The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-08-14 00:00:00

SATURDAY, AUG. 14, 1886.

[ALL BIGHTS RESERVED.]
THE HEIRESS

ATHERSTONE GRANGE.

BY THE ATITHOR OF

" Allan Thornton," "Effie Baird," "Almost 42
Criminal," " Leonora's Legacy," if-c.

CHAPTER XXIII.
BACK FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH.
There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain,
In any of mortality's conditions.—ThrnoN.
'MRS. ATHERSTONE was looking at her niece when
br. Twist put the folded paper into her hand, and
%vas not a little surprised to see her turn ashy
pale.
"My dear child, what is the matter ?" she asked.
'Are you ill ?"
"No, auntie," she replied. " Why ?"
"You look dreadfully," the lady said, "as though
You were going to faint."
"I don't faint often," Beryl returned. "I was
thinking of poor Ursula, and all that miserable time.
I feel as though I never should get over it.'
"Ah, yes, you will, dear. We will make you for-
get all about it when we get you to Lillington with
us."

" Lillington !"
"Yes, your own village. Don't you know Ather-
stone Grange is close to it? You will reign a queen
there, I can tell you. Did Graham Carson not tell
You the name of the place ?"
"Of course he did," replied Beryl, with a smile.
But I seen, to be so worried and bewildered ever
Since I saw him first, that things have gone out of
tay head. You know I was in dreadful trouble when
he found me. Mamma "
She put her handkerchief to her face, and her aunt
gave her a caressing kiss.
"I know—l know, my dear. Graham telegraphed
to his father. You shall tell us all about it when you
feel able."
She put the paper in her pocket as she spoke, Beryl
tegarding it with a curious look, as though she would
lain have seen its contents.
"I wonder what made Dr. Twist think of writing
it all down," she said.
"I think it was very nice of him to do so. It will
Bare you a great deal of painful explanation."
"It was the only wise thing he did in the matter,
then," Beryl said, with a short laugh and an un-
Pleasant look on her pretty face. "He didn't make
himself agreeable to me in any way."
Mr. Carson came up as she spoke, and hinted that
they had better get ashore. There was a pained,
drawn look on his face which made him seem ai
if he had suddenly grown ten years older. Beryl laid
her hand on his arm.
"I am so sorry for you," she raid; "but I am sure
I You will hear of Mr. Carson by the next mail. Every-
one says it was accident that detained him. A mes-
sage fetched him away at the very last moment, and
it Was believed he had returned, or I am sure Captain
Bolton would have waited to enquire."
"I am sure he would, my dear," the old man re-
" I've just been hearing all about it from
him. No one is to blame, and I will try to hope it is
all right; but lam full of terrible misgivings. Who
could send him a message in a place where he knew
no one—a message, too, of such importance as to
baake him leave you at such a time? I am afraid
Something has happened to him, and I shall never look
Upon my boy's face again."
"Yes, you will, before a month is over your head,"
said the fresh young voice of Noel Atherstone, at his
side. "He'll come by the next boat. All the
kangaroos in Australia won't keep him from his dear
Old daddy. Cousin Beryl, there is a difficulty about a
black box—will you please say if it belongs to you or
not"

"An old box, with 'A. D.' on the cover ?"
"Yes."

Ah, that was poor Ursula's. I had better take
care of her things, I suppose, till I hear from her
grandmother."
The luggage, selected from among the miscellaneous
heap, being disinterred from the hold, the party weet
ashore, Beryl leaning on her cousin's arm. The colour
Was coming back to her cheeks now, the light to her
eyes, for the bitterness of the wretched past was at
an end, and the hour of her triumph was at hand. She
Was uncontrolled mistress of one of the largest
fortunes in the midland counties—young, beautiful,
and sufficiently accomplished—surely never girl had
sueh a bright future before her.
Her good fortune must have changed her some-
What, and not for the better, for as she walked across
the gangway, returning the respectful farewell greet-
gs of those she passed, her mind flew back to Mel-
"3llrne and Allan Temple, and the smile that flitted
across her face was more scornful than loving. Surely
Illere could, not be much in common between a man
in his position, and a woman in hers: but the wide
rolled between them, and he might never cross it.
'le did it would be time enough then to remember
thei
r love passages, and re-consider them.
, And yet his ring was on her finger, and the remem-
orance of his last words fresh in her memory; and he
himself, in his far-away Australian home, was wor-
shipping her ideal image, and sending up passionate
Prayers to heaven for her protection and safety. He
Was in a state of feverish anxiety concerning her, for
he had a charge upon his hands at once perplexing
and serious, and he could not help connecting it with
Beryl and her voyaoe.
The night which followed the day of the Psyche's
departure he remained in the theatre till very late,
and then, finding himself unable to rest, he strolled
out. It was dark, but he knew every inch of the
ground in the town, and he sauntered to the brink of
the river, away from the wharves and warehouses, to
a spot not yet built over. The touch of Beryl's hand,
Which had rested on his arm so lovingly not many
hours since, seemed to lie there still—the little soft
band, on which he had slipped the ring, with its
" Seraper fidelis " motto—and his heart ached for a
eight of his darling—for the knowledge of what she
Was doing and thinking as the ship skimmed over the
blue water. Had he known it, Beryl was thinking
of nothing but the mystery of the terrible mat de mer,
Which spares no one, not even the most sentimentalof
lovers, and not bestowing the slightest thought on
him or anyone else but her own discomfort.
He was not far from the place where the brook we
have before spoken of emptied itself into the Yarra
Yarra. The strong current and volume of water in
the splendid river prevented its being polluted as yet
by the sewage the brook brought with it, and Allan
Temple loitered there, thinking, as most Melbourne
People must now and then, of rapid rise of the
fair city. In his lifetime it had grown from a small
settlement to its present stately proportions. Incon-
gruous and irregular though it was in arrangement, it
is a city for a colonist to be proud of. Suddenly his
attention was aroused by something moving on the
very edge of the river in rather a dangerous place, for
the bank there was precipitous and the current strong.
tncertain whether it was an animal or a man, he
Watched it for some time, when suddenly it rose up
and stretched out its arms, gesticulating violently.
"Whatever is the mad fool going to do ?" thought
Allan. He'll be over if he doesn't mind. He must
be drunk."
He ran towards the person, whoever it was—a man
Without a hat, dripping wet—and shouted, to attract
his attention. He turned round, but took no further
notice, and theyoung man could hear him talk in a loud
incoherent sort of way to himself. It certainly seemed
as though he were going to throw himself into the
Water, and Allan Temple went quietly behind him and
took hold of his arm.
"Come further back," he said.

"You will fall

Oyer."
• The man obeyed—he was chipping with water as
though he had already been in the river, and his teeth
Were chattering violently. The moon broke out with
a fitful light from behind the clouds at the moment,
and Allan was horrified to see that blood was stream-
ing down the stranger's face from a cut somewhere
on the forehead.
"What's up with him, I wonder," he thought.
"Has he been trying suicide, and it has not been a
success, I wonder? Come with me," he went on, for
the man seemed strangely vacant. "YOU must not
stay here."
"Yes, I must. Waiting for the ship."
What ship ?"
The Psyche."
What do you want with her ?" asked Allan,
his heart giving a strange leap at the mention of the
name. _ . _ _

"Why, I'm going in her. Don't you know I came
to fetch her, and now I can't find the ship."
To fetch her! Who could he mean? Who was
he? The young man's heart beat wildly as he asked
himself the question, and he could scarcely steady his
voice sufficiently to speak to the man again.
"Wh did you come to fetch?"
"Who ?" and the maniac (for such he evidently
was, for the time at least), burst into a vacant laugh.
"Why, Miss Atherstone, to be sure, the great English
heiress, the squire's granddaughter. He's dead, you
know, and the Grange has come to her."
"Great heaven!" exclaimed Allan. s, It is Mr.
Carson!"
"Yes, that's me," returned the other. "Who are
You?"
"Allan Temple. Don't you know me? Come home
With me, Mr. Carson, and get some dry things. What
has happened to you?"
But incoherent raving was all the reply the un-
fortunate young gentleman could make. It was
'ery evident he had either met with some severe ac-
eident, or been foully set upon and nearly killed, and
it was with greatest difficulty that Allan could get
him to be quiet, and allow him to bind up the bleed-
ing wound on his forehead as well as he could. By
dint of persuading him to come in search of the ship,
he got him away from the river side, and through
some quiet streets to the door of his father's house.
"Now, if I can only rouse the porter without
~aking up all the house," he thought, "I can get him
!no quietly, and then think what is to be done. There
18 Inca* in this than appears on the surface."
Luckily Mr. Temple, sen., was awake, and responded
to the light handful of gravel his son threw up at the
ndow by opening the sash and looking out.
'Lot your key ?" he asked, seeing his son.
"Nbl but come down and help me. I've someone
uere I want to get in quietly."

.1
I

The father obeyed, wondering. He had —perfect
faith in his son, or he might have thought that the
helpless-looking figure huddled up against the wall
was some drunken boon companion Allan had brought
home.
For Graham Carson was quiet now. The fever fit
had spent itself, and the exhaustion consequent on
loss of blood had made it hard for Allan to get him
the length of the last street. It seemed more like a
corpse than a living man that the father and son
carried in between them, and laid on the sofa in their
sitting-room.
To rouse the staid, elderly female who superintended
their household, and send for a doctor, who was a
friend as well, and might be trusted to hold his tongue,
was the work of a very little while, and before morn-
ing Graham Carson was comfortably installed in a
good bed, well cared for and nursed, and no one in
Melbourne a bit the wiser.
Mr. Temple's servant believed him to be a friend of
Allan's from Sydney, who had raet with an accident,
and as they understood nothing of his ravings they
did not talk. The injury he had received had affected
his reason, violent fever set in, and by the time that
Allan Temple paid his visit to Mrs. Dalton, and heard
of the death of Ursula Rhodes, he was in imminent
danger, with scarcely a chance for his life, the doctor
declared.
One or two things which fell from him in his de-
lirium made both the young actor and his father re-
solve to keep the fact of his existence a profound
secret for the present. They had not heard the
faintest hint of any outrage having been committed,
and yet it was only too evident that Graham Carson
had been the victim of some plot, from the incoherent
words he let fall. And the time wore on, and the
fever wore itself ou, and Graham Carson lay weak
and powerless as a baby, fighting his way back to the
world inch by inch, getting bodily strength with
every passing day, but with a mind hopelessly blank.
He knew no one, nor had any recollection of anything
seemingly—even Beryl Atherstone and his mission to
find her seemed to have faded from his memory now.
"Send him to a lunatic asylum till you communicate
with his friends," was the doctor's advice. "He'll
never be any better in this world."
But Allan shook his head.
"We'll send to his friends of course, now," he said;
"but I won't send him out of this house now, while there
is a chance of his saying a word ;:he might drop some-
thing that would speak a volume to me, that no one
else would understand. As long as he's quiet we'll
keep him here."
"Oh, he'll be quiet—he'll never be dangerous in
good hands; but you hope too much if you fancy
he'll ever speak sensibly again. I think he'll sink
into an idiot in a very short time."
While Graham Carson lay between life and death,
Allan did not send to England. It could but distress
his relatives, who could not possibly get out in time
to see him if he died, and who might be spared all
knowledge of his illness if he recovered. He must
write now the terrible tidings which would be as
grievous as the news of his death.
He saw Mrs. Dalton two or three times during this
time of trouble and anxiety, and was more impressed
than ever with the idea that the old lady was, as her
servants expressed it, "going off her head."
There was a nervous, terrified look in her face, as
if she dreaded meeting or seeing someone, and, instead
of shutting herself up in her rooms, as she had been
wont to do lately, she seemed afraid to be alone, and
had a small bed put up for Hannah in her own bed-
room, much to that damsel's annoyance.
"And she's always worriting about that Jack
Blogg," Hannah declared one day, in speaking to Allan
Temple. "As if it mattered to anyone where a young
limb like that was gone to. Nobody wants him, Pm
sure."
"Who's Jack Blogg ?" asked Allan, a little mystified,
not having the honour of the gentleman's acquain-
tance.
"Why, a dirty young scamp that used to hang
about this street, running errands and sweeping
crossings and such like—as saucy a rascal as ever
lived, but useful and honest, I believe. Missis used to
give him a many jobs, and Ithink she's got something
on her mind about him. He's never been since the
Psyche went away—the ship Miss Atherstone went
in, you know, sir."
" Ycs, I know," said Allan, with a strangely per-
plexed feeling. Was the Psyche a bewitched ship,
that so much mystery seemed to surround people
through her? "What had this Jack Blogg to do with
her ?' he asked Hannah.
"Nothing that I know of, sir; only that was the
day he was last seen. Missis wanted him in the even-
ing to go on some errand for her, and he wasn't to be
found. I can't make her out—she never seemed to
care for the boy when he was here, and now she is
asking for him everywhere."
"He's most likely gone off to some other place;
these vagrant lads won't stay long in one town," said
Allan, a little absently.
"So I tell missis, sir; but she says he's being kept
out of the way by someone. I don't know what she
I means, I'm sure."
"Nor anyone else, H amah. Your mistress is a
queer woman."
"That she is, sir, and queerer than ever since poor
Miss Ursula died. I wish she'd go away a bit, but
she always says, 'Not yet, Hannah—not till I know.'
What she means I don't know any more than the
dead."
Allan Temple came upon Mrs. Dalton suddenly a
few days after this. He had not yet written to
Graham Carson's friends—he was hoping for im-
provement and delaying the evil news. Mrs. Dalton
was standing with her veil thrown back, reading a
placard on the wall. Her eyes looked wild and excited,
and her whole bearing curiously eager and restless.
"Look here, Mr. Temple," she said, as he came up.
"Isn't this a curious thing ?"
It seemed to him as though she were trying to
divine his thoughts as he read the placard, which was
a bill offering a large reward for any intelligence of
Graham Carson. The ship following the Psyche had
reached England without him, and his friends were
thoroughly alarmed.
(To be continued.)