CHAPTER VII.

Clutha Leader, Volume I, Issue 18, 5 November 1874, Page 4

CHAPTER VII.

tsb BTatb"ofUfi»aYr» ArfeqiiirH<!H- . .y\/jy^yDy'*A'A^ ;^A' Was it trae|-^e^ rtß'at!;^MfbF^Mjbrcl--riant was about to «marry the girl who ihad come to Beeehwood in Olive's stead f Had the daring fraud of Julia Har'dinage prospered to a point like this ? Not quite; and had the true Olive Inown the real, state of the case she might not have been in such haste to <quit the Denbuni Arms, or. to put in practice her hastily-formed plan tdcori•ceal her •existence from her. relatives, to ipass away c into the obscurity of Ship &ow, and adopt the humble position which must be hers tinder the new name -ahe had assumed fend the character which .belonged to it. But she had been deceived— first, by tbe information, communicated by. the landlord, and more completely by the to which she had listened 'between her uncle and Julia at the inn. conspired to make the belief natural and undoubted. . The landlord's . gossip had given her to understand that the approaching marriage was the topic of public discourse, and the tone and manner of the words spoken between Mr. Moredant and her cousin produced an unquestioned conviction of its truth. Knowing nothing pf tha character of Victor Moredant, she could npt suspect any unwillingness on his part to comply with the conditions of her father's will ; but, supposing him to be a youth to whom the possession of the estate was an object to be secured, even on the terms stated, she imagined that he had agreed to meet Julia as a matter of course,. and would have agreed f o marry any girl who had come to Beeehwood as , Olive Moredant., , Or perhaps it was not quite so bad as that — perhaps Julia had plied b>r arts so well that she had captivated him, and he had really formed an affection for her. In either case Olive concluded that she had made a fortunate escape, for she instinctively felt that the man who could love Julia Hardinage was not allied to that high and noble ideal which alone could satisfy her. So, mistaken . and unsuspecting, she turned aside from Beeehwood, and left Julia — the false,, the treacherous Julia — in possession of the name and position ste had so basely assumed. Time went on. Weeks passed into months ; the winter departed, and spring was brightening into the glowing radiance of summer; but not a word of love had Victor Moredant spoken to Julia, and no sign had been given by him of an intention to make her his wife afr the expiry of the year: Nay, to the keen scrutinising vision of the scheming girl the. indications she so sharply watched pointed the other way. Most earnestly and anxiously had she laid herself out to please him, to captivate him, to bring him to her feet; but with bitterness of soul she felt that she had not succeeded. He was always kind in his manner, but cold and constrained; and though his father had taken care that they should be thrown together on all possible occasions, her woman's quick perception led her to understand that she had made no particularly favourable impression upon him. Still she was not excessively alarmed. She was mortified, irritated, and secretly enraged, but not doubtful of the ultimate result ; for. whether he loved her or not, she could, not doubt , that they would be married. His father. he saw, was eagerly in fa four of the union, and always assumed it as an issue of certainty, and she could not believe tbat Victor wonld be foolish enough to incur such a forfeiture as his refusal to marry her would involve So she awaited with comparative composure (he time, which she fully expected.must soon come, when the matter would be plainly broached, and arrangements made in conformity with the provisions of the will. By this time she had settled well down into her assumed character. At first, though carefully on , her guard, there were moments when she forgot to answer to the name of Olive, und for weeks she could not free herself. from the nervous dread of her imposture being discovered To her guilty miiwl it seemed possible that some circum stance might occur to disclose the fact that she was Julia Hardinage, and so bring defeat and punishment upon her. But as the time passed without suspicion being roused^ this iear subsided, and she was now able to sustain the part, of Olive Moredant with ease and though one would suppose that the consciousness of her duplicity and of the deception in which she was living would take, away "from her existence the pleasure * nd the freedom w* ; »b honesty and rectitude can alone fier life at Beeehwood was often " more y solitary than she could haw wished. Many a day she was left entirely to herself, and, as she was not much givt-n to reading or to work, she felt the time sometimes bang heavy on her hands. To pass ie she. would ramble for hours in the park*or in tin woods which encircled it. One dux, when 'Mr.- Moredant was from home, and Victor out with hisgut>,- she -felt rather at a loss for amusement, and the -3FJjiim seized her to explore the Old

T^Wer, which stood contiguous to the mansion on the west side." This tower, Vrttich wAs ancient and half-ruinous, had been, the original dwelling of the lords of Beeehwood, but had long been shut up, and no one, about the place had ever explored it, the supposition being that its chambers were uninhabitable, and- the belief prevailing that it. was. haunted. Julia had often gazed upon its exterior, and felt a desire to get inside to see what it was like. She meant some day to ask Victor to take her throrigh it, but now the desire came upon her to. go in alone. It stood, as we have said, quite close to the modern mansion, and a passage had been constructed between them. The door of this passage — which was in one corner of the western wing, and reached by a private stair from the garden —had never been opened by any of the Moredants or their dependants ; , but the key hung in theMibrary, and Julia saw no difficulty in the undertaking. So, without mentioning, her inteLtion to any one, she procured the key, and proceeded to the closed door in the western wing. She had difficulty in getting the rusty lock to move, but finally accomplished the task, and boldly entered, timidity not being one of the features of her diameter She could not, however, resist something like a dreary feeling when, having^ Eushel back the massive door, she saw efore her a gloomy passage, with black empty doorways on either side, and the bottom of a winding stair beyond. The floor of the passage, which was paved wiih broad flat stones, was covered thickly with dust, which many summer winds and winter storms had swirled in through the dilapidated window—holes, and the undisturbed state of the accumulated heaps showed that no human foot had trod upon them for many a day. Lest any of the servants should come that way and wonder to see the Tower door open, she withdrew the key and closed it, there being light enough inside to enable her to conduct her explorations. So, carrying the key in one hand and holding the folds' 1 of her gatheredup dress with the other, she boldly advanced. It took her fully two hours to explore the many apartments of the quaint old place, all of which were empty of furniture, tho"gh many were half-filled with the rubbish which had fallen from the decaying walls, across the open places of which the ivy trailed its tendrils. Having mounted the turret stair till a closed door barred further progress, and gazed curiously round the silent, j tenantless rooms, she decended, and was ; about to quit the place when, at the far end of one of the lower apartments, she • noticed a narrow, steep stair, leading evidently under ground. She peered down for some moments, hesitating about penetrating in this direction ; but as a faint gleam of light came up from below, she resolved, to gratify her curiesity by an examination of what she had no doubt were dungeons, and cautiously made her way forward. As she decended. the faint lightincreased, and dimly served tp show her to the bottom of the very narrow stair. Her courage failed her as she peered along the damp narrow passages which branched away in various directions, and she had half turned to remount without proceeding further when pride conquered reluctance. " 1 won* be such a coward as turn," she said to herself "■ Besides, what is there to be afraid of. Neither human beings nor wild beasf-s can lodge here, and as for ghosts — pshaw. I'll see the end of it." With something like contempt for her momentary weakness, Julia darted forward and cast a passing glance into4he impenetrable gloom of the .cava ties on either side. From one only of these did a faint light come, and it she entered. Greatly to her surprise she found it. to be furnished. A moth-eaten couch stood against the wall, a small oaken table, a mouldy leather chair, and several utensils showed that it had been the prison or the hiding-place of some one in former days. Most probably the lastuse to which tbe chamber had been out was as a place of concealment during j the troublesome time of the Rebellion, i for the Carstairs of Beeehwood had fa- i vour«*l the Jacobite cause: and though the then proprietor had not openly joined the standard of Charles in '4o', he had been suspected of giving shelter to some of the insurgents ere an opportunity offered for their escape to France. The only light which entered the place was from a grating high on one side near the ronfj and. by the aid of the very feeble illumination so created, •Julii gazed in -wondering interest on these the only signs of former habita- \ tion which had met her eye witnin the building*. As her gaze went from object to object, she discovered that the entrance consisted of what- looked like two very narrow doorways, with a pillar pf wall between. There was no door on either', but at one side hung tivo iron chains, with weights attached. She look one of these in her hand, and pulled to find where ie might be fastened abovP, when she' was greatly startled by a harsh, whirring noise ; to her horror the pillar "of wall began to move round, and ere she had recovered from her fright she saw tha two apertures elqse, and the place where they had been, assumed the appearance of a solid wall. Julia uttered a loud shriek, for the

conviction flashed upon her that she was entombed. She flew -against the wall and to shake it, but one might as well have tried to. shake a solid rock. It ! was not only immovable, but fitted in so closely as to deceive a> stranger's eye,' and forbid the idea arising in the mind that an aperture had been there. Finding her first wild effort nseless, she returned to the hanging chains, and pulled with all the strength which desperation gave her; but there was either some secret way of managing the -chain' j for the opening, or her energy, quickened though it was by terror, was not sufficient for the purpose. At all events the pillar remained in its place, and after many a frantic pull in all manner of ways, which made the blisters rise on Julia's delicate hands, she ceased the attempt, and staggered back with a groan of horrified despair. She seemed trapped— shut up in a living tomb — doomed to die of starvation, for no one knew that she had entered the Tower, nor would the fact be guessed, unless it was discovered that the door at its base was unlocked. Oh, how she now repented the foolh'ardiness which had caused her to penetrate the underground region. Under the influence of an agony which would not let her rest, she paced ! to and fro the limits of the narrow j chamber, and an exclamation escaped j her lips when in the opposite side she discovered a door which till this moment she had not noticed. It stood ajar, and she frantically dashed it back upon its creaking hinges. Another dark passage lay before her, straight and narrow, and this she traversed at full speed, till what seemed an interminable iiropi ng forward was ended by a door closed and fastened. Here was another disappointment. Was the renewed hope to be quenched? The fastening of the door did not consist of a bolt, but of a lock — a strong massive lock— through the keyhole of which Julia could discern light. From the size and shape of the key-hole she fancied that it resembled the 10-jk upon the other door of the Tower, and as she had the key of it still in her hand, she settled the all-important point at once by inserting it. Oh, joy ; it entered ; it fitted ; with wild energy she turned it round, the lock flew hack, tho door opened, she was free. At least she hoped she was, though it was not the outer air in which she emerged, but, a passage, the modern aspect of which caused her to suppose that she was now in the lower regions of the inhabited mansion. She looked up at the grating which lighted the passage, and recognised it as one of several which she had noticed from the exterior inserted at the base of the wail at various places. With wonderful presence of mind she closed and locked the door through which she had come, convinced that, it gave access to a secret underground passage, communicating between the house and the Tower. She then sought her way by various windings and turnings, nil at length she came to a private stair which conducted her to the library, where she sank into a chair, thankful beyond expression for her deliverance. It was dark when .Julia returned from this exploring expedition, and she did nor mention t<» any one where she had been, or the adventure she had experienced. She had no particular motive for concealment, nor did she anticipate putting her discovery to any use; nevertheless, the time wa« to come when that a'temMon's exploration of the old Tower was to have an important issue for herself and for others. As fhe weeks and months passed on, Mr Moredant became uneasy at the silence manifested by Victor regarding 1 the union between himself and his cousin. The youth had never once alluded to it; and though he had watched with unceasing atrenrion his deportment towards her, he had failed to observe such warmth of manner as indicated that any deep affection for her was being formed in his heart. The old man had not forgotten the conversation which took place between them on the night of the arrival of the blackbordered letter from India, though he could not bring himself to believe that for considerations of a merely sentimental kind Victor would refuse to marry his cousin and entail poverty on both of them. Nevertheless, he felt .impelled to speak to Victor on the subject, and know exactly his mind and" intentions. To this course he was urged by another person, who, with a knowledge of circumstances, had also been closely watching the course of events, and wiih a more discriminating apprehension of the truth. This was James Mehzies, the Glasgow merchant and intimate friend, of Mr Moredant. Tbe latter had confided to him the design formed by his brother relative to' the union of the young people, and the character and conditions of the will which he had left behind '"'him. Menzies was a ! frequent -visitor at Beeehwood, and having a scheming, self-seeking character, little suspected by his host, he began to think whether he would', not be able to -turn things to his own account. He had some notion that Victor Moredant was not the youth to marry a girl.iualess he loved her ; if he refused to marry his cousin the estate would be hers, and she wonld be free to marry anyone who might succeed in

| pleasing her. High tjlie.--- James Mpnzies— not be that lucky individual ?-/ [ So he watched ; and watched, and^saw plainly enough . that. Victor j. was net. favorably impressed wijch tbe girl wHom; it was expected he was to marry. 1 , ,If ad he been ori intimate terms with the youth he would nave striven insidiously, to make his distaste stronger,, but he" had never been able to establish himself oh a friendly footing with Victor,^ for the latter instinctively disliked l hint, and their intercourse had been but distant and formal. As his •' father's friend and; guest, the young man comj polled himself to be civil to Menzies, [ but steadily kept aloof from his acquaintance, and thus deprived him of the opportunity of influencing his mind against the marriage with his cousin. The schemer did not, however, see much reason to regret this ; for^ if he could read the signs truly, Victor did not require any one to influence him against the marriage. He had plainly !no liking for it ; and, in view of his ultimate refusal, Menzie3 paid marked, attention to Julia, flattered her/ and tried in every way to make himself agreeable to her. V ■••-■- --! Being desirous now to precipitate a | crisis and open the way for his own advances, he persuaded Mr Moredant of the advisability of having a talk with Victor on the subject, taking care not to insinuate his own idea as to what the result might be. It was an advice which jumped fully with Mr Moredant's own desire, and he resolved to follow it. r h That forenoon as Victor was passing forth to superintend the progress of some farming operations he was requested by his father to accompany him to the library. The youth received the request with a quick, keen look into his father's face. For a moment he slightly paled, and a close observer could have noticed a calm settling of the features and a tightening of the lips which betrayed a knowledge of the purpose for which the interview was sought, and the consciousness of a scene to be encountered which demanded great firmness and resolution. Victor did not speak. He but nodded compliance, and followed his father to the room he had named. " Victor," said the father, with startling abruptness, "it is time the arrange- ; tnents were begun to be made for your marriage " " Arrangements for my marriage," "repeated the youth very slowly. He had not expected the subject to be so swiftly leapt into, and could only repeat in a mechanical way some of the words which his father had used. " Yes," continued the other. "Till lately I was under the impression that the time fixed by the will was a year from the date of your cousin's arrival at Beeehwood; but on examining it more closely I see it is a year irom the day of your uncle's death. Now, he died in the end of June, ahdthi's is the middle of April. Of course, it h not necessary that the marriage should take place immediately on the expiry of the year, but it had best be as soon after as possible ; and as the arrang-ements will take a considerable time to effect, it is, F say, time that a commencement was made." " Would it not be better, in the first place, to understand if the parties are agreeable?" suggested Victor, with marked gravity. " Olive may not be inclined to carry our, her father's wish." | " Which means, I suppose, that she j will require to be form illy asked by j you, and that you have not. yet done so. Well, I do think you have been \ rather dilatory, seeing that you have been several months together; but the fault can be remedied within the hour. As to the idea that she will hot be agreeable, you may dismiss it from your mind, for her conduct since her arrival shows that she is favorably disposed towards you ; and I may tell | you that she has used language- to me which admits of but one interpretation — in a word, Victor, you may count it as certain that Olive is perfectly willing to marry you." " I am sorry to hear it," replied the youth, as the shadow of grief and annoyance came upon his face. " Sorry to hear it," echoed his father, with an amazed look. il Yes," repeated Victor, tf because if she has allowed such willingness to be shown, it lowers her greatly in my esteem. A lady worthy of being won would not signify her readiness to be won, before she was even wooed." " Oh, nonsense. Don't be foolishly fastidious. In usual cases, there may. be truth in what you say, but this is not a usual case, as you know." ""*' I know thajj well," responded Victor, with increasing gravity, 7 " Tn the circumstances it was quite justifiable in Olive to let her feelings be known to me — the father of the man who had been designed for her husband; f and if she has not yet been wooed by you in proper form, that is your fault, and I hope you will speedily remedy it." " Father," said Victor, « I find I must speak plainly, though it is intensely d-sagreeable to me to have to say what I must say. ' I. would have : suffered much rather, than have been placed in this position ; but the position is one which I have been forced into by others, and I cannot escape it. I must face it, therefore, and the sooner that is i done the better for us all. , In a word, i father, I cannot marry my cousin." Mr Moredant was sitting in his large

[.library chair,' and. the youth Was r stan3-; | ing up in front of the.fireplaice. -' •As the. [latter uttered. the last; words, • his' father ; started as if he had received a sharp unexpected shock, and fell back in the . seat. staring ' at the other ' like one 'stunned. ,; .'""■'• - ; *'. ' : ■'">■■>■ ••';' 'v ; " You cannot mavrf your cousin ?•"' he at length slowly repeated. " You— you cannot possibly' mean what your I words imply!" • • < But Viktor's only reply' was* to shake^. his head with firm determination. His father started' forward with I spasmodic energy. ' : .' ; " " j "I tell you Victor, you do not, cannot mean what you say," .he cried. "You are ignorant of, or have over-, .looked, the effect of your words if j carried into' force. ' You have forgot ,that your possession of Beeehwood is contingent on your marrying Olive" '*• Not at all. lam fully aware of that ; but were Beeehwood a thousand times larger than it is I would still decline to marry my cousin." i " Good God, the boy is mad," ejaculated his father. " Don't force me to get angry with you, Victor. . I don't | wish to dp so, but you are driving me to it by the preposterous attitude of [Contumacy and contradiction that you are assuming. I tell you again you have not realised the result of' your in- j sane sqeech if carried into action. But j 1 shall try to help you to realise. it. Refuse to marry your cousin, and both of us are beggars. Think of that— beggars — turned out of this luxurious mansion, this princely estate, and the social'honors we now enjoy — forced to toil,' to slave for our daily sustenance. But— there, there— l need say no more, you see the folly of your words now." " I am sorry," rejoined Victor, " very sorry, indeed to have to maintain this antagonism to your hopes and wishes ; and you may be sure that, had it been barely possible for me to wed Olive, I would have strained every nerve to do so for your sake. Had Olive been a girl ot a different stamp, I might have been tempted to sin against my own heart rather than subject you to this disappointment, but, being such as 1 have found her, I could not, for any earthly consideration whatever, take her f»r my wife." "And what fault have you to find with her ?" exclaimed his father, shaking with suppressed anger. " Is. she not a pleasant, amiable, good-tempered girl ? What does she lack — where does she fall short of your expectations r (( I would rather that you did not require me answer that," replied Victor. " Let it be enough for me to say that I do not love her." " No, sir ; I will not let it be enough for you to say anything so childish and foolish. I demand to know what fault you have to find with her." " You force me to be explicit on this point, then ?" "I do." "Very well. Although I would much rather remain silent, you have a right to know what 1 think, and as you command me to speak I shall do so. Knowing all that was at stake, I have from the first studied my cousin's character and disposition closely, and 1 am impressed with the idea that she is wanting in sincerity, in genuineness of feeling, in gentleness and- delicacy. There are men whom she might suit well enough, but not one constituted as I am. There is nothing in common between us; and, in short — " " In short," interrupted his father, *' you were prejudiced against her ere you saw her; and had she been invested with every grace and virtue under the sun you would have disliked her." •' No, father, that is not so. '* But I say that it is so. I have hot forgot the conversation we had on this subject when the letter came announcing the death of your uncle and the coming of Olive. You then announced your opposition to the arrangement, and you are obstinately sticking to it. You seek to justify yourself by pretending to find this defect and that defect in her, but it would have been all the same had she been tke most perfect woman on earth." ; Victor smiled faintly. ; . " .1 might retort," he. said, "by replying that, had she; been the vileat of her sex, you would still have urged the union ;• but the subject is too serious and sacred to become a mere* squabble-be-tween us. I tell you honestly, father, that, though 1 was afraid before Olive's arrival —afraid from the very nature of the case— that the plan could not reach the desired issue, , I honestly tried to like my cousin— ay, even to love her. f was ready to overlook trifling defects if I found substantial excellence- underneath ; and .even when "I found disappointing, features. I was. slow to believe in them till- 1 had ample and repeated opportunity, of testing . her. This op-, -portunity has been fully enjoyed ; but, instead of gaining in my good opinion, she has lost. God knows Ido not desire to be the judge' of her character ; and if I. have judged her and formed an unfavorable, opinion, it was because of the position" in whiph we had been', placed^ towards each other, demanded it •of me.":---. :>,:-;-.,;;.' ♦'■"*.'.;*• [ " Prejudice !- prejudice ! all prejudice." returned the. father, in'a tone of irritation. ... "The girj is well enough./ -J!ip f one has seep these;iipfecj:s ypu>p,eak of but yourself. But a truce to further talk, since I do not expect by. argument to uproot your false and silly notion. Time alone will accomplish that effect,

• but I trust you will hot be so cruel as corivev. to Olive the bad opinion you have formed of her." ' , ', ; ' ; : '* Not for worlds," cried Victor, ear* nestly. '-•-,' •■'••'••■''. ; ;;•".' ■-; - ',-< -.v .•.■•• 1 " That is well. !Tt would only grieve her; and take my Word for it, Victor,; the time will come when you will discoveryour mistake^ and then you will be very glad^that you spoke thus of her to no one ; but me." '' '■"■■ A■-■ . f " I shall be glad to find that I have: been mistaken," said Victor. : , " And you shall 'find it— l tell you you shall find it," exclaimed his father With animation. , ; At which confident prediction the youth only shook his head incredulously. : ; " Well, well," his father went' on, " let it rest now j but mark my words, Victor. Years hence, when she has been long your wife, and perchance the mother of your children, you will own to me how much you have been mistaken." ,r ■ . " No, no, father," cried Victor, hurriedly. ?« Cherish np longer this hope, for its accomplishment is impossible. Our natures forbid it, and the God who has given us our natures forbids it likewise. It cannot, cannot be." " ft must, it shall be,'.' cried Mr Moredant, trembling with excitement and agitation* " Victor, by all that is terrible,! adjure you, do not throw Beeehwood away, and make me a beg-, gar. If you do my curse shall light on you. I swear it shall. Will you have it 1 Will you dare to meet it 1 "Father," said Victor solemnly, "is: it not written, 4 The curse causeless ' shall not come ?'" And with an air mournful and dejected, yet firm as adamant, he quitted the room, and thus tha interview was ended. But that night Victor, in the solitude of his own chamber, came to an important resolution,, which he resolved to carry out forthwith, though he knew it would precipitate a serious crisis in his own life and that of others. ( To be continued.')