Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 79) (1885 11 24)
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AVERLEY VOL VII $2,50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, Price, . ' a Year. No, 98 William Street, New York, Five Cents. ““HIS WIFE WAS THERE BEFORE HIS EYES,” FORBIDDEN BANS . sunlight, deep shadows here and there under the ) tall hedge-rows of towering trees; the glowing warmth of mid summer, where the sun’s beams Or, ALMA’S DISGUISED PRINCE, | fell unchecked on meac low and upland. Sa e Two figures were climbing this steep roadway. BY ARABELLA SOUTHWORTH. One, a mai of thirty or there abouts, who limp- sees ed, and leaned on a stick; the other a boy, eight CHAPTER I. : or nine years old. RONALD NORMANLOE, ESQ., AND SON. Both had an air of shabby entility; but A Lona, steep hill, bathed ‘in rich morning ' you forgot this entirely in looking into tho
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FORBIDI EN BANS. boy’s dark eyes, and admiring his noble beau- ty. “Stop, and let me breathe a moment, you young vagabond!” cried the man. ‘‘ You go trudging on without caring what I may suffer. You haven’t sprained your ankle. Whew!” The boy came to a halt, but made no reply to this harsh, coarse speech. He was too much accustomed, to it, poor little fellow! And yet this man was bis father. ‘How hot and suffocating it is!” growled the man. ‘‘Here! carry these things up the hill, Tuat’ll lighten me a little.” He emptied the contents of his pocket upon the dusty road, leaving the child to pick them up, while be hobbled to the nearest bit of shade, and sat duwn to rest. the child to pick them up, while he hobbled to the nearest bit of shade, and sat down to rest. geneous mass—letters, a packet of papers, two handkerchiefs, keys, a French roll in a paper | bag, a traveling cap, and other articles. The boy found it difficult to dispose of them all; but trembling with haste, his small white fingers stowed these things as well as he could into a basket he carried. “Now, Master Ronald, have the goodness to | pay particular attention to what I’m going to say to you!” said the man. Ronald stood by, painfully attentive. “Are you listening? Can’t you open your mouth?” “Yes, father.” “You'll have to do as well as listen, and | that instantly,” continued Ronald’s father. “So you’d better pay attention, or it’H be | Well, sir, as I didn’t count on | spraining my aukle, and, therefore, thought | worse for you! we could walk by easy stages to where we’re going, sleeping a couple of nights in any hay- field such weather as this, ’d no idea that I should have to pay two railway fares—a matter of nearly ten shillings —-to Burdon Green. Ten shillings is a fearful sum to give out of the only three sovereigns I have left in the world, and sometiiing must be done to make it up. D’ye understand that?” “Yes, father,” replied the child. ‘Well, then, the cniy way to do itis for you to beg. You can do that, you lazy lout, as we | go along, if you can do nothing else! Let ine see how you'll set about it. Suppose that Jam a gentleman, and that you meet me on the road. You ask for something to he’p you on. Now, then, on you go, and don’t bungle.” But something in this command pierced little Ronald to the core. He tried to repress his sobs, that he might utter some words of en- treaty; but it was in vain, and he burst into uncontrollable tears, “Why, what’s amiss—what’s the maiter with you?’ roared the man. | work so hard! “Oh, father, don’t—don’t let me beg! I'll T really will!” “ Work! —you work? Why, what could you do? Who d’ye think would employ you, a mere child? You must beg. There’s a trade for you at once! An easy one, too! I only wish I could see any lady coming up this precious hill, You should begin at once.” Shame and agony of soul were plainly de- picted on the boy’s burning cheeks and in his startled look. His father noted nothing of this, however; but leaning carelessly forward, was just tying his shoe-string. “Is that a house I see yonder?” continued the man, pointing with his stick toward an eminence discernible from where he was re- dining. ‘There, peeping from*that wood- ‘ | crowned hight?” Upon the gravelly highway lay a hetero- | “To is a large house, father,” replied the child, with difficulty, “Large! It is a mansion. Ah! to think | that only three years ago I was rich!—that I was received at such places as that-—received as a welcome guest! And now I am here, a beg- gar, or nearly so, and about to start my only | son in life, not with twenty thousand pounds, as I once expected to do, but asa mendicant--a roadside beggar! Well, I hope you'll drive a | good trade, Ronald, and help to support your miserable father,” The child’s tears welled up again, and his lips quivered; but he managed to stifle the sob which rose in bis breast. “« And now I find myself here, about to try to get some poor employ as a clerk. I, Mr. Ronald Normanloe, gentleman, who once had a thousand at my disposal, who married to please my faney, and who had the run of fashionable society! And now ITamruined! It | is enough to madden any man,” Little Ronald sunk down on the turf where he had been standing, and stealthily dried bis eyes, still glaneing fearfully along the road, up and down the steep way they had yet to tra- verse, to see if any lady or gentleman was in _ sight. “ve told you before how it happened that | Llost everything I had in the world, Ronald.. Did you pay attention when I told you?” “Tt wus a bank that broke, where all your | money was, father,” said Ronald. “Tt was that and something more,” replied the man. ‘1 speculated, and lost. That, and the bank stopping payment, reduced Ronald Normanloe, Esq.. to Ronald Normanlve, the poor clerk—if [ should have the luck to get this fine clerkship. If not, then I shail be Rv — nald Normanloe, tramp! And yet my own son refuses to exercise the honorable calling of beggar, We must put pride in our pockets now! ITonly wish I had thought of it sqoner. We have met some very likely people to-day,
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FORBIDDEN BANS. 8 and you might have earned several shillings by opening your mouth and whining judiciously, Ronald. We'll try to make up for lost time, however.” Poor little Ronald’s features began again to twitch. He thought of so many things in the past of his young lift, which seemed to urge him not to do this dreadful thing. | He thought of his beautiful young mother— of how she had taught him to be a gentleman ; remembered when he had himself given money to beggars, pitying, but at the same time de- spising them; thinking that they ought to work, not beg. “We must be getting on our way again,” said the man, rising. ‘‘ Here! pick up my stick. Is nobody coming yet? Perhaps we sball meet some one soon.. Did you suppose I could go on to support you now that Ihave to work for my own bread? No, no; you must do as the sons of other poor men do—work for your living!” “So I would! Oh, I would willingly work hard at avything, father!” exclaimed the boy, as they resumed their march along the dusty country road, * And perbaps you will also be so obliging as to inform me how you propose fo earn your living, my noble Ronald?” asked his father, mockingly. ‘At what trade will you work? Will you go asa farm-laborer, or what?” “T could weed a garden, father,” said Ro- nald, resolutely. “ Weed a garden!” cried the man, imitating | his childish accents, ‘‘And how much would you earn at weeding, pray?” “T don’t know, father.” “Don’t know! No;I should think not! But I happen to know! I have paid boys often enough for weeding my gardens—when I had them: and J believe my bailiff gave fourpence a day! Why your breakfast alone would cost more than fourpence!” | * But [ wouldn’t let it cost more, father! I would have only a little milk and a lump of bread!” “Indeed, most interesting garden-boy! You'd | | soon sing a different song—you, who have been | accustomed to soft ways of living and dainty food! No; there’s nothing for it but to turn you into a beggar! Youhavea face that will help you, and that’s lucky!” Little Ronald made no reply to thiss buf as he trudged on, so heavily Jaden, in the hot sun, was forming resolutions in the spirit of a young | martyr. It was wrong and disgraceful to beg; there- fore, though he so much feared his-father’s anger, he must be a brave boy, and refuse. “Ah! who are these people coming down the hill? What do they look like, eh, Ronald?” as ee ladies in a pony-chaise!” faltered the ' demanded of bim. | to a stand-still as the well-f.d, lazy ponies got “The very thing! Run to the side of the carriage when they get near, off with your hat, and tell them (with tears in your eyes if you can) that you’ve eaten nothing all day! And don’t forget to add something about your poor, dear, lame father! Let’s hear how you'll begin?” “T_T can’t father!” answered Ronald. “Can't! Til teach you to say can, pretty soon, if you don’t obey me! Here comes the earriage! Now for it!” The vehicle approached—a beautiful turn- out, an elegant small barouche—drawn by a pair of cream-colored ponies, whose long tails incessantly switched off the flies from their sleek coats. A groom sat behind with folded arms; he wore a handsome livery and a cock- ade; while within the carriage sat a lady who managed the reins with skill and ease, and a pretty child, a girl, dressed all in white. The lady drove slowly down-hill; she did not observe the two travelers on foot, more | than to be aware that there were two people passing. “Now is the time! Run up to the side of the carriage, and hold out your hand. Now!” said Ronald’s father,in a low, but menacing, tone. But Ronald walked straight on. He trem- bled, but was firm to what he thought right The barouche came almost to a shady place in the road, But their mistress did not mean them to stand still switching their tails in the shade, for she was. driving into the next town, and had to be at home again for luncheon; for her little peéb daughter Alma, the tiny fairy in white who sat by her side, was five years old to-day, and was to entertain a select party of young ladies and boys somewhat older than herself, in honor of the occasion, So the ponies were made to go on aftera momentary pause, Ronald lost his chance of | making his first essay in begging, and his father | was furious. “You little wretch!” cried the latter. ‘‘ You dare to discbey me like this? You dare? You | see the top of this bill—when we get up there | Tl thrash you within an inch of your life! | Pd do it now, but that I want this stick to | help me along; and I'm going to break it over your back! Ob, I'll give you a lesson that shall last you your life! And if you won’t beg, you sha’n’t eat! No dinner for you to-day, nor supper either; and no breakfast to-morrow morning! You'll see!” The boy shivered, but spoke no word. He was loaded, overcome with the heat, with fear and sorrow, and exhausted with fatigue, Up to his eighth birthday he had had gentile hands to tend his wants; soft words of love, his mother’s, He seldom then came into cou- .
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4 FORBIDDEN BANS. tact with his dreaded father; while now—ob, | life was too fearful! -His father did not want bim; had often said so, lately. Why, then, should not he, Ronald, creep away somewhere acd die quietly by himself? Nobsdy would miss him—nobody! Long since, his mother | had been driven away; she had gone back to her own country, to France, to a distant relative, A dim idea, which bad before been vaguely floating in bis childish mind, now rose before him and took definite form. He would run away from his father now, to-day, as soon as they got to the top of the hill! He would never have a better oppor- tunity, for to-day his father was Jame, and could not pursue and bring him back. No idea of punishing his father by leaving him in his helplessness occurred to the boy. Oh, no; his father would be glad to get rid of him! CHAPTER “Il. “Y CAME HERE TO DIE!” “Now, then, two minutes more, and your bones will ache as they never ached before, Master Ronald! WHere’s the top of the hill, and Pll trouble you to follow me to that convenient | patch of greensward there, to set down your basket, aud to take your thrashing without too meny howls! Be quick, sir!” bawled the elder Ronald, as the boy came after him but slowly. “You took your own way, and now Il take mine!” The man limped to the roadside, sat down on a mossy heath-covered bank—a charming and peaceful resting-place it proached. “Oh, how I will make you repent!” cried | Down with | skirts of the wood, be would have had a full | view of the large mansion of which his father he, panting. “Be quick, I say! the basket!” The little fellow set it down suddenly, gave one scared look around, and then darted off | into the woodland stretching out before bim, where many broad green paths offered them- selves to his flying feet. “Hulloa! Stop! Ronald, come back! Ron- ald! Ronald! MRon-ald!” cried his startled father, suddenly altering his tone, and jumping zed — looked—and | sun’s beams began co slant through the wood; grasped his stick savagely as the boy ap- | up. But Ronald never looked back. The fright- ened boy ran forward with all his strength. After him—or, at least, down the green woodland path he had taken—limped the man; but no sight of bis son rewarded him when he had turned the curve. Hot, tired, and lame, he limped on through the wood, calling “ Ron-ald! Ron-ald!” But only the chirp of a bird, or a squirrel darting out of sight, caught his searching eye and strained ear. ‘Miserable imp! What will become of him? And he was useful to me in a thousand ways! Ob, when I catch him again, I'll tie him to my waist with a cord! Ill teach him to run away!” panted the man. He sat down, exhausted, his weak ankle re- fusing to support him longer. “This is a pretty business! Ob, when I do catch him—” grinding his teeth. He did not finish his sentence, but glared about him sav- agely. He had yet three miles to walk to the nearest railway; and if he would reach it in time for the train to Burdon Green, must not linger, for he traveled slowly; and this unlooked-for flight of Ronald had hindered him already! ‘‘Ron-ald!” be called again through the wood, But again only the woodland noises responded to his call. ‘*The little wretch knew where we were going; he could speak and ask his way ! I can’t go limping about the country after hin:! It’s an impossibility! He'll ask his way fast enough now; and beg, too, in real earnest! Miserable boy, what trouble he has given me! Now I shall bave the pleasure of spending about seven shillings for a return ticket to this place to bring him on to Burdon Green, if I get that clerk’s post! Ob, if I bad him within reach of my stick now!” Little Roland was at this moment curled up fast asleep, but a couple of miles away, hidden beneath some overhanging bushes which grew by the side of an empty ditch, now soft, dry, and made luxuriant by the growth of fern and heather, which spread on every side. The lovely June day went slowly by in all its summer glory; evening stole on, and the but still little Roland slept on, unconscious whether it were day or night. If be had runon a little further to the out- had caught sight that afternoon. Large cedar trees grew on one side of the wide pleasure-grounds about it, and a broad drive led to the somewhat imposing entrance. This property was called Westerly House, and Mr. and Mrs. Montagu Westerly lived there with their children—a lovely little girl and two boys. Mrs. Westerly it was who had driven out that day and passed Ronald and his father on the hill, She had accomplished her drive in time to receive a large young party at luncheon; and little Alma Westerly, whose birthday it was, had enjoyed herself to ber heart’s con- tent, All the afternoon the young guests had played out of doors among the flowers, and had after- ward had tea on the lawn. And even when the last guest went away at seven o’clock, there were other treats in store for Alma on tbis her seventh birthday.
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First of all, her father had promised to take her a walk in the wood tosee the squirrels; and it was a rare treat to have a walk with papa, for he was always busy, being a member of Parlia- ment, a magistrate, and a colonel of yeomanry. Mr. Westerly and bis little daughter set off very happily, Alma prattling all the way. But she bad been on her feet nearly the whole day, and when they turned to go home, she said, “Oh, papa, let me rest a little before we go back.” Close by there was a convenient, heath-cov- eyes delightedly following the movements of a squirrel which darted down a tree just over- head, disappearing almost at her feet under the ferns, “Oh, papa!” cried she, suddenly; ‘there is a little boy asleep down there in the ditch!” | And rising, ran to Ronald. ‘‘Mr. Westerly touched the boy’s arm, say- ing: ‘‘ Time to wake up and go home, my boy! Where do you live?” Ronald half roused and moaned. His head ached painfully, his throat was parched with thirst, and he was weak from wunt of food. “Ts he hurt, poor child, I wonder?’ said Alma’s father, again trying to awaken the child. At his voice and touch, Ronald at last sprung up. “What is the matter?” asked Mr. Westerly, kindly. For answer, Ronald gazed tremblingly round him, and burst into tears. ‘‘T—I am so thirsty!” said he. “And hungry, too, perhaps?” said the gen- tleman. “Yes,” replied the boy, feebly. “Oh, don’t be hungry!” cried little Alma, coming forward. ‘Ill give you a large bit of my birthday cake, and some cold chicken, and bread and butter, if you will come home with me!” Mr, Westerly smiled at Alma’s invitation, saying to Ronald: “ Yes, come to the house with us, and cet something to eat and drink, Then you will feel well enough to go home. How did you get here, and where do you come from?” “T came here to hide away till I was dead!” said the boy, pitifully. ‘‘But now I am so thirsty—so hungry!” “ Here, come with me at once!” cried Mr. Westerly, taking Alma’s hand, and making a short cut through the wood to his own lawn, The servants were removing the tea-tables, which had been spread out of doors, and pies of eatables were yet untouched. Ronald was soon supplied with some deli- cious milk, and drank eagerly. FORBIDDEN BANS. 8 ‘‘Oh, now T can speak!” said he, gratefully. “Drink some more!” cried Alma. ‘ You shall have plenty of strawberries directly, when you have had some chicken.” The little girl stood by, delighted to see him eat, and wben Ronald had finished such a meal ashe had not partaken of for nearly a year past, then Mr. Westerly repeated his question: “How did you get here, and where do you | come from?” “T don’t know—I’m all alone! I traveled a : | long way, till I couldn’t go any further!” ered bank, and both sat down, Alma’s bright ‘‘ All alone! But you have a father or mo- ther, or somebody belonging to you?” “No,” said Ronald, very sadly; “I am all alone.” ‘What! noone tocare for you? But where have you come from, then’ cried Mr, Wes- terly. “IT had a home once—a nice one,” said the boy—* quite nice ”—looking round him; ‘bat my father lost all his money, and mamma went away and left me nearly two years ago, and I’ve no one belonging to me now—no one Oh, sir,” added the boy, clasping bis hands piteously, ‘do let me stay here, and work in the gardens. I can weed the paths, I used to weed my own garden at home, Indeed, I thought I was going to die; but now I am bet- ter 1 want to work, and I can learn to work well.” “Dear papa,” cried Alma, coming forward, with tears in her blue eyes, “ won’t you take care of this dear little boy? He can stay here very well—there’s plenty of room; and he can help me keep my garden neat, Oh, do say yes, papal” “JY must inquire into this,” said Mr. Wes- terly, gravely. Then, to his little daughter, “Don’t be distressed, my pet; this little boy shall sleep here to-night, and we will see what we can do for him to-morrow. Come along, and let us tell mamma all about it. Here she comes to ask us why we don’t go in to dinner.” Mrs, Westerly came smiling toward them, in an clegant dinner costume, accompanied by a tall, handsome girl of seventeen, her hus- band’s orphan sister, who lived with them. Alma’s mother looked with curiosity at Ron- ald, wondering Who he was; but when she had heard Alma’s account of their finding him in the wood, regarded him with pity and in- terest. “The housekeeper will put bim up some- where for to-night; I will give orders about him. He looks a wonderfully clean, mice child to be tramping about the country. I will just ask him his name, and then we must go to dinner,” said she. ‘Here!’ continued Mrs. Westerly, beckoning to him; ‘ what is your name, my boy?” Ronald, who was desperately afraid to tell
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6 FORBIDDEN BANS, his name, lest his father should from that dis- cover him, stammered out that it was Henry Charles, and then came to a stop. He had often heard bis father say that theirs was an uncommon name, and he thought that, if known, it might lead to his father finding him; or, to what was almost as bad, being refused any work. Gentlemen’s sons were uot sup- posed to know how to work, and he wanted work above all things. name on the spur of the moment, so he gave two of his Christian names—Henry Charles Ronald Normanloe being his full appellation, A footman at that moment appeared to say away; she went to her own country —to France —when I was much younger.” Then followed other questions, and Mrs. Westerly came to the conclusion that this in- teresting child had been deserted by his father; that the latter had previously driven away his mother; that he bad once had a respectable home, but was now tramping about the coun- try; and that he must go to the workhouse, or | learn to earn his own bread. Poor Ronald had not the wit to invent a that dinner was served, and, as it was past | eight o’clock, Ronald was hastily consigned to the care of a servant. The next morning, the breakfast being over, Mrs. Westerly went out into the garden to question the little wayfarer who had come to | them, and to decide what was to be done with him. Alma, who was keenly interested in Ronald, was allowed to accompany her mo- ther. The servants had been kind to the boy, and he was now running about with one of the gardeners, trying to assist. Mr. Westerly had gone by an early train to town, and bis wife felt that it devolved on her to settle what was to be done with the wayfarer. “ Alma, darling, go and tell that little boy to come to me.” “Yes, mother!” cried Alma, darting off and bringing back Ronald with her. Hand in hand the children approached, his striking dark beauty contrasting well with her sylph-like appearance, fair complexion, and wealth of light curls. “Here he is, mothie, dear!” cried she, lead- ing him forward. Already Ronald looked a different child. A comfortable bed, sufficient focd, and deliver- ance from his terrible father, had worked won- ders. “Why, how’s this? You don’t look like the | same little boy I saw last night,” said Mrs, Westerly, smiling, ‘‘Andso you were helping the gardener?” “Yes; and I think I could learn to work here; and ”—pointing eagerly to the gardener —‘‘he says he thinks I could,” “Well, first let me hear how you got bere,” continued Mrs, Westerly. “Now tell me clearly.” “T walked a long, a very long way.” “Yes; but not all in one day?” “Oh, no—day after day. At first I thonght that Ishould live with my father, but ”—the tears coming into his eyes—‘“ he did not want me! He does not care for me. He says I must work for myself. And mother is far Then Mrs. Westerly began to interrogat® him as to what he could do, and found, to her surprise, that, among other things, he could speul and read French very prettily, and play many little airs on the piano.” “ Mamma had taught him,” he said. “Could he not remember what was his mo- ther’s name before she became Mrs. Charles? Had she never told him?” “No; papa called her Hortense. no other name for her,” Mrs. Westerly was greatly puzzled. She could hardly put a chid like this to garden- work, And slowly a scheme she had long nur- He knew ! tured took shape in her mind.” He had evidently an inherited or natural taste for music; with ordinary culture would turn out a fair musician, Why not make this child, so forced upon her care, the means by which she could carry out that pec scheme of hers, and truin him to be the village school- master and organist?” At sixteen, or even before, he would be able to.do a large part of the teaching required in the village school, besides carrying on his mu- sical studies; and, of course, as they would be at the expense of his training, he would not expect to receive more than a nominal salary for the first seven years, By the evening, Mrs. Westerly was quite set upon carrying out her plan, She made Ronald play several airs to her, and his firm touch and spirited rendering of the simple tunes still further impressed her with the fitness of this child for what she designed he should accomplish in the future, She had, undoubtedly, earnestly desired to find bis parents a few hours ago; now, though she intended to do all she could to discover them, she half hoped they would never appear. The end of it all was, after a good deal of talk with her husband, and some useless efforts at tracing the child’s father and mother, after repeated calculations, also, as to what the out- lay would be, and what return might be reckoned on hereafter from the low salary they might fairly offer the young organist and schoolmaster for the first seven years, that Mr. Westerly agreed to his wife’s plan; and Alma heard, with unbounded delight, that the nice little boy they had found in the wood was to be taught to play the organ, and was to go to school,
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So Ronald was sent to a training school, where the pupils work hard, and are thor- oughly taught English and arithmetic. A school where there are no luxuries, and where there is no idleness, Ronald’s music was specially provided for, and Mrs. Westerly took care that he practiced regularly during his short holidays both on the harmonium in the drawing-room and on a piano placed for this purpose in a room once occupied by her own boys as a play-room down-stairs. But they were at Eton now, and | so Ronald could have the benefit of it. | “How that boy improves!’ remarked Mr. Westerly, one day, as he caught the sound of the melody created by Ronald's fingers. ‘‘He has the soul of a musician!” replied Mrs, Westerly, enthusiastically. CHAPTER III. MORE THAN TEN YEARS APTER, More than ten years have rolled away since the day on which we first made acquain- tance with the desolate young boy, Ronald Normanloe, For three years past, Ronald himself has been installed, virtually, as a schoolmaster and organist in Mrs. Westerley’s village school; the poor old man who kept up the pretense of | superintending the school after his own old- fashioned notions, while our Ronald was in training as his successor, having died after a long illness, It is Christmas time, and the young school- master has been harder at work than usual, as Mrs. Westerly wishes the choir to surpas3 themselves this year in the way of anthems and Christmas carols; and also desires them to practice certain part-songs, as she has invited | a house-full of visitors for the New Year, and wishes to show what wonders ber organist can | effect on the raw material he has to deal with. | From seven to half-past eight has the young schoolmaster, Mr. Charles, as he is called, been drumming into the ears of his pupils the dif- | ferent melodies with which Mrs, Westerly de- | signs to astonish and delight her expected — guests, and right glad is he to turn the lock in the ponderous church door, and feel that work is over for the night. Tn his own snug room, where he has gradual- ly surrounded himself with a few things in which his soul delights, such as artist’s tools, | books of his own choosing, and where he | secretly pens articles, which now and then, all | unknown to others, have found their way into | y riat—there, in this sanctum, he will forget | the cares of the day, and its weary routine, He says, Good-night!” cheerily to the choir boys and young men as he locks the church door and is opening the gate of the church- FORBIDDEN BANS. % yard leading to the road, when he is accoste1 by a footman from the top of a handsome car- riage with the question, “Is this the right road to Pinegrove?? “ Yes; but it’s two miles distant,” answers Ronald, giving some further brief directions as to the way. Somebody inside the carriage—a man past middle age—hastily thrusts his bead from the window of the vehicle, saying in a hasty, im- patient tone, ‘ Js this the way, or not, Jobn?” “Yes, Sir Ronald,” replied the servant, “Then drive on, and get there as fast as you can!” “Stay!” eried Ronald, springing forward, as the head of the gentleman disappeared, and the carriage window was as hastily pulled up as if hud been let down. ‘Stay! What is the name of this gentleman?” “Sir Ronald Normanloe, the new owner of Pinegrove,” replied the servant, as the carriage drove on, The young man, left alone in the roadway, with the winter night sole witness to his | agitation, staggered back against the church- yard gate, and passed his hand confusedly over his handsome brow. Had he here, in this unexpected manner, after the lapse of so many years, again beheld his father? And was that father the new owner of Pinegrove, the richest property in the neighborhood? What thoughts surged through his ardent heart as he stood there in the night wind, hidden by the darkness! Through them all, | even pushing aside for the time a sweet, young, and absorbing love, came the image of his | mot! -r, It he could yet discover her, could she be made to benefit by this change of fortune for his father? But surely—surely there must be some strange mistake! Long he remained motionless against the gate of the churchyard; but at length the approach of footsteps roused him, and on turn- ing into the road he dimly discerned something white on the dark path, “It must have dropped from the carriage,” thought Ronald, picking it up and striding off toward bis own room. “Yowre late, Mr. Charles,” remarked Mrs. Erne, who was the widow of the old school- |master, and who still lived on at the school- house, and waited on her husband’s successor. “ Am 1?” asked Ronald, searcely conscious of what he replied, “Dear, yes!” returned Mrs. Erne, ‘And so pale, too! What’s the matter? But there! your teeth are chattering with the cold! It’s that church that’s so draughty o’ nights. But you'll find a good fire and supper ready; and I hope you'll enjoy it.”
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8 FORBIDDEN BANS, “Thank you, Mrs. Erne; I did not know it was so late,” remarked he, passing on to his own room, Once there, he had picked up—a fine white cambric handkerchief, with R. C. C. N. embroidered in | the corner. “Pil take it to Pinegrove myself the day af- ter to-morrow; that will serve as an excuse for going there, and I shall find out more.” So determined Ronald, as the day after to- morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday. Tn vain that night he took out his drawing materials to continue a cherished work he hoped to complete successfully; in vain made an effort to read a book of travels, and tossing that aside, tried to write. It would not do. Two vivid pictures, from among the many others which forced them- selves before his mental vision, stood out so startlingly and clearly, that they eclipsed all else. The picture of himself, a young, defense- less boy on the hillside with his stern father, the day when he refused to beg; and this other, which had overpowered him to-night—the handsome carriage, and sleek pair of horses, and the figure of his father, Wild dreams chased themselves through his brain that night—dreams in which another form, far different to that of his father, passed and repassed before him; a girl owning asweet and youthful face, blue eyes which smiled into his; but, as often as he tried to clasp her hand, some one intervened to separate them. He was glad to awake. Morning dispelled his feverish thoughts; and there was hope that his visit to Pinegrove might unravel the mys- tery. The usual routine of work was gone through; and, when over, he felt so much in need of something to take him out of himself, that pos- sessing himself of the key of the church, he went and shut himself up there, to drown his troubled self-questioning by playing some grand symphony of Beethoven's. The silence of the church, the painted beauty of the windows (for the little village church was richly decorated) the grandeur of the melody which roiled forth under his skillful hands, soothed him. Carried away by the harmony, he forgot his pain. The music was swelling through the edifice, so that he did not hear the church-door softly unclose, and a light footfall in the aisle, and for a moment or two was unconscious that the owner of the blue orbs which had haunted bis dreams of the night before was standing listen- ing to the music. But presently he caught a glimpse of a grace- ful girlish form, habited in a dark-blue robe, trimmed with silver-fox fur, and the musi- cian, striking some hasty chords, rose from his Beat, he eagerly examined what | Then the elegant girl, habited in the rich fur mantle, came toward Ronald with a smile and a blush, “T stole in to hear the music, Mr. Charles,” said she, timidly. “I wondered to hear the organ at this hour.” “No; I don’t often come here to practice immediately after the morning’s work; but to- day I wanted some grand melody to—to set me to rights again.” “And is anything the matter, then?” asked Alma, sympathizingly. “1 ought not to say there is; and yet I have been greatly moved since yesterday—deeply agitated!” said he. ‘But I don’t like to men- tion it to—to any one just yet!” “Then I won’t ask to know. Only, if I could help you, you might count on my silence,” said Alma, “Oh, what a relief it would be to tell what happened!” cried he, suddenly. “Then do—do let me hear! Do you think I have quite forgotten my debt of obligation to my old music-master?? Alma Westerly said this with a smile; and smiles such as hers, bestowed on a handsome young fellow with an artist’s soul, such as Ronald Normanloe possessed, are precious, but dangerous, gifts. And was there no danger for her, the young, impressionable beauty? Silence and solitude, the painted light all about them, and the dark, handsome young fellow beside her, whom her baby compassion had helped to rescue from perishing in the wood such long years ago, in these things was there no danger? Memories from the intervening years crowd- ed upon her in that moment—many incidents of years pot so far past but that they rose up vividly now. For Mrs, Westerly had turned the musical talent of her protege to account for her own children’s benefit as well as for those of the village; and when Alma was twelve years old, Ronald had begun to give her und her brothers lessons on the piano and the organ, and these lessons were continued at intervals till Alma had nearly reached the ripe age of fifteen. But, very prudently, instruction from the handsome and talented young schoolmaster was stopped ere Alma’s fifteenth birthday. She was now seventeen, and about to be launched in all the whirl of Christmas gayeties, followed by a season in London; and it was madness for the young organist and school- muster to dream of her so frequently as he did in secret. But there she stood before him now, saying, in her gentlest accents, “Do you think I have quite forgotten my debt of obligation to my old music-master?’ “Shall I ever forget mine to you?” cried he, \s
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\s impetuously, advancing a step nearer, but restraining himself trom seizing her hand, “ Ah, there are some things we can never for- get; and I still remember, and shall cherish to my dying day, the sight of your childish face welcoming me when I was a little famishing wanderer!” “Forget those troubles, You have made yourself an honorable position,” said Alma, softly. “Only yesterday I was forcibly reminded of those days! Something happened very un- expectedly last might!” said Ronald, with moved voice and agitated face, “Tt is that which you are going to tell me?” asked Alma. “Yes!” he answered—“ yes!” They were both standing now not far from the font, the young girl's bright form just touched with a ray of winter sunlight which fell upon the colored floor. ‘‘Promise,” continued Ronald, ‘to be silent respecting this for a short time? Perhaps it is selfish of me. to seek the relief of telling you; but when quite alone in the world——” “Oh, I want to hear!” interrupted she, eagerly. And then he told his tale briefly, but with low tones, full of emotion, “Last night, about your dinner hour, I was leaving the church—the choir boys had just run off home. I was closing the gate of the churchyard, when a very handsome carriage drew up, and the servant on the box asked me if that was the way to Pinegrove. As I was answering him, a gentleman put his head out of the window of the carriage, and asked im- patiently if that was the right road; and then, as I believe, 1 came suddenly face to face with my own father!” ‘‘What!” exclaimed the young girl, deeply moved; “your father?” “Yes; if what I imagine is correct, my father is the new owner of Pinegrove!” * But bow could that happen? is Charles!” said Alma, mystified. “No; my full name is Henry Charles Ronald Normanijoe.” Alma’s face flushed with excited feeling, and perbaps with some secret, unknown hope. “But why did you tell us that your name was Charles?” asked she. “Because, as a boy, I so much feared my father, and something happened on the day I parted from him which made me resolve that he should not find me through the name, I[ was afraid to give it in full, and when Mrs. Westerly supposed that I meant my name was Charles, I was glad to let it go as such.” “ And your real name is Ronald Normanloe?” said Alma. “Yes, it certainly is, That sudden recogni- tion of my father had unhinged me, and that Your name FORBIDDEN BANS. 9 was how it happened that you found me bere just now trying to drown troublesome thoughts with Beethoven’s grand music, CHAPTER IV. “wHo IS HE?” Tuy had parted in baste, after some other , confidences, Alma remembering that her mo- ther would wonder where she was at lunch- ‘eon time; and Ronald awakened to the fact that it was the school-hour, and he not at the school-house, But Alma went away with her young heart all aglow with the discovery she had made, She had but wandered ont through her father’s grounds when the sound of the organ pealing out grandly on the still air had induced her to cross the road, and softly push open the church door; and behold this wonderful story awaited her. That the little boy she and her father had found in the wood should prove to be Sir Ro- nald Normanloe’s son! Why, it was like a fairy tale! Pinegrove was a magnificent old place, much larger and grander than Westerly House. What aromance if Mr. Charles were to go live there, and finally become the owner of Pinegrove! He had confided to her his design of walking over there to morrow, to restore the handker- chief, and she was thrilled with excitement as to the end of this drama of real life. How many times she asked herself during tbat and the succeeding day what was happen- ing at Pinegrove? How Mr, Charles had pros- pered? What he had done? Nor did the re- membrance of the hand clasp he had given her at parting fail to intrude itself continually on her mind; for they had never shaken hands since childish days, he being only the school- master of the village. And now she it was who had offered her hand as they said fare- well. Her mother and aunt must have noticed her abstraction, but that they were more occupied than usual with preparations for the reception of visitors, and also for some private theatricals and a concert, both of which were to come off before Christmas. Alma’s aunt, that sister of Mr, Westerly’s who has been merely alluded to before as living at Westerly House, is a somewhat important personage in this narrative; therefore, we will here say that she was now a very handsome young woman of six-and-twenty; but (perhaps because she had no dowry) matrimonial affairs had not been a success with her, and we was still unwedded. That she should yet make a good match was, however, a great desire of Mr. and Mrs, Westerly. “14 must be over long before now, his visit to Pinegrove,” mused Alma, as her maid was ariaying her for dinner. ‘At! how I long to see him again, to know if he has had an ipter:
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10 FORBIDDEN BANS. view with his father! To think that he is well born, as much a gentleman as any of mamma's guests to-night; and yet he is there at the vil- Jage school, and quite apart from everybody— | always alone!” She sighed, and her maid wondered what her young lady could have to trouble her. “T hope you like the effect, Miss Alma,” said she, smoothing out the folds of the soft, pale blue dress, to which she had just attached a bouquet of gardenias like those in Alma’s hair. “Oh, yes, thank you, Thurton,” answered | the young girl, abser tly. “There is a large party to-night, I believe, miss,” continued the maid. “Yes, mamma told me.” Alma went dreamily down the grand stair- ease, all the while thinking of Ronald Norman- loe, She was very silent in the drawing-room, not caring to listen to the unmeaning conversa- tion going on around her. from her reverie by the remarks which canght her ear. “J walked from the station to your house, Mrs. Westerly—walked by preference after my long railway journey; and let your carriage take my portmanteaus,” observed the gentle- man who sat by her mother; ‘‘and on my way Iran againsta prince in disguise. Who is he?” *‘T did not know we were so favored here- abouts,” replied Mrs. Westerly, smiling. “‘ Now you must explain what he is like, for I am all in the dark.” “Let me tell you he is a very interesting fel- low—tall, very tall; hasa noble face, extreme- ly dark eyes, is handsome, and looks born to command, Added to which, bis conversation was fresh and original, and I am much mis- taken if my unknown is not a universal genius. Do enlighten me as to who he is?’ “T am still in the dark, Lord Vale,” said Mrs. Westerley, though she cerlainly had a suspicion as to who this unknown might be. But she was unwilling that the men-servants in the room should hear these high encomiums paid to the village schoolmaster. They might get repeated, and young Charles, her protege, value himself more highly than she thought proper to rate him. Thus she affected not to be enlightened. “Ob, but I must find him out!” cried his lordship. “Whoever it was, be knew all the ins and outs of your place; for I overtook him you know, on his way to Westerly House, and s0 we talked as we went. When be understood I had come here on a visit, he said, ‘Ob, then, But hardly was she | seated at tablo when she was effectually roused | Ican show you a short road to the entrance; | and led me to a tall, narrow iron gate, which I could never have discovered for myself. ‘That will save a quarter of a mile,’ remarked my entertaining companion; and opening the | lordship. gate for me, be bade me a courteous good-night, and vanished. I can’t cell you how he inter- ested me!” “Tl tell you who it was, and a very nice young man he is, too, and very musical. Our village schoolmaster,” said Miss Adelaide Wes- terly, taking up the conversation. (She always seized every opportunity of bringing herself into notice where practical results might fol- low; and Lord Vale was middle-aged, a wid- ower without incumbrance, and might be dis- posed toward matrimony. ) “The schoolmaster?— impossible!” cried his “This young fellow was a thorough gentleman. No village pedagogue would have | gone over the varied ground he did in our He could not have been Besides, he was so young— varied chance talk. the schoolmaster. | not more than twenty!” “Oh, yes! that was the schoolmaster,” said Adelaide; ‘‘and he is also the organist. My sister-in-law had him trained for his work. But don’t imagine he is a prince in disguise; for be was evidently a poor boy, deserted by his parents, and quite homeless. My brothe~ found him hiding in the wood near the house in a famished condition. P’m so sorry to dis- enchant you, Lord Vale.” And Adelaide laughed a playful, silvery laugh, Alma’s heart beat very iast and her eyes sparkled, ‘‘ Suppose,” said she, lightly, ‘‘ he should turn out to belong te some old family, after a'l? You know such things have happened in the course of the world’s history. Then Lord Vale would be right in his conjecture.” “Tam notso much given to romantic fan- cies as you, Alma,” laughed Adelaide Westerly, turning to their visitor, whose attention sho was so anxious to engross. ‘‘Do tell me, Lord Vale,” sho added, “what our new neighbor, Sir Ronald Normanloe, is like? for you have met him, I think you said, in town.” Alma’s face flushed again, and she listened intently as before. “Sir Ronald Normanlos?”? resumed Lord Vale. ‘Ob, yes; I did run up against him at my lawyer’s. But I don’t know that there is anything remarkable about him, except that he is the owner of a particularly fine property. To my mind, he is not a pleasant-looking man; but appearances are often deceptive.” “We must call upon bim, or rather my hus- band must,” interposed Mrs. Westerly, “and I | mean to ask him to our theatricals; so we shall see what he is like.” “Tsn't he rather elderly?” asked Adelaide Westerly, again addressing Lord Vale. “Oh, dear, no, unless you call me elderly. I'm five-and-forty, and I put Sir Ronald down at that age.” “Then we may look for a Lady Normanloa at Pinegroye in course of time. 1b will be
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~~ pleasant to have a lady there as neighbor,” re- | The winter day was bright, with a suspicion marked Mrs. Westerly. ‘‘The late owner of Pinegrove had such wretched health that the house was as good as closed; for a childless widower in ill-health cannot see much s50- ciety.” “This man has never been married, has he?” asked Lord Vale. “T believe not,” said Mrs, Westerly. The hearts of two people beat with accele- rated pulsation at this reply—those of Alma and of Adelaide Westerly. Adelaide was saying to herself, “It shall not be my fault if I am not mistress of Pine- grove this time next year.”” Whilo Alma was distracted with reconciling her mother’s reply with the account she hud heard from Ronald but yesterday. ** All sorts of stories are afloat concerning this Sir Ronald,” continued Adeluide, again appealing to Lord Vale. ‘It is said that he was very poor, almost starving, when this fine property was left him. Does he look like a gentleman?” ' “A gentleman?—oh yes; and certainly nota half-starved man, But Isuppose he was far from rich before he came in for this wind-fall; for it is pretty sure he only had a clerkship to depend on. My lawyer told me so, Sir Ron- ald speculated as a young man, and lost a good deal of money that way; and he was unfortu- nate, besides. Then a bank broke, and ruined him—that and bis unfortunate’ speculations. But he comes of a good old family, though he never expected to succeed to the baronetcy.” “ How was it his relations didn’t help him on a bit?’ asked Mrs. Westerly. “T believe he had quarreled with them, or they with him. Anyhow, he was glad to take a clerkship, and stick toit. What isa man to do who has been brought up to expensive habits and no profession?’ “What indeed?” said Mrs. Westerly. “TI know my boys would find it hard enough to get FORBIDDEN BANS. a living if they were suddenly turned adrift to | provide for themselves. So I feel inclined to pity our new neighbor and to welcome | him,” “T’m told his late cousin, who has left him all this wealth, never even saw him,” said Lord Vale, as they rose from the table. ‘Lucky fellow, he is, to be the owner of such a place as Pinegrove!” CHAPTER V. PINEGROVE. Anp how had Ronald sped that day on his agitated journey? With his young soul all on fire to know the truth, with his young heart beating ardently with love for the fair girl to whom he had given his confidence in his trou- ble, he started on his errand, 11 | of frost in tke air, aud Ronald was not Jong in getting over thetwo miles which lay between him and Pinegrove. How often he had walked this way in other days! How often looked admiringly at the grand old mansion, backed by fir-woods, crowning an imposing eminence; but never had he dreamed of gazing upon it with feelings such as now moved him; for ke asked ‘himself to-day if this fine old place was his father’s ?—if one day he would call it his own ? If that should be so, then he might dure to tell his love to Alma, whom hitberto he had only thought to worship at a distance, But he remembered too well his father’s severity and bitterness, to hope much from him. Stil), it might be that the estate was left to his father, and secured to his lawful heirs, In that case, be might yet be provided for. | Ronald had no thought of discovering him- self in this first interview; what he wanted to make sure of was whether he had indeed seen his father. | The last owner of Pinegrovo, a sickly inva- ‘lid, whom he had caught sight of at rare in- tervals driving out, had been named Middle- ‘ton, and Ronald had never been aware that | this wealthy man was related to his own ' family. It was a puzzle to him to find the new pro- prietor of this property addressed as Sir Ronald. How had he come by the title? Plainly not by inheriting from Mr. Middleton. , All along the high road, which bordered the wide-spreading grounds call Pinegrove, Ronald brooded over these problems, and also what he should do when he had reached the house. | He camo to the conclusion that he would ask to seo the baronet to return the handkerchief which he had found. That course decided on, he believed it would be easy to discover whether that father would welcome or reject him. A very handsome carriage was driving up to the door as Ronald neared the mansion, and he recognized the smart liveries of the foot- men as those worn by Lord Tremare’s ser- vants—Lord Tremare being a magnate in the neighborhood, His lordship would not fail to make unplea- sant comments if he became aware of the Wes- terly village schoolmaster ringing at Sir Ron- ald Normanloe’s front entrance; and Ronald would not go to the back of the mansion, lest he should be denied admission. Thus he waited about the park till he saw old Lord Tremare hobble out again to his carriage. “Now to make the venture!” thought Ronald, preparing to present himself as a visi- tor. But at that moment two other carriages rolled
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12 FORBIDDEN BANS, > ——————————— up to the door, and soon after came a gentle- man on horseback; and the short winter after- noon was closing in before the tired and agi- tated young man saw a chance of finding the Baronet alone. Not without a strange emotion did he at length ring at the imposing entrance, and an- nounce himself as Mr. Charles. The servant who took his name conducted him through a lofty hall paved with mosaic, along a corridor hung on each side with family portraits, and then through an ante-room into “This is the small article I picked up in the road near Westerly House the other evening,” said Ronald, presenting the handkerchief, when be bad answered the inquiry concerning the cream. “Tndeed, it was most kind of you to take , the trouble to bring it here,” said the baronet, an apartment of noble dimensions, with painted | ceiling, supported by many pillars, and com- manding a fine view, but filled with a dim light by reason of the fast-falling twilight. But there was a bright fire on the ample hearth, and not far from it, reclining in a luxurious chair, while sipping a cup of tea from delicate china, was the man he had come to see, “Mr. Charles!” announced the servant; and then the gentleman who was sipping his tea rose, with a tired and languid air, and came a step forward. placing it carelessly on a bijou table at band, “Near Westerly House? Yes, my carriage drove that way. Thank you very much in- deed! May I ask to whom I am indebted for this politeness?” “To your son! To the boy you drove from you so many years since!” Ronald could have avswered, so assured did he feel by this time | that the elegant, indolent form before him was certainly that of his father. But all the voices in his heart seemed to ery out to him to pause awhile, to feel the ground on which be went; and so he only replied, | though with some emotion, ‘“‘I—I am the “Have I the pleasure of—of making the | acquaintance of a new neighbor?’ began the owner of Pinegrove. ‘No, Sir Ronald,” answered the young man; here this afternoon to ask if this did not fall from your carriage the other evening.” “Do sit down! Pray sit down!” said Sir Ronald, indicating a chair to his visitor, and himself sinking again on his luxurious cushions, but thereby placing his facein gloom. “ Let me give you a cup of tea?” “You are very kiud. ald!” said the young schoolmaster, willing to proleng this interview, on which so much de- pended, How tantalizing to see his father, if such he were, by this dim light! But could he doubt that tone, the air so well remembered? No; Ronald feit sure that it was indeed his father who sat so near him; and all the incidents upon the hill, now nearly eleven years ago, came crowding to his mind with painful distinct- ness, Again he saw himself a terrified child; again heard the harsh command that he should beg; again felt the sbarp fear of disgrace, and all the subsequent despair. ~ But the whole scene passed before him with lightning-like rapidity, and it was interrupted by a courteous inquiry from Sir Ronald as to whether he took cream. Could it be reality that they met thus? And necting, was it possible that there was no re- c: gnition on his father’s part? Apparently, none. The elder man reclined quite at his ease, wearing an air of supreme ecntentment, Thank you, Sir Ron- | organist at Westerly church—organist and schoolmaster!” ‘‘Tndeed!” cried Sir Ronald, as a footinan entered, bearing candles in tall silver candie-- sticks. ‘‘Indeed! Pardon me for saying that you appear very young to occupy such impor- tant posts. I think you said your name was , Charles?’ ‘“but I have taken the liberty of walking over | “Tam named Henry Charles,” replied Ro- | nald, with still more emotion, ‘* Allow me to give you another cup of tea, Mr. Charles. It is a cold vis ht, so Jet me per- suade you. Mr. and Mis. Westerly will be almost my nearest neighbors here, I suppose? Have they a large family?” Ronald answered these interrogatories as well as he could; but he felt suffocated. He was saying to himself that not even for Pinegrove would he make himself known to a father who did not love him—who was as cold, and cynical, and hard as in former days. But there was his mother to consider. She might benefit by this accession to wealth, if she could be found. And there was Alma. How could he ever hope to win her if he had not a fit position to offer her? But would this father welcome him? That he could test, he believed, without risking any- thing now. “Let me thank you for your courtesy, and wish you good-night, Sir Ronald,” said the young man, rising to take leave. “Nay; it is 1 who must thank you,” re- turned the Baronet. ‘“ But will you go so soon? You have been sitting at a distance from the fire; pray come nearer before going out into the cold.” Ronald declined. He cast one look round the richly-furnished room, replete with every luxury, and then bowed himself out. But Sir Ronald had already rung the bell, and a servant was waiting to conduct him es
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we FORBIDDEN BANS. sb) again through the lofty hall, and to close the | tually no proofs to bring forward to convince | others that he was the son of this man, He handsome portal after him when he had passed out into the murky winter night. Think no scorn of the young man, when I tell you that, on finding himself alone with night and silence, he brushed away scalding tears. The sudden contact with his father had quite unnerved him. It had made him feel doubly his own desolate position—he so alone in the world, so shut out from those of hisown class, What of his future? He could not augur much from it if it depended on the cold, proud man whose presence he had just quitted. He was roused from his sad reverie by a woman’s voice. “Could you tell me, if you please, sir, whether I am going right for Pinegrove?” “Bh? cried Ronald, rousing himself from his absorption. ‘“Pinegrove? It is half a mile further on. But if you are a stranger to the road, keep the highway.” “Tm come from London, sir, I’m the new housekeeper engaged for Pinegrove; and there must be some mistake, as I expected a fly to meet me, and couldn’t get any conveyance at the small station to-night.” “Dear me; how awkward for you! And you have walked here alone? Well, it isn’t late; only getting so dark.” “That's it, sir. But I sha’n’t be much longer now.” Ronald had a suspicion that the woman was very timid; so he good-naturedly turned back, saying, “Let me see you safe to the park en- trance. I need a brisk walk.” “You are too kind, sir; I am timid in these lonely roads, I confess.” “Pid you know anything of Sir Ronald before being engaged as housekeeper?’ asked Ronald, as once more he walked 1m the direc- tion of Pinegrove. The young man fancied there was a strange hesitation in her voice as she replied, “Vd heard of him, sir, and how rich he was, and I was very glad to get the post of housekeeper, Thope [ shall suit; but ’tis a large household to keep in order.” “Yes, itis, But I want to ask you whe- ther you knew anything of this new Baronet before he became Sir Ronald? For instance, was he married?” “Pye heard that he gives out that he’s a bachelor, and never been married, sir.” ‘Again Ronald noticed that strangé “hesita- tion and trouble in her voice. But he him- self felt so strongly troubled, that he could not forsome moments continue his attempts at gleaning information, If this were true —if his father had determined to repudiate his former ties, how difficult would be the task before him! It rushed upon him in that moment, for the first time, that he had ac- might feel absolutely sure of it himself, but how could he make any claim before tie world? ‘‘Here you are safe at Pinegroye!” said he, in a broken voice, to the woman, ‘* Good- night! I hope you are not very tired.” ““Good-nizht, and a thousand thanks, sir! Would you mind telling me to whom I am in- debted for so much kindness?” “Tam the schoolmaster and organist at a village called Westerly, about a couple of miles away. Good-night!” “But your name, sir?’ cried the woman, in a piercing voice. “Charles,” said he, moved, and wondering at her agitation, He could hear ‘her sigh, as she answered in quite another tone, ‘I am so much obliged! Good-nigbt, sir!” This incident recurred to him again and again, in spite of weightier matters, Ho promised,himself that some day he would see that housekeeper again. But this night he must do what bad occurred to him to ascertain his father’s feelings as to the past, and to ob- tain some sure ground to go upon, He was glad it was Saturday evening, as Mrs. Erne was generally out, or busier than usual, and in his present mood he longed for complete solitude, A light twinkled in one window of the school- house. He let himself in with a latch-key, and, disregarding the evening meal left ready for him, penned this letter: “TLonpon, December 11th. “Srr: It will be no great etfort to you to remember the day, now nearly eleven years since, when your only son parted from you, alter his refusal to bes from a lady who was driving down a hilly road ia the country. The child so terrified that day has now grown into a young man, fortunately not without culture and education, and is supporting himself in an honorable way. “During the years which have elapsed, it has never been possible to him to make an effort to re- concile himself with his father. He does so now by means of this communication, which will reach you through a third party, and hopes thatit may not bo in vain, A letter will reach Mr. Ronald Normanloe at the address inclosed.” This letter Ronald placed under cover to a young man who had been one of his fellow- students at the training-school, and with whom he had maintained a friendship, Without ex- plaining anything, he begged to have the in- closed letter posted in London, and that any reply might be sent to him which came ad- dressed to “Mr. Normanloe.” And then he went out again, and himself posted the letter. A thrill of expectation went through him as the missive fell into the box. He had taken a direct step toward a return to wealth, and to the father he dreaded. i as
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CHAPTER VI. WAITING, Frverish days followed—days in which Ronald was torn with suspense, for no answer had yet come to his letter, and no word could he get alone with Alma. Her mother had come twice during that week to the school, and the young girl hal accom- panied her; but there was no opportunity for the two to speak apart. In his restlessness he had again gone, day after day, to the empty church ostensibly to practice; but no light form and girlish face re- lieved his solitude. He grew miserable, Mrs. Westerly herself asked if he were not well. At length, on the morning of tho following Saturday, a letter arrived, which he trembling- ly opened, It was as follows: : “Pryecrove, December 19. “Sir Ronald Normantoe presenis his compliments to lis mysterious correspondent, and begs to say that he has no knowledge whatever of any Mr. Ro- nald Normanloe; nor can he pretend to remember the unknown incident, hinted at so darkly, concern- ing the hill and the lady who drove dowmit, “Sir Ronald Normanlos has no son, and is at a loss to account for the similarity of name mentioned; but Sir Ronald would know how to repel any at- tempt to foist on him a person with whom he has nothing to do. ‘Sir Ronald Normanloe declines peremptorily to continue this correspondence.” And this was all—this the end of his feverish week of expectation! Even the organ failed to soothe him now, for he had no power for the moment to call forth the spirit of the mu- sic. Meanwhile, up at Westerly House, something bad occurred which, all unknown to Ronald, concerned him, Lord Vale was to take a leading part in the theatricals, and was suddenly summoned away by the death of a great uncle, who had be queathed all he possessed to his lordship, ‘* What sball we do now?” cried Mrs. Wes- terly, indespair, ‘The invitations are issued, and there is no one who can take the chief part in our little play—absolutely no one! Lord Vale did it with such spirit, too! vexatious! I must put off the theatricals. It would be impossible to get any one to take his place on so short a notice; and the house is full of visitors! How annoying!’ “Mis. Westerly, allow me to suggest a per- sou who will, I feel sure, sustain my part, and with success, too,” said Lord Vale, who was waiting for his train, and, in coming to say mlieu to his hostess, had overheard some of her remarks, “Get that clever fe)low, your or- ganist, to. come up to-night, coach him up a bit, and he’ll do, Pll wager. A fellow with a face like his is up to anything.” Alina stood by and heard this, and so did Adelaide W csterly. Now the latter was most FORBIDDEN BANS. Tt is truly | | anxious that the theatricals, in which she was to be a part, should come cff quite successfully ; and Mrs. Westerly herself was in such a diffi- culty that she soon fell in with Lord Vale’s suggestion. ~ ‘He is clever, nodoubt,” said she. ‘Have him up to-night,” cried Adelaide, ‘I will devote myself to showing him his part all the evening as soon as dinner is over.” ‘“¢ And what about asking him to join us at supper after the play is over, Adelaide? That will be very awkward. And yet bow can I send him to the housekeeper’s room after he has been helping us act?” ‘What does it matter,” asked Adelaide, tes- | tily “if you ask him to sit down with us for once on such an occasion? An organist is re- | moved a little from the common order, and | young Charles is a very presentable person. | Half our guests will not know that be is a schoolmaster. Besides, at Christmas there must be mixed parties. Of course at such a time, in the country, it is permissible to do many things which could not be ventured on in London. “Exacily. Just as at a school feast, or | gathering of that sort, Well, then, I had better do the thing gracefully, and write a note { asking him to help us with the theatricals, and to join us for the rest of the evening. Here, I will write it at once, and he must have it im- mediately.” “Shall I leave the note, mamma?” asked Alma, quietly. ‘I am going out, and the servants are all so busy.” “Well, you may leave it, my dear, in pass- ing. Don’t you go in; but merely leave the note with Mrs, Erne, at the school,” A quarter of an hour later, the young girl, with fast-beating heart, set out on her errand, Now, at last, she would hear what had been the result of his interview with that rich man whom he had supposed to be bis father, Oh! if her mother could know the truth, she need not hesitate about receiving him as an equal! Alma had only to pass through her father’s grounds, and cross the road, and there, before her, stood the modest scheol-house, Quite a tu- mult arose in her heart at the sight of it; but she did not yet confess, not even to herself, that all her hopes and joys were bound up with the young man who inhabited it, And yet she trembled as she approached the door, Thé young organist had not availed himself of the short interval of rest at mid-day to practice or take his usual ramble, but sat, his head buried in his hands, unheeding the lapse of time, It was only when Mr. Erne knocked at the ' door of his room, saying. ‘‘ Mr, Charles, here’s one of the ladies trom Westerly House wants to speak to you,” that he looked up.
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ter a on Then he followed her out; and there stood Alma, with sympathy and a thousand sweet emotions on her speaking face, a thousand gen- tle words in her adorable eyes. Mrs. Erne vanished to her household duties, while Ronald came out into the strip of gar- den, and those two were alone together under the wintry sky. “Here is a note from mamma,” began Alma, in her soft, musical, girlish tone, ‘‘ And, Mr, Charles, I beg of you not to refuse what she asks.” “T certainly will not,” returned he, feeling a strange soothing of his bitter pain from her few | words, “Qh, thank you!” she went on, blushing a | little under bis gaze. ‘‘But you must now tell me how you got on the other day at Pino- grove. I have been so anxious to know,” “Anxious for me—for my affairs?’ cried Ronald. ‘Then I am rewarded f_r my suffer- ings, and they have been far from slight this terrible week.” “Tell me what happened,” she said, softly. “Yes, Well, I went to Pinegrove, and got access to Sir Ronald. Miss Westerly, as sure as I stand here talking to you now he is my fa- | ther—the father from whom I fled when I was a child, when you found mo!” Alma drew a sharp breath. - ‘¢ And did you make yourself known?” she asked. “No; a feeling I can hardly define told mo | to act more warily. I wrote to him, not yet | enlightening him as to the fact that it is I who am his son, but recalling the inc.dents of our last day together, and saying that no chance had presented itself during the intervening years for any uttempt to reconcile myself to him, but that I hoped that time had now er- rived; and I gave‘an address in London which would find me, An old fellow-student at the training-school received the reply for me, but to him I explained nothing.” “And what—what does Sir Ronald say?” asked Alma. “He denies altogether any knowledge of ‘mie. Let me get the letter for you. Here it | is,” he added, reappearing from the school- house just as a handsome open carriage slowly eame driving along the road, and a middle- aged gentleman, its occupant, was taking a look at the gray spire of the little picturesque church. “There!” cried Alma, breathlessly,—‘ there he is! There is Sir Ronald! We have in- vited him to stay with us for the theatricals, and over Christmas Day, and ke has accepted, He is driving to our house.” There was a moment’s silence between the young, imprudent pair. Any one might have witnessed their inter- yiew; but they did not think of that, FORBIDDEN BANS. 15 “Shall IT take any answer to mamma?” asked Alma, presentiy. | Then only Ronald broke open the note which Alma had brought, and his face flushed alike with pain and pleasure, “Of course I shall do as Mrs, Westerly wisbes, and shall try to acquit myself well,” said he. ‘‘But I will write an answer, and leave it myself; that will be the correct thing todo. Ten thousand thanks for your kind sympathy. It will support me when [ find myself under the same roof with the father who repudiates me!” “But shall you not advance your claim?” | asked Alma, anxiously. ‘‘ What proofs have I?” returned he. ‘ But I will tell you, Miss Alma, that the first spare | day I get I mean to run up to London, and consult a lawyer.” “Ob, do! do!” she urged. ‘‘And, Mr, Charles, I sball have something else I must say to you. It will not take long, but I am pre- vented staying to tell you now, so try to speak to me next week, when we shall‘all be helping to decorate the church,” “Most willingly,” returned he, “Good-by, then,” said Alma, timidly offer- ing her hand, ‘*Good-by, and—and I cannot, dare not say all [ feel for your kind sympathy! I think is is that which keeps me alive!” Another blush from Alma—another hand- clasp, and the incipient lovers had parted, The young girl escaped to the shelter of her father’s grounds, where she paced up and down the shrubbery, that she might give time for Ronald to send his note before she went in. Night was falling gently when she rejoined the group assembled in the drawing-room. A large party, all talking with animation about the approaching gayeties, were drinking tva in the lofty, luxurious'y-furnished saloon, and ‘ her mother called to her, cheerfully. “Tt is all right, my dear; Mr, Charles will |eome. Why did you stay out so late? But it | is a fine dry evening.” With what feelings did Alma receive Sir | Ronald’s greeting! He was thinking of Ade- laide Westerly, who had made herself quite fas- cinating for his benefit; but he hurried forwacd to say a courteous word or two to the young daughter of the house. | “Surely I had the pleasure of a momentury glimpse of your fair face as I glanced up at tho old church in passing an hour since?” said he, “Were you not at some house near?” | Atthe school-house—yes,” replied Alma, “T went to leave a note there.” “Then I was not mistaxen! Ah! my dear young lady, you cannot guess how Lappreciate this delightful buzz of conversation —this feel- ing of being part of alarge circle—you never
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16 een fimagine how welcome it is to a lonely old bachelor.” Alma did not respond, She already disliked Sir Ronald. And what did he mean by call- ing himself ‘‘an old bachelor,” if Ronald were his son? Surely he wanted to throw him off altogether! Cruel, cruel man! With what hot, indignant tears she had perused that letter of his just now in the shrubbery! But Ronald should have legal opinion on his case] Much less than twenty pounds would buy that, sure- ly, and she would not fail to take him that much which she had saved from her yearly al- lowance. She could drop itinto his hand when they were all decorating the church next week, or even sooner, CHAPTER VII. A PRINCE IN DISGUISE, Iv is three or four hours later, Dinner is barely over, when Mr. Charles is announced. Sir Ronald had taken Adelaide in to dinner, and been engrossed by her entirely, ‘Now I must break off my interesting talk with you, Sir Ronald,” said this scheming young woman, with a delicate sigh, “to go und instruct the schoolmaster in his part for the day after to-morrow. You throw such a light about old, worn-out theories, that I con- jess I go unwillingly; but I shall see you again.” “May not I accompany you, Miss West- erly?’ asked the Baronet. ‘Do you suppose that I teel no regret at your absence?” “Come, by all means,” rejoine Adelaide, They adjourned to the library, a large, long room, where Mrs. Westerly was already ex- plaining to Mr, Charles the part he would have to sustain, “You are to be a prince in disguise,” said she. ‘‘I only hope the dress can be made to suit you; but you are so much slighter than Lord Vale, who was to have worn it.” “T think Mrs. Erne, at the school, could manage the dress, It would only be to take it in,’’ he replied. “JT will bave that done now, while I give you some coffee. They are ail taking coffee in the saloon, and while you are drinking it, my maid and Miss Westerly’s shall get to work just to stitch it in a bit.” Enter Sir Ronald and Adelaide Westerly. ‘We havo met before, I think, Mr.—Mr.—” “Charles,” interposed Mrs. Westerly. *‘ Ah, yes—Mr. Charles,” resumed the Bar- onet. “I bope you caught no cold from the walk I occasioned you.” And then Mrs, Westerly heard the incident of the restored handkerchief, as they passed on into the saloon, where the gay visitors were talking and laughing, and drinking coffee. ‘Let me introduce Mr, Charles, who is to FORBIDDEN BANS. take the prince’s part the evening after to- morrow,” said Mrs, Westerly, to the group round her tea-table. The ladies bowed, Mr. Westerly came up, saying, ‘ How d’ye do, Charles?’ but nobody shook hands with the young man. Alma dared not, but she hastened to approach him on pretense of offering bim some sugar, “Now your dress has been made wearable,” said Mrs. Westerly, to him aside, when an un- comfortable half-hour had passed, during which no one but Alma had taken the trouble to say a word to him, ‘will you go and try how if does, please? And I will come and see what alterations have to be made to-morrow, for that is important.” Ronald quickly disappeared, not without exchanging a glance with Alma, who looked more tenderly beautiful than ever to-night, in her elegant white dress, wearing only by way of ornament a cream-colored hot-house rose at her throat and in her shining hair. “What a good-looking tellow! Who is he?” “The schoolmaster!” “Why, he looks like a nobleman born, ora real prince in disguise! How did you get hold of him, Westerly? He’s quite out of the com mon run, surely!” Such were the comments Alma beard on all sides when Ronald bad disappeared, and she felt a glow of interest and excitement which ought to have warned der that her heart was bound up with the young man’s fate, But Alma told herself that it was only the interest | she felt in his success—in him whom she had found a famished, homeless boy in the wood. “He makes a most capital prince,” said Mrs, Westerly, coming back a few moments after; ‘Cand Adelaide will make a beautiful princess! Really, in bis Spanish hat and droopii g feathers, with his black velvet doublet, you v ould not know Mr. Charles, the schoolmaster.” “But will he do his part well? Can he learn it in time?—for that is the great point?” asked Mr, Westerly. “Oh, Lord Vale was quite right! Our school- master will bear his part to perfection, He will improvise where he forgets a sentence. And he has all the wit to do so, Alma, I want you to put on your dress as a cottage maiden, and just say your few sentences—it will help the part. Come to the library, dear, where Adelaide is instructing young Charles, Sir Ronald is there, looking on.” “Yes, mamma,” said Alma; and soon she presented herself in the library in a charming print robe, a picturesque cap biding the roses in ber golden tresses, a basket on her round white arms, which were bare. And there stood Ronald, in his rich dress and plumed bat, personating the prince, who
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FORBIDDEN BANS, 1? was supposed to be wretched on account of the princess’s coldness, It was the part of the village maiden to set things right for this interesting ccuple by meeting the prince (for whom she watches) in the woods, and bringing | him a letter which clears up all mysteries. “Did you ever see anything so perfect as the way in which he perscnates the prince’s despair?? whispered Mrs. Westerly aside to Sir Ronald. ‘He has assumed an expression of misery to the life as he looks at Alma!” Ah, yes! But it was no mock despair. As his father’s hard, cold eyes watched him, Ro- nald almost fancied that that father had recog- nized him, and rejoiced in his subordinate position; almost imagined that he was aware of his adoration of Alma, and delighted in the distance which separated them. It took no foreed action to throw into bis face the agony he actually felt. “Sir Ronald, come and help me, please!” cried Adelaide, from the ante-room; and just then Mrs. Westerly was called away by a ser- vant. Ronald and Alma remained alone. “Oh, I have so longed to tell you not to despair too soon!’ exclaimed Alma, softly. “T have so much wished to tell you why it was that I wanted to saya word to you inthe church, You must get a legal opinion—indeed, you must! That will cost money, I know, but I have twenty pounds ready for that, and unless you wish to break my heart you must not refuse to take them. For it is my money —my very own, and I have set my heart on your using it!” He had approached her, and now held her hand, “1 must not allow myself to despair if you forbid me to do so,” said he; * otherwise how should I bear what I feel to-night? Oh, it is bitter to see oneself shut out froma rightful position; counted not fit to associate with one’s equals! Above all, not to dare to utter oue’s dearest hopes! Ob, I have so much, too, that Iam dying to say to you. Something that is always in my heart, night and day. And yet Thave no hope that I may ever utter it. Oh! what I suffer!” ‘‘But—but,” stammered Alma, as he held her hand faster, ‘‘ you will not refuse to take the scant help I offer you? To me it is noth- ing; and think how rewarded I should feel if you were placed in the road toward making ‘Sir Ronald acknowledge you!” For an answer, the disguised prince bent and kissed the fair hand of the village maiden. And that lovely damsel was not offended. She was covered with unwonted blushes, but made | no movement indicative of resentment. The prince bad murmured *‘ Forgive me!” and stepped back a pace, and but just in time, for in the doorway appeared the cynical face of the Baronet, his father. Had he seen what had passed? The poor village maiden wns in | a tremor of confusion, but the prince stood im- movable, outwardly calm, whiie Sir Ronald, advanced into the room, ‘““The princess sent me to say she would re- turn directly, but a string of pearls became loosened, and she is having them re-strung,” said he, carelessly. ‘‘ Miss Alma, that simple dress suits you to perfection, if you will pernut an old man to say so. “Or is it only the young men nowadays who are pardoned for any de- reliction from what is correct and proper?” Alma trembled at these words. Had he in- decd witnessed Ronald’s hasty, unpremeditated kiss? Buta moment after the young girl re- covered herself, and the baronet was, apparent- ly, as courteous and as unenlightened as before this agitating episode. And now Mrs. Westerly, carried away by her eagerness to make the amateur performance go off well, took Mr, Charles aside, and begged him to give the village children a whole holiday to-morrow, and to be up at her house early in the morning to rehearse his part. What opportunities that morrow would afford for glimpses of—nay, exchange of words with—his beloved! Yes, come what might, she was his soul’s be- loved, and a wild thrill of hope made bim ask himselt if he were, unconsciously, loved in re- turn, For those few hours he gave himself up to the joy of finding himself in her presence, At luncheon he had the happiness to sit be- side her (for Mrs. Westerly was too busy to allow him to return to the school), and im- mediately afterward there was a private re- hearsal, in which Alma, in her character of humble peasant girl, had to offer him violets, and make him beseeching speeches, wh le her blue orbs looked at him with eutreaty. The rehearsal was over before Mrs. Wester- ly’s dinner hour, and that lady took leave of him most graciously, “Bo with us in good time to-morrow, Mr. Charles,” said she. ‘Our play is to begin at nine punctually.” “I will be here at eight,” returned he. ‘*- We are so much obliged to you,” rhe added. And then he quittied the house, and was shut out from the glory of Alma’s presence. Yes; shut out indeed; for henceforward it could not happen to him to come into contact with the beautiful, highb-born young lady; so, even if she loved him— What an exalting thought! Did he dare to hope so much? Ab! he was shut out from her presence; but he had caught sight of her as she descended the staircase, dressed for the evening, How lovely, in her pale cream-colored robe, ull light and shimmering, and garnished with knots of rose-color! And as he ventured a furtive, timid glance, she had raised her eyes, and given him an enchanting smile by way of adieu,
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Could he feel quite despairing after such a priceless gift as a smile from Alma Westerly? CHAPTE MRS, ERNL’S TIDINGS. THE much-talked-of performance was over, and had been immensely successful. Mrs, Westerly’s guests were loud in praise of the performers, and Mrs, Westerly herself was de- lighted. . ‘‘And who was that charming prince?’ This question had been asked so repeatedly that the gratified hostess grew weury of an- swering it. ‘How very cleverly he rendered his part! It was easy to see he had spent time on it to please his audience. Such acting could only have been the result of real care and continual repetition.” **No doubt,” said Adelaide with a smile, taking care, however, not to enlighten her questioners on the first point. Sir Ronald, who had kept close to her side, smiled too, ‘* How wrongly we judge things sometimes,” said he, ina low tone. ‘*You have covered yourself with plaudits, Mr. Charles,” added he, ‘and are going away crowned with victory. For myself,” he continued, with a meaning smile, ‘you have succeeded in convincing me that your forte is that of an actor, and of a very good actor, too. I am quite happy to have made your acquaintance. We shall, no doubt, hear of you again in this part some day.” What did he mean?—or, rather, what did his tone, so subtly cynical, convey? Ronald bowed to the Baronet, to Mrs. Wes- terly (of whom he had already taken leave), and to Adelaide Westerly; and lingering in vain for another glance of Alnza, took his way out through the hall. “Good-night, Mr. Charles,” said a soft voice. And there she stood, the object of all his hopes, “Good-night,” said he, devouring her with his eyes. For one moment he grasped her slender fin- gers in his—for one moment raised them re- spectfully to his lips, and then was gone. The next day he went up to London, and | seeking his friend, John Somers, asked him to tell him of some dependable lawyer whom he | might consult, “You've not been getting into trouble, I hope, Charles?” questioned this Mentor. “No, no; but 1 want a knotty point solved,” “Humph! I could always take your word; but you look as if you were in some difficulty.” “A man may have trouble without any wrong-doing, or getting himself into it, Somers. Do you know of a good man I could consult?’ FORBIDDEN BANS Yes, Somers knew of such a man; end Ron- ald was soon in the office of this great person- age. He stated his case very briefly; Mr. Temple, the lawyer, listening in silence till the tale was told. : Then he summed up briefly, as follows:— “You want to ascertain whether it is possi- ble to force your father to acknowledge you; or, failing that, to prove that you are his sons Now,-of course, when you tell me your real name, a little time to consult the registers of baptism at Somerset House would be all that is necessary to prove the birth; but more than this would be required to prove your identity, You say you ran away from your father; that it is years since you saw him till within the last week or so; that you have no papers to prove your relationship. Then there is but one thing to do.” “ And that?’ cried Ronald, “To find your mother.” There was a short silence. ‘*T have explained,” said Ronald, “ that for the last five years all my efforts have been di- rected toward that end. Since the age of fifteen I have worked for nothing else. For that I have managed to save money; for that | have advertised in foreign papers and in the Times, and have been twice to Paris. But never, till during the summer of this year, eould I gain any tidings whatever of her. I then inquired at the bead office of the police in Paris, as I was told that those authorities could ascertain the whereabouts of any inhabitant of that city. After many weeks I received a re- ply (sent me to England), by which I learned that a lady, bearmg my mother’s name, had lived for a whole year with a relative there, but had left fully three months since,” ‘“*How unfortunate!” remarked Mr. Temple; ‘but go on advertising. In the absence of all other proof, she alone can identify you. Sone likeness to what you were in childhood must surely be detected by a mother, and your knowledge of what passed in your youthful days would help to clear up all doubts. Can- not you get at any of your old servants?’ “T fear not,” said Rcnalu, ‘‘as we moved about a good deal for the last three years after my father gave up our country home. Stay! there is my nurse. She was with my mother till the last—till twelve months before I ran away.” * Advertise also for that woman, and if you obtain any reply, and determine to pursue the matter further, then come to me again; but in that case it will be necessary to confide the case to me fully, giving every particular in your power.” Ronald thanked him, paid his fee, and took his departure, Before leaving London he sent
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erent advertisments to two or three newspapers, as the lawyer had advised, and then took the train for Westerly. Evening had long closed in, and the winter night reigned supreme, when Rorald arrived at the village school—his home. Mrs, Erne met him with a cheerful smile. “You must be glad to get home, Mr. Charles, this cold night,” said she, ‘‘and you'll find a bright fire, and your supper ready. Dear, I’m glad for your suke there’s no prac- ticing at the church to-night, for you’ve been journeying all day, Pll be bound.” Ronald thanked her, and said a few pleasant words in return, though his mind was ill at ease. “ And now I wonder whether I shall be the first to tell you the great news, or whether you've heard it as you came along?” continued Mrs. Erne. “T have heard no news whatever,” returned Ronald; ‘so I shall certainly hear it, whatever it is, first from you.” “What!” cried she, well pleased to have the telling of the tidings which had so much ex- cited her. ‘ You never came from the station without hearing a word or two of what's been going on up at Westerly House?” “Fiven so,” replied Ronald, smiling. ‘I ' came along at a smart pace, and met no one in the fog.” “‘Then you’ve not heard?” cried she, tri- umphantly. “ Well, there’s vo be a wedding at Westerly House!” i “ A wedding?’ echoed Ronald, faintly. “Guess now, Mr, Charles, which of the ladies it is?” The young fellow’s heart stood still while his cheek blanched. Which? To his mind there was but one whom it could be—the lovely Al- ma, whom, but a few short hours ago, he had dared to hope thought of him. “Tell me!” he gasped, and could say no more. ‘*La, Mr. Charles! ’tis such fun to guess a bit - at least, to my mind. However, you gen- tlemen are not like us women; and I expect you want to rest and have your supper, so T'll just tell you right out. "Tis Miss Adelaide who’s to be married at last, and a handsome bride she'll make; and not more than twenty- seven, at the outside.” Miss Adelaide! ‘The relief was so great that he laughed outright. “Now, Mr. Charles, you’ll have to guess who the gentleman is she’s going to marry?’ cried Mrs. Erne. Ronald guessed as desired, but always re- ceived a ‘“‘no” for answer. * After all, I shall have to name the bride- groom, too,” said Mrs. Erne. ‘‘’Tis no other, | then, than Sir Ronald Normanloe! Won't Miss FORBIDDEN BANS. 19 | Adelaide be mistress of a fine place? Fancy her going to live at Pinegrove!” “Sir Ronald! going to marry Sir Ronald!” stammered the young fellow, scarcely knowing whathe said or what be did, His father go- ing to marry Adelaide Westerly!—his father! And iu all probability his mother still alive, She was certainly living a few months since, Ob, atall risks to himself, he must save the Westerly family from the misery tbat threatened them, “Tt can’t be possible!” said he; aloud. “But why not, Mr. Charles?’ asked Mrs, Erne, much surprised at the way in which her good news was received, “She—they—have only just been intro- duced; that is, it seems but so short a time ago that he came here.” “Lal that’s nothing, Mr. Charles,” cried the good-natured widow. ‘‘Hav’n’t you never heard say, ‘ Happy the wooing, that’s nob long a doing?’ and I incline to think it’s a true saying, too. Why, in my lifetime, ’ve known more than two or three couples married and happy who’d never set eyes on each other more than three or four times before they settled the wedding-day. So why not Miss Adelaide and Sir Ronald? She’s not to say an old bride, but twenty-seven ain’t seventeen, now, is it?” Alone in his small apartment—so orderly, so scrupulously arranged, showing here and there evidences of refined taste—Ronald sunk down in despair. “T must prevent it!’ said he, mentally. * But how!” Ah, how? Widely as they had been dissey- ered, Ronald shrunk from the idea of saying anything to his own father’s diseredit—o? hint- ing that he might have a wife still living. “T must then tell him myself. I must tell him that my mother was certainly living a year ago. If he has sure proofs of her death, of course, I shall have nothing else to say; no right to stop this marriage.” Poor Ronald! It saddened him, even after the lapse of so mavy years, to think that his mother might possibly be dead, She had not been one of those mothers who cling to a child through all disaster; but she had tried to make her son bappy while she had had him with her, and be remembered her gentle ways with fond regret. But it was a time for action, not for mere regrets. His father was about to marry Adelaide Westerly? There was no time for delay. Then it suddenly recurred to him that there must be a mistake, and he said as much to Mrs. Erne when that good woman came in to remove his supper-tray. “Oh! as to any mistake, Mr. Charles, you'll see it’s right enough to-morrow. The whole
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20 village is ringing with the news, and Mrs, Westerly is so pleased! And the wedding is to take place before February. [can tell you that much for certain.” Before February!—and Christmas was now at hand. “T ought not to lose a single day. Before this time to-morrow I must have taken steps to prevent this marriage,” thought be. With this agitating decision in his heart, Ronald closed his exciting day. CHAPTER IX. DISMISSED. Like one in a strange dream, the young fel- low prepared to go through the daily routine | of duties next day. He was not long left to suppose that there | might be a mistake in Mrs. Erne’s tidings; for | the very children in the school commented on the approaching wedding. ‘ We shall have a holiday, anda grand din- ner, and a tea, and no end of games!” grinned one boy. And his companion took up the theme. When morning school was over, Ronald pur- posely weut into the village—purposely lingered to talk with the first person he met. Oh, there could be no doubt! Every one had heard of the impending wedding; every one was full of the grand doings that would be sure to follow, ; Afternoon school began, and came to an end, How, was a problem which Ronald could barely solve. The dusk of a December afternoon was already stealing over the landscape, as Ronald hastily prepared to undertake the painful mat- ter be had in hand—namely, to see his father, and stop the proposed marriage. As he passed by the imposing entrance which led to Westerly House, he sighed, and gave the mansion a long look, thinking of her he loved. How he longed to tell her of his interview with Mr. Temple—of his preseut errand, And as he formed the wish, behold! there was Alma herself, wrapped in turs, crossing the carriage drive. He stopped. The young lady paused, then hurried toward him. “Oh, Mr. Charles!” said Alma, breathlessly; “T came at all risks to ask how you tared yes- terday. You consulted a lawyer, I hope?” “Yes, yes. He tells me that the difficulty will be to prove my identity with that of Sir Ronald’s son, as I have no letters, no papers, and was so young when I left my father,” re- plied Ronald, in agitated tones, “How sorry I am! Oh, how sorry for your trouble!” said she. They were now standing beside the huge stem of a tree in the avenue which formed the approach to the house; and this and the falling gloom sheltered them from observation. FORBIDDEN BANS, “Since I consulted Mr. Temple, since my journey yesterday,” continued Ronald, coming closer to her side, ‘‘a new trouble has assailcd me; a trouble which, alas! concerns you and yours.” Alma looked at him alike with wonder and with tender sympathy. “Tt concerns us?” said she, softly. “To this way,” returned he, “For it is true, is it not, thai Miss Westerly, your aunt, is now engaged to my father?” “Yes, It was all settled so hurriedly. But my mother is much pleased,” said Alma, timid- y: “But—but,” stammered he, “only a year , since my mother was living.” Alma fell back a pace, terrified. She uttered a suppressed ery. | “Tam now going to see my father, to tell | him this fact; to ask for definite proof of my | poor mother’s death, If he can show that he knows her to be no longer living, then he is blameless.” “ Ah!—then—yes!” gasped the young girl, still trembling. Then there was silence, and the winter wind came with a moan round the bare tree trunks, and the gloom deepened, No one disturbed their solitude; and as they | thus stood together, how could Ronald forget that he had once dared to press his lips on the | hand of the fair girl at his side? How could | she not remember that kiss, those looks and tones, which told her of his love? | In spite of the trouble at his heart, of the | uncertainty in hers, what a moment of happi- ness it was for both of them, that brief space in which they found joy in each other’s pre- | sence! “JT must not linger,” said Alma, breaking silence, “‘ Wish me success,” returned he. ‘That success that comes of doing a difficult task worthily.” “Indeed I will do that from my heart!” breathed she, gently. Then, how did it happen? Was it the soli- tude, the falling night, the voice of the wind rushing by, that gave him courage, or was it love which impelled him¢ He took her fingers in his, and left on them another kiss—passion- ate, tender, devoted. The glow had not fled from his heart when he neared Pinegrove. But as the large pile loomed dimly through the frosty air, that neces- sity there was of doing his difficult task well, claimed precedence over even the sweet re- membrance of his love. With a strange thrill of feeling he once more rung at the entrance, and asked if he could see Sir Ronald Normanloe. As “before, the servant who took bis name ushered him into the same handsome apartment; and, as
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ey before, there sat the Baronet sipping tea by the welcome fire-light. It seemed to the young man that he was be- ing taken through precisely the same scene he had enacted but a few days before, But this time the business he had in hand was stern, and not to be lightly disposed of. Sir Ronald replaced his china cup on the silver tray as ‘‘ Mr, Charles” was announced, Perhaps he was a shade surprised at the visit; if so, he did not betray the feeling. “This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Charles. Pray sit down. Let me offer you some tea,’ began the Baronet. “No, thank you—no tea,” said Ronald, “T come on serious business!” * Really! But why should business prevent you taking a cup of tea this cold evening?” “Sir Ronald,” said the young man, in a broken voice, ‘it bas become my very painful duty to allude to-night to circumstances which may interfere with your projected marriage with Miss Westerly!” “Indeed!” exclaimed ‘Sir Ronald, with cold surprise. ‘‘ Will you, sir, explain how that could possibly be?’ The servant had withdrawn, leaving the two alone in the warm, lofty, and richly-furnished room, The fire-light played alike on the agitated features and noble brow of the younger man, and on the hard, impassive face ut the elder one, “Tt is my duty to do so!” cried Ronald. “Sir,” he continued, ‘‘ I can no longer preserve my cbaracter of a stranger to you! Iam your sou—the boy who left you nearly eleven years since!” The elder man remained imperturbable, He slightly elevated his eyebrows, and re- marked coldly, “* Pardon me for not instantly replying to your exquisitely rendered appeal, Mr. Charles. But some forgiveness may be granted to my momentary astonishment, sure- ly? Put yourself in my place, Mr, Charles, and imagine yourself to have shortly taken up your abode in a new neighborhood, and that you find yourself quietly taking tea, when a visitor comes, who introduces himself as your son! Ab! I was correct in assuring you that your vocation was that of a successful actor!” “Father,” cried the unhappy Ronald—‘“for you are my father, and you do remember how we parted!—it is my duty to warn you solemn- ly of your position! My mother was known to be living one year ago! How can you marry Miss Westerly while my mother is still in ex- istence?” Sir Ronald stared at him coldly. “What can your estimable mother have to do with my approaching marriage with Miss Westerly?” asked he. “Haye you proofs of my mother’s death? FORBIDDEN BANS. 21 | If not, you must stop this proposed alliance— you must cancel the engagement at whatever cost!” said the young man, in a piercing voice of despair. ‘Oh, father, you may refuse all else, but this you must tell me—is my mother indeed dead?” ‘Really, Mr. Charles, you must allow me to say that I had not expected this treat in private; this splendid acting deserves a larger audience. 1am quite interested in the question of what is to happen next!” Ronald paced the room in cruel agitation, “Father,” he cried, ‘have you lost all human feeling? I do not expect affection: you never gave me that! But I have a right to interpose to save this young lady, the near connection of people who have befriended me, and given me the means of gaining an honor- able livelihood. It is my duty to stop this marriage from going on, unless you can show me that my mother is no longer alive!” “T regret that I have no means of satisfying you on this point, Mr. Charles, as I am unac- quainted with your (no doubt) estimable parent; and I repeat that tho fact of her being alive can have nothing to do with my approaching marriage with Miss Westerly.” “Are you indeed my father, and can you preserve such a tone to me—your only son?” cried Ronald, almost beside himself. “I have come to you now to say these words between ourselves, Prove to me that my mother is dead, and I will not seek to prevent your marriage. I will say nothing against it. In coming to you privately IT have shown my-de- sire to save you the pain of being talked about in this place where your home is now, and where you have a position in the county —” ““Mr, Charles,” replied Sir Ronald, slowly, “as you appear to be in earnest, I must— however greatly I may be surprised—reply to you seriously. Allow me to assure you that Iam not a married man, though I hope short- ly to become one. Let me impress you with the assurance that I never was married! You will, perhaps, pardon me now if I take a somewhat abrupt leave of you, as I bave to dress and dine at Westerly House to-night, Good-evening!” He rung the bell, and rose, A servant entered immediately. “Open the door for Mr. Charles!’ said the Baronet; ‘and let the carriage come round at a quarter past seven precisely.” “Yes, Sir Ronald,” replied the servant, hold- ing open the door for Ronald’s exit. CHAPTER X. “WHAT IS IT ABOUT?” Tas wind had risen, and a chill, though light, fall of snow was drifting dowu, and Ro-
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* 22 nald staggered blindly into it, scarcely con- scious of whither he went. But we will not follow him now. Our scene changes to one of warmth and comfort;— luxurious surroundings; bright lights in silver candelabra; hot-house flowers; costly pictures, which look down out of rich frames. We are in the large drawing-room of Wes- terly House. Gathered there is only a family party; but they are spending the hours enjoyably to- gether, Sir Ronald Normanioe is the only guest, and he is soon to become one of the family circle. Never has he been more conversable, or in gayer mood, than to-night. Even him, listens when he speaks. He keeps up a constant flow of agreeable talk; and Mr. and Mrs. Westerly think that Adelaide has been very fortunate at last in her matrimonial prospects. Adelaide herself has never looked handsomer. She is, indeed, brilliant this evening, and wears a rich dress of dark velvet, with collarette and ear-drops of sapphires, the gift of her bride- groom elect, All her life it bas been her ambition to seeure a well-defined position—a wealthy husband; and now her ambition is satisfied. But Alma looks rather like a fair flower— exceeding fair; but hiding some secret sad- ness. As such, she is touchingly beautiful; and as she sits near her mother, of whom she is somewhat in awe, and listens to the howling of the wind, her heart follows Ronald. A thousand times she asks herself what can have taken place between the father and son in their interview of this afternoon. Ah, surely it is not Ronald who was triumphed, or the Baronet could not be so thoroughly at ease? The tears steal again and again into Alma’s | blue eyes, asshe bends over her embroidery. It is late when Sir Ronald at length tears himself away from Miss Westerly’s side; eleven o'clock has already tolled out upon the night. terly, accompanying his guest to the door. “No matter! in my brougham, and will soon be at Pine- grove,” answered Sir Ronald, cheerily. “We would have persuaded you to stay here for to-night, if we had known this sort of weather was coming on,” said Mr. Westerly. “ Will you send your carriage back now, and not face the gale?” “A thousand thanks, my dear Westerly, but IT shall not feel the weather in mysnug brough- am. Good-night—good-by!” The door of the drawing-room was open, and the ladies had risen to retire for the night when Mr, Westerly re-entered. Alma, | knowing secretly what she does know about | | I hope? Why, how ill you look! | cried Mr. Westerly. FORBIDDEN BANS. ‘Tis a rough night—a very rough night,” remarked he. ‘I wish wehad thought of ask- ing him to sleep as well as dine.” Alma was about to say good-night to her fa- ther, when a footman appeared somewhat has- tily. “Mr, Charles begs you will be kind enough to see him for a few moments, sir” “What, to-night? So late as it is?” cried Mr. Westerly. “Mr. Charles will think it very kind if you could see him to-night, sir. He says the busi- ness is urgent.” “T suppose it is. Marks.” “My dear, he can come and speak to you here. We are all going to bed,” said Mrs. Wes- terly. “Then show Mr. Charles in here.” “Yes, sir,” responded Marks. And so it happened that as Alma followed | her mother and Adelaide out of the room, she caught a glimpse of Ronald’s white face as he passed in, Only a glimpse; but that was enough to tell | her that he was suffering keenly—that he looked changed and ill. What could have bap- ; pened? The young girl ascended the stairs in a tremor of nervous agitation. Oh, that she could pierce the closed door, and know what was going on below! ‘Well, what is it, Charles, to send you here | at this hour on such a night# Nothing serious, Here, sit Show him into the study, down! Now tell me what it is?” Ronald essayed to speak, but at first no words came, “ What is it that has changed you thus?” “You are not yourself, Charles!” He was not, indeed! Extreme agitation, griéf, a sense of his inability to bring proofs of that which he was about to advance, all weighed him to the earth; and, more than all, his father’s coldness and hardness of heart had | struck bim with a mortal chill. “Why, it is blowing a gale!” said Mr. Wes- | Struck bim a mo. “Sir,” cried he, in a hoarse tone, “I am | deeply grieved to pain you and yours; but it I have astout pair of horses | 57,8). Et ae bit must be! You will see that yourself when you know all!” “What is it about?’ acked Mr. Westerly, | puzzled and somewhat alarmed. “Tt concerns myself and Sir Ronald Nor- manloe!” “Sir Ronald? Have you any connexion with him?” asked Mr. Westerly, greatly sur- prise’. ‘“The very closest! He is my father!” “What?” cried Mr. Westerly, starting from his seat. “He is my father!” repeated Ronald, firmly,
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FORBIDDEN BANS. 23 “Do you know what you are saying, Charles?’ said Mr. Westerly, doubting whe- ther the young fellow was in his right mind. “Too well! Oh, sir, I will try to tell you very briefly, for it has become necessary that you should be fully informed of everything, You remember tbe day you found me in tne wood?” “Yes, yes!” assented Mr. Westerly. “On that day I had run away from my fa- ther. He was then Mr. Normanloe, and all but penniless. Child as I was, | fled from him in terror, because he had insisted that I should beg—and I refused! He was harsh, cruel; and I said to myself that I would creep away somewhere to die! My terror of my father was so great that when questioned as to my name | avoided giving my surname, and so it was supposed that I was named Charles, which is really my second baptismal name. As years went on, and I grew old enough to think for myself, I was still afraid to tell my real parentage; but I pined to find my mother, who is a French lady, and who, wearied out with unkindness, had left my father and re- turned to some relatives abroad.” Mr. Westerly, who bad been listening with knit brows, gave a start at the mention of Ronald’s mother. * And then?” said he. “Then I never heard or saw aught of my father from the time I crept into the wood here to die, till a short time since (we may count the days)—the evening he came to Pinegrove. I was coming trom the church, and saw a handsome carriage drawn up by the roadside; and a servant seated on the box asked me the way to Pinegrove. As I was about to answer, a gentleman looked from the window of the carriage, and | immediately recognized my father.” “This is a strange tale you are telling me, Charles. You will have to substantiate it, you know,” said Mr. Westerly, who knew not what to believe, but who feared that the story was perfectly true. ‘Hear me to the end, sir. Imadea pretext for going to Pinegrove, to make sure that Thad made no mistake. Assured of that, I next consulted a London lawyer— withholding my real name. It will be easy to prove by the baptismal registers that the present Sir Ronald | Normanloe had ason. ‘The difficulty will bein proving my identity with that son, For I was a child when I fled from my father on the hill. T have no papers, nothing as proof positive to strangers. But, sir, if I could find my mo- ther, I should then be able to prove this iden- tity!” “What!—is she still living? You do not mean to tell me that?’ cried Mr. Westerly, in great agitation. “That is why Tbaye intruded upon you at | certained that much! this hour!” cried Ronald, in desperate tones. “My mother was living a year since! I have never traced out her whereabouts, but have as- Consider, sir, what a ' shock it was to me to bear of my father’s con- | Mr. Westerly. templated marriage with Miss Westerly!” “What a blow for my sister!” murmured ‘¢ How did he dare to present bimself here as he has done, if this be true?” ‘Sir, I have tried to spare you this pain and annoyance,” said Ronald, ‘I sought an inter- view with my father this very afternoon, and told him who I was, and that I knew my mo- ther to be living a year since. I implored him to give me proofs of ber death, engaging to be | silent if he would do that, and thus let bis en- gagement with Miss Westerly remain undis- turbed. But he would not hear me; he set his face as a granite rock, declared he knew noth- |ing of me nor of my mother—asserted that he had never been married!” To poor Ronald’s intense dismay, he ob- served Mr. Westerly’s face show sudden relief. “‘Depend upon it, Charles, there is some mis- tako altogether,” said he. ‘A man of Sir Ro- nald Normanloe’s position would hardly run the risk of engaging to marry into a family of position if he had a wife still living. You are aware that it can be ascertained whether Sir Ronald ever was married? Now, he assures you that he never has been. Depend upon it, there is some mistake.” “ Sir, I cannot mistake my own father—that is not possible!” cried Ronald. “And I traced my mother so far as to be assured she was liv- ing but a year ago. You will, surely, ascer- tain that Sir Ronald is not still a married man —that my mother is no longer alive, betore you allow Miss Westerly’s engagement to con- tinue?” “Of course I shall; it will be my duty, Charles. But I may tell you beforehand that I feel certain there is an error. You were so young when you came to us, so many years have passed since then, that you may well have mistaken a person bearing a strong resem- blance to your father for your father himseif. You see, Sir Ronald has assured you he never was married; and it is possible that there may be two people in the world bearing the name of Normanloe,” “Sir, Ihave told you that I recognize my father. However, consult the registers at Somerset House. Demand proof—full proof— before you allow the marriage to take place. I tell you, sir, I would not have disturbed you with my personal wrongs had I not felt it im- perative that you should at once be enlightened for Miss Westerly’s sake.” “Tam most truly sorry for you,” returned Mr. Westerly; ‘‘and of course I shall seek an interview with Sir Roland Normanloe at the earliest possible moment to-morrow, Till that
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24 has taken place, I will refrain from disturbing my sister’s peace of mind, Immediately after TI have seen Sir Ronald I will speak to you again. Go home now, and try to get a little rest. You look really ill, poor fellow!” Ronald rose wearily. *T will not detain you longer at this hour, sir; but be on your guard with my father, and search into the truth of what Isay. Heis un- scrupulous, as you will find.” And then the unbappy young man once more passed out into the cold and darkness, CHAPTER XI. SIR RONALD EXPLAINS, A snowy mantle covered the ground, and had powdered the noble old trees clustering about Pinegrove with wondrous beauty, as Mr, Westerly approached that picturesque place early next day on bis embarrassing visit. The large old house, with its rows of mul- loined windows, looked fair and imposing in the morning sunlight. “¢T6 will be hard if Adelaide is to lose such a place, such a home as this! But, undoubted- ly, there is a mistake,” mused he, as he rung at the entrance. ‘However, of course 1 must satisfy myself now that all is right before her engagement can proceed.” Sir Ronald was yet at breakfast, and looked up with a pleased surprise when Mr, Westerly was announced, “This is an unexpected pleasure, my dear Westerly!” exclaimed he, throwing aside his newspaper, and rising with eagerness to wel- come his guest. ‘Come round by the fire. I hope you have brought a good appetite for breakfast. John, bring some hot toast!” *T have breakfasted, thank you, and will let you finish yours before I open my business,” returned Mr. Westerly. * Nothing is amiss with you or yours, I hope? How is Adelaide?” asked Sir Ronald, quickly. “Weare all well as when you left us; and Adelaide appears even more blooming than last night. No; there is nothing amiss with us. Finish your breakfast.” The Baronet drank his coffee, declaring that he was quite at leisure. “Come into my library; there we can talk all the morning, if you will, undisturbed,” suid Sir Ronald, rising with alacrity. It was not till the two were seated in the comfortably-furnished library that Mr. Wes- terly began bis difficult task. “You asked if anything was amiss with us, and I said no, Weil, there is nothing with us; and yet, last night, immediately after you had left us, I heard a story which was calcu- lated to startle us very much indeed. Of course, I believe that there is some annoying FORBIDDEN BANS. mistake; but as it concerns the interests of my own sister so nearly, it is my duty to sift matters, and prove the tale to be incorrect.” “Do you mean that this story affects Ade- laide?” asked Sir Ronald, quickly. “Indirectly, since she is engaged to marry you. Chiefly it concerns yourself.” ‘Indeed! Pray let me hear it!” cried Sir Ronald. “That is why I have come off at once with- out throwing my sister into any, doubtless, unnecessary agitation. To be brief, then, the schoolmaster and organist of my village, young | Charles, came to me late last night. He says | that he is your son.’ |“ Whe-e-w!” orenaiie’ Sir Ronald, starting up. | There is a mistake, of course,” continued | Mr. Westerly; ‘‘but the poor fellow was in great trouble, and the affair must be cleared up.” “Well?” questioned the Baronet, calmly re- suming his seat. | ‘Well, he says also that he fled from you when he was only eight or nine years old; that his mother had previously left you; and that he gave his name as Charles in terror Jest you should find him.” ‘He seems to have been not Jess clever as a boy tban as a young man,” interrupted the Baronet, ironically. ‘ And now he wants to ,come and live here, I suppose, and be recog- nized as my successor. If he succeeds in that, | he will be very clever indeed |” “Well, it is annoying, of course; but how do you explain it, Normanloe? For the awk- ward part is that he declares his mother to | be still living, or that she was certainly living a year ago. In the state of mind he is in, | poor fellow, he will set the tale going all over | the country, and it will have to be refutel before you and Adelaide can be married. You see, you have assured him very positively that you never were married; and yet he persists in asserting the reality of his story, because he | believes in it thoroughly. It is very pain- ful.” ‘My dear Westerly, this is more than a mere mistake; itis a dvep-laid scheme against me.” “Impossible!” cried Mr. Westerly. ‘‘ The pcor fellow has lived all bis lite in the village, and is universally well thought of. Besides, he is so young. He must, at least, honestly be- lieve in what he advances.” “This young man, whoever be may be, is, in my opinion, making a desperate effort to win a name aad position. You ask what for? Not merely for the sake of those coveted things, but because they will be stepping-stones to- ward the summit of his wishes, It will be my turn now to startle you, but I cannot help
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it. He wishes to be acknowledged as my son, | to break off my engagement with Miss West- erly, because he is madly in love—or in love from interested motives—with your daughter Alma.” “What!” cried Mr. Westerly, profoundly moved. ‘Oh, Normanloe,” added he, a mo- ment later, ‘‘y:u are deceived! He could not hope to gain such a prize by such means. Be- sides, he cannot believe that she would listen to his suit for a moment.” ‘Pardon me, but he knows that she would! He is sure of her affection, Question your daughter, and see if she can deny her love for the village schoolmaster.” “You make me terribly anxious when you speak so confidently!” cried Alma’s father, rising abruptly, and pacing the room. “Tam very sorry, but what can I do? I must place certain plain facts before you now in the turn affairs have taken. The very day I first came over to stay at Westerly House, I saw (by chance as I drove by the church) this young fellow talking to Miss Alma, and I am certain he was even then in correspondence with her. I noticed as they stood on the little hillock together—he -much too close to ber side —a letter slipped into her hand. Oh! there is more for you to hear. The night of the theatricals I came suddenly into the room, and detected him kissing her hind.” “he young villain!” ejaculated the mugis- trate. “We next hear of him setting up this story; and now I pick that to pieces,” continued the Baronet. ‘Far be it from me to be hard on any one, much more on avy one so young as he. I have even tried to think that he him- self has been imposed on with the belief that he is my son, But you shall judge. And now, Westerly, I shall have to confess a youth- ful folly. But who among us is quite free from folly of some kind or otber? Mine, un- happily for myself, has borne fruit for me, in the shape of the distracting fear that Adelaide may not see the matter in its actual light.” “Need she be told? Need she be troubled?” asked Mr. Westerly. “Of that you must be the judge; but spare me if you can. Westerly, when I was young —only four-and-twenty—I fell in love with a beautiful French girl without a penny. She was a Romanist; but I thought nothing of that. Iwas only anxious to marry her; and | we were married, as 1 thought, by license, in London. | “A short time passed, and I found her ex. | travagant, wholly unsuited, by temper and | disposition, for my wife; moreover, that: she " pined to undo the tie which bound us. “But what could that dvail now? I had, as | I supposed married her, and wished to do the ! best I could for her and her ebild. t FORBIDDEN BANS, 25 * All of a sudden, when troubles came— the bank tailure, and other money difficulties— my devoted wife left me, with the avowed de- termination of never seeing me again—and never returning to England, “She weat to relatives in France, first sending the child to other relatives of hers in England, who were eager to adopt him. What was I to do? Complete ruin bad come upon me. My supposed wife rejoiced to leave me; my boy had a chance of being well cared for. How could I care for him, when I was with- out means or time to devote to him? He had never clung to me, and, for the boy’s sake, I let him go.” “From that day to this I have never heard a word of the lady whom I imagined to be my wife. Twelve years is a long time for her to have been silent if she cared to hear news of me, or to renew our tie. “But, eight years since, chance made it clear to me that she had never been my wife in reality. Under age as she was, and a. Ro- man Catholic to boot, the omission of the ceremony being performed also according to Roman Catholic rites, rendered the marriage invalid. ‘* When she left me, she declared that noth- ing should ever make her see me again, or live in England; that she wished nothing s0 much as a complete severance of our union; that she entirely concurred in the wish of her relations in Englind, who desired to adopt her boy; that she was eager to consign him to their care as the only provision for him. “Would not any one, then, have done as I did? Could I force my so-called wife to stay with me—I who had not the means to support her? Could I hamper myself with a young boy who had been taught to hate his father—I who had not then any prospect of putting food into that child’s mouth? “T bowed to necessity: but when time had healed the pain I felt, I recognized with re- lief the fact that I had never been legally married. That page in my life has long been turned over—altogether done with, and I should never have heard a word relating to it save for my accession to wealth and title. Think what a chance for any lad, especially one so aspiring as this young organist, to step in and take his place as heir to Pinegrove! Of course the story of my former supposed mar- riage has got wind, and some one has made him believe himself my son, or elso (in the desperate desire to raise himself to a level with your daughter) he has come to make this claim on me. But he is not my son; and even if he were, could not inherit Pinegrove or the baronetey (of which a series of unexpected deaths, as you know, put me in possession;) for he would not be my legitimate heir.” “Normanloe,” said Mr. Westerly, gravely,
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26 “T sincerely regret that there is this story on which to pin. the claim. It will reach Ade- laide’s ears, and she will take it seriously. Fur though the marriage was illegal, morally she will think it binding—though, of course, no title or estate could go to the ebild.” * No; and I have hoped for lawful heirs to succeed me in this fine property. The baro- netcy goes with the small estate of Normanloe Park, which fell to me just after I heard that my cousin had left me Pinegrove; but it was the most improbable thing in the world that I should ever possess either. And now this an- noyance is come upon me. Oh, Westerly, be- lieve me, I have been more sinned against than sinning!” There was a short silence after Sir Ronald had said these words in a pathetic tone, “Normanloe,” said Mr. Westerly, rising, you will have to put this matter into a law court, and obtain a legal decision concerning it. Then you will be rid of endless worry, and be free to marry if you choose, I should say the thing would be to force upon young Charles the burden of proof, first, that he is youc son; secondly, that he is your lawful heir, If he cannot do that, Adelaide need hesitate no longer.” CHAPTER XII. A CRUEL BLOW. AtMA WESTERLY was passing through the shrubbery at Westerly House, her eyes still wet with the tears which would spring when she remembered Ronald’s story. For she had just ventured to the school-house, and there, within the doorway, had exchanged burried, tearful, sympathizing looks and words with the unhappy young fellow. Suddenly, upon the hard ground—hard, de- spite its snowy covering—she heard her fa- ther’s footstep, and heard her father’s voice, “Where have you been, Alma?” said he, sternly. ; “To tho school, papa,” faltered the girl, un- used to this tone and manner. “Then I forbid you ever to go there again, until young Charles leaves this place. I am aware of your leaning (I am ashamed to use a stronger word) toward that young man, who, let me tell you, has brought a hornet’s nest about his own ears. Shall I explain to you who he really is? I had better do so, for it may cure you of your folly! He is the illegiti- mate son of Sir Ronald Normanloe, though the Baronet denies that he can even prove that much. And he will call upon Charles to sustain his claim in a court of law. ruin him! But he has forced Sir Ronald to do so, or he will be saddled with a supposed wife, & woman who never really was his wife! Do you clearly understand this? Oh! I see too well, by your changing face, how deep un in- \ 1 It will | | Ishould think not, indeed! | him his dismissal. | village after his bebavior concerning you. The | leave. FORBIDDEN BANS. terest you feel in the schoolmaster, and I cer- taioly should have dismissed him on that ground alone.” “Papa!” stammered the distressed and heart- broken girl. ‘Oh, papa! pray believe me when I tell you that Mr. Charles has never— never—” “Never proposed to youin so many words? But he has dared to love you, or to pretend love for you, and has succeeded in making you love him. Is that true or not? If young Lord Arlington were to come here and speak of his affection for you, how would you receive him? And yet he is well-born, handsome, devoted to you; but you bave allowed yourself, a young lady of posi- “wn, to descend to think of the village school- xster!” “Father,” cried Alma, her love giving her gurage, ‘‘he is noble-minded, even if be be ily the schoolmaster. But J believe him to t Sir Ronald’s son.” “That may be. But I presume you do not expect me to sanction your choice, unless it can be shown that he is Sir Ronald Normanloe’s heir. Unfortunately, that can never be! Sir Ronald married a Roman Catholic lady—under age, too. The law requires that such mar- riages shall be solemnized according to the rites of both Churches. Tuis was omitted—not de- signedly, but it was omitted; and I am now going to explain this to Charles, ant to give I cannot have him in the best thing that could possibly happen to him now would be that he should go out in some | emigrant ship, and make his way in a new country, for I repeat that he will be ruined. Every penny he has saved will go, and who would engage a village schoolmaster with such a history? Romance is fatal to gaining a live- lihood.” “Wather,” interrupted the trembling girl, “will it not be enough for you that we shall be separated forever? ‘Help hit, then, a little to bear all this, which is coming upon him from his cruel father. Oh, papa, I believe his story! Do not you be unjust or cruel,” “ Alma, be silent, and remember you do not again go beyond the grounds until I give you You will be informed when my prohi bition is removed; which will not be until that wretched young man has left this place for- ever.” And so he quitted her, leaving desolation and despair in her young heart. But it was not alone in Alma’s heart that he planted misery. Ronald (who had dismissed his scholars at mid-day, briefly saying that there would be no afternoon school) sat with his head between His bowed hands—waiting— waiting. ide had been roused, indeed, by Alma’s visit,
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but she had departed; and now, as he hstened to Mr. Westerly’s promised communication af- ter his interview with Sir Ronald, vague and crushing fears assailed him, Fears that he— he who stood so much alone—should not be able to substantiate his claim; fears that he should never succeed in finding his mother; that in some way his cruel father would be too much for him; that Alma would never bo his! Thus he sat, when he heard Mr. Westerly’s brisk footfall on the narrow pathway outside, and started up to meet him. “Charles,” began Mr. Westerly, “it is my painful business to tell you that you have de- ceived me. Whitever may be the hardship of your own lot, that could not justify you in act- | ing as you have done with regard tomy daugh- ter. Itappears that you have impressed her with a belief in your story and in your affection for her, and that you have succeeded in com- pletely unsettling her young and impressionable mind, Happily she is young, very young; and therefore will forget. But your own conduct for-es me to say that she will not be permitted to quit Westerly House until you have left this neighborhood. I can only advise you to emi- grate, forafter what has happened I can hardly resommend you elsewhere.” A despairing exclamation escaped the un- happy Ronald, taken by surprise as he then was, “That is not all,” went on Mr, Westerly, in anangry tone, “Sir Ronald Normanlos de- clares that you are not his son.” “That is a lie!” cried Ronald, fiercely, with clenched hand. “It may be—I cannot determine that; but | what seems undeniably clear is that, even if his son, you are not his heir. The lady whom Sir Ronald married (as he supposed) was not of age | and wasa Romanist; and asthe law requires | such marriages to be solemnized according to the rites of each church, the second ceremony being omitted, the supposed marriage was ii- legal. In point of fact, Sir Ronald wes never n.arried, as he assured you.” Never married! His mother never married! That delicate, gentle, high-born mother his | childish memories brought back, not his father’s wife! Oh, why now should he seek to find her? Better leave her unmolested; she would then, at least, be spared the horror of unmerited dis- | grace. He staggered backward with the cruel blow. For him, bis world had come to a dreadful end. Even Alma’s father pitied his utter misery, He could not speak in his hard, confident tones, as he continued, “Sir Ronald intends to insist now that you should prove what you bave advanced in a law | court. Ifyou cannot do that, and he obtains a legal decision in his favor, he is free to marry FORBIDDEN BANS. 22 again. “You had better be prepared, Charles, As for the school, I hope you will be able to vacate it after to-morrow, as I must supply your place, temporarily, at once. Your salary, and, of course, a half-year in advance on ac- count of dismissal without due notice, shall be sent to youto-day, No one regrets more than myself that we should part in this way, but when I remember my daughter, indignation leaves me little room for pity.” And with these words Mr. Westerly went out, leaving Ronald to his bitter fate, | But Ronald was oblivious of those hard words —of his crue] destiny just then, He bad fallen back unconscious, CHAPTER XIII. MADAME LA MARQUISE, | We cannot stop to detail Mrs, Westerly’s uneasinessavhen her husband told her the re- sult of his interview with Sir Ronald Norman- loe, It far overshadowed her trouble. concern- ing Alma. That could be got over; but for Adelaide to lose the opportunity of making this grand marriage was heartrending. Such a chance could never be expected to happen twice in one’s lifetime, and Adelaide was grow- ing unequal in temper, and more difficult to get on with every year. And then the whole thing was so thoroughly unpleasant. “We must bush it up; it must not be breathed,” said she, ‘‘ Let Sir Ronald write to | Adelaide expressing his regret that business calls him to London for a time. I should not like to welcome him here till the legal decision | is obtained, declaring him free to marry. Oh, Montegue, cannot that decision be pronounced without its getting into all the papers? Can nothing be done to keep this matter secret? | We must not let it ooze out to the servants,” What would poor Mrs, Westerly have felt could she have known tbat that faultless | domestic, Jobn, was perfectly cognizant of the matter in dispute; that he had overheard a good deal of what was said between his master and Mr. Charles, and that he was fully aware that there was a grave difficulty in the way of Miss Adelaide’s coutemplated marriage? The new housekeeper, whom Konald had be- friended, was one of the first to hear it, and evinced, so John thought, some unaccountable triumph thereat, ““She’s been excited ever since she heard | Sir Ronald was to be married,” thought he, | “and she’s glad the match is like to be off | now. It would interfere with her authority, I | s'pose; that’s what it is,” | But that was not it, Something far deeper | agitated the mind of the housekeeper. She was strange and silent all day; and, after writing several letters, sent a message to the baronet with her uuty, and could he allow her to go for a day’s holiday?
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28 FORBIDDEN BANS. Sir Ronald, not in too sweet a mood, angrily | refused. It was extremely inconvenient. She had but just come to her place. She could not be spared, She made no comment on this; but began to question John as to the whisper among the servants that Sir Ronald’s marriage would never come off, after all; and as to what they thought about Mr. Charles, the Westerly school- master, boing Sir Ronald’s own son, Toward evening the housekeeper could not | be found, and the excitement among the ser- | vants reached its hight when a note was found on the table in her room, in which these words | only were written: “Sir Ronald must suit himself with another house- keeper. Thanks to himself, I have discovered what I came here for.” “How did the Barrownight look when you under-housemaid, of John. All the servants were now violently excited as to what it might portend. : *t How did he look? Bothered; that’s how he looked. Mrs. Walter knows something, you may depend.” ‘“*He’s not himself; he’s off his feed, and pale, and hang-dog-looking,” whispered John in Eliza’s ear that evening when Sir Ronald’s din- ner was over. Another four-and-twenty hours went by. Sir Ronald went to London to confer with his lawyers. _Alma, ill with misery, was confined to her own room; while her father and mother could hardly maintain an unconcerned air be- fore the servants and Adelaide. But the latter was quite unconscious of the turn affairs had taken, and was occupied very pleasantly with . calculations about her trousseau; for the frost was keen, and she enjoyed such a day best by a cosey fire, work in hand. The village children were delighted, too, for they bad an unexpected holiday. They went to the school, but found it closed, and Mrs. Erne told them there would be no school, per- haps fora week. Mr. Charles was suddenly taken ill, and had to go away. And what of Mr. Charles himself? Mr. Wes- terly duly inclosed his salary by check; but re- ceived no acknowledgment. Mr. Charles was unable to write, unable to move, so Mrs, Erne declared. “The poor young man is in a high fever,” she said. Then Mr. Westerly insisted that a doctor should be sent for to know how soon he could 0. aj The medical man shook his head, and said he feared that could not be for many days, “Isn't it sad about poor Mr. Charles, Miss Alma?” remarked Alma’s maid, as she was brushing her young lady’s hair that evenihg. “ He’s so ill he can’t be moved. Quite un- conscious, they say, andin« high fever. I’m sure we shall never get such another organist, be the other who he may. He does make the organ speak out grand. But he’s to go away as soon as ever he can be moved, I hear. We are all so sorry.” Il! Ina high fever, and no one to nurse him—no one to speak a word of comfort to him! “Oh, Thurton!” exclaimed the young lady, “you know how he came here; you know that he has no one to care for him. Will you go down to the school and arrange for me that Mrs, Erne shall take all proper care of him? Tell her to get everything necessary. I will make it up to her. And, Thurton, take her this.” “This” was an envelope, iaclosing fifty see lees thea Eo a taht eked Bitizn, hs | Pee PAE 8 OE ea eae to send. ““V’ll see he has what he wants, Miss Alma!” returned Thurtoi, sympathizingly. ‘‘ We all think Mr. Charles has been very badly used by some one who ought to take every care of him.” Another day closed, followed by another morning, made gay by sunlight on frosted snow. Mr. Westerly and Adelaide alike received letters from Sir Ronald; that addressed to Ad- | elaide filled only with lover-like regrets that he was detained from her side by business; that to Mr, Westerly explaining that his interview with his lawyers gave him hopes that the affair would not be so lengthy or troublesome as he had supposed; and imploring that he might call at Westerly House and see Adelaide, if only for a few moments, on the next day but one, ashe must run down from London to Pine- grove for a few hours. Mr. and Mrs, Westerly consulted together, | and decided that there could be no harm in al- lowing Sir Ronald to see Adelaide for so short atime; that, moreover, if would prevent any uncomfortable suspicion or uneasiness on her part. - : ‘¢ How awkward and annoying it is that fel- low Charles being taken so ill! Nothing can be done while he lies there; and it is impossible to move him,” observed Mr, Westerly, as he answered Sir Ronald’s letter. He now believed that young Charles was the son of the Baronet, but that the latter had es- caped being married by his omission of the sec- ond ceremony in the Romish Church, and that he had been deserted in his hour of need by a selfish woman, who was glad to break the tie which had bound them, Since it was so, why should Adelaide lose the chance of a brilliant position? Adelaide, who already looked upon herself as mistress of Pinegrove, had muffled herself in
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wy FORBIDDEN BANS. 29 furs about an hour after luncheon, and gone out to consult her brother’s head gardener concern- ing certain rare plants with which she wisied to fill one of the forcing houses there. She had plenty of time, for Sir Ronald had sent a note by the second post, regretting that he could not be with her until five o’clock, so | that he had decided not to return to town till — the train which left atten P. M. The short winter afternoon was giving place | to growing dusk, and the peculiar dreariness | of a winter night just beginning to steal over | the snowy landscape, as Adelaide approached the house on her return. The rumble of carriage wheels, and the sight of a fly drawn by two horses, made her quicken her steps. “ Tt is Sir Ronald!” thought she, pleased that he should have arrived a good half-hour earlier than she had expected. But it must not be supposed that Adelaide Westerly loved the Baronet. Oh, no; she was content to secure such a brilliant position as he had offered her without any falling in love. But she was pleased to see him arrive early, since he had told her he should make a point of ordering new furniture for some of the rooms at Pinegrove; and she wished to have plenty of time to say a word concerning the carpets and lounges for her own boudoir and suit of apartments. And then Adelaide allowed one sigh to float unchecked upon the winter wind; a sigh given to a love that she had lost—lost, too, by her own deliberate action. “Since that is forever past, why waste another regret on it?” said she to herself, philo- sophically, ‘He has let all these years go by, and never asked me again!” But she did regret somewhat bitterly, as she passed on to greet the middle-aged Baronet, lingering a little, while the fly came slowly up the avenue, Who was the “he” sighed for by Adelaide Westerly? An old love, rejected for bis pov- erty, when she was a proud young beauty of searce nineteen, Since those days the old love had risen in the world, was the owner of a fair amount of wealth, anda pretty country place; and though still a bachelor, he bad never renewed his offer to Adelaide Westerly. No word of regret had the proud girl spoken; but very bitter, for many years, had been the pangs of inward repining. But she had now decided to be the mistress of Pinegrove, and henceforth would think no more of Lennox Tempest. So she dressed her face in smiles as the car- riage drew up, and stepped forward, wonder- ing a little that Sir Ronald had not driven over | in one of his own carriages, But it was not Sir Ronald who alighted. Ob, no! it was the tall and very elegant figure of a lady who stepped from the vehicle—a lady apparenily about thirty-five, but very handsome, and | whose graceful toilet and foreign air caused | Adelaide to look at her with fresh interest. She was followed by a well-dressed, respect- able maid, unmistakably English. Adelaide stood aside, and heard the foreign- looking lady inquiro’ if Mr. and Mrs. Wester:y were at home, and the next moment she passed into the house. Adelaide quickened her steps, in order to hasten to the drawing-room, for she felt a curi- | osity to know who this elegant lady might be; so, without staying to remove her bat and fur cloak, she walked in after the visitor, Mrs. Westerly had read the name on the eard sent in, with as much surprise as that Adelaide bad felt on witnessing the arrival. “* Madame la Marquise de Rocheville” was the name, The Marchioness followed her card, and Mrs, Westerly rose to receive her. “Madame,” began the elegant lady, with a foreign accent, “ you are not acquainted with me, | know,” ~ “But I hope to become so,” said Mrs. Wes- terly, with a courteous smile, for the strangei impressed her most fayorably; besides, was she not of high rank? ‘Pray let me give you a seat near the fire. Here are my sister and my husband.” The stranger again bowed; and, when she looked at Adelaide, tears came into ber eyes. ‘*Oh, madam,” she faltered, “my visit will cause pain to others, and especially to this beautiful young lady!” All regarded her with surprise; while Mr. and Mrs. Westerly felt vaguely uneasy. But Adelaide was only surprised, for she had heard nothing, and therefore formed no conjecture. De Rocheville is not the name of my hus- band,” continued the beautiful stranger, in a voice broken by emotion, “ I wish to renounce even his name; and, therefore, on my own un- expectod accession to tlie wealth of an aged and distant relative, Madame Ja Marquise de Rocheville, I have assumed her title, since Tam the only living representative of that family, and the direct heiress. Summoned by a faith- ful attendant, who has but just succeeded in finding his wher:abouts, I have traveled day and night—for my son’s sake, and for the sake, also, of this young lady!" With swift intuition Mrs. Westerly inter- ° posed at this juncture. “Oh, stay, I entreat you! Come and ex- plain what you have tosay alone with me!” she exclaimed. ; “Nol” cried Adelaide, coming forward; What ' “since it concerns me, I must hear it! is it, madame? And who is your son?”
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FORBIDDEN BANS. these years. I have just seen him—I and this old faithful nurse, who, for his sake, obtained the post of housekeeper at Pinegrove. not in vain!” “What can the schoolmaster here have to do with Pinegrove?” asked Adelaide, in calm wonder. “ Every thing; for he is—” ‘Ob, no; do not tell her so abruptly! has heard nothing!” cried Mrs. Westerly. “ Adelaide, do goaway! I willcome to you directly!” said Mr. Westerly, interposing. “That is not possible!” she answered, with dignity. ‘‘Something of vital importance to me is evidently under discussion! I must hear it, whatever it may be!” “Have courage, young lady!” said the vis- itor, turning to her, with feeling “T have courage!” replied Adelaide. me what it is, madame?” “Mr. Charles, as he has been called, is the son, the only son, of Sir Ronald Normanloe!” “Of—of whom?” asked Adelaide, growing very pale. “The only son of Sir Ronald Normanloe!” repeated La Marquise, ‘‘Oh, my dear young lady, be thankful that you have been told this in time! I am the wife of Sir Ronald! But years ago he drove me from him, and, for spite, removed my dear boy from the relatives to whose care I had consigned him.” “His wife? You, Sir Ronald’s wife? And he dared to ask me to be bis wife!” said Ade- laide, very slowly. “Tt is now my duty to say a word,” inter- posed Mr. Westerly, in a somewhat authoritative tone. ‘ Adelaide, Sir Ronald has not put that indignity upon you; nor did he mean to deceive this lady. Madam, it is my turn to explain what will. unhappily, be very painful to you; but I cannot now avoid it. Your marriage with Sir Ronald, then Mr, Normanloe, was not legal, owing to the omission of the second cere- mony, according to the rites of the Roman Catholic Church.” “Notlegal? The second ceremony omitted? Has he then dared to say that ?” exclaimed the lady, in deepest indignation. “Sir, my ser- vant who is with me—a faithful attendant of my mother’s—was a witness of my marriage according to both rites. Moreover, I have the proofs of both. Iam Sir Ronald Normanloe’s wife; although I choose rather to style myself Madame de Rocheville. Oh, I will appeal at once to the law courts! Jt shall be known to all England that I am really and truly his wife.” She spoke so vehemently, with such earnest- ness cf assurance in her voice, that Mrs. West- e ly and Adelaide were already convinced, and Mr. Westerly nearly so. ‘Can you prove this, madame? She “Tell Can you **My son has borne the name of Charles aii | And show me those papers?’ asked he, now as pale as Adelaide herself, who had sunk upon the nearest chair, **They are here!” cried Ronald’s mother. At this moment the noise of wheels, f lio wed by a loud peal, resounded throngh the house. “Tt is Sir Ronald!” cried Mrs. Westerly, aghast. ‘‘We cannot see him! I must give orders,” Adelaide started up. “Yet him be admitted!” cried she. him face his wife, and—me!” A footman, throwing open the door of the room, ennounced, in a pompous voice, “ Sir Ronald Normanloe.” The Baronet advanced within the well-lighted apartment, smiling, assured as to his welcome. He was hastening to Adelaide’s side, when she rose and confronted him sternly. Madame | de Rocheville had stepped aside; but Adelaide came forward, “Sir Ronald,” she said, in a strange, hard voice, “let me present you to this lady, whom you will well remember—your wife—Lady ' Normanioe!’ And then, with overpowering | disdain in her mien, Adelaide walked straight | out of the room. | It was all so sudden, so totally unlooked for, that the wily Baronet was overwhelmed. He was crushed, and cou!d not find any words to utter. His wife was there before his eyes, and in the background the servant, who could give evidence of both ceremonies having been duly performed, ‘Have you nothing to say?’ asked Mr, Westerly, sternly. ‘‘ Clear yourseif, or leave this house at once, and covered with disgrace!” Sir Ronald had nothing to say. He slunk away—cowed—beaten, He might own Pine- grove, but his place in society was gonel ** Let A week later it was known all over the county, in mansion and cottage, that Miss Westerly could never be the mistress of Pine- grove. ‘‘ What an unpleasant thing to happen!” re- marked a somewhat unpleasant lady. ‘How will she face the world after this?” The person so addressed wondered also; on!y | in kis manly heart—(once sorely wounded by Adelaide’s pride), a great pity—a new tide of love—rose up. Next day, as Adelaide sat alone in her room, utterly dejected, a letter was put into her hand, signed ‘‘ Lennox Tempest.” An hour after, Mrs. Westerly was surprised to meet her, locking radiant, yet tearful. “Why, Adelaide,” cried she, “ what bas happened? I left you so unhappy, and now I see you as you used to appear six or seven years ago!”
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FORBIDDEN BANS. 81 “T was coming to tell you!” said Adelaide, with a burst of joyful tears. ‘‘ You will get rid of me, after all! . Lennox Tempest has asked me again if—if I will marry him!” And so there were to be wedding festivities, after all, at Westerly House, and Adelaide had to order once more her countermanded bridal finery. Mr, and Mrs. Westerly felt profound satis- fa-tion that their sister should thus be well | settled in life, while Adelaide herself felt that in losing Pinegrove she had gained—happiness, Mr. Charles, the schoolmaster, is being very tenderly nursed at Westerly House by his mother, Madame la Marquise, and the faithful nurse, who had never lost sight of her old mis- | tress till, on hearing of Sir Ronald’s accession to wealth and rank, she had resolutely set her- self the task of finding his son, We have said that Ronald was nursed by the loving care of these two women, but if was the nurse who waited on bim, and his mother, who, elegantly attired, sat by his bedside. And when convalescence set in unmistakably, and the invalid was moved to Mr, Westerly’s dressing-room, then Alma would come to the door, and leave a bunch of flowers or a book, and make timid inquiry of Madame la Marquise. And we need not be surprised that she was permitted to do so, for Ronald, the undisputed heir to the Normanloe name and baronetcy, and to the small estate which went with it;the un- doubted successor to his mother’s wealth, which | was considerable; and the possible future owner of Pinegrove, was in a widely different position to that of poor Mr. Charles, the organist and schoolmaster. So he had been moved upto Westerly House to be nursed, on pretense that be must make room for the new schoolmaster. From that day the roses came stealing back to Alma’s fair cheek, and her father no longer had a word to kay against Ronald. And Ronald? Hope and joy saved him. They told him that Pinegrove was closed, and Sir Ronald gone abroad; and then his THE | mother engaged a commodious furnished house in the neighborhood till she could settle future plans, | There she and Ronald took up their abode as soon as the bitterest part of the winter was over; and when the primroses were all in bloom and the violets ran riot in the woods, and the sun stole out every day to greet them with his beams, then Adelaide was wedded. Madame la Marquise graced the wedding. Yes; and Ronald also. Indeed, he it was who walked back down the churchyard path with Alma, who had officiated as chief bridemaid at the ceremony, and who looked so bride-like ' herself in her lovely soft, white robe, looped up with the jessamine’s starry flowers. ““They’d make a handsome pair!” whispered _ more than one spectator. | It was that very evening, after the grand | banquet given at Westerly House in honor of | Adelaide’s bridal, that Ronald whispered a word to Alma as he sat by her side in a recess of the grand saloon—‘‘Do come and look at the flowers, dearest; the conservatory is all lighted up!” She rose with beating heart. But long before they got among the flowers, he had seized her hand in his. ““My darling, I may tell you now what your heart must have told you already. Oh, Alma! my life will be nothing to me without your love—your love which would be its joy and | crown!” | She could not answer him a word; but her | silence was from excess of happiness. There, among the beautiful flowers, on Ade- | laide’s happy wedding day, Alma whispered to Ronald that her love was his, Six months later, Sir Ronald Normanloe died very suddenly, at Homburg, and without a will, His son, therefore, succeeded to his vast property, and, to the unspeakable satisfaction of Mr. and Mrs. Westerly, the magnificent place called Pinegrove was attached to the fam- ily estates after all, for it became the home of Alma, as Lady Normanloe. END.
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