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MONTEZUMA'S DAUGHTER. ,--.
MONTEZUMA'S DAUGHTER. By H. fJrler Haggard, [COPYRIGHT 1893.] Author of "She," "Allan Quarternuln," Jfcc. SYNOPSIS. CHAPTER 1. tells why Thomas Wingfield, at the XHBinand of Queen Elizabeth, writes an account st his experiences against the Spaniards, and Mteir rule and conquest in Mexico. CHAPTER II.—The parentage of Thomas Wing- field is dealt with. He tells with pardonable pride thai he sprang from the Wingfields of Wingfield Castle, in Suffolk, which passed into th* hands of the De la Poles through a efotumacy of his father. He shut him- NOf in a monastery at Seville in Spsia and sent his son away to mortify his leah." The father escapes and tinds his son, whom be addresses Hark you, my son Thomas: there is a country called Spain, where your mother was born, and there these devils abide 'ttho torture men and women, aye, and burn them living in the name of Christ. I was betrayed into their hands by him whom I name fibs chief of the devils, though he is younger than ;¡:am by three years, and their pincers and hot irons left these marks upon me. Aye, and they 40mld have burnt me also, only I escaped, thanks to your mother- but such tales are not for a little lid's hearing and see you never speak of them, Thomas, for the Holy Office has a long arm. You are half a Spaniard, Thomas your skin âbd eyes tell their own tale but whatever skin aftd ,.yes may tell, let your heart give them the Keep your heart English, Thomas; let UD foreign devilments enter there. Hate all iarM, except your mother, and be watchful feist her blood should master mice within you." be chapter concludes by an allusion to a dark ikadow which hangs over his father and mother's Ume at Ditchingham. CHAJPTHB III. tells of Thomas Wingfield's love at the Squire's daughter. Lily, and of his strange meeting with a strange Spaniard, who cuts at him with bis sword upon learning Wingfield's name. Thomas, however, though only armed with a I short cudgel, succeeds in administering a severe thrashing to the stranger, and leaves him bruised and sore in the roadway whilst he goes on his ormnd to see his fair neighbour, but feeling ail (foe while that this is the strange man who has toilsed hJ8 mother so much fear and his father a jjoarney to Yarmouth. CHAPTJBB IV.—Having tied to a tree the %aniard, Thomas Wingfield hies to the meadow, there he meets Lily. The meeting is rudely dis- %Irbed by the father of Lily Bozard, and Thomas IfliM away sad—having won the father's anger ad the lady's love. Returning to the spot where toe leftt-thè Spaniard, he found instead the village. 1impleton, from whom he learned that he had set fte Spaniard free, who had galloped away. He laticed the footsteps of alady and a white mantilla Ving on the ground, which he reoognised as Mledging to his mother. His suspicions were sroused, and despairingly, as one who dreams- tor now I guessed all and grew mad with fear—I looked this way and that, till at length I found more footsteps—those of the Spaniard. These were ileep-inarked, as of a man who carried some 4eavy burden. I followed them. First they went down the hill towards the river, then iurned aside to a spot where the brushwood was thick. In the deepest of the clump the boughs, flow bursting into leaf, were bent downwards, as though to hide something beneath. I wrenched them aside, and there, gleaming whitely in the fathering twilight, was the dead face of my •other." CHAPTER V. Thomas Swears an Oath. For a while I stood amazed with horror, staring Sown at the dead face of my beloved mother. Then I stooped to hft her. and saw that she had ften stabbed, and through the heart—stabbed th the sword which I carried in my hand. Now I understood. This was the work of that Spanish stranger whom I had met as he hurried Hotn the place of murder, who, because of the Wickedness of his heart, or for some secret iftix,n, had striven to slay me also when lie mwned tht I was my mother's son. And I had eld this devil in my power, and that I might inoot my May I had suffered him to escape my Tengeauce, who, had I known the truth, would liave dealt with him as the priests of Anahuac ieal with the victims of their gods. I under- I 1tood. and shad tears of pity, rage, and shame. Then I turned and fled homewards like one mad. At the doorway I met my father and my brother Geoffrey riding up from Bungay market, And there was that written on my face which lAUftd them to ask as with one voice: „ What evil thing has happened ?" 1 Thrice I looked at my father before I could Weak, for I feared last the blow should kill him. Sut speak I must at last, though I chose that it ihould be to Geoffrey, my brother. Our feather lies murdered yonder on the Vineyard Sill. A Spanish man has done the deed, Juan I ie Garcia by name." When my father heard these words his face became livid as though with ;-in of the heart, his jaw fell, and a low moan sroed from his open igotitli. Presently he rested his hand updri the j&inmel of the saddle, and, ijfting his ghastly face, said "Where is this Spaniard ? Have you killed \hn tot — ——" "No, father. He chanced upon me in Grubs- well, and when he learned my name he would have murdered me. But I played quarterstaff with him and beat him to a pulp, taking his urlNfd. Aye, and then "And then I let him go, knowing nothing of roe deed he had already wrought upon our mother. Afterwards I will tell you all." "You let him go, son You let Juan de Clucis go Then may the curse of God rest upon you till you find him and finish that which yott began to-day." "Spare to curse me* father, who am accused by my own conscience. Turn your horses rather, and rida for Yarmouth, for there his ship lies, and thither lie has gone with two hours' start. Perhaps you may still trap him before he sets fail." Without another word my father and brother wheeled their horses round, and departed at full galop into the gloom of the gathering night. They rode so fiercely that, their horses being ,.eod, they came to the gates of Yarmouth in little mo.'e than an hour and a half, and that is fa4t riding. But the bird was flown. They tracked him to the quay, and found that he bad febipped a while before in a boat which was in waiting for him, and passed to his vessel that lay in the roads at anchor, but with her canvas set. Instantly she sailed, and now was lost in the night. Then my father caused notice to be given t be would pay reward of two hundred pieces gold to any ship that should capture the Spaniard, and two started on the quest; but they did not find her that before morning was far on far way across the sea. J So soon as they had galloped away I called iogether the grooms and other serving-men, and told them what had chanced. Then we went with lanterns, for by now it was dark, And came to the thick brushwood where lay the body of my mother. I drew near the 4refe, for the men were afraid, and so, indeed, was t, though why I should fear her lying dead who living had loved me tenderly I do not know. Yet I know this, that when I came to the spot and saw two eyes glowering at me, and heard the brash of bushes as something broke them, I could almost have fallen with fear, although I knew well that it was but a fox or wandering hound haunting the place of death. calling tha Q&fcant to fiaUoWt and the end of it was that we laid my mothers body upon a door which bad been lifted from its hinges, and bore her home for the last time. Ana to me path is still » haunted 'Xi& seventy years afld more since my mother died' by the hand of Juan de Garcia, her cousin; yet, ora as I am, and hardened to such sad scenes, I do not love to walk that path alone at night. Doubtless it was fancy, which plays ns strange tricks still, but a year ago, having gone to set a spring for a woodcock, I chanced to pass by yonder big oak upon a November eve, and I could have sworn that I saw it all again. I saw myself a lad, my wounded aim still bound with Lily's kerchief, climbing slowly down the hill- side, while behind me, groaning beneath theit burden, were the forms of the four serving-men. I heard the riurmitir of the river and the wind that seventy years ago whispered in the reeds. I saw the clouded sky flawed here and there with blue, and the broken light that gleamed on the white burden stretched upon the door, and the red stain at its breast. Aye, I heard myself talk as I went forward with the lantern, bidding the men pass to the right of some steep and rotten ground* and it was strange to me to listen to my own voice as it had been in youth. Well, well, it was but a dream, yet such slaves are we to the fears of fancy, and because of the dead, and I, who am almost of their number, do not love to pass that path at night. At length we came home with our burden, and the women took it6 weeping, and set about their task with it. And now I must not only fight my own sorrows, but must strive to soothe those of my sister Mary, who, as I feared, would go mad with grief and honor. At last she sobbed herself into a torpor, and I went and questioned the men who sat round the fire in the kitchen, for none sought the fire that night. From them I learned that an hour or more before I mes the Spaniard, a richly-dressed stranger had been seen walking cjoBg the church path, and that he had tied his aorse among some gorse and furae on the top of 9be bill, where he stodl as though in doubt, till my mother came out, when he descended and followed her. Also I learned that one of the men ftt work in the garden, which is not more than 300 paces from where the deed was done, heard cries, but had taken no note of them, thinking, forsooth, that it was but the play of some lover from Bungay and his lads chasing each other through the woods, as to this hour it is their fashion to do. Truly it seemed to me that day as though this parish of Ditchingham were the very nursery of fools, of whom I was the first and biggest, and, indeed, this same thought has struck me since concerning other matters. At length the morning came, and with it my father and brother, who returned from Yarmouth on hired horses, for their own were spent. In the afternoon also news followed them that the ships which had put to sea on the track of the Spaniard had been driven back by bad weather, having seen nothiug of him,t Now also I told all the story of my dealings with the murderer of my mother, keeping nothing back, and I must bear my father's bitter anger because, knowing that my mother was in dread of a Spaniard, I had suffered my reason to be led astray by my desire to win speech wiah my love. Nor did I meet with any comfort from my brother Geoffrey, who was fierce against me because he learned that I bad not pleaded in vain with the maid whom he de- sired for himself. But he said nothing of this reason. Also that no drop might be lacking in my cup, Squire Bozard, who came with many other neighbours to view the corpse and offer sympathy with my father in his loss, told him at the same time that lie took it ill that I should woo his daughter agaInst his wish, and that if I continued in this coarse it would strain their ancient friendship. Thus I was hit on every side hy sorrow for my poor mother whom I had loved tenderly; by longing foriny dear whom I might not see by self-reproach because I had let the Spaniard go when I held him fast; and by the anger of my father and my brother. Indeed those days were so dark and bitter, for I was at the age when shamo and sorrow sting their sharpest, that I wished that I were dead beside my mother. One comfort reoched me indeed a message from Lily, sent by a servant girl whom she trusted, giving me her dear love, and bidding roe so be of good cheer. At length came the day of burial, and my poor mother, wrapped in fair white robes, was laid to her rest in the chancel of the church at Ditching- ham, where my father has long been set beside her, hard by the brass effigies that mark the burying-place of Lily's forefather, his wife, and many of their children. This burying was the saddest of sights, for the bitterness of my father's grief broke from him in sobs, and my sister Mary swooned away in my arms. Indeed, there were few dry eyes in that church, for my mother, notwithstanding her foreign birth, was much loved because of her gentle ways and the good- ness of her heart. But it came to an end, and the noble Spanish lady and English wife was left to her long sleep in the ancient church, where she shall rest on when her tragic story and her very name are forgotten among men. Indeed, this is likely to be soon, for I am the last of the Wing- fields alive in these parts, though my sister Mary has left descendants of another name to whom my lands and fortune go, except for certain gifts to the poor of Bungay and of Ditchingham. When it was over I went back home. My father was sitting in the front room well-nigh beside himself with grief, and by him was my brother. Presently he began to assail me with bitter words because I had let the murderer go when God gave him into my hand. "You forget, father," sneered Geoffrey, Thomas woos a maid, and it was more to him to clip her in his arms than to keep bis mother's murderer safely. But by this it seems he has killed two birds with one stone; be has suffered the Spanish devil to escape when he knew that our mother feared the coming of a Spaniard, and he has made enmity between us and Squire Bozard, our good neighbour, who, strangely enough, does not favour his wooing." "It is so," said my father. "Thomas, your mother's blood is on your hands." I listened and could bear this goading injustice no longer. It is false," I said. I say it even to my father. The man had killed my mother before I met him riding back to seek his ship at Yar- mouth, and having lost his way how, then, is her blood upon my hands ? As,fot;^uy wooing of Lily Bozard, that is my" matter, brother, not yours; though, perhaps, you wish that it was yours and not mine. Why, father, did you Dot tell me what' youfearea of this Spaniard ? I heard some loose talk only, and gave little thought to it, my mind being full of other things. And now I will say something. You called down God's curse upon ine, father, till such timo as I should find this murderer and tinish what I had begun. So be it. Let God's curse rest upon me till I do find him. I am young, bub I am quick and- strong, and so soon as may be I start for Spain, to hunt him there till I shall run him down or know him to be dead. If yov will give me money to help me on my quest, so be it-if not I go without. I swear before God and by my mother's spirit that I will neither rest nor stay till, with the very sword thal slew her, I have avenged her blood upon the murderer to know him dead, and if I suffer myself to be led astray from the purpose of this oath by aught that is, then may a worse end than hers overtake me, may my soul be re- jected in heaven, and my name be shameful for ever upon the earth l" Thus I swore in my rage and anguish, holding up my hand to heaven that I called upon to witness the oath. My father looked at me keenly. If that is in your mind, son Thomas, you shall not lack for money. I would go myself, for blood must be wiped out with blood, but I am too broken in my health also I am known in Spain and the Holy Office would claim me there. Go, and my blessing go with you. It its right that you should go, for it is through your folly that our enemy has escaped us." Yes, it is right that he should go," said Geoffrey. You say that because you wish to be rid of me, Geoffrey," I answered hotly, "and you would be rid of me because you desire to take my place at the side of a certain maid. Follow your nature, and do as you will, but if you would out- wit an absent man no good shall come to you of it." The girl is to him who can win her," he said. The girl's heart is won already, Geoffrey. You may buy her from her father, but you can nqver win her heart; and, without her heart, she will be but a poor prize." Peace This is no time for such talk of love and maids," said my father, and listen. This is the tale of the Spanish murderer and your mother. I have said nothing of it heretofore, but now it must out. When I was a lad it hap- pened that I also went to Spain because my father willed it, I went to a monastery at Seville, but I had no liking for monies and their ways, and I broke out from the monastery. For a year or more I made my living as I best might, for I feared to return to England as a runaway. Still, I made a living, and not a bad one—now in this way, and now in that-but, though I am ashamed to say it, mostly by gaing, at which I bad great luck. One night I met this man Juan de Garcia—for in his hate he gave you his true name when he would have stabbed you-at play. Even then be bad an evil fame, though he was scarcely more than a lad but he was handsome in person, set high in birth, and of a pleading manner. It chanced that he won of me at the dice, and, being-in a good humour, he took me to visit at the house of his aunt, his uncle's widow, a lady of Seville. This aunt had one child, a daughter, and that daughter was your mother. Now your mother, Luisa de Garcia, was affianced to her cousin Juan de Garcia, not with her own will, indeed, for the contract had been signed when she was only eight years old. Still, it was binding, more binding, indeed, than in this country. being a marriage in all ex- cept in fact. But those women who are thus b.o4 for the mpst part tto wife's love in their hearts, and so M WM trim your mother. Indeed, she both hated and feared her cousin tfiian, though I think that he loved her more than earth, and by onepretext and another snS crintrived to bring him 16 ib agreement tJhal no marriage should be celebrated till she was full twenty years of age. But the colder she was to him, the more was he inflamed with desire to win her and also her possessions, which were not small, for, like all Spaniards, he was passionate, and, like most gamesters and men of evil life, much in want of money. Now to be brief, from the first moment that your mother and I set eyes on each other we loved one auother, and it was our one desire to meet as often as might be and in this we had no great difficulty, for her mother also feared and hated Juan de Garcia, her nephew by marriage, and would have seen her daughter clear of him if possible. The end of it was that I told my love, and a plot was made between us that we should fly to England, But all this had not escaped the ears of Juan, who had spies in the household, and was jealous and revengeful as only a Spaniard can be. First he tried to be rid of me by challenging me to a due), but we were parted hefor4 we could draw swords. Then he hired bravos to murder me as I walked the streets at night, but I wore a chain-shirb beneath my doublet and their daggers broke upon it, and in place of being slain I slew one of them. Twice baffled, De Garcia was not defeated. Fight and murder had failed, but another and surer means remained. I know not how, but be had won some clue to the history of my life, and how I had broken out from the monastery. It was left to him, therefore, to denounce me to the Holy Office as a renegade and an infidel, and this he did one night; it was the night before the day when we should have taken ship. I was sitting with your mother and her mother in tbelihouae at Seville, when six cowled men entered and seized me without a word. When I prayed to know their purpose thev gave me no other answer than to hold a crucifix before my eyes. Then I »knew why I was taken, and the women ceased clinping to me and fell back sobbing. Secretly and silently I was hurried away to the dungeons of the Holy Office, but all of that befel me there I will not stop to tell. "Twice I was racked, once I was seared with hot irons, thrice I was flogged with wire whips, and all this while I was fed on food such as we would scarcely offer to a dog here in England. At length my offence of having escaped from a monastery and sundry blasphemies, so called, being proved against me, I was condemned to death by fire. Then at last, when after a long year of torment and horror, I had abandoned hope and resigned myself to die, help came. On the eve of the day upon which I was to be consumed by flame, the chief of my tormentors entered the dun- geon where I lay on straw, and, embracing me, bade me be of good cheer, for the Church bad taken pity on me and given me my freedom. At first I laughed wildly, for I thought that this was but another torment, and not till I was freed of my fetters, clothed in decent garments, and set at midnight without the prison gates, would I be- lieve that so good a thing had befallen me through the hand of God. I stood, weak and wondering, outside the gates, not knowing where to fly, and as I stood a woman glided up to me wrapped in a dark cloak, who whispered 'Come.' That woman was your mother. She had learned of my fate from the boasting of De Garcia, and set herself to save me. Thrice her plans failed, but at length, through the help of some cunning agent, gold won what was denied to justice and to mercy, and-my life and liberty were bought with a very great sum. That same night we were married, and fled for Cadiz, your mother and I, but not her mother, who was bedridden with a sickness. For my sake your beloved mother abandoned her people, what remained to her of her fortune after paying the price of my life, and her country, so strong is the love of Woman. All had been made rsady, for at Cadiz lay an English ship, the Mary, of Bristol, in which passage was taken for us. But the Mary was delayed in port by a contrary wind, which blew so strongly that, notwithstanding his desire to save us, her master dared not take the sea. Two days and a night we lay in the bar, boar, fearing all things not without cause, and yet most happy in each other's love. Now those who had charge of me in the dungeon had given out'that I had escaped by the help of my master, the Devil, and I was searched for throughout the countryside. De Garcia, also, finding that his cousin and affianced wife was missing, guessed that we two were not far apart. It was his cunning, sharpened by jealousy and hate, that dogged us down step by step till at length he found us. "On the morning of the third day, the gale having abated, the anchor of the Mary was got home, and she swung out into the tideway. As she came round and while the seamen were making ready to hoist the sails, a boat carrying some twenty soldiers, and followed by two others, shot alongside and summoned the captain to heave to, that his ship might be boarded and searched under warrant from the Holy Office. It chanced that I was on deck at the time, and suddenly, as I prepared to hide myself below, a man, in whom I knew De Garcia himself, stood up and called out that I was the escaped heretic whom they sought. Fearing lest his ship should be boarded and he himself thrown into prison with the rest of his crew, the captain would then have surrendered me. But 1, desper- ate with fear, tore my clothes from my body and showed the cruel sears that marked it. 'You are Englishmen,' I cried to the sailors, 'and will you deliver me to these foreign devils, who am of your blood ? Look at their handi- work,' and I pointed to the half-healed scars left by the red-hot pincers, If you give me up, you send me back to more of this torment and to death by burning. Pity my wife if you will not pity mN or. if you will pity neither, then lend me a sword that by death I may save myself from torture.' Then one of the seamen, a Southwold man who had known my father, called out: By God I for one will stand by you, Thomas Wingfield. If they want you and your sweet lady they must kill me first,' and seizing a bow from the rack he drew it out ot its case and strung it, and setting an arrow on the string he pointed it at the Spaniards in the boat. Then tha others broke into shouts of If you want any man from among us, tome aboard and take him, you torturing devils, and the like. Seeing where the heart of the crew lay, the captain found courage in his turn. He made no answer to the Spaniards, but made half of the men hoist the sails with all speed, and the rest make ready to keep off the soldiers should they seek to board us. By now the other two boats had come up and fastened on to us with their hooks. One man climbed into the chains and thence to the deck, and I knew him for a priest of the Holy Office, cne of those who had stood by while I was tor. mented. Then I grew mad at the thought of all that I had suffered, while that devil watched, bidding them lay on for the love cf God. Snatch- ing the bow from ths hand of the Southwold sea. man, I drew the arrow to its head and loosed. It did not miss its mark, for like you, Thomas, I was skilled with the bow, and he dived back into the sea with an English yard shaft in his heart. After that they tried to board us no more, though they shot at us with arrows, wounding one man. The captain called to us to lav down our bows and take cover behind the bulwarks, for by now the sails began to draw. Then De Garcia stood up in the tost and cursed me and my wife. ( 'I will find you yeV he scfrtetried,' with many Spanish oath and foul words. 'If I must wait I for twenty years I will be avenged upon you and all you love. Be assured of. this, Luisa de Garcia, hide where you will, I shall find you and when we meet you shall come with me for so long as I will keep you, or that shall be the hour of your death.' "Then we sailed away for England, and the boats fell astern, My sons, this is the story of my youth and of how I came to wed your mother whom I have bulled to-day. Juan de Garcia bas kept his word. "Yet il seems strange," said my brother, that after all these years he should have murdered her thus, whom you say he loved. Surely even the evilesb of men had shrunk from such a deed 1" "There is little that is strange about it," answered my father. How can we know what words were spoken between them before he stabbed her ? Doubtless he told of some of them when he cried to Thomas that now they would see what truth there was in prophecies. What did De Garcia swear years since ?—that she should come with him or he would kill her. Your mother was still beautiful, Geoffrey, and be may have given her choice between flight and death. Seek to know no more, son "-and suddenly my father hid his face in his handa and broke into sobs that were dreadful to bear. Would that you had told us this tale before, father," I said so soon as I could speak. "Then there would have lived a devil the less in the world to-day, and I should have been spared a long journey." Little did I know how long that journey would be! CHAPTER VI. Good-bye, Sweetheart. Within twelve days ot the burial of my mother and the telling of the story of his matriage to her by my father, I was ready to start upon my search. As it chanced a vessel was about to sail from Yarmouth to Cadiz. She was named the Adventuress, of one hundred tons burden, and carried wool and other goods outwards, proposing to return with a cargo of wine and yeW-staves for bows. In this vessel my father bought me a passage. Moreover, he gave me fifty pounds in gold, which was as much as I would risk upon my person, and obtained letters from the Yar- mouth firm of merchants to their agents in Cadiz, in which they were advised to advance me such sums as I might need up to a total of one hundred and fifty English pounds, and further to assist me in any way that was possible. Now the ship Adventuress was to sail on the third day of June. Already it was the first of that month, and that evening I must ride to Yar- mouth, whither my baggage had gone already. Exoept one, my farewells were made. and yet that was the one I most wished to make. Since the day when we had sworn our troth I had gained no sight of Lily, except once at my mother's burial, and then we had not spoken. Now it I seemed that I must go without any. parting words, for her father had sent me notice that if I came near the Hall his serving-men had commandment to thrust ms from the door, and this was a shame that I would not risk. Yet it was hard that I must go upon so long a journey, whence it well might chance I should not return, and bid her no good-bye. In my grief and perplexity I spoke to my father, telling him how the matter stood and asking hia help. "I go hence, I said, to avenge oar common loss, and if need be to give my life for the honour of our name. Aid me, then, in this." My neighbpur Bozard means his daughter for your brother Geoffrey, 1fh9H8fc"for yohV he answered and a man may do what he wills with his own. Still, I will help you if I can at thi least he cannot drive me from his door. Bid them WihJir'KolSSs, and we will ride to the Hall. Within the half of an hour we were there, dud' my father asked for speech with its master. The serving-man looked at me askance, remembering his orders still, be ushered us into the justice- room, where the squire sat drinking ale. "Good morrow to you, neighbour, said the Squire "you are welcome here but you bring one with you who is not welcome, though he be your son. I bring him for the last time, friend Bozard. Listed to bis request, then grant it or refuse it as you will but it you refuse it. it will not bind us doser. The lad rides to-night to take ship for Spain to seek that man w;ho murdered his mother. He goes on his own free will because, after the doing of the deed, it was he who unwittingly suffered the murderer to escape, and it is well that he should go." He is a young hound, to run such a quarry to earth, and in a strange country said the Squire. Still, I like his spirit and wish him well. What would he of IDe u II Leave to bid farewell to your daughter. I know that his suit does not please you and cannot wonder at it, and for my own part I think it too early for him to set his fancy in the way of mar- riage. But if he would see the maid it can do no harm, for such harm as there is has been done already. Now for your answer." Squire Bozard thought awhile, then said ;— The lad is a brave lad, though he shall be no son-in-law ot mine. He ú going far, and maybap will return no more, and I do not wish that he should think unkindly of me when I am dead. Go without, Thomas Wingfield, and stand under yonder beech—Lily shall join you there and you may speak with her for the half of an hour-no more. See to it that you keep within sight of the window. Nay, no thanks; go before IohaJlle my tautd." So I went and waited under the beech with a beating heart, and presently Lily glided up to me, a more welcome sight to my eyes than any angel out of heaven. And, indeed, I doubt if an angel could have been more fair than she, or more good and gentle. "Oh, Thomas," she whispered, when I greeted her, is this true that you sail oversea to seek the Spaniard ? Of I sail to seek the Spaniard, and to find him, and to kill him when he is found. It was to come to you, Lily, that I let him go; now I must let you go to come to him. Nay, do not weep I have sworn to do it, and were I to break my oath I should be dishonoured." "And because of this oath of yours I must be widowed, Thomas, before I am a wife ? You go and I shall never see you more." "Who can say, my sweet? My father- went overseas and came back safe, having passed through many perils." Yes, he came back, and—not alone> You are young, Thomas, and in far countries there are ladies great and fair, and how shall I hold my own in your heart against them, I baing so far away ?" I swear to you, Lily-" "Nay, Thomas, swear no oaths lest you should add to your sins by breaking them. Yet, love, forget me not, who shall forget you never. Perhaps—oh it wrings my heart to say it—this is our last meeting on the earth. If so, then we must hope to meet in heaven. At the least be sure of this while I live I will be true to you, and, father or no father, I will die before I break my troth. I am young to speak so largely, but it shall be as I say. Oh this parting is more cruel than death. Would that we were asleep and forgotten among men. Yet it is best that you should go, for if you stayed what could we be to each other while my father lives, and may he live long." Sleep and forgetfulness will come soon enough, Lily none must await them for very long. Meanwhile we have our lives to live. Let us pray that we may live them to each other. I go to seek fortune as well as foes, and I will win it for your sake that we may marry." She shook her head sadly. It were too much happiness, Thomas. Men and women may seldom wed their true loves, or, if they do, it is but to lose them. At the least we love, and let us be thankful that we have learned what love can be for, having loved here, perchance at the worst we may love otherwhere when there are none to say us nay." Then we talked on awhile, babbling broken words of love and hope aud sorrow, as young folks so placed are wont to do, till at length Lily looked up with a sad sweet smile, and said— It is time to go, sweetheart. My father beckons me from the lattice. All is finished." Let us go, then," I answered huskily, and drew her behind the trunk of the old beech. And there I caught her in my arms and kissed her again and yet again, nor wasshe ashamed to kiss me back. After this I remember little of what happened, except that as we rode away I saw her beloved face, wan and wistful, watching me departing out of her life. For twenty years that sad and beautiful face haunted me, and it haunts me yet athwart life and death. Other women have loved me and I have known other partings, some of them more terrible, but the memory of this woman as she was then, and of her farewell look, overruns them all. Whenever I gaze down the past I see that picture framed in it and I know that it is one which cannct fade. Are there any sorrows like these sorrows of our youth ? Can any bitterness equal the bitterness of such good- byes? I know but one of which I was fated to taste in after years, and that shall be told of in its place. It is a common jest to mock at early love but if it be real, if it be something more than the mere arising of the passions, early love is late love also: it is love for ever, the best and worst event which can befal a man or woman. I say it who am old and who have done with everything, and it is true. One thing I have forgotten. As we kissed and clung in our despair behind the Lj,e of the great beech, Lily drew a ring from her finger and pressed it into my hand, saying, Look on this each morning when you wake, and think of me." It had been her mother's and to-day it still is set upon my withered hand, gleaming in the winter sunlight as I trace these words. Through the long years of wild adyenture, through all the time of after peace, in love and war, in the shine of the camp-fire, in the glare of the sacrificial flame, in the light of lonely stars illumining the lonely wilderness, that ring has shone upon my hand, reminding me alwaysot her who gave it. and on this hand it shall go down into the grave. It is a plain circlet of thick gold, somewhat worn now, a posy-ring, and ori its inner surface is cub this quaint couplet :-»• Heart to heart, Though far apart. —a fitting motto for us indeed and one that has its meaning to this hour. That same day of our farewell I rode with my father to Yarmouth. My brother Geoffrey did not come with us; but we parted with kindly words, and of this I am glad, for we never saw each other ngain. No more was said between us as to Lily Bozard and our wooing of her, though I knew well enough that so soon as my back was turned he would try to take my place at her side, as indeed happened. I forgive it to him; in truth I cannot blame him much, for who is there that would not have desired to wed Lily who knew her ? Oner we were dear friends, Geoffrey and I; but when we ripened towards manhood, our love of Lily came between us, and we grew more and more apart. It is a common case enough. Well, as it chanced, he failed so why should I think unkindly of him ? Let me rather remember the affection of our childhood and for- get the rest. God rest bis soul! Mary, my sister* who, after Lily Bozard, was now the fairest maiden in the countryside, wept much at my going. There was but a year between us, and we loved each other dearly, for no such shadow of jealousy had fallen on our affection. I comforted her as well as t was able, and, telling her all that had passed between me and Lily, prayed her to stand my friend and Lily's should it ever be in her power to do so. This Mary promised to do readily enough, and. though she did not give the reason, I could see that she thought it possible that she might be able to help us. As I have said, Lily had a brother, a young man of some promise, who at this time was away at college, and he and my sister Mary had a strong fancy for each other, that might or might not ripen into something closer. So we kissed and bade farewell .with tears. And after that my father and I rode away. But when we had passed down Parnow-street, and mounted the little hill beyond Waingford Mills, to the left of Bungay town, I halted my horse, and looked back upon the pleasant valley of the Waveuey where I was born, and my heart grew full to bursting. Had I known all that must befal me, before my eyes beheld that scene again, I think indeed that it would have burst. Bub God, who in His wisdom has laid many a burden upon the backs of men, has saved them from this, for bad we foreknowledge of the future, I think that of our own will few of us would live to¿see it. So I cast one long last look toward the distant mass of oaks that marked the spot where Lily lived, and rode on. On the following day I embarked on board the Adventuress and we sailed. Before I left my father's heart softened much towards me, for he remembered that I was my mother's best beloved, and feared also lesl; we should meet no more. So much did it soften, indeed, that at the last hour he changed his mind and wished to hold me back from going. But having put my hand to the plough, and suffered all the bitterness of fare- Well, I would not return to bo mocked by my brother and my neighbours. You apeak too late father," I said. You desired me to go to work this vengeance, and stirred me to it with many bitter words, and now I would go if I knew that I must die within a week, for such oaths cannot be lightly broken, and till mine is fulfilled the curse rests on me. So be it, son," he answered with a sigh. Your mother's cruel death maddened me, and I said what I may live to be sorry for, though at the best I shall not live long, for my heart is broken. Perhaps I should have remembered that vengeance is in the hand of the Lord, who wreaks it at His own time and without our help. Do not think unkindly of me, my boy, if we should chance to meet no more; for I love you, and it was but the deeper love that I bore to your mother which made me deal harshly with you." I know it, father, and bear no grudge. But if you think that you owe me anything, pay it by holding back my brother from working wrong to me and Lily Bozard while I am absent." "I will do my best, son, though, were it not that you and she had grown ?0 dear to each other, the match would have pleased me well. But, as I have said, I shall not be long here to watch your welfare in this ot any other matter, and when I am gone things must follow their own fate. Do not forget you?- God or your home wherever you chance to wander, Thomas keep yourself from brawling; beware or women, that are the snare of youth and set a watch upon your tongue and temper, which is not of the best. Moreover, wherever you may be, do not speak ill of the religion of the land, or make a mock of it by your way of life, lest you should learn how oiuel men can be whei> they think that it is pleasing to their gods, a% I have learnt already." I Bald that I would bfear his counsel in mind, and indeed it saved toe from many a sorrow. Then he embraced me, and called on the Almighty to take me in His care, and we parted. I never saw him more, for, though he was but middle-aged, within 5, year of my going my father died suddenly of a distemper of the heart, in the nave of Ditchingham Church, as he stood there near the rood-screen, musing by my mother's grave one Sunday after mass, and my brother took his lands aDI place. God rest him also He was a true-hearted man, but more wrapped up in his love for my mother than it is well for any man to be who would look at life, largely and do righb by all. For suoh love, though natural to women, is apt to turn to something that partakes of selfishness, and to cause him Who bears it to think all else of small account. His children were nothing to my father when compared to my mother, and he would have been content to lose them every one if thereby he might have purchased back her life. But after all it was a noble infirmity, for he thought little of him- self and had gone through much to win her. Of my voyage to Cadiz, to which port I had learned that De Gavcia's ship was bound, there is little to be told. We met with contrary winds in the Bay of Biscay and wore driven into the port of Lisbon, where we refitted. But at last we came safely to Cadiz, having been forty days at sea. r To be tontinued.)
SOUTH WALES COLLIERY OFFICIALS'…
SOUTH WALES COLLIERY OFFICIALS' ASSOCIATION. Meeting at Pontypridd. On Saturday evening a meeting of the South Wales Colliery Officials' Association was held in the assembly-room of the New Inn Hotel, Ponty- pridd, under the presidency of Mr Thomas, manager of the Standard Colliery, Ynyshir.—Mr W. W. Hood, part proprietor of the Glamorgan Collieries, Llwyriypia, and secretary to the association, stated that out of 48 circulars for- warded to members of the association asking for statistics showing the time occupied in winding coal, the distances from the bottom of the shafts to the faces, the number of men employed, the average number of hours worked by miners, the number of tons of coal raised per day, the cost of production of the quantity raised out of the mine, and the probable effect of the enforcement of an eight hours' system from bank to bank in the respective collieries, only 12 had been re- turned filled up as requested. It was therefore resolved that the secretary should write to the holders'ot the unreturned circulars reminding them of the importance of furnishing the requisite statistics without delay, to enable the association to decide what course to adopt in regard to the Eight Hours' Bill for Miners. A long discussion took place upon the subject of explosion from coaldust in mines, the general opinion being that coaldust was explosive in the entire absence of firedamp. Mr Meredith, manager of the National Colliery, Wnitstown, described, in the course of the discussion, an extraordinary affair which had occurred in his colliery, and might have caused an explosion had there been an accumulation of firedamp. A fall of roof occurred in the intake, and a quantity of the debris drop- ping upon the electric signal wires brought them into contact with each other and pressed them to the ground. A moment later the overman dis- covered an outbreak of fire on the spot caused unquestionably by the current of electricity, and the coaldust tailing from the roof became ignited. The fire was soon put out. The occurrence v?as characterised as an unprecedented one. and it was agreed to request the overman of tile colliery to attend the next meeting to render a detailed account of his observation on that ofccasipli.—-A paper was read by Mr W. Thomas, fireman of the Standard Col- liery, Ynyshir, upon the subject of Prevention of suffocation of miners by such accidents as that which recently took place in the Great Western Colliery, near Pontypridd." The writer suggested the erection of strong double doors beyond the engine plane in the intake, to be hinged to the roof instead of at the sides, as door are generally fixed underground. In case of an outbreak of fire such as happened recently at the Great Western Colliery, hf) proposed that: the double doors should be at once closed and the fan stopped, and the men make their escape by the return airway and up through the upcast shaft.—A discussion upon the subjeot will take place at the next meeting.— A vote of condolence with the relatives of the viotims in the colliery disaster near Dewsbury was passed in silence, the members all rising to their feet.
CRUELTY TO A CHILD AT TREHARRIS.
CRUELTY TO A CHILD AT TREHARRIS. At the Merhyr Police-court, on Saturday— before Mr North. Mr W. Suiyth, and Mr C. H. James—Lizzie Ellis, Pontygwaith, Treharris, was summoned for an aggravated assault upon her step-daughter, Elizabeth Mary Ellis, a little child of nine years, on the 4th inst.—Councillor White, Cardiff, prosecuted on behalf of the Society for the Prevention Of Cruelty to Children, and Inspector SmitherS, Cardiff, also was present. —Mrs Lizzie Williams, Mrs Gwenllian Griffiths, and her daughter, Elizabeth—all neighbours of the defendant—pave evidence as to the prolonged screams of the little and referred to con- versations they had afterwards with the defendant.—Police-sergeant Evans, Treharris, said when the child was brought to him, she had on an old skirt and a macintosh. From the shoulders down to her knees, her body was covered with weals. In many places he thought the skin was very nearly divided. Even her breast and thighs were bruised, and there was a lump on her forehead. The probable cause of these injuries was a birch rod, such as he found in the house—an old, much- used rod.-—Defendant said she lost her temper it was the first time she had beaten the child in her life. At the workhouse, when the child's stockings were removed, it looked as though she had been kicked about the shins.—Dr. Ward, J.P., said be examined the, child, and he found she was covered with marks from the, nape,of the neck down to the thighs.—Defendant called her little boy, who stated that the little, girl ran away from the house, and went into the banal. The little boy followed and found Heir'.—The Magis- trates' Clerk asked defendant if she did not think it was a dreadful thing for a little girl like that to try and drown herself. (AU this time the child was sobbing bitterly in court.)—Defendant said after the child had tried to get into the canal she did beat her. She lost her temper.— Mr North commented upon the wicked and oiuel character of the assault, and committed the defendant to gaol fcr two months with hard labour.—It was stated the police would return the child to the workhouse.
MERTHYRB0ARD0F6UARDIANSi
MERTHYRB0ARD0F6UARDIANS Dividing the Union. At the ordinary meeting of the Merthyr Board of Guardians on Saturday, Mr D. P. Davies, J.P., presided.—Mr David Davies. C.C., had given notice with the object of rescinding a resolution passed stx or seven weeks ago by the board in favour of a Local Government Board inquiry being held to the advisability of dividing the Union.—After some discussion on a point of order, Councillor David DavIes quoted statistics bearing upon the ratable value of Merthyr, Aberdare, Gelligaer, and other parishes in the Umon during late years, the out- relief, the population, admissions to the work- house and Aberdare Schools, areas, &c., and said as they were they had to bear a good deal of the burdens of other parts of the Union. A duplication of workhouses and other features of the system Would be avoided by continuing the one Union. He moved that the resolution already passed in favour of obtaining a Local Government Board inquiry into the advisability of dividing the Union be rescinded.—Alderman Thomas Williams, J.P.. seconded the motion.— Mr V. A. Wills said be thought the motion of Mr Davies was a little premature, and moved the previous question.—Mr H. H. Rhys, J.P., seconded the motion Of Mr Wills, and criticised the bearing of the figures given by Mr Daviee, contending that they readly helped the case for Aberdare rather than Merthyr.—The Rev. Alderman Aaron Davids replied to charges which he understood had been levelled against him on a previous occasioD by Mr David Davies, J.P., Aberdare, and considered it would be an advantage for the board to meet in Aberdare and Merthyr alternately.At the close of the dis- cussion, which had nf an animated character, a division was taken with the result that "the previous question was carried by the votes of 22 guardians as against 20 for the original motion, the announcement of this effect by the clerk being accepted by the .Ab&dai^ Guardians wftb enthn* siaetic cheers.
MR GLADSTONE AND WALES.
MR GLADSTONE AND WALES. The Observer say. We learn that there no foundation for the report, which has .recently been circulated, that Mr Gladstone will noli again contest Midlothian, and t-hat he has made arrangements for securing for himself a seat in a Welsh county. The party officials in London and Midlothian, who woijld! be the first to bo made acquainted with uuy such intention on the part df the Prime Minister, know nothing of it; on the contrary, it is known that Mr Gladstone Will not voluntarily sever his connection with his preseni constituency.
REV. J. ZVfieQlWYSSACH, j
REV. J. ZVfieQlWYSSACH, ,J, +- We understand thai at a meeting of the Home Mission Committee of the Wesleyan Conferenee held last week in jjjobdoio, the Rev. I Clapham, one of the home missionary 'seerefarfes, asked for the appointfneut of a small committee to devise a scheme for bringing back the Rev. John Evans ("Eglwys-bacb") from English wort: to labour again in Wales, with special regard to the Welsh populations of the Rhondda and other parts of South Wales.1 The sub-committee will sill during the first week of the conference in Cardiff, and ptesent a plan during the second week.
EXPORT OF COAL FROM NEWPORT.…
EXPORT OF COAL FROM NEWPORT. Last month lu,.export of coal from the Alex. andra Dock, Newport, was larger than it has been since the opening of the dock, 235,000 tons being shipped. This increase is due in part to the return of the Powell Duffryn shipments. The 8.8. Itnaum, one of Messrs Bates's boats, and 420 feet long, left the dock on Saturday with 7.000 tons of coal on board. She drew 23ft. 6in. of water,
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[ALL RIGHTS RESIEVKD.]
[ALL RIGHTS RESIEVKD.] The Mystery of Jasper Janin. BY J. E. MUDDOCK. Author of "A Wingless Angel," As the Shadows Fall," "A World within i, NVorld," "The Luck of Logie," "A Wild Beauty," Whips and Scorns," &c.. CHAPTER X.—CoKTMCEt. Janin was standing still, Mary leaning on his arm, her blind eyes turned up to his face. She knew that he was suffering, knew that he was trembling. Her left hand was ungloved. She had neglected to put the glove on when she came away from the house. She drew her hand from her muff, then raised it and touched him softly on the cheek and felt that it was wet. What is the meaning of this, Mr Janin ?" she asked gently. He did not answer. He could not, by reason of the strong emotion which shook him, which nearly suffocated him, and made his bands open and shut convulsively. Mary waited some little time, then all her sympathy, all her gentleness, all the beauty of her woman's nature were aroused, and she said, softly— Mr Janin, tears are the natural outcome of a woman's grief, however trifling that may be. Bat tears from a man are only wrung by un- utterable agony. From what I heard Mr Archer's man say, I gather that Miss Meyrick has gone away. I am only a liefoleas girl, but I offer you my hearfelt cosola.tion.;) He drew her suddenly to him, pressed his lips to her cold forehead, and then faltered— "God bless you, God bless you! This last blow will, I think, kill me." They walked on for some little distance more in^i'ence. Then Mary spoke agaiu— Mr Janin, this terrible blow that has fallen upon you will necessitate postponement of the operation." Why, Why ?" he asked, hurriedly. Because it would only be giving you trouble at a time when you are least able to bear it." "No such considerations must weigh," he answered. There is no reason why the event should be postponed for one single hour. If I can give you your sight back it will repay me for much that I have suffered. Let there be no alteration in the arrangements. To-morrow at twelve I will be at your father's house, if I live; ?n-i J cunning of my hand and brain has not jailed me you shall see the light again. As you are near your homo I will leave you now. Good- bye-, my child-God bless you." Do not say Good-bye," she said, retaining his hand. Good-bye is always suggestive of not meeting again." "Good morning, then. Peace go with you." s. Good morning," she returned. And so they parted. She walked quickly along the road, never faltering in her step, but going straight and steady. He stood watching her until she turned up a lane that led to her father's house. ihen he went on too, still Clutching the letter in his hand, walking like one iil. a dream, his eyelids closing now and then, and his nostrils quivering. He reached his desolate homo. He knocked at the door aa hardly consoious of what he was doing. He passed the servant who let him in W,J* no.^c'ng her, went up to his own room 1 in. He tore open the envelope then, his hands the while trembling like aspen leaves. Twice, thrice, he Assayed to read it, but his eyes were blinded with tears and he could not see. He restrained his feelings at la.«t, crossed to the window, and held the paper to the light. The Writing was in pencil, the paper was a half sheet of note, and it was blurred and stained with tears —-Helen Meyrick's tears. And this is what she had written-" Good-bye—" As he read the first two words the paper almost fell from his hand, and his heart almost stood still as he remembered that but a few minutes ago be had said to Mary Blandford Good-bye," and she had told him not to say good-bye, as it was suggestive of not meeting again. And now those two words, rendered doubly portentous by reason of what Mary had said, burned into his brain. In a few minutes he held the paper up to the light again, and read all that was written Good-bye. I sacrifice myself to save you. I scarcely know where I am going to. London first, ,and after that, God alone knows. Better for one cf us to fall than both I go down that you may ,rise. I will not mock you by telling you to forget me. You will never do that; but try to think of me as seldom as possible. The day may come when I shall go- back to you. I feel now that my heart is turning into stone, and my blood is freezing in my veins with sorrow. My eyes grow blind, and my fingers refuse to hold the pencil any longer. I can write no more. Your broken- hearted HBLEN." He ceased reading. Something like a wail of airony escaped from his lips as be sank down as if he had been a lump of lead-sank into a chair, and shook and swayed with the suppressed sobs and the internal surging of his grief. And still holding tlie paper in his quivering hands, stiU Staring at it, though he could no longer see, his tears—the tears of the stern, strong man dripped, dripped, and fell on the spots -where hers had fallen. K CHAPTER XI. The Cunning of the Serpent may Over- come the Cunning of the Man. The motive that impelled Harold Grayling to follow Miss Meyrick to the railway station is Ion. that is not capable of very lucid explanation—that is, if such explanation is based upon the prosaic and ordinary idea by which human nature is supposed to be governed. But it must be admitted that there are subtle impulses which often spur a man to action—impulses which cannot be accounted for by the everyday rule of logic, but must rather be explained by sotfie psychological hypothesis, and as being chle to idiosyncrasies on the part of the person swayed, quite beyond the common. And yeb from this argument it should not be assumed that men or women who are sud- denly actuated to do things that by the light of sober reasoning may appear altogether outre are beings distinct from the common run of mankind. For although it is true that the brain is capable of being educated until it becomes nothing more than a well-regulated machine, that thinks and throbs by system, the heart admits of no control, and it is from the heart that impulses spring. So that every man and woman is liable to some strange and sudden hearb- infljence-ie., impulse —excepting, of course, in those cases where the heart has become dead to every sentiment and every fine feeling. Between Harold and Miss Meyrick the only link was one of ordinary friendship. There was not even confidence. But it may be safely as- sumed that she was attracted to him by a feeling of gratitude and that admiration which every woman has for a brave man. She knew that he was unmarried and that he was well provided for, and that his position was one of the highest re- spectability. She learnt these things through the ordinary channels which are aivii to all in a cir- cumscribed community. Ca the other hand, he knew nothing whatever ",õout her. For aught he knew to the mntriik she might have been the wife of bliis R^fiard Stringer, or worse than that as Doofcrj. Julius bad suggested, she might even ¡'e been an adventuress. Under these circum- stances, then, Mr Harold Grayling would have been at a loss to justify his conduct by ordinary rules. But it is not by ordinary rules that his action is to be judged. He was animated by a sentiment that was irresistible. And even a tyro in the study of human nature will know that the men most) liable to be moved in this way are the n en who perform the noblest deeds, and whose names are emblazoned on the scroll of honour. If Grayling had waited to discuss the question with himself as to whether it was right or wrong to follow Miss Meyrick, he might have brought himself to say that he had no business to do any- thing of the kind. And had he done so and remained away many of the subsequent and strraflge event#, which were consequent bn his prompt decision to act, would never have occurred, and the mystery upon which these chronicles turn might have remained unrevealed. Btft. qaiQc and suoflala tM impulse «utme into his heart, quick and sudden he thoughts-drawing his inference from what Arober had told him— that Miss Meyrick was subject to some Unjust, or unholy influence from whrch-though powerless to save hfOrself-she might be saved by another person. And he was sufficiently her friend, and sufficiently familiat with her, to venture to seek from her own lips the nature and cause of that influence. Thus it was that he so hastily decided on going to the station, and, knowing that the Exeter train would leave in about an hour, he sped on his way as though upon his mission the fate of a nation depended. When be drew roin at the door of the station, he gave his horse in oharge of one of the hangers on," and then he walked on to the platform. He did not see Archer's man about, and therefore it was evident that he had departed. Well, what am I here for ?" he muttered, as it suddenly occurred to him that he had placed himself in a false position. Upon my word, I don't know," be answered. But all this time his heart told him that he wanted to see Miss Meyriok. The station was very busy, for one or two trains had just come in, and one or two were on the point of starting. There was all the con- fusion, noise, and bustle incidental to a railway station. He walked the whole length of the. departure platform and back, closely scrutinising tbe faces of those whom he bad passed, and peer- ing into the angles and nooks of the station where passengers not wishing to be seen might conceal themselves. And a sort of m- tuitive instinct led him to believe that thepersons for whom he was in search would endeavour to lie perdu until the precise moment arrived for the train to start. He began to feel disappointed, for the fingers of the clock warned him that the hour at which the Exeter train would depart was nigh at hand. Then it occurred to him that he bad not looked into the ladies' waiting-room. But supposing he did, and she was there, what excuse could he offer for his intrusion? He was a little puazled. I will meet her as though I were here by accident," he thought. But the ladies' room was set apart specially for ladies. and he being without a lady, how could he justify his presence there? He was puzzled again, but onlv for a moment, as he murmured, I will tell her boldly that I have come to see her." This was a good and honest reeolution—better than any white lie or lame excuse. And so he went into the station, opened the door of the room, and looked in. At first he thought the room was empty, for it was in partial gloom, owing to the windows facing the platform, and the blinds of the windows being partly down. But suddenly he was startled by a voice exclaiming— Mr Grayling—you here ?" And then he became conscious that Miss Meyrick had risen from a recess, and was standing before him. Her face was partly con- cealed by a thick fall, but he saw that she was nervous, agitated, and suffering from strong emotion. He put out his hand. She took it, and seemed to cling to it, as though she would not let it go. Yes, Miss Meyriok," he said in answer to her question. "I have taken the liberty of coming here on purpose to see you." To see me ? "Yes." How did you know that I was "I learnt it from Mr Archer. You are going away, Miss Meyriok?" K B "1 am." And she hung her head as if she was trying to avoid his piercing gaze. "Am I at liberty to ask why you are going and?where you are goir^ to?" Her voice was thick and huskv, and it was with difficulty sho spoke. You are at liberty to ask me any questions. As to why 1" am going I dare not tell you where I am going to I scarce know." She paused, and then murmured, Oh God I wish I were dead Harold needed nothing more than this last ex- clamation to assure him that he had done right in following her, and that she was in danger. You say I am at liberty to ask you any ques- tions," he said; tell me then, have you not been ooerced into this step ?" She did not answer; &he was sobbing, not violently, but deeply. He put the question again. Do not press me to tell you," she faltered. I will not. Your reluctance to give me the information I seek is my answer." "Oh, pray go away," she pleaded. "Mr Stringer has only gone to get the tickets, and will be back directly. "I will go at once if you desire it. But first let me say that I had the proud privilege to save you from peril—a deadly peril—011 a former occa- sion. You are in peril now; give me the right to save you again." She looked towards the door with a nervous frightened look; then she glanced at Harold yearningly, pleadingly. She was suffering a terrible ordeal, and she was trying bravely to endure it. How shall I answer you—how shall I answer you 1" she moaned. "As your heart and conscience dictate, Miss Meyrick." I am in peril; Mr Janin is in peril," she said sinking her voice almost to a whisper, and speak- ing with the greatest difficulty by reason of her emotion. "I go to save him but the right you seek I cannot give you, for I can scarcely call my heart and soul my own." This is strango language,' Miss Meyrick, and is pregnant with a mystery that only serves to confuse me. Let me say that no man has a right to take you away against your will. You are a woman, not a child surely you have a voice certainly you have a right to enter a protest against what seems to me a piece of cruel tyranny." "Oh! if you knew all; if you knew all," she sobbed. "Why do you not tell me, or at least as much as would enable me to act on your behalf?" "I dare not—dare not." Dare not! he echoed. "You are in a free country, where the humblest subject has a right to speak and claim protection from persecution." Mr Grayhng. do not probe me. I am not free. All the thankfulness and gratitude that a broken- hearted woman can give to a good man I give to you. But I beg, entreat, implore of you not to press me further. I can tell you no more." He caught both her hands in his. He could nob help it, for she was suffering so terribly, and had spoken of being broken-hearted. "Broken-hearted," he repeated. "Thab is a strange expression for one so young as you to use. I cannot let you go away like this." Do leave me—do leave me," she pleaded, growing more and more agitated. "See Mr Janin, for my sake; tell him that I go to save him—and it is better so." Harold was greatly troubled—troubled perhaps as he had never been troubled before in his life. He was prompted to do and say many things, but a moment's reflection served to show him that they would not effect what he desired. It wanted but ten minufes to the tima of the train starting. What could he do in so short a time ? How was he to act ? He had heard enough from Miss Meyrick's own lips to see that she was being taken away against her will by this man Stringer by reason of some power he was enabled to exert over her. What was that power ?" Harold asked him- self. She said that she was going away to save Mr Janin. What did she mean by that ? In what way could sho save him ? and from These and a dozen similar quastionsflashed through Grayling's mind as he stood debating with himself as to ,what he should and ought to do. But time was flying, and he must act im- mediately if he would acb at all. He resolved to make a final appeal, and so he said— "Miss Meyrick, you have 80 far taken me into your confidence that I feel justified in asking you to repose in me still further and tell me what is the influence this man possesses over you ?" "I cannot—I cannot," was her murmured answer. "But you give me to understand that to go with him is distasteful to you. Why not remain behind, then, and risk everything 1" "No, no. I must go." ¡" Must ?" he echoed. "Yes, thie" man holds me in bonds that I I cannot break." Harold still clasped her hands. He was about to speak again, when the door opened, and Stringer entered. Miss Meyrick released her hands, and seemed to skrink within herself. Harold almost felt for a moment as if he had been detected in the act of com- mitting a crime, while Stringer was astonished at the unexpected scene he had witnessed. He was a young man with regular and ratbergood features. But there was an air of sullenness about him, and he bore the stamp of a man who was defiant, self-willed, and headstrong, and it needed no very practised eye to detect traces of dissipation in his face. It was by no means the face of a confirmed drunkard, though the muscles uuder the eyes were slightly relaxed, and his skin wore that greasy appearance which is peculiar to men who indulge in the pleasures of the bottle and kept late hours. The signs, such as they were, would have led a practised person to infer that in sowing his wild oats, Stringer had led rather a wild life. Crossing to where Miss Mt-y. rick stood trembling in every limb, and with her eyes bent on tho floor, he passed his arm through hers and said— Helen, who is this gentleman ?" A friend of mine. A gentleman through whose instrumentality we were saved from the wreck." She had a difficulty in saying this. She seemed to be almost gasping for breath. Harold could hesitate no longer. At all hazards he was determined to come to her rescue. My name, sir," he said, addressing Stringer, is Harold Grayling. My father was for many years the rector of this place, and my brother at the present time occupies the position held by my late father. I was born and brought up in Peg- well, and never in the whole course of my life have I ever done any act that I need blush for. Having satisfied you as to my position, perhaps you will favour me with similar information with reference to yourself." Stringer smiled coldly—a little contemptuously it might have been. You are unnecessarily profuse, Mr Grayling," he observed. You are already acquainted with my name, and I may modestly inform you, if you are interested in knowing, that my late father was a partner in a London Banking House. Nothing further is necessary, I presume, and I wish you good day." Stay," Harold oried I demand to know why you are taking this lady away." Stringer's eyes flashed a little, and his brow contracted with a flown, and into his face came a look that told plainly of a passionate, revengeful nature. Demand, sir, is rather a ponderous word," be replied. Permit me to inquire, Mr Grayling, by what right you demand to know my business ?" By the right of a man." I failed to see that the fact of you having reached manhood's estate justifies you in being impertinent." ".I3y heavens!" Harold cried, then checked himself, for Miss Meyrick's eyes met his and pleaded to him. "The presence of this lady, sir, prevents my replying to your insult as I other. wise would have done," he observed. I think, Mr Grayling, that you are forgetting yourself^" Mr Stringer remarked sarcastically. If one of us has to complain of insult, surely it is I. I deny you the right to interfere with me in any way, and such interference I do not hesitate to say is impertinence." "Let it be so. tlien," said Harold; some day possibly I may be able to reply to you. But, im- pertinence or not, I tell you plainly that even at the risk of a scene here In this public plaoe, I will prevent you leaving the room until you bavesatls- fied me as to your right to compel this lady to accompany you." Harold moved to the door and placed his back firmly against it. Stringer released Miss Mey- rick's arm, aud, standing before her, said sternly-— Helen^will "you tell this man "—and he empha- ad the word man—"will you tell this man that he is taking a gross and unpardonable liberty—tell him that he musb allow you to pass ? Mr Grayling," she said, but in a voice so low that it was scarcely more than audible, "you muaplèA8e allow us to go." Now tell him that you are compelled to go wiih me for reasons that you are not at liberty to explain, but that it is to your interest, and the interest of Mr Janin, that you should go." Mr Stringer speaks the truth," she returned, in the same low tone, and evidently only con- trolhng her feelings by a great effort of will. Grayling moved from the door and opened it; then he bowed to Miss Meyrick and shook her hand. She took the proffered arm of Stringer, and ns they were passing out Harold said— Mr Stringer, you have the advantage of me now. It may not always be 80. I can wait." Stringer smiled coldly again, and bowed with frigid politeness, and, turning round, he ob- served— "If you will allow me to give you a wprd of advice, I should say it would be vpry much to your advantage if you were to restrain your im- petuosity. You have much to learn yet in the way of worldly experience, and you should be very careful not to interfere in matters tha.t do not concern you." Harold made no answer. The bell was ringing. and String-er and Miss Meyrick had only just time to hurry down the platform and jump into the train before it moved out of the station. Harold stood watching the departing train look- ing at the red. lights on the guard's brake until they seemed to him, in his then mood, like blood- red stars that portended mischief. Gradually they faded, grew indistinct and murky, swul then went out altogether as the train rushed into the tunnel that was cut under a huge cliff skirt- ing the sea shore. And as he turned to go, with a sense of weight at his heart, he somehow felt as if the train had taken a lot of the sunshine of his life away, and caused a big shadow to creep up and across the pathway that he would in future have to tread. CHAPTER XII. The Commencement of a Strange Journey. As Harold Grayling went out of the station the short winter day was drawing rapidly to a close. The bright clear atmosphere of the earlier part of the afternoon had changed to a murky gloom. The shadows were creeping up the hills, and the colours of the Downs that the sun had developed were quite gone now, and these same Downs looked mere patches of slate-coloured land. The light was fadmg out, and darkness was coming, while all the beautiful pictures that made Pegwell a spot that, when once seen, it was not easy to forget, were blurred and ind istincti. Woods, bills, downs, and vales had become mingled, and tke striking features of the landscape were no longer distinguishable. The moanings of the sea, too, could be heard, thereby plainly indicating some atmospheric change which had interrupted the acoustic properties of the air, while skyward there were signs of snow. There are times when the weather and the frame of mind in which a person happens to be strangely accord. By this I do not wish it to be understood that because a man is miserable and melancholy that the weather should necessarily be miserable and melancholy too. But the eternal fitness of thing is a law that is borne out in a very marked degree, even in our every day and most humdrum existence. It is, of course, an in- disputable fact that depressing weather has a depressing effect on the spirits of both men and animals. But in some of our moods bad weather is a!most unbearable. Harold was very far from being of a morbid dis- position indeed, his whole nature was filled with the freshness and brine of his native sea-washed Pegwell, and I may also go so far as to say that he was not without traces of that strength and dura- bility-I mean mentally of course—which was characteristic of theiron cliffs upon which Pegwell stood, and at which the Atlantic had stormed for thousands of years. But as he rode along now in the gathering gloom he felt unusually low. '1' Firstly, it may be assumed, because he had failed in his self-appointed task, and because he had sufficient vanity to smart at having been baffled by Stringer, who Harold could not help acknow- ledging had made him look a little small." And secondly, because there was so much that was strange and mysterious snrrounding Jasper Janin and Miss Meyrick that Grayling was greatly exercised in his mind as to whether in championing these people he might not place himself in a position from which extrication would be extremely difficult. And, remem- bering at the same time the forcible opinion of Dr. Julius, he could not close his eyes in the proba- bility that even his honour might be involved if this opinion should turn out to be true. And Harold Grayling was particularly punctilious on points of honour, and the due observance of those forms which are the true marks of a, gentleman. But there was yet another reason that might be adduced as accounting in a very large measure for his depression. He had learnt to pity, to respect and admire Miss Meyrick, and he had some very vague and undefined idea that, as time flowed on, she might become to him something more than a mere acquaintance. And if his feelings had been subjeoted to a delicate and crucial analysis, it might have been discovered that he had a secret desire that this thing should come to pass. This was, it may be, the first prick of the wound thab love gives the first faint lisping-il I may be allowed such a metaphor—of the heart when it cries EUTtka I-that is, that it has found its kindred heart. Favoured by nature mentally and physically, and favoured as well by fortune, Harold might have made a match, even in his native town, that tha world would have called an excellent one. But all the arts and wiles of the young lady porl tion of Pegwell had failed to produce any marked impression. And now, passing over and forget- ting those whom he best knew, he was dreaming of this stranger woman—this waif and stray that the sea had cast upon the shore. But between them a gulf had suddenly formed, and her depar- ture had quite extinguished the lingering hope that he had cherished in his heart, and left him with a vague sense of loneliness. Why this should have been so would require a more subtle logic to prove than it is necessary to use here. Suffice it to say that it was so—and he did feel lonely. Absorbed in his reflections, and sorely vexed with the many conflicting doubts that arose in his mind, he had pursued his way for some distance, without scarcely noticing whither he was going, only con- scious that he was heading for the Seven Bells. Bub suddenly-so suddenly, in fact, that he nearly threw the mare on her haunches-he drew rein at some cross roads, one of which led up to The Retreat." She "—referring, of course, to Miss Meyrick —"she desired me to call upon Mr Janin," be muttered I think I will go now I may learn something." The thought instantly became a determination, and so giving the mare her head he galloped on- wards, as a few flakes of snow came swirling down from the mirky sky. When he reached his desti- nation the snow was falling heavily, and there was every appearanoe of a storm. "Ib was a fearful night, when Miss Meyrick made her entrance amongst us, and now it is a fearful night when she departs." This is what Harold thought as he dismounted from his steaming horse, put his arms through the reins, and rang tho bell of the door. That it should be a bad night both when she came and when she went was merely a coincidence, as Miss Meyrick's or any other person's—Queen's or beggar's—movements could not possibly influence the weather. But sometimes, when the mood suits us, we like to believe, or try to believe, that coin- cidences, so called, have more than a passing con- nection with some particular incident in which we may be especially interested. This, no doubt, is very stupid, but it is certainly very human. Harold waited about five minutes, then be rang the bell again. He stamped his feet, shook the snow from his shoulders, and wondered wby they were so slow in opening the door. Another five minutes passed, and Harold then was moved by an impulse to go away, for his' horse was getting cold and restless. But as he was about to mount he saw through the glass panels of the door a light appear, and heard the old servant shuffling along, fumble with the bolts, and then draw back the latch. Is Mr Janin in ?" he asked, as the woman stood in the half-open doorway, keeping the door from flying back by pressing her foot against it, and screening the candle by her hand so that she might the better see who the visitor was. Lors a mussey, Master Grayling, be it you ?" she exclaimed, for'Harold was well known to her; It be a dreadful night to be sure. Come in out of the snow, do." I can't very well do that, Nanny, as I have Archer's mare with me, and you would not care about having her in the hall. But is Mr Janin at home ? "Ob. aye, he be in, I think, bub I haven't clapped eyes on him since he came back after seeing Miss Blandford home, They be queer folk altogether. There was an awful row last night with some sfentleman as come here and this morning Miss Helen goes out, and has never been back since, while master has shut himself up m his room. There's summat strange about their goings on as I don't understand. It puzzles me, that is what ib do." Harold did not wonder that Nanny should be puzzled, for he himself felt that the puzzle was an intricate one and not easy to be worked out. But he had no desire to argue with the old woman, whose garrulity was neither interesting nor pleasant. Pray go up, Nanny," he said, and tell Mr Janm that I am here. The horse is getting cold, and I am shivering." Well, it bain't the kind of night either for man Or beast to be out. Jnst keep the door from slamming, Muster Grayling, while I am away." Harold Was kept waiting so long, holding his horse's rein with one hand and the door with the other, while the snow twirled into his face and the wind blew pierceingly cold, that he nearly lost patience, and had almost made up his mind to go, when the old woman re-appeared. "MaSter is a-coming down, and you are to go into the parlour. I've been a-hammering at his door till I was well nigh tired and I fell to a- thinking as he was asleep, or maybap dead. When he did come he looked at me as black as a thunder cloud." Perhaps he is annoyed at my disturbing him," Harold suggested, and I had bettter defer seeing him until to-morrow ?" "Na, na," cried Nanny; "master said as he wanted to see you now." Very well, Nanny; but what am I to do with the mare ? She can't go into the parlour with me ?" Ab, a beast and a woman be nuisances when you've nowhere to put them," growled Nanny. Harold laughed; he could scarcely help doing so, although he was cold and miserable, for there was a sense of irresistible humour in the way the old woman made the reman I" ————1 S Why can I not put the mare in the stable f he asked. There was a stable in connection wiih The Retreat," but Janin never used it. Because there bain't no straw in it, and there bain't nothing for the beast to eat. and the door" locked, and 1 do not know where to lind the key," Nanny growled, evidently by no means pleased at being disturbed. /• Come, come, Nanny, don't lose your tamper,"a Harold exclaimed, again breaking into laughter/ at the same time slipping half-a-crown into tha old woman's hand. You know I can't leave th#* poor brute here in the cold and snow." The coin had a magical effect on Nanny, the* frown 011 whose face gave place to a grin, so tha<> her toothless gums were exposed. Ah, Master Grayling, you be mortal g Just bide a bit till I find the key. And sh, trotted off with a degree of activity that w astonishing. I (To be continued.) j You say your boy is a somnambulist Yes; gets np in the night."—" He's a good deal different from my boy I can't get him up in the morning." So my daughter has referred you to me, ek t Well, I hardly understand it. She never consults me, except in a financial way." Well-ah-air, that's just it." First little boy (at school) Mamma didn't put up half enough lunch to-day.—Second litiie boy: Mebby she waited till after breakfast, an' hadn't much appetite. Jefferson was sometimes called a diffuse writer, but on the level," boys, that was not the reason why he did not call Jeffersonian Democracy pie," for short. Miss Pruyn It seems to me that the trouble with most married people is that they don't know each other before marriage.—Waite Oh, well; they soon remedy that! I called to see," said the poet timidly, if you bad an opening here for an author." We have," said the editor. Which do you prefer- the door or the window ?" Every sensible man will break off thecigarette habit," said the doctor. "Ob, no. he won't," replied Stringer. Why not 2" Because lie sensible man is addioted to it." The inventor of the alphabet musb have beet a modest man," said Hawkins. Why so I asked Mawson. Because he began it with A," said Hawkins. Most men would have begun it with I." Mrs A. I called upon Mr and Mrs Lasher this afternoon. I teU you they'are a well mated pair. -Mrs B. Why so?—Mrs A. There is not another man in the world who would take from her what be does! It is estimated that the main wheel of a watch makes 1,460 revolutions in a year the second or central wheel, 8,760; the third wheel, 70,080 the fourth wheel, 525,600 and the fifth or scap6 wheel, 4,731,860. The number of beats of vibra- tions is 141,912,000 in a year. Boarder Higgins (to the landlady) Can you tell, Mrs Hathaway, the difference between martyrs of old and your boarders 1-Landlady (colouring up) A good deal, I hope. But what is it ?—Boarder Higgins The martyrs were brought to the stake end burned, bub now th« steak is burned and brought to us. In a certain town is a cricket ground nearly surrounded by houses. One fine morning, after match had been played, the secretary of the cricket club received a letter from a lady dwelling in one of the houses adjacent to the ground, de- daring that her delicacy had been-repeatedif affronted by the sight of gentlemen in every state of nudity putting on tneir cricket flannels in the dressing tent just before her windows. Would the secretary make arrangements for ridding her of this disusting spectacle ? Of course, he wrote an apologetic note, and at the next match saw that the dressing tent was placed sit at the opposite corner of the ground. Much to his astonishment, the next morning's post brought him a letter thanking him for his obviously.kind intentions," but regretting that they were of no avail, as she "could see the gentlemen's legs with a telescope just. as plainly as before." Ab a particularly intense part of the battle of Round'Mountain, a Union captain stood besidA his horse scanning the field with his glass and directing the troops. He says it seemed as if the Ere of the whole Confederacy was centred on hink the bullets were so thick around bim. Suddenly he heard a minie-ball singing m the air, and b$ felt something strike his leg. But the occasiotf was urgent, and he kept up his glass. There was another pirfg-g-g," and he felt another strikft And so it continued. Finally, the battle was won. With a long-drawn sigh the captain turned. 11- shouted to his orderly at a little distance, rO- wounded, Jim. Come and help me on my b. I must go home. It's my last battle." No, guess not," replied the orderly. What's th4 matter ? Come, hurry up, J'm wounded." K you want me, come here," sang out the orderly* Rut what's tho trouble ? Why can't you oouifr' here ? Don't you see I'm wounded and almost dying ?" Oh, no, you are not," sang out the orderly. Come here instanbly, you rascal.* shouted the commander. No, I don't; that's the biggest nest of yellow jackets there I ever saw in my life," was the laughing reply of the orderly* The storming swarm of hornets were the onlT minie-balls that had struck him. J FROZEN MEAT.—The imports of this are 110- enormous. Last January the Ruahine, of the New Zealand Shipping Company, came to hel berth near Gallions, and out of her were taked 40,000 carcases of sheep, 14,400 quarters of beef., 546 cases of kidneys-a cargo valued at aixtf thousand guineas, the largest of the sort ever dø" livered in London. And the oold storage trade i* London would be greater were it not for the neW development of Port Said, where the ships 0116", ward and homeward fill up their larders witfc mutton as they do their bunkers with coal. Ourf mail boats are becoming meat ships, and what thtf trade is expected to be like in the immediate future is shown by some of the newer vessel* having stowage of 70,000 carcases. They are largtf ships, of course, but then our ships get larger whether they are freighters or expresses. A 2.000 ton clipper used to be thought a giant. Now w* have ships like the Liverpool, of 3,330 toni register, or La France, of 3,750, or the )Alariit Rickmers, which was bigger than either; and if n should not be forgotten that such ships, although under 4,000 tons in register, will really carry 5,000 to 6,000 tons of cargo, tonnage being but S' mode of measurement wbiohit is the mastef architect's business to take advantage of.-Leijurd Hour. It is stated that two days after Mr Hepworth Dixon had bean entertained at a grand banquet at Philadelphia, the following advertisement para* fraph appeared:—"Remarkable speech of lepworth Dixon, Esq., of London, at the testij monial dinner given to him at bhe Continental Hotel. Mr Dixon, on rising, said the following remarkable words :—' In the judgment of rtan* of us, the historian Macaulay had spoken w William Penn, the founder of your oommo wealth, in terms which seemed to call for a joati* fication of that disciple of peace. I took up wif pen in his defence, and since I have visited you' beautiful country, travelling as far as the wilw prairies, I have come to rest my poor feet in these very streets trod by that man who gave name your beautiful city; and I will here say what > have never said before to any living soul-(bearp —that, much as I respect William Penn and his followers, their creed, their speech, and thei< dress, I should have found language too inadø" quate to express my admiration of his principlel at that time if I had supposed I should hav< found in this city of his founding, and at thrf very spot-(hear, hear)—such beautiful ready- made first-class clothing as I have seen this da1 on the counters of Charles Stokes and Co., undef this hotel! with the price marked on every article! THE MASONIO SIECRICT.-A., who is a Mason, and B., who is not, were on their way to tbl station to go to London, and conversation tornh on the "craft," "which," said A., is a mos* admirable thing, for we have a secret whiob enables us to travel anywhere on the line without paying a half-penny." Oh," replies B., » should like to know that secret." Well, then* all you have to do is to join our society, B., and--O there you are No," B. wouldn't do thabi but he'd like to know the secret. Tell yotf whab I'll do," he says, give me tbe sign, and I'« pay the value of your fate to London and backj and your expenses while you're there. "Agreed," responds A., "And now for th4 secret.' All you have to do when you aslt for your ticket is to say, 1 Ticket for I where* ever you want to go, and stroke your nose tbri4 times on the right side with your forefinger." A* was thanked, and by-and-byo they reached thl station. A., however, manages to get to the book- 1 ing offices a few minutes before B., and asks lot two tickets for Paddmgton and pays for the saying, I'll only take one a gentleman will ca for the other in a minute." But how shall know him ?" asks the clerk. Oh, that is vetf I easy he has a peculiar habit of stroking his nosj on the right side f with his forefinger." Al» right," is the remaik, and away goes Aw followed shortly after by B., who, of course has obtained his ticket without paying for i. Next day B. thinks of returning, so, goinf to Paddington Station, he says to 'the elerlft Ticket for Bristol," giving at the same tin1' the "sign." "Eighteen and six," bawlaOO* the clerk. "Ticket for Bristol," repeats. B., 01 the same time rubbing his nose more vigorously' "Eighteen and six, I told you." This brei having beed gone through till the patience of the clerk, who naturally deemed the man non oontro- mentis, was exhausted, he threatens to give B. IP charge if he does not leave. Poor B., tinding bs had been sold, pay. When he again met his friend I10 demands au explanation. Why, ho<J did you make the sign ?" asks A. As you me; stroked th6 right sido of my nose three tiuifj with my forefinger." "No wonder, then," A, victoriously, "that you failed to get out ticket. You made the wrong sign I That's th* sign for leaving Bristol. You couldnt expect W to and return with the same sign, could vou 2"