The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-01-02 00:00:00

CHAPTER XLV.

FERDINAND'S END.
A 170vtursEn day in Italy—in Naples—whet sum-
Mier reigns over the glorious fruits of that sunn land,
Vll.rich hang ripe and luscious on the bough.
„0, 'a a house there, with long open windows andgreen
:erandah, cool stone facading, and temple-like aped,
:n the front room, lies Ferdinand de Resimon his
./ii
ng eyes fixed on the window, where the tosed
enetian blinds exclude both sun and air.
'Shall I die like this, and never lbok on God's 4rth
eaja ? Oh, that I could drag myself to that wißow
,M 1 tear the blind away! I cannot—alone, ahne !
'rod and man have forsaken me!"
And be sobbed wildly for a time, and beat his dl-
oB in his despair. After that, he seemed to grw
ealtner• He took up a book lying on his bed, atd
vattempted to read; but the effort was too great, Is
eak eyes closed, and he fell into a fitful sleep.
To be broken soon by some one entering the rook
hitsu walking softly up to the bed. Ferdinand opet:tet
eyes, and saw Philippe standing there, lookint
"wn upon him.
have seen Dr. Principi. He says you ar
" I know it—feel it, and you have killed me !"
ilhiliPPe's lip curled.
1.4," How is that? I, who would have preserved your
11"3 for my own purposes? Your death will defeat
,
t—anY of them; for you play an important part in
h
dratna:of my life. At the risk of losing a limb,
W°llld save you, if possible. But you are dying."
And I thank God for it. I look for rest beyond
aLe Rrave; my sins are forgiven me, and I can say I
b.-7 rejoiced to die." Here he stopped, and drew his
eatb with a painful effort. "I cannot understand
'why
You should wish me to live, or what value my
I,e ,
ph•C-an be to you. From no natural affection,
IPPe, I know; for you do not love me."
Love you! no," cried the other with a laugh; "
ate You, and have since the hour in which you were
ti°l.ll,. I tell you now, because it is useless keeping
nie 4pol:sledge from you, when you are escaping from
.„..Y hands. I tell you that you have no claim upon.
~,,Y natural affection. Your are not of my kin or of
V' People; you are not my brother; no blood of
or of my race, is in yr, ur veins. To serve my
',IN" Purposes I reared you; to serve my own ends I
would save you; but you must die."
Ferdinand rose from the bed and sat up; his large,
drp,,
—:,?IY eyes fixed steadily on the other's face.
" Say that again—swear it—that you are not my
brother I"
I swear it, although," he muttered in an under-
'une, " an oath has no sanctity to me."
" Pr °ln my heart I thank God! I feel very, very
OPPY," and he sank back again among the pillows,
`s,Wasted hands clasped together.
hilippe ground his teeth.
five' 2b, that I could inspire life, and you should
" You cannot, and I shall have rest ;" and a tran-
qUil
smile settled on his lips.
Theg man saw it, and his dark face frowned as he
r
goee. clilY watched the beautiful expression come and
Ire" °DIY to preserve that likeness of her—only to
110 P that smile always near me, you should live.
tn6Y' I hate you! and yet when that look of your
- other's steals over your Saxon face—when I see the
st "
glorious light that ever shone from a woman's
i,:.Y! s reflected from hers in yours, I could grovel on,
t:_ground, your slave! It is hard to part with you
you are all I have of her."
%apt 'YOU loved my mother ?" said the youth, un-
What will you not tell me who and
•wr am, and why you took the care of such a
e'ebed waif as I upon yourself? There is much
that is
strange and mysterious in your habits and life
'Lucia that I often wonde:ed at. yet never scught

infortnation von; but the strangest thing of all is
your adoption of me."
"But one feeling prompted it—revenge To
gratify that, I took you from a child and made you
mine—body and soul, made you mine—at least, I
thought to do so, but Fate wills otherwise. Your
body is Death's, your soul is God's. You have escaped
me; but T vow double and treble vengeance on those
who survive—your mother for one."
" Ah
_then my mother is living?'

"She is living."
"And in youil power? Ah ! my poor mother !*
He covered hi S face and wept aloud.
Philippe regalrded this weakness with a mocking
smile, and then, without another word, turned round
and left the room.

Ferdinand's tears were still falling, when the door
opened again, and a second personage entered the
room—a tall man, in a priest's dress, and with a
shovel-hat slouched over his eyes.
The boy looked round, and then turned away
hastily.
"Is that yen, Father Pedro ?" he said. "I want
nothing; lam very comfortable. Leave me a little
longer, please."
But the good father did not go; he came nearer to
the bed, and looked curiously at the dying boy.
"Poor fellow! you look confoundedly bad," was
the very unpriestlike exclamation of the intruder,
delivered, too, in very excellent English.
t Ferdinand tarted up.
"How did ou come here?"
The priest pulled off his hat, and sat down on
the chair by e side of the bed, before he answered.
"I had no asy job to get here, I can tell you; for,
it seems, the won't let any one but priests come near
you. You ae suspected of being a heretic; and they
are afraid the devil will pay you a visit, I suppose.
But that he did, I will answer for, just now, in the
shape of that fiend, De R6simont. Have you forgotten
me ?" And be threw off his priest's cloak, and tossed
back his pile of bright chestnut curls, and smiled a
broad, wholesome, English smile on the poor dying
man.

"I have seen you somewhere, but I cannot re-
member where; yet you bring back the memory of a
happy time."
"At Redfern, in England. I am Ingram Ross
Ingestre, aCousin of the Redfern Ingestres. I saw
you once in the garden at Westwood ; I have come
all the way to Italy to see you again. Don't tremble
so; lie still for a while, you are so weak."
"Ah ! you bring with you the glorious scent of
those English moors; you bring with you visions of
sunny glades and shadowy dells—of cottage, farm,
and park—of happy faces—of cheerful voices! Oh,
England! Dying, I feel that you gave me birth. I
love you with a tender and holy passion; and I pray
that my bones may lie beneath your sod."
Ingram feared this burst of passionate emotion
would be the young man's death; but he rallied again
from the fialf-fainting fit it brought on, and sat up,
eagerly questioning his visitor.
"Why have you come so far to see me ?" Did she
—Catherine—send you ?"

"Catherine? Au! you mean Miss Wace, the
governess at Redfern. No; Lina von Bernstein sent
me to try and hunt down this man, who calls himself
Count de Resimont, and your brother. But ho is
neither. Do you know that?"
"I have known the latter only ten minntes ; he
told me. Give me your hand, you are a friend; you
come from the midst of faces I have loved. Give
me your strong hand to hold while you tell me the
strange things I see written in your honest eyes.
That man," and here he shuddered, "who and what
is he? Tell me."

"It would be difficult to do that yet. I have hung
on his track like a blooahound, and well nigh hate
myself for the tricks I have played and the disguises
I have worn, only to get a link in the chain of evi-
dence I ait charged with against him. It is not com-
pleted yet; for he has not played out the most impor-
tant card in his hand—the one that will betray bins.
But his time is up here soon, and he will be off to
England again, to work out his devilish schemes, and
there I expect to have him. Oh ! for the time when
I may use my strength on the fellow !"
And ITT he threw out one of his great, muscular
arms, clenched his fist, and made savage passes at an
imaginary head before him.
Ferdinand seemed growing weaker and weaker; he
tried to speak, but the words died feebly away upon
his lips; and it was not until Ingram had moistened
them with a little water he found upon the table, that
he could manage to articulate—
"Then you are going back to England soon ?"
"I have taken my paksage in the same ship in
which De Resimont sails. lam going to work as a
common sailor in it, the better to advance my task.
You poor fellow !" he exclaimed, looking at the deli-
cate, transparent face of the youth. "For some
cursed reason or other he has wound you up in his
cunning web of trickery! I'll not rest satisfied until
I find out why, for Lina declared you had some
interest or other in property he wanted to get hold of
—not for himself; I'll do him that justice, but for his
master. Eli? what do you say? Can't you tell me
anything about yourself, my poor boy 2"
"Nothing. God only knows why he claimed and
brought me up as his own. My earliest remem-
brances are of his dark face --his inscrutablo ways--
his mysterious habits. Not until the last few years
have I been in his constant companionship, for it was
his wish that I should study at most of the eminent
colleges of France and Germany. I feel that I can-
not revile this man. I have loved him dearly. He
has given me much good, even if he intended evil. I
should die easier if I thought you would not punish
him for any wrong he may be guilty of to you and
yours. Forgive him !"
"No ! Even if I had no other crime to punish,
your dying face would inspire vengeance in me. Ho
has murdered you, I say !"
Ferdinand smiled and shook his head.

"Not in the body; he killed me morally, and then
my physical strength gave way. He took from me
my self-respect, my untarnished honour—he told me
that I was an outcast, a child of infamy—l whose
lofty aspirations--- Ali ! me, that was death in-
deed !" He paused and closed his eyes for a short
time, and then resumed: "That was the only murder
I experienced at his hands, for he had calculated
wisely the effect such a revelation would have upon
me. It made me desperate. I plunged into the
wildest excesses, gave myself up to dissipation, such
as men do when, for a brief time, they are mad. You
see the result. God's punishment works, and I die
for the sin of rebellion—rebellion against the ban He
set upon me. lam glad you are come. Do not take
your hand away. lam glad you are come, for now
I can ask you to do something for me. In all this
place I have no friend—no one but priests and spies
surround me."
"Do something for you? Only say what; only tell
me how I can help you—what I can do for you, and
it shall be done—done to the utmost of my ability.
Tell me."

"He said just now—Philippe said —that my mother
was still living; and his vengeance should fall heavily
on her, because death had taken me from him. Will
you find her out, and protect her from it, if you are
able? I do not know her, I have no clue by which
you could trace her; but I am content to leave it in
God's hands, and He will guide you to her. Promise
this, and I shall die much happier than I thought to."
"11l promise it, gladly enough, and do my best to
find the lady. I believe I shall, for already I have
found out a great deal of this man's history; and what
you tell me may explain a thing or tw,p that seemed
puzzling enough before. He hates your mother. you
say?"
"He also confessed to having loved her; I believe,
from my heart, he does so now. He spoke almost
tenderly of my resemblance to her."
Ingram looked at his face for a moment, scanned it
narrowly; then he said, as if the thought flashing
through his mind found speech in spite of himself—
" Your mother is an Ingestre, then ?"

"" What's that you say ?"
"Strange that I notice it now for the first time;
but, lying there, I could almost swear you were the
murdered son of George Ross, come back again to
life! Rest content, I have got the clue, and I will
set to work. I will save her, if I can, trust me. Have
you no message to her, supposing you--"
"Are dead?—cut off a piece of my hair and give it
to her, and tell her that if I had known her mother's
Jove, I should have been living now to bless her!
Tell her that I thought of her when I was dying, and
would have given many hours of the few left me only
o look on her dear face and kiss it. Tell her
lift me! lam sinking so low; raise me."
Ingram did it, tenderly as a woman, and the young
'lan, supported in his arms, continued—
"And tell her that I should wish her to know and
bye one who was very kind and dear to me—
Ctlierine Wace."
But here his breath failed him; he gasped, and the
lis emitted no sound. His eyes turned on the face
o Ingram, and their pleading, dying expression moved
th heart of the young man most visibly; tears hung
orhis thick, short lashes, and his large, handsome lips
(I,Vered.
'Poor fellow !—poor boy !"
kill the dying eves continued to speak. They said
me; eloquently the soul within was peaceful, and
forilde the sorrow the other showed. A brighter
rad-nce seemed to gather in them, and a tranquil and
mos- beautiful expression settled on his young, wan
featres. His lips moved once., and Ingram stooped
hie r to listen.
,y mother !—save my mother !" he heard, and no
more
MI head sank back among the pillows, and he
close( his eyes gently. Ingram felt the hand he
held ghten round his own, clutch it with a sharp,
convrive grasp; then it slowly relaxed, the hand
oPene the fingers unclosed, and the boy was dead,
with te radiant light lingering yet upon his face.
Ingim composed the dead limbs, resumed his hat
and nick, and stole out of the room, but not before
he hadrut a lock of the bright chestnut hair from
the hea of the dead.
(To be continued.)

The tqatt-farmers on several of the chief estates in
North les have drawn up a petition to their land-
lords, ir,which they ask for a general reduction of
rents. -ley declare their intention to seek at the
hands ofhe Legislature a Land Act which shall pro-
vide for relsh farmers fixity of tenure, fair rents, and
full comPisation for unexhausted improvements. It
is full tie, they say, that that &all be granted to
Welsh lo:dtv which has been granted to Irish sedi-
tion.