A GREAT WRONG.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10034, 3 May 1910, Page 2

A GREAT WRONG.

/ BY EMMA GARRJ 03T JOKES. Author of "Pol£ and Power," "Strathmore's Sin," Eto, etc.

CHAPTER XXlX.—Continued

The wild (ire which had blazed up in Ishbel's eyes died out. 'I forget so soon,' she said simply. 'My seems to wander. It was the marriage-certificate I was talking about, Arthur gave it to me the same day we were married, just as we were getting ready to go to Marlowe Hail. 'Take good care of it, lahbel.'hesaid, 'and hide U in a safe place; you might need u some day.' I was putting on my new boots, and I tore a little place loose, and slipped it down under the lining, Arthur laughing at me all the while. It stayed there, and when they locked me up "in the madhouse I put my wed-ding-ring with it; and Mrs Latimer didn't get them, Decause she had big feet, and didn't care to take my shoes; and here they are yet.' She drew forth a plain gold ring, and a slip of folded paper, and put them in Maud's hands. •What a cunning little mother it is, to be sure,' laughed King Lear. 'Who would have thought it?* Maud looked at the paper, and then passed it to Sir Harry. 'lt is a genuine certificate,' he said when he had examined it; 'she is Arthur Marlowe's wedded wife.' 'Then hia marriage with another woman shall not go on,' cried Ambrose, bounding to his feet. 'Come Maud, let us make ready for the journey at once.' The wedding-feast is set, the wed-ding-guests are assembling; the bride sits in her bower with her maids about ber, all clad in her bridal finery, the orange-blossoms on her brow, the silvery veil floating to her feet. Lady Marlowe, in her silk and diamonds, swept in. 'Edith, love,' addressing her daughter, who is chief bridesmaid, 'we are quite ready. Bianca, dearest, how very well you are lookmg. Give me akisb and we'll go down.'

Lady Bianca turns with languid grace and holds up her cheek to receive the motherly embrace; and then, rustling and shining Jike a silver stream, the bridal train sweeps out, and down the stairs. At the church, the bridegroom and his party are to join them. They enter the waiting carriages, and are driven away under the leaden, wintry skies. *Ah,' aighs Lady Marlowe under her breath, falling back amid the cushions, 'when this is well over, how exceedingly relieved I shall feel.'

Over the frosty, frozen roaas, under the black arches of the clanking trees, they fly along; and away in the distance, another vehicle, a closed carriage, drawn by two panting horses, follows them. The carnages arrive at the church, and the bricsal-party get out. Old Sir Hereford and his son Arthur await them at the entrance; the son looking older than the faiher, so terribly have the last twelve months changed him. His face is colourless, the hair on his temples is streaked with gray, and his eyes have a strange, introverted look, as if he were walking in a dream.

'Ah, here you are, Arthur,' called out Lady Marlowe. He gave a slight start, glanced about him wistfuly as if looking for something he had no hope of finding, and then advanced to meet them. 'lf it must be done, the sooner it is over the better,' he muttered under his breath, as they led down the aisle. They took their places before the altar, and in sonorous tones the clergyman began the ceremony. Lady Bianca, tall and handsome, and gracious, was about to remove her glove, to receive the marriagtrmg, when there arose a commotion at the door.

Lady Marlowe glanced round, and saw Sir Harry Tresham advancing, followed by some two or three others. Something in the set, stern look of his face struck terror to her heart.

He came on with rapid, ringing steps, straight up to the altar-rail. 'Hold!' he cried, his voice like a bugle, 'this marriage must not go on.'

The clergyman stopped and stared ; old Sir Hereford wheeled round and angrily demanded whut was wanted; the bnde arched her delicate brows, and awaited in well-bred amazement; while Lady Marlowe grew white to the blond crimps on her brow.

The bridegroom had'turned with the rest, and looking beyond Sir Harry had caught sight of the little, shrinking figure in the background. At a single glance he recognised her.

A hoarse cry broke from his lips. He put his wide from him and rushed down thj aisle.

'lshbel, Ishbel!' he cried; 'my wife! my darling! have you come back?' She was in his arms in an instant, clinging about his neck, the tears streaming over her whitej cheeks like rain.

'Arthur, Arthur!' sh* sobbed, 'I never thought to see you again; buc I have loved you through all my misery \ And I have a little baby, your own child, Arthur. We could not

1 Or, The Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

bring it because of the cold, but you shall see it and love it, and you won't let them take it away from me, Arthur?*

He held her close to hia heart, his eyes alight with all their old fire. 'I have been a fool, and in a dream; huf, thank Heaven! 1 am awake now,' he cried. 'She is my wife,' confronting the awe-stricken group at the altar, 'my own wife, and this marriage cannot proceed.' Lady Marlowe and Lady Bianca simultaneously fainted away; orangeblossoms were crushed, lacesjjtumbled, nd in dire confusion the wedding c ame to an end. .

Ishbel, still clinging to her husband, lifted her piteous eyes to his face. 'You won't let them ake me from vou again, will you, Arthur' she whispered.

He strained her close to his heart. •JMy darling, no! No one shall ever take you from me again !'

CHAPTER XXX. CLOTILDE'S CONFESSION. Tne morning appointed for the execution of the murderer of Arthur Trevethon had arrived Ihe whole story of his crime had been told, and the true Sir Geoffrey, the man whose name and Heritage he had so long usurped, had been found, and brought face to face with the miserable criminal in his cell.

The two stood eye to eye-King Lear and the man who had so long borne his name.

A flash of returning memory biiebtened the old man's eye. 'I know him; I remember him,' he said. 'Hie name is Andrew Bruce. I gave my child into his keeping. What has he riore with him?' 'I murdered him,' answered the f'ebn, gnashing his teeth and rattling his chaid?, 'as I would murder you now, if I could get at your throat.'

There was no doubt of the old man's identity. If there was, the evidence of Lord Harry Rothwell cleared it all away.

'Sir Geoffrey and myself were college chums,' he said, 'sworn friends and allies. If you want a test. I can give you one. My old friend, Geoffrey, had a curious mark on bis arm—a little scar, precisely in the form of a triangle.' King Lear laughed bis cheery laugh, ana pushed up the sleeve of his right arm. 'What a sharp fellow Rothwell is; he always was,' he raid. 'Now, I had quite forgottetr that little mark, but there it is, gentlemen.'

So the case was settled to every one's satisfaction, and after yearg of exile, the heir of Irevethon was restored to his rightful heritage. In company with Miss Trevethon, his niece, he took up his abode at the ancestral mansion, Lyndith Hall.

And on this cheerless winter morning, the execution was to take place. In punibhment of his crime, Andrew Bruce was to suffer, the extreme penalty of the law. But he remained unrepentant to the last, refusing to see a clergyman or to make the least preparations for eternity, London was all excitement that winter morning, and crowds of eager spectators tripped in the direction of the spot, where the tragic deed was to be done. ~r' '" r ££^ The criminal was a famous one, and every detail of the preliminary proceedings was carried out with official decorum. The royal troops were in attendance; the officers entered the prison to bring lorth their victim; they went tramping into the dark cell, and found—not the criminal they expected to see, but a woman.

A ghost they at first sight believed her to be, and recoiled in amazed horror. A bloodless, aged creature crouching on the pallet of straw,, her hollow eyes glittering in the gloom like lurid fire.

'lour victim has escaped, and I am here in his stand,' she said, speaking in hollow tones, while they stood stUDned and silent. 'Gold can work wonders, and I had gold. Hang me.in his stead, if you will, but first bring a clergyman to hear my confession. The clergyman came, and with the sacred crucifix Before her eyes, the wretched creature went on: 'He was my husband, Andrew Bruce, the man who had so long usurped Sir Geoffrey Trevsthon's name and title, and his son, as my child, not Richmond Trevethon. For long years 1 have known the secret, and have held my peace. He made me swear by the blessed crucifix never to betray him, and well have I kept my oath; but I must break it now. My sins lie heavy on my soul, and lim dying.' „^; TO BE '"ONTINUED