OF HIGH DEGREE.

Western Star, Issue 51, 31 October 1874, Page 6

OF HIGH DEGREE.

CbaPTEE IT. : . i ‘ Miss Dorothy, dear, it a balf-pait tea.. Hadn’t you better go to bed'r" Dorothy turned her wistful face to th©. old lady. y ; ’ d ‘I cannot till papa returns, Mrs Thom —I coixd not bleep. I wish he would come,’ she replied, with a little shiver. She sat ou a couch in the spacious draw, uig-room— lonely and desolate she looked witting there in the sombre apartment. Sarah Thorn came in, closing the door behind her—she was an old and privileged servant. ‘ Would--you like afire, Miss Dorothy? Or come to my room, if you will wait up, nil will gei you tome coffee.* ‘X. think I w 1,,’ Dorothy siowiy. tihj siiti bad on the ahawj, for it- was chilly in the great drawing* room. She paused as she parsed to draw aside the lace curtain and look oifed /' ‘ How dark it is! I wish papa would return. Don t you think he is unusually late,. Mrs Thorn P’ ■ auti asKed tiie question eagerly," *tiU : holding the curtain aside. . ‘La,, no, Miss Dorothy dear.. yLast year your papa did not get homo from .he sheriff’s dinner till twelve only you were in bed and knew nothing about it, as you ought to be now.*; ' * Last year! Ah, it was different then.. She had had no heartache to drive sleep. a-om her, es. ; ‘ 1 will cume and sit by your fire, Mr* Thorn,’ the said, wearily, dropping the curtain. The old’ lady wheeled up * juohioned chair to the fire, and set her jright coffee-pot on the hob., Dorothy watched her make it, and then made a pro*, -once of drinking a cup. eleven o’clock struck before she had nnished. She put down the rose.. _ -y‘.t • x shall go down stairs, jlra Perhaps papa may he comiog J avenue/'' /** * '/ , : n I •if;' I f. i '• • .t : j ..... ' I r -r ,r. .. xau

the Hght from the lamp fell upon her white face and shrinking form. The hall door, stood wide open. ‘Look,’ she said, in an almost incoherent tone, ‘ I krrw something would Tell Me what it is.’-. She pointed to. the open door, Sarah went to it and looked out. Even in the darkness she could discern men coming up the lawn, carrying laiiterns. Dorothy came to her ? and stood, with clasped hands and features, straining her -yea to pierce the gloom. ■ Some of the other servants, whom her shriek had brought from, their "beds,, came in sleepy bewilderment, asking what was wrong, ‘Go away, dear,’ urged the old lady, reatingly— 11 go in deary.’ * Even as she spoke the footfalls came nearer—nearer. The light from the hall - fell upon the men and rev burden they were earring a heavy helpless form covered with a cloak. No word was spoken. The servants ' fell back. Do”o'hv Dalton covered'her eves and leaned avainsttbc marble portal of the door. She h°ard the heavy steps of the men as they passed her in silence; she heard their laboured as thev bore tbeir burden into the hall ; sHM she with •her eyes hid, cowering before ♦he horror of--it all. The “ something ”of which she had felt a hidden consciousness all day had come at last! ‘.Dorothy, my dear child, why are you..up?’ She. lifted her face in dizzy uncertainty,. and was drawn to her father’s Breast.

■ - ‘ I am not hurt mu h, Dorothy—child, how frightened vo.u are [’ J *oh, nape, pan?. —think h / 'av°n !’ she .Cried with tromidoup jov, and then laid ■.her head on his breast again, while sobs shook her frame. -.He wag safe and wel 1 . Some one was hiir , tbou-'h—but the terdole sorrow was not hers. The m n had pissed i-fo the library, and the so- ants had fo 11 owed. , These two were alone. ‘Go to your room, d av,’ said 'Raymond- Dalton, putting her <»entk frm him. ‘Some one is hurt. I wll tel' you how it happened to-mo^'o-^.’ He kissed her fondly, and led her to ■-the foot of th° gfalr-n ; *O-6 to 'bed, Dorothy, 'Goodnight, ray d ear,'* ' * ; - - - He turned*'away hasH I y, and went into the library! What possessed her to follow him ? -What-sudden impure leapt into lifo as she stood there, urging her to enter the dimly-lighted room P ~.. ..No one noticed hmr. Sim stood bethe little group githe~°d round t-he conch—two or th*a«o r>olicem°p, a, few terrified maid?, Mrs father. Dorothy looked dowrf at fte man upon the conch. Th« (poaV was thrown back. She saw a white, stiP fi -e, a hand lying qmet and help’ess, a massoF fair, curling hair, lofted with b l ood, j, wJjichjflowed from a hideous wound on t}ie white temp l ©. She came forward to where the light of th • war taper reveale i ■theifeatures, and with a passionate cry that those 'standing tlmro never for. got, fell forward on the floor at their

She was in h Q r own room, and Mrs Thorn was bending over her, holding sal-volatile, and damping her. forehead wjth eau-de-coloorne. The pa : n and the horror came back with consciousness. The look that Dorothy turned upon the old lady brought tears to her eves, i - No, deary,’ she said, answerinsr the - look,-* he is not dead, thank goodness, >ff though.it is a terrible wound: still we must be prepared for anythin?.’ ..r.Not.dead, but dying! A feeling of unutterable despair fro-e her verv heart. . - She closed her eyes, and. lav quite still, Mrs Thorn thought she bad fainted ~aga*rin' " * ~ 4 .Miss-Dorothy, dear?’ The dark eyes -opened-slowly; 1 "WTiat time is it, Mrs Thorn ?’ ' 1 About "three o’clock, dcarv. Won’t yon let'me undress yon ? A would io you good! It won’t be light yet .nwhile, von know.’-

fj -Doro'tlippnt forth her hand to feel h°r dress. It.-was the same mu din she had worn on her- visit to Lord - A verill. Th e freshness was gone from it. new. How l9Dg?it;seemed since Ihen ! ‘.Tell me all .about it first,’ 'she replied slowly, . • Perhaps-Hri Thrrn though* it was the hest-thiog fihe could do iu-t now. 1 W ahy ;- 'of'-"‘ds know. Miss Dorpthv. Some of those poachers meant to waylav yoHr-father, out of revenue. They area ..feid set* and a little drink made them desperate. Tour father has imprisoned bm oiilie gang lately, and tried to put down, the rest by offering rewards for ' ffapir aptfrehepsiori. Jeffs sars that about fcereri b’fcTock this eveu ’ r> ty r .O oy orj 7 p ry

1 just gone, you know—Doctor Durer came to the police-station, and asked the inspector. to allow three or four men to keep watch on the Bltham road, f r he had overheard some fellows laying their plans. They meant to lie in wait for master, as he. returned home from the dinner. No one knows how they learned that he was to. return alone that nigh,t; but, Miss Dorothy, they did, and they meant to murder, him. Doctor Durer got the. men —‘‘here are hut four, you know, Miss Dorothy. He wept with them himself. They concealed themselves close to where the road is narrow, with thick edges. By-aud-by it happened as t ey guessed it would. The villains stopped your father a short way from the spot where the policemen lay in wait. Dr Durer and the rest came up so ; quickly that they had no time to harm a hair of his head, but one in the scuffile struck Doctor Durer that blow. The y’ve taken three of the poachers, and your father lent his horse to the inspector to ride back to Eltham for a doctor immed’atel?, and he ordered the men to bring him here—Doctor Durer, I mean, The Elthnm doctor arrived just now—he is in the library, deary, with your papa. That is all there is to tell—only goodness knows the end of it, Miss Dorothy ; we mus f hope for the best. # # * # # #

Doctor Durer did not die. At noon the next day he was as well as the terrible wound would allow him to be. A feeing of deep relief pervaded Raymond Dalton’s whole being when the Eltham doctor,informed him that all anxiety for the issue of the patient’s condition might I e put aside. He only required perfect rest, good nursing, and generous diet. Mr D vton readily undertook to provide a'l these for the man who had saved his li£°, but be mentally resolved to get Do’othy out of the bouse until Dr Durer could leave the Priory. In bis secret mind beforesaw a vision of-a. long convalesce ice, during which Dorothy would have almost unrestrained communion wi : h the man whom be knew, to his regr;t and mortification, she loved. Perhaps, even, these two might make the del t of gra i ude a plea for demanding hD consent to their marriage! He. shuddered at the bare thought. * Dorothy,’ he said, entering Miss Da’ton’s little sitting-room soon after mid-day, ‘I saw the -t. Johns yesterday in Eltham. They are leav ng for t Gotland the day after to-morrow, and they pressed me very much to let you accompany them, so I promised to drive you over to-dav.’ This last statement was a pleasant little fiction, privately composed to suit the exigencies of the case. £ lt will do you a world of good—you have been looking poo - iy lately ’ —MrDalton happily ignored th e cause— * so, if you will leave directions With Mrs Thorn about what you will req ure to be packed up, I will drive you uver after luncheon ; your boxes can be sent over to-morrow. Make haste, mv dear —the *e is no time to spare ; I ought to have spoken to you before, but this thinking business has quite driven other shoeg out of my mind.’

! hi re was n > appeal against, a desire of tin's sort, cou»in«r ff..ni the lips of Kavmoud. Baton. D>rotiiy k icw that tie fiat had gone forth for her banishn en . She sat a little while after he had left t ie room, h-r he.id reining on her hand ; ihm slie look the silver p* n -il from her uum ■- randum book and wrote on a slip oi pap»-r — Thank you always for your noble self-sa-u-ifice. I can give you nothing but my thanks ; but you have now and ever my,heart’s deepest gratitude. Doiiomr. Tiiis site folded and gave to Mrs Th >rn as stye stood, before h> r departure, in the old lady’s sanctum, with a whispered request that Sarah Thorn could not fi d it in her heart to refuse. And,.on that note the young Due or lived all the rest of the day. CHAPTER Y. Tbe most ardent lover of, hospitality could not have found fault with Raymond Dalton’s treatment of his invalid guest. A sumptuous chamber was allotted to him, a. tender nurse .provided in Mrs Thorn, and Mr Dalton himself daily paid a short visit to the patient, during which he contrived to tender his deep obligations for the service which had resulted in so disastrous a manner to the young Doctor, at.tke same time utterly ignoring a I recollection of their.late unpleasan r interview. Doctor Barer..listened vto the florid expressions of gratitude,' as he, had listened to the insults, in grave silence. He had save A the life of Dorothy Dj,!ton’s f ather; Dorothy herself had thanked h‘m, a id that, to him, was enough. Meanwhile he stayed under llaymopd Dalton’s roof only because to leave it in his prosuiit state wao impossible, and. hr accepted that 'gentleman’s hospitality only as his just due. Every day brought a message from •Lord Averiil to learn how the patient progressed. H’-s lordship’s increasing feebleness prevented his walking down

been. That Michael should concern himself so much about Dr Durer’s state caused Ravmond Dalton the greatest surprise, and perhaps a little jealousy. Dr Durer left his couch, and then his chamber, He had joined his host at his late dinner one evening, the first after his coming downstairs. In the midst of, the meal there was a slight commotion in the hall; the next moment a servant entered hastily. ‘ Lord ATe.riU’s man, Nicholls, wants to speak with you, sir.’ Mr Dalton went out. In the hall stood Nicholls, pale and breathless, ‘ For Heaven’s sake ask Dr Durer to come with me to the Hall—my master is struck with paralysis.’ Raymond Dalton fell back a step in shocked surprise. Dr Durer, hearing the man’s words, came quickly from the dining-room, and took his hat from the stand. ‘ I am ready, Nicholls,’ he said, throwing his cloak across his arm. ‘ I’ll carry that, sir. You lean upon me,’ said Nicholls, with a compassionate glance at the thin j ale face of the young surgeon. ‘ I will be up there in a moment,’ called Mr Dalton after th Q m. He entered the library, and taking two sheets of paper, scribbled a few words on each, directing one to a leading London phvsician, the other to his daughter. ‘ Take these messages,’ he said to his servant, ‘at once to the post-office, and send them by telegraph. ’

The next night, old Lord AveriH died. ITe was conscious and nearly speechless til the very last. His eves rested always -m the faee of the young surgeon, w’ o "dnistered silently yet. with tender so'ici. tude to his wants. T 1 ey sb'O 1 round his h‘d in the spa(*i<<us chamber —Bavmrnd D dtmi, St, Clare Durer, ihe physician, and the old servant Suddenly rti<« nr. man turned his wisiflll gaze fro n D nrert‘> Ttaymopd Dalton, ‘ Where is lifcrle D >rothy ?’ he whispered anxions'v. Raymo"d bent down. ‘T have for her—she will be here very son", M rJ a I.’ ‘Ah I 1 s ’d tI.Q old man, yearningly ‘but shewi’l' he too late. Tell her—tell Dor*'thv ’

Speech failed. A. troubled expreop><m ennie into in’s face. an 1 th?n fad'd. H’s PV’fi wen* back to Dncior Diir'r’a fa<e, while with fUp h-in.il' wlmse power siill ■■remained ho slowly and tremblingly drew r rom the other the onvx rjng, anl placed it upon the voimg man’s finger; ♦hen he laid- his hand in the surgeon’s firm, warm c'asp, and c’osed his eyes. and still ho I>y that they thought Mm d'a 1. Once more the dim eves opened, hut. now they saw nothing, in ’hat chamber. S miething else they « w—soinethv-e in the long dead past, < fc. in «ho mystic future ; yet to every e>r there the whispered words pam a distinct:

He that is down need fear no fall, Ho that is low no pride. And once again, as the spark of life -grew dim for ever and ever, aa if his sou 1 soared away on the wings of that thought, be repeated “ He that is low no pride.” When it was all over, Mr Dalton politely dismissed Doctor Durer. Aa the father of Miss Dalton, he installed himself at the Hall, as a matter of course. He made all the necessary arrangements for the funeral, and communicated with the family lawver. Doctor Durer, among others, received a formal invitation to the funeral for the he : re sof Averill couM .afford to ha gracious : so he assembled a large gathering to follow Michael, sixteenth Lord Averill, to the grave!

“ It lias been a source of regret to me that mv lamented cousin could nev»r be prevailed upon to make a will,” said Raymond Dalton in a tone of urbane satisfaction that contradicted his words, to the shrewd, sandy-1 aired little man who had managed the Averill family affairs for years. “But of course, Parker, it will make no difference to Miss Dalton, in whose behalf I shall carry out all ray lamented cousin’s known wishes to the letter.” He said this as the carriage containing himself and Mr Parker rolled up to the entrance of Averill, taking precedence of other vehicles. Mr, Dalton got out, and Mr Parker followed, * I beg your pardon, Mr Dalton; the late Lord Averill did leave a will.” Bavmond Dalton-"stopped short. “I do not understand,” he ejaculated. ‘Mv dear,sir, you surprise me,” continued Mr Parker. ‘ Lord Averill called noon rae in Loudon a ahofl| time back, and instructed me to prepaM a will. He remained as mv guest rSr two days daring the drawing un of tile do umen f . and he signed it ip. the presence of myself and rnv principal clerk.” ' There was a moment’s pause of blank astonishment on both sides, during which the next carriage rolled up. ‘Bis a matter of alight importance,” said Mr Daltoni turning away haughtily. c Tt can make no. difference to my daughter/

Mr Parker spoke a few words to the guests as . they came up, and they assembled in the library. The lawyer took his place at the table and cast a quick glance round. ‘ Let Miss Dalton be sent for,’ he said. Raymond Dalton despatched a messenger, and Dorothy entered the room without delay—the only lady among them all. Her eyes were red with weeping. Mr Parker placed a chair for her, and, casting another keen glance round the room, his eyes rested for an instant on Doctor Durer, who stood with folded arms in the shadow of a curtain, Mr Parker oegan to read the will. There were a few bequests to the oldest among the servants, and then— ‘ To mv well-beloved cousin Dorothy, daughter of Raymond Dalton, I bequeath twelve thousand pounds for. her own sole use and benefit.’ Sudden swift glances of surprise were exchanged, a sharp-drawn breath was heard from Raymond Dalton, and than Mr Parker read on.

*To my dear nephew, St. Clare Durer —-rson of my very dear and only sister, Clare Durer —who lawfully inherits my title, I bequeath all the property, real and personal, that I may die possessed of, with the exception of the foregoing beq nests.’There was a moment’s lull, and then Raymond Dalton rose from his seat and crossed to the table, with unsteady gait, ‘ Read it again,’ he said hoarsely— ‘ I do not understand.’ Neither did some others understand. Hasty glances were shot at the still figure in the shadow of the curtain, and then turned to the lawyer’s face, It was perfeetlv composed as, in obedience to Mr Dalton’s r quest, he read the latter portion of the will again. Then Mr Parker left his seat and walked across the room to St. Clare Durer.

* Lord Averill, allow me to congratulate you.’ A alight colour rose in the young surgeon's face, and hia eves met the lawyer’s f -auklv. I do not comprehend it —what does all this mean ?’ ho asked. ‘ This will explain—may I suggest that you read it at once F Meantime, if you will allow mo, I will dismiss those guests who are not immcdiatc-ly concerned in this business.’ He placed a sealed paper in the young man’s hand and turned away. Sr. Clare heard him offer some brief words of apology to. t;hoso assembled, with the request that ho might be left to settle some private matters with hia young client. Acting upon the hint, the guests politely took their leave. - Baymend \D s altop., sat aa one turned into stone, offering not a word of comment. With burning cheeks and her loug lashes veiling. the mingled emotions in her dark eves, Dorothy rose from her seat when the last guest had left the room, and, walking swiftly across it, stood before Doctor Durer. The young man started slightly as she offered her hand, murmuring some words of congratulation in a tone almost inaudible. He took the hand, but the colour faded from his' very lips as he bowed in answer to her congratulations. She turned and left the room. St. Clare Durer sat down in the bay window, and, with trembling hands, broke the seal of the letter, his eyes mechanically following the written words:— ‘ With the scent of the Welsh, mountain heather around me—with the breath of the mountain breezesTfanuing my brow —with old memories and long-forgotten dreams awakening and glowing within me, I sit down to write this to you, St. Clare Durer, only son of my only -sister, Clare Averill, and of her husband, Arthur Hamilton Purer. ‘ Is this a strange story for you to believe? If so, read the two registers within this letter the records of two events that happened some nine-and-twenty years ago. “What was it in your face, your voice, the very movement of your hand, that stirred mo so strangely when I first saw you P What was it that recalled unbidden memories each time I looked into your eyes, so that, when I was sitting in my lonely chamber, face and. forms of other days, which your face had recalled, rose up. and peopled my solitude ? I did not know —I could not'tiell why my soul was drawn to you by some mysterious power, till a chance word—the reading of vonr name, the story of your birth—made lit all clear to me, and the mystery was! a mystery- no longer. r ‘•To-dav I have seen your mother’s grave. A s -1 knelt beside it J iof‘ all these things—-of her,, pf myself, and of you/ A U now is clear fd % me. bv that hill-side grave, I forgave herthjat* she had brought mv father’s gray hairs with sorrow to the dust; that through bier my life has been a sad and lonely existence. Perhaps eho did herself no wrong, nor meant to wrong me. Bhe had a goodman's love, and now sleeps in-peace. | H To you the knowledge of all this willcome very soon, not by my lips, but by

my hand, that you may show the world your credentials. To wait a little while will* do you no wrong —your life lies all before you. When the knowledge is yours, take the, tjtle and the heritage that May down with all loving hopes and aspirations for you,'my dear kinsman. That you may prove an honorable and a good man in your generation, and that you may want no good thing thing that your heart can desire, is the earnest prayer of your uncle, ‘ToSt. Clare Durer.’ ‘ Michael Averill.’ And from the written pages two slips of paper fluttered in his hand—one, a copy of the marriage certificate of Arthur Hamilton Durer to Clare, daughter of John, fifteenth Lord Averill, in the church of St. Mary Magdalen, in the parish of Rhys-ap-Twyl; the other, the register of bapisHi of St. Clare Durer, in the same church, dated nine-and-twenty years ago.

Sarah Timm got fidgety at the sight of Dorothy’s loug black dress trailing about the corridors and staircases of the. Priory, much like the robes of a restless ghost. She felt a secret uneasiness whenever her eyes tell on the whine wistful face and dark mournful eyes of the child she loved so fondly. The week succeed, ing the funeral was a weary time. Raymond Dalton had been a changed man since the ahock he bad received when the will was read. He lived in perpetual and gloomy seclusion. Young Lord Averill had departed for London with Mr Parker* Nicholls had accompanied hia master.

There (same a break at last When, another week had passed, Nicholls. returned to AveriJl. bringing the news that young Lord AveriJl was going, abroad immediately., Dorothy was a]one when the news reached her through a maid-’ servant who repeated in mere idleness the report she had heard. When Mrs, Thorn entered the room, a little later she found Dorothy in a dead swoon , on the carpet. She wisely said nothing, but the old lady’s heart ached at the sight of the pal« arid patient face, Dorothy in - her Secret heart hid cherish© Ta hope that perhaps for her sake her- lover would forget the wrong her father* had dune him, and come bark to claim her. J his hope had borne her up through the weary days; now it seemed over for ever.

Sim sat down one evening in the red glow of the firelight that played in fitful gleams on the walls and ceiling upon her own sombre dress and sad face. She sat in that same room where St.,Clare Dur'er had heard his fate from Raymond Dalton’s lips. The curtains were uudrawu, and the heavy rain beat against the terrace windows. Outside, those windows some one stood in the rain, looking in at. the little dropping .figure in the firelight. ‘ Of course, he will not forget those cruel words, even for me ; but oh S-St. Clare, I could have forgiven even n greater wrong for your sake,’ thought poor Dorothy, s idly. ‘ I hope he will be absent long enough for.me to learn how to bear my grief patiently ; for of course I shall 'bd able to do that in tipie as Michael bore his Tor twenty-nihe.loiig years. Ob, Michael, if I could feel your dear hand onuny head oneo more I could bear.this, better !’ h..

But that memory was too- much, Dorothy’s head sank upon the arm- of the chair, a.id sharp sobs shook her.frame, * Dorothy !’• - _ .... „ It was a very, softly spokea.word, but it brought her. to her foot and stilled her sobs- She looked at the window standing wide open, and then at the figure st au d ing ..before her. My love. am come back !*-. .£ He held out his arms and she wont to-, them/neither hearing' nor'- caring that rain-drops lay. wet and chilly diT hia breast and glistened in' his hair. ‘ Were those tears for me?’he whispered, ‘ I thought you were going abroad/ was the .naive reply. ; , L 1 So I am, but I hope to take you with me. Dorothy, look ,up/ ' . ■ She-raised her eyes to the dearface, bright with the old sunlit smile, and then hid them again on the “'sheltering breast. ~,;i " Earth could give her. bHsSj Dorothy was content. •, ■■ - - itfa sd^ft Mr Eaymond Dylton: returned' tbiiia natural state.' of mjnd j’pn, the day his daughter marriedi her, young../kinmnan, Lord A verill, - Shortly that day .hewasbeard toirnumar.aA unintelligible former I §pegoheg J * fixosAmk.Buaself on the plea of his Ignorance tfiafeihe the; family, 4venll u wlt| Jke- fjfg which he usually received* any comtatmication |?altoa u^ ,f;lfeVas^a fc wedding because ot the u late ideatfi* afternoon, wheniheeunlight*fell between the branches of f.the the red and yellow leaves that lay beneath tHem. lje^ I Avcrill ahd • W sweet music of marriage bells; 10 if'