CHAPTER II. A GLIMPSE AT THE PAST.

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 333, 12 January 1889, Page 4

CHAPTER 11. A GLIMPSE AT THE PAST.

It was as Dr. Griffith had said. Tho baron had been pmibben with a slender-bladod, Italian dagger ; and, as it proved later, the blado had become so fixed between one of the shoulder blades and a rib that the assassin had been unable to immediately withdraw it, and so, with his firm grip on tho haft, when the stricken man stumbled and fell, the blade snapped at the guard. The doctor was able to expose enough of the steel to show him exactly where the broak had occurred ; ro he knew, beyond the possibility of error, that the whole of the blade had been left in the wound. He was for a time in an agony of doubt and indecision. It would be an easy matter to draw the steel away ; but what would be the result ? He took a few turns across the room, to and fro, in deep study. lie was locating the blade, and trying to see with what vital parts it had come in contact. At length, he came back and made further examination. * Lot me ask one question,' said tho baron, who was by far the coolest of the party. 'Is the blow necessarily mortal ? Is there

a hope of tny living ?' * Afc this present moment; I should givo ifc as my opinion that the wound is mortal. In an hour — perhaps less — I can toll you more surely. To speak plainly, my dear Bertrand, I think there is internal hemorrhage, There is certainly none external. If such is the case, of course the end cannot bo far off.'

• How long can I live V llf tho dagger blade be allowed to remain as it is, you may live through the night — perhaps longer. I can tell .you bebber*"by-and-by, When we can determine the quantity of blood that is escaping from its legitimate source.' j ' What would be the effect of pulling out the steol ?' The probability is that it would greatly incroaso the hemorrhage. You can see for yourself tho steel closely filling the channel it has made, must act as a barrier to the outflow.' 1 Thon let tho steel remain whoro it is. You think I will live through the night?' ' Yes, I can warrant that, if you keep very quieb. ' 'Griffith,' said the baron, with not a quiver of fear or perturbation, ' you will romain at the castle until you can dotermino tho caso more accurately ? You will not lcavo mo ?' • Nothing shall take me from you. Have no fear of that. 1 will be within call, not only this evening, but through tho night.' ' Good ! And now, let me have a few minutes with my child. Blanche, you liavo some-thing to &ty to me, oh ?' ' 0, papa, papa ! do not think mo hard ol heart ; but the whole future is bofore me : and if you aro to be taken from me, what shall I do ?' 'That's just what we'll talk about, my sweet birdie.' He roflocted for a few seconds, with his hand over his brow, and then, with a motion towards his low-headed servitor, ho said : ' Dun", do you take yourself to the village, and find Mr Kirkland, and tell him that 1 would like to have him wait upon mo this evening, aud he may bring his clerk with him. (Jan you ramembor that? ' Why, of courao I can, my lord.' ' Very well. And now, will you lemembor this, also— not to speak a word out&ido theso walls of the accident that hag befallen mo ? Will you icmomber, and take heed ?' Tho man promised, and departed, though it was plainly to bo scon that ho went, re luetantly. Evidently, he would ha\o liked to lemain and hear what the baron had to say to his daughter. At least, that was Blanche's belief. As soon as he was gone, and the door had boon closed behind him, the doctor, who had waited for tho opportunity, moved nearer to tho bed ; and having once more felt tho pulse, and pressed his ear for a timo over diffoiont parts of the breast, ho said : 'Old fiiend, I havo a question to ask which you can answer, or not, as you choose. ' You must havo come face to face with the three men whom you met by that drift on the mountain. Did you recognise eithor of them ?' Tho baron hesita ted, and seemed troubled. After a time ho answorcd, very slowly : •They woio crape over their faco3, Doctor. ' • But the man who spoke to you — who warned you to beware — was his voice familiar to your oar ?' 4 Doctor,' after further hesitation, " I will nob swear to him yet. Don't ask me any more.' Shortly after that fatlior and daughter were left alone. And here, that the conversation to lollow, as well as the development of the f>tory itself, may be better undei'stood, a brief glance at the past becomes necessary. Baron Bei brand Ravendalo had been twice married. His lirst wife was Brenhilda, daughter of a noted chief of Aberdeen. She had left no children. Her younger sister, "Drusilla, had married with a bold Highland chief, named ßenf red Bevern, who had been killed on a roving — and not altogether honest — expedition, six years later, lea\inK his wife with one child, a boy, named lteynard ; and he had left them poor. Lord Ravendale, when he knew his sister's situation, called her to his home, and made her his housekeeper, and her son, then iive years of age, he took to hi^ love as a son of his own loins. Drusilla lived ten years after the death of hei husband, and then followed him across the dark river. Reynard frrew and thrived, a stout, rugged, venturesome boy, and a bold and fearless youth. At times the baron wished ho was different ; but he told himself that he would bow liia wild o its in early lite, and bo manly by and-by. Towards middle age, tho good baron having fallen in love with a beautiful maiden. — daughter of a laird of J'erth — and &he lo\ ing him truly and devotedly, mada her his wife. Her name was Barbara. She was famed for her beauty in till the country aiound : and those who knew her daily life loved to tell of her goodnc&sShe was an angel in tho grim old castle while the dwelt within its walls ; and those were livincr who declared that she remained a spirit m it after her body had been laid away in the deep, dark crypts beneath the old chapel. Lady Barbara bore to the baron a daughter, whom bhe named after a fair queen who had been very kind to hor, and one of whose maids of honour she had been for almost two years. It had been at the court, at Holyrood Castle, that the Lord of Ravendale had first seen her. When her child — her beautiful Blanche — was four years old, she fell sick of fever, and died, in her twenty-fifth year. The blow to the baron was terriblo ; and not until his daughter had grown up, in hor mother's image, to care for his homo comforts, did he become reconciled. The baron had often spoken to his sister-in-law, Drusilla, of marrying again ; and she had said to him, more than once : 'If you take another wife, you will have a daughter. Should such prove the caso, promise me that she shall become Reynard's wife. ' And the baron, pleased with t'ho fancy, had •assented. When she lay dying, the same thought possessed her mind ; and almost the last thing she had said, bofore her breath left; her for ever, had been : * Bertram!, remember your promise. If you are blessed with a daughter, let her bo wife of my boy.' And again the Lord of Ravendale had promised. And thi-J was known to Reynard ; and when he had seen Blanche growing up into beautiful girlhood, he had reminded his uncle of his promise ; and thus it came to pass that, when Blanche was fourteen, and Reynard Bevern fivc-and-twenty, they had been affianced ; and later it was known that the baron had made a will, making lleynard his heir, and heir to lii.s title, the king having 1 promised him that the title should go to tho husband of his daughter on condition that he should assume the family name. One orhcr item of family history remains to be told. Baron Ber brand had formerly an own sister, ten years younger than himsolf, whom he had loved with a true and bender devotion. Her name, Margaret. She had lived with her brother, m her ancestral home, until about the timo of the death of his first wife. Then a young and handsome laird of the MacGregors —Sir Archibald— had come to the castle, had fallen in love with her, and had made her his wife and borne her away. Twelve years later, at about the time of the baron's taking the beautiful Lady Barbara for his second wifo, ho loarncd that his sister and her husband were both dead. He knew that SirJArchibald had 1

fallen in babfcle wibh the Danes ; for he had been himself on the bloody field ; and he now learned that his sisfcer Margaret had died of grief, leaving behind one child— a son, named Malcolm, ben years of age. When dying—or when full sure that she should not survive — she wrote to her brother a prayer that he would bo a father bo her fatherless boy, soon to be left also mobherlqss. So, ab bhe age of ten yoars, Malcolm MacGregor became an inmate of bhe enable of Ravondale. Ho was noble, oven then ; and as beautiful as his mother had been before him ; and ho had inhoribed his lather's bravery and strength of limb. He became a favourite— the favourite— ab the castle ab once ; and ho never took advantage of the situation The baron took him to his heart— ay, to his hoait of heart — ab once, loving him a 5;a 5 ; no had loved his mother befoie him. Very shortly, as might be supposed — or, at loast, as one would suroly have supposed who had known him- Master Reynard be came desperately jealous of tho handsome boy, and took early ocoasion to impi oss it u pon him thafc to himself— Reynard— tho hand of Blanche, then a laughing child, had been Rolomnly promised. 4 One day, when Malcolm had reached bhe ago of twelve, he went to the baron's private room, and seriously asked him if it was true that the hand of Blanche had beon promised to Reynard. The laird answered him— Yo?. Then the boy wenb away, and for many a day was sad and dispirited. Blanche wa,s then only sevon years old ; but bhe warm hearted, impulsive boy had already fallen in love with her, as had sho with him. Time wenb on, when the baron himself vras sad, he thought ho had made a mistake. Malcolm was bho youth upon whom his daughter's hand and his family name mid title should bo bestowed ; and it -would requhe no royal edict to do it, since bhe boy in question was of his own blood — child of his father's daughtor. Such a situation could nob fail to attract the notico of Reynard Bevern. He was now twonty, an.l called himself a man. If he would make sure of hit, wife and fortune, he must dispose of the interloper, and he set himself bo the work. Not yet had the hand of Blanche been promised him. He did not work alone. He found plenty whom he was able to seduce bo his service. Never mind tho smaller affairs. They weio many, and were gradually breaking up bhe baron's confidence in his sister's son. At length, on a certain day, when Malcolm had reached his sixteenth year, the baron administered to him a severe roprimand for a fault of which he had nob been guilby— a fault which had been laid to his charge through falsehood on the part of Reymond's hired helpers. Naturally, the boy— now a comely and educated youth — defended himself. The baron waxed wroth, and in bhe heab of passion administered a heavy blow. It was told to his lordship that the boy had sworn vengeance ; but it was false. Ho had only declared that ho would live upon his uncle's bounty no longer. On tho evening of the day next following this lattor event a shob was fired ab tho baron from behind a distant thicket, and it so chanced that Malcolm at thafe very time had been not a h undred yards away, with an empty musket in his hands. Tho crime was laid ab his door. He stood up stoutly, but it was of no use. Moro in sorrow than in anger his uncle turned him away, bidding him never to cross his threshold again. And ho went, his last words being : 'To the Righteous Judge of Heaven I leave my cause. The time shall come when my innocence will bo proved ; and then you may believo that I have been innocent of many things laid to my charge,' That was nine years before the day on which the baron received his mortal wound. Malcolm was then fifteen, and Blanche had reached the age of ten. Her heart was almost broken by tholossof theone companion whom she h/td loved with all the strength and ardor of her warm and generous nature, and whom she had not ceased to love to bhe present day. When Dr. (riifiith had gone, and the door had been closed behind him, father and daughter weie left alone together. The father was tho first to speak. He bade hi 5*5 * child bring a chair and sit by his bedside. But she would nob sib. .She bent over and kissed him, and stood holding one of his hands in both her own. ' Blanche,' lie said, after a pause— his voice was. strangely pained and quivering — ' Blanche, do jou know where — where — my nephew is ?' ' No, papa. Ho has nob been at home for several days. He was ' ' Blanche ! Blanche ! O ! don't you know V I mean — my own— o?ni — nephew — ray own sweet, sister's son. I mean — Malcolm ! Do you know where he is ?' The girl quivered like all aspen. 1 b was bhe fir.it time since her dear cousin had gone away that she had heard his name upon her father's lips. As soon as sho could command her speech she replied, with real surprise : 1 Do you nob know, papa V ' No, no ; I know nobbing of him. I have nob known for years. O ! for years — weary, weary years ! Where is he?' ' Papa,' with a light in her azure eyes that was efiulgont, 'ho was, nob long ago, in Edinbuigh ; bub he was expecting to be sent hither ere long.' The baron was puzzled ; and pretty soon Blanche discovered that he really knew nothing whatever concerning the youth's later life. Then she bold him that Malcolm was in the service of tho king — that he was the Colonol MacGregor, who only a" year before had won the golden spurs of knighthood on the haid-fought field of St. Andrews. > The baron was olectrified. He had glorified in the deeds of bhat historic day, and had heard of the heroic MacGregGr, never dreaming that it was his sister's son. After a lengthy pause, hebursb forth : 'O ! Blanche- ! was he — was ho innocenb ? I have thought — I have thought, since Reynard — Blancho ! was he innocent ?' ' Papa ! dear papa ! you must be quieb. Remember what the doctor said. If you ' will be as still as you can, and nob start, and cry out, I will talk to you of Malcolm. Ay, he was — he is — innocenb. I knew it at the time. Now listen : There is one man who can tell you the truth, I am very pure. He is now in the castle — he is your keeper of the hounds — Dugald Garrow. I think if you should ask him now, telling him that you wero, perhaps, stricken unto death, he would tell you the truth.' ' Blanche !'— reaching oub his other hand, and taking one of her wrists — ' I wish you would confide in me.' ' Papa, havo I ever — ever — hesitated so to do?' ' But the question I have now to ask is different from anything I have ever asked.' 'Go on, papa. I will answer, if 1 can.' ' My sweet child,' looking hor straight in the eye, 'do you love Malcolm MacGregor V ' With all my heart, and all my soul ! I havo loved him since I knew him, ! she answered, promptly. She bent over and kissed the sufferer, and tenderly smoothed b.ack the hair from his brow. 1 And Malcolm loves you V * Ah, I hopo &o ; but* I do not know. Since the day— now many years agone — when he asked you if my hand was promised in mamage to Reynard,' and ,ypu

answered him yea — he has not spoken to me of love. ' ' Blanche ! Is that true ?' ' As true as Heaven !' ' Bub you have heard from him ?' ' Yes, two or Chreo times every year. It was ho who son I word to me that Dugald (a arrow, if he would, could tell the whole truth of that terrible evening on which you were fired at from the juniper thicket.' ' You have scon him — Malcolm -since he — went from us ?' This was asked hesitatingly, and with evident pain — painful memory. ' I have scon him twice, papa — both times within the year last past. And— o ! it," you could but look upon him !' 4 Jiush ! hush !' A pause, and then — ' Blanche, you spoke of his coming hither. For what is he coming ?' ' The king, in answer to the earnest prayers of many people, has ordered him to come up hither, with a portion of his command, for bhe purpo&e ot capturing the terrible robbers of Ben Alpine. The baron gave unmistakoable token of being startled by this announcement. Aftor gazing for a few moments into his daughter's face with a far-away, vacant look, as though his thoughts were wandering, he covered his eyes with his hands, and appeared to think for a time more collectedly. At length to himself he spoke, in tones low and tremulous : ' What a fate ! What a fate ! All ! if it should be so ! And is it not ? It must be. 0 ! Heaven help him ! 3e will have need of help in, the treacherous ambuscades of Ben Alpine (> Then lie looked up and met his daughter's earn'esl gaze. His eyes biightened, the colour came to his lips, and hi& whole being &eemed quickened. ' Blanche ! I will know the truth. Send for Dugald (Jariow. If the truth ib in him 1 will havo it out.' 1 Papa,' gently smoothing his brow, { let mo prepare him. Speak kindly to him. If ho tells what he knows, he will tell it of his own good will. Fear not,' seeing a shadow upon the stiicken face, ' I shall not speak with him away from this spot. I shall not leave your bedside.' The baron's face brightened in a moment, and shortly afterwards Blanche touched a small silver bell that stood upon a dressingtable at the head of the bed. The buinmons was answered by a chambermaid, who was directed to go down to the kennels and tell Dugald Garrow that Lady Blancho wished to see him. ' And you will bring him to this place, and, mark you, as quickly as possible. ' The girl departed ; and ere long theie after the keeper of the hounds entered the chamber. He was a man of medium height ; broad-shouldered and muscular ; with much of the canine in Doth look and manner. And who can wonder, when it is remembered that his chief care, as well as hLs chief companionship, had been dogs, and only dogs, all his life ? and he was very nearly as old as the baron himself. Dugald Garrow, pushing back his tawny, shaggy mane, approached the bed with a slow, sidelong motion, and there stood, gazing down upon his lord with more ot reverence in his look than the ordinary beholder would believe him capable ol manifesting. (To he Coidinmd.)