A GREAT WRONG, Or, The Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10020, 16 April 1910, Page 2

A GREAT WRONG, Or, The Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

CHAPTER XIX.-Continued. For weeks she has lived in the Highland cottage, snut in from* the world and all her ttoobks by the white circle of the Scotti-h ndis, dreaming a sweet drearn. learning for the first time hi ail ptom'i life that lesson which goofec or bier comes to every woman- Uie h:sson of love. Miss Trevetbon, the proud belie of London, the brilliant; heirtas' wiiom no man could win, sj(s bem-.-ith the peaked roof of the Highland cottage, User eyes luminous with an infinite tenderness as they rest uiion the whiie, uain-worn face of i.ids man, who has served her, and saved hr-r life, and won her woman's heart- on it, too, vjithout the asking, and he the son of a sailor, and a ,o;o-ib-ric'n.!, and she the descendant of "a hundrtd earls." Her cheeks flame and her proud bosom .swells as some such thought cresses her brain, and she rises quickly and rfcpcenoa to the knehc-n, here the ir.nlhrr uf Ambroo. is bi;i : ,y with preparations 'for ibc evenii.g msai.

Sue look a up with rather a sullen brow at Mb : s Tie»'t:liion's e--trance. She is a good, kindly creatuiv. this dark-browed fiigbjand name, but she cannot forgive this fair, patrician lady, who has been the cause of so much trouble. But for her, leftcad of lyiiiß ?.it the door of m-.aih, ail maimed and cvipplcd, Arabro : e might be the happy husband of littie Ishbel. She looks up, sad and misruling, but she draws forward the Lest chair and offers it to her guest. 'Sit down, Misa Lennre, if ye won't mind the smell of the cocking'; and there's the papers, Donald fetched 'em from the post-town a whiie ago; a heap of 'em tiiera is. He was an uncommon reader, the poor lad. and laid cut every hpare penny for the papers, and now he may never look at 'em again, and they : -Iving here for him. it is hard to bear.' Lenore sits down, an unwonted hush on ner cheeks, a d i.di:r brig" ;- nt-Es- in her eyes.

'i'es, it is hard, I kv.nw, ir,r a mother's heart to bear,' f=t;<; answers softly; 'yet I think you ;nay take nope now, lor your son is cutely better. Bg spoke to me a nn utile since, anal left him in sweet sleep.

! The mother glances? up from the venison steak the is preparing, her brow stili clouded. Ambrose has spoken to htr, this pretty dainty eseature! Even if lie lives, he will surely learn 10 ice her, ana she will Jure him into foreign lands. And lie might have wedded little is>hbe?,and lived and died amicsfc his native hill*. There are tive biiter thoughts J hat fill her mind as ahe cats the red, juicy steak. Meanwhile Lenore unfolds the papera and glances over them listlessly. Her heart is not with the great, gay world she has left, but with the man who lies under the peaked roof overhead. Glancing carelessly a startling announcement catches her eye. It. comes under the head of "Marriages in High Life,'" and announces to the proud Belgravian world, and to all others concerned, that Miss Lenore Trevethon, the beauty, the belle, the heiress, was privately married in compliance with her own wish, to Richmond Trevethon, son and heir of her guardian, Sir Geoffrey Trevethon.' of Lynditb Hall, and the happy young couple have gone to I Kome for their honeymooh; and thence for an indefinite tour, the bride's precarious and failing health requiring the balm and warmth of southern isles and tropical seas. She reads this, her cheeks whitening, her blue eyes flashing darkly, her proud heart heaving. But in one swiit moment her emotion passes. What does it matter! Even this cannot move her, so great is her present condition. She will let ner vengeance reat; she will bide her time. Even if she were cut off | forever from her name and her i birthright, it seems a light grievance in the glorifying rapture of her new joy. She understands the old, phrase, "All for love, and the world well lost.' She throws the paper aside, her eyes growing mistily tender, as she looks up at the mother of the man who has suffered so much for her sake. 'He is better," she repeats, with a strange, girlish timidity; 'and, thank Heaven, I am sure he will live now. It would have been endless misery to me if he died. I owe him such a debt of gratitude I could never have known another peaceful hour if l arm hed come to him.' 'Aye, it would have been bitter it he had died,' repeats the peasant woman. 'His bitter enough as it is, to see him on his back, all crippled for life, perhaps, and he in the prime of his youth and strength, and to think it was his weddingnight when he was decoyed to that awful Haunted Manor.' Miss Trevethon felt all the blood in her body surging in a fiery torrent to her heart. , •His wedding-night!' she said, her voice faltering. i 'Aye, his wedding-night, and his |

BY 2MA. GAEKJ OF JOKES. Author of "Pelf and Power/' "Strathrcore's Sin," Etc, etc.

bride the nmttiHst lass in the country, and bringing him a snug dowry besides.'

IVliss Treveshon rises to her feet, white to the lips, despite all her dauntiess pride and self command. In all h<?v life, in her direst peril, when she crouched in that black, rie'eing onb, with a e'eith Iva 1 only hope of rescue, hhe felt no &uch p-jin, no such dumb dtspair as sha feels now. But she sets her white teeth hard and clenches her hands. Sha will die rather than tetray har weakness. 'Yer, it w;;s very unfortunate,' she anwsers, 'and no one regrets (he trouble more de-ply than I, who owe my life to jour pen's courage. Bit. as I have said, he vvil live, and i.t us hope that the pretty bride wiil not b c miTnllir.g co put on her marriagerobes a^ain,' '.ah, that can never be; it is too Sate now.' iho dame begins; biitjlooking up .shy ih.ds that her gaesu has Later, when the sun ban gonr. down, :;rid the stars bhiae mistily; in a te;:dcr ;-:ky, i-nd a you/ ,g jvoor; lv^i';n f! like a divtT pick hi over the brown, still hlhs, Mrs Gorhart stand;; at her He lonics up at her, a dumb, wistful pain in f--is handsome eyes, t.Vi pari of reawakened memory. 'Mother.' ' Web*. Ambrose.' 'Mother, where is Ishhol?' Ihe t!'jothti''f) near!: sir [■:■. xr- aH the jiiGtuy days of ;;:a illness they have m;fc flow shall Fir«? tell Mm? 13° watches her face keenly. 'What i? it. mother? What has gone wrong? Did the las:; take her disappointment hard?' She stoops and kisses kirn, and strokes his hair, as she replies: 'Nay. ti.y ho;:, she took it fight ercusfh; such young chines soun forget/ 'Mother, what do you mean?' 'ARisso-e, roy s ■-;;■, don't take i!; to heart —bear :":: bke a man for your po.:;.'- uako.' 'Yor, ye;, I can boar anything but this ;v;other, , will 'you spesfc out? Waat bas happenaci? Is Ishbel dead?' 'Not dead, Ambrose, b:3t false, which is worse. She's gone oil" with that English riohleiuaii.'

'Married him?' 'So they say.' 'And I am free?' 'Yes, you arc free, Ambrose.' 'Heaven bo praised 1 Mother, I shall live now.J There v*-a3 dead silence for many minutes, then the young man turned his face toward his mother again, his eyes all alight with'the glory of a gre;U hope. 'Mother, vvher? is .she—the lady?' 'ln her room, Ambrose.' Will you go and ask her to come here, mother? Tell her I would bee her only for a moment.' The mother hesitates, a wistful terror in her fond eyes. 'Ambrose, my lad, don't set your heart on this fair, proud lady,' she begins. He silences her with a gesture. 'Your warning \ comes too late, mother. I love her as I never could have loved little Ishbel, even had I made her my wife, If you care to see me get on my feet again, do as I bid you, mother.' She obeys him without a second word, as both she and Donald have always obeyed their Handsome son. She goes to the little guest chamber adjoining her own, but it ia dark and silent. Her guest is gone. CHAPTER XX. TEIE BRIDEGRuOM WAKING. Toward noon of that same miserable day which saw poor Ishbel lying unconscious in the little cell at Moreton House, Arthur Marlcwe awoke from his dream of deathawoke ina great, rambling old house on the very margin of the sea. His first impression, as he lies on his bed, gazing about him with aching eyes, is that, he has been dead and is just coming to life again. He sees a fire on the hearth, and a woman sitting before it. 'Who's there?' he demands, starting at the sound of his own voice. The woman hurries to his bedside. 'Ah, thank Heaven! you are coming to at last, Master Arthur. Let me call the doctor.' He clutches her with both hands. 'Stop! You arR Mrs Becket, or am lin a dream? Where arh I? What the deuce is the matter?' The old housekeeper frees one hand and strokes his head. 'Surely you know the old house, Master Arthur—the 'Rook's Nest'? Many a night you've spent here in your boyhood.' TO BE CONTINUED