Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VIII, Issue 484, 28 June 1890, Page 3

Wonderful Woman.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of “ Guy Earlescourt’e Wife," “ A Terrible Secret,” “ Lost for a Woman," “ A Mad Marriage,” etc CHAPTER XXVII. THAT NIGIIT. Three hours later, and Redmond and Rose O’Donnell had quitted Scarswood Park for ever. The last farewells had been said—to Lady Datigerfiold, weeping feebly, not so much at their loss as over the general distress and misery that was falling upon the place, the dread of her own fortune. To Lady Cecil, cold, and white, and still* giving her parting kis3 to the sister her parting hand-clasp to the brother. ‘ Farewell for ever, my love—my love—who loved me once,’ that long, wistful, hopeless glance said. To Lord Ruysland, politely affable and full of regrets to the last. ‘Confound Mrs Everleigh and her masquerade ball, and doubly, trebly confound Miss Herncastle for persuading Ginevra to go. The only consolation is we’lbhave her on the hip before night falls.’ ‘ And even that consolation I must ask vour lordship to forego,’ O'Donnell said, with a half smile. */ have been to see Miss Herncastle. And there is no need of that search warrant, my lord. I believe you are at liberty to enter and go through Bracken Hollow as freely as you please—if you only wait until to-morrow.’ « My good follow, do you know what you are saying? Wait with such an archtraitress as that ! Wait! give her time to make her escape, and carry off her victim —her prisoner, whoever it may be, and start life luxuriously in London or Paris, under a new alias , and with poor Sir Peter’s money 1 My dear O’Donnell, you’re a sensible fellow enough in the main, but don’t you think this last suggestion of yours betrays slight symptoms of softening of the brain ?’

‘ My lord—no. Y'ou see I know Mies Herncastle’s story, and you don’t—that makes the difference.’

‘ Gad !’ his lordship responded, ‘ I am not sure that I care to know any more than I do. If her previous history be in keepping with its sequel here, it must be an edifying autobiography. Is her name Herncastle, or what?’ 4 Her name is not Herncastle- Ido not know what ibis. I believe she does nob know herself. My lord, she is greatly to be pitied; she has gone wrong, but circumstances have driven her wrong. The bitter cynic who defined virtue as only the absence of temptation was right, as cynics \ery generally are. In her place I believe I would have done as she has done —ay, worse. Life has dealt hardly with her-hardly—hardly, I tell you so ; and to lean too greatly to the side of pity tor the erring is nob my weakness. Gaston Dantree is the ghost and prisoner of Bracken Hollow. She has confessed ; but I believe he is well and kindly treated ; and if, instead of caring for him there, she had left him to die like a dog in a ditch, she would only have given him his deserts. She has taken (fairly or unfairly, as you will—l don’t know) a large sum of money from Sir Peter Dangerfield : but I say there too she has served him right. In her place I would have taken every farthing if I could. She has done wrong in the matter of the ball, but even then, treated as Lady Dangerfield treated her, I don’t say I would nob have done the same. From first to last, I maintain, Miss Herncastle has been more sinned against than sinning, and so your lordship would acknowledge if you knew all.’ His eyes were flashing, his dark face flushed with an earnestness that rarely broke through the indolent calm of long habit and training. His lordship stood and stared at him aghast. ‘ Good Heaven !’ he said, ‘ what rhodomontade is this? Is the woman a witch? and have you fallen under her spells at last? And I would acknowledge all this if 1 knew all? Then, my dear fellow, in the name of common-sense tell me all, for I’ll be hanged if I can make top or tail of this. Wiio, in Heaven’s name, is this greatlywronged— much-to-be-pitied Miss Herncastle ?’

‘ Perhaps I ought to tell you —and yet it is such a marvellous story—’

* Egad ! I knew that beforehand ; everything connected with this extraordinary young woman is marvellous. Whatever it is, it cannot be much more marvellous than what has gone before.’ ‘ My lord,’ O’Donnell said, hastily, ‘ I see my sister waiting, and I have no time to spare. Here is a proposal: don’t go near Bracken Hollow until to-morrow, until you have heard from me. Before I leave Castleford I will find time to write you the whole thing; I really don’t care to tell it, and when you have read her story, I believe I only do you justice in saying you will let Miss Herncasble alone. I have reason to think she will leave Castleford to-day with my sister and me—that she will share Rose’s asylum in France, and that all her evil doings are at an end. To-night you shnll have my letter—to-morrow do as you please. Once more, my lord, farewell.’ He lifted his hat and sprang down the steps to where Rose sat in the basketcarriage awaiting him. Once he glanced back —he half snr.led to see his lordship standing petrified where he had left him. He glanced up at a particular window. A face that dead and in its coffin would never look whiter, watched him there. He waved his hand—the ponies flung up their heads and dashed down the avenue ; in a moment Scarswood lay behind them like a place in a dream. ..i.p, There was nob one word spoken all the way. Once Rose, about to Speak, had glanced at her brother’s face, and the words died on her lips. Did he love Lady Cecil after all—had he loved her vainly for years? They went to the Silver Rose. Miss O’Donnell had her former room, and there, wrenching himself from the bitterness and pain of his own loss, he told her the story of Gaston Dantree. ‘ If you would like to see him, now is your time,’ he said. * I am going to Bracken Hollow. You can come if you like.’ She listened in pale amaze, shrinking and trembling as she heard. An idiot for life ! At the horror of that fate all her wrongs paled into insignificance—what awful retribution was here l She rose up ashen grey with pity and horror, but tearless and quiet. ‘I will go,’ she answered. He procured a fly, and they started at once. ' Again it was a very silent drive. Redmond O’Donnell forced his thoughts from his own troubles—brooding on boneless loss of any kind was not his nature—and thought of Katherine, He almost wondered at himself at the pity he felt for her—at the sort of admiration and affeobion she had inspired him with How brave she was, how resolute, how patient j what I wonderful self-command was hers. What i elements for a noble and beautiful life I warped and gone wrong. But ifc was not

vet too late ; the courage, the generosity, the nobility within her would work for good from henceforth. He would tako her to France, her better nature would assert itself. She would one day become one of those exceptionally great woman whom the world delights to honour. She —he paused. They had drawn up at the gate, ana standing there with folded arms, with rigidlycompressed lips, with eyes that looked like gleaming steel, stood Henry Otis. The Algerian soldier knew him at onc.e, and knew the instant he saw him something had gone wrong. As he advanced with his sister Mr Otis flung open the gate, took off his hat to the sister, and abruptly addressed the brother.

‘ I have the honour of speaking to Captain Redmond O'Donnell ?’ * I am Captain O’Donnell, Mr Obis,’ was the calm answer. 1 I come here with my sister by Miss Herncastle’s permission.’ ‘ I inferred that. This is your second visit to-day ?' ‘ My second visit,’ O'Donnell added, secretly wondering why the man should assume that belligerent attitude and angry tone. * I trust Miss Herncastle is here ? I carr.e, expecting to meet her.’ * Miss Herncastle is not hero !’ Otis replied, his eyes glancing their irate steely fire; ‘she has gone.’ ‘ oono !’

‘Cone —fled—run away. That would not surprise me; but this does.’ He struck angrily an open letter he held. ‘Captain O’Donnell, what have you been saying to her—what influence do you possess over her that she should resign the triumph of her life, in the hour of its fulfilment, for you ? By what right do you presume to come here, and meddle with what in no way concerns you ?’ Redmond O’Donnell stood and looked at him, his straight black brows contracting, his voice sinking to a tone ominously low and calm.

‘Rose,’ he said, ‘step in here and wait until I rejoin you.’ She obeyed with a startled look. ‘ Now then, Mr Otis, let us understand one another ; I don’t comprehend one word you are saying, but I do comprehend that you have taken a most disagreeable tone. Be kind enough to change it to one a little less aggressive, and to make your meaning a little more clear.’

* You don’t understand ?’ Otis repeated, still with suppressed anger. 1 Have you not been the one to counsel her to renounce the aim of her life, to resign her birthright because, forsooth, the woman who has usurped it is your friend ? Have you not been the one to urge this flight—to compel this renunciation ?’ ‘My good fellow,’ O’Donnell cried impatiently, ‘lf you intend to talk Greek, talk it, but don’t expect me to understand. And I nevor was clever at guessing riddles. If Miss Herncastle has run away, I am sincerely sorry to hear it—it is news to me. What you mean about renouncing her birthright and all that you may know—l don’t. I urged hereto give up the life of falsehood and deception she has been leading lately for one more worthy of her, and I understood her to say she would. The influence I possess over her is only the influence any true friend might possess. Farther than that, if you want me to know what you are talking about, you will be kind enough to explain.’ And Henry Otis, looking into the dark, gravely haughty face, knew that he spoke the truth. He handed him the letter.

‘lb is from her,’ he said, ‘to me. Read

O’Donnell obeyed. It bore date that day, and was significantly brief.

‘Henry—my Brother: You will be surprised—pained, angered, it, may be—when I tell you lam going, and coming back no more. I give it all up—all the plotting, the weary, wicked, endless schc ming that brought revenge, perhaps, but never happiness. And the confession is burned ! They shall never know—neither my father, nor she who has taken my place unwittingly, shall ever be rendered miserable by the truth. I can remember now that she at least was ever gentle and sweet to mo. If I told them to-morrow, I could not, would not take her place ; my father would never care for m e—would look upon me as a shame and dis grace. Let it go with all the rest. Captain O’Donnell has proven himself my friend; for his i-ace I renounce my cherished revenge. Let the miserable woman we have lured here go. Care for poor Gaston as you have always cared. Do not follow me ; when happier days come I will go to you. Do not fear for mo ; I will not return to the stage : I shall live uprightly and honestly for the time that is to come, God helping me. Sir Peter Dangerfleld’s money is in Hannah’s keeping: restoro it to him ; I would die sooner than use it. Tell Captain O’Donnell that while I thank him—thank him with all my heart and soul—l still cannot, go with him. For my own sake I cannot. He has been my salvation ; to mv dving day his memory and yours will be the dearest in my heart. Dear Henry, my best friend, my dearest brother, farewell! I have been a trouble, a distress to you, from the first; this list flight will trouble and distress you most of a'l; hut it is for the best—the rest never wore.—Farewell! Katherine. Redmond O’Donnell looked up from the letter with a face of pale wonder. ‘What does she mean?’ he asked. ‘“Dare not come with me for her own sake 1” What folly is this ?’

Henry Otis returned his glance gloomily enough. He understood, if O’Donnell did not.

‘ Who can comprehend a woman—least of all such a woman as Katherine Dangerfield ? Bub for once she shall be disobeyed. For six years I have oheyed her in good and in evil; now I refuse to obey longer. The truth shall be told—yes, by Heaven !—let their pride suffer as it may. They shall know that the girl upon whom they trample is of their blood ! He, with all his dignity and mightiness, shall find she is his daughter !’ "Who ?’ O’Donnell asked, witjj a piercing glance. But Henry Otis moodily drew back.

* Yonder is Hannah—if you want to see the miserable wretch hidden for five years at Bracken Hollow, you had better go. I shall tell him, not you.’ His angry jealousy flashed out in every look, in every word. He hated this man—this dark, dashing, Irish soldier—with his magnificent stature, his handsome, dusk face. Katherine loved him ! Was it part of her wretched destiny alioays to love men utterly indifferent to her, while he-all his life it seemed to him he had lain his heart at her feet, and it had been less to her than the ground she trod. He turned away from him in a passion of wrath against her, against the tall, haughty, amazed chasseur,against himself and his infatuation, and dashed into the belt of gloomy woodland that shut in the gloomy house.

‘ I’ll tell, at least!’ he thought, savagely. * I’ll humble the Earl of Ruysland ; and for her—let her resent it if sho will. I have been her puppet long enough. W T hilo she cared for no one more, I hoped against hope, bub now that she has fallen in love with this Irish free-lance, let her go. My slavery ends from to-day.’ O’Donnell looked after him, angry in his t urn _then glancing at his watch and seeing that time was flying, he rejoined his sister waiting anxiously in the porch. « Who is that man, Redmond ?’ she asked, timidly—* were you quarrelling ? How angry he looked !’ • / was nob quarrelling,’ he answered, shortly. ‘ Rose, we have no time to spare. See tins man if you will, and let us go. I want to catch the five o’clock train.’ Old Hannah was in waiting—she, too, looked gloomy and forbidding. Her nursling had fled—in some way this young man bad to do with it, and Hannah resented it

accordingly. He saw it and asked no questions—he felt no inclination to subject himself to further rebuffs. Let them all go —he did not understand them—he washed his hands from henceforth of the whole affair. Hannah in silence led the way up a dark, Bpiral staircase to an upper room. She cautiously inserted a key and unlocked the doOr. . ‘ Make no noise,’ she said m a whisper ; * he’s asleep.’ She softly opened the door and led the way in. They followed, Rose clinging to her brother’s arm—white, trembling from head to foot. She was led to a bod ; upon it a figure lay asleep, motionless. A hot mist was before her eyes ; for a moment she could not look ; then it cleared away. She strove to command herself, and for the first time in seven years Rose Marie Dantree looked upon her husband’s face. There was nothing revolting or terrible in the sight. As he lay asleep all the old beauty was there the calm, the peace. One arm supported his head—he was neither worn nor thin, he had changed very little. The classic profile was turned toward them—the long, black lashes swept his cheek, the lips were parted in something like a smile, the glossy, black, curling hair was swept off the forehead. He looked beautiful as he lay there asleep. And over Rose’s heart the pld love surged —the great wrong he had done her was forgotten—she only remembered that she had been his wife, and that; he had loved her once. Her face worked—she sank on her knees.

‘Gaston ! Gaston !’ she whispered, growing ghastly. He started in his sleep—the dark, large sunken eyes opened and looked at her. As she met them the last trace of life left her face she sank backward —her brother caught her as she fell. ‘ I might have known it would be too much for her,’ he said. ‘ I should never have let her come.’

She was on the grass outside the gate when she recovered, her brother bathing her forehead and holding her in his arms. She looked up into his eyes, burst into a sudden passion of crying, and hid her face on his breast. He was very patient and gentle with her—he let her cry in peace. Rresently he stooped and kissed her. ‘ If you are ready we will go now, Rose,’ he said. ‘ You must not see him again. It can do no good—his case is hopeless—lie knows no one, and when he is disturbed he gives trouble, the old woman says. Gome, Rose, be brave —it is hard on you, but life is hard on all of us. Since we must bear our troubles, let us at least bear them bravely.’ She went without a word. She drew her veil over her face, and cried silently behind it. They reached the Silver Rose ; Lanty and the luggage were here. The luggage was ready for the railway, but Lanty was nowhere to be seen. The sound of voices in the courtyard, however, guided his mastor—Mr Lafferby’s mellifluous Northern accent was not to be mistaken. ‘See now—that I may niver sin (God pardin me for swearin’)—but I’ll come back to ye-an’ maybe marry ye if 1 don’t see anybody I like better. Arrah ! where’s the good av crying and screechin’ in this way ? Shure me own heart’s broke intirely —so it is. An' thin ye can write to me when I’m away, an isn t that same a comfort? Faith ! it’s a beautiful hand ye write—aquil to iver a schoolmaster in Ballynahaggart. An’ ye’ll daib yer lethers in this way: “Misbher Lanty Lafferty, in care o’ the Masther. In I urrin parts.” Arrah! hould yer noise, an’don’t be fetchin the parish down on us. Far or near, amn’t I ready to stick to ye, Sliusan, through thick an’ thin ? Arrah, is it doubtin’ mo ve are ? See now, it s the truth I m tellin’ ; that I may go to my grave feet foremost if it isn’t ’ Mr Lafferty and the rosy-cheeked barmaid were ensconced behind a tree, Lanty seated on the pump, Susan dissolved in tears —a love-scene undoubtedly. Susan’s reply was inaudible, but her lover might be’heard by anyone who chose to listen. • 4 Why don’t I lave him, is it? Upon me conscience, thin, it’s long and many s the day ago I'd av left him wid his eodgerin’ an’ his thrampin’ if I cud have found iver a dacenb Irish boy to thrust him wid. But there it was, yo see av a bullet from a rifle or a poke from a pike cut his sodgering short, I was always to the fore to close the corpse’s eyes, an’ wake him comfortably, and see that he had a headstone over him, as a dacenb O’Donnell should. But, shure—(this is a saycret, mind)—her ladyship, good luck co her! has him now, or will shortly; an’ troth if he's half as un- ! aisy, an’ half as throublesome on her hands as he is on mine, it's hersilf ’ll be sick an’ sore av her bargain. An’ it’s on me two knees I’d go to ye this minute, me darlin’, av it wasn't owin’ to the dampness of the grass, an the rheumatism that does be throublin me in the small av me back, an’ ax ye there, fornint me, av ye’ll be Mistiness Lafferty. And faith ! it’s nob to more than half a dozen young men livin’ I’d Ray the like.’ • Lanty ! I say, you scoundrel, do you want to’be late?’ called the voicb of his master. * Come along hero—there’s not a minute to lose.’ . « oh, tare an’ ages ! Shure there lie is himself ! Give us a kiss, Sliusan, me darlin’ av’ the wurruld, an’ long life to ye till I come back.’ There was the very audible report ot a very audible embrace, and then Mr Laffertv, in great haste, made his appealance round the angle of the building. ‘ Cornin’, sir-cornin’, yer honor. Niver fear bub i’ll be in time.. I’ll be at the station below in a pig’s whisper.’ There was barely time to attend to the luggage, pav the bill and diive to the station. They caught the train and no more. There had been no opportunity of writing his lordship the explanation he had promised. It must be postponed until their arrival in London. ‘ I may as well tell him all and entreat him to let her alone. Even Sir _ Peter, when he learns who she is and receives his money back, will hardly care to further persecute Katherine Dangerfield. And she dare nob go with me for her own sake ! Hum—m—l don’t understand that.’ It was late when the lights of the great metropolis flashed before them. They drove at once to a quiet family hotel, and late as it was, Captain O’Donnell sat down to write and post the promised letter to Lord Ruysland. He told him at length of his suspicions, of the night visit to Bracken Hollow, when his lordship had seen him accompany Miss Herncastle home, of the scai on the temple, ot the opening of the grave -of the ‘confirmation strong as Holy Writ ’ the accumulated evidence which had proven her Katherine Dangerfield. «Her sins have been forced upon her,’ he wrote ; ‘ her virtues are her own. In the hour of her triumph she resigns all—confesses all, and sends back the money won to Sir Peter Dangerfield. She has suffered enough to expiate even greater wrongdoing than hers. I believe she has made a much greater renunciation —I believe she has destroyed, or caused me t.o destroy, the paper that would have proved her birthright. It was superscribed “ Confession of Harriet Hannan,” and now that I have had time to think over her words, I bolievo that confession proved her\ parentage. As I | understand her, this Harriet Harman was

her nurse, and for some reason of her own placed another child in her stead, took her from England, and in France gave her to Sir John Dangerfield. Her assertion of her claims, she said, could bring nothing but misery—pain and shame to her father suffering and disgrace to her who stood in her place. So in the hour of its fruition she deliberately destroyed her last hope, and has gone forth into the world to labour for her bread, leaving another to usurp her name and station. Sacrifice less great has been made and called itself martyrdom. If you ever meet her again, my lord—be her friend as I would have been had she allowed me.’ The dawn was grey in the August sky as Captain O’Donnell posted this letter. Two hours later, as he sat at their early breakfast with his sister, the cab that, was to carry them to London Bridge station wait ing at the door, one of the small boys telegraph offices employ, approached him with an ominous yellow envelope in bis hand. O’Donnell tore it open—it was a cable message—dated New Orleans, and in a dozen words changed the whole tenor of his life. • Redmond O’Donnei.e,— My wife and son are dead, For God’s sake come to mo at once and fetch Rose. * I. ouis De Lansac. Lord Ruysland, without knowing vrhy, obeyed Redmond O'Donnell and postponed that forcible visit to Bracken Hollow. ‘ It isn’t like O’Donnell to be swayed by any sentimental impulse,’ his lordship mused ; ‘ he generally has some sound reason for what he does and says. I wonder what he meant by that profession of sympathy and compassion, and the rest of it. She is a fine woman—an uncommonly fine woman ; but the big chasseur isn’t the sorb to be influenced by that. I’ll wait until I get his letter at least, and upon my life I hope I’ll get it soon, for I feel as curious as a woman. ’ He was taking a gentle evening constitutional around the big fish-pond, feeling very much bored, and waiting for the dinnerbell. Men and women around him might 6in and separate, love and part, but all that was over and done with long ago with the Right Honourable the Earl of Ruysland. Life flowed on, a tranquil river—its only ripple duns and digestion ; passion and he had long ago shaken hands and parted. The house was insufferably dull; O’Donnell, his sister, Sir Arthur, and Sir Peter gone ; Lady Dangerfield in alternate fits of tears, hysterics, scolding, and sulks; and his daughter moving about the rooms in her light, shining summer dress, more like some pale spirit of a dead Lady Cecil than her living self. ‘ Life has a natural tendency to the contraries,’ his lordship moralised, plaintively ; ‘ human nature inclines to the zig-zag. Now why, in Heaven’s name, must Ginevra, gifted with the average of woman’s cunning, quarrel with her lord and master—defy Sir Peter, and involve herself and all her relations in trouble? Why can’t Queenie bloom and smile as the affianced bride of one of the richest young baronets in the United Kingdom should, instead of fading away to a shadow ? Why need O’Donnell ever have crossed her path again ? I know she is in love with that fellow. Isn’t the world big enough 10. him without coming to Castleford ? Ana finally, why couldn’t Miss Herncastle havo selected some other peaceable country family to play her devilish pranks on as well as this? Life’s a game of contraries, I repeat —it reminds one of the child’s play: “ When I say Hold Fast, You Let Go !” Ah, good evening, sir ;do you wish to speak to me ?’ Lord Ruysland lifted his hat blandly. For the last two or three minutes he had been watching a tall young man approaching him—a perfect stranger—with the evident intention of speaking. As he passe* before him, his dobonnaire lordship took the initiative, lifted his beaver, and addressed him.

‘ Y'ou wish to speak to me, sir ?’ he repeated, suavely. ‘ I wish to speak to you, if, as I think, you are the Earl of Ruysland.’ ‘ I am the Earl of Ruysland, and I have the honour of addressing-?’

‘My name is Henry Otis. Six years ago I was Dr. Graves’ assistant and medical practitioner in Castleford. If your lordship ever heard the story of Katherine Dangerfield, you may also have heard of me.’ Lord Ruyslmd’s double eye-glass went up to Lord Ruysland’s light-blue, shortsighted, English eyes, and Lord Ruysland replied, with the languid drawl of English high life : ‘ Aw, Katherine Dangerfield, that übiquitous young woman again. Utn, vaas, I have heard the story of Katherine Dangerfield until the mere sound of her name grows a bore. I have also heard in connection with that very tiresome young person the name of—aw —Mr Henry Obis. Now. may I ask what Mr Otis can have to say on this—er—threadbare subject, and why he feels called upon to say it to me ?’

‘ For the best reason in the world—that I believe your lordship has the honour of being Katherine Dangerfield’s father !’

Like a bolt from a bow—like a bullet whizzing from a rifle, the truth came. And Henry Otis folded his arms and stood before the noble peer with grimly triumphant face.

‘Your daughter!’ he repeated. ‘You understand, my lord, your only daughter. For the past twenty years your lordship has been labouring under a monstrous delusion. Katherine Dangerfield was your daughter.’

No shadow of change came over the earl’s placid face. With his eye-glass still up he stood and stared calmly at Henry Otis.

4 You’re nob a lunatic, I suppose,’ he said,meaningly. ‘ You don’t look as though you were. Still you’ll excuse me if I venture to doubo your perfect . sanity. Have you any more remarks of this extraordinary nature to make ? For if you have ’ —he pulled out his watch—‘my time is limited. In ten minutes the dinner-bell will ring, and it is one of the few fixed principles I have taken the trouble to retain, never to be late for dinner.’ ‘My lord,’ Henry Otis said, ‘ you do not believe me, of course—what I eay cannot sound otherwise than mad and presumptuous, and yen it is true. I beg of you to listen to me—l happen to be able to prove what I say. Carry your mind back twenty years, and tell me if you happen to remember Harriet Harman ?’ ‘I remember Harriet Harman perfectly well. Will you pardon me, Mr Otiß, if I say I think you are troubling yourself greatly with what in no way concerns you, and what I have no desire to hear.’

‘ By Heaven, ray lord, you shall hear! Henry Otis cried, his sallow face whitening with anger, * if nob in private here, then in the public print. lam not mad, though my assertions must sound like madness to you. I can prove what I say. Twenty years ago, when Harriet Harman gave yon the child you came to claim, she gave yon —nob the daughter of the late Countess of Ruysland, but her own.’

There was five saconds’ blank silence. The face of Henry Otis was white, his pale eyes flashing. For the earl—not a muscle of his well-trained countenance twitched, not a shadow of a change came over his high-bred face. Hie eye-glass w/•« still

held to his eyes, his thin lips set themselves i a trifle more closely—that was all. 1 In the surprise of the moment, in the \ suddenness of the interview, both had for- I gotten where they were. Neither saw a C slender figure in white dinner dress, a •white lace mantilla thrown over its head, that had descended from the portico and approached over the velvet turf. The last words of Henry Otis reached her. She stopped as if shot. The memorable King’s Oak was near—under its dark, wide shadow she stood still to listen to him. ‘This is a remarkable statement, Mr Otis,’ the peer said, with perfect calm. « vVill you pardon me once more if I find it impossible to believe it? Harriet Harman gave me her child instead of mine twenty years ago ! What egregious nonsense is this—taken second-hand from one of last century’s romances ? I can only wonder at a gentleman of your good sense repeating it.’ ‘Taken from a romance, or what you please, my lord,’ Henry Otis said, doggedly, ‘but true—true as Heaven is above us. Harriet Harman swore vengeance upon your wife for separating her from her lover, and that vengeance she wreaked on her child. I repeat it—she changed them. Her child was a month old when yours was born—your lordship knew or cared nothing about it—never saw it until it was given to you as your own. You saw nothing of your own either from the day of its Again I repeat, when you returned to England and Mrs Harman, she gave you her own daughter and retained yours. The young ady whom you have brought up, whom you call Lady Cecil Clive, is in reality Katherine Harman.’ There was a sobbing cry from beneath the tree. Neither heard it. His lordship made a step forward. • You villain !’ he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper; ‘by Heaven ! I’ll throttle you if you repeat that lie !’ •It is the truth,’ Henry Otis retorted, in cold disdain. ‘ I can prove it. Harriet Harman is here —ready to swear to what I say.’ ‘ And do you think I would believe her oath if she did ?’ Lord Kuysland cried ; but his face grew a dreadful grey as he said it. ‘ This i 3 some nefarious plot got up between you to extort money, no doubt, but—’ He stopped. Henry Obis turned his back upon him in contempt. ‘ I see it is useless talking to you. _ A court of law, perhaps, will be more easily convinced. Harriet Harman is here, and ready to repeat the story. Once more I assert Katherine Dangerfield is your daughter—she who is known as the Lady Cecil Clive is not. Before you are a week older I think even your incredulity will be staggered. I have the honour to wish your lordship good-evening. There is the dinnerbell. As your lordship’s fixed principles are so few, don’t let me be the man to infringe the most important of them.’ He lifted his bat in mocking salute and turned to go. But his lordship strode forward and caught him by the shoulder. ‘ Stay !’ ho said, in a ringing tone of command. ‘ You have either said too much or too little. Why do you repeat Katherine Dangerfield. is my daughter ? Katherine Dangerfield is dead.’ Mr Otis smiled, and drew himself away. ‘ I decline to say more to your lordship at present. I tell you the truth and you accuse me of a lie. That is sufficient. Harriet Harman is at Bracken Hollowcither to-night or to-morrow your lordship can see her there. If you refuse to believe what she says, the matter shall bo placed in the hands of justice. Katherine Dangerfield, whether living or dead, shall be avenged. He paused. During the last five minutes a sudden red, meteor-like light flashed up in the grey southorn sky. Whilst he talked it had steadily increased—brighter

and broader—redder and fiercer it grew—it could be only one thing— fire ! At that instant there came clashing across the twilight stillness, the fire bells of the town —the red light in the sky growing redder and redder.

‘ Fire !’ Henry Otis exclaimed, knitting his brows, ‘ and in that direction. There is no house there but Bracken Hollow. What if that lunatic, Dantree, has got out of his room and succeeded in what he has attempted so often—setting fire to the house !’

Clash ! clang ! Tbe fire alarm grew louder, the flames were shooting up into the soft grey sky. One of the grooms came galloping up the avenue, flinging himself out of the saddle at sight of the earl. ‘ Where’s the fire, my man ?’ Otis called. ‘ At Bracken Hollow, zur ; and it be oil ablaze as I coom oop— ’ But Otis did not wait for the completion of the sentence. With one bound he was on the back of the horse and dashing down the avenue like the wind. ‘lmighb have known,’ he said between his clinched teeth, ‘what would come of keeping Hannah with Harriet Harman. Dantree has got free, and found the matches, and succeeded at last in what he has failed so often—setting fire to Bracken Hollow.’ The horse was a fleet one ; he darted onwaid like an arrow. Ten minutes brought him to Bracken Hollow. There was no wind, but the old house was like tinder,and shrivelled up at once. It looked all one sheet of fire as he threw himself off the horse and rushed towards it. There was a crowd collected, but the fire engines had not yet arrived. Little use their coming now. At the instant he appeared, Old Hannah came rushing headlong out. ‘ Save him for Heaven’s sa'ke !’ she cried, * if ye be men will ye stand there and see a fellow creature burned to death before your eyes ? I’ve lost the key of hcv room. Come —come —and burst open the door.’ ‘What is it, Hannah?’ called Henry Otis. 4 Where is Dantree and Mrs Harman ?’ 4 Oh, thank Heaven you’re here ! Mrs Harman is locked up in her room now and I can’t find the key. Come and break ic open for the Lord’s sake. And he is £ don’t know where.’ ‘He has made his escape, no doubt. Stand aside, Hannah, or the woman will be burned to death.’ There was an axe in the porch. He seized it and rushed headlong through flames and smoke towards Mrs Harman’s room. Her ringing screams broke over everything now. He struck at the door with all his might, but it was strong and resisted. ‘Stand from the door,’ he shouted to her within, ‘and be quiet; I will save you.’ He struck it again and again; it yielded to the fifth blow, and went crashing into the room. She was standing, in spite of his warning, directly opposite; it struck her heavily and felled her to the floor. He sprang in and drew her from beneath. The sharp angle of the oak door had struck her on the head near the temple; a great stream of blood was pouring over her face as he lifted her. The fire was already surging through the open’door. He bowed bis head over her, and with his burden rushed out of the doomed house. He laid her on the ground senseless, bleeding. As ho did so a mighty shout arose, then died away in alow moan of horror. Far up on the leads of the blazing building, far beyond all human aid, appeared a wild figure-the figure of a young »an—with dark streaming hair, white face,

and black, maniac eyes. Ib was Gaston Dan tree.

The flames shot lurid and crimson up around him, higher than his head. His wild, mad cries of exultation rang shrilly out —his laughter curdled the blood of the listeners. ‘Ha 1 ha !’ they heard him shout. ‘ I told her I’d do it, and I’ve done ic. Here’s a fire, and I’m free, I’m free, I’m free !’ >

The red flames, the black smoke, hid him from their view ; then with a dreadful roar the fire leaped up higher than ever, and the roof fell in with a crash. The strongest, the hardest there, turned away and covered their eyes, sick with horror. Six years before, Gaston Dantree had shuddered with vague nameless fears as he first looked on Bracken Hollow. That presentiment was fulfilled —strangely— terribly. For five years Bracken Hollow had been his prison ! —this fearful August evening it was his grave !’ (To be continued.)