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

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10014, 9 April 1910, Page 2

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

CHAPTER XVI —Continued

'My dear, dear, mother!' he cries, hurrying to her side, 'how glad I am to see you! I've brought my little wife home. Give her a daughter's place in your heart for my sake now, for her own when you come to know and love her.' The stately lady, in her rustling silks and laces, turns a well-pre-served cheek to receive her son's kiss, then her cold, calm eyes rest upon the trembling little figure at his side. 'She is really your wife, Arthur?' she questions icily. 'Why, yes, mother; didn't I write and tell you so? Have you no word of welcome for her? Edith, surely you will come and speak to Ishbel' The sister advances a step, and puts out a slim, jewelled hand. 'Oh,' certainly; glad to see you, Arthur; and how do you do, my dear? Ishbel, who has great trouble to keep from sobbing outright, touches the soft, slim fingers, and murmurs something about being very well. ' ' 'Take her to a seat, Arthur,' commands his mother; 'she looks tired to death, poor little child. You have done a most unwise thing, and your father is very angry; but since it is done, why we must make the best of it.' 'l'm glad to hear you say so, mother,' answers the young man a little hotly. 'lt would hurt me to break with you ail; but if you have to no welcome for my wife, you have none for me ' 'Hush'! commanded the lady imperatively. 'All things considered, you need to be grateful that you are received at all. Sit down, my dear,' she said, addressing the bride, 'Edith shall ring for her maid, and take you to your room, where you can rest '. and have some refreshments.' j Ishbel sits down on the edge of a j velvet-cushioned chair, and stares blankly at her own small figure and miserable face reflected in a mirror just opposite, heartily wishing that she was back again in the cheery old Felldide home. Meanwhile Arthur stands irresolute, half inclined to take his wife, and leave his father's house at once and forever But Edith tinkles a silver bell, and a tidy maid appears, and between them they carry the poor little bride away. 'Take her to the white and gol rooms, Edith,' commands Lady Marlowe. Htr son's heart bounds. The white and gold rooms are the very grandest in the house. After all, they ' intend to give him and his bride the right sort of a reception. , 'Run along, little one,' he says cheerily, seeing her pause in the doorway and look back with tearfilled eyes; 'I will join you directly.' She hesitates a minute, and a suppressed sob escapes her quivering lips, as her eyes linger fondly on her young husband's face. 'Don't be long, Arthur, please," she murmurs entreatingly. He crosses the room, takes the small face in his two hands, and kisses the quivering mouth, repeatedly. 'There now, run along, dearest' I promise yoa not to be long,' he says, soothingly. She goes reassured; but once or 1 twice she looks back, as if reluctant to lose sight of him. Poor Ishbel—poor little bride of one brief night and day—if she knew how many awful, desolate years will pass before she looks upon her bridegroom's face again, her fond hear: would surely break. 'She is such a tender, childish little creature, mother,' begins Arthur the moment she is gone, 'I wish you would be gentle and kind to her for my sake.' Lady Marlowe's lips curl, and her brows knit beneath their abundant blond tresses. 'She is hardly the sort of woman Ito be lady of Marlowe Hall, and my son's wife,' she answers coldly. 'All the baronets of Marlowe, for centuries past, have wedded with their equals; u was left for you, my only son. to make this miserable mesalliance!' 'I love her, mother, and you will love her, too, when you come to know her,' exclaimed Arthur. ' You have been caught by her baby face,' continues the lady severely. 'You have broken your plighted word with Lady Bii.uca Driscol. and disobeyed your father's express commands.' •Mother, spare me; I could not marry Lady Bianca—l never loved her. Call to mind your own young days, and pity me.' She laughs in superb scorn. 'ln my young days I never dreamed of stooping to such folly as you have committed,'she replies. 'You are a foolish, infatuated boy, and in less than a year you will see your error, and most bitterly repent it.' 'Never! Ishbel, is the one woman on earth I love. Mother, you have always been indulgent to your only son; do not unkind now.' j 'No, I intend to be most kind, Ar-,

/ BY EMMA GARFJ 01? JONES. !» Author of "Pelf and Power," "Strathnzore's Sin," Etc, etc

i thur, and to save you from the consequences of this rash step. Your j father will never forgive you. From ! this hour you are a beggar unless I | come between him and you, and make peace.' 'And will you? Dearest mother, will you?' he cries. A strange, cruel, significant smile crosses her handsome lipa. "Yes, I will, because you are my only son,' she answers. She rises, and rings a bell, as her son darts across the room, and covers her hands with kisses. 'Bring that wine service from the next room,' she commands of the servant who appears. A handsome service is placed upon a side table, and wheeled to the centre of ihe drawing room. 'We will have a glass of wine, my son,' she says, filling two small crystal goblets, and pushing one toward him. 'You look dreadfully worn out. There, drink it, and we will discuss these miserable matters before the dinner-bell rings.' Arthur seizes the glass, and tosses it off at a draft. 'lll take another, if you please, mother,' be says, pushing the goblet forward. 'I do feel a little tired, I confess, and none is so reviving as the wine at Marlowe Hall.' She fills the glass again, watching hira with calm, resolute eyes. He takes it and carries it to his ilps, but in doing so his hand trembles visibly. He laughs lightly, as he swallows it. 'I am as nervous as a woman.' he says. 'The weather has been so beastly, and I have been so anxious Poor little Ishbel, I am sure she's very tired, and lonesome, too; and I mustn't leave her too long. Say what you have to say, dearest mother. I am all attention.' Rut Lady Marlowe does not utter a syllable; she only sits and watches ! him, her lips shut in a firm line, her eyes like steel. He looks at her inquiringly, but his eyes grow dull and vacant, and piesently his head begins to droop. He puts his hand to his forehead, and the next instant pulls fiercely at his collar, as if he were choking. 'Why, how strangely I feel,'he murmurs, his voice thick and low. 'Mother, open the window, for Heaven's sake, and let me have air.' By the time the words are out of his mouth his head falls Heavily, his arms dangle at his sides, and he might be a dead man for all the power hj« has to move or apeak. His mother rises with a smile in her cruel eyes, and bending over him passes her white band over his face 'Quite insensible,' she 'and in such a short time. What at powerful drug it is! I ouly hope the effects will not wear off too soon/ She turns and tinkles a tiny bell, and in less than two minutes, Sir Hereford himself .enters, tall and stern and majestic, in his velvet dressing-gown. My lady merely nods her handsome head toward the recumbent figure, and says briefly: 'You see, it is done.' The baronet scowls blackly on his unconscious son. ' yea, but it wotfd have been better to have left it undone,' he answers hotly; 'I don't fancy dabbling in such questionable remedies, as I told! you at the outset. He saw fit to disobey me. and marry a wife to his liking, and we have no right to come between him and her; but we have a right to turn him from our door a bfcggar, and that's what should have been done.' 'Nay, nay. Sir Hereford; he is our only son, do not forget that,' entreats his wife, laying her soft' hand upon his shoulder. "Isn't it better to save him from the consequences of his first error than to drive him from our door, and blight and ruin his life forever? In a twelve-month he will thank me for what I am doing and so will you. Pray let me have my way, Sir Hereford.' 'I have already submitted to bur whim, Lucia. Go on, I've nothing more to say; only if you get into trouble, don't involve me.' 'I shall look to that, my dear.' She rings a seconi bell, as she puts the question, and the baronet, without waiting to reply, beats a hasty retreat. 'Order the closed travelling-carri-age to be brought round and send Doctor Drayton to me at once,' she commands of the servant who enters. In a few minutes the doctor comes, a email, noiseless, wiry man. with a face suggestive of the visage of a rat-terrier. My lady points again at the motionless figure of her son. TO BE dONTINUED