x KEEP OUT OF THE PAST. BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. Keep out of the past, for its highways Are damp with malarial gloom ; Its gardens are sere, and its forests are drear, And everywhere molders a tomb. ‘Who seeks to regain its lost pleasures Finds only a rose turned to dust, And its store-house of wonderful treasures Is covered and coated with dust. _ Keep out of the past! it is haunted ; - He who in its avenues gropes Shall find there the ghost of a joy prized the most, And a skeleton throng of dead hopes. _ In place of its beautiful rivers _ Lie pools that are stagnant with slime, And those graves gleaming bright on the phosphorous light Cover dreams that were slain in their prime. Keep out of the past! it is lonely, And barren and bleak to the view ; Its fires have grown cold, and its stories are old— ; ‘Turn, turn to the present, the new! To-day leads you up to the hill-tops - That are kissed by the radiant sun; _ To-day shows no tomb—all life’s hopes in bloom ; |. And to-day holds a prize to be won. attend, —>- . [THs STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]} PMAJOR «JACK; OR, A Luckless Marriage. : By DORA LESTER, Author of ‘*‘An Evil Reputation,” ‘‘A Child’s Honor,” etc. [“MaJorR JACK” was commenced in No. 36. Back num- bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER VII. THE WIDOW’S OPINION. The Christmas dinner at Yarbrough Hall did not progress very merrily after this, for the extremely critical condition of the poor lady up stairs had crept out in the household, and Master Fred Graham was the only one at the table who went on with unabated appetite. The vicar was a good man, and he thought un- easily of the poor soul perhaps drifting away with- out being able to understand one word of consolation or hope. The squire fidgeted, and finally asked Mrs. Graham’s leave to go up stairs and see how things really were; and as he went along the corridor in which Mrs. Brooke’s room was situated, he distinctly heard the sharp cries for help which were wringing Jack’s heart to listen to. Ms The squire cautiously peeped in at the room door, which was slightly ajar, and this was the sight he beheld. Jack was standing upright by the bed, his face pale and full of pity; while cowering down, with her arms round Dorothy’s neck, the hapless woman Kept murmuring delirious appeals for protection and assistance. “Keep near! keep near!’ she repeated again and again, and it was in vain that the doctor or Jack tried to soothe her. ; Sometimes her dread took even a more active form, and she shrieked aloud that she saw Pierre’s threat- ening face in some corner of the room. ‘ “James! James! don’t let him kill me!” the squire, whose teeth were chattering in his head by this time, heard hercry. ‘I won’t tell—I won’t betray you—only let me go. I swear your secret is safe!” The squire turned nearly as pale as his son when he heard these words, though from a very different kind of emotion. “These ruffians may actually come here,” he thought. “Thank Heaven, we have Jack here. I would have felt alarmed but for Jack; but Jack will tackle ’em if they dare come near.” Still the squire felt anything but happy. He stole quietly away, and sent Patterson up with a bottle of champagne for the doctor and Jack, and then he helped himself to an extra glass of port with a trem- bling hand. . ‘ k “Tt’s a terrible business,” he said—“‘terrible! I de- clare it makes me quite nervous—actually nervous, Mrs. Graham ;” and that lady admitted that she also felt a little upset. . “Fancy if this poor soul dies, whatever am I to do about it?’ went on the squire, looking at the vicar, whose face was very grave. | “T understood from you,” said Mr. Graham, ‘‘when these people first came to North Hall, that you knew something of them. I think, if I remember right, you said Mr. Brooke’s father had been a barrister?” “So the fellow told me,’ answered the squire, hastily; ‘‘and his mother, he said, was the daughter of a Dutch diamond merchant—I remember the con- versation perfectly; and he gave me a check, Gra- ham, a check for the year’s rent on Barclay’s Bank, and the check was honored, sir! Hadn’t I every reason then to suppose they were respectable ?” “And you asked for no references ?” : i “No, I did not,” said the squire, testily. ‘‘What reason had I to doubt them, driving up in their own earriage and giving a check on a first-rate bank? But Jack got me to write to Barclay’s to-day, and the police will be in possession of the facts by this time. And so there it stands, and if only the poor creature up stairs lives, she will be able to give us some in- - formation.” : ; ; But it was this doubt, this trembling of the balance between life and death, that made this Christmas festivity a very sad one, and Mrs. Graham and May were glad to leave the dinner-table and went into the drawing-room with the two boys, the vicar and the squire speedily following them. The only one of the party, indeed, who seemed erfectly composed and happy, was the infant Raachus This young gentleman had no sooner en- tered the drawing-room than he sank down on the most comfortable lounge he could find, and called his tall brother to his side. “How many helps had you, Jim?’ he asked, wit: | interest. “Quite enough. How many had you, Fred?’ an- swered the elder Graham, with a good-natured laugh. The fat little fellow held out his finger on this, and began to count. “Let’s see,” he said, ‘‘fish and soup don’t count, you know—they’re bosh—two beefs—prime—two turkeys—prime too—plum-puddin’, jelly, pheasant— but father gave me such a little bit of pheasant— raisins, orange, figs—that was all, I think, except a few nuts and a cake or two.” “And how do you feel, Fred ?” : “Prime!” said the little man, with a knowing laugh; ‘‘and I say, Jim, old fellow, I want a snooze, now, but if any coffee or tea comes round, wake me up like a good chap, as I don’t want to miss ’em.” His brother having promised to pay him this at- tention, the infant Bacchus leaned his head_ back, and in a few moments had fallen into a placid doze, his facé, which had grown red with his exertions at dinner time, subsiding into the deep vivid pink which he had inherited from his mother. But the family from the vicarage did not stay long after their return to the drawing-room. No one felt inclined for the usual round game with which this Christmas party ordinarily ended. The remem- prance of the other guest who lay so sorely stricken upstairs, and the haunting shadow which also might at any moment come unbidden, preventedany further social enjoyment. ; Mrs. Jenkins, who was a favorite at the vicarage, as in the hard winter-time she was very good in dis- tributing soups among the poor, came in to have a little chat with Mrs. Graham, of course upon the all- absorbing topic of the day. ‘ ‘ “T always thought there was something mysterious ‘about them, Mrs. Graham,” she said, sinking her voice into a confidential whisper ; ‘“‘but of course the dear squire will never listen to any ill of any one, But I never liked them, and I’ve often told Mr. Selby so.” } } “Not going to church, and not returning their neighbors’ calls, certainly looked as if there was something very strange; but we must not judge. Perhaps this’ French cook, Pierre, that they talk so much of, did it, and Mr. Brooke may have been away ; in this case, of course, the mystery will soon be cleared up.” : “T am sure I wish it may; it’s upset the squire and us allso. It’s been a great trial.” ; ; The two ladies talked together in this strain for a little while, and then the vicar rose and said he thought it was time they should go home. “I suppose Ican do no good; be of no help,” he asked, sadly enough, ‘‘to the unfortunate lady up st airs 9 “My dear Graham, she’s raving; she does not know one thing from the other—oh, no, no, poor soul, prayers or anything of that kind will do her no good. ) the doctor, too, says her one chance is to be AU ; kept perfectly quiet—thank you all the same,” an- swered the squire. The vicar and his family therefore went away, and after they were gone Mrs. Jenkins returned to the drawing-room for a little while to cheer the squire with her company, as she feared he might be dull. This lady never dined at the late dinner at the hall, but she presided at breakfast and lunch; rarely, however, seeing the squire and his son after the middle of the day. But on such an occasion as this she felt that she could without intrusion have a little friendly conver- sation with her employer, and the squire was ex- ceedingly pleased when he saw her comely face ap- pear in the door-way, for he was feeling very ner- vous on finding himself alone. ‘““Come in, come in,” he cried. had, Mrs. Jenkins!” “Most trying, Mr. Selby; if it had not been for you —the courage and promptitude you displayed in the morning, I think I would have just died of fear, and I don’t know how we would have got through the dinner. And then your great, great kindness in tak- ing in this poor sufferer—Mrs. Graham was just say- ing how few would have acted as you have done.” “Well, well, we must try to do our duty to our neighbors, you know, Mrs. Jenkins,” said the squire, very well pleased with the compliment, “though our neighbors in this case seem to have been a very strange lot.” “Mrs. Graham also suggested it may have been this Pierre that had tried to murder the lady for the sake of her jewels, as Dorothy Johnson, you see, says she used to wear rings, and none are to be found, and Mrs. Graham thinks that perhaps this wretch may have taken advantage of Mr. Brooke’s absence from home—and I know Mr. Brooke frequently went from home—at least I’ve been told so.” “*Pon my word, Mrs. Jenkins, I wouldn’t wonder if you’ve hit the right nailon the head. This scoun- drel may have taken advantage of his master’s ab- sence. You see he gotthe girl Dorothy out of the way. But, by the by, Dorothy can tell us this, though Brookemight have returned after she left, to be sure. Ay, ay, [ hope this isso. I hope Brooke will turn up, and then this horrible mystery will beset at rest. At all events we have done what we could.” “You have acted like an angel, squire. Don’t think I mean to flatter you. Your own conscience must tell you how noble and unselfish your conduct has been. And on Christmas Day, too. Howfew gentle- men would have sacrificed their comforts, risked an uncomfortable dinner, which I am sure you did, for a poor creature of whom you know so little.” “Jack persuaded me into it, I think. I was a little dubious. I will admit that, for how can we tell who this poor woman really is? But she’s our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins,’ added the squire, with a glow of self- conscious nature. “That alone constitutes a claim, you know, and we must not shirk our duties for the sake of self.” “You never do that, sir.” “Well, well, I try my best. Come, come, Mrs. Jen- kins, you must not break down.” (The widow was now giving evidence of coming tears.) ‘‘What would we do if we had you laid uptoo? Wecouldn’t get along without you, my dear madam.” “Oh, squire, how happy you make me to think, then, I am of some little use to you and the dear mo- jor, whom, indeed, I love asif he were a child of my own. And whatatender heart he has. But we know who he gets that from. He’s the very image of you, I always say, looks and all.” “Jack’s a fine fellow, there’s no doubt of that; and when you mention it, I do think there’s some little likeness between us.” And the squire went up to the mirror and gazed at himself reflectively. ‘Yes, I see a likeness—a family likeness—and, I dare say, in dis- position too.”* “Oh, yes, squire. The major’s so brave,and so gen- erous, and so unselfish; every one speaks well of him. Yes, you may well be proud of him. Mrs. Gra- ham was just saying what a fine young man he was, and I told her the more you knew him the better you liked him; and—and I think I can say that of his father too.’ And the widow looked down and blushed. The wary squire, however, was not to be led into any declarations of corresponding warmth. “Very kind of you, I am sure, madam,” he said— ‘“‘very kind to have such a good opinion of me. But “What a day we've “OH, SQUIRE, HOW HAPPY YOU MAKE ME!” AND THE WIDOW LOOKED DOWN AND BLUSHED. here I’m keeping you up gossiping, when you ought to be in bed, after such a trying day. By the by, Mrs. Jenkins, will you see that the doctor and Jack have something to eat and drink, for they got precious little dinner, I can tell you; and that poor girl, Dor- othy, I hope they have been looking after her.” “She’s not broke her fast, sir, except acup of tea, since she came into the house. That poor creature won’t let her out of her sight; and though I’ve of- fered to sit up with Mrs. Brooke, as Dorothy Johnson has stood there all day, Dorothy won’t hear of it, and I’m just afraid she’ll faint from weakness.” “Get her something to eat, my good creature. See about it at once, and give her a glass of port wine. Now good-night, good-night. Tell the major I hope he’ll come down and have a smoke before he goes to bed. And I hope you'll sleep soundly, Mrs. Jenkins; you mustn’t fancy every noise you hear is a burglar, you know!” and the squire gave a facetious little laugh. “Oh, no, sir,’ she answered, gently. “‘With you and the major in the house, I have no fear.” The squire thought, after she was gone, what a sen- | sible and discerning woman she was. | .“And a fine woman, too—yes, by Jove! a fine wo- | man!” reflected the little man. CHAPTER VIII. THE POLICE. It- was long past midnight before the frantic cries up stairs were quite stilled. Gradually, however, Mrs. Brooke’s arms relaxed their grasp round Doro- thy’s neck, and, utterly exhausted, the poor bruised head sank down upon the pillows, and the doctor, watching his patient, whispered in Major Selby’s ear: “Tf she could sleep now she would have a chance of recovery ; if not,’ he added, “there will be a little struggle, a few sighs, and it will be all over.” The three watchers in the room scarcely dared to breathe after this, lest the faintest noise should dis- turb the worn-out creature whose life was hanging on a thread. Selby saw Dorothy pinch her poor, red, work-worn arms black and blue to prevent her own eyes closing, which were heavy with fatigue and sleep. 7 Then presently they knew by Mrs. Brooke’s breath- ing that she was actually asleep, and the expression on her face changed from one of great fear and terror torest. Her perfect lips fell a little apart, the long eyelashes and the violet-tinted lids lay quietly over the eyes that recently had seemed starting from their sockets. The doctor gave a little pleased nod, and stole out of the room to get some really neces- sary refreshment, which Mrs. Jenkins’ careful hands had placed ready on a table a little way down the corridor. 7 But Dorothy and Selby never stirred. By and by the sufferer began to murmur in her sleep, but her dreams happily were not of the late dread expe- riences of her waking life. She kept babbling of the sea, and seemed to hear the break, break of the waves against the rock-bound shore. “He has blue eyes,” she whispered, presently, and Jack felt his cheeks tingle as he heard the words— “blue, like the sky; and the bridegroom told the bride he would sail in the summer sea, and she watched and waited—watched and waited re Jack knew very well as he listened of what she was dreaming. He had told her the story of the ill- fated bride, who had ‘‘watched and waited” for her bridegroom all through the long summer night from the luckless windows of North Hall. And this sad tale had evidently dwelt upon her mind. She re- peated the words several times, and then her mur- murs ceased, and apparently a deep sleep had fallen upon her; and Jack seeing this, went out to bring in the faithful girl who was watching her some bread and wine, for Dorothy Johnson, he now remembered, must be actually nearly fainting for want of nourish- ment. Tears came into poor Dorothy’s eyes as he quietly and silently placed the wineglass in her hand. The constrained position she had knelt in for hours, with Children Cry for Pitcher’s Gastoria. 1 Mrs. Brooke’s terrified grasp round her neck, must have been most trying, yet Dorothy had never mur- mured, and was now evidently quite touched by Jack’s kindness. After she had taken the wine, nature asserted it- self, and Dorothy, in the arm-chair by the bed, fell into a deep slumber. Then the doctor stole back into the room, and having given asatisfactory glance ortwo at his patient, he also composed himself to sleep. But Jack watched the pale, beautiful face lying on the pillows all through the night—watched her while the air grew chiller and chiller—until at length the gray winter dawn crept in, and then hearing a faint noise at the door of the room, he looked round and saw Mrs. Jenkins’ face, who beckoned him to come to her. ‘ “Do go to bed, please now, major,” she whispered in his ear, ‘‘and I will take your place.” Jack hesitated, and glanced at the bed. Mrs. Brooke lay sleeping;quietly, and so Jack decided to leave her in Mrs. Jenkins’ matronly hands, and going to his own room, which was quite close, flung him- self, dressed as he was, on the bed. and lay for some hours in unbroken and dreamless sleep. “MY DEAR JACK,” SAID THE SQUIRE, “D’YE KNOW I WAS BECOMING QUITE UNEASY !” He awoke with a start, and with a vague conscious- ness that some one was near him, and looking hastily up, he sawhis father’s brown wig and brown vel- veteen coat. “My dear Jack,” said the squire, as his son’s blue eyes were fairly open; ‘‘my dear boy, d’ye know I was becoming quite uneasy. It’s past twelve o’clock, Jack, and so I said to Mrs. Jenkins I would just go in and rouse you. It’s time you had your breakfast, Jack. Mrs. Jenkins will bring in your breakfast.” “Oh, no, father, ’ll get up. How is she 2?” ‘You mean the poor woman lying there, I sup- pose ?” answered the squire, pointing across the cor- ridor. ‘Oh, I believe Millar says he hopes she’ll pull through, now; but it’s a most disagreeable affair, most disagreeable! The police have arrived, Jack— yes, the police—and the chief constable thinks itis a most suspicious case. He is anxious to see you, and he says the moment she is able to give it, he will take the poor lady’s deposition.” “She is perfectly unable to give it.” “Yes, but he is naturally anxious to hear her ac- count of the mysterious disappearance of these two men, forIl am afraid Brooke must be concerned in it as well as that French rascal. It seems two men answering the description of Brooke and this Pierre, arrived in the early hours yesterday at one of the hotels near the Central Station at Oldcastle, in a car- riage drawn by a horse on its last legs with fatigue; and these fellows had several large packages along with them ; and they had the horse put up, and then sent for a porter to the station, and told the waiter at the hotel they were going by the first train south. And they had breakfast and did go, taking their packages with them, and telling the master they would leave the horse till they returned.” “Which they never will do, I presume?” “Certainly not; the hue and cry is after them now, and the horse won’t be any more use to them, and the police want some one to go and identify it if pos- sible—some one who knew the horse ; but though I’ve sccm. it, I could not swear to the brute myself—could you?’ “T have never seen it.” “Well, then, the chief constable and an inspector fellow with him want to see you and Dorothy John- son; and they’ve telegraphed all the information they’ve already got to Scotland Yard; but these ras- -als, you see, have had aday’s start, and I’ve little doubt they’ll be out of the country by this time.” “Well, l can see the chief constable,” said. Jack, “but I’ve nothing to tellhim. I dare say he does not know.” Jack, accordingly, had an interview with Chief Constable Dunne and Inspector Blackett, and was minutely questioned by these two officers about his knowledge of the tragedy at North Hall. “Did you know this lady personally, major?’ asked Chief Constable Dunne, a big and burly man, with a gay and debonair expression on his fresh- colored tace. “T knew her slightly,” said Jack, and his face flushed; and the squire, who was listening, raised his eyebrows in surprise, as Jack had never told his father of his brief acquaintance with their beauti- ful neighbor. “And—excuse my asking you—but had you any particular reason for going at such ¢ tly P On | pi ; : S & a such an early hour on | sir, and the bottle, and I took them home, and never Christmas morning to North Hall ?”’ “Thad a reason,” answered Jack, his b 7 ace | ‘ 7 E arn ie Cees ta eee ing, and I couldn’t get in, back or front, and then the now turning a dusky red; ‘‘a reason that seemed to myself to be absurd—and yet it sent me out, as you say, at that early hour. But on Christmas Eve I dined at Oldcastle at the barracks, and I walked home from the station about eleven o’clock; I left Oldcastle by the last half-past ten train, so it must have been about eleven o’clock; and to save time I crossed the fields at the bank of North Hall on my road here.” “Yes, major.” “It was avery stormy, gusty night, and just as I passed the hall—North Hall—I heard a single ery. I stopped to listen, but it was not repeated ; there were no lights visible in the hall, and I finally came to the conclusion that it had been the cry of some wounded sea-bird or animal. But still the remembrance of that strange cry haunted me, and I went out on Christmas morning because I wished to satisfy my- self that nothing had occurred. Then I saw Dorothy Johnson, the servant at North Hall, trying to obtain an entrance into the house, and from what she told me I became seriously alarmed.” See ae \ . > \ y mf MW /\ y < ” { aces CHa ne “MAJOR,” SAID DOROTHY, “SHE COULD TELL US NOW, I THINK, WHO FELLED HER.” Jack then detailed how he had climbed the yard wall, and found the poor dog lying with its throat cut, and how he and Dorothy had forced open the kitchen window by breaking the glass, and then how they had discovered Mrs. Brooke lying apparently at the point of death. “Can we see this Dorothy Johnson?’ then asked Chief Constable Dunne. “Certainly, certainly,” said the squire. ‘‘Any in- formation that it is possible for us to give you is quite at your service. Dorothy Johnson is at this moment in this house, Mr. Dunne. I told you that this un- fortunate woman, Mrs. Brooke, was brought here. My son and I, Major Selby and I, decided we could not leave this unhappy creature alone and unpro- tected at North Hall after such a terrible occur- rence having taken place there, and by Dr. Millar’s advice she was carried here, as we were, as it chanced, her nearest neighbors.” “It was extremely kind of you, Mr. Selby,” said Mr. Chief Constable Dunne. The squire graciously waved his hand. “T say nothing about kindness, Mr. Dunne,” he | in the bank, and the banker was unable to give Mr. said. ‘I conceived it to be my duty—a painful one I admit—for our Christmas festivities were sadly damped by the knowledge of this poor creature lying suffering up stairs; but we did what we could, and I hope she has had every attention in this house.” “No doubt of that. And nowean I see Dorothy Johnson ?”’ A few minutes later Dorothy Johnson entered the library where this conversation took place, and the chief constable at once proceeded to question her. Dorothy was nervous, but Jack Selby noticed that her manner suddenly became more dogged and re- served than usual. He at once guessed the cause of this. She was afraid of bringing any fresh trouble on her beloved mistress. “Nora, my girl, tell us what you know of this mat- ter? You were in serviceat North Hall. In what capacity %’ “T was the general servant,’’ answered Dorothy. “The general servant, eh? And this Pierre, what did he do?” “A vast deal. He cooked and waited. the door, and he ordered all things.” “And your master. Did he do nothing in the house ?”” “No. He mostly sat by hisself in the sitting-room down stairs, He was writing, Pierre said.” “And did you ever go into this sitting-room ?”’ “No; I never went in.” : “Not to take coal in, or dust up the fire 2?” “No. Pierre always carried tlie coals in there, and did up the room hisself. He said master couldn’t abide petticoats.” “Very bad taste in master, then. So you never were in this down-stairs sitting-room ?”’ “No; [never was inside.” _ ‘And your mistress—did she ever sit there ?”’ “No; mistress sat in the drawing-room. “Did she never go into the kitchen and order things?’ ‘Mistress did nothink of the sort!” (This was said very sharply). ‘She sat upstairs in the drawing- room, or walked in her fiower-garden.” “And had you any visitors at North Hall?’ The girl hesitated a moment before answering this question. “Sometimes folks used to eall.” “What sort of folks ?’ ee the parson, he comed twice, and the squire, and—— Jack never doubted at this instant that his un- lucky visit to North Hall was about to become public. “Any one else ?” urged the chief constable. “Folks with fish and that sort.’ replied Dorothy, and her dull gray eyes flickered as she answered, and Jack felt convinced she was keeping back his visit out of respect for her mistress. “Did you ever hear any quarreling—quarreling be- tween your master and mistress ?”’ Again that unsteady light shot through the dull gray eyes, but Dorothy answered, stoutly: “No, sir; none.” “Any quarreling between Pierre and his master ?’ Dorothy shook her head. “Quite good friends always, eh? An odd incident to happen in such a happy family, though. And did you attend upon your mistress—take up coals to the drawing-room, ete. ?”’ “Yes, I took the coals up, and did her two rooms.” “And was she kind to you?” ‘ The poor girl’s coarse skin grew almost purple at this question, and a mistof tears stole into her eyes. “Kind me afore.” “She was an amiable lady, then? And now, Dorothy, how did you happen to be out of the house on Christmas Eve, when these terrible injuries must have been inflicted on your good mistress ?” “It was that Pierre!’ answered Dorothy, vindic- tively. “Isee through it all now. He wanted me out 0’ the way, and he comed grinning into the kit- chen, with a bottle o’ spiritin his hand. ‘My good Scrub,’ he said—he used to call me ‘Scrub,’ with his impudence !—and he said, “This is a little bottle for the good mother at home, to drink in the Christmas- tide, and you, Dorothy, may stay all night and have a drink, too.’ Then I asked him if the mistress knew, and he said, ‘Yes, Scrub; madame sent a message He opened Ay, that kKind—none was nigh so kind to iN \ \ A\ va | { **Y CANNOT TELL THE TRUTH!” you may remain out for the night with your good mother, and sent a cake.’ And he gave me the cake, heard another word o’ all this till I went in the morn- major comed, and—and we got in and found her ;” and a sob here choked Dorothy’s utterance. ‘Well, well, Dorothy, don’t distress yourself,” said the chief constable; I won’t ask you any more ques- tions justnow. You would know this Pierre again, of course, if you saw him?’ “Wouldn’t I,eh? I would know him, whatever he did to hisself, among a thousand.” “Well, you must help us to find him by and by—I won’t trouble you any more just now, my good girl.” So Dorothy went away, and after she was gone the squire and the police officers had a lengthy con- versation, and finally it was determined to send Inspector Blackett up to London to pursue his in- quiries there. “Of course the moment the lady is able to give her account of this matter I must see her,’ said the chief constable. ‘‘In my opinion it’s as black against, one as the other of these twomen. I don’t believe, Monsieur Pierre was really a French cook.”’ “He’s been a confounded rascal, whatever he cried the squire. “They no doubt believed this poor woman to be dead when they left her,’’ answered Mr. Dunne. “Well, I hope she’ll live to have the pleasure of con- signing them to penal servitude for life; in which good work I shall do my best to help her.” CHAPTER IX. ALL SHE WOULD SAY. But there were grave fears for days after this at Yarbrough Hall, that Mrs. Brooke wouldnever live to tell her story. She was conscious at times, and sometimes unconscious. She was, however, always quiet now—too weak, indeed, to shriek and pray for help, as she had done during the first night, when Jack Selby and Dorothy had watched by her side. Her unconsciousness was a species of stupor, and her consciousness an overwhelming depression, from which it seemed impossible to rouse her. She would lie for hours with her large gray eyes wide open, fixed on vacancy. In vain Mrs. Jenkins tried to talk to her in her cheerful fashion; in vain the doctor told her that her injuries were going on splendidly; and in vain Dorothy would kneel beside her and kiss the poor bandaged hands, and bring her in the flowers and fruit which Jack privately ordered to be sent down from Covent Garden, and which he used to confide to Dorothy’s faithful keeping. Had Dorothy indeed not been of such homely countenance, a scandal might have arisen in the household, so often, when the heavy foot-pad of this substantial maiden was to be heard in the corri- dor, did Jack appear, anxious to learn the latest news from the sick room. And Dorothy soon became rather a favorite with the other servants, the steadfastness of her attach- ment to her unhappy mistress winning her the re- spect of these honest Northumbrians, and she was commonly called ‘‘Serubby” among them, although this was by no means used as a term of reproach. It was given her jocosely, in truth, on account of the Frenchman, Pierre, having engaged her originally as “a scrub.” And her devotion to Mrs. Brooke knew no bounds; her dog-like, patient fidelity remaining quite unshaken during the long weary days when her mistress seemed to notice nothing around her. In the meanwhile Chief Constable Dunne had by no means been idle, but he had learned nothing yet of the antecedents of J. Winter Brooke, the squire’s tenant, who had vanished so mysteriously. The banker on whom he had drawn the check for the year’s rent, had replied to Mr. Selby’s letter, but this threw no further light on the subject This gentle- man informed the squire that the person of whom he had written to inquire, had two years ago opened an account at their banking house, with a deposit of two thousand pounds, but that this sum had gradu- ally been withdrawn, and that he had now no assets Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria, yas 1? Selby any information of Mr. J. Winter Brooke’s whereabouts, or of his private character. This letter was shown by the squire to the chief constable, and considerably increased that gentle- man’s impatience to hear Mrs. Brooke’s account of the catastrophe at North Hall. But the doctor, for nearly three weeks, sternly forbade any allusion being made before his patient to the terrible night in which she so nearly lost her life. It would simply kill her, he said, and Major Selby also insisted that not a word should be spoken to Mrs. Brooke on the subject until the doctor declared there would not be the slightest danger in doing so. Thus the affair remained a profound mystery in the neighborhood, and people talked and wondered in vain. Pretty May Graham once or twice caHed at Yar- brough Hall to inquire how “the poor lady” (for so Mrs. Brooke was generally called) was getting on, and for some weeks the answers were far from satis- factory But one day the faithful Dorothy met Jack with a smile radiating her plain features. “She’s better to-day,” she said. ‘She spoke to me about ye, and said ye were very kind, and so was the squire.” “Do you think she would see me?” asked Jack, eagerly. “That I can’t say. She asked to get up; and, ma- jor,” and Dorothy lowered her voice, “I think she is anxious to know about things now; she asked how long she had been ill, and who brought her here. I think she remembers everything now. She could tell us now, I think, if she had a mind, who felled her on that awful night.” This opinion in a day or two became shared by the doctor and Mrs. Jenkins; and then the squire de- clared it was his duty to communicate with the chief constable. “Let me see her first,’ said Jack. “Jack, Jack, my dear boy,” answered the squire, nervously playing with his brown wig, ‘‘do you think this wise? Do you think it prudent? You are a young man, Jack, and there is no doubt now that this unfortunate woman has been connected with a set of scoundrels; and, in my opinion, the less you see of her the better, and she ought to leave this house as soon as ever she is able.” “We had better wait until she is able, at all events,” answered Jack; and the same day he sent a message by Dorothy to Mrs. Brooke, that he would like very much to say a few words to her. *T shall be glad to see him.” answered Mrs. Brooke, to Dorothy’s surprise, and five minutes later, Jack, nervous and very pale, entered her room and held out a trembling hand to her, in which she placed one of the small, cold ones that he had last seen so cruel- ly cut and stained. And when he looked again on her beautiful face he could searcely control his agitation. She-wvas white and wasted, but she was lovely still, and the wistful and pathetic look in her eyes profoundly touched Jack’s heart. “T—T—cannot thank you,” she faltered. “Please do not thank me,” answered Jack. “IT am happy—it makes me indeed happy to see you again so well; and—and I wished to see you to tell you that if there is anything I can do for you—that if you want any help——” Tears came into Mrs. Brooke’s gray eyes at these words. ‘ft have no friends,” she said, with quivering lips. “Do not say so,” said Jack, earnestly. “I ask you to think of me as one. I will do anything I can to as- sist you.” “You are very good.” “T wished to see you to-day,’ went on Jack, yet more nervously, “because there is a painful inquiry about to be made—to you, I am sure, most painful—” Mrs. Brooke started, and an exclamation escaped her pale lips. “T mean into the circumstances under which you | received your injuries,” continued Jack. ‘‘My father placed the affair in the hands of the police at the time, and now the chief constable of the district here is most anxious to hear from your own lips how, and by whom, you were so shamefully ill-treated.” “Have they discovered anything?” asked Mrs. Brooke, hoarsely. “No, they have not; the house was forsaken, you know, when you were found.” “They believed I was dead; they left me for dead!” said Mrs. Brooke, with momentary bitterness and passion, and she rose from her seat, deeply moved. “Why did you not let me die, Major Selby? Better that I were dead!” “T entreat you not to say so, nor to think so; I have mentioned this painful subject only te prepare you for these inquiries. I thought it best to prepare you.” “T cannot tell the truth.” “Mrs. Brooke, forgive me; but is this wise ?’ “You do not know, you do not know!” she an- swered, in uncontrollable emotion, walking hastily about the room and wringing her hands as she went; “T cannot tell it—it is impossible! impossible !” Jack did not speak; he cast down his eyes; he was agitated and distressed. “When is this man coming?’ Mrs. Brooke now asked, abruptly. “You mean the police officer? Probably to-mor- row.” “T shall be prepared, then; and they have discov- ered nothing, you say ?”’ “T beiieve nothing.” “T thank you very much for telling me, Major Selby,” and she looked at him with her sad and wist- ful eyes. ‘‘I feel you would give me some pity if you knew the miserable story of the woman whose life you have saved. But for the sake of others—of others whom I cannot injure—my lips are sealed. But after this man is gone—before I leave here—I will tell you what I dare.”’ “Tf you will trust me you shall never regret it.” “That I believe; you have an honest face; but leave me now—I must think; I must settle what I mean to say.” Jack bowed and left her with a troubled heart; it seemed to him now that the dark secrets of her life must ever lie as a shadow between them. And the next day, when Chief Constable Dunne did arrive and asked to see Mrs. Brooke, both the police- officer and the squire soon very plainly perceived that she meant to screen her would-be murderers. The constable assumed a smiling, benignant, al- most fatherly air when he first addressed Mrs. Brooke. He had heard so much of this pretty woman, he was naturally interested in her, and he also natu- rally believed that he could easily induce her to tell him whatever he wanted to know. *T congratulate you on your recovery, madam,” he said, with his best bow; ‘‘and I trust now you will be able to give me such information that it may lead to the well-deserved punishment of the man or men who so seriously injured you.” “T fear it is out of my power to do so,” answered Mrs. Brooke, steadily, ‘‘as | remember nothing after Iwas struck down until I found myself hereina state of semi-unconsciousness.” “But you remember who did strike you down, Mrs. Brooke ?”’ asked the chief constable. “No; Iwas struck down in the dark on the stair- case. LIremember leaving the drawing-room, and I was crossing the landing that lies between that room and my bedroom, when something struck me so ter- rible a blow on my head that I fell forward, and I have no further distinct recollection of anything.” “Who was in the house when this happened ?”’ “As far as I knew, my husband and our French servant, Pierre.” “Had you had any disagreement with that man Pierre?’ A faint color rose to Mrs. Brooke’s pale face at this question. “He had been insolent to me in the morning,” she said, ‘‘and I had complained of him to Mr. Brooke.” “Ah! And have you had any communication with Mr. Brooke since this affair ?”’ **T have not.” “What is Mr. Brooke’s profession, may I inquire?’ ‘He has no profession.” hien ! 5 A gentleman of independent means, then ?”’ “Yes. “And where is his home 2?” rye had no settled home until we took North Tall. ‘““May I ask your maiden name, Mrs. Brooke 2?” “T decline to answer that question, and I do not see the object of these questions. I make no charge against any one, and I understand none of Mr. Sel- by’s property was removed at the time Mr. Brooke and Pierre were supposed to leave North Hall.” “T believe that is so, Mr. Selby,” said the chief constable, looking at the squire, who nodded his head in reply. ‘Then what is the object of these inquiries ?” asked Mrs. Brooke. “You were nearly murdered, madam!’ said the chief constable, with some energy. “But I do not know by whom, and therefore I can- not help you to find the person who injured me.” “Where is Mr. Brooke at present?’ “T do not know.” “Then you have nothing to tell me, Mrs. Brooke ?”’ “T have not.” The chief constable felt himself nonplused, but he did not say this. “Perhaps, madam, I shall require to see you again,” he said; ‘‘the London police may probably be able to unearth this Monsieur Pierre.” Mrs. Brooke merely bowed her head, and the chief constable felt himself almost compelled to.bow too, and leave the room, followed by the squire; Major Selby, who had been present during the interview, remaining alone with Mrs. Brooke. With a weary sigh she put her hand over her face as the door closed behind the squire. “YT fear you are very tired?’ said Jack, advancing toward her. “Not very,” she answered, quietly. ‘Major Selby,” she added, looking up in his face, ‘I promised to make some explanation to you. Will you listen to it now ?” [TO BE CONTINUED. ] 0 BECAUSE an acquaintance expresses an opinion which does not agree with yours, do not lose your temper and call him a little fool. It is too much to expect that every fool can come up to your standard.