The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-10-02 00:00:00

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RIGHTS RESERVED.]
THE HEIRESS

ATETERSTONE GRANGE.

BY THE AI7TIIOR OF
`1 Allan Thornton," "Effie Baird," " Almost a
arlmina4" "Leonora's Legacy," p.
CHAPTER XXXV.

ENDED,
The black despair.
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world in which I moved aIone.—SnELLEY.
?IL CARSON, maybe, thought his son a little pre.
Adiced, but he said nothing, for he himself shared hi
feeling, though in a much slighter degree. He had an
Undefined feeling that the heiress was not the simple.
hearted, pure-minded girl she seemed, but he had nc
grounds for remarking upon it, or expressing his sus-
Picion in any way. He distrusted Mrs. Dalton, too,
though he looked upon his sons story as a delution of
k disordered brain.
"Time will show, my boy," he said, in answer to
Graham's remark; "and you need not see anything
0f her, if you don't like. There is not much business
to be transacted at the Grange, and they are going off
°U a tour almost directly.
"When is the marriage to be ?"
"In June."

"So quickly ?"
" Yes ; there is no reason for delay."
"No," said the young man, with a curl of his hand-
6orne lip. "There's something in thrift. You know
What Hamlet says: "The funeral baked meats did
coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.' Lord! what
a world it is !"
"I don't think there's any reason for delay," Mr.
Carson the elder said, looking at his son with a puzzled
race; "the old squire's been deal more than twelve
raonths now. Miss Athez stone did not know him;
and her twelve months of mourning for her mother
Will be up before her marriage, and no one here ever
knew the poor lady. I don't think decorum will be
rouch outraged by the wedding."
, "Perhaps not. I wasn't thinking of the deaths and
°finals. After life's fitful fever they sleep well,' I
daresay. Miss Atherstone's marriage will not affect
them very much."
"Whom, then ?"
"Oh, nobody, perhaps. I was only thinking of
lihother kind of death and burial—the death of a love
for which we can put on no outward mourning—the
burial of hope, over whose grave we can make no
sound of wailing."
"Bless my heart! whose love is dead and buried ?"
asked the lawyer, in amazement; but his son had
already walked away.
"He can't mean that Miss Atherstone has jilted any-
One," he said to himself. "She was telling me no fib
When she told me she was heart-whole that day. I
could see it in her face. And if she has-- I3ah ! it's
no business of mine. Her Australian lovers won't
Venture over here to seek her."
Be little thought that one of them was already on
the sea, fearing and hvp'ng as only lovers can; and of
What momentous effects would arise from the advent
Of Allan Temple.
Graham Carson never bestowed a thought on the
ragged boy who had brought him the fatal
message before the sailing of the Psyche. He had
forgotten what he was like, and was all unconscious
that a wild-looking lad, that he met once or twice in
the Grange woods, was the veritable Jack Blogg of
Melbourne streets. That young gentleman knew him
at once, and forthwith communicated the intelligence
to James Statman in the laconic sentence—" He's
come."

"Who's come, stupid ?" demanded Jim.
"Him as went out to Australia to fetch Miss Ather-
stone—Mr. Carson. Him as I took a note to on board
P'llll3. Look out for squalls, guv'nor. There'll be a
Bhindy now. That old 'ooman never meant him to
C 6 back when she sent him on that business."
But though they looked out for " squalls " very
eagerly for the next few days, none came. Mr.
Carson had been seen convers!ng most amicably with
kiss Atherstone and her friend, as they walked in the
Grange garden; and Mrs. Dalton and the heiress had
Paid the Rookery a visit, and hinted on the
advisibility of silence on the part of its inmates as to
linY previous acquaintance. The request had been ac-
companied by a present of enough money to keep the
Pair till Miss Atherstone's tour was over, when she
Would think what next to do for them, she said
graciously.
"Thank you kindly, ma'am," said James Statman,
looking earnestly at her. "We've no call to talk
now:,

"Which means you won't, as long as I pay you,"
She said, with a smile, which somehow made him un-
comfortable to see. "Not that anything you could
Ilay would harm me; but it isn't pleasant always to
nave one's antecedents talked about to people whom
tlioy don't concern."
Just so, miss," replied the man. "Nothing about
Kelbourne, nor the theatre; nor suchlike.
"No," she replied, sharply; "nothing. No one in
tagland knows anything about that time, nor has any
intr:reat in it."
"Certainly not, miss."
James Statman was very polite in wishing the
heiress good day, and attending her to the door,
but he laughed a good deal after she was gone, and
called her his mulch cow more than once. Jack
Blogg was very much exercised in his mind about
the good terms the young lawyer was on with Mrs.
Dalton.

"I can't see through it a bit," he said; "not a
raorsel—unless he really is mad, as they.say he is."
"We shall see by and by," the elder man opined.
"Ay, that we shall," the boy responded. "Wait
till the other one comes."
"What other one
"Mr. Temple—the one she was engaged to out in
Australia. He's sure to come after her; and then—
crikey ! won't all the fat be in the fire!"
He executed a pas seul in the exuberance of his
delight, till he was sternly brought up by a grip of
James Statman's hand on his collar.
"Hold your tongue, you young varmint, do,"
he said. "You don't want to blow to ail the world
'What you and I know. The fat will be in the fire for
You, that's certain if you den% take care."
Jack obeyed, and held his tongue, and the next
day they heard that the party from the Grange were
gene—Mrs. Dalton and Miss Atherstone with Noel in
dutiful attendance, he having a fortnight's leave for
the purpose, and Mrs. Atherstone to act as chaperon.
teryi had told Mrs. Dalton of her disinclination to
'Piait the scenes of her childhood and the people who
had known her then, and that lady had spoken to her
eornewhat sharply about it.
"Go! of course you must," she said. " ' Assume
a virtue if you have it not,' as Lady Macbeth says;
and get up an interest in the scenes of long ago.
There's one blessing, you'll be easily known. You are
a living example of the family face passing through
Many generations. You are your father's image."
"I don't think I realise the wax-doll promise of my
14133/hood," Beryl replied, looking at her pretty face
in the glass. "I told you about the miserable little
Picture I found. I was so ashamed of it I made away
'With it."
"I don't like faded, wishy-washy portraits myself,"
Bald Mrs. Dalton. 'Tis to be hoped there are no more
of them in existence."
"Ugh, I hope not," said the young lady, with a
shiver. "That would be dreadful.'
And all this time Allan Temple was coming nearer,
nearer; and there was no one to whisper in the ear
of the feted, petted heiress of what his advent would
bring to her and hers.
The good ship Cupid was just getting up steam to
get out of Suez harbour, when the English mail
arrived, and Graham Carson's letter was put into,
Allan Temple's hands. Very down-hearted the young
actor felt, and his spirits sank lower and lower
with every mile of lessening distance on his homeward
route.
"I did not think a letter could have reached me,"
he said, as he tore it open. "Has he seen her, I
Wonder, and what has he discovered?"
He could hardly read the lines, so agitated was he.
Graham Carson was evidently quite recovered, for
the letter was collected and clear enough; yet the
young actor felt there was something tt at he did not
know, some mystery that yet remained to be
fathomed. chap3s

"26, Royal Parade, Leamington
"April 14th, 18—.
"Dear Temple,—Here I am at home, safe and sound
' and very well, thank heaven. The voyage quite set
sue up. I write this to catch to-morrow's mail, in the
hope that it may catch you en route, and prevent your
coming further. At any rate, if it does not do that,
it will serve to regulate your movements when you
do come. You were right, my boy, and my heart
bleeds for you while I write it—the woman you love
$o dearly is utterly unworthy of your devotion.
She parted from you with a lie, and never meant to
give you another thought after the Psyche moved
away from the shore. It is a bitter thing to have to
write to a faithful heart like yours; but it is true,
Allan, and the truth is always best told in a straight-
forward way. Don't imagine I am guessing at all
this, or fancying it, or going on any hearsay. I have
seen Miss Atherstone, and heard from her lips a con-
firmation of your worst fears. She is engaged to her
cousin, Noel Atherstone, a fine young fellow, who
Seems to worship the very ground she treads on; and
the marriage is to come off in June. I should do no
good, I fancy, if I let in the light on the fair la ly's
heartlessness. I can read defiance in her eyes as she
looks at me, which she does, right—shamelessly, I
was going to say, but fearlessly, as though she dared
me to try and make any dispeace by speaking of the
Past. lam puzzled by her—by all I see here—and
yet I cannot tell why. Miss Atherstone is wonderfully
changed, and more strikinglybeautiful than I thought
her in Melbourne. Then she seemed to me a gentle,
eweet-voiced girl, with neither pride nor selfishness
about her; now she is a haughty beauty, full of
vanity, and with a hard look in her face which bodes
ill for her husband's happiness. In appearance she is
not much altered, except that she is more fashionable.
I should have known her anywhere, even without the
scar which is such a stamp of identity. She does not
Reek to hide it, as you told me she used to do, and I
lust say it is no beauty spot. She talked freely
enough of her Melbourne recollections, and spoke of
You as a 'nice fellow,' or something of that sort,
without the slightest trace of embarrassment. lam
Writing this in the hope that you will not try your
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