THE SKETCHER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XIV, Issue 5018, 15 December 1877, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE SKETCHER.

FOUND GUILTY; OR, THE MARQUIS'S VINDICATION. BY MRS. HARRIET LEWIS, Authoress of " Lady Trevor's Secret," " The White Begum," &c , &c. CHAPTER XI. THE MOBSTJIEROX TRAGEDY. Itf the dim light, with the door locked, with every adjunct to secrecy in practice, Alex Strange, her soul wrought up to an intensity of suspense and anxiety, waited to hear the secret of that appaling mystery that had wrecked her father's life and blighted her own. She bent forward in the gloom, a ray of light falling upon her beautiful young face, which shone pale and pure as a star; her sapphire eyes followed every movement of Mr. Strange.

He had leaned against the window, looking out with unseeing eye 3 into the night. It was gloomy and overcast, but not so gloomy as his tortured soul. The impulse that had prompted him to tell his terrible story to his daughter was still upon .him. He stood houseless, homeless—a fugitive with nowhere to go. He had suffered pangs of home-sick-ness for months—since first he had looked upon Lord Kingscourt's face ; he had borne his awful burden so long that his need for human sympathy had become maddening. It seemed to him, at times, that his mind must give way under the frightful pressure of agonizing memories. He turned from the gloom without and paced the floor with slow and unsteady tread. His grand head was bowed to his breast. He was only- in the prime of a magnificent manhood, but his figure was suddenly stooped and bent like that of an aged man. The silence grew long and oppressive, and still he did not speak.

" Papa," said Alex, her low, sweet voice thrilling the dusky stillnes3, " the ordeal is too hard for you. Do not try to tell me—" Her father's haggard eyes were turned toward her.

" You have a right to know," he said, simply. " God forgive me if lam laying too heavy a burden upon you, my poor child, but you should know why you are accursed and set apart from all others for your life long. I had thought never to tell you. I had hoped to be all in all to you always. I had dreamed that in the seclusion of our Grecian home, where for sixteen years no stranger ever came, you would lead a long and peaceful life, knowing nothing of love, or the passions that torture humanity. Yes, I expected that you would go through life knowing no love but that of your father's—but

Fate has found us out. We cannot evade our destiny, and love has come to you even iu that lonely mountain glen where we lived the life of hermits !"

A groan was wrung from his white lips. He continued his unsteady walk. " It is written," he continued, "that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children. We may say tho misfortunes of the fathers also. The curse that rests upon your innocent head to-day, Alex, is the curse that, first of all, descended upon me. You are accursed through me—" " Papa !" " I would have died to spare you what you have suffered already," said Mr. Strange, with a hopelessness more touching than a violent outbreak of despair. "If Lord Kingscourt had never come to Greece, we might be to-day happy and content in the only home you can remember. It is his coming that precipitated all these misfortunes upon us. Had you riot been excited over tho story of his sufferings and probable maiming at the hands of Spiridion, you would not have penetrated to the robbers' den; Spiridion would not have obtained a hold upon you; his band would not have feared you, and violence would not have been offered you. We owe these recent troubles to the Earl of ICiugscourt—"

"He never meant to harm us, papa. He was the innocent and unconscious instrument of Providence !"

Mr. Strange took another laggard turn across the room.

" Let me tell you my story before my courage fails," he said, desperately. "Eighteen years ago, Alex, all England rang with a tale of horror ; society was convulsed to its very centre; the newspapers were filled with it; it was whispered iu drawing-rooms, discussed in bar-rooms, talked over in the lowest slums ; it thrilled all eivilized Europe. It was the blood-curdling mystery of the day—the great Mountheron Tragedy !" He spoke the final words in a strange whisper.

Alex sat silent, pale and breathless. " To this day the Mountheron Tragedy is remembered and discussed with awe," continued Mr. Strange, huskily. " Why, even Lord Itingscourt alluded to it on the morning of his departure from our home. It is rehearsed to the rising generation. Such horrors never die. It was a cauxe-celibre, and has its place in the criminal records of Great Britain as one of the most hideous crimes of tho century. The history of the crime aud the trial has been published in a yellow-covered volume, as one of a series of similar atrocities ; it has been translated into the principal European languages ; I have even seen allusions to it years ago in our Athens newspaper !"

'' The Mountheron Tragedy !" repeated Alex, under her breath.

" Twenty-one years ago," said Mr. Strange, "one of the proudest families in Great Britain was that of the Monntherons. Its patent of nobility dated for centuries. It was poweiful, rich, and haughty. Its boast was that no stain of dishonour had ever smirched its lofty namo. Its men had been brave in battle, wise in the counsels of the nation, high iu the favour of the sovereign. Its women were proverbial for beauty, gentleness, sweetness, and purity. Yet that proud name was doomed to be covered with a frightful ignominy; an awful disaster humbled the pride of the Mountherons to the dust!"

Alex listened as if fascinated, and still was motionless as the dead, har burning apphire eyes fixed in an unswerving gaze upon her father.

"The Marquis of Mountheron, twentyone years ago," said Mr. Strango, walking somewhat faster, and speaking more hurriedly, " was a bachelor of nearly forty years of age, who was incurably lame. He was very sensitive upon the subject of his ailliction, avoided society, and had vowed never

to marry. He had been betrothed in his youth to a lady who had jilted him for a etraighter, handsomer lover, and he hud never recovered from the hurt thus inflicted upon him. He had a brother sixteen years his junior, Lord Stratford Heron, to whom he had been a devoted guardian and friend. He declared his young brother to be the heir to his title and estates, as he should never marry, and the younger brother was everywhere regarded as the future Marquis of Mountheron.

" Upon the strength of his great prospects Lord Stratford Heron made a grand marriage with the daughter of a great duke—the Duke of Clyffebourne—a man whose pride matched that of the Mountherons, and even overtopped it —a man who would have considered suspicion to be dishonour, who would not have permitted his daughter to contract an alliance with royalty itself unless royalty were pure and spotless.

"The Lady Vivian Clyffe was a mere gir], beautiful, but cold as an icicle, and with her father's pride inbred in her. Her young husband adored her, and she—she certainly loved him. He took her home to Mount Heron, his ancestral seat, the home of his brother, who welcomed her with open arms, and established her as mistress of the castle, informing her that she would some day be mistress there by actual right, as the Marchioness ot Mountheron.

"At Mount Heron, a year later, Lord Stratford's Heron's only child, a girl, was born. There were great rejoicings upon the estates. The tenants made merry with ringing of liells, bonfires and barbecues, for, if no male heir should come to oust thi3 tiny girl, she would some day be Marchioness of Mountheron in her own right, the title and estates descending to the female branch in default of a male heir. The marquis, the misanthropic elder brother, rejoiced with the rest. He gave her her name of Constance, an old family name that had been borne by the eldest daughters of the house for centuries." Mr. Strange's voice quavered. He paused again at the window for some minutes, and when he turned about, resuming his walk | and hia story, his features were stern and set, his blue eyes glowing with awakening fire.

_ "For two years Lord Stratford Heron and his yonng wife lived in a sort of paradise. Their little child grew in beauty and intelfeence. She was a tender little Bprite, full of affectionate and winsome ways. Her parents worshipped her. Their sky was at its clearest and brightest, when, without warning, the thunderbolt fell. "There had been a quarrel between the i>larquis of Mouncheron and the Duke of Clytiebourne upon some political question. Both were fiery and passiouate, and the marquis cried out with an oath that the duke's grandchild should never rule at Mount Heron.

11 For a month lollowing that quarrel, the marquis was broody and irritable. He was from home, and his manner to Lady Vivian became offensive and overbearing, so much so that her husband several times interfered to protect her, thereby incurring his elder brother's ang;r. " One night—it was eighteen year 3 a.'o — the marquis summoned Lord Stratford Herou and his young wife to a conference in the library. There were others present, invited to witness their humiliation. And then the marquis told the young couple that he was not satisfied that the succession to his title and estates should pass to a descendant of the Duke of ClySebourne, and that he had decided to marry. "He declared the preliminaries were settled, and the bride was ready. She was the younger daughter of an impoverished nobleman, aud her father's greed and authority had compelled her to overlook the lack of love, the age and deformity of her expectant bridegroom, in consideration of his lofty position and immense revenues.

" The wedding, the marquis announced, would take place upon the morrow. " You know nothing of English life, Alex, except what you have gleaned from books, but you can imagine the shock this announcement caused to Lord and l,ady Stratford Heron. They had been led tc expect that they would succeed to the title and estates. To be thus summarily degraded, dismissed to the humble rank and portion of a younger son, for no good reason, merely to gratify a childish spite and revengefuluess, was unutterably galling. If the marquis had chosen to marrj for love, after all his declaration of an intention to remain single, the young couple could have borne their disappointment; but to be thus wronged through deliberate malice was more than they could bear.

"There was a stormy scene—and before those witnesses !

"Lord Stratford Heron entreated his brother to reconsider his decision, and the marquis mocked him. The wedding would take place on the next morning at eleven o'clock. There would be great rejoicings. The housekeeper, butler and nook had been iu his lordship's confidence, making ready for a week for the bride's home-eomiug, while the deposed heir had not even suspected the truth. The marquis sneered at Lady Stratford Heron, and bade her go home to her father. He said that he should require her rooms in the morning ; he should bring his bride directly home ; she had better be gone before his bride's arrival.

"His intolerable insolence provoked the young husband to fury. Lord Stratford was impulsive and hot-headed. He said many violent things. I think he cursed his brother in his bitterness aud anger. Then drawing his wife's arm in his lie led her from the room. At the door lie paused, and cried out, fiercely, with perhaps some mad otion of appealing to the expectant bride iu his bewildered brain :

" You think you will bring home a bride to-morrow to rob me of the heritage you promised me ? Heaven will not permit such injustice. You will never bring home a bride to Mount Heron! Aud for this intended wrong, which shall not be consummated, I swear to be reveuged ! Look to yourself, Marquis of Mouutheron !"

"They were mad words, uttered iu the heat of passion, but without sinister intent; I swear it to you, Alex ! They were wild words, but not meant in wickedness or intended crime. Yet those listeners laid them up in their memories, to reproduce at a period when every syllable should be a nail-head in their speaker's coffin !

"For that night, James, Marquis of Mountheron, was most foully murdered in his bed !

"He was found by his valet at an earl? hour of the next morning, weltering in his blood. Lord Stratford Heron had spent the earlier portion of the night out of doors in the park, trying to cool his fevered blood in the fresh air. He let himself iu at a private door, at about two o'clock in the morning and crept up to his own rooms, passing his brother's door. He halted at it a minute, with a half intention of awakening the marquis to a second interview. Changing his mind, he passed on, and as he moved away softly and silently, he was seen by the butler, who was on his way to a lower room, iu search of tooth ache drops. Lord Stratford saw no one. He entered his room and fouud his young wife awake aud greatly troubled about him. He fell asleep after long tossing on his pillow. When he awakened the next morning, aud emerged from his room to descsud to breakfast, hu found himself in the grasp of a policeman, and accused of his brother's murder !

" 1 need not dwell upon the horror of that day, Alex. There was a coroner's inquest. The most damning ovidcuce was elicited against Lord Mtratford Heron, aud he was committed for trial to answer to the charge of murder.

"Bail waa refused, and he was lodged in the jail of the nearest assize-town. The Duke of Clyffebourne hastened to the support of his daughter. At the next assizes, which were close at hand, Lord Stratford Heron was tried for his life.

" The evidence against him was overwhelming. He was told that hia wife—even hia wife —believed him guilty. He had been heard to utter threats of vengeance. The butler had seen him creep stealthily from the marquis's door at two in the morning. No one had seen him ia the park. There was blood on his garments, and his account of how it came there was not believed. He had cut his hand iu the night by au accident and it had bled freely. 'I he wound and the blood condemned him. There was further evidence against him—but I spare you its recital. A net-work of proof was established against him, and it was so strong that not oue of all who had known him dared to believe in his innocence. " I need not say that he fought desperately for his life. He employed the best counsel iu the kingdom, aud after hearing the proofs against him they abandoned bis case! He employed others, but they were lukewarm, having no faith in him. He was even advised to plead guilty, in order to obtain a possible mitigation of punishment. "The trial cauie to an end. Lord Stratford Heron—now legally Marquis of Mountheron—by a jury of his peers was found guilty of his brother's murder. He was condemned to death — sentenced to be hanged ! !' Weeks of blackness, of darkness followed to that unhappy prisoner. His wife was not allowed by her father to visit him. But that she loved him still, in spite of his disgrace, he knew. Such love as theirs does not easily die. She proved her love and her pride at the last. The time for hi 3 execution drew near, his days were supposed to be numbered. The young wife, aided by her proud old father, found an agent to do her will. She bribed the jailer, or his subordinate, with a small fortune, to bring about the prisoner's release.

" The natter was difficult, bat gold can do wonders. Lord Stratford Heron effected his escape from prison. He was met outside by his wife's agent, who gave him a disguise, money, and a letter. The letter implored him to quit the country in all haste by a yacht which was in waiting at the nearest seaport, aud not to attempt to see his wife. "The love of life is strong in us all. He could not bear that his daughter should grow up to hear that her father had been hanged for murder, although he was as innocent of it as an angel in heaven. He tied to the seaport, boarded the yacht, and sailed to Portugal. Thence he went to Brazil. He was two years in South America. He engaged in business to occupy his mind, and quadrupled his capital. "At length, torn with longings to see again his loved ones, he sailed for .Portugal: he went to Paris. Here he procured a tile of Loudon newspapers for the two years of his exile. He read the story of his trial, of his escape. He read also that the Divorce

Court had freed his young wife from her marriage bonds, and taat she was no longer Lady Stratford Heron, but Lady Vivian Clytfe. The shock, was terrible. He was ill

for days afterwards. Later he read in a Oalignani that the Duke of Olyffebourne, the Lady Vivian Clyffe, with the baby Ma*chioness of Mountheron, were stopping

at their villa at Nice for the winter, the Lady Vivian's health, which had given her friends cause for great alarm, demanding the soft air of southern France. The exile took the next train for Nice.

" He easily discovered the Duke of Clyffebourne's villa. Years and suffering had changed him from the young man of fashion into a thin, gaunt and sallow person, sunburnt and unrecognizable by those who had once known him. He hung about the villa, watching for a glimpse of his dear ones. He was lounging outside the iron gate, when out came the duke'x barouche. The duke was in it, gray aud grim, a man of iron. The Lady Vivian was there too, clad in the deepest mournings looking fragile, but cold and haughty as ever. And by her side waa her little child, a fairy with long, waving hair and seraph's eyes, who tossed the watcher a flower in her baby glee. The child was four years old then. The cxilo watched the carriage out of sight, almost beside himself.

" After that he haunted the neighbourhood of the duke's villa. He saw guests come aiul go, many of them the Lady "V ivian's suitors. He heard that she would soon ba married. He heard, too, that a price was set upon his head, and that the police of every country were vrarned to look out for him aud return him to his own Government. Ho dared not stay long at Nice. He was starving for his family. He made up his mind to go, and paid a visit to the neighbourhood of the villa; Chance threw a strange temptation in hi 3 way. The iron gate was ajar. Within, upon the lawn, the nurse wa3 coquetting with the gardener. Tha little baby marchioness, unn-atched, had strayed out into the road. The father, with a wild impulse he could not resist, caught up the child, pressing her to his bosom, and ran siviftly down the road.

" Singularly enough, the little Constance did not utter a cry. She was of » fearless nature, loving everybody. She had seen him often of late, and bad thrown him flowers. She took the proceeding for one of frolic. He got away before an alarm was raised. He found a disguise for the child, aud left within an hour for Italy. Thence, with au exercise of the greatest caution, he journeyed to Greece."

Alex uttered a little cry at this juncture. He did not hear her, continuing with feverish rapidity :

"A month afterwards he read in an Athens newspaper an account of the supposed drowning of tho baby marchioness. No one suspected that she had been stolen. She was supposed to have wandered to the sea, and her body was belioved to have been swept away.

"Instinct made the child love her father from the hour he stole her. And he made her his idol. She was his one comfort and consolation. Perhaps he did wrong in taking her froui her mother, in allowing her mother to believe her dead ; but think of it, Alex— he was innocent of all crime, divorced, despised, an outcast, accursed, yet, so truly as God hears, he was innocent! He was alone in all tile world, and the wife and mother thought to marry again. The child was his as much as hers; had he forfeited his right to her love and her innocent caresses ? Before God, no! He did not think," and the speaker's voice faltered, "that, should she ever know the truth, she might hate and reproach him for taking her from her raub, wealth, luxury, a mother's care —"

"Never !" interposed the girl, in a clear, low, ringing voice. " She would love him as he loved her ! The mother had no need of her. Tho father had a divine right to her. He did well!"

Mr. Strange's features worked. He looked at her with beseechiug gaze, then forced himself to continue :

"He took her away upon impulse. Ho would have died rather than wrong her. But for her, in the years that followed, ho must have gone mad. He knew that the search for him had never relaxed ; that his portrait was in the hands of every chief of police in Europe ; that his Government had determined to recapture him, and prove to the world that a man who had been found guilty of murder could not escape punishment, however high his rank or powerful his connections. He knew that if he were so captured, the shame and sorrow would fall crnshingly upon his child's young head. For her sake, more than for his own, he hid himself in seclusion. Perhaps it would have been nobler and wiser not to have joined her lot to his own, but he hud sore need of her. Deserted, wronged and accused, he was innocent through all. Oh, Alex ! his child should never turn against him—" "She never would!" cried the girl, her sweet face all aglow. " Never ! Never ! Tell me, papa, this Lord Stratford Heron, if alive to-day, would he uot be the Marquis of Mountheron Mr. Strange assented. " How came his child to be called the baby marchioness ?" " Perhaps the father was believed to ba dead. Perhaps, as is more probable, having been found guilty of a capital crime and condemned to die on the scaffold, he had forfeited his title and property, which had descended to his child as next of kin." Alex lifted her blue eyes through the dimness in a tender, shining gaze, as she asked : " Who is this Marquis of Mauutheron— this Lord Stratford Heron—who was found guilty of murder and condemned to die ?" Her father folded his arms across his breast, and his haggard eyes burned in their sunken sockets, and his face waa white as the face of the dead, as he answered, solemnly : " It is I, Alex—your unhappy father CHAPTER XII. THE DAUGHTER'S RESOLVE, Alex had expected that answer. Sho had divined that the unfortunate Lord Stratford Heron wa3 no other than her own father ; and yet the announcement thrilled her with a keen sorrow, a quick and almost unbearable pain. Air. Strange—for we must continue to call the exile by the name he had adopted— watched her with an agony she could not guess. Would she join in the world's verdict against him? Would she turn from him? Would she abandon him? She had spoken as in sympathy with the father before she knew that father's identity. What would she say now when she knew the worst'! What did she say and do ? As soon as the mist had cleared from her brain, as soon as the iirst bewilderment had passed, allowing her to realize the whole terrible truth, she arose aud dew to him, throwing her arms around him, and drawing his head do>vn showered kisses on his face. ' 'Poor papa !" she said, tenderly, and with an infinite love in her caressing tones. "I am glad you have told me the whole story. Now I can help you to bear the burden of this great grief " Mr. Strange dropped into the nearest chair. From the moment of his conviction for his brother's murder, he had never heard one word of sympathy or faith or trust. Alex's words completely unnerved him. He hid his face on her young breast and sobbed aloud.

The girl comforted him with an ineffable sweetness and love. She stroked his hair and kissed his head and spoke loving words of soothing and comfort. Presently his sobs ceased, and he raised his head, saying :

'' Do not think we weak, Alex, but I had feared the effect of my narration upon you. To lose you now would be more than I could bear."

" Let us talk more of the tragedy, papa. A question trembles on my tongue, yet I dread to speak of it. First, teli me of the child, the little Lady Constance Heron."

"You have surmised it. That chili is yourself, known as Alex Strange !"

"And my mother?" asked the girl, putting the question she scarcely dared to ask. " Tell me of her."

" Your mother, Alex, my divorced wite, the daughter of the Duke of Clyffebourae, ouce the Lady Stratford Heron, has resumed her maiden name of the Lady Vivian Clyffe. She has her maiden name, but with it a host of bitter memories such as her maiden's soul never dreamed of. She is in England, Alex, believing you dead and knowing me a fugitive in hopeless exile. She is a celebrated beauty and belle, courted, feted, with many suitors"—and Mr. Strange's features were momentarily convulsed. " Upon the morning of his departure from our house, Lord Kingscourt spoke of her quite by accident. She has never married again in all these years, but she is reported now to be betrothed—"

"Betrothed! My mother? Your wife?" "My divorced wife, Alex. I have no claim upon her now." " Engaged to be married! Oh, papa, It can' t be trne 1"

"She believed me guilty. Do not condemn her, Alex. I have r>o word of blame for her. I have loved her too well for that. I love her still; 1 would give all I owe to see her once more, mjself unseen. Ana though I do not blame her, I am maddened with jealousy and rage at the thought that she is about to marry another man. I have always thought of her still as my wife. I have planned a re-union with her, if Providence would only bring the truth to light and clear my name. A vain and foolish dream. I shall go down to my grave accursed, and she will marry another man. It is singular, but she expected to be Marchionness of Mouutheron as my wife. Shu has still that expectation, but as the wife of another man !"

" 1 don'C understand, papa !" With me attainted aud dead iu the law, with you supposed to he dead in reality, the Mounthercn dignities fall to the next of kin. He is a remote cousin of mine. He was known as Rowland Ingestre in the old days, but now he is Marquis of Mouutheron. Ko.vland Ingestre was oue of the group of listeners whom my brother summoned to witness my humiliation an l that of my young wife. He is now my wife's favoured lover !"

" What sort of a man is he, papa ?" "He is very popular. Every one liked him as Rowland Ingest™. As Marquis of Mouucheron, he is a social power !"

Alex was very thoughtful for some mmnents, a crave look on Uer youug brows ; then nhe said, gently: •* tapa, you must nave thought much on this subject. Have you never had a suspicion as to the murderer of your brother ?"

"No, Alex. no. I have speculated, wondered, and reasoned, hut I could never lix in tjiv own micd on the probable murderer," " Was there any ouo to benefit by his death ?" 44 No one but me that I know of. He peculiar, and irritable by reason of his lame nees and disappointment in love, and he bar. uiade many enemies, yet I know of no one whom I dare su3pect of murdering him in cold blood." 44 This Kowland Ingestre/'persisted Alex. " Did you never think of him in connection with this matter?" Mr. Strange smiled. " Ingestre is above suspicion. He had nothing to gain, for you would still have stood in his way. Ingestre was incapable of a crime." 44 The servants," suggested Alex. "The butler who saw you leave your brother's door. Might he not have boeu the guilty oue ?" "He? Au old family servant of many years standing ? Ah I no, Alex, even in my m fljry 1 could not tix suspicion upon these." ••Could it have been the work of a burglar ?' " There was nothing stolen. The murder was probably an act ot rtvengefulness." It might have been the work of a burglar who became frightened, possiblj', at your Btep, papa," said Alex, "and so made his escape empty handed. Was there any open ; doors or windows discovered in the morn- 1 iug?" I Ido not know. My guilt was deemed a | foregone conclusion. No one tried to dis- j cover the real murderer—uot even my i lawyers. If my wife made any effort," he added, bitterly, " I never kuew it. Of course, she made none, believed me guilty." Again Alex was silent for maDy minutes, deeply thoughtful. •• Do not trouble yourself with a problem too mighty to solve, Alex," said her father, presently. " You now know all my history. It is for you to say if f have done right"-." 14 f?ii:ht ia taking me from my mother's care ? Yes, papa, quite right !" "And riglit ia rejecting Lord Kingscourt otfer tur your hand, Alex ? If he knew me to be the fugitive who was condemned to be hanged—who would still suffer death on the scaffold if I were discovered —he would scorn and despise you. Fur he, like all the rest, believes mc to be a murderer. " " Y r ou did quite right in sending him away, papa. AV e are both uuder a curse, you aud I, and until that curse is lifted," said the girl, proudly, " L will never marry !" "My brave girl! And now help me to decide where we shall hide ourselves. Shall we go up the Nile ? English travellers go there. Shall we go to Russia, to some lonely hamlet, or shall we go to South America ?" He awaited her answer, with a new confidence in her wisdom aud justice. "Papa," she said, slowly, looking up at him with dauntless eyes, "you should stayhere in Greece, in safety and seclusion. But I should go to England," " You, Alex I For what purpose ?" "To clear my father's name. Papa, do not refuse me. I am not a child, but a woman twenty years of age. My love and my zeal shall atone for my want of skill and experience. Some one did that foul murder of which you were convicted. That murderer perliap3 lives to-day in security while you are in exile, in danger of your life. Perhaps I can trace out the truth, weak as I am. Papa, let me go." She sunk on her knees beside him in earnest pleading. " Alex, this is madness." "No—no. No one ever tried to search out the real murderer. Let me try. Let me make the attempt to clear the name you used to bear. I will never betray my identity to any oue, not even to my mother, until your name is cleared, and you are shown to all the world to have been innocent and most foully wronged !" " Alex, I cannot, 1 dare not let you go. You know nothing of England. Your beauty would be a deadly snare. You would discover that your task was too Herculean. Alex, not all the world could tempt me to clear my name at the sacrifice of your peace and happiness—" "My happiness? 1 shall not be happv, papa, until I see you restored to your place among men. How can you give up ? Dear papa, think of your many years to come. \Ye may make them the happiest years of your life. 1 have hope and courage. I will do something ; I know I will have some 3ucces3. Think of me," she added, as he remained unmoved at the allusions to himself. "lam so youug. If your name could but be cleared, I might live in England, as Lord Kingscourt's honored wife. Father, I have faith. Let me go !" Her words stirred her father's soul like an inspiriting battle-cry. His face flushed ; his eyes glittered. Alex saw her advantage and pursued it with all the enthusiasm of her great nature. "You are innocent, papa ; the guilty man may be found by one who is keen enough to go over the story of that tragedy step by step. He cannot hide always. The old : adage says that 'Murder will out.' For eighteen years the murderer has been unsuspected, but all trace cannot be lost. God will be on my side and protect me. Oh, let me go !" Mr. Strange was sorely tempted to yield to her demands. Her faith in herself impressed him powerfully. There was the possibility that she might succeed, weak girl as she was, aud restore him to an honorable place among hia fellow-men. Bes of all, in his estimation, she might secure her ov.-n right to be happy, and restore her own rightful position in the world. " If you were not so utterly alone, Alex, I might consent," he said, after some reflection. "As it is, 1 cannot let you go." " You hs.ve faith in my ability to take care of myself in travelling, papa. I can go to my old governess in Paris, and lot her find for me a good and trustworthy waitingwoman." " And then ?" "I will go to England, to the vicinity of your old home, and work out my plans. 1 am wiser than you think, papa. 1 have no fear only enthusiasm and eagerness to enter on ray mission. Send ire to England, papa, and let us trust in God to direct me aright aud give me success." Mr. strange looked long and steadily in the bright, enthusiastic face, catching the infection of her zeal. Her bravery, her fearlessness, liar sweet girlish wisdom, her womanly faith, inspired' him with much of her own spirit. " I cannot deny you, Alex," he said, huskily. "God will keep and direct you. ~5l ou shall go to England. I fear the task you would set yourself is worse than hopeless : but whether you can restore to mo my good name, or whether 3'ou fail to prove my innocence, I shall bless you with a father's proudest, tendereat blessing. Your work will be full of perils; I shudder to think of them ; ,1 tremble at the task before you. Enemies may seek your destruction. I can only pray fur your safety. I have given you my word —you may go."