The Rhondda Leader

( Copyright.) A NIGHT AT OAK MOUNT. BY SARAH CATHERINE BTJDD, Author of "The Mystery of Castle Cloun," "la the Stilly Night," &e. I. It was a lovely September afternoon. The lights and shadows fell softly on the breezy downs, over which I was journeying to reach the town of Biehester. A little time before, when my train had puffed into the station at IIardham, I was told it was only three miles to Biehester over the downs. "And not lonely, Miss," said a civil porter. This was consoling, and not having a single penny to waste, I felt it would be best to tramp the short distance. It was a very hot afternoon, but a fresh breeze tempered the hot sun, and I was in gcod spirits, hoping much from the summons I had received, to visit a distant relative, who was both old and rich. Who knew what might come of this visit? I walked cheerfully on, humming a tune to myself, and thinking of our little home, where I and my sister worked so hard and were so happy, despite the fearful shadow that had fallen upon us. By-and-bye the sun seemed to grow hotter, and as I gained the crest of the hill, and saw the white line of road running along over the top of the downs, apparently without end, and with no living thing in sight, I began to fear the journey would be too much for me. There was, however, no choice, and I walked on as cheerfully and quickly as I could. I had been tramping on for some considerable time, when a carrier's van came slowly by. I made a sign to the driver to stop, and asked: "Are you going to Bi(,Ii",ter ? "Yes, Miss; certainly, Miss," said he. I climbed into the cart, a kind old woman helping me in. There was one other passenger, whose face was turned away from me towards the driver. He was a gentleman, and the out- line of his figure was familiar to me-too familiar. Could it be he ? My heart beat fast, and I turned faint and sick with apprehension. Presently he turned slowly round, settling himself in his seat, then raised his eyes and looked full at me. There was no mistake. The same subtle, cruel glance the same dark hand- some face. In his eyes there was a kind of triumph. Was it triumph ? Mine must have expressed both hatred and defiance. At length we reached the town of Bichester, and no sooner did the cart stop than he stepped out, and walked rapidly away. For one wild moment I felt inclined to return home. He had once more crossed my path; there seemed no safety anywhere. The shadow that had fallen over us had come entirely through him, but for the last few years we had eluded him. Recollecting, however, that he did not know where we lived, and that I should be absent only one night, my momentary panic subsided. Can you tell me where Oak Mount is ? I asked the driver. Mrs. Bellairs. Oh, yes I know! he said. "A pretty place, but rather lonely. It is not in Bichester, Miss, but about a mile along the road, up that hill," and he pointed to a pretty road with villas on either side. Following his directions, I walked on for some time until I heard the sound of wheels behind me. Presently a cab passed. Glancing carelessly at its occupant, I saw again the dark, evil eyes that I so dreaded. My heart seemed to stand still, and then beat fast with fear. I looked after the receding cab, and wondered where it could be goii>g. And all the time I felt in my heart that it was going to Oak Mount. Yet he knew nothing of Mrs. Bellairs, as far as I could tell. Surely he could not be going to her house! I seemed to have walked much more than a mile when I at last reached Oak Mount. A smart, red-haired girl opened the door. She had a pert, conceited air, anything but pleasant. "What name? she asked, in a supercilious tone. "Mrs. Bellairs is ill, and I am sure will see no visitors." She will see me, I quietly answered. "I am a relative, and was sent for." The girl opened her eyes and, more civilly, asked me to walk in while she spoke to Mrs. Bird. Passing through the hall, I caught a glance of Standon leaning against the mantelpiece of a room to the left. My fears were prophetic. I followed the girl into a cheerless and formally furnished drawing- room. After waiting what seemed an interminable time, I heard a slight rustling in the passage then the door was quietly opened, and a respectable-looking, fair-haired, woman entered. She was handsome, hnd well dressed. There was a bland expression on her lips, but distrust looked out of her dark eyes, in which there seemed also something of fear. "Miss Frazer, she said, looking down at the card which she still held in her hand. "Do you wish to see Mrs. Bellairs ? She is very Tery ill—much too ill to see any visitors. I looked her full in the face, and said quietly, but steadily: She will see me. She is a relative, and has sent for me. The colour rushed into her pale face; her eyes lit up with a curious light. "Sent for voti, there must be some mistake. Mrs. Bellairs has been too ill to write letters for many days." "Nevertheless, she has written to me," I coldly said, "and summoned me here. If you dotibt it, here is her letter." And I held it out open towards her. She looked sharply at the handwriting, and the colour left her face. "I see you know her writing as well as I do," I remarked. "Will you kindly lead the way to her room." "Certainly," she said hurriedly; "but she is yeally so very ill I must prepare her, and, indeed, I think she is too ill to-night to see anyone." "Go to her and find out her wisheE," I said calmly, feeling sure of my ground here. Yet, that man being in the house, I was prepared for any villainy. Mrs. Bird left the room, and I was again alone. She had hardly gone when, looking through the open door, I saw a vacant-looking but pretty child coming stealthily down the hall, and then into the room, her finger on her lips. She came just over the threshold of the door and whispered Is your name Frazer ? I nodded, and a slow smile broke over her little face. "That's right, Mrs. Bellairs gave me this letter to post to you. Here was another mystery! What did it all tnean ? I drew closer to the child, and said in a kind, low voice "IIttw is Mrs. Bellairs, have you seen her lately ? Her face clouded over, and she said piteously: "I think she must be very ill. I have not seen her for two days or more." Suddenly there was a slight rustling in the distance, the child looked frightened, and immediately moved away. What are you doing here ? said the sharp voice of Mrs. Bird. "It is nearly your bed- time, and I daresay you have not learnt your lessons—not that lessons will ever be of much use to you." A dusky colour glowed for an instant in the child's face, and then she slunk away. "That child is nearly an idiot," said Mrs. Bird to me. "Mrs. Bellairs took her out of charity, as she was a destitute orphan. I am very sorry to say," she went on politely, .Ira. Bellairs is too ill and exhausted to see you to-night, but she is very glad you are come, and hopes to see you in the morning. She charged me to make you as comfortable as I could. You will like to take Your hat off and ) refresh yourself after your journey I will shew you to your room. Once more left alone, I turned to the bed- room window, which looked out over the garden. Almost as soon as I had done so I heard noises below. "What business had you," Mrs. Bird was saying in a tone of concentrated bitterness. What business had you, I say, to intrude yourself upon a visitor of Mrs. Bellairs—an idiot like you." Mrs. Bird's back was towards my window, but the child faced me, and she had a look of hopeless stolid idiocy. I bent a little forward, and our eyes met. She was so placed that Mrs. Bird could not well see her face, but the change in it was wonderful. All the stupidity wne -,one the face expressed a yearning desire to tell me something, or to warn me. Which was it ? But the expression passed almost directly, for another voice-how well I knew the hard, cruel tone-called out: "Come in immediately; don't you hear what Mrs. Bird is saying." On going downstairs I found that tea was nicely arranged for me, and Mrs. Bird, after politely asking me if I required anything more,. left me to myself. I poured out a cup, and was about to put it to my lips when I thought I perceived a very peculiar odour. Yes, there was no doubt about it, my tea was drugged. I put down the cup tremblingly, then I leant my head upon my hand and thought. Should T go straight home ? No I must at all events re", through the night and see my dear old ralative in the morning. In her interests I must see her, find out the mystery, and try to free her from that dreadful man and Mrs. Bird. I rang the bell, and the pert servant appeared. "You can take away the tea," I said. "It has a most extraordinary flavour; I did not care to drink it." "Cheap Ceylon, no doubt," the girl said, with a slight sniff. "She is that stingy, and keeps the old lady pretty close, I can tell you." At that moment a bell rang sharply. The girl turned pale. "Oh, my eye!" she muttered to herself, g, 'tis his bell, and he is as cross as two sticks. "His bell! He seemed quite at home, then, in Mrs. Bellairs' house. II. Ten o'clock found me safe in my bedroom with the door carefully locked. The only thing that gave me any sense of disturbance was a certain closet door. I tried it carefully and found it locked, but I seemed to expect every moment- that it would burst open. How long I slept I know not, but I awoke suddenly to hear the sound of voices in the next room. I was instantly on the alert, lit the candle, and slipped on my dress. I was just debating if I should put on my hat and try and steal away from the house when a little piece of paper was thrust under my bedroom door. I softly crossed the room, picked it up, and read these words scrawled in a round text: "Please Miss Frazer open the door. Don't make any noise. I have something to tell you. I felt instantly convinced that this came from the poor child I had seen. I opened the door immediately, and there stood a trembling little figure, fully dressed, and wrapped up in an old shawl. She crept into the room and silently closed the door. "You are good I know I can trust you," she whispered trem- blingly, "but, oh, don't make the least noise, or they will kill me and, perhaps, you "Who are they talking in the next room? I asked. "The two," she answered laconically. "How can I help you? I asked anxiously. "Mrs. Bellairs," she said, the tears welling slowly into her eyes. 'Oh, I'm so afraid. She has always sent for me every day, and I have not seen her for two days. That is her room," she said, nodding towards where we heard the sound of voices. "I am so afraid-afraid they are behaving ill to her. Oh, she is so good to me, and we are both so afraid of her. She goes into the town every day, and then we are so happy together, but she never went to-day. There is something wrong, I am sure; Mrs. Bellairs sent me out secretly to post the letter or you would never have come." I began to long, with a kind of nervous longing, to see the old lady herself, and find out what I could do for her. "What can I do ? I asked in a low whisper. The child unclosed her little hot hand, and held up a key. "This is the key of that closet," she said. "I took it out of her drawer under the paper. She hides it there and does not guess that I know. "Well, what am I to do with it? I asked. "You must open that door and go in; you will see a window very high up in the wall. If you get on a box in there you can see into the next room. That is where they are, and you will find out what they are doing. The voices sounded very much louder and nearer when I entered the closet; in fact, they seemed so close to me that my heart beat loudly with terror. The round, full oily tones of that man's voice seemed to chill my blood. After waiting a minute to recover myself I cautiously looked through the little window. To this day I wonder I did not faint when Mrs. Bellairs' room became fully revealed fo me. It was a large, cheerful room, light and pleasant. In an embrasure of one of the windows sat Standon and Mrs. Bird. A bright lamp was burning, and the table before them was littered with what appeared to be law papers. Standon was writing rapidly, and Mrs. Bird Was looking over him as he wrote. But the horror of it was that, as I turned my eyes in the direction of the large four-post bedstead, there lay, indeed, my dear old relative, but dead, quite dead! A mist rose before my eyes at first, but my brain soon cleared, and I followed with the closest attention what was taking place, until I obtained some idea of their fradulent purpose. Then I stole softly back to my room, carefully shutting the closet door. The child still sat on the carpet, huddled up in the old shawl just where I had left her. Her eyes asked the question which her lips could not utter. "All is well with her, dear child," I said gently. "She is sleeping." Then I went on: "I must get out of this house somehow, this very night, and you must come with me." "But dear Mrs. Bellairs," she whispered. All will be right about her," I answered. Softly and slowly we crept down the stairs, and unfastening the front door, stepped out into the open air. The little lawn was bathed in silvery moonlight, but close against the house there was dense shadow. We paused a moment to listen. To our horror we heard the howling of a dog in the adjoining shrubbery. The child shivered and pressed close to me. Then a window was thrown open and a harsh, deep voice said "What is the matter now, you brute ? Another voice, further back in the room, remarked: "He is a good house-dog. Perhaps someone is lurking about." Then the window was closed with a bang. "Now," said the child in a quick, low whisper. "There is not a moment to lose," and, taking the lead while I followed, she swiftly skirted the house, keeping in its shadow. Then we turned a corner, and the child darted towards a dog-kennel, and unclasped the chain round the neck of a splendid Newfoundland. She clasped her arms round him as he began to whine with joy. "No, no, my beauty, you must be quiet," she said. "But he shall not kill you no, no, Nelson, my beauty." he then opened a little dark gate in the shrubbery fence, and with the dog at our heels we found ourselves on the high road leading to Bichester. j III. How strange and unfamiliar looked the road. How solemnly white the moonlight, and how black were the shadows. Our route lay straight through the sleeping town of Bichester, and when we turned under the old gateway and entered the narrow High- street, even the dog seemed to feel the silence, for he fell in behind us and forgot to bark or frolic. At length we got clear of the town, and after nearly an hour of good stiff climbing, we reached the open downs, leaving the town in the valley behind us. Here we sit down by an old mile-stone to rest for a while, but not, for long, and then we again toiled on until the first streaks of early dawn were brightening in the East. Staggering wearily, therefore, through the gate which opened into a grove of firs we saw a fine-looking man with a thoughtful face seated upon some hurdles. Seeing we were thoroughly exhausted he rose and motioned us to sit down. I felt I had seen this man somewhere before, whether in the spirit or in the flesh I could not tell, but, anyhow, I knew he was the answer to all the prayers in my troubled heart. Presently he spoke in a kind, compassionate voice: I am sure you are in trouble. When you are able, tell me what it is and if I can help you." At first I could make no reply, but sat gazing towards a beautiful house at a little distance, standing in a small, but well-timbered park. He followed the direction of my eyes. "That house is mine," he said. "I will talk to you while you rest a little longer, you are not fit to walk yet. When you are sufficiently cecovered, I will carry the child and t..ke you both (town to the house, and you can tell my sister an your troubles." He was right, I could not yet walk; I trembled in every limb. "Yes," he went on, "that lovely place ia mine now, but I was for long a worker in the world's hive, and very hnrd I worked for the best years of my life. I had, however, a happy boyhood. I was born in an old house near the Hampshire Downs, wns free and happy, wandering over the heathery turf. Then cams the dark time when I was bound over a slave and sent to London. Do you know much of London ? I shook my head. You aro most happy not to know. And you can never have seen the vast, army of black- coated men streaming every morning into the City. I was one of them for years I took my silent place in those silent ranks. Perhaps you can scarcely understand how I, a Hampshire- bred lad, on fine summer mornings especially, sickened for a sight, of the green downs and waving trees. At Inst, when I was growing a middle aged man, this lovely property fell to me unexpectedly. I had to take the name Dixon- that was the only condition. "ITow happy you must be," I cried. "Happy ? he answered sharply "yes, happy in being able to help others, and in the sights and sounds of nature. Ifii-k! he said, holding up his finger as a lark uprose, singing her way to the skies, "that is lieaven that is happi- ness. But when you have lived as long in the world as I have you will always find a large qualifying element, in every lot in life. In my case it took the shape of-first a boy-and then a man. In my gameR, in my studies, in my lores, in my friendships, an enemy came be- tween me. He took away my early love, he stole her heart from me as soon as he found I cilred for her, and when that was done he threw back her affection and she died of a broken heart. He married my favourite sister, but such wis her life with him that one night, not long ago, she crept home to me—she, who used to love him so passionately—and said she would never enter his doors again. From our change of name he does not know of her place of refuge, but I know that one day we shall meet, and then -11 I shuddered at his tone, his look. Then I bent forward and touched him on the arm. "Is this man of whom you speak very handsome, tall, and dark. Does he throw up his hand in speaking ?-like this. And has he a curious mark on his right hand? "My Gnd I he said, starting forward. "That is the very man, and you know him ? "Are you a magistrate ? I asked. He bowed his head, too agitated to speak. I knew you were," I said. "I have been praying to be guided to the right person." "I have nothing to do with prayer," he said in a hoarse, sullen voice, "I am living for revenge." His face was FO altered d distorted by reason of his fierce passions that I should liai-O mistrusted and shrunk from him if I had seen him now for the first time. But,, after a few minutes, he very gently took the child from my arms. Turning to me he said Take my arm you must, or you will never reach the house." So with his help, stiffly and slowly, I stum- bled on, and crossed his hospitable threshold. "I shall not call the servants," he said, "only my sister. She knows what to do in every emergency. Placing me in the easiest of ensy chairs, and laying the child gently down on a couch, still sleeping, and jealously guarded by Nelson, he left us to cali his sister. I suppose I must have fainted, for when I came to full consciousness a pretty, fair-haired woman was bathing my face and hands with can de Cologne. When I had rested for a time, Mr. Dixon returned and, seating himself by my side, said I "Now I am quite ready to listen to you, and find out how we can best aid you." "I will tell you all, then," I began. "My sister and I I never got beyond those words, for there came a furious sound of wheels driving up to the hall door, and then heavy knocking—knock- ing which seemed to beat upon my heart. Mr. Dixon hastened to open the door. I heard the sound of men's feet, and an agitated voice, spying: "A gentleman has met with an accident. I fear he is dead may we bring him in while we go for a doctor. "Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Dixon, "bring him in at once." Then hastily collect- ing a few rugs, he threw them on the floor to form a kind of couch. Two men then entered carrying a heavy burden, explaining, as they did so, that the gentleman was in hot pursuit of someone, and had promised them a large sum of money if they could reach Elford Station at a given time. They also supposed he must have leant heavily against the carriage door, which was not properly fastened; for while the horses were going at full speed, he was thrown out, and they believed he was dead, or dying. I had a desire to look, and yet a terrible shrinking from seeing the poor man's face. A curious sound from Mr. Dixon aroused me. I g'anced towards him, and was astonished to see tie look on his face. And the truth flashed upon me. There lay his enemy and mine, with the ashen hue of death creeping over his face. I kept my fascinated gaze fixed on Mr. T'ixon, who seemed quite unconscious of my presence, and the expression of his face grew more and more terrible. Presently an awful smile spread ove" a be stretched out his hand and said "At last, at While I was shuddering and wondering what I ought, to do, I saw coming swiftly down the s!nil-case a tall, worn-looking, but still beauti- ful, wonmn, whose henvy plaits of golden hair were streaked hei e and there with grey. She took not, the slightest notice of Mr. Dixon, but knelt by the side of Standon. "Oh, my God!" she moaned in passionate entreaty. "Not yet,, with all his sins upon his head. Not yet, oh, spare him, spare him 1'1 Then she rose to her feet, and for the first time seemed to see her brother, with his out- stretched hand and awful smile. She went up to him. "Dan," she cried in piteous accents, "Dan, you must pray for him. God will hear you, for he is your enemy." The awful smile never change4 as he answered in hoarse, low tone$-• "J. have lived for this day. I knew we should meet. at. last." A dark flush crosfed her fare. "Ian, this is fiendish don't you see he is dying on your very hearthstone." "I will not be baulked of my revenge," he answered. "I have lived for this day." "Vengeance is mine, I will repay," she solemnly said. "Dan, you are wicked—wicked —look at me, dear, not at him." But his eyes never moved from the face of the doomed man. "Dan! she sharply cried, "go down upon your knees, and pray for him, God will hear you. He must not, shall not, die with all this weight upon his soul." But he stood like a statue, with his eyes ever fixed on the stricken man. Then, in a voice of agonised entreaty that thrilled me through and through, she wailed: "Dan, Dan! oh, look at me. I'll have nothing to do with you any more if you won't pray." Her voice reached him at last; he slowly turned his eyes towards her, and fixed them on her beautiful agonised face. I saw his eyes waver, change, and then the smile slowly faded away. By degrees the expression of his face entirely altered. There was a long and fearful struggle. We watched him, and suffered with him. At last, slowly-very slowly—he fell upon his knees. "I give it up, my God," he solemnly said. "I give it, up, the purpose of my life. Ven- geance is Thine, not mine. Oh! spare him, spare him let him not die with all his fearful sins upon his soul." His sister sank down on her knees beside him, and, leaning her head upon his shoulder, wept convulsively. But he heeded her not, his soul was stirred to the very depths. Once more there broke from his white lips: "Spare him, spare him! Then I saw a shudder pass over the uncon- scious man. His eyelids wavered, and at last, very slowly and wearily, the eyes unclosed, and met those of Mr. Dixon. Standon did not die, but he struggled back to life, a wreck of what he had been.1 He never YI alked again, except by the help of crutches and he never fully remembered his past life. In a measure it always remained a blank with him. My sister married the Rector of Elford, and I saw a very curious look pass over Standon's face when he first saw her-a beautiful bride- on her wedding tour. k shocked and startled took it was. I could see he was trying hard to remember. I have long been married to Mr. Dixon, and [ am a happy wife and mother. The child whom I brought away with me from Oak Mount ill now a beautiful young girl-my right hand ind comfort. I cannot expect to keep her always with me, though I shrink from the thought of losing her. She, and Nelson, are both devoted ;o my children, and they all play and romp logether. But sometimes, when the little ones are in 3ed, and we three—Nelson, the child and I- ue waiting in the gloaming for Dan's return, tve talk together of our weary tramp over the downs, and the night of terror on which we met. [THE END.]