TRACKED BY FATE, OR THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS,

King Country Chronicle, Volume IV, Issue 247, 2 April 1910, Page 4

TRACKED BY FATE, OR THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS,

I (All Rights Reserved.)

BY MAURICE SCOTT, Author of "The Pride of the Morays,*i "The Mark of the Broad Arrow, "Broken Bonds," etc. etc. j I

FOURTEENTH INSTALMENT. First it had to be admitted that portraits—especially those of children—were often inaccurate and misleading. The exact eye-colouring was often impossible to reproduce ; and then, again, how common an occurrence it was for two or more persons to, individually, see totally opposite effects to those which the artist had endeavoured to portray ! And again, why should Gilbert Fanshawe call himself Brande Eliot ? How, how could she ascertain the truth ? How could one penniless, helpless, friendless girl pit herself against a bold, determined man such as Lemuel Fanshawe, who—were she right in her suspicion—would not scruple at taking forcible measures to preserve the secret he iiad hitherto chosen to keep from her knowledge ? Wait ! 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 ? 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 be her friends when most she needed friendship, so had Heaven uow 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—if 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 Dorothee, 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 Burriston says Saint Botolpli'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 realised she had/ neglected her charge under the stress of physical suffering and now trembled lest any serious difficulty 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 t<? 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," ©poke 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 asme any more, please. May I go to 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 torn 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 very dregs. There were honesty and straightforwardness in Dorothy's every accent, her every look, and Mrs. Fanshawe determined to trust her. She could not for very shame tyrannize over an evidently noble, trustworthy nature. So the new gardener was permitted to drive Ma'm'selle Dorothee " to the village church, where the old sexton was delighted to show her the tower, the crypt, the curious antique carvings in the choir and high lip in the groins supporting the roof-trees—-exquisite handiwork, done in bygone ages for the love of art and the glorj of the Creator, since no human aye 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 sntertainment. She was the more excited as once or twice while the old man rambled on she fancied she caught the name " Brande Eliot, son of " But he kept on like an automatic machine, and the Latin characters on the tombs and slabs were so obliberated 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, born —" STes, that was the old squire. Now—now what followed ? " Married —." Yes, yes ; but the wives were unimportant. Here it is ! " 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 Eather. 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 Havil* lands ! 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 ; " and pray do not allow me to interrupt your researches." But Dorothy was alarmed none the less ; all her courage evaporated beiore 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 be practically a prisoner once more, with this added knowledge burning, seething in her Drain. And something in the face of the man on whom she now looked spellbound warned her that her own feeble strength would prove a poor weapon with which to epmbat his remorseless will, " You are naturally interested in the archives of the family of which you will soon become a member,'"* lie said, with an endeavour to conquer the underlying satire in his accents, for the sexton had returned to the pestry, and stood there deferentially 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 jverything " " Then you will permit me to jrive you back to Havillands ? I iiave some commissions I riston 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 Bven beat them against the bars betiind which she was imprisoned ? Not a word was interchanged during the return drive, and on arriving at Havillands Dorothy had to undergo the ordeal of meeting Clarence, who now accosted her with an ain of triumphant authority. And Mrs. Fa,nshawe, who had left her own room under the stimulus of a terrified apprehension of the conse-

quences following on her husband'i 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 oi 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 farreaching, so truly horrible ! And now the sensation of fear aroused in her by Mr. Fanshawe at Rutland Gate assumed even greater proportions. She quailed perceptibly under his look, which had in it more than a suspicion of triumph. " Will you come to me in my study in 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 well understood. She began to realize the sensations of an unfortunate fly on finding itself enmeshed within the web of a cruel, crafty spider. Seizing a favourable moment to escape from Clarence's detested amiabilities, she fled to her room, praying to the spirit of her dead mother for courage, for guidance, for help through the ordeal to which she felt intuitively she was about to be submitted, and from which 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 marrelied at her 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 son without nrst obtaining your assent." " 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 Dorothys 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 ma*y 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 such 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 born, have by your connection with these undesirable people placed yourself in a 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 Dorothec. You are young, and at present love is an unknown quantity in your life." Bnt 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 for 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 could not be so foolish," he said. (To be Continued.)