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1i". [ALL EIGHTS RESERVED.]…

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1i [ALL EIGHTS RESERVED.] .'V-V T-V FETTERED OR FREE? BY E. L. KERSEY, Author of "Her Worst Enemy," U De Fatal Shadow," The Snakestone," etc. etc. — PROLOGUE. .1 A STRANGE MARRIAGE. "YOTJLL call me an ungrateful brute, doctor! but better have left me to die, a thousand times, than with so much skill and trouble have brought me back to life-fot this! Nonsense I I've not patience to hear you talk in such an absurdly morbid way. Why, roan,-I tell you again-empliatically-that in a week's time you'll see things through very different glasses. I've a lot of patients, Who have suffered from La Grippe as se- verely as you have, and, also like you, have passed through a period of horrible despondency. My dear fellow, go to a cheerful place at the seaside, where you'll get bracing air and pleasant society, and (JIOu'll not know yourself at the end of a month!" The scene is a dark, dingy room on the third floor of a gloomy London lodging- iiouse. There are no comforts—hardly any inecessaries-to be seen. A young man, of twenty-five or there- abouts, is leaning back in the only approach to an easy chair in the place. He is thin and pale, with hollows in his sunken cheeks Sris grey eyes look unnaturally large and bright, his thick brown wavy hair is care- lessly pushed back from his high forehead; the long fingers of the aristocratic-looking hand, with which he is nervously plucking at the torn tablecloth, are slender as a woman's. He has evidently only narrowly escaped from the jaws of death. Doctor Ferrard is keenly observing his patient, as he stands on the threadbare jnearthrug, his back to the almost expiring -Are; and feels a thrill of just pride as he con- siders that, in the struggle with death, his skill and ceaseless care have, under Heaven, .3Jeen victorious. The young doctor has only lately started ^practice in an unfashionable part of town aiad, as yet, it is uphill work. But he loves fhis profession dearly, and is ambitious. There is something in the earnest, clever sface, the keen eye, the massive determined <cjhin, the well-cut features—something in aftie poise of the upright, lithe figure, that [betokens a spirit in the man that will not "brook failure. You've been awfully good to me, doctor, the invalid goes on to say, but you don't iosow what you've brought me back to life for. Simply ruin. You've given up no end of your precious time to me, and not a single penny have I to repay you with. My land- lady"—he glances round the comfortless maoin-11 threatens to turn me out. I feel like a cheat. I can't pay her-its simply impossible. There's nothing for it but-" He stops suddenly, and glances at a pistol lying on the mantelpiece. Dr. Ferrard's grave face becomes a trifle more grave; and there is a world of pity in his eyes. J "My dear fellow, take courage," he says gently: "Forgive me, I don't ask from carious motives, but seeing-as everyone must see at a, glance—that you are a gentle- man how did you come to such straits ? The young doctor has seated himself on a •chair opposite to the apology for a fire. John Marchmont regards his questioner jwrith a look of despair. A simple story enough"; he says bitterly. "A hot-tempered lather—son ditto. Like a young fool, I fell in love—or imagined I did-with a rustic beauty, our keeper's daughter; swore I'd marry her. My father and I had a violent quarrel. In a fit of anger I left home, vowing I'd get my own living. He swore he'd cut me off with a shilling. I was mad. Everything has gone wrong with me since. Just before my illness I heard that my father had died suddenly, and left every- thing away from me. I'd give the world—if I had it—to be sure that he forgave me before he died." And—the keeper's daughter ? "Married John Hodge, and is perfectly happy in her own station of life-milking cows, keeping poultry, nursing babies. I'm quite cured, for ever, of the tender passion." He sits up, and pushes the thick hair back from his forehead. "Well, that's over. Why should I have inflicted my miserable story upon you-a busy, prospering man ? Its enough to say that I'm stranded. This woman will turn me out into the street shortly, and no one can blame her. She must live. She's been kind enough to me, Heaven knows. The only prospect before me is the Workhouse, and that is out of the question; a walk to Waterloo Bridge—or—" he glances signifi- cantlyat the pistol-" That would bring a scandal on the house. Rather a shame, when the old lady has treated me well. Though I should prefer it myself." He sinks back in his chair, with a hollow, mirthless laugh, while the doctor watches him gravely. "You are well educated? I needn't ask that. Would you work, if you had a chance?" I. Wouldn't 11 I'm young-and life is dear to the young. Ah! if I could only get a chance!" An eager look comes into his face as he leans forward, but it dies out again in a moment, and he sighs heavily. Everything Is hopeless. I must throw up the sponge. Don't worry any more about me, doctor, you're only wasting precious time for nothing and your time's money." "Money isn't everything," returns the other rather sharply. Then, as if with a sudden thought, his face brightens. He feels in his breast pocket, and draws out a letter. "It has just occurred to me," he says, opening the letter, and glancing through it. I heard from a friend this morning, telling me that Lord Lowther, who is, he writes, a very wealthy man—not a saint by any means, very much the reverse, I imagine- has just lost, by an accident—a fall from a borse-his confidential agent. His lordship Is in a great hurry to leave England for the Continent, and my friend asks if I know of a thoroughly reliable man—he must be a gentleman—who understands the working of a large estate; the management of tenants, etc. in fact, the business of a great man's confidential manager and agent. Lord Jjowtherwill evidently blindly engage any- one my friend recommends. Salary most liberal-m every way a first-rate appoint- ment. Must be filled up within a week. Can I do liim a great favour, and put him up to anyone suitable? Would that sort of thing be in your line ?" John Marchmont starts up, his eyes gleam- ing, a flush on his pale cheeks. "Mine! Good Heavens! He pauses a mornent, then leans forward, and seizes the other s hand in a tight grip. "Just the work I should like, and just wha,t I could do well, I verily believe. Before the wretched quarrel with my father, after I returned from Oxford, I had a good deal to do with the management of our tenants, and of the estate. It was always a hobby of mine. You don't mean to say there's a hope ? You don't mean to say-By Heaven! I didn't know till now that life was so dear, that it would be so bard to-) He breaks off with something very like a IIOb. Doctor Ferrard lays a firm, kindly hand t his shoulder "If this piece of good fortune should come to you," he says quietly, you must rouse yourself, and get up your strength as fast as possible. There'll be no umei,i»J?se* I don't see why the thing ahouldn t be worked. Let me see——" He reads through the letter carefully to himself, Marchmont watching him anxiously the while. Ah!" Doctor Ferrard's face clouds over and he bites his lip. "There's a postscript I overlooked," he says, 'my friend writes: There's one thing Lord Lowther is deter- mined about-his confidential agentn-ticst be a married man." A dead silence follows. The doctor instinctively feels that despair is clutching at the other's heart; but he sits motionless, and says never a word, while his face grows white to the lips. The two men are sileofc for the space of two or three minutes, then Doctor Ferrard rises. Don't lose hope, my friend," he says cheerfully. Then he stands an instant looking down upon John Marchmont's paleface. "You would like the appointment—if it were possible to secure it ? Like it?" Marchmont repeats bitterly. Its either that-or-an end of everything to me. I'd do anythingr, that isn't dishonour- able, to secure it. I should get strong and well again directly—I feel it-if there were only a chance of earning my living honestly." Keep up heart, then. I own that I can't help feeling a deep interest in your welfare, perhaps because I may have had something to do with pulling you through this illness. I have an idea. Keep yourself quiet until I return; I promise you it shall be within a few hours. Then he hurries out, without another word leaving his patient deep in thought, staring into the expiring embers. Doctor Ferrard goes down the street with quick, firm steps, his tall figure looming through the thickness of the yellow fog. He does not go far, but soon stops at another dingy-looking house, more dreary, if pos- sible, than the last. A dirty servant opens the door in reply to his second sharp ring, then leaves him inside with a familiar grin on her sooty face. Evidently he is acquainted with the geography of the house, for without hesita- tion he goes at once up the dark, steep stairs, to a room on the third floor, where he taps, a trifle breathless. A low voice bids him Come in." There is no light in the poverty-stricken room, and he can hardly distinguish the sUm figure of a girl seated beside a little table, until he is close beside her. Surely, you are not trying to write in this blackness of darkness ? he says cheerily, as he takes the girl's thin hand. Only a little. My eyesight is very good, and Doctor Ferrard knows quite well what she means-wehe can't afforn to burn the gas. He gives an involuntary sigh as he looks keenly at the delicate, sad face in the semi- darkness. You are better ? he asks gently, sitting down beside her, and laying his fingers on her pulse. "Ob, yes, thanks to you, doctor." She tries to smile, but her eyes grow dim with tears instead. She has to pause a moment, before she can speak distinctly. "I want to thank you, Doctor Ferrard- oh, so much 1-for all your great kindness to me. You have saved my life. I shall never forget your goodness; never cease to bless you for it. But I am so ashamed—I don't know how to tell you. I haven't a penny in the world to pay for all—all your- The despairing tone in the girl's voice- the white, quivering lips, the thin hands clasped so pitifully, move him strongly. Pray don't distress yourself, Miss Les- lie," he says, very gently, very kindly, as he lightly touches the clasped hands. Don't give a thought to me—in that way. I am amply repaid by your restoration to health." She looks up at him gratefully through her tear-dimmed eyes. If I only could- she begins, then breaks off with a sob. After a pause, Doctor Ferraud says, For- give me, I do not ask from mere motives of curiosity—I'm sure you'll give me credit for that-but-areyou in very great difficulties ?" The girl leans forward a little, fixing her dark eves earnestly on his face. Oh Doctor Ferrard," she bursts out impulsively, I am in despair! AH alone in this cruel city— without a penny; without the means of earning anything. My landlady, who has been very kind, very patient, but is poor herself, she says warns me that I must not remain here longer than the end of this week. I owe her four potimls already, just think—four pounds I've nothing to pay her with, and not a sing.fe friend. Think of it! A helpless girl turned into the streets of London to starve. What shall I do ? Where can I go ? There is the river-it haunts me day and night as I saw it last, the water looked so cold, so cruel "You musn't talk in this wild way, Miss Leslie. You are weak and depressed. We must see what can be done. Do you mind telling me some of your antecedents—before you were ill, you know ? My poor little story won't take long to tell" she answers, with a sad smile: "My home was in a Devonshire village, by the sea. My mother died when I was twelve I was an only child. My father was a Captain in the Navy. He retired from ser- vice after .my mother's death. We lived very happily together. I suppose my father was rash and careless about money matters. I know he received a pension. We kept open house, had everything of the best; he gave me all I wished for, and more. One miserable day he died quite suddenly and I found myself left an orphan at seventeen, knowing nothing of the world. I won't enter into particulars enough to say, that after expenses were paid, I found myself with only a few pounds of my own. Friends of happy days were not so cordial in mis- fortune, and I was too proud to accept favours. I came to London, determined to earn a living. I have been able to get on well enough as one of the young ladies in a big drapery establishment. The manager and the other girls were kind to me, and helped me in my ignorance. For nearly a twelvemonth I kept my situation and my salary was to have been ra,ised this month. Then came my illness—and—you know the rest." Doctor Ferrard has listened intently to her simple story. "I ought to a,pologise for taking up so much of your valuable time," she says ner- vously, but you have been always so kind —you are my only friend." Then, after a pause, she takes a news- Caper from the table, and holding it close to er eyes, reads— "Wanted at once, a young lady as cheerful companion and amanuensis. Must be musical, and a good French scholar.—Apply, C. A." I saw this advertisement in the paper, and replied to it," she goes on to say, "frankly confessing that I have taken no situation of the kind before, but that I am friendless, and in want; and I begged the lady, out of pity, to try me. I am really a fairly good French scholar, I was always fond of languages, and there happened to be an old man—a Frenchman—in our village, who taught me. I can play the piano, and violin, too; my father loved music, and I inherit that love. But of course there is not the least hope of my getting the situation. I've had no reply. Frankly, if I did—I've I no garments fit to appear before a lady in." # The doctor looks at her enquiringly. She replies to the look biushmg..painfully as she does so. My landlady has pawned everything for me. It was all I could do," she says, simply; "I've nothing bat what t rm wearing now. In this dim light, I hope irou ZMW& see how 1 The door opens, and the slip shod servant comes in with a letter. "Forme?" There is a ring of hope in her voice, as she eagerly holds out her hand for the letter. Doctor Ferrard lights the gas. As she reads, she gives a cry of joyful surprise. "Only think! It is really an answer. The lady—she does not give her name, promises that she will give me a trial! 'She is touched'—she writes— by my sad story. If Mr. Evans will give her a good account of me, I may go to her. Oh Doctor Ferrard, I am saved! She lets the letter fall, and clasps her hands together, as if in thankfulness while a soft colour comes into her cheeks, and a new light into her dark eyes. Doctor Ferrard finds himself suddenly considering how very pretty she would be if she were not so thin and pale. In another moment, the brightness dies out of the mobile face, and tears dim her eyes again. I can't go-I can't! she cried, piteously; "she would never take me-like this! I've simply nothing fit to go out in. Oh, it is impossible "Would you really like to go?" Doctor Ferrard asks gravely. Like! Oh Doctor Ferrard, that is not the word. It is life or death to me. It is thai-or-an end of everything. If I onlv nad-say ten pounds—1 could pay my land- lady, buy something to wear, and have some for a journey—but oh it is hopeless Doctor Ferrard is wishing in his heart, that lie could give, or even lend her the sum she requires; but he knows he cannot. He is living, just now, from hand to mouLh himself; and many of his patients are bad pay. I may be able to help you out of the difficulty, and put you in the way of earning a fifty pound note—if you will agree to a strange bargain—" he says slowly, after a pause. "Yet I am not sure that I am right even in suggesting to you what I have in my mind." The girl slips from her chair to the floor, and kneels before him. "God will reward you, if you will help me!" she sobs out. "I will agree to any- thing you can suggest, only save me!" Three days later, in a dark, unfashionable London church, a man and woman stand before the altar, while a clergyman hastily scrambles through the marriage service. A verger, an old woman, and a ragged boy, who have drifted in out of idle curiosity, and Doctor Ferrard, are the only witnesses of the ceremony. The bridegroom wears a thick, heavy overcoat. The bride, who stands beside him, repeating the responses in an almost inaudible voice, is shabbily dressed in a gown of dark material, and a long cloak, which envelops and conceals her figure. Her face is covered by so thick a veil that it is impossible to distinguish her features. When the bridegroom slips the ring upon her finger, he notices that her hand is very white, and delicately formed and that the trembling fingers are long and tapering. The hastily conducted service is soon over. The old woman and boy follow the newly- married pair into the porch, staring curiously after them. At the church door, the bride withdraws her hands hastily from the bridegroom's arm, and without once glancing at him, hurries away alone down the street, her head bent, her cloak drawn closely round her, and is soon lost to sight in the lurid gloom of the fog. Doctor Ferrard and the bridegroom walk away in an opposite direction. They are silent for a while, then John Marchmont says, with a laugh-" I've not the faintest notion what my wife is like, doctor! When I arrived at the church, I found I'd been fool enough to forget the ring. Fortunately, I was wearing one on my little finger, which my mother had given me. It was a trifle large for the lady, but it answered the pur- pose, though I'm sorry to part with it." Doctor Ferrard does not echo the other's laugh. His face looks very grave and stern, as they stand for a moment, near the light of a lamp, grasping hands. Heaven grant that I haven't qoneyou both a great wrong," he says, solemnly; "I'm very doubtful about it. God knows that I did the thing with the best intentions. There appeared no other loop-hole of escape from ruin for either you or her." "My dear fellow, you've given me-I answer only for myself, of course, as I know nothing of the lady's affairs—a fresh start. You've saved me from despair—and worse. I shall always look upon you as my bene- factor, my best friend, and shall always be —I can't say hoio deeply—in your debt. I owe you my life—and more. God bless you. Good-bye. ( To be continued.)

THE MOROCCO REVOLT. I

ACCOMPLISHED APES I

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) WOMAN'S WORLD.

I HOME HINTS. I

I SIX MEN BLOWN INTO THE AIR.

MR. CHAMBERLAIN ON THE WAR.

MASK OF DEATH.

THE QUEEN IN DENMARK.

i | RELICS FROM THE DEEP.

INOTHING NEW.

I .PROFESSOR OF THE NAVY.

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