A GREAT WRONG, Or, The Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 9992, 12 March 1910, Page 2

A GREAT WRONG, Or, The Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

CHAPTER 111. —Continued. A cloudless morning followed that night of death and horror, and goiden sunshine beamed down upon the sullen sea and the drenched shore strewn with the debris of the wreck and the ghastly faces of the drowned. Swarms of pecple flocked to the scene from all quarters, someeagti for plunder, others merely curious to see, ai;d a few intent on good purposes. latter were two or three peasant women from the neighbourhood of SI. Malo. 'Look, Ciotilde, look!' cried one of them, a florid dame, speaking in her native tongue, 'there's a little lad, no bigger than your Andre, all dead and drowned, poor little fellow.' Ciotilde, a pretty dark young woman. looked, and her bright eyes filled with tears. The men from the guard-house had just found the boy lower down the coast, and extricated hi rn from the mass of drift and debris which had floated with him to the land. They laid him down now under the warm light of the risine sun, a small, drenched figure, the long blond hair all tangled and wet, the face marble-white. f 'And he looks like my Andre, cried Ciotilde. advancing to the spot where the child lay, and kneeling beside him. 'Poor little soul,' her tears dropping on his face, '1 wonder who his mother is? Perhaps he is not dead; we might be able to save him. Oh, Rachel! for mercy's sake, let us take him home and try !'

Rachel, the florid dame, made no objection, and, Ciotilde turned to one of the men: ' 'Might we take the little lad?' she asked. 'My sister's cottage is just beyond, and we might be able to restore him to life!' 'Take him. Yes', and welcome,' growled the man, as he hauled up another body, the body of a man, with fair hair, very like the little lad's and a white, sad face, upon the right cheek of which was an ugly gash. 'Take him, and welcome,' hereplied ; 'we have more on our hands than we can attend to. Lots of them went down last night, poor fellows. Here, mate, lend a hand here, will you? Let us take this chap over to the guard-house; I can tell a corpse by the look, and the feel, too. There's a spark of life somewhere here, if I am not much mistaken.' The men carried the body off toward the guard-house; while the woman, weeping and chattering by turns, tenderly lifted the boy and hurried away in the direction of St. Malo.

It is a month later, and Ciotilde has returned to her own cottage in the valley of the Loire, The summer is well over, and the lime-leaves are growing yellow, and the vineyards hang laden with purple cluaters.

Ciotilde is looking for her husband's return. He has been abroad for over a year; but his last letter, which reached her months ago, told her to expect him before winter set in. Accordingly, she has cut short her visit to her sister, near St. Malo, and has returned home to make ready for her husband's coming. She sits in the cottage porch this sunny afternoon, watching her two children as they play beneath the limes. She calls them both her own, aud loves them almost with an equal fondness—her son Andre, and the little storm-waif, the boy found on the coast on the morning after the wreck. I hey restored him to life, she and Rachel, and Ciotilde has bought him home with Andre to her own cott?ge. 'The dear little fellow,' she thinks, watching the two children as they follow their hoops. 'Oh, Ido hope that Andre won't mind my keeping him when he comes in. I should so hate to part with him!' Evei. while these thoughts fill her mind the vine-leaves rustle behind her. She looks up and utters a cry of joy. Her husband stands beside her. 'O, Andrew, are you come at last?' She flies to clasp his neck, but he puts forth his hand and holds her off. 'Don't be a fool, Ciotilde,'he says coolly. 'Yes, I've come, and I'm thoroughly used up. Bring me a glass of wine.' As she looks at him her eyes dilate with a horrified wonder. 'What ails you?'he demands, with a brutal oath. 'What do you see that you stare at me so?' She clasps her hands across hei loudly throbbing heart. 'You have changed so,' she whispers, awe and terror in her voice. 'Oh, Andrew, what has come over you?' A harsh laugh escapes him, a laugh by no means pleasant to hear. 'Oh a great deal—more ihan I can tell you now," he answers. 'Mo wonder you find me changed. The whole I world has changed for me. You shall hear it all in good time. But let me have the wine now.' She turns from him like one in a dream.

BY EMMA GARRISON JONESAuthor of "Pelf and Power," "Strath more's Sin," Etc, etc.

'What is the cause of his strange demeanour?' she soliloquises. 'What has changed him so fearfully?' At this moment the two children carr>6 running up, hand in hand, flushed and rosy from their play. Andrew Bruce turned round to greet his own son, and thus came face to face with the son of his dead friend. He whitened with craven terror, and his very knees shook under him, as if a spectre had confronted him. 'Papa, papa,' cried Andre, running to his side, and catching his hand. But his father threw him off, without greeting or caress, and stood staring at the other child with distended eyes and gasping lips. 'I saw him go down; I saw the waves sweep him off; and here he is,' he vacantly muttered. Ciotilde returned with the wine; he seized the glass and swallowed the contents at a draft. 'That boy! how came he here?' he demanded then, pointing toward Richmond. Poor Ciotilde trembled. Her English husband had never been over tender to her, and >iow there was something in his face that filled hsr with terror. 'Andrew, pray, do not he angry,' she began, clasping his arms with two beseeching hands. But he threw her from him with an oath. 'Answer me,' he cried, his surprise and terror giving place to wrath; 'where did you get that boy?' 'There was a vessel lost off St. Malo a month ago,' Ciotilde faltered. 'And he was on her,' he interrupted, an awful expression sweeping over his face. 'He drifted ashore. I might have known. And you saved him, and have him here? Curse you, I'll have your life for it!' He seized her by her abundant dark hair, and poor Ciotilde, unable to comprehend the secret of his wild i rage, fancied that her husband had i gone mad, *and shrieked aloud for help. He clutched her throat until her face became purple. 'Andrew! Andrew! for Heaven's sake do not murder me!' she gasped. 'I will send the boy away——' 'No! no! no!' he interposed, with terrible vehemence. 'l'll murder him, I'll have his life! How dare he come back to stand between me and my good luck?' »• He threw Ciotilde from him with force that dashed her to the floor of the porch, and rushed upon the affrighted child. 'Curse you'! he hissed, between his set teeh. 'You shall die!' The lad shivered with terror, as the man's iron grip clutched him, but he looked up with clear, brave eyes. 'Why do you want to murder me, Andrew Bruce?' he asked simply. 'You promised my father to take care of me, and take me to England.' This simple question went to the guilty man's heart like a knife, and for one minute he felt a pang of generous remorse.

'Yes, I promised him,' he he gasped, in hoarse accents, 'and called God as my witness.' He staggered back a pace or two and sank into a seat, covering his face with has hands. "Tia not too late, now,'he muttered. 'I might do it yet!' Ciotilde, who by this time had regained her feet, approached him, and laid her hand on his arm. 'Come into the house, Andrew,' she entreated. 'You are not well; you'll feel better when you have rested.' Her voice recalled him to hi 9 senses, and bis momentary irresolu tion vanished. The evil within hiin was growing so strong, the good so weak. 'I should have to give it all up,' he muttered. 'Sir Geoffrey Trevethon, baronet, with fifteen thousand a year! Think of that! I won't give it up.-' He leaped to his feet with a hoarse cry and rushed at the boy again. 'He shall not live to thwart my plans,' he yelled. 'He shall die!' He struck the child a brutal blow full on the temple, causing an ugly wound, and felling him to the floor, where he lay bleeding and insensible, while Ciotilde and Andre shrieked with terror. But Bruce soon silenced both with threats and oaths. "lake him up and carry him into the kitchen,' he commanded. 'When it grows dark I'll throw him into the Loire.' Ciotilde obeyed without a «\ord, shivering in every limb with mortal terror. She laid the child down on the lounge, covered his ghastly blood-stained face, and then crouched djwn herself, with her son at her knees, watching her maniac husband, as she deemed him, with affrighted eyes. Bruce looked at her, and broke forth into amused laughter. lO P* fiOMINUED