Rhyl Journal

(PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGElENT.1 IN THE GRIP OF HATE. BT ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT, Author of By Right of Sword," Sir Jaff ray's Wife," &&, Ac. r {COPYRIGHT.] SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTERS I. to III.—Mercy Hawthorne and her mother "M cousin, Lallu, reside at Wyvern Gardens, South Ken. £ ton. Lallu is an Indian, and consequently dark in coin- PJexion and impassioned in disposition. Mercy is loved by "Jervyn Rhodes, who declares his aflection for her. Mrs. *lawthorne accepts for her second husband, Colonel lioca, a American, about whom there is an air of mystery. JpNonel Roca has an antipathy against Rhodes, and he declares he shall never enter the house again. CHAPTERS IV. & V.—Colonel Roca, in an interview with 2lia son urges him to propose for the hand of Mercy llaw- thorne, in order to get hold of the fortune, which, through 5?1 mother, the Colonel has, as he thinks, been deprived. next step is to prevent the engagement of Meryvn "Odes and Mercy being made public, and with this object ^isits Mervyn and tells him there is an insurmountable J?.1" to his marriage with Mercy. ..CHAPTERS VI. & VII—The Colonel informs Mervyn hat his father is a convicted felon, and the money he enjoys irnJS Pr°ceeds of dishonesty through receiving stolen Mervyn is aghast at the news and promises to *Jtt « '^luiriea. He consults his lawyer, and excuses bjm" ij '°r a week from visiting Mercy. At the end of that he visits the Lodge and Mercy Bees him alone. CHAPTER vin.—"TILL THE SUN RISES AGAIN." .Mervyn took both Mercy's hands in his and held a moment without speaking, and with a lact *j°rn jf her love and sympathy she let them rest l*re> and pressed his warmly in return. j farmed her heart to have him near her again, ♦i? seomed like a page of the long ago to recall heir last meeting. "It is good of you to see me alone," ho Raid length; and then sighing he let her hands fall turned to lead her to a chair. "And yet—it ,|*ld have been almost better not." I have been waiting a week for you to come— ch a long, dreary, frightening week," said Mercy, 8.I'>\Vly. I have much to tell you; but I scarce know ,(er^ to begirt." -.Tell me our trouble." This was said sweetly tK gently, and with the slightest emphasis upon ft Pronoun. Can I not help?" x A week ago to-day I told you of my love, and pooped and felt that you loved me in return. That the sweetest knowledge I ever gained, but—" "^paufed. ^here is no 'but' in that respect. This is no 0 for false reserve. You know I love, you, I*rvyn. Iam glad that everyone should know it, « I am proud of it, dear—prouder of your love l»a H anything else in the world." She put her tn n Jnto his again, and he kissed it. "Jsow tell this trouble. You 'have been selfish for a ole week," she added, with a smile, and I have out from your confidence." Can e must talk no more of love, Mercy, and I tell you my trouble; I must bear it by my of selfish!" she whispered, with a chiding shake head. But that will not save me pain. It a ^ier to bear a sorrow that is half in shadow. T |j, iou know a woman's curiosity." The plead- ttnd love in her eyes as they rested on his face almost irresistible; yet he resisted. •ftv j03,11 onl7 tell you that I am a rained man, that by ^holo career and life have been suddenly gloomed ^t leaves me beaten and hopeless. I Wu611 broken on the wheel of circumstances." w has done it? You said in your letter that thaif heard news which had greatly disturbed you, affected the whole of your present position t;L_ 'vywr future. I know the words by heart, for ^Vh Ve been the refrain of a week's weary life. Hie? TWaa n€iws y°u now say you cannot tell 'fculH ? ^lave been thanking all the week what it tpo jf, » kut I cannot guess. It can't be only money because although they might affect your they could not spoil your future. That you for yourself. You know how you have t0 me ,5r°ur P'ans f°r the future—your T*1? *°r one your profession, your hopes. *>f m Ve my money, but that is the least part jifty trouble," said Mervyn, wishing to tell her, and •I Rising her intense desire to sympathise. to t can oonceive nothing that you would hesitate jg me, except some personal disgrace, and that possible, eo"—with another smile—"I can of no reasoji at all; unless you—you cannot I trust you, Mercy, but this-it is too horrible. Rirl'W ^^est distress and pain were, wringing the tell >i r^' an<^ herr strenuous efforts to get him to *io Tu" t^1.e 04,186 were prompted solely by a convic- that if he would but share the knowledge with own burden of sorrow would be lightened. When ypu aay it has ohanged everything, how "10 You mean?" I mean that whatever I do, wherever I go, with om«oever j m{x i 8hall be a marked man—a dis- s's* man." thin Surely you must be taking a too harsh view o[ 3'0 gg, Mervyn. The world cannot blame you whftn youraelf have done no wrong. At least, I should rfnf8 world said of me in such a case. teiJ °f the fathers is upon the children," ho rp" a little bitterly, and without thinking. ..V? Phrase set her pondering. fullv °* t^ie Others," she repeated, thought- tkoi 'ia then glanced up into his face. How oa<n •it,. the key here?" lyl* ■>* the key, Mercy. I will tell you. I baN fcav thought my father had long been dead. I J a e told you so many times. But I was wrong. •>t o • 3011 a conTi°ted felon—a. man wln>fe name jw. ne tune was the world's synonym for everything sordid, despicable, and evil The monc\' I has been but the proceeds of his infamy, jjj. you can plumb the depth of my dishonour and He averted his face, and in a tone that w unsteady with the emotion of sdiame, told hot 7:t) of the details. \^in e,uews turned the girl cold at first, and she kon^^ and trembled. The man she had loved and Hp jUrfr> placed before all the world, had set Kad D e innermost shrine of her pure heart, and bon reverenced almost as the very fountain of j» ^r. and right, was this—the son of a convict, to,j jrj ,wa8 only f°r a moment that her own grief *Ude '\<5T- The next she was by hia side, all solici- ,and sympathy with him in the passion of and shame tah filled him when the t which had been gnawing at 'his heart through „ agony had thus burst the bonds of +kat B^e 8a'<^» with a light tone and a OF though her heart was heavy. A few changes then an8' a lit tl^s delay in the gaining of success, and tfigi 'the shall look back on the trouble as a past thinlr us in the ordeal. Do you *&erel ^ove BO light a thing that it is fastened o y to the world's estimate of Mervyn Rhodes? frv* L Put on or off as a garment? Shame, Mervyn, 8haVm* 80 little faith ^im f iPVt her hand on his shoulder and bent over •< jA1,"er hair almost touched him. ^hich are y°u yourself so changed that the career 1 a *ew dftys aK° we discussed and agreed you « carve bas become no longer possible? Shall •elv« ?lerx r'8e on «tepping-»tonee of their dead l»ow better things; and if of their dead selves, the: much more easy the upward climb when not oans OWn misdeeds but those of others are the e ? °f a fall! Courage, Mervyn, we are young; 1t{e have life, hope, resolve. You are the same tru you were before you knew this dreadful IT What then have you to fear? ■U Tjdentifying herself with him had the effect are the beet and sweetest woman on the he said, after a pause, the best that ever ^^torted a wretched man. You mean every word klo —but don't let us dream false dreams. This csT >nu«t part us." 6 had recognised this, too. Her mother had told much. It must part them for a time at any ILnd; .but her wish now was to ease his present pain give him hope and courage. Nothing can change my heart, Mervyn. No- & on earth. If you were a beggar in rags and j^jest and scorn of the wide world I would to you with as much pride in your love as if O the foremost man in the land. It is you twf1"84"* I love, not your money, nor your position, Icnnif^thmg that is yours. Is is you." And sho jfci.yt down by him and laid her cheek on his hand äh she clasped in both her*. v stroked her hair and bent down murmuring ««?? ^OVe and kissing it. GOOd-bye will be easier now," he said. fcvjj °t good-bye," she whispered, lifting her face pmiling. °.°d-bye till I have washed out this stain. I t>f r° ^iven up my money; I start as poor as a soldier te~:°rtune can start; I have to begin at the very %iv "ning—but I mean yet to olimb. You have "t?16 Mercy." Waa not w^o gave it you, it was you who yourself of it quite wrongly. I know vour h, and I can measure the violence of this blow e crushing effect it has had upon you. But ttot 1 have exaggerated its power. The world will ()u It on this as you seem to fear. I suppose "M made quite certain that the news is true?" l v dear old friend and lawyer, Mr. Musgrave, << j^°ked into it. He is satisfied." u\ be does not blame you, I am sure. The w"° would look askance_ at you for such a rFe those whose esteem is not worth having -A or iH opinion is not a feather's >ou Put the case to anjr worthy man, and do that y°u need fear his verdict? More than but a little tithe of success, and the world *UrelvrJ1 say now gapes at you ill-naturedly, will as troubl 66111 you the more worthy because of this very you have had to face. Do something, and veoon,1^ rock that now threatens to crush you will ^°ice G a co™er stone of your pedestal." Her ke rang with the earnestness with which she dtnin' and. when she ceased there came a long pause, be gathered strength from her •vords. ^id, ajT be brave, Mervyn, for my sake," aha "J. rose and ftood again by him with » ™ nw aaoulciflr. And our future?" he aaked, turning" his race, Bow less haggard than it had been, up to her's. "Is yours to make, dear. Love that will not stand a time test is a poor thing," and with a smile, she stooped and touched his forehead lightly with her lips, herself volunteering the first kiss that had ever passed between them. He caught her in his arms then, and held her oloeely while he showered kisses vehemently upon lips and brow and cheeks. And she rested, a willing prisoner, answering with caresses to the full as vehement as his. In this way they stayed many minutes, until Mercy, thinking that someone might come into t.he room, disengaged herself gently and sat down. I am stronger now I have seen you," said Mervyn, after a pause. "I am glad you know. I am ashamed of the doubt that made me fear to tell you." I should fear to tell no one, Mervyn, she answered. "It is not your fault; and candour disarms spite. You have acted like an honourable man in renouncing the money the moment you know where it came from, and in determining to repay such part of it as you have spent on your- self. There is only one more duty before you, and that may be hard—to forgive tthe man who has put this hard fate upon you, and see that his last years are years of such comfort as you can secure." His money will secure him that," said Mervyn, hastily, and looking at her in some alarm. Let him be what he may," answered the girl, steadily, returning his look with a reassuring touch of the hand, he is your father. Whatever may have been his full motive it is clear that when his detection came his chief thought was for you; the desire, perhaps, to put you out of the reach of such temptation as that which had beaten him. Remem- ber that. Remember, too, that for all the twenty years of his prison life he has doomed himself volun- tarily to the terrible solitude involved in the abso- lute renunciation of kith and kin. Do you think you owe him nothing for this? I am selfish and blind and evil," he murmured. But vau open my eyes and straighten out the crooked path for me, Mercy. You are indeed an angel of goodness." He rose, and as he looked toward the light, the girl saw that his face had more of its old expression of frank manliness and less of the hardness and strain. I will do my duty, Merw. even as you would have me do it, he saia, and turning, he smiled down upon her almost with Ck>e>e{yhen shall we meet again? he asked, after a lo"g\^e must be patient. My mother is strongly airainot us. It waa from Colonel Roca, wasn t it, that you learned the truth? He assented. We must prepare for our patience being tested. t You feel sure of me?" she asked, rising and going to him and nestling her head on his shoulder. "Absolutely." „ "And think you can trust me? This with a little jesting smile. Mcrcv! Then we shall do better to wait, living each in the other's heart. I shall wait, not wearily now that I know all about this trouble, and how really little it is, though seemingly so large. and ine, but wait with confidence for the signs your success, and shall love to trace your steps up the ladder. If I want to communicate with you I can do that through Mr. Musgrave, can t I. And as he is mother's solicitor as well, it will be a little link of connection. For he will, of course, know all at" Sweetheart," he exclaimed, smiling brightly. you are full of little thoughts of consolation. I had never thought of that. And now, God bless you, little comforter, and—pood-bye. Till the sun rises again, Mervyn, that s aiL He held her again tightly in his arms.; You will be true to me always, I-know, Mercy. "I will, till death, Mervyn. I will wait till dfath, if need be." Her lips were trembling when he kissed them, and when he released her she had to fight hard to keep down the signs of her grief so that she might send him away resolute, and let his last glimpse be of her smiling and confident in his success. And when he had gone from the room, she went to the window, knowing he would look there for her. Standing back she waved her handker- chief to him and kissed her hand, smiling all the time, though she had to press her hand to her heart aa if to numb the pain that was like the stab of a knife.. And when he had really gone, walking away with a buoyant step that spoke of reborn determina- tion and hope, Mercy stayed on, still staring out of the window, her fingers interlocked and clenched together, her eyes seeing nothing for the tears that welled up into them despite her most resolute efforts, and her thoughts concentrated upon the giowing sense of the misery of the years of trial and sorrow and hungry waiting that lay ahead of her. It was well for a man, she thought. He had a liurdrcd things to fill his time, occupy his thoughts, und employ his hands. But for a woman, what was but to wait—and wait—and wat t Of what good was money when this was all it could do? Better a beggar girl with a crossing to sweep or flowers to sell. But in this rich home, under the new conditions, with this handsome, false, cowardly traitor always separating her mother and herself with his plausible lies and hateful presence, what hope of any hap- piness? As she stood, a warm hand was suddenly thrust into hers, an arm ran round her waist, and Lallu's face, all anxious, worried and pained, came nestling up to hers. "Has he gone?" she whispered. Mercy turned and her tears fell on the other's upturned face. "Yes, he has gone, Lallu," ehe said, trying to smile through the tears. You have not sent him away—in trouble?" And the la"ge wide-open eyes seemed to dilate in fear. "Ye, I have let him go." "He is coming back?" asked Lallu, eagerly. Mercy shook her head, and sighed, and trembled.. But the impetuous Indian girl could not under- stand, and to Mercy's surprise, she broke out into a storm of reproaches, wild, vehement and bitter, until in a climax of passion she threw herself on the ground and sobbed and moaned, and cried out that ie had been sent to his death and that Mercy was hard and cruel and unfeeling. Astonishment turned the edge of Mercy's grief and sent her thoughts into new channels. When the girl had grown calmer, Mercy knelt over her and raising her head lifted her to a sofa. Then fetching scent she bathed her temples and oyeg and kissed and petted her like a child, murmuring now and again a word or two of oomfort. At the close, when she was quiet, Mercy asked: What is the matter, Lallu? What do you think I have done?" The girl opened her eyes and first smiled and then kissed her in return, and covering her faoe with ner hands she hid her head on Mercy's bosom and cried- I am mad, Mercy. I know I am mad at times. Forgive me." And Mercy gathered her up in her arms and petted and soothed her till the little storm had quite parsed, and the dark faoe was smiling again and the white teeth gleaming in laughter. CHAPTER IX. YOUR CREOLE SON." Colonel Roca having gained his end, and separated the lovers effectually, behaved very astutely. He lost no occasion of expressing the greatest concern for Mercy, and of showing her the most courteous deference; and he made one attempt to explain his previous action in denying that he had had anything to do with Mervyn's trouble I desired above all things to spare you pain, Mercy," he said once, when they were alona. "It was a most painful dilemma which faced mt). On the one hand, if I did nothing I should be allowing both-you and Mr. Rhodes to continue in a cnite false position. Had you become engaged, I must have spoken out at some time; ftnd had the blow fallen later, the consequences would have been worse. But worst of all would it have been had a marriage taken place and, when too late, the facts had become known. What was I to do? I went to Mr. Rhodee and laid the case straightforwardly before him, pledging myself that not a syllable should pass my lips. What else could I do? Tell me." "I do not know," she answered ungraciously. I know, of course, that the hand which deals a blow, however innocently, bears some of the blame for the blow itself. As I have been the means of bringing the facts out, you associate me with them, but you will grow in time to see I had no other alter- native. In time perhaps you may come to do me jU^y0U tried to keep us apart, and you intercepted my letter," was Mercy's cold rejoinder. I admit it. In the case of the letter I it accidentally in my pocket, and the act to me the advantages of continuing to keep the matter secret. What motive could I have but to do what I thought best for your happiness r". ed You did not tell me the truth when I questioned you." Could I do 80 without disclosing in some part secret which was not mine, but Mr. Rhodes s; or increasing your own suspicion against me by admit- ting that 1 had had a hand in preventing his calling and giving no reason for my conduct? Try to put yourself in my place, and see what you would have done." "I should not have told an untruth," persisted the girl. I did not know the whole truth was to be told. Mr. Rhodes had not said so to me. It was not my secret. Still, if you persist in blaming me, I ana sorry, but I wish you would try to see another side as well as your own. And still more I hope with all my heart that you will try to persuade yourself I have no thought concerning you but a wish to make your life as happy as it can be." Despite her antipathy^ and prejudice, Mercy oould not but feel that she had done him some amount of injustice Gradually this view began to grow upon her, and she mentioned it one day to Lallu. To her surprise the Indian girl was ten times as bitter as she herself had been. The wide brown eyes seemed almost to take fire with instant anger afi she cried with every manifesta- tion of rage: 4 is false, M6rcyj a £ sin itself. I know it. His cunning words and lying tongue have de- ceived poor auntie, and now he seeks to shut your eyes and ears and lull your senses into a false belief .\0 his truth." But what can be his motive?' "What is the motive of the deadly plant that poisons you? What do I care for that? Of course he has motive. Do you think when beast? hunt their victims they show themselves and their every action to their orev ? Do tiarers never crouch, snakes never fascinate? Wait and watch; and we shall see. It is not for nothing he has ruined Mervyn Rhodes; and if I W mv way I'd "Her eyes flashed and her hand clenched and her threatening gesture fin- ished the sentence more eloquently than any words. Lallu!" said Mercy, reproachfully. • „ "I would kill him. I hate him. I hate him, she said violently. You are oold like the ice of the north; but when I think of this, I am like the hot wind of the south, and would kill him like any veno- mous thing that crossed my path and threatened me. Her vehemence was like a sudden gust of passion, and it shook her till she trembled with the fury of her wrath. But it passed as quickly. You must not say these things, Lallu. You hurt •MA U ma A.- You 4Jive no feeling for Mervyn Rhodes or you would be like me, too," she cried, angrily; then with a sudden change on seeing Mercy's look (.f surprise and pain; "Ah, no, I don't mean that, Mercy. I am sorry. I don't mean it, dear;" and she seized her hand and pressed her lips to it with spasmodic violence ,tremb- ling all the while. And when Mercy saw her eyes, they were full of tears. In one thing Lallu was quite right. They had not to wait long before the Colonel's motive began to be Been. For some time after the scenes with Mervyn Rhodes, he had done nothing to push the second ob- ject he had in view—the marriage of his son and Mercy. Juan had been to the house, had been in- troduced, and had dined and spent some evenings there; but his father had particularly warned him to do nothing toward the object they had, but rather to pay attention to Lallu. But after a month or six weeks Juan began to call frequently, and by degrees to seek to monopolize Mercy. She had little or nothing to say to him, but Lallu's sharp eyes and sharper ears soon saw the object. By chance she overheard a short whispered colloquy between father and son, in which Mercy s name was mentioned, and in her cunning little brain the made a plot. She would draw him to herself. She told Mercy what she thought and intended, and the latter, though not caring, gave such help as came in her power by throwing the two together and letting them be often alone. She had no fear for Lallu, and treated it more as a whim than a serious matter. She said as much to the girl. You will see," said the latter. I can read this Juan like an open book. I know his every thought. It is no mere whim of mine. This is getting tu be a house of intrigue since your Colonel Roca came into it. Wo Easterns are better than you at in- trigue. When the Colonel comes to complete this plot of his—to get you both into his hands—he will find his son, his accomplice, helpless," and she laughed maliciously. « Well, don't lose your heart to him, Lallu, said Mercy, smiling. And the seriousness of the Indian girl s eyes and the echoless monotone of her voice in the reply surprised her. "No, I shall not love him, Mercy, and she sighed. "I shall never love." The Colonel's first open step was to broach the matter to Mrs. Hawthorne. She was very happy and contented. She loved the Colonel, whose policy it was to show her nothing but the most considerate care and untiagging attention. He was always ready to defer to her wishes; always bringing her some little present; constantly meeting her with a smile on his handsome face; and never saying a word to her that was not calculated to give her pleasure. Thus the time of her engagement flowed on placidly and smoothly, and an the day of their marriage come near, her trust and confidence in him deepened. Her one regret was that Mercy and he remained distant, and that the girl developed no better feeling than that of a somewhat cold neutrality. She is suffering from the heavy effects of her sorrow, poor girl,' he said more than once, and at length carried the matter a point further She will never be happy until she has fixed her affections on some man worthy of her. I wish—but there, poor boy," and he broke off and finished the sentence with a lifting of the head and a little sieh. He had read her so thoroughly that he knew how to move her instantly. The one subject on which she had developed an utterly unreasonable hoi^hnees of judgment was Mervyn Rhodes's trouble. She did not believe, and would not be persuaded, that he had not always known of his fauier's crime. Any reference to it, however fancied and direct, was enough to rouse her. You are surely not reeretting about that young Rhodes, Manuel?" she exclaimed, mistaking his reference. He was always pleaded to foster the anger, so he answered: "I cannot be hard—and the sight of her un- happiness- "Fiddlesticks. She's onlv romantic. I am not going to have her marry into a thief's family. I feel so cross with her sometimes I could shake her. His whole life was a deliberate deceit. Don t tell me he didn't know. He knew well enough all the time; and if it hadn't been for the fact that you could face him with the facts, nothing would ever have been heard of it until my dear child's life had been spoilt." "I don't know. I think sometimes that he was really ignorant. I know when I saw him-" Yes. dear, he was a good actor, and your heart is too soft to let you doubt anyone. But trust a woman for seeing. I know," and she shook her head and looked very wise. I hope we shall never be troubled with him or set eyes on him again." The best way to ensure that would be for Mercy to marry." "I wish she would. She is a dear, good girl, if she could only get this rubbish out of her head. However, there's one consolation. She'll never marry him with my consent, and, seeing that he is what he is, he'll never marry her without it, be- cause it would cost him £70,000. And a man of that kind thinks of such things." "True, indeed," said the Colonel, gravely. He had not known that her consent was necessary. He may wait, however, until he can do without it." Till she is five and twenty, that means. A test of his fidelity, then." Gives me three years, thought the Colonel. A good many things might happen in that time. I hope to see her happily married long before then," he said aloud. But I am afraid she will break many hearts." The widow was not quite pleased to hear this praise openly given. She was not iealous of her daughter, but the Colonel's praise should be of herself only. She is not a flirt," said Mrs. Hawthorne, in a tone which told the Colonel he had made some mistake "No, indeed; but she is so much like you that men about her own age cannot help falling in love with her." This pleased her so much that she flushed and smiled, and erlanced at herself in th* glass. She will get over this infatuation in time," she said, after a pause. "Do you know what occurred to me yesterday?" said the Colonel, with sudden emphasis. I was watching Mercy and Juan together, and I thought what a strange coincidence and what a fitting end to matters it would be if they could do as we are going to do—marry and be happy, and unite the old fortune again. I have often wished that something of the kind would happen," said Mrs. Hawthorne, speaking not quite truly, but with a desire to please the Colonel. Don't you think if the idea were indirectly put into her thoughts that it might be arranged?" Mercy is very wayward and self-willed," replied Mrs. Hawthorne, shaking her head, beginning to scent from afar the unpleasantness of suggesting such a plan. Juan might try," she added. But the Colonel was not easily put off a plan, and he did not leave the matter now until he had got his companion to promise that she would try to find out Mercy's feelings. She gave the promise reluctantly, knowing the task would be difficult and unpleasant. And this made her even less tactful than usual when &8ve made the effort. Mercy, there is something I wish to speaY to you about," she said, the first time they were alone. "Yes, dear, what is it?" asked the girl, quick to read something unusual in her mother's voice. I don't like to see you moping and fretting so." "I am not fretting and moping, mother, dear." It can do no good. And I should have thought you would have more pride than to worry after a man so unworthy of you." Meroy said nothing. It was not the first time her mother had spoken in this strain. "You know he is unworthy," went on Mrs. Haw- thorne, irritated at getting no reply. He had no right to come stealing about us in that way under such false pretences." Mr. Rhodes did not know the truth until Colonel Roca told him." And a great mercy he was able to protect us in such a way. I'm sure I don',t know what we should have done if you had been deceived into marrying him." Mervyn himself has done no wrong," said Mercy, very quietly. Mercy, I won't have you speaking of that man by his Christian name. You don't even know what his real name is." This was said very sharply. Do you know how much it pains me for you to talk in this way, mother?" And Mercy looked across with an appeal in her eyes, but Mrs. Haw- thorne would not look up. It is time you put this business out of your head altogether. It is getting on for two or three months now, and you ought to have more self- respect. You go nowhere, you see no one, you do nothing, and you seem to be all day long moping and brooding in a most morbid way about a man that treated you in that abominable manner," "Shall we talk of something else, mother? Wo shall never agree about Mer—Mr. Rhodes." I want you to talk of something else, and think of something else. If you really loved me you'd try to do what I wish. And after all, this money is only ours by accident. I'm sure I'm doing what I can to make things fair and just again, and I can't eee why you shouldn't either." Money?" echoed the girl, her forehead pucker- ing in perplexity. What money?" YoUh, you know what I mean. This fortune that came from my sister, and ought to have gone to Colonel Roca and his son. And anyone can see how he loves you." Colonel Roca loves me?" "No, of course not—at least not in that way. I wish you wouldn't misunderstand me so wilfully. You know I mean Juan." «' You can t surely mean that you think I ought toarry Juan Roca. because Aunt Gonzolez left her money to us." It would be a very pretty act of restitution, and very just one." "Mother, ara you. fteriottf?" JLnAM&cy wont over to the sola, and sat down besido JVirs. rtaw- thorne. "Don't look away, dear, or pretend that your needlework is more important than what we are saying. Do you really mean you wish me to marry Juan Roca, when you know that I love another man? You can't." Mrs. Hawthorne did not like either the form of the question or the way in which Mercy asked it; least of all did she like to face the pain and grief she saw in the girl's eyes. You have no right to love him. He deceived you-—deceived us all most grossly. You owe it to yourself—to me, to put him out of your life." Do you think I could ever put Juan Roca ia the place of Mervyn Rhodes?" was the reply, asked with the scorn which the comparison between the two men kindled. Don't, mother, dearest," she cried, putting her arm round her mother's waist, and kissing her, don't say these things, which otihers prompt you to say. If you knew what I have suffered already, you would not add to my grief. There was a time, and not long ago, when you would have been the first to try and comfort me. But I !I.1ll learning fast what it means to be almost shut jilt ot your heart. it these people want tnis miseraoie money, give it them, in Heaven's name. Let them take every penny I have in the world; 1 shall only thank them. But for this money, the news about Mervyn's father would have set up no barrier be- tween us. I could have comforted him in his lonely, weary struggle, instead of eating out my heart in this decorated solitude. But for the money, Colonel Roca would never have interfered to part us; and now beeause of the money, he wants me to marry hill son. And you—you, mother, of all the world, join against me. If I were but a beggar I could do what I would with my heart; but because I have money, I have lost Mervyn and am losing your love. I hate the money. "You ar3 very unkind, Mercy," said Mrs. Haw- thorne, beginning to cry. And you are a very wicked girl to say I don't love you. It is because I love you so much I want to see you happy." Do you think happiness lies in a marriage with a sullen Creole like Juan Roca?" exclaimed Mercy, with a burst of bitter anger. Then, with a sudden change, she took her mother's two hands and held them, looking at her face to face. "Tell me the truth, mother. Did not Colonel Roca suggest this to "You hurt me with your clumsy, boisterous ways," said Mrs. Hawthorne, peevishly. "Let my hands go." Did not Colonel Roca suggest this to you?" I will not tell you. How dare you treat me like this? You are a wilful, ungrateful, unloving child." mother, not unloving—not unloving, dear. Put my love for you to any test you like to serve you, and it will bear it easily." She smiled sweetly, and kissed her mother tenderly and lovingly. But the must be of your own choosing, dearest, and not .hspired by Colonel Roca. Tell him you men- tioned it to me—ah, here he is," as the door opened, and the Colonel came in, smiling, vigilant, graceful M usual. The girl stood up, and when he had kissed Mrs. Hawthorne, and was going to shake hands with Mercy, she drew back and said firmly, in a tone that rang with decision, and had more than a touch of scorn: Mother has just done what you desired, Colonel Roca, and has told me that you wish to do me the honour of offering me your son in marriage—in order to regain the fortune which Aunt Gonzolez left away from you. I have told her my answer, but I am glad to be able to tell it to you direct. If you wish for tthe money you can have it; but I would not marry your Creole son if there were not another man on earth. And with that she curtsied, her cheeks aflame with anger, and swept out of the room. The Colonel turned pale at the thrust which struck clean in the most sensitive part of his nature, and for a moment he could not recover sufficient self-com- posure even to hide his anger from Mrs. Hawthorne. He checked a bitter oath as it rose to his lips, vowing he would make her suffer dearly for the insult. You are not angry with me, Manuel," said Mrs. Hawthorne, laying a hand on his arm timidly, and raising a white scared faoe to his. The touch recalled him to himself. "Angry, Ella?" he said, smiling down and kissing her to gain time. Not I, sweetheart. Why in- deed, with you? Or why with Mercy, either? She is but thoughtless. It is only a wish of mine broken. But the child must choose for herself—though I am aorry she chose words to wound so deeply." iiut all tnai day and for many days tho remem- brance of the speech and the insult was like an ulcered "/ound, breeding evil thoughts against the girl. (To be continued.)

THE ANTIQUITIES OF FLINTSHIRE Bl "IORWERTH GLAN TANAD." ( Continued). Penffordd y Waen. On the mountain opposite to the place called Penffordd y Waen are other remains of the ancient Britons, one or two tumuli, and near one of them an upright stone; and a little farther is another, its tumulus possibly destroyed. These are the Meini Gwyr, Meini Hirion, and Lleche, differently denominated in different places. These were sometimes memorials of great events, some- times monumental, as in the present case. The Well of Oswald. The Well of Oswald in the township of Merton Y chiao, takes its name from the Saxon monarch, martyr, and saint, Oswald, King of the Noithum- brians, who was defeated and shin, 642, near Oswestry, by the pagan Penda, King of the Mercians, who hang his limbs on stakes dispersed over the field, as trophies of his victory. Some of the tradition reached this parish; for there is near to the well a certain field called Aelod Oswald, or Oswald's limb, as if one of them had found its way to this place. Bryn y Groes. Possibly St. Oswald had near his well a cross for not remote, on an eminence named Bryn y Groes, or the Hill of the Cross, stood one of those marks of piety. Maen y Chwyfan. This very beautiful and elaborately scalptured ores is situated It mile west of Whitford, and 4 miles north-west of Holywell, at a height of 642 ft. above sea level. It stands in a field, and is protected by a wooden railing. Mr Owen, in his Stone Crosses, gives the following description of it:— "Maen y Chwyfan" is a monolith with circular head and tapering shaft. The total height is 11 ft. 3 in.; breadth, at the base, 2 ft. b in.; underneath the head. 1 ft 8 in.; the stone is 11 in. thkk. The pedestal is irregular in shape, but afpoichirg in form to an oblong with rounded comers. It measures 4 fc. 11 in. by 4 ft. 4 in. Along the east surface of the pedestal are many incissions, for the most part in a cavity, of lengths varying from a couple of inches to 1 ft. 2 in. the depth of thes9 grooves varies from three quarters of an itoh to a mere scratch. There can be but little doubt that these incissions were made bv sharpening arrows on the stone. The stem measures 8 ft. 11 in., and the diameter of the hsad is 2 ft. 4 in. The east side is divided into four compartments, which measure respectively, beginning at the base, 18, 27, 27t and 41 inches. The upper compartment has a rather rudely- executed interlaced osier-work ornamentation. Nearly the whole design is still clearly risible, but a part of the south edge has been chipped off. The next compartment consists of a well-worked St. Andrew's Cross, with # lines geometrically drawn, filling in the interstices. In the centre of the r.ext compartment is a rudely executed figure of a nude than, the legs are apart, and the arms raised. The right hand holds apparently a spear, which, although not clourly traceable, is in a cer- tain light seen to have a rounded head. The left band also appears to grasp a clab, which seems to proceed behind the man's back. Frpm the left side hangs whut might have been intended for a sword. Around the naked figure are well- executed whorls, and between these and the figure is wotk hat resembles the coils of a snake. The lowest compartment is bare, but is has, along its angles, anrow-markings The whole extent of the south edge has been injured; cattle have, as high as they could ieacb, rounded its corners by making a rubbing-t.me of the Cross. The wist face is divided into three compart- ments, th" lower one being plain; the upper compartment has in it two concentric circles inter- laced with segments of four circles touching each other at the centre of the concentric circles, and meeting and forming angles outside the circles. Underneath this work are a couple of scrawls. The next compartment was filled with interlaced work. A characteristic of the designs op this side is, that the osiers are represented as dot Me. The whole face of this side is weather-beaten and covered with greyish. lichen, and in parts the ornamentation is very indistinct. The sides of the fetone are ornamented. The south side is much defaced. Nee? the bottom is a long-bodied quadruped, with long coiled tail, and tiie tongue is long and twifeted. Above this animal are lines resembling the coils of a snake, but they are much worn and indistinct. Then there is a rude figure, apparently that of a woman, with her arms on her breast, surrounded by coils. I\.ùove this figure come double osier, interlaced w >rk. which is succeeded by a series of six rings, hanging the one from the other. The Dorth edge is ornamented ta within twenty inches of the bottom. Although the designs are somewhat indistinct, the patterns are fairly trace- able. At the top is a pretty design, described by Professor Westwood as a double series of T's set in opposition to each other." There are six of these T's in opposition. Below this pattern are two rings linked to each other, and imme- diately below these rings is a design, like that at the top of the west face of the stone, but consist- ing of a single instead of a double osier. Then there is a twisted design, and beneath it a quadruped, with a long body, but with a longer coiled-up tail, and head lo king backwards. Underneath the belly of this animal is a small figure, perhaps representing a child, reminding one, by its position, of the nursing mother of the founders of Rome. A very slight tracing of a St. Andrew's Cross next decorates the side of the stone, and then there is a space entirely bare. The edge of the Maen decreases gradually in width, so that from eleven inches at the base it becomes only seven inches wide underneath the circular head. In the centre of the circular head of the Maen, on the east side, is a slightly projecting boss, with incisions forming a cross: from the base line of the boss radiate the arms of a Maltese Cross; the three lower limbs are ornamented with the triquebra pattern, and the upper has on it a scrawl. The four inches between the ex- tremity of the arms of the Maltese Cross and the edge of the bead are occupied by two concentric circles the one next the arms resembles a rope, the outer one is plain. The west head is much worn, and the design is indistinct. It has a central bo^s, from which radiate the arms of a Maltese Cross, and between the cross and the rim of the head there seems to have been three concentric circles. Tbe rim of the head ot this relic is ornamented with interlaced osier work. The first description we have of Maen y Chwy- fan appeared in Gibson's Camden 1695. The editor states that he was indebted to Mr Edward Llwyd, Keeper of the Museum in Oxford, for the additions made ti Camden's remark on Wales. Llwyd writes as follow:— It remain now that we make some mpntioM of that remarkable Monument, or carved Pillar on Mostyn Mountain. It stands on the evenest part of the mountain, and is in height eleven toot and three inches above the Pedestal: two foot and four inches broad and eleven inches thick. Ihe Pedestal is five foot long, four and a half in breadth, and about fourteen inches thick and the monument being let thorow it. reaches about five inches below the bottom so that the whole length of it is about thirteen foot. When this Monument was erected, or by what Nation, I must leave to farther inquiry. Within a furlong or less of this Monument, there is an artificial Mount or Barrow (whereof there are also about twenty more in the neigh- bourhcod, called Gorsedheu) where there have been formerly a great many carcases and skulls discover'd, some of Iwhich were cut; and one or two particularly had round holes in them, as if pierced by an arrow; upon which account this pillar has been suspected for a Monument of some signal victory and the rather for that upon digging five or six foot under it, no bones were discover'd, nor anything else that might give occasion to suspect it sepulchral. This Monumental Pillar is called Maen y Chwyvan,' a name no less obscure than the history of it; for tho' the former word digni- ties a stone, yet no man understands the meaning of 'Chwyvan.' Were it 'Gwyvan,' I should conclude it corrupted from" Gwydhvaen," ie, the high pillar;" but seeing it is written .Ilaen y Chufan' in an old deed bearing date 1388 (which scarce differs in pronunciation from Cbwyvan '), I dare not acquiesce in that Etymoloey, tbo' at present I can think of none more probable." In Lewis Morris's Celtic Remains, printed in the Arch. Camb. for 1875, under Cwyfan we read: CwS ,an (sant) Ihence Llangwyfan in M6n, and another in Denbighshire. Cwyfan yw Saut y Ddiserth* ya Nliegeingl. There Cwyfan is the patron saiut of Dyicrth in Tegengl. is a stone in the parish of Whitford called Maen y Chwyfan,' with curious knots of lines cut upon it, probably belonging to this Cwyfan.' In our genealogical tables we fiod 'Chwyfen ap Brwynen Hen.' The name Chwyfan certainly is highly sugges- tive of a connection between the stone and St. Cwyfan. Dyserth, which is dedicated to Saint Cwyfan, is only a few miles off, and in the church- yard of Dyserth is an ancient cross, smaller and altogether more insignificant than Maen y Chwy- fan, but with ornamentation similar in many respects to that on this Cross. There is also a churoh, Llangwyfan in Denbigh- shire, dedicated to this Saint, and it is not far distant from Maen y Chwyfan. It remains to be stated that Saint Cwyfan flourished in the seventh century. The age of Maen y Chwyfan has been a subject of consideration. Llwyd avoided offering an opinion on this question. Pennant says: I do not presume to attempt a guess at the age; only must observe, that it must have been previous to the reign of gross super- stition among the Welsh, otherwise the sculptor would have employed his chizzel in striking out legendary stories, instead of the elaborate knots and interlaced work that cover the stone. Those I who suppose it to have been erected in memory of the dead slain in battle on the spot, draw their argument from the number of adjacent tumuli, containing human bones and sculls often marked with mortal wounds; but these early sepulchres are of more ancient times than the elegant sculp- ture of this pillar will admit. This likewitte (from the crosses) is evidently a Christian Monu- ment. The former were only in use in Pagan days."—History of Whiteford. Professor West- wood writes in Arch. Camb. for 1865, p. 366:— The Maen Achwyfan, must, however, certainly be considered to be of a much more recent date than the events indicated by the names of these localities; although I can scarcely think it more recent than the tenth or eleventh century." Downing Inscribed Stone. This stone stood formetly a mile from Caerwys. It was used as the gate-post at the entrance of a field where many Roman coins were found. It was removed to its present position in the last century. It is a rude whinstone boulder, 3 ft. 9 in. high, by 3 ft. wide, by 1 ft. 6 in. thick, inscribed, in debased Latin capitals of the sixth or seventh century. HIC IACIT MVLI ER BONA NOBILI (Here lies a good and noble wife); or, according to Professor Rhys, here lies the gool wife of Nobilis." The M of MVLIER is the only letter of the minussule form, indicating a transition from the Roman capitals t) the Hiberno-Saxon minuscule. [The foregoing history was sent in for competition at the Rhyl Eisteddfod and the adjudicator, Mr Henry Taylor, Town Clerk of Flint, the well- known historian, appended the following note This is an able paper, so far as it goes. The descriptions of the Crosses and Wells arc particu- larly good. It ought to be printed, I think.— H. T.

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ST. ASAPH. ORDINATION.—At a general ordination held by the Lord Bishop of St Asaph in his Cathedral Church on Sunday, the 6th day of March, 1898, the following gentlemen were ordained -Deacons: Thomas Dale Jones, Licentiate in Divinity, ot David's College, Lampeter; Thomas Evans Timothy, B.A., St David's College, Lampeter. By letters dimissory from the Lord Bishop of Chtster Eustace George Auden, M.A., of Christ Church and Wycliffe Hall in the University of Oxford. Priests Hugh Richards, B.A., St David's College, Lampeter; Henry James, St David's College, Lampeter; Ebenezer Evans, B.A., St David's College, Lampeter; Richard Owen, B.A., Non- Collegiate Student in the University of Oxford Charles Grafton Worsley Lowe, M.A., Clare College, in the University of Cambridge. His Lordship afterwards licensed Mr Ihomas Dale Jones to the curacy of Bistre, and Mr Thomas Evans Timothy to the curacy of Penycae. Gospeller. Mr Thomas Evans Timothy preacher, the Rev Canon Johnson, Warden of St Michael's College, Aberdare, from 71st Psalm, 14th verse.

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