THE NOVELIST.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XV, Issue 5173, 15 June 1878, Page 3

THE NOVELIST.

F,)U N D GUILT Y; OH, THE MARQUIS'S VINDICATION. UV MR*. HARRIET LEW 18, , .. ,„ ~( " I.a>ly Tr-vor's S.crct," " Tho White A'- 1 " 1 IJngum," Ac , &C. CHAPTER LXII. n>NC'U7S-OJ*. U'H'A l'"' Lady Vivian < 'lyff* accompanied l, y hi c'.iaperon, Lady \Urkham, and attended '">' uel " ina t'«-' ucu au d a man-servant, Irvvc "I 1 l ° the main entrance of the mansion at every window streamed with li.-liC a'"* tm! tloors woro opened wide in liospi'uMu welcome. The servants whom her lady.sliip ' ia( l sent d°' ,vn the previous n iL;lit in advance of herself had made the lu,ii.-i: ready f" r lier occupancy. Tho couple w l,„ wire usually left iu charge by her brvU'i". the master of Clyffebourne, had kept tho rooms well warmed and aired. iler return was almost liko a coming home in the ol<l days when her father had been tho rcij,'ni»H duke, and Clyffebourne had been her home. As s'.ie entered the hall she looked about her for Ah x. Not seeing her, she inquired 0 f ;i Pl j \aut if Miss Strange had arrived, and was toM ilut the young lady had gone up to her rof.m. " Let her be told of my arrival," said Lady Vivian. " And say to her that I beg her to houor me with a visit in my private room." ;Jlie weut upstairs to her dressing-room. Her I'oxes had arrived in advance of her, am l I-', hoio proceeded to unpack one of them, and i' lay out a diuner-dress. Her beautiful nii*tri--s was all impatience to see Miss Strang', and passed into her boudoir just as a kih'.-k upon the door of the latte;; apartmei.t testilied to Alex'e prompt appearance. Lady Vivian herself opened the door to her visitor. v he greeted the young girl wit i Living warmth, gathering her into a tciiiL r unbrace. And as Alex's head lay on her la lyship a breast the girl's heart throbbed hard and fast, and a rush of tenderness mad ■' the tears come to her eyes. She clung to t:.< lady with a passionate yearning that -•.;rprised the latter, who put her gently a«'av. as she said :

" ! hurried back to Cornwall at your bid(ln:.-, ii.y 'lf'ir. Your letter was mysterious, and I have been devoured with anxieties ever Miice receiving it. I thought that your sivi.iiii'ns must have some connection with your vi.-it to London ; that you must have ma i s 'tne new discovery. Is it so ?" •■lt ii.'' answered Alex. "I have discovered tie ownership of the watch guard, a piece of which yon have in your possession. Mo-t <>f the original chain is in the jewel-case of !':• ire Renard !'' "•if 1-ierro Renard V breathed the lady, in si-.rprnc. "Then I was mistaken!" "P.dyou think that the guard had belong ;11 some other than Pierre llenard?" "Yes. 1 thought I had seen such a chain upon sonic one else years ago—upon Rowland I.VC-.!ie.'' -Viex told of her visit to the miller and her (l.so '• i r;es in that quarter, of her interviews wr.ii .'dr. lUlton, and finally of the presence of a dct'. '.ive otiieer at the castle, uuder the 1:1:1.0 an i imise of John Wilson, fireman. La ly Vivian listened with most eager intueV.'

Ai.d finally Alex rehearsed her earlier discoveries of the hidden diamonds iu the cr\ pt of the ancient chapel, and told of liLinrd's examination of them.

" Y. u did well to send for me, Alex," eii 1 Lady Vivian, when she had concluded.

" 1 shall send a messenger to Mr. Dalton beting linn to '.Mine and see me this evening. I w:d consult with him ; some plan must be arrai< _'• J f»r Lord Stratford Huron's vindication. That vindication shall be accomplish.!. I pray Heaven that poor Stratford may be alive to witness it '.''

Lily Vivian wrote a note to Mr. Dalton, and dispatched it immediately. Theu retiring t'i her dressing loom, she made a diiinnr t< diet. Felieie attired her lovely mi.-tress in a cream colored robe u." richest silk, and put crimson roses in her hair and on her breast, Lady Vivian submitting passively, her thoughts upon the great sul'jc-t that had brought her back to Clyffebourne.

While sho was dressing Alex descended to the drawing room, and there Lady Markham found her. The baronet's widow eyed the young girl superciliously, and deigned her a haughty nod, passing on to the fire. Neither spoke until Lady Vivian came in, but during the interval Al-:x was made to feel, by Lady Vivian's chapeion, that she was regarded as an adventuress of the worst description. The cold light eyes of the gaunt and severe old lady scanned the girl suspiciously and superciliously, quite as if the latter were an inferior being.

Dinner was Berved in the dining-saloon, but neither Lady Vivian nor Alex had any appetite. After dinner they returned to the drawing room. Lady Markham having some errind in her own apartment, Alex employed her absence in telling Lady Vivian of Keuard's repeated attempts upou her life.

" And you have suffered all this for me and mine !" said hor ladyship, wiih tears in hei proud dusky eyes, "God bless you, tny dear child. It was God who sent you to me. I Bhall never let you go from me again."

Lady Markhatn's return prevented any re aponsc.

A little later, a carriage was heard upou the avenue, and Lord Mountheron waa presently U3hcred into the drawing-room. Bis appearance at Clyffebourne, after having been in the .society of Lady Vivian all day, seomed to Lady Markham significant. She withdrew to a distant window-seat with her crotcjeiwork.

The hour m? c', .;e upon ten o'clock. Alex stole out of the drawing-room and out of the house. Jf her father were coming, he might already be waiting for her. The night was gloomy. She crossed the lawn and drew nea- the edge of the cliff. The wind was rising ; a low moan of a brooding storm came from the rumbling w. ves and the white breakers.

Alex paced up and down the cliff, and an hour passed. Another carriage rolled up the drive : the Rev. Justice Dalton had arrived in answer to Lady Vivian's summons. Still the minutes rolled on. It was past eleven o'clock. The girl's anxiety became agony.

" I shall wait here all night if he dots not come," she thought. " Have they captured hin-i V Oh, papa ! Papa !" Her agony was becoming insupportable. The darkness was thickening. The wind blew her garments fiercely, and the moans of wind and sea were torturiDg. But suddenly—ah ! what was that ?

A dusky figure climbing the face of the cliff, bounding like a chamois from projection to projection ! Was it Renard come to Blay her ? Ah, that wae not Renard's figure! It climbed to the top of the cliff ; it moved toward her as not seeing her, breathless, gasping.

" Papa !" called the girl, softly. " Alex .'" he answered, breathlessly. "Is it you ? I am pursued. The officers, with Renard, are just below. They have followed me from the castle. My retreat is cut off in every direction. All that remains is to die ■"

His desperate voice thrilled his child with horror.

" Papa!" she cried, in a whisper full of anguish and terror. "Oh, heaven! You know not what you say !" " My poor little Alex, I am run to earth. The pursuers are on my track. There is no way of escape. All I can do for you and her is to spare you the shame of my death on the gallows. (Jod pardon me ! There they tome !"

Alex saw dusky, moving figures below, Boarculy traceable in the gloom, and she heard voices calbng. Someone was commencing the ascent of the cliff.

An inspiration came to her,

" They will uover look for you in the house of your divorced wife, papa !"she exclaimed. "''"trie. Let me hide you there until the pursuit is past !" Miu ran toward the house and her father followed her. She led him in at a side door, up a private staircase to the upper hall, meeting no one on the way. She paused a second at her owu door, then passed on to Luly Vivian's. She knew that Fclicie was below, ami sue led hiru into her ladyship's dressing room, which was lighted by a bright coal lire.

" 1 hey will never look for yon here !" she sail. "i w m oome to you when the pursuers are gone. Now I must go below to throw them off the scout."

hhe hurried again into the hall, and encountered Lady xMarkham at the door ! For a moment her heart seemed to stand still, ihen she slowly descended to the drawingroom, the baronet's widow, flushed with malignant triumph, closely following her.

Lady Vivian had not been able to rid herself of the marquis, and Mr. Dalton was biding his time for a private conference. Lord Mountheron had been interrupted by the rector's inopportune arrival, in tho midst of a passionate entreaty for an immediate marriage, and he was determined not to leave the house until his entreaty had been answered. He was looking somewhat snllen when Alex came in, and her appear did not conduce to his better nature. An ominous gleam in his eyes as he regarded her in her splendid young beauty boded her no good.

Alex sat down. Not so Lady Markham. ln « baronets widow was aglow with gratified malice.

My dear Lady Vivian," she said, in a clear, strident voice, "I have something particular to say to you. I wish to expose your sweet protegee, Miss Strange, and I may as well do so b«fore your guests. She has been meeting a lover in your grounds—" " Lady Markham !" cried Lady Vivian, indignantly. " Oh, you don't believe me ? Well, I can P r ° ve , m y wards," cried Lady Markham. And I can prove that she is a vile adventuress. She has brought her lover into the house and ban taken him up to your room ! He is at this very moment engaged in packing up your jewels ? This girl is a thief and a companion of thieves !" Without waiting for a reply. Lady Markham rang the bell violently and ordered the men servants to go upstairs quietly and guard the doors of Lady Vivian's chambers. " This is all false ! Ido not believe one word of it!" declared Lady Vivian, haughtily. ««Alex, my dear—" But her glance at Alex prevented her further utterance. The horror in that lovely young face, the wild terror in the sapphire eyes, the piteous gaze—were these the signs of innocence ? While the little party stood stricken dumb, with Lady Markham towering above them all in her malicious triumph, a sound of loud voices was heard without, and the London inspectors, with John Wilson, and the two Mount Heron constables, with Pierre Renard, burst into the house, entering the drawing-room.

" We are looking for an escaped criminal, madam," said one of the inspectors, removing his hat, and addressing Lady Vivian. *' We have traced him to your grounds, and think that he must have gained entrance inti your house!"

"There! What did L say ?"' cried Lady Markham, triumphantly. " The escaped crminal is upstairs in Lady Vivian's own room, stealing her jewels. His accomplice just took him up. Come quickly. He cannot escape." She led the way thither. The pursuers followed her. Alex, with the strength of a mad creature, dashed past them all and flew up the stair. Lady Vivian, wondering and incredulous, followed, and the marquis and the rector brought up the rear. The party trooped into Lady Vivian's boudoir, thence into her dressing-room. The fugitive had heard the noise, and knew that flight and hiding were vain. His hour was come ! He stood with folded arms in the glare of the fire-light, grand and noble, with his haughty features wearing an expression of calmness and sweetness singularly contrasting with the turmoil around him.

" There !'' shrieked Lady Markham, pointing to him. " There is her accomplice !"

The fugitive smiled with an infinite sadness. He looked around upon them all, turning at bay, then his hand went quietly to his breast.

With a great cry, Alex Hew to him, com preheuding his purpose.

" Arrest him !" cried Pierre Renard. "He is Lord Stratford Heron, the murderer of his brother!"

It needed not that assurance to complete Lady Vivian's recognition of the husband of her youth. Sinse the moment of entering the room she had stood spell-bound. The lapse of years, the inevitable change of time and sorrow, the slight disguise, none aor all of these could blind her eyes to hisindeutity. With her hands clasped above her heart she stared at him wildly.

The inspectors made a rush toward him

" Stand back !" cried Lord Stratford Heron drawing a revolver, his voice stern and authoritative. " I will not be taken alive !"

The men recoiled before his awful eyes, blazing with lightning, before the awful beauty of his face, upon which the very shadow of death might seem to linger.

"Stand back !" said the magistrate, in a voice only less stern. " Lay not your hands npon him, my men. But arrest Pierre Renard there, against whom I have a warrant and whom I accuse of the murder of the Marquis of Mountheron."

A profound silence succeeded.

Mr. Dalton exhibited his warrant. The two Mount Heron constables advanced npon the valet, who retreated before them in rage and dismay.

"On what evidence do you daro accuse me of Lord Mountheron's murder ?" he demanded.

Alex stepped forward, her blue eyes aflame.

" I saw you looking at your hidden diamonds iu the crypt of the old chapel of Mount Heron," she declared. "And I can guide the officers to their place of concealment. I found a portion of gold watyii guard iu the carvings of the bedstead of the murdered marquis. You have the remainder of the chain in your jewel case. How will you account for your wealth ?"

Pierre Renard made a dash toward her, but the four policemen cast themselves upon him and held him powerless. He was instantly handcuffed.

" There is yet stronger evidence," said Mr. Dalton. "The miller, Jacob Gregg, has confessed."

A moauiug cry came from Lord Mountheron. Ue was ghastly, and looked the picture of cowardly terror.

"Whatever comes to me you'll share it, my fine master !" exclaimed Pierre Renard. " Arrest him too, Mr. Dal ju. He's as thick in the mud as I am in the mire !"

"Here is the order for the arrest of Rowlaud Ingestre," said Mr. Dalton, displaying it. "Arrest him, my men—"

But Rowland Ingestre, so long known as Lord Mountheron, burst from the detaining grasp of John Wilson, and went dying down the staircase and out into the night. He was pursued and ran to the edge of the cliff. Whether he hoped to escape in that direction, and lost his foothold, or whether he intended thus to destroy himself, can never be known, but he went whirling off into the black space, and his anguished cry was borne back on the wind to the ears of his pursuers. Five minutes later they picked him up on Jche rocks below, a mangled corpse !

While he was thus meeting his doom, Mr. Dalton had taken Lord Stratford Heron by the hand and given him a warm and affectionate greeting,

" I have sent full particulars of the miller's confession and the other proofs of Ingestre's and Renard's guilt and your innocence to the Home Secretary," he said "and have asked for a full pardon for you, Lord Stratford—or a reversal of the sentence and judgment against you. While awaiting this pardon, you can stay here or at Mount Heron Castle. I will leave two constables in the house, as a matter of form, that I may not seem to err in my duty as magistrate, but your name shall be cleared ; it h cleared ; and you are virtually free ! 1 congratulate you, Lord Stratford, while I give you my sympathy for the unmerited wrongs that have wrecked yoar life !"

Lord Stratford Heron wrung the rector's hand. Then his gaze reverted yearningly to the Lady Vivian. How magnificently beautiful she was in her Southern loveliness ! She had not spoken one word to him yet, but her dusky eyes devoured his face.

" I will go to the castle," said Lord Stratford ; " but, first, have you no word for me, Vivian ?"

She moved nearer to him. Ho opened his arms. Witnout a word she sprang into his embrace, and in that blessed re-union all misunderstandings were forgotten, and the passionate regrets of many years were obliterated.

It was many minutes before either could speak. In the glorious joy of that re-union they forgot that they were not alone, until Lady Markham's voice broke the stillness.

" You seem to forget, Vivian, that you are not Lord Stratford's wife, that you are divorced from him. He has found a newer love—this girl here—"

Lady Vivian withdrew herself from Lord Stratford's arms and looked at Alex.

" Who is she?" she questioned. " Does not your heart tell you, Vivian?" he answered.

" Who is she ?" repeated Lady Vivian, deathly pale.

" Vivian," said I,ord Stratford Heron—no, the Marquis of Mountheron, for such was his

lawful title—" the little child you buried was not your child."

' Not mine I" gasped Lady Vivian. "No. I heard that you were divorced from me, and about to marry again, and in my madness and loneliness, I went to Nice, and stole from you our child. She has been with me ever since, the noblest, truest, bravest daughter God ever gave to man. She is not Alex Strange, Vivian, but your little Constance, your own daughter—yours and mine!"

It is said that joy never kills. It is well that it is so, else Lady Vivian (Jlyffe could not have survived that night! We will not dwell upon the re-union of the father, mother and child. It was too sacred for description. Pierre llenard was taken from the room, and these three were left together to a bliss which few souls know on earth. Not one of the three retired that night, and after an hour or tvro, good Mr. Dalton come in to keep them company. The next morning, the young Earl of Kingscourt, who arrived at Mount Heron the previous evening, drove up to Clyffebourne, and was made a sharer in Alex's delight. His surprise in finding his Greek host, Mr. Strange, in Lord Mountheron may be imagined.

One of the first things done by Mr. Dalton that day, was to procure a Bpecial license to re-marry Lord Mountheron and Lady Vivian Clyffe, and the marriage took place before noon.

The news of Lord Stratford Heron's return was telegraphed over England, and created the wildest excitement. The new marquis, by the earnest solicitation of the Duke of Clyffebourne, remained at Clyffebourne dntil hia honour had been fully vindicated, and the last shadow had been cleared from his name.

He had not long to wait. The trial of Pierre Renard on the charge of murder took place without delay. The evidence against him and his dead master was overwhelming. Jacob Gregg, the miller, testified that on the night of the murder of the late marquis he had left the cattle at ten minutes to two in the morning ; that, ia passing across the upper terrace, he had seen a man against the window, and that that man was Roland In^estre! He swore, also, that in continuing his journey to his home, he had seen Lord Stratford Heron in the park, walking to and fro, absorbed in himself—thus completely establishing Lord Stratford's own former defence. The miller declared that he had accused Ingestre of the murder, and had paid to keep silent. He had believed that Lord Stratford could not be convicted ; after his lordship's conviction he had not dared to speak.

The case was very black against Renard, and he recognized the fact, and, by advice of his own counsel, pleaded guilty. He made confession, too, throwing the blame upon Ingestre. He said that the marquis, on the night of the murder, had thrown him, (Renard, downstairs, disfiguring him for life. He had openly vowed to be revenged. Late that night Ingestre had come to him, told him of pecuniary difficulties, and hired him to murder his master. He and Ingestre had committed the murder between them, and he had taken half the marquis's diamonds for his share of the plunder, Ingestre taking the other half. He and Ingestre, who had hated Lord Stratford Heron, had theu contrived the proofs of guilt which should fix the crime upou the latter, and so bring Ingestre one step nsarer the succession to the Mountheron title and estates. He also declared that Ingestre and he had contrived a scheme to kill the baby marchioness, but that scheme had been frustrated by her supposed death at Nice.

Lord Mountheron was "pardoned" for the crime he had not committed, and restored to his former rights and privileges. The Queen sent him an autograph letter expressing her sympathy for his wrongs, and her joy at his vindication, and he became the lion of the day. Congratulations poured in upon him, invitations followed, and he found himself a hero.

The day after Pierre Renard expiated his crime upon the gallows, Lord Mountheron, the beautiful Marchioness, and Lady Constance Heron returned to Mount Heron Castle in state. The tenantry made a great festival in their honor, and loud rejoicings. Lord Kingscourk was there, all smiles and happiness. He was there again three months later as a joyful bridegroom, and Alex was the happy bride. The Hon. Bertie Knollys and Capt. Wilbraham Berved as groomsmen. The village wore a festal air. The Mount Heron Arms was festooned with evergreens. The bride received an Indian shawl as a present from the Queen, and cases of jewels, and articles of rare value from hosts of noble friends, bat dearer to her were the offerings of the Mount Heron and Kingscourt tenantry, and most precious of all was her father's grateful blessing. Not one of all those, high or low of estate, who had been kind to her were forgotten by her in her prosperity, or unrewarded. She had been faithful to her duty to her tather through everything, laying aside her love, and all she held precious for his dear sake ; she had accomplished his vindication, and had won back for him his wife, his honour, his home, his rank. And the love of father and mother and husband were lavished upon her in passionate adoration. The path of duty had led her to the crown of perfect joy and happiness. THE END. * A MONSTROUS WRONG; OR, THE LOST DAUGHTER OF THE REDBURNS. BY MRS. HARRIET LEWIS. Authoress of " Found Guiltv," " Lady Trevor's Secret," " The White &c. CHAPTER I. A FATEFUL DECISION. The Earl of St. Maur sat alone in the library of his town house, engaged in the perusal of his morning's letters. He was a nobleman of the old school, stern and haughty, grey-haired and grey-bearded, upright of figure and commanding of aspect, with a frame of a Hercules, and with a pair of keen, hawk-like eyes of singular brilliancy and penetration. Nature had endowed him with a despotic will. Many feared him; none loved him—not even his only son. If, under his cold and hard exterior, there existed possibilities of tenderness or affection no one suspected the fact. The only being who had ever loved him since his childhood—his wife —had been dead many years. She had been his idol, and her name none ever dared mention in his presence. He tore open letter after letter, tossing them aside. One letter was detained longer in his grasp. His heavy brows contracted into a fierce frown as his keen eyes devoured its contents. His breath came more quickly, his visage darkened with a furious anger. He touched a silver call-bell at Mb side. A liveried footman entered noiselessly. " Say to Lord Oswald that I request his presence immediately !" the earl commanded, without looking up. The servant withdrew. The letter was still in his lordship's hands, and he was still regarding it with fiercely knitted brows, when his only son and heir, Lord Oswald Lennox, sauntered into the room.

The young man, some two-and-twenty years of age, was very handsome, after a delicate and effeminate type. He was languid and graceful in his movements, and, in appearance, was one of the "curled darlings" of society. He had inherited nothing of his sire's force of character, nothing of the stern old earl's despotic will, nothing of the proud, indomitable, haughty nature that made the earl a terror to his dependants. He was gentle, easily influenced, unstable of disposition, fickle-hearted, yet capable of kindly and heroic deeds under proper excitement; generous to a fault, with many virtues and with as many faults. He was a great disappointment to his father, whose only hope in regard to him was that a judicious marriage might yet redeem him.

" I have just breakfasted," said Lord Oswald, in a soft and drawling voice. " You are always up so early, father. Is there a letter for me ?"

"None for you," responded the earl, harshly " But I have received another letter detailing your misdoings. Money lost on some race-horse, accounts overdrawn, debts upon debts of every description, and, worst of all, money raised upon post-obits. You are counting early upon my death, it seems to me."

The young man looked staggered. " Who has written all that rot to you ?" he asked.

" My solicitor I have received so many letters and heard so much of your wild spendthrift ways, that I set my solicitor to the task of into your proceedings.

And this is his report. Yon are an honour to me, are you not ? You will make a fine Earl of St. Maur when lam gone. You will be a noble representative of a noble house !' sneered the earl, in bitter sarcasm. " Dishonoured bills, money raised upon expectations of my death and your speedy inheritance, gambling, betting, and riotous living— these are the fruits of your life, Oswald, and I call to God to witness that I would rather you had died in your innocent childhood than have lived "to be the thing you are."

The young man's face flushed as if a blow had fallen upon it but he dared not answer. His father's fiery glance inspired him with terror.

"I have given you a handsome income," continued the earl, " but you spend twenty times its amount. You are a shame to me. I have talked with you before, reasoned with you, pleaded with you. Now I swear to disown you utterly while I live, if you do not reform. More, I will alienate from you my immense freehold property, and you will inherit a patrimony shorn of its chief glories.

This threat touched a tender spot. " I am willing to reform," said Lord Oswald, tremulously. "S« you have said before," responded the earl, coldly. " You have promised to give up your wild fife, to associate no more with your evil genius, Gifford Melcombe, and to live honestly and uprightly. But you have not kept your word. Gifford Melcombe is stili your bosom-friend. Your life ismore than ever unworthy and disreputable. You pride yourself on being ' fast,' which is with you another name for folly and wickedness. I will not take your word. You must give me a pledge of your good faith and honesty of purpose."

" A pledge ? What kind of pledge ?" "You are aware that I have long desired you to marry the Lady Victoria Ellesmere. She is a beauty and an heiress, the younger daughter of a duke. Her father desires the match as much as I do, and very singularly, if he has any suspicion of your real character. I demand your marriage with the Lady Victoria as a pledge of your sincerity of purpose. I have reason to believe that she is interested in you. That face of yours makes friends for you among the ladies, and they do not dream of your real character," and the earl glanced at the letter. "If I thought that you could continue your dissipations after marriage, I would not counsel this course. I would never dare bring upon any woman such a curse as a dissolute husband. But I have faith that marriage may aedeem you. Nothing else can. You are not worth a pure and good woman, but you can make yourself worthy. Befuse, then, to marry the Lady Victoria, and I will thrust you forth from my house. More, you shall never receive another penny from me while I live." Lord Oswald turned pale. " But, father—" he faltered. " I will listen to no argument," said the earl, coldly, and with a severity of tone and expression that awed his weak and wayward s»n. " Not one word, sir. Turn over a new leaf; give up Gifford Melcombe, cast off his evil influences ; this very day ask Lady Victoria to marry you, and you will find in me the most generous of pareuts. I will pay all your debts, and start you anew in life. I will settle a splendid income upon you, and give you a magnificent estate. Contract thifl marriage, reform, be a man, and I will do anything for you. llefuse to obey me, and you leave my house this very day a beggar!"

His eyes were stern and terrible. His face cold and impassive as if cut from marble.

The words were like a decree of fate. Lord Oswald Lennox knew that his father's utterances were like the laws of the ancient Medes and Persians—unalterable. The young man looked stunned.

There was a little silence between the pair. Then the earl spoke again. " Do you like Lady Victoria ?" he asked. '• Yes," assented Lord Oswald. " I don't know a woman to compare with her." " Then I am to understand that you agree to my terms ?"

A cold sweat bedewed the young man's forehead. Summoning all his courage, he stammered:

"I am willing to do anything you wish, father, but—but—l have a little entanglement—"

"Silence, sir!" thundered his father. " You need not detail your profligacy to me. I have given you my ultimatum. Come to me this evening as the promised husband of Lady Victoria Elleamere, and as determined to reform, and 1 will receive you with open arms. Otherwise we need not meet again, and the sooner yon leave my house the better."

He made a gesture of dismissal. His son arose, pale and perturbed, and made an effort again to epeak, but his father cut him short, and pointed to the door.

Lord Oswald obeyed the mute command, and went up to his own room. He made a hasty toilet and hurried out into the street.

Abrisk walk soon brought him to the chambers of his bosom-friend, Gifford Melooinbe. Mr. Melcombe was at home, aad hearkened to his story with the liveliest interest.

Gifford Melcombe was of good family, and had originally possessed a handsome fortune, which he had managed to dissipate. He was a roue, attractive in person, fascinating in manners, and villainous in his instincts. He had a pale, thin, vampirelooking face, and a pair of singularly lightcoloured eyes, which he kept half-shut, aftei a tigerish fashon. In spite of these un pleasant peculiarities, he was esteemed by his friends as a very "good fellow," and was the chosen friend and adviser of Lord Oswald Lenuox. " Now what am I to do ?" asked Lord Oswald, when he had narrated his recent interview with his father. " lamto be turned out, neck and crop, this very night, without a penny, a complete beggar. 1 can't work. 1 dor.'t know anything useful. I can't even earn my living as groom. There's no use in pleading to the governor. I might as well plead to a rock. I've a good mind to commit suicide," concluded the young man, moodily. " Why don't you marry Lady Victoria ?' asked Melcombe, coolly. " You ask me that ?" cried Lord Oswald, in amazement. "Yes. Why not? She's rich, and the earl would settle a great income upon you. You're a fool if you don't comply with his demands and win his favour." "But Queenie —" Melcombe laughed lightly. "She is only a girl of eighteen," he answered. " She'll never make you any trouble. Why, she don't even know your real name—"

" Yet she is my wife !" interrupted Lord Oswald, with a groan. " What a fool I was to fall in lovo with a school-girl and marry her ! I'm tired of her. I wish I'd never seen her. I prefer Lady Victoria Ellesmere a thousand times over. Curse my luck, Melcombe. I wish you could help me out of my trouble !"

Melcombe's eyes sparkled oddly. "lean," he answered. " Your marriage is not legal, since you married under an assumed name—"

" Not assumed. It was my middle name, Keith."

"Still, the omission of your full name is fatal to the validity of the marriage," said Melcombe. " I have long known this fact, but kept it to myself, since telling it would have done no good. You can get rid of the girl, you see, easily enough !" A look of regret, anxiety and distrust flitted over Lord Oswald's face.

" I believe the marriage to be legal, in spite of what you say, Melcombe," he declared. " It was entered into in good faith on both sides. I was wild about Queenie in those days. I loved her to destraction. And now lam tired of her," he added. " I never possessed a toy in my childhood but what I soon tired of it. Possession always cloys me. I repent my madness. I would give half the years that remain to me to undo this foolish marriage—"

" I will undertake to undo it this very morning," said Melcombe, with alacrity, a curious eagerness expressed in every feature. "If you announce this marriage to your father, he will turn you adrift. If you marry Lady Victoria, you can be freed from debt, and will have an income fit for a prince. Lady Victoria likes you; all our set know that. You can have her for the asking, she's the daughter of a duke. Queenie is lo w born, and you are tired of her. One bold act, Lennox, and you are free !" " What am I to do ?" asked Lard Oswald, doubtfully.

"Go to Queenie—l'll go with you. Tell her that your marriage with her is illegal— that Keith is not your real name. Tell her

that yon and she must part. I'll warrant het pride will do the rest. She will go back to her kindred, and never suspect your real identity. She will marry some clod, years from now, and you can marry Lady Victoria as soon as you please." "If I dare !" muttered Lord Oswald. "If I only dare ! Poor Queenie ! She's so proud —such a story would kill her I" Melcombe shrugged his shoulders. "You are sweet on her yourself, " w said Lord Oewald, suspiciously. "She refused you to marry me. Pehaps if she were free, you would like to marry her ?" "Not I," said Melcombe, turning away to hide his flushed face. "I shall have to marry wealth. My fortunes are at low ebb, as well as yours. Come, what do you say ? Will you give up everything for your low-born wife, or will you get rid of her ? I assure you, you can do it easily enough. The girl has no more suspicion than a baby. She will believe whatever you tell her. She does not know your name, nor even the church she was married in. You remember we drove in a cab from church to church to find one open that morning, and she never could find again that dingy little edifice, not if she searched for years. You're a fool, Lennox, if you hesitate to take the way out of your predicament that opens so finely before you !" _ Lord Oswald arose and paced the floor hurriedly. His soul was in a tumult. He knew that his father was relentless; that so surely as he should confess his low marriage he would be turned out upon the world a beggar. Truth and honour, decency and manliness, fought a terrible fight within his soul with cowardice, expediency, and love of ease and wealth. The tempter was at his elbow. With secret and villainous motives of his own Melcombe urged him to repudiate his marriage, and to contract a new alliance. We need not dwell upon that fateful conflict; we have only to do with its result. Evil, that had obtained such sway over Lord Oswald Keith's weak nature, finally triumphed. " I will do it!" he said, hoarsely. " I will act upon your advice, Melcombe. What else can I do ? I'll provide handsomely for Queenie, but I will persuade her that our marriage is illegal, and that she and I must part. I feel like a demon! Poor girl! Poor little Queenie ! Come with me, Melcombe. The sooner the crime is over the better. lam not the most to blame. lam driven to it. Better to break her heart than to become a beggar. Come Melcombe. Let's be off!" They hurried out together. CHAPTER 11. THE VICTIM. Laburnam Lodge is a beautiful toy villa in the suburb of London known as St. John's Wood. It is built of brisk, two stories in height, with big bow-windows of plate-glass, and with a bright little conservatory, and is set in a formal little garden, which is enclosed on its four sides by a high brick wall surmounted by a formidable clievaldefrise of broken bottles. At the time of which we write, some twenty years ago, Laburnam Lodge had been occupied for a period of ten months by a young married couple, known to the houseagent and inquisitive neighbours as Mr. and Mrs. Keith. "Mr. Keith" was Lord Oswald Keith Lennox. His wife knew him only as Oswald Keith, and believed him to be the son of a wealthy country gentleman. Not the remotest suspicion of his actual rank and expectations, or of his real name, had ever penetrated her mind.

The drawing-room of Laburnam Lodge was luxuriously furnished, as was, indeed, the entire dwelling. Every room was filled with costly elegancies. The furniture had come from the hands of noted artists. The porcelain was of exquisite Sevres ; bronzes, pictures, statuary, all were masterpieces. " Mr. Keith" had expended a fortune in adorning this little nest for the bird he had had such difficulty in snaring, and which he now intended to turn loose in the wintry blast.

Upon this day upon which our story opens, the drawing-room of Laburnam Lodge was occupied by Mrs. Keith.

She was a mere girl of eighteen, slender and supple and graceful as a fawn. Her hair was of a pale gold hue, and coiled low at the back of her head. Her eyes were of gray, deep and dark like wells of liquid light, yet full of dense purple shadows. Her forehead was broad and low, her mouth of vivid scarlet tender and sweet, yet with a resolute curve that betokened character. A lovely, innocent face, like an exquisite poem, with perfect Greek features instinct with brightness and spirit and intelligence, yet pos? ■•'"■ ing an odd expression of wistfulness yearning, as if, with all her happiness, she yet lacked something to complete her joys and contentment.

Although it was now early afternoon, she was richly attired in a long, black silk dress, with white lace at her throat and wrists, and she wore ornaments of considerable value.

In truth, although the February afternoon was dull and dark, with a slow-falling mist, Mrs. Keith was expecting her husband, and had prepared to receive him. He was in the habit of making frequent absences from Laburnam Lodge,ostensibly to visit his relatives in the country—indeed he had never settled himself regularly in the pretty villa at St. Johc's Wood as his established home—and he had been absent a week. The young wife had expected him during every hour of the past three days : she was sure that he would come to-day.

She had stood at the window during the past hour, watchful and patient. Now she turned away to the Broadwood piano, and touched the keys softly, singing a quaint old ballad in a clear soprano voice.

While she was thus engaged, the cab containing Lord Oswald Lennox and his familiar drove up to the garden-gate of the Lodge, and the two young men admitted themselves into the garden, Lord Oswald having a latchkey in his possession.

They entered the dwelling without encoun tering a servant, and ascended the stair.

" Wait here a moment," whispered Lord Oswald, hoarsely. " I have something to do first."

Melcombe nodded assent. The young lord turned aside into his wife's dressing-room. He searched for her keys in her chest-of-drawers, and found them. Then he opened her dressing-case, a massive square box of ebony bound with brass. It was filled with trinkets he had given her. He touched a spring at the top, a mirror sprang out, revealing a leathern pocket at the back. Here Mrs. Keith kept her marriage-certificate, and here her husband found it. He transferred it to his own person, his hands trembling as he did so, and returned to his companion.

He was deathly pale, and a curious agitation thrilled every nerve. But he had fairly embarked upon his crime, and had no thought of turning back. He was tired of his youDg wife : he could never bear poverty ; he did not know how to work : his one idea now was to retrieve himself in his father's estimation, and to obtain the wealth he so desired.

" Come !" he said, briefly. The two young men entered the drawingroom together.

Their approach was quite silent, but tbe girl heard them. She turned her head, uttered a cry of delight, and flew to her husband, clasping him in a glad embrace.

He stood like a wooden image under her caresses. But Melcombe's eyes glittered with jealousy, and his vampire face flushed and paled, and his fingers worked nervously. He had often visited Laburnam Lodge in company with Lord Oswald, but he had never learned t:> look upon Queenie Keith's face unmoved. He had coveted her with all his soul; he loved her to madness; and his counsels to his friend had been actuated by treachery as much as by greed.

"Oh, Oswald !" breathed the young wife. " I was sure you would come to-day. How I have longed for you—"

She paused abruptly, as Lord Oswald gently put her from him. Noticing Melcombe for the first time, Mrs. Keith greeted him with the sweet courtesy that distinguished her manner.

" I can't stay long, Queenie," said her husband, awkwardly. " I came out on business, you see—"

" Business ?" she echoed, in surprise,

" And I'd better come to the point at once," continued Lord Oswald, wishing himBelf out of the " scrape," unable to meet her gaze, yet not faltering in his wicked and desperate purpose. "1 brought Melcombe to confirm my words—"

" To confirm your words !" repeated the young wife, wonderingly. "As if I could ever doubt your word, Oswald," she added, tenderly.

"Yon'd better sit down, Queenie," said Lord Oswald, hoarsely. " It's a piece of bad news. It's about our marriage." "Yon have told your father?" asked the young wife, eagerly. " You have complied with my prayers, Oswald, and told him all ? And he refuses to forgive us. Is that it? We need not despair. I will go to him and plead to him upon my knees. I will ask him to forgive us. We have not committed an unpardonable sin in marryiEg secretly, Oswald. Surely—" Lord Oswald made a gesture of despair. "Tell her, Melcombe," he said, huskily. "I cannot."

The girl looked from one to the other with big, innocent eyes, in which lurked no apprehension of her doom.

" My dear Mrs. Keith," said Melcombe, softly, his voice silvery and sweet, " Oswald wishes to tell you something far more terrible than your worst imaginings. He cannot confess his marrigae to his father, because there is no marriage to confess—" The girl'B lip curled in incredulous scorn. "How can yon say that to me?" she questioned, wonderingly. " Why you witnessed our marriage, Mr. Melcombe. It was in a church. We were married by an old clergyman. I have the marriage-certifi-cate in my possession. Not married ? Are you mad f" Lord Oswald turned aside with a groan. " The marriage-certificate is so much waste-paper, nothing more," said Melcombe, gently. " The marriage was illegal. Do you know the church in which the ceremony was performed f'

"No, but it is named, of coarse, in the certificate."

Lord Oswald clutched at the paper hidden in his bosom.

"Do you know the name of the clergy, man ?" pursued Melcombe, with an air of tenderest sympathy. " No, but I can easily discover it. It is written—"

" Stay," said Melcombe, as she moved toward the door. "It makes no difference about church or clergyman. The marriage was not legal, however honest the ceremony. Why, Mrs. Keith, you do not know the real name of the man you call your husband. He has deceived you from the first. His name is not Keith. The history he gave you of himself is false from beginning to end. You are not his wife—" " Not—his—wife !" The girl put her hand to her forehead in a dazed fashion. "It is true," said Lord Oswald, with a sort of sullen impatience. " You are not my wife, Queenie. You never were. I have come here to-day to put an end to our reations. 1 have taken your marriage-cer-ificate from your dressing-case and destroyed it. Let things be as they were before I knew yon. I will provide for you handsomely—" " I must be mad !" muttered the girl, sinking into a chair, her wild eyes big with agony. " I must be mad !" " The announcement has been too great a shock for you .'" ssid Melcombe, sympathetically. The girl sat dumb and horror-stricked, Lord Oswald's weak soul was torn with conflicting emotions, but he stood aloof from her, fixing his eyes upon his treacherous adviser. " I am willing to provide for >uu," said Lord Oswald again, in a husky voice. " You'll soon get over your fondness for me, Queenie. You must have seen long ago that lam tired of you. I have loved a hundred times, but constancy was never my forte. We have had a pleasant year. I'm sure I've heaped presents on you, and spent no end of money upon you. You can keep your jewels, and I'll allow you a hundred a year, a handsome allowance for a girl like you. And in time you can marry again, you know—"

A long, low cry thrilled from the girl's white lips. She shuddered a3 if stabbed to the heart.

" Oswald will be glad to have you married," said Melcombe, softly. " For he is himself about to marry."

The girl raised her head swiftly. "1 am his wife !" she cried, sharply. "He cannot, he dare not, marry any other woman ! Oh, Oswald, speak to me ! Tell me this is some cruel j*st! You are only trying my love. Is it not so ? Oswald, my darling, my husband," and her voice thrilled with tender pleading, "you should not jest like this. For the sake of our little child, Oswald, the little one I hope to take to your father as our peace-maker with him, take back your words. See, I kneel to you !" and she ran and knelt at his feet, her upturned face convulsed with an awful beauty. "Take back your cruel words, Oswald. Tell me you are but trying me !" She tried to clasp his knees, but he recoiled before her.

" I wish I were dead !" cried Lord Oswald. " I can't stand much more of this. I have told you the truth, Queenie. Our marriage is no marriage. You are not my wife. lam not jesting. Will you not understand plain English ? 1 don't like a row, and if you had any wish to keep me you went the wrong way to work. My father insists on my marriage, or he'll make me a beggar—" " But I can work—"

"Well, I can't and won't. I shall marry as my father wishes. Our connection ends here and now. I will give you your year's allowance to-morrow," said Lord Oswald, "and, of course, I'll allow something extra for the child. You can easily keep its existence a secret. Your people know nothing of this year's escapade, Queenie. They believe you stiil a pupil at school—thanks to your skilful manuceuvring. Go home to them as a maiden, keep your secret—" The girl leaped to her feet. A fiery scorn blazed from h> r eyes. An unutterable anguish tortured her features. " Do not speak of them !" sho cried, he'lowly. "Oh, tais is a punishment for my disobedience ! This is retribution ! My God ! It is moro than I can bear !" "Queenie !" " Stand back ! Do not dare to touch me ! Not my husband ! Your name not Oswald Keith ! May God punish you as you deserve ! May the curse of the girl you have wronged haunt—oh, no, no ! You are my husband. Oswald, unsay those cruel words ! I love you, dear. You are not capable of so great a wroug. Speak to me—" Lord Oswald made a movement to depart. His weak soul had been nerved to the commission of this foul crime. No thought of relenting came to him. His selfish instincts were all up in arms. The girl saw that he was relentless ; that he was terribly in earnest ; that she might as well plead to a stone. Then the iron entered her soul. She believed his false and lying story, and with a wild cry that was to haunt Lord Oswald through all his future years, she sank to the floor in a swoon. Melcombe rung the bell and summoned a servant to attend her, and then, with Lord Oswald, quitted the house. " You are rid of her," said Melcombe, as the two drove away in the cab. " You convinced her at last. She's a proud little piece — she'll never trouble you again." And to himself Melcome promised that he would visit Laburnam Lodge on the morrow and intrude his own love upon the hapless, discarded young wife. The poor girl went from swoon to swoon during that terrible afternoon. A doctor was summoned, and he gave her an opiate which held her for a few hours in a stupid slumber. She awakened at an early hour in the evening Her maid had gone down to the servants' room. A lamp was burning dimly. The rain beating against the panes, the night was dark and gloomy. The girl arose weakly from her couch and put on the garments she had worn during the day. Her jewels still remained on her person. Then she stole down the stair, white and still as a ghost. Her waterproof cloak hung upon the hall-rack. She put it on her head mechanically, drew the hood over her head to conceal her features, opened the door and staggered out into the night. Her one impulse was to seek death. For hours she wandered on in the gloom and rain, her brain seeming on fire, a hand of ice appearing to clutch at her heart. Wild with her agony of grief and shame' she took her way through strange and lonely streets, like some deeper shadow of the night, no one speaking to her, or offering to molest her. At midnight she stood upon Waterloo Bridge. She halted at one of the alcoved seats, and in a dazed and confused way made her preparations for suicide. She drew out her handkerchief, upon which was written her name, "Queenie Keith," and laid it on the seat. She flung her waterproof upon it, and dropped in one of the pockets of the cloak her wedding-ring. She was nearly crazed with her anguish, and scarcely know what

she did, but some faint idea flitted through her tortured soul that these relics would be found npon the morrow, and that Oswald Keith would hear of her fate.

She stood divested of her wraps, and ready for death. She raised her wild eyes to the blackness above her in a sort of prayer. Then she made a movement to mount the parapet.

But in the very act she was whirled aside by a swift figure that had come upon Iyer unobserving and unobserved. Another miserable woman—some unfortunate, " mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery swift to be hurled"—sprang past her, mounted the parapet, and leaped over into the blackness beneath.

As the woman's shrill cry rang out, poor Queenie started back in utter horror. Then, in a panic, she fled from the bridge and disappeared in the gloom of the Surrey side, as a policeman hurried in the opposite direction to the scene of suicide.

The next morning's newspapers contained an account of the suicide of a young woman named Queenie Keith, who had flung herself from Waterloo Bridge. The relics she had left had been taken to a police-station and were duly described. Later in the day, >Gifford Melcombe examined and identified them. He told a plausible story, claimed the relics as "Miss Keith's" friend, and carried them away with him. Lord Oswald Lennox read the story also, and gave an hour to useless regrets and unavailing remorse. Then he attired himself with unusual care, perfumed himself, and went forth to call upon the Lady Victoria Ellesmere. He found her at home, and very gracious and pleasant. He told her that he loved her, and asked her to be his wife. This was not the passionate wooing with which he had won hapless young Queenie. A strange gloom hung over him, oppressing his spirits, but the Lady Victoria, charmed by his beauty, was not too critical in regard to his manner, and yielded a pleased assent.

"I want to leave England," he said to her, in a hoarse and troubled voice. our engagement be brief, Victoria. Promise to be my wife in May."

" Three months hence ? Yes, I promise,' said the Lady Victoria. " That will give me time for a trousseau. We will be married in May !"

Lord Oswald Lennox returned home, and found his father again in the library. The young man's face was haggard. The shadow of his crime had dimmed his fine beauty. His eyes had a desperate look, as if he felt himself haunted.

"I have done it, father," he said, abruptly, as the earl looked in haughty surprise at his enterance. "I—l have cut short my —my entanglement, and started clear. Lady Victoria Ellesmere has accepted me, and we are to be married in May." The earl arose and held out his hand, well pleased.

" 1 congratulate you, Oswald," he exclaimed. "Now get rid of that Melcombe and be a man, upright, honorable and n*ble ! Begin a new life from to-day." Lord Oswald broke away, hurrying up to his own room.

"The past is dead!" he said to himself, fiercely. " I have acted like a demon. Queenie has killed herself. No gho3t of this past can ever arise to haunt me. She is dead—dead—and I am free to start anew. I will marry Lady Victoria. I will be rich and prosperous ; and so long as I live," he added, " I shall know myself a murderer. Poor Queenie ! My poor, lost wife ! Well, she can never rise from her grave to mar my prosperity i" And he laughed strangely " I am rid of her for ever !" [To be continued.