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

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10021, 18 April 1910, Page 2

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

CHAPTER XX.-Continued.

'The Ruok's Nest?' rising to his elbow, and gazing about him. 'Yes, I remember the. 'Rook's Nest,' of course; but how in thunder aid I get here'.'' Mrs Becket lays her hand on his throbbing head. 'Lie down, young master,'she implores, and don't excite yourself. You've been ill, and they brought you here for the air. Lie down now, like a dear boy.' He fails back upon his pillow?, panting for breath, a purple flush staining his white face. •I've been ill,' he repeats, 'and they've sent me to the Rouk's Nest.' Where's Ishbel? What have they done with her?' The housekeeper grows affrighted, and hurrying out of the room, calls Doctor Drayton. He comes instantly, and bends his small, terrier face over Arthur's piilows. 'He's awake at last,' he cries. 'Such a reviving sleep as he's had. My dear Mr Arthur, you feel better, don't you?' Arthur starts up again, panting furiously, as his mind begins to assert itself. 'No matter how I feel,' he replies. 'What am I doing here at the'*Rock's Nest,' and where's my wife?' The little doctor laughs shrilly. 'Only hear him asking for his wife,' he cries. 'l'll lay any wager in his fever lie fancied he had one.' 'There's no fancy about it,'rears Arthur making a grip at the doctor's collar. 'Don't stand there and grin at me, you idiot, but answer me. Where's my wife? Why am I here at the 'Rook's Nest?' 'Easy Mr Marlowe,' whispers the little physician wainingly. 'You have been very ill, and the least excitement may prove fatal even now. You are here to benefit from the 3ea air. You were ill, unconscious, when we brought you down.' Arthur puts his hand to his head like one in a dream. 'When did I come? How long have I been here?' he asks. 'A week to day,' responds the doctor. 'A week, and I've known nothing. Drayton I believe I've been dead and am just cominhg to life. Where are my mother and my wife?' 'We expect your mother down today, Mr Arthur.' 'And my wife, my bride?' repeats the young man impatiently. 'She came down with me, of course? She is here 9 ' The doctor smiles and shakes his head. 'Never heard of her ladyship, Mr Arthur—didn't know you had a wife.' 'Silence, you lying scoundrel!' cries the young man hotly. 'I was married in London, and biought my wife home to Marlowe Hall. That's the last I remember; and now I'm here. I tell you I have been dead and am coming to life. But where's Ishbel? Mrs Becket!' 'Yes, Master Arthur." ' Where's my bride? Did she come here with me?

The old lady shakes her head 'No, Mr Arthur; no one came with you but the doctor.' 'lshbel not here? Yon've heard from ner, though? There's some message for me, of course?'

'Message from whom; Mr Arthur?' 'From my wife, I tell you. Good heavens, have, you all gone mad" You know I am married, and that I left my wife at Marlowe.'

'Never heard of her before,Mr Artthur,' answers the housekeeper mildly,-

, Arthur groans aloud. Doctor Drayton draws near and puts ins wiry ringers on his pulse. 'My dear sir,' he says impressively, 'you have been delirious, and this wife of yours is but a creation of your disordered fancy. You are excited still; I must mix you a com-posing-draft at once.' Arthur grinds out something like an imprecation between his shut teeth.

'Offer me a drop of your vile stuff and I'll throttle you where you stand,'he thunders, making another dive at tfce doctor, which that nimble personage skilfully evades. 'A creation of my iancy, indeed! Do you take me for an idiot? I left my wife at Marlowe, and you have packed me down ere, like a set of fools, and the poor little soul has] doubtless fretted herself ill by this time.j Mrs Becket, bring me my clothes, and order out the dogcart: I'nugoing to Marlowe in the next train.'

'My dear Mr Arthur,' begins the old woman ; but he silences her with a gesture.

'Hold your tongue, and do as you are bidden. Bring me my clothes.'

The doctor, who is mixing a pot'on in exceeding haste, hurries forward as the man leaps from his bed. •Mr Arthur, stop!' he commands with a shaky show of authority. "You arc; under my charge, and I am answerable to Lady Marlowe s for your safety. You cannot leave this house in your present state of mind. 1 forbid it, and I beg you will drink this little sedative.' Arthur seizes the glass with one hand and the doctor with the other,

BY SMJSEA. GAEKJ ON. JOtfES. Author of "Pelf and Power," "Strathmore's Sin," Etc, etc

and very coolly dashes the mixture into the physician's face. The latter sneezes and coughs and splutters, at d at last breaks away and scuds like a frightened hare into an adjuinirg room.

'No N w. keep yourself out of iry way," exclaims Arthur. Now, Mia Becket, my clothes, that's a gocd soul.'

The trembling old lady produces them, and the young bridegroom, albeit his limbs tremble under him and his head throbs with a dull, dizzy pain, makes a very speedy toilet. Then he turns to Mrs Becket.

'Now give me a biscuit and a glass of wine, my good Becket, and see that the dogcart is on hand. Mrs Becket obeys, and he makes his light repast, throws on his overcoat, and hurries down in a fever of impatience. The little doctor, resolved on a final effort, follows him.

'My dear, Mr Arthur,' h 3 squeaks, laying a detaining hand on his arm. Arthur wheels round, his blue eyes all ablaze, and catching him up bodily, gives him a flying toss which lands him at the far end of the long hali, and while he is scrambling up Arthur runs down, leaps into the dogcart, and rattles off acrods the snowy fields. Doctor Drayton gets on his legs and limps to the door just in time to see him disappear. He clenches his wiry fist and shuts his terrier teeth hard.

'Have your way, my fine fellow,,' he mutters. 'Go on to Marlowe, if it suits you. Small comfort you'll get for your trip. And,' lie addi, an ugly look in his small eyes, 'if.ever the chance comes you and I will be even yet.'

The winter day has already closed when Arthur reaches Marlowe Hail. A misty rain is falling and a complaining wind clashes the elms and poplars abuve his head. But he runs along the siijfpeiy flagstones with the agility, of a boy, mounts the steps and rings Joud *nd long, ins heart thumping fur joy f 'Darling little Ishbel,' he murmurs, "how glad she'll be to have me back.'

The footman opens the door and bows him in.

'Where is my mother?' he demands.

'ln the blue drawing-room, Mr Arthur!'

'Are there guests?' 'Yes, sir! Lord and Lady Harrow, and the Lady Bianca Drisccl.'

Arthur looks down at his travelstained garments with a shrug and a grimace.

'Ah, the Lady Bianca! I'll not appear,' he mutters. 'And, Howard, where's my wife?' Howard stares in silent amaze, and wonders if Mr Arthur has, gone read.

'Your wife, sir?' he at last exclaims. 'I beg your pardon, Mr Ar-

thur but—l do not understand! The

Lady Bianca is in the drawing-room.' 'Deuce tako the Lady Bianca, and you, too,' mutters the wrathful gentleman, and rudely dashing the innucent footman aside he bounds up the stairs.

'He's gone 1 clean, staring read,' ejaculates Howard, gazing after him.

Meanwhile Arthur rushes on, until he reaches the r'oor leading into the gold suite. He taps softly. There is no answer, then he calls: •Ishbel, Ishbel!'

No answer still. He turns the silver knob, and enters. The great, glittering rooms are cold, and silent, and unoccupied. He looks about him, but sees no sign or trace of his bride. A sudden and overwhelming terror seizes him. Can anything have happened? Can Ishbel be ill or dead?

He flies to the bell and rings a startling peal, a cold perspiration starting out upon his forehead.

'Where's my mother and my wife?' he questions the servant who comes hurrying in.

Lady Marlowe's in the blue draw-ing-room, Mr Arthur.' 'And my wife? Where is my wife?'

He stamps with his feet in his suspense«and anxiety. The maid recoils from him in silent wonder.

'Great heavens!' he cries, cries, smiting his breast, 'have you ?11 gone mad, or has something dreadful happened? Cart no one tell me where Ishbel is? Send my mother here!' The girl darts away, and in a minute's time Lady Marlowe comes rustling in. Her face wears a white, startled look, but she hurries at once to her son, and throws her arms about his neck.

'My dearest boy, I am so glad to see you at home again,' she half sobs upon his shoulder.

He holds her off at arm's length and looks her in the eye. 'Mother, where is Ishbel?' he demands

The handsome, blue-gray eyes meet his unflinchingly. 'My dearest Arthur ' 'Mother, where is my wife?' he interrupts. She lays her white, ringed hand on his arm. TO BE CONTINUED