A GREAT WRONG.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10023, 20 April 1910, Page 2

A GREAT WRONG.

CHAPTER XXl.—Continued. "Tia well *'ou didn'f, Ambrose. Nothing on earth ca.i be more wretched than u loveless marriage.' 'True enough, but I was fond of little Ishbel, and I'll find out, what they've done with her, and sm that she lias her rights. Is is ray duty, Maud.' Maud utters a little righ, and a wistful sadness looks out of her sweet dark eyes, as they turn toward the western sun. All her jjfe, since she was a mere baby in pinafores, this same handsome Ambrose, so far above bis station in all his attributes and characteristics, has been her ideal hero, whom she could have loved—aye adored. But Ambrose has never felt for her other than a friend's kindly regard. When he thought of wedlock, Ishbel was his choice, not Maud. And now he loves for the first time and the la3t, that fair, proud, patrician lady for whom his life was periled. Maud h well aware of this, and a little tremor stirs her firm lips, and her hiddt.ii heart heaves, as she looks out toward the sunset. But her emotion is short-lived; she turns almcst instantlj, and lays her hand on his arm. 'Poor Ambrose,' her eyes full of an infinite pity, 'you have your own trouble, too; you have heard nothing of her?'

He flushes painfully, and throws up his haughty head. 'Nothing, Maud; not a word since the night she left so unceremoniously.' 'T'is strange I'

'Nay, not strange at all.' he answers, with a reckless laugh. 'She has gone back to her people—he was not one of our order—she has gone back, and forgotten us.' 'lf so, she is unworthy of your remembrance, if she can so soon forget all that you riskeed and buffered for her sake.'

. 'Say no more Maud, fori must hurry home, and be at London tomorrow. If Ishbel ia aut-vd ground, I'll find her. Good-by.' She watcbe3 him until his handsome figure ia lost in tie purple mist of twilight, and then turns into her desolate home with a sigh. 'ffoor Ambrose! he never cared for Jshbel one-hall as much as he cares for her. I wish I could fkd her for him.'

All her life long Maud has been unselfish, preferiing the happinesb of those she loves to her own gratification, finding infinitely more joy in giving than receiving. There are but few of her type, but that few carry within their souls an eternal sunshine- whih no human sorrow has power to lon£ eclipse, Across the brown moors hastened Ambrose, an unutterable longing in his sad eyes.

' Why should I care for her? Why should I give her a thought, when she could leave me as she did, without a parting word?' 'And yet, despite all his reasonings and resolutions, he loved her with a blind, uncontrollable passion that would end only with his lifeloved this fair, unknown woman whose lite he had saved, Although her beauty and her pride seemed to lift her as immeasurably above him as the stars are a above the earth.

Tramping on, his brows knit and his head down, he thought of an article which he had read that morning in one of the leading London papers, relative to the marriage of Richmond Trevethon, son and heir of Sir Geoffrey Trevethon, of Lyndith Hall, with his cousin, Miss Lenore Trevethon, only child of Sir Arthur Trevethon, the gentleman who so mysteriously disappeared some twelve or fifteen years before at an old manor somewhere amid the Highlands known as Black Hollow Grange.

The old story was retold in the London -journals, with some few embellishments. The terrible murder of the fair, trail wife, and the mysterious disappearance of the baronet, were freely discussed. And this Lenore Trevethon, the beauty and belle of LondoD, was the daughter of the lost bgronet, and in obedience to h3r father's will she had married her cousin, the young heir-at-law, bringing him as her wedding-dower one cf the oldest and most valuable estates in England. The marriage was a private one owing to some whim on the part of the fair bride, and immediately after the ceremony the happy couple had gone abroad, to be absent from Enginad for years, the precarious health requiring a warm cilmate. Then followed a description of the Highland manor, and a good many ( comments touching the mystery which time had failed to clear j up. Ambrose thought of it all, tamDing j on, and glancing ever and anon toward the bold peaks, in the midst of I which the old home stood. I

The young man paused in his rapid walk, and looked intently at the old manor, his thoughts reverting to his own adventure on that wild winter night. And in the midst of his passionate remembrance of that fair, mysterious lady he had rescued a sudden thought struck him. j What if the secret over which the

Or, The Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

BY EMMA GARRJ OK JONES. Author of "Pelf ar.d Power," "Strathmore's Sin," Etc, otoi

public had wondered for so many years was hidden down in that black dungeon? Who could tell but the missing baronet had found his grave down there instead of under the still waters of the haunted lake? An eager curiosity, as irresistible as it was .sudden, possessed him. He wondered that in ail the weeks of his convalescence this thing had never occurred to him! Why hud ha never thought of exploring that awful dungeon from which the unknown lady w«s rescued? Who could tell what secrets of crime and hcrrow were Hidden there? To-morrow he would start for London, and he must make he search at once, or wait for weeks perhaps, and to wait for any thing did not suit the young Highlander's temperament ■> He glanced toward the setting sun, and then turned in the direction of Dotham's Inn to procure a lantern. The sun was quite down when he crossed the moor again with the lantern, in his hand, but he did not hesitate; if it had been midnight he would have gone on, only too glad of anything that would serve to lift his thoughts from the one thing on which they brooded so incessantly, that at times the poor fellow fancied he was going mad. He ascended the steep hill-path and entered the grounds of the deserted manor. The twilight near at hand he was alone, but rot a *>hiob of fear stirred his breast. He passed through the gates and a cross the ruined grounds. On the steps he took out a fuse and lighted his lantern, and with the dim, light swinging in band he entered through the wide open door and hunieJ up the dusty, resounding stairs. Ambrose strode resolutely on, his ringing footsteps filling the gravelike halls with startling eehnes, until he reached the dusty library, which opened into ihe black-draped anteroom.

Here he paused an instant, glancing about him, some dim remembrance of an old legend he had heard touching that same room flitting through his brain. The death-cham-oer it was called in the old days of border warfare, and was used by the savage chiefs as a sort of inquisitorial hall, where criminals were tried for their ilves. This much he had heard whispered by the hill-people, but never a word touching the secret pasasge. He half fancied as he crossed the threshold and looked round at the sombre drapery, that the whole thing was but a creation of his own fevered fancy, and that lovely, unknown face which haunted him so cruelly, naught but a myth and a dream. But lifting the tattered arras, he saw the broad wall of yellow oak, and embedded in its center that tiny, starliKe spring. He bent down and touched it, and the panel slid aside revealing the black chasm leading'down to the dungeon. The trap-door was fastened, leaving an aperture large enough for a man to let himself down, and the rope, which Donald used orfthe day of the strange lady's rescue, still dangled from the stout Bpike to which it was attached. He fastens the lantern to his girdle, and draws up'the rope. 'Just as we left it that day," he mutters as he prepares to descend. He wa3 in the act of swinging him • self down when a sore of rustle in the drapery beyond him attracted his attention, and h 3 paused and glanced back. The arras rose and fell and there was a flash of something like a human face.

The young man caught his breath with a thrill that was half terror, but in the next instant he laughed at his wen folly, and rushing across the room, he tore aside the tattered dra> peiies, but there was nothing to be seen.

'l'd have sworn I ! saw a face,' he muttered. 'What a fanciful fool I am getting to-be, just like the rest of the superstitious people hereabouts.' He dropped the moth-eaten arras, and hurried back to his rope, an agile spring and then he swung himself through the aperture, and went downward hand over hand in sailor fashion, the lantern at his girdle twinkling like a star. A few more yards, and his feet would touch the mouldy flags below, when there was a raspiug sound, and he caught the sharp clang of the falling trap-door far above him, at the same minute that the rope was loosened from its fastening. He fell swiftly and suddenly, but regained his faet almost as soon as he reached the floor. Startled by shock, but unhurt, he caught up his lantern just in time to save the expiring flame, and as the rope came coiling down in a loose heap, the full horror of hia situation burst upon him. The rope had broke, and the trap-door had fallen, and it fastened on the other side. TO BE <~ONTINTTED