Evening Star Newspaper, April 20, 1895, Page 14

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 1895-TWENTY PAGES. (Copyright, 1895, by Bacholler, Jc CHAPTER 1. Many years ago two men were talking together one morning in the private room of a bank in the west of England. senior partner of the house, a white-haired, sage-looking financier, was cautioning nis companion, who evidently had their busi- ness enterprise very much at heart. was something eager and adventurous in the younger man’s appearance, in spite of the look that betrayed the country squire and lawyer that he was. The bank, personified by elder man, was making an investment quite apart from its usual steady customs, to join the squire, who was putting a good bit of money into a venture by sea. This momey was ‘to be forwarded to the port of Bristol to be shipped, and the two capitalists had ceived news from the captain of the v that he was sailing much sooner than had been his first intention. The difficulty was to find a proper messenger at such short Notice, and the squire, who was something of a sportsman, had come to say that he had fallen in unexpectedly with a horse dealer, a very honest man, fearless an’ a good rider, whom he had known for many was on his years, and who, fortunately, way to Bristol the next day “The only defect heh; stranger to the roads he between here and Bristol, Two Mounted Messengers. knows the way well. Weymouth has an English tongue in his head, but with so much gold to carry a man is sometimes glad to take a short cut or a different turn, especially in these days where there is so much tramping and thievery. You never know whom you fall in with on the road. I must say I never liked the looks of Rog- ers—” The squire tur quickly from the win- dow where he stood with hands deep in his pockets, looking out in the street, and saw Rogers himself, who had come, soft- footed as a cat, from the outer room to stand behind the senior partner. The squire stared at him angrily. “I knocked, sir,’ said Rogers, deferen- tally. “I should hope so,” answered the squire with coldness. But the clerk seemed to take no offense, and departed on tiptoe after handing some checks to his chief. The old man flushed a little and was dis- turbed. Rogers was his daily companion and made himself quite indispensable. To the squire he was only a subordinate, and apt to be presuming and curious. “JT don’t like him, in spite of all you say,” the squire grumbled to the senfor partner moment after the door was softly closed. “Well, perhaps not as a companion, agreed the old gentleman with a smile. “I thought he looked crafty and sneakish myself at first sight, but he has been per- fectly faithful and steady these six or eight years now, and I long azo gave up suspecting Rogers. He is curious, perhaps, but harmless, harmless.” ell wait forever for his chance, but he'll take it when he gets it,” said the squire. “That ts, if I know anything of human nature. I wish we had our money all in notes: instead of so much gold, but we cannot risk the chance of our changing the notes in Bristol before the Mary and Bell sets sail. And my man Weymouth can hold bis own, I'll warrant him. I hope he'll be prompt about starting. He as much as told me that {t was not all busi- ness that keeps him here; he is paying attention to a young woman whom he hopes to marry. But he’s a man of his word. "Tis a good bit of work for him and money easily earned, as you may say, since he was going to Bristol a day later, at any rate.” The squire took his riding stick and gloves from fhe table and bade his old friend good morning. They shook hands heartily and had a cheerful word or two about their business and its probable suc- ces: jee that they start at 6 o'clock Sunday morning, or even earlier,” the younger man turned back to say. “The roads are heavy already with so much rain, and if I don’t mistake the signs there’s more com- ing. They can’t get to Bristol at best be- fore night. I don’t know what sort of a mount Rogers will get. He'll soon worry a good horse out of his wits, I should think. Tell him that Fenderson is set upon sail- ing early.” “He'll wait a tide for his money,” said the senior partner with assurance, tapping the arm of his chair. “ile’s a prompt man, is Fenderson, and an excellent shipmaster, but eighteen hundred pounds 1s a good sum to miss; his luck depends on getting it, you know. Still, I'll tell Rogers. Take a glass of Madeira before you go; will you Join me, sir, ‘tis toward noon!” As night was falling two mounted mes- sengers, spattered with mud from cap to stirrup, Were riding wearily along a deep- worn country lane. They were In the north part of the county of Somerset, near the waters of the Severn. The lane itself, deserted enough that night, was a great thoroughfare for those who came from the south and west to cross over into Wales. By this immemorial stream of travel and the wearing of the weather it had been worn like a swift stream's channel, deep below the level of the country. One of the riders kept glancing fearfully at the bushy banks above him, as if he expected to see @ head in the thicket peering down. The other man rode straight and stern in his saddle, and took no notice of anything but his horse and the slippery road. As they came, riding northward side by side, to the top of a little hill, Rogers, who wore a strangely pale and craven look, gave a sigh of relief, and his horse, which Imped and bore the marks of having been on his knees, whinnied as if in sympathy. The wide, vern spread before them: the high headlands sloped gently away on the right, and fell off like a cliff on the left; below the land was edged by a long line of dyke which fenced the sea from marsh and meadows that stretched away from the coast. Over the wide water drift- ed low clouds of fog and rain, and in the southwest a dull red gleam of fading win- ter sunset lightened but little the cold and stormy color of the sky. High above the Severn, at the road’s end, stood a group of low buildings perched on the headland to- gether, like a convent or a place of mil- itary defense. As the travelers rode into the yard o} the old Black Eazle inn in the twilight the inn itself and all its stables and outhouses seemed deserted. There was a bare and empty look everywhere. The sunset just struck a last whip of rain at the two tired men, and Weymouth called impatiently to the hostler, and then got stiffly to the ground find stamped his feet and stretched himself as he stood holding his horse's bridle. The creature dropped his head low and steamed in the cool air. There were two windows in the inn ft- self, dimly lighted, as if by firelight, and in another window in the landward corner a candle flickered faintly. The whole place seemed dull and unfriendly with its stony walls and roofs. Rogers grumbled with a plaintive whine, his companion shouted again with a strong, honest voice, and presently a stable door was flung open and two men came out. Inside, the light of an early lantern beamed comfortably, and the. horses turned their heads that way, as if eager for thelr supper and warm bedding. There was no sound from within of stamp- ing hoofs or cry of crowded and biting horses. The business was evidently at low- eat ebb. “Rub them down well and give them good feed as soon as you dare; full oats on & Bacheller.) | ar The | d scant hay. We must be on our way ain two hours from this, at least; we lest the road and were in haste at any rate,"" said Weymouth. | look after them in an hour. Mind they're not in the wind,” he added. “Come, get | down,” he said, in a colder tone to his fel- icw-traveler, who, through weariness or ertal still sat his horse like a oping statue. rike the mud oif you; . PN help you, then,” as the man gave roan and tried to dismount. “After the first wrench you're a®@ right. Come! you're ne the worse for your cropper into clay and mud! Queer irn they keep here,” he | said, angrily, as they crossed the yard to- ward the door whither one of the hostlers had pointed them. They could hear a scolding voice inside before it 1. flung it open wide and steod on the threshold, she bade her gu god evening in a civil tone, but i Somewhat ostentatisusly that she di no guests that night. She had ceased to the tavern since the travel had all or been stolen away to the lower She had some people already whom must make a shift to care for, old Weish folk, who had been put into the only rcom that could be used. She was giving up her lease to leave the place— “We only ask for supper and a fire, ‘tis but to rest our horses,” said Weymouth, boldly making his way into the inner kitch- en, Wheee the firelight looked cheerful. Rogers followed rvefully, limping and hold- ing his shoulder as it he were badly hurt. When he sank into the corner of the settee his head dropped back as if he were ill, and his cyes shut as if their sight swam with giddiness. Such distress of weariness and squalor of mud and wet could not but ap- peal to-the beholder. Weymouth stood before the fire steaming like the horse he had just left, and regarded his companion with pity and surprise. Then he gave himself another stretch, and yawned comfortably, and, taking off his Short cloak, spread it carefully upon a bench. There was a stout leather wallet at his side, which he unslung and put by the cloak at the fireside, handling it as lightly as he could, but not concealing the fact of its weight, or that such a broad-shoul- dered man as himself was glad to get rid of it. As he turned again he saw that the landlady had stepped her work among the panseand croeks at the table and was watching him sharply, but Rogers groaned as if in his sieep, and Weymouth repented his contempt and harsh words on the way. His fellow-messenger had been officious in his pretense of knowing every turn of road that would bring them quick and safe to Bristol, but he had taken the worst of his mistake with so bad a fall, if the color of his face were any sign, and it grew plain that Weymouth must’ somehow or other find the rest of the way to Bristol alone. in his heart he flinched for a moment, knowing what he carried and that he was a stranger; yet for some reason he had all that day distrusted the smiling clerk and his bland and double manner, and wished more than once that he were riding with a better man. ~ “Get me some brandy,” said Weymouth to the landlady, ‘“‘and a glass for him when he wakes, a good, stiff glass. When he wakes, you knew, he'll need all that he can drink; *twas a hard ride for so poor a horseman. I'll leave him here tonight; neither he nor his horse can go further. I must be on my way by ten, or as soon as my horse is fit and has had his feed.” “Oh, no, poor lad!” exclaimed the wo- man, but there was something disturbed and dissatisfied in her tone. ‘He'll get to no Bristol tonight,” she added, as she trotted off with more willingness than she had shown before and came back witha single clumsy-looking glass on a tray. Wey- mouth thanked her and took it in his hand and offered it again with much gal- lantry; but she shoox her head, not dis- pleased, ‘and went back to her work. Then the guest cast another giance at his fellow-traveler, who just at that moment stirred and groaned again, uneasily. Wey- mouth bent toward him, and shook him gently, holding the glass to his lips. The drowsy man was quick to know the wel- come odor, and drank the brandy down with eagerness, opening his eyes wide and making a queer face as he finished. “What's this?’ said he. “’Tis brandy,” said Weymouth, laughing boyishly. ‘So you've forgotten how it tastes since noon!” “’Twas not for him! exclaimed the wo- man coming back from her cupboard angri- ly. “You might have choked a sleeping man!” she railed at Weymouth,and clench- ed her fist like a fury. “Sleep, then,” she sald to Rogers, who laughed a little and gazed at her stupidly but much startied. ‘What's the odds, Betsy? he faltered, as if he knew her well. “Betsy me none of your Betsys,” sald the rough-mannered mistress of the house sharply; then, controlling herself, .she caught up the empty glass, and her tone changed. “Some other drink would have done for him just as well,” she said, in a shelf she filled a second glass. Weymouth observed that It was fuller than the first, and accepted it amiably. The crogs-grain- ed creature had meant to pay him a pretty compliment in pouring him her best grog, and he thanked her civilly, with a proper toast to her good fortune, as he raised the glass to his lips. He was still standing before the fire; something crossed his mind at that mo- ment. The woman was by her table where she could see him, and with his hand cov- ering the glass he tossed his head back gayly and pretended to drink. She turned away with a queer sigh. Rogers had shut his eyes again, and quick as a flash Wey- mouth threw the brandy behind him into the ashes. CHAPTER IT. Weymouth did not leave his place by the fire, but stood there innocently drying his muddy clothes. The fire had caught a, fagot and was cracking and snapping bravely; suddenly it shot up a strange gleam at the side which nobody ap- peared to notice, though {t shone full in the face of the her to be more se- rene dnd less excited, and presently she be- came unexpectedly talkative. do feel proper ssraced to be found so shiftless by you gentlemen,” she apol- ogized to Weymouth, whose face was in a shadow. “Custom is so poor that there was no counting on anybody from weck’s end to week's end. We're giving up our lease to go to America, and said that on Monday we'd harbor strangers no more, and since then I've had five companies of traveling folk lighting down, all crying for the best, and being thankful for the worst before they got away. “You'll wait an hour for your suppers at best,” she added; “I'd no eggs by me, but | I've’sent up the road a bit; I cooked the last I had for the folks that was just be- fore ye. An’ I ain't got but the one room the t'other side the house. get t' bed,” nodding at the poor crooked- necked figure on. the settee. “I make bold to say I want my Kitchen to myself. There's a fire in thur—there’s somebody in re a’ready, but she’s stone deaf and ed; an old Welsh body as_was left wi’ me by her son an’ darter. They'll be getting a boat across ‘arly, and I promised to mind her while they stepped along the dike to see friends they've got above. She’s fast asleep, ye’ll hear her snore from here, poor thing, and will neither trouble nor be troubled. I've drawed her curtains tight an’ I've stocked the fire. You an’ him can take a bit of rest’ ((persuasively), “an’ I'll do what I can for ye here.” The landlady’s tone was peremptory as well as persuasive; she kept casting un- easy glances at Rogers, who seemed to be falling together in a heap in the settee wheedling whisper, and returning to her | landlady, and showed | to show ye; the chimney fell as belongs to | He'd ought to | il come out and |* “t this moment there were loud: voices | | | i | corner. Weymouth hesitated, but when the woman crossed the room and opened a door, he got his companion to his feet and t™managed to shuffle and drag him to the inner room and put him on the nearest bed. Rogers waked only enough to protest in a weak, strange way, and then fell off to sleep again, while his face grew very red, as if the drink and hot fire had put him in a fever. Here there was a most de- pressing chill and dreariness. Weymouth hastened back to the kitchen for his cloak and wallet, declaring himself to need the better fire without and ready to insist upon the hts of a guest. “"Tis newly lighted within, it burnt out and "twas just made up new; ’twill soon be tco much for you an’ I'll hear complaints the other way!” the landlady answered him, good-humoredly. “You're not in a Lunnon inn, whatever you may think. Leave me your cloak an’ I'll dry an’ clean it. own folks is coming in to their sup- per. Mind that poor soul ye brought, an’ I'll do my best here.” in the yard and Weymouth stepped quick- ly toward the door full of a traveier’s curi- osity. “Stop!” said the woman in an inso- lent tone that made him confront her with wrath and amazement. “'Tis but some teamsters, sir,” she said, her eyes falling before his unspoken re- proach of her manners, and going back to the wheedling tone she had taken earlier. “You're too heated, sir,” she explained humbly, “an’ ‘tis wet without and blowing again. You'd best stay under cover while you may.” The inner room to which Weymouth re- turned was long and narrow, with but one Two Rough Looking Men by the Fire- side. narrow window at each end. That toward the courtyard was shuttered and fastened on the outside and some of the glass was broken, while there were cobwebs and dust that had long been gathering. The other window was high above the steep slope of the cliff and looked down at the dyke and the meadows and far over the gloomy water beyond. : The moon was rising behind the heavy mist, and, though daylight was now com- pletely gone, there was a strange dim light in Its place, so that Weymouth could pres- ently see where he was, and he scanned the shadowy country with a growing belief in his heart that he was a prisoner and that he might be glad to escape from this not reassuring house of entertainment. Once or twice it had seemed from some look or gesture that they hed been expected. Rogers and the landlady had undoubtedly betrayed the fact that they were not Strangers to each other. If he had been a free man bound on one of his own journeys, nothing that had happened would have made,him uneasy, but as the guardian of other men’s gold he was more and more on the alert. Clearly the best thing now was to stay quiet for a brief time, for his horse's sake, and then to plead haste and push on. He would risk himself in a bit of fighting, even without his pistols, which had been left in the saddle. For another half hour at least he would possess his soul in patience. then find his way to another inn less solitary and alarming. With a fresh horse and the night before him he could find Bristol himself, He clenched his fist and shook it at the man on the bed; their coming so far out of the way might perhaps be an accident, but Weymouth doubted more than ever the honesty of the man whom he had distrusted at first sight, and the drugged liquor was the surest proof of mischief. He found himself in a tight place. As he looked down from the window into the misty night the great dismal plain of the Severn stretched away into the shad- ows of the distance. A fishing smack or small packet boat had crept up toward the headland and cast anchor under its lee. There was a lantern in the rigging and an- other dim light being brought upon the hill teward the inn. The wind was still blow- ing 1s if it had gone down with the sun* and risen less wild than before. Weymouth left the window, uneasy enough in his mind; he couid not see his way to escape in that direction; it was evi- dently too high for a safe drop to the ground. Then he laughed; his own plan was best, and nobody could with decency oppose it; he would call for his horse pres- ently and ride away. Yet if it were known, as he suspected, that he was carrying treasure, it would still take courage to start out alone on a tired horse. He sat down by the fire and looked about him. There was little furniture in the place except the two old beds, one with its closed curtains of thick stuff, and the other a poorly posted makeshift of comfort on which Rogers lay. The old Welsh woman breathed loud now and then, but Rogers slept as if he were dead. “Curse him, muttered Weymouth. “He should have known his roads or let an honest man alone. There was a loud voice in the kitchen; the landlady could be heard now and then railing fretfully at some one, who was not slow to answer back. His thoughts, like those of a tired man, went back to the past and he seemed to himself curiously indif- ferent to the perplexities of the present. He had just left the woman he loved, dis- appointed by her coldness. She was young- er than he, they had rot known each other jong, but after a separation of some months he had joined her with the hope of mar- riage, only to fiad that she had changed; that she put him off and spoke doubtfully of the future. She had confessed that it was no change in her own feelings, but that she feared to bring shame upon him, and the thought of her lonely figure as they parted returred to him like a vision. She had refused to see Fim again; this was two days before; and the journey to Bristol must be quickly over so that he might go back to plead with her. It was wrong to have parted angrily as he had done—if ever life was in a snarl it was now, but there were ways to conquer. He started to his feet and went quickly toward the kitchen, only to discover that the door had been fastened on the outside. He coolly let the latch fall and returned to his chair; beside it was the heavy pouch of notes and gold, and he slung it over his shoulders end fastened the belt with steady fingers. The sudden wave of eagerness a brave man feels in the presence of danger and that brief space while the trouble of his own heart came uppermost both passed quickly; there was a single moment when Weymouth remembered that he was a tired and defenseless man at the mercy of his foes. Then his fears most nobly pa ed; he must not only escape to plead with Elizabeth Brent, but he was bound in hon- or to carry his Wallet to Bristol to Capt. Fenderson of tie ship Mary and Bell. He had a feeling that he was watched. What about the old Welsh woman? It was by no means uncommon for travelers to be crowded together in country inns, but the landlady had been almost too eager to forestall suspicion. And now glancing across the room he saw the curtains move. The landlady had teld him to call her if the poor old creature spoke. Weymouth left his chair, lifted the latch of the kitchen door, and knocked boldly when it would not open. ‘Let me out!” he called, grumbling and growling. “Let me out! I want more brandy!” With sudden instinct he took on the behavior of a drunken man. ‘‘Let her think I am drug- ged, if she pleases,” he said to himself, and knocked again, scolding finely and asking for the brandy by turns. He could hear the voice of another woman now, as if in protest, but presently the door opened an the landlady appeared. Z “You've had brandy enough now,” she told him, roughly. “I locked the door be- cause the latch is old and it flies open and keeps both fires a-smoking. Cease your noise; I'll call you for your supper.” There were two rough-looking men by the fireside, and a woman stood behind the settee, whose eyes met his as if they struck a flash of light. At the first sight of her face he stopped for an instant; he lost power of speech; then he went on with his drunken play, and staggered toward the middle of the room. The men laughed, the landlady scolded, and the slender figure behind the settee was half hidden in its shadow. Elizabeth Brent, the woma. he loved and whom he hal left so heavy-hearted, for whose sake he was hurrying to Bristol and hurrying back, the woman he thought of by night and day, here before his astonished eyes. How in the world could she have also fallen into what looked like a den of thieves? How could he manage to get word with her? His head dropped on his breast as Rogers’ might have done; he was growing faint for want of food; the old woman's supper seemed no nearer ready than at first. The two men were watching him and chuckling together by the fire. “Wet me the brandy " he called again, and T15 . 1MDrinks all round, you pretty pictur!’!i ie commanded the mistress of the house; iand this time they laughed even louder, asimell they might. “I'll get it, aunt,” satd the younger wo- man, unexpectedly; 'f‘which bottle, then?” She came out into théi firelight, not once looking at Weymouth;i but her face was very pale and her eyes were shining. He could almost have touched her as she passed. 4 : “'Tis there in the cupboard at the right hand; the sma!l bottle, ;if he must have it; my hands are fast in the dough,” grumbled the old woman. “Haifa glass'll be enowsh, in all conscience,” ‘she added, in a lower tone, and Weymouth, as if with much ef- fort and unsteadiness, got to his feet and followed to the cupboard, protesting as he went. At that moment a dog began to yelp and whine before the fire; a coal had snap- ped upon his poor back and burnt its way to the skin. The cupboard was at the far end of the room; there was half a minute of confusion and loud laughter while the two were standing side by side at the cup- board door.” “I’m not drunk. I must get away from this,” whispered Weymouth; but she sto ped his eager whisper. ‘The net, the ne she cried, with strange insistence. “Don't drink! The net and the farther window: waste it. You'll kill him if you give him more,” said the old woman, close behind them; but Weymouth held the bot- tle high in his hand and staggered past her to the bed room door, muttering angrily, and shut himself in. ‘There was a strong bolt inside, which he slid, and pounded the door with his fist finely. He could hear the men laughing by the fire, and went back to his elbow chair. The’ wallet of money banged against the arm of it as he sat down. f: ou're what they're seeking,” he said under his breath, as he put his hand on the leather bag. “Please heaven, we'll keep together till we get to Bristol,” but the presence of the two men in the kitchen was significant enough of there being no hope of a peaceable departure on horse- back. The certainty of a careful plot egainst him was impossible to be denied; it was in the very air; he was one against many, and a stranger in this strange and dismal harborage of thieves. Whether they looked for the ordinary purse-of a trav- eler or had been given news of that treas- ure he carried was’a puzzle. In that mo- ment a cold chill of horror stole over Wey- mouth’s great frame; had the woman he loved much, who had suddenly repulsed rim with so little reason or excuse, been the means of this danger and disaster? Had she and Rogers—no, it was impossible —impossible! She might be, she was, the victim of misfortunes, but in her honest eyes and heart there was no possibility of such a fault. He whistled a gay, shrill tune as he sat by the fire alone; it was a tune they had both known well the year before, when they had seen each other first in Southampton. Please heaven, there were more happy days to come for Lizzie Brent and himself. He began to whistle the song again in broken snatches, and the men laughed louder than before in the next room, they chuckled loud CHAPTER II. Weymouth now bethought himself of his two sleeping companions, and especially of the mysterious occupant of the curtain- ed bed. He leaned over and took the bot- tle from the hearth and pretended to take @ long drink. He saw the curtains move again and felt that there were eyes behind them. The house was very still; there was a dull droning of wind in the chimney. Wey- mouth smacked his lips and whistled an- other bar of his tune. “I'll soon see Who fou are lying there ready to rob me-or to open the door to those who will,” he said under his breath, as he reached for the guttering candle that stood on the;mantel shelf. With the bottle still in his:othet hand he went to Rogers and tried to wake him, insisting that they must soon be starting, and loud- ly offering the encouragement of more drink or more pay, as:if he were possessed by a besotted man’s generosity. Rogers was in a stupor, not asleep, and presently Weymouth crossed the:room to the other bed; but one thing meanwhile had been made plain. The:candle had shone into the dark corner of the ceiling and revealed what his eyes had anxiously sought for as he sat waiting with forced patience by the fire. A Wide board ‘had been nailed heavy ‘ara to; another of th ceiling, making a shelf into which oa thing was crowded that-drooped’ over the edge in unmistakable folds; to make sure. he reacked to touch ft and his hand was entangled among the cords of a new net. There was only one thing to do; a man did not wish to frighten an old deaf and crippled body, but a careful look would do no harm, and, though his heart thump- ed for the first time, he threw open the curtains. There was’ only a decent old cap with white borders, and a face turned away Into the pillows. For an instant he looked down compassionately and with a sense of relief, the next instant he saw at the foot of the bed among the bed- clothes, which were strangely disarranged, the large muddy riding boots of a man. “Poor old granny!” he laughed aloud, as if he were unconscious of being besieged, and were growing more foolish and comfortable every moment with his drink, “A. little &rog won't do ‘ee no harm. I'll rouse the old mother an’ give her a taste o’ gin. She looks a bit blue and cold. Too old anyway to be on the road such weather.” He brought the bottle hastily from beside Rogers, and bent down close to ihe cap. “Rise up now, granny, an’ take a taste!" he counseled’ her, persuasively. “Twill warm ’ee, dear.” There was a moment of hesitation, and Weymouth lifted the becapped head and held the bottle to the lips. The attack was too sudden and unexpected; the watcher was, for some reason, not ready to declare himself or to provoke an open quarrel; the light was dim, and with much choking and spilling the liquor went down an unwilling throat. As the peaceful figure with its grand- moiherly cap recognized the bitter dram and rose with fury, a straight blow from Weymouth’s fist anc two or three more that followed laid the disarranged head- gear back among the pillows, and stunned its wearer into harmelessness. Then Wey- mouth pulled the net from its shelf, after dropping the bottle as if it had fallen from a tipsy man’s hand, and, catching the stout tongs from the fireplace, he hur- vied to the window and opened it softly. It looked far to the ground, but he hasti- ly pushed out the loose armfuls of the het and heard them drop softly, , then, fastening a | stout twist of the end about the bars of the tongs, and bracing them across the cor- ner, he got out of the window, let himself down, let go the win- lowered away down by dow and sill, stretching loops and tangles, bumping and swinging like a pendulum agaist the stone walls until he came to the ground. It was a breathless beginning of a most uncertain journey, yet while Weymouth sat for a moment on the narrow ledge of rocky ‘ground the freedom and freshness of the winter night seemed sweet enough, after the dampand chill of the room he had left. Such ts human nature, the alter- nate prey of fear and careless pleasure. Weymouth could hear no footsteps, he could see but dimly the steep road above at his right; below, ‘the hill was steeper still, and looked perilous as he started to find his way down. Even a man who is bold at heart :feels all the instincts of stealthiness when he da a hunted man, the prey instead of the pursuer. At this in- stant there came a faint sound from the roadway closeyby. There was something moving. There: was the least sound like a hiss, and then one-pebble was tapped against another as he still crept down- ward. His heart seemed to stop—a gust of wind caught the light net and swished it to and fro against, the house. He flat- tened himself , against the ground and clutched the sod with his fingers, then he dropped one foot slowly over the edge to find the shelf below. The burden of the wallet hindered him so that he longed to get rid of it. Suddenly he heard an eager whisper: “This way! Come this way! Weymouth!” The dim shape showed itself plainer now above him. A woman knelt at the wall above, reaching down to give him a hand whose touch he well knew. He quickly found his footing now, and was helped up the steep scramble and stood with her in the road. “Cone, come,” she urged in a whisper, y will be keen after us! 'Tis for your life! She started off instantly down the hill toward the water and he followed. They were running on turf, not gravel, and made no sound. As he ran by her side she push- ed him back impatiently. “Keep away, don’t come near!’ she said. “Hurry, for heaven's sake!’ As they reached the low ground the light figure that flitted before Weymouth led him into a path that ran low down on the land- ward side of the dyke, which must have been made partly by cattle and partly by men who shielded themselves from the fierce north winds of winter which blew across the water. Two figures could easily have been seen in the smooth path that ran along the dyke top, but here they were sheltered and the silent guide took a slower pace as they passed some thickets of osiers. Once she stopped and motioned to him and crept up the dyke side. Weymouth follow- ed, and they saw that they were nearly abreast of the fishing smack or smuggler if such she were. There was a boat just leav- ing her, a lantern was held for an instant over the side and then was hidden again. Weymouth looked back at the house on the height; they were now perhaps half a mile away. There were no lights in the win- dows, even in that which he had left, but by this time the wretched guttering candle would have melted and sucked itself into extinction. Without a word they both stepped back to the path again, and ran on until the leader turned from the dyke across a’ wide ditch which was bridged by some unsteady planks. The méadow was wet under foot, they lost and found again a narrow causeway that led among the up- land fields and presently stopped to take breath beside an overgrown hedge. “Be still,” said the woman, anxiously, for Weymouth forgot everything except that they were Iov- ers. “Speak soft!” and she moved away a littie, but stiil left her hand in his. “A voice carries far in this mist; we are not out of danger yet.” She was panting for breath; they had come nearly a mile ata fine, steady pace for the most part. There was a singing in Weymouth’s ears as he shifted the strap of his pouch to the other shoulder; to see her again was worth whatever might befall. “Twas a hard day’s ride,’ he said, boy- ishly, ‘and here I’m on the road again. “*Tis a mercy, then!” said the woman, roughly, but the mother that is in every wife has mercy for the boy that is in every husband, and she and Weymouth were lov- ers, and so she began to pity him. “I brought a bit of bread and cheese, dear, here in my apron,” she said. “I al- most forgot it, but don’t stop to eat it now. ’T'was poor housing for you, God pity me!” He had left her stern and cold two days before, and the wistful love she now be- trayed was more to Weymouth than any danger, past, present or to come. It must be that she had forgotten her unkind de- cision, but at the first word of an eager question she left his side and hurried up the long slope. The heavy leather pouch chafed and lamed its carrier's side, but, worse than that, unhappy forebodings took the spirit out of his heart. The whole ad- venture seemed unreal, danger and assist- ance were both alike strange events, a play which developed itself before his cyes. Weymouth was light-headed for the mo- ment, and neither his own safety nor the gola’s appeared to be important, while the whole happiness of his life was at stake. A mile or two away the old inn stood up against the dark sky like a dismal prison. There were lights about it now, as If there were some stir and excitement. The escaped man drew a long breath and hastened for- |.ward to overtake his companion. “What shall I do?” he asked. “I haye no horse, and I must reach Bristol by dawa. I have spent my life with horses, but this one was like a brother. Well, I must leave him to their mercy. We should have been in Bristol now, for the sailing of a ship.” “You were led astray,” said she, speak- ing over her shoulder as he walked close behind. : “By whom, then?” “By Rogers; they have trusted too long at the bank; he has been waiting his chance, and has been in league with—with these pecpl2,” she faltered. “Let us make haste.” “I thought you meant to hail the vessel,” said Weymouth. “They could have set round into Bristol.”” “Do you not see that the wind has fall- en?” answered his companion. “Folks have been dropped overbcard from that craft before now. The Severn Is deep and wide enough to hide many a man with a stone fast to his neck.” Again they walked on for some time without speaking, but at the foot of a long ridge of land with a hedge at the top she atonnett once more and whispered in his ear. “We must do something bold now,” she sald; “that is the road above us.” Weymouth stood like a soldier waiting for his orders. “There is an inn close by us.at the path’s end. 'Tis no palace, yet not a den of thieves like that,” and she pointed back to the shore. “To let you escape may bring down the law on their heads. If they have Lot sent some one here already, they will do it soon. They will not let you get away so easily,” she said, faltering again. “No cne has escaped them yet who could tell tales,” and she sobbed in spite of herself, and let him take her into his arms. Her strength had broken at last. “Promise me something,” she said, and he promised in love and pity. “It is my shame and doom," she said, when she cculd speak. “I cannot marry an honest man. ‘They are my own people, my rearest kin, these murderers and thieves. But they are going to America, their pas- sage is already taken. Next weck'all will be at an end. Let them go free; they took tne an orphan and bred me up Kindly. ’Tis as good as any banishment. I have promised to go with them; it is my only hope and prayer to help them save their gouls by honest living in a new country. She was wild and piteous now with her kisses and entreaties. ‘Oh, my ,man, 1 cannot be your shame!” she cried, like one whose nerves were ailing and whose dis- tress was more than could be borne. “You do not know—you do not know; ‘twas worse with them while I had goue away: “Then I must follow you,” said the trou- Lled man, trying to comfort her. “You are more than ever the wife for m Her face shone in the dark with white- ness; she stood before him and pushing him back with a firm hand her manner wholly changed. “Listen to me’’—she stopped a moment while they both heard a horse's tread com- ing along the highway. “Whatever horse that may be, if the rider stops at the inn you must be ready to take it and ride on.’ She rapidly told him to find his way where the road divided just beyond, and they hurried together up the last steep rise of ground. The hozse was coming at a gallop. “Good heavens! I believe it's my own,” said Weymouth, ready to rush out in the middle of the road. The low building of the inn was opposite and there were lights in the window. They stood under the eaves of a bushy hedge as the rider came up, and stopping his horse, gave a call. The quick-witted woman pushed Weymouth under the ivy tod and ran out and caught the bridle. “He came by the fields! Look in the inn kitchen!” she said aloud, triumphantly. "ll mind your horsg. Quick now!” she insisted, and the rider leaped to ground, pleased at an ally, and had hardly opened the inn door when Weymouth, safe in his own saddle, rode away free as a bird down the Bristol road. CHAPTER Iv. ‘There was no time for farewells, but all the way the thought of the lonely figure behind him in the road was like a sword in Weymouth’s heart. As day broke he rode into Bristol a weary, but not hopeless man. Through all the hurry and business of the morning the experience of such a night shimmered in his mind, full of un- reality, like the re- membrance of a bad dream. In spite of his promise he must see that such horrid bus- iness was stopped. This thought pos- sessed him at one moment, and at the next he only desired to rescue the woman, whom he now loved more than ever, from such surround- ings and from the sense which so prayed upon her of responsibility. It was necessary to act with discretion. He knew now the reason of her with- drawal from her promise made when they were together in a distant part of England, and while she for some reason had felt free and light hearted. Why had she come back to the old shame, or to new certainty of shame? All these things must wait for explanation, but, for his part, he could not wait long to see his deliverer again. It was a wonder that he was not under the Severn like the rest. But for the woman he loved best; but for Elizabeth Brent, he might indeed be drifting and swaying under the tide, the treasure stolen and he himself charged with the robbery. As he rode he made the whole plot clear to himself with its clever undoing; he could never forget the look of horror on that face in the shadow of the settee, when the man whose robbery was planned had proved to Highest of all in Leavening Power.—Latest U.S. Gov't Report Ro al B79 | Baking Powder ABSOLUTELY PURE be himself. What pity grew in his heart for that young creature; an angel, as she seemed to him, lost among thieves! ‘The first thing to be done was to make his report to those who had sent him out on the errand, and then to take the qui est of journeys to find her again and make sure that they should never be parted. So he rode in short time from Bristol, grudg- ing each minute, but planning his return with eagerness. When he reached the bank and told his story and asked for help, he was listened to with surprise and almost with incred- ulity. Rogers had not returned and the tale of his craft and dishonor seemed to be questioned. ‘The wrong road; a suspicious den towards which Weymouth believed himself to be enticed (and which for pur- poses of his own he refused for the mo- ment to describe); the strange liquor with its deadly drug meant for him, all w Regers had got by mistake; all this s ed even in the days of greater law like a very strange story. The senior part- her was again heard to grumble Rogers was the best clerk they ever had, and grew more and more impatient. “Were you robbed then?” he demanded, arrogantly, as if he believed the worst of these excuses and was ready to take ven- geanee, but the squire nodded shrewdly at Weymouth, as if they two kept an under- standing. Weymouth sprang to his feet and threw the captain's letter and his receipt for the money on the table. “I have put aside the thought of one dear- er to me than life,” he said, “to bring you these. To venture back alone or in com- pany might have been my end. I have done your erran messenger, if you like, never dare to answer.” He turned on his heel and left the room. “This is very strange,” said the old m: looking at the squire. “Yes, here are Papers, the money is on the ship, he was there on time. Did you mind what a look there was in the fellow’s face when I doubted him?” But the squire was hurry- ing after Weymouth and the senior partner was left alone to wonder more than ever. Evidently whatever pay went into Wey- mouth’s pocket would be to him only the price of much happiness and peace of mind. The squire was a lover of adventure, as has been already said, and he went hur- rying down the street like a boy to over- take the man for whom he had a great lik- ing. “Tell me more, Weymouth,” he urged. “You're fagged to death with this affair, whatever is at the bottom of it. Come and we'll have something together and see what can be done! I always expected the like of this of Rogers—” “{ had to make a promise, sir,” said Wey- mouth, “but I'll tell you all I can and be grateful for the chance. Sometimes a man who is alone must trust his friend, and I make bold to call you mine. "Twill end in my borrowing your sorrel mare and beg- ging you to mount the roan if I could have my wish.” “We'll start at dawn,” said the squire eagerly when he had heard the story. “No, no constables till you've got her safe away —then I'll manage the game. I know the place, and that upper inn ‘tis a low lodging with but an evil name, but ‘twill do for a makeshift,” and so they parted and Wey- mouth felt every hour to be a day and knew that they might be setting out on a long ride and was glad to remember that nobody would wait at home for the squire, who was also a single man. They came in gcod time the next day to the old house above the waterside, to find it deserted. The door stood open to the winter wind and its tenants had fled. At the other inn where Weymouth had parted from his love they got news that those whom they sought were sailing for America and must be hid- ing in Bristol, if, indeed, they were not al- ready at sea. The landlord and his hostlers said boldly, and with an air of great innocence and un- concern, that the country was well rid of such a pack—they were not old country folk, but late comers, and their room in England was better than their company. Of Rogers nothing could be heard. The disappointed riders called for supper and made the most ef the poor comforts of the roadside tav- ern, but it being then after nightfall, Wey- mouth slipped. out alone, and, crossing the rcad, followed the footpath down to- ward the Severn. He was at heart like a poor dog that had lost its master, and .by the hedge where they had rested and stood talking he shed many tears. It was again a dark and misty night, and darkest and saddest of ail were the forebodings of his own heart. They made haste to Bristol and searched there. but too late, for when, getting word of their ship, they hurried to the harbor side, it was only to see the far white fleck of a sail. ‘The rest of the story might be a long) tale by Itself. “Under floods that are deepest, Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way.” But Weymouth’s way was a long one. He lost no time in starting on his quest and pilgrimage, and his business of horse dealing made an excellent excuse for rid- ing hither and yon through the newly set- tled"part of the country, finding what faint traces he could of the émigrants, from the day of their landing, but after many months had passed he kept what patience and hope he could in the midst of discour-. agement, and believed at last that fate would lead ‘him where plots and plans had failed. One spring evening, the second year that he had been in America, Weymouth was driving Into one of the older villages,where he had once or twice been before, and there saw a worn and wistful face at a window, and knew that the search was ended. It seemed the simplest thing in the world to lock up and see her there after all the mys- tery and silence; for a moment he could net take in the truth and felt strangely cold and dull—ther. a tremendous wave of joy struck into his very heart. There were some young horses leading behind his wagon, and he was driving an excitable pair of colts, for whom the sight of a bun- die of straw on a wheelbarrow was too much altogether, so that they reared and plunged and seemed to be putting their driver in danger. Elizabeth Brent came to stand in a door with great distress and dis- covered Weymouth ¢s his face turned to- ward her just as the frisky company set- tled-to the harness and halter again, and went on quietly to the end of their day’s journey. Weymouth could hardiy stop to give dl- rections or to ccre for his livery property; he felt like a dazed man with his mind in such a whirl of sudden delight and strange timidity, and without listening to the ques- tions of a group of tavern Idlers, he went hurrying back down the road. 3 "The houses were far apart, and the foot- path was only a worn track in the cropped grass; it might have heen the field path above the Severn. It was a misty night, and the sky was gray and heavy, and there beside a wild thicket they met again as they had parted, on a dark night, but neither thought of anything except of meeting; certainly not of parting any more while the yorld stood. There were sad tales to tell of poverty and shame, and there was need of all the protection and comfort that Weymouth could give, most of all because some letters which had been written had all miscarried or never found him in his wandering way of life. This was the bitterest of all, to think one’s seif forgotten and perhaps dis- dained, but hope was stronger and now at last prevailed. As for the keepers of the dismal inn, they had failed to prosper even after their own fashion, and the woman had died not long before, after a long and wretched fllness, while her husband was in fail for theft, and their companions, who had fled with them, had long ago forsaken them. In her last days the miserable wo- man had been haunted by thoughts of the help she had given to the awful decds, done at night in that dark, low room, from which Weymouth had so luckily escaped. But as for Rogers, the accomplice, he had gone with them to Bristol, much hurt by his fall, and sick from the deadly drug which once was cruelly said to have dona no harm to those who were also put to sleep by the deep water of the Severn. From Bristol, refusing to go to America, he had been put on board a brig that was that | | Lery. sailing for France, and no one knew any more of Rogers from that day—the serior partmer who missed his clerk from the bank, or the thieves into whose hands he tued to play. He had served them, and ved Lim in years before, in other parts of the country—and but for thia check upon their industries the bank itsclf had but a short race to run without rob- The week before, after long wat- ing, Rogers had at iast been trusted vith a | Key to the safe, aud the theft of the roney which Weymoutn was carrying to Bri tol was a bit of by-play, while the larger rob- y © be planed that very night, and to he ach‘eved the next. But a poorer com- pany ha~ rarely gone seafaring iaan these ro meant to siart with pockets full, and ymouth’s Elizabeth had long earned the money that supported herself and the vid woman, who suffered every torture illness can give in her last weary montis. In this far-away village the ‘two women had been befriended, and it was Weymouth's delight to pay the poor debts that wife had ween forced to maxe fn | her extremity, and to satisfy her generous heart with a new power of being bourtifal to those who had saved her from distros. Then they went away together man and wite, and lived and loved cach other for mvany years and sow old England again be- fore they died. Once Weymouth, who seldom reminded his wife of what ‘could only bring shime and sorrow to her heart, as he sat thinking at night before the fire, said boldly: “Where was the master of the inn that night, and what was his part of the game? Why hadn't he wit enough to keep watch and follow u: Then his wife answered, cheerfully, looking at him with a smile: “Because he was the old Welsh woman in the curtain bed. nd that new net ‘It was I who put it there, my dear.” “And saved my life?” said Weymouth. et I did not know that it was for you,” she said. “I only feared for some poor soul in danger. I was going for help rext moment, when you came into the kitehen and 1 saw your face.” It was a dark night, indeed,” said Wey- mouth, puffing at his pipe, “but the money got safe to Bristol, and here we are now together.” on Pazzle in Ancestry. From the St. Louis Globe Democrat. It goes without saying that a man has two parents, four grandparents, eight great grandparents, and so on, s9 that if we go back, say, ten generations, doubling at each step, we have 2,048 ancestors. This sort of argument has been used by superficial genealogists to show that at the time of William the Conqueror each of us had more ancestors than the total population of Eng- land; hence we must each be descended from every Englishman of that day, includ- ing the immortal William himself. The absurdity of this sort of reasoning has been pointed out by Prof. Brooks of Johns Hopkins. While it is true that we have four grandparents, they need not be four separate and distinct persons. First ccusins have no more than three separate grandparents; if they are doubly cousins they have but two. So in the tenth genera- tion one’s 2,048 ancestors are never 2,048 feparate persons. They abound in “dupli- So to speak. Besides this, the lines from a given pair of ancestors tend to become extinct sooner or later. So, instead of having all English- men of the year 1000 for our ancestors, the Probability is that we are descended from comparatively few of them. This is what Prof. Brooks calls the “convergence of an- cestry.” —_——+ee An Arboreal Land Owner. There ts a tree at Athens, Ga., which is a property holder. In the early part of the century the land on which it stands was owned by Col. W. H. Jackson, who took watching its growth. In his old age the tree had reached magnificent pro- portions, and the thought of its being de- stroyed was so repugnant that he recorded a deed conveying to it all the land within a radius of eight feet of its base. +o+— —— Mow the Rejected Suttor Came Out Ahead. From Life