ESTRANGED or the LOST HEIRESS of the CHAMPNEYS.

Pelorus Guardian and Miners' Advocate., Volume 24, Issue 19, 11 March 1913, Page 7

ESTRANGED or the LOST HEIRESS of the CHAMPNEYS.

s (All Rights Reserved.)

A Fascinating Romance,

By tbe Author ol “The Hampton MJyntery,” '“Sir Peter Eldon, &c.

PART 2. “I must see him the next time he comes,” said the squire, thoughtfully. “I have something to say to him. That is, I must know what he wants. If he is not in earnest, he must go away, Dora. I don’t quite like him. He is too oily—too insinuating. I prefer an honest bluffness to his velvety smoothness. Is your happiness dependent on him ?” '•Oh, no,” cried Dora—‘“no, indeed. My happiness isn’t dependent on any man, except you, papa. I like Mr. Champney, but I suppose I could learn to unlike him, if nscos-

sary-” “And you don’t love young Squire Weir 7” ' "Not at all, papa. Young Squire Weir? Why, I don’t believe he ever thought of marrying me. I have known him all my life.” The squire sighed, His thoughts went back to his private anxieties. “ You will never marry Felix Champney, Dora,” be said. '"‘l do not think he will ever stand a teat I shall apply to him. Are you sure that you are so averse to Edmund 7 How would you like him as a lover ? He is a little parsimonious, I grant —a little harsh a nd cold—but he is honourable, just, and upright"’ Dora interrupted the squire,, crying : “Why, papa, you are speaking of my. own brother. What can yqu mean 7”

The squire started, laughing ner-

vously. I “You failed to quite catch my i meaning,, Dora,” he said. “I meant a young man like Edmund. He is a —type, you know.” ; ‘"Are you . anxious to be rid of | me ?” asked Dora, in her straightfor- ( ward manner, and with a glance of i mock- reproach. ‘“Now, papa, you d better let match-making alone. I am sure I am in no hurry to leave you ‘ and the dear old Grange. If Ed- ' mund is the type of young man you want, me to marry, you will have to resign yourself to. disappointment I fear and she laughed gaily ■; “for you won’t find a young man like Edmund Ohessom in four countries. And I’m sure I shan’t grieve if you can't. I would prefer a less perfect sort of man. Edmund has always regarded me as an usurper, if I am his sister.” “Don’t, Dora,” said the squire, as if pained. "I don’t like that word in connection with you. Edmund never could have felt that way. He Is too just.' Did I tell you I had written to him to come home on a dsit 7” Dora replied in the negative. "Well, I have,” said the squire. "I haven’t been very well lately. 1 don’t like this dizziness I am getting so- subject to, and” He chocked himself abruptly, as Dora began to look frightened. "There, there !” he said, soothingly, patting her face with his horny hand. “I’m an old goose, dear. The doctor’ll put me all right, no doubt. I’D go and sec him while I’m in town. Shall I bring you any ribbons, or anything ?” “No, papa. But about this dizziness 7” said Dora, gravely. You are sure that it is nothing serious?” “Of course,” replied the squire, hastily, looking away from the girl. /‘What should it amount to? Am I not as hale and as hearty as ever ?■ . I don’t look consumptive, do I ? But ’to return to the subject. I expect i this letter from Edmund, which I hope to receive to-day, will appoint the date of his coming.” The squire’s manners deceived Dora. Dismissing her fears in regard to his health, ehe said, gaily : i“T’m afraid our rising young bari rister can’t stay with us very long, 1 and I suppose you want him for a j month at the very least. How sober !y«m look, papa ! Are you troubled 'about anything ?” i *i‘i was just thinking, Dora, that il have something to tell you when fl; get home. I meant to telf you be[fore this, but have kept putting it [off,” said the squire, with a sort of desperation. “It is time you knew I jt. If anything were to happen”— He broke off abruptly, drew the girl , to him, kissing her, and then, with ; another nervous laugh, led his horse to a stone mounting-step near, and took his place in the saddle. ( Dora followed him. and laid her white hand on the horse’s mane. Her eyes, full of a sweet seriousness, scanned his face. ,»< what is. dt, papa 7” she asked, with grave tenderness. '“Nothing to alarm you, darling. Don’t look so sad. We’ll have a good long talk when I get back. You’d better take a walk, while I’m gone, and don’t be anxious. Everything is right.” He gently laid her band off the horse, and drawing his rein tighter, moved away down the road. At a little distance he halted and looked back. i Dora stood in the gateway, looking after him wistfully, a shadow ob- : scuring the brightness of her face. ; “Poor little girl!” muttered the squire, under his breath. ‘"What will become of her after I am gone? I must

not put off making my will /another day. After. I see the doctor I’ll ,go on to the. lawyers. Poor,, poor

little Dora !i” He waved his hand to her in seeming gaiety, and then rode on, brushing his band across his eyes and swallowing a sob. Dora stood there in the shade of an acacia tree until the squire had vanished out of sight, and for. some time longer, idly twisting the ribbons of her sun-hat, and musing on his strange words and actions. I never knew papa to have an attack of low spirits before,” she said to herself. “And yet I cannot think there is anything serious the matter with him. He never looted healthier. What can it be that he washes to. tell me ?”

She became deeply thoughtful, but was aroused at length by the sound of rapidly-approaching footsteps. Looking up hastily, she beheld a small, ragged urchin, with dusty, bare feet and a bri'mless hat, whose face she had often seen at the hamlet not more than a mile distant. This __ urchin, who was panting, heavily, having hurried on his way, came up to her and took off his hat saying : “Bean’t you Miss Chsssom ?” Dora replied in the affirmative. “Then ’ere’s a note for yer,” said the boy, extricating a slip of paper from his pocket. "‘‘Woman over at the ’Arc and 1 ’Ounds, miss, give me tuppence for fetching it. Any answer ?”

Dora took the note without hesitation. She was in the habit of receiving so many applications for help from poor people that she was not at all surprised at receiving the present missive. She .opened the note and scanned its contents.

They were brief but startling, running as follows : “Toi Miss Dora Chessom,—Years ago poverty and deep trouble compelled a mother to give away her child to strangers. For years she never looked on its face, never heard its voice. But when she began to grow feeble, a nd her other children died one by one, and she was all alone in the world, her heart went back to her firstborn, the one who had been brought up as the child of strangers. Dora, do you not understand me 7 Has Nature never whispered to you that you are not of Squire Chessom’s blood ? You are that child. And I—l am that poor mother ! Say nothing to the squire but come to me. Let me look upon your face, if but for one minute. You will find me at the wayside inn, the Hare and Hounds. Ask for *“ MRS. NARR.” Dora read these words again and again, a deathly faintness creeping over her. Not Squire Chessom’s child ! The words danced before her eyes. An iron band seemed grasping at her heart. A strange blur shut out from her the sunlight and the landscape.

‘‘‘Any answer 7” asked the ragged urchin. Dora shook her head and waved him away. Startled at her pallor and her stupor, he moved oH in the direction he had come.

Dora crumpled the note fiercely in her little hand. “It is not true !” she muttered. “It cannot be true ! I know better. Papa not my father ? The woman should be arrested. She cannot impose upon me.” She fought with a strange feeling for a brief space, and then she said: "T will go to this woman. I can at least see her. There is some mistake in this, or she ds an impostor and should be punished.” She tied on her hat and moved slowly down the road, a grey pallor settling down upon her heart. What if, after all, the letter should be true?

CHAPTER 111. MRS. NARR. The narrow country road leading past Ohessom Grange and the Hare and Hounds Inn, and traversing the pretty little hamlet half a mile beyond, was one of the pleasantest roads to be found in all Sussex; It was bordered on either side by: hawthorn hedges, now in a very profligacy of blooms, looking as if heaped with wanton snow-drifts. In the shadow of the hedges, close to the beaten footpath, were flaunting scarlet popples, primroses, and. dog roses, and the fragrant breaths of the latter mingled with the sweet scent of the hawthorn blooms, perfuming the warm and sunny air.

For the first time in her young life Dora Chessom heeded neither the flowers, the fragrance, nor the sunshine. The dazed feeling yet lingered in her brain, and the shadow of a great trouble brooded yet more heavily about her soul. She put the crushed note in her pocket and walked on briskly, gradually regaining her usual calmness and presence of mind. ( She was quite herself when she came in sight of the inn. and slackened her pace, assuming a quiet exterior. ■ This inn was a quaint old building, with diamond-raned casement windows, and a long, low porch in front. A row of benches lined this porch, and at the side of the inn, in a shaded tea-garden, were mere benches and little wooden tables, and a rustic arbour, arranged for the entertainment of the people of the neighbouring hamlet and the whole country-side, for the Hare and Hounds was a favourite resort with the thriving farmers of the region. Dora turned into the tea-garden, where a stout maid was at work polishing the tables, a nd approaching the woman inquired for Mrs. Narr, that, as the reader remembers,’ being the name appended to the singular note she had so recently received. “Mrs. Narr !” repeated the serving

woman, rather stupidly. “Oh, that bo the stranger woman in the two pair back. Yes, miss. She be in the parlour waiting for company. I’ll show you the way.” With an air of great respect, for the squire’s daughter was well known throughout the neighbourhood, the woman conducted Dora along the porch, into the cool hall, and upstairs, where she halted, pointing at the parlour door. '“She be in there, miss,” she whispered. '''Go right in. She’ll be glad enough to see your sweet face, for she needs help, I’m thinking.- 4 ’

With this the maid hurried down the stairs, her goloshes clattering at every step. Dora advanced to the parlour door and knocked, her heart fluttering like a prisoned bird. A voice answered from within the room, bidding her enter. For a moment the girl hesitated,, vainly wishing that retreat was possible. If only she had not obeyed that strange summons ! If only she had waited and shown the letter to her father !

Repressing resolutely her misgivings, Dora opened the door and entered. The blinds were lowered, shutting out the sunlight. Dora paused near the door to accustom her eyes to the gloom. The casement windows were open, swinging inward like doors. The floor, uncarpeted, was of oak, black as ebony, and polished like glass, An antique set of furniture, finely polished also, adorned the sides of the room. The grate was concealed by an elaborate curtain of gay tissue papers, festooned in ringlets, and trailing under the fender. A blackframed mirror hung over the high mantel-piece, and a few similarly framed silhouettes adorned the walls. All these features Dora observed before her quick glances .detected, upon a high, straight-backed sofa, in the cool half-dusk of a further corner, a woman’s figure. She had scarcely discovered this presence before a woman arose and came forward to meet her. '•‘You are Mrs. Karr ?” asked Dora, with quiet girlhh dignity, and with a steady self-possession that surprised herself,

“I am,” was the reply, in an eager voice. “You got my note 7 You are Dora ?” "T am Miss Chessom,” replied Dora," with an unconscious hauteur. The woman uttered a quick exclamation, crossed the floor, and drew up the blind, , letting in a flood of light.

She th;n approached her visitor, halted, and the two looked at each other fixedly. Mrs. N a rr was a tall, well-formed country-looking woman, decently attired, yet evidently intimately acquainted with poverty. Her countenance was common-place—one of those ordinary, stolid faces which betray so little of the real character of their possessor. Her complexion was singulauly sallow, and her eyes, keen, restless, and glittering with eagerness, seemed fairly to devour the object upon which they were now fixed.

It seemed as if Dora’s appearance surprised her. This slender, graceful figure in its stylish short walking, dress of white linen striped with black, surmounted by the radiantly beautiful face, was evidently not what she expected to see. " You are Doea ?” she repeated, seeming incredulous. The young girl bowed coldly and gravely. The woman came a step nearer, and then held out her arms,, while a tremulous smile flickered about her lips.

“You read my note ?” she said, hurriedly, “You know that you are my child ? Oh, Dora, Dora !” But Dora shrank back from the 'proffered' embrace, her face deadly pale, and her eyes glowing with strange intensity. "'Do not touch me,” she said, putting up her hands. “I read your note, but, of course, there is some mistake. I am the daughter of Squire Chessora, of the Grange, and of his wife, who died three years ago. Papa had just gone to Horsham when your note came, or I should have shown it to him at once, despite your request. You see how impossible it is that your story can be true.”

“‘Then you never suspected that you are not Squire Chessom’s daughter*?” she exclaimed. "Of course not. Why should I suspect anything so strange and preposterous ?” '•‘Then they have indeed been tender and kind to you, as they promised,” said Mrs. Narr. "Heaven bless them !” Dora’s face grew stern in its bright young beauty.

"You must not talk in that way to me,” she said. "I cannot allow you to speak to me as though you were my mother. I am not certain that I have done right in coming here, but I desired to prevent any scandal An the neighbourhood.” “I do not wonder that you refuse to believe my assertions,” said the woman, humbly end deprecatingly. "But, at least, listen to me ? Hear what I have to say, and then judge for yourself. I can prove the truth of my story.” She drew forward a chair for the young lady, motioning her . by a gesture to occupy it. Dora hesitated. She was heartily sorry that she had obeyed the strange summons of this woman, and yet she could no longer look upon her as an utter impostor. There was an air of sincerity about Mrs. Narr that impressed the girl singularly and un':omfortably. With one steady, searching look into the light-blue eyes of her hostess,

Dora sat down, saying ; “I will hear you. Go on.” The woman secured the door and lowered the blind, and then sat down near Dora, in the grey half-dusk. Little bars of sunlight stole in through the interstices of the blinds, along with the hum of bees, the song of birds, the cool breeze, and the cheery song of the maid of the teagarden below. For a few minutes there was silence between the two women. Then Mrs. Narr spoke in a subdued tone ; “Let me begin at the commencement, Dora. Somehow I don’t feel free to talk to you, who have been educated like a lady. lam only a country-woman—ai simple, ignorant countrywoman — and you re far above me, if you are my own child. When I was a girl of your age I was lady’s maid to the wife of a famous doctor in London. I lived with her till I was twenty, and then I married Jack Narr, who kept a public-house down in Surrey. We did pretty well at that for a while, but Jack took, to delinking up the stock, and I was afraid he would become a sot, s 0 I persuaded him to hire a farm of a man who had taken two, and who was willing to sublet this one reasonable. Jack did pretty well on the farm for a while, but by-and-by he went back to bis old companions and took to drinking, and the farm went behind-hand, so that the tenant of whom we hired it threatened to turn us out. It was at about that time, when everything was going wrong, that my baby was born.” She paused, with a pleading look at Dora, whose large bright eyes never swerved in their fixed scrutiny of her face.

■“After I got well,” continued Mrs. Narr, hurriedly, averting her eyes, “I took a baby to nurse, hoping that the money I should get for it would help us and encourage Jack. It’s fathr.r—a great ant ridi lord—he’s been Min’ster abroad eince—paid liberal. He thought the world of the little heiress, whose mother lay ill for month: of a fever. But Jack was ra;t being encouraged. He went on from bad to worse. And at last—it was the day my lord’s baby died”—and the woman’s voice trembled—“the tenant of whom we hired our little farm sent us notice of ejectment. That, and the trouble of the baby’s death, fired Jack to desperation. He must have been drinking when, he did it, but he forged the tenant’s name for three hundred pounds. He got the money—more than we had ever seen at one time—and after that, of course, nothing remained but flight. This baby was hastily buried, and Jack and I fled with our little one.” Her voice trembled, and again she looked pleadingly at Dora, whose face shone out of the cool, grey dusk like a face chiselled * from marble.

“And then ?” said Dora, as the woman continued silent. “And then,” said Mrs. Narr, in a broken voice, “there followed a season of wandering. Jack and I, with the baby, went , from one country town to another, fancying that the officers of the law were on our track. A step behind us, a hand on our shoulder, or a voice suddenly accosting us, was enough to scare us out of our senses. In the hop season we picked hops in Kent. Sometimes we worked on farms, and sometimes we idled whole weeks away, living on the money Jack had gained by forgery. Our life of constant fear told on us. At last Jack used to say that he’d rather die than be always dodging and always frightened at his own shadow. He got thin and pale, and nervous, and finally we saw that we must leave the country. We had not dared to go at first, fearing that the officers would watch for us at every port. It was when we had made up our minds to go —when we were on our way to London to embark that we came to the little hamlet down yonder.” At this point in this narrative she arose and walked backwards and forwards, her agitation increasing.

‘ The baby was then a year old,” she continued, “and as fair and delicate as a little lily. I used to t a ko pride in keeping her sweet and clean, she was so dainty. We had a hundred and thirty pounds left of the three hundred got by the forgery. We put up at the inn down at the hamlet over night, and the next morning we set out to tramp it to London. We were well on our way, quite near the Grange, when a carriage came slowly a l ong. Squire Chessom was in it, with his pretty lady wife. We stopped, out of curiosity, to look at the great people, end as we did so the baby, whom I had set on her little feet, put up her pretty arms to the lady and crowed in baby fashion. ‘'•Then the lady says : “What a lovely little creature !’ and tells her husband to stop the carnage. And she must have the baby up to speak to her, and she said she had a son away at school, and she wished she had a little daughter like this child. 7h n Jack speaks, quick-like, and says she might have this one, for we are going to Canada, and she was L, o r way.° Then the lady and her husband talked together, and the child clung to the lady as if she had found her home. .And the long and short of it was that ‘he squire gave Jack and me a hundred pounds to stock a farm in Canada, and he took the child, saying he should bring it up as his own. ucl that vcj y day the squire and his wife went aca/ travelling, taking the baby, and intending to be gone a tong time, so that no one should suspect when they came back that the child was not their o wn. And three days afterwards Jack and I sailed for Canada."

Dora's gaze wavered now, and she turned away h r h a'. She vas beginning, in spite ui hvrsel'', to believe

the woman’s story. Mrs. Narr, with a quick, keen glance at the slight, bowed figure, resumed :

“‘We got a farm in Canada, and the other children were born to us. But Jack’s bad habits remained with him, and the farm was mortgaged, and finally sold, and we lived from hand to mouth. Once I wrote to Squire Chessom for fifty pounds, and he sent it ; but he told me not to write again, as he should answer no more letters. The children died off one by one, and last year Jack died, leaving me poor and in debt. Then my heart turned to my first-born, the only being I had left to cling to. I worked as a house-servant in Montreal until I had earned enough to bring me back to England, and here I am, Dora. I arri /ed here this morning, and made cautious, inquiries 'about you. You will not refuse to recognise me now ?” She came nearer to the girl.

There was a short, sharp conflict in Dora’s soul. The precision, exactness, and earnestness of the woman impressed her with a sense of her truthfulness. She stood up, trembling with a terrible agitation. “You will kiss me, Dora?” pleaded the woman. “You will call me mother ?” She came a step nearer. Again Dora put up her hands to ward off her approach. The girl had a warm, true, and impulsive heart. She was without vain pride and self-love. It was not the woman’s poverty or rank in life that repelled her, but she could not kiss her, she could not call her by the name she had given to the dead Mrs. Chessom. Her whole nature rose up against this clamant' on her filial love. Her instinct recoiled from her.

“I cannot !” she panted, You must not come nearer to me 1 I can never call you mother !” “Dora !” “That name was given to me by one who is now dead, but who, during all my life, never let me suspect that I was not torn of her. The name is sacred, and I cannot give it to you.” “Oh, my child !” Dora grew calmer. “If your story is true,” she saild, "you cannot object to my telling it to—to my father and she spoke the name firmly, half defiantly. "If he says it is true, we will then tal& the matter over.... If he cays it is not true”

She paused, and her heart sane within her. Her conversation with the squire that morning, ml his mysterious allusions to his con, lidmuud, as her possible lover, came back to her with chilling force. “He will say that it is true,” sa d Mrs. Narr, "‘even if he blames me for telling you.” ‘"You had better remain here for the present, until you hear from me,” said Dora, striving to speak less coldly than heretofore. ‘'T will talk the matter over with papa this evening. To-morrow you chall hear from us. If—if what you say is true, you shall be cared for and helped. Butit will be well for, you, until you hear what papa says, to say nothing to any one else concerning this matter.” Mrs. Narr made profuse assurances that she had said nothing concerning) her relationship to Miss Chessom since her arrival, and that she should continue to be guarded on the subject. “ I don’t want to make any trouble,” she said, volubly. “Iha.e had a hard life, and all I want now is an easy one. I don’t want to take you from the Grange, if that can be avoided. I have got no child but you to support me, and I want you to do it. If the squire will pension me off, I’ll agree to be as discreet as I have always been.” These words seemed to the hearer more mercenary than motherly. They chilled her.

iVI do • not, recognise your claims upon the child you sold for money, was her response. 1 ‘ What what papa will think, I don’t know. But whatever he docs in the matter will be just and right. And one thing more,” she added, sternly. '"You can never take me from the Grange —never ! He who has sheltered and loved and cared for me all my ife has the strongest claims upon me, and I will never desert him for a stranger, let that stranger he a thousand times my mother. the accident of birth is nothing compared to lh:i numberless kindnesses he has shovered upon me !’’ A look of anger flamed up into Mrs. Narr’s eyes.

“There were no papers executed, giving you away,” she exclaimed. "‘You are but seventeen, and I, as your mother, am your rightful guardian. It will be better for you not to get on your high-heeled boots with me. • A pretty greeting this is for your mother ! I came to you with a bleeding heart, but you are like an iceberg. You sneer at my love. You may not be able to sneer at my authority.” “All this can be discussed after I have seen papa,” said Dora, calmly. i |: .'s I said, you will, without doubt, har f/om him to-morrow.” Lhe bowed quietly, opened the door, and passed out. The next moment she was hurrying downstairs into the outer air.

She lilt strangely weak and tired. The glare of the sunlight annoyed her, and she turned into the now empty tea-ar’r r to recover her strength and her thoughts. (To be Continued).