THE LOST LADY OF LONE.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIV, Issue 209, 4 September 1893, Page 3

THE LOST LADY OF LONE.

BY MRS B. D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH.

A-thot. of ' The Hidden Hand,' * Unknown.' * Only a Girl's Heart,' • Nearest and Dearest,' Etc., Era

| CHAPTER XLII. I HER SON.

The last lines of this sad letter wore almosb illegible in thoir faintnoss and irregularity 5 and the tangled skein of lighb scratches that stood proxy for a signature could never have been deciphered by the skill of man. The Duko of Hereward had grown ton years older in the half hour he had spent in the perusal of this fatal letter. He was no longer only sixty-five years of age, and a ' fine old English gentleman ;' he seemed fully seventy-five years old, and a broken, decrepit, ruined man. In fact, the first blow had fallen upon that fine intellect whose subsequent eccentricities gained for him the sobriquet of the mad duke, Tho hand that held the fatal letter fell heavily by his side; his head drooped upon his chest; ho did nob move or speak for many minutes. His young visitor watched him with curiosity and interest that gradually grew into anxiety. At longth he made a motion to attract tho duke's attention—dropped a book upon the floor, picked it up, and arose to apologise. The duke started as from a profound reverie, sighed heavily, passed his handkerchief across his brow, and finally wheeled his chair around, and looked at his visitor, No ! there could be no quostion about it; tho boy was tho living image of what he himself had been at that age, as all his portraits could prove ! and his eldest son, his rightful heir, stood before him, bub forever and irrecoverably disinherited and delegalised by bis own rash and cruel act. Tho young man stood upas if naturally waiting to hoar what the duke might have to say about his mother's lottor. But the duko did not immediately allude to the letter, ' Whore are you stopping, my young friend ?' he asked, in as calm a voice as ho could command. 'At " Langham's," your grace,' respectfully answered the youth. 'Very well. I will call and see you at your rooms to-morrow at eleven, and wo will talk over your mother's plans and see what can bo done for you,' said the duko, as he touched the bell, and sank back heavily in his chair. Tho young man understood that the interview was closed, and he was about to take his leavo, when the door opened and a footman appeared. ' Truman, attend this young gentleman to the breakfast-room, and place refreshments beforo him. I hope that you will take something before you go, sir,' said the duke, kindly. ' Thanks. I trust your grace will permit me to decline. It is scarce two hours since I breakfasted,' said the boy, with a bow. 1 As you please, young sir,' answered the duke. Tho youth then bowed and withdrew, attended by the footman. The duke watched them through the door, listened to their retreating steps down the hall, and then threw his clasped hands to his head, groaning : ' Great Heaven ! Whab have I done ? What foul injustice to hor, what cruel wrong to him. I thank her that she has nevor bold him 1 I can never do so ! Nay, Heaven forbid thab he Bhould ever even suspect tho truth ! Nor must I ever permit him to come here again ; or to any house of mine, where the duchess, where Ms brother, where every servant even must see tho likeness he bears to tho family, and— discover, or, at least, suspect the secret!' Meanwhile the youth, respectfully attended by the footman, lefb tho house. As he entered his cab that was waiting at tho door, a bitter, bitter change passed over his fine face ; tho fair brow darkened, the blue oyos contracted and flittered, the lips were firmly compressed for an instant, and then ho murmured to himself: ' That they should think a secret like this could be buried, concealed from me, the most interested of all to find it out, Was ever son co accursed as lam ? Other sons have been disinherited, outlawed —but I ? I have been delegalised and degraded from my birth !' Tho fine mouth closed with a spasmodic jerk, the brow grew darker, the eyes glittered with intenser fire. He resumed: 'lb will bo difficult, if not impossible, but I will be restored to my rights, or I will ruin and exterminate tho ducal house of Hereward. I am the eldest son of my father ; the only son of his first marriage. I am the hoir nob only of my father, bub of the seven dukes and twenty barons that preceded him, to whom their patont of nobility was granted, to them and their heirs forever! "Thoir heirs forever!" lb was granted, therefore to me and to all of my direct line. Each baron and duke had bub his life-interest in his barony or dukedom, and could nob alienate it from his heirs by will. lb was an infamous, a fradulenb subterfuge to divorce my poor mother, and so dclegalise me a few months before my birth. But —I will bide my time. This false heir may die, Such things do happen. And then, as there is no other hoir to his titles and estates my father may acknowledge bis oldest son, auu try to undo the evil he has done. But if this should nob happen, or if my father, who is old, should die, and this false heir inherit, then I will spend every shilling I have inherited from my mother to gain my own. I will have my rights, though I'convict my father of a fradulent conspiracy, and it requires an Act of Parliament to effect my restoration. And if, after all. this wrong cannot be righted—although it can bo abundantly proved that I am the only son of my father's first marriago, and the rightful heir of his dukedom, if, after all, I cannot be restored to my position, I will prove the mortal enemy of tho race of Scotb, and the destruction of tho ducal house of Hereward. Meanwhile I must watch and wait; use this old man as my friend, who will nob acknowledge himself as my fabher.' These bitter musings lasted until tho cab drew up beforo Langham's Hotel, and the youth got out and wont into tho house. Tho boy, wrong in many instances, was right in this, thab the socret of his birth could not be concealed from him. His poor mother had never divulged it to him, never meanb him to know thab, the knowledgo of which, sho thought, would only make him unhappy ; but she had told no falsehood, put forth no falso showing to hide it irrevocably from him. Sho was known among her poor Italian neighbours as Signora Valeria, and supposed, by them to be the widow of that j handsome young Pole to whom they had seen her murried, and from whom tbey had seen her torn by her father, some years beforo. Of the Duko of Hereward, her second husband, and of her divorce from him, tbey knew nothing. But she was known to her father-confessor, to her newsagent, and later to her son, as Valeric de la Motte Scott, for though no longer entitled to bear the latter name, she had tacitly allowed it to cling to her, Now as to how the boy discovered the secrot thab was designed to be concealed from him. When with childish curiosity he bad in-

quired, his mother bad told him that ho bad lost his father in infancy j and the boy understood that the loss was by death ; but as time passed, and the lad questioned more particularly concerning hie parentage, his mother, in repeating that be has lost bis father in infancy, added thab the loss had boon attended with distressing circumstances and begged him to desist in his inquiries. This only stimulated the interest and curiosity of the youth, and kepb him on the gui vive for any word, or look, or circumstance that mighb give him acluo to the mystery. And thus it followed thab with a mother so simple and unguarded as Valerio, and a son so cunning and watchful at Archibald, the secret she wished to keep ht soon discovered. Bub he kepb his owe counsel for the sake of gaining still more information. And, ab longth, tho full icvelation and confirmation of all that he hat suspected came to him in a manner and bj means his mother had never foreseen of provided against. Valeric had made a will leaving all he* property to her son, and appointing the Duke of Hereward as bis guardian. Afta* . her death, all hor papers and other effect* had to be overhauled and examined, and her son took care to read every paper thai ho was free to handle. Among these was f copy of tho will of tho lato Walddmar dc Volaski, by which he bequeathed tft Valeric do la Motto Scott, Duchess of Hereward, all his personal property. Here was both a revelation and _ mystery. Valeric de la Motte Scobb, hit mosb unhappy mother, Duchess of Here ward ! and his guardian, appointed by her, the Duke of Hereward 1 Who was the Duke of Hereward ? Thai he was a great English nobleman was evi> doob 1 Bub aside from bhat, who and whar was he 1 Tho boy was in a fever of excitement. _ I? was of no use to ask any of his poor Italiag neighbours, for they knew less than he did He had hoard of a mammoth Londoi annual, called 'Burkes Peerage,' wine* would tell all about the living and deafnobility ; big there was no copy of it any; whoro in reach. However, his mother's dying direction, had been thab he should proceed ab once t% England, and reporb himself to his guardian, thab very Duko of Hereward as mysteriously connected wibh his desbiny. Intense curiosity stimulating him, _hf hurried his departure, and after travelling day and night arrived in London on thi evening of the last day of May. He waited only to engage a room a? Langham's and change bis dreßS, and par take of a slight luncheon, before he orderet a cab, drove to the nearest bookstoro, s.nt purchased a copy of Burkes ' Peerage' for that current year. As soon as ho found himself alone in his cab again, he toro tho paper off the boofe and eagerly turned to the article Hereward, and read: ' Hereward, Duke of — Archibald-Alexander-John Scotb, Marquis and Ear*, of Arondelle in the poerage of England, Viscount Lone and Baron Scobb in thfc peerage of Scotland, and a- baronet; bornJan. Ist, 1795; succeeded his father as seventh duke, Feb. Ist, 1840; married^ March 15th, 1845, Valerio, only daughter of tho Baron de la Motto ; divorced from her grace Feb. 13th, 1846; married secondly, April Ist, 1846, Lady AugustaVictoria, eldest daughter of the Earl of Banff, by whom he has : 'Archibald-Alexander-John, Marquis of Arondelle.' Then followed a long lisb of other children, girls and boys, of whom the only record was birth and death. Not one of of them, except the young Marquis of Arondelle, had lived to be seven years old. Then followed the long lineage of the faroiiy, going over a glorious history of eight centuries. The youth glanced over the lineage, bu. 60on recurred to the opening paragraphs. ' " Married, March 15th, 1845, Valer_e s only daughter of the Baron de la Motte.'' That was my poor, dear mother! "Divorced from her grace. Feb. 13th, 1846." He divorced, and what for? She was a sainb on earth, I know. Perhaps ib was for being that she was divorced. Leb us see. " Married secondly, April Ist, 1846, Lady Augusta Victoria, eldest daughter of tha Earl of Banff." Ah, ha ! thab was it! He divorced my beloved mother for the same reason thab the tyrant Henry VIII. divorced Queen Catherine, because he was in love with another woman whom he wished to marry!' (The study of history teaches as much knowledge ot the world as does personal experience.) ' But hero again,' continued the youth. ' He divorced my dear mother on the 13th of February, married his Anne Boylen on the Ist of April—appropriate day—and I was born on the 15th of the same month ! Yes ! my angel mother and my infant self • branded with infamy two months before my birth, and by the very man whom nature and law should have constrained to be our protector. Will I ever forgive it? No I When I do, may Heaven never forgive me.' As the boy made this vow he laid down tho ' Royal and Noble Stud-Book,' and took up tho bulky letter that his mother had entrusted to him to be delivered to the Duke of Hereward. He studied it a rnomenb, then had a little struggle with his sense of right, and finally murmuring: ' Forgive me, gentle mother ; but having discovered so much of your secret, I musb know ib all, even for your sake, and for the lovo and respect I bear you.' Ho broko the seal and read tho whole of tho historical letter from beginning to end. Then he carefully re-folded and re-sealed tho letter, so as to leave no trace of the violence thab has been done in opening ib. Then he sab for a long time with his elbows on the table before him, and his bead bowed upon his hands, while tear after tear rolled slowly down his cheeks for the sad fate of that young, broken-hearted mother who had perished in her early prime. The next day, as wo have seen, he went to Hereward House and presented his mothor's letter to the duke. He had watched his grace while the latter waa reading the letter. Ho had foolishly expected to see somo sign of remorse, some demonstration of affection. Bub he had been disappointed. He had been received only as tho son of some humble deceased friend consigned to the great duke's care. His tender mood had changed to a vindictive one, and he h&d sworn to bo restored to his rights, or to devote his life to effect the ruin and extermination of the house of Hereward. (To be continued, I