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[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] WHICH WAS THE HEIRESS? ..il.F OR, THE CURSE OF ADRIAN BLAIR BY EDITH C. KENYON, Author oj Jack's Cousin Kate," The Squire of Lonsdale," A Poor Pelatioit," etc. etc. CHAPTER XVII. IN THE WOOD AT NIGHT. OH, Dora. 1" said Doris, coming into Dora's bed- room, where poor Dora sat by the window in her dressing-gown, looking out into the moonlight night, I feel so uneasy about papa. You know he has never returned since he went off with your father into the woods this evening, and it is now one o'clock." "Is it? "said Dora, mournfully. "Doris, you ought to be asleep." "How can I sleep, darling," said Doris, who was also in her dressing-gown, coming up to her and throwing her arm about her neck, when you are unhappy, and papa is out like this with his worst enemy ? He is strong—a powerfully built man he can take care of himself," said Dora, listlessly. "Oh, I know you don't care for him much, Dora, because he has so often been unkind and even brutal to you. And to-night he was worse than ever. But he is my father, and although I have never been able to love him aa much as I ought— still, Dora, he is my father—he is my father. And what if that other man has hurt him, or, or," [shudderingly] killed him out there in the wood "Doris, can you think it possible ? exclaimed Dora. My father has a bad and cruel temper, but still, he is incapable of that of murder." "They have both such violent tempers," sighed Doris. Oli, dear, Dora, what can be done about papa?" Listen said Dora. A shot-two shots exclaimed Doris. "Oh, dear, Dora, what can it be ? Their fathers had withdrawn from the little crowd which soon surrounded them on the terrace, after Lord Herbert's departure, and, still wrang- ling, had withdrawn into the shelter of the nearest wood. Here one reproach led to another. Adrian blamed Ambrose for the stinginess and greed which had made him, in the first place, refuse to give him the legacy that their grandfather had once willed to him, but in a moment of bad temper had deprived him of. Tlier)fAiiil)rose stormed at Adrian for the curses with which he had at the time sought to revenge himself. You see," he cried, that they have come to nothiag Far from being miserable and God-forsaken, my child—my little Doris-is the happiest, most joyous, healthy, lovely daughter that ever a father had. She, my heiress, is all that I could desire. She is the pride of my life, the one treasure which I value more than all besides. And you-why, look you, your curses have recoiled on your own head, or rather, on your daughter's. Think what your Doris is now. You yourself shrank from her to-night with loathing." Be quiet!" shouted Adrian, almost beside him- self with rage. Be quiet, or I may tell you some- thing which you will not like to hear. You poor, gullible fool, you Then Ambrose struck him a blow across his mouth with his open hand, just as he had hit him in the mouth nigh upon eighteen years before. Adrian turned, and throwing himself upon his cousin, hurled him to the ground. Ambrose fell with his head against a tree stump, and lay insensible upon the ground. Adrian stood a few minutes looking at him, with rage and yet some terror. Would he come round? Would he ever again open those cold, pale-blue eyes ? As the master, the Squire of Waddington, would he ever appear before his fellows again ? Or had he finished his career for him in this world ? Had he sent him off on that last journey whence no traveller returns? With all his sins unconfessed, unforgiven, was he going to appear before his Judge ? Adrian's theology was of a very mixed and illiterate nature, but at least he believed that after death came judgment; therefore, necessarily a Judge. As for himself, would he not be a murderer in o few minutes, or hours as the case might be? He would not stay to see. If he were found near the spot there might be an ugly case against him. lie turned, therefore, and, without' once looking back, strode away down towarJa the village. Arrived there, perhaps be.orn?e he felt that if he had a pistol he would have the means of at least destroying his own life if he were overtaken and captured, he went into a shop and bought one. Then he wandered about, uncertain where to go, and curiously averse to leaving the place. Instead, therefore, of trying to make his way across country to Bradford, where he could easily get off by train, before anyone found the body of his unhappy victim, he turned into the wood again, at the end nearest the village. For some time he wandered aimlessly about in it, lost in thought, and still feeling quite unable to leave it and go away. It was very dark in the wood the great trees closed overhead, the paths were narrow and over- grown, gloomy thoughts oppressed him, as they might well. What a failure his life had been Always unlucky, until he had the great good fortune to start his gold mine, he for a time seemed to prosper, and became rich. But he had not used his riches well, and they had taken to themselves "wings and llown away. And his child, his daughter, was lost to him, too. As well might he never have had one. And Constance ? Well, he Was estranged from her. She was a most unhappy Woman her tempers, her caprices, had worn out his love. If she were to be poor again matters Would be worse she would never cease regretting that she had married him. I might as well be out of it all and take my life here in the lonely wood. Not a soul will care, and I shall be out of the way of any trouble about Ambrose," thought the wretched man. And now he walked forward more quickly, holding the pistol which was to put i period to his woes next to his heart, and looking for an open place where there might be enough aioonlight to enable him to load it. At last he found just the spot he wanted, and, ifter having carefully loaded his pistol, he walked )Q acrain a little way. Not to the ligkt, but in the iarkness would he take his life, Half-an-hour passed, and still he wandered on. It seemed a pity, he thought, to do that hastily which could never be undone. He must consider about, it well. Had life no longer any possibilities for him? What about the judgment which was to follow ? Well, this at least can be said of me," he told himself, "in one great matter I denied myself the desire of my heart for the sake of another's welfare. Heigho The exclamation was caused by the sight of Ambrose Blair leaning against a tree, straight before him in the path. Ambrose was breathing heavily one hand pressed his aching head; the great drops of sweat upon his brow testified to his agony. But still he was alive, and able to speak, as it turned out, for, the moment he perceived Adrian, he poured out such a torrent of abuse as Astonished even him. In a moment, almost before he had time to teflect Adrian met the torrent of abuse by raising his pistol and shooting, once-twice-at the man before him. Such was his agitation, however, that he could not aim straight. His shots whistled past Ambrose, one on the side and one above his head, and he laughed mockingly as they did so. "Aye, laugh, laugh," cried Adrian. "They may laugh who win." He flung the pistol away, and threw himself upon his foe. The excitement caused Ambrose to forget his tJl:round and fight desperately. Both were powerful 'Tien, and the struggle was a deadly one. First Ambrose was on the ground, then Adrian. Now blood was streaming from the former's head, then the latter was crippled by a well-dealt blow. And still they fought on, as men will fight when they are desperate, and do not think they will escape from the contest alive, if their adversary lives too. At last, a blow on Ambrose's head made all dark for him. He fell back stunned, and knew no more. After a while he came round, to feel air wafted leisure! across his face, whilst a gentle swish, Rv.ish, (11)\1 then a heavy growl was to be heard. slowly he comprehended that he was being fanned by the great tail of his Newfoundland doc. whilst its head from which the growls were proceeding, f hung over the body of his prostrate feo. j Call your dog off," said Adrian, feebly. He j might have been ready to take his own life, but it was quite another thing to allow himself to be worried to death by a dog. All the colour left his j face at the thought of it, and he tremble! with fear. Refreshed and delighted by the sight, Ainko-e j rose slowly from the ground. He could scarcely I see with one eye, but the other did good service. I Elsie, good dog, good dog take care of him," I he said to his deliverer. Call the brute off, will you?" cried Adrian, I "Not I," was the laconic reply. Will you call your brute off?" "No." ¡ Ambrose laughed till the tears rolled down his 'I face at the sight of his adversary's humiliation. He was wretched enough, with his bruised head and aching limbs, and the thought of all the indignity which had been put upon him—the Squire of Waddington. But yet he could not help laughing loudly, exultingly, and with great mockery, at his cousin's overthrow. He did not know in the least how his big dog (which was always chained in the yard at nights) could have come to his relief, but still it had come, and had turned the tables upon Adrian in a marvellous manner. By and bye, upon Adrian's solemn promise that he would follow him up to the Hall, he called Elsie to him, and allowed his cousin to rise. Then they went towards the house in a small procession, Ambrose leading the way, Adrian fol- lowing, with pale, crestfallen face and trembling limbs, the dog walking behind him, watching every step he took with jealous eyes. Once Ambrose altered the arrangement. He called Elsie to him and leaned upon the dog a ¡ little as he walked. This he did that Adrian might I have the opportunity to escape. The wretched man was not slow to avail himself of it. He ran I about a hundred yards down the path up which they had come. Then Ambrose said, Hist Elsie, hist and the great dog bounded after Adrian, knocked him I down, and stood over him, as it had done once before. I Ambrose went slowly up, and again his mocking laugh rang through the night air. Well, you are in my power," you see," he said, at length. And now you will please to come with me to the Hall, and keep your promise—because you cannot break it." ""What do you want to do with me at the Hall?" said Adrian. "Speak! What foolery is this ?" If you want to know, I want your daughter to see you thus in abject thraldom. You humiliated her this evening, now she shall see you humiliated in your turn." Ambrose groaned. The thought that his daughter would see him as he was now, a blood- stained, soiled, hatless, miserable object, was ex- tremely galling. Would she ever forget having seen him thus ? "Have mercy, Ambrose," he cried; "let me off now. You have had the best of it. Man he almost shrieked in his agony, "you have had altogether the best of it all through your life. You might have some pity." "You should have thought of that yourself when you were trying to kill me. Here we are, however." They entered the Hall, Elsie walking beside Adrian, watching his every movement jealously. Sit down." Ambrose pointed to a chair in the j middle of the hall. Now, Elsie, take care of j him. Don't let him move," he said, and then j proceeded to go upstairs. j The butler followed him, saying, with much I concern, "Sir, what has happened? Your coat is torn, you are bleeding, and Mr. Adrian, sir, looks; scared to death." All right, Legott. Where is my daughter and Miss Dora ? Fetch them, will you, qukkly. By j Jingo if you don't make haste—" j The old butler hurried downstairs. Speedily he J bronghVthe two girls down, looking terrified, and still iri their dressing-gowns, for they had not gone to bed. What I want to know," said Ambrose, who was leaning against the balustrade at the bottom of the great staircase, is this—Who let Elsie loose ? Who let her loose ? Because whoever did so saved my life." "I loosened the chain," said Doris, "but it was Dora's idea. We heard two shots, so feared your life was in danger, and Dora suggested we should, go to the stable yard and unloose the dog. I just told Elsie to go and find you, and she tore out of the yard." Well, I must thank you, Doris, for my life," said Ambrose, ignoring the important part of the transaction taken by Dora. Dora," he added, come and see your father. I have amply avenged you on him." Poor Dora shrank back, but he insisted upon her going into the hall. He felt kinder to her now that she had refused Lord Herbert's impulsive offer. After all, he had no wish that she should leave his house. But he liked to torment her. This is your father," he said to her now, point, ing to his miserable cousin. But Dora turned her eyes away and would not look. Doris, however, looked, and her glance, full of reproach and disgust, made Adrian turn exceed- ingly pale. Then, at last, the girls were allowed to go away, and Ambrose again enjoyed the luxury of turning his cousin out of doors. Elsie followed Adrian to the carriage-drive gate, and then returned slowly, wagging her tail as she did so. t CHAPTER XVIII. I I THE MEETING IN THE WOODS. I PAPA, I want you to grant me a great favour?" said Doris, the next day, as she sat by her father's couch in the library. Well, my dear, what is it?" asked Ambrose Blair. His limbs ached so that he could hardly stand, and his head was confused in fact, he felt so dizzy when he walked about that his doctor had advised him to stay quietly in his library, reclining upon a couch as much as possible for two or three days. You know I told you about Mrs. Jones coming here?" said Doris. "She used to be my nurse when I was a baby, and she was in the room when { mother died—my own mother, I mean; then she went to America for years. But now she has returned, and her husband is a cripple. I want you to let them live in the old Summerhouse in the East Wood." "But, my dear, I don't know whether it is habitable. No one has lived there for the last two years. The floor of one of the upper rooms is quite rotten, and I believe the staircases are not quite safe." But they would only occupy the tw) rooms on the ground floor, and if they live there, it wfJI prevant people going up without warning, and perhaps prevent some accident happenillg-I will tell them always to warn people. And you could let them have it rent free, of course and when we have picnics there Mrs. Jones will boil the kettle for us and do lots of things. Oh, papa, do let her live there with her poor husband." But what will they live upon ? "They have saved a little money. And Mrs. Jones will knit and sew for me. I have always had to put out a little work which the servants haven't time for." "Haven't time for! Really, Doris, I think if we keep a few more servants we shall have to do all the work ourselves, for it seems to me the more we have, the less they can find time to do. It used to be different when your poor mother was alive. Ah, she was a good housekeeper And still he sighed, even at that distance of time, to think that he had not allowed her to have all the help she required for the housekeeping." "Papa, let Mrs. Jones live here," persisted Doris. Well, my dear. She may have the house, but she must understand that when any of us, or our visitors, want to go up to the top of it, she must be willing for us to pass through her dwelling-place S and must place every facility in our way." j "Oh, thank you, papa," cried Doris, delighted j that he had consented. The Summerhouse was a picturesque old building, built like the keep of some old castle. It was a considerable height, j winding stairs conducting up to story after story, containing round chambers with turret windows, in which there was now no glass. At the top a magnificent view could be seen of all the surround- ing country. The place was in the very middle of the Squire of Wadding ton's largest wood, and it the Squire of Waddington's largest wood, and it was only by his special permission that visitors could see over it. Usually a gamekeeper, or wood- man, occupied the lower rooms. But the position was a lonely one, and they generally found some excuse for wanting to live near the village. "I don't know about that Mrs. Jones. Her name was Bennet, I believe. When I allowed her to accompany you to Miss Carrington's in your infancy, it was in the belief that she was at least as devoted to you as that lady, and that she would remain in her service for your sake. But it appears she did not stay long at St. Leonard's. Papa, tell me all about it-what happened when I was a baby, I mean," said Doris, earnestly. "I ought to know-for-f or there are some things I cannot understand." Her father somewhat briefly related to her the incidents of her babyhood, as far as he knew them, omitting, however, all mention of Adrian's cursing her, and dwelling but slightly upon her mother's impassioned words about her as she lay dying. Doris listened with great attention. "Papa," she said, when he paused, this woman, Mrs. Jones, who was my nurse when I went to St. Leonard's, says that I used to have a mark upon my shoulder—a birth-mark, papa—which isn't there now." Her father stared at her in a puzzled way for a moment or two, but there was no room in his mind for the faint suspicion her words might suggest, so he could not entertain it. "I suppose it wore off," he said. But, indeed, Doris, there was no need for any birth-mark, or anything by which you might be known. When I went abroad I left you in the care of Miss Car- rington, a lady in whom I had perfect confidence. In fact I had known her all my life, and, on my return, she assured me that you had never been from under my roof." Will you tell me about your return, papa? I was such a little girl, and so much has happened to me since, that I only dimly remember it." Accordingly, Ambrose Blair related to her all about his return to England after his long sojourn abroad; his futile visit to St. Leonard's, futile as to finding her there, although he obtained her address, which was the next best thing. Then he described his visit to Miss Carrington's house at Barmouth his waiting in the room in which was her portrait; his feelings about it, and his delight when Miss Carrington assured him that it was indeed the likeness of his little Doris. "Then you came in, my darling," he said fondly, and I saw you had the same coloured hair and eyes and the same kind of features, considering you were a girl, as I had myself. From that time you were my little queen. You know you were." Doris smiled. "I know how delighted I was to find I had such a father to love me and give me everything I wanted," she said. "It seemed to me just like a fairy tale, in which everything turned out in the most brilliant and delightful manner, owing to the advent of the Deus ex machina of the story. I think there never was such a happy child as I was, when you took me away from Barmouth to this place, which seemed to me like a palace of delights." You cannot tell how happy I was to have such a very creditable little daughter to bring here." Suddenly Doris's face grew graver. And about Dora," she said, what did you think of her when you saw her ? Papa, tell me all you know about Dora in her childhood." "Dora!" he cried. "Dora! Oh, she was a hideous little brat! I remember I nearly fell over her, as I went up the steps to the house at Barmouth. The ugly little thing was squatting upon the steps. She paid me out for it, however, afterwards, you know, when she threw that big Noah's Ark at my head as I passed under the nursery window. By Jingo that was a blow I remember," said Doris. But it was partly my fault. I had been behaving unkindly, snatch- ing what she was playing with away, or something, and she flew into a passion. Poor little Dora You whipped her for it, papa," and there was great regret in the girl's tone. Well, Miss Carrington put the cane into my hands, with a request that I would use it, and I was mad with the ugly little thing Besides, she had no right to be there—no right at all. Miss Carrington ought not to have taken in Adrian's child." "Why not, papa?" "Adrian was my enemy, even then, as he is now. Why, whin he left here, lie cursed—cursed—" Whom did he curse ? Ambrose was silent. "Did he curse you, papa? "No. Bother it, child, don't ask any more questions," lie cried, irritably. Doris was silent, even-she dared not run the risk of making him angry. Miss Carrington must have liked him," she said, after a pause, because you see she married him." The more fool she growled her father, but she only did it because she could not get me." Papa ?" Well, it's a fact. She was awfully spoony on me." Was she? Well, she must have had good taste, you know," and Doris smiled at her hand- some father, handsome in spite of his bruises. ] suppose that was why she was so good to me," she went on, thoughtfully; "but, papa, I did not really love her. When I left her I was not at all sorry. But then I'm so queer." You are queer if you don't like Lord Herbert," cried her father, suddenly. Doris, I have been a good father to you, try to please me in this matter Try to like him for my sake." "But, papa," protested Doris, he loves Dora." "Nonsense. He is too young to know what he loves yet. Ard she's a sensible girl; she won't have have him." Don't you think you're a wee bit inconsistent," said Doris, slyly. "Not at all. Both you and he are too young to take any steps yet-but what I feel about you, Doris, is this," and he looked at her with some concern, I don't want you to prejudice yourself by getting fond of anyone else-an unworthy attach- ment would unfit you for being the wife of a pro- spective marquis." "Unworthy cried Doris, blushingly, knowing well that he was thinking of Archie Scott. Believe me, papa dear, I shall never forget that 1 im your daughter," and, to herself, she added, and Archie Scott's beloved." Long after Doris had left the room, to go and see after her arrangement for Mrs. Jones's benefit oeing carried out, Ambrose lay, thinking with what satisfaction he might of those last words of Doris's co him. She would never forget she was his laughter That surely meant that she would not 5hrow herself away upon a penniless young man ike Archie Scott. How beautiful she looked when she said it! Well, she was indeed a daughter to oe proud of How he loved her His own Doris He was glad he had given her her own way about the old nurse's future home. The more of her own way he allowed her the more she would love him." Meanwhile Doris was busily conducting Mrs. Jones to the Summerhouse to look over her future home. She drove her to it in her own little pony carriage, with only a page in attendance. See, Nurse, I may call you Nurse, may I not ?" she asked. You see it seems to make you belong to me. This is the way up the tower. Shall we go. Afterwards we will more carefully examine these lower rooms, in which you are to live. Now follow me up the winding stairs. Mind they are a little broken in places. Take hold of the rail. Look what nice rooms on this second floor. Why you might take in lodgers, and keep them here." Mrs. Jones laughed. What a shame for these good rooms not to be used!" she said, "but perhaps the Squire mightn't like it, Miss, if I took in a lodger?" Oh, of course, I was only joking," said Doris. Who would care to live in such a lonely place ? Now, Nurse, we will go higher." Up and up they went, examining each round chamber-there were two in each story-as they came to it, and looking out of the little windows, on the tree tops and woodland scene beyond, untn at length they came to the last flight of stairs. Then they were slower in their movements, for the staircase was broken in places, and somewhat dangerous. Take care, Nurse Let me go first. Now follow. Doris led the way, and was the first to go through the open trap-door at the top. As she did so, she nearly fell back in surprise, for there, all alone, with a book in his hand, sat Archie Scott, on a rug thrown upon the stone flooring. Miss Blair he cried, delightedly, springing up, or is it an angel ? 11 Doris laughed. The wind blew her pretty red- brown hair almost down over her dark-blue velvet gown, which fitted tightly to her lovely figure. Who would have thought of seeing you here ? she cried, with flushed cheeks. Or you here ? he cried, in his turn. Nurse," said Doris, this is Mr. Scott, the son of our good clergyman." Mrs. Jones curtsied, and looked keenly at the young people. Do you know, Archie, she is going to live here ? explained Doris. Live here —on the top, looking over the trees ? Poor beggar exclaimed Archie, the last word being under his breath. No, stupid cried Doris, laughingly. But down below. She and her husband are going to live here." "Indeed? I'm glad to hear it. Then there will always be someone to boil the kettle for me when I want a cup of tea here." Selfishness, thy name is man cried Doris, seating herself on the stone ledge which ran round the chamber, looking like an old-fashioned window seat." I'm afraid," said Mrs. Jones, it has given me rather a turn finding this young gentleman on the top. How shall I know, when I am living here, but that there is someone up above all the time ?" "Well, people cannot fly up," said Doris, "and you can keep your eye on all who enter during the day-time." The woman smiled. "Poor Mrs. Jones," exclaimed Archie, "what an expansive eye she will require whenever it pleases the Squire to throw open his woods to the public. That will be a nice time for you, Mrs. Jones," said Doris, for I daresay many people will give you money for showing them the way up." Yes, and the way down again," said Archie. "By the bye, you might make tea, and sell it to the people who come-" "I don't know about that," said Doris. Papa might not like this place treated like a common show place. But we can see a tremendous way from the top with a telescope. Just look at big smoky Bradford on your right, and Saltaire there, with its modelbuildings—and She stopped short. Archie's hand was in hers. He had slipped a shilling into the old nurse's hand, and bidden her go down and tell her young mistress's page not to allow the ponies to eat grass, which would certainly make them ill-a fact the good woman could hardly believe. "Doris, I was thinking about you, dear, as I sat here," said Archie. "Do you know, your father wants me to go away. He has been trying to persuade my dear old dad to send me away on the Continent for six months. He must want me to go awfully, for he offer to pay my expenses if I go at once." "Don't go," said Doris, earnestly. "I don't want you to go, Archie." "Don't you?" His tones trembled with glad- ness. No stay here and be my friend. Archie, I am so young, much too young to think of such a thing —I haven't even had a season in town—but papa is already planning and wanting me to look for- ward to a great marriage, and he wants me, Archie, to care for someone I don't particularly like." "I know," said Archie, "It's Lord Herbert. Well, he is a good sort, but he won't do for you." "No," said Doris, he won't do for me." "But I wonder who would?" said Archie, stroking the pretty hand still resting in his. "Why, you know, Archie," said Doris, looking at him with all the light of love in her sparkling eyes. "My darling He took her in his arms that moment. No thought of propriety, or even of honour, came into his head to prevent him. Doris loved him. That was all he knew. (To be continued.)