A GREAT WRONG,

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10032, 30 April 1910, Page 2

A GREAT WRONG,

\ Or, The Mystery of Black Hollow Grange. 9 ~° i

CHAPTER XXVIi. —Continued.

'King Lear, oh, help roe, pity roe!' she panted, imploring eyes uplifted. 'They aie going to take my baby from me!' 'Oh.no; they surely wouldn't do that?'

'Yes, they will. My baby, my precious little baby, Arthur's own baby' she went on, great te:;ra rolling down her wan cheeks. 'They are going to take him from rr.e. Do yo hear, King Lear? Mrs Latimer told me herslf, only a minute ago, and as soon as I got a chance 1 fijw down here to tell you. She says lam too weak and ailicg to nurse hirn, and the doctor says he must be sent away, off into the country somewhere for some strange woman to keep—my baby, that has slept on my bosom since the hour he was born. They're going to take him away to-morrow morning. What shall I do? Oh, King Lear, what shall 1 do?' She beat the air with her frantic little hand?, and looked up at him with a face that tilled the old man's eyes with tears.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

'Poor little mother! poor little mother!' he murmured, caressing her drooping head; 'it is cruel enough to keep you shut up here. If I could only get you away, we might go to the old Grange together."

The child-mother started to her feet.

'1 must get away.' she whispered. 'Ambrose was here one day; I saw him. If he had heard me he would have helped me. Ah, Heaven! before my baby was born/ fche continued, her bosom rising with convulsive 80D8. 'I used to think of throwing myself into the pond over there. If I only had, all my misery would have been over!'

'But that would have been wicked, little one.' 'J cannot belp it. I think the Heavenly Father must pity us, and forgive us our wickedness, when we suffer as I have suffered all these long, long months. Oh. King Lear, you can't know how 1 havt suffered! I ara not mad! I have nuvtr teen mad for one single minute since they brought me here; but I thick I'm going mad now; my head feels like it. If tbey take my child from me, I shall go raving wild, and I shall murder Mrs Latimer. She took all my pretty jewels and lacts that Arthur gave me; but if she takes my baby, I shall kill her!' Her face was deathly white, her eyes like lurid stars, her breath came in panting gasps. 'She shall not take your baby, my poor little girl,' said the uld man soothingly. "I'll go and see her about it.'

But her frantic arms held him tight.

'No, no; rot a word, for your life! It would ruin everything, and I might never see my baby again. I am to have him back to-night, and I shall think of some way. 'Hist!' whispered the girl, with her finger on her lips. 'There goes Nurse Ruth; I must fly. King Lear, if anything happens, you will hear. Meet me m the grounds and we'll go together.' His bright eyes brightened. 'I wish we could,' he answered. 'I wish we could.'

'We will. They Jshall not take my baby. I'm thinking of some way. Be ready, King Lear, and wait. We will go together.' She darted from him, and went fluttering across the windy grounds like h lapwing. The angry sunset faded out, twilight fell gloomy and child, and with the night the complaining winds swelled to a fierce gale. The village bells had rung for midnight, and nearly every light along the vast froDt of Moreton House was extinguished, when a woman crept out of her cell and ran alone one of the windy corridors, with a flickering taper in her hand. He face was bloodless, and her eyes shoce like fiie. Til do it,' she muttered, between her shut teeth; 'l'll do it, and save my baby! Half an hour thereafter a villager riding along the Jana raised a lusty outcry of fire. Failing to arouse the inm&tes, he left the road and pounded furiously at the gates, shouting 'Fire! fire!' with every breath. By the time the keepers had heard and the dcors of Moreton House were thrown open, a great sheet of flame fluttered from the main cupola like a royal banner. 'Fire! fire! fire!'

A dozen throats took up the cry, and repeated it; and the mad winds whirled the flames hither and thither till for miles around the star'es? night was illuminated. Mortton House was in flames! The inmates came pouring out like Bees from their hive; and the scene that followed defies description. In the midst of the general turmoil, while the fire raged and roared, and the cell doors were being batterd down, and the poor, crazed creatures danced and shrieked in their fright, a little figure flitted across the grounds, with a closely wrapped bundle at her breast.

1 BY EMMA GARKJ ON JONES. / it a 2" Author of "Pelf and Power," "Strathmore's Sin," j» Etc, etc. /

'King Lear,' she whispered, seizing the old win's arm, as he stood bewildered amid the general tumult. "Come! I told you I should think of someway! See, they are all free, and the hateful celh are in flames! Come, let us go.' He caught her arm, and drew her along beside him, a flash of excitement and energy lighting- his face. 'Yes, you are right.' he answered. 'We will go together. Clasp the child close, and let us be quick !' And through the firelit grounds, through the wide-open gate, away from the mad, tumultuous crowd, they hurried, side by side.

A STRANGE ADVENTURE. Ambrose Gerhart kept his word. He went back to London, and had an interview with Mr Parkhurst, the Trevethon solicitor, in which he related all he knew in regard to the strauge man who called himself King Lear.

'He may be Sir Geoffrey Trevethon, and he may not be,' the London lawyer answered. 'However, the matter shall be investigated. We will visit Moreton House at once, and if your suspicions should prove well founded, sir, 1 will see that you receive the promised reward. Miss Trevethon has offered a handsome one for any information concerning Sir Geoffrey, as, without doubt, you know."

'I do not know,' answered Ambrose with a flash uf scornful anger. 'Nor do I care. I wouldn't touch a cent oi Miss Trevethon's reward if I were starving.'

ft Mr Parkhurst smiled, and Ambrose, having done his duty in thi* quarter, determined to set his face homeward. Somehow or other the inclination to pursue his journty bad left him. He must tarry in England and see the end of this affair.

Moreover, he was puzzled about that voice that had called his name from the madhouss tower. Waß it a parrot, aa. the crszy gentleman had said, or was it some one who knew him? A fancy possessed him that it might be Ishbel, and be could not rest until he had seen Maud about it. But what chance could have thrown poor little Ishbel into n madhouse? The idea seemed absurd. Ambrose went home, nevertheless, and reached the Fellside farm one wintry night, when the first snow of the season was falling. He found the windows alight, and Maud in the best parlor. She had a visitor—Sir Harry Tresham.

He looked a trifled embarrassed when Ambrose and eaid something about returning to the village.

'Wait a little while,'said Maud with her frank simplicity of manner; 'Ambrose will be going back presently, ani you will be company for each other; and you shall both have a cup of hot coffee before jou start.' Sir Harry seemed nothing loath to comply. He settled back into his seat in the fireside corner, his handsome eyes following Maud, as she moved about, with an admiration he could not conceal.

'I am so glad you have changed your mind, Ambrose and came back,' Maud said, as she put her shining coffee-urn before tte coals. 'Your mother has been fretting so about you. and she is really ill.' '111? Poor mother, is she? Then I must tell my story, and hurry on. I haven't been home yet. I'm on my • way from London.' He related his adventures at Moreton House, and told of the course he had pursued in London. Sir Harry listened with interest.

'You saw Miss TrevethoD, of course?' he said, when Ambrose had finished. 'What view did she take of the matter?'

Ambrose struck the coals a blow with the poker that sent them sparkling all over the hearth.

'I did not 'sea Miss Irevethon,' he answered, almost wrathfully; 'there was no need I saw her solicitor, and now I am done with the whole thing.' Sir Harry smiled significantly, as if a new thought had struck him, and glanced across at Maud, but she took no heed. Her thoughts were busy with the story Ambrose had told her. 'ln a madhouse? My poor little sister! It surely cannot be, Ambrose? But I must go to Morelon House, and find out. I shall start to-morrow.' 'l'll go with you,' said Ambrose, 'if mother is not too ill.' Sir Harry fidgeted in his chair. 'I r'ont' see how she could have got into a madhouse, Miss Melville,' he said, 'but, of course, you will want to be sure. Uut to make such a journey in this wretched weather, with such a slender chance of success! Let me go in your stead. I will leave no stone unturned, I assure you. TO BE CONTINUED