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

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10015, 11 April 1910, Page 2

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

CHAPTER XL—Continued. 'The potion works admirably,' She says; 'but are you sure the effects will not wear offjjto soon for our purpose, doctor?' 'Very sure, my lir'y,' bows the , small physician. 'He is good for two days at the least, unless we administer an antidote.' 'Very Well; the carriace is coming round, his portmanteau is all packed, and now I'm goinfr to put him under your charge. You know the place, doctor?' He bows again, his Hack ierret eves all alight. "'Yes, my lady—'The Rook's Nest,' some ten miles down the coast.' 'Pn : cis>ely; and you'll take the very best care of him?' 'The very best.' Lady Marlowe draws a long, quivering breath, and going to Arthur's aide, stoops over him and kisses him 1 repeatedly. 'Poor fdlo*,' she 'it seems cruel to treat him m this way. it quite breaks my heart, doctor; butj have told you of the circumstances, I believe? fauch a disgraceful entanglement, you see, and Sir Hereford so angry; a:id the dear boy's future at stake. I do ii purely for his owgond, and he'll thmk me when he's a year or two older. 'That he will, my Jarly.' My lady tinkles «er bell again. .'Tell Kicnards we are ready,'he commands. The footman disappears, and burly coachman enters. 'Your young master is ill \ and asleep, under the influence of an opiate,' she explains. 'Be very gentle, Richards. He must not b«s disturbed. There, Doctor Drayton will assist you, and you need no further orders.' 'No, my lady.' They raise the inanimate figure, wrap it carefully in a treat cloak, and bear it between them out of the drawing-room and down the stairs. Lady Marlowe folluws The front door is cpen. the lights are turned down, and a closed carriage is drawn up at the very steps. The two men carry cut the young biideeroom, and put him in this waiting carriage. Lady Marlowe grasps the doctor's arm as he puta his foot on the steps. 'Rememuer doctor,' she whispers in his ear 'frilence and stcrpcy, and the best of care—and a thousand pounds reward.' •I shall not forget, my lady,'he makes answer.

The driver leaps to his box, and the carriage wnins away down the snowy drive out into the dark winter night.

CHAPTER XVII. LADY MARLOWE'S STRATEGY. Ishbel sits all alone in the great white and gold bridal chamber. The very grandest chamber in Marlowe Hall; but a cold, cheerless, dazzling place, all shining with mirrors, and gleaming gilding, and ghostly white. There is a fire burning in the grate, but it seems to give forth little heat. Ishbel crouches near it, seated on a, white velvet cushion, decorated with golden stars, and watches the door with wistful eyes. 'Will Arthur never come.' Eaith left her half an hour ago, so did the maid, and she sits there utterly alone. If they would fetch up her frock and allow her to put on the pretty dinner dress that Arthur selected tor her. and her jewels, it would be some comfort; bui the trunk is somewhere below, and poor Ishbel has not courage to ring and ask for it. She did venture to mention it when Edith was leaving the room. ' 'Hadn't I bettsr dress before dinner' she faltered. 'Arthur said I must; and I've a lovely dress in my trunk, if you will please to have it sent up.* Miss Marlowe turned in the doorway with an amused smile in her handsome blue-grav eyes. 'The trunk will be sent up all in good time,' she replied, 'but there's no need that you should dress. You are too tired, of course, to go down this evening. Your dinner shall be sent to you.'

Poor little Ishbel could have sobbed like a child. Nu need to dress! And she had thought so much of wearing her beautiful new clothes. She crushed back her tears, however, and sat down in her dust-stained travelling-dress, to wait until Arthur should come. The great glittering chambers grow as silent as a tomb, as the slow minutes go by. She can just hear the sound of voices and .steps far below. She is cold, and tired, annd hungry, and so miserable. Will Arthur never come He is crutl to leave her so long alone! She crouches close to the marble hearth, and rests her head upon her folded arms. How bright and warm it was in the rid Fellside farmhouse, she thinks, and hot tears begin to trickle down her cheeks. After all, the eld home, and papa, and Maudie,

BY SMA GARRJ ON JONES. Author of "Pelf and Power," "Strathmore's Sin," Etc, etc

were better than all this dazzling, desolate grandeur. Half an hour! Tne tiny clock above her heard rings with a musical chime, and presently she hears a bell sounding in some remote part of the nuuse. It must be the dinner-bell. Will Arthur dine, and leave her there alone?

Her cheeks flush, and her eyes begin to flash. She springs up, and lifting the heavy curtai", locks out of the window. The winter stars are out in glittering thousands, and away in the distance the hills are white with snow. She beats her small foot impatiently upon the velvet carpet. If she could only get out, she would run away, and return to the Fellside farm, if she is to be treated in this cruel manner. But she cannot get out; she can only wait. Another half-hour—half a lifetime it seems to the lonely, little bride—then the door opens. She springs up with a cry of relief. 'Oh, Arthur* Arthur.' She stands silent and aghast. It is not Arthur, but Lay Marlowe herself. She has had her dinner, and leisurely enjoyed it, and now, her appetite appeased, she sweeps into the chamber where h:r son's wife waits, her haughty, handsome face cruelly resolute and icily indifferent. 'Well, are you tired of waiting, child?' she questions, calmly seating herself in an easy chair. Ishbel's haart flutters, so she can scarcely find voice to answer >■ 'Yes, my lady, I am very tired,' she falters. ' Why does not Arthur come?' , The lovely, wistful eyes, the piteous child's face would melt a heart of adamant, one would think; but Ladv Marlowe looks at her son's bride without a thrill of human pity She is in her way—stands between her only son and his future honor and prosperity—and the sooner she is disposed of the better. These are my lady's reflections, as she sits and folds her white hands and looks down at the lovely, torrowful young face. Yet my lady is a professing Christian, a woman far famed for her good deeds and lavish , charities.

'Where is Arthur?' she repeats, after a minute's delay. 'Weil, my foolish little girl, Arthur has gone away; you will not see him to-night.' Ishbel brings her to hands together with a plaintive, childish cry. 'Gone away ! Oh, how could he?' she sobs. 'How could he go away and leave me? My lady, lam so miserable, so lonely! Surely he will come back to-night?' The cold, cruel eyes seem to harden as they rest on Ishbel'a face. 'You are miserable, no doubt,'she replies; 'but the fait is your own — all your own, and you deserve to suffer. Why did you marry my son — you, a mere beggar—and force yourself into my house? Are you fitted to live here and associate with me and my daughter Are you qualified to step into my place, and" be Lady Marlowe, of Marlowe Hall?' The cruel words pierced the poor girl like stabs from a poison 2d blade. Her little face loses all its flesh.colour, and she shivers like a reed. 'No, I'm not fit;* I am well aware of that,' she sobs; 'but," my lady, I love him—oh, I love him better than my own life!' The cold eyes show no signs of relenting. , 'And what if you do? Was that an excuse for beguiling him in to making you his wife?' At this Ighbel springs to her feet, and her dove-eyes blaze. 'I did not beguile him,' she retorts angrily. 'He would make me love him* and on my weddinp-night he came and carried me off from a good man who loved me.' Lady Marlowe replies with a mocking laugh. *Ab, likely enough,' she says. 'Pray do not excite yourself; he was to blame, no doubt. Between you both you've done an unwise thing, and the sooner it is undone ter for all.' 'My lady, what do you mean?' Ishbel falters, her suden anger subdued by a vague terror. 'Sit down and you shall hear,' says her ladyship calmly. 'I mean this—you are not my son's wife!' 'Not Arthur's wife?' 'Hush, do not interrupt me. No, you are not his wife. The marriage id invalid, because his father expressly forbade it. If he acknowledges you as his wife, he is a beggar—ruined, disgraced, driven from his father's door; hence, he is gone, and you will never see him again!' Ishbel stands quite still, her eyes dilated, her bosom heaving, her face as white ase the silken gangings on the wall. TO *BB CONTINUED