TRACKED BY FATE,

Cromwell Argus, Volume XLI, Issue 2203, 11 July 1910, Page 2

TRACKED BY FATE,

(All Rights Reserved.)

O R THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS.

4 BY MAURICE SCOTT,

Author of “The Pride of th* Morays," “The Mark of the Broad Arrow," “Broken Bonds," etc. etc. EIGHTH INSTALMENT. CHAPTER XIII. (Continued.) Friendless ? Was she friendless ? What of Ernest Trevedyn ? And the warm blood mantled her face and neck at the mere thought of their mutual love. Would he not assist her in the investigation 7 Had he not claimed the right to be her friend by reason that he had saved her from the jaws of death ? Alone, unaided, she could not hope to succeed. Mr. Fanshawe had resolved to marry her to his son, and her weaker nature must of necessity be overborne by his domination were she left entirelj to her own resources. But it was not so- Even as poor, kind-hearted Maggie and Ju were raised up to he her friends when most she needed friendship, so had Heaven now sent her a defender, a champion knight, who should enter the lists on her behalf, and, if her father had Indeed been Gilbert Fanshawe, force his younger brother to do him Justice. Had been ? What if Gilbert Fanshawe still lived—lf he were being defrauded of his rightful inheritance ? Was that Mr. Fanshawe’s motive for bringing her into his house, getting her into his power, silencing her by marrying her to his son ? Her heart stood still at the mere thought that anyone could be so wicked. But the suspicion had arisen and could not be stifled. Whatever happened, she could not go on living in doubt—in dread. She must go to Ernest and, thrusting away pride, tell him all of her history she knew, and ask his advice, his assistance—as her friend, nothing more. But first —first she must see the church register—make sure about her name ; it might even afford her some new light on the subject. “ Do you think I would be allowed to go over the parish church ?" she asked of Mrs. Fanshawe, whose Indisposition still kept her within the house. “ Yes, I have no doubt you can if you wish," said Mrs. Fanshawe, languidly. " Are you developing an interest in antiquities, Ma’a’selle Dorothea, or desirous of making the acquaintance of your future husband’s possessions in detail ? ” “ I was always fond of old churches,” replied the girl, evasively, “ and Mark Burrlston says Saint Botolph’s is pre-Reformation." “ Mark might drive you in if you like,” said Mrs. Fanshawe. " His knowledge of archaeology might prove more extensive than his comprehension of botanical specimens. He is a terrible fraud as a gardener." “ Poor Mark!” said Dorothy. "Yet he tries so hard. Thank you for letting him take me." “ I am not quite sure, though, that I ought to allow you to go alone. Mr. Fanshawe wished me to accompany you on all your expeditions ; but really, I " Mrs. Fanshawe hesitated. “ Still, while you are feeling so ill he could not reasonably expect you to go out. And if Mark drives me to the church and waits to bring me back surely I can come to no harm," replied Dorothy. Mrs. Fanshawe still hesitated ; her detestation and shrinking from the role she was forced into playing was largely responsible for the neuralgic headaches from which she had seldom recently been free. And she realized she had neglected her charge under the stress of physical suffering and now trembled lest any serious difficnlty had arisen during her enforced abstention from obedience to Lemuel’s Injunctions. “ Dorothy dear,” she said, not without reluctance, “be frank with me. Have you reconciled yourself to look upon Clarence as your husband ? ” “ No,” came steadily in the girl’s low musical tones. “ Dorothy ” Mrs. Trevedyn’s reluctance was even more marked — “ was I mistaken in thinking that—that Dr. Trevedyn admired—liked you ? " An instant’s hesitation, and then ; " No, he—Dr. Trevedyn—loves me." “ And—and you ? ” " Love him." " You, Dorothy—you have seen him since—since ’’ — “ I have seen him once only. We met on the borders of the forest,” spoke Dorothy, unflinchingly without attempt at evasion, and then, seeing the sudden pallor overspreading the elder woman’s face, she continued, hastily : “Do not distress yourself. I remembered your hint ; it was thoughtful of you to give it. I remembered I had descended to the condition of a vagrant—a street singer. And so, when Dr. Trevedyn asked me to be his wife—which he did on my telling him that Mr. Fanshawe had not my authority for what he said —I—l refused him. I—l sent him away from me ” “And he accepted your refusal ?’’ “ Yes. Don’t ask me any more, please. May I go tr the church ? " > “You —you ! Dorothy, you are not using the church as a subterfuge—an excuse to meet Dr. Trevedyn ?’’ “ No, I ,have not deceived you. I will not deceive you. I have no intention of seeing him now. Should I ever do so I will tell you, if you wish to know.” Mrs. Fanshawe was silenced by the dignity in Dorothy’s tone —the suffering underlying her words. Her past youth —when she would have counted the world well lost for love’s sweet sake —came back to her. and her own tom and bruised heart ached in sympathy for this girl who seemed fated, while yet so young, to taste of the cup of bitterness, even to drain Its rery dregs. There were honesty and straightforwardness in Dorothy’s every accost. her every look, and Mrs. Fan-

1 stiawe determined to trust bar. Sha 'could not for very shame tyrannize over an evidently noble, trustworthy nature. So the new gardener was permitted jto drive Ma'm’selle Dorothee ” to ■ the village church, where the old sexton was delighted to show her the tower, the cnypt, the curious antique carvings in the choir and high up in , the groins supporting the roof-trees—-exquisite handiwork, dona in bygone ages for the love of art and the glory of the Creator, since no human eye could behold its perfections. And then the monuments of departed Fanshawes since mediaeval times ! How engrossing they seemed in their interest for the old man who could not be induced to deviate by a hair’s-breadth from his customary verbose description, delivered over and over again to visitors for years past in the same droning, mechanical rhythm. And Dorothy tried hard to listen, her mind working in feverish impatience to see the village registers which inspection was to conclude the entertainment. She was the more excited as once or twice while the old man rambled on she fancied she caught the name “ Brande /Bliot, son of ” But he kept on like an automatic machine, and the Latin characters on the tombs and slabs were so obliterated by time that she could not verify her thought, and again she feared imagination had played her false. At last the ordeal was over, and she was in the vestry with the ponderous, brass-bound volume opened out before her. The sexton rattled over the jumble of names, and then as the sound of wheels grated on the gravel outside the church, he went out at the porch, leaving Dorothy alone. Thank God ? with that talkative man at her elbow she could do nothing. Nervously, she turned the pages. “Anthony, Eliot Fanshawe, horn—” Yes, that was the old squire. Now—now what followed ? “ Married —Yes, yes ; but the wives were unimportant. Here it is ! V. Issue ; Gilbert Brande Eliot, born—” Brande Eliot ! Why, that was her father’s name ! “ Lemuel Anthony Eliot, born —.” “Gilbert Brande Eliot !’’ Then it must be true— it must be true ! Gilbert Fanshawe was her father. He had gone out to Quebec, suppressing his first and 'final names. But—but he returned—returned, perhaps to claim his own, and his own was held by a usurper, by— A slight cough interrupted her, and with a start, she turned and cried out in terror, as, standing behind her a terrifying expression on his dark, sinister face, she recognized no less a person than the master of Havillands ! I CHAPTER XIV. A CRUSHING BLOW. “ Don’t be alarmed, Mademoiselle Dorothy,” he said, with a bow of mock politeness, but thinly veiling the sneer in his tone ; “ ami pray do not allow me to interrupt your researches.” But Dorothy was alarmed none the less ; all her courage evaporated before the ominous glitter in Lemuel Fanshawe’s eyes. Oh, why, why had he come back before she had found the opportunity to confide in Ernest Trevedyn ? For now she would he practically a prisoner once more, with this added knowledge burning, seething in her brain. And something in the face of the man on whom she now looked spellbound warned her that her own feeble j strength would prove a poor weapon with which to combat his remorseless will. “You are naturally interested in the archives of the family of which you will soon become a member,” he said, with an endeavour to conquer the underlying satire in his accents, j for the sexton had returned to the j vestry, and stood there deferentially i awaiting the squire’s pleasure. “ Yes, I—l “ Have you concluded your investigations, or can I be of any assistance ? ” “ No, thank you ; I—l have seen everything ” “ Then you will permit me to drive you hack to Havillands ? I have some commissions I wish Burriston to execute in the village.” What could Dorothy do but submit ? What was she but a caged bird, her wings clipped, so that she could not even heat them against the bars behind which she was imprisoned ? Not a Word was interchanged during the return drive, and on arriving at Havillands Dorothj r had to undergo the ordeal of meeting Clarence, who now accosted her with an air of triumphant authority. And Mrs. Fanshawe, who had left her own room under the stimulus of a terrified apprehension of the consequences following on her husband’s unexpected return, looked imploringly ;at the girl as if to entreat silence and forbearance—at any rate for the time being—and Dorothy, whose own troubles only tended to make her more sympathetic towards those of others, made no effort at protestation. And apart from pity for Mrs. Fanshawe, her brain seemed paralyzed, her senses stunned. The possibilities suggested by the entry in the parish , register were so numerous, so farI reaching, so truly horrible ! And now the sensation of fear aroused in , her by Mr. Fanshawe at Rutland | Gate assumed even greater propori tions. She quailed perceptibly under I his look, which had in it more than j a suspicion of triumph. Will you come to me in my study jin an hour’s time, Miss Dorothy ? ” he said. “ There is a matter of some importance I should like an opportunity of discussing with you.” : The words, couched as a query, conveyed a command, as Dorothy I wen understood. She began to realize the sensations of an unfortunate fly on finding itself enmeshed within j the web of a cruel, crafty spider, j Seizing a favourable moment to escape from Clarence’s detested amiabilities, she fled to her room, praying

t« the spii'it of hw dead mother for courage, for guidance, for help through the ordeal to which she felt intuitively she was about to be submitted, and from whicfli she must not shrink. At the appointed time, when she presented herself, pale, emotionless, outwardly calm at least, the man bent on crushing out her power of resistance to his will secretly marvelled at har self-assertion. “ Sit down,*’ he said, placing a chair for her. “ I am glad to see you have fully regained your health. It was my wish you should feel quite strong again before discussing with you my reasons for announcing your engagement to my eon without first obtaining your assent.*’ Dorothy inclinod her head, aa if she preferred him to continue, but, finding he waited a reply, entered the lists calmly to all appearances. “It was at least a somewhat unusual course to adopt, was it not ? ” she asked. “ Quite ; I admit that. But also the circumstances attending it were somewhat unusual. Your inclusion in my household was brought about under conditions of which ” “ You need not remind me,” interrupted Dorothy, bravely. “I am not likely to forget such an episode in my life.” "An episode ? Ah, you allude to your statement that your —er —public performances if one may so term them—were only of a temporary nature ? ” ”My ‘statement’ !” echoed Dorothy, nerving herself for a battle of words. "You know such was the case, Mr. Fanshawe.” “ Pardon me. I accepted your assertion. The world, as a rule, requires proof in substantiation.” " Proof ? I cannot divine your meaning,” replied Dorothy, warmly ; “but were snob required, the singers in whose company Mrs. Fanshawe found me would bear witness”— ”My dear child”— the man’s tone was at once protesting and mildly deprecatory— ” can you for a moment imagine any—er—reputable people would accept the statements made by persons of the class to which you allude ? But now this reminder on my part is merely intended to show you that, whatever your difficulties, you, as a young lady gently horn, hare by your connection with these undesirable people placed yourself in a 1 position which might seriously handicap any attempts on your part to regain your former footing.” Dorothy held a tight rein on herself, looking at him steadily, and realizing each word contained a veiled threat. “ I am willing to say I believe your story,” he continued, “in proof of which I approve of my son’s wish to make you his wife. I cannot, of course, force you to marry him, though in doing so you recover your lost status in society and blot out a period of your existence the history of which, under less fortunate conditions, might arise to your embarrassment, if not discredit.” ” You are threatening me,” she said. “ I hope not,” he replied, suavely. ” You know I do not love your son—could never love him.” ” ’Never’ is a far cry, ma’a’selle Dorothee. You are young, and at present love is an unknown quantity in your life.” But even as he concluded the sentence an unspoken imprecation rose to Lemuel Fanshawe’s lips as the love-light in Dorothy’s ejes told him that despite his precautions the blind god had aimed his shafts and got them home. ” And if—while I thank you fpr your hospitality, your consideration —I tell you I cannot marry your son, and ask you to return to my struggle for a livelihood in whatever capacity I am enabled to ” ‘‘You conld not be so foolish,” be said. “ I am serious, Mr. Fanshawe.” “ How do you expect to live—away from my house ? ” “I do not know. I must try to get work ” ” Pshaw ! ” he said, impatiently. *' I am weary of this quibbling. Must I speak plainly, brutally so ? Who would employ you were a whisper passed round that you had been a vagrant street singer ? What man but Clarence would marry you under the same conditions ? Are you in a position to dictate what you should or should not do ?” There was a blaze of indignation in the girl’s eyes now, though she suffered under the realisation he spoke the truth. “ You infer you would tell my story to my detriment, should I refuse this marriage ? ” she asked. The man shrugged his shoulders. “ That is quite possible,” he said. ‘‘l am unaccustomed to opposition, and in the present instance few would blame me if I resented what must be looked upon as obstinate ingratitude.” Heaven help her ! What was she to do 7 He would ruin her, undoubtedly ; prevent her obtaining employment ; even poison Ernest’s mind against her. What, what was she to do ? Her soul cried out in its anguish for the dearly-loved mother, who, could she but behold her child’s distress, must suffer also. The man was watching her closely, admiring her fortitude, while cursing her self-possession, and speculating on the necessity of the final coup for which he had prepared. And as he speculated in thought, the occasion arose and he summoned all his nerve to meet it. ” Mr. Fanshawe,” said Dorothy, steadily, ” will you tell me your motive in thus forcing me, as it were into an uncongenial marriage ?” “ Motive ? ” ” Yes. You have been singularly outspoken with me, and must pardon me if I also speak without reserve in my turn. I cannot accept the motive as one of charitable intent only. By the same rule that if, as you assert, no other man would marry me because of my misfortunes ” had not Lemuel a heart of stone he must have been moved by the tremor in her voice—“ why should yon force on my

acceptance your son, the neir to a vast estate and an honoured name?” "Were you wise you would accept the facts unquestioned,” replied Fanshawe, breathing hard, and realizing the critical moment had arrived. " I cannot do that. Do you deny the existence of a reason for takAng me into your house —one other than that assigned by your wife ? ” ”No ; I |im unaccustomed to explain my motives, young lady.” “ In that case I must ask~nay require—you to make an exception, Mr. Fanshawe.” “You are bold, Ma’m’aelle Dorothee. I warn you, take care !” " What if I assign the motive ? Will you answer ma the truth if I am right in my conjecture ? ” Dorothy was goaded to desperation now ; she felt like a stag at bay. All caution, all thought of suppression were scattered to the winds. She would beard this man, and force an admission from him. At least he should understand that her eyes had been opened to what he meant to conceal. “You will answer me? ” she reiterated. "If you wish it ; but you will regret • :SWT'‘ ■ ** I do wish'it. I can have no further than those now torturing my soul.” ”Do not be too sure of that. Well ? ” His tone chilled the blood in her veins. For a moment she faltered, and then her courage came back. •‘ I told you my history—that I was born in Quebec, that my father’s name was Brande Eliot ; that seven years ago he sailed for England, landed in Liverpool, and was from that time never seen again by myself of my dear mother.” “ Go on.” “I have heard the story of ( your elder brother who went abroad so many years ago. I see in his childish portrait a resemblance to myself; and in the church register your brother’s name is set forth as ‘ Gilbert Brande Eliot Fanshawe,’ and, as I have said, Brande Eliot was my father’s name.” The man’s dark face was paler than usual, and his band shook a little. “ You have been collecting suite an array of facts,” he said.- ” May I inquire jour deduction from them?” “ That your brother Gilbert and my father are one and the same person,” replied Dorothy, calling up all her courage. There was a moment’s pause, after which the man spoke slowly : “ You show so much intelligence that I am reluctant ito pain you. I give you the option of forgetting your conjectures, marrying Clarence, and troubling yonr pretty head no further about a circumstance which is sufficiently regrettable to bury in oblivion.” ” Answer me ! Answer me ! ” cried Dorothy, in agonized entreaty. “You promised ” “I did ; _hut I conjure you, for your own sake ” " Answer me ! ” ‘‘You believe yourself to be the daughter of Gilbert Fanshawe, and that my knowledge of the fact has influenced my actions towards you ? ” “ Yes, yes !. ” ‘‘ I answer you, at your demand. I believed you to be the daughter of my half-brother Gilbert ; for that reason I brought you into my house, for that reason I consented to Clarence’s proposition to make you his wife.” ‘‘ For what reason did you keep the knowledge secret from me,” cried Dorothy in great agitation—“ even to the suppression of the fact that Eliot was a family name of the Fanshawes ? ” ‘‘ A foolish reason, perhaps. The thought that, *,ionce honourably married, no troublesome details respecting the past could be raked up to disturb your peace or that qf the man who might be your husbaqd. And I am not now alluding to your street-singing experiences.” , To what qlse ? ” " You have exhibited such unusual penetration that I marvel a reason does not suggest itself to you that might have Gilbert Fanshawe in dissevering himself from his —er —associations in Quebec.” ‘‘ ‘Dissever.’ He did not. He left with the intention of returning.” ‘‘ He said as much, doubtless. Yet men are not in the habit of throwing off responsibilities where they actually exist. And had he been desirous of returning what could have prevented him ? ” ‘‘ ‘Responsibilities —actually exist.’ I don’t understand.” Dorothy was pale as death now, Lemuel Fanshawe still watching her, lynx-eyed. “ You hay** 4a re d me to a disclosure I would gladly have concealed from you,” he said. “ Would you recognize your father’s handwriting?” ‘‘ Yes, I—l think so, though it is long ago.” The man unlocked a secret drawer in a bureau and took out a stained, crumpled letter—a portion only. “ To screen my brother’s memory I have let the report that he died abroad remain uncontradicted,” he said; “ but he led a fast life in London after his return from Quebec, and this was sent me by the doctor who attended him in his last moments.” A mist came into Dorothy’s eyes, and her head swam. Was it really her father’s handwriting ? : It certainly appeared to be. “ One moment before you read it,” said Fanshawe. ‘‘You may be aware of the fact that Havillands is not entailed upon heirs male ; therefore had your conjecture proved substantiable, you, as Gilbert’s legitimate issue, would have been entitled to succeed. And can you imagine me so shortsighted as to defraud — But read that letter, since you insist.” The ink, originally poor, was now faded and indistinct ; and then as Dorothj looked, the characters stood out as though written in blood. ‘‘ I’ve left nothing to my credit, old chap, and much to my disgrace ; but of all my misdeeds, the one I repent most is away over the Atlantic —and she thought she was my wife. There was a child —a girL Look for

am, tjam. m yircoec. i way oajy Brand# Eliot fclwr#. I wearied of it, and came away, and meant to do right, only I came to London and ‘ fell among thieve#.’ Take car# of the kiddy, Lem. Don’t let her know if you can avoid it. Gilbert.” There was a heartrending cry, and then Lemuel Fanshawe had barely time to move quickly enough forward and catch the unconscious girl, a dead weight in his arms. CHAPTER XV. DOROTHY’S FLIGHT. Illegitimate ! The word had burned into Dorothy’s brain, boiling and teething as though branded through her brow in characters of molten lead. It stood out on the walls of her room, too, in letters of huge proportions—of a vivid scarlet colour, blood red ! She could think of nothing else, hear nothing, save that one word, thundering and booming in her ears with ceaseless reiteratipn. Mr. Fanshawe had tried to convince her of his regret that she should have forced from him information he would willingly have withheld from her knowledge ; had assured her of his earnest desire to do what he thought his brother would have looked upon as the only possible method of righting the wrong which had been done. Also that the secret she had so insistently wrested from its hiding-place might be reconsigned to its oblivion by themselves, unknown to all the world. But his observations had fallen upon ears practically deaf. The girl’s faculties were numbed, deadened by the shock she had sustained. One terrible fact stood out in bold relief, other and side Issues held no significance. “ She takes it hardly, but she’ll get over it,” was Mr. Fanshawe’s mental reflection as he held open the study door to allow her to pass through. “ Let Dorothy alone,” he said to his wife that evening. ” Don’t urge her to come down to dinner if she seems inclined to shirk doing so.” “You have not been rough with her, Lemuel, I hope ?” ”No ; quite the contrary. But I felt compelled to put certain matters before her which will necessarily disturb her peace of mind temporarily. But a little quiet reflection will above all things tend to convince her that I hold the winning cards, and that she has no alternative but to follow my lead.” Thankful to feel the responsibility lifted from her own shoulders, Mrs. Fanshawe gladly followed his suggestion, and when his conjecture that Dorothy might not appear at dinner proved correct, issued orders for a tray to be taken to her room, but otherwise that Ma’a’selle Dorothee be leftN undisturbed. But the tray remained where the maid had set it down, its contents untasted. Dorothj was slowly recovering from the stunned, dazed condition of mind to which she had been reduced by Mr. Fanshawe’s revelations, and now her brain began to move and a strange, tumultuous activity to permeate her senses. She must get away from Havillands, from the place which should have been her dear mother's and her own, had not her father— Wait ! Was it true ? Was Lemuel Fanshawe to be trusted ? He had much to gain by his elder brother’s dishonour. But that letter —that letter —every word of which was seared into her heart, and his mysterious and protracted absence, the suppression of his real surname ! Oh, God, it must be true ; it must be true ! Thank God, her mother had not lived to know his baseness, the falsity of the man she had so fondly, so devotedly loved ! But she would go away—hack to Ju and Maggie. Could she get so far. It were (impossible to remain under this man’s roof ; he would force her into this hated marriage, upon the alternative of publishing this new disgrace. He had threatened as much and the thought that Ernest — Oh, she could not bear it ! She must go away, even if she died upon the road. Die ? Did people ever die when the strain of life seemed more than they could bear ? Yes, her darling mother had mercifully been taken from the blow which must have crushed her when it fell. Perhaps the sinking of the liner, the loss of all their possessions—totally crippling all attempts at discovering the long-missing Brande Eliot—were but blessings in disguise. The heartbroken, deserted wife had suffered enough ; an all-seeing Providence decreed that she should endure no more. And now, first locking her door, Dorothy seriously looked things squarely in the face. To get away from Havillands without hindrance, she must go that night—must steal away in the darkness and pray Heaven and her dead mother to guide her on her way. She would have to walk, of course, and could take nothing with her. Her cheeks burned with humiliation even at the necessity of wearing clothes paid for by Lemuel Fanshawe. But there was no help for that, and discretion told her to wear the warmest dress and the Redfern coat to protect her against the night air in the changeable English climate. Once she could find Ju and Maggie if they would take her back and allow her to work with them, she might return it to Mrs. Fanshawe. A fur-lined Redfern coat would scarcely evoke much charity from a London crowd. Charity ! Had it come to that ? Well, why not ? What right had she to encourage pride—she who could not even claim the right to bear her father’s name ? Perhaps even the street-singers would hold their heads 1 above her did they but know the truth of her story. She was dressed at last, and had packed everything about the room in order that Mrs. Fanshawe might see j she had taken nothing but necessities. I There were two or three trifling j mementos of her mother, hrouzht I

from Bride-street, and these, together with the least possible amount of enonmbranes in the way of toilet commodities she arranged in a small satchel strapped round her shoulders —one she had been accustomed to use during her wanderings through park and forest. In taking her cherished possessions from the drawer in which they had been placed she found something she had quite forgotten in the storm and stress to which she had been subjected. A little shabby leather purse—or was it a pocket-book ?—very quaint and old-fashioned. Prom whence could it have come ? And then, as she held it in her hand, memory took her back to the day when Mrs. Fanshawe's fine bays were impatiently neighing as they waited in Brick-street while she tearfully prepared for her departure—how at the last moment, Maggie had run out to the carriage and pressed something into her lap, laughing and crying at the same time, while telling her to put it away with her mother's prajer-book and keep it "for luck." She had put it away hurriedly, she remembered, for Celestine had been looking on. And now she fingered it over affectionately. Poor, good-hearted Maggie ! She turned it over in her fingers, and then, unconsciously opening it uttered a cry. Gold ! It contained gold ! Two sovereigns ! (To be Continued.)