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W mCH WAS THE HEIRESSI OK,…

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W mCH WAS THE HEIRESS I OK, THE CURSE OF ADRIAN BLAIR, By EDITH C. KENYON, Author of I I Jack's Cousin Kate," The Squire of Lonsdale," "A Poor Relation," etc. etc. CHAPTER XXIII. I ADRIAN BLAIR AND DORIS. I "I WON'T see her, Mrs. Blair, I won't!" Oh, but, sir, I'm afraid she will think it very rude if you refuse to let her come in." Surely I can have whom I please in my bed- room ? Does the girl think I am a poor man, tc be read to and humbugged with tracts ? I won't have it, I say." "The young lady has been very good to you," expostulated Mrs. Jones. "Why, it's she, sir, who mainly pays for everything you have." She Why, surely you took what money was required out of my purse ?" Your purse, sir. I did not see one." It was in my pocket when I fell down that cursed hole." It was not in your pocket, sir, when we got you out, and brought you here. Miss Blair will be tired of waiting, please, sir." "But it was in my pocket," protested the sick man. I must have lost it." Indeed, you must have lost it before you came here, and no wonder, for your clothes were terrible torn." Ah he groaned. "Let Miss Blair come in at once, if she wants to-do you hear?" Doris came in at once. "I hope you are a little better ? she said, standing by his bedside, a a vision of beauty, in her dainty white gown and broad-brimmed hat. Adrian Blair looked at her, but seemed quite unable to speak. He was very weak and ill. The state in which his leg was found made it difficult to set, and some fever supervened, which left him now feeling very exhausted. "I fear you are suffering to-day," said Doris, again, trying to look kindly at him, and not to remember, just then, how cruelly he had mauled and injured her father, and how badly he had treated poor Dora. I ought to thank you," said Adrian Blair. "I ought to thank you for what you have done." "Oh, no, please do not," "said Doris, quickly, adding, See, look, I have brought you some grapes—such fine ones. My father is very proud of his grapes always." Adrian glanced askance at the great purple grapes she showed him, nestling amongst vine leaves in a pretty ornamental basket, then he turned his head away, and two great tears trickled slowly down his face. Doris was deeply touched, she took her fragile little handkerchief, wiped the tears away, and then fanned him, as if it were for that purpose she had drawn it out. "Does Mr. Blair know you are here, and that I am nere, and that you have done all this for me ? asked Adrian, at length. Well, no. You see my father is ill at present, and we do not quite tell him everything." "Ah, I suppose I have caused him some suffer- ing," muttered Adrian. It's very forgiving of you Miss-Miss "Blair," Doris supplied the name, wondering that he had a difficulty in finding it when it was ais own. "Miss Blair," said the invalid, in a peculiar way, but do you think it right," he added. Is it right when Mr. Blair does not know ? Of course I think it right, or I should not do it," said Doris. "These are not the days of slavery. When people are grown up, like me, they can surely use their own judgment as to what they should do." Certainly. And, if I mistake not, my cousin is fcpt to be a little tyrannical. He was as a boy- tod as the boy is, so is the father." Adrian spoke ^"lie'is a very good father," said Doris, loyally. "Is he?" yes, of course he is. The best of fathers- bnlv he and I do not always think alike." No ? No. Not always," and Doris sighed, while a troubled, weary look stole over her young face. You have a trouble now," said the sick man, with concern. "Doris, tell me what it is?" The girl started when he used her name thus familiarly, then she remembered that as her father's cousin he might imagine that he had a right to call her so. Now her eyes filled with tears, and the hand which was fanning him trembled a little. Life is not always smooth," she said. You are unhappy," exclaimed the other, in a tone of deep feeling. My dear, tell me what it is?" "Oh, I cannot," said Doris. "I have been always happy until now," she added. "Tell me, dear child, what ails you now I" Doris shook her head. There was great entreaty t in the sick man's tone. But how could she tell him her love trouble? "Is it about that young gentleman I saw you With ? asked Adrian, suddenly. Doris nodded. At least she might admit so much. Doesn't your father like him ? No. Yes. But no, he does not want us-to get-too friendly," you know, faltered Doris. "But why not?" Archie Scott, although a gentleman, is com- paratively poor," sighed Doris. But you are rich ? Yes." II I don't approve of fathers being too merce- j nary," said Adrian. "Some will sacrifice their children's tenderest feelings for the chimerical advantages of riches and a high position in this world." It isn't right," murmured Doris. "No, my dear, it is not, it is not. And I think girls are foolish when they submit to such tyranny." We must honour and obey," began Doris, When he interrupted her. There is an exception to every rule," he said. When parents are miserly, greedy of money, and ambitious in a worldly oonse-like Ambrose Blair —they should not be too strictly obeyed—in fact, I consider they have forfeited all right to their children's obedience." Doris opened wide surprised eyes, and looked at him as if she found this new doctrine very agree- able. In fact, her heart was so won by it, that she began to take him irto her confidence." Archie is so fond of me, and I of him," she said, with another gentle sigh. But papa was so rough with him the other day, he turned him out of the house, and forbad him ever to come near." That was because he wanted to become engaged to you ? Yes." Had he declared his love ? Yes." Doris blushed as she softly whispered the answer. And you love him ? Yes. I said so." "And you are forbidden to meet, or be Engaged ?" Yes." And you are making no attempt even to see eaoh other ? "No." You would like to meet Archie once again?" Yes, I should indeed. There are so many things I should like to say to him." Well, you shall. He was here this morning before you came. He had only been gone half- an-hour when I heard your carriage." Oh, I wish we had met! cried Doris. "Well, you can easily do so. He promised to l %rne again to-morrow at the same time." "Did he?" Yes." "Oh, dear," Doris sighed. Will you come too ? Oh, if I may ?" The girl's tone was full of longing." "You may, because I ash you to do so." My father would be so angry if he knew." He shall not know. Who is to tell him ? The tnatteris quite simple. Archie Î3 going to bring re some wine. You can bring me some flowers. I do long for some roses." "And you shall have them," cried Doris, rap. turously, all her scruples disappearing as she pic- ked the joy of the meeting with her lover. I "Thank you, dear. Now go, I am in pain." Adrian turned away his head that she might not see his features, which were convulsed with grief. Something in the tone of his voice made Doris suspect he was suffering. She hurried into the other room, and bade Mrs. Jones get him a cordial. Yes, Miss. And do you please leave him tc me. He's been talking too long," said the good woman, fussing about. Doris waited in the other room until she was told that the sufferer was easier, then she went home, but no longer feeling melancholy and op- pressed. She would accept this chance of meeting Archie again. Mr. Adrian Blair was quite right. Fathers who gave way to bad ambitioiis--aiid, surely, to be greedy about rank when one had plenty of money was bad-forfeited in a measure the right to their daughters' obedience. A longing to confide in someone, and gain the additional strength of another person's approval, made her tell Dora her love story that evening when they were in her dressing-room together, brushing their long hair and talking confidentially, as girls do. And she was so intent upon it, and so absorbed, that she did not notice Dora's start of surprise, as she spoke of her love for Archie, nor the pained look which came into her poor face, as she listened. Do you think I am right in going to see Archie to-morrow," asked Doris, in conclusion. I'm afraid not," replied Dora, shaking her head. "Dora, haven't you heard all I have been telling you about Mr. Adrian Blair's saying that when parents are so "Yes, yes," I heard, interrupted Dora. "It sounded very plausible, Doris, dear, but you must consider who said it. You know it makes such a difference who says a thing." Well, your father said it," replied Doris, quickly. Doris, he is about the last person whose advice I should follow," said Dora. Dutiful exclaimed Doris. I must say you are a fine person to preach to me about honouring and obeying parents." Doris Dora's tone was full of pain. Now, tell me, Dora," went on the other, not heeding it, if your father forbade you to do some- thing you felt you ought to do, should you feel bound to obey him ?" "No, no," cried Dora, the memory of years of ill-treatment and neglect on his part recurring to her mind. "You know, Doris," she added, "I consider he has forfeited all claims to my obedience." You're a fine one to preach to cried Doris, with contempt. "Doris!" expostulated Dora. Had Doris for- gotten all her sufferings, and how she fled from the violence of her father and his wife to her for shelter, whilst yet a little child ? But love is apt to make people selfish. Doris had begun to like this man, who espoused her cause, and comforted her so much by his advice. She was not looking at the matter from Dora's point of view. In fact, Dora's past sufferings seemed to her as nothing compared to her own present pain about her love-affair, "Well, I liked your father now," she said, "and I'm sure he talked very sensibly." Dora said nothing. She only brushed away a tear, and picked up her belongings. "It is time we went to bed," she remarked, after a little while: good night, Doris." Good night," answered Doris, somewhat care- lessly. Then a sudden thought struck her, and she added, earnestly, Of course, you will not breathe a word to anyone of what I propose doiiig. Then Dora, looking straight at her, answered firmly, I could not reveal your confidence, Doris. I shall not say a word to anyone about what you propose doing. Of course I shall not." No, of course you will not," said Doris, running up to her impulsively, and twining her arms about her neck, "and I'm sorry I was so horrid, dear. I don't know what came over me. But forgive me, I do feel so unhappy to-night" and she burst into tears. Dora was quite a quarter of an hour, after that, in comforting and pacifying Doris, and she was very tired when at last she stole away to her bed- room. Yet even then she did not go to bed. Instead, she took out her little Russian leather writing- case, selected a sheet of paper, and began to write— DRAB. LORD HERBERT, The other night when I spoke as J. did. I WI¡.S mistaken about a most imxjortant matter-" Then she broke off, and bent a tear-stained face over the paper. It would not do to send it. Why, oh why are girls forbidden by a sense of propriety from sometimes overstepping a little the ). barriers which custom and tradition have hedged around them ? Why may they not say to the man they love, who loves them so devotedly, When I said No,' I did not understand my own mind." Or, "I acted under a misapprehension, thinking a dear friend loved you, and had the prior claim upon your love, but now I know she does not, I hasten to say that I do love you." What misery to both parties would be saved .if women sometimes had the courage to carry out their convictions Alas Dora had not on this occasion. She closed her writing-case, and with a deep sigh, put it away. CHAPTER XXIV. I THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. ] With a feeling of timidity, because she felt she was transgressing her father's commands, and yet with anticipations of delight, because she was going to meet her lover, Doris drove her pretty ponies through the wood towards the Summer- house the following morning. She had a little difficulty in getting off, for Douglas, who accom- panied Lord Herbert to his home on the latter's sudden disappearance from Waddington Hall, had returned late the evening before, and that morning he hung about Doris of whom he was very fond, thus preventing her doing exactly as she liked. But now, at last, she was alone, except for the page and her ponies, Monnie and Bonnie; and the sweet autumn air fanned her brow, whilst the slight breeze murmured in the trees overhead. What would Archie say ? What would she say to him ? What would result from their interview ? She loved him so dearly, she could not give him up at her father's command, that was certain, and Archie would be true to her. Perhaps his father would mediate for them with her father ? But no, she feared he was too weak of will and too timid, he would be much more likely to take the side of the stronger party, and preach the duty of sub- mission and obedience to the young people. Dora, too, seemed to disapprove, but she had routed her arguments by a suggestion of her own seemingly un- dutiful conduct in running away from her father. Dora had not liked that home thrust—but it had done its work, for she said no more of her dis- approval. How slowly Donnie and Monnie were trotting to-day Archie would be there first. Every minute would seem so long to him whilst he waited. He would be wondering if she had been prevented coming. Gently, Bonnie! Steady Monnie she cried, admonishingly, for the little ponies danced and curvetted as she made them turn almost into the brushwood at or.e side of the road, to make room I for a closed brougham drawn by two horses, which j met them, and, passing rapidly, disappeared round I a bend in the road. It was very unusual to meet a carriage in that wood, and especially one coming from the direc- tion of the Summerhouse, as was this one Doris ] wondered a little who could have been in it. She j knew it was not the doctor's carriage, in fact it j was a hired one. Had someone been in the Sum- merhouse to see the sick man ? However, now the Summerhouse was within sight. In a few moments she would know all j about the matter. In a few moments she and i Archie Scott would meet. Her eyes brightened j with happy anticipations, the bright colour came t into her cheeks, she looked radiantly happy. Generally it is the unexpected which happens. When in a few moments, Doris appeared at the Summerhouse, and tripped lightly up the steps to I. the door, she was immensely startled to find every thing in a state of confusion. "Oh, Miss Doris," cried Mrs. Jones, intones of consternation, he's gone he's gone J Yes, Doris, he has gone," said Archie, coming into the room from the now empty bedroom. M'm, he be gone sure enough," said Jamie from j into the room from the now empty bedroom. M'm, he be gone sure enough," said Jamie from j his, couch by the fire. Who has gone ? cried Doris." Not—not Mr. Blair ? I Yes, miss," cried Mrs. Jones, she came and carried bim off all in a jiffy. And I'm that flu ttered- "But who did it?" interrupted Doris, with wide open eyes of surprise. She knew the doctor had forbidden his patient to be moved for weeks. "His wife did it, Doris," said Archie. "By George she's a termagant, is that woman He didn't want to go. But Mrs. Blair said something in his ear, and, after that, he dare not open his mouth—not before her. When we were quite alone, he bade me tell you that he would have given five years of his life only to see you again for half an hour. I had something to tell her," he said, something she ought to know." Then Mrs. Blair swept down upon him saying that he was mad and that if he did not come with her she would put him into an asylum straight away. Tell that tale," she said to him, to anybody, and I will prove it is the hallucination of a madman." She fairly dumfounded me," said Mrs. Jones. What with one thing and what with another. Then her servants put the poor gentleman into the carriage, none too comfortably for his poor leg I am afraid-and she threw them bank notes on the table, and was gone all in a minute. There's plenty of money," and she turned over the notes ruefully, but money's not all. No, M'm, it isn't. I'd rather now have a kindly word of thanks and a 'good-bye' said from that poor gent- leman than so much money." "Did she take him away before he thanked you ? asked Doris. Yes, m'm." He daren't open his mouth before her," cried Archie." They seemed to dislike each other. ] wonder what made her come for him." I'm afraid I told her where he was," said Ddris, "I thought she ought to know. But, dear me, she did not seem inclined to do anything at all for him." Well, he daren't resist her, he daren't resist her," muttered Mrs. Jones then, recollecting the position of the lover, she said, "Perhaps, miss, you'd like to go into the rooms just above and have a little talk with Mr. Scott. I've put a couple of chairs in and just a bit of table. Mr. Blair," he says to me, they are lovers, Mrs. Jones, you must just make one of the upper rooms decent for them to sit down in.' And sc I did." Upon my word, he was a brick," said Archie, come, my darling." But Doris stood still, with her eyes fixed upon the open door in horror. Her father stood there Ambrose Blair, leaning on his stick, had toil- somely, for he was still very stiff-ascended the outside steps, and now he stood gazing, with frowning brows, at this forbidden meeting of the lovers. Doris!" his voice sounded horrible in its harsh- ness and menace. "Papa!" Doris threw back her pretty head, and faced him with some of his own spirit. "How dare you come here to meet that-that —fellow ? he thundered. "I dare, because he is my accepted lover— Liar cried her father, lifting his hand as if to strike her in his wrath. But he did not touch her, for, in a moment, Archie had struck the outstretched hand on one side, crying, "Strike me, sir! Strike me Not J her!" Maddened with rage, Ambrose struck out at him, a. mighty blow which hurled him across the room. This was more than the young man could stand even from the father of the girl he loved. He therefore flew at Ambrose, and, seizing him by the collar, endeavoured to shake him, but in vain. The iron frame of the elder man never moved. "Archie, oh, Archie!" implored Doris, trying to pull him away from her father. Now, Squire, don't, don't," cried poor Mrs. Jones, laying her hand on Ambrose's sleeve-so light was her timid touch she did not feel his irrn." You coward You great lubberly coward jried Ambrose, trying to wheedle a poor silly girl behind her father's back. Who are you to marry a Blair—my daughter-the heiress of Waddington ? "Iarn Archie Soott, as you know," said the young man, standing back a little and holding Doris firmly by the hand, "and I have as good a right as any other gentleman to love your daughter." As good a right!" sneered Ambrose Blair. My family is as old as yours," went on Archie, and if we are not rich, well, money is not every- thing— And, papa, I shall have enough for us both," interrupted Doris, "I don't care to be very, very rich 1 don't indeed." "Don't you?" cried her father," then, by heavens, you shall be. But you shall never, never share your riches with that fool "Oh, don'tsaythat,papa,"cried poor Doris, fling- ing herself down at his feet, and clasping them with both her trembling hands. "Psoa papa! do not break my heart." "Silence!" thundered her father, holding tip his hand wamingly." As for you, he added, you are no gentleman, or you would not act in this way 1 therefore say to you now, once for all, you shall never marry my daughter. Never, never, never—do you hear? Oh, sir, sir," cried Mrs. Jones, the tears rain- ing down her shallow cheeks, as she heard these words. "Don't," she added earnestly, "forget them words of her dear ma's when she was dying, I Mav G o(i,' she says, 'reward good to those who do good to you and evil to those who do you harm Now, sir, I pray you, don't go for to get that same evil. Ambrose glared at the woman, then walking up to Archie, he shook his fist in his face. The young man sprang on one side. Doris, he cried, Oh, Doris, if he were not your father "But he is," cried Doris, "and he is ill and suffering. Archie be patient. Bear with him for my sake." Then Ambrose said something low in the young man's ear which Doris did not hear but which was more than he could bear. With a tremendous effort, Archie kept silence, but he wheeled round to leave the house and the man who had so insulted him, as he did so unfortu- nately he came in contact with the elder man raised fist, and was struck by it a rather smart blow upon the mouth. Scarcely knowing what he did, Archie returned the blow upon the other's ear. Ambrose fell at once, and struck his head as he did so upon the great stone fender. Blood flowed from the wound. The Squire of Waddington lay where he had fallen on the floor. He was stunned, if not dead. But, indeed, he seemed to have nc life about him. For a moment or two they all looked at him iD consternation. Then Archie cried, There, Doris, look what I have done, and hate me, hate me for it!" The girl fell on her knees by her prostrate parent, and, unfastening his vest, laid her little hand upon his heart. She could not feel it beating, and grew pale to the very lips. Archie, he is dead," she cried, "you've killed my father, you've killed him Archie threw himself upon his knees beside her, and bathed Mr. Blair's brow with some water Mrs. Jones brought. "Perhaps he is only fainting," he said, in a choked voice. Put your hand here over his heart," cried poor Doris, excitedly. Archie did so, but could feel no movement. He. too, grew deadly pale. "He's gone! He's gone!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, in tones of consternation, while Jamie sobbed Gone gone lugubriously. No, no, no," cried Doris, her young voice full of pain. "Fetch a doctor, Archie, fetch Dr. King! Perhaps he can restore him—artificial respiration. Oh, be quick be quick I will fetch him," cried Archie, springing tc his feet and running out. Almost at the door he met Dr. King, who was coming to see Adrian Blair. Archie hurried him up the steps and intc the house, explaining, almost incoherently, and in much agitation, the facts-so surprising to the doctor-of Adrian Blair's disappearance, and the Squire's apparently dying condition. Dr. King quickly comprehended, and, hastening to the patient's bedside, bent over him for a few minutes, examining him with the greatest care. Then he looked up at Archie, shook his head, and pointed meaningly to the door. Archie sprang to his feet, and, with a look of anguish, held out both hands to Doris in mute farewell. The girl's face was livid. She shrank from him. Those hands that had killed her father might not touch her. Not even looking at him, she bent over her poor father's form, sighing deeply, and wringing her hands. Archie gave one short, sharp cry, like that of some wounded animal. Then he rushed out of the room, down the steps, and away from the place. (To be continued).

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