Welsh Newspapers

Search 15 million Welsh newspaper articles

Hide Articles List

15 articles on this Page

[ALL RIGHTS RESEIRViRD-1 !…

News
Cite
Share

[ALL RIGHTS RESEIRViRD-1 HER VANISHED LOVER. i BY EDITH C. KENYON. Author of Which was the Heiress The Hand oj hi,9 Brother, The Squire of Lonsdale" &c. CHAPTER XXVI. STARTLING NEWS OF GERALD HARCOURT. IT is six hours later. The moon has hidden itself behind a bank of clouds. The cool wind stirs the trees, making their leafless branches creak and groan. It moans across the fields beyond the wood and comes back laden with voices of the night. No time this for a tender woman, a delicate lady, a solitary maiden to be abroad, alone and unattended in the darkness. Yet one comes along, with an active, unhesitating tread, upright in her bearing, fearless in her mien, with steadfast eyes fixed on the goal before her-a spot of intense blackness higher up amongst some rocks and brush- wood. It is Jessie. She is going to the cave in the beech-wood. In her hand is a covered basket containing food and drink, in her pocket is a purse in which three bank-notes —one her own-are lying. She is not happy about this errand she has undertaken, which yet she feels constrained to go upon. I cannot bear to deceive poor old dad- especially just now in the hour of his weakness," she says to herself, "and I felt horribly guilty when he said, 'Good-night, darling,' thinking I was going to bed. But mother would have broken her heart, she would have been in a high fever by now if I had not consented to take her brother the food and money she could not take herself. For her sake it was absolutely necessary for me to come. And perhaps for his because, wicked though the man is, if he has not committed murder it would be awful for him to suffer a murderer's doom. With all his faults, he did all a man could do for his poor sister last night, and risked being caught that he might bring her safely home. Yes, he deserves some pity and the chance of beginning again in a new country." At this point she has to bend her pretty, stately head J)eneath some over-hanging branches, and immediately after is startled by a fox rushing past her at full speed. The melancholy cry of an owl then is to be heard filling the silence and presently one flies by on noiseless wing. Then Jessie finds herself ascending a slight acclivity, and thinking as she does so of Gerald Harcourt. "What a hypocrite I am," she thinks, to try and make myself believe that it is for any other reason except to hear about him that I am really and truly venturing here." The thought that she may soon be hearing news of her lost lover acts like a tonic to her tired frame and flagging spirits, and she proceeds more vigorously. Meantime George, Mrs. Eden's brother, sits in the empty cave on a huge log, by a small wood fire on the bare rock, in the centre of the place. The fumes of the burn- ing wood impregnate the damp air of the cave, making it most unpleasant to breathe. Few of the clouds of wreathing smoke ascend through the opening in the roof above the fire, which is intended to do duty as a chimney, instead they hang in a dense dark volume over the lonely man sitting motionless by the fire. His pipe has dropped from his mouth, his head, heavy with slumber, droops forward over his hands. He is oblivious of all caires and all dangers, for he is asleep. Jessie arriving at the entrance to the cave, a mere jagged opening in the rocks, looks in and sees him thus, shuddering a, little as she does so. The firelight plays upon his stal- wart, unwieldy foi-iii-tlie great hands, the heavy head, the sullen countenance. Here is a criminal hiding from justice. Here is a brother who has broken his only sister's heart. Here is a robber, starving in all probability for the food which she is bring- ing. A wretch whose code of honour is absolutely nil. And she has come alone, defenceless and undefended to his lair. Bringing him succour, yes, but placing herself at the same time in his power. What if, after he has eaten and drunk, he arises, like a lion, and turning upon her, his succourer, rends her limb from limb? The thought makes Jessie tremble for a moment, then she remembers an ancient story of a lad who had power given him from on High, to kill a lion that had stolen a lamb, and looking up with quivering lips, asks for his strength. The next instant she enters the cave. And now her eyes are rivetted, not on the sleep- ing man, but on a little worn black bag upon the earth-floor by him. Not an ordinary black bag this by any means it is made of the best leather, and has a tiny silver clasp, discoloured now and scratched. Half open, it discloses nothing except a coloured handkerchief and a tool, in appear- ance like a screw driver. But, lying on the ground beside it, is a gentleman's well-worn pocket-book. Jessie knows the bag and pocket-book, having seen both many a time. Astonished, she looks at the sleeper again, stooping a little to examine his dress. Vest and coat are soiled almost past recognition, but she knows that they have once, been Gerald Harcourt's. "Oh!" she cries suddenly, standing erect in the dim firelight, and quite unable to keep silent any longer, "Oh, tell me! did you kill Mr. Harcourt? Did you kill him ? Dr did you merely steal his things ? With an oath, the man gets up and stands glowering at his visitor, with an expression on his face not unlike that one might have seen on a trapped beast's. Like an accusing angel, Jessie stands before him, with dilated nostrils, flashing eyes, and a hand raised up as if in denunci- ation of his cruel wickedness. Did you kill him ? she asks again, and the words come back with a mysterious echo from a subterranean passage beyond the cave. "Did you kill Mr. Harcourt? Or did you merely steal his things ?" She is so beautiful and her voice is so clear and musical in its tragic tones, that the man is unable to divest himself of the idea that this is a supernatural vigitant. Accordingly, being altogether overwhelmed he falls upon his knees, sobbing out, "Ha' mercy on me! mercy 1 I'm sure—as sure as I m auve—I only stole his things, and kept my mouth shut. That's t,he truth, I swear, the whole (ruth, and nothing but the truth "What has happened to him?" breath- lessly, imperiously Jessie asks the question, holding the man, meaJuwmle with the power of her gaze. I was his vnlefc. We were at St.'WiIfrid's -on-Sea." He hesitates. Yes. Go on,' co nniands Jessie, making an imperative gettura with her right hand, "go on." "Mr. Harcourt went out early one Monday morning in the beginning of April, for an hour s boating before breakfast. He never returned—the owners of that boat never saw jt again I Is that true?" » It's gospeltruth. May I never stand up again it it isn t every word the truth." Jessie believes him. It wag frOKn gf- Wilfnds on a Monday morning in Anrii that her Gerald disappeared. Bub w it she haa been told that he was called away by telegram? "Why," she demands, "why did you tell people a telegram had called your master away?" „ „ „ "I was sick of service, answers George, "sick to death of doing another man's bidding. I gave it out that my master had been telegraphed for, then I packed up his I things, and went away with them, pretend- ing I was following him." But about the boat ? Was it not missed ?" It was. That was a bit hard on the owner. He hadn't caught Mr. Harcourt's name rightly and so couldn't say what, gent had hired his boat. He had his Joss advertised though. There was big notices put up and advertisements in the local papers, so I wr-s told. And Mr. Harcourt was described, though badly." "I didn't see any advertisements. I wonder how that was." Forgetting the delicate situation in Which she is placed, Jessie speaks naturally, as if to herself. Instantly George recovers his wits, and rising, says in surly tones, "Who are you that comes here asking me all sorts of questions ? "I have come from Mrs. Eden," answers Jessie quietly. "She has sent you L-20. I have promised her I will give you another £ 10 of my own, if you will give me all Mr. Harcourt's things that are in your possession, and will tell me the truth about them." George gives an awkward laugh. "I'm blest if I didn't think you was an accusing angel!" he says. Well, I've telled you the truth about Mr. Harcourt. He went out in a boat that Monday morning, and. never returned, leastways I never heard of his returning." Did you ever make inquiries, or look for him?" "Not I. He was the last man I wanted ever to see again. I'd got his things, a tidy bit o' money and his clothes, and, lest be should turn up again, I took 'em all where they wouldn't be so easy to find." You speak very calmly of this theft," Jessie is trembling with indignation. Leav- ing his master to perish out at sea in an open boat, he had only thought of enriching himself by the mischance—if indeed all this was true. Oh, it's only an old story now," he answers. "I've robbed lots of folk since." Jessie shudders. Are you not afraid, she asks, "are you not afraid that your punishment will come." "Well, I think I've had enough of it lately," he says, "starving 'ere, afraid to put my nose out of this hole! I've had a beastly time as ever was!" You will have a worse," says Jessie, solemnly. The &oul that sinneth it shall die. "Oh, come now," he speaks very roughly. Doii't you preach!" Hand over the money, will you?" Jessie regards him sternly for a moment or two, then, seeing he will brook no more lecturing, she silently hands over twenty pounds, in gold and notes. These are from your sister, she says. "And here, offering the covered basket, is food and a flask of spirits she has sent also. You are only to take a little of the latter if you are ill, or hurt." The man mutters a little, as he takes the things, but whether this is intended for thanks, or is merely grumbling, Jessie does not know." "And your £ 10 ? he asks greedily. "Will you give me the things of Mr. Har- court's you have here ? she asks. What if I refuse ? "Then," responds Jessie, promptly, "you shall not have my ZIO." "How will you prevent it?" I shall know how," she says, quietly. There is power in her tone, and power, too, in her wise reticence. The man is over- awed. He picks up the pocket-book, turns out the contents of the bag, feels in his pocket, takes out a gentleman's purse, empties it in his hand, drops the purse, with the pocket-book, into the bag, and gravely hands it back to Jessie. Is that all ? she asks. "All," he answers. "And you are quite sure you do not know where Mr. Harcourt is now ? ttij I'm certain I don't know," is the instan- taneous reply. "Very well." Jessie hands hihi a ten- pound note. "Take this," she says, "and in another hemisphere remember that honesty is the best policy, and try to be an honest man." I will," he says, but whether mockingly, or in earnest, she cannot tell. "You may say that I said so to Hannah. 'Twill please her, poor soul!" 11 "I will. Good-bye." With the bag in her hand, Jessie turns to leave the cave. As she does so the man springs forward, with outstretched hand and an evil glitter in his eyes. Jessie, turning, looks straight into his lowering gaze. For several seconds there is a duel of the eyes. Then, with a forced laugh, George suffers Jessie to depart. I CHAPTER XXVII. I YOU, TOO, JESSIE "JESS, you're the best girl in the world exclaims Mrs. Eden, when Jessie comes into the parlour to acquaint her with the success of her errand. "When I think—when I think," she continues, weeping, "how bad I was to you, and then, for you to ha.ve been so downright good to me, I feel that I can never repay you—never, however long I live! "I am glad to have helped you," says Jessie, softly, "though very, very sorry it had to be done in that way." She speaks sadly; indeed her heart is exceedingly heavy at the thought of having done that of which her dear old father would disapprove. Mis- givings, too, come to her as to the wisdom of having assisted a man so devoid of honour and right feeling to escape to another country. She has, however, obtained news of Gerald Harcourt, which otherwise she might never have received, and it; is satis- factory inasmuch as it accounts for his in- explicable disappearance from St. Wilfrid's. But what comfort is there in it? Gerald Harcourt went out in a boat, and never returned. One of two things must have happened, either he was drowned, or he was picked up by some passing vessel. If the first, Gerald is dead, and there is no happi- ness in that. If, on the other hand, he was picked up by some passing vessel he would eventually have been set down somewhere 1 either at a French, or British port, and then, might have at once telegraphed, or written to her. Considering at what a critical point in his wooing he left her that is certainly the least that he could have done. And Gerald Harcourt wasn't the sort of man to shirk doing it. She greatly feared therefore that lie must have been drowned. Perhaps he lost an oar, or broke one, or illness came upon him when he was out of sight of the other boats? Or be might have fainted and fallen overboard. Oh, there were a great many things that might have happened, and Gerald must certainly be dead. Gerald dead! Every joy seems to have gone out of her life. It all looks colourless and limp. Why was she born? Why does she live? What is there in the future for her? Gerald is dead. "How white you look, Jess!" cries her step-mother. "What's the matter ? "Never mind me," answers Jessie me- chanically. I! doesn't matter about me." To herself she adds, "Gerald is dead. That is aU I care for." Sinking into an armchair, she sits drooping forward, in an attitude of the utmost despondency. "Make yourself a cup of tea., Jess," Mrs. Eden's tones are beseeching. She is terrified at the sight of the girl's face and attitude. Jessie shakes her head, as she looks up. "Too much trouble," she says, and indeed she feels as if she could not do it. "No, no. Don't give way. Rouse your- self, Jess. Call, Susan—she's a bad girl, she ought to have left you some tea ready as I rtold. her before she went to bed. She thinks of nobody but herself. Do you know she has scarcely been near me since you wen t out ? She is young." Mechanically the excuse falls from Jessie's pale lips. She's full of that Slater. I know she is," cries her mother, excitedly. "She won't tell me what has been going on between them lately. But I know something has. And after the way he behaved to you, she ought not to look at him." "No. That should be stopped." Jessie rises. "I think I will go and see if father is sleeping," she says. Ay, do. I doubt whether Susan and Jane have left him right comfortable. But take your hat off, Jess," the invalid adds, "take your hat off, or he will be suspecting you have been out, somewhere." Jessie removes her hat, but feels too tired to take off her warm jacket. She does not think her father will not notice it. He was never one to observe little differences in dress, and now there are not many things he does notice. Going into his sick room, she finds her father awake and to her surprise sitting up in bed. "Why, dad!" she cries, "dad! Can you be really sitting up ? "Yes, thank God, I can," he answers. "I believe I am going to get better, Jess." Oh, that is good hearing! I'm so glad, I am so very glad!" Jessie goes up to him, and, putting her arms round his neck kisses his dear old face. "Why, you're crying, Jessi" "I'm so glad." Crying for joy, Jessie mine ?" "Partly," answers Jessie; too honeat to allow him to think her tears are all flowing for joy. Through her mind rings the troub- lous refrain, Gerald is dead! Gerald is dead!" "What troubles you, Jessie?" her father asks tenderly, "for I'm sure something is troubling you, or yours would be unmixed joy at my partial recovery." Jessie longs to tell him all, but dares not, for her step-mother's sake, so, girl-like, she cries the more. "Where have you been, darling?" asks her father, perceiving that she has her jacket on. "Oh, outside," she answers, as uncon- cernedly as she can, "a little way." "For a breath of fresh air?" he asks, perplexed. "It was sweetly fresh," responds Jessie, I evasively. Her father shakes his head. Don't cloud my joy to-night," he says, "by not being quite open with me." Jessie flushes up. Anything so like a reproach she has never heard from his lips to her since she returned home. "Dad," she says, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. Dad, I hate to have a secret from you—but this one is not my own." "Then I trust, my dear, it is not your mother's—I mean your step-mother's." Jessie tis silent. She sits by her dear old father, with a slightly averted face, for the first time in her life. My child," he says, it is not right and fitting that I should b!ame my wife in your hearing. But, lest she should do you harm, I must be open with you and tell you that her integrity is not to be relied on. She has deceived me again and again. Jessie, if ever you get married, take care that you never deceive your husband. If you once do it, if he once finds that you have told him, or that you have acted a lie, his opinion of you will be lowered for all time. Jessie, your step-mother married me with a lie upon her lips. It was in this way She had a scamp of a brother, so wicked that I could not marry his sister. She told me the tales about him were not true. But they were, and after we were married he came here. I found them plotting together. I sent him to America and forbad them ever to hold communica- tion with each other. He promised that he would stay in America. She promised to have nothing to do with him. But several times during this past year I have been under the impression that the man has re- turned, and that he is in this neighbour- hood. Your mother denies it; slue denies it absolutely. Yet I read it in her face. Her accident has had something to do with him. I know it, as well as if it had been told me. Yes, and you know it, too," he stops short, looking at Jessie's changing colour, with searching eyes. Where," he asks, where had your step mother been that night she broke her leg? Where have you been to- night?" There is silence in the room except for the low sound of weeping—Jessie weeping. It smites on the father's heart, like blows, bitter and heavy. His face grows ashen in its hue as he listens. "Is it for this?" he asks; "Is it for this that I am returning from the brink of the grave? Can it be possible that you, too, Jessie, you too, are deceiving me, and keeping something from me?" Ob, dad Jessie puts out a trembling hand. "Oh, dear dad!" she tries to take hold of his. He withdraws his hand. It is a slight action, but significant. He has never with- drawn his hand from her before in all his life. She feels stricken, and turns deadly pale. If only this was her own secret, ah! how gladly she would tell him it! But feeling she cannot betray the wretched woman who lies helpless on her bed in the room close by, she makes one more appeal. "Dad," she says, "did I ever withhold from you one of my own secrets. I told you about Gerald Harcourt and everything. About myself, too, I have been quite frank and open with you." "Where have you been to-night?" His voice is stern. There is no answer. Jessie cannot even weep, though her eyes burn painfully, as if with unshed tears. "With whom have you been talking out- f,-ide ? Dad implores Jessie, dad, I would tell you willingly, most willingly, if it were not another's secret." Was it your step-mother's brother George ? Jessie does not answer. Her silence tells him all. "You too!" he says in a choked voice. Then, pointing to the door, he adds, in what is to Jessie a truly terrible voice, "Go. Leave me. Jessie is mine no longer." (He means she is no longer his entirely, as she was before). Weeping bitterly, Jessie leaves the sick room. The next few days are truly miserable ones for her. In the background of all her thoughts is the belief that Gerald Harcourt is dead. In the forefront is the knowledge that her father is deeply grieving over her lack of confidence in him. Mentally he sees her step-mother and the latter's wicked brother ranged with her against him, her father, who so dearly loves her. His mental worry and uneasiness reacts, too, upon his weak body, so that there are times when he seems to lose the advantage he has gained, and then, he can no longer sit up. Susan openly triumphs over Jessie, he- cause it is she who is most frequently asked for by the sick man. He has questioned the younger girl and is certain that she does not know of any clandestine meetings, with her wretched uncle. Susan has her own secrets from him; but of them he knows nothing at all. Jane is mystified and indignant at all this. She takes upon herself the task of remon- strating with, her master. "Whatever has that blessed.lamb Miss Jessie done?" she demands, "that you should choose Miss Susan before 'er? Oh, master, dear, you must let me speak. I can't a-bear to see I Miss Jessie looking so cast down. There's never one of 'em loves you like she does. And now you're getting better, and she ought to be so happy "Jane, you are forgetting yourself," says the old man, with much dignity. But when the maid has gone away, tears, the helpless tears of the aged, faU slowly down his cheeks. Mrs. Eden is too ill to discuss the matter of her brother, now, with Jessie. Rheu- matic fever has set in, and it is exceedingly, difficult to keep her from disturbing the setting of the broken leg, when, racked with pain, she tosses to and fro. Jessie is obliged to procure the services of a trained nurse, with whom she watches, turn and turn about. Dick does all in his power. He cannot understand his father's atti tude towards Jessie it is so entirely opposed to their pre- vious relations. I do believe, Jessie," he says once, when he comes upon her grieving, that poor father's mind is a little affected by his stroke.' They al ways say that when it is so the patient turns against his best friends." "But it isn't that, Dick dearest," says Jessie truthfully. "No. I have been so un- fortunate as to displease him, and I must bear the consequences." Dick questions and cross questions her, but can obtain no further information, and so he goes away, at last, feeling a little annoyed with the poor girl. And, all the time, the melancholy refrain rings in her mind, Gerald is dead-is dead —is dead 1 11 (To be continued.)

LABOUR DAY IN LONDON.

A MAJOR'S SAD DEATH.

£ 4000 JEWEL ROBBERY.

- ROYAL ACADEMY BANQUET.

[No title]

I NELLIE FARREN'S FUNERAL.…

--BOATING ACCIDENT.

•« JB.-P." AND THE BOYS' BRIGADE

WELL-KNOWN COMPOSER DEAD.

I SOMALI CAMPAIGN.

I IN STRANGE TIBET.

I" A CLOSE CALL."

I MEN LESS VALUE THAN GOATS.I

IWOMAN'S WORLD.