HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Wingham Times, 1916-07-20, Page 7July 20th, 1916
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CHAPTER V.
On the day after Dr. Letsom's
.death, Margaret Dornham's husband
was apprehended on a charge of
poaching and aiding in a dangerous
•assault on Lord Turton's gemekeep-
'ere. Bail was refused for him, but
at the trial he was acquitted for want
'of evidence. Every one knew that
'he was guilty. He made no great
effort to conceal it. But he defied the
'whole legal power of England to prove
film guilty. He employed clever coun-
sel, and the result was his acquittal,
'EIe was free; but the prison brand was
on him, and his wife felt that she
.eould not endure the disgrace!
"I shall go from bad to worse now,
Maggie," he said to her, "I do not
'find prison so bad, nor yet difficult to
'bear; if ever I see by any lucky
hit I can make myself a rich man,
T shall not mind a few years in jail
els the price. A forgery, or something
'of that kind, or the robbery of a
• ;well -stocked bank, will be hencefor-
ward my highest aim in life."
She placed her hand on his iips
and prayed him for Heaven's sake to
Ube silent. He only laughed.
"Nature never intended me to work
—she did not indeed, Maggie. My
fellow -men must keep me; they keep
others far less deserving."
Prom that moment she knew no
peace or rest. He would keep his
word; he would look upon crie as
a source of profit; he would watch Hs
'opportunity of wrong -doing, and seize
it when it came.
In the anguish of her heart she
'cried aloud that it must not be at
"Ashwood; anywhere else, in any oth.
er spot, but not there, where she had
'been known in the pride of her fair
young life—not there, where people.
had 'warned her not to marry the
handsome, reckless, ne'er-do-well, and
;had prophesied such terrible evil for
'her if she did marry him—not there,
where earth was so fair, where all na-
ture told of innocence and purity. If
he must sin, let it be far away en
'' 'large cities where the ways of men
were evil.
She decided on leaving Ashwood.
Another and perhaps even stronger
motive that influenced her was her
passionate love for the child; that
was her one hope in life, her one
sheet -anchor, the one thing that pre-
served her from the utter madness of
'desolation.
The three years had almost elapsed;
'the doctor was dead, and had left no -
.thing behind him that could give any
•clew to Madaline's identity, and in a
short time—she trembled to think how
•short—the father would come to claim
'his child, and she would lose her.
'When she thought of that, Margaret
Dornham clung to the little one in a
passion of despair. She would go
•away and take Madaline with her—
keep her where she could love her-
-care for her, tend her—where she
,could bring her up as her own child,
.and lavish all the warmth and devo-
tion of her nature upon her. She
never once thought that in acting
-thus she was doing a selfish, a cruel
deed—that she was taking the child
from her father, who of all people
living had the greatest claim upon
her.
"He may have more money than I
have," thought poor, mistaken M ir-
garet, "but he cannot love her so
much; and after all love is better
-than money."'
It was easy to marine her husband,
'She had said but little to him at the
time she undertook the charge of lit-
tle Madaline, and he had been too in-
different to make inquiries. She told
'him now, what was in some measure
quite true, that with the doctor's
death her income had ceased, and that
she herself not only was perfectly
ignorant of the child's real name, but
did not even know to whom to write.
It was true, but she knew at the same
time that, if she would once open the
'box of papers, she would not be ig-
norant on any one point; for those
papers she had firmly resolved never
'to touch, so that in saying she knew
notrainn of thee child's- identittr_ sbe
'Heart, Palpitated
Would Have to Sit tip in Bed.
FELT AS IF SMOTHERING.
Mrs. Francis Madore, Alma, P.E.T.,
.writes: "My heart was in such a bad
condition I could not stand any excite-
- ment, and at times when I would be
e talking my heart would palpitate so
that I would feel like falling. At night,
when I would go to bed and be lying
down for a while, I would have to sit up
for ten or fifteen minutes, as I would
feel as though I was smothering. I read
in the daily paper of a lady who had been
in the same condition as I was, and was
cured by using Milburn's Heart attd
Nerve Pills, so I bought a box, and they
did me so much good, my husband got
another, and before I had used half of
the second box I was completely cured.
I feel as though I can' never say enough
in favor of your Heart and Nerve Pills.
Milburn's Heart and Nerve Pills are
composed of the very best heart and
nerve tomes and stimuiants known to
medical science, acid are for sale at all
:dealers, or will he mailed direct by The
T. Milburn Co., Limited, Toronto, Otit.
Price, 1,3 WLIS 1,er hoY,
..31.25
wbti1 rbc speakipg" tlie Itizfe truth: -
At first Henry Dornham was in.
dignant. The child should not be left;
a burden and drag on his hands, be
declarer] --it must go to the work-
house.
But patient Margaret clasped her
arms around his neck, and whisper-
ed to him that the child was so clev-
er, so pretty, she would be a gold -
mine to them in the future—only let.
them get away from Ashwood, and go
to London, where she could be train-
ed and taught. He laughed a sneer-
ing laugh, for which, had he been any
other than her husband, she would
have hated him.
"Not a bad plan, Maggie," he said;
"then she can work to keep us. I,
myself, do not care where we go or
what we do, so that no one asks' me
to work."
He was easily persuaded to say
nothing about their removal, to go to
London without saying anything to
his old friends and neighbors of their
intentions. Margaret knew well that
so many were interested in the child
that she would not be allowed to take
her away if her wish beeame known.
How long the little cottage at Asti -
wood had been empty no one knows.
It stood so entirely alone that for
weeks to -ether nothing was seen or
known of its inhabitants. Henry
Dornham was missed from his haunts.
His frier& and comrades wondered
for a few days, and then forgot him;
they thought that in all probability
he was engaged in some not very re-
putable pursuit,
The Rector of Castledene—the Rev-
erend Jolfn Darnley — was the first
really to miss them. He had alwaye
been interested in little Madaline.
When he had heard from the shop-
keepers that Margaret had not been
seen in the town lately, he feared she
was ill, and resolved to go and see
her. His astonishment was great
when he found the cottage closed and
the Dornhams gone—the place had
evidently been empty for some weeks.
On inquiry he found that the time
of their departure, and their place of
destination were equally unknown.
No one knew whither they had gone
or anything about them. Mr. Darn-
ley was puzzled; it seemed to him
very strange that, after having lived
in the place so long, Margaret Dorn -
ham should have left without saying
one word to any human being.
"There is a mystery in it," thought
the rector. He never dreamed that
the cause of the mystery was the wo-
man's passionate love for the child.
All Castledene wondered with him
—indeed, for some days the little
town was all excitement. Margaret
Dornham had disappeared with the
child who had been left in their
midst. Every one seemed to feel more
or less responsible for her; but neither
wonder nor anything else gave them
the least clew as to whither or why
she had gone. After a few days' earn-
est discussion and inquiry the excite-
ment died away, when a wonderful
event revived it. It was no other than
the arrival of the new Earl of Mount -
dean in search of his little girl.
This time the visitor did not take
any pains to conceal his title. He
drove to the Castle Arms, and from
there went at once to the doctor's
house. He found it closed and em-
pty. The first person he asked told
him that the doctor had been for
some weeks dead and buried.
The young earl was terribly shock-
ed. Dead and buried—the kindly man
who had befriended him in the hour
of need! It seemed almost incredible.
And why had no one written to him?
Still he remembered the address of
his child's foster -mother. It was Ash -
wood Cottage; and he went thither
at once. When he found that, too,
closed and deserted, it seemed to him
that fortune was playing him a trick.
He was disconcerted; and then,
believing that this at least was but a
case of removal, he decided upon go-
ing to the rector of the parish, whom
he well remembered. He surely
would be able to give hirn all infor-
mation. ,
Mr. Darnley looked up in wonder
at the announcement of his visitor's
name --the Earl of Mountdean. What
could the earl possibly want with
him?
His wonder deepened as he recog-
nized in the earl the stranger at the
burial of whose fair young wife he
had assisted three years before. The
earl held out his hand.
"You are surprised to see me, Mr.
Darnley? You recognize me, I per- '
calve."
The rector contrived to say some-
thing about his surprise, but Mount -
dean interrupted him hastily:
"Yes, I understand. I was travel-
ing as Mr. Charlewood when my ter-
rible misfortune overtook me here, I
have returned from Italy, whore I
have been spending the last three
years. My father has just died, and
I ant here in search of my child. My
child," continued the earl, seeing the
rector's blank face --'where is she? I
find my poor friend the doctor is dead,
and the house where my little one's
foster -mother lived is empty. Can
you tell me what it means?"
He tried to speak calmly, but his
handsome face had grown quite white,
his lips were dry and hot, his voice,
even to himself, had a strange, harsh
sound.
"Where is she?" lie repeated. "The
little one• --my Madaline's child? I
have a strange feeling that all is not
well. Where is my child?"
He sa.w the shadow deepen on the
rector's face, and he clasped his arm,
"Wllcre..ie.elaa." he tiriad, "
earth-ov'Meati "flat sfie 5V -0W -Nlit
dead, surely? I have not seen her
since I left her, a little, feeble baby,
but she has lived in my heart through
all these weary years of exile. My
wiaole soul has hungered and thirsted
for her. By night and by day I have
dreamed of her, elways with Made, -
line's face. She has spoken sweet
words to me in my dreams, always
irk Madaline's voice. I must see her.
I cannot bear this suspense. You do.
not answer me. Can it be that she,
too, is dead?"
"No, she is not dead," replied the
rector. "I saw her two months since,
and she was then living—well, beau-
tiful, and happy. No, the little one
is not dead."
"Then tell me, for pity's sake, where
she is!" cried the earl, in an agony
of impatience.
"I cannot. Two months since I was
at Ashwood Cottage. Margaret Dorn -
ham's worthless husband was in some
great trouble; I went to console his
wife; and then I saw the little one.
I held her in my arms, and thought,
as I looked at her, that I had never
seen such a lovely faee. Then I saw
no more of her; and my wonder was
aroused on hearing some of the trades-
people say that Mrs. Dornbam had
not been in town for some weeks.
I believed she was ill, and went to
see.. My wonder was as great as your
own at finding the house closed. Hus-
band, wife, and child had disappeared
as though by magic from the place,
leaving no clew or trace behind him."
The rector was almost alarmed at
the effect of his word.. The young
earl fell back in his chair, looking as
though the shadow of death had fallen
ever him.
CHAPTER VI
It was but a child, the rector
thought to himself, whom his father
had seen but a few times. He did
not understand that to Lord Mount -
dean this child—his dying wife's leg-
acy was the one object in life—that
she was all that remained to him of
a love that had been dearer than life
itself. Commonplace words of comfort
rose to his lips, but the earl did not
even hear them. He looked up sud-
denly, with a ghastly pallor still in
his face.
"How foolish I am to alarm my-
self so greatly !" he said, "Some one
or other will be sure to know whither
the woman has gone. She may have
had sonic monetary trouble, and so
have desired to keep her whereabouts
a secret; but some one or other will
know. If she is in the world I will
find her. How foolish I am to be so
terribly frightened! If the child is liv-
ing, what have I to fear?"
But, though his words were brave
and courageous, his hands trembled,
and the rector saw signs of great agi-
tation. He rang for wine, but Lord
Mountdean could not take it—he could
do nothing until he had found his
child.
In a few words he told the rector
the story of his marriage.
"I thought," he said, "that I could
not do better for the little one than
leave her here in the doctor's care."
"You were right," returned the res
tar; "the poor doctor's love for the
child was talked about everywhere.
.As for Margaret Dornham, I do not
think, if she had been her own. she
could have loved her better. What-
ever else may have gone wrong, take
my word for it, there was no lack of
love for the child: she could not have
been better cared for—of that I am
quite sure."
"I am glad to hear you say so; that
is some comfort. But why clid no one
write to me when the doctor died?"
"I do not think he left one shred
of paper containing any allusion to
your lordship. All his effects were
claimed by some distant cousin, who
now lives in his house. I was asked
to look over his papers, but there
was not a private memorandp m
amongst them—not one; there *as
nothing in fact but receipted bills."
Lord Mountdean looked up.
"There must be some mistake," he
observed. "I myself placed in his
charge all the papers necessary for
the identification of my little daugh-
ter,"
"May I ask of what they consist•
ed?" said the rector.
"Certainly --the certific.:ate of my
marriage, of my beloved wife's death,
of my little daughter's birth, and an
agreement between the doctor and
myself as to the sum that was to be
paid to him yearly while he had
charge of my child."
"Then the doctor knew your name,
title, and address?"
"Yes; I had no motive in keeping
them secret, save that I did riot wish
my marriage to be known to my fath-
ed until I myself eould tell him ---
and T know how fast such news trav-
els. I remember distinctly where he
placed the papers. I watched him."
"Where was it?" asked Mr. Darn-
ley. "For I Certainly have seen no-
thing of them.
"In a stnall oaken box with brass
clasps which stood on a sideboard.
I remember it as though it were yes-
terday."
"
have seen no such box," said
the rector, "Our wisest plan will be
to go at onee to the house where his
cousin, M. Grey, resides, and see if
the article is in his possession, 1
ani quite acre, though, that he would
have mentioned it if he had seen it."
Without a minute's delay they
drove at once to the house, and found
Mr, Grey et home. Ile was surprised
wiene . lie heard thr t4. ._. beefs aekk
A Sluggish Liver
CAUSES LOTS
OF TROUBLE.
•
Unless the liver is working properly
you may look forward to a great many
troubles arising, such as constipation,
severe headaches, bilious headaches, sick
headaches, jaundice, sick stomach, etc.
Mrs, J. Shellsworth, 227 Albemarle
St., Halifax, N.S„ writes: "I take
pleasure in writing you concerning the
great value I have received by using your
Milburn's I,axa-Liver Pills for a sluggish
liver. When my liver got bad I would
have severe headaches, but after using a
couple of vials of your pilis I have not
been bothered with the headaches any
more,"
Milburn's Laxa-Liver Pills are, with-
out a doubt, the best liver regulator on
the market to -day. Twenty-five years of
a reputation should surely prove this.
Milburn's Laxa-Liver Pills are 25 cents
per vial, 5 vials for $1.00; for sale at all
dealers, or mailed direct on receipt of
price by l'he T. Milburn Co., Limited,
Toronto: Ont.
of 'lits vfs. na aria ant arr.' Wr n
he understood Itis errand,
"A small oaken box with brass
clasps?" he said. "No; I have noth-
ing of the kind in my possession;
but. if your lordship will wait, I
will have a search made at once."
Every drawer, desk, and recess were
examined in vain. There was no trace
of either the box or the papers.
"I have an inventory of everything
the doctor's house contained—it was
Taken the day after his death," said
Mr. Grey; "we can look through
that."
Item after item was most carefully
perused. The list contained no men-
tion of a small oaken box. It was
quite plain that box and papers had
both disappeared.
"Could the doctor have given them
Into Mrs. Dornham's charge?" asked
the earl.
"No," replied the rector; "I should
say• certainly not. I am quite sure
that Mrs. Dornham did not even know
the child's surname. I remember
once asking her about it. If she had
had the papers, she would have read
them. T cannot think she holds thein."
Then they went to visit Mrs. Gal-
braith, the doctor's housekeeper. She
had a distinct recollection of the box
—it used to stand on the sideboard,
and a large-sized fancily Bible gener-
ally lay on the top of it. How long
it had been out of sight when the
doctor died she did not know, but she
had never seen it since. Then they
drove to the bank, thinking that, per-
haps, for greater security, he might
have deposited it there. No such thing
had been heard of. Plainly enough,
the papers had disappeared; both the
earl and the rector were puzzled.
"They can be of no possible use to
any one but myself," said Lord Mount -
dean. "Now that my poor father is
dead and cannot be distressed about
it, I shall toll to the whole world—
if it cares to listen—the story of my
marriage. if I had wanted to keep
that or the birth of my child a se-
cret. I could have understood the
papers being stolen by one wishing to
trade with them. As it is, I cannot
see that they are of the least use to
any one except myself."
They gave up the search at last,
and then Lord Mountdean devoted
himself to the object—the finding of
his child.
In a few days the story of his mar-
riage was told by every newspaper in
the land; also the history of the
strange disappearance of his child.
Large rewards were offered to any
any one who could bring the least in-
formation. Not content with employ-
ing the best detective skill in Eng-
land, he conducted the search him-
self. He worked unwearyingly.
"A man, woman, and child could
not possibly disappear from the face
of the earth without leaving some
trace behind," he would say.
One little gleam of light carne, which
filled him with hope—they found that
Margaret Dornharn had solei all her
furniture to a broker living in a town
called Wrentford. She had sent for
him herself, and had asked him to
purchase it, saying that she, with her
husband, was going to live tat a dis-
tance, and that they did not care
about taking it with them. He re-
membered having asked her where she
was going, but she evaded any reply.
He could tell no more. He showed
t hat•, -he .ltd left ..,�,j, the juagetitre.:
Ifilidliaddifighlywhidmhaideballe
The Wretchedness
of Constipation
Can quickly be overcome by
CARTER'S LITTLE
LIVER PILLS
Purely vegetable
—act surely and
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liver. Cure
Biliousness,
Head-
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Dizzi-
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Small Pill, Small Dose, Small Price.
aenuine moat bear Signature
Ord fciGrselrireir Ltircl eiountsTccan's
eyes as he saw amongst it a child's
crib. He liberally rewarded the man,
and then set to work with renewed
vigor to endeavor to find out Mar-
garet Dorpharn's destination.
He went to the railway stations,
and, though the only clew he suc-
ceeded in obtaining was a very faint
one, he had some reason for believ-
ing that Margaret Dornham had gone
to London.
In that vast city he continued the
search, until it really seemed that
every inch of ground had been exam-
ined, It was all without result -.-Mar-
garet Dornham and her little foster -
child seemed to have vanished.
"What can be the woman's motive?"
the earl would cry in despair. "Why
has she taken the child? What does
she intend to do with it?"
It never occurred to him that her
great, passionate love for the little
one was the sole motive for the deed
she had done.
The papers were filled with appeals
to Margaret Dornham to return to
Castledene, or to give some intelli-
gence of her faster -child. The events
of the story were talked about every-
where; but, in spite of all that was
done and said, Lord Mountdean's
heiress remained undiscovered.
Months grew into years, and the same
mystery prevailed. The earl was des-
perate at first' -his anguish and sor-
row were pitiful to witness; but, af-
ter a time, he grew passive in his
despair. He never relaxed in his ef-
forts. Every six months the adver-
tisements with the offers of reward
were renewed; every six months the
story way retold in the papers. It
had become one of the common topics
of the day. People talked of the Earl
of Mountdean's daughter, of her
strange disappearance:, of the myster-
ious silence that had fallen over her.
Then, as the years passed on, it was
agreed that she would. never be found,
that she must be dead. The earl's
truest friends advised him to marry
again. After years of bitter disap-
pointment, of anguish and suspense,
of unutterable sorrow and despair, he
resigned himself to the entire loss of
Madaline's child.
* * * * *
Nature had made Philippa
L'Estrange beautiful, circunistances
had helped to make her proud. Her
father, Lord L'Estrange, died when
she was quite a ehild, leaving her
an enormous fortune that was quite
under her own control. Her mother,
Lady L'Estrange, had but one idea
in life, and -that was indulging her
beautiful daughter in her every ca-
price. Proud, beautiful, and wealthy,
when she most needed a mother's
care, that mother died, leaving her
sole mistress of herself. She was but
seventeen then, and was known as
one of the wealthiest heiresses and
loveliest girls of the day. Her first
step was, in the opinion of the world,
a wise one; she sent for a widowed
cousin, Lady Peters, to live with her
as chaperon. Por the first year af-
ter her mother's death she remained
at Verdun Royal, the family estate.
After one yeariven to retirement,
Philippa L'Estrarlge thought she had
mourned for her mother after the most
exemplary fashion. She was just nine-
teen when she took her place again
in the great world, one of its bright-
est ornaments.
An afternoon in London in May.
The air was clear and fresh; there was
in it a faint breath of the budding
chestnuts, the hawthorn and lilac; the
sun shone clear and bright, yet not
too warmly.
On this afternoon Miss L'Estrange
sat in the drawing -room of the magni-
ficent family mansion in Hyde Park.
The whole world could not have pro-
duced a more marvelous picture. The
room itself was large, lofty, well pro-
portioned, and superbly furnished;
the hangings were of pale -rose silk
and white lace; the pictures and sta-
tues were gems of art, a superb copy
of the Venus of Milo gleaming white
and shapely from between the folds
of rose silk, also a marble Flora,
whose basket was filled with purple
heliotropes, and a Psyche that was
itt itself a dream of beauty; the vases
were filled with fairest and most fra-
grant flowers. Nothing that art, taste,
or luxury could suggest was wanting
—the eye reveled in beauty. Miss
L'Estrange had refurnished the room
in aceordance with her own ideas of
the beautiful and artistic.
The long windows were opened, and
through them one saw the rippling of
the rich foliage in the park; the large
iron balconies were filled with flowers,
fragrant mignonette, lemon -scented
verbenas, purple heliotropes, all grow-
ing in rich profusion. The spray of
the little scented fountain sparkled
in the sun. Every one agreed that
there was no other room in London
like the grand drawing -room at Ver-
dun House.
There was something on that bright
May afternoon more bea.sstiful even
than the flowers. the fountains, the
bright -plumaged birds in their hand-
some cages, the white statues, or the
pictures; that Vas the mistress and
queen of all this magnificence, Phi-
lippa L'Estrange. She was reclining
nn a couch that had been sent from
Paris—a couch made of finest ebony,
and covered with pale. rose-colored
velvet. If Titian or Velasquez had
seen her as she lay there, the world
would have been the richer by an im-
mortal work of art; Titian alone could
have reproduced those rich, marvelous
colors; that perfect, queenly beauty.
He would have painted the picture,
and the world would have raved about
its beauty. The dark masses of wav-
ing hair; the Iovely face with its
warm southern tints; the dark eyes
lighted with fire and passion; the
perfect mouth with its proud, sweet,
imperial, yet tender Tins; the white,
dimnled chin; the head and fare un-
rivaled in their glorious contour; the
straight, dark brows that could frown
and yet soften as few other brows
could; the white neck, halt hidden,
half revealed by the coquettish dress;
the white ronnded arms and beauti-
ful hands—ell would have struck the
master. Her dress fell round her in
folds that would have charmed an
artist. It was of some rich trans-
parent materiel, the pale aanber hue
of which enhnneed her dark loveli-
ness. The white arms were1talf shown,
half covered by rich lace--itt the wav'ea
of her dark hair lay a yellow rose.
She looked like a woman whose smile
could be fatal and dange o+is as that
gf_a_ tigeBA. .32114.Atital y1 ....1(l
witatiammitedesmoomminnsammomin
Ch6Iclren Cry for Fletcher's
The Kind Y'ou Have Always I.'oat jht, and 'which has been
in use for over CO yca:s, has borne the signature of
(4°and has been made under his per -
,
somal supervision since its infancy.
, � C t1/. Allow no one to deceive you in this.
All Counterfeits, Imitations and "Just -as -good" aro but
Experiments that trifle with and endanger the health of
Infants and Children—]Experience against Experiment.
What is CASTORiA
Castoria is a harmless substitute for Castor Oil, Pare-
goric, Drops and Soothing Syrups. It is pleasant. It
contains neither Opium, Morphine nor other Narcotic
substance. Its age is its guarantee. It destroys 'Worms
ztnd allays Feverishness. For more than thirty years it
has been in constant use for the relief of Constipation,
Flatulency, 'Wind Colie, all Teething Troubles and
Diarrhoea. It regulates the Stomach and Rowels,
assimilates the Food, giving healthy and natural sleep,,
n The Children's Panacea—The Mother's Friend.
GENUINE CASTORIA ALWAYS
Bears the Signature of
it
In Use For Over 30 Years
The Kind You have Always Bought
iTNE CENTAUR COMPANY, NEW YORK CITY,
of -madly hated; " yet no nerbOuf Ttb-man
living could be indifferent.
She played for some few minutes
with the rings on her fingers, smiling
to herself a soft, dreamy smile, as
though her thoughts were very pleas-
ant ones; then she took up a volume
of poems, read a few lines; and then
laid the book down again. The dark
eyes, with a gleam of impatience in
them, wandered to the clock.
"How slowly those bands move!"
she said.
"Yon are restless," observed a calm,
low voice; "watching a clock always
makes time seem long,"
"Ah, Lady Peters," said the rich,
musical tones, "when I cease to be
young, I shall cease to be impatient!"
Lady Peters, the chosen confidante
and chaperon of the brilliant heiress
was an elderly lady whose most strik-
ing characteristic appeared to be
calmness and repose. She was richly
dressed in a robe of black moire, and
she wore a cap of point -lace; her face
was kindly, patient, cheerful; her
Manner, though-sdmewhat stately, the
same. She evidently deeply loved the
beautiful girl whose bright face was
turned to hers.
"He said three in his note, did he
not, Lady Peters?"
"Yes, my dear, but it is impossible
for any one to be always strictly
punctual; a hundred different things
may have detained him."
"But if he were realty anxious to
see me, he ;would not let anything de-
tain him,'" she said.
"Your anxiety about him would be
very flattering to him if he knew it,"
remarked the elder lady.
"Why should I not be anxious? I
have always loved him better than
the whole world. I have had reason
to be anxious."
"Philippa, my dear Philippa, I
would not say such things if I were
you, unless I had heard something
really definite from himself."
The beautiful young heiress laugh-
ed a bright, triumphant laugh,
"Something definite from himself!!
Why, you do not think it likely that
he will long remain indifferent to me,
even if he be so now --which I do
not. believe."
"I have had so many disappoint,
merits in life that T am afraid of be-
ing sanguine," said Lady Peters: and
again the young beauty laughed,
'It will seen so strange to see him
again. I remember his going away
so well. I was very young then—T am
young now, hut I feel years older. Ile
came down to Verdun Royal to bid
ns good-bye, and I was in the grounds.
He had but half an hour to stay.
and mamma sent frim out to me.
The color deepened in her face as
she spoke, and the light shone in her
splendid eyes—there was a. kind of
wild, restless passion in her words.
"I remember it all so well ' There
had been a heavy shower of rain in
the early morning, that had cleared
away, leaving the skies blue. the sun-
shine golden, while the rain -drops still
glistened on the trees and the grass.
I love the sweet smell of the green
leaves and the moist earth after rain.
T was there enjoying it when he carne
to say good-bye to me -mamma came
with him, 'Philippa,' she said. 'Nor -
men is going; he wants to say good-
bye to his little wife.' He always
calls me his little wife. I saw him
look very grave. She went away and
left us together. 'You aro grossing
too tall to be called my little wife.
Philippa,' he said, and I laughed at
his gravity. We were standing under-
neath a great flowering Mae-tree—the
green leaves and the sweet flowere
were still wet with the rain. 1 re-
member it so well! T drew one of the
tall fragrant sprays down, and shak-
ing the rain -drags from it, kissed it.
T east smell the rich, moist odor now.
I never see n lilacsllray or smell its
sweet moisture after ruin but that
the whole 80L11e rives before me again
-et see the proud, handsome fate that
I love so dearly, the Blear skies and
the green trees. 'Flow long shall you
be, away, Norman?' I asked him. 'Not
more than two years,' he replied. 'You
will be quite a brilliant Indy of fash-
ion when I return, Philippe,; you will
have made conquests innumerable.'
'I shall always be the same to you,'
I replied; bnt he. made tic answer.
He took the spray of lilac from my
hands. 'My ideas of you will al-
ways be associated with lilacs,' he
said; and that is why, Lady Peters,
I ordered the vases to be filled with
lilacs to -day. He bent down and kiss-
ed my face. 'Good-bye, Philippa,'
he said, `may I find you as good and
as beautiful as I leave you!' And
then he went away. That is just
two years ago; no wonder that I am
pleased at his return,"
Lady Peters looked anxiously at
her.
There was no regular engagement
between you and Lord Arleigh, was
there, Philippa?"
"What do you call a regular engage.
ment?" said the young heiress. He
never made love to me, if that is
what you mean—he never asked me to
be his wife; but it was understood—
always understood."
"By whom?" asked Lady Peters.
"My mother and his. When Lady
Arleigh lived, she spent a great deal
of time at Verdun Royal with my
mother; they were first cousins, and
the dearest of friends. Hundreds of
times I have seen them sitting on'
the lawn, while Norman and I played
together. Then they were always
talking about the time when we should
be married. 'Philippa will make a.
beautiful Lady Arleigh,' his mother
used to say. Norman, go and play
with your little wife,' she would add;
and with all the gravity of grown,
courtier, he would bow before me and
call me his little wife."
"But you were children then, and
it was perhaps all childish folly."
"It was nothing of the kind," said
the heiress. "I remember well that,
when I was presented, my mother
said to me, 'Philippa, you are sure
to be very much admired; but re-
member, T consider you engaged to
Norman. Your lot in life is settled;
you are to be Lady Arleigh of Beech -
grove."
"But," interposed Lady Peters, "it
seems to me. Philippa, that this was
all your mother's fancv. Because you
played together as edtildren---because
when you were a child. he called you
his little wino --because your mother
and his were dear friends, and liked
the arrangement ---it does not follow
that he would like it, or that he would
choose the playmate of his childhood
a.s the love of his manhood. In all.
that you have said to rue, T see no
evidence that he loves you. or that
i10 considers himself in any way
bound to you."
"That is because you do not under-
stand. He has been in England only-
two
nlytwo days. yet, you see, he comes to
visit -me.'
"That may be for oId friendship's
sake," said T.adv Peters. "Oh, my-
darline, be careful ! Do not give the
love of your heal and soul for noth-
ing."
"11 is given airendy," eonfossed the
girl. "and can never be recalled. no:
matter ghat T get in return. Why,
if i- twenty minutes past three; do
yon think he will eome?"
Philippa i,'T strange resp from the
cnueh and went to the long. open,
window.
"T have never soon the sun shine
eo briebth• before." she said and
Lady Peters sighed as she listened,
"The world has never looked so bean..
tifnl as it doe;: to -day. Ob. Norman,
make basic: T stn longing to see
yogi.,"
Aho Intel a quaint, pretty fashion of
enlible Lady Vetere by the French
appellation of martian. She turned
to her now, with e ehertning smile,
Site shock out the perfumed folds of
iter dregs •--- she smoothed the fine
white lace.
"You have not told me. rnaman,"
elle said. "whether £ itrn looking mer
hest to -day. T .suit Norman to be a
little stirprise;l when he sees the, If
you saw me for the first time toeity,
would you think me nice?"
"I should think you the very queert,
of Meme ty.", a: :ttc teezelaesel eeq lr
(To BE Col T1NUBD.)