The Pontypridd Chronicle and Workman's News

( Copyright.) UNMASKED BY DEATH. By-OSCAR PARK. Author of Love better than Sacriifce," etc. Old Stephen Gloyd bore a face that would sour the very milk of human kindness. Even the pro- fessional beggar, supposed to be hardened against all signs of churlish niggardliness, would after one g'an -e at him draw back the outstretched hand and thrust it into his own empty pocket rather than before that forbidding countenance. Never- theless, Stephen Gloyd had a conscience. More than that, he had the most eccentric ways of ap- peasing it. There was no one but his servants to predict what new freak would take possession of him next, and they had given it up in despair, for whenever he was moved to do an act of charity he was sure to do it in a way that would never have entered the head of any other sane mortal. Usually, too, his way resulted in effecting thØ'1 least amount of good at the greatest expense. I He was an unsocial brute, visiting no one and receiving visits from none. When, therefore, he announced that he should give a dinner-party to I eleven guests on the comi' g Christmas Eve, there was abundant speculation in his domestic household as to who these eleven guests were to be. Was he at last about to break down the barrier of his crabbed isolation ? Had he softened | after all these years to the only kin he was known to have in the world, his brother's widow and his niece ? Speculate as they might however, they were as much in the dark an hour before the dinner as they had been a week before. But not so Mr. Stephen Gloyd. With scowling brow and sour grimaces, he had wandered out at twilight of that Christmas Eve and bade to his feast eleven of the hungriest-looking and most ¡ forbidding "wretches whom he chanced upon in an hour's tramp in the frosty streets. To each of these he gave his ejird, and named the hour of his feast. Strange to say they all came, and a-motley dinner-party they made, gutter birds most of them, little deserving of charity some of them, voracious feeders all of them, no one of them known to any of the others, or to his host either. It was a rare treat for Stephen Gloyd. The amazement and indignation of his servants, the uncouth ways of his guests, their knavish faces, distrustful scowls, and sullen greed, affected the twisted and perverted nature of this man with a kind of savage delight. He failed to notice, or if he noticed to lay any stress upon it, that one of his guests appeared to be more at his ease than the others, to handle his knife and fork with a better understanding of their use in polite society, and when he lapsed into any vulgarity of manner, a very acute observer might have surmised that the lapse had rather the appearance of design than forgetfulness.- But Stephen Gloyd, unhappily for him perhaps, was blind to any subtle distinctions of this sort. He was enraptured, so far as such a man could be said to feel rapture at all, with his own conceit, and pliejl his guests with wine, a lighter liquor than most of them were used to, in the hope of drawing out their characteristics before he let them go. He succeeded far beyond his hopes, and lie had to send for the police before he could get them out of his house at something after midnight. It was in the small hours of Christmas morning when the tumult was put an end to and he could seek his bedroom. The next morning Stephen Gloyd was found lying on the floor of his chamber stone dead, with one of his own carving knives driven through his heart A fruitless inquest was held. When it became known that the murdered man had filled his house the night before with the outcasts of the slums of London, people shrugged their shoulders and thought, if they did not say, that it had served him right. The open door of the ponderous safe that stood in his room, the confusion among his papers, the absence of any money or articles of value, all pointed to the conclusion that he had been murdered and robbed by one of his own guests. There was no easy clue; the police were faint- hearted in pursuit, and the affair lacked that element of mystery that stimulates the detective mind. Stephen Gloyd passed speedily out of the recollection of most of those who had known him. Among those few, however, one remembered him with a feeling that was near akin to a loving memorjj, Rachel Gloyd, his niece, became his heiress, greatly to her own amazement, for it had always been accepted as a fact that her uncle would never suffer a penny of his money to reach his brother's family. But it was not because of her own re- lease from hard labour and meagre living that her gratitude was so keen. It was because she had the power now for which she had longed for years, the power to lighten the burden of suffering, for an invalid mother. This was a gift so precious that her abounding gratitude enshrined the memory of Stephen Gloy d in her inmost heart, how- ever unworthy in fact he may have been of canonization in so pure a temple and this, too, it was that stirred in her a desire that soon be- came an overmastering purpose—she would lay bare the secret of her uncle's death and bring his murderer to justice. A perilous and a hopeless task, seemingly, for a girl of two-and-twenty, but, nevertheless, she felt the burden of it resting upon her as part of her inheritance. On one of the seats in the terraced gardens of Monte Carlo, between the Casino and the sea, sat a girl whose face was attractive for something more than comeliness of feature. The comeliness was there, but with it, and giving it an unusual strength and earnestness of character, were signs of a certain self-reliance and thoughtfulness, which were, in truth, results of the single-handed struggle of her earlier girlhood against want and trouble. Beside her was a lady whose thin, pale features and extreme lassitude unmistakably classed her among the invalids who seek the orange-scented airs of the Riviera for some exemption from the trying rigour of winter months. Have you seen Malcome Dean to-day?" asked the elder, breaking a long silence between the two. No, mother,* came the response,and with it a. soft flush. Have you—have you answered him yet ?" "Theonly answer I can give him now." y 11 "My dear Rachel, do you expect him to be satisfied with that ?" The reply was very low and a little tremulous, I—hope he will be." "You must not trille with your own heart, my darling, or—with his." "Oh, mother!" the girl exclaimed, her words coming now with an impetuous rush. Don't try to turn me from my purpose. It seems to me wronc* to think of happiness for myself until I shall have solved that awful mystery." But such a hopeless task! sighed the mother wearily, with a look of anxious pain on her sunken face; a whole year since your uncle Stephen died And what have you gained with all the time and thought and money you have given to the search ? Not one clue." "But it may come at any moment, mother. I think I owe it to uncle Stephen. I have felt so from the first-that it was a debt due to him that must be paid. Bear with me, mother It has become a part of my life now. I could not be happy if 1 gave up before I knew it was hopeless to lind the wretch who struck that cruel blow." to find the wretch who struck that cruel blow." With a deeper sigh the mother answered only, I pray it may come soon then, or that crime will blight your life after all." "No, mother; not when I can see you better and stronger, as you certainly are in this paradise. My money is a blessing to me because it is a blessing to you, and you mustn't scold if I do penance a little longer for all the hard things I used to think and sometimes say of Uncle Stephen, because he shut his heart so to your need." And thus the contest ended as it had ended many a time before. The mother's thin fingers closed with a tender pressure over the hand that I;W in her lap, and for some time they sat in I silence, the girl leaning towards her mother in an attitude of loving protectiveness, the eyes of l both resting on the deep, blue waters far below tbam. They made a charming picture, and possibly I such might have been the comment of Mr. John Foyster while he was pausingat the top of a flight of stone steps leading from an upper terrace just behind them. He was one of those men whose age it is not easy to determine. There were signs of wear and tear on his handsome face, but on the whole it bore a youngish look. It was grave, and a_ trifle haggard, but the skin was clear and without wrinkles. His dress was faultless; his manner rather bold and self-assured, with a certain air of bravado withal. He paused and watched the pair below him foi a moment, his eyes tokinz on a sort of tigerish gleam meanwhile, and his hps tightening. Then he began to slowly descend. When he drew near to the mother and daughter his £ &■• beared with a spasmodic suddenness that suggested an effort. a They had not heard his approach, and he announced himself in a low but singularly penetrating voice, 11 What a contrast between this innocent picture and the wickedness behind us They both started when his voice fell on the air. From the face of the girl the blood fled swiftly away, and then rolled back again in a flood as swiftly. Mr. Foyster they exclaimed. Mr. Foyster, at your service," he answered, lifting his hat, and stepping around in front of them. I When did you reach Monte Carlo ? the elder asked. An hour ago." Rachel was watching him keenly, inquiringly. Have you any news ?" she suddenly asked. He turned his face to hers, and for a moment stood looking down upon her. Then the pupils of his eves seemed to contract and she forced her gaze away from his with a slight shudder. "I should like to speak to Mrs. one," lie said at last, not answering her question. Rachel without a word further left her seat and crossed to the outer edge of the terrace at some little distance away, and stood there leaning against the stone wall far above the railway that here skirts the shore. I hope you have no bad news," murmured Mrs. Gloyd, with a tremor of fear. That is as it may be," he answered drily, seat- ing himself beside her. Is Malcome Dean here ? She looked at him in timid bewilderment- "Yes," she said, and after a brief pause added, Why do you ask ? Still he ignored her questioning. Miss Rachel is bent as firmly as ever upon unearthing Gloyd's murderer I suppose ? It seems to have possessed her like a mania. It is very terrible, and she might be so happy." ¡ How ?" The question came from his lips with ¡' the sharpness of a pistol shot, and he scanned the feeble woman's face with J: intentness that was almost fierce. It was not an easy question for her to answer. She had known this man for many years, in both the bright and darker days of his fortune, when he was the petted and spoiled son of an old friend, and when his father's death had left him in un- limited control of a fine fortune, which he had pro- ceeded to squander with almost phenomenal speed. It was in this wild and reckless time that he de- clared himself as Rachel's lover and strove, but in vain, with all the arts at his command to win her consent to be his wife. Then the end had come with a great crash and a scandal, and John Foyster disappeared from view for four long years. It was one more wieck in the whirlpool of London life, and on the waters flowed over his dying memory as wildly, as madly, as ever. Then poverty had come upon Margaret Gloyd, as it comes to so many, without warning, and the years of John Foyster's disappearance had been years of trial, sickness, want to her, of poverty and hard struggle to her daughter. It had been like a resurrection from the dead to mother and daughter both, when, a few months mother and daughter both, when, a few months after Stephen Gloyd's death, John Foyster pre- sented himself at their little villa in Monte Carlo apparently a changed man. No longer the reck- less profligate of I earlier years, though bearing some signs of his debasement, he seemed to have become sober, discreet, and at least worldly wise. If his passion for Rachel stiil survived, there was no betrayal of it by word, and he was welcomed, as a reclaimed man often is welcomed, with a greater warmth than they could have shewn him before his fall. He had money, too. Had he saved some salvage from the wreck of his fortune ? Had lie made a lucky coup in some speculation ? No one knew j or asked, and he vouchsafed no light. He attached himself, yet not offensively, to Mrs. Gloyd and Rachel he learned soon the great desire of the girl's heart, and then he offered her his services. He had learned some- thing in past days, he said with a grim smile, of life below the surface in Lon- don. Perhaps he could turn that knowledge to some account now. He »von no little gratitude by his spontaneous offer, and by the energy with I which he set about his task While the mother and daughter had spent the preceding summer on the south coast of England, he had divided his time between London and Devonshire, exploring the former, as he averred, but to no effect as yet, and going to them at intervals to report. With the autumn they had come back to their villa by the Mediterranean. Once before this during the winter he had come to Monte Carlo, but he had still no news. Meanwhile, Malcome Dean had come into their lives, and with some effect, as we have seen. This is a long digression, but it explains why Margaret Gloyd found it not easy to decide at once whether she could take him into her confi- dence, and admit that Rachel might, if she chose, become the wife of Malcome Dean. But he was more than half answered by her silence and evident perplexity. She deserves to be happy," he hazarded. "You must let me say just this I can envy without hating the man who may win her love." This was shrewdly said. It tempted confidence. I think Rachel does care for Mr. Dean very much," was her answer. His clear tones seemed to become hard and metallic as he asked, "Are you sure he is worthy of her ?" "Oh, Mr. Foyatt?, we have known him some time now, and we know his family so well Everybody speaks h'^hly of him. I am sure I see no reason why it should not be." "Ah You are not over wise. A man will some- times sell his soul for a woman." He had risen to his feet as he began to speak, and now turned away abruptly, paced half the distance between the seat and Rachel, then suddenly wheeled, mounted the steps, and left the gardens. If Margaret Gloyd had been less of an invalid, she might have had the strength to keep this in- terview from her daughter, or, at least, to relieve it of a certain threatening character. As it was, Rachel soon knew it all, its sinister aspect rather heightened than lessened for her by her mother's vain effort to soften it. But Rachel had not lived the life she had to be frightened now bv a shadbw. Above all things she loved fair dealing, and the vagueness of this insinuation roused her scorn and anger. At the same time it chafed her, and demanded more light. When she had learned all her mother had' to say she left her, and searched throughout the gardens for John Foyster, but she came back again disappointed. She was compelled to wait, therefore, till he should come to her of his own accord. He came on that same evening to their tiny villa. But meanwhile the girl's irritation had grown with the delay. The veiled attack upon Malcome Dean seemed so heartless that she be- came suffused with the zeal of championship. She knew now more surely than she had ever known before that she loved the man whose good repute was so much to her. She was quite ready, there- fore, to face his traducer. Why did you speak to mamma as you did of Mr. Dean to-day ? was almost her first greetinfY when he appeared. ° He answered without thq leas t discomposure, I made no charge against him." But you insinuated a vague something." "Which huj/ht mean nothing. "Then it was cowardly." He took this, too, calmly, quietly stroking his moustache. He evidently felt himself master of the situation. It became unbearable for her. I have been mistaken in you," she said bitterly. "And perhapsin someone else," he added. What do you mean ?" •'Miss Racjiel, I had. supposed vou stronsr in a single purpose. 1 have devoted myself for months now to serve you in that purpose. But perhaps I have been too zealous." In spite of her confidence his calm assurance impressed her, and her voice was not quite so de- fiant as she said, Tell me exactly what you mean." He paused as if to give his words an added em- Ehasis. Does Mr. Dean know of the search you ave been making ?" J "Yes," she answered breathlessly. He paused again before he said, "BecauseTie has, and has long bad, the clue to your uncle's death." It is false she cried, springing to her feet, white with passion. "I can prove it," 02me iioni his lips like a knife cutting the air. I defy you All in good time, Miss Rachel. You will thank me some day. For the present I have this to say—I have traced to ^.ialcome Dean's possession a will made by Stephen Gloyd. I do not know its purport, but lie has it, has had it long, and con- ceals it from you. How and where did ne getit ? This was terrible in its directness. How dare one make so explicit a charge without warrant ? Still she shewed no sign of dismay. Prove it! prove it! she demanded of him. And he did prove it. Face to face with Mal- come Dean, John Foyster charged him with the possession of this "document. To indignant denials he quietly made this proposition—That in their joint presence a notary should examine Dean's' luggage. It was agreed to in scornful contempt. the search was so made, and in Malcome Dean's portmanteau the will of the mur- dered man was found Dumb with amazement, with consternation, with suspicions that could not be utteied, the accused man took the fatal document into his own hands and spread it open. He felt a flutter- ing hope that he might not find it of such a tenor as to make its past concealment appear like a wrong to the living or the dead. But even this was denied him. If ife was indeed, as it bore all the marks of being, the will of Stephen Gloyd, it took from Rachel every penny that she had come to regard as her own. lts possession and conceal- ment by the man who sought her hand were worse than a crime. It was inexplicable, it was horrible, but here it was. Come he said at last hoarsely. e will see the end." John Foyster followed him without a word. In silence they passed together along the sun-bathed streets to the little embowered villa, where a still- trusting heart awaited them. She read the truth in the triumphant light in the face of the one, in the bewilderment and grief in the face of the other. Her'heart seemed to stop its beating as Malcome Dean's voice fell on her ear. On my honour," he said, as I hoped to win you worthily, I knew nothing of this paper a half- hour ago. I never saw it before in my life, but it was found in my possession. God knows how it came there. Yon will believe me ?" Her face was hidden in her hand. Go !-go! came like a broken moan from her lips. It is all over. There is no God, no truth,no honour in the world." So far it was well with John Foyster. He waited a day, and then lie pressed his suit on the penniless girl. He even so far forgot himself in his hot haste as to insinuate that she must choose between him and beggary. Then the burden of her almost broken heart found an outlet in a torrent of such passionate scorn that he was glad to escape from the sound of her voice. But lie said to himself, nevertheless, that it must come in time she had tasted tho sweets of riches, and poverty would bend her will at last. However, he felt that it was prudent to leave her for a while to her own resource5, and for him to take himself away from the charms of Monte Carlo. The next day the world was thrilled with the tidings of a frightful collision on th? railway between Monte Carlo and San Remo. One of the lifeless, mangled bodies was identified as that of John Foyster, and among the papers found in his luggage was a testamentary instrument executed with all due formality by one Stephen Gloyd, deceased, of London. This instrument revoked all other wills by him made, and in explicit terms that which had been found in Malcome Dean's possession. More than that, it left the bulk of his property to his long neglected niece, Rachel Gloyd." It never can be anything more than conjecture that John Foyster was one of Stephen Gloyd's guests on that fatal Christmas Eve, but howsoever he had gained possession- of these two wills and the money by which lie had made himself at least outwardly respectable once more, there could be no question that he had been playing.a. vilianous fjame since he had floated to the surface of social ife again. It was some weeks after this final catastrophe when there came to Rachel a note which ended thus But though I have no charges to make against any one, I know so well the heart of the only woman whose love seems tome worth the winning, that I am sure she has long ago ac- quitted me of any part in the wrong that was de- signed against her. May I hear that from her owu lips ?—Yours in faith and honour, MALCOME DEAN." She sent for answer the one word Cmue PROVERBS ABOUT WOMEN. The proverbs of mo;t countries are rich -.1 all subjects relating to women, although frequently they are far from complimentary. Indeed, it is curious that in this branch of literature we should lind so much ill-natured sarensm—oftentimes as .unjust as it is untrue. According to a well-known Italian adage, '-Whatever a woman will, she can"— a saying which has its equivalent in other countries. Hence, too, we are warned how— "T! le man's a fool who thinks by force or skill To stpm the torrent of a woman's wiii; For if she will, she will, you may depend on't, And if she won't, she won't, and there's an end on't. The notion that a woman cannot keep a secret is embodied ia many a proverb, and is alluded to by Sliakspere,' who makes Hotspur say to his wlie, in Henry IV. ;— "Constant you are, But yet a woman; and. for secrecy No lady closer; for I well believe. Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know, And so far I will trust thee,* gentle Kate." Mr. Kelly remarks, in his little book on proverbs. ■'If there be truth in proverbs men have no right to reproach women for blabbing. A woman can at least keep her own secret. Try her on the subject of her age." The industry of woman has long ago become proverbial, as in the couplet:— "The woman that's honest, her chiefest delight Is still to be doing from morning till night." With which we may compare the common maxim A woman's work is never at an end." On the other hand, it was formerly said of the woman who, after being a busy, industrious maid, become an indolent wife, "She hath broken her elbow at the church door," the ceremony of the church porch- v-here oftentimes part of the marriage service was 1-" rl'ermed—having disabled her for domestic duties. Thus another adage affirmed how— "Th" wife that expects to have a good name Is always at home, as if she were lame." According to our forefathers, it did not look well for a woman to be always sightseeing. < as such was aii indication that she was not sufficiently lomesti :afed and was too fond of pleasure. Hence, iv mimllc 0_- ,J,, "A woman oft seen, a gown oft worn, Are disesteemed and held in scorn. Even at the present day, aCClmllng to a well- knovifYorkshire proverb, "A zonktown (a gossip) is seldom a good housewife at home." Many of our proverbs speak of the iickleness of woman, but surely this is a libel all their constancy :— The love of a woman and a bottle of wine Are sweet for a season and last for a time." One adage tells us how "Maids say nay and take —a kiss, a ring, or an offer of marriage." On the same principle it has been commonly said: "Take a. woman's first advice and not her second." Amongst some of the many other proverbs re- lating to women is the familiar one:— "There's no mischief in the world done, But a woman is always one." This is a somewhat severe judgment, and one which must be received with caution. According to another adage, "Women in mischief are wiser than men," and it was also said that "Women's jars breed men's wars." The Germans have the fol- lowing variation of this proverb: "There's no, mischief done in the world but there's a woman «*■ ftat the bottom of it."