enable you to pursue your medical studies without being hampered in any way, and I think it would be very unkind of you nob to take and use it."

"I cannot, Doro," Archie firmly returned. "I am sorry to seem upkind. 1 would be the last one to cause you a pang, bub 1 must be independent, and to be that, I must work."

"You shall be independent, Archie," Dorothy replied, as she lifted a radiant face to him, " and"— a folded paper from her pocket, and laying it upon his knee— " this will make you so," " What do you mean Dorothy ?" ho questioned, shooting a startled look at her. " Read it," she briefly but smilingly commanded.

With waning colour Archie unfolded the document and found it to be a deed of gift, conveying to him the entire estate of Sunnybrook, together with the same amount of bank stock as had been mentioned in John Wellington's will for his wife. It had been duly signed, witnessed, and recorded, thus making him the master of all that fair domain, as far as the eye could reach, and plenty of money besides, and he was so overcome by this act of unexampled generosity that he could not speak for several moments. " Why have you done this, Doro ?" he at last found voice to ask.

" Because you are a Wellington, and to you rightly belongs the home of your ancestors," the noble girl responded.

CHAPTER XI.

ARCHIE MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

" 1 cannot take it. I could never rob you in any such way," the young man returned, in a low, resolute tone. " Oh, Archie! what has come over you lately? Don't you love me any more?" Dorothy cried out with passionate pain. " Love you, Doro ! Ah, I— he began in a voice that thrilled her with sudden joy. Then he abruptly checked himself and added with assumed lightness : "Of course, my dear cousin, I am far too fond of you to allow you to impoverish yourself in any such lavish way as this. It is very generousvery noble of you, but I cannot take this gift from you." " Archie, you shall!" "Ho, dear, I cannot," was the inflexible reply. " But it will nob impoverish me—if that is what you fear," Dorothy pleaded. " Papa was worth a great deal of money. Ido not believe that you have any idea how much, have you ?" "No, I have never heard any estimate of his wealth."

" Weil, Mr. Fairfield says that he was worth, at the very least, five hundred thousand dollars, not counting Sunnybrook. So you perceive that I shall be far from poor even if you accept this deed," the young girl explained. " I had no idea thab Uncle John was so rich," Archie gravely remarked. "Then you relent?" his fair companion exclaimed, joyously. "No, Doro." " You have no choice. The deed is yours, signed, witnessed, and recorded, and you cannot help yourself," she retorted, with a pretty air of defiance. The young man smiled even though his heart was very heavy. She was so eager and so lovely, he could not help it. ' " I must, all the same," he said, after a moment.

" You" incorrigible ! suppose I should refuse papa's bequest." " Oh, but that was willed to you." "That is begging the question, Mr. Wellington," said Dorothy, loftily. " You know that you, who are the nearest of kin, are more entitled to this property than I, who am only a poor waif, that was thrust upon papa's tender mercies," she concluded, with tears in her eyes. " You should not say that, dear," Archie returned, " for both Uncle John and Aunt Martha loved you like an own child, and, to all intents and purposes, regarded you as such ; thus it is right you should inherit their property." "But you know that will was made before they ever knew of your existence." "Yes." " You also know that papa intended to leave you a share of his property." "Perhaps, but the fact remains thab he did not."

"And, therefore, you are too proud to receive it second-hand from me," retorted Dorothy, with some bitterness. " I certainly will not rob you of your inheritance."

"Oh, Archie! what) has changed you so?" Dorothy cried, in despair. "You do not seem ab all like the dear boy of last year, when we were so united and happy." The young man grew deadly pale at this impassioned charge, and his lips quivered beneath their glossy moustache. He darted a look of agony into the beautiful, downcast face beside him ; then folded his arms tightly across his chest, as if thus to imprison some emotion that seemed likely to master him. " I am sorry, Doro, if I seem unlike myself," he said, after a momentary struggle for self-control. " Believe me, I am nob changed, except, perhaps, that I feel the responsibilities of life pressing more heavily upon me." " Please, Archie, stay and be master of Sunnybrook," pleaded Dorothy, as she slipped her hand coaxingly within his arm, and looking earnestly into his troubled eyes; "it needs a master, and you know that a girl of my age could never manage a place like this." " Mr. Fairfield and Richard can do thab for you." " Oh, Archie ! if you love me—stay !" cried the girl, with a sob. "If—ah, Dero ! you don't know No, dear, I cannot," faltered her companion, almost unmanned by her words, while great drops of agony gathered upon his forehead. Dorothy sprang to her feet at thab last resolute word... She, too, was now deathly pale. "Archie Wellington!" she cried, facing him with a nameless purpose in her dark eyes, " you will be sorry if you persist in this refusal. I tell you, you will be very sorry. And once more, for the last time, I ask you to accepb this deed of Sunnybrook. Think well before you answer, for you little know how much depends upon your decision."

" Why, Doro ! you are getting really tragic over the matter," he remarked, trying to smile, but regarding her wonderingly. "Don'b jest about it!" she said, with white lips and despairing eyes, "bub bell me, will you stay ?" " Dorothy, I cannot."

A low cry of pain burst from her. " You will be sorry," she moaned again ; then, burning, she darted up the bank, and sped toward the house, taking the rejected deed with her. . : A groan of almost mortal anguish escaped Archie's lips, and his head dropped upon his breast as she disappeared.

" Love her ! Ah ! a thousand times better than my own life," he murmured ;, " bub I should be a cowardly fortune-hunter to confess ib to her now."

He sab there until it began to grow dark, then he also turned his steps homeward, having resolved thab to morrow he would go. He could not remain there longer to fight a hopeless love. He stole softly up to his own room, and wenb to bed, where he lay tossing restlessly for hours, then fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. When he went down to breakfaab the next morning he found Miss Waters, Dorothy's companion, in a state of great anxiety and distress. " What is the trouble? What has happened V he inquired, excitedly. " Miss Dorothy has gone away, sir," was the appalling response thab smote his heart as with a dagger thrust. "Gone away!" ho repeated, as he clutched ab a chair for support, "gone where ?"

" I'm sure I don'b know," sobbed the housekeeper. "Tim says she called him up ab four o'clock this morning, told him to harness Brownie into the light waggon, to take her and her trunk to meet the five o'clock express." " Bub where could she be going?" Archie demanded, with stiffening lips. "Nobody knows. She didn't tell Tim; she just made him get her trunk down the front way, without making any noise, and then drive her, as fast as he could, to the station ; she wouldn't even let him stay until train time, bub sent him directly home."

" Did she leave no word for me ?" inquired Archie.

" No ; at least I don't think so." "Have you been up to her room this morning ?" " I just went to the door and looked in ; the bed hadn't been slept in, though it looked as if she'd lain down to rest on the outside for a while."

Without a word Archie turned and went straight upstairs to Dorothy's chamber, where, going to her writing-desk, he found, as he thought he should, a letter addressed to himself, while beside ib lay the deed of Sunnybrook which he had rejected the day before.

Tearing open the letter, he read the following: —

" Dear Archie :—I cannot understand your obstinate refusal to accept what everybody knows is rightly yours. But since youin whom the blood of many Wellingtons is flowing—will not, neither will I, who, as I have said before, am but an interloper—a waif who has. been kindly reared, for sweet charity's sake—profit by the wealth which has been left to me, to the exclusion of you, who are the direct heir. Had you been willing to share it with me, I could have remained at Sunnybrook, my dear, dear home, and been happy. As you refuse to do so I resign everything and am going away to try to earn my own living. " I simply change places with you, and thus throw the responsibility of Sunnybrook upon your shoulders. Ho not let the dear old place go to ruin, Archie, from any false pride—l beg you will not for papa's and mamma's sake, and— the plea will have any weight with you—for mine also. I love it so dearly, and some time I may want to come home again, and I pray that I may find it as I leave it. Till then, Archie, good-bye. DOROTHY."

Ah ! how soon her prophecy had come true !

"You will be sorry," she had told him, and no one would ever know the sorrow the wild despair which he at that moment experienced, when he realised that his pride and obstinacy alone had driven her forth into the world, with which she was ill calculated to successfully cope. What would ib have mattered, he now asked himself, if he had been regarded as a fortune-hunter, if she could have been shielded from ill ? He loved her with all the strength of his strong nature, and he believed that ib would have needed but the confession of thab love to have aroused a responsive affection on her part, if, indeed, it did not already exist. He knew, too, that it was only right that he should share with her John Wellington's wealth— that his uncle had loved him like a son, and intended to divide the inheritance between them. And now he had allowed his pride and a follish sensitiveness to ruin his own happiness and drive the fair girl whom he worshipped, poor and homeless, out upon a cold world. He could now realise that Dorothy must have suffered even more keenly than he in feeling thab she, who had nob a drop of Wellington blood in her veins, had usurped rights which would assuredly have been his had she not stood in his way. Taking the deed and the letter, and feeling utterly wretched, he went below again, when he told Miss Waters that he had found a short note from Dorothy, bub that she had not left any clue to show whither she had gone. He partook of a hasty breakfast, then, saddling the fleetest horse in the stable, he rode to the station, and inquired of the agent if he could remember where Miss Wellington had purchased a ticket for. " She had simply gone to Worcester, and had her trunk also checked thither, he told him.

But Archie felt sure that she would nob remain in Worcester; he did not believe that she would stop anywhere so near home. He followed her on the next train, however, hoping to ascertain, ab the ticketoffice there, something regarding her movements.

But he failed utterly in this, and after a day of fruitless search and inquiry, he returned, weary and disheartened, to Sunnybrook.

He then immediately sought Mr. Fairfield, and confided to him the exact state of affairs, and asked him whab he should do under the circumstances.

" I have been expecting to see you,' ; said the gentleman. "As you doubtless know, I drew up that deed of gift for Miss Dorothy, and I feared you, with your high notions, would be making some objections to the arrangement. Bub I confess I did nob anticipate such a serious contretemps as this."'

" I do nob think you should blame me,' Archie gravely replied, " for no man with a grain of self-respect would consent to rob a girl of her inheritance in any such way." " Well, there are more ways than one of looking at the matter," Mr. Fairfield eagerly remarked. "I think that people generally would contend that you have a better right to the property than she." " Nob if ib was willed to her," said Archie. "Uncle John had a righb to do what ho would with his own."

" Well, it will do no good to argue that point now," replied Mr. Fairfield, with an impatient shrug of bis shoulders, for he had no sympathy with the ultra-sensitiveness which prevented the young man from, accepting the handsome fortune that lay within his grasp. "The question to be considered jusb at present —what is to be done with Sunny brook, now that its fair young mistress has thrown it over ?" " 1 don't know what to do," Archie meditatively rejoined. "I had made arrangements to go to the White Mountains for the season with a number of my college mates, who act every Bummer as waiters in the various hotels to earn money for their expenses next year." " Humph ["ejaculated Mr. Fairfield, with a frown, but at the same time shooting a -admiring glance at the handsome, independent fellow opposite him. " Well," he added, after a moment, "my advice would be to throw up thab engagement, and devote your time to keeping your estate in order. It is altogether too fine a place to be allowed to run down, as it surely will if left long to the tender mercies of hired men. Your uncle spent his life bringing ib up to •its present state of perfection, and it seems to me it is a duty you owe him, to keep it from going to ruin, even if you would nob do ib for Miss Dorothy's sake."

" Yes, I believe you are right, Mr. Fairfield," Archie responded, bub flushing crimson at thab last crafty thrust. " I will remain ab home for the present, and do my best to keep the place in order." " Then you will not accept the deed of gift and carry on the farm as your own I" queried the lawyer. . " Would you ¥' retorted' Archie, turning upon him with a half-indignant air. "You bet I would, mighty quick," was the laughing response. "It isn't often that a fat plum like that drops at one's feet; while the girl would have more than she could advantageously.use without it.". ~o

"If Uncle John himself had given ib td me, I would nob have hesitated—" " Nonsense 1" interposed his companion. "If you were my boy, I'd shake you for your stubbornness ; and can't you see that your very obstinacy is keeping Miss Dorothy out of her share, and has driven her away to toil, and perhaps poverty ' " That is the worst of it, and it drives me wild to think of ib," said Archie, with white lips ; " bub I am going to advertise for her in the Boston and New York papers." " Well, you can if you want to ; bub let me tell you one thing, if you don'b yield this point, you'll find her every whit ai stubborn as yourself," retorted Mr. Fairfield. "Miss Dorothy is a resolute little body when her mind is once made up, and Bhe will never come back here to rule alone over that undivided property. Bub whether you give in or not," he added, with an amused gleam in his eyes, " you are, and always will be, the master of Sunnybrook, for that deed has been recorded, and there is no undoing it. The girl was very cute; 'twas her own idea— she was bound to fix things so they'd stay." ! Archie made no reply to these remarks, bub bidding the lawyer good-evening, went thoughtfully back to Sunnybrook, which, now that Dorothy was gone, seeeimed suddenly to have lost all charm for him. Miss Waters and the servants had all retired, and the house was in darkness, save for the one light thab burned in the sittingroom, ib having been left for him. Letting himself in with his latch-key. Archie wenb ab once to his uncle's desk, with the intention of locking away for safe keeping, thab "bone of contention," the deed which made him the owner of the estate.

. He pulled oub a number of drawers, looking for an empty one, as he did nob like to meddle with the contents of any of them, and, while doing so, his eye caught sight of a package, the label upon which caused a hot flush to mount his brow.

" Expenses of Archibald's education," he read, and his lip curled. So he kept a minute account of all that I have cost him !" he muttered, with considerable bitterness. " I suppose I may at least examine these bills, as they pertain exclusively to me, and I have a curiosity to know the full amount of my indebtedness," he concluded, as he lifted the package to examine it.

It) consisted of bills that had been contracted during his college course, and they were not of small denominations either, for his uncle had always been very generous with him.

They were all nicely filed according to their dates, and tied together with oldfashion red tape, and he examined each one separately. But at" the very bottom of the package he came upon a peculiar document, the sight of which made him almost spring from his chair, and utter a cry of astonishment.

It was nob bulky, bub it was folded in legal form, and was labelled in his uncle's clear, bold hand : " Last Will and Testament of John Wellington." And ib was dated just three months previous to the man's death !

[To be continued.]