Hilary's Folly: OR, The Marriage Vow.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXII, Issue 147, 22 June 1901, Page 6 (Supplement)

Hilary's Folly: OR, The Marriage Vow.

BERTHA M. CLAY AXJTHOB OF "Dora Thome," - Another Woman's Husband," " Maijorie Deane," - Between Two Hearts," etc., etc.

CHAPTER XXII. ' i An hour afterward the two you tig men were seated before an excellent luncheon. Lord Ardean had been anxiously expected by the whole household, yet it seemed so strange to him to be there as lord and master. Every one thought that he looked ill. Some of the old servants ■who had no interests away from the house were distressed and anxious about him. Almost the first thing Lord Ardeau did was to take Gabriel into the din-ing-room and show him the portrait of Captain Carlisle. "This is the portrait I told you about," said Cyril. "He was a. line military-looking man. By the way, Gabriel," he added, with sudden wonder, loking" first at the portrait, and then at the young man's face, "it is not unlike you. What a strange thing!" Gabriel's face, as he heard the remark, flushed hotly. "All fair men are alike," he said, trying to laugh it off. "It is you dark men who differ so much." "Fair or not," returned Cyril, "you are really like this portrait, Gabriel. You have the same brow and lips; you might have been Lewis Carlisle's brother." Ah, if he knew! Gabriel longed to tell him of the relationship. He had been just a little startled by Cyril's words; but he was both pleased and proud to hear them. Lord Ardean went away to g-ive some orders, and Gabriel was left looking- at the pictured face of his dead father. As he looked the eyes seemed to smile at him. "I -wonder, father," he said, his eyes filling with tears, "if you know •feat you have a son living? I make you this promise, father—though all this place is mine, I will never claim it to the detriment of my mothers' fair fame, though with it I could claim my love. I will forego it all for my mother's sake. She shall be first in the world to me always;" and if seemed to his excited fancy that a smile passed over the pictured face. So that was his father. He could remember that, as a child, when ha heard the village children talking about their fathers, he had wondered much about his. He had gone to Jane Holmes and asked her where his father was. She had told him always, "Dead and gone to heaven." He had tried 'to think what this father was like whom he had never seen; and now, at length, he saw him, and his heart throbbed with pride. Jt was dear to him to know that 'this handsome young soldier; this, gallant-looking iiontleman, was his father. He wasj still standing before the picture when Cyril returned. "You are a. hero-worshiper, Gabriel," gnicl the young- losrcl, smiling- faintly; "but fhere is something to admire in that face. 1 wish I could give you the portrait; you seem, to value it so highly." "Let me have a copy of it," requested Gabriel. "I shall be quite content with that." And it was. agreed that the picture should be copied. "Woiild you like to look round the house?" asked Lord Axdean, "or would you prefer restingl after your journey?" "I am not, in the least tired," e&» Bwered Gabriel; "and I am longing to look over the place. Still, if you are tired, I will wait." "No," said Cyril listlessly; "we will go now; then you will know your way about, and in what rooms to seek amuaememt. I am afraid you -will find it very dull to be here alone with me, Gabriel." "Dull," his friend repeated —"in this most beautiful spot? Why,' Cyril, you must be either ill or out of spirits to .think that any one could; be dull here." "I envy you your capacity for enjoyment," said the young lord. I ■would give all I possess to be as you are; Gabriel." "I cannot -understand why," angwered Gabriel. "Can; you not? You -have genius, superb health, and plenty of vitality and animation; you have the very best gifts that' Heaven gives to man." "And you have the same," said Gabriel. "No, I have not. I -will tell you some day -which of those gifts I lack that makes all the others quite useless to me. Now come and let us go round the. house. If is quite a museum of art. You will find within these walls old pictures, old china, old silver. There are buhl and marquetry enough to stock half the mansions in the country. These Ardeans seem to me to have amused themselves in seekingto increase their store of wonders. Every corner in the old place is filled. It is* said that we have the finest collection of old china in England. As for old books and. maniTScripts, you will see for yourself the number and value of them.' Of what use in the. iworld aTe they all to me?" "Of the same use as to any one else," j replied Gabriel. "Ah, no," said Lord Ardean, with a sigh, "they are not! However, I lookt ■upon Barton Abbey "as a storehouse of treasures," he continued. will see, Gabriel, that a fortune has been spent upon works of art alone." They went through the rooms; and, much as Gabriel had heard of the wonders they contained, he marvelled greatly art: what he saw. When they reached the library, with its hundreds of valuable volumes, he turned to Cyril. "And with all this," he said, "you are not happy?" "No," was the melancholy reply. "It is all very Beautiful; but it does .not add to my happiness one iota." "It would to mine." said Gabriel. "I could not wish for anything better than that library." :"I wish I could give it to you just as it stands. I know no one who would jnnke a better use of it." They went through room after room until Gabriel's eyes ached with all that j he saw. He felt bewildered when he j reflected that it was all his aw?, j

Would this house ever be his home? Would, he ever take his rightful place? J f so, would Cyril suffer?"'

No matter what he saw he was true to one thought. Nothing should ever induce him to bring the faintest shadow on his mother's fair and honoured name. Were Barton Abbey twice as grand, were its art-treasures twice as valuable, he Would give up all rather than that., his dear mother should suffer the slightest pang.

"Now, Gabriel, rest for a few minutes. I have ordered an early dinner; and we will drive out in the evening if that will please you."

"Anything1 will please me," rejoined Gabriel, wondering why Cyril was always so dull and miserable. "I was here for a week just after the late lord's death." said Cyril, "and I shall never forget it. I would not be aJone in. this great house again for the world. I -am airaid, Gabriel, that my state does not sit on me well. I was much happier in. my London chambers." "That is force of habit," replied Gabriel. But Cyril shook his head. "No; I am not well, and my nerves are unstrung. When I sit in these rooms alone, I people them with strange fancies." "You may not always be alone," said Gabriel. "Do you never think of getting married and bringing some fair loving wife here to cheer you and to make the place like home?" "Yes, I have had that dream," answered the young lord, sadly; "but it has passed away, and no other will ever come in its place. I will tell you, Gabriel. I loved Lady May Flemyng—loved her with all my heart, and, if anything could have saved me, marriage to her would." "Then why did you not propose to her?" said Gabriel, wincing. "I did; and she refused me—kindly and gently as ever any one was refused, but firmly. She told me that she should never change her mind; and, when she saw that I still clung to some faint hope, she explained the reason w 7hy." "What was it?" asked Gabriel, breathlessly; he did not stop to think that his question was hardly prudent. "Because," was the grave . reply, "she loved someone else. She told me so quite frankly. 'I am sorry,' she said, 'to give you pain; but it is better to speak plainly. I cannot marry you, I cannot love you now or ever, because I love someone else.'- There was a frankness and an honesty about the confession which made me admire her more than ever." "Did you ever learn who it was that she loved?" asked Gabriel; and this time his voice was hoarse with emotion. "No; I have always imagined it was Lord Aberdale. I thought at the time, that my heart'would have broken; but now I thank heaven she did not love me. It would have been a, thousand times worse if she had. I cannot say how grateful I am to you, Gabriel,"*he added, "for coming hither with me. I should have been most miserable alone. I have never ' made many friends; I have asked no one to visit me. The fact is, I—l have something hanging over me which has taken all the zest from life. I would give" all I have to be as you are. Let us go into dinner now, and afterwards we will decide what drive to take." During, dinner Gabriel asked if they were far from the town of Welde; and the young lord answered, "No —only a few miles." "Is; Weldhome far from here?" asked Gabriel. "Lady Lulworth lived at Weldhome when she was a girl." "Yes," replied Cyril; "she was very fond of talking to me about Weldhome and Barton Abbey. I think she liked the whole neighbourhood extremely. She told me she had not seen the Abbey since her marriage! I urged her to come and to bring her children with her; but she would not hear of it. Lord Lulworth was quite willing. It would have made the place seem more like home to me. I cannot understand why she refused to come." But Gabriel understood. He knew that to his mother such a visit would be fraught with intense pain. He longed, with a passionate intensity that astonished himself, to speak of her., i \ . "Do you like Lady Lulworth?" he asked—he felt that he must utter her name. For the first time Cyril looked really pleased and interested. "Like her?" he replied. "''Like' is not a suitable word. I think no other woman in the world is like her. She is the noblest, the grandest woman I have ever met. You do not know how much I admire her, Gabriel. I could never tell you. I am reserved, they say, by nature; but I admire her. I think the earl and countess are the most perfect pair in the kingdom." He might have wondered why Gabriel flushed so deeply. The very depths of the young man's heart were stirred- at hearing his mother spoken of so lovingly. "To tell yon the truth," continued Lord Ardean, with a faint smile, "I have often felt jealous of you; for Lady Lulworth is kinder to you than to anyone else." "The earl educated me," said Gabriel quietly; "and, as a matter of course, her ladyship is interested in me." CHAPTEE XXIII. Gabriel rose early.the next morning. He wanted to go to Weldhome alone to look at the house which had been his mother's home, to walk where her feet had trod, to gaze upon the same ecenes on which her eyes had rested, to think over her sweet girlish romance and its terrible ending. It seemed so strange that he should be in the midst of the scenes that had been so vividly described to him by his mother. So hs started away early in the ! morning, while the dew was on the ■ grass, to look at his mother's home. Lady Kilmore had let it many years

.since. When her niece was married to Lord Lulworth there seemed to her no necessity for keeping up a large establishment; so she let Weldhome and took a beautiful villa on the banks of the Thames, where she enjoyed life'with a zest that few people have for it. Weldhome was just what his mother had described it to be—a pretty, picturesque manor-house. Gabriel saw the windows of the room wherein his young1 mother had dreamed her love dream and had suffered the agony of her widowhood. He could fancy her gazing in hopeless misery from those windows, he could imagine all the pain she had suffered, he could picture the tail, slender figure amongst the trees waiting for the lover she loved so well. Were these the same description of flowers? he wondered. Had she gathered roses from these trees, lilies from that bed? Had she stood waiting here on the day that her young husband was killed—waiting, while the sun set and the moon rose, for him whom she was never to see again? Gabriel's mind was full of his mother. What a romance hers was— what a sweet, sad love story! Who would have guessed it or believed it? They walked perhaps—the slender, golden-haired girl and her lover —under those trees. How he wished that he could have seen his father only once, heard his voice, known something of him more substantial than these shadows which vexed him by their vagiieness! He longed to go inside the house, but that was impossible; he must invent some pretext for it another day. The wonder was that he did not betray himself, for his mind and heart were so full of the living mother and the dead father that he could think of nothing else. He viewed the house from different points, feeling that he could not leave the spot. At length he became aware that he was attracting attention. More than one face had appeared at the windows, more than one person had passed him with a look of wonder as to what he could be doing there. He returned to the Abbey in time for breakfast, and found _ the young lord anxiously awaiting him. "Gabriel. I am glad to see you; I was afraid you had received a message or telegram, and had gone." Gabriel laughed at his rueful face. "If I had, my dear Cyril, you could not have looked more miserable. You forget that you can get plenty of friends who will be pleased to come and stay with you." "But no one for whom I care as I do for you, Gabriel." "Well, you can travel about, Cyril; you are not compelled to remain here." "No," replied the young lord, with ! a shudder; "I could not stay here : alone. How long" do you think you lean remain, Gabriel?" !"I must go next Tuesday; I cannot stay a day longer." I "Are you going to a place to which j i you can take me?" asked Lord Ar-1 dean. !"I am afraid not," was the reply. j"I am going on confidential business —to make certain inquiries—and lam afraid I must go alone." "Give up the Marquis of Doone, Gabriel, let him find another secretary, and do you come and live with me. You shall be just what yo\i like —agent, steward, secretary, friend, brother. I will make it -worth your while. You see I like to be with you; yoii are good-tempered, light-hearted, and always cheerful and bright. It is like another life when you are with me. Will you come and live with me? Remember that T have liked you from the. beginning of our acquaintance. T told Lady Lulworth that I would give much to have you with me here at Barton Abbey." "What did she say?" asked Gabriel, with some curiosity. "To my surprise," replied Lord Ardean, "she was silent, and turned from me with tears in her eyes. I thought she would have been pleased, as she had seemed to take such interest in you." "Perhaps she was pleased, but did' not like to talk about her old home," said Gabriel. "That must have been the reason. But, Gabriel, what do you say? You would be very happy here with me — indeed, you, not I, would be the real master of Barton Abbey. I wish you would think of it. I—l have another reason, which I will not tell you until you are going. I believe it would prolong my life if you would come." But Gabriel would made no promise. He said he would ■ think of the proposal. He wondered what was wrong with Cyril, and what shadow hung over his life. He tried to laugh the! matter off. "You will bring home a wife some day, Cyril, and you will find her the best companion." "No," replied Lord Ardean, sadly; "I shall bring no wife home. Love and marriage are not for me. Do not speak of such a thing again, Gabriel; it pains me. Think of what I have said to you, whether you can bea true friend or brother to me while I live," * His voice broke, tears filled his eyes, and he turned away abruptly. So the week passed, and Monday evening came; on the morrow Gabriel was to leave Barton Abbey. The fine weather had suddenly come to an end, and on Monday evening there was a terrible thunderstorm, which lasted for more than two hours. The two friends watched it from the library window until the thunder ceased and there was the lull that always follows a tempest. They retired early. .Gabriel remembered that after he reached his room'the great halltclock chimed eleven. He- was not. excited, but he was restless and wakeful. He thought a great deal about Cyril. He was sorry to leave him, because he saw that there was something wrong with him. What it was he could not imagine; but it was evidently something that spoiled his

life. He lay thinking of this and of il all that he had to do on the morrow, d when suddenly there came a violent o blast of wind, and. as it swept by, a he heard a low cry. c He was sleeping in the room he had chosen for himself, a spacious charu- c ber in the western wing. He did not d at first remember the legend—he had - hardly thought of it since he heard p it; but, recollecting that he had left c the window a little way open, he - went to close it, fearing that the t wind might do some damage. He c drew aside the blind, and, to his in- i tense surprise, he foiiud that the night was perfectly calm; the moon } was shining brightly, there was not 1 ;i cloud in the sky. not -a branch or .^ leaf was stirring- yet, standing t there, he heard plainly the sound of a rushing wind and a low cry. .j Suddenly, remembering the legend, ' he became afraid; but he would not .1 give way to the nervous feeling; he j had never been superstitious, and J he would not believe in the "deathwind of Barton Abbey," as it was \ commonly called. Certainly it was l most extraordinary. There was the 1 sound, as plain as any sound could "' be, as of a great rush of wind; and, ■as it died away, he could hear a low j cry; yet not a' leaf or a branch stirred,' there was the most perfect still- t nes.«. I "There is some natural cause for j the sound," he said to himself, "and ,_ if I return, 1 will find it out." After a few minutes, he heard the { sound of suppressed voices, of foot- ( steps passing his door, and he knew that the household were on the alert, j and listening to the noise. It lasted j for half an hour; and, when the last , faint cry had died away, lie wondered \ to find'himself trembling with cold. He fell asleep soon afterward, and ] forgot what had disturbed him, until the face of the valet who entered his <. room next morning brought it to his mind. i "Did you hear the death-wind on ;■ the western terrace last night, sir?" c asked the man. i When Gabriel told him that he did ; not believe in anything of the kind, \ he raised his hands and eyes in } wonder. ( "It is true, sir," he said, "perfectly 1 true. When the wind blows with 1 that moaning- sound along- the ter- 1 race, one of the Ardeans dies as sure i as the sun sets. When it is the head ■ of the house, he hears it himself in a •' different manner; but when it is not < the head, we all hear it." Gabriel did not feel quite comfort- r ( able, but he would not show any sign of fear. When he met Cyril, he saw that the young lord's face was paler * than usual, and that under his eyes were black shadows, as though he had not slept. He shook Gabriel by ■ the hand, and looking earnestly at him, said: ' "Have you heard what ITiey are all i saying—that the death-wind was ( blowing last night on the terrace? , Did you hear it?" V "I heard what you call the death . wind, Cyril, but I do not believe in ( it. Let me examine the terrace well j when I return, and I will prove to 1 you that there is some natural , cause to account for it. Did -you , hear it yourself?" "No; that is, I heard a little of it." "Then," laughed Gabriel', "accord- , ing to your theory, yon ought to be ( quite at your ease. You told me ( that, when the warning comes for the head of the house, he always hears it in a different fashion." Suddenly he turned pale. Who • was the real head of the house? Himself, and not Cyril! He would have given worlds to unsay what he had said. , "Do not let us talk about it, Gabriel," said Lord Ardean. "The j scared looks of all the people in the house, are quite enough: we want no t more. We will go to breakfast now, ' and afterward I • must speak to you. I have deferred it until the last mo- j ment. I must tell you now." They sat down to breakfast; but Gabriel saw that Lord Ardean did not touch anything. , "I am sure," said Gabriel, at last, ( "that that foolish nonsense about , the death-wind has made you ill." j "No, it has not," replied Lord Ardean. "Whether the legend be true 1 or not, whether the warning be for 1 me or not it is all the same; my doom has been fixed for some time. 1 It is that I want to tell you. I did ; not mean to reveal my secret; but.it ; seems to me, Gabriel, that I shall find ease and comfort in telling you. 1 do not understand myself how it is, , but, if you had been my own brother, , I could not have loved you more." . The sad, reserved man put one arm , round the shoulder of his companion, who was touched to the heart by this!" evidence of affection. ; "You have seen for yourself, Gab- 1 riel," he continued, "how little I eareji for what other men call my greatifortune, how indifferent I am to all that I possess." i "Yes, I have seen it wfiTi surprise," j returned Gabriel; "for, of all men, < you seem to me the most to be en- ( vied." "I am the least to be envied. Fate '_ might have done me one good turn to < make up for many bad ones; but she ] refused. If Lady May had loved me, i I might have battled against that < which is eating my life away, or at : least her love would have given me i the only chance of happiness I i shall ever have in this world; but it was not to be. I < must bear my fate like a i man. and not complain like a . child. You see," he continued, "that j I try to ward off my own doom, as it i were, by disclosing what I think. I suppose that, like all iiervous people, < I imagine that while a thing is un- < revealed it is not likely to happen; '< but this is the truth, Gabriel, this is : my doom, and it hangs over my head j like a funeral' pall. I have not long * to live; my days are numbered, and < their number is few." i Gabriel looked up with infinite pity ' in his face. i "My dearest Cyril, I hope you are mistaken. Surely what you tell me ( cannot be true." ■ • 1 "It is true," replied his friend. "It < is hard to realise it, because I look well and strong; but this doom of an 1 early death has been hanging over 1 me for some years. When I received ] the news that my present title and 1 these broad lands had fallen to me. i I laughed aloud in the bitterness of 1 my heart. Of what use were they to J me except to make the bitterness of ' my doom even more bitter?" 1 "But, Cyril, you are not ill. You 1 walk and talk, eat and drink, like 1 the rest of us; there is no sign of <

illness in your face. Tt is true you lo not look strong', but 1 see no sign )f death, or even of danger. You exaggerate your case, I think. You must consult oiie of the best physicians." '■[ have seen many. No one has ever fought for his life as I have done for mine—fought with shadows —dark shadows—fought with bitter pain; but it is* unavailing, and you cannot think, Gabriel, what it is like —this constant dread. I do not see things as others see them; I look upon everything with the eyes of a dying man." "You are worth many dead ■ men yet," said Gabriel, hoping to cheer him; but there was something in the young lord's face which told how utterly hopeless he was. "Yon will know when I have told you all," he went on. "how vain it is for me to think of hope. T will tell you the history of my malady. It began when I was quite a boy. Perhaps if I had spoken about it then there might have been a chance; but. like all the manly boys, I was ashamed of being ill, ashamed of pain, and I would not speak about it. At times it was so bad that it forced, the tears from my eyes. I have been punished oftener than I can count for duties left undone because the pain was so intolerable. I can see now that it was a false standard of excellence to set up; then I deemed it the height of manliness. I had read the story of the Spartan boy and the fox, and thought I could do the same. I do not believe he suffered more. Ah, Gabriel, it does me good to confess to you! 1 have suffered so much, and I have kept it all to myself. Perhaps, if I had had a gentle, loving mother, my case might have been different; but who eared for me?" "What is the pain like?" asked Gabriel, whose kindly eyas had filled with teifrs at the thought of this desolate, pain-laden life. "1 will tell you as well as I can. It is near my heart. At first there is a slight pain, something like the prick of "a pin, and this gradually increases in intensity; when it grows intolerable, I faint away, never knowing whether 1 shall open my eyes again. When I have been in strange houses, either visiting or on business, and it lnis seized me, I have placed my handkerchief to my mouth and have bitten it through in the effort to hide my agony; but at times it geTs too strong for me. The last attack will soon come, and then there will be an end of me." "But," cried Gabriel, in an agony of alarm, "you should seek advice! There is a remedy for every ailment." "None has been found for mine," said the young lord. "As I told you, Gabriel, I fought with it during my boyhood and all the time that I was growing into manhood. There were times when I thought it was better, and T grew more cheerful. One day —I remember the day so well —T had run down to Ramsgate with a friend of mine, Horace Singleton, and we were standing together on the cliffs. The pain seized me there, and T bore it as long as T could: then I fell, upon the ground. T thought T was dying. Tie gave me some brandy, ant] when I had recovered, he said to me, 'Cyril, do you know that you have some disease of the heart?'" "I answered 'No.' " 'You should go to a clever doctor without loss of time,' he said. 'No disease of the heart, however trifling, can exist without danger.' "I did not like the grave, anxious look on my friend's face^; so shortly afterwards I went to a doctor at Leamington, who was considered to be the cleverest physician in England for heart disease, and he told me my doom. He said that I had a very rare form of heart disease, one that was seldom met with, and that it must eventually prove fatal, for there was no known remedy for it. He also said that, as I had a strong constitution, I might live until I reached the age of twenty-five; he did not think I could ever attain my thirtieth year. You, who are strong and full of life, can imagine what I felt when I heard my doom. You may think that he did wrong to tell it to me so plainly. I do not. T might have died in ignorance, with my sins upon my head but that knowledge, though it has shadowed my life, Iris preserved me from many a temptation. Knowing that I should be bore so short a time. T have tried hard never to attach myself to life and its pleasures. I could not help lovin- Lady May: and T loved her U"denrly that T was foolish enough to think that that very love would prolong my life. If she cared for me at all 1 should have told her my story. 1 would not have let her marry me in ignorance. My passion was selfish. I see it now; and I thank Heaven that she did not care for me. But 1 had such an intense longing to know life as other people know it, to have a few months' happiness before I died." "But," interrupted Gabriel, "however clever a doctor may be; he is liable at times to be mistaken. This one may have misunderstood your case." "I'thought so: and I went over to Paris to see Dr. Dudevont, a celebrated French physician. I did not tell him what the .other doctor had said, and yet, almost word for word, he gave the same opinion. 'I am an old man,' he said, 'and I have had a very extensive practice; but this is only the second case of the kind I have met with' —and, to tell you the truth. Ga.briel. he seemed most interested in it. I went to. another —the famoivt Dr. Godier, of London —and he told me the same thing. Now, after three such opinions, I must believe. I have been under the care- of Dr. Godier ever since, I went to him on the very day that I heard of my accession, to this great fortune. 'Can you promise me even one year of life?' I said to him. 'Tell me frankly.' 'No,' he answered. 'All the wealth in the world could not purchase for you one year of life.' You may imagine, Gabriel, what 'use all that I have inherited is to me?" "But is there no chance?" askedGabriel. "Do you not think it possible that you may recover? Does the pain dimmish or get worse?" "Worse," replied his friend. "I believe that it is a little worse every time, it comes. I shall not live long now, Gabriel; Can you wonder that all the money I have seems to me like so much dross, and that the houses, lands, pictures, and gems I possess are deemed worth less. How different . the world. seems to those who know they must leave it. at once, from what it seems to those, who feel they have some time to spend in it! The other day some one asked me if I

me ant to contest the borough of Welde and I looked at him in uttei The greatest affairs of this world seem so small tome whose hopes are all in Heaven When I hear people forming plans and.makno- arrangements, saying thta year Sey will do this thing, and next year that, I wonder if we are sure of anything but death." "But the certainty of death should not paralyze our efforts while we live," said Gabriel. "If that were the case there would be an end to all good and honest work in the world. No one would care to live because he would be sure of dying." "But to die so young." said Lord Ardean, "with everything that could make life bright!" Gabriel laid his warm hand gently on the cold, trembling one of the young earl. •'H does seem hard," he said; "but there is one source of comfort to you. Heaven knows what is best. l Tou cannot tell from what misery you will be taken if you die. If the love and sympathy of a fellow creature can afford you comfort, you have all mine. If 1 could give you health and strength, I would do so. Your story has gone to my heart." "You see now, Gabriel, why I wish you to live with me; do you not?" "Yes; and I cannot give any decided promise to you yet; but I think I shall be able to do as you wish —at least, 1 will try to accede to your request." "Gabriel, said Lord Ardean, with a melancholy smile. "I have arranged all my worldly affairs. Of course I cannot interfere either with the entail or the estate; but you will find I have not forgotten you." Gabriel thanked him warmly; and those were the last words they exchanged before parting*. A few hours later Gabriel set oat on the quest that was to make him either Lord Ardean of Barton Abbey, or to leave him always Gabriel Holmes, son of the woman who kept the south lodge at Langdon Wolde. CHAPTER XXIV. The day was fine and bright on which Gabriel started from Barton Abbey, and his hopes were high. To him it seemed almost impossible that a church register could be lost; he did not know how little such things were thought of in some old country churches. His hopes were as bright as the sunshine itself. He should find the register, obtain a copy of the marriage certificate and take it to his mother, and she would speak to the earl. With Cyril there would be no difficulty; on the contrary, it would be a relief to him to know that Gabriel would take his place. He above all others would be pleased to hear it. Perhaps, if he had been well and strong and likely to live, they might have had a struggle for the title. In that case Cyril might have come off victorious; as it was, Gabriel knew that nothing of the kind was likely to happen, that the whole of the property would be gladly given up to him when he produced the legal proof of his mother's marriage; and then, if Lady May were still free, he could woo and win the brilliant young beauty whom he loved with such passionate love. As the train rushed through the quiet woodland scenes, a host of memories came to Gabriel; but the one which struck him most was the memory of a woman with dark lustrous eyes. If he won Barton Abbey, she might be his. The more he dwelt xipon the memory of her, the more certain was he that she had shown some signs of preference for him. It was late in the afternoon when he reached Norham; but, though he was accustomed to the quiet of the country, Norham surprised him. He had not believed that any place could be so shut out of the world. Gabriel took up his quarters at the Bishop's Arms, which had some excellent rooms. There was a diningroom over-looking a little garden, a drawing-room containing a number of • pretty shells and old-fashioned knicknacks, and there were large bedrooms all fragrant with lavender. He wr.s delighted with the quaint old 'house, and told Mr Bond, the landlord, that he should probably remain there for some days. After partaking of refreshment, Gabriel went out; he was longing to see the church in which his mother was married. He found it without any difficulty; and it looked such an ancient, drowsy, time-worn edifice that for the first time it struck him, as probable that that of which he was in search might not be forthcoming there. .Few people had entered for the evening services but it was proceeding air the same. As Gabriel stood under the limetree, the setting sun in all its splendour touching here and there with gold the old gray church, the organ pealed forth. His heart swelled as he listened to the solemn strains, and his eyes filled with tears. He prayed, as he had never prayed before, that his mother's fair fame might be vindicated, and that, if Heaven willed it, he should have his own. There are momenis in all men's lives when they seem to be nearer Heaven than at others, and to him this was one. While life lasted he would never for-1 get the emotion that swept over him! as he stood there. What good he would do, what noble deeds he would accomplish, if he once won what was justly his own! But even then he Avas true to his beautiful mother. Better poverty, obscurity, even exile, than that a shadow should lie on her fair fame! Presently he went inside the church. A flood of crimson light came from the western window, and he could imagine the peculiar effect of which his mother had spoken; the morning light would throw the shadows of the .cross in front of the altar, just where she must have stood when she was married. His heart was full of emotion as he looked round the church. It was here, then, that his young mother had surrendered her freedom; from that altar began the married life which had been so tragically cut short; here she had uttered the vows which bound her to a man over whom the shadow of death already hung. His face grew pale, his lips trembled; it was a relief to him to kneel in the old-fash-ioned pew and pour out his soul in prayer. He remained in the church until the service ended and the people who had attended, went home. Then he wandered round the village, thinking much of the few hours hia parents

had spent there. If Captain Carlisle could have known what was to happen how careful he would have been! As it was, he merely laughed at the careless way in which the church register was kept. If he could but have foreseen the time when his son would come to that place his whole life and future dependent on the finding of a marriage certificate, he would hardly have acted as he did. To Gabriel there came a strange, unreal feeling; it was as though he had read some romance and was visiting the spot where the incidents had happened. He walked through the quiet village. Every time he saw a pretty or picturesque spot, he said to himself, "1 wonder if my mother saw that." All his thoughts were of her. Then, when the church clock struck nine, he went bax-k to the Bishop's Arms, knowing- that the morrow would end his suspense. Before the moon rose on the following night he should know whether he would take his place as Lord Ardeaii of Barton Abbey or remain as he had been—the supposed son of kindly Jane Holmes. The next morning Gabriel rose early. He was terribly excited, and he could not still the trembling of his hands. He took a long walk, but the exercise did not benefit him; he tried to bring all his philosophy to bear on the matter which so engrossed him, but it was past philosophising about. There had never been a time when he could not in some measure command himself; but now he seemed to have lost the power. He prayed fervently, for he felt that he could not rely so little on himself and needed so much the help that does not come from man. It was soon after ten when he went to the Rectory and asked to see Mr Bourne. He was ushered into a room and by and by the rector came in, wondering what had brought a visitor to Norham. He looked at Gabriel's card, and then said: " Have I the pleasure of seeing the latest addition to the ranks of our poets? I read 'Lyrics of Life and Love' only last week; and I cannot say how much I enjoyed it." This was more than Gabriel expected at Norham. His look of surprise amused the rector, for he hastened to add: "You must not think that the people here are lovers of literature; the fact h, I had plenty of time to devote to reading, and my favourite study v poetry." After that they were good friends. Whan they had talked a little abmi* Norham, Gabriel announced the object .if his visit, and told the rector that he had come to search the church register for the verification of a certain marriage, and asked his assistance. Mr. Bourne shook his head doubtful"ln what year was the marriage celebrated?" he asked. "In the year 18—," answered Gabriel; and again the rector shook his head doubtfully. "My dear sir," he said. " I had better tell you the plain truth. My predecessor, Mr. Haythorne was a most excellent man; but he was here quite twenty years too long. He ought to have resigned when he was seventy— he lived here till he was nearly ninety, and everything went wrong. He was too old.to attend to his duties; he let everything go to ruin. One of the first things I did was to hunt up all the old registers belonging to the church, and to put them in the best order I could; but I found many of the leaves missing, and I have not been able to recover them. However, we will do our best. I will help you all I can." Gabriel thanked him. "I cannot tell you yet," he said, "the details of the story, for, if I do not find the registration, I shall never make the case public; it will all depend on whether I can find the entry in the register. I have the date of the marriage, so that I shall soon know, the best or the worst." " I will do all in my power to help you," Mr. Bourne told him; " but I am doubtful as to the result. I should not like to discourage you; but there has been no care taken; indeed, I do not think that my predecessor ever fancied the registers were of any.use. I should not like to have anything of consequence depending on whether they were found or not." "You do not give me much hope;" and Gabriel sighed. " I do not feel' that there are grounds for much," replied Mr." j Bourne. " May I ask you one question ? You will not think me curious or presuming?"' " Certainly not. I am only too pleased that you should take an interest in the matter at' all. A-sk me what you like." " Has the search anything to do with yourself ?" Gabriel was silent for a few moments. He asked himself, how much it would be wise to tell this courteous clergyman. He decided that he need not keep anything from him but I names.

" I will be frank," he said. " It concerns me very much indeed; my name, fortune, and dearest happiness depend upon the issue of this search. If I find what I want, rank, wealth, and probably the girl I love, will be mine; if I fail, I shall remain as I am—nameless, penniless, loveless; so that you see it is a very important matter'for me."

" I feel deeply interested," returned T.Fr. Bourne; " and I hope with, all my heart that you will succeed. Anything I can do to assist you I will. We had better go to the church first. Since I have been here I have purchased an iron safe, and in it I have placed the documents, registers, and everything else belonging to the church": but many of the registers are mutilated, some are moth-eaten, some quite illegible. I have kept them in excellent order for the last twenty years—indeed, the law is much stricter now; it would be considered scandalous in these days to have any neglect or disorder of the land. You mny be fortunate enough to discover what yon seek. I think yon said you wanted to ■find tie entry of a marriage?" " 1 es," replied Gabriel, gravely. .

" Unfortunately the marriage registers hnve been treated worse than the' ethers. Let me offer you a glass of sherry," added the clergyman, " and then we will go to the church together."

Gabriel realised now the importance of what he had undertaken. It was more than a question of poverty or Vealth. He should win or lose for all time the girl he loved so well; there was surely, he thought, never so much

at stake before. He was strong and fearless, yet, as be walked across '.be * lawn and through a narrow lane ;.> the church, he trembled like an aspp.c. He. wondered if on the morning; of that clandestine marriage either of big parents had felt as he did. When they reached the church, wherein the object of his search must be if it existed at all, he sat down for a few minutes to compose himself . ''I'must not act like a weak, hysterical girl," he said to himself, li though perhaps no man ever hud more at stake." The sun was shining upon the stained glass window, upon the cross, arid upon the pale Figure with the tho''ncrowned head; and, looking at it, n; .souse of peace stole over him. H;s suspense would soon be over—ho wc.uhl know whether he was to be a wealthy peer, with a woman lie loved for his wife, or wh^ethgr he was to r»« ma in poor :ind'?unknt)W.n. "There is Tio'snetv'thjjW as chance," lie mused; "nor do 1 btflieve in what people call fate. I am quite content to leave my future in the same Hand which clothes the orphans and feeds the sparrows. It shall be as Heaven wills about myself; but the thing dearest to me on earth is my mother's fair fame." He rose and went into the vestry, where the rector was waiting foxhim. "I think we will examine the safe first," observed the rector, taking up a large bimch of keys. "I will give you the marriage registers, and you can look through them." In after days how often that scene returned to Gabriel—the little vestry, with the large Bible and the hymn* books lying on the table, the little cupboards, the small square window, ■ through which one could see the old churchyard where the dead slept so soundly! Did ever one small room hold so many hopes, doubts, and fears? he wondered. "These books, Mr Holmes," said the' rector, "contain all the marriage entries for the last twenty years, which! is the period of the time that I have been 'here. You are quite fiure of the date?" "Yes, quite sure. The marriage; took place in the year 18 —." "That was the year before I came,"1 said Mr Bourne. "Yes; I know that the lady in whose* interest I am making this search was married by the Eeverend Mr Hay* thorne. I remember the clergyman's, name quite welL He died, I believe, soon afterward." "I will get you to look through the* first of ray volumes," said the rector. 'He placed the book in Gabriel'^ hands. The young man slowly turned over the leaves. There was no trace of what he sought. In a fe^ minutes he returned the book to the rector. "I thought it was unlikely," he remarked. "I have made every entry; there with my own hands, and I shall always remember the first marriaga I ever celebrated in the church." "Why?" asked Gabriel, resting his hands on the old oak table* "It was such a strange one. The" morning dawned fair and bright enough; but as soon as the bride and the bridegroom came into the church: a most violent thunder-storm began. I shall never forget how the lightning flashed,'nor. the loud peals of thunder. Several rtimes during the service I.thought the steeple -would fall. The, bride was a very pretty dark-haired girl, -with, blue eyes. Sha was frightened; and when we went into tHe vestry, she said anxiously, 'Do you think this means bad luck for us, sir?' I tried to laugh away her fears; but, truth to tell, I was not much less alarmed myself. The bridegroom said little. Once he looked up at Did and said, 'It seems as though1 Heaven were angry, sir.' 'Let us'hope such, is not the-ease,' I replied. I might have forgotten the storm and the marriage but for what followed,. Only one week afterward the girl bride came back to see me—a widow; already—to tell me that her husband had died on his wedding-day. They, had gone to a watering-place on the west coast, and he went out to bathe. He was seized with cramp and was drowned before her eyes. She told me she was sitting on the beach and saw him sink. They brought him back here to Norham; I will show; you his grave presently. In less than six months she died, and was; buried with him. I shall never for* get the tragedy connected with myj first marriage celebration here." "You have good cause to remembelt it," said Gabriel. "Do not be disappointed at you? unsuccessful search," continued Mr Bourne. "Look through the registers kept by Dr, Haytliome, TtfJse the last two." Gabriel took the volumes; and hM hands trembled as he laid them down. "These two registers," the rector went on, "contain the marriages that took place during the late rector's last years; but I am sorry to sa^r you will not find them perfect. I did my best with them. I found some leaves out of place here and there, and put them in proper order; but I could sea that many were missing. IjOOK through the entries at your leisure." The rector went back into the, church, and pretended to occupy hil3*" self with something; he knew that, whatever was the result, the young; stranger would prefer to be alone. "I will not go back again," thought the kindly rector, "until I hear him move or speak. I should not like to" go through such an ordeal as that, to1 have so much depending on a scrap; of paper." Mr Bourne went to the door of th« church, and stood watching the boughs of the lime-trees as they} waved and tossed in the breeze.

(To be continued.)