Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, September 5, 1896, Page 6

=—— THE {NALINI FONLY DAUGHTER. CHAPTER IX, The Thousand Pounds. Miss Agatha Henwood was a maiden ‘lady of a certain age. She was rich, clever, eccentric and Ernest Hartrey’s aunt. With Sir Harold she was hardly on speaking terms; he having, shortly after the birth of his son, given her t offense; but for Ernest she had ‘ays entertained the most sincere affection, and whenever he rode over to Blackrock—the name of her country house—was always sure of a kind and affectionate welcome. To her it was that Ernest thought of applying for the loan of a thousand pounds, feeling confident that she would help him, the more especially if in so doing she could bring about any- thing of which the baronet, his father, would disapprove. Miss Henwood had _ been a great beauty when she was young, and had passed a life of gaiety and plea and even w that she was into the “sere and yellow leaf,” was addicted to the dissipation of card parties, while at her table in London were generally to be met the leading Uterary cele ies of the day. It took Ernest, several hours to get * the distance between Hartrey and Blackrock Never ‘had the way appeared so long to him as now, when every minute w of consequence, and he urged his horse to its utmost speed. At length the house appeared peep- ing between the trees; and in a few minutes after he first caught sight of it, Ernest Hartrey galloped into the cou rd, and, dismounting, sur- rendered his foaming steed to the care of the groom, and entered the house in search of his aunt, who, roused by the clatter of the horse's hoofs, came forth to meet and welcome him. Hurriedly and excitedly he told Miss Henwood what had brought him over -to her house. Before he had been with her half an hour she had learnt how he had met Mary Rivers—how he had ad- mired her—and finally, how she had be- come his affianced wife. “So you want a thousand pounds to help her father, do you? It’s a great deal of money.” “Not to you, aunt. You can lend it to me with ease, if you like.” “Perhaps I can.” “Oh, do say you will. me longer in suspense.” “We will see about it.” “But, Aunt Agatha, there is no time ‘to see about it. If it be done, ’twere well it were done quickly; for while you are thinking and inquiring, and seeing about it, the man will be ruined “Well, well,” said the old lady, good humoredly, “I suppose you must have your way, but it is too late to do any- thing this afternoon; but to-morrow Charles shall go to London by the stage and take a note from me to my bankers, and then I daresay it will soon be arranged satisfactorily.” “Aunt, dear aunt, such a waste of time is impossible. I must have the money, and, moreover, be in Ports- mouth with it by 10 o’clock to-morrow night.” “But, Ernest, you don’t suppose I a a thousand pounds in my pocket, do you?” “No, no! But still there must be some easier way of getting it than sending to London. Think of my poor May’s feelings, not knowing all this time whether or not I can and will help her.” “I think of my feelings, too, sir,” said Miss Henwood, laughingly. “Why am I to be bustled and hurried about be- cause a foolish young man admires a pretty face! Well, I suppose some- thing must be done.” “Yes, aunt, and directly.” “As for directly, you cannot go back tonight. You must sleep here; and to- ov P. Do not keep morrow—” “To-morrow you will give me the money?” “Impossible!” “The next day?” “I fear 1.0t.” “Then it will be useless!” cried Er- nest, “for it cannot reach Annadale in time.” “Don’t be so irapetuous, my love-sick nephew. Though I cannot give money, I can give you money’s worth; and that seems to me the only way in which you can niister sufficient capital to free the worthy, maltster ‘by the ap- pointed tine.’” “Ob, thank you; thank you, aunt “J will entrust you with a case con- taining my set of diamonds. They are worth much more than you require. ‘Take them, with a letter I shall give you, to the banker’s to whom I shall direct you, and they will, without hesi- tation, advance what you went.” Ernest Hartrey peu.cd forth a profu- sion of thanks, to which his aunt re- plied by bending over and tenderly pressing her lips to his broad, fair forehead That night he passed at Blackrock; bui though his room was the most comfortable, and his bed the most lux- urious in the house, he could not sleep. From side to side he tossed, restless- iy, feverishly, as he thought of the pretty face of May Rivers—now, per- haps, wan and pale with the mental torture she was forced to undergo— ooking wistfully along the road for the return of her messenger from Portsmouth. In the course of the morning Miss Henwood produced the diamonds and the letter she had promised, and, as ‘soon as possible after receiving them, Brnest was again on his way to Ports- ‘mouth. “Mind you are in time—the bank closes early in the afternoon.” His reply w: lost on the wind as he galloped quici onward. Two-thirds of the distance had been ssed, when the horse the young rode started at some sudden ise, and bolted with his master. Ernest Hartrey was a first-rate horse- man, and felt no fear, though he had ‘BUI dq} 19A0 puLUIOd [[e 780} In the distance he saw that the roa -was all but blocked up by several large wmarket carts. and he reselyed not to ” n risk the chance of passing them in safety, but to leap a low wall by the side of the road. By a vigorous pull at the rein he turned the animal’s head, who, per- ceiving what was required of him, without relaxing his speed, rushed at the barricade. The next minute the horse and nis rider were rolling in a green field to- gether. A few moments sufficed to recover Ernest from his bewilderment, and to enable him to satisfy himself that he had sustained no worse injury than a few bruises, and then he turned his at- tention to his horse. The poor beast stood now quiet enough, trembling and bleeding about the forelegs. It was evidently the greatest pain to the animai to move, and his master knew in a moment that he would be in- c ble of bearing him a single mile. lt seemed as if there were a ciuel fate at work to prevent him from as- sisting her he loved so well. Leading his injured horse to a farm house which was at no great distence, he sought and obtained permission to leave the wounded animal there, but to lend him another animal was cut of their power. There was nothing for it but to walk on, trusting that fortune would favor him so far as to help him to make up for lost time by borrowing a horse in the first villag2? through which he passed. The delay was most vexatious, for every minute was now of consequence. But at the next village he was fortun- ate enough to suceced in obtaining a horse, though one of a different breed to his own steed; and though he was able io urge the animal into some sem- blance of a trot, he got but slowly over the ground, aud soon found it was quite useless for him to hope to reach VPortsinouth in time to find anyone in at the bank to which his aunt Agatha had directed him to go to obtain the ney he required as a loan on her valuable jewels. s fears were realized, for it was 10 o’clock when he entered the town of Portsmouth. What should he do? The delay might be fatal te May Rivers; and to send the jewels instead of the money would be vorse than useless—for what could be done with them in a little country vil- lage like Annadale? Then it was Ernest Iartrey be- thought himself of an old Jew, who at that time was a fanous character in Portsmoutb--an old man who was re- ported to be very rich, thcugh he lived in the greatest squalor, This Jew got his living by buying from the sailors the curiosities—cften very valuable— which they had collected during their travels. It was an easy matter to find his house, for he was as well known «8 the town clock: and Ernest Hartsey sought him out, determined that no effort on his part should be wanting to obtain the money which was to clear his betrothed’s father. It was a hard task, the haggling with the Jew, whose eyes glistened as he saw the splendid jewels which the young man displayed. He doubted their genuineness, and tested them; he questioned their value; he beat about the bush, und then of- fered to advance half the amount re- quired in a week’s time. But Sir Har- old’s son was in no mood to he trifled with some touch of his father’s spirit, he spoke anind free- ly to the Jew, who, after many sighs and lamentations, agreen to advance the money at an exorbitant interest; and slowly opened a huge iron box, cunningly let into the wall of the house, and drawing forth a roll of banknotes, counted the money into the young squire’s eager hands. ‘ It was past 11 o’clock when Ernest, with the thousand pounds about him, left the Jew’s house to proceed in search of the inn at which May’s mes- senger had told him he would be found. It was situated 4n one of the lowest and most disreputable parts of Ports- mouth, and it was long before he could find his way through the labyrinth of lanes which led to it. Following carefully the directions he ; received from a man, who appeared to | be thoroughly at home in the neighbor- hood, Ernest arrived, after some time, | upon a small quay, at the foot of which the tide splashed lazily in the moon- light. From one window alone, of all the | houses which were on the quay, shone | forth a light. It was but a wretched glimmer, after all; but toward it May’s lover bent his steps, and perceived, to his satisfac- tion, by the light of the moon, a rough-painted sign ,which told him the candle’s rays shone from the win- dow of the inn of which he was in search, He tapped gently at the door, and in a few moments it was opened by the man who had brought him May’s let- ter, and whom the reader knows was no other than John Gridley. As the maltster’s clerk had sat in the low-ceilinzed, smoke-blackened room, waiting for Ernest Hartrey, his thcughts bad rua wholly upyn crime. His plot was Werking bravely, but the finishing strcke must be a bold one. “Kirst to get the thousand pounds,” he thought, “and then—then the young squire must be put out of the way! But how? A pistol makes too much noise—a knife leaves. behind a ghasily, terrible stain;’ and he shuddered as he thought of the fate of the half-wit- ted Ind to whom May had entrusted her letter. “A sudden push—a splash in the water, and one cry for help— that would be the safest! Many peo- ple are drowned by accident—why should not young Hartrey be one of | them?” | As his thoughts still ran on this sub- | ject, the tap sounded against the door. John Gridley started, and shuddered, ily recovering himself, he opened the ‘decor and zave admission to his victim. | asked Ernest Hartrey. | knew how near his victim was. ‘like a guilty man as he was; but speed- | jto be heard. Ernest Hartzey threw himself weari- ly into a chair as soon as he entered the dingy little room; and putting his hand into his pocket, drew forth the leathern case which contained the notes he had just received from the ew. “Now, my man,” said he, turning to John Gridley, who could hardly help showing the joy he felt at his plot hav- ing thus far succeeded so well, “I sup- pose Miss Rivers would not have sent you to me had she not known that you were to be trusted? But you must re- member that that which I shall give you is of great value, and that if you lose it you will be answerable.” “You may depend upon me. I will take the greatest care of it,’ said John Gridley, grimly. “Did Miss Rivers tell you what you might have to bring back?” “She said perhaps you would give me some money,” znswered the other, without hesitation. “That is so. I have here a large sum of money, which I will place in this envelope with my letter,” said Ernest. “Can you write?” He asked the question suddenly, and took the maltster’s clerk by surprise, and he admitted that he could. Had he had time for reflection, he certainly would not have made the acknowl- edgment. “Then siga this.” Ernest Hartrey had hastily drawn up a rough receipt for the money, and, putting a pen into the other's hand, eyed him attentively. John Gridley felt the suspicious glance was directed at him, and had no time to equivocate, or pause to reflect. He was a deep, but not a quick thinker; and he was not prepared for this request. He took the pen, and in a bold hand wrote his name on the paper, “John Gridley.” He had no fear in doing this deed; for he had settled in his own mind that in less than haif an hour Ernest Hartrey should die, and then the re- ceipt would again come into his pos- session. “TI tell you what, my young fellow,” said the young squire; “it is very evi- dent to me that you are not what you seem. Your dress betokens you a farm laborer, but your conversation is more that of an educated man; besides, no laborer writes such a hand at that.” “Mr. Rivers taught me, sir; and em- ploys me occasionally as his clerk.” “John Gridley, the maltster’s clerk— Iam not likely to forget you. See that you deliver the letter safely.” “Don't fear me.” “Now I'll get you to show me the way out of this network of streets.” John Gridley rose with alacrity, and put on his hat, slouehing it over his eyes as he did so. Making way for the young squire to pass him in the narrow passage, he took the opportunity of inserting his hand into the pocket where the book which held the receipt he had just signed lay. With wonderful rapidity he trans- ferred the book and its contents from the pocket of its lawful owner to his. Ernest thought he heard a faint chuckling laugh behind him, and turned quickly round; but the malt- ster’s clerk appeared grave and im- movable. “This way, sir—this way,” said Grid- ley. “That is not the way I came.” “Tt is the nearest, I assure you.” Ernest Hartrey, suspecting no treach- ery, walked nearer and nearer to the edge of the quay, and his guide kept close at his side. CHAPTER X. the British Fleet Was Manned. Ernest Hartrey never dz2amed that he who bad Lrougbt him news from her he loved so well could ccntem- plate treachery, and he walked quiet- ly into the trap Jchn Gridley had so eunningly laid For some time the maltster’s clerk had been playing a very dangerous game. He possessed a certain amout of rude, uncouth love for his employ- er’s daughter, and to gain her was the great end and aim of his existence. It was in the hope of obtaining her for his wife that he had promised Matthew Rivers the sum of money necessary to free him from his embar- rassments, which embarrassments, but for him, would never have existed; but at the time he promised the mon- ey, and accounted for his being able to obtain it by a specious story, he knew well enough that he was unable to command as many pence as the maltster required pcunds. But now, within the last two days, his prospects had altered wonderfully. By the commission of a crime he could put himself in a position which, he thought, must eventually secure success; and he was not the man to | allow any act to bar his road to ad- vancement. He had in his pocket a thousand pounds; and had repossessed himself of the receipt he had given in ex- change. One perscn alone knew of this transaction; and that was Ernest Hartrey, who walked beside him un- suspectingly. At his death the money would be- come his; and no questions which he could not easily answer were likely to | be asked; and not only would he be- come possessor of the thousand pounds but likewise a successful rival would be removed from his path, and May | would be free to listen to his suit. These thoughts had filled John Grid- | ley’s mind while he had been awaiting | the arrival of the young squire; and now, as he saw his enemy drawing nearer to his death at every step, an ominous smile passed across his feat- ures. “Are you sure this is the right way?” The Way “Yes, sir; keep a little more to your left.” “But I am close to the edge of the ” John Gridley made no answer. He For some moments they walked on in silence; for they were yet too near the houses, and the maltster's clerk feared the drowning scream of his victim | might attract attention. It was a lonely part upon which John Gridley had fixed for the commission of his purpose. 3 A part away from all habitations— | close to where a_ narrow, slippery | causeway stretched out to afford a pre- ‘carious landing place. He listened eager! | proached the spot, but, as they ap- meta seund was | | side. He looked searchingly round, but no human form was discernible. Even the lights in the houses were out, and the moon had hidden herself behind a passing cloud. Z The quietness, the darkness, and the stillness, all favored John Gridley, who ay nearer and nearer still to his vic- m. “More this way, sir; more this way,” he said, quickly; at the same time jostling against the young squire, and forcing him still closer to the edge. “Take care, take care; you'll have me into the water!” “You speak the truth,” said the malt- ster’s clerk, fiercely, at the same time giving the young man a vigorous push. The assault was too sudden, and Ernest Hartrey was too unprepared to allow him to make any endeavor at saving himself, : ae Staggered, lost his balance, and ell. A large iron ring at the edge of the quay, used for mooring ships, stayed his fall, for he caught it tightly in his grasp, and in a few moments might have drawn himself to a place of se- curity, had not John Gridley, with a cold cruelty, worthy of the arch fiend himself, kicked, with his iron-heeled boot, against the white, unprotected hand of May’s affianced husband. It was a dreadful deed, but now it was a life against life. Gridley had gone too far to retract; for if Ernest Hartrey were to live, the other’s prospects would be ruined for- ever, even if he escaped the penalty of the law. It was but for a few seconds that Hrnest could stand the pain of the wounds so unpityingly inflicted on his hands. He struggled and _ strove in vain. . At last, with a despairing cry, he fell with a loud splash into the water. A terrible fascination rooted John Gridley to the spot. He went to the quay, and stretched his body as far over as was consistent with safety. Down below, by the aid of a wretch- ed oil lamp, which marked the landing- place, he saw a human form battling with the waves, and a pale, upturned face. “Help! help!” man. John Gridley fancied he heard the sound of splashing oars, and shuddered. “Help! help!” “Man overboard—give way, my heart- ies!” cried a voice, faint in the dis- tance; and then the regular beat of the oars sounded over the water. John Gridley could not tear himself away from the spot, but continued in the same position, with his eyes rivet- ed on the man who, below him, buffet- ed vainly with the sea. Ernest Hartrey was a tolerab/y good swimmer, but the pain from his wound- ed hands, the weight of his clothes, and the sudden shock, all served to enfeeble his frame, and he could do no more than keep afloat, by paddling first with one hand and then with the other. He heard the sound of the approach- ing boat; but he felt his strength rap- idly leaving him, and he doubted being able to keep on the surface till its ar- rival. The agony which he experienced, however, was almost equalled by that of his would-be assassin who, with straining eyes, watched the sinking man, The measured dip of the oars sound- ed faster and nearer. The boat was rapidly approaching. “Help me, or I am a dead man!” cried Ernest Hartrey, but in a very faint voice. “Here we are, close at hand,” was the reply. “Whereabouts are you?’ asked an- other. “Here! here!” John Gridley pushed a large piece of granite to the edge of the quay; and just as the boat loomed through the darkness, hurled it in the direction in which he had last seen his victim’s form. With a wailing shriek, Ernest Hart- rey sank beneath the surface, just as the boat reached the spot where, a minute before, he had been. “Sunk, by Jove!” cried a hearty voice. “Stand by, my lads! We'll soon have him on board!” Then there was a loud splash, as one of the boat’s crew leapt overboard and dived after the drowning man. John Gridley, in his anxiety, forgot that the boat was every second advan- cing nearer to him; and he was only recalled to a sense of his position of danger by hearing a voice exclaim— “Hallo! There’s a fellow up there peeping down at us! After him, my lads!” Three or four sailors sprang out upon the causeway, and ran up the steps; but the maltster’s clerk had got the start, and was running for his life. Up and down the narrow courts and alleys of old Portsmouth town they chased John Gridley; but after a time he succeeded in eyading them, and the sailors were forced to return to their boat, foiled and defeated. “Have you got him?” cried those who had chased John Gridley of their com- rades, referring to the young squire. “Yes, we picked him up, more dead than alive. Here he is, in the stern sheets.” “Now, then,” cried an authoritative voice, “no palavering, but in with you.” The men leapt into the boat, the last pushing her clear off the causeway; the oars fell with a measured splash in the luminous water, and the full force of eight strong arms propelled the boat over the waves, with her bow directed towards Spithead. In the stern, still insensible, lay Er- nest Hartrey, a big, rough-voiced man, rubbing his hands, and using other simple means to restore him to con- sciousness. * * eried the drowning * * * When the young squire awoke from the swoon, which had been so death- like that none but an experienced eye could have told that life still remained in his cold, nerveless body, he was thoroughly bewildered. He passed his hand several times across his brow, and strove, but in yain, to call to mind the events of the last few hours. He was in a small cabin, inte which | the light penetrated through a skylight above him, as he lay extended in a hammock, slung across from side to As he listened, he heard the splashing and rippling of water, and the hurried tramp of feet overhead, the hoarse shouts of sailors, and the whist- ling of the wind. That he was on board ship, he real- ized at once; but how did he come there? He remembered his struge inn, in the water, but everything after ‘hc was a blank in his mina. In vain he strove with the waves, for he could remember nothing. He was too weak to attempt to leave his hammock, and had to wait as pa- tiently as he could before he could learn that which he desired. After a while he sank into a doze, and awoke suddenly to find standing by his side an officer in naval uniform. “Where am I?” asked Ernest Hart- rey, eagerly. “How did I come here?” “You are on board his Majesty’s ship Osprey, sailing down Channel with a fair wind; and you were brought here by me last night very wet and half- drowned.” “It is to you, then, that I am indebt- ed for my life?” said Ernest, stretching forth his hand, which the other grasped warmly. aE ,Believe I may say such is the case, “When and where shall I be put on shore?” The other looked grave, and did not answer for a few minutes. “T trust an absence from England will not be very disagreeable to you?” “What do you mean? I cannot—will not leave England. I have matters of the greatest importance to attend to.” “T fear they must be postponed.” “Explain yourself.” . “T ain lieutenant, only, on board. The captaia sent me on shore last night with a pressgang; for we were short- handed, and were forced to sail at day- break; and——” “Do you mean to tell me, then, that I am bound to serve as a common sailor? Do you know who I am?—my position in life?” “Since you have been on board I have found out that you are a gentleman by birth; but, you will excuse me, when I dragged you out of the water, your appearance was not remarkably aris- tocratic, and I did not discover the mis- take till it was too late to rectify it.” “Too late! Do you tell me that there is no escape from this dreadful ship?” “I fear not; and, moveover, know- ing our captain, as I do, to be a stern man, and a strict disciplinfarian, I ex- pect you will be compelled to serve be- fore the mast.” as 1 do, to be a stern man, and a strict disciplinarian, I expect you will be compelled to serve before the mast.” “He dare not detain me.” “Pardon me, he values the well being of his ship more than anything in the world. He wants hands, and hands he will have, whether they be soft and white, or brown and horny.” Ervest Hartrey hid his face and moaned. 3 “My poor May, my poor May!” he murmured. “What will she think?” “We shall stop nowhere till we reach the West Indies, for the admiralty have ordered us to proceed with all dispatch.” “But whither are we bound?” “Barbadoes, I believe. Come, cheey up, and make the best of it; and be sure you will always have a friend in me.’ “My poor May!” again moaned Ernest, in despair. Gregory Steele—for the lieutenant who had rescued Ernest from the waves was no other than Rose Dea- con’s lover—would have spoken words of comfort, but he was silenced by the baronet’s son, who as yet hardly com- prehended that he was actually 4 prisoner. Yes, a prisoner, for it amounted to that. He could not leave the ship—he could not make arrangements for his coming marriage; and from the few cautious words of the young lieuten- ant, he gathered that there was every prospect of his having to serve as a common sailor. It was not the toil that frightened him; he would not have shirked hard work; but it was the compulsion that made him indignant. “Consider,” said Gregory Steele, after listening to a storm of angry words, “consider, at all events, that had not you been on board this ship, you would have been floating hither and thither, wherever the tide carried you, lifeless and disfigured.” Ernest Hartrey was rebuked, and held his peace; but for all that his spir- its chafed within him at the thought of the many, many weeks which would have to pass before he could again see his native land—before he could fold his darling May in his arms, and call her by the sacred name of wife. CHAPTER XI. “She Only Said, ‘My Heart Is Weary; He Cometh Not,’ She Said.” Poor little May, with a trembling, fluttering, but hopeful heart, waited day after day for the return of Amos with the reply to the letter she had written her betrothed. For three days she rested tranquilly; but when the fourth came to an end, and still the half-wited lad did not make his appearance, she became rest- less, and showed her disquietude in many ways. The fifth day she walked towards Al- verton, in the hope of meeting her mes- senger returning, and came back dis- appointed and weary. Only eight-and-forty hours now re- mained for her to receive the letter; and if, at at the end of that time, the money was not forthcoming, the sole way left to save her father from ruin was to consent to the proposed mar- riage with John Gridley. The more she thought of it the more hateful it appeared to her; and she could not bring herself to regard this dreadful alternative as a possibility. In the afternoon of the sixth day John Gridley returned, looking some- what pale and fatigued; but prim, neat, and respectable, as usual, in his old-fashioned suit of black. He accouuted easily enough for his prolonged absence; for he had a ready tongue, and was rarely at a loss for a reply to any questions whieh might be asked; though, occasionally, perhaps from want of sufficient practice, he was taken aback by sume simple query. Had the maltster’s clerk had a par- ticle of right feeliag, he must have shrunk away abashe@ at the kind words of Matthew Rivers, who wel- ecmed him cordially, and pressed his: guilty hand; but boldly he faced Bis: employer, the while he drew upon his fancy for the description of a journey which he said he had been wnex- pectedly compelled to make as far as the old city of Winchester. Yet. for all his outward calmness, and in spite of his deep-laid scheme, i Jorn GriQey was ill at ease. He had the thousand pounds in his pocket. His rival was, he beiieved. drowued. for he had net seen him res- ewa, cwhg to bemg foteed ta fly te cscape the presszane: bat vWhes Le came ty search ioe the , A receipt which he had abstracted from the per of eee Hartrey, it was not to be fcund. This it was which made him sia wardly ill at ease, though outw: he maintained his usual composure, If that receipt were to fall into the hands of anyone who would preserve it, it might be his ruin; for in it was set forth how he, John Gridley, had received from Ernest Hartrey the sumy of one thousand pounds. ‘What he had done with it, he could. not imagine. That-he had placed it safely in the pocket of the coat he wore when pass ing himself off as a farm laborer, he was confident; but when he came to search for it it was gone. The most natural supposition was that, when running from the press- gang, he had dropped it in the street; and, in that case, it was a hundred chances to one against it falling into the hands of anyone who would know what use to make of it. Few people would trouble them- selves to pick up a piece of crumpled paper; and even if they did find the document, so valuable to the malt- ster's clerk, they would most probably destroy it as soon as they had ascer- tained its contents—for how should they know its value? It’ was thus that he argued with himself, and strove to convince him- self that he had no cause for alarm. Had May known, when she shook hands with John Gridley, that in the breast pocket of his coat was the mon- ey which her lover had sent to her— had she known the deception that was being practiced, not only cn her, but likewise on her father, much future misery would have been saved; but much as she disliked her father’s confi- dential clerk, she rever for a moment supposed him capable of so black a deed as that which he had committed. Poor May! She sat that night at her lattice, looking forth into the moon- light, straining her eyes along the road, hoping to see the figure of the lad to whom she had entrusted her letter, entering the village. It was im vain she watched. No one entered Annandale that night, and, with a weary sigh on her lips and a sickening despair at ber heart, she re- tired to rest, to dream that Ernest Hartrey came galloping into the vil- lage, with the money in his pocket to save her father from ruin, looking more handsome than ever, and that, clasping her in his arms, he demanded her of her father for his wife. Alas, that such dreams should have an awakening! May had been content to dream on and on forever, had it been possible, instead of waking to the sober reali- ties of life—to sorrow, doubt and de- spair. What could have prevented Ernest from answering her letter? she asked herself. Even if he had been unable to obtain the money, he would have replied to ier, she thought. Was it that he was angry at her ap- peal to him for assistance? Was it that he himself would come and answer it in person? Or was it that he was tired of her— that he felt he had been foolish in making her an offer, and that she would never see him more? This last was too dreadful to think of. The idea alone cost her an agony of tears—for she loved Ernest Hartrey truly and well, with the full force of a young girl's first love. Then a variety of causes, which might account for her lover's silence, suggested themselves to her. Perhaps Amos had allowed the er- rand upon which she sent him to es- cape his memory, and was now wan- dering about with the letter still in his pocket? Perhaps he had been tempted by the gold which Ernest Hartrey had given him to bring back, and had run off with it—perhaps he had been attacked and robbed, and, without the money, was ashamed to return to May, who was so anxiously expecting his arriy- al? Her excited brain multiplied possi- bilities, and her tears fell fast when the seventh day came towards its close, and she had received no tidings of the fate of her letter. In a few hours she would have to look steadily in the face of the pros- pect of becoming John Gridley’s wife; for she had promised her father that, in the event of her being unable to save. his credit otherwise, she would wed his clerk, who was to be immedi- ately advazced to the position of part- ner in the business which had been so ficurishing, but which was now reduced so low that, for the want of a thousand pounds, it was likely to collapse altogether. ‘The evening of that seventh day was dull and lowering. The thick, heavy clouds overhead betokened a coming storm, and ever and anon the thunder growled threateningly. The heat was oppressive, and tbe leaves, now fall- ing fast from the trees—for winter was approaching—were not moved by the faintest breeze. As twilight stole over the landscape, the first drops of rain fell; and May, with tearful eyes and a heavy heart, descended to the little parlor where her parents and John Gridley were sitting. ‘The conversation was forced and un- natural, for, though they spoke of triy- ial matters, the knowledge of that which had to be arranged before they retired to rest that night, pressed heavily on their minds. Mrs. Rivers had not been consulted coneerning the proposed settlement of her husband’s affairs; for Matthew knew that his wife would take May’s side, and he was too well aware of the unfatherly part he was about to play to care to hear his wife’s argu- ments and entreaties. Mrs. Rivers had been told of the projected alliance, but little knew how hateful it was to her daughter; for May had been too anxious at first, att afterwards teo heartbroken, to unbos~ om her sorrows to her mother. There was a long silence, in which the low muttering of the thunder in the distamce was the only sound. May @readed to hear her father speak; for every time he opened his lips she ex. pected to hear the words which would force ber either to consent to a mar. riage which would break her heart, or tell her that she had ruined her pa- rents and driven them forth to beg- gary, when she had the means of | averting > deplorable a eatastrophe -At last the dreaded moment came. (To bo continued) “)