Welsh Newspapers

Search 15 million Welsh newspaper articles

Hide Articles List

16 articles on this Page

--..,-. ALL ALONG THE RIVER

News
Cite
Share

ALL ALONG THE RIVER By Miss M. E. Braddon. Author of Lady Audley's Secret," The Vene- tians, or alt. in Honour," "Aurora Floy' ''The Cloven Foot," Dead Men's Shcos," "Just as I Am," "Taken at the FL-.od," "Phantom Fortune," "Like and Unlike,' "Weavers and Weft," &c., &c. CHAPTER XXVI (Continued). Though Love and Life and Death Should Come and Go." Isola was alone in the spacious Roman drawing- room with its wide windows and shady loggia. The sun v/os off that side of the house now, and the Venetian shutters had been pushed back, and between the heavy stone pillars of the loggia, she saw the orange and magnolia trees ill the garden, and the palo gold of the mimosas beyond. The sun was shining full upon the Hill of the Gardens, that hill at whose foot Nero was lir,ripd-in secret, at dead of night, by his faithful freeman and the devoted woman who loved him to the shameful end of the shameful life I that hill whose antique groves the wicked Caesar's ghost had once made & place of terror. The wicked ghost was laid now. Modern civilisa- tion had sent Nero the way of all phantoms, and fashionable Rome made holiday on tbe Hill of hardens. A military band was playing there this afternoon in the golden light, and the familiar melodies of Don Giovanni were wafted ever and anon in little gusts of sweetness to the l°ggia, where the vivid crimson of waxen catnelias and the softer rose of oleander blossoms gave brightness and colour to the dark foliage and the cold white stone. Isola heard thr^e far off melodies, faint in the distance, without heeding. The notes were beyond measure familiar, interwoven with the very fabric of her life for those were the airs Martin Disney loved, and she had played them to him pearly every evening in their quiet monotonous life. She hpard unheeding, for her thoughts had wandered back to the night of tne ball at Lostwithiel, and all that went after it—the fatal pight that struck the death-knell of peace and Innocence. How vividly she remembered every detail; her iuttering apprehensions during the long drive in the dark lanes, up hill and down hill; her Eagerness for the delight of the dance, as an un- accustomed pleasure, a scene to which youthful beauty flies as the moth to tha flame her Remorseful consciousness that she had done wrong 5n yielding to the temptation which drew her there; the longing to see Lord Lostwithiel once Inore-Lostwitlilel, whom she had vowed to her- self never to meet again of her own free will. She had gone home that afternoon resolved to forego the ball, to make any social sacrifice rather than look upon that man whose burning Words of love, breathed in her ear before she had to silence him, had left her scathed and seared as if the lightning *ia.d blasted her. She had heard his ".vow a I no room now to doubt the meaning of all that had gone before; no ground now for believing in a tender Platonic admiration, lapping her round with its soft radiance a light but not a fire. That which bad burnt into her soul to-day was th") fierce flame of dishonouring love—the open avowal of a love that wanted to steal her from her husband, and make her a sinner before her God. She knew this much—had brooded upon it all the evening—and yet she was going to a place where she must inevitably meet the Tempter. She was going because it was expedient to go because her persistent refusal to be there might give rise to guesses and suspicions that would lead to a discovery of the real reason of her ab- sence. She had seen often enough the subtle process, the society search-light, by which Tre- lasco and Fowcy could arrive at the innermost Workings of a neighbour's heart, the deepest mys- teries of motive. She was going to the ball after all, fevered, anxious, full of dim forebodings and yet with an eager expectancy and yet with a. strange over- mastering joy. How should she meet him ? How could she avoid him without ostenta- tious avoidance, knowing how many eyes J^ould be quick to mark any deviation *rom conventional propriety ? Somehow or other she was resolved to avoid al! asso- ciation with him; to get her card filled before he eould ask her to dance; or in any case to refuse if he asked her. He would scarcely venture to approach her after what had been said in the lane, when her indignation had been plainly ex- Pressed, with angry tears. No, he would hardly Pare. And so—in a vague bewilderment at find- ing she was at her journey's end—she saw the bghts of the little town close upon her, and in the next few minutes her carriage was moving slowly in the rank of carnages setting' down •heir freight at the door of the inn. Vaguely, as in a. dream, she saw the lights and the fluwers, the fine dresses and the diamonds, the scarlet and white upon the walls, brush and ^izard, vizard and brush. He was not there. She looked among the crowd, and that tall figure and that dark head were absent. She ought to have been glad at this respite; and yet her heart grew heavy as lead. Later he was there, and she was waltzing- with him. At the last moment when he was standing before her, cool, self-possessed, as it were uncon- scious of that burning past, she had no more Sower to refuse to be his partner than the bird as to escape from the snake. She had given him her hand, and they were moving slowly, softly to to the music of the soft, slow waltz. Myosotis, lnyosotis-mystic flower which means everlasting remembrance—would she ever forget this night ? Their last meeting-safest possible meeting-place here in the shine of the lamps-in the sight of the rnultitude. Here she could hold him at arm's length here she might speak to him lightly, as she too were unconscious of tht, past. Here she Was safe against his madness and her own weak, instable heart, which fluttered at his smallest Word. And so the night wore on, and she danced with him more times than she could count, forgetting, Or pretending to forget, other engagements going through an occasional waltz with another partner just for decency's sake, and hardly know- 1ng who that partner was knowing so well that there was someone else standing against the wall patching her every movement with the love- light in his eyes. Then came the period after supper when they satin the anteroom and let the dances go; by, bearing the music of waltzes which they were to nave danced together, hearing and heeding not. And then came a sudden scare at the thought of the hour—was it late ? Late, very late The discovery fluttered and unnerved her, and she was scarcely able to collect her thoughts, as he handed her into the carriage, and shut the door. Surely it was a white horse that brought me," she exclaimed, and in the next minute she re- cegnised Lostwithiel's brougham, the same carriage in which she had been driven home through the rain upon that unforsrotten night When his house sheltered her, when she saw his 'ace for the first time. Yes, it was his carriage. She knew the colour of the lining, the little brass clock, the reading lamp, the black panther rug. She pulled at the check string, but without effect. The carriage drove on slowly, but steadily, to the end of the town. She let down the window and called to ihe coachman. There was only one man on the box, and he took no notice of her call. Yes, he had heard her, perhaps, for he drew up his horse suddenly by the roadside, a little way beyond the town. A man opened the door and 'prang in, breathlessly after running. It was lostwithiel. You put me into your carriage," she cried, distractedly. How could you make such a wi is take ? Pray, tell him to go back to the Inn directly." They were driving along the country road at a rapid pace, and he had seated himself by her side, clasping her hand. He pulled up the window Nearest her, and prevented her calling to the coachman. Why should you go back ? You will be home sooner with my horse than with the screw that Drought you." But the fly will be waiting for me—the man **i|l wonder." "Let him wonder. He won't wait,very long, you may be assured. He will guess what has happened. In the confusion of carriages you took the wrong one. Isola, I am going to leave Corn- Wall to-night—to leave England—perhaps never jo return. Give me the last few moments of my ife here. Be merciful to me. I am going away -perhaps for evee." ..Take me home," she said. Are you really Wong nie home ? I* this the right way j. Of course, it is the right way. Do you suppose "51 going to drive you to London ?" ■He let down the glass suddenly, and pointed to the night. Isola, do you see where we are ? There's the J"t?n post at the cross roads. There's the tower of Aywardreath Church, though you can hardly see It In this dim light. Are you satisfied now ?" -He had drawn up the glass again. The win- jtows vvere growing dint with the mist of their Tangled breath the atmosphere was faint with odour of the faded chrysanthemums^ on her and the gardenia in the lapel of his coat, r:" that she could see of the outer world was the .rred light of the carriage lamps The high- pirited horse was going up and down the hills at 14 Perilous pace. At this rate the journey could not take long. And then—and then—he came back to the t*ra?er had breathed in her ear more than welve hours ago in the wintry lane. He loved to* l°ve{l her, he loved her—could she refuse v Ro away with him—having woven herself into W ^e? having made iiim madly, helplessly in Wr[e her? Could she refuse? Had any l«an the right to refuse? He appealed to her of honour. She had gone too far—she had too much already, granting him bsr love. I She was in his arms in the dim light, in the faint, dream-like atmosphere. He was taking possession of her weak heart by all that science of love in which he was past master. Honour, conscience, fidelity to the absent, piety, inno- cence, were being swept away in that lava flood cf passion. Helpless, irresolute, she faltered again and again. "Take me home, Lostwithiel Have mercy Take me home." He stopped those tremulous lips with a kiss— the kiss that betrays. The carriage dashed down a steep hill, rattled along a street so narrow that wheels seemed to grind against the house fronts on each side, down hill again and then it drew up suddenly in a stony square, and the door opened, and the soft, sweet sea-breeze blew among her loosened hair, and upon her uncovered neck, and she heard the gentle plish-plash of a boat moored against the quay at her feet. "This is not home," she cried piteously. Yes, it is home, love, our home for a. little while—the home that can carry us to the other end of the world, if you will. "J I The quay, and the water, and the few faint lights here and there grew dark, and she knew no more, till she heard the 3ailors crying yeo. heave, yeo, and the heaving sails swinging, and the creak of the boom as it swayed in the wind, and felt the dancing motion of the boat as she cut her way through the waves, felt the strong arm that elapsed her, and heard the low, fond voice that murmured in her ear, Isola, Isola, forgive me, I could .,t live without you." That which came afterwards had seemed one long and lurid dream—a dream of fair weather and foul ;10f peril and despair of passionate, all- conquering love. To-day, as she lay supine in the afternoon silence-lying as Tabitba had left her, in a fevered sleep-the visions of that past came back upon in all its vivid colouring, almost as distinctly as it had re-acted itself in her hours of delirium, when she had lived that tragic chapter of her life over again, and had felt the fury of the waves and breathed the chill, salt air of the tempest-driven sea, and had seen the bright full moon riding high amidst the cloud-chaos—now appearing, now vanishing, as if she, too, were a storm-driven bark in raging seas 0, God how vividly tboss hours came back The awful progress accross the bay the brooding darkness of the brief day the infinite horror of the' long night; the shuddering yacht, with straining spars, and broadside beaten by a heaving mass of water, that struck her with the force of a thousand battering-rams, blow after blow, seeming as if the next must always be the last—the final crash and end of all things. The pretty, dainty vessel, long and narrow, rode like an eggshell on those furious waters—here a long wall of inky blackness, rising like a mountain ridge and bearing down on the doomed ship, and beyond, as far as the eye could reach, a waste of surf, livid in the moonlight. What helpless in- significance, as of a leaf tossed on a whirlpool, when that mountanious mass took the yacht and lifted her on Cyclopean shoulders, and. shook her off again into the deep, black trough of the sea, as into the depths of hell And this not once only, nor a hundred times only, but on through I that endless-seeming night, on in the sickly winter dawn, and in the faint yellow gleam of a rainy noontide—on through day that seemed mixed and entangled with night, as if the be- ginning of creation had come round again, and the light were not yet divided from the darkness. Oh, those passionate, never-to-be-forgotten moments, when she had stood with him at the top of the companion, looking out upon those livid waters, over that sea of death fondly believing that each moment was to be their last that the gates of death were opening vender-a watery way, a gulf to which they must go down, in a mom'ent, in a little moment, in a flash, in a breath, at the next, or the next, or the next mad plunge of the hurrying bark. Yes, death was there, in front of them — inevitable, imminent, immediate—and life and sin, shame, remorse, were done with, along which the life that lay behind them, a page blotted and blurred with one passionate madness, which had changed the colour of a woman's life history. She knew not how she bore up against the force of that tempest clinging to him with her bare, wet arms held up by him crouching against the woodwork, which shook and rattled with every blow of the battering rams. She only knew that his arms were round her, that she was safe with him, even when the leaping surf wrapped her round like a mantle, blinding, drowning her in a momentary extinction. She only knew that his lips were close to her ear, and that in an instant's lull of those awful voices he murmured, We are going to die, Isola. The boat cannot live through such a sea. We shall go down to death together." And her lips turned to him with a joyful cry. Thank God Then again, in a momentary pause, he pleaded. Forgive me, love my stolen love, forgive me before we die And again, Was it a crime, Isola?" "If it was I forgive you," she whispered, clinging to him as the blast struck thorn. Bitter, cruel revulsion of feeling, bitter irony of fate, when the great, grim waves—which had seemed like living monsters hurrying down upon them with malignant fury to tear and to devour —when the awful sea. began to roar with a lesser voice, and the thunder of the battering-rams had a duller sound, and the bows of the yacht no longer plunged straight down into the leaden- colqured pit no longer climbed those inky ridges with such blind impetus as of a cockle- shell in a whirlpool. Bitter sense, of loss and dismay when the grey. cold dawn lighted a quieter sea, and she heard the captain telling Lostwithiel that they had seoothe Worst of the storm, and that there was no fear now. He was going to put on more canvas and hadn't the lady better go below, where ib was warm. She needn't feel anyway nervous now. They would soon be in the roadstead off Arcachon. She had not felt the chill change from night to morning. She had not felt the surf that drenched her loose, entangled hair. She hardly knew when or how Lostwithiel had wrapped her in his fur-lined coat but she found that she was so enveloped presently when she stumbled and staggered down to the cabin, and flung herself face downward upon the sofa, in a paroxysm of impotent despair. Death would have delivered her. The tempest was her friend. But the tempest had passed her by, and left her lying there like a weed, more worthless than any weed that ever the sea cast up to rot upon the barren rocks. Yes, she was left there left in a life that sin had blighted, loath- some to herself, hateful to her God. She locked herself in the cabin, while the hurry- ing footsteps overhead told her that Lostwithiel was working with the sailors. An hour later, and he was at the cabin door, pleading for one kind word, entreating her to let him see her, were it only for a few moments, to know that she was not utterly broken down by the peril she had passed through. He pleaded in vain. She would give no answer—she would speak no word. Indeed, in that dull agony of shame and despair it seemed to her as if a dumb devil had entered into her. Her parched lips seemed to have lost the power of speech. She lay there, staring straight before her at all the swing- ing things on the cedar panel—the books and photographs—and lamps and frivolities swaying and vibrating with every movement of the sea. Her hands were clenched until the nails cut into the flesh ;lher heart was throbbing with dull, slow beats that made themselves torturingly audible. Did God create His creatnres for such agony ? Had she been foredoomed everlastingly in that awful incomprehensible eternity that goes before birth—condemns 1 before she was born to this de- grading fall, to this unutterable shame ? Hours went by, she knew not how. Again and again he came to her door and talked and en- treated—heaven knows how tenderly—with what deep contrition, with what fond pleading for pardon. But the dumb devil held her still. She wrapped herself in a sullen despair—not anger, for anger is active. Her's was only a supine re- sistance. At last she heard him come with one of the sailors, and she could make out their whisperinsr talk that they were going to force open the door. Then she started up in a kind of fury, and went and flung herself against the dainty cedar panels. If you don't leave me alone in my misery I will kill myself," she cried. The long night was over; and the sun was high. It seemed as if they were sailing over a summer sea, and through the scuttle port she saw a little town, nestling under pine-clad hills. She woke from brief and troubled slumbers to see this strange and lovely shore, and at first she fancied they must have sailed back to Cornwall, and that this was some unknown bay upon that rock-bound coast; but the sapphire sea and the summer-like sunshine suggested a fairer clime than rugged Britain. While she was looking out at the crescent- shaped bay and the long line of white villas, the anchor was being lowered. The sea was almost as smooth as a lake, and these tranquil waters had the colour and the sheen of sapphire and emerald. She thought of the jasper sea—the sea of the Apocalypse, the tideless sea. beside that land of the New Jerusalem, where there are no more tears, where there can bo no more sin, a city of ransomed souls, redeemed irom all earth's iniquities. A boat was being lowered. She heard the scroop of the rope against the hull; she heard footsteps on the accommodation ladder, and then the dip of oars, and presently the boat passed between her and the sunlit waters, and she saw Lostwithiel sitting in the stern with the rudder lines in his hand, while two sailors were bending to their oars, with wind-blown hair and cheery, smiling faces, broad and red in the gay morning sunshine. He was gone, and she breathed more freely. There was a sense of momentary release in his absence and for the first time she looked round the cabin, where beautiful and luxurious things lay, thrown here and there in huddled masses of brilliant colour., A Japanese screen, a master- t piece of gold and rainbow embroidery on a sea- green ground, flung against the panelling at one end—chairs, vases, wicker wood tables, over- turned—Persian curtains wrenched from their fastenings and hanging awry—satin pillows that had drifted into a heap in one corner—signs of havoc everywhere. She stood in the midst of all this ruin, and looked at her own reflection in a long Venetian glass fastened to the panelling, almost the only object that had held its place through the storm. Her own reflection. Was that really herself, that ghastly image which the glass gave back to her? The reflection of a. woman with livid cheeks and blanched liDS, with swollen eyelids and dark rings of purple round the haggard eyes, and hair rough and tangled as Medusa's locks, and bare shoulders from which the stained satin bodice had slipped away. Her wedding gown Could that defiled garment—the long folds of the once shining satin draggled and befouled with the tar of the ropes, heavy and dripping with sea-water—could these tawdry rags be the wedding gown she had put on in her proud and happy innocence in the old bedroom at Dinan, with mother and servants, and a useful friend or helping and hindering ? Oh, if they could see her now, these old friends of her unclouded childhood, the mother and father who had loved and trusted her, who had never hinted at evil in her hearing, had never thought that sin would come new her. And she had fallen like the lowest of womankind. She had forfeited her place among the virtuous and happy for ever. She, Martin Disney's wifo That good man, that brave soldier who had fought for Queen and country-it was his wife who stood there in her shame, haggard and dis- hevelled. She flung her arms above her head, and wrung her hands in a, paroxysm of despair. Then, with a little cry, she plucked at the loose wild tresses as if she would have torn them from her head and then she threw herself upon the cabin floor in her agony, and grovelled there, a creature to whom death would have been a merciful release. If I could die, if I could but die, and no one know," she moaned. She lifted herself up again upon her knees, and with one hand upon the floor looked round the walls of. the cabin—looked among all that glitter- ing array of yhatagans and barbaric shields, damascened steel and jewelled hilts, for some practicable instrument with which she might take her hated life. And then came the thought of what must follow death, not for her in the dim incomprehensible eternity, but for those who loved her on earth, for those who would have I to be told how she had been found, in her draggled wedding gown, stabbed by her own hand, cn board Lord Lostwithiel's yacht. What a stcry of shame and crime for picturesque reporters to embellish and for scandal-lovers to gloat over No She dared not kill herself here. She must collect her senses, escape from her seducer, and hide the story of her dishonour. She took off her gown, and rolled train and bodice into a bundle as small as she could make them. Then she looked about the cabin for some object with which to weight her bundle. Yes, that would do. A little brass log that was used to steady the open door. That was heavy enough perhaps. She put it into the middle of her bundle, tied a ribbon tightly round the whole, and then she opened the scuttle port acd dropped her wedding garment into the sea. The keen winter wind, the wind from pine-clad hills and distant snow mountains blew in upon her bare neck and chilled her to the bone but it helped to cool the fever of her mind, and she sat down and leant her head upon her clsaped hands, and tried to think what she must do to escape from the toils in which guilty Jove had caught her. She must escape from the yacht. She must go back to England—somehow. She thought that if she were to appeal to Lostwithiel's honour some spark of better feeling would prevail over the madness which had destroyed her, and he would let her go; he would take her back to England, and facilitate her secret return to the home she had dis- honoured. But could she trust herself to make that appeal ? Could she stand fast against his pleading, if he implored her to stay with him, to live the life that he had planned for her, the life that he had painted so eloquently, the dreamy, beautiful life in earth's most poetic places, the life of love in idleness? Could she resist him if he should plead—it might be with tears --be, whom she adored, her destroyer and her divinity. No, she must leave the yacht before he came back to it. But how ? There were only men on board. There was no woman to whose compassion she could appeal, no woman to lend her clothes to cover her. She saw herself once again in the Venetian glass, in her long trained petticoat of muslin and lace, so daintily fresh when she dressed for the ball— muslin and lace saddened by the sea, torn to shreds where her feet had caught in the delicate flounces as she stumbled down the companion during last night's storm. A fitting costume in which to travel from Arcachon to London, verily She opened a door leading to an inner cabin, which contained bed and bath, and all toilet appliances. Hanging against the wall there wore three dressing-gowns, the lightest and least masculinaof the three being a robe of Indian camel's hair, embroidered with dull, brown silk- a neutral tinted shapeless garment with loose sleeves and a girdle. Here within locked doors, she made her hurried toilet, with much cold water. She brushed her long, ragged hair with one of the humblest of the brushes. She would not take so much as a few drops from the great crystal bottle ef eau-de-Cologne which was held in a silver frame suspended from the cealing. No- thing of his would she touch, nothing belonging to the man who wanted to pour his fortune into her lap, to make his life her life, his estate her estate, his name her name, could she but survive the ordeal of the divorce court, and free herself from old ties. She rolled her hair in a large coil at the back of her head. She put on the camel's hair dressing- ss" gown, and tied the girdle round her long, slim waist, and having done this she looked altogether a different creatute from that vision of haggard shame which she had seen just now with loath ing. She had a curious puritan air in her sad coloured raiment and braided hair. Scarcely had she finished when she beard the dip of oars, and, looking out in an agony of horror at the apprehension of Lostwithiel's return she saw a boat laden with two big mil- liner's baskets, and with a woman sitting in the stern. The men who were rowing this boat were not of the crew of the Vendetta. She had not long to wonder. She unlocked her door, and went into the adjoining cabin, while the boat came alongside, and woman and baskets were hauled upon the deck. Three minutes afterwards the cabin boy knocked at her door, and told her that there was a person from Arcachon to see her, a dress- maker with things that: had been ordered for her. She unlocked the door, for the first time since she locked it last night, and found herself face to face with a smiling young person, whose black eyes and olive complexion were warm with the glow of the south, golden in the eyes, carnation on the plump, oval cheeks. This young person had the honour to bring the trousseau which Monsieur had sent for Madame's inspection. Monsieur had told her how sadly inconvenienced Madame had been by the accident by which all her luggage had been Ihft upon the quay at the moment of saihng.f In truth, it must have been distressing for Madame, as it had evidently been distressing for Monsieur in his profound sympathy with Madame, his wife. In the meantime she, the young person, had complied with Monsieur's orders, and had brought all that there was of the best and most Parisian for Madame's gracious inspection. The cabin boy brought in the two baskets, which the milliner opened with an air, taking out the delicate lingerie, the soft silk and softer cashmere-peigniors, frilled petticoats, a fluff and flutter of creamy lace and pale satin ribbons, transforming simplest garments into things of beauty. She spread out her wares, chattering a!! the while,- and then looked at Madame for approval. Jsola scarcely glanced at all the finery. She pointed to the only plain walking gown among all the delicate prettinesses, the silk and cash- mere and lace-a grey tweed tailor gown, with no adornment except a little narrow black braid. I will keep that," she said, and one set of under-linen, the plainest. You can take all the rest of the things back to your shop. Please help me to dress as quickly as you can—I want to go on shore 111 the boat that carries you back." "But, Madame, Monsieur insisted that I should bring a complete trousseau. He wished Madame to supply herself with all things needful for a long cruise in the south." He was mistaken. My luggage is safe enough. I shall have it again in a few days. I only want clothes to wear for a day cr two. Kindly do what I ask." Her tone was so authoritative that the milliner complied, reluctantly, and murmuring persuasive little speeches while she assisted Madame to dress. All that she had brought were of the most new— expressly arrived from Paris, from one of the most distinguished establishments in the Rue de la Paix. Fashions change so quickly—and the present fashion was so enchanting, so original. She must be pardoned if she suggested that nothing in Madame's wardrobe could be so new or so elegant as these last triumphs of an artistic faiseur. Madame took no heed of her eloquence, but hurried through the simple toilet, insisted upon all the finery being replaced in the two baskets, and then went upon deck with the milliner. I am going on shore to his lordship," she said, with quiet authority, to the captain. It was a deliberate lie-the first she had told, but not the last she would have to tell. She landed on-the beach at Arcachon-penni. less, but with a diamond ringven her wedding finger—her engagement ring—which she knew, by a careless admission of Martin Disney's, to havo cost fifty pounds. She left the milliner, and went into the little town, dreading to meet Lostwithiel at every step. She found a com- placent jeweller who was willing to advance twenty-five Napoleons upon the ring, and who promised to return it to her on the receipt of that sum, with a bagatelle of twenty francs for interest, since Madame would redeem it almost immediately. Furnished with this money she drove straight to the station, and waited their in the most obscure corner she could find till the first train left for Bordeaux. At Bordeaux she bad a long time to wait, still in hiding, before the express left for Paris-and then came the long, lonely journey-from Bordeaux to Paris -from Paris to London—from London to Trelasco -it seemed an endless pilgrimage, a night- mare dream of dark night and wintry day, made hideous by the ceaseless throb of the engine, the perpetual odour of sulphur and smoke. She reached Trelasco somehow, and sank exhausted in Tabitha's arms. What day is it?" she asked faintly, looking round the familiar room as if she had never seen it before. "Thursday, ma.'am. You have been away over a week," the old servant answered coldly. It was only the next day that Tabitha. told her mistress she must leave her. "There is no need to talk about what has happened," she said. "I have kept your secret. I have let no one knw that you were away. I packed tSusan off for a holiday the morning after the ball. I don't believe anyone knows i anything about you—-unless you were seen yester- day on your way home." Then came stern words of renunciation, a rjcsd woman's protest against sin. (To be concluded.)

FAILURE OF CAR MARTH ENS HiRE…

ING OF A PUBLIC HALL AT TREHARRIS.

- GLAMORGANSHIRE REFORMATORY…

ENTENARY OF JOHN PENRY

--"'-SACRILEGE AT CARDIFF.

Advertising

Daily Pyrotechnioal Display.

The " Hotel De Marl." ;J

A WATER SUPPLY FOR THE JOINT…

AN INCIDENT AT THE CHAPEL…

Advertising

IWales and the LabourI ICommission.

-----------.-LORD CAWDOR &…

ROBBERY VVITH VIOLENCE AT…

Advertising