CHAPTER XIV. THE COUSINS.

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 118, 5 September 1885, Page 6

CHAPTER XIV. THE COUSINS.

On the morning after Rupert's arrival at homo Donald Owen was called away on business which ho would not neglect— his secretary called him— and Doris ate breakfast with only Leila at the table with her. She had come to make a comoanion of her true-hearted Hindoo &irl rather than a servant, and the companionship was enpyable. Towards -the middle of the forenoon, as she sat alone in her chamber, Leila having gone out with Susan, Doris heard her door opened, and, on looking up, was somewhat startled upon beholding a stranger. But she knew him at once, and at once her heart went out to him. She had never seen a more kind and winsome face. It was mild and gentle, yet firm and true — the face of a poet— of one who loved what was lovely — and yet a brave and loyal face. And more : There were traces of suffering in it : and in the mystic depths of the dark eyes there was an earnest craving for sympathy. " Pardon me, I pray you," he said ; and he added, with a quiet smile, as he advanced — "This was once my apartment, and I think I have a few old books here. I wanted one of them, and came for it, not knowing that I should trespass." " Indeed, sir, it is no trespass. I should be sorry to keep a student away from his books."" "Don't call me a student. I wish I could feel like one. But— tell me— do I speak with my cousin Doris ?" Her face brightened, and a gladsome feeling moved her heart. It was pleasant to think that he was her cousin. Bis voice, too, was like sweet music, after the voice of the man to whom she had of late been forced to listen. "I am Doris Bertram, Bir. You are Rupert ?" " Yes. You may call me your Cousin Rupert, and I will call you Cousin Doris. Truly, 1 am glad I find you here. I came home because I was not strong enough for the — for the life I had thought to lead." "Do not fear to speak, sir. Your father has told me thai; you had tried a soldier's | life. Do not stand. If. you will stop, I trust you will sit." |

"If I may. Thank you,' ? he said, as he sank into a seat faoing her,' Then after a brief pause, he went on : "As I was saying, I oame home because my health, or my lack of health, obliged me to do bo j but the thought of home-coming was not so cheerful as it might have been had I known that I was to find pleasant companionship." He stopped and looked into her face, finding evidently what he thought a troubled expression. Was she fearful of him? Did she fear that he would presume upon her loneliness— upon her state of dependence? Prompted by an impulse of his pure heart, he exclaimed, at the same time putting out bis hand : "Doris, I wish you would trust me. I know you want a friend. letme be that friend, I pray you. The person who trusted me was never yet by me betrayed." She gave him her hand, but could not speak. Her eyes were brimming, and her lips quivered. "You will trust me, I know. I am aware of your situation. I know how you have been tried, I can feel how you must.have suffered. From ny heart I say to you, with no thought beyond, let me be your brother. Let me realise, if you can, how pleasant it can be to have a sister. " " Ah, sir " the fair one replied, with a slow, sad shaking of her head, " you know not what you ask, 0! I would love to have a brother— a brother to" whom I could confide my inmost thoughts -but, alas! your father's son cannot be he." "Doris-" " flush ! Ask me no questions, for I cannot an<_, ver you." He gazed into her face long and searchingly. At length the cloud broke away, and into his tcuthful eyes .came a gladsome light. " Doris," he said, in a tone but slihtly raised above a whisper, " I think I gatl er your meaning. You fancy my father is not your true friend." , "No, no; I do not fancy." " Perhaps you have reason to bolievehe is not your friend." She mtvde no answer. "When I offered to be jour brother I mearball the word rould imply. If my falber has wronged you, or it he seeks to v. o <? you, I will still be your brother. The wrong shall be my wrong 1 ; r lif I ear 1 ifc help you to repair it, I will help you to bear it." "0, Rupert !" Doris cried, from the very depths of her being, " if you will be such a brother I will trust you with all my heart. But, I tell you plainly, your father— has — " "Go on." "No : I daro not. He is your father; you are his child." "Not a child to wink at gross outrage, no matter who commits it. Tell me what you will. I think I know what you would say. You would tell me that my father was the direct agont in— what shall I say ?" "The forcible abduction of my husband, and his impressment into the military service," said the wronged wife without hesitation, "Do you know this ?" asked Rupert, with another of those keen searching glances. " I know it!" she answered, calmly and quietly. Rupert Owen was startled. That steady gaze of his was fixed upon the beautiful face before him until at length his countenance was lighted up, and he reached out and took her hand. "Doris," he said, in a low whisper, at the same time casting a quick, furtive glance around the apartment, " your hv.*bandis ?wtdead." "How do you know?" with a slight start. "Ah } I read it in your face. I read it now in your voice. O, Dora ! trust mo. If my father's act has not resulted in that direful event, I ought to have the joy of beingaesured. And oncemo'-elsaytoyou : Trust me fully. I will be true to you and help you by every means within my power." " But, Rupert," our heroine suggested, " suppose that in your championship of my cause, y»u should find your own interests involved. There are many things to be thought of." " I understand you, Doris ; and in return I toll you this : Though my loyalty to you should leave me penniless, so long as your cause was just, I would support it. Will you trust me now ?" " Yes, yes, 0 ! Rupert, I believe you. I know you would not deceive or betray me." " There is my hand — the hand of a brother, true to the core ! Now tell me, your husband is living?" "Yes." " But I read the account of his death In the newspaper ; and more : My father had a letter from General Renwick, received last evening, stating the same thing." " How ?" cried Doris, with a sharp, quick cry. " A letter from Renwick ?" She caught his wrist with an eager grip. " What did he write ?" "It was only a couple of lines. Let me think. Ah ! I have it. All he wrote was this : Donald ' Owen 'he saya : ' You will see by the newsprints' of t/ie "ddy, George Bertram is dead !' and then signed hi? name, ' Renwick.'" Doris held her breath for a moment, then a sigh of relief, and a quiet smile broke over her face. "Ah ! you understand it. Do you know, Dorip, I have been in trouble ever since my father lot slip that Jack Renwick wa3 the commander who held your husband's fate in his hands. I have known that man, and it was hard for me to believe that he could be needlessly cruel. I knew he might hold a man against his will under cortain circumstances, especially in such times as these ; but I could not think he would lend himpelf to such an outrage as the captnre and forcible enslavement of such a man as your husband would be. I wish you would tell me the story, for I see plainly that you know it." Doris reflected for a little time, and finally said, with a smile that charmed the son of Donald Owen as he had not been charmed in that house since his mother died : "Cousin, you must know that my husband's full name is George Forsythe Amsden Bertram. It was at Renwick's suggestion, when he was made captain, that he shonld drop the name he had been in the habit of using, and adopt only his two middle names — " "Whew!" cried her hearer, with a vigorous clapping together of his hands, "that's the Captain Amsden who saved Renwick's right wing at Wiltsburg ! I have wondered who *t could be. And he is your husband ! But this George Bertram that is reported dead, who is he ?" • " There is something curious about that," replied Doris; and she then went on and told the whole' story-— told of Beppo's coming ; of her husband's letters, and of Gen. Renwick's significant observation touching the possibility of a result like that which had transpired. When she had concluded, her cousin remained for a time 3ilent. At length he said, with deep feeling : " Doris, your secret is safe with me. 1 will be your brother, in truth and indeed : and to that end we must have a further understanding. I can plainly see that my father will set his wits at work to make a match between us. You, he thinks, he has in his power ; and, to a certain extent,

if I were not here to help you, you would be. As forme, he will doubtless endeavour to exercise a parent's prorogative, and command me, if need be, to become your husband. The existence of your husband renders our way easy and simple. We can be brother and sister now without fear of misunderstanding. Now tell me of your father— tell me of yourself." "Of my father, Rupert, I remember nothing. I waß only three years old when he died." "Just about my own age," Rupert remarked, " when he left Owensville." Doris went on, and told of her mother ; and in telling of her mother she told the story of her father's life in India, and of the sad accident by which he mot his death. In this connection she spoke of the strange disappearance of Jack Clearstar ; and anon she spoke of Jacob Wenzell and Jonas Herter. At this point Rupert interrupted her. "Do you tell me that Jacob Wenzell was suspected of having had a hand in the di&appearance °f y° ur father's valet ?" " Yes. Mamma was sure of it." " Doris,there is something strange in this. Let me think. I certainly remember the name and the man." He bent his head upon his hand, and so remained for v full minute At length he looked up. " You say your father died in June oi 'forty seven." •'Yes." •• I was ten years old at that time. I call jto mind now— it was little more than a year before that —a year and a half — in January ; of 'forty-six— that my father had a man in his employ— two men, in fact— Wenzell and Hertor. The man Wenzell at the time ] have mentioned, he'sentaway upon business of great momehtjj and' l now know that he sent him to India. I was so young at the time, and so Jond of dreamipg, that my presence was not noticed. Herter was sent over several" yea r s la^er, and doubtles3 upon the same business. I think Wenzell asked for him. Ib has been a deep-laid plot from beginning to end. Wenzell and Herter have been the agents, and my father, here at home, the moving spirit." " Why — 0 ! why should he have sought harm to us ?" cried Doris. " Do you not guess ?" 11 Yes ; I have my strong suspicions ; and upon the strength of those suspicions, I promised my mother, on her dying bed, that I would co ac to America — to my papa's old home— and establish my rights if I could ; and she had a promise from George that he would be my husband, and come with me." At thi3 point Rupert arose from his seat, and took two or three turns across the room. Finally he stopped by his companion's eide, and laid a hand gently on her shoulder, as she still sat. " Dori3, if I could reveal to you the whole truth, I would do so on the instant ; but I am in the dark, as you are, though, perhaps, still, we must, both of us, be content to wait for further development. It is strange— or, at least, curious— that the man whom I had in my heart so highly honoured should prove to be tho very man whom my father had betrayed -your husband! Strange things come to pass in this world, certainly !" "0 ! Rupert. lam so glad you like my George — " "Ha ! Don't call him by that namo. It I may slip your tongue when it ought not." "I will be careful, cousin. I do not think I could be tempted to botray the precious secret." " One thing more, Dorb, and wo will let this matter rest for the present. You spoke of a golden crucifix to which you were inclined to attach some my3ter^. I have a reason for asking about that. What ie it ? If you can explain to me, I Avish you would " She hesitated not a moment. She told him what the thing was ; that her father had caused it to be made in Paris ; that he had kept ib sacredly, more than hinting that he regarded it a3 a talisman of virtue to himself. She told, also, how, at his death, he had given it to Jack Clearstar, together with full instruction?, both of which— crucifix and explanation — Jack was to give to his wife. "And at this point," she wont on, " begins the mystery. After papa had breathed his last, Jack went privately to Major Ashton, and gave the crucifix into bis hands, telling him that ho did not feel safe to keep it. He was cure, at the very moment it was given into his hand by his master that he caught siVht at a window directly above the cot, of a dark face -the face of a man who had been lurking around the bungalow ever since they had occupied it. Aehton took the crucifix, but Jack did not communicate to him the explanation he had received. He had only feared that the precious emblem would be stolen from him ; personal violence be had not thought of. So the crucifix came safely to my mother's hand : but the secret, if there was one, was lost with the poor valet." " And this crucifix you have ?" " Ye?." *'I wish you would let me see it." She arose instantly, and went for the casket ; then she returned to her cousin, and having unlocked and opened the ebon case, she took out the crucifix, and gave it into his hand. An exclamation of surprise and admiration escaped Rupert's lips as he took the treasure and gazed upon it. He turned it in his hand, and balanced it critically on the end of his fingers. Then he examined it more carefully, and once more calculated I its weight. 1 " This is indeed a beautiful piece of work, 1 and aside from its associations, it is valuable. It is valuable nn account of its intrinsic worth ; and it is valuable aa a work of art. Are you used to the weight of gold ?" Doris shook her head. She had handled but very little gold in her lifetime, and only in smail quantities -never anything else like that. "This bit of gold," pursued Rupert, weighing it again upon his fingers, "is very heavy ; but it is not so heavy as it ought to be if it were a solid mass." •' How !" cried Doris, with a start. "Do you mean that it is hollow ?" ♦•I am very certain that it is not solid my dear cousin. And that there is something more than gold inside this cross I am confident, though it be nothing more than atmospheric air. But we will let time tell the rest. Of course you will not suffer it to be tampered with until your husband can be present." "0, no— not for the world." " Does my father know of the existence of this crucifix V " He has never intimated such a thing to me, yet I believe he knows of it. Wenzell knows that such a thing was ours, and it is not liKely that his master could remain ignorant." "Thatia reasonable; and more,— lf my father knows that Ralph left such a token, be sure he will ere long ask you about it If he should do so, how would you meet him ?" • ( I don't know. The thought has troubled me." "If I will direct you will you obey me ?" "I will try." •• It will not be difficult. What I propose is this : Should my father ask you concerning the orucifix, you certainly cannot tell a downright falsehood." " 0 ! no ! no I* " Then acknowledge that you have it in your possession. Tell him that you hold it

as a sacred trust which you cannot let go. Should he persist— should he peremptorily demand it -then, as a last resort, refer him to me. Tell him that it is in my chargethat only from me can he obtain it. Stand to this, and let him come to me if he will. I shall know how to meet him. Have no fears. It will be best, henceforth, for you to consider the treasure as in my charge. I shall leave it in your custody, but I demand of you a promise that you will not surrender it without my consent. Will you so understand it?" " Yes. O ! with pleasure and with gratitude. I will do exactly as you say. But, Rupert, if it is hollow, how can the secret opening be found 1" " That remains to be seen. 1 think lam goldsmith enough to find it, however, so we will borrow no trouble on that score. There now, put it away, and remember your promise. I would suggest, hcwever, that you do not trust it in your trunk. If my father should take it into his head to make a search for it, believe me either he or his agentß would snroly find it. You cannot be too careful. Let your maid —your Hindoo - make you a pocket which you can wear about your person, and for a time keep it there. I really think it will bo best so." Doris was thankful for the snggestion, and she promised that she would carry it into execution. "And now, my dear cousin," said Kuperfr, rising and taking her hand, "I think my father has returned, and I will go and meet him. Remember, we are to trust one another. You.wili not hesitate to come to me on any occasion when you may want help or advice, and I shall not hesitate to apply to you. If you -hear further from your brave husband, you will let me know ?" She promised him that she would, ' "Courage, Doris ! lam strongly impressed that the right will triumph Be true to yourself, and have no fear." He rai3ed her small, white hand to his lips, and loft her with more of gladness in her heart than she had felt for a long, long time. (To be Continued.)