Serial Story. (PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.) A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XXIV, 15 December 1900, Page 1101

Serial Story. (PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.) A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

By

JOHN K. LEYS.

Author of “ A Sore Temptation,” “ The Thumb-print,” “ The Broken Fetter,” “ In the Toils,” “ A Million of Money,” etc., etc. COPYRIGHT.

PART lI.—THE NARRATIVE OF SYBIL GRANT.

CHAPTER XVII. A FRESH RESOLVE. Not unnaturally the effect on my mind of my conversation with Mr Durant was to make me feel more certain than I had ever done before that something of the first importance was being concealed from me. 1 argued in this way. It was evident that Mr Durant hoped to serve some end of his own by discovering some secret connected with me. Tnat he believed it to be worth spending time and money over was evident from the fact that he proposed to go all the way to Australia to make inquiries there. How he proposed to make the unravelling the mystery of my birth serve his purpose 1 could but dimly conjecture. But if he hoped in this way to gain a hold over his friend Mr Mitchell, perhaps to blackmail him, then Mitchell must have committed some crime or other wrongful deed. He must have defrauded someone. Might it not be myself or my father? Of course, if I really was James Grant’s daughter I might be illegitimate, and then I ctould take nothing in right of my birth. But my father might have left a will which might have been concealed. This opinion of mine was strengthened by the recollection thatMr Mitchell himself had told me that he had offered Sidney Grant an annuity of three hundred a year if she would give up any possible claim she might have upon him. Why should he do that ? Either there must be some valid claim of which she had been kept in ignorance, or the offer had been made to quiet an uneasy conscience. But supposing there had been a suppressed will it was only reasonable to think that it had been destroyed lono' ago. For me to think of institutsearch for it would be manifestly absurd. It seemed only too likely that the evidence of the fraud —if fraud there had been —had been obliterated by the means taken at the time, and by the lapse lof years. Yet Mr Durant did not seem to think so! I turned the subject over and over in my mind till it became a sort of monomania with me. I could think of nothing else. At length I determined to go to Glasgow and consult a lawyer on the whole matter, not so much with the hope that he would be able to throw any light on my path as for the sake of quieting my own mind. A visit to my dressmaker formed the all-sufficient excuse for a visit to Glasgow, and I took care to fix my trip for a day when 1 knew that Miss Dalrymple was engaged for fear that she would offer to accompany me. As it was, when I announced that I was going to Glasgow next day, she exclaimed loudly against the unlucky chance which prevented her going with me, and for some minutes after I could see by the workings of her. face that she was inwardly calculating whether it was practicable to throw up her engagement and enjoy the pleasure of a day’s shopping with me. Fortunately, the engagement was of sufficient force to stand the strain that was put upon it, and I performed the journey without escort or companion of any kind. I had never been in Glasgow before, and, of course, I did not know even the name of a single lawyer in the city. When I left the railway station I wandered up and down the streets for some little time, trying to think what I had better do. It seemed rather a risky think to walk into the first solicitor’s office I came to, as I might walk into a florist’s shop, and tell the secrets of one’s life to a man who might prove to be an arrant rogue. The streets in the business part of the “second city of the Empire” are

composed of long rows of imposing stone structures, handsome and solid as the fortunes which are amassed in them, but changed to a grey-black by the action of the smoke. This dark colour, joined with the regular farstretching architecture, gives the streets a gloomy appearance, which even the brightest of August sunshine cannot altogether dissipate. I was strolling slowly along, wondering whether I could hit upon some way of getting an opinion as to the integrity and competence of some lawyer, when I noticed that a young man. one of two who were chatting together at a street corner, was looking at me in a conscious way, as if he haif expected that I should bow to him. I did so, in a puzzled sort of way, and it was not until he blushed and smiled in taking off his hat that I remembered him. He was the young man who had saved me from impertinence on the journey from London. Obeying a sudden impulse, I loitered a moment, and his friend, seeing that he was not wanted, took himself off. “You did me a favour once before—a great favour,” I said, holding out my hand, “and now I am about to ask you to do me another.” “Willingly,” he said, with a smile that made liis face look quite handsome. “It is nothing very difficult,” I went on. “I am a stranger here, and I want to consult a lawyer—-a clever lawyer, and, if possible, an honest one. Do you know of such a man, or do you know any one who could help me to find him?” “I know of one who is honest, I think, though I can’t say anything about his cleverness,” he answered, still smiling. “That won’t do for me,” I said, with decision. “My case is a difficult one, and it is not so much legal assistance I want as the advice of a clear-headed, sensible man.” He saw the look of anxiety in my face, and became grave In a moment. “I thought it was merely some little matter of ordinary business—a claim against a railway company, or something of that sort, you had in your mind,” he said, “and I was actually thinking whether I might venture to recommend myself ” “You!” I exclaimed. “Are you a lawyer? You don’t look like one.” “I scarcely know whether to take that as a compliment or not,” he said, a smile struggling at the corners of his mouth, “but I’ll tell you what I will do. If you care to come up to my office and tell me the nature of your case I will be able to advise you whether it is beyond my range or not. If I think I can manage it you can put it into my hands or not, as you feel disposed. If I think that your interests will be safer in the hands of an older man. a man with more influence and experience, I will tell you so at once, and give you a note of introduction to the firm I should advise you to go to.” By this time we were walking along slowly side by side, and as I looked up in the face of my new friend I made up my mind that he was a. man to be trusted. I accepted his proposal gratefully, and in a few minutes we had reached a building which had lately been a dwelling-house of handsome appearance, but which had been converted into offices. My companion stopped at a door of ground glass on which were painted the words'—“John Blackwood—Writer.” It was evident enough that Mr Blackwood had not been very long established in business, for the outer office was inhabited only by a youth who sat at a desk scantily furnished with papers. But. that mattered nothing to me. I wanted a man I could

trust, and I believed 1 had found him. In a few minutes I had made Mr Blackwood acquainted with the whole of my story, as I have set it down in these pages; and I was pleased to notice that he neither allowed his attention to wander, nor asked me questions, nor troubled himself to write down what 1 was saying. His pleasant grey eyes were fixed on mine from the moment I began to speak until I had finished, and when I had ended he merely put one or two questions to clear up some things that I had left a little obscure. When I ceased there was silence between us for perhaps a minute. “Plenty of ground for suspicion, but nothing like proof,” he sanr at last, as though he were thinking aloud. I sighed. “Pardon my asking you, but the question is a very necessary one. Are you wealthy?” “No. indeed. I have a few pounds—that is all.” “Because, you see, proof is what we want, and that is a very expensive kind of thing to get, especially after such a lapse of time. And the chances are that if you are to spend a fortune in trying to get evidence, you might fail in getting it after all. I am afraid you would fail. Think of all the points you would have to prove, supposing that your first suspicions are well founded: — “First, that you are James Grant’s daughter. “Secondly, that your father and mother went through a valid ceremony of marriage after it was discovered that the first ceremony was invalid, and before your birth. “Thirdly, in the alternative, you must produce a will of James Grant’s in your favour. “Fourthly; you must show that James Grant left valuable property. “Fifthly, that it came into the hands cf Mr Mitehell without any purchase or agreement entitling him to take possession of it. “And sixthly, that you were abroad, and in ignorance of your rights, or that Mitchell fraudulently kept you in ignorance of your rights, since you attained the age of twenty-one. “That last point I think you can prove easily enough; but the others I rose to my feet, preparing to go. “If you would like another opinion ” he began, but I shook my head. “No opinion can alter the facts,” I said, and I saw that he agreed with me that to seek further legal help at present would be quite useless. “I suppose Mr Durant knows more than we do,” I said, leaning one hand on the table as I stood beside my chair, “and he is going to Australia in the hope of finding out more.” “I wonder if he really is going,” said Mr Blackwood. “And that reminds me. An old friend of mine has gone to Sydney, and settled there. From what you tell me, I think it. is more likely than not that your father and mother were married at Sydney. Your sister’s name suggests that she was born near that town, doesn’t it? I think I had better write to him, and ask him to cause the registers to be searched for a record of the marriage, and of your birth. Your Christian name is——?” “Sybil. But whether my parents really gave me that name or not, I do not know.” “Never mind. We will assume that they did. If you will give me your address, I will let you know as soon as an answer comes from Australia.” I thanked him, and gave him . the address of Tnveroran Castle, having, indeed, no other address to give. I saw Mr Blackwood’s pen stop as he

wrote the name, and he looked up iu surprise, “is tins -ur Airteliell juu have been telling me ot, Mitclieu ol tue Lone Gully Aiming Company ? lie asked. "r m sure 1 don t know; but Mr Mitchell always comes to Glasgow once or twice u week on business, .cud now r remember to have ueard that he maue nis fortune in gold mines. " i/lieu 1 think there may be sometniug m Mr Durant s suspicious—and ycuis. At least 1 know that there were some queer rumours current at one time about that company. lhey died away, though; and as the company has been paying good dividends ror many years, these rumours have not affected the value of the shares. I can easily make inquiries in that direction. 1 know the very man to ask —a broken-down stockbroker's clerk, who has a perfect genius for remembering half-forgotten facts about public companies.” “You think, then, that it is possible that Mr Mitchell and my father may have been partners, and that as my father died in a foreign country, far from his friends, leaving two young children, he simply defrauded them of •heir rights, and kept the whole of the property for himself? Ihat was why he offered Sidney three hundred a year to sign away her rights!” “That struck me as the most suspicious thing in the whole train of circumstances,” said Mr Blackwood. “It does look very strange, and I take it that it means either that your father had a right to certain property which after his death came into Mitchell's hands, and that your father made a will in your sister's favour, or that for some other reason Mr Mitchell has a guilty conscience, and that remorse prompted him to make the offer, though he could not bring himself to make a full restitution.” The future looked brighter now' than it had done a few minutes before. Again I rose to go, but seeing that the young lawyer had something more to say I sat down down again. “That man McPhail may know something,” he said, biting the end of his pen. “I wonder whether it would be possible to frighten him into telling the truth? We can’t bribe him, for we have no money; and if we ha 1 we never could offer half as much as Mr Mitchell would offer him to ho', t his tongue. But later on, if we come upon real evidence of fraud, we may be abie to frighten him. In the meantime, if you can engage him in conversation, I would advise you to do s >. Don't let the fact that you are sailing under false colours deter you from speaking to him. Unless 1 am very much mistaken, Mr Mitchell, and probably McPhail, too, has far more reason to fear you than you can possibly have to fear either of them. No, no,” he added with a laugh, seeing that I hat'* brought out my purse. “Please don't talk about fees in the meantime. If I can help to make you a rich woman. you may pay me what you like. Jill then —wait till I mention the subject.” The same evening T returned to Inveroran.

CHAPTER XVII. THE MEETING Al’ THE LODGE. It was about a week after my visit to Glasgow' that I resolved to make another effort to gain some definite knowledge of my parentage, if possible, from Mrs McPhail, the factor’s mother. 1 had seen her once or twice since I left her son’s house, but 1 had had no conversation with her of any c n.sequence. I chose a time—eleven in the forenoon —when I thought she would be alone, her son being gone about the business of the estate, and her daughter busy with household affairs. The old woman was alone, as I had anticipated, sitting in the chimney corner with some knitting in her hands. It was easy to get her to speaK about my mother, but what with h< r Scotch dialect and her endless digressions, it was difficult to make out anything definite. Of course, she supposed she was speaking to my sister, Sidney, and she did not seem to know more than 1 already knew—that Sidney had had a younger sister, who was supposed to be dead. 1 was listening in a half-absent inanm r to her droning talk when I nci.nl Hu- sound ol wheels outside, and I rose to my feet. Sit ye doon,’ said the old woman,

tugging at the skirt of my gown; and 1 sat down, though I did not care particularly to meet the factor, who was apparently coming home. Then 1 heard the sound of several voices in the hall, and rose once more. At that instant the door opened, and McPhail’s wife appeared, carrying an old fashioned carpet bag. Close behind her came her husband, and with h'm another woman, at sight of whom a sea of half-forgotten memories swept «>*r my brain, confusing me to lh:-i extent that 1 scarcely knew where I was. It was Mrs Martin! 1 remembered the “dour,” though not unkindly face, with the long upper lip, and the cold light-coloured eyes, in a moment. This was the woman who had brought me from Australia —the woman who could prove, if anyone could, that 1 was really the daughter of James Grant. The consciousness of this fact made me for the moment forget the danger in which I stood; but even if I had remembered it, I could not have escaped. As it was, it was not until the woman held out her hand, exclaiming, “Miss Sybil! lis this really you?” that the truth flashed upon me. My secret was mine no longer! The days when I could masquerade as Sidney Grant were at an end. I expected, in a stupid sort of way. that the next moment the air would be filled with exclamations—that I would be denounced as an imposter on the spot. Hut apparently neither McPhail. who nodded to me in his gruff way. nor his wife, seemed to take any notice of the Christian name by which Mrs Martin had addressed me. Probably they thought they had heard her imperfectly, and at any rate they had no great interest in the matter. With the old woman, however, it was different. She bent forward in eager curiosity, and turned her withered face first to Mrs Martin and then to me, as though demanding an explanation. “How are ye, mother?” said Mrs Martin, going over to her mother, and kissing her in a rough, perfunctory fashion. “This warm weather ’ll just suit you. Yon don’t look a day older than when I saw you last year.” Good manners would have compelled me to depart and leave the family to themselves; but my wits had returned to me. and 1 was extremely anxious to make Mrs Martin of some use to me—in other words, to get some information out of her—before the inevitable disclosure was made to her that I had been living at the Castle under an other name. Ami chance seemed to favour me. McPhail went out to' “see about the beast,” as he called putting up the horse, and .Mrs McPhail went upstairs to take off her bonnet. Mrs Martin sat down beside her mother, and I seated myself opposite to her. “It seems strange to meet you again, after all these years,” I began. “You are the first person I remember, Mrs Martin.” “Ay, 1 would be that.” “Did you bring me over from Australia yourself?” “What makes you think you ever saw Australia?” (frowning). “Oh, because I know my father and mother lived there—and I know my sister was born there. Besides, I have some recollection of being in a big ship when I was a very little thingbefore we lived in London.” “Humph! ” “I wish you would tell me something about my father and mother, Mrs Martin. Did they die soon after I was born ?” “Ay, ye were but a baby when they died.” "My father's name was James, wasn’t it—James Grant?” “Yes—James Grant. But what for do ye spier sae mony questions at me? Can ye no spier them at him wha best behoves tae answer them?” “Who do you mean?” I asked innocent ly. “Wha wad I mean but Maister Mitchell?” “Mr Mitchell? Oh, he doesn’t seem very ready to talk about my father.” “And what brings you here?” A long residence out of Scotland had made a change in Mrs Marlin’s way of speaking at least she did not use the broad Scotch in London. But 1 imagine that when she returned to her own country the old way of speaking returned to her, as it was natural it should. “1 came to see Mr Mitchell,” T said lightly. “He said 1 had greatly

changed. But you knew me at once, didn’t you, Mrs Martin?” “On, ay, I kent ye fine. You were a weel grown lassie when ye gaed to the achule. An* ye’ve grown up a braw wuinman—my certes! A fine lass, wi’ a wull o’ her ain, I reckon.” I laughed, and taking off my hat pushed back my hair, to gain, if possible, a few minutes more. But Mrs Martin said nothing more of any importance, and I felt ceriain that Mrs McPhail, if not her husband, would be Lack directly. I was anxious to get away before the question tliat I had seen more than once shaping itself on the old woman's trembling lips was put and answered—the question whether I was Sidney Grant or not. “Well, Mrs Martin, 1 must be going," I said, rising and tying on my hat. "I’m so glad to have seen you again. But you haven't told me where you are living now.” “1 bide at Perth. I’m housekeeper to a gentleman there,” she replied, “a doctor that’s a widower and has nae family.” That was enough for me. I knew where to find Mrs Martin if I should want her, and somehow 1 had nlore confidence in her than in her brother. I believed that if ever she were brought into a court of law she would speak the truth. 1 hade good-bye to the old lady in the chimney corner, and Mrs Martin accompanied me as far as the house door. “Mrs Martin,” I said, as I took her hand in mine at parting, “if you have anything that belonged to my father or mother—anything, no matter how trifling- it may be—an old letter, a book, an old photograph, I do wish you would let me have it. 1 have hardly anything that belonged to either my father , or my mother. Will you look among your old things, and’sec if you cannot find anything that belonged to one or other of them?” She shook her head, and withdrew her hand from mine. “There is no time now,” I went on, but perhaps if I came down this afternoon you would be willing to tell me more about them—about their Lfe 1,1 -A'istralia, and how they died ” The woman started, and a shudder ran through her gaunt, bony frame while an indescribable change cam? OV iv ?> er fate ’ Tt turned an ashy grey herself & StrOns ' effort sl >e controlled . 'o J .°? tak ' luy advic e, Miss Grant biii'e sHli yOU ; K f ? ither your mither bide still in their graves. Don’t seek to meddle with what does not concern •Y,°"’ < t . the past bury its dead, as the Scripture says, and never more speak the name of your faither or your maither.” With these strange words sounding in my ears I left the house. CHAPTER XIX. THE ABYSS OF THE PAST. My mind was in a tumult as 1 made my way back to the Castle, but of y w?t* ef 1 thi nk, was one ot bitter disappointment. I had thought that I was getting on so well 1 had in fact discovered more than at one time I had thought possibleand now the end had come! Nothinocould be more certain than that exP< )KU i’e must come, and that quickly. 1 he Mcl hail family would naturally talk about me, and almost immediately they would discover that the factor, his wife and mother supposed me to be Sidney Grant, while his sister knew that I was another woman altogether. Then, of course, the factor would tell his employer that he was sheltering an imposter under his root. Thinking over this I came to the conclusion that the best thing 1 could do was to forestall McPhail, and tell Mr. Mitchell at once who I was and the reason I had had in passing myself off for my sister. The knowledge that I was approachmg* a crisis in my life made me grave and silent during luncheon. I shrank from meeting Mr. Mitchell’s eye. When the meal was over I followed him into his own room, and asked him if he could spare me half an hour. He frowned, but pointed to a seat, and I sat down opposite him. It was not an easy task to begin, and 1 thought the best way was to go to the root of the matter at once. “1 have seen Mrs. Martin, McPhail’s sister, to-day,” 1 said, “and I knew her at once. She is the woman I used to live with in London.” Mr. Mitchell stared at me, and his

jaw dropped in pure astonishment. “But—-but you never were in London!” he gasped out. “Yes. I lived in Brixton with Mrs. Martin before I went to school. You are thinking of my sister—Sidney Grant.” The man’s face turned grey. His eyes never left off staring at me. He tried to speak, and could not. His hand went up to his collar as though he had been choking, and at length the words came, almost in a whisper. “Are you not Sidney Grant? You said you were!” “1 think not. You supposed me to be Sidney, and I did not contradict you. But it comes to much the same thing." “Who are you, then?” “1 am Sybil Grant, James Grant’s youngest daughter.” “Nonsense! The child died years and years ago!” “That can hardly be, seeing that I am alive now. I am Sybil Grant.” “You’ll have to prove it!” “Nothing easier.” I spoke with a quiet confidence that I was very far from feeling, but the effect on Alexander Mitchell was remarkable. He shrank back into himself, as it were, and glanced at me in a furtive way. Anyone looking on would have supposed that it was he that was the culprit, that it was he that had to fear exposure, not I. But in a few seconds he had to some extent recovered himself, and began to bluster. “.Ind you’ve been living here all this time under false pretences! Do you know, young woman, that I could send for the police and have you sent to gaol for that?” His courage rose with the sound of his own voice. “Answer me! Are you aware that it rests with me whether you sleep to-night in the lock-up at Dunolly or not?” “I think, Mr. Mitchell, the less said about prisons the better —for your sake as well as mine.” The shaft struck home. I saw that, in spite of the torrent of indignant utterance that struggled to his lips, he was ill at ease—that, in a word, if 1 had cause to fear him, he had as great or greater reason to fear me. “I am perfectly ready to go before a magistrate at once,” I said, to put an end to his threats. “But you need not suppose that I will be silent as to the reason I had for what I have done. I will tell the world that you brought me up in secret, pretending that I was dead, and never allowing me to know who my relations were. I managed to get your address —never mind how — and came here determined that, if possible, I would find out the truth. McPhail’s mother took me for my sister. Till that hour 1 did not so much as know that I had a sister, or that I had any right to the name I bear.” “Neither you have!” he broke in. You are ” “Stop!” I cried. “Before you say anything to cast a slur on my mother’s memory you may as well know that I have consulted a lawyer in Glasgow, and he will make sure that there is no record of a second marriage.” Once more Mr Mitchell’s eyes dropped before mine, but he still blustered. “Much good it will do you! You will only publish your own shame! And this is what one gets for befriending an orphan! Pretty gratitude! McPhail was quite rjght—l should have left you to take your chance out in Australia.” “And why did you not leave me in Australia, Mr Mitchell?” I asked coolly. “If you mean that your sole motive was pity for a friendless orphan, I can only say that I have a difficulty in believing you. For, in that ease, what reason had you for hiding me away so carefully from the world, and giving out that I was dead?” The man’s brow darkened, and the hand outstretched across the table trembled visibly. He was evidently thinking whether he should say something or not; and in spite of my brave words my heart sank, for fear of what he might say next. He rose and rang the bell. “Ask Miss Dalrymple to step here a. moment,” he said to the man who answered it. We sat in silence till Miss Dalrymple’s thin flushed face appeared in the doorway. “I call you to witness, Anne,” Mr Mitchell said excitedly, the instant the door had closed, “that it is not of my own choosing that I say what I am about to say. She has brought it upon herself. It seems” (turning to me) “that this young lady is not Sidney Grant, as we all imagined her to be.”

(Miss Dalrymple’s face was a study at that moment.) “She admits as much herself.” He paused, and iu a cold, hard voice very uulike my own 1 owued that what he said was true. "She says she is Sidney Grant's younger sister, Sybil. Supposing that she is, 1 don't know what claim sue has on me, but it is true that if she is Janies Grant’s daughter, 1 paid for her education—and this is how she repays me!” “ ‘But,’ she says, ‘you have a motive in bringing me up in ignorance of my parentage, and letting the world suppose that 1 was dead.' True, 1 had a reason, and she little supposes what that reason was. Else she would not have provoked me into telling her. She would have remained quiet—in the background—and if she had wanted help, I, who have already spent pounds and pounds upon her, would have been ready to give it. But she has no gratitude, not a spark. She comes here under a false name, and forces me in selfdefence to tell her the truth.” Here he broke off, and turned fiercely upon me, like a wild beast turning on its prey. “I’ll give you one more chance,” he said, viciously. “Will you go away, and trouble us no more ?” “No, I will not!” I cried, involuntarily rising to my feet. “Whatever you have to tell me I can bear it. But I do not believe ” “You do not believe!” he sneered. “Y’ou will believe nothing on my word. Well, here are the papers—it is lucky that I kept them.” He unlocked a drawer in his writing-table as he spoke, and after a little search brought out a bundle of old newspapers, tied together with tape. These he laid on the table before me. “You can take them away and study them if you have a. mind,” he said, with a cruel smile, “and when you have read them you can come and tell me whether I was right in concealing your existence from the world or not.” “What do you mean?” I asked stupidly. “Mean! I mean that your mother was a murderess! She was charged with the murder of your father, and she would have been hanged for the crime if she had not died in prison before her trial.” Something seemed to give way or break in my head. I could not see, and stretched out my hands like a blind man groping his way—and I remember nothing more. (To be Continued.)