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rART TWO.
A HIDDEN FOE.
A STORY OF LOVE AND MYSTERY.
By 6. A. HEUTY,
Author of “the curse of carne’s hold,” “Gabriel allen, m. p." etc., etc.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED .]
[SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.)
Chapter i.—ln the month of November, 1862.
Mrs Clitheroe, a lady of fashion, at Bath, hears
for the first time from her broth, r, Mr. Alger
non Corbvn, of Corbyn Court, of the latter’s
secret marriage eighteen years before to the
daughter of a post master. One child had been
the issue of the marriage, but the mother had
died twelve months after the nuptials. The
daughter had been brought up and educated
secretly at St. Malo. The news causes Mrs.
Clitheroe chagrin and annoyance, chiefly on
accouut of the consequent disinheritance of her
own son, who had been looking forward to suc
ceeding to the estates of Corbyn. After Mr.
Corbyn had informed his sister, he decides to
place the papers of his marriage and the birth
of bis daughter in the hands of the family
solicitor, Mr. Kerris, and then pay a visit to his
daughter at St Malo He drives with Brandon, bis
servant, to the station, but the horse stumbles
over some stones, and both are thrown out into
the road.
Chapter n.—Mr. Corbyn, after being picked
up. is found to be iu a dying condition and
death soon puts an end to Lis sufferings. The
body is taken to the house of Mrs. Clitheroe.
When alone with the dead man she searches his
pockets and discovers the documents relat
ing vo his marriage and the birth of his daugh
ter. She resolves to destroy the papers and to
secure to her son the inheritance of Corbyn
Court. In seeking for papers Philip Clitheroe
and the family lawyer discover letters from the
daughter of Mr. Corbyn to her father, thus in
dicating that he (Philip) was not the absolute
he r The lawyer and himself, however, are un
able to say whether the child is legitimate or
otherwise.
CHAPTER 111.
CONSTANCE CORBYN.
“It is an awkward business, James, a very
awkward business,” Mr. Ferris, sr., said
irritably. I cannot think why men will
make tools of themselves, and then, as a
matter of course, leave it to us do to the un
pleasant part of the busi mss. I don’t agree
with you that it is so extremely improbable
that Corbyn should have married, or that,
having married, he should have gone on
concealing it after his father’s death. From
what I have seen of the man, I have al
ways regarded him as an ass, and there is
no ass worse thau the man who is puffed u p
because people of the same name have
lived in the same house some hundreds of
years. It’s no credit to him if they have;
it simply shows that they were respectable
in .U.ocrities who had not spirit to join re
bellions, or get engaged ia plots, or even to
run into extravagances. In my opinion
Corbyn was just the sort of man who
would be fool enough to make a secret mar
riage, and weak enough to he afraid to
make an honest confession of it, and face
the talk of his neighbors afterward. Bah!
I wouid rather have a rogue for a client
than such weak creatures as these.” He
threw down the pen he had in his hand, and
rubbed his head irritably. “Well, I sup
pose what yon suggest is the best thing to
be done. Either vou or Meredith bad better
go over to St. Malo and find the girl out;
the people she lives with will be sure to be
known.”
“I think I had better go myself,” the
younger man said. “It will be a very un
pleasant business, but 1 think I could do it
some what more sympathetically than Mere
dith.”
“Yes, I surpose you could,” Mr. Ferris
admitted. “Meredith is au excellent clerk,
but scarcely a man for a delicate mission.
You see, in the first place you will have to
break the news of her father’s death to the
girl; fortunately it is not likely she can
have any very lively affection for him, as
she seems to have seen him only once a
year; however, there is never any telling. I
have seen so many instances of women
caring for worthless brutes, that I believe
anything is possible with them. Then when
that part of the business is over, you will
have to find out what she really knows
about her birth, whether she has any docu
ments relating to it, any clew that we can
follow up to find out whether Corbyn was
married to her mother or not. As you say
young Clitheroe has given you carte
olanche to make any monetary arrange
ment you think proper—and I consider him
a young fool for doing so—that part of your
business will be easy. Now don’t go and
make a fool of yourself, James; it isn’t be
cause young Clitheroe is a fool that you
sh uld neglect his interest and allow your
self to be so worked up m by the sight of a
Kiri in tears as to make arrangements of
altogether unnecessary liberal ty. I know
what you young fellows are; vou lose your
Beads altogether directly you see a vouns
woman in the case.” ®
I'* wiU try and keep my head, father.”
well, well, this is all very annoying; of
course, you will get back as soon as you
em’” yull know lIOW busy we are at pres-
I know, sir. I will cross to-night to
wis, and go straight down from there. I
ow t „' VaS , le aa hour mort ’ tha “ I can help
Pleasant one 8 ”" 668 - “ * far from a
ta^Ji 1 pr,itty ' Utlo hOUBe standing de
eacned commandmg a view over the town
and uo 0 ’ , and the Bea beyond, dwelt M.
ana Madam Duport; it would perhaps have
th, n ;' ,r f, C ; ,rreUt *?’ put the lacl y Hrst, for
, CouM be no doubt that she was the
MaW S spirit of the establishment.
ia ame Duport was a native of Jersey, her
fcav Wf \ S “ cultivator on a small scale, and
extent* 't a T ly .? ut of 411 Proportion to the
t o r f i IS he "os glad to accept
to t„L an El ’K lish visitor to the island
nur^n a fd n tbe . eldel “ : of hls “ls, as a
land I“ iAA Bbe had gone awa y t 0 Ell S
wi 1 ? dld not retuni £or fifteen years,
t,, r ? an o came back with what seamed to
bt tlo fortune. She had only
f tnamed for three years in the nursery.
Positioni"‘ Btress had promoted her to the
Prudent l her own . maid - Annette was
needui and economical, she was a good
a,KI >‘ a “ a genius for dress
her n Ist rose' 1 ’ “ she had tbe reversion of
lav T,v gowns, she had been able to
tugs. ' a niost every penny of her earn
drurm reSS . b< V' dled after a painful Ul
witn untir g W J uch Annette had nursed her
:-r u . ntlrln K devotion. As the only daugii
-I.adn J f ‘ ar h ned tt “; y ‘* ar before, her master
mad* h, r' t,ber ueed f or her services, but he
‘udwith ti P res ent of a hundred pounds,
ywirs L th ‘* “ and , her savings of fifteen
b,-,s W( “ r °, tUrnßa to Jersey. Her stag
be,r, * Bbort one, for she bad already
port, year® to Victor Du
al. . Au„!sta k ! Preach in London. Ho
rw ‘i'.abiv^tt ha ‘ i talkod tbe matter over
u O(tu Us ' HK- Were “O longer young and
four,“be was 30, he was twelve
must wait a little longer, Victor.
•W
My lady is ill, the doctors say she will never
recover. She lias been a very good friend
to me, and I will not leave her. It may not
be many months, and I do not suppose I
shall be losing my time, for her husband is
generous. We have always agreed that we
will go to St. Malo wheu we are married.
Life would be very dull here. With your
earnings and mine we can buy a pretty
bouse and furnish it in English fashl in.
You can give less, ns in English, and I will
look after the house and let lodgings to
English visitors. We ought to be able to do
very comfortably; we are sure to let duriug
the season, for English people like being
with someone who speaks their tongue aud
understands their ways.”
And so a few weeks after Annette’s re
turn home, M. Duport arrived to claim her,
and as soon as they were married the
house at St. Malo was bought and fur
nished.
This was seventeen years ago. Madame
Dupoi t was now 47. but her cheeks were
still rosy, her eyes bright, Iter foot light aud
active, and her figure trim. She would
have passed anywhere as ten years
younger than her real age. Except that
she had grieved a little because she had
never been blessed with children, Madame
Duport had scarcely known a care. For
fifteen years she had been a favorite ser
vant, for another seventeen she had been
absolute mistress of her house, and had
been, as she herself admitted, exceptionally
lucky. This good fortune began within a
fortnight of her settling at St. Malo. There
had been no demand at present for M. Du
port’s services as a teacher of English, but
he had iu accordance with his wife’s in
structions decided to go down regularly to
meet the diligences and steamers.
“Do not push yourself forward, Victor.
English people are always suspicious of any
one who thrusts himself upon them. Stand
by and wait. If you see people who have
lost their luggage, or who can only speak a
little of the language, and who seem con
fused and bewildered go up to them and
lift your hat and ask if you can be of any
use. There is nothing lost if they want to
go to a hotel. Take them there by all
means, and give them all the assistance you
can. You will meet them aecidetWally a
day or two afterward, they will recognize
you and may perhaps by that time have
made up t heir minds to take lodgings. You
will bring the subject round to that if you
will speak to them and mention that your
wife, who has been lady’s maid in an En
glish family, has apa-tments which would
perhnpg suit them. If at your first meeting
you find they wish to go into lodgings at
once, the matter will be easy.”
The very first day that M. Duport carried
out his wife’s instructions, a gentleman and
lady landed by the boat. From their ap
pearances they were evidently English and
were at once surrounded by touts from the
hotels.
The Englishman hesitated and said to the
lady in her oivn language:
“I suppose, Constance, we must go to a
hotel for a day or two, and we can then look
round for lodgings to suit us.”
This was Victor’s opportunity. He
stepped forward and raised his hat and said
in English:
“Burden me, sir, but if you intend to go
into lodgings, tny wife, who has been lady’s
maid in an English family, has apartments
that might suit you and mada ne. It is a
detached house with a pretty garden and a
fine view of the sea.”
“That sounds just the thing, Constance.
What do you think?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, eagerly, “it would be
so nice being with people who speak En
glish.”
“Do you take other lodgers,” the gentle
man asked, turning to Victor.
“We have only one set of apartments,”
he replied.
“Well, 1 suppose we may as well go and
see them, but what shall we do with onr
luggage?”
“The house lies at the top of the hill, sir,
and is perhaps rather far for madams to
walk, but 1 will with your permission call a
fiacre which will take her and the luggage
up. If, when you arrive there, you find the
rooms will not suit you, the vehicle will be
at my charge.”
“That is a fair offer anyhow, Constance,
and we had better accept it.”
The lady took her place in the vehicle
that Victor brought up. The luggage,
which was heavy, was piled up in it. M.
Duport and the Englishman walked on in
front up the steep st eets.
“You speak English very well, mon
sieur.”
“I have had the honor of being a teacher
of French in London for twenty years,” M.
Duport replied. “I have but lately re
turned, and new teach English to such as
mav require it here in my native town.
“I hope that I shall like your place, for I
am not good at French, and my wife talks
very little of the language. We are
likely to stay here for some little time, and
it will be a great comfort to her having a
woman with her who speaks Englisa.”
Constance Corbyn was delighted with the
apartments, with tbe garden surrounded by
high walls, except on the side looking sea
ward, and above all with Annette.
“This is delightful, Algernon,” she said
when they were alone; “it is almost as good
ns being in England. How fortunate we
are in finding s ich a place.”
Nor was Madame Duport less pleased.
“This is a stroke of luck indeed, Victor,
just at the end of the season to get lodgers
who will stay here for three or
four months, for it is easy to see
that they will be here for that time. It is of
couse a little strange, but that is not our
business, they agreed to our terms without
bargaining, which is all that concerns us.”
“Wnat is there strange, Annette?”
“Ah, but you men are stupid; why should
an English gentleman, for it is easy to see
that ho is a gentleman, bring his wife to
St. Malo to be confined instead of taking
her home to some friends; there is a mys
tery in it, Victor, but it is none tbe worse
for that; where there is a mystery there is
money to be made.”
For two months Algernon Corbyn and his
wife lived in perfect contentment and hap
piness at “Bello Vue,” for so Madame Du
port had named their house. Then came
tbe event that spoilt Algernon Corbyn’s life.
A child was horn, and a week later its
mother laid in the grave. No one could
have been kinder or more attentive than
Madam Duport had been during that terri
ble time; she had become much attached to
her lodger, and her death was a real grief
to her.
“She was an angel,” she said, wiping her
eyes, as she sat with her husband on the
evening after the funeral. “She was to >
good for her huslaind. He is pleasant and
he loved her, but he is like men, he loved
himself roora He is selfish, I am sure of
it; while she thought always about him,
SAVANNAH. tiA., SUNDAY. JULY 27. 181)0.
poor angel. Perhaps it is best for her, for
she would have many troub'ex in store. He
would have tired of her In time. Ah, these
men, but they are selfish. - ’
“I atn sure, Annette—” M. Duport re
monstrated, but she waved the personal
question aside, and he went on. “But you
said the other day that you had changed
your mind, Aunette, aud that you were
convinced now that they were married.”
“Yes, I am sure of it, though I did not
think so at first. When we were talking
together a week before the child was born,
she said something about her marriage to
me. lam sure that she was not lying; at
any rate she believed that she was married.
You will see, Victor, that he will ask me to
take care of the child.”
“Why should he, Annette?”
“Because married or not married there is
a secret in the affair. He could not take
his wife home, or he would not have
brought her here, and, therefore, he will not
know what to do with the child. It will
seem to him an easy wav out of bis difficul
ties to leave her here with me.”
“And you will say—”
“I shall, of course, say yes; the child will
tok9 ur> no room in the house. I shall have
a bonne tor her, a girl who will be useful
to me also when we have lodgers. The baby
will be no trouble, and no doubt ha will
offer pay well. A selfish man is ready to pay
woll. A selfish man is ready to pay any
thing to save himself trouble. You will
see.”
Annette’s judgment was speedily justi
fied. The bell rang a few minutes after
ward. She was absent a quarter of an
hour, and when she returned to her hus
band she said:
“I wa right, Victor, he has asked me to
take care of the child at present. He tells
me that he married without his father’s
consent, and that he cannot take the child
home duriug bis lifetime. He will pay us
£IOO a year to take care of her. What do
you think of that? It is magnificent, and it
may last for years. Oh, it was a good day
when I sent you down to meet the steamer,
Victor. I have told him he must go down
to the Maitre and register the birth of the
child. Ho will do that early to-morrow,
and will leave for Paris directly he has
done it.”
“But suppose you never hear of him
again, Annette,” M. Duport said, cau
tious’y.
“I have no fearof that, Victor. Ido not
admire his character, but he will not do
that; he was fond of the m ither, and he
will not desert the child. He will to-morrow
give me half a year’s payment in advance.
He says he will come over from time to
time to see the child, but 1 do not think that
we shall see him often.”
As time went on, and no children were
born to Madame Duport, she came to re
gard the little girl as her own. She had
been right in her conjecure that its father’s
visits would not be frequent, and indeed it
was not until Constance was 3 years old
that he again made bis appearance at St.
Malo. He had par ticularly requested that
sho snould be taught English as soon as
she could speak, and the child was already
able to prattle with equal facility in that
language and in French. Her father was
much pleased with her appearance and
manner, and spent several days at Belle
Vue, where it happened the rooms were at
the time vacant.
After that he had come once a year, and
as upon the occasion of these visits he al
ways came provided with a store of presents
purchased in Paris, not only toys, but
dresses, hats and cloaks, the child came to
look forward eagerly to the visits. When
she was 10 years old, he told Madame Duport
that he would henceforth double the allow
ance he paid if she would take no other
lodgers, a proposal to which she very will
ingly agreed. He also requested that she
should be sent to the best school in the
town, and as she got on, h ave the advan
tages of professors in mus e and drawing,
he undertaking all these expenses.
“He must have come into money,” An
nette said to her husband after he had left,
“perhaps he has marri -d again a lady with
money. Perhaps his father is dead.”
“Then why should he not have her home?”
M. Duport asked.
“Because he is a man,” Madame Duport
said, in a tone of contempt, “and men hate
trouble and talk. Bah! they are poor crea
tures.”
This was rather hard upon M. Duport,
who certainly spared no trouble, and who
had by this time a clientele and taught
English in several schools, and was dubbed
professor. He was as food of the child as
was his wife, and when not engaeed was
her constant companion in her walks, and
at home when Madame Duport was occu
pied with domestic matters. Constance had
been but a few days at school when she re
turned flushed and breathless, for, accus
tomed to English ways, Aunet.te had not
brought her up rigidly, according to French
notions, and when out with her she would
run or walk as she chose, and had grown up
healthy and strong and natural.
"Madame,” she burst out, “I want to
know why I am here instead of being in
England with my papa? The girls have
been asking me, and I could not tell them;
and they looked very disagreeable, as if it
was a sin that I should not know. Why is
it?”
Annette had been dreading this question
for some time, for she knew that it would
come sooner or later.
“lean only tell you, Constance, what
3 our father thought right to tell me. He
was married without the consent of his
father. People cannot marry without their
pareuts consent in France, but they can in
England. Still, of course, if they do so their
fathers can leave all their money away
foom them; so you see your father was
obliged to keep his marriage a secret. No
doubt if your dear mother had lived your
father would in time have taken her home
with him and would in time tiave gone
hand in hand with her to his father, and
would have said, ‘this is my wife, you can
not help forgiving me and loving her,’ and
indeed no one could have known her with
out loving her. But when she died he and and
not care, I suppose, to brave bis father’s
anger until you grew older, so that he could
take you back, as he would have done her,
and now you see he is having you educated
so that he can be proud of you when you go
home.”
“I don’t think I want to go home,” Con
stance said. “I am very happy here with
you and M. Duport. Must Igo if Ido not
want to?”
“Of course you must go with your father
when he says it is time, child, but it will be
a sore day for us here.”
“But when will it be?”
“Ah, that I cannot tell you. I should
thin* when you grow up, or, perhaps, if
your grandfather dies, before that.”
“If I had a little girl,” Constance said,
decidedly, "I should keep her with me. 1
should not mind what any one said.”
“Very likely, deary,” Annette said, “but
you see all people are not alike, and then
things are different in England.”
“I don’t think I should like England. The
people I see here in summer look merry and
good-tempered, hut they dress strangely
and wear ugly hats and talk aud laugh so
very loud. ”
"Yes. dear, but than what you see are,
most of them, not the best sort; only people
who come across for a week’s holiday, and
they do not dress like that at home.”
“ Why should they do it here, than?" Con
stance asked, indignantly.
“It l a way tuey hare, dear. When they
go to the seaside or travel, they wea'' hats
aud dresses aud thing* they would not think
of wearing ia the streets at home. It is
their way.”
“Then I think it is a very ugly way, and
when I go to England I shall dress as a taffy
always. A lady ought to lo >k l.ke a lady,
ought she not, madame?”
‘' Well, yes, dear, I suppose she should,
and you will fi id that most real ladies do
so, but, as I said, a great many of these
people who you see hero are not ladies, not
such ladies as I was accustomed to see in the
family where I lived, anyhow."
“I do not want to go to England,
nmilamc, and 1 shall tell papa so next tune
he comes.”
“I should not do that,” tnadame said,
hastily. “Of course, if he asks you if you
are in any hurry to go away with him you
can say no, but he would not be pleased if he
thought that you were set against your owu
people.”
Constance did not answer, hir tossed her
bead and walked off into the garden.
“She is like her mother in some things,”
Madame Duport said to herself, looki g
after her. “She is like her something in
face, and she has got her smiles and pretty
ways, aud she has an affectionate nature,
too, like her, but there it ends. She has
got a will of her own aid is not to be led
as her dear mother was. I don’t know
where she gets it from, and that way of
hers of tossing back her head aud carrying
herself as if she were a little duchess. She
reminds me of him in feature sometimes,
hut he is weak and selfish. I always told
Victor so; and she is strong willed and
never thinks of herself. She is just like the
girls I used to sea at my lady's; straightfor
ward aud honest and natural. Anyone
could see that she is English at once by her
walk and her manner, in spite of tae French
fashion of her dross. Her father never
comes without saying, ‘Make her as E igiixh
as you cau, madame:’ and I have done my
best. I heard two English women say the
other day when I was with her down iu the
market place, ‘Look at that girl—what a
regular English face: but of course she is
French, for she was chattering away in
French to that wmnan she is with; besides
she is dressed in French fashion; but sho is
as English as can be in looks, and she stops
out without mincing.’
“They talked quits loud, as is the way
with this sort of people before foreigners,
making sure that they cannot understand
their language; and they looked nicely sur
prised when 1 turned round and said: ‘Per
haps you are right, madaine, and perhaDS
you are wrong;’ aud walkel on again with
out taking any more notice of them. When
she grows up tior father will find that he
cannot twist her round his finger like he
could her mother. Poor child! I am afraid
she will have trouble. She is hot and im
petuous, and full of heart. He is cold, aud
hasn’t the heart the size of a walnut. He
is a poor creature although he does pay
well."
In the seven years that had since passed
Cjnstanco Corbyn had grown up straight
a:d tall. Her figure was scarcely formed
yet; far less so than those of her school
mates of the same age. Her manner was
somewhat quiet, for altb ugh she seldom
sp >ke of it now, she thought a great deal of
her singular position, thus brought up in a
foreign land and knowing nothing of her
position save that her father seemed a
wealthy man. She had never spoken to him
on the subject. At first she hud been silent
because Annette had told her that it might
vex him to ask questions; of late years be
cause she was too proud to broach the sub
ject until he did so himself. She was a favor
ite at .school, but a spiteful tongue would
occasionally bring the hot blood to her face
by some sueeri g remark as to the mystery
which hung over her position.
For her father she felt no love. Such af
fection as had been purchased in her child
ish days by presents had gradually died
away, and a feeling of angry sesentment at
his silence had taken its place. There was
no sympathy whatever between her warm
nature and his cool one, but at the bottom
of it all, was an unconscious championship
of her dead mother. Annette had never
spoken a word to her against her father,
but whenever she spoke of her ra ither
there was so much pity aud commiseration
in the constantly uttered “Poor angel,”
“Poor lamb,” that it led Constance to feel
that her mother had not been fairly
treated by him. There was no leal heartin
the labored excuses Annette made for her
strange bringing up abroad. She herself as
she grew up had in her intercouse with her
f ther found out that between his nature
and hors there was scarcely a poiut of simi
larity.
However, she was soon to get to the bot
tom of the mystery. He had on the occa
si n of hls last visit said:
“The next time I come, Constance, I
shall probably take you away with me and
present you to your relations in England
You will bo of an age then to take your
place ut the head of my establishment. Wo
6ball perhaps go for a few months’ tour to
give you maimers, and set you at your ease.
I am happy to say that you have turned out
just hb I should wish you.”
‘ ‘I wonder,” the girl said, bitterly, that
night as she stood before her looking-glass,
“whether if I had turned out differently he
would ever have hid me home at all.
Madame says that though I am thin and
not much to look at now, I shall be pretty
prasen ly. and I suppose papa thinks so,
too, though lam sure I don’t see it. I am
not a bit rosy and round-faced as I used to
be. S ill he thinks so, and thinks I shall
look well at the head of his establishment,
and so he’s going to place me there. If I
had been squat and ugly I expect I snould
have stayed this side of the water all my
life, and he would have given me a dot to
get a good husband in Sc. Malo. I would
not go it it was not for mother. If he ac
knowledges me he must acknowledge her,
which he never had courage enough
to do while she was alive.”
A year had passed since then, and An
nette’s predictions had been fulfilled. Con
stance Corbyn was not what is usually
called a beanty, but her face, with its
broad, smooth forehead, soft, earnest eyes
and tender mouth, strengthened by the
firm and somewhat square chin, was one
that most men would look at twice. Her
figure was still slender, and over rather
than under the middle bight. Tnere was a
certain air of pride m the carriage of the
head and figure, an unconscious protest
against those who had tried to humiliate
her.
One day at 12 o’clock jost as breakf ist
was over, the sorvant came in and said
that an English gentleman wished to
speak with M. Duport. She brought in a
card.
•‘Who U it, Victor?”
“I know not,” he replied, glancing at it.
“It is a Mr. James Ferris of Lincoln’s Inn.
That is a place for lawyers. I will go and
see what he wants.”
“I have come over, M. Duport,” the
young man began, “upon a very painful
mission. I may say to begin with that
our firm are solicitors to Mr. Corbyn’s
family.”
M. Duport’s attitude at ones changed. He
eyed his visitor sharply with a look of sus
picious scrutiny.
“Do I understand." he said, “that you
have come to speak on business connected
with Mr. Corbyn?”
“That is so, ,\L Duport.”
“In that cuse, monsieur, I shall with your
permission request Madame Duport to be
present. She has a clear bead and I should
wish her to hear auy communication that
you have to make.”
“I shall be glad to have the advantage of
Madame Duport’s presence,” Mr. James
Ferris sail, politely.
M. Dupor* went to the door.
“Annette,” lie cried, and then as his wife
came out from the salte, “This gentleman
has business with you also.”
Somewhat surprise.!, Madame Duport fol
lowed her husband into the sitting room.
James Ferris rose and bowed.
“ This gentleman, Aunette, belongs to the
firm who manage the business affairs of
Monsieur Corbyn.”
Annette’s face changed as rapidly as
that of her husband had done. So at last
sue was going to bear someth lag. But why
send over a lawyer? And she, too, looked
suspiciously at James Ferris.
“In the hrst pia e, madanie,” he said, “I
have a communication to make which will
doubtless be painful to you and still more
so to the youug lady residing with you.”
Annette gave him no assistance, but kept
her eyes with a steady inquiring look upon
his fac *, while her fingers played with her
dress impatiently.
“Our client, Mr, Algernon Corbyn,” he
went on, “was a few days since thrown from
his vehicle and killed upon the spot.”
A low “A—h”caine from Annette’s half
closod lips, while M. Duport uttered an ex
clamation botokoniug at once surprise and
regret.
“I thought it best,” James Ferris went
on, “to acquaint you, in the first place,
with this iu order that you might break t le
sad intelligence to his daughter. It would
come much better from you thau it would
from a stranger."
“Apres?” Annette said, still sitting im
moveable.
“The next part of my duty,” James
Ferris went on, wishing from the bottom of
his hoart that he had not volunteered to un
dertake this unpleasant business, “will be to
ass you some questions if you will bo good
enouzh to answer them. In the course of
some investigations into the papers of the
late Mr. Corbyn by his nephew and myself,
wo came upon some letters from which we
learned the fact, altogether unsuspected by
us, that Mr. Corbyn had left a daughter,
and that she had been brought up in your
charge. Beyond the fact ot her existence
and age, we learned nothing, and as the so
licitor of the family, 1, therefore, deemed it
my duty to como over to obtain such infor
mation concerning her as you could afford
ine. I may say that Mr. Corbyn has died
without, so fir as we know, leaving a will.”
A heavy cloud wa- gathering on Madame
Duport’s face; her brows nearly met across
her forehead; there was an angry sparkle iu
her eye and an added color to her cheek. M.
Duport, who was not unfamiliar with these
symptoms, discreetly held his t mgue.
“vVbatsorc of information do you re-
quire?” she asked slowly.
“Any information that you can givo me,
Madaine. You see we are entirely in the
dark, wo have simply the letters of the
young lady herself to her father. What we,
require is of course information such as will
enable us to place this young lady in pos
session of her rights as soon as we ascertain
what those rights are. I may say that when
the pro >fs are fo thcoming there will be no
opposition whatever on the part of Mr.
Corbyn’s nephew, Mr. Clitheroe, who has
been brought up to regard himself as Mr,
Corbyn’s n tural heir. 1 can assure you
that my visit is a friendly one, and that you
will be wrong to regard me as hostile. As
the solicitor to the family my duty is simply
to Bee that the person entitled to the prop
erty, whoever he or she may be, shall obtain
legal possession of it. My first question
then is, have you or she, the young lady,
any documents belonging to Mr. Corbyn in
your possession*”
l ‘Tais-toi, Victor,” Madame Duport said
sharply, as she saw her husband prepare to
speak.
“It seems to mo,Monsieur, that it will not
be wise for us to entrust such documents as
we may have concerning a matter so vital as
the future of our child Constance—for she
has been as our child from the day she was
born—to a stranger. I ask you should we
not rather place them in the hands of a
law3 r er here and instruct him to take the
legal stops to place Constance in the posses
sion of her rights.”
“Undoubtedly, madame, you can take
that stop; and I can only repeat that my in
structions from Mr. Clitheroe are to make
no opposition whatever, as soon as I am
furnisiiei with legal proof that this young
lad y is the daughter of Mr. Corbyn aid his
w ife,” and James Ferris laid an accent on
the last word.
“Do you venture to say that Mr. Corbyn
was not ma. ried to that angel who died
here?”
“Not at all, madame; Isay nothing, for I
know nothing. I only know that this
young lady wrote for years to Mr. Corbyn
as his daughter. Wo do not know as much
as the name of her mother, nor—except
from the fact that she is not mentioned in
bor daughter’s letters—do we know of her
death. I may tell you that the documents
that will be require 1 are, in the first place,
proof of the marriage of Algernon Corbyn
with this lady; and, in tho second, proof
that this young lady in your care is the
daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Corbyn, born
after their marriage.”
“The latter you can find for yourself,”
Madame Duport said. "At the Mairie there
is the register of the birth of the child. It Is
stated there that she is the child of Mr.
Corbyn aud bis wife Constance; and that
statement is testified to by Mr. Corbyn him
solf. I can prove that I took the child from
her dead mother’s side, and that I have
brought her up ever since. What more
proof do you require than that? Mr. Corbyn
acknowledged it as the child of himself and
his wife."
“That is excellent as far as it goes,
madame, but suen a statement wou.d not
be received by tie law of our country as
pro it of the marriage. You see the poor
lady had passed here as Mrs. Corbyn, and
Mr. Corbyn after her death, both for ber
sake and that of the child whom he had ar
ranged to stav here, would naturally regis
ter the child as born in wedlock. Still of
course it goes for something, aid now all
we have to look for is the certificate of mar
riage. It is probable that a copy of such
certificate would be among any papers Mr.
Corbyn may have left in your or his daugh
ter's bauds; if not it could be obtained by
searching the register of the church ut
which they were married."
“I am sure they were married,” Annette
burst out passi mately. “She spoke to me
once of her marriage, and I am sure that
Bhe was speaking the truth. 1 would as
soon doubt the saints of heaven as doubt
her word.”
“Dio she say where. Madams Duport!”
James Ferris, who was by this time con
vinced that Annette Duport had no docu
ments in her possession, asked. Madame
Duport was eilent. “Did lie speak," he
went on, “of it as taking place at the sea
side, or in London, or in some quiet country
church? You see if we have any due weoan
follow it up. An advertisement offering a
reward will often produce evidence of this
kind if one has but a clue to the locality.”
Madame Duport still sat silent. “Any in
formation you can give may be of impor
tance, and you will be injuring, instead of
benefiting the the young lady by withhold
ing anything you can tell me. 1 can assure
you I iiave ber interest at heart as much as
that of Mr. Clitheroe, aud I need hardly
say that we havo better means of following
a clew than any lawyer could have.”
“No,” Madame Duport said at last. “I
can remember nothing of the sort you
mention. Hho spoke of her marriage
casually several times. Bhe said onoe, I
remember, that she left Kuglaud the day
after she was married."
“That is something, at least, madame: it
shows that the marriage took place m Lug
land. That is something, and do you
know what her name was before she was
married!”
“You will find that on the registe- of the
child’s birth. 1 did not take much no
tice, and only signed as being present at
the birth, but you will certainly find it
there."
“Perhaps the young ladv herself may
know more when you have broken to her
the news or her father’s death. Will you
ask her if in his talk with her he ever men
tioned where his marriage took place, or
told her anything about her mother. I will
go dowu now and tako a c ipy <>f the regis
ter of her birth. I shall, if possible, return
to England to-morrow, and will come up iu
the morning to learn whether you have ob
tained any information from the young
lady upon the subject."
“I do not think her father over spoke to
hor about hor molher, monsieur; he was a
hard, selfisn man and cared only for his
own comfort. To me he always said that
he was waiting for his father’s death to ac
knowledge the child. Is his fathor alive?”
“He is not, madame; he died some ten
years ago.”
“But this man was a scelerat and in fame,"
Madame Duport said, passionately; “ho was
a poltroon: he had no 1 >ve for his child, no
real love, mind you—if he had would he not
have made a will even if he had been so
lache that he dared not take her homo and
ackl iwledge her. What can you say tor
this man, monsieur?”
Mr. Ferris did not feel called upon to de
fend his dead client.
“I fear that what you say is true,
madame; he has certainly acted a very
dirty part. If the child is legitimate he
ought to have acknowledged her; if not,
the least he could have done would be to
have made an ample provision for her iu
case anything happened to himself.”
“He said he was going to acknowledge
her,” Madame Deport said. “The last time
ho was hero he told hor that he should take
her away tho next time he came, to bo the
mistress of his house.”
“Did he say so before you, madame?”
James Ferris asked, quickly, “or was it only
said to her?”
"It was said to her," Madame Duport re
plied, “when they were in the garden to
gether the last evening Hhe told mo after
he had gone next day."
"That is unfortunate; it would Jiave been
a material piece of evidence if he had said
to her in your presence that he intended to
take her home shortly and install her at the
head of his house. Not absolutely conclu
sive, but still a valuable piece of evidence.
And now Ido not know that I have any
more to say to-day. Please find out as
much as you can for me before to-morrow,
as to what she knows of her mother.”
Bo saying James Ferris took his leave.
> (TO UK CONTINUED.)
SUGGESTIONS FCXi WOMEN.
Points About Costumes and Cooking
Worth Knowing.
Watch Hill, R. 1., July 25. —This is one
of tho oldest aud most fashionable resorts
on the Atlantic coast, aud those who want
pure air and the liberty to dress according
to their tastes and their purse, will, by own
ing one season, be protty sure to want to
come the next. What particularly im
pressed me on my visit here this simmer,
and will I am sure be a matter of interest
to my readers, is the charming simplicity of
t ie costumes of both women and children.
The growth in this matter is very marked
even since last year, and since five years it
is indeed remarkable. I Lave not seen
one girl under 16 this season wearing
a silk dross, nor have 1 obsorved an elabo
rate costume of any kind. Flannels and
zephyrs and lawns uil made in the simplest
and consequently in tho most effective
stylo, are tbe chief materials worn by
young girls. One lady at tho Ocean house
told me that but for this change of public
opinion concerning dress, she oould not h ive
visited the seashore this summer, as she
was too ill to have any dresses fitted. She
was aide to be about part of the time, but
could not wear corseoi nor whalobones.
She had some tea gowns and dinner dresses
“thrown together” with loose fronts and
clasiic drapery, and found herself as well and
tastefully appareled as her neighbors.
There seems als > to be a falling off in the
number of women employed in fancy work.
I can remember when the piazzas of this
beautiful hotel wore fillod with ladies en
gaged in some sort of embroidery, knitting
or crocheting. It was an exception then to
see a woman’s eyes absorbed by the view,
glorious from this point as any thing that
paradise itself can have to offer us.
But now those engaged in the fancy
work were the exceptions, and those
that had books only glanced at them
idly now and then. On one side the ever
lasting sea, ito great green billows thunder
ing against the shore; in front the sparkling
bay of “Little Narragansett,” just as blue
and just as enlicing as its mother, and then
Stouington, the old historic town, clad in
white and trimmed with green trees, as
lovely at this distance as a glimpse of fairy
land. In the morning the view is the finest,
though there is not an hour of the day,
either in sunshine or storm, that there is not
something wonderful to see.
The new styles In dress, bringing about a
physiological and hygienic revolution,
w.iioh oven the most earnest reformers did
not dare nopo for, furnish a fruitful topio
of conversation among the truly intelligent
and refined. Helpful hints are exchanged
between co uparative strangers. The now
designs which allow for breath aud diges
tion aud the fullest play of all the vital
organs, are eagerly examined and Dotes
male for future use. There is only
on< fashion now that is particularly
abominable, and that is the so-callod St.
Elizabeth costume for young children.
There soems very little modification for the
long full skirts, though our best literature
is full of appeals to mutters ou the subject.
It is a shame to restrict the free use and. de
velopment of these little legs. To see
toddling babies tripping and stumbling over
their voluminous [jettiodats and dross skirts
ia to ine simply iniquitous. Common sense
should come to the rescue without loss of
time.
Another subject in which women are
vitally interested is tbs care of the stomach.
Among the attractions of the Hill is an
Anti-Hot Bread Club, composed of ladies
who are determined to eat and dre-s accord
ing to strictly higlenic rules. All bread
stuff raised at the moment is stri* tly pro
hibi ed, and all rich pastry. Bi-carbonate
of soda and cream of tartar are condemned
as irritants, and so especially dangerous to
the lining of the stomach. Bread and rolls
raised by pure yeast, and well baked, are
not only allowable,but are especially recom
mended. Among the useful things which
tills Anti-Hot Bread Club is engaged in is
the work of arranging a hygienic bill of
fare for tho fall and winter, with minute
directions for oooking certain dishes which
have heretofore been considered particu
larly difficult.
I was showu a mold of sea moss blanc
mange, and another of wine jelly, both
delicacies having boon prepared by a girl of
12 from J’ark avenue, New York, whose
parents have a cottage at this point. The
little cook hail attended u cooking school at
home for three months, and seems to pos
sess unusual talent. The ladies are all in. >st
enthusiastic on the subjeot of sea in ss
Plane manga for invalids. It is easily made,
aud, I think, under the name of Irish moss,
can be found at most any drug store. A
half a cup of moss well washed, and tied in
a strong lace or cheese cloth bag, is placed
PAGES 9 TO 12.
in a quart of cold, sweet milk. A double
agate boiler is the be.t vessel for
this purpose. Have hot water in toe under
vessel, and then let the mixture come to a
boil. The bag should bo squeezed occasion*
ally with a spoon, and when the milk is
thickened sufficiently pour into molds that
have lieen wet with cold water. A little salt
is sometimes an improvement, especially
when the moss has been kept in stock for
some time. I wish my readers could have
it as it is thrown un, white as milk, by the
great Atlantic breakers. This, washed off
in salt water to free it entirely of sand, and
put right into the milk and jellied is a disk
for the g <ls. Still, it is good when dried,
and perhaps quite as beneficial.
Among the few pieces of fancy work that
I have seen this summer are the covers for
lavender bags, which, as in tho days of our
greatgrandmothers, are to be tucked into
our bureau drawers. Many of the ladies
have made their own designs, and thev are
very pretty. The filling for the bags m
composed of half a pound of lavender flow
ers, a half ounce of ground cloves, a half
ounce of caraway, aud a teaspoonful of
salt. Eleanor Kirk.
Bedfern’a Smart Tailor-Made Cos
tumes.
New YonK, July 29.—Among all the
functions of tlio London season, the draw
ing-rooms, balls, dinners, cricket matches,
etc., there u hardly anything which is so
mucli of an event to society at large ns the
great Ascot roces. To the tnen they afford
an opportunity to indulge in the excitements
of betting, with the possible chance of win
ning a fortune in a few moments; while tne
worr.oti find in them the same attractions,
plus a stronger one, an occasion for compet
ing with each other in the exhibi ion of
some very elegant and showy costumes.
AN ASCOT GOWN
is a very handsome one of eld rose benga
lino, braided all across the front and side*
of the skirt with black aud silver. The
sleeves are covered with black tulle dotted
over with large disks of black velvet; arid
the same tulle is used to form a Figaro
jacket effect, with tan odging "f VaudykeS
done in braid to match the skirt.
This other costume, made to be worn afc
the Grand Prix de Paris, is a fine-faced
cloth of a pale prune color. Upon the left
side is a triangular panel, very wide at the
bottom, of Aubergine cloth, braided ail
down the edge aud across the bottom with
a wide border and large palm loaf, in oop
per and gold. The front and sides of the
bodice are of this dark cloth, braided to
match, and the light sleeves have a braided
band down the outside. The hat, which
turns np sharply behind and has a very
Haring front, is faced with Aubergine vel
vet and has a folded baud of pale prune
lisse about its crown, and some short,
curled tips of the same light shade.
Her Estimate of Damages.— “ Had an
accident here this morning?” queried the
breathless reporter as a matronly lady ap
peared at the door in response to his violent
ringing.
“Yes, we did. You see, the next bouse
comes right up to ours, ami the man paint
ing it asked to come through our house and
crawl out the scuttle onto its roof. Well, I
let him. When he crossed the garret he
fell through the floor—”
“Hurt him much?”
“Yes, I guess so. But be didn't stop with
the garret, ho fell through the nex floor,
tore a hole through the carpet, knocked the
plastering off the ceiling, and, O, be Just
mad* au awful muss!”— I'tu.as iiifUiig*.
