TRACKED BY FATE, OR THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS,

King Country Chronicle, Volume IV, Issue 246, 30 March 1910, Page 4

TRACKED BY FATE, OR THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS,

(All Rights Reserved.)

BY MAURICE SCOTT, kuthor-'of "The Pride of the Morays," "The Mark of the Broad Arrow," "Broken Bonds," etc. etc.

THIRTEENTH INSTALMENT

"But did I not talk of more recent events—of London, of what 3 did there ? "

" Not in my hearing," he answered, seriously, divining the anxiety in her tone. "Dorothy, I know nothing of you more than Mr, Fanshawe chose to tell me—that you were his ward ; but I know you are the one woman in all the world whom I can love, whom I ardently desire to make my wife. Your eyes tell me what your lips deny. Let me go to Mr. Fanshawe ; let me tell him we love each other —insist that he releases you from this unwarranted engagement he has dared to announce, and " " No, no ; you must not ; I forbid you to do so ! " she" cried, tears starting to her eyes, despair tugging at her heartstrings.

For Mr. Fanshawe would tell her lover that she was a vagrant, whom be had taken out of the streets — whom he had picked up singing outside a theatre, and sheltered out ol charity ! Oh, the shame, the horror of it all ! Was she mad when she put herself in such a position ? Was there nothing to tell her that one day Ernest Trevedyn would come into her life, and that by that one miserable experience she must put him away out of her heart ? "You mean that I am mistaken — that you cannot love me? " he said.

He had released her now, and was standing before her —for Dorothy had risen from the hillock, also —with pale, set face. " I—l cannot love you ! " "I am lyiug ! I am. lying ! " her soul cried out in its agony. '* Why cannot you see that, to save you from marrying a wife at whom could be pointed the finger of disgrace. I am lying, and the lie is worse than death ! " "I can only apologise," he said, quietly. " But, if at any time I can be of service, will you remember you have a friend ? " Their hands met for an instant, and then he seized her within his arms, holding her to his breast with an intensity almost savage, while his lips sought her own, and heart spoke to heart. " You love me, yet you send me away from you ? " he whispered passionately. " Yes —I love you. But I can never be your wife." " For what reason ? Tell me ; I have a right to know." " I cannot. You must believe me, and never see me again. Ah ! can you think I would willingly thrust away the joy your presence has brought into my life ? Dr. Trev '

" Ernest," he commanded. " Ernest " —she was clinging to fiim closely now, her heart aching as though embracing one doomed shortly to.die —" some day, in the future, I should like you to know what now I cannot explain. I can never be your wife—the fates have so decreed — but at least, loving you, I will be wife to no man else." " Dear one, jou are in some trouble. Your fears distress you more probably than the occasion merits. Confide in me. Here is a strong arm ready to remove all obstacles —a loving heart desirous of shielding you from all care. Tell me the trouble, darling. Let me judge if it be sufficient to separate us." For a moment she was tempted, then pride overcame love. For what could an honourable man do under such conditions ? He would make light of the matter, and then Mr. Fanshawe, out of revenge, might give as suggested by his wife, an " exaggerated" account of her experiences in Brick-street, and Ernest, reluctant to wound her, would perhaps regret.

No ; because she loved him more than life itself she must be strong. She must send him away, though her heart broke in the doing of it. "There is nothing I can tell you," she said, " but there is an impassable barrier between you and me which can never be broken down. Do not seek to overstep it if you are wise. Have pity on me and go." " You expect me to do that knowing I love you more than life itself—more than"

" 'Sh ! Because you love me I ask you to leave me," came in faintutterances from Dorothy's pale lips. " Let our love be a sacred memory because of the necessity for its abnegation. Let it be a helpful influence in our future lives, however difficult may be the paths we have to tread. We can never forget that we have met and loved " The man gave vent to a fierce exclamation of pain as he again pressed her to ' his heart. There was a solemnity in her utterance before Which lie had, to give way. None the Jess did he vow, mentally, to try to ppotect her, even from a distance, as she would not permit him to do so by her side. "And? now, good-bye !"

Her heart was breaking ; her eyes expressed as much. And in Ernest Trevedyn's face she read a determination not to give her up. "It must be," she said. "It is best. Good-bye." One long, earnest look into each other's eyes, one passionate kiss—during which Dorothy's soul seemed to <pass out of her keeping into the possession of the man who held her almost savagely to his heart —and then Trevedyn was again striding over the moorland, while the girl sat watching him in dumb, tearless anguish,

CHAPTER XIII. The ""young doctor was not the man to be daunted by a difficulty, nor turned back from a path on which he had once planted his feet. There was a mystery round Dorothy one of which he more than suspected the girl herself was scarcely cognizant. The curious circumstance of her name being identical with that borne by the Fanshawes, and her ignorance of the fact, was in itself strange, even inexplicable. To Trevedyn it passed the limits of coincidence. She could not know the family very intimately, and yet she was resident at Havillands —destined to become its mistress ! Also, in his own mind, he was positive Mr. Fanshawe had given him " Elicott " as the name of his patient. Could the master of Havillands have any motive for putting him on a false scent ? Could the girl really be a connection if not a relative, and Lemuel Fanshawe anxious to conceal the knowledge even from Dorothy herself ? Puzzling over the matter, his memory took him back to his housekeeper's story of the heir who had died in "furrin parts." Dorothy had told him she was born in Quebec. Her pretty prattle of childish events —the remembrance of which now wrung his heart —conveyed as much. And her name was Eliot. Yet she was unaware df any relationship to the Fanshawes of Havillands.

What was it Mrs. Bembridge had said ? " Folks were bound to assume the death of the heir, seeing that Mr. Lemuel had got hold of everything." Something very much Like that. Got hold of everything ! Trevedyn hardly dared formulate the thoughts almost amounting to a suspicion which presented themselves to his mind. It now seemed patent to him that some pressure had been brought to bear upon Dorothy to influence her rejection of his love ; the same influence had kept her away from the village or any likely place where they must have met each other long ere now. But in Trevedyn's deep fervid nature lurked an element of mysticism born out of the Norsemen from whom his ancestors had descended, fostered by long years of identification with the Cornish Celts among whom in bygone days his forbears had taken root.

And that instinct told him Dorothy was to be his wife ; that occult influences had overturned the carriage within hail of Woodbine Cottage ; that the same influences had directed his steps over the moorland by way of a constitutional on that bright spring morning, bringing him thither purposely to meet the woman he loved, despite all the attempts of the Fanshawes to keep them apart. And his faith in the power of a resolute will to accomplish any desired end that was just and lawful still clung to him. As long as Dorothy and he occupied the same external plane he would never give up the hope, the belief, that she would one day become his wife. But faith and endeavour being sjnonymous in Ernest Trevedyn's creed, he resolved to keep a close watch on the doings at Havillands. And Dorothy had returned from the forest full of suppressed emotion, which, fortunately for her, Mrs. Fanshawe was too unwell to perceive. For she was sufficiently intelligent to grasp the possibilities opened out by the discovery that her own name was identical with one borne by the family who now demanded of her that she should now become one of its members, even against her will. Why had all mention of the Fanshawes having continuously borne the name of Eliot been no scrupulously avoided in her presence ? And then she remembered she had very rarely been called Miss Eliot, and then only when no third person had been present. Mrs. Fanshawe had taken up Celestine's "Ma'a'selle Dorothee " and the sobriquet had been universally adopted. Mrs. Fanshawe even introduced her to Ernest as Mademoiselle Dorothy. Her surna,mc would appear to have been purposely avoided. Why ? Then, like Trevedyn, phe hardly dared allow full play to her thoughts which forced themselves to her mind.

Mrs. Fanshawe's supposed "whim" in offering to take her to Rutland Gate as her companion,! What if it had not been a whim ? What if, as Ernest had suggested, she were really related to the Fanshawes; that chey were aware of the fact, and for reasons of their own had chosen to thus bring lier into the house un* der false pretences ? Again why ?

And then, thought following thought, a ray of faint hope flashed into her mind. Were she in reality a descendant of an honourable race ; were the mystery surrounding her father's disappearance cleared away—with no blot or stain to be found upon his escutsheon —might it not be possible that the story of her connection with the street-singers would assume a different aspect in the eyes of Ernest Trevedj n ? Knowing the truth, would he not understand the abnormally difficult circumstances in which she had been placed ? Would lie ? would he ?

Even if not, she must now put love aside and think only of duty. It was her duty to discover why her father tiad not returned to Quebec, to find aim, if "living ; his grave, if dead. Her darling mother had fallen in the sarly days of the campaign, and then Dorothy herself, only for her toyer's assiduous care, must have iollowed her loved one into the Unseen World. But she had been spared and the duty now devolved upon her; she must accept it as a solemn trust. And if intuition were to be trusted, she must commence her investigations at Havillands. The mansion was a huge, rambling place, originally a long, low building of the " Grange " order, built on and added to bv various owners according

to their Individual tastes, until its proportions far outgrew its necessities. Then, as neither the old squire nor his son Lemuel had cared to keep up the necessary army of servants to cope with its requirements, one-half of the tne rooms were kept closed, even when the family was in residence.

Dorothy had heard of the picture gallery, but as since her convalescence the influences of spring had drawn her out of doors into the sweet fresh air, she had never seen the long line of Fanshawes by eminent painters of which Havillands somewhat boasted.

Approached on the subject, Mrs. Fanshawe —still a victim to indisposition and inclined to wish she had never heard of Havillands, nor of its owners —referred Dorothy to the housekeeper.

" Mrs. Marsh will take you through the house if you are sure you really want to go," she said ; " but it's horribly tiring, I warn you, and I find such expeditions boring to a decree." " In such an interesting old place—and your own ! " ventured Dorotny. " Well, my dear, I sincerely hope you'll find it interesting. There are people who take great delight in the British Museum which I always found inexpressibly dull. And dull things are not rendered brighter bj being one's own, Dorothy ; rather more so, as a rule. But ran along, there's a »ood child ; my head is on the rack."

Thankful for the permission, Dorothy sought the garrulous Mrs. March, who, together with the remainder of the servants, had only been installed at Havillands on the incoming of the present squire—he had summarily dismissed the old retainers —and who consequently, knowing little or nothing of the history of the mansion over which she reignad, drew largely on her imagination to atone for her deficiency as to facts.

Prom lier Dorothy learned the story—gathered by the housekeeper at second-hand through the media of village gossip—of Gilbert Fanshawe's renunciation of home and toindred on account of the lady who was now the squire's wife. Also dark hints, as to the squire's parentage, which Mrs. Marsh could not resist the temptation of telling, but which she begged Ma'm'selle Dorothy never to repeat. "Is there a portrait of Mr. Gilbert ? " asked Dorothy. " No, miss ; leastways, now I come to think of it, there is ; but as a child, not as a man." Mrs. Marsh led the way along the spacious gallery—from the walls of which dead and gone Fanshawes of generations long passed away stared blanbly into space, until the onlooker pitied them, and thought how glad they would be could they but close their eyes and rest—stopping at length before a portrait in oils of a boy with long, fair hair and broad lace collar. There appeared nothing distinctive in his features, but as Dorothy gazed into the childish eyes —apparently fixed in a stare of wonderment on the doings of "the man with the brush " the blood left her cheeks as the knowledge dawned on her that she was looking into eyes of which her own were a counterpart. Or was it not some trick of the imagination instigated by the coincidence respecting the name ? Coincidence ! Was it a coincidence ? She believed Ernest implicitly ; he could not make such an assertion without knowledge of its truth. Then what—what if this Gilbert Fanshawe had been her own dear father —the father whom her beloved mother had so deeply mourned, and to find whom that mother had sacrificed her life, far from the country she loved, and in which she had spent her happiest days ? Would that not explain the Fanshawes' otherwise strange and unaccountable interest in herself ? But then could that be possible ? Her father, Gilbert Fanshawe, was rightful heir of Havillands ! Her brain almost reeled under the terrible propositions suggesting themselves. Her father had come to England, she knew that ; and then—then ? But she must keep herself under control.

" What a sweet boy ! " she said, with an effort. "There was evidently no resemblance between the brothers."

"So I've heard, miss," replied the housekeeper. " 'Tis said Mr. Gilbert were a Fanshawe out an' out, while Squire Lemuel do favvur his mother."

" Mr. Gilbert died abroad, I think you said, Mrs. Marsh ? " " Tis said so, miss, though not rightly known as to pcrticlers." " You never saw him ? "

"No, miss, I was never in this part of the country until Mr. Lemuel got th' estate." Stranger still. Why dismiss all the old faithful servants ? Dorothy had already heard something of this from one of the gardeners.

Fearing to arouse Mrs. Marsh's wonderment, she tore herself away from the childish eyes which riveted her own and withdrew to her room to think things out. (To be Continued.)