A MYSTERIOUS MONOGRAM.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXI, Issue 9581, 4 August 1894, Page 3 (Supplement)

A MYSTERIOUS MONOGRAM.

BY MRS. QEOSqiB SHELDON, Author of " The Forsaken Bride," " Brownie's j Triumph," etc. " ! , CHAPTER 11. I . DOROTHY'S JEWELS. John Wellington continued to pace the hotel verandah for a long time, little Dorothy Trevor folded close to his breast, his eyes fastened upon the lovely flower-like face, while the father-love glowed and thrilled in bis great warm heart, with much of the old time fondness which he had once experienced for his own lit/tie ones. Once a mighty yearning sob escaped his lips, and a look ■of agony leaped into his eyes as ho was stung-by the though!) that he would probably go childless to his grave and strangers divide his noble inheritance. Five years previous he had laid his last babe in its grave, since when his-home had been very desolate, and-he scarcely ever entered it withoub a sigh of regreb for " The touch of a vanished hand, ; And the sound of a voice that is still." Little Miss Dorothy, after enjoying, for a while, her walk in the arms of her strange but tender nurse, and cooing to him in the mosb delightful manner, fell peacefully asleep, when the man thought) ib would be a wise plan to lay her down where she could have her nap oub comfortably. "Guess I'd better take her up to my room," he soliloquised ; "folks will be coming and going down here, and she won'h get half a nap." Acting upon this impulse, and taking the plush bag along, he bore his sleeping burden upstairs, and deposited her upon his own bed, where he loosened her wraps, to give her more ease, and then sab down by a window to read his morning paper. Ib was aboub ten o'clock when Mrs. Trevor had started forth upon her shopping expedition, promising to be buck in an hour. Bub two hours passed, a neighbouring I church clock struck twelve, and still little Dorothy Trevor slept on; still her mother came nob. John Wellington had read his paper through, and was beginning to get hungry, and think about his dinner. At lasb he decided to go below to make inquiries aboub the absenb woman, and, in case she had nob returned, geb his dinner before returning to his charge, who was sleeping so soundly he believed she would nob wake for some time yet. He stole cautiously from the room, carefully closing and locking the door after him. Going directly to the office, he asked the clerk if Mrs. Trevor had returned. Tho man regarded him with astonishment. "Returned!" he repeated. "No, sir; Mrs. Trevor has left the house." " Yes, I know," innocently answered honesb John Wellington; " sho went oub to do a little shopping aboub ten o'clock, bub said she'd be back in an hour." The clerk smiled a trifle scornfully at the idea of this simple countryman becoming specially interested in tho dainty little lady who had been a much admired guest of the house during the last few days. " Mrs. Trevor left the city this morning on tho eleven o'clock express, for New York," ho briefly announced. , " What?" demanded Mr. Wellington, in a startled tone, while a deep, red flush mounted to his brow. "Mrs. Trevor is more than an hour on her way to New York," reiterated the clerk, while lie eyed the map curiously. "Did she take her baggage with her?" questioned Mr. Wellington, with a dazed look. " Yes, her trunk was sent to 1 the station early this morning, as she had a little business down town, and said she would not return to the hotel before leaving the city," the clerk explained. John Wellington could nob reply, but stood with his hands to his head, trying to think the strange problem ouo. 'He could not credit the clerk's information, and was half inclined to think that some practical joke was being perpetrated upon him. The woman bad appeared to bo devotedly fond of her child, and ib did not seem possible that she could have deserted ib in this mysterious manner, leaving ib helpless upon the hands of a stranger of whom she knew comparatively nothing. "Did she settle her bill?" he inquired ab length. "Certainly; she would nob have been allowed to take her baggage away otherwise," the clerk replied. Then, with a sudden interest, he asked: " Has she been borrowing of you, sir thab you seem so disturbed over her departure ?" "No," said John Wellington, gravely; "bub if she has really gone, as you say, she has left her baby behind is upstairs in my room." "For Heaven's sake! You don'c mean it!" the clerk exclaimed, aghast. " It's a fact, sir," Mr. Wellington returned. "You can como and see for yourself." Then he related how the child had been lefb in his custody. The clerk, with a' look of deep concern upon his face, accompanied his guest to his room, where they found little Dorothy just awaking from her nap and loosing rosy and happy after her refreshing sleep, while she was blissfully unconscious that she had been thrown, a helpless waif, upon the humanity of an utter stranger. " This is atrocious !" the clerk indignantly exclaimed. " I've never heard of anything more inhuman, and yet tho woman seemed to be a lady, and to have plenty of money." " That is so," Mr. Wellington thoughtfully returned; " but there was a look about her, too, that made me think she'd seen trouble." " Well, if she had, she had no reason to impose upon strangers in such a way as this," said tho clprk, angrily. " I will telegraph immediately to New York, have her arrested upon her arrival there, and compelled to return for her child." "She told you sho was going to New York?" said John Wellington, inquiringly. "Yes."• •- •- . •: _ " Then telegraphing there will do you no good," he wenb on, in a tone of conviction, "for she would never be found. _ If she took pains to tell, you that, and intended to deaerb the child, she has probably gone in the opposite direction; she would have given you no clue to her real destination." ,"I don'b know but that you are right," the clerk responded. " But what on earth are we going to do with this baby he added, anxiously; "such a pretty little thing as she is, too ! ib seems a great pity to send ib to the city poor-house, or to any home." "Humph !" ejaculated John Wellington, his eyes resting wistfully upon the tiny waif, who was kicking and crowing in the mosb lively manner at her visitors, whom she appeared bo regard .as her special entertainers. "Isn't there a girl somewhere aboub that you could spare to take care of her while leab my dinner?" he inquired, after a moment of thought. " ifes, yes, certainly," was the accommodating reply, for Mr. Wellington was a good customer, and always received the moat courteous attention whenever he came to the city. ■ The man rang the bell, and presently it waß answered by . a chambermaid,, who was instructed to look after the child while the gentleman dined, after which the two men withdrew, Mr. Wellington repairing to the dining-room. He was very thoughtful throughout the meal, eating mechanically ■ what) was set before him,T)ub paying very little attention to the quality of the viands. As soon as his appetite was appeased, he returned directly to his', room, where he found Miss Dorothy getting very impatienb for her dinner. • - He told the chambermaid thab she might go, a permission vof which she readily availed herself, as she disliked children. * John Wellington then examined the plush bag in search of the child's luncheon, and found a nicely-prepared bottle of milk, which, having been enveloped in several thicknesses of cloth, ,was still comfortably warm, and which the hungry little one eagerly claimed as her especial property. While she was partaking of her nourish* ment, Mr. Wellington > continued • his examination of the bag,' arid was astonished to find, pinned to the lining, a note addressed tu himself. Mb. John Wellington. Dear Sir,-I know that you aret a good, true man; your face proclaims it, and your tenderness to my poor little darling makes me sure that I can trust you. i I am in deep trouble what, I cannot now-tell you—and I do.nob : A:.

know what the future may ha»e in store for me. I do not know how 1 am to care for myself, much less for my dear little girl.. Will yon take care of her for ; me? I know you will be kind to her—l know you Will love liar, for you seem so sad over the loss of' your own,little ones. Keep her for me for one year, and then, if possible.' 'will return for her. If I do not come, than 'I will give her to you for all tima; only, I pray you rear her to be a Rood, true woman. Ah I it is hard to give her up—you will know how hard—but I am not- quite so despairing as .1 was before I met you. Forgive me for going away in this manner, but there seemed nothing else for me to dq* In the room I occupied there is a trunk, which you are to have—it* contents belong to my child. She is of honourable birth—her connections on both side* are above reproach, but a shadow that; ha.'i suddenly fallen upon me Has driven us both homeless into the cold world. , : ~ • ' 7 ' • God bless you, Mr. Wellington, and incline your heart to take my.Dorothy as ' His gift,' as you say the name implies, and }<>u shall have the everlasting gratitude of a heart-broken • . Mother. John Wellington sat a long time with bowed head arid thoughtful mien, after reading the above missive. At lasb he arose, and, going to the bed, stood looking down upon the lovely child for several moments. " Coo-oo," she murmured, with flying feeb and hands, as if she expected he had come to take her up. The man raised her in his arms, and held her close to his heart. .".I will do it," he said, in a grave, moved tone. " Little one, you shall go home to Sunnybrook Farm with mo." And this was how Martha Wellington came to have her " birthday present." • * 9 • "John!" exclaimed the mistress of Sunnybrook Farm in a startled tone, as her glance fell upon the sleeping babe, which her husband had deposited in her arms on his return from his visit to the city. " What is the meaning of this?" " It is all right, mother," was the cheery answer, while there was a brighter look upon his face, and a, more animated gleam in his eyes than his wife had seen there for many a year. I'll tell you all about it pretty soon," he added. " Just take herein while I look after the trunk and my grip, for it is getting damp outside." With the expression of wonder still upon her face, but with a tender motherliness in her eyes, Martha Wellington obediently turned and entered the house with that precious burden in her arms, while her colour came and .wenb with the rapid pulsation of her heart, in which a sweet new hope was taking root. She had long wanted to adopt a little one in place of their last) lost one, but her husband had always responded to all such propositions with a sharp note of pain in his tones : " I can't, Martby ; it wouldn't seem the same—l want my own, or none." She went, into the sitting-room, where a little fire was burning, for the evening air was keen, and she had thought the warmth would be acceptable to her husband after his drive from the station. She drew a low rocker before the stove, and, sitting down, laid the little one across her knees, and began to remove her numerous wraps, her wonder increasing as she observed the richness of their texture and embroideries. Her husband soon came in, and a look o pleasure swept over his face as he saw the picture before him. "What .'a lovely child, John !" his wife observed, as he came to her side. "Isn't she a beauty, mother?" he returned, with a ring of pride in his tones, " and her name is Dorothy." " Your mother's name, John !" " Yes, and a veritable ' Gift of God' to U3, as I'm sure you'll agree when I tell you how I came to have her," returned her husband, reverently. " And is she ours to keep 2" the woman eagerly questioned. " v That shall be for you to decide, mother," the man answered, as he bent down, and kissed her affectionately on the lips. - Mrs. Wellington arose, and taking the child into the bedroom laid her tenderly upon the snowy couch. Then she went softly out to the kitchen, and ordered Eliza to bring in the tea, after which she and her husband sat down to their supper in the cheerful dining-room, while he told her something of his trip—of the meeting of the bank directors, the collection of the interest on the mortgage, j and mentioned, in conclusion, with a twinkle in his eyes, that he had a nice silk dress pattern in his grip for Miss Maker to cut. and fib at her earliest convenience. 1 I'm afraid you were a little extravagant, John," gently eluded his wife, but with a gratified smile hovering about her lips, especially as you have assumed such a responsibility in bringing home the child." "I guess you can have all the silk dresses you want, mother," was the kind but somewhat consequential response. "I ain't going to have any child in my house outshine my wife, and that baby's got clothes fit lor the child of a princess." Mrs. Wellington looked astonished at this remark, but, as Eliza came into the room just then, she thought best to have all explanations deferred until later. After supper, with motherly thoughtfulness, she made it her first business to give the little new-comer a refreshing bath, after which she was fed with fresh milk, and then laid away to rest again in the little crib that had so long stood beside her own bed empty, but which neither she nor her husband had ever had the heart to consign to the attic. She had found, while undressing Dorothy, a tiny gold chain about her neck, and to ib was attached a small cross of curious workmanship, and marked with a strange hieroglyphic. Later the trunk, of which Mrs. Trevor had spoken in her note, was brought in, and its contents , were examined, while Mr. Wellington told his strange adventure to his wife. The trunk was filled with elegant clothing comprising everything which an infanb could possibly need, for all seasons of the year, together with materials for a new wardrobe when it would be necessary to make any chansre. At the bottom of the trunk they also found a small ebony casket, inlaid with pearl, and having a golden key in its lock. With curious faces they opened it, when both started back at the sight which greeted their eyes. Upon a green velvet cushion there lay a magnificent necklace of blood-red rubieseach stone a perfect gem and surrounded with diamonds no less flawless, and almost dazzling the beholder with their translucent rays. The stones were seb in a way to make the most of their beauty, the larger ones being in the middle, the others graded down to the ends, which were united with a peculiar clasp, having the letters "D.F." handsomely engraved, in monogram, upon it. Besides this costly article of jewellery, the casket also contained a roll of bills, amounting to five hundred dollars. Around this was pinned a slip of paper upon which had been hastily written the words : " For Dorothy." "John, there is something very mysterious about all this," Mrs. Wellington remarked, a3 she lifted her flushed face to her husband after examining the contents of the little ebony casket., " There is -that's a fact, Mar thy," he gravely replied. " The child must have very wealthy parents—everything in the trunk goes to prove that," his wife continued. " How much do you suppose these precious stone are worth?" " I'm sure I don'b know, mother ; inore'n , you or I have any idea of, I reckon," the man returned with a troubled shake of the head. "I'd give a good deal if they'd never been pub into that trunk." : . " Why ?" ... _ "Because there'd be no safety for either of us, if it was known that they were in the house." "Then ib must never be known, John— we must never mention to anyone that we have anything of the kind in our possession," said Martha, earnestly. , , " We'll both agree to that, then," said her husband. "Lay them back in the box, and I will pub them away in the secret-drawer of' my desk, where nobody could ever find them without first chopping it to kindling wood." Martha obeyed him, and then handed the casket to him. f : " What will you do with the money J" she asked. V " Pub ib in the bank for the child, and give it back to the mother,when she comes for her," Mr. Wellington responded^ : "Ah! do you suppose we shall nave to give her up ab the end of the year ?" his wife inquired, lifting a troubled look to him. " The letter says a year, you know,," was the brief reply. . i• v :) "Yes, . but ; ib will be very, bard,"- said Martha, with a heavy sigh ; " we shall have learned to love her very dearly by that time, and ibwilLeeem almost liks«- Oh, John I I

almost wish you hada'b brought he?' bomfr, M she concluded with a sob.. -v $0 " What else could I do, mother?" the man' • questioned, gently ; " somehow I couldn't have her sent to a charity institution." - "Wo, no; of course not; and I have «0 *' right to blame you for doing what your good : hearb prompted," his wife said, as she wiped a tear from her cheek. " Well," she added, " we'll take just as good care of her at we. can, and trust the rest to Providence." t And thus Dorothy Trevor Wellington, aa they agreed to call her,, became one of tho ' v household at Sunnybrook Farm She soon grew to be the idol of the house, for every week and month revealed some mew charm, some added grace, in the beautiful child, and everyone, from Papa Wellington V down to Tim the chore boy, bowed • the knee of adoration, figuratively speaking, before her. Thus the year ; passed swiftly by and another spring came around, all too soon, for it brought with it, to John and Martha Wellington, the fear that their darling would be taken from them. The quarterly meeting came and passed John Wellington made his usual visit to the city and returned ; but, as yet, Mrs. Trevor had not made her appearance to claim their treasure, although for weeks < previous the honest farmer and his wife had worn sad ' faces and carried heavy hearts, in view of the dreaded parting which they feared was ' before them. Six months more passed; and * still Dorothy was left undisturbed in her new 5 ' home, while those who cherished her still' trembled at the appearance of every stranger. ■'* Another year, two, three—and then John and Martha Wellington began to hope thab" the child would never be taken from them, until gradually all fear of separation faded ' from their hearts. - ' ' She was a lovely child. Every year she ' grew in beauty and developed charming" characteristics; and when at length she attained her fifth birthday, Mr. Wellington revealed along-cherished project to his good wife. ' • • " I've come to think that she'll always! belong to us," he said, and I'm going to fix things for : her, so that, if anything happens to you or me she will never come ' to want." " You mean that you are going to make your will, John ?" said Martha, inquiringly. ' " Yes, mother and more than that. I'm ■' going to legally adopt Dorothy. I want her to feel, as she grows up, that she is really our own—or so much so as the law can mak« her. How docs the idea strike yon ?" "I like it, John, and when she gets old enough to think the matter over for herself, I am sure she will feel more comfortable t< know that we loved her well enough to S bind her to us in that way," the thoughtful woman returned. * - " ' So the matter was arranged; and by th« usual legal preliminaries little Dorothy waa soon after made the daughter of the houst and tho heiress of Sunnybrook Farm. [To be continued.] * . i •' '• : '