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

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10011, 6 April 1910, Page 2

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

/ BY EMMA GAKFJ CK JONES. » Author of "Pelf and Power," "Strathrcore's Sin," / Etc, etc

CHAPTER XIII.— Continued,

'Oh, Arthur, Arthur! she whispers j in an agony of fear. j He silences her with a kiss, and ' catches her up ai;ain as if she were a feather 'My love, hush! One minute, and we are safe!' He darts across the lawn, passes ; under the snow-laden cedars, and is preseutly beside his sleigh. ] In another minute they are in the hack seat, arid he is wrapping the buffalo-robes about her. 'Drive like the wind,' he commands, briefly, to the driver, 'and I'll double yDur reward.' ; There is a sudden/clash of bells, and the sleigh flies over the drifts like a bird. Ishbel sinks into her lover's arms with a moaning cry. 'Ch, Arthur, Arthur, what have I done?' she whispers. ' W hat will papa and Maudie say? What will Ambrose do?' 'Do you care?' cries Arthur hotly. 'Do you love Ambrose, or anybody else, better than me? If you do I'll atop the horses and take you back this minute; and—and—your marriage can go on, and I'll put a bullet through my head, and have done with it.' She utters a suppressed shriek, and clasps him close with trembling arms. 'Oh, please do not talk so; you | frighten trie," she implores. 'You know I love you, only you Arthur!' 'Then you shall tie my wife.' he answers in triumph, clasping her ) close. 'lt is only right that you should be. It would be sin to love me and wed with another.' She shivers in his arms, and lifting her head, look back through 'the white haze of snow. The horses have been going at a wild pace, and the lights from the farmhouse win- | dows shine far away. Ishbel sees . them, and bursts into tears. j She beholds the fading lights of j her girlhood's home; but the glamour of his love is over her; she is j dazed and bewildered; she cannot give him up. | Wrapped in each other's arms, while the winds roar amid the ; distant hills, and the snow drifts and blows, they hurry on to the music of their muffled bells. Meanwhile, at the old farmhouse ■ the wtddinhg-supper is eaten, the warm drinks dispensed, but the great bride's cake, with its frosted summiit towering up like a miniature mou itain, remains untouched A dozen Highlanders «rap their , tartans close, and muster their good sheep-dogs, and set forth again to hunt for the missing bridegroom. 'We'll fetch him this time, squire, he be dead or alive,' the leacer calls back. 'Aye, aye, Heaven grant ye may find him alive,' the farmer answers. Maud turns from the open door, her face almost as wjbite as the drifts without. 'What a fright you look, lass!' .cries her father cheerily, returning !to the sitting-room. 'Come, come, jwe won't give up so soon. Mayhap the lad may turn up all right, after all. Come, boys, tune up you fiddles and scrape away; a bit of a 1 dance will put heart in us and help to make the time fly. And you, Maud, run up and fetch the little one down! the sha'n't sit up there all by herself and mope the night-out.' t , ,The fiddlers strike up with a will, filling the old house with merry music, and a dozen couples take the floor in a twinkling. Somehow the merriment grates harshly on Maud's ears, and she goes 1 up to her sister's chamber with a heavy heart. A keen biast strikes her as she opens the door; the window is wide open, the tnow beating in and lying over everything in heavy, white : drifts. Maud stands like one stunned. , I 'lshbel, where are you, child?' , she calls, after an instant. 'Why , have you let the casement open?' ! There is no answer. She darts into the adjoining chamber, but Ishbel is not there. 'What does it mean? Where has the child gone? Surely not out in the storm to look for Ambrose?" Maud leans out at the open window, and peers about the white ground with affrighted eyes. The vine, all torn and trailing, is the only trace she sees, A sudden ti ought flashes through her mind. She reels back, white and sick, with a cry of sharp pain. 'Uii, poor, poor Ambrose!' she whispers. 'Surely she could not have done it. Ishbel would not have done such a cruel thing.' Sue stands white and stunned, the snow still pouring through the open casement. She hears the music be- " low, and the sound of the dancers' ' feet, and presently her father's voice. 'Maud, I say, fetch ihe little one down, else I'll come after her myself.' She wrings her hands in mute agony. •What shall I say to him?' she whispers. 'How shall I tell Ambrose . when he comes?'

The old father waits impatiently for a few moment, and, receiving no answer, he bounds up the stairs Maud meets him at the dour, and her white face startles him as if it were a ghost. j 'What is it?' he questions. 'ls the J little lass ill?' Then he sees the op?n window and the drifting snow, and stands salient and aghast. •Father, the window was open when I came up,' falters poor Maud. 'lshbel has gone.' j 'Gone?' he repeats. 'Gone where? Not out in this storm, lass?' Maud makes no answer; she only looks at him, her eyes full of unutterable pain and pity. Something in the look makes the old father start, and drives the colour from his ruddy cheek. 'You don't mean to say—you don't think,' he stammers, putting his hand to his head, like one bewildered. Then he rushes to the open casement and looking out, sres the torn and trailing vine. A hoarse, pitiful cry escapes him. He turns to Mauu entreatingly. 'Maudie, Maudie, don't tell me 'tis so,'he falters; 'it can't be,.child. Why, she was in her wedding-clothes. She wouldn't have left her old father so. No no; come, Maud, we'll find her. Come, lass!' JJ£ He rushes down the stairs, and Maud follows, through the room, filled with music and dancing, out ini to the wild, winter night. | 'Come, lass," he repeats, leading on toward the stables, and Maud follows, her black hair all wreathed with snow. A stable-boy comes out with a lantern in his hand. 'Has young Mr Harlowe gone, my lad?' demands the squire, struggling vainly to keep his voice steady. 'Aye, sir,' with a grin and a knowing leer. I The old man hesitates, and breathes : fast and hard; at last he gulps out j the question: I 'Did any one go with him, Tim?' Tim winks the snow out of his eyes, and wears an innocent face. 'Yes, squire, he took a lady with him!'he answers. ~,«rf.4l I There is dead silence for a full ! minute, then the squire turns fiercely on his daughter. „.J9g2 —'-'r:*** •It is true, Maud,' he gasps, his voice thick and hoarse; he has carried her off. Curse him, and curse ner!' 'Oh, father, hush!' entreats Maud, clinging to his arm. _Z"Z\ But he throws her off, his~eyes Rlaring, his chest, heaving, his face J swollen and purple. i 'Curse him!' he repeats huskily. < 'He has stolen her from me, my innocent darling, he will bring her to shame and sorrow. Go and fetch her back. Maud, I say; follow them, and fetch the little one home.' The words die in inarticulate gasps, he pulls fiercely at his collar as if it choked him, then throws up his two hands, and falls like a log, face downwards, in the drifts.

CHAPIEPv XIV,

THE FAITHFUL DOG. Day dawns over the white Highland hills, and over the drifted moorlands. The fierce winds have subsided, the snow has ceased, and the £ky breass out here and there in clear, opaline lifts. The Highlanders, who have scoured the hillpaths through all the terrible night hours, cluster about the huge lire the farmhouse kitchen, with awed faces and silent lips; even the panting dogs, stretched before the hearth, look up with wistful, sympathising eyes. A great calamity has fallen upon the hitherto happy occupants of the old farmhouse. Little Ishbel is gone, and in the next room, where the curtains are drawn and silence reigns her fond old father lies dying. Maud sits at his pillow, white and calm, moistening his livid lips, counting his labourer 1 , stertorous breathings; and in the next room the faded wedding garlands hang, and the remnants of the wedding-supper are still visible. A couple of neighbouring farmers have gone in search of Ishbel, with small hope, however, of finding her, and of Ambrose, the bridegroom, no tidings can be gained. The Highland lads, and their trained dogs, have scoured the country for miles, but without success." There is no trace of Ambrose since he parted with his mother at the cottate door. And she, poor woman, is beside herself with grief, and had to be restrained from rushing out into tie drifts to follow her husband, who has gore in search of Ambrose with a fresh party. She cits in a corner, wringing her hands, and rocking herself to and fro, and complaining incessantly. TO BE /"ONTINUED